#127 - Pressed Down, Push Up (Gotham, Harvey/Jim, NC-17)
Title: Pressed Down, Push Up
Fandom: Gotham
Pairing: Harvey/Jim
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 494
TImeline: Set during Season One's Penguin's Umbrella
Challenge: #127 Pressure
There’s still a good couple of hours until sunrise. Feels like time’s slowed down, like the clock-face on the window’s ticking backwards. Jim’s foot jitters against the floor, too much caffeine, too much adrenaline in his system.
Harvey saunters into the room, barefoot and a towel slung around his shoulders. He’s wearing Jim’s robe, and he looks like he owns the place. “Figured you wouldn’t be getting any sleep.”
Jim snorts, hunched forward, hands hanging down between his knees. “Yeah, well, you and the Duchess weren’t exactly quiet.”
Harvey snags Jim’s abandoned cup of barely-warm coffee, downs it and pulls a face at the taste. “What can I say, Jimbo? I’m a screamer,” he deadpans, setting the cup down and moving close.
Jim tries to ignore the way his breath hitches when Harvey’s knee presses into the couch cushions beside him.
“So, we’re obviously going to die,” Harvey says, casually conversational. “Going up against Falcone and all. What do you say to getting laid one last time?”
Jim rolls his head so he can look up at Harvey, at the way he’s looming over Jim. Doesn’t look at the way the robe gapes open. “You just had sex with a hooker. In my bed.”
“I showered,” Harvey drawls, like Jim’s being deliberately stupid. Showered and even brushed his teeth, judging by the scent of mint Jim catches on his breath.
Probably used Jim’s toothbrush, the asshole.
But that is the height of romance by Harvey’s standards, no doubt. Cleaning up between partners, and fuck if it isn’t working, getting Jim warmer just for the thought of it, of Harvey’s heat and skin.
They’ve only fooled around a few times, usually after a rough case when Jim hasn’t felt ready to go home to Barbara, hasn’t felt ready to pretend everything’s okay with him.
This is the closest they’ve ever gotten to talking about what’s been happening between them, and it’s barely an acknowledge, but Jim doesn’t give a shit about labels, and Harvey likes what he likes.
“Fuck it,” Jim sighs, reaching for the robe, hauling Harvey down for a kiss that clacks teeth. Harvey’s hands always feel too big, and they practically maul him as they push Jim back against the couch. Heavy weight settling over him, and Jim tries to push up but Harvey’s immovable.
And it’s just what Jim needs. Solid and hot and human, holding Jim down by a rough grip around his wrists, kissing away every rough noise Jim lets out. Letting him grind up, hard line of Harvey’s cock rubbing against his own, their rhythm greedy and natural.
It’s all been too much, too much pressure on Jim’s shoulders since he decided he’d clean Gotham up single-handedly if he had to. But now they’re staring death in the face, and Jim feels lighter than he has in months.
But it’s only with Harvey above him, different kind of pressure, the good kind, that Jim realises he feels free.
Fandom: Gotham
Pairing: Harvey/Jim
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 494
TImeline: Set during Season One's Penguin's Umbrella
Challenge: #127 Pressure
There’s still a good couple of hours until sunrise. Feels like time’s slowed down, like the clock-face on the window’s ticking backwards. Jim’s foot jitters against the floor, too much caffeine, too much adrenaline in his system.
Harvey saunters into the room, barefoot and a towel slung around his shoulders. He’s wearing Jim’s robe, and he looks like he owns the place. “Figured you wouldn’t be getting any sleep.”
Jim snorts, hunched forward, hands hanging down between his knees. “Yeah, well, you and the Duchess weren’t exactly quiet.”
Harvey snags Jim’s abandoned cup of barely-warm coffee, downs it and pulls a face at the taste. “What can I say, Jimbo? I’m a screamer,” he deadpans, setting the cup down and moving close.
Jim tries to ignore the way his breath hitches when Harvey’s knee presses into the couch cushions beside him.
“So, we’re obviously going to die,” Harvey says, casually conversational. “Going up against Falcone and all. What do you say to getting laid one last time?”
Jim rolls his head so he can look up at Harvey, at the way he’s looming over Jim. Doesn’t look at the way the robe gapes open. “You just had sex with a hooker. In my bed.”
“I showered,” Harvey drawls, like Jim’s being deliberately stupid. Showered and even brushed his teeth, judging by the scent of mint Jim catches on his breath.
Probably used Jim’s toothbrush, the asshole.
But that is the height of romance by Harvey’s standards, no doubt. Cleaning up between partners, and fuck if it isn’t working, getting Jim warmer just for the thought of it, of Harvey’s heat and skin.
They’ve only fooled around a few times, usually after a rough case when Jim hasn’t felt ready to go home to Barbara, hasn’t felt ready to pretend everything’s okay with him.
This is the closest they’ve ever gotten to talking about what’s been happening between them, and it’s barely an acknowledge, but Jim doesn’t give a shit about labels, and Harvey likes what he likes.
“Fuck it,” Jim sighs, reaching for the robe, hauling Harvey down for a kiss that clacks teeth. Harvey’s hands always feel too big, and they practically maul him as they push Jim back against the couch. Heavy weight settling over him, and Jim tries to push up but Harvey’s immovable.
And it’s just what Jim needs. Solid and hot and human, holding Jim down by a rough grip around his wrists, kissing away every rough noise Jim lets out. Letting him grind up, hard line of Harvey’s cock rubbing against his own, their rhythm greedy and natural.
It’s all been too much, too much pressure on Jim’s shoulders since he decided he’d clean Gotham up single-handedly if he had to. But now they’re staring death in the face, and Jim feels lighter than he has in months.
But it’s only with Harvey above him, different kind of pressure, the good kind, that Jim realises he feels free.