(no subject)
Title: The hate that it brings.
Summary: Though he'll never say it, Jim doesn't like sharing.
Rating: 18
Genre: Complete, unapologetic PWP. AGAIN, SORRY.
Warnings: Contains Jim Moriarty? Slight manipulation I guess, dysfunctional friendships, etc etc.
Wordcount: 1751
Jim can't stop laughing. It's not a manly laugh, or a threatening one, but an honest to God giggle. Seb frowns at him, but his heart isn't in it. They're both had too much alcohol for Seb to be truly irritated, but he'll play along.
“Don't,” he grouses. “He's horrifying. Looks like a potato. Not my type.”
Jim laughs into his drink. A small spill of alcohol escapes his lips, and rolls down his chin; he catches it with this thumb, swiping it upwards and sucking the liquid off the pad.
“No?” he asks, voice lilting. “Just what is your type, Sebastian?”
Seb suddenly feels as though the air has been sucked out of the room. His good mood falters.
“Don't, Jim. Don't fuck around.”
Jim raises his thin eyebrows and smiles, lopsided. It doesn't look natural on his face, as though it's a facial expression he's seen other people use and has decided to try and copy it. Seb shakes his head once, sharply, and the expression is replaced by something far more icy and predatory. He moves towards Seb on all fours on the sofa, crowding him against the arm. He tilts his head, dark eyes shark-like in the low lighting. As he advances, Seb thinks about pushing him back, but he feels almost paralysed. Jim reaches out, long, pale fingers curling around Seb's tie, and tugs.
Their faces aligned, Seb can feel Jim's warm breath washing over his chin- he can faintly smell the whiskey they've been drinking. He doesn't draw back as Jim moves closer.
The tip of Jim's tongue touches his chin and trails slowly up towards his lip, mimicking the path the alcohol made down Jim's own face earlier. He swipes his tongue quickly across Seb's lower lip, and Seb can't help the small, deep noise that rolls out of him as his lips part. He brings a hand up to Jim's side, fingers splayed across ribs that he can feel outlined through the expensive shirt.
They've done this before; occasionally, when Jim is bored and feeling especially manipulative, they'll do this. Usually it ends in Seb's burning, consuming frustration.
Jim presses his mouth to Seb's fully, head tilted. He slides his tongue alongside Seb's, who curls it against his own, eyes falling shut as Jim pulls back, teeth scraping along his lip. Jim sits back on the settee, his fingers still curled tightly in Seb's silk tie. Seb exhales heavily and opens his eyes. Jim's watching him, reptilian eyes sharp, soaking in the expression on Seb's face- observing him. The clinical look on Jim's face infuriates him, and he surges upwards from his prone position and cups Jim's face, kissing him again. Jim loosens his grip on the tie, fingers instead curling around Seb's biceps.
It's not a love thing between them-- nothing like that. At first, Seb was attracted to Jim because of his vision. From the moment they met, he knew he was going somewhere. It's a little like being in the army again; he admires Jim just as he would admire his superiors, but there's more to it than that. Seb's slept with men before, and he's not ashamed of it, and he'll admit he thinks Jim's attractive, but it's greatly heightened by just how dangerous the other man can be. It's like befriending a tiger, this wild creature that could kill him if the mood struck.
Jim's teeth close on his upper lip and tug on the scar, a constant reminder of furious flashes of claws and rank fur and not being quick enough, and yes, Seb thinks sardonically, he knows tigers. He's bettered them, too.
He turns to face Jim, one leg drawn up beneath him on the settee, and his other foot knocks over his tumbler of whiskey. The amber liquid pools quickly across the black oak flooring, but neither men pay it any attention. Jim is all teeth and tongue and biting heat, and Seb slides his hand under his suit jacket, up over his chest to the curve of his shoulder, where he pushes it off. Unexpectedly, Jim is not hindering Seb's attempts to undress him, but shrugs the jacket off. A surprised thrill runs through Seb at Jim's cooperation, and, feeling daring, he slides his hands back across Jim's shoulders to his neatly knotted tie. Slipping his fingers under Jim's collar and taking the material in hand, he pulls the perfect knot apart. The top button of his shirt is undone, exposing the clean line of his neck.
Jim tilts his head, strangely pliant, and watches Seb slowly undo his tie. It's a quiet, still moment, and he wonders if Jim's going to do what he usually does, and walk away just as Seb is getting riled up. The silk whispers against the hand tailored cotton shirt, strangely intimate. Seb hesitates, feeling entirely wrong footed, and a smug expression quickly flits across Jim's face before he casts his eyes down, carefully and artificially coquettish. Jim knows that Seb can tell he's acting, he must do, but he still reaches out and runs his fingers over the other man's taut thigh up to the zip of his trousers, where his thumb brushes over Seb's half hard cock.
