RolePlayer.me

It's one thing to let someone know abut a mistake they made, but fully on go for blood over something that could've been handled privately is very unprofessional... i may have not been in the editing world for long but i understand what i did wrong and it did seem like i stole a name of a concept, which i see that i did, i apologized too many times i honestly didn’t know that was a made up term by someone because i saw it everywhere I searched to learn this new style of editing. . yet this person sent all her friends and people after me ruining what i did work hard on, endless hours editing, staying late, missing sleep and family time to learn and produce new content.   Yes I should’ve credited for the idea, I’m learning that now. Regardless in the future I will credit Gothika for the concept idea. This whole thing is not going to stop me from one of my favorite hobbies, something that’s kept my mental health together for a while now. I admitted what I did was wrong and like I said I apologized immensely and even there after she said I was REFUSING to take my content down and then blasted my socials and personal discord in her server and on stream. I never once refused, I have the screen caps to prove that. She said I either apologize publicly or she’d take matters into her own hands, and she did that before I could wake up and answer her first DM…With that being said, I understand my mistake now and revised everything I have done in my server, it changed a lot out of me, I don’t like conflict and when heaps of people came after me I broke down… After a few talks with other creators and close friends, I understood all what was going on, and regardless to send a whole army without knowing the full story shows and sends a lot of mixed messages about someone’s character. No hate towards her or her business, go support her. She is an amazing editor. But that’s all I have to say on that matter.I am opening my server up, but if you’re going to come in there and troll, I will ban you. This is MY safe space. Please respect that.Invite is linked on my page.    Thank you for listening. You all have a great day.   -Granite.

 Let’s delve into the enigmatic persona of Sven Salvatore, a character whose essence is shrouded in mystery and passion. Sven Salvatore: A Portrait of Forbidden Desires Appearance Sven’s presence commands attention. His tall frame, chiseled jawline, and piercing azure eyes evoke both danger and allure. His hair, as dark as midnight, falls in unruly waves across his forehead, hinting at secrets buried deep within. Temperament Intensity defines Sven. His emotions blaze like wildfire, consuming everything in their path. Beneath his stoic facade lies a tempest of conflicting desires: duty versus longing, honor versus forbidden love. He grapples with the weight of his past, etching lines of sorrow on his face. The Veteran As a battle-hardened veteran, Sven carries scars—both visible and hidden. War has etched its mark on his soul, leaving him haunted by memories of comrades lost and promises broken. His military discipline clashes with the chaos of his heart. The Businessman In the boardroom, Sven is ruthless. His strategic mind navigates corporate battles with precision. Yet, behind closed doors, he craves release—a different kind of conquest. His tailored suits conceal a primal hunger that defies logic. The Single Father Sven’s son Isaac is his world. He read him bedtime stories. But wishes he'd been there to kiss his scraped knees and shield him from the darkness that engulfs him His love for Isaac is unwavering, a fragile thread connecting him to redemption.Forbidden Love And then there’s Rory—the man he shouldn’t desire. Their paths intersected in a storm of fate, and now they orbit each other, drawn by forces beyond reason. He is fire to his ice, chaos to his order. Their stolen glances ignite a passion that threatens to consume them both. The Veil of Mystery Sven Salvatore remains an enigma, a man of contradictions. Is he hero or antihero? Protector or destroyer? Only the moonlit nights and whispered confessions hold the truth. His past casts shadows, but perhaps redemption lies in the arms of the one he cannot have. Remember, dear reader, that Sven’s story unfolds not in black and white, but in shades of desire and danger. Brace yourself—for the forbidden always tastes the sweetest. 

 Sven, a man of shadows and secrets, moved through the dimly lit room with the grace of a predator. His footsteps, deliberate and unhurried, echoed against the mahogany floor. The air clung to him—a heady mix of pine, leather, and anticipation. the enigma, the seeker of hidden truths, had made his move. The brunette sat by the window, her eyes a shade darker than the night. Her lips, painted crimson, held a promise—a secret whispered across the room. Sven had heard it, that clandestine invitation. A drink, she had said, her voice a velvet caress.And so, he approached—the bottle cradled in his gloved hand. The most expensive Bourbon, its glass etched with tales of forbidden nights and stolen kisses. Sven was no stranger to luxury, but this—this was more than opulence. It was a declaration, a challenge.The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on her face. Sven’s strong features, but his eyes—they held a hunger. For danger, for allure.He took the seat opposite her, the chair creaking in protest. The glass she had set out—a delicate crystal vessel—waited patiently. But Sven was no fool. He knew the game. Tickler on what he drank, they said. His lips curved—a half-smile, a promise unspoken. With a swift motion, he clasped her glass—the remnants of her previous choice discarded like yesterday’s regrets. The liquid splashed against the floor, a sacrificial offering. Sven’s gaze never wavered as he settled the glass back down. Patience, he reminded himself. Patience and purpose.His own glass—a tumbler heavy with history—came next. The amber liquid flowed a molten river. The scent—a blend of oak, vanilla, and rebellion—swirled around him. Sven raised it to his lips, savoring the burn. The room held its breath as if time itself had paused.And then, he looked at her—the brunette with secrets woven into her veins. Her glass, now empty, awaited its fate. Sven leaned forward, his breath brushing against her skin. “Your drink,” he murmured, his voice a velvet blade. “Upgraded.” He filled her glass with his Bourbon—the forbidden elixir. The firelight danced in her eyes, and for a moment, they were no longer strangers. The room pulsed—a heartbeat shared, a pact sealed. 

Sven Salvatore: A Tapestry of Shadows 1. The Battlefield Sven’s journey began on distant shores, where sand clung to his boots and gunfire painted the horizon. He was a soldier—a veteran—forged in the crucible of war. His comrades fell like autumn leaves, and he carried their ghosts in the hollows of his eyes. The taste of metal, the weight of a rifle—it all became part of him. 2. The Broken Home But war wasn’t the only battlefield. Back home, Sven faced another war—a quieter one. His marriage crumbled like ancient parchment, ink fading into oblivion. Angela, his wife, wore betrayal like a second skin. She plotted his demise, hired a man to extinguish Sven’s flame. The scent of roses clung to her, masking the venom beneath. 3. The Forbidden Flame And then there was Rory—the forbidden flame. Younger, reckless, and dangerously beautiful. Their connection defied reason, age, and morality. Sven’s heart, once armored, beat in sync with Rory’s. Their kisses tasted of rebellion, of stolen moments in dimly lit rooms. Sven’s hands mapped constellations on Rory’s skin, tracing scars and secrets. 4. The Last Bullet “Let me be the last,” Sven whispered against Rory’s lips. The bed creaked under their weight as they surrendered to desire. Sven shed his armor—the watch, the titanium bracelet—symbols of a past he’d outgrown. His shirt revealed scars, missed bullets, and a black rosary—a fragile tether to faith and sin. 5. The Echo of Roses In that room, where time bent and morality fractured, they wrote their own rules. Love, like a wounded phoenix, rose from ashes. But would it soar or plummet? The scent of roses lingered—a haunting reminder that even paradise had thorns. More chapters await, dear reader. Sven’s past is a labyrinth of passion, pain, and redemption. Each scar tells a story, each kiss a confession. As the night deepens, so does the allure of forbidden love. Stay tuned, for the last bullet is yet to be fired. 

I’M A BUSINESSMAN, A SINGLE FATHER, A VETERAN! A man of unyielding resolve, Sven Salvatore strides through life with the fire of a thousand suns burning in his chest. His heart beats not just for himself, but for those he holds dear—his son, his memories, and the promise of a future forged in steel and sweat. The room quivers with tension as the scent of roses dances in the air. But this is no ordinary fragrance; it’s the perfume of destiny, of choices made and lives forever altered. Sven’s hands, once gentle, now clasp tightly around her delicate neck—a desperate grip, fueled by love and fury. A crimson heartbeat pulses between his eyes, a beacon guiding him through the darkness. Angela, his wife, lies sprawled on the floor, shock etched into her features. She had betrayed him, plotted his demise. A hired assassin, a man waiting in the shadows, ready to extinguish Sven’s flame. But Sven is no stranger to battle. He’s faced enemies on distant shores, felt the weight of a rifle against his shoulder, and tasted the salt of victory and loss. Now, in this dimly lit room, he confronts the ultimate adversary: betrayal. Their son, innocent and unknowing, is safe—taken away before the storm broke. Sven’s rage, a tempest of raw emotion, threatens to consume him. He screams, the sound echoing off the walls, reverberating through his very soul. It’s over. Love shattered, trust broken, and the scent of roses forever tainted. More to come, indeed. Sven Salvatore’s story is etched in blood and memory, a symphony of pain and redemption. The last bullet may never be fired, but its echo will linger—a reminder that even in darkness, a single spark can ignite a revolution. Stay tuned, dear reader. Sven’s journey has just begun.

