NaNo: Fic: here inside
Title: here inside
Pairing: Gordon/Bruce
Rating: R
Word count: 875.
A/N: Are you sick of me yet? If no, you might be by the end of the month ;D. If yes, LIE. The promised handcuffs fic, other take on the theme.
"Don't think."
It had been a bad day, not the worst Jim had ever had, not even close, but as days go, it wasn't easy. The neverending paperwork he got used to, the meetings with the Mayor can't be avoided, and the phonecalls from the brass demanding his particular attention to one case or another he can promptly ignore, at least for a while. And while it's true that this is pretty much all he could busy himself with as the commissioner, there are some cases he can't ignore, can't in good conscience leave to someone else to deal with. Like the four bodies in a house with a white picket fence and swings in the garden. He hates those cases. He always answers the dispatch.
"Gordon."
It's not quite the growl he's used to, but it's still low and obscured, close to him, the bed bending under the added weight. Jim can't see the man, this is the whole point of the exercise, a piece of dark cloth covering his eyes; but he can feel the fingers on his wrist, clicking the cuffs close with a resounding finality.
"Just relax."
It's easier said than done, the cop in him rebels against the thought of the restraints, his standard issue cuffs on his own wrists, metal hard and unrelenting as he tests it, pulling hard. The panic flooding him gives way to acceptance, there's nothing he can do now, decisions out of his hands, and it shouldn't feel good, it shouldn't feel like a relief. He had never been one to shirk of responsibility, but there had been too much of it on his shoulders and right here, right now, in the closed space under the blindfold, he can give in.
The hand moves from his wrists, down the length of his bent arm, just a soft touch, as if not to spook him which, Jim feels, is kind of unnecessary.
"Yes, I am relaxed now, we can be moving on," he says dryly, and the responding sound is half held back laughter and half an annoyed groan.
"I can see that," and really, the sarcasm is entirely unnecessary. The bed shifts again, and Jim feels him moves above, one leg on each side, moving purposefully until he straddles Jim's thighs, one hand flat on his chest, palm to the heart, as if he was measuring the heartbeat and deeming it too fast. "What am I to do with you, Jim?"
And if that was supposed to help him relax, then they're really going about it the wrong way, honestly.
The fingers trail lower, across his chest and stomach, fingertips just edging the waistband of his pants, so soft Jim's not sure if it's really happening or if he's imagining it. Then, without any warning, he feels lips pressing on his, tongue coaxing them open, mapping his mouth with considerable enthusiasm, claiming Jim with biting kisses laid down his throat. "What am I to do with you, Jim?" he repeats, and this time, there can only be one answer.
"Anything."
The rewarding touch is harder now, insistent, their bodies slowly starting to move against each other, even with the limited freedom Jim is allowed at the moment. His eyes are closed under the blindfold, his breathing hastened. His shirt is being pushed up, pants pulled down, almost clumsily, if the man could ever be accused of being clumsy; roughly, maybe, impatiently, definitely.
"Anything?" he asks, fingers purposefully closing around Jim, slow, almost lazy strokes. "Come on, Jim," he whispers insistently, and Jim has to strain himself to hear it, it sounds like it's not even directed at him.
Jim's close to giving in, his blood feels like it's frozen solid one second, and a liquid fire soon after, and his mind is dangerously close to being blank, save for one last conscious thought.
"Bruce, please," he says, half moaning, his throat closes on the words, his lips parched. Bruce leans in, licking softly at the corner of Jim's mouth, as if he wanted to taste the sounds, feel their texture on his tongue. His hand is still for a moment, this is not it, not yet, and he waits. "Please," Jim repeats, his head falling back, metal digging into his wrists as his whole body gives in.
"Yes," Bruce says, softly, almost inaudibly, and Jim is not sure of the words that follow, he can't make them out through the ringing in his ears, the almost defeaning sound of his own pulse racing.
When his breathing evens out, Bruce is already unlocking the cuffs, thumbs rubbing gently at the reddened areas. Jim smiles slightly and reaches to take off the blindfold, his eyes still closed for a long moment. The room is almost too quiet, just the sound of their breathing.
"What are you thinking?" Bruce asks, rolling to the side, watching Jim from under half closed eyelids.
"Absolutely nothing," Jim says, and smiles softly, because right now, in the darkened room with Bruce pressed lightly against his side, he might be even telling the truth; and it feels quite good.