“Even now,” he says, voice measured and light, “even now you're all settled and monogamous, you'll always come crawling back, won't you?”
Seb's eyebrows raise, lips parting in surprise; of all the things he expected to say, that wasn't one of them. It suddenly strikes him- he's jealous?
“Is this about Sally?” he asks, incredulous, and Jim looks up again, eyes flashing.
“You were mine first,” he says, voice eerily calm, and the worst thing is that Seb knows that this isn't any sort of emotional attachment speaking, but Jim's twisted sense of possession, that he's a toy that he doesn't like sharing. Jim moves quickly, pushing Seb backwards, thigh pressing up snugly between Seb's own.
“Does she know about this?” he growls, nimble fingers yanking Seb's tie aside and pulling his shirt open. “Does she know how quickly you'll roll on your back for your boss? I bet she has no idea what kind of man you really are.”
Anger boils up in Seb, and he opens his mouth to retort but Jim leans in, biting at his lip and sliding his tongue against Seb's own. He twists his hand, fingers and palm rubbing purposefully against Seb's cock through his trousers.
Seb threads his fingers through Jim's short hair and tugs, pulling his head back,
“There's nothing to tell her,” he hisses, and Jim's lips curl in a cold smile as his fingers quickly undo Seb's button and zip and slip into his boxers, pulling his erection out. Seb bites back a groan and pulls Jim down, but he ducks his head out from under his hand. For a moment, Jim's face is directly above his cock, head bowed and back curved, and the image is so suggestive that all of the breath rushes out of Seb. Jim glances up, a triumphant smirk tugging at his mouth, and he begins to stroke. Seb's left hand trails along Jim's ribs and slide over his hips, down and along his thigh before curving round to rest on his arse, pulling him closer. Jim's grip tightens painfully, warningly, and reluctantly Seb gives up his hold. Instead, he clasps Jim's arm, gripping it just above the elbow, the muscle there flexing under his palm.
Manipulative cunt, he thinks, turning his head away and breaking away from Jim's gaze at a particularly pleasurable twist of his wrist. As though irritated at not being at the centre of Seb's attention for one fucking second, Jim nudges closer, bracing his free hand next to Seb's head. He runs his lips along Seb's neck before biting at the curve between his neck and shoulder, hard. Seb hisses and brings his right hand up to Jim's head, thumb behind his ear, fingers curling against the curve of his skull. Jim kisses him again, pulling away from Seb's questing mouth to trail along the depression of the scar on his lip before dipping back down and biting at him.
The flat is silent apart from Seb's panting breaths and the slick, obscene sound of their mouths and Jim's hand on his cock. Seb's legs fall further apart the closer he gets, and he pushes his hips up to meet Jim's strokes. Jim leans in, lips brushing Seb's ear.
“When are you going to learn,” he says, voice low and steady as he swipes his thumb across the head of Seb's cock, “that you're just a weapon? You're a gun, Sebastian, and you're always going to need me to pull the trigger.”
“Fuck,” Seb hisses, back arching and heels digging into the cushions of the sofa as he comes, spilling over Jim's fingers and his own shirt. Jim sits up, examining his soiled hand with detached interest while Seb catches his breath, rubbing his fingers together before reaching down to wipe the mess on Seb's chest. Seb props himself up on his elbows and grimaces, frowning up at him.
“You should change your shirt,” Jim says lightly, as though nothing had just happened between them. Seb sighs. He struggles to sit up, greatly hindered by Jim's refusal to move from between his legs, sitting as casually as if they had been discussing business plans over tea. Seb finally untangles himself from the other man and pushes off from the sofa, fingers brushing the curve of Jim's shoulder as he passes.
By the time he's finally found something of Jim's that will fit him and returns from the bedroom, the whiskey has been wiped off of the floor, the tumbler sitting on the draining rack in the open kitchen. Jim's standing out on the balcony, leaning his forearms on the railing, a dark blue cashmere jumper pulled on for warmth. He's refilled his own glass and is holding it loosely, fingers spread around the top of the glass, dangling it over Regent's Canal. Seb slides the glass door open silently and steps out to join him.
In his right hand Jim holds a cigarette. He brings it to his lips, and the end flares brightly. He exhales a plume of smoke and, without looking, reaches across his left arm and offers the cigarette to Seb. He takes it and their fingers brush.