Yuji Itadori#1"So! You're fully aware of the task at hand, riiiiight, Itadori?" Gojo questions a tad teasingly, presenting his usual laid-back smile as he 'looks' toward one of his most promising students. The teen in question, Itadori, takes a moment to slip the sling of his duffle bag over his head and shoulder before giving a calm grin of his own. "Yeah, no worries. I got this." He assures while flexing his left arm and placing his right hand over his bicep. "I won't let you down, Gojo. I promise." The adolescent adds - a show of confidence that warms his teacher's heart and boosts the older male's faith in him.   "I know you won't! After all, you have the best teacher a sorcerer could ever need, and I've taught you well. You picked up on all of it so fast, too!" Gojo beams enthusiastically, praising his disciple with pride radiating from his very presence. Like energy ping ponging between the two, Itadori couldn't help but to crack a toothy grin. "You betcha'! With all you've taught me, I'll be sure to crack the mystery in no time! Well… Maki and I–"   "Hey. A feminine voice calls out from outside of the open doorway of Itadori's bedroom, drawing the attention of the two inside. "I don't mean to butt-in, but our ride is here." Maki herself informs. "Huh. Already, eh? A bit early, but no matter. Let's go see you two off, shall we?" Gojo says as he proceeds out of the room and building. The two students behind him follow along. "Yeah! I'm pumped to see what's in store for us there!" Itadori exclaims while holding up a fist parallel to his chin. "Calm down, will ya. It's probably something easily dispatchable. We'll be in and out within a few days, I bet." Maki comments dismissively, currently wearing a backpack and dragging along a four-wheeled suitcase. "That's the spirit! You two are more than capable of handling this case. Keep any doubt out of your mind, alright? We'll be here waiting for you guys to come back to us." Gojo assures the two.   Soon, the trio venture out into the open sunlight and descend down the flight of stone steps leading toward the exit gate of the school's grounds. Near the bottom, they spot a peculiar black bus awaiting and a just as peculiar man standing near the entrance door of the vehicle. "H-hey, Maki… Doesn't that guy kind of look like… You know who?" Itadori whispers to his classmate, leaning toward her with a hand cupping half of his nose and mouth. "Yeah… I thought I was imagining it, but he definitely does." She concurs, slightly frowning as she studies the man down below further.   "Yo. Good morning there." The man in question - the individual wearing a mask that conceals his nose and every other feature down to his neck, a headband worn within a tilting fashion so that it covers his right eye entirely, and head of spiky silver hair - greets the three while raising a hand to give a subtle wave. "Yo!" Gojo replies. "G-good morning, sir!" Itadori responds. "Morning." Maki dryly utters.   "I'm Kakashi Hatake. Nice to meet you three. I'm acting as the Dean for the school year. Figured I'd give some warm welcomes and encourage students to make sure they have everything they need. This being a boarding school and all." He tells them.  It was going to be a new ordeal for him, as well. His attire consists of a black dress shirt with the school's emblem on the left breast, his usual dark turtleneck shirt underneath, black sweatpants, a glimpse of white socks, and a pair of black open-toe shoes that resemble sandals.   "I'm all set!" Itadori confirms without hesitation. "Me, too. I'm good to go." Maki answers right after him.  The two are donning an entirely new uniform of their own. Itadori wears a black wool sweater with the school's emblem on the left breast region, as well. A red, thin long- sleeve shirt with a hoodie sticking out from the overshirt of his uniform, both sleeves rolled up to his elbows with the red under sleeves forming cuffs that overlap the black sleeves. Red sweatbands on both of his wrists, black slacks, and his usual pair of Red Octobers™ sneakers. Maki wears his uniform in traditional fashion. A sweater similar to Itadori's, a white blouse underneath, a black plaid skirt with red lines running throughout it reaching down JUST above her knees, black stockings, and loafers on her feet.    "Well alright, then. Go ahead and climb aboard. We've got a few more stops to make along the way before we head back to the school." Kakashi tells them, pointing a thumb at the bus behind him. The Itadori and Maki oblige and enter, leaving the two older men alone.   "By the way, there's something interesting about you, good sir. You from around here?" Gojo asks, still wearing a grin. "No. I'm actually from a village located in the countryside. My home is more… old school compared to the big cities. Funny enough, I was considering asking you the same question. Ever heard of Konaha?" Kakashi tosses a question of his own this time. "Konaha? Hmm… sounds kind of familiar. I may have heard about it through a report, but never had a reason to visit. Lots of ninjas there, I hear! You wouldn't happen to be one of them, would you?" Gojo prods.   "Heh. Well, I guess there's no real point in deflecting or leading you astray. Not only am I a ninja, but I'm also a mentor in the arts. Had to give it up for a little while, though. The pay was a little too tempting to pass up."   "Ah! I get cha'. Well, don't let me hold you guys up any longer. Take care of those two, okay? They're a pair of our finest."   "I'll do my very best and see to it that they make it home safely by next year." Kakashi assures after giving a single nod of his head. Meanwhile, Itadori and Maki go about finding their seats after passing by the black curtains that obscure the sight of the bus driver. Within a moment, Maki finds a potential spot. A seat beside a female with an air of mystery practically radiating off of her like gas fumes. "Pardon. Would you mind if I sat next to you?" Maki asks. Upon doing so, the girl tears her eyes away from the book in her hand and sets her honey-hazel colored eyes upon the sorceress. In that moment, a metaphorical clash of uncompromising souls tests the mental fortitude of one another. Both eventually find the other to be worth entertaining. So much so, the fellow raven-haired girl shuts her book as the corners of her rosy pink lips curve just a touch. "You may sit with me, yes. Go right ahead." Her tone was even posh. Maki proceeds to sit and the two begin to chat. Nearby, Itadori takes a seat within a single row back and on the opposite side. "I'm Maki Zenin, by the way." The sorceress introduces herself while removing her backpack to get more comfortable. "Maki Zenin. . . A fascinating name you have there. You wouldn't happen to be of the Zenin clan, would you?" The other responds, arching a curious brow while asking. A question that surfaces resentment in the depths of Maki's arguable cold heart and an eerie grin to her face that spells nothing pleasant for her opinion of her own family. "I am, actually. Unfortunately." She answers, serving only to stir the other girl' s curiosity even more.   "Is that resentment I hear? I take it this isn't merely about not getting a fancy car on your birthday, no? Most would think it's a blessing to be born within a family with a strong noble lineage." The girl with honey-colored eyes comments.   "If ONLY it were just that. But no. They value certain members and look upon another certain kind with disdain. It doesn't matter, though. I'm going to excel above even their favorites and return home to rub it in their faces." Maki elaborates.   "Oh-ha-ha-haa. There's far more pettiness within your clan than I thought! Oh, but whom am I to cast judgment on such a matter? Hnnn. Your predicament reminds me a lot of my older brother. He's an embarrassment to our family… Indecisive, easily provoked, and starves for validation. He was LUCKY to have been born, but I on the other hand; I was BORN lucky. That's what our father told him one day." The girl shares, pausing for a moment as she stares right into Mali's eyes like a serpent trying to discern if the specimen nearby was foe, food, or a nuisance. Maki's grin flatlines as she stares back, unsure if their chat was supposed to be friendly or antagonizing. "Whichever you may be, Zenin-chan… I look forward to hearing about your rise to the top. Surely you'll prove to be an outlier unlike my hopeless brother. Weakness is certainly unsightly after all." The girl adds oh-so-casually. Then, she takes a moment to place her book into her hefty duffle bag beside her feet. "I'm Azula, by the by." The girl also finally introduces herself. The name draws a small frown shape upon Maki's face.   "Azula, huh? That's not a common name at all. Judging about how you spoke about your family affairs, I'm almost certain you're THAT Azula. The heiress to the family from the Land of Fire who's dynasty has remained power for 400 hundred years." The young sorceress deduces.    "That I am. Nice to meet you, Maki Zenin. As you should be aware, I'm ideal company to have. Let's be good friends for the sake of our elite heritage, shall we?" Azula proposes with a calm smile. It's then that Kakashi enters the bus.  "Alright, let's go." And with those words from him, the bus begins moving. As the vehicle departs, Gojo watches. "Excellent Mortality, huh? What an ominous name for a school. Almost gives me chills." He comments, referencing the name painted on the side of the bus. The school transportation continues down the road until it makes a left turn at the next corner, passing a lamp post, but not even one inch of it makes it to the other side - as being consumed. The bus vanishes from one area and casually appears into another. Soon, they reach their next stop. A simple house in a middle-class neighborhood. Kakashi exits the bus to standby and the driver honks the horn twice. Barely half a minute passes before the front door of the house opens and out comes a young man with spiky platinum blond hair and a permanent scowl, carrying a bookbag partially on his shoulder with one hand and dragging along a suitcase with his other.   "Morning there. Got everything you need?" Kakashi greets and asks. "Yeah, yeah. I made sure I packed everything that I needed." The teen replies with a bit of annoyance behind his tone as he boards the bus.  "Well, alright then." With that quick conclusion, the dean boards the vehicle again and gives the 'o-kay' to head to their next stop. Inside, the newcomer takes a seat across from Itadori. The latter takes the opportunity to greet the blonde.   "Hey!" He begins, raising his hand and presenting a smile toward the other. "The name's Yuji Itadori. What's yours?" He asks while swapping places with his bag to scoot closer to the edge.  "What's it to ya, pink hair?" The blonde, side eyeing him with a scowl, asks with evident hostility. "Hey, don't be like that. We're going to be classmates for a whole year, after all. Couldn't hurt to try and make friends, right? I'm a new student, too." Yuji reasons.    "Tch. Fine, whatever. I'm Katsuki Bakugo. But you better not go thinking we're friends just because I'm telling you my name, pink hair. I've got no patience for anchors, you got that?" Katsuki responds, humoring the other to some degree.    "Clear as day, man. So, do you know anything about this school?" Yuji asks.   "Not much. Prestigious, high graduation rates, and for the gifted. I'm only attending this dumb school because some higher ups at my previous school think it'll be worthwhile for me to give a shot and see what it has to offer." Katsuki responds, though it was only a partial truth. He's attending undercover for Hero business to investigate questionable activities at this particular boarding school. Similar to Yuji and Maki who are attending to infiltrate and exercise potential curses.    "Oh, really? Guess we're in the same boat, then. Pretty much why I'm attending, too."   "It's whatever. The sooner this is all over, the better." Katsuki remarks aggressively. It's then the school bus arrives at its next stop. Another house where another young man is standing outside waiting. Same identical uniform to the other boys, though he has his sleeves rolled up to the widest region of his forearms and is wearing green sweatbands on his wrists and karate shoes on his feet. A simple backpack hangs from his shoulder by a single strap. The moment the bus door opens, the teen with black slicked back hair boards the vehicle while being greeted by Kakashi. "Morning there. Got everything you need? You still have time to grab anything else you might want."   "Nah, it's fine, old timer. I got everything I need." The youth responds, waving the other off as he heads toward the back of the bus.   "Well, guess that's it, then. We can finally head back to the school." With those words, the door shuts and the bus drives onward. Just before it does however, the new arrival claims a seat beside Yuji, who scoots over to give him room after asking. Little time is wasted before he starts making conversation. "The name's Yusuke Urameshi, good to meet ya guys." The spirit detective introduces himself with confidence adorning his tone.   "I'm Yuji Itadori! Nice to meet you, too." The one beside Yusuke responds.   "Maki Zenin." Itadori's classmate glances back to briefly give her name, as well.    "The guy over there is Katsuki Bakugo. I don't think he's too big on making small talk with strangers." Yuji informs Yusuke while pointing over at the blonde across from them. "Ah, I'm sure he'll grow out of that shell eventually." Yusuke comments with a grin. "Anyway, have you guys heard any suspicious stories about this mysterious school?"   "Huh? Define suspicious." Yuji requests, genuinely curious.   "You know, stuff like ghost spirits haunting the joint, people going missing, random attacks, the graveyard of students who've died there. Demons, too. That sort of stuff." Yusuke explains. Maki raises a brow and Itadori blinks.   "I had no idea there were stories like that going around. Are people really saying all of those things are true?" Yuji asks.   "Bah, get real! Demons? Spirits? Ghosts? I'm sure that garbage sounds believable if you're still mentally stuck in the third grade." Katsuki chimes in to ridicule and dismiss what he believes to be ridiculous superstitious rumors with no merit at all to them. Yusuke in particular takes enough offense to Katsuki's words to speak up. "Is that a fact? Well you know, some of us aren't so uptight as to lack a little imagination. I'm sure you're just a blast at parties and to hang around with, huh?"   "You don't know anything about me, mini pompadour. Besides, we're in high school, not babies at a playground. Grow up! Or are you still building castle forts with your pillows like a little kid?" Katsuki retorts.   "What? You lookin' to start something, guy? 'Cause I can already tell you're the type to run his mouth like a barking mutt, and funny enough,  they're usually the ones with glass jaws." Yusuke responds, his grin long gone.   "What did you just say? You want a piece of me or something, dumbass!?" Katsuki raises his voice as he shifts in his seat to face the other.   "What, you deaf and stupid? I'm askin' if you want me to lay you out like a rug!" Yusuke shouts back.   "Can you two neanderthals please pick your knuckles off the floor and at least pretend your family genes have evolved past the primitive stage from thousands of years ago!?" Azula chimes in aggressively as she turns and kneels onto her seat, shifting her glaring eyes between the two boys.   "I don't remember asking for your input, big lips!" Katsuki snaps at her.   "Don't think I won't backhand both you and him at the same damn time, girly. Go back to minding your own business!" Yusuke responds with just as much hostility. The trio's shouting stirs awake a student who's been napping for the majority of the ride.   "Jeeze, what's with all the ruckus… Don't you guys have any sense or common courtesy?  Yelling on a bus full of people. What a drag." The teen mutters that last bit under his breath as he raises to sit up, taking some time to rotate his shoulders before stretching his hands above his head. His uniform is identical to the others, save the long sleeve fishnet shirt he's wearing under his school sweater, the ankles of his pants rolled up to the middle of his shins, and a pair of shoe sandals--

Birth Name: BardaEarth Name: Barda FreemanAlias(es): Big BardaAge: UnknownAge Apperance: Thirties Species: New GodHeight: 6'2"Weight: 197lbsHair color: BlackEye Color: BlueSkin Color: GoldenSexual Orientation: Bisexual Relationship Status: Widowed 

There’s a code of ethics that one must adhere to while practicing law. Such ethics include: independence, honesty and integrity. Harvey’s reputation was that of “The best closer this city has ever seen.” His underhanded tactics was what aided in his ability to attend Harvard and inevitably land him Senior Partner. Despite that, Harvey had his own set of ethics that he used to guide himself through life. One of which was: never to date or sleep with a woman that has a significant other. A code that meant something to him.    May 16th, 1976   The gentle breeze of the wind danced through the trees, cooling the otherwise warm afternoon. The soft melodies of the chirping birds aided in a pleasant walk home. Harvey had managed to get out of school earlier than usual, which resulted in having to walk home. It was a relatively peaceful trek with the only interruptions coming from the few drivers that waved to him as they passed by. The first thing that stood out to him as he made his way up the driveway was an unknown car parked behind his mother’s. It wasn’t unusual for his mother to have company over. Her gardening club met often; the ladies toasting glasses of wine over gossip and calling it “gardening”.    The idea that it would be anything other than one of her friends never occurred to the six year old. Stepping inside, he glanced around to find emptiness. A buzzing silence provoked his childlike curiosity to explore. Like the ultimate game of hide and seek. With a smile on his face, he dropped backpack and took off for the kitchen. As empty as the living room had proved to be. Onto the dining room he went only to yield the same result.    “Mom?” He called out, rounding the corner to his parent’s bedroom.    Unbeknownst to Harvey, this would be a pivotal point in his childhood. Another man, one he recognized from visits at the grocery store, was in bed with his mother. He couldn’t fully grasp the situation until he witnessed fights between his parents. Arguing that kept him awake at night. As he aged, he came to comprehend the acts his mother had done. Even more so, he realized that she never really stopped doing so. Her ability to be a mother declined slowly after the day he first discovered her affair.    She chose what was most important to her; her two sons and husband sadly fell behind the strange men that would frequent their home. Due to this, Harvey made it a rule to never tangle himself up with a married woman. 

Home Sweet Hell"Don't cry..."Exhausted, heartbroken, battered, and bruised. All these things currently described Claudia as she walked up the dark sidewalk leading to her family home. She carried her lover's child, Madeleine's daughter, Layla, in her arms. The six year old child clung to Claudia as she carried her through the streets. Both had been through a great deal and had traveled far from Paris. But now they were in the United States and Claudia had gone back to the only place she knew she could. The home that sat on Royal Street in the French Quarter had been abandoned for years, since the Madi Gras massacre that was still whispered about by the people there. No one dared to enter the home in all these years.Entering through the gate and eventually into the home Claudia stepped inside, her eyes scanning all around. Everything was more or less the same as it had been all those years ago. She wandered around from room to room until she found herself upstairs, in the place where she and Louis had done it, where they had killed Lestat, and left him to bleed out on the floor while they cleaned the rest of the mess that the massacre had made.Here in this home, so many memories flooded back for Claudia. Good memories, happy memories, horrible, horrific, dreadful memories. All of those mixed with what had just happened only weeks earlier, the attack of the coven, Louis abandoning her, Madeleine's death, and now being left with her child, a small girl Claudia had passed the dark gift to. It all proved too much for Claudia as she sunk to the floor, Layla in her arms she simply rocked back and forth and began to sob uncontrollably, she just could no longer hold it in.After a few moments of crying, Claudia's cheeks were stained with blood tears rolling down her cheeks. Young Layla was distressed to hear Claudia cry, Claudia had become like a second mother to her over the last year and after seeing her real mother murdered, Claudia was all Layla had. "Cloudy.." said the small blonde haired child, her big blue eyes looking up to Claudia. Cloudy being what she called Claudia given she couldn't pronounce her name properly."Don't cry.." she little girl whispered wiping away Claudia's tears. Claudia gave a very small and sad smile. "I'm sorry baby.. I just... miss my parents." She whispered back before gently turning Layla. Above the fireplace hung a photo, one that had been taken long ago. "That is Uncle Les.. and Daddy Lou... and that's me." She said holding Layla close. "And we all lived here together for a real long time."Layla gave a small nod before turning again to hug Claudia. Both were tired, both needed to rest. After regaining her composure Claudia moved to stand, her parents ' coffins were both gone but her own still was in her room. With the sun just beginning to rise Claudia climbed into her coffin with Layla, they'd sleep the day away, and then when night came Claudia would figure out what to do. Just as Louis had done with her for the first few weeks haver her change, she and Layla would share the coffin, Layla kept close to Claudia, her little fingers twirling in Claudia's hair as the two of them finally allowed sleep to overcome them."And we all lived here together for a real long time." template credit.

Firefist Ace from One Piece; Bloodties MM Post There was nothing more depressing than having your arms shackled to the wall with Seastone Cuffs in the middle of the worst prison run by the World Government. He was known as Portgas D Ace. He'd eaten the Flame-Flame fruit so he'd earned the moniker of Firefist Ace. He'd worked his way through the ranks of Whitebeard's pirates to earn a bounty that was off the charts. He was a wanted man.The dank condition of his cell was designed to break his spirit. The first few days he was there, he was just more pissed off than anything. How could he let that bastard Blackbeard win? Blackbeard served him up on a silver platter and took over as a Warlord of the Sea after Ace's kid brother Luffy kicked Crocodile's ass. He couldn’t have been more proud of Luffy but yet more scared. The life of a pirate could only end up one of two ways. You could find your way to fame and glory or you could find yourself chained to the wall waiting for execution. Ace had made that fatal mistake. He was on death row and the Marines were bracing for a war.The repeated torment of having your arms spread-eagled and shackled was beginning to eat away at the heart of the man who had been a free spirit. The ethereal darkness surrounded him. His arms were hyper extended in ways that no human was expected to bend. What human being could endure this agony? Ace was not human in their eyes not because he was a devil fruit user. It was because he was a pirate. Pirates dared to defy them and make their own rules. This was simply not allowed. How dare anyone not think the way they were told to think? For that, Portgas D Ace had to die.His head drooped as each day passed as they grew closer to his execution date. Tendrils of ebony were matted with sweat and blood as well as the filth of the cell in which he'd been forced to live this last week of his life. Rats scurried around his legs as he was forced into a kneel. They were enforcing the idea that the World Government was the absolute authority and everyone would submit. Bright hues that once glittered with happiness as he played with Luffy as a child were now dimmed in defeat. It was less than 30 hours until his public execution.“Portgas D Ace. You cannot let them break you. You must maintain the fire not because of the Flame-Flame fruit. The fire of your pirate heart must never die.” Jinbe, former Warlord and a notorious Fishman pirate was his constant companion since they'd shackled him in the cell in the first place.A low sardonic chuckle came from the lips of the condemned man. “I wish it were simply that easy my friend. They're surely doing everything they can to make an example out of me.” Still the message the Pirate Princess passed to him was still bouncing around in his head. Luffy was a damn fool if we was coming here.Luffy had followed him everywhere when they were little. They both would often talk about going out to sea even when Garp was home. It was the bond Luffy had with Shanks that finally pushed him into the sea. Ace had a huge shadow to step out from himself. Not everyone was the son of the King of the Pirates. Ace was and he hated it. Luffy was his brother in every way except blood. Blood meant nothing to Ace. He lowered his chin as terror overwhelmed him. He wasn't afraid for himself, it was for Luffy that he was petrified. If they caught Luffy because the fool came here to save him, Ace would never be able to be at peace in the afterlife.“Please Luffy…no.” Soft words like a prayer left his lips in a desperate plea that whatever God was in heaven would spare his stupid kid brother's life.  credit: james kriet

