I like blueberries

robby gets home early. two months early and 2am early. it's dark out, and he's tired— he's never not tired. a bone-deep exhaustion he just can't shake. couldn't shake it on the road, couldn't work up the courage to hurl himself off a roof or a cliff or something that would end this endless exhaustion for good. he did something he's gotten embarrassingly good at, he gave up.

he assumes dennis is sleeping at the very least, most likely not even there. dennis probably stops by once a day to water a couple of dying plants, make sure no one has broken in overnight. easy enough. of course, dennis was welcome to stay. welcome to anything, his food, (not that there's much of it) his bed, anything he wanted. robby half-expected him to get the house. half-expected himself to never come home.

knew that he was never gonna do it. too pussy, too weak, maybe. he'll make excuses, say PTMC needs him, (what a joke..) that his colleagues would miss him, something, anything. but the damned truth is he just couldn't fucking do it.

robby eases his front door shut, toes out of his boots, sighs heavy through his nose. when he pads into the living room he's shocked to make out a form in the dim light, the rise and fall of breathing, dennis. god, of course. robby should've given him some sort of express permission, do whatever you want, sleep in my bed, wear my clothes, use my shower.

not like— not like that. even though robby's chest feels weird at the thought of it, dennis in his clothes... smelling of him... nuzzling into sheets he's slept in. fuck. robby's always been a fucking pervert when it comes to his adorable intern with the biggest, saddest eyes, but knowing it feels a little better. self-awareness and all that. the kid is just so sweet, so eager, so... he looks up at robby like robby means something to him.

just— dennis should've been comfortable. he knows the kid, always scared of imposing, taking up too much space, being too much. a tendency to curl into himself, even months later with a new edge of confidence. robby knows his mattress is a hell of a lot nicer than his couch, at least.

for a moment he considers if he should leave the little thing all curled up, sleeping, unaware. but robby is a selfish man. and he'll pretend that it's for dennis, that he's thinking about how achy the poor kid will get from sleeping on the couch, but he knows it's not true. robby is fucking tired. and he wants. he wants dennis in his bed, in his arms, sleepy and sweet, something whole, something innocent. someone who likes him. who cares about his opinions and his praises, craves them, even. fuck, yeah, robby's a selfish man. but he knows it. he's aware.

ignoring the protest in his back and knees, he scoops dennis up in the cradle of his arms, grunting at the muscled weight. dennis is short, compared to him at least, and robby fucking loves that more than he should— how small dennis can seem in comparison to him— but he's not exactly tiny. especially not since his return from rotations, with those pretty, sculpted arms robby keeps peeking at every time he offers a job-well-done fistbump.

fucking pervert.

dennis stirs a little, snuffles in the crook of his neck, and robby feels like crying. it's the most intimate he's been with someone in years, it feels like, even though he picked up a girl in a bar on the road just a week ago, gave her a good night. picked up a guy, just a couple days before that. robby's good at flirting, good at sex, good at impersonal.

this feels different. dennis's warm weight, the gentle smell of coconut shampoo, the softness of the dirty blond curls against his chin. this is someone he cares about. and dennis is clinging to him in his sleep, whining a little in the back of his throat as he's laid down on robby's bed. yeah. robby feels like fucking crying, even though he'd never just let himself. he spends most of his time trying not to cry.

but, he lets himself have this. shushes dennis's soft whines, crawls into bed and curls up close, gritting his teeth as dennis takes so easily to it. nuzzles up like he's trying to burrow into robby, shuddering like he's unused to touch, unused to the warmth of another body. robby squeezes his eyes shut and lets himself drop a kiss to the top of dennis's head, breathing him in deep til his shoulders loosen a bit. god, how long has he wanted this? feels like forever. maybe always, in some capacity. someone sweet and forgiving, warm and soft, cuddling up into his chest like robby could ever be considered "safe."

someone staying, as if robby could ever be anything but abandoned.

dennis whispers robby? against his throat and robby tenses up, scared that this safety bubble is popped, that everything's broken, that he's fucked it. that he only had paradise for a moment before it's snatched from his grip all over again.