Seb inhales.
Summary: Though he'll never say it, Jim doesn't like sharing.
Rating: 18
Genre: Complete, unapologetic PWP. AGAIN, SORRY.
Warnings: Contains Jim Moriarty? Slight manipulation I guess, dysfunctional friendships, etc etc.
Wordcount: 1751
Jim can't stop laughing. It's not a manly laugh, or a threatening one, but an honest to God giggle. Seb frowns at him, but his heart isn't in it. They're both had too much alcohol for Seb to be truly irritated, but he'll play along.
“Don't,” he grouses. “He's horrifying. Looks like a potato. Not my type.”
Jim laughs into his drink. A small spill of alcohol escapes his lips, and rolls down his chin; he catches it with this thumb, swiping it upwards and sucking the liquid off the pad.
“No?” he asks, voice lilting. “Just what is your type, Sebastian?”
Seb suddenly feels as though the air has been sucked out of the room. His good mood falters.
“Don't, Jim. Don't fuck around.”
Jim raises his thin eyebrows and smiles, lopsided. It doesn't look natural on his face, as though it's a facial expression he's seen other people use and has decided to try and copy it. Seb shakes his head once, sharply, and the expression is replaced by something far more icy and predatory. He moves towards Seb on all fours on the sofa, crowding him against the arm. He tilts his head, dark eyes shark-like in the low lighting. As he advances, Seb thinks about pushing him back, but he feels almost paralysed. Jim reaches out, long, pale fingers curling around Seb's tie, and tugs.
Their faces aligned, Seb can feel Jim's warm breath washing over his chin- he can faintly smell the whiskey they've been drinking. He doesn't draw back as Jim moves closer.
The tip of Jim's tongue touches his chin and trails slowly up towards his lip, mimicking the path the alcohol made down Jim's own face earlier. He swipes his tongue quickly across Seb's lower lip, and Seb can't help the small, deep noise that rolls out of him as his lips part. He brings a hand up to Jim's side, fingers splayed across ribs that he can feel outlined through the expensive shirt.
They've done this before; occasionally, when Jim is bored and feeling especially manipulative, they'll do this. Usually it ends in Seb's burning, consuming frustration.
Jim presses his mouth to Seb's fully, head tilted. He slides his tongue alongside Seb's, who curls it against his own, eyes falling shut as Jim pulls back, teeth scraping along his lip. Jim sits back on the settee, his fingers still curled tightly in Seb's silk tie. Seb exhales heavily and opens his eyes. Jim's watching him, reptilian eyes sharp, soaking in the expression on Seb's face- observing him. The clinical look on Jim's face infuriates him, and he surges upwards from his prone position and cups Jim's face, kissing him again. Jim loosens his grip on the tie, fingers instead curling around Seb's biceps.
It's not a love thing between them-- nothing like that. At first, Seb was attracted to Jim because of his vision. From the moment they met, he knew he was going somewhere. It's a little like being in the army again; he admires Jim just as he would admire his superiors, but there's more to it than that. Seb's slept with men before, and he's not ashamed of it, and he'll admit he thinks Jim's attractive, but it's greatly heightened by just how dangerous the other man can be. It's like befriending a tiger, this wild creature that could kill him if the mood struck.
Jim's teeth close on his upper lip and tug on the scar, a constant reminder of furious flashes of claws and rank fur and not being quick enough, and yes, Seb thinks sardonically, he knows tigers. He's bettered them, too.
He turns to face Jim, one leg drawn up beneath him on the settee, and his other foot knocks over his tumbler of whiskey. The amber liquid pools quickly across the black oak flooring, but neither men pay it any attention. Jim is all teeth and tongue and biting heat, and Seb slides his hand under his suit jacket, up over his chest to the curve of his shoulder, where he pushes it off. Unexpectedly, Jim is not hindering Seb's attempts to undress him, but shrugs the jacket off. A surprised thrill runs through Seb at Jim's cooperation, and, feeling daring, he slides his hands back across Jim's shoulders to his neatly knotted tie. Slipping his fingers under Jim's collar and taking the material in hand, he pulls the perfect knot apart. The top button of his shirt is undone, exposing the clean line of his neck.
Jim tilts his head, strangely pliant, and watches Seb slowly undo his tie. It's a quiet, still moment, and he wonders if Jim's going to do what he usually does, and walk away just as Seb is getting riled up. The silk whispers against the hand tailored cotton shirt, strangely intimate. Seb hesitates, feeling entirely wrong footed, and a smug expression quickly flits across Jim's face before he casts his eyes down, carefully and artificially coquettish. Jim knows that Seb can tell he's acting, he must do, but he still reaches out and runs his fingers over the other man's taut thigh up to the zip of his trousers, where his thumb brushes over Seb's half hard cock.