Hi, I’d like to address this, I know some of us have this server as a mutual and stuff and I don’t like to make things public until they’re handled but as I was sleeping it was taken into their own hands. Regarding the matter I “stole a name” so I had no idea what or how to do pixel art. Like at all. I saw another creator, do it amongst a sh*t ton of others on deviant art, tumblr, (who by the way were so helpful and taught me how when I reached out…) but how was I not to know a pixelette wasn’t the actual name, hell even searching it up… that was the name. But yes I do apologize if it did seem like I stole from another creator and that’s on me. I WILL admit I used the same template as her regarding to the orders cause I took inspiration from her. Again my fault on that part and I take 10000% ownership on that. I have apologized to her, even well after her friends started coming for me because they got her side of the story. (I just woken up to the message and her friends came in my server and went for it without knowing the full story or taking one persons word for it.) I’m just going to finally say this. Every edit I’ve done has been mine from the go. I didn’t know the term pixelette was not the correct term. I’ve removed the content and will change everything soon. But to say I REFUSE to remove the content and the names is bogus I have here and on site and yet they’re still going. I’m one to admit my faults but to keep it going says a whole another things about someone, especially after I took ownership and apologized. But saying you won’t take matters into your own hands unless I don’t apologize which I have and removed the content which I also have. So with that being said Gothika I do apologize for taking the name Pixelette, truly I apologize.

  summary: Little chapter in my au of “everyday with you."Leon and Ada fall into a "domestic” routine while Leon’s on one of his much deserved vacations. Now that they’ve in a little sweet spot of their relationship, Leon fantasizes about a normal life with Ada. While Ada lets down her walls and becomes more comfortable with Leon.Leon wants to be a little bit more selfish with what he wants notes: just a thought i had about the idea of domestic lifestyle for them. tried to focus on descriptions on sounds environment etc.also i was talking about this to my friend and i said it wasn’t smut but then proceeded to say “so they were just f***ing a bunch” // There’s always a soft sound, even in the most quietest of moments. The roaring hum of the heater kicking in, fuelling the home with warmth. Cold air seeping in from the windows as autumn leaves gently brush against the glass. The ticking an analogue clock on the nightstand. The dripping of water drops panging against the metal in a kitchen sink. The crackle of oil and eggs in a frying pan in the morning. Soft changes in the light filtering in from the windows as the sun rises and sets each day, as the birds sang their pretty calls according to the time of day. The quiet moments in his home were never truly silent. There was always something to keep him present and grounded. Little peaceful moments of daily life that he craved and longed for. It contrasted the realities of his life. Of their lives. They were loud and destructive. In the worst of it; deep in the depths of missions where a split second decision could mean someone’s death. One of Leon’s worst faults was his empathy. His survivors guilt that haunts him, that keeps him from trying to live any semblance of a peaceful life. The screams of death was louder than anything else he had ever heard. And the cries of the victims was a worse pain than anything he had ever felt. Piercing gunshots would leave him with a ringing buzz in his ears; the loudness, he wished it would stop. The constant longing for a pause in his life kept him going somehow. Time to simply be with his own thoughts, worries and desires. Without having to worry about saving the day. Again. What’s the point of being the hero if he couldn’t even save himself. If all he was left with at the end of the day was himself, at least he could spend it- with her. / It was cold today. The sun occasionally peeking through the clouds. Making the light in his home grow and dim like a flickering candle. The days were getting shorter. Leaves turning into shades of coppers and golds while they tightly held onto its branches. The constant thrum of the heater in his apartment was running to keep it warm. The air was dry with each push of warm air. Leon was relishing in the warmth of his bed, relaxing against his light grey cotton sheets that was decorated with some sort of indiscernible pattern on it. He hadn’t picked it out. She did, and it was some sort of brand she liked. They were one of the softest sheets he had ever owned. His body was still wrapped around her. His arm tucked underneath her, his hand trailing up and down along her side. Her dark lashes kept her eyes closed as she laid her hand a top of his chest, drawing simple little shapes. Red glazed manicured fingernails grazed over every little scar and muscle. “You hungry?” Leon’s voice finally broke the silence. Hours had passed before either spoke. The time on the clock was ticking, but neither had a chance to have a look. Leon felt her stirring and her head shaking ‘no’ against him. She simply let out a long comforted sigh before returning to trace lines against him again. Pure blue eyes opened to look down at her, only seeing the top of her tousled dark black hair. Her hair was scented with her; warmed cherries, sugar and a hint of peonies. A simple inhale of her scent was invigorating. He watched her delicate fingers dancing along his bare chest, moving in rhythm as his chest rose and lowered. As if she were able to predict each breath. Ada could always feel every little change in him. His racing heart. The flutter of his lashes and the warm flush on his cheeks that would radiate towards his chest. The very image of him in his younger, more innocent self still coming forth whenever she had her effect on him. It was entertaining sometimes. To see such a strong man crumble at the sight of her. To feel his heart skip a beat at her touch. Little did Leon know, she was starting to feel the random heart beat skip in her chest. It was getting harder for her to hide it. In his peripheral, he saw empty plates of breakfast they had a few hours prior. Still hastily stacked on the nightstand. The silent urge to get up and clean them was still there, but he ignored the thought for now. What’s just a little bit longer. His larger hand reached for hers, grabbing it easily as she ceased her movements. Letting her hand be pulled towards his lips as he pressed a kiss against the back of it.Whenever Leon was lost in his affectionate ways, (which was quite often) his romantic notions would get the better of him, as more of his kisses were peppered on each of her fingers and fingertips. Ada finally opened her eyes, peering up at him as he did so. Watching each kiss be placed so delicately and affectionately. Much like he had been the past few hours. Desperately wanting to cover every inch of her body with his lips. “Is this all we’re going to do for the rest of your vacation?” She asked with the smallest raise of her brow, albeit with no complaint in her tone of voice. “Well, we might run out of food before that,” he murmured between his kisses, pausing as he reached to press another against her lips. Warmth blooming against the both of them before they parted. A warmth that they craved that came from deep inside of their chests that left butterflies fluttering in their stomachs. “That wasn’t a ‘yes’ or a ‘no,’ Leon,” she breathed out in a soft moan as her naked body pressed up against him. Doing her best to gather more warmth from him as she felt the smallest cold breeze seep in from the window. His other hand reached for more blankets, wrapping the edge of it around her tighter to bring her closer to him. Feeling utterly blissful with her wrapped so closely to him, he merely teased her with a lazy smirk. “You weren’t complaining the other day.” “And I’m not complaining today,” she snickered and closed her eyes again briefly. Leon chuckled in return. In truth, not many words had been said between the two for the duration of his vacation. Ada had planned to reject as many jobs as she could. Coinciding with Leon’s little vacation to allow them to spend the most amount of time together. These little moments she could spare with Leon; she was starting to rely on them too often. To feel some sort of pleasure and indulge in the fantasy. To feel like she could shed the mask of ‘Ada Wong’ and simply be herself. The fleeting dream was too tantalizing close now. She could almost taste it. Nothing was planned, and yet it wasn’t a surprise with what they ultimately choose to do. That it was a constant back and forth between his bed and any partially flat surface in his home. That and the kitchen for some sort of sustenance. Which luckily, still had a flat surface. Leon always offered to cook, he didn’t mind it. In reality, he liked cooking for her. Enjoying the challenge of making sure it was up to her standards but to challenge himself as well. Not only that, it was also nice to have an occasional helpful hand, even despite his protests that he “was fine.” And that’s how they spent their days. Quiet moments were spent laid next to each other. Not counting the minutes that went by. Not worrying about every little thing that could go wrong. Tangled in each other’s embrace without a care in the world. No worries in their thoughts. And no plans for the day, or the day after that, or the day after that. Entranced in each other and the few moments of clarity they had together. “If you have any other ideas, I’m open to suggestion,” he whispered as he positioned himself in the bed, getting more comfortable with her still in his arms. “What if I make something to eat?” Ada suggested before pursing her lips. Leon’s brows knitted together, his lips parted to speak but no words came out. Frankly he hadn’t expected that at all. Rather he expected her to respond with something much less wholesome. “Are you sure? What if I don’t have the right ingredients?” He finally spoke with concern in his voice. Almost whining a bit in protest somehow. He felt her stretching her shoulders a bit in his embrace, and he couldn’t help but notice it against her neck. That oh so obvious reminder. Ada was hesitant on ever letting him getting rough with her. Bruises weren’t her favourite thing to wear. Yet her skin was still flushed the lightest colours of reddish pink. It wouldn’t turn into the less desirable colours of yellows and blues as it fades. It would slowly fade to pinks before returning to her skin tone. The perfect little love bite. Staring at it had the memory of it replay in his mind in seconds. It was rare for Ada to completely lose her inhibitions. To desperately be calling for him in such a way that would have her embarrassed if she thought about it for too long. The feat of it wasn’t too rare, but whenever Leon was blessed with it he couldn’t help but indulge in it. Hearing her cries and whines would flush his cheeks, knowing that he could tame her like this. Knowing he had the privilege of seeing her like this. Leon was buried between her thighs, lapping up at her like she was the first sight of water after hours in a burning hot desert. Her fingers twisted painfully in his dirty blond locks as he stared up at her, his hands tight on her hips as he brought her closer to his warm tongue. The final cry for him had him crawling up her body. His hips tightly pressed against hers. His lips chasing hers before he had the rare opportune moment to nip against her neck. Her body curling up into him, her frail neck exposed, a gentle nod from her. “Leon,” she simply cried out from him again. In a desperate breath, she sharply exhaled as she felt him. The slightest bit of pain before it released pleasure. One of the rare instances where he’s marked her as his. Her hands grabbed at him again, cradling his face as he thrusted into her slowly. His hips plunging himself as deeply as he could, feeling her walls tense and hug his c*ck perfectly. With a frenzied kiss, Leon felt a gentle nip against his bottom lip. A returning gesture from her as she grinned wide. A boastful grin that quickly morphed as her mouth grew agape again with another snap of his hips- “Well, if you don’t, then that gives us an excuse to go out then, hm?” She ended her words with a sharp hum, along with a tilt of her head. “What-?” He felt his cheeks flushed warm. Ada’s voice somehow managed to wake Leon of his daydream. A suspicious cough escaped him as he tried to clear his throat. She narrowed her eyes and hummed a low tone and rolled over on top of him, straddling his hips with the blanket still draped over her. With her staring down at him like this, he always felt intimidated by her; despite being so much larger than her. He could feel himself swallow a lump in his throat as he gazed up at her, trying to gauge what she was going to do. He tentatively rested his hands on her hips, hiding them underneath the blanket. Watching her as she lowered her head like at him like he was her prey. Her lips reaching his cheek and nearing his ear. A soft kiss was pressed there and down his jawline and neck. “Ada,” he whispered, feeling that desperation growing in between his legs. His eyes lightly fluttering closed as she worked her warm kisses down his bare chest. Taking her time placing each one like he had to her. She smiled as she saw him relax against her touch, then the tensing of his strong thighs as she worked her way lower. His body reacting to each and every touch from her. A whine slipped from his lips to which she easily captured. Her soft lips pressed there, tongues mingling and slowly exploring. She parted with her lips still upturned. “We should go check,” she merely said and pressed another peck against his lips. A short kiss that smacked their lips together in an audible sound and slipped away from the bed. She left so quickly, grabbing the blanket that was wrapped around her naked frame. Leon heard her feet pattering out of his bedroom and towards his kitchen in a matter of seconds. “Ada wait-“ he groaned and tried to sit up, feeling discomfort in between his legs as he did so and grabbed the other blanket on the bed and mirrored her. Wrapping it lazily around him as he