he might as well give into it while he can. talk to dennis like he does in his head, treat dennis like he fantasizes about on lonely nights. so he hums soft, starts rubbing circles on dennis's back, cuddling him somehow closer as he coos shh, you're okay, baby, you're alright. you're safe, sweetheart. go back to sleep.

robby resigns himself, waits for the other shoe to drop. waits for dennis to realize what's happening, to wrench out of his grasp, maybe yell at robby for holding him, touching him like this without even asking. innocent, maybe, but intimate, too intimate. inappropriate. so robby waits.

dennis only rubs his cheek against robby's shoulder, tucks his face into robby's neck, body going lax with an adorable little yawn. mm, he murmurs, soft, sleepy. your bed's nice. I missed you.

And you'll be like, "That sounds bad." And she'll be like, "No no. It's totally not that bad. It's just a meme. Men say it too. Like if a man does something silly he'll be like, 'I am like those women who do not deserve to vote.'" And you'll be like, "Does that make it better?" And she'll be like, "Well there was one guy who tried to make 'Men shouldn't vote' a popular meme. But it never caught on and also he got yelled at a lot."

one day you block him from the front door.

"You are forbidden from going to the capital."

the knight reaches to stroke your cheek. "It's only a day's journey, lamb. I will be back within a week."

"I am not allowing you to leave to see the king's court dressed like that!" you point to his cloak and garments. your husband furrows his brow hard, inspecting himself. "They are stained and ripped!"

"My appearance doesn't matter, my performance is battle does." Clothing wont fix his face or scars.

"Nonsense." Clothing has always been important to you; half of the gowns you wear are made by your own hand, the fabric supplied by your father. There's been a pile of things set aside for your hubsand, but he refuses to stay still enough for you to measure. "I am coming with. There are clothes I have half sewn for you that I can finish. The rest we will buy when we arrive."

"We will be late to the council meeting-"

"And then you can blame your wife."

usually your husband rides a horse to the capital, but you have forced him into the carriage with you.

"You look regal in a high collar," you say and you work a hem. "Why are you even being summoned?"

The knight adjusts uncomfortably, looking out the window to avoid your focused expression.

"They wish to move troops back into the north in case of uprising," he whispers, voice low. "It's a terrible idea. Forcing already exhausted men to march hundreds of miles before the cold season ends is just going to lead to illness, infighting, and death."

"They don't listen to you when you tell them these things?"

"Rarely."

"Well, then make them listen. Why have a commander if they insist on ignoring him? You have earned their respect."

at the capital, you stand up for him in ways he didnt know he needed. Another member of the council greets him coldly, biting his name out with an overly polite statement that might be a jab-

"Forgive me for interrupting, sir, but you must not have heard," you say, hand coming to rest on your husbands chest, your mdoest ring glittering on your finger. "My husband has been titled as Lord of The Ironhills because of his actions as Commander of The Royal Legion."

The man blinks slowly, one eye slower than the other. "I am very aware, miss."

"Oh, forgive me! You didn't use either title, so I assumed you did not know better," you laugh. The joyous air you keep has this deeper, more pointed undertone. Many of the spots he overhears in the capital have this rhythm to them, but he never has the ability to bit back in the same way. "And you may refer to me as lady."

The man is clearly unhappy, but he turns back to your husband. "Forgive me, my lord."

let's talk about historical accuracies that I noticed.

Telephones! Hell yeah. Ben has a newer model than Joseph because of course! Even if Ben hasn't been getting jobs for months he's still in a job that overall pays more and he's GOOD at what he does. (Not to talk about the obvious racial pay inequality)

Joseph uses one that was far more common in the early 1900s to 1910! That's OLD by then. Ben has one that's average, (thus expensive), typical rotatory.

Now. Something far more interesting.

Nail polish! 💅✨

I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw this:

You see??? Half-moons, clean edge nails! Even if it first appeared in the 20s, this design was super popular in 1930 especially! Many theorize it was so chipping wouldn't be as noticeable, which makes sense!