“Even now,” he says, voice measured and light, “even now you're all settled and monogamous, you'll always come crawling back, won't you?”
Seb's eyebrows raise, lips parting in surprise; of all the things he expected to say, that wasn't one of them. It suddenly strikes him- he's jealous?
“Is this about Sally?” he asks, incredulous, and Jim looks up again, eyes flashing.
“You were mine first,” he says, voice eerily calm, and the worst thing is that Seb knows that this isn't any sort of emotional attachment speaking, but Jim's twisted sense of possession, that he's a toy that he doesn't like sharing. Jim moves quickly, pushing Seb backwards, thigh pressing up snugly between Seb's own.
“Does she know about this?” he growls, nimble fingers yanking Seb's tie aside and pulling his shirt open. “Does she know how quickly you'll roll on your back for your boss? I bet she has no idea what kind of man you really are.”
Anger boils up in Seb, and he opens his mouth to retort but Jim leans in, biting at his lip and sliding his tongue against Seb's own. He twists his hand, fingers and palm rubbing purposefully against Seb's cock through his trousers.
Seb threads his fingers through Jim's short hair and tugs, pulling his head back,
“There's nothing to tell her,” he hisses, and Jim's lips curl in a cold smile as his fingers quickly undo Seb's button and zip and slip into his boxers, pulling his erection out. Seb bites back a groan and pulls Jim down, but he ducks his head out from under his hand. For a moment, Jim's face is directly above his cock, head bowed and back curved, and the image is so suggestive that all of the breath rushes out of Seb. Jim glances up, a triumphant smirk tugging at his mouth, and he begins to stroke. Seb's left hand trails along Jim's ribs and slide over his hips, down and along his thigh before curving round to rest on his arse, pulling him closer. Jim's grip tightens painfully, warningly, and reluctantly Seb gives up his hold. Instead, he clasps Jim's arm, gripping it just above the elbow, the muscle there flexing under his palm.
Manipulative cunt, he thinks, turning his head away and breaking away from Jim's gaze at a particularly pleasurable twist of his wrist. As though irritated at not being at the centre of Seb's attention for one fucking second, Jim nudges closer, bracing his free hand next to Seb's head. He runs his lips along Seb's neck before biting at the curve between his neck and shoulder, hard. Seb hisses and brings his right hand up to Jim's head, thumb behind his ear, fingers curling against the curve of his skull. Jim kisses him again, pulling away from Seb's questing mouth to trail along the depression of the scar on his lip before dipping back down and biting at him.
The flat is silent apart from Seb's panting breaths and the slick, obscene sound of their mouths and Jim's hand on his cock. Seb's legs fall further apart the closer he gets, and he pushes his hips up to meet Jim's strokes. Jim leans in, lips brushing Seb's ear.
“When are you going to learn,” he says, voice low and steady as he swipes his thumb across the head of Seb's cock, “that you're just a weapon? You're a gun, Sebastian, and you're always going to need me to pull the trigger.”
“Fuck,” Seb hisses, back arching and heels digging into the cushions of the sofa as he comes, spilling over Jim's fingers and his own shirt. Jim sits up, examining his soiled hand with detached interest while Seb catches his breath, rubbing his fingers together before reaching down to wipe the mess on Seb's chest. Seb props himself up on his elbows and grimaces, frowning up at him.
“You should change your shirt,” Jim says lightly, as though nothing had just happened between them. Seb sighs. He struggles to sit up, greatly hindered by Jim's refusal to move from between his legs, sitting as casually as if they had been discussing business plans over tea. Seb finally untangles himself from the other man and pushes off from the sofa, fingers brushing the curve of Jim's shoulder as he passes.
By the time he's finally found something of Jim's that will fit him and returns from the bedroom, the whiskey has been wiped off of the floor, the tumbler sitting on the draining rack in the open kitchen. Jim's standing out on the balcony, leaning his forearms on the railing, a dark blue cashmere jumper pulled on for warmth. He's refilled his own glass and is holding it loosely, fingers spread around the top of the glass, dangling it over Regent's Canal. Seb slides the glass door open silently and steps out to join him.
In his right hand Jim holds a cigarette. He brings it to his lips, and the end flares brightly. He exhales a plume of smoke and, without looking, reaches across his left arm and offers the cigarette to Seb. He takes it and their fingers brush.
Seb inhales.