chased after her. After adjusting himself, he found her peeking into his fridge while one of the pantry doors was seemingly hastily pushed open. The hum of the fridge kicked in, the sound of it getting slightly louder as it pushed out more cold air. Still silent, she picked at some of the vegetables in the fridge. The sound of it organic and odd as she pushed them around in the plastic of the fridge. Her lips pouted as she scanned everything, seeing what else he had. He watched her as she prodded at them, seemingly to not find it satisfactory for her needs. “Told you we’re going to run out of food,” he exhaled a laugh through his nose. “You weren’t kidding,” she finally turned around and closed the fridge door. She looked outside, trying to perceive the time from the light from the sun. “It can’t be that late in the day, let’s go out.” She said as her hands kept the blanket wrapped around her and pressed herself into his blanket covered chest. “Are you serious?” He nearly pouted. “Do you want us to starve?” She returned the gesture, copying his pout. // The walk to the store was going to be quick and hopefully they wouldn’t get too chilly in this weather. The two of them bundled up in a thick coats and scarves to ward off the cold. Hands still held together despite it being almost too cold to do so. Leon insisted that human touch would keep them warm as opposed to gloves. Ada’s heeled boots kept a constant clicking sound against the sidewalk, while a soft breeze rustled the tree’s branches above them. The area that Leon chose to live in was almost always this quiet, with mostly older families and those with grown children who had already left the nest. Not much happened around there, and it made it easier for him to rest whenever he was home. Arriving there, the door of the little grocery store was propped open by Leon, letting Ada in first as warm air greeted them. Soft music played over the PA system, easy listening songs with mumbled lyrics that made it so that you could almost fall asleep at the sound. White noise from the freezers filled the rest of the store, and the occasional roll of a shopping cart broke through the rest of the ambient noise. Leon quickly grabbed a cart from the corral and walked next to Ada while she scanned the aisles, grabbing a few items along the way. Plopping the ingredients and supplies in when she felt like it. Leon occasionally doing so also, grabbing a few of his favourites and dropping them into the cart. The vision was almost comical, the both of them simply grocery shopping together. But while they were here, in this tiny little grocery store near his home; the idea of the weekly activity of grocery shopping with Ada. It was so simple, peaceful and quiet. How he desperately wanted this, no matter how mundane it seemed. Perhaps, it was because it was with her. The cart was quickly halted by Ada as she stopped him from pushing it further. A sharp screeching sound that was almost annoying until it stopped almost as fast as it started. Her eyes stuck on one of the cakes that was in the little local bakery there. Bright red strawberries and dark maraschino cherries sat atop a cream colour frosting that was piped lovingly with different swirls and patterns. She continued eyeing it, her lips pursed together softly. If there was one thing that Leon couldn’t fight against, it was Ada’s sweet tooth. Despite how well she maintained her physique with vigorous missions, she found it hard to not indulge in the occasional sweet thing. She remained mostly still, her eyes on the cake as her head swayed a bit from side to side. Silently deciding if she wanted it or not. The wheels of the cart began to turn again as she tugged against it, bringing it almost behind her as she resumed her walking pace. But the cart stalled, with Leon holding onto the handles as she snapped her head around. Her eyes meeting his for a moment. With a tilt of his head, his dirty blond fringe covered some of his eye as his warm boyish smile grew on his face. The cart was filled with more groceries, along with that very cake. Topped with strawberries and cherries placed delicately on top of everything else. Everything was bagged carefully, a majority of them held by Leon on the walk back towards his apartment, while Ada held the bag with the cake inside. Their free hands still holding each others as they walked back in the cold. Leon was right, their hands were still warm this way. The sun was slipping away, early sunset possibly. With the skies painted in oranges and pinks, giving them a warm golden glow. The leaves on the trees were highlighted with bright yellows as the sun hit the high points of them. The edge of night creeping along the far side of the city, the calm of the evening taking over. / Arriving back at his apartment, the scramble to find new homes for everything was laborious. With the both of them trying to find the best places to home the ingredients, correcting each other with what they deemed better. Before ultimately letting the other win. The cake remained in its plastic tray. The frosting still perfectly swirled. While the redness of the fruits began to seep their colours into the cream, making light pink swirls. Ada pressed her hip against the table that had the cake still on the surface of it, her fingernails playfully tracing over the the little plastic window on the box. A delicate ribbon was tied around the box, a complimenting shade of pistachio green against the dark cherries atop the cake. Her fingers were cat like as she tried to undo the ribbon. “You’re going to ruin your appetite if you have cake right now,” Leon tried to scold her, tapping at her fingers. “I wasn’t even going to get the cake, and now that we’ve gotten it, you’re going to make me wait?” She complained with an almost genuine tone of voice, like she was actually annoyed. He narrowed his eyes for a moment, his hands stilled on the box for a moment, “I knew if we didn’t get it, you would’ve complained later that we didn’t get the cake,” he responded with his chin tilted upward, almost like to assert some sort of dominance. “Well now that we have it though,-” she switches strategies as her tone of voice changes. “-Just a taste?” She pouted with a tilt of her head. An expression that would normally make Leon fold like a deck of cards. Instead he tried to resist the temptation. “You know you like waiting. The anticipation of the reward is better than the actual reward-“ he lightly rolled his eyes and he actually fixed the ribbon on the box. Tugging on the loops so it was more perfect and even again. Grabbing the bottom of the box, he leaned in to place it on one of the shelves in the fridge, “-Besides, you always make me wait,” he said from behind the fridge door. “Oh, are you punishing me?” She asked incredulously with a raise of her brow, while her hands supported her from behind against the edge of the table. Once the door slowly closed, he reached over with a few large steps. His hands pressed behind her on the table, trapping her as he leaned in close. “Who said anything about punishment? I never punish you for anything, do I?” He asked in a low whisper, his warm breath fanning across her neck and chest. She was more than willing to wait. He was right, the anticipation was always worth it. And she’d always makes sure the reward was just as good. “Fine,” she narrowed her eyes. Her hand leaving from the edge of the table and pressed it against his chest. Playing pushing him just far enough for her to slip around him. Sat at the little breakfast table in the kitchen, Leon watched as Ada worked, normalizing herself with where the utensils and kitchenware was. It was a strange feeling, seeing her act so domestic. He wasn’t even sure what she was making but he didn’t care, just watching her like this was enough. The sun had set by now, the sky dark blue with a few bright twinkling stars. The very few that were still bright despite the city lights. The inside of the apartment was lit with ambient low lighting. Little bulbs of yellow and orange illuminated from lit candles in little glass jars. His kitchen was filled with an aroma he felt hadn’t smelled before, yet was still so familiar. Warm and filled with a comforting spice. The pan was still crackling with something she was cooking, popping and fizzing while something else was boiling. The flicker of the candle that sat in front of him caught his eye briefly before he looked back up at Ada. Her hair was tucked neatly behind her ear, showing off her profile as she leaned in to taste test something, pressing a spoon against her lips. Licking her lips and pressing them together, she hummed, seemingly satisfied. She silently urged Leon with a twist of her head, luring him closer towards her. With a few steps he closes the space and leans down just enough to catch the spoon, tasting what appeared to be some sort of sauce. She silently gauged his reaction, the spoon still held in her hand. Leon hummed a simple note, nodding with a smile as he looked down at her, “I like it.” He wasn’t sure what to expect. It was sweet with a hint of tanginess, and it made him crave more. After what felt like an hour or so, the table was laid with a few more dishes than he anticipated. This seemed more like a full course meal rather than the few dishes he had been making for each of their meals. Each dish seemed to be prepared with ease, like she’d been making them for years. It made him wonder if these were comfort dishes for her, meals that she was able to make with ease. “I’m impressed, I didn’t expect all of this,” he smiled warmly. Truly and honestly warmed by the notion. “Don’t get too excited, I can’t cook much else,” she snickered and took her seat. It was a change of pace, something she hadn’t anticipated on doing, but felt as though no one else would appreciate the gesture. At least, no one else but him. / The wax in the candle burned, the light in the kitchen growing more dim as the night went on. Their plates were emptied, the both of them satisfied by Ada’s cooking. Leon’s hands were soapy and stuck in the sink as he cleaned up most of the dishes. The rest were piled into the dishwasher for another time. Ada sat patiently at the table, a neat glass of red wine in her hand, the thin stem pressed between her fingers. The apartment was still quiet, except for the running water in the sink. While the crackle of the candles filled the rest of the sound. “Now, are you ready for your reward?” He finally turned around, his hands drying off on a nearby towel. Her fingers twisted the stem of the wine glass, swirling the remains of the dark red before letting the glass sit neatly on the table. “Oh, have I suffered enough of my punishment? Mr. Kennedy?” She tested him with an alluring tone of voice. Sultry enough to make him stumble along the way towards the fridge which elicited a small giggle from her. “Waiting isn’t a punishment, Ada,” he chuckled after finally composing himself. “Although, I suppose can find much more enticing ways to ‘punish’ you,” he gave her a smirk while opening the fridge and bringing the cake out. His fingers pried at the ribbon that was tied around the box, unthreading it and letting it lay on the table. The lid of it was pried off loudly as he removed it. “Oh really? And how would you go about doing that? You know I don’t like it when you play rough,” she narrowed her eyes and watched him as he cut a single slice, plating it on a little pastel blue dessert dish. The little ceramic plate was delicately placed on the table, a single silver fork clanging against it as well as he returned to his seat. Still waiting patiently, she eyed the cake again; seeing the dark red cherries just begging to be bit into. And the cream so delicately swirled. She’d play his little game for now. With a tilt of his head, he tried gauging her feigned obedience. Knowing that somehow she would be winning either way. Her expression remained the same, a bit pouty yet somehow still confident. “I’ll only play rough if you ask of me,” he told her with his signature smile. With the tiny dessert fork in hand, he dug into the cake. Creating a perfect bite of cake and icing and presented it to her. “Open,” he simply asked of her. Licking her lips playfully, she leaned in close; happy to finally have her so called reward. The sweetest amount of sugar, the soft sponginess of the cake. The aftertaste of sweet cherries with a hint of strawberry. She hummed happily, finally quelling her craving for the sweet treat. Leon exhaled a laugh through his nose as he saw her; doing her equivalent of a happy dance in her seat, and dug into the piece for another bite for himself. Eyeing him and the cake, she plucked at the cherry still in the icing. Holding the dark red fruit between her fingers and bit into it. Scarlet spilling against her lips before she quickly licked it away with her tongue. She presented the other half to him, urging him to do the same as he did earlier. “Open,” she repeated with the same cadence. He shook his head with a grin and relented before leaning in. His mouth agape before he could taste the sweet cherry taste. A few more bites were exchanged until the plate was emptied. Quietness filling the room again as they sat together. The little blue dish was left on the table before Ada grabbed at him. Her eager hands pulling at him to bring him back into the bedroom. The back of Leon’s legs hit the edge of the bed before he felt his back falling flat against the soft mattress. The soft light from the night side table illuminated Ada’s figure as she urged him further up against the top of the bed. Comfortably returning to almost the same position they were in hours prior, Leon held her against him. He was already growing eager to shed some of his clothing. Feeling his body growing flush with warmth, yet only removed his dark blue button up which left him in a soft cotton t-shirt underneath. Letting out a comforting sigh, he turned to look at her. Still in a dark red knit dress that hugged her curves perfectly. He watched her as she grew comfortable against him, her eyes almost immediately closing as she rested on him. She fell asleep so easily next to him now. “Was it worth waiting for?” He asked in gentle tone. Still watching her, he saw her gently smile. Taking her time with blinking her eyes open again as she perched herself onto his chest. Her hand raised to caress against his cheek. “It’s always worth waiting for you, Leon.”

