League of legends, love SJM, DAI, MCYT(DSMP), Magnificent century, fantasy and history. High Lady of the Winter Court, member of the Terrasen Court. Dreamer and Seeker.
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Forget bad boys, I want a husband like Mycroft Holmes. Intelligent, powerful, impeccably dressed, and fluent in sarcasm. Bonus points if he calls me 'tiresome' with barely concealed affection. Where do I apply?
Synopsis: When secrets are revealed, your arrangement with Mycroft might be in jeopardy.
Words: 6.6k
Warnings: smut, jealous Sherlock
The room was dark, shrouded in shadows. The fire had fallen into embers hours ago, leaving the air chilled against your bare skin. The mattress was firm beneath you, but the pillows were plush and the duvet thick. Stretching, you felt a delicious ache in your body.
You rolled, expecting a warm body beside you to curl against but although the sheets were still warm, there was no one there. You sighed, rolling over again, staring into the embers. You gave yourself a maximum of fifteen minutes before you were being ushered out of the house in the dead of night, dressed back in the clothes scattered across the floor.
He only ever gave you snatched moments. Fifteen minutes was all you could ever hope for.
Still, he’d let you nap first. That was a kindness you weren’t expecting. But now it must be the middle of the night, more likely the early hours of the morning, and he had disappeared. You buried your face in the pillow, not sure you were up to making the trek across London right now.
Soft footsteps. You sighed, rolling over again, gathering your energy to sit up. The mattress dipped and you felt the covers tug. A warm body settled beside you, lying as you sat.
“I know, I know. I’m just about to head out,” you said.
“I’ll have my driver drop you at Baker Street,” Mycroft said.
“Can’t. Sherlock will notice,” you replied, sitting up properly.
“You assume he hasn’t already,” he said.
You gazed down at him, wondering at what point you’d stop getting a thrill of seeing him so undressed. The smattering of hair on his chest always felt so good against your skin, his skin warm where it met yours.
“You know Sherlock. He wouldn’t keep quiet if he knew. He’s never been one to hold his tongue and he’s said nothing,” you said.
You climbed out of the bed, knowing that lingering would only make your heart ache in ways you couldn’t put into words yet. Under his watchful gaze, you dragged your clothes back onto your body.
“A taxi then,” he said.
You glanced over your shoulder at him, lips pulling up into a small smile.
“Fine,” you said, “if it’ll ease your worry.”
He let it go, the poke at his emotions, giving you a tight lipped smile. Still, when you slid into the taxi he called, you felt the unspoken care. He might pretend, but he could be so like his brother when he cared for someone.
You hadn’t meant for it to happen. When you’d met Mycroft, he’d just been Sherlock’s big brother, dropping in occasionally, calling you when he was worried about his little brother’s mental state and John wouldn’t tell him. Always at a distance, always not quite a real person, mostly a man in the shadows, watching, always watching. He was never meant to matter to you.
But then one night he’d found you at a bar. You’d been out with friends and he’d needed to talk to you about Sherlock. He’d complained you hadn’t been picking up your phone. You’d accused him of stalking. So you told him to buy you a drink and you might have been flirting, but he bought you the drink so he might have been flirting back.
When he’d come to you with the proposition, you wish you could have said you’d thought it over, really thought about your decision. But you hadn’t. He’d suggested it, you said yes, and then you were on your way to his home. It was mutually beneficial. Both of you got what you needed from it. Without discussing it, you both agreed Sherlock shouldn’t find out.
He could get so territorial over his friends.
Now, months later, you spent most of your Friday nights in Mycroft’s bed. Sherlock had yet to find out, and you had no interest in ending your arrangement. Although, your feelings had changed. That was perfectly understandable for a normal person such as yourself. You weren’t expecting anything to come of it.
Climbing out of the taxi, you looked up at 221, taking a deep breath. There was no sneaking in, not with Sherlock bound to hear you on the stairs. The best you could do was scare him off by talking about your sex life.
“Another one night stand,” Sherlock said from inside his apartment.
“No complaints from me,” you said, “a very satisfying night.”
You got a small thrill from talking about his brother without him knowing.
“Clearly. Except for the fact he threw you out after you were done,” he said.
“No need to be mean, Sherlock,” you called as you mounted your own stairs to the flat above, “just because one of us had a night full of pleasure while the other was bored.”
You’d read the texts from John on the way home. You knew Mrs Hudson had confiscated his gun. Nothing shut Sherlock up like hitting back when he thought he was being so clever. Even if what he said hit a bit too close to the bruise in your heart.
Still, the next Friday you made your way to the prearranged spot to be picked up by Mycroft’s car. And the one after that. And the next.
You were gasping for breath, your moan loud, sweat beading at your temple. Mycroft’s thrusts were slow, taking you apart inch by inch. With your thigh hitched over his hip, he could drive deeply into you. He was watching you, so intent as he aimed to draw out as much pleasure as possible.
His name on your lips urged him on, pace increasingly minutely. Your fingers were digging into the skin of his back as you arched towards him, offering yourself to him. With one hand planted by your head to keep him from crushing you, the other was squeezing at your breast, playing with your peaked nipple. You dragged him down into a kiss, teeth nipping at his bottom lip.
The loud ringing of his phone was everything you didn’t want to hear. An interruption that would leave you wanting. He stilled, frozen, drawing away to search for his phone. Your hips circled, the guttural sound he made gratifying. He was still buried in you to the hilt, the perfect position for you to open negotiations to get what you wanted.
“Stop,” he growled.
“Make me,” you said, grinning up at him, clenching around him.
The phone stopped ringing. There was the answer. He was glowering down at you, frustration clear. You bucked your hips against him, watching his eyes close for a moment as if trying to get himself under control again.
The phone began to ring again.
You whined as he dragged himself off your body, reaching for his phone. With both feet planted on the floor, he sat on the edge of the mattress as he answered the call.
“Trouble, brother mine?”
You sat up, following him to the edge of the bed, lips trailing kisses over his bare shoulder. He turned his head to look at you, watching you as he listened to Sherlock on the other end of the line. You hid your smile in his skin, arms curling around his waist as you pressed against his back.
“I’m unsure why this is my problem to solve for you,” he said.
Your hands wandered down his stomach as your tongue ran over his pulse point, feeling it thrum. His glare cut to you as your hand found his still throbbing erection. Your teeth scraped over his skin.
“Of course I’m not,” he snapped into the phone.
He listened, face growing more grave with every word Sherlock spoke. Your hand was lazy as it stroked him. You listened as his breathing grew a bit more laboured.
“Why yes, brother mine, you have interrupted,” he said, voice a sarcastic drawl.
His free hand grasped your wrist, stilling your hand on him as he listened intently to his brother. You nipped at his skin.
With a swift elegance, Mycroft had turned, the wrist in his hold pinned to the mattress by your head, hovering over you. Flipped onto your back, all you could do was stare up at him as he continued to listen to his brother.
“It’s a Friday night, she’s a young woman, do the maths, Sherlock. She’s off having fun with the other goldfish,” he said, looking down at you.