Pairing: Gordon/Bruce
Rating: R
Word count: 875.
A/N: Are you sick of me yet? If no, you might be by the end of the month ;D. If yes, LIE. The promised handcuffs fic, other take on the theme.
"Don't think."
It had been a bad day, not the worst Jim had ever had, not even close, but as days go, it wasn't easy. The neverending paperwork he got used to, the meetings with the Mayor can't be avoided, and the phonecalls from the brass demanding his particular attention to one case or another he can promptly ignore, at least for a while. And while it's true that this is pretty much all he could busy himself with as the commissioner, there are some cases he can't ignore, can't in good conscience leave to someone else to deal with. Like the four bodies in a house with a white picket fence and swings in the garden. He hates those cases. He always answers the dispatch.
"Gordon."
It's not quite the growl he's used to, but it's still low and obscured, close to him, the bed bending under the added weight. Jim can't see the man, this is the whole point of the exercise, a piece of dark cloth covering his eyes; but he can feel the fingers on his wrist, clicking the cuffs close with a resounding finality.
"Just relax."
It's easier said than done, the cop in him rebels against the thought of the restraints, his standard issue cuffs on his own wrists, metal hard and unrelenting as he tests it, pulling hard. The panic flooding him gives way to acceptance, there's nothing he can do now, decisions out of his hands, and it shouldn't feel good, it shouldn't feel like a relief. He had never been one to shirk of responsibility, but there had been too much of it on his shoulders and right here, right now, in the closed space under the blindfold, he can give in.
The hand moves from his wrists, down the length of his bent arm, just a soft touch, as if not to spook him which, Jim feels, is kind of unnecessary.
"Yes, I am relaxed now, we can be moving on," he says dryly, and the responding sound is half held back laughter and half an annoyed groan.
"I can see that," and really, the sarcasm is entirely unnecessary. The bed shifts again, and Jim feels him moves above, one leg on each side, moving purposefully until he straddles Jim's thighs, one hand flat on his chest, palm to the heart, as if he was measuring the heartbeat and deeming it too fast. "What am I to do with you, Jim?"
And if that was supposed to help him relax, then they're really going about it the wrong way, honestly.
The fingers trail lower, across his chest and stomach, fingertips just edging the waistband of his pants, so soft Jim's not sure if it's really happening or if he's imagining it. Then, without any warning, he feels lips pressing on his, tongue coaxing them open, mapping his mouth with considerable enthusiasm, claiming Jim with biting kisses laid down his throat. "What am I to do with you, Jim?" he repeats, and this time, there can only be one answer.
"Anything."
The rewarding touch is harder now, insistent, their bodies slowly starting to move against each other, even with the limited freedom Jim is allowed at the moment. His eyes are closed under the blindfold, his breathing hastened. His shirt is being pushed up, pants pulled down, almost clumsily, if the man could ever be accused of being clumsy; roughly, maybe, impatiently, definitely.
"Anything?" he asks, fingers purposefully closing around Jim, slow, almost lazy strokes. "Come on, Jim," he whispers insistently, and Jim has to strain himself to hear it, it sounds like it's not even directed at him.
Jim's close to giving in, his blood feels like it's frozen solid one second, and a liquid fire soon after, and his mind is dangerously close to being blank, save for one last conscious thought.
"Bruce, please," he says, half moaning, his throat closes on the words, his lips parched. Bruce leans in, licking softly at the corner of Jim's mouth, as if he wanted to taste the sounds, feel their texture on his tongue. His hand is still for a moment, this is not it, not yet, and he waits. "Please," Jim repeats, his head falling back, metal digging into his wrists as his whole body gives in.
"Yes," Bruce says, softly, almost inaudibly, and Jim is not sure of the words that follow, he can't make them out through the ringing in his ears, the almost defeaning sound of his own pulse racing.
When his breathing evens out, Bruce is already unlocking the cuffs, thumbs rubbing gently at the reddened areas. Jim smiles slightly and reaches to take off the blindfold, his eyes still closed for a long moment. The room is almost too quiet, just the sound of their breathing.
"What are you thinking?" Bruce asks, rolling to the side, watching Jim from under half closed eyelids.
"Absolutely nothing," Jim says, and smiles softly, because right now, in the darkened room with Bruce pressed lightly against his side, he might be even telling the truth; and it feels quite good.