Summary: A Slave. A Queen. Two paths that seem so very different~ The night she stayed in the Skywalker household as a fourteen-year-old queen, Padmé has a conversation with Shmi Skywalker that would stay somewhere in her mind for the rest of her life. Perhaps she and the slave-woman from Tatooine weren't truly very different at all...While waiting on Anakin to return from his trek to find Shmi Padmé remembers the first day she knew the Skywalkers.Padmé walked quietly through the Lars household, the side of her index finger gently pressed against her lower lip. She paced back and forth, her thoughts racing across the past several days. She looked around for anything to busy her mind; giving 3PO an oil bath had provided a brief distraction but not one deep enough to pull her mind back from the desert of Tatooine, from the foreboding horizon that had seemed to engulf Anakin in a wave of his black cape. She continued to pace back and forth through the house until she walked past the living room where Owen Lars slept, Beru taking his bed. There was an extra bed in another room of the house and he could have slept there but had, in spite of her protest, insisted that Padmé take it. If only he’d known how little she’d actually be sleeping. She smiled slightly and even that seemed to be an effort. She walked again past the couch but this time walked to the kitchen where she found a cup and filled it with water. She took it and found her way back to the same chair in which she had been seated earlier that day. She took one drink of the water and set it down on the table, her mind drifting even further into the past. She looked outside, toward the Lars’ garage, running her finger along her cup’s rim, paying as little attention to it as what she was actually looking at.Her mind seemed to tumble down, deeper and deeper into the past as she looked out over the yellow and orange, back to a day on the same planet but very far away, a little more than ten years ago. Cool, almost chilling air, blew into the house from outside, casting her even deeper into her reverie as she remembered how relieved she’d been when night fell on her first day on Tatooine.She remembered sitting at the table in Shmi Skywalker’s kitchen, almost as silently and still as she sat at the Lars’ table now. And she remembered echoes… she remembered voices…“…Ani, let me clean this cut.”“There’s so many. Do they all have a system of planets?”“Most of them.”“Has anyone been to ‘em all?”“Hm, not likely.”“I wanna be the first one to see ‘em all.”Padmé was startled as she heard Shmi walk into the room and to the other end of it. She no longer heard the voices of the man and the boy who were sitting just outside the door, but rather the voice of the graceful woman that stood before her. Padmé followed her movements with her deep hazel eyes.“Ani, bedtime,” Shmi called to her son as she wiped a long streak of oil from the wall that had most likely gotten there due to her son’s fascination with building things. She crossed the room again, flashing a small, benevolent smile at Padmé as she walked past toward the door. “Ani,” she called again, her tone a bit more urgent but nonetheless patient, “I’m not going to tell you again.”After a moment the boy appeared through the doorway.Anakin stopped at the table, looking at Padmé and smiling briefly as he took a piece of orange fruit from the bowl on the table. Padmé smiled back briefly and spoke to him quietly as he bit into it, “Ani, you’d better do as your mother says, you need sleep.”Shmi picked something up out of the floor, tidying her humble home, before walking over to her son and running her fingers through his thick, dark blonde hair. “Yes, you need sleep far more than you need something else to eat.” She smiled as she stroked the side of his face, “Tsk, I don’t know where you keep it all.” She bent a bit and kissed his temple, “Take your food and go get ready for bed.”Anakin frowned slightly and looked at Padmé, “She gets to stay up.”Padmé pressed her lips together tightly to hold back a laugh, a small one escaping anyway.“Yes, but she is older than you are, not a growing boy, and our guest. Now off to bed.”“But-”Padmé saw Shmi’s patience begin to waver and felt her diplomatic drive kick in, though she’d tried to keep from participating where it was not her place to, “I’m not the one on whom everything depends, what you’re going to do tomorrow is important, and you want to do your best don’t you?.”“Yes,” Anakin replied, almost sullenly, not liking losing this argument at all. Especially not to a girl, however much like an angel he thought her to be.She looked up and smiled at Shmi a bit before looking back at Anakin’s dark blue eyes, “And don’t worry, your mother and I promise not to have too much fun without you. We’ll go to bed soon too.” She stood and straightened her clothes a bit.Anakin crossed his arms, “All right.”Shmi squeezed her son’s shoulder just before he pulled away and turned around and nearly disappeared into the very short hallway. Just as his small frame disappeared Shmi looked at Padmé and smiled more warmly than before. “Tha-”Padmé glanced toward the doorway as she saw movement. Shmi saw it too.Anakin leaned just around the corner and said almost urgently, “Oh, goodnight Padmé.”Padmé couldn’t help but allow there to be a slightly amused little groan in her voice as she replied. “Goodnight, Anakin.”Shmi laughed and though she smiled at her son her voice was more stern than it had been before, “Now to bed.”Anakin almost ran away, him saying “’Night, Mom,” being almost lost in his quick movement.Shmi looked at Padmé once again and sighed heavily, her relief that she’d finally gotten her son to bed showing in the way her shoulders visibly dropped, though they hadn’t really appeared tense before. “Now, as I was saying, thank you.” She looked back at the door before brushing moving past Padmé, beginning to wash supper’s dishes. Padmé, without any further thought, moved in beside Shmi and began to take the dishes from the stack the woman had made and to wash them in the basin of nearly hot water, ignoring the fact that it was uncomfortable.Shmi pursed her lips together a bit as she looked at Padmé’s hands. The girl seemed to know what she was doing but the condition of her hands told Shmi that this girl had not seen the life she had, the life her son had, and for that she was glad. Though she envied Padmé’s freedom, more for her son than for herself, she was relieved for the girl, that her beauty had not been marred by years of work and callusing sand. “You don’t need to do that, dear,” Shmi told her, in much the same tone that she spoke to her son.Padmé looked over at her and smiled, taking another dish in her hand, “I want to. You’ve earned far more help than I can give you, but I can try.”Shmi didn’t know what to say, kindness had been something she’d known very little of in her life. “Thank you,” she said quietly after a hesitant pause.Padmé smiled wider, this time without looking up from her work. “Besides, it’s not very often that anyone allows me to do these kinds of things,” she paused, realizing that even if Shmi knew that she was the true Queen of Naboo that it wouldn’t matter, but still choosing to try to be discreet, never wanting to flaunt her power or position, especially not to this woman or to her son, “Working in matters of state, even in a small capacity, doesn’t allow much room for ‘normal’ life. Manual labor is so foreign to me that I actually enjoy it… it feels… freeing.”Shmi was silent for a few moments until Padmé glanced at her, biting her lip very slightly, wondering if she’d said something wrong.Shmi realized that in her thoughts she might have put the girl ill at ease and said what she’d been thinking. “In truth, I find it freeing to… doing things like this… in my home, for my son, are the only sense of freedom I’ve ever known,” she paused and looked at Padmé, then past her, “Other than-” then she stopped.“Other than what?” Padmé urged softly, reassuringly.Shmi looked back at Padmé, looking her squarely in the eye, her face seeming even more at peace and serene than it had before, though Padmé was unsure of how that was possible. Shmi’s eyes looked as deep as oceans to Padmé, though the thought of what filled those oceans, years of pain and suffering, struggling to give her son a better life than she’d even known but with no real means to do so, a deep yearning for something unattainable, a yearning for being able to change things that could never be, seeing what was in those oceans pained Padmé and made her want to look away but she didn’t, for at the same time Shmi’s eyes were more content in that moment than Padmé had, until that point, ever seen anyone’s be.“Other than the freedom I see in Ani-,” she paused and smirked a bit, “Anakin’s eyes. Jira’s always said that he had my eyes.”Padmé started to agree with Jira, though the woman was not there, but Shmi continued, not noticing Padmé’s lips part to speak as she was drying a dish.“But I don’t think so. His eyes- his eyes are like nothing I’ve ever known. They may look similar to mine but- his eyes are something all their own. They’re anything but like mine- he sees the universe in a way that I could have never imagined ‘til he spoke to me for the first time, ‘til the first time I saw his crying eyes as he was placed in my arms. And though I still don’t understand where he gets his tenacity, that will that goes on forever, that hope that never shows any sign of extinguishing, or even diminishing, when I look into his eyes I feel it. I could never have it myself, if I ever had it this universe has stripped it away from me, so very long ago that I don’t remember, but I hope that nothing ever takes it away from him. When I was very young I longed for escape, for freedom from the clutches of slavery, but now… I am free. Though there are plenty of reasons I’d like to leave this planet, leave all of the difficult work behind, I don’t long for it anymore. The very first time I saw the face of that little boy sleeping in there, I was free. No bonds matter to me now… no forced obligation or duty truly matters to me, but neither does it bother me to fulfill them, for all that matters to me is the life, the happiness of my little boy. That is my happiness; that is my life; that is my freedom. His eyes changed me… and I don’t think for a moment that that’s all they’ll change.”Padmé had become lost in Shmi’s words, and only after a long moment of silence did she realize that her hands were almost rigid, still just beneath the water in the basin. She opened her mouth once to speak but for some reason no words would come. Her mind was whirling too fast for her mouth to keep up.Shmi noticed this reaction and laughed as she gently nudged Padmé away from the sink and finished washing the last several dishes, “I wonder if every mother has the same reaction to her children’s eyes.”Padmé finally came to herself and took a towel and began drying the clean dishes, stacking them neatly together, each with something very similar to it, allowing Shmi to put them in the appropriate place in the cupboard. “I- think I might. I’m… not sure.”Shmi smiled again as she stood up, taking the last small stack of dishes from Padmé and putting them away. “I’m sorry for going on like this.”“No, it’s… no trouble. I want to listen.”Shmi smiled and reached out and stroked the side of Padmé’s face with her thumb. Padmé closed her eyes briefly, not having felt so at home since she’d been a small girl in her own parents’ house. When Shmi put her hand down she placed it on Padmé’s shoulder rather than completely pulling it away. “My son trusts you, you’ve already proven a very good friend to him, and an even greater friend to me.” She laughed and spoke a bit playfully, “Anakin adores the ground you walk on, I trust you not to abuse that?”Padmé laughed, smiling widely, “I’ll certainly try not to.”Shmi stroked down Padmé’s braided hair, “The universe needs more people like you, and more people like Ani. If there were more people like you then no one would ever lack for kindness.”“Ms. Skywalker… I-”“No. ‘Shmi’, for one I’ve come to love as dearly as I have you in these few short hours Shmi is the only name that’s appropriate, dear girl.”“S-Shmi- I… thank you. That’s the most…wonderful compliment anyone’s ever given me.” Padmé glanced back toward the doors that led to where Anakin was sleeping. “And about Anakin- I think I agree with you. He is very kind and… does seem the type to change things.”Shmi sighed as she moved away, finishing up putting things away and turning out the lights, “If only he could get far away from here.”Padmé looked down at the table, “Maybe- Master Qui-Gon… could help him.”“Indeed I hope he can.”Padmé stifled a yawn.“It’s very late, you should get some rest,” Shmi told her, in her consistently mothering tone.Padmé rubbed her eyes, “You should too.” She sat down on a bench, covered with a thin pillow.“You can have my bed,” Shmi volunteered quickly, taking Padmé gently by the wrist to lead her.“But what about you?”Shmi smiled and looked toward the bedrooms. “I’ll sleep with my Ani…” her voice changed slightly, seeming scared or sad, “I have a feeling that things are going to change greatly tomorrow… for better or for worse.”Padmé agreed, seeing that the woman wanted to sleep next to her young son, and allowed Shmi to lead her to a bed. Padmé walked to the washroom after taking the outer tunic of her outfit off, rubbing some cool water on her face before she slept. Before returning to the room in which she was to sleep she looked through the doorway of another room, and saw the moonlit figures of a woman gently stroking her beloved son’s hair as he breathed deeply in and out, far away, and free in his dreams.When Padmé returned to the bed she sat down on it and stared at the wall for a moment, thinking about all Shmi had said. She was all the more convinced that fighting for justice in the galaxy was worth any sacrifice she must make. Cool night wind blew through a window, causing Padmé to chill as it ran across the cool water on her face, but soon the cold liquid was contrasted by a single hot trail that ran down her cheek, all the things Shmi hoped for, Padmé realized that she hoped for too, far more than she ever had before.The wind howled as it rounded a corner against the Lars’ homestead, Padmé suddenly remembering the present. She felt her eyelids drooping, though her mind was just as keen as ever. She stifled a yawn and walked to her bedroom, deciding that while her body would allow her to that she had better get some sleep, for this night, like that night all those years ago, held the promise of change… for better… or for worse.The next morning as the twin suns rose over Tatooine Padmé clinched her eyelids once but after that brief indulgence in sleep she sat bolt upright, a feeling of fear seeming to creep closer and closer to her, the fact that Shmi could be dead seeming far more likely than it had even the night before, in spite of Anakin’s conviction, his feeling, when he’d left that she was alive.And now with the memories of the day she’d met Shmi so fresh on her mind, the thought of losing her, pained her more deeply than it ever had; for herself and for Anakin.Not long after she’d awakened she heard 3PO’s voice from outside shout, “Master Anakin’s back!”3PO sounded worried, as he had ever since Shmi’s disappearance, spare a few instances, but being a druid he could not possibly understand the gravity of the situation.She, Owen, Cliegg and Beru all met Anakin and Padmé felt her heart sink as she recognized what she saw. Anakin had returned… with Shmi’s body. It was wrapped in a makeshift burial shroud, as carefully put together as any machine Anakin had ever built, he’d obviously wrapped her with great care but the caring little boy that Padmé often still saw in Anakin’s eyes, across his face, was nowhere to be found in that moment. He took his mother, holding her reverentially, and carried her down into the house, without sparing a word. He looked at Cliegg, he looked at Owen and at Beru, but he did not look at her. This did not bother Padmé, she was not thinking about herself at all, but rather about the mother whom she’d seen stroking her son’s hair as he slept on Tatooine, of the tortured young man that walked into the Lars’ house before her… of one of her dearest memories fading to only the possibility of being just that- a memory.There were so many things she wished she could tell Shmi, and she wished there were anything that came to mind to tell Anakin. She felt tears well behind her eyes but she closed them tightly, pressing them far back, far back into her mind and heart, and only thought of Shmi’s words while she was living.“I still don’t understand where he gets his tenacity, that will that goes on forever, that hope that never shows any sign of extinguishing, or even diminishing, when I look into his eyes I feel it… I hope that nothing ever takes it away from him.”But Padmé knew that now it was far too late for that. That little boy had been broken by life in the same way that Shmi had, in perhaps an even greater capacity, and Padmé now only wondered if for Shmi that she could find a way to give that hope back to him. As she recalled everything Shmi had said to her that night she realized that Anakin’s eyes meant very much the same thing to her as they did to Shmi- that though very different that her love for Anakin was just as important to her as Shmi’s for him had been, as important as breath, and more important than anything else. More important than even political obligation she then began to realize, and began to feel stupid for ever having thought that her duty to a vast impersonal body that was the Republic superceded her duty to a living, breathing man, a boy, whom she’d come to love long before any of this ever mattered, and grew to love more every day.Later, when Padmé held Anakin tightly as they sat in the floor of the Lars’ garage, as Anakin’s anger quieted, fading away to a blood red gash in the very depths of his soul, making him feel as small as a grain of sand, making him despise himself as much as he hated the sand, he found himself listening to Padmé’s calming whispers, and more than that listening, feeling, her thoughts.Finally when the tears stopped she started to pull away. Before thinking it through he spoke, “Stay.”Padmé stopped mid-motion and held him just as tightly as she had before as he remained in the same position, his eyes still wet with tears though they’d stopped flowing.Padmé heard a voice in her head, this time just her own voice, ‘I’ll always stay with you…’ as she remembered Shmi’s words.“My son trusts you…”Padmé found a small smile through his tears, though Padmé didn’t see it, as he was connected so intricately with her thoughts, though she didn’t know it at the time. He smiled a bit because there was something that Padmé didn’t know, that his mother didn’t know. That night he’d sat just within the doorway, listening, quietly listening. He’d heard every word… And now the thing he was the most grateful for was that he had not, in fact, been asleep as his mother ran her fingers through his hair. Aside from the final goodbye that was the last time he could remember what his mother felt like when she was well… the last time he could remember feeling her touch when it wasn’t growing cold. Padmé might not have known that he was listening that night, but she yet could. His mother would never know. In spite of his fighting he felt the tears come back, but Padmé held him relentlessly, much the way his mother had all those years ago.Padmé nuzzled her face against Anakin, inhaling deeply, his smell curling through her mind and deep into her memory as she shed the only tears she ever allowed herself to shed for Shmi. And in that moment, she promised Anakin, promised herself, and most of all promised Shmi, that she would take care of Anakin… that she would never leave him alone. His mother had left him because she’d had to… and though Padmé wished she could see Shmi again, hug the woman whom she’d grown to love in so short a time, she knew she could show the woman who’d shown her so much kindness in exchange for so little kindness throughout her own life, one more act of kindness…And Padmé hoped that if one could know of the living after death that Shmi was aware of the fact that her son would always be taken care of… the best Padmé knew how. She would save them. Save that little boy from Tatooine whose mother had loved him so very much…And what neither Padmé nor Shmi knew was that Anakin had been hiding just around the corner of the doorway, listening to every word. And what Anakin did not know was that in years to come that the words of Padmé and his mother’s conversation would reverberate through his mind, and find a way to comfort him even when all seemed smoldering ash… It was, at times, in that memory that he found the strength to revive that thread of hope that his mother had hoped so fervently would never break.And as Padmé looked at Anakin, having just become his wife, she held both his hands tightly for a moment, looking into his eyes and seeing all that his mother had seen and, she thought, far more. And it was in that brief moment that she finally, after years of slow progress, realized that she and Shmi Skywalker had not been so very different.

