I know I’ve been absent on a lot of my accounts lately, but I have a really good reason for that, I promise!
- For the past couple of months I had that superflu that was going around disguised as a cold. It made me horrible sick to the point where I had no energy for rp.
- Once I did recover from said flu, my work schedule kept me insanely busy to the point where I wasn’t able to go online at all some days.
- Now that work has calmed down, my editor and I have decided to seriously pursue publishing my novels since my draft for book 1 is finally finished.
“We do what we want to do, dance how we want to dance.” Sebastian follows, leash pulled by the man baring his soul along with his marked skin. The other man isn’t fond of marks, not at all. They belong on the world, not on his flesh. Only bruises and small cuts, but their meaning shakes him.
His long legs catch him up and he puts a cold hand over a neat set of fingernail marks. These don’t exist any more than his scars. He’ll ignore them, bury them to fester or repair his mind as they will. It’s better these days, to store things without looking too closely.
He remembers it is a habit from his days in uniform, he remembers less the days he spent breaking himself of it. “We need a wash.” A branch of protective comfort for this man, for his man.
He stopped walking at Seb’s touch. “I,” Jim corrected, sighing and sounding just as exhausted as he felt. “It’s just ‘I,’ Seb. Not ‘we.’ You’re only you now.” What a strange thing to have to explain, and yet it was a constant in their lives these days.
He turned his head to stare at the other man, looking for any sign that Seb was himself.
“The man with the key is king.”
Mycroft’s toy was a favorite plaything of Jim’s. Of course no one realized what he was doing—probably not even the girl herself—but being on friendly terms with Anthea (as she liked to be called) afforded him more insider information than actually watching Mycroft himself might have.
Still, he trusted her just about as much as he trusted anyone else. Which meant that she had no clue where he truly lived. In fact, he was meeting her even now in an upper-class hotel under an alias. His face was recognizable thanks to Sherlock, but Jim could be quite persuasive when he set out to be. He’d fooled more than just Molly with his act.
The Consulting Criminal stood, hands in his pockets, leaning against the sliding-glass door of the balcony where he waited. She had the room number and instructions to meet him. She’d either show up or pay the consequences later.
He was wearing one of his best suits. For some reason, it was always important to look his best around her.