You pinched his side, the amusement in his eyes twinkling. You brought your legs up, trapping him between your thighs, holding him there. He drew closer, lips brushing over your skin as he listened to the phone. Electricity was running over your skins, the needy throb between your legs left over from the unsatisfactory interruption.
“This is not a concern, nor is it a priority,” Mycroft said, “work it out on your own, baby brother.”
He hung up the phone, leaning over to place it on the nightstand. Returning back to you, his blue eyes swept over your naked body, lingering where your hips were pressing into his.
“My brother seems to believe you’re in trouble,” he said.
“I am,” you said, smirking up at him.
“It appears as if my text message to you resulted in suspicious behaviour,” he said, “and you have been ignoring his text messages.”
“I’ve been busy,” you said.
“He thinks you’re with someone who will hurt you,” he said.
“Only with consent,” you replied.
He considered you for a long moment, making you squirm beneath him. Your legs tightened around him. His hand skimmed down your body, finding the heat between your thighs. His name came out as a strangled sound when he began to slowly circle your clit.
“He’s going to work out the change in our relationship,” he said, watching your face begin to contort in pleasure, “he’s almost there.”
“I’m almost there,” you panted.
“Quite,” he said.
Then he lowered his head between your thighs and that tongue was put to better use than talking about Sherlock.
He was waiting for you when you returned an hour later, the flush of your evening finally fading from your cheeks. You sighed, the door to his flat open, entering to find him with his violin.
“Good evening then?” you asked.
“Another sexual conquest,” he said.
“Yes,” you replied evenly.
“Not under duress,” he said.
“Nope,” you said, obnoxiously popping the p at him.
“You’re perfectly okay,” he said.
“More than,” you said, “are we done? Only I’d quite like to sleep now.”
“Sex does that,” he said.
“Yes. It does. Goodnight,” you called.
But he started keeping a closer watch on you which you found hilarious. Mycroft, in response to your updates, seemed uncaring of the information. Or at the very least, he wasn’t surprised by it. You were certain he’d expected it.
So the next Friday, you thought you might have a tail as you made your way to Mycroft’s office. You continued on, acting as if you didn’t notice. If Sherlock wanted to play his games then you weren’t about to ruin them for him. Anything to keep him from growing bored.
Mycroft, of course, was warned during your report on his behaviour that week. And when you slipped out a back entrance, he agreed that Sherlock was following. So you were dropped at your favourite bar and left to fend for yourself for the evening.
You were home nice and early that night, ignoring Sherlock’s quip about not getting any that night.
The next Friday he did the exact same thing.
After a month, you were practically gagging for it. You missed his touch, you missed the pleasure that ran through your veins, you missed the taste of him. A whole month bereft of more than a look over the top of a file, barely interested in what you were saying despite him summoning you to hear it.
So when you came barreling up the stairs on a Tuesday afternoon, overloaded with groceries and slightly damp from the rain outside, you were glad to see his face. There it was, looking at you like he had been expecting to see you. You looked to Sherlock.
“I got those biscuits you like,” you said.
“Good,” he said.
“Not you,” you said, turning to look at Mycroft, “you.”
“Why would you get the biscuits he likes?” he asked.
“Someone should if he’s going to keep visiting,” you said.
“Why would he keep visiting?” he asked.
“Because he’s going to ask for your help on a case, you’re going to say no because you always say no, and he’s going to keep coming back until you say yes because you always end up doing it anyway,” you replied, “am I missing anything?”
The silence was satisfying.
“Wonderful,” you said, moving past them into the kitchen.
You dumped your bags on his counter, scrabbling through them until you came up with the packet of biscuits you’d intended to drop off. Mycroft was already there, taking them from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours.
Oh yes, you’d missed his touch.
“Right,” you said, collecting up the bags once again, “I’ll be upstairs if you need anything.”
Mycroft handed you one last bag, forgotten on the kitchen counter. You smiled up at him in thanks before you turned away. The slight brush of his hand on your lower back was all the encouragement you needed to leave.
“Wait,” Sherlock said as you made it to the door.
You paused, raising an eyebrow at him. His eyes were looking at you, scanning, doing that thing he did that he thought made him look so clever. You waited, glancing up at Mycroft whose eyes had narrowed.
“No,” Sherlock said, face scrunching.
“So I can leave?” you asked.
“Your one night stands haven’t been one night stands,” he said.
“Ah,” Mycroft said.
“No they haven’t,” you said.
“The pin has finally dropped,” Mycroft said to you.
“Can you not let me have something for myself without getting involved?” Sherlock demanded of his brother.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, brother mine,” he replied.
“You can never let me just have my own friends. You always have to get involved. Is this some kind of attempt to annoy me? It’s not working,” he said, shaking his head.
“Ouch,” you said.
“Oh please, you have no interest in Mycroft. No one does. And my brother isn’t known for forming attachments. This is all to punish me for something. I wish I knew what. Or cared. But I don’t,” he said.
He really sounded like he didn’t care. Sure. Believable.
“Can you conceive for one second that this might have nothing to do with you?” Mycroft said before you could answer with a sarcastic roll of the eyes, “that we are acting for our mutual benefit outside of our connection to you?”
“Impossible. I’m the only thing you have in common,” he said.
“Not the only thing,” you muttered.
“Is this a tantrum? Are you throwing a tantrum?” Sherlock asked.
“No, I'm just being reminded of the staggeringly large amounts of narcissism you possess,” you replied.
“Please,” Mycroft said, holding a hand up to you. You bit back your retort, fingers tightening around your grocery bags.
“At least you can end this ruse,” Sherlock said, taking his place in his chair, considering the two of you, “that must be some comfort.”
“Not everything I do is about you, Sherlock Holmes. And there’s no need to be cruel because you’re feeling hurt,” you said before you swept out of the flat.
You stayed locked up in your flat for the rest of the day, not hearing from either Holmes brother. You wanted to say you were surprised, but you weren’t. Neither were known for their kindness. So you stayed there for the rest of the day, trying not to focus on the harsh words from Sherlock.
Probably because you thought there was a facet of truth to what he said. You had nothing in common with Mycroft except Sherlock. You were convenient for what he wanted. You were on hand and it wasn’t a hard time to touch you. Why wouldn’t he go through the path of least resistance to get what he needed? It was as simple as that.
Stupid heart desperate for more. Mycroft was never going to be more than what he said he was, an uncaring ice man with no interest in opening his heart to anyone. So of course you had to go and fall for him because emotionally unavailable was so your type.
Sherlock had managed to hit all of your insecurities right on the head seemingly without caring about how it hurt you. All because he felt a sense of ownership over you as his friend and not Mycroft’s and therefore was feeling the sting of realising you and Mycroft had kept the change in your relationship a secret from him.
You didn’t hear from him until Friday.
Lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering if you should get a take away, your phone rang. You didn’t even bother looking at the caller ID. There were only a handful of people who actually called you and unless your mother was calling to complain about your grandmother refusing to wear her hearing aids again then you weren’t looking to avoid a conversation with anyone.
“Hello?” you said into the phone.
“There’s a car for you outside,” the voice on the other end of the phone said.
“And if I chose not to get into it?” you asked.