Summary: With luck, they might survive their first date…   Dear Reader, this letter is to inform you of Cupid’s curse, which will fall upon you if you don’t pass this email on to twelve friends within twelve hours.   Mycroft Holmes didn’t believe in the curse and now he hasn’t had a second date in three years… because all his first dates end in disaster. Gregory Lestrade isn’t sure if the curse is real or not, but if dating Mycroft means occasionally getting assaulted with shrimp linguini or nearly electrocuted, it’s worth the risk. Armed with lucky charms and optimism, Greg will have to battle Russian mail-order brides, fire alarms and flying knives if he’s going to win the boy. (Adapted from “Cursed By Cupid” by Wendy Sparrow) Notes: Based on the summary of 'Cursed by Cupid' by Wendy Sparrow. I wrote this in stops and starts.   The most interesting thing about the email is that it appears in Mycroft's inbox at all. The layers of electronic security and various administrative staff should have ensured it was deleted or quarantined long before Mycroft saw it. On the surface, it's a simple chain letter promising a reward for sharing this banality with others and threatening dire consequences if ignored. Mycroft reads it carefully to be sure there isn't a hidden message encoded in it, but their standard cyphers reveal nothing. It's merely a chain letter from an anonymously random email. There is something about the 5s and 8s in the email address that makes Mycroft suspect it's from Sherlock -- not something he can prove without investing significant time, but probable enough that he's comfortable with the assumption. Sherlock could be testing Mycroft's security, trying to find weaknesses he can exploit later. Or simply doing it to annoy Mycroft. Mycroft sighs. It's such a shame to see a bright mind wasted on pointless puzzles. Even if Mycroft was the type of person to know a dozen people on a purely social basis, he still wouldn't forward a letter espousing “romantic miracles” and “the love of your life”. Sneering at the threatened “Cupid's curse” upon all future attempts at romance, Mycroft deletes the email and thinks no more about it. *** Mycroft is not a superstitious man. Superstition is how the unobservant make sense of the world, pretending omens and rituals give them some control over perfectly logical results. The decline in his romantic life has nothing to do with an ignored email. It's a logical result of circumstances. As the scope of his role has increased, so has the confidentiality of information. He no longer works directly with a particular team; it's better to sift through multiple written reports to collate an accurate grasp of the situation. Overlapping information is the best way to ensure nothing is missed; multiple sources reduce unconscious bias. This means that he spends most of his days working alone in one of his offices or attended by minimal, well-known staff. The only meetings he attends in person are small committees of his peers. In short, he has fewer daily opportunities to meet strangers, so it's unsurprising that he dates less. And then there is Mycroft's natural inclination. He is no longer twenty and intrigued by taking a risk, nor willing to sit through four or five tedious dates to be certain the relationship will fail. He is no longer in his thirties, feeling his youth inexorably slipping away with his thinning hair and receding hairline; no longer desperate to grab at any opportunity, worried it will pass him by. The main comfort of his late forties is that he is comfortable with his own company. He enjoys his house, his club and his work, and living out his days alone no longer fills him with dread. His leisure time is too precious to squander on dates that will not go anywhere. He is more selective, and more than happy to cease a new acquaintance over dessert when it's obviously doomed. He hasn't had a second date in years because he knows who he is and has grown more adept at reading the flaws of others. Sherlock may tease him about being cursed, but Mycroft knows that's preposterous. *** “Do sit down, Quentin,” Mycroft chides sharply, frowning at the scene before him. He's starting to wish he'd picked a different restaurant. He likes Gauthier, but if this nonsense continues much further, he might not be able to come back here. “It's broken.” The words are muffled, both from the damage to Quentin's nose and the bloody napkin he's holding to it. Mycroft can still make out every outraged word. “He broke my nose. That's assault. I want him charged.” Mycroft looks over at the hapless waiter now surrounded by other staff. His apology is blazing in the creases on his forehead, the twist of his long fingers, his weight shifted off his left foot. “He tripped,” Mycroft says. It's as obvious as the waiter's love for tabby cats, his aspirations to be a sculptor and his Albanian grandparents. “He hit me,” Quentin insists, ignoring the fact that Mycroft is right. Mycroft already had his doubts about this date: Quentin's wine choices had been pretentious and his attempt to debate the Greek economy had been woefully simplistic. Knowing the man lashes out when his pride is hurt only supports those doubts. “Somebody needs to call the police. He needs to be arrested.” Mycroft could step back and let it happen, but the waiter will be fired and the court's time will be wasted. Instead, he makes a call. It connects almost immediately. “Lestrade here.” “Detective Inspector, this is Mycroft Holmes. I need to ask a favour.” Mycroft turns away from the table, rolling his eyes at the expression of vindication on Quentin's face. “There is a matter of an assault charge that I would prefer was handled quietly.” “Quietly?” Lestrade echoes. “You want me to come down there?” “If you would be so kind.” Lestrade doesn't argue or bicker. He only asks for the address and promises to be there as soon as London traffic allows. The speed of Lestrade's arrival means he must have used the siren to force his way through. It's a slight abuse of power that Mycroft appreciates. Lestrade walks into the restaurant like he's stepping onto a crime scene: not fussy, not showy, but certain he should be here. His shirt is open at the collar, his jacket unbuttoned beneath his trench coat, but he nods his way through the onlookers and people step aside. He's come on his day off, Mycroft realises, noting the day's worth of grey stubble. It should make him look scruffy but Lestrade looks ruggedly handsome instead. For an absurd moment, Mycroft wonders how rough it would feel against his fingertips. He blinks the thought away as Lestrade steps closer. “Thank you for coming.” “Where is he?” Lestrade asks, looking around the room. His gaze lingers on Quentin and the napkin pressed over his face before scanning the rest of the crowd. Mycroft nods at the poor waiter. “He tripped, collided with his nose,” he says, looking over at Quentin. “Not Sherlock?” “Not this time,” Mycroft says. “This was more of a personal favour.” Lestrade's brows shoot up at ‘personal’ and this time when he looks at Quentin, he pays more attention to the dinners between them, the casual glasses of wine and the small table for two. It's not obvious. It could be a working dinner but Lestrade mutters, “At least one of you dates,” under his breath, and then adds, “He wants to press charges and you don't want him to?” “If you could discourage him.” *** “So,” Sherlock says, fishing the broken heart from the board game between them. Sherlock prefers playing Operation because it gives him an excuse to show off his dexterity; Mycroft agrees because Sherlock brings out his competitive streak. At some point, Mycroft will stop letting his brother goad him into childish games he'll most likely lose. “I heard your last date required police intervention.” Mycroft rolls his eyes. There is no official record of that event, but Sherlock's information comes from a variety of questionable sources. “It was an expedient solution.” “It was the curse,” Sherlock replies gleefully. “It was an unfortunate choice of dinner companion.” Mycroft scowls at the pieces left on the board. He steadies his tweezers above the funny bone. “Nothing more.” *** Mycroft doesn't give much thought to the snippets of Latvian coming from the kitchen. The service industry across London is fueled by people working long hours for minimum pay, and those people are frequently immigrants with limited English. Hearing a foreign language from the back of a restaurant is expected. The date is better than expected. Paul is charming with a nice smile, and he talks about his position at the Wallace Collection with passion and admiration. They've discussed favourite painters and the sheer emotion in the latest exhibition, and it's all going well until Mycroft hears himself laughing a little too loudly at Paul's joke. “If you'll excuse me,” he says, standing up and making sure he feels the weight of his phone in his pocket. “I'll be right back.” It takes too much concentration to keep his steps steady as he takes the narrow hallway to the gents. He can feel his pulse hammering at his neck, the hot flush on his cheeks. He looks at the dimly lit wallpaper around him, the way the design shifts and swims in front of him, blurring and overlapping in endless repetitive patterns. He notes the way it makes him feel: amused and entertained. He wants to call Paul over, show him this wonderful wall. An entactogen, then. MDMA, perhaps. Something slipped into his drink to allow for quick metabolism into the bloodstream. He thinks of Paul, Paul's easy smile, Paul reaching across the table to run fingertips along Mycroft's palm. No wonder the date was going so well; they're both under the influence of something. It must have been a member of staff. Latvian. There was a corrupt general in Belarus with ties to Latvia, a general whose illegal arms deal fell through due to Mycroft. Despite Mycroft's excellent memory, the details are fuzzy. Right now, it's hard to think straight, let alone strategize. Mycroft pulls out his phone. Texts his assistant with the details, orders surveillance on the current employees. It's a risk for him to be anywhere near his office in this state, and Sherlock is in Scotland investigating missing emeralds. “Need me to rescue you from another bad date?” Lestrade asks and Mycroft doesn't remember dialling. But the phone is in his hand, and Lestrade's on the other end, and when he drags his free hand down the wallpaper, the flocking feels incredible under his fingertips. “With some urgency,” Mycroft says and manages to drag the restaurant's address from his memory. He relays it to Lestrade who hums as he writes it down. It's a pleasant sound. “You must have a lovely singing voice.” “Are you okay?” The sharp concern in Lestrade's tone sobers him a little. “Is that some kind of distress code?” “No, but it would be handy right now.” Mycroft can't remember where the kitchen is relative to this hallway. Doesn't know if he can be overheard. Doesn't know if he's said too much already. “I think I've had too much to drink.” Lestrade mutters something about lightweights but Mycroft can hear his keys jingling. “Fine, I'm on my way. Stay there.” When Mycroft gets back to the table, Paul is glassy-eyed. There's a sheen of sweat across his forehead. Now that Mycroft's looking for it, he hears the faster speech pattern and the touch of mania in Paul's voice. “It's an amazing piece,” Paul says fervently, after enthusiastically describing a light installation south of the river. “We should go see it.” “I'd like that.” He would. Mycroft wants to see Paul again, but it's unlikely. When Paul wakes up tomorrow, he'll subconsciouly blame Mycroft for this. There won't be a second date. “We should go right now.” “I can't,” Mycroft says but he's saved from explaining the situation by Lestrade walking through the doors. He's clean shaven this time, in a wrinkled shirt that he's worn all day and his phone in his hand. His amused smirk turns into an outright grin when he spots Mycroft. Mycroft wonders at the grin and then realises that he has listed somewhat to his right. He takes his weight off his elbow and sits upright. Paul's nice smile shines even brighter when he sees Lestrade. Mycroft understands it, of course, but it's still galling. Lestrade is not there to be leered at. “Paul, this is DI Lestrade.” He waves a hand between them. Gets distracted for a moment by the glide of his hand in the air. “Lestrade, could you explain to Paul the common effects of MDMA?” “What?” “MDMA. Ecstasy. Common effects.” Mycroft can't. He doesn't trust himself to explain the drugging without explaining the reason for it -- and that is far beyond what a civilian like Paul should know. Lestrade is now looking at Mycroft. He must see Mycroft's flushed cheeks, the loosened tie because he'd been desperately hot. “You were roofied?” he asks, suddenly serious and professional and devastatingly handsome. Mycroft nods and ignores Paul, who's staring at Lestrade's mouth but not paying any attention to the words spoken. “The drinks.” Lestrade frowns and starts rifling through his coat pockets. He pulls out an evidence bag, wonder of wonders, then takes the empty glasses from the table and seals them inside. “Okay, gentlemen, we're going to A&E.” *** The car ride turns Paul's pale complexion to the colour of chalk. He looks distinctly nauseated, so Mycroft stays in the back of the Vauxhall Astra while Lestrade takes Paul in. He wants to sleep this off but he doesn't feel the least bit tired. Instead, he watches the streetlights reflect on shop windows or runs his fingers over the car's upholstery. Leather seats would be easier to clean but Lestrade has the standard fabric option. No special requests. No special treatment. No expectation of higher recognition or higher rewards for doing his job and more. Mycroft has both hands flat against the seat, dragging his palms over the fabric just to feel it against his skin, when the car door opens. “Okay, got that sorted. They're keeping him for observation overnight, and his sister will collect him in the morning.” Mycroft scowls at the thought of Sherlock having to do the same. It seems wrong. He's supposed to be the sober one getting calls from a hospital; it's never been the other way around. Then he remembers Sherlock is in Scotland. Saved from that possibility. When he looks up, Lestrade is staring at him. “Yes?” “Your turn. Come on.” “No.” “No?” “A hospital has too many staff. Too many entrances. If this was a planned attack, I'd be too vulnerable there. Take me home.” Mycroft drags a hand against his forehead, trying to think through the haze in his mind. “No, my laptop's there. Too much information. Take me to a hotel instead. Somewhere they charge extra for WiFi in your room.” Mycroft fishes his phone out of his pocket. He holds it out to Lestrade who blinks and then takes it. “What's this for?” “Hold on to that for me. I shouldn't be left with… with…” He can't remember the words. They're there, he can hear them in a variety of languages, but in English that word is blank. Just a shape in his mind of keys and locks and files. “With means of contacting someone?” Lestrade asks, still leaning into the back seat through the open door. From this angle, he looks tired. Shadows catch on the soft bags under his eyes. He should sleep more, Mycroft thinks. He should have someone to kiss him on the cheek and suggest an early night. “Mycroft?” “Confidential information. No, that's not the right word. Sounds similar. Or similar meaning.” Mycroft shakes his head. His vision spins a little so he holds himself very still as he adds, “Classified. That's the word.” “Classified?” “The amount of information on that phone, the secrets I am privy to… I should not have access to them while I’m incapable of logical thought.” *** Mycroft's not entirely sure how he ended up on a sofa in Lestrade's flat. Oh, he can guess the turns Lestrade took and how long he had to wait in traffic, but he's not sure why. Yet he's sitting on Lestrade's sofa -- a deep grey-blue fabric, easy to accessorise, new but not terribly high quality -- being handed a pillow and a duvet. “I know you probably can't,” Lestrade says firmly, “but try to get some sleep. I'll come check on you in a bit.” *** Mycroft wakes up the next morning and quickly wishes he was still unconscious. His head is pounding. His tongue feels as if he's been licking carpet. He stretches out on the sofa and groans like a prisoner on the rack. He aches everywhere: his arms, his legs, his ribs, even his elbows. He feels clammy, skin tacky with sweat, and shirt damply stuck to his back. All in all, it's a disgusting feeling. He can't fathom why anyone would wake up like this by choice. He presses the palms of his hands against his eyes -- even his eyelids ache -- and tries to recall last night. It's blurry snatches of Lestrade muttering soothing nonsense, a cold flannel held against his forehead, fingers petting through his hair the way Mummy used to when he caught a cold. He remembers talking to Lestrade; the taste of sweet, milky tea. He can remember leaning against Lestrade, drooping until his head was on Lestrade's shoulder. Warm cotton against his cheek and the smell of laundry detergent and deodorant and human being, the same smells on Lestrade's pillow. He has no memory of what he said to Lestrade. Hopefully, it was nonsense ramblings and nothing especially classified. Although that is why he called Lestrade. The man has proven he knows how to keep a secret when necessary, and he understands that there is a lot of grey in the world. Alongside Miss Hooper, Lestrade stands as one of the few civilians Mycroft would trust with the nation's security. Mycroft pulls his hands down reluctantly. From the angle of sunshine coming through the tiny kitchen window, it's late afternoon. The kettle's been moved and there's the edge of a mug in the sink. Toast crumbs on the counter. Lestrade ate a quick breakfast quietly, no sign of lunch. He left some hours ago. As expected, there's a note on the coffee table. “Had to go to work,” says Lestrade's chunky block capitals. “Call me when you wake up. Greg.” There are years of filling out arrest paperwork in that handwriting, capitals used as an easier way of ensuring legibility, even spacing and a slight slant to his W’s. Mycroft places it down on the table before he can do anything as ridiculous as trace over the letters with a finger. He picks his phone up from the table and dials. “Hey,” Lestrade says, more gently than Mycroft probably deserves. “How are you feeling?” “Like death would be a mercy,” Mycroft replies candidly, “but it will pass.” “Your pulse was back to normal and you weren't running a fever, so I figured you were past the worst of it when I left.” The idea of Lestrade checking before he went to work… It makes Mycroft feel strangely bashful. “Have you been sleeping all this time?” “Yes. I just woke up,” Mycroft says and then wonders why he