capeandcowllogs | (no subject)

WHO:

Sherlock Holmes and OPEN
WHERE: All around the city
WHEN: Anywhere between the 16th of January and the 24th.
WARNINGS: None! Will update if any come up.
SUMMARY: Sherlock is a bit touchy-feely, thanks to Desire, and just can't sit at home any more lest he go absolutely mad with boredom. Catch all for any shenanigans you would like with him. You can also catch him at his flat, if you need to consult him. Seriously, open to everyone, even if we haven't had CR before, because I want it.
FORMAT: Para to set up, then whatever you like~

He'd been obsessing.

Desire promised a distraction and now he has one, though whether it will drive him mad rather than release the boredom, who can say.

He certainly can't stay put anymore. Striding through the city as a tall brooding shadow, just possibly accidentally running into passerby, a constant flicker of tiny white notes running in succession by his head.

[ Feel free to set your tag anywhere! Make sure to put time/place in the subject header. If you want to discuss anything with me first, hit me up by pm or on plurk! :3 ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Enough." Sherlock stood, suddenly, batting Edward's hand away with his arm. The playful curiosity was entirely gone now, replaced with the hard marble exterior he so usually exuded, especially under pressure. He didn't move back from Edward, only inches from him, but though he was not a large man, exactly, he was a tall one, and he glowered down at him with shadowed eyes.

"Giving into a craving still requires a choice, Edward." His voice was hard. It wasn't his first addiction, and they were always, always worse when he was bored, but the mind and the work came first, the body second. Even past the desperate longing, he could still himself if he chose. Or so he hoped. Admitting any sort of mistake on his part was not something he was going to do. Not here.

He leaned in, slightly, an a familiar scent of peaches drifted past. From Edward. A single, solitary white little note appeared at the man's shoulder: Interesting.

"Unlike you, Edward, I'm not screwing with anyone."

The comment about screwing made his mouth twitch, with enjoyment. He glanced at the note over his own shoulder, as if conspiring with the bright text. As if he was tempted to kiss and tell.

"You're right, Sherlock. Submitting to a stronger will than yours still requires a choice. And oh, I do hope you did enjoy the last bit of choice you had possessed." He leaned closer, closer than what was necessary, lips nearing an ear. "This will be like nothing you've ever imagined before. And it's all entirely your fault."

Edward, too, was an addict. He couldn't stop his intellectual games, his brilliant pursuits. He couldn't step away from the thrill of adequate competition -- the men mentally capable enough to entertain him. Batman. Norman Osborn. He wouldn't stop his love of himself, his flirtation with domination. Of conquering his rivals, of proving his worth.

Which is why he had always resisted Desire. Why he still resisted it. And that was why it treasured him with love and hate and disdain and favoritism.

"You're the one being screwed."