“Don’t make me come up there,” Mycroft said, “I doubt it would end well if I ran into Sherlock right now.”
You thought about it for a moment.
“Fine. But you’re buying me dinner,” you said.
You ended the call and sat up. Shrugging into your coat, you shoved your phone and your wallet into your pocket, not sure how long you’d be gone. It felt like this might be the end of things now that Sherlock knew. Something in losing the secrecy felt like it had broken the whole thing.
That was a depressing thought.
Mycroft was waiting by the car, his umbrella tapping against the pavement. Straightening as he saw you, he pulled the car door open, waiting for you to slip into the back seat. The driver pulled away while you were still in silence, almost drowning in it.
You turned to watch him, wondering if this would be the last chance you got to do it. He was heartbreakingly handsome, the exact kind of man that could bring you to your knees. If this was the last chance to look at him like this, you weren’t going to waste it.
“You’re staring,” he said, breaking the silence.
“Admiring, more like,” you replied.
He didn’t have an answer to that. You’d begun to notice any time you offered him a compliment, specifically about how he looked, he never seemed to know what to do with it. It was like it was alien to him. It sent a pang through your heart, the thought that this man had never been made to feel attractive. That no one had seen how beautiful he was.
You stopped long enough to pick up dinner from your favourite takeaway place, only making you more concerned. He was trying to be nice. Mycroft wasn’t nice.
Sitting at his enormous dining table, the silence had grown stifling. You were practically choking on it. Pushing food around your plate, you couldn’t quite bring yourself to look at him, even when he was still close enough to make it easy. You were sitting to his right, at one end of the expansive table, the lamps the only light in the room.
“Sherlock is still refusing to believe our relationship is separate from him,” he said, almost conversationally, laying his knife and fork down.
“Maybe he’s right,” you said.
This was the moment. The moment you both agreed this was done, it had stopped being fun, and there was no point continuing. The jagged edges of the holes in your heart ached.
“He so rarely is,” Mycroft said, brushing off your concern. Your eyebrows drew together because in your experience Sherlock was often right.
“You don’t think there’s any truth to his complaints?” you asked.
“Of course not,” he said, “but clearly you do.”
“All I know is that it makes no sense that we’d be doing this without Sherlock. It’s not like we would have met anywhere else. We have nothing in common, just like he said. And we kept it a secret from him for a reason,” you said with a small shrug, letting your fork drop with a clatter.
“We’ve engaged in a sexual relationship as it’s mutually beneficial. No other reason,” he said.
“Isn’t there? You didn’t get a thrill from getting one over on Sherlock? Not ever?” you asked.
“My thrill came from the satisfactory activities we engage in,” he said.
“Satisfactory,” you said, nodding to yourself. Of course. That was the height of compliment from him. Merely satisfactory.
“You don’t agree with that description,” he said.
“Look, I’d probably have described it as mind blowing sex, but then what do I know? I’m just an ordinary person,” you said.
“There’s nothing ordinary about you,” he said.
You didn’t quite know how to respond to that. He wasn’t given over to complimenting you, certainly not beyond your performance in bed, so this felt very out of left field.
“You really think this isn’t going to change anything?” you asked, “now that he knows, nothing will change?”
“I don’t see why it would,” he said.
You weren’t sure if he genuinely believed it or just couldn’t see the impact your secret getting out would have. It felt so obvious to you. Sherlock would do everything he could to get between the two of you, to annoy you, to ruin it in a childish fit of jealousy. He had never liked sharing his people, and certainly not with his brother who he still had a complicated relationship with.
“Maybe it’s better just to call it now. It was fun, no hard feelings, and there’s no awkward fizzle out. Nice and clean without anyone getting hurt,” you said.
“You want to end our arrangement?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“What I want isn’t an option so i suppose this is the next best thing,” you said. It might not actually be the next best thing, but it would probably be the option that caused the least pain to you now.
“What is it you want?” he asked
“Irellevant,” you replied.
“I don’t think it is,” he said.
“Well, unfortunately for you, two people are involved in this conversation and your opinion isn’t the most important. So, do we agree we should end this?” you asked.
“No,” he said.
You stared at him. Blinked. Stared again. Nothing about him changed as he gazed cooly back at you. You opened your mouth but nothing came out. Shaking your head you looked down to your half eaten plate of food.
“Then I’m sorry but I do. I think it’s run its course. It’s been lovely but… it’s probably time to end this now,” you said.
“Is this because of Sherlock? He’s said something to you,” he said, leaning back in his chair as his fingers steepled beneath his chin, “he’s convinced you this is not a good idea.”
“He didn’t have to,” you said.
There it was, the flash of hurt that passed over his face before his mask settled back in place. You’d gotten better at reading him over the months you’d been with him. Seeing him in his most vulnerable moments had led to a better understanding of the man beneath the ice.
“It appears as if your mind is made up,” he said.
“It is,” you replied.
“I’ll have my driver return you to Baker Street.”
The drive home felt excruciatingly long.
Sherlock was sitting on the staircase leading up to your flat. You ignored him, pushing past, keys in hand to unlock your front door. But, of course, someone had already done that.
“That time I interrupted you and Mycroft…” he said, clearly with something he wanted to say.
“Yes?” You remembered that incident, how fun it’d seemed at the time.
“Looks like I was right about you being with someone that would hurt you,” he said.
“Looks like it, you agreed.
You closed the door on him, sliding the chain across to discourage any more snooping from him. You weren’t sure what he’d seen on you as you’d passed him but the last thing you needed was his pity. Of course your arrangement had ended in you getting hurt. Yours was the only heart that still felt anything in the equation.
You dragged yourself to and from work, keeping mostly to yourself in the weeks that followed. You didn’t have the wherewithal to have Sherlock deducing you while you were trying to put yourself back together. His cutting words would only topple the house of cards that was your emotional well-being. You aimed to get through a single day without thinking about Mycroft.
You were yet to accomplish it.
Maybe he also had no interest in seeing you in the utter pile of shit that was the end of your arrangement but he seemed to be keeping away from 221b. You hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him. You hadn’t been summoned to give a report on his brother. It was as if he’d completely forgotten you existed. Probably for the best given the circumstances.
It was as you were returning on a particularly sunny afternoon that you heard the voices from the stairs. You paused, your heart recognising one before your brain caught up. Frozen, you weren’t sure what to do. Flee? Eavesdrop? Continue on like nothing was wrong?
“This is boring. If you want to know how she is, go ask her. She only lives upstairs,” Sherlock said as you still hovered in indecision.
“I know you said something to her. You caused this. I lay the blame firmly at your feet,” Mycroft said. You squeezed your eyes closed.
“Interesting,” Sherlock said.
“What?” his brother snapped.
“I never thought I’d see the day when you would care for someone. Sentimentality has gotten the best of you,” he replied.
That was enough. You didn’t bother staying quiet, hurrying up the stairs, hoping to be fast enough that neither would be able to catch you. Still, when you heard your name in Mycroft’s voice you found yourself stumbling.
“Hi,” you said, turning to him, painting a smile on your face.
“How are you?” he asked, so stiff and formal it almost hurt to hear.
