#doumindifigetthat

I cordially invite you to my welcome back party. Two's company... Lets keep it between us, shall we?

I just got so out of habit, it was difficult to start up again!

If anybody still wants to RP, let me know! 

He sleeps like the dead when he deigns to be so human as to succumb to tiredness. Like the dead he is pale and sticks of guts and piss, none of his own of course. He enjoys bathing in the filth of his vices, he says it keeps him sharp. Like bathing a blade in blood so it remembers the taste of the flesh it ought to hunger for. 

Oh, yes, I get fucking poetic too. Went to Eton you know, it's not all skull crusher Seb in here. I got to embracing my demons a bit more since he died, since he wasn't here to do it for me. 

He's waiting guard on the secretary's flat. She's a good enough fuck, a good enough distraction when he's bored and Jim hasn't got the time for him, but that's not why he's hidden away under a dumpster. It's the chance to match himself against another Mycroft's assassins. The first are still coming after him, more careful after he'd put down a baker's dozen of the fools in the first two days of their hunt. 

The body count has mounted and he's growing worse than the boss. It's just too easy. It's too boring. He's picked up the drawl in his head, the long scouse vowels that slide down to soft surrey 'g's. He's the best and it isn't any fun. Quantity can only make up for quality for so long. 

Sebastian is getting that itch in his fingers, that itch that meant it was time to change cities before he burnt one to the ground around him, just for the hell of watching everyone else scream. For the thrill of picking them off as they tried to escape the flaming wreck. The kill isn't enough. Precision isn't enough when you're a superpower wading in the shallow waters of third world talent. He wants to maul, wants to tear and melt and utterly destroy. 

It was the same dream, the dream that didn't get any easier with repetition. Jim was drowning and he couldn't breath. The creature was stalking him again, the thing that had slide into his boss and was pressing cold lips to his in a hideous parody of their most intimate of embraces. Were he a younger man, he would have been inclined to scream, but war was an insistent teacher and his instincts kept him silent, even full of terror and unconscious.

doumindifigetthat replied to your post: Moriarty

Really now?