It's trendy and practical at the same time which makes sense for a character like Vera Addison! She doesn't come from money nor socializes with the upper class of society, naturally, she is using what Hollywood stars use! Not to say it also saves money on nail polish itself, which might've been an instinct at that point. She's the newest money there is and styles herself like so

And we see Janet using the same design! See!? Popular. It's a very practical design as I said.

Quick detour about Mrs. Addison and her coat: at this point, even the fur in women's clothes were taxed! At the same time, Vogue said fur tells “the kind of woman you are and the kind of life you lead”. So hey, look! She got a fur coat! It's so slightly matted yet silly, uneven, tapered, in other words, EXPENSIVE

On the other hand... (Pun intended)

We see Cat having fully painted nails.

She doesn't have to save on nail polish! Nope. She appeals to another echelon entirely. She's not a person as much as she's a doll, entertainment– this is what her appearance says about her.

Her hair is always neatly pinned. Perfect. Always. Using a cig holder so ash doesn't fall on her clothing or stain her gloves/fingers. It tells a completely different story.

I also loved noticing how we don't see the ladies using their hairs down! We see the history so perfectly in this lady who has less than three minutes of screen

Hat hooked to her hair, the updo curls pinned and sprayed into perfection. The jacket shoulders, the ornament buttons! High arched dramatic eyebrows, smoky eyeshadows and powdery makeup!!

It's a dark corner in a seedy place and Dennis kissed two other men before he saw Abbot. At first, he panicked. A few drinks and some fun on the dance floor should be fine. It's his life. He can do whatever he wants, but he also knows doctor's are meant to be reputable. It's stupid because they should get a life too.

The panic only grew when Abbot approached him and pulled him away from the third guy Dennis only kind of wanted to make-out with. Dennis didn't argue, a million excuses on his tongue, ready to explain that it wasn't cheating if Robby didn't even want to be exclusive. Dennis is a grown man. He can do what he wants with who he wants and--

And Abbot's arm is around his waist and Dennis is pressed up against a wall.

"Here I was thinking someone had a claim on you," Abbot mutters. His face is right against Dennis' neck and he cranes his chin up to let Abbot have more access. His breath is hot and Dennis kind of wants to taste whatever he may have ordered from the bar. The last few guys made fun of the fruity drink Dennis had bought, but he had enough beers in his youth with his brothers to know he didn't like them.

"No one claims me," Dennis grumbles, "I'm an adult."

"Oh, I'm sure," Abbot says, licking against the sweat at Dennis' collar and Dennis shivers. His voice a condescending tone and Dennis kind of likes it. "If you weren't one, you wouldn't be buying your own drinks." Dennis flushes because... well, he'd maybe gotten the last two guys to buy his drinks and with the way Abbot laughs, he knows.

Dennis isn't able to respond, because Abbot has an open mouth against his neck, and Dennis' knees go weak and then there's a thigh between his legs. Dennis lets it happen, moans a little at how good it feels. Someone with more experience than the wandering hands that seemed to stutter at his waist and hips that were different than they seemed to expect.

There's a buzzing in his back pocket and Dennis huffs as Abbot continues to kiss and suck and grind his thigh up which his only becoming harder to pretend to ignore.

The phone stops ringing and Dennis hums in delight, deciding it might just be a one time thing. Maybe it's not even Robby.

It starts again and this time, Dennis manages to fishes the phone out before it goes to voicemail.

"I don't mind," Abbot says, nipping at his earlobe, "Kinda having fun playing with you like this, anyway." Dennis snorts and meets his eyes.

"Like what?" he says.

"You're not very receptive. Just letting me do what I want... kinda like a doll." Dennis grows hotter at that. He answers the phone and Abbot grins before paying attention to the other side of Dennis' neck and he doesn't mean to outright moan into the receiver, but Abbot found this place closer to the nape of his neck at the same time his hands went under his shirt--

"Where are you?" Robby asks. His voice is strained.