“Oh fine, fine,” you said, waving off the question.
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. Both of his hands closed over the handle of his umbrella, the tip resting between his feet. If you didn’t know the man so well it might look like he was at ease. You could see the tension.
“Right, well I’m just gonna...” You jerked your thumb over your shoulder, “it was nice seeing you.”
You only paused once you heard the footsteps following you up the stairs. Turning, you found him peering up at you.
“I was hoping we could talk,” he said
“I don’t-“ you began to say.
“Please. Talk to him. He’s been so pathetic. ‘Oh how is she, Sherlock? Has she been eating enough, Sherlock? Do you think she likes me, Sherlock?’ It’s gotten boring,” Sherlock said from his doorway.
“I never asked you if she likes me,” Mycroft snapped.
“You basically did,” he replied, “underneath all the irrelevant stuff.”
“Can you for once in your life allow me to handle this situation without your input?” he hissed down to his brother.
He waved him off, disappearing back into his flat. Mycroft was slow to turn towards you, almost apprehensive at what he might be seeing. You were staring at him like he’d grown a second head, not sure what he was doing.
“Look, we don’t have to make a big thing out of this. I live here, Sherlock lives here, we’re bound to run into each other. We don’t need to talk about it,” you said, “it’s fine. I promise.”
“I want to talk,” he said.
“Why?” you asked.
“There are things left unsaid,” he replied.
You considered him for a long moment, watching as he began to shift his weight from foot to foot. That was what made you nod, turning back to finish climbing the stairs. He followed you into your flat, eyes sweeping over your space. Every time you’d had an encounter, it had been at his place, partly because you didn’t want to run into Sherlock and partly because he had standards and your flat would never measure up. You turned, crossing your arms over your chest as you stared him down.
“Okay, you wanted to talk, so talk,” you said.
“I don’t like how we left things,” he said.
“I thought we left things in agreement,” you said.
“We did not,” he said.
“You sent me home,” you reminded him.
“You weren’t open to negotiations,” he said.
“And you think I am now?” you asked.
“Yes.” He sounded so confident, “and if you’re not now then I’ll convince you.”
“You arrogant prick,” you huffed.
“You’ve missed me,” he said, stepping closer to you.
“Says you. Can’t stop asking after me.” You rolled your eyes, looking away from him.
“I find myself needing to know how you are at all times,” he said, “it’s quite inconvenient.”
“You’ve been stalking me again, haven’t you?” you asked.
“Yes.”
No shame. Absolutely no shame.
“Fine.” You uncrossed your arms, “open your negotiations.”
“We should continue our arrangement,” he said.
“Respectfully, I disagree,” you said.
“Why?” he asked.
You took a deep breath.
“Look, I get that you’re the iceman and you leave sentimentality out of it but I’m just a normal person. And I can’t. I know you’re going to think less of me for this, but I’ve got feelings for you. Romantic ones. And I’m not expecting anything from you because I know you enough to know that’s stupid. But, it would be remiss of me not to tell you that continuing our arrangement will hurt me under the circumstances,” you said, “so I have to respectfully decline.”
“You don’t want to continue our arrangement due to your romantic feelings for me?” he asked.
“Pretty much, yeah,” you said.
“Thank you for telling me,” he said.
And then his hands were cupping your cheeks and he was kissing you, umbrella clattering to the floor. Your hands slammed into his chest, pushing against him. He took another moment before he drew away. You hit his chest again, refusing to hide how angry you were at him.
“Arsehole,” you said, hitting him again.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asked.
“I said I didn’t want to continue our arrangement,” you said.
His hands were still holding your face and you were trying to push him away. It seemed to have about as much effect as telling him you were done with the arrangement seemed to have had.
“You said you did not want to continue it due to your romantic feelings for me. You believe I don’t reciprocate them. You’re mistaken,” he said.
“I- what?” You were certain you’d misheard him.
“It has become clear that I have grown attached to you. I worry for you. I would like to continue our arrangement, not because it fulfils a need satisfactorily, but because it involves you,” he said.
“Sorry, just to clarify for my mind, are you asking for a purely sexual relationship, or are you hoping for something more?” you asked.
“I find myself out of my depth here,” he said.
“Let me rephrase. Do you want it to be exactly what it was, where I arrive at your place on Friday, we have sex, and I leave? Or do you want to spend time with me outside of sex and give a romantic relationship a go?” you asked.
His thumb was running over your cheekbone as he considered you. It was as if he wasn’t sure of the answer, a first for you to witness. You let him think about it, not wanting to rush it, not when what you wanted might be on the table.
Stupid man not able to vocalise his feelings. Stupid man expecting you to just know what he was thinking the way he always knew what you were thinking. Stupid man experiencing emotions for the first time.
“I must admit,” he muttered, “I’m beginning to understand Sherlock’s jealousy when it comes to you. I’m not sure I like the thought of another man owning a part of you.”
“Mycroft, tell me exactly what you want,” you said, staying firm even at the thrill of his words.
“To have you,” he said, “to keep you. The thought of losing you has been plaguing me these few weeks without you. There is not a problem I can’t solve but I had no idea how to get you back.”
“So you thought you’d demand to talk to me then kiss me when I said I didn’t want to go back to how it was?” you asked.
“I’m not good at this,” he said, a self-deprecating tilt to his head.
“I’ll tell you what I want and then you can tell me how it aligns with your wants,” you said.
“Okay,” he said with a slow nod of his head.
“I don’t want to go back to how it was. I want more. I want to be emotionally involved with you. I want to be in a romantic relationship with you. I want to go on dates with you and spend the night with you, and see you for more than a few hours every week. I want to share meals with you and go on stupid weekends away with you, and sit in rooms with you doing nothing much just because we can. I want our lives to intertwine so completely you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if I was gone,” you said, going for the absolute dream scenario. No point hiding it now.
The silence stretched for a long while as he considered what you’d said. His thumb was almost absentmindedly running along your cheekbone. You could see the cogs turning behind his eyes, assessing the information he now had, putting it together to get the answer he wanted.
“You want all the mundanities of a romantic relationship,” he said.
“Sometimes I want to hold your hand, yes,” you said.
He seemed shocked by that admission. It was the simplest thing to you, though, the least embarrassing of the things you’d said to him.
“That sounds acceptable,” he said.
“You want that too?” you asked.
“I’ve never understood the appeal of settling down in a romantic relationship,” he said, “but I can see the appeal when it’s with you.”
“That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard,” you said.
And then you kissed him. You kissed him like all of your dreams were coming true. Mainly because they were. And you pulled him closer, your body pressing to his, caught in the cage of his arms. You couldn’t get close enough, overcome with your need for him.
You guided him towards your bedroom, fingers working on the buttons of his waistcoat, ready to peel him out of his clothes and show him exactly how much you wanted him. His hands were running over your body, feeling your curves, driving you insane. You’d become obsessed with his hands almost as soon as they’d touched you that first time.
You pushed him down onto your bed, straddling his hips as you looked down at him. Your hands splayed over your chest, leaning forward, taking in the way he was looking at you. You rolled your hips, feeling his interest growing.
