Sebastian Moran (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
precisionfocus) wrote2011-12-22 02:49 pm
precisionfocus) wrote2011-12-22 02:49 pm
< It's Christmastime in the city ... >
"James!" Sebastian called as he shut the penthouse door. "Can't snag the manual lock right now." The electronic lock, at least, clicked as the heavy door shut behind him. Fingerprint scan, voice recognition, electronic access card, and physical key. His first impression of the expansive flat James Moriarty owned had been that its owner was highly paranoid. "We're having steaks," he announced as he carried his several bags of groceries to the kitchen. "Or I am. You can order in, but that's what I'm making. What you get for not giving me any grocery list when I asked."
He was used to talking to himself. James often either left without telling him or barricaded himself in his study for his work or else just decided not to answer. If it were one of the first two, James would see and hear it when he reviewed the security tapes. Sebastian put away the food he had bought, and he heard the manual lock turn and click.
James was in the penthouse, at the very least.
December first meant he had worked for James Moriarty for seven months. He had lived with him for six months. The last week of last April had found his cellphone ringing. The voice on the phone had confirmed he was Sebastian Moran and set up an appointment to meet with him the next day. Shady as Hell, but an Army vet trying to make ends meet and no income save his pension could not afford to ask too many questions. But James's business proposal had been entirely satisfactory.
As Sebastian left the kitchen, he heard a quiet sound he had previously dismissed as coming from outside increase. Now, he heard it specifically from the concealed speakers that littered the penthouse. 'With the dawn of redeeming grace...'
"Christmas?"
Of course, he knew the holiday was fast approaching. His mother had called him just this morning, asking if his employer would give him Christmas off. She had encouraged him to ask. If he was free, she insisted he try and bring James to meet the family. She had no idea that James was both the 'James' he spoke highly of and implied he was in a relationship with and the 'Mister Moore' he worked for. From 'Moore' to 'Moriarty' was a small step, but it was enough to make the alias effective. He had also passed a few pounds to a charity. Still, he had not expected this man to acknowledge the holiday, let alone play traditional, religious Christmas music in his home.
"Lovely recording of the song, though."
He was used to talking to himself. James often either left without telling him or barricaded himself in his study for his work or else just decided not to answer. If it were one of the first two, James would see and hear it when he reviewed the security tapes. Sebastian put away the food he had bought, and he heard the manual lock turn and click.
James was in the penthouse, at the very least.
December first meant he had worked for James Moriarty for seven months. He had lived with him for six months. The last week of last April had found his cellphone ringing. The voice on the phone had confirmed he was Sebastian Moran and set up an appointment to meet with him the next day. Shady as Hell, but an Army vet trying to make ends meet and no income save his pension could not afford to ask too many questions. But James's business proposal had been entirely satisfactory.
As Sebastian left the kitchen, he heard a quiet sound he had previously dismissed as coming from outside increase. Now, he heard it specifically from the concealed speakers that littered the penthouse. 'With the dawn of redeeming grace...'
"Christmas?"
Of course, he knew the holiday was fast approaching. His mother had called him just this morning, asking if his employer would give him Christmas off. She had encouraged him to ask. If he was free, she insisted he try and bring James to meet the family. She had no idea that James was both the 'James' he spoke highly of and implied he was in a relationship with and the 'Mister Moore' he worked for. From 'Moore' to 'Moriarty' was a small step, but it was enough to make the alias effective. He had also passed a few pounds to a charity. Still, he had not expected this man to acknowledge the holiday, let alone play traditional, religious Christmas music in his home.
"Lovely recording of the song, though."
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How quickly the tables had turn did not elude him and it summoned a faint, breathless chuckle out of him. One that deteriorated into a groan with a particular faint stroke of Sebastian's thumb.
Very quickly though, he blocked himself off from an almost overwhelming tide of lust and instead mouthed and kissed at Sebastian's jaw with a Cheshire grin painted on.
"Sebastian, dear," he purred back, a potentially mocking tone. Full of the sickness he so clearly enjoyed about himself and didn't care to hide. His fingers danced against Sebastian's chest, always skirting close to those three scars but dancing away at just the right moments. They crawled ever slowly up, content to meander along the path of his collarbone and the divot in his neck below his Adam's Apple. Along the side where tension was often held and scraping under his chin before the digits took hold.
He seized Sebastian's chin in his fingers, the tips pressing into his skin like a vice and he still smiled. Still purred but there was an impatience in his voice that was childish and deadly at worst.
"There comes a time when a man just doesn't care to be chatted up about what might happen in the boudoir."
His tongue slicked the skin just along Sebastian's jawline and teeth snapped up after to leave small, already fading marks.
"That time has long since passed." None too gently he released dear Sebastian's pretty unmarked jaw and slapped his cheek with affection like one would see done in film not real life. He was still grinning. Just waiting eagerly.
"Put up and shut up."
No one could say he wasn't clear on what he wanted at least.
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His eyes flashed; his lips curled into a smirk.
"Can't say I didn't warn you," Sebastian muttered as he caught the wrist of the hand that had slapped him. He held it, applied pressure. Tight.
He moved his other hand to seize James's other wrist.
If he wanted to give him cause to restrain him... Sebastian would happily comply. Bind those hands and force the mastermind to submit.
He rarely tried. But today...
Today, it sounded like fun.
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James muttered it into the crook of Sebastian's neck, nuzzling against the skin with teeth and tongue in messy, pawing kisses. With his arms thus held it was hard to move anywhere else but he was content to have limited movement. So long as he wouldn't be ignored.
"Sebastian," James voice stretches his name out into a plaintive whine. "Come on."
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Sebastian chuckled. "Are you going to behave if I let you go?"
