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Scold me; deny me. Tell me you want what you want and damn me forever. But don’t leave me. - sherliam
he’d call this a poor excuse of a foxhunt, if he’d intended to hunt william at all.
what you are is chasing skirts, Mycroft had said, mistaking alliance for attraction: Irene — who is no more, had never been source of interest, much less temptation. but Mycroft had been right about one thing: he’d been bewitched, possessed by something unearthly and older than mankind. it festered up on his bones, left no trace of his original components. it’s the damnedest thing, really, to want something that eludes you, runs from your grasp. he’d seen it fall through his fingers like quicksand.
right now, it’s all entirely his. petty possessiveness, maybe, but he’s long since accepted that this is what william provoked in him: he brought out the madman in him, blood dripping into water, and the mixture had become an unholy union of good and bad. william may be a sinner of his own kind, and sherlock had chosen to play the role of his juror, butcher and the devil if he must. sherlock shifts in place, elbows placed languidly on his knees. from the bench, the city’s buildings almost look like bricks on the playground. william’s still quiet, as if waiting for his response.
“since the bridge, this is the most honest thing you’ve told me. excluding the confession from a moment’s ago, of course.” he jabs slightly at william’s pride, maybe payback for the scare of walking up into an empty room and messy sheets. satisfied by the remark, sherlock smoothly waltzes back into the next sentence, “you know exactly what i want. i’m betting a big coin that you’ve known for a long time, and still you denied me it above everything else. it’s late to ask me to hold back, knowing how far it’s taken me — us for that matter.”
a smirk escapes him, throwing a sideways glance at him. william’s hair glows under the sunlight, and though his face is partly scarred, none of the beauty that’d drawn him in from the start like a moth to a flame is marred. before he can stop himself, two fingers take a stand of gold-bathed hair, places it aside to take a long, good look of those features. yes, the face is a lure, and the mind behind it even more so. “it’s you.”
“what i want, i mean. it’s you, liam.”
@cursedfell