“See how good it is when you tell me what you’re feeling,” you said, rolling your hips again.
“You didn’t tell me your feelings until I prompted you to,” he said, hands grasping your hips.
“And I got what I wanted,” you said, “so now I guess you can get what you want.”
His kiss was dominating as he flipped you onto your back. He let you push his blazer off his shoulders, feeling the muscles shift beneath your fingers. Kissing him deeper, your legs curled around his hips, fingers tangling in his hair.
You didn’t notice him stripping you, so focused on the way he was making you feel. His lips began to trail down your body, lingering on the curve of your breast, his tongue tasting your skin. You whimpered, arching into him, offering yourself.
There were nights when he would take his time, taking you apart piece by piece before he put you back together again, driving you higher and higher just to pull you back. It drove you mad in the best way. You’d let him manipulate your body until the early hours if that’s what he wanted.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
You dragged your gaze down your body, finding his blue eyes smouldering up at you from between your thighs. His mouth descended on you and you were lost. You’d missed this, you’d missed him, you never wanted to let him go. Your fingers tightened in his hair as your hips bucked up into his mouth.
You whimpered, maintaining eye contact even as he set your body alight. He watched you like you were something spectacular, like he couldn’t get enough. It was an addictive feeling, to have that wonderful man so focused on you and your pleasure. It was just a confirmation that all your dreams were coming true.
You came with his name on your lips, uncaring of who might hear. His smug smirk was infuriating and beautiful and wonderful. You dragged him into a kiss just to wipe it from his face. And when you fell asleep, his naked body was curled around yours.
You awoke the next morning with his arm thrown over your waist, face buried against your neck. You let yourself enjoy it, knowing as soon as he awoke he would be out the door and at work. The short reprieve was nicer than the romantic declaration the night before, if only because it was proof that he’d been serious.
“Do you have tea?” he murmured, lips brushing your skin.
“Course,” you replied, tucking yourself against him.
“Good. Go make some,” he said.
“No.”
You rolled over, facing him. Your lips pressed to the tip of his nose, watching his eyes open as he considered you.
“Morning,” you said.
“Yes. Good morning. Tea,” he said.
You laughed, rolling out of the bed. His fingers brushed over the curve of your ass, sending a shiver of desire down your spine. Climbing back into the bed with your mugs of tea, his fingers brushed against yours as he took the one you offered him. And then he let you lean against his shoulder as he told you about the day ahead and when he’d come pick you up for dinner.
He left your flat with a kiss, short and sweet, enough to make you ready for more that night. Leaning on the door jam, you watched him walk down the stairs, the joy you were feeling incomparable to anything you’d experienced before.
“So you’ve made up then.”
You turned your cool gaze onto Sherlock.
“We have,” you replied evenly.
“Try to keep it down next time,” he said.
“No promises,” you replied, turning away.
You grinning as you shut the door, the image of disgust on Sherlock’s face lingering long enough to make up for the heartbreak he’d caused.
An Overheard Conversation (Mycroft Holmes x f!Reader)
Synopsis: Sherlock brings you home for reasons Mycroft can't figure out. It becomes clear when he overhears a conversation not for his ears.
Words: 3.1k
Warnings: some jealousy
Mycroft couldn’t parse a reason for Sherlock bringing you on the trip to their parents. A nice weekend to celebrate their wedding anniversary (an unnecessary waste of time in his opinion), and his younger brother had brought the woman living above him at Baker Street. And infuriatingly, his parents seemed delighted at your presence.
It wasn’t that he disliked you. He chose to have no opinion on you. You were meaningless. Yes, okay, his stomach always seemed to swoop in a rather distracting way every time he saw you. And yes, alright, just the sound of your laugh seemed to set his heart beating dangerously fast. And yes, fine, he found himself watching you more than he should. But that was all meaningless and had no bearing on his life.
Still, sitting in the kitchen at the table watching his mother peel potatoes, he could see you in the garden with Sherlock. You kept smiling at him in the evening light, pointing out something in the tree, face turned up towards him. His brother was being pleasant. His brother was never pleasant.
What was different about you that he was trying?
Your head tipped back, laughing, bright and loud enough to penetrate through the glass of the windows. You brought your hand up, brushing the hair from your face, the sunlight catching in the strands in a way that lit you up. Sherlock brought your attention back to the tree, your laughter slow to quiet.
“It’s nice to have a full house,” his mother said and only then did he realise he’d been so focused on you he hadn’t noticed anything around him.
He purposefully turned away from the window, keeping his back towards you. His mother’s chatter was at least familiar, almost comforting in its familiarity. It let his mind wander towards the important things, such as the incident going on in Germany at that very moment.
It was only once it had grown dark outside that he heard the door open, depositing you in the kitchen with a bright laugh. He tensed, jaw clenching, the thought he’d been mulling on fleeing like a cloud caught in a breeze. You fell into the chair next to his, still laughing, the cool brush of your arm against his making him tip away from you.
“I bet when the clouds aren’t here you can see the entire universe out there,” you said.
“The stars are rather beautiful here,” his mother agreed.
“I love the city, but sometimes I think we’ve lost something by packing us all in together with all our light pollution and fumes,” you said, leaning back in your seat, “you probably find that thought uncivilised.”
That statement was directed at him. He glanced down at you before looking away.
“If you wish to live far from the filth of humanity, I can’t find fault with that,” he replied evenly.
Sherlock snorted. His eyes snapped to his baby brother, the glower automatic. Your small chuckle stole his attention again. Your eyes were twinkling as you looked up at him, lips pressed together as if trying not to smile. He had to admit, even to himself, that it was a rather endearing expression.
“Some human filth is alright though, isn’t it,” you said, still looking up at him like you were sharing a secret.
Your arm brushed his again as you lent closer. He held his breath until you lent away again, your perfume one he found lingering in his senses. Even now, he could smell it, clinging to your hair, wafting towards him when you turned your head to look at Sherlock. There was so much fondness in your voice as you spoke to him the words didn’t even matter. His chest was aching uncomfortably anyway.
Over dinner your elbow kept bumping his. Staying silent, he found himself brooding on how well you seemed to fit within his family, far better than he did. His parents were chatting with you comfortably, the kind of thing he’d never managed with anyone. His brother was being considerate and pleasant, offering you the mash without being prompted.
And then there was him, silent, uncomfortable, doing his best not to touch you. Something you clearly weren’t concerned about. You barely seemed to notice your elbow bumping his.
You were so full of life, the whole meal felt like a moment stolen from someone else’s life.
It was over dessert that you seemed to remember he existed. Turning to him over the slice of cake his mother had passed over to you, your knee brushed his thigh in a way that felt like an electric shot.
“So which do you prefer, this flavour of cake or that lemon one we had at that fancy place?” you asked.
“He took you for cake somewhere?” his mother asked you, sounding offensively surprised.
“I asked for the cake at our meeting, but he did pay so I suppose so,” you replied, “so which is it?”
“Look at him, he has never turned down chocolate in his life,” Sherlock said.
“The lemon,” he replied, finding himself not even lying in his attempt to be contrary to his brother.
“It was pretty good,” you said, your attention focused solely on him.