"Why?" Dennis says. Abbot's hands are squeezing and pinching. Dennis let's his head fully fall back against the wall and sighs.

"Why... I thought we talked about you coming over tonight?"

"Yeah, but I decided I don't want to." Abbot pulls back to snort at Dennis' answer. Dennis is sure he can't hear Robby over the music and everything else happening. It doesn't matter because Dennis outright giggles at the laugh from Abbot. It's something he doesn't do anymore, not after how much he got teased about being girly, but right now he likes it. Plus, Abbot's stubble kinda tickles when he just nuzzles against Dennis' neck like that.

He forgets Robby's on the phone until he talks again several seconds later.

"Are you with someone?" he asks. If Dennis were more sober, he might've heard the small hurt in his voice. Right now, though, he's focused on his free hand grabbing at Abbot's bicep and feeling it up a little. It's only fair.

"Kinda," Dennis says, "'M at... Honestly it might be a gay bar."

"You don't know where you are?" Dennis scoffs then grins as Abbot pumps his bicep for Dennis to press harder into. One of his nails scrapes just under his nipple and Dennis stifles a moan.

"'Course I know where I am," he says, "I'm with Jack."

"You're with--!"

Most of the men you meet aren't all that interesting, but there's this one guy...fucking hilarious, witty, a bit dry. His chat name might be "deadmeat" but by the pictures he sends it's anything but.

Deadmeat: thought of you again, bloody mess. Can't wait to have you.

The picture attached is his usual, hard cock covered in at least two previous loads, tip flushed pink and wanting. The calloused, tattooed hand it's cradled in is what drew you in initially. Most folk in the chat room were...well...gifted in size, and as fun as it is to imagine you can hardly manage two fingers on a good long day.

But this man? Perfect fit. About the width of his palm, fingers easily wrapping around. Not small by any means, but definitely not heart-stopping in a bad way.

You: just a few more days. Got the motel booked?

You make sure it's safe, of course you do. Swapping photos together in anticipation for the day.

Deadmeat, or ghost as he requested you call him now, is...a little different than you expected. Tall, for one, nearly brushing his head on the top of the doorframe when you nervously unlock the motel room.

You don't quite realize the breath of your mistake until you and ghost are half undressed in bed and you slip a hand under his waistband. You slide you hand along the soft hair at his base, wrap your hand over it and—

...no. no way.

The amusement on ghosts face as you frantically shove his pants down and pull out his dick is palpable. Holy shit, he's massive. You're a few centimeters shy of wrapping your hand around him, not to mention the length.

You swallow thickly, glance up at him.

The fucker has the audacity to chuckle, reaching down to wrap his impossibly large hands around his dick, give himself a few pumps "well? Everything you were expecting? Don't worry, i can make it fit."

              —   BEFORE YOU BREAK MY HEART   !

summary: a pretty stranger comes to your rescue when you get stood up at a sandwich shop.

pairing: carmy berzatto / f!reader

contents: meet ugly, hurt/comfort, fluff, swearing, carmy has a crush, richie is a menace

( best listened with headphones, full playlist link here )

Carmy’s been wiping down the front counter for the past five minutes. At least. He’s more distracted by your figure across the room, sitting at the table in front of the large window, staring through the glass like you’re waiting to see something on the other side. You’ve been in the same spot for half an hour now, and that something hasn’t come yet.

Something about it is impossible to look away from. Like a car crash or something equally as harrowing. There’s something heartbreaking about your lonely form that breaks his own heart right back.

“You gonna tell her to get the hell outta here, cousin, or are you gonna keep ogling like a creep?” Richie wonders suddenly, leaning over Carmy’s shoulder to whisper obnoxiously close to his ear.

Carmy flinches. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks with his face screwed, lifting his elbow to nudge the taller man away.

“I said, are you gonna—”

“No, I— I heard you, Richie.”

“Then why’d you say ‘what?’”