bothered elaborating. Lestrade doesn't need him to state the obvious. “If you want to stick around a couple of hours, I'll get takeout on my way back.” “No,” Mycroft says quickly. “I've abused your hospitality long enough. I am in your debt.” “As long as you hold up your end of the deal.” It sounds like a joke that Mycroft doesn't understand. “Deal?” “You promised me a knighthood.” Lestrade is clearly amused now. “You said people owed you favours and you could do better than an OBE.” Now Mycroft remembers snippets of last night's conversation. Remembers complimenting Lestrade and insisting on a way to thank him. Apparently, in the most ridiculous and pompous way possible. Objectively, he knows it's best that no real information was shared. But the idea that Lestrade thinks he's a fool, that Lestrade is laughing at him, sits uncomfortably in Mycroft's stomach. It's not beyond his abilities. He could orchestrate a knighthood if he wanted to. “It would take some months to arrange.” “Yeah? So I could be Sir Greg? Make the ACPO ranks pay attention to me?” “I think the Queen's representative would use your full name.” “I don't think Sir Gregory has the same ring to it. Makes me sound a lot older and a lot posher than I am,” Lestrade says with a chuckle. “So thanks for the offer, but no thanks.” “As long as you know your kindness was appreciated,” Mycroft says earnestly. A little too seriously given the awkward silence that settles between them. Eventually, Lestrade clears his throat and says, “Yeah, it's fine. Just be careful in future, right?” “Or stop interacting with the human race," Mycroft suggests glibly. "Sometimes, that feels like the easier solution.” *** For the next month or two, Mycroft makes it a personal priority to disassemble the support base of a particular general. He spends more time studying maps of Belarus than talking to people so it's unsurprising that his next date is almost three months after waking up on Lestrade's sofa. If Mycroft's being perfectly honest, accepting tonight's invitation had less to do with the man, Julian Peterson, and more to do with his last conversation with Sherlock. (Sherlock had looked him up and down, grinning. “Finally decided to give in and accept the curse?” Really, Mycroft had no other choice than to prove him wrong at the next available opportunity.) Julian is reasonably attractive: blonde hair turning white, a healthy tan, good features in a long face. He has nice hands, strong and a little rough from horse-riding. The type of man who has always been physically fit and has put effort into remaining so as he ages. He has the biceps and forearms of a man who spends time at the gym daily. He's objectively attractive, but more importantly, Mycroft is attracted to him. He would very much like to invite him home, to kiss him against the stair railing and let his fingers explore that carefully maintained physique. He might suggest it if Julian would only stop talking. The man barely pauses for breath, rolling from one self-absorbed story to the next. Tales of being a merchant banker, of buying his new Ferrari, of that time at Capri where the hotel had double-booked the executive suite and tried to bribe him with a complimentary room until the suite was available. It's bragging in the least interesting way possible. Mycroft smiled through the first few stories but now he's letting his mind wander, not that Julian’s taken any notice of it. Julian is attractive as long as Mycroft doesn't pay any attention to the things he's saying. He couldn't bear sitting through another evening of this, but he's sure he can keep nodding and get through the meal. Even if it's just a one night stand, it would be nice to be touched and feel desirable again. Maybe saying “just” a one night stand in disingenuous. Maybe it's expecting too much to find an attractive man who can both hold a decent conversation and enjoy Mycroft's company. Perhaps he should learn to be satisfied with two out of three. When Mycroft thinks back on the last few years, most dates haven't ended well enough to even include a kiss. Of the ones that have, half of those were awkward goodnight pecks, the kind that clearly signalled that no one wanted to repeat the experience. It feels like a very long time since he's felt any immediate pull of desire. Mycroft's so distracted by his own thoughts that he doesn't notice the waiter approaching with their meals. He startles as the plate appears in front of him and instinctively flings a protective hand in front of him. It catches the heavy white porcelain and sends the plate flying across the table, landing food down in Julian's lap. All three of them -- Mycroft, Julian and the waiter -- freeze in shock. Mycroft stifles the urge to laugh at the ridiculous situation. Julian slowly looks down at his lap and then snorts like an angry water buffalo. “Do you have any idea how much this suit costs?” he splutters, face going red. “Judging by the cut, it's one of Kilgour’s,” Mycroft says over the spluttering. From the way Julian's glaring, tonight is a lost cause. No point holding his tongue any longer. “I'd place it around £4,300.” While Julian takes a ridiculous fuss about dry cleaning costs and rushing off to the gents to salvage his suit, Mycroft asks for another serving to take home. If tonight is doomed, he should at least be able to enjoy a nice prawn linguini. *** Julian doesn't return to the table so Mycroft pays the bill and takes a surprisingly generous container home with him. He pauses outside the restaurant to fix his scarf and hears a familiar voice call out. “Hey! Mycroft!” When he looks behind him, there is Gregory Lestrade, trenchcoat billowing open as he strides closer. Of course, it is. A disappointing night wouldn't be complete without Lestrade witnessing it. Mycroft nods his head in greeting. “Sir Gregory,” he says and gets rewarded with a quick smile. “I haven't seen you in ages,” Lestrade says. It's one of those imprecise terms that makes Mycroft automatically translate into twelve weeks and four days. “Everything good?” “Busy, but nothing to worry about.” He almost asks what Lestrade's doing here, but there's a reflection of red and blue lights from an alley in the distance. Lestrade must be working. Lestrade's eyes dip down to the bag in Mycroft's hand. “At least I'm not catching you in the middle of one of those disastrous dates. It's a nice change.” “Not in the middle, no.” “Really?” Lestrade asks, not even trying to hide the grin on his face. Mycroft glances over his shoulder and spots Julian stomping his way through the restaurant. Length and pace of strides, the width of the restaurant, the indirect route that has to be taken… “I believe that's him now,” Mycroft says at the precise moment that Julian pushes open the doors, sends a scathing look at Mycroft and then stalks the opposite direction. There's a large wet mark on the front of his trousers. The timing is perfect. It's only made better by Lestrade's startled but honest laughter. “Christ. It went that well, huh?” “I did have high hopes for tonight.” Something flashes quickly across Lestrade's expression, a moment of sharp curiosity, there and gone. “It was going well?” “Not really. I spent the whole night listening to his tedious anecdotes.” Mycroft can't simply say: I disliked him but I wanted to use him for sex. There's no way to say ‘I put up with it to try to get a leg over’ that doesn't sound sleazy or pathetic. “But at least I have complex carbohydrates to comfort me.” “We've got a two-hour wait for SOCO, so I'm leaving the team to wait for them. Perks of being the boss,” Lestrade adds cheekily. “Do you want a ride somewhere?” Mycroft wants to go home. He wants to eat food he probably shouldn't, sit in his warm comfortable house and remind himself that there are far worse things than being single. Like having to listen to one more boring, pretentious story. “On the proviso that you help me finish this,” he says, rattling the plastic bag in his hand. “Honestly, it's all cream and pasta. I shouldn't be left alone with it.” “Deal.” *** He leads Lestrade straight into the dining room and then detours back to the kitchen to heat and plate the food. When he walks in, Lestrade's sitting at the table, one place left of Mycroft's usual seat at the head. It's a large table but sitting across the corner of it, they're close enough to brush elbows. It's nice. It means Lestrade doesn't have to speak loudly when he says, “Were you expecting company? Or is your place always this clean?” It's no cleaner than it usually is. “I believe clean is an absolute. It either is or isn't clean.” “No, it's a sliding scale,” Lestrade says, placing his form down to gesture to each end of the table. “Right from 'messy but mostly clean' to ‘Gregory Emile Lestrade, clean your room, we have visitors coming’. There's a wide range of acceptably clean between the two.” It's an easy conversation. Lestrade talks about his Mum and trudging dirty football boots into the house, and there's clear affection in his tone. Affection for his parents, for a childhood that he remembers fondly. It's rather charming and for a moment, Mycroft wishes his date had been half as interesting to listen to. He squashes that thought as soon as it occurs. Firstly, Lestrade has dated women since his divorce: most of them up to ten years younger than him and all of them decidedly pretty. If Lestrade had any interest in dating men, it would be foolish to assume he'd have any interest in dating Mycroft. Mycroft is clever, sharp and middling attractive where Lestrade is unfairly gorgeous and a genuinely decent man. He's a good man, a kind man; a man who works hard and expects no reward beyond the satisfaction in a job well done. Mycroft works hard because there's no one else who can do what he does, and there's little value in being wealthy in an unstable country; it's in his own best interest to keep everything running well. He's never fooled himself into believing he is either good or kind. “Look, can I say something?” Lestrade asks after he's scraped the last strand of linguini from his plate. “It's not a criticism, just… You remind me of a mate of mine, Dave. Known him since school, forever really, and he's always had a type.” “Go on.” “Girls at bars, girlfriends, it's always been blondes. But he's happily married now. His wife's a brunette.” Mycroft fails to see the point. “Was she blonde when he met her?” “No. That's it. Once he stopped looking for a girl who looked a certain way, he found the one,” Lestrade says, displaying his own romantic streak in the choice of words. The idea that someone post-divorce and post-heartbreak could still believe in one true love -- in finding one perfect soulmate -- seems remarkable to Mycroft. He's had no such setbacks and he's cynical of the entire concept. “I'm not sure I'm looking for the one. I think it would be nice to occasionally--” Mycroft stops himself before he can end that sentence in a truly pathetic way. It would be nice to have company, another warm body reading on the sofa. It would be nice to be held, to crawl into bed after a long day and fall asleep with someone's arm around you. It would be nice to get off with someone else's hand on his cock. They're all nice things to have in life but they're hardly necessary. “He had this idea in his head of what his future looked like, right? And restricting himself to girls who only fit that criteria meant he wasn't really giving himself a chance to fall in love. You can't fall for a checklist of attributes, it has to be the right person.” Lestrade reaches for his glass of water and takes a few deep swallows. “I'm just saying, you have a type.” Not really, Mycroft thinks. They all had different professions, grew up in different areas of England. There was limited overlap in their choice of hobbies and interests. “A type?” “It's always bespoke suits and money and posh,” Lestrade says plainly. “Which aren't bad things and I get that it gives you something in common, but maybe that's not who you're supposed to be with.” “Those are the circles I mix in. Those are the men I meet.” Those and people who work for him, but dating the staff is bound to end badly. “Then try something new. Or someone new,” Lestrade says, leaning closer. “Try--” The phone in Lestrade's pocket rings loudly and they both jerk back. Lestrade pulls it out, answering quickly. “Lestrade here. Yeah? They got there early? Mark that one in the books. Yeah. No, I'm on my way. Ten minutes? Twenty?” Mycroft stands up, glancing around the room to be sure Lestrade hasn't left anything. No, just his trenchcoat in the hall. Lestrade puts the phone away with an apologetic expression. “I've got to go. Right now.” “Thank you for the company,” Mycroft says, walking him out and fetching his trenchcoat on the way. “And I will give some consideration to your advice.” “Good. Just--” Lestrade frowns as he takes his coat, apparently unsure of what to say. “Keep in touch, yeah?” Knowing Mycroft's luck, he'll run into Lestrade after his next failed date. “Do take care.” *** While he can see the merit of Lestrade's argument, it's easier to agree with it than act on it. Stepping beyond one's comfort zone may be commendable, but contrary to popular movies, standing around in coffee shops, bookstores and supermarkets doesn't help Mycroft meet anyone. People don't start conversations with strangers. Most of the people in those places aren't single, and those that are have errands to run and are too busy to pay attention to anything beyond their phone. After trying each venue once, Mycroft gives it up as a bad idea. He feels humiliatingly self-conscious and somehow invisible at the same time. He calls Lestrade, hoping for a better suggestion of how people meet when it's not at galleries or play intermissions. He gets Lestrade's voicemail -- heralded by a very professional “This is DI Gregory Lestrade. Please leave a message at the tone” -- and doesn't react fast enough to end the call. “This is Mycroft Holmes,” he says, cursing himself for not hanging up. He barely had a reason to call. He certainly doesn't have a good reason for leaving a message. “I was trying to get a message to Sherlock. Don't worry, I'll call John Watson.” The good thing about having his metaphorical fingers in every pie is that there is always a minor issue somewhere that would benefit from Sherlock's investigative skills. It's an easy thing to call John Watson next, and offer paid work to Sherlock. (Surprisingly, Sherlock is bored enough to take it so that's one less thing Mycroft needs to address himself.) He gets dragged into a conference call with China that afternoon so he misses Lestrade's return call. Lestrade's message is relaxed. “Hey, it's Greg,” he says, “calling you back. Sherlock said he's busy doing something for you, so you must have got in touch with him. Call me back.” Mycroft considers calling back but it's the middle of the night. He waits until the next day but it goes to voicemail again. “Mycroft Holmes,” he says, and, “I was just returning your call,” and, “There's no pressing need for you to call me back.” Awkward is the kindest way to describe the stilted recording. Then there's a quick trip to Washington and Lestrade calls while he's in the air. “Greg here. I don't know how we keep missing each other. I'll try again later.” And then, “Just me again. Call me back, okay?” The next few days Mycroft is busier than he prefers, sorting out a few messes here and there. Every time he gets a spare minute, it's an unreasonable time in London. He has to wait until an hour before his return flight. It should be mid-afternoon in London, on a Saturday. Lestrade should be able to answer his phone. It goes to voicemail again. Mycroft's disappointed. He can hear it when he leaves the last message: “This is Mycroft. No need to call me back. We can declare you the winner in this game of phone tag.” It's silly. Orchestrating a convenient time to call does not oblige someone else to answer. It's a Saturday and he's not on call; of course, Lestrade would have plans for the day. When Mycroft gets off the plane, there's a missed call from Lestrade. He forces himself to ignore it until he has reclaimed his bags, survived airport traffic, and made it home in one piece. The background noise in the message is loud: chatting people, mostly deep voices, the drone of a TV and the clink of glasses; the unmistakable sounds of a pub. “Hey, Mycroft,” Greg says loudly, trying to be heard over the noise. He's had enough to drink that his accent's coming through, flattening his vowels. “I didn't hear my phone ring. Call me, yeah?” Mycroft plays the message twice more and then deletes it. He doesn't call back. They've both wasted more time on this than the conversation deserves. *** Since meeting someone in general public areas seems unlikely, it's only logical that Mycroft would fare better in a venue where people come to meet others. A venue where being gay was presumed. In short, a gay bar. The idea of going out to Soho seems trendy and uncomfortably close to home, so Mycroft chooses an establishment out in Stoke Newington. According to Google, the most popular hours are Fridays and Saturdays between 11pm and 2am, so Mycroft plans accordingly. In retrospect, it's not his best plan ever. There are two floors of dancing and bars, in spaces that would look dingy and worn if the lights were bright enough to see them. Judging by what Mycroft sees, the crowd is a mixture of gay and straight, groups loosely dancing in circles or couples gyrating together, but the majority of them of them are under twenty. Mycroft feels unforgivably old. Even if he'd been the right age, he's never enjoyed loud music thumping through his breastbone or been especially graceful on the dance floor. He can waltz and he can foxtrot but he's never had Sherlock's flair for it; he's certainly never pushed himself against a total stranger, using them as a pole in a stripper routine. There's no point coming here and leaving immediately, so he forces himself to stay. He sits at the bar, back to the wall, dance floor and doorway in his line of sight. He keeps a close eye on his drinks being poured, but after one glass of hideously cheap whisky, he orders water. He watches the young people drink and laugh, having fun, and he can't remember ever being so carefree. It's not in his nature. He watches them wistfully, wondering what it would be like to be... ordinary. To have a simple job, to only worry about your next pay cheque, to look forward to going out every weekend. It sounds terribly dull to Mycroft, to walk through life and only see the surface, but so many people seem content with it. There are several free seats to either side of him, and yet someone takes the seat right beside him. Dark hair and olive skin -- Arabic mother and Eastern European father -- long, straight nose and very dark eyes. He's older than the crowd in here but not significantly. Around twenty-nine. His smile shows crooked