“I find myself returning to it at times,” he said.
“Do you?” You brightened to the point of being blinding, “I’ll see if I can learn to make it.”
He didn’t have the heart to tell you the moment he really went back to was your first bite of the cake and the way your eyes slipped closed in pleasure. It was such a beautiful image he’d found himself holding on to it, even if the subject of the meeting had been unsavoury.
“That seems like too much effort just for him,” Sherlock muttered.
“Don’t be mean, Sherlock,” you admonished, “it’s nice to do kind things for friends.”
“Oh, you’re friends, are you?” he asked.
Mycroft was not enjoying where this was going.
“Yeah,” you said, “we are. So, take note of that.”
Your hand had landed on his arm, squeezing gently, a show of solidarity. He hadn’t noticed himself leaning towards you, but there he was, enjoying the feel of your warmth seeping through his shirtsleeve.
“Mycroft doesn’t do friends,” Sherlock said, turning his impassive gaze on his brother, “do you, brother mine?”
“Not the way you do,” he replied, as dry as dry could be.
You wrinkled your nose at Sherlock, a silent conversation going on that he was not a part of. He was used to this, being on the outside, but he wasn’t used to the urge to interrupt. He’d never wanted to be involved before. He found himself fighting the impulse to draw your attention back to himself, stealing it from his brother.
“Say what you want, but we’re friends. There’s no need to be mean about it,” you said, your voice firm, “this cake is lovely, Mrs Holmes.”
You turned back to the pudding, digging in with relish. Your elbow was still bumping into his, the argument done in your brain, uncaring that you were probably sitting a bit too close to him. Keeping up casual conversation with his parents, you were ignoring both of the brothers and Mycroft was finding that infuriating.
He couldn’t stand having your attention, and he seemed to not be able to stand not having it.
It was a relief to go to bed that night. To remove himself from your presence, to give himself a break from the strain of having you in his orbit, it allowed him to regroup. Of course, there was always the chaffing of staying in his teenage bedroom.
Lying in bed, he found himself staring up at the roof. You were only a few doors down. There was no doubt in his mind that you weren’t ruminating on his presence in the house. You weren’t uncomfortable having him so close. You probably didn’t spare him a second thought.
Sighing, he got up from the bed, thinking he’d sneak down to the kitchen for a glass of something that might help to send him off to sleep. Or maybe to have a secret cigarette. Anything to stop him thinking about you.
It took him an embarrassingly long time to hear the voices in the sitting room. He paused, recognising the timbre of your voice.
“I can’t help that I find him absolutely gorgeous,” you sighed.
He froze. That was definitely not what he wanted to be hearing. Just the thought of your romantic entanglements were making him feel queasy. He turned, still silent, aiming to make his escape.
“Oh, don’t pull that face, Sherlock. Just because he’s your brother doesn’t make it less true,” you said, sounding exasperated.
His heart did a funny thing, almost as if it was tripping over itself.
“My brother has no heart, and I promise it won’t beat for you,” Sherlock replied, disgruntled and doing no favours to Mycroft.
“Yes, thank you. I’m not stupid. I do know that,” you snapped, “as far as I can tell he doesn’t even want to tolerate me.”
“Better for you all round if you give up on it,” he said.
“I’m trying but did you see him tonight? That green was devastatingly sexy on him,” you said
“Please, I’m trying to keep my dinner down,” Sherlock said.
“Then be glad I’m not telling you the really racy thoughts I was having,” you said.
Mycroft was interested in hearing what those thoughts might be. Data gathering. That was all it was. Keeping abreast of how he was being perceived was important in order to keep his position of power. Or so he told himself.
“If you’re going to keep on like this you can leave now,” Sherlock said.
“Fine, I’ll go back to bed and fantasise about your brother,” you said.
Mycroft took a small step back, mind frantically trying to come up with a plan. Before he could cobble together something you were stepping through the door. Freezing, your eyes widened upon seeing him lurking in the shadows.
“Oh,” you said.
“I was getting a drink,” burst from his lips.
“Lying,” Sherlock called through the door without even having the decency to face him.
“I was also thinking about having a cigarette,” he said.
“Nope,” Sherlock called.
He considered you for a moment before turning on his heels and striding away. The kitchen was blessedly quiet, empty of any other people. He sunk down onto his usual chair at the kitchen table, wondering at what point his family would cease to be a never ending nuisance in his life.
“I’m sorry. You weren’t meant to hear any of that.”
His head jerked up, not having heard you follow him into the kitchen. On your bare feet you’d been silent, a useful skill he’d normally look to employ. This time, however, he was cursing it.
“I know it probably made you feel uncomfortable and if you never want to see me again you’re well within your right. I won’t even argue. All I can do is profusely apologise and hope you don’t kick me out in the middle of the night,” you were saying but he was having a hard time listening.
In your pajamas, a silky little thing showing off your cleavage quite fetchingly if you were into that sort of thing, and flannel trousers that looked a bit oversized on your frame, you were rather distracting. He hadn’t noticed it in his earlier embarrassment. But now he was finding it hard to notice anything else.
“And I really am sorry. I can’t say it enough. I really can’t. I am so sorry.” You were still talking.
There was no thought behind it as he stood, towering over you. All he knew was he wanted you to stop apologising. So he did the only thing he could think of.
You squeaked as his lips landed on yours. Your hands landed on his chest, burning through his shirt. It wasn’t exactly smooth, a clumsy attempt at kissing, but he was hardly in practice. Still, your fingers curling in his shirt, clutching at him as you tried to drag him closer. That was rather gratifying.
Only then he was reminded that you’d just been telling his brother how attractive you found him, and another flush of pride went through him. Which only seemed to make him kiss you deeper, as if any sense had left his head.
What was it about you that seemed to make him as useless as every other human on the planet?
You shoved at him until he crashed back against the table. Pinning him there, you were kissing him with the kind of enthusiasm he hadn’t thought anyone would feel towards him. His hands found your hips, holding you close, enjoying the way it felt to have you in his arms. You whimpered into his mouth, the sound going right through him. He groaned, low in his chest, wondering when it would stop feeling so good.
“Mycroft,” you mumbled into his mouth.
“Yes?” he asked, drawing away far enough that he could see your face peering up into his.
“I know I’m not as smart as you, so can you explain what’s going on?” you asked.
“Kissing,” he replied.
“Right. Yes. Of course.” Your tongue dragged over your lower lip and he found it impossible to look away, “sorry, it’s just…”
“Yes?” he asked, surprised how his voice came out in a low rasp.
“I didn’t think that would be something you would be interested in,” you replied, voice soft, “especially with me.”
“Why especially with you?” he asked, not able to see the leap in your logic.
“You’ve always been so… stiff with me,” you said before your teeth sunk into your lower lip. He found himself focusing on it.
“I’m stiff with everyone,” he replied.
“Not the way you are with me. You weren’t even acerbic or dismissive. It was like I didn’t even register as a person with you,” you said.
“You think I’m acerbic?” he asked.
“And dismissive,” you said with a small nod.
“But not to you,” he said.
“Well, no,” you said, “but you’ve never really been anything towards me.”