“‘Cause you’re a fucking asshole, that’s why,” Carmy snaps and turns away. He tosses his dry rag over his shoulder and ducks past Richie to chuck the wet one in the sink. The older man follows behind him, hardly bothering to spare more than an inch of personal space between them.

“She’s taking up space here, cousin.”

“What are you even talking about? There’s nobody else in here.”

"Why the hell is the sergeant not wearing a plate carrier?" Gaz glances at you across the lot of humvees and trucks, talking with your own captain and helping organize the groups "we leave in ten. Everyone should be ready."

Price glances up from his watch, raises a brow at the sheer stupidity, then shrugs "not my jurisdiction, garrick. Let's go."

It just so happens that said dumbass ends up in the same place as them, somehow still alive and not wearing any fucking plate carrier—

"Sir! I've got two down, but I'm good! Join you, then?" You ask, already falling into line across from ghost and soap. You offer them both a nod, antenna twitching.

Before any of them can pull you back until you're properly protected under plate, you rush forward directly into gunfire holy shIT—

Gaz jolts as the sudden, brutal bang of a bullet hits your chest, ready to rush foreward and pull you to safety at a moments notice. His team not far behind.

Except, you...don't collapse. No blood spatters the ground and no one yells in pain.

You simply note the shock of momentum, raise your gun, and shoot the enemy. Again, and again. You take bullet after bullet without so much as a flinch, smiling damn wide like this is just a game to you. A machine made to withstand anything.

....it's not until everyone is piled back into a humvee, you having joined the 141 on exfil, that you delightfully show-off the hard plated carapace alone your check and back.

"You could shoot me point blank and I'd be fine." You giddily tell the team, still covered in blood and guts.

Not an hour later price has already pulled strings to transfer you to the task force.

the only trouble is that he wakes up with: a hungover to hell, no memory, and a phone number sprawled across his forearm. when he manages to check his phone, he finds himself $300 richer.

(Cross-posted on AO3)

Summary: A one-shot of Severus Snape being an absolute yearner for you

~2k words

ain't nothing but mammals explicit, 7k, oneshot. exquisitely nasty. sweat kink, couple sex that you can only have with the person you allow yourself to be unfiltered and human with.

blood upon the snow unrated, 13k, complete. have you thought about shane getting into fights? great, here's eight chapters of exactly that.

i like jane for you mature, 17k, complete. hayden and ilya accidentally switch phones. they swear to not intrude on each other's privacy. they break that promise within the hour. it works out pretty okay.

ilya rozanov's 2017 dating wrapped teen, 1k, oneshot. ilya drops hints to his team about his relationship via presentation. they don't really catch on.

au mauvais moment mature, 5k, oneshot. shane gets an abortion while he's dating rose. they're pretty okay at handling it. i support the number of abortion fics in this fandom wholeheartedly. he would Not keep that thing.

shane hollander goes casual (he's so cool and unbothered) explicit, 24k, complete. shane has a hoe phase (with spreadsheets). ilya attempts not to explode from jealousy.

never was much of a romantic explicit, 5k, oneshot. hollanov fight over ilya suggesting shane sleep with other people, fuck, and make up. they are aggressively in love, and jealous, and shane has a speech that made me audibly cackle. i already posted about this one but it deserves another mention.

KNOCKOUT! series of (currently) two fics, both complete. explicit, 9k total. hollanov fuck around with pain kink in their reliably unsafe, but definitely fun way. a very loving anthem to masochism and sadism that made me smile in demented glee

logged in gen, 3k, oneshot. shane and ilya reconnect after rose via letterboxed.

vibes are not data teen, 18k, complete. wyatt and ilya's bromance, wyatt's adhd, and pattern recognition getting one over hollanov's secret keeping skills. every relationship in this was so loving and refreshing and i adore it

like one of your girls explicit, 5k, oneshot. shane has a lot of feelings about being another one of ilya's many hookups. some of them aren't nice. a strong dash of internalized homophobia in this one, folks

for a split sec, i was a train wreck explicit, 18k, complete. ilya gets injured, stays at home, gets into tarot, and tries not to spiral into madness. it's mostly a successful endeavor.

