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West/Mycroft
West Sumpter was on a quest.

No, that was way too froofy a name for it (since that was what Griff had called it -- he knew it was too queertastic for him). Still, the stupid git wouldn't shut up about it and if he was ever going to get shagged it was integral that he get Griff to shut the fuck up for five minutes.

"Fucking fine," he grunted, pushing himself up from the chair where he'd been drinking his beer with the other man. The tavern wasn't particularly crowded -- in fact, it was filled with the usual patrons ... including the weirdo by the bar that had immediately struck Griff's fancy. West tromped over to the other man and tapped him on the shoulder -- not really particularly fair warning, but there it was -- before gripping his upper arm and spinning Mycroft around on the stool.

The next few moments happened relatively fast, all things considered. He threaded his fingers through Mycroft's hair to get a decent grip on the man and much to his (and mild horror, as far as West could tell), West moved in and kissed him hard. He deepened it immediately, forcing his tongue into the other man's mouth and dragging it out for as long as he could possibly manage to without losing use of his lungs. With that done, he slid a hand down between Mycroft's legs for a good grope before hollering over his shoulder.

"Oi, mate! He's in full salute mode, you owe me a fucking beer."