“You said we were friends,” he said.
“But I didn’t think you thought we were,” you said, “and also I was trying to annoy Sherlock.”
“But you are friends with him,” he said.
“Yes. That’s part of the fun. Just ask John.” Your arms tightened around his neck, pulling your body closer, legs slotting between his.
Ah. Yes. Right. There was that too. You were so warm, so soft, so lovely. His hands slid round your hips, curling around your waist.
“So this is something you want?” you asked.
“Is what something I want?” he asked, hands spanning the width of your waist, your skin so warm beneath the silk of your top.
“Snogging,” you said, “with me specifically.”
“Yes, I’d quite like to do that,” he said, keeping the unsaid obviously to himself. He thought it was rather obvious that he would like to continue kissing you.
“And will you still want to tomorrow?” you asked.
“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked.
“I don’t maybe. This might just be some midnight madness,” you said and for the first time he was able to see that despite how obvious he thought his feelings were, you were feeling rather unsure about yourself.
“I can promise you that I will want to continue doing this for as long as possible,” he said.
“Mycroft,” you murmured and he realised he’d never loved the sound of his own name as much as he did in your voice, “do you have a crush on me?”
He considered your question. He hadn’t thought about it before. Believing himself incapable of something so childish as a crush, it hadn’t even been worth contemplating. The fast beating of his heart said there might be some merit to your observation.
Because of course his whole attempt not to think about you was due to his interest in you and his absolute belief you had no interest in him.
“I suppose that word could be applied to my feelings,” he said, slow in his reluctance to have a word that brought to mind teenage girls giggling at sleepovers applied to his rather serious feelings.
“Oh good,” you said, smiling up at him like he was the best thing you’d ever seen, “because I have a pretty big crush on you.”
Maybe that word wasn’t so awful.
“I’m glad we’ve cleared that up,” he said, finding he still wasn’t sure how to be at ease when emotions were being discussed.
You hummed, pushing up onto your toes. Your lips brushed his, a teasing kiss, one that turned him breathless without any effort on your part. He wondered when you might stop having that effect on him. It seemed it would require some further investigation.
You nipped at his lower lip, tongue soothing over it before you drew away again.
“I think I should head to bed,” you said.
“Why?” he asked, arms tightening around you, unwilling to let you go.
“Because your mum might take issue with me getting you naked and riding you on her kitchen table,” you replied, eyes twinkling.
“Ah,” he said, “yes, she might be less than pleased with that.”
“So, bedtime for me. But you stay and have your drink and smoke,” you said, “and tomorrow we’ll go for a walk by the stream at the bottom of the garden and I might snog you against a tree.”
He hadn’t thought that would be something he wanted but now he was yearning for the time to pass so you could make good on your promise.
“Sweet dreams, Mycroft,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips, then slipping into the shadows.
He listened to you climb the stairs, knowing his dreams would be particularly sweet that night. He was anticipating for them to be full of you.
“You can thank me later,” Sherlock said, startling him.
“Thank you for what?” he asked.
“I brought her this weekend for you. It was clear you weren’t going to make a move without some prodding and despite it all, I don’t want you to be lonely,” he said.
“I wasn’t lonely,” he replied.
“Less lonely now,” he said with a shrug.
“Goodnight, brother mine,” he said, moving past him.
“You’re welcome,” Sherlock said.
Maybe he should be thankful everyone in his family already liked you so much. It made it easier when the next morning you pranced into the room, dropped a kiss to the top of his head, and no one said a thing. But the delighted look his mum gave him spoke enough for all of them.
Trespasser Solas conversation dialogue wheel phrase: “But then the evil gods [in reference to the Evanuris] return.”
BioWare 25 Year Book: “The Evil Gods have Thedas in their sights and only heroes can stop them. The shadows of the past stir, and new heroes must rise to fight them.”
If I had my say on the way Suleiman's children were portrayed, because like a lot of people, I didn't like the way it was written in Magnificent Century, that's what I would do. ( In my eyes, Mustafa was seen as a pure white sehzade, which therefore made him in my eyes more stupid and less interesting than he actually was. Mehmed was practically erased of his personality and seen as a pure Gary Stu like his half brother. Cihangir, who I adore, yet in the series was too naive. Selim is seen as evil, etc...)
I would respect the historical point of view more. I propose an alternative version, I would have added Suleiman's children he had when he was sehzade with his other concubines before he became Sultan and met Hurrem and then had them die of the plague as it was historically.
Sehzade Mustafa - I would keep his childlike personality, except he is not close to his siblings (because of the fratricidal law), and I wouldn't put him close to Ibrahim at least until he becomes an adult and allies himself with him. I would let his mother take care exclusively of his education. A young man who craves recognition and attention from his father, who often neglects him in return over his other children due to the fact that Mahidevran is the Sultan's least beloved concubine. The more he becomes an adult, and especially a father, the more he resents his father because of the way he treats his mother and him. He does not really understand his father and therefore his fears due to the fact that he did not grow up close to him. I would keep his efficient heir personality because he performs very well despite his father never teaching him well because of his mother who is a very good advisor. Instead of doing something for his military glory or showing off his harem too much, I would focus on how he improves the lives of common people exhausted by too much conquest. I would make his guilt very ambiguous, at the start it is clear that he wants to wait for his father to die to have the throne and restore his mother's honor, however, he realizes that his father lets his vizier lead his life impossible to see even encourages him, does not hide that he preferred to have a son of Hurrem on the throne no matter what Mustafa will do. Following this, the sehzade wants to have a second plan like his grandfather in case Suleiman wants to abdicate in favor of another of his sons which would put him in danger (which could explain the Venetian correspondence, others say that it was a plan to prevent his brothers from escaping if one day he became Sultan) but hesitates to actually carry it out, then after some hesitation goes to his father's tent and gets strangled. Instead of doing Atmaca, I would focus on Mustafa's son-in-law, Nergissah's husband who started as Rustem's ally and becomes his most loyal supporter ( it seems that it is more a legend than truth, but I didn't remeber well as I didn't have on me my books of historian like Halil Inalcık) . So I would avoid making a treacherous Sehzade, his mistakes would be understandable, but he wouldn't be a pure white Sehzade.
Sehzade Mehmed: it's more complicated for him because he died without having proven himself in a complicated province like Amasya, so it's quite difficult to make a comparison with Mustafa. But I would make sure to give him a real personality: initially close to some of his brothers like Selim and Bayezid, he becomes, despite his mother, more distant towards them because of the fratricide (Mehmed II had therefore legalized it there is not much way to escape from it at the time unlike MCK) although he is very close to Cihangir and his sister. Unlike Mustafa, his father trained him in the regency of the palace and he did very well by dint of advice and practice. When he is sent to the provinces, he often listens to his mother's advice when she visits him. Knowing that he has the support of the statesmen against Mustafa he realizes knowing his father better than his half brother that he will have to play the role of the obedient sehzade not interested in politics although deep down he prepare for it. He has the happiness of being a father but dies immediately afterwards.