dust bowl explicit, 28k, complete. transfem shane, who's been ilya's girl for longer than she's known she's a girl at all. definitely angsty, but by god, am i having feelings about it.

morality clause gen, 13k, complete. canon through yuna's eyes, also dealing with the more technical aspect of being shane's mom-ager.

one sunday morning mature, 8k, oneshot. ilya gets injured. shane shows up to take care of him. neither of them are sure what feelings they're allowed to be having about this. set early in canon.

connecting the dots mature, 7k, oneshot. hayden thinks lily's a dominatrix. surprisingly, this theory does fit in a lot of ways, except for all those other ones where it definitely doesn't.

fuck the news unrated, 3k, oneshot. hollanov gets outed in episode two. they try to survive. reveal fic

(wild and fluorescent) come home (to my heart) unrated, 3k, oneshot. ilya suggests putting down shane like an old dog, but mostly scott hunter. this is a normal conversation to be having with his boyfriend's newly-met mother, surely.

we'll be afraid of nothing teen, 8k, oneshot. ilya calls shane boring all the time, but he's not sure it means the same thing on the ice than off it. more than that: he's pretty sure it means something pretty bad. misunderstandings and a lot of feelings about shane's autism.

the secret society of stick handlers series, ongoing. the gay nhl players have their own groupchat. it's pretty okay, if you don't mind the chaos.

you get me explicit, 10k, oneshot. shane's pretty good at yoga, and plenty flexible- flexible enough that sucking his own cock is more of a possibility than a fantasy, really. ilya's about to make that into a reality.

little more close explicit, 2k, oneshot. cnc. shane wants ilya to do a scene with him. they have a good time.

drive it like you stole it explicit, 12k, oneshot. ilya gets injured and gets horny about it.

Imagine asking your friend soap to do you a favor when you finally decide to go out drinking and meet some people, right?

"Please, johnny? Just, if anyone is weird I need you to come pretend to be my boyfriend and pick me up." You pace your apartment, picking out clothes while soap groans teasingly.

"Aye. I'll handle it, yeah? Just enjoy yourself and stay off the news."

That's the end of it. You have a backup incase anything happens, you've never known johnny to be the guy to leave you hanging.

It's not until you actually need said lifeline that you begin to curse him. Some guy you thought just wanted to hear about your latest hobby wouldn't take the hint after you shoved his hand off your thigh, so you played up all the disgust you could muster and said "I have a boyfriend, dude. He'll be here soon."

You send the text to soap, praying to god he's quick because the creep is now going on about keeping secrets and—

"Hi, lovie, who's this?" A voice you don't recognize interrupts, and you look up to see a giant, terrifying beast of a man. He's six foot fuck-off and as wide as a damn doorframe.

"Uhm–" you try, stuttering over your words. What the hell do you say that won't end poorly?

"Who the hell is this, then?" The stranger asks, glaring at the creep who's suddenly gone pale. He stumbles in his hast to vacate the seat next to you, muttering something about freaks in masks.

You think, for a moment, that the gods may pity you and the stranger will leave. To your horror, he takes the now empty seat and grunts "you okay? Didn't drink anything?"

"Who the hell are you?" You send another text to soap, because what the fuck where is he??

"Simon. Johnny sent me." The stranger rolls up his mask, takes a sip of your drink then grimaces and pours the rest of it on the floor "good thing you didn't drink it."

....what the hell.

"The one time I go out," you groan, rest your face in your hands, "and I think some guy wants to talk about bugs– and– instead this happens."

The man perks up, pulls his weird skull-painted mask back down, and says eagerly "what kind of bugs?"

The thought of being thrown into an insanely codependent and inseparable trio between yourself, James, and Sherlock immediately after stumbling into each other's lives with something deep and overbearing simmering beneath the surface.