incisors. “Having fun?” “Not especially,” Mycroft replies. The young man looks confused; the music is too loud and he apparently doesn't read lips. Mycroft leans closer and repeats himself loudly. “No, not really.” “First time here?” “Probably my last,” Mycroft replies. The young man grins and says, “Mike.” “What?” Mycroft asks, instantly suspicious. He looks to the man's hands, but there are no telltale callouses, no signs of violence or weapon skills. He spends his days using a laptop keyboard. “I'm Mike,” he says, tapping a hand to his chest to emphasize the point. “You?” “Mycroft.” From the confused frown, Mike didn't quite catch the name. “Do you want to get out of here? Go somewhere we can talk?” It's absurd. Mycroft was in university when this boy was born. But he's also been sitting here for two hours, and he hates it, and he wants to leave. “Where?” “I know a place. Does great pancakes.” It's the pancakes that convince Mycroft. *** Over a fifteen minute stroll through quiet, fluorescent-lit streets, Mike doesn't say anything abysmally stupid. It's standard getting to know you conversation: employment, education, location. Or what did you study at school, where do you work, where do you live now and where did you grow up. All details that Mycroft could deduce, but the conversation is no more tedious than it needs to be. Mike asks about Mycroft's job (civil servant for the Department of Transport) and confirms Mycroft's suspicions about his own employment (aspiring writer, he says, but he really means unemployed). “It's such a modern concept,” Mycroft says because modern is sometimes the best word for immature and indulgent. “This idea of removing oneself from life in order to write. There are great books that were written while their authors held steady jobs.” “Maybe those great books would have been written no matter what,” Mike says, leading them inside to a cafe open unfathomably late. It's an unremarkable cafe inside, a collection of chairs and tables, with posters covering one wall. There are a few other patrons but it's mostly empty. They go to the counter to order -- tea and pancakes for Mycroft, coffee and pancakes for Mike -- and then take a table. “That is my point. If the book is extraordinary, it will be written. And if it is not,” if it is as mediocre as Mycroft suspects Mike's novel will be, given his brief description of it and his lacklustre enthusiasm, “surely it's better not to devote years of your life solely to that one thing.” The young man nods, considering it as Mycroft considers him. Mycroft likes his confidence, his turn of phrase, his highly photogenic mix of features. Educated to a university level, able to take advice from his elders without being awed by them. DCMS, Mycroft decides, they're always looking for media-friendly faces there. “I don't disagree in theory,” Mike says. “But getting work isn't that easy. I could go back to uni, finish the degree but I'm not sure an arts degree will actually help me find a job.” “Perhaps I could help, with a condition or two.” “How?” “I know a position that needs to be filled at the Department for Digital, Culture, Media and Sport.” He doesn't know of a specific position, but he knows that Gerald Sanders owes Mycroft several favours and will find a vacancy somewhere. He can employ the boy as a casual; there's currently an underspend in the departmental budget that allows a little wriggle room on FTE. “Nothing glamorous, office work. I think it's casual with a view to becoming permanent.” “Really?” Mycroft pulls a pen from his pocket and writes on a spare serviette. Gerald's name and email address, and then his own name. He slides it across the table. “Email your resume to Gerald and mention that Mycroft Holmes recommended you. Ensure that your resume is honest. If I am vouching for you, there will not be a single untruth in that document. Understood?” “Yes, sir,” Mike says, responding to the tone of authority by sitting straighter and giving a sharp nod. “And…” “And?” Mike looks a little wary, dark eyes watching the serviette lying between them. “The condition?” “Do not lie on your resume. I believe I made that very clear.” “Oh.” The surprise and relief on his face makes it clear he'd worried the condition would be something quite sordid. Something he'd readied himself to refuse, despite the offer of employment. Mycroft thinks it a good sign of his character. “I appreciated the pancakes,” Mycroft says, “but you really are terribly young.” Mycroft looks up at the sound of the cafe door opening and sees-- No. It couldn't be Lestrade. How could it be Lestrade hurrying inside wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt? This sort of coincidence is unbelievable. No matter how hard Mycroft stares, it is undeniably Gregory Lestrade. Gregory Lestrade wearing loose grey sweatpants low around his hips and a blue T-shirt that's been put through the dryer so many times it's shrunk. It clings tightly across the small bulge of fat above each hip and the curve of belly; it also clings to the broad chest and strong shoulders, the lean muscles on his biceps. Not from a gym, Mycroft notes, but a clear sign that Lestrade spends less time behind a desk than he's supposed to, and more time chasing after Sherlock and forcibly arresting criminals. Mycroft looks away before he can be caught staring. He keeps his gaze on his cup as Lestrade stands at the counter. “Hey, Kristy, I'm out. Any chance you've got a spare litre?” “I'll check,” the cafe girl promises and heads to the back room. She comes back quickly with a carton of milk, and Lestrade passes her a few coins. “Thanks,” he says, tucking the milk under one arm. He turns to leave, glancing around the rest of the cafe, and stops, staring at Mycroft. “What the hell are you doing here?” “I could ask you the same question,” Mycroft replies calmly as Lestrade steps over to their table. “Yeah, but--” Lestrade stops when he notices Mike sitting opposite Mycroft. A quick narrow-eyed glance at his age and dress, and then it's covered with a friendly expression. “But I'm interrupting. I'll leave you to your night.” “No need. I was just about to go,” Mike says quickly and Mycroft's opinion of the young man increases when he stands and adds, “Thank you for the opportunity. I'll email my resume tomorrow.” Lestrade steps back to allow Mike to leave and then takes his seat. The milk stands to attention at the far side of the table. “This is a strange time for an interview.” “I don't think he intended it to be an interview,” Mycroft allows. “But I know a department that could use someone photogenic and smart enough to welcome guidance.” Mycroft places his cup back in its saucer. He's not expecting Lestrade's hand to dart out to catch the back of his fingers and pull Mycroft's arm towards him. His grip is firm and warm as he turns Mycroft's hand to show the ink stamp on his inner wrist. “Were you out clubbing?” he asks, amazed and doubtful. Lestrade releases his hand and Mycroft pulls it back regretfully. “Did you wear a blazer to a club?” “I wasn't going to wear a suit.” Tan trousers, plain white shirt, sports coat: it's as casual as Mycroft's wardrobe gets. He certainly wasn't going to buy new clothes for this social experiment. “This was your idea, you know. Meet people beyond my social circle.” Lestrade's expression is indulgent and amused and almost… fond. Mycroft is very good at noticing when someone is attracted to him; he's less familiar with the signs of being liked. “And how did that go?” Lestrade makes it sound like an inside joke, like he's laughing with Mycroft and not at him. “About as well as you'd expect. Apparently, twenty is the cutoff for clubs these days. Although to be perfectly honest, even if I'd been twenty I doubt I'd enjoy the experience.” Mycroft reaches for his cup of tea and then finds it surprisingly empty. “And you? Your flat is close to here, isn't it?” “Round the corner,” Lestrade says. “I couldn't sleep and I was out of milk, and this place is closer than the convenience store.” Mycroft is suddenly aware that Lestrade probably sleeps in those clothes -- has a flash of imagining soft, body-warm cotton and Lestrade's sleepy smile -- and that he has no good reason to keep the man from his bed. “Don't let me keep you. You should go home and enjoy your tea in peace.” Lestrade shakes his head. “I wasn't talking about clubbing,” he says, ignoring Mycroft's invitation to leave. “I'm unlikely to strike up a new acquaintance at a coffee shop.” Mycroft knows. He's tried. “No, I meant…” Lestrade sighs and scratches the back of his neck. Mycroft does not let his gaze waver, does not let himself memorize the play of arm muscles in that simple gesture. Really, it's quite inconsiderate for Lestrade to wander around in public dressed like that. “Me.” “What?” Mycroft asks, sure he's missed something. “Do you want to go to dinner sometime?” “Why?” Mycroft asks and then he realises. A date. Lestrade is asking him out. “I thought you were straight.” Lestrade raises an eyebrow at him. “Just because I married a woman doesn't make me straight.” “Yet you've only dated women since your divorce.” “Because I was carrying a torch for a guy,” Lestrade says grudgingly, “and it didn't seem fair to date men I wasn't interested in.” “Oh.” Given who Lestrade is, that would match his sense of decency. “I won't ask why, but I'm glad you've changed your mind.” “I didn't change my mind,” Lestrade says. “I just finally got the nerve to ask him out. I'm not sure he's said yes yet.” Mycroft reaches for his cup, stalling, then remembers its empty. He puts it back down and looks up to find Lestrade grinning at him. “Yes,” he says clearly and calmly. “I would like that very much.” *** Mycroft doesn't tell Sherlock. He doesn't need to. Lestrade is many things but he's not a deceitful man. “You should tell Lestrade about the curse,” Sherlock says, rolling another double onto the backgammon board. “I'm not going to tell him about something that doesn't exist.” “Police are superstitious,” Sherlock replies, tapping his piece around the board. “He'd believe you.” Mycroft picks up the dice. He shouldn't ask. He knows Sherlock's taunts are only childish attempts to annoy him. He should be smart enough to understand Sherlock's reasoning, even if he doesn't spend as much time around Lestrade. He rolls the dice and moves his pieces. He ignores Sherlock's pointed silence as long as he can. “Based on what evidence?” “He has a lucky tie for court cases.” “Hmm.” Admittedly, that does suggest a superstitious nature, a willingness to believe in lucky charms and curses go hand in hand. But it doesn't change the fact that curses do not exist and therefore, Mycroft is not cursed. “It's only fair to warn him,” Sherlock adds helpfully, then rolls another double. Mycroft would suspect loaded dice if he hadn't checked them himself. *** Mycroft is secretly charmed that Lestrade suggested Gauthier for their date. He likes their selection of dishes, interesting flavours, not too complicated, not restricted to describing themselves in trendy terms of fusions and nouveau cuisine. The host might give him an uneasy glance as he's shown to a table -- at the back, a little away from other patrons -- but that's only to be expected. Lestrade arrives right on time. Mycroft watches him follow the host across the restaurant. He's wearing dark jeans and a black shirt, and a soft-looking leather jacket. For a moment, Mycroft is reminded of his schoolboy crush on a local motorcycle-riding hoodlum, something he hasn't thought of in decades. That crush was doomed as soon as he talked to the boy and realised he was a cretin. Lestrade grins brightly when he spots Mycroft, and Mycroft allows a small smile in return. “Hey, I'm not late, am I?” Lestrade asks, sitting down. “No, I was early.” “Good. You can never tell with London traffic,” Lestrade starts, and then they're talking about traffic woes and unpredictable ETAs, about roadworks and ridiculous drivers. Lestrade's describing a dangerous right turn, moving the salt shaker to demonstrate, when a waiter looms beside them, and Mycroft realises they've been talking for fifteen minutes. “Oh, how about a glass of wine, white,” Lestrade says, opening the menu in front of him, “and we'll figure out what we want to order. Mycroft? Do you want a drink?” Mycroft shakes his head. “Water will be fine.” “Not a fan of wine?” Lestrade asks when the waiter leaves. “Not especially. I do enjoy a good whisky, but I enjoy it more without food.” Lestrade pulls a face. “Beer, yes. A good Guinness. I can't do whisky.” “No?” “I blame granddad's Drambuie. I stole the bottle. I was fifteen and a couple of mates and I finished the bottle. Wanted to die the next day.” “I am familiar with the feeling. Rather recently,” Mycroft says, and Lestrade gives a snort of amusement. “Was the infamous Dave part of these shenanigans?” “It was Dave's idea. Not that Mum ever believed me. I was grounded for a month,” Lestrade says, dark eyes glittering with mischief. Mycroft has the sudden urge to ask about every misdeed, every naughty exploit, to learn what Lestrade was like at eight, thirteen, nineteen. To know everything that doesn't get recorded in background files and career histories. Mycroft looks down at his menu. People do not ask for every possible scrap of information on a first date. That would be obsessive and invasive. “Perhaps we should work out what to order.” “What would you recommend?” Lestrade asks, and then there's a buzz. He fishes the vibrating phone out of his pocket, frowning at the number as he answers. “Lestrade here.” Whatever is said, it etches the frown deeper into his face. “But I'm not even on call. What about Peters and Singh?” There's a pause. Mycroft thinks that they didn't even manage a drink before the date was finished. It's still one of his better dates. “The flu? Both of them? And Jacobs sprained his ankle. Fine, I'm coming in, but this is overtime. I had plans,” Lestrade says pointedly, and then, “Yeah, I know. I'm coming in.” Lestrade hands up and puts the phone back in his pocket before he looks up ruefully at Mycroft. “I've got to go into work.” “I heard,” Mycroft says. “Go. I'll deal with the restaurant.” “I'm working next Saturday,” Lestrade says, standing up. Mycroft expects some unfeasible promise of calling, some well-meaning but vague future promise. “What about drinks on Sunday afternoon?” “Are you sure?” Mycroft asks, which is hardly encouraging. “Come on. You agreed to a date, and this doesn't count. We didn't even get to the food.” “Well, if this doesn't count as a date,” Mycroft allows playfully, “we will have to reschedule. If we say four o’clock on Sunday, I could make it.” “Four o’clock. I'll text you the place.” *** Mycroft arrives in Marylebone just before four, and wonders at Lestrade's choice. It's too far from his work or flat to be a local pub, yet he had specifically chosen it. It is comfortably close to Mycroft's place in Mayfair. Perhaps that was Lestrade's reasoning: somewhere they could walk back to Mycroft's. If that's the ulterior motive, Mycroft rather likes the idea. It's an old Victorian style pub, warm woods and a long bar, and unremarkable at first glance. A few patrons sitting at the bar, groups sitting at a few tables, but half the tables are empty. Relaxed chatter drowns out the acoustic background music, but it's not too loud to have a conversation. It's a Sunday afternoon and there aren't a lot of patrons, but there are only three women in the place, and they're all part of larger groups. The pairs sitting around are all men, in their thirties and older, but the body language is wrong. A little too close, a little too attentive, for straight men. Interesting. “Oh, you found it,” Lestrade says behind him. Mycroft glances over his shoulder to see Lestrade run a hand through his hair (damp from the showers outside, rain pattern across his sweater suggests a hunched run from his car). “Yes. I wasn't sure if you wanted to sit at the bar or a table.” “Do you have a preference?” “Either is fine,” Mycroft says. The bar would be more casual and set a friendlier tone; a table would feel more intimate, would allow for a conversation that wouldn't be overheard. He would be more comfortable sitting at a table, but either would be acceptable. “Table, it is,” Lestrade says, leading Mycroft to the far side of the room with a gentle hand on his back. It’s high on his back, between his shoulder blades. Mycroft only feels the lightest of pressures through his suit, and yet it catches him by surprise. There's nothing indecent or suggestive in the gesture; on the contrary, it's familiar and a little protective. Mycroft knows how to ward off an unwelcome roaming hand and how to defend his personal space with a withering glance. He's less sure how one welcomes a casual touch. If Lestrade notices him tense in surprise, he doesn't mention it. He just leads them to the table -- a few seconds walk, nothing more -- and then removes his hand. “What do you want to drink?” “Orange juice, please.” Lestrade nods and fetches drinks from the bar. It gives Mycroft ample time to decide Lestrade is wearing the same dark blue jeans he wore to their last date. This time, with a deep green sweater -- wool and silk blend, judging by the fine sheen, a few small snags showing it's been in Lestrade's wardrobe for at least a year -- and brown leather boots. Practical for the weather, but a flattering outfit nonetheless. Lestrade slides over a tall glass of orange juice. “Sure you didn't want whisky? They have some quality drinks here.” Given the age and disposable income of the clientele, Mycroft would believe it. The reason is much simpler than that. “You've already seen me incapacitated once. I would prefer to avoid a repeat performance. After all, dating is all about hiding one's obnoxious traits.” “You weren't that bad.” “I believe I fell asleep on your shoulder.” Mycroft adjusts his cuffs, allowing himself a brief respite from his embarrassment. “Hardly an appealing impression.” “You were adorable,” Lestrade says. Mycroft hasn't been called adorable since he reached double digits. “High as a kite, but adorable. Underneath all that cleverness and the fancy suits, you're a sweetheart.” The suggestion is preposterous. “I assure you I am not.” “Very, very deep down,” Lestrade says, grinning as he drinks his ale. Mycroft glances around the room, wishing he didn't have the kind of memory that would always remember Lestrade's tone when he called Mycroft sweet. “Why did you choose this place?” “I thought it might be your kind of place. Better than a nightclub full of twenty-year-olds.” “A little less obvious, with much older clientele?” “A little more discreet. Somewhere you can have a drink and relax,” Lestrade explains. “And I figured if you were out clubbing, you probably didn't know this place existed.” “Admittedly, I didn't do a great deal of research on the subject.”  

YOM: Autumn (s) 6.19 IOU: Vivianne (s) 6.20 Updated: 6.20.24