[Because they were fighting a war. Or had been. He had come from fighting the same war but on a more hidden front. Fighting from the shadows and alleyways, watching from rooftops, sending his people with phones to keep him on call and with visual access to what he needed.
But... John had gotten out of that war. He'd been let go from the duties he'd never asked for. His shoulders hunch in when he feels the brush of the tips of feathers. An unintended movement, one would think. Because why would Sherlock Holmes shy away? He certainly had no concept of personal space. Under the borrowed coat, his own wings flicked against the fabric.
He looked at the water, watched it flow. He had been so close. Had felt the man's breath giving way under his hands. ...And, while he would not say it, he'd felt the rush. He'd understood the high that could be gotten from the act. He could understand the serial killers, the impulse to do it again and again. Another sensation to chase away the ever pressing boredom.
His wings beat hard against the coat he wore, protesting the thought as he hid all other signs of repulsion at himself.]
no subject
[Because they were fighting a war. Or had been. He had come from fighting the same war but on a more hidden front. Fighting from the shadows and alleyways, watching from rooftops, sending his people with phones to keep him on call and with visual access to what he needed.
But... John had gotten out of that war. He'd been let go from the duties he'd never asked for. His shoulders hunch in when he feels the brush of the tips of feathers. An unintended movement, one would think. Because why would Sherlock Holmes shy away? He certainly had no concept of personal space. Under the borrowed coat, his own wings flicked against the fabric.
He looked at the water, watched it flow. He had been so close. Had felt the man's breath giving way under his hands. ...And, while he would not say it, he'd felt the rush. He'd understood the high that could be gotten from the act. He could understand the serial killers, the impulse to do it again and again. Another sensation to chase away the ever pressing boredom.
His wings beat hard against the coat he wore, protesting the thought as he hid all other signs of repulsion at himself.]
We're here for their sport.