Moriarty flirts with anything that has two legs and a pair of breasts. It's a known fact. Most of the time he does it without much meaning behind his actions. You reciprocate his advances with a teasing lilt in your voice that gives the impression that you only view this as banter before turning your attention back to Sherlock as if it never left him in the first place.

Having known Sherlock for longer, you find yourself leaning towards him more often than not, always catching the way James' jaw twitches from the corner of your eye. You view them both equally for their own distinct reasons, but, out of all of you, Sherlock is the most helplessly defenceless, trying to talk his way out of fist fights before even thinking of trying to land a punch back, and he's the brains of the group so of course your attention slides to him more so. Sometimes you think the wee lamb will be ran over by a horse and carriage, if you let your eyes wander else where for a single second.

James writes off the odd clench in his chest at the sight of your arm interlinked with Sherlock's as jealousy, despite the fact he knows the ache in his heart isn't quite the same. He can't even bring himself to feel any slight hatred towards the man. Even when there is the element of playful banter between them at who can gain your favour over something or other. Nudging each other out of the way to get to you first, eagerly holding their hands out towards you to assist you into a carriage like proper gentlemen, physically squeezing themselves in the middle of you and the other if you look too cozied up together. It's starting to become less about just you and more about any excuse to touch either of you and never let go.

Everything changes in an old Irish pub where everyone already seemed to be a dozen drinks in by the time you three arrived. The smell of alcohol and the sounds of drunken laughter fills the air of the dimly lit wooden structure. One of Sherlock's wild cases led you to Ireland, where you promptly met an infuriating dead end, resulting in everyone agreeing to attempt to blow off some steam at the local pub.

The three of you find yourselves disappearing into the sea of drunken people to go retrieve drinks from the bar before reappearing at each other's sides where you practically cling to one another to prevent being lost once again to the wave of drunkards. You've lost count of how many drinks you've all had let alone what type of alcohol. James had got up to go order a round of whiskey ten minutes ago, leaving you and Sherlock at the small round table perfectly designed for three to gaurd his empty chair from the poor bastards who have been left standing all night.

The rowdy crowd and the distinct absence of Moriarty causes Sherlock and yourself to lean closer into one another. So close that you can feel the warmth of his body heat through his three piece suit, smell the whiskey on his breath when he leans into your neck to speak into your ear so you're able to hear him over the manic crowd and beating of your heart.

James is leaning against the bar countertop to prevent his drunken swaying and let's out loud grumbles of annoyance when the bartender serves someone before him. There's a woman next to him sat on a barstool, more off her head than him. What she whispers in his ear would make a vicar blush, but not James Moriarty. No. Not when he has his ambitions set on someone else.

His eyes drift across the sea and, through the drunkards woven together, there he sees you both. The alcohol has done a decent enough job at crumbling Sherlock's somewhat uptight appearance. His suit jacket is slanted slightly, the top button of his waistcoat has been undone, and his previously perfect tie has been loosened. Dishevelled is a good look on him. James watches Sherlock lean away from your neck, only for a fraction, after saying something to you to gauge your reaction on your face. His eyes are half lidded, his nose nudging against yours at the close proximity.

Even from a distance, the sudden desperation on yours and Sherlock's faces ignites something within Moriarty. Something that was always bubbling beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment. And as your lips graze each other, hesitant and uncertain as if neither of you have thought about this day and night, Moriarty realises that it was never jealously to begin with, far from it infact. It was uncontrollable need that would blossom every time your hand slipped into his as you ran from criminals and every time his hands would find Sherlock's waist to steady him as he drunkenly stumbled up the stairs after a long night out. The need to never let go, to tighten his grip until he left a purple hand print on smooth skin. The need for so much more. For you all to become one.

James' empty chair sat snugly between you only highlights his absence when the pair of you pull away. Wordlessly, the same flickering ache appears in both of your chests. Something's missing. And when you spring up from your seats, stumbling like a pair of absolute fools, in search of your missing piece, you simultaneously down your whiskeys and none of you really have to say anything, the gleam in your eyes is enough. This long wild goose chase of an escapade is about to become an even longer night.