Mihrimah Sultan- I would make sure to respect the historical Hurrem who wants her daughter to have a marriage of love and happiness. However Suleiman prefers Rustem, and she accepts him immediately because she will do everything to save her brothers and convince her mother to accept this marriage. I would rather show her as a politician as well as her diplomatic relations. However, I would underline the unjust side of Suleiman, he had Mustafa executed and condemned Mahidevran to poverty but refuses to punish Mihrimah by banishing her because she would have helped Bayezid financially during his rebellion. Their relationship would be cold for a time before reconciling. She will be reconciled with her brother Selim because basically they only remain and will be an ally of Nurbanu.
Sehzade Abdullah- I would have included him even if he died very young.
Sehzade Selim- Initially a cultured young man very focused on charity work like his mother and sister and very sober. Nevertheless it is often sad due to the law of fratricide. When Mustafa dies, he realizes he has a chance to escape it and he will fight in a wicked way especially for his son Murad because he knows that Bayezid's temper will put him in danger besides fratricide. He knew how to recruit powerful and efficient state members. He is on the whole an obedient sehzade but who is disgusted with his father's treatment of Mahidevran (after all she is no longer a threat to him she no longer has a son) and who will take risks to her by helping her financially. As the hardships go on, his depression increases he drinks more and more especially after his sister takes the part of Bayezid, that his brother Bayezid dies, and the fact that he is obliged to make other sons in the case where Murad dies without an heir which means that he knows that his other sons will be condemned to death. He has become a broken leader although he makes sure there is effective governance.
As a Sultan he must face his father's mistakes, including the way he led the Empire, including too many wars and unnecessary conquests in Europe.
Sehzade Bayezid- Him complicated. Due to his explosive temper he is the black sheep of his siblings (Mustafa does not count since he is a half brother, they do not even know each other) and the most incompetent of Suleiman's sons and Suleiman is worried because he has inherited the worst faults of Selim Yavuz like being angry easily (without having had his qualities). Yet deep down he wants affection and that's why he has several children even if it's irresponsible, his mother favors him because she's afraid for him because he has too impulsive nature . Mihrimah comes to his aid only in memory of his mother, because deep down she prefers Selim, Bayezid knows this, which means that he hardly listens to her. She only helps him financially as a last resort because she couldn't convince him to call off the rebellion. Suleiman was more lenient to his mistakes that Mustafa (we could once again underline the unfair side of Suleiman again with this) until the point that he took refuge to the Shah.
Sehzade Cihangir- A cultured young man very close to his parents and very sick. I would make him a supporter of Selim because although he is close to him, he also knows that he is his only chance of survival because he is not close to Bayezid at all. He often sends information from the Palace to Selim to better aid him in managing his province and at times advises him to be more ruthless in his quest for the throne while remaining an obedient sehzade. It would therefore be a good adviser for Selim (and it would give him more personality). He cannot therefore be limited to the role of a simple supporter but also of a valuable advisor.
And that's how I would portray them if I were in the place of the screenwriters. They are all very nuanced (we avoid all white or all black), we can freely pick a favorite without trying to favor another sehzade at all costs, and I try to be consistent with what we know about them and try to explain why they did mistakes or make sucess.
🗡️Ahhhhhhhgrgh OK SO you used to date John Constantine, but he pushed you away and broke your heart when you accidentally said the L word. You move to New York, and now you're with John Wick, who is ever so good to you, but you don't ask what he gets up to in the wee hours of the night or why he comes home with bruised knuckles. It's old hat to you, considering who you used to date. Constantine happens to know, however, that Wick is a demon half breed, and its driving him insane thinking about you with him. He found out from one of his less than savory contacts, and its been eating at him ever since.
He confronts you in Central park, where you like to go on your lunch breaks to read. "Nice, y/n. I turn my back for two seconds and you're fucking a demon."
"First of all, fuck off, Constantine. Second, what the fuck are you talking about? Third, what the fuck are you doing in New York?”
“Your little boyfriend’s boss Tarasov is cooking up something wicked. Something that’s going to harvest a LOT of souls for his master.” That would be Lucifer Himself, of course.
You roll your eyes, even if in the very back back room of your head, you wonder if he’s telling the truth. Could John Wick be a demon? The sex was amazing, but that didn't necessarily mean he was the Devil's minion? You had noticed though, out the corner of your eye, that sometimes his pupils seemed to have a fiery glow. And sometimes, when he came home all sweaty and hadn't showered yet, you'd get a weird whiff of sulfur. You'd always shrugged it off, but...
“Sure he is.” Seeing Constantine hurts like a knife between the ribs. You'd loved him so much, and he was such an asshole to you. The fact that he’s come all this way trying to warn you should not inspire this kind of warmth in your heart. “Just stay away from me, Constantine.”
😈Of course, he doesn’t. He never told you, but you're the only woman he's ever truly loved. You’re out with John Wick when Constantine strikes, trying to deport your [apparently?] demon boyfriend. Wick gets the drop on him though, and he’s about to finish the job before he hears you scream. He sees your face and knows it will hurt you irreparably if he kills Constantine. So he lets him go, throwing him across the darkened street into a building. You leave with Wick, and he takes you home. You have so many questions, but he refuses to answer them. He kisses you goodnight before he has to go out again, a sorrow in those soulful puppy dog eyes that breaks your heart. How is it possible that he’s a demon? He’s so good to you.
♥Little do you know, John Wick never really had a choice. He was damned for something he didn't really have control over, and working for the Devil is way better than seething in the Pit. He's good at what he does, but his heart's never really been in it. You're the best thing that's ever happened to him.
😇👹You were never really down with all this angels and demons shit. Constantine kept you insulated from it, and to be honest you're not really even a believer. It’s kind of why these guys are attracted to you, tbh. Being around you is like a little break from their lives. You’re a good person for the most part. You go about your day and do your best not to be a total piece of shit, and usually that works out, but you don’t get caught up in the whole Heaven! and Hell! thing. Though one time when you confessed to Constantine that you don’t believe in God, he’d bitterly said, “That doesn’t mean He doesn’t believe in you, the asshole.” For someone supposedly on God's side, Constantine never seemed to like Him much.
🔥You follow Wick one night, desperate to know if Constantine was right. You get caught, because you are just human, and Tarasov decides you’ll make a perfect little sacrifice for the profane ritual they’re setting up. Constantine, of course, was following you. Before the knife can fall MAYEM ensues. SO MANY Demons get their asses deported, but you almost die anyway. In the end, Wick pulls a Selfless Act saving you, and he gets turned into a halfbreed angel instead.
😡Constantine is so fucking pissed off about this.
🤷♀️You love them both and have no idea how you’re going to choose.
Normal People: "Why did u start writing Yandere content?"
Most Yandere Authors: "I wanted to express my dark desire for a forbidden romance through a creative medium. Forgoing social norms to create a love that is most cruel yet utterly true. To appease the lethal love that lays dormant within my bones, rattling me with its yearning for freedom. To show the world a love that is hideous, dangerous, yet wholly profuse. The sort of love only found under a moonless sky. A romance that can kill and heal with the same hand. To fashion ballads of broken hearts and damaged minds trapped in a waltz of shimmering hearts."
Me: I want to get kidnapped so I won't have any responsibilities.