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...Did he really just...?
Yes. The answer was yes. "What'll you do if I don't?"
Oh now he was just asking for it. Tart.
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It wasn't often that Sebastian got pulled into this kind of talk. He never minded it, coming from James, and any other kind, he gave as good as he got, but he rarely responded to this sort in kind... And yet. "Ten minutes of time out," he found himself muttering, chuckling darkly into James's ear. "Hands bound, just left here alone."
He slid one of his hands from James's hip to his ass, smirking. "I don't think either of us wants that, now do we?"
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So he curls his fingers over Sebastian's shoulder and kisses him, rough and demanding. His free hand slides against Sebastian's torso, over the bumps of his ribs to ghost along the hard arch of his prick. James's hand is big enough to wrap around the head of both their cocks and guide them up against each other to rub.
"I want you to fuck me." The bite in his voice made it an order, not a request. He's no less desperate, no less urgent than those peculiar moments where want turns into need. But he doesn't beg.
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"I know you do."
James had spoken in the same tone as his "I want you to kill him" orders. But here, Sebastian could almost mock him.
He leaned back then, reaching into the nearby nightstand's drawer. He pulled out the bottle of lubricant kept there and poured some into his hands. Just cold enough to provide contrast to the hot flesh. His fingers wrapped around the other man's cock and pumped a few times, circling the slit with his thumb to distract James as his free hand coated his own length.
James wanted to cut off giving him head before he came? Fine. He'd retaliate with a fuck with no preparation.
Sounded fair to him.
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James bent and turned his mouth into the junction of Sebastian's neck and shoulder and scraped his teeth against the skin there, laving his neck with bites and sucking marks into his flesh. He led a Sebastian neck appreciation life, apparently. His right hand had scratched their way up to his jaw as he mouthed Sebastian's neck; fingers curled around the other side of his throat tightened a fraction as he made a shallow thrust against the slick fingers that curled around him.
James was not adverse to the idea of Sebastian forgoing his own presumed comfort and simply thrusting into him, he'd already worked three fingers into himself from taunting Sebastian to escape the restraints he'd put together.
He wouldn't be slick, it wouldn't be enough to make it easy. Not the kind of easy that eons of slow, torturous fingering left him demanding - sometimes even begging - for Sebastian to press him into the bed (or whatever surface they'd commandeered that instance) and fuck him. Not the kind of easy where he'd cup James's cock and stroke him off while he was still inside him, making him thrust and moan silently and come, spilling onto the sheets. But James didn't want easy. He rarely did.
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But that he is allowed any sort of power in these situations says something, at least the sniper can fool himself for a few moments into thinking so. It conveys a kind of trust, even if James is prone to bouts of paranoia at other times. It conveys enjoyment, for James Moriarty will tolerate nothing he does not enjoy. ...There is even a sense of intimacy. At least when they use the bed.
Which is a strange enough thought, but it bears true, somehow. If there was nothing intimate about this, then the bathtub and shower-- soaking in water that ends up splashed across the tile or pressed against slick walls while water beats down-- would be enough. They would stick to the kitchen or the car-- where the height difference can make use of chairs and tables and counters or where the boot and hood and seats are all surfaces to play, the backseat having been something Sebastian thought was surely a teenage rite of passage-- for their sport. Desks to be bent over, walls to be pushed against. There were a hundred different places, and yet they still, when the mood struck them, used a bed. And, now, shared it after.
There is some intimacy here, though Sebastian knows not to read too much into that.
His hand leaves the other man's cock. Both go to James's thighs, stroking as they push them apart more. Up his hands travel, gripping the mastermind's hips as he pushes in, hard and steady but never rushing. There is no mercy. He'll make James feel every second of it.
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He can feel everything clenching and trying to adjust to Sebastian being inside of him and he twists; writhes, and he can't stop moving under him like he needs -
"Move." He grunts, still shifting up and down while Sebastian fills him up. His face is tucked against his shoulder and his eyes are opened, though just barely. Half-lidded in a mixture of pain and pleasure and his mouth hangs open to match.
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"Way you're going, I hardly need to."
His hands gripped the man's hips, pulling them up as he moved into a higher kneel, angling the man, forcing James to stay nearly on his back while he is higher.
The soldier pulled out, neither slowly nor quickly... then eased back in. Bit by bit, pulling James's hips into his movement even as he shifted more forward. He wouldn't be able to keep up the pace himself long. But he pulled out again. Only to sink slowly back in.
"Is that what you want?"
As if he thought that would be adequate. He knew better, and they both knew it. Didn't mean he couldn't make James want more. He was always so wonderful when he was torn between lust and anger and need and want and frustration.
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He hisses, back arching in a lovely line while his fingers scratch at the sheets and not Sebastian's skin.
"Faster, goddammit."
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The words are panted more than they're said, and he can barely keep from pinning James to the bed and just going at him. But, instead, he pulls out again and smoothly dips his hips again. Out without ceremony and languidly back in. All the time in the world. And once wholly in again, one hand left James's hip to run up his cock and skirt the tip with his thumb.
God... God.
He looked so fuckable, under him and his legs pushed apart, hard and taking in his prick, mouth open to mutter that order.
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"Sebastian," there was that whine again, it edged into a growl as his hips twitched and jerked against Sebastian's ridiculously slow ministrations. His body rolled up in an over-sexed stretch, driven to less articulate speech by the slow, awful pace, James continued to grind out orders as much as he could without dripping a needy 'please' on the end of a sentence. He refused. "Fuck. Sebastian, faster."
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He slipped the hand that had been toying with James's cock down to rub his balls. Then up, along the shaft, then making circles at the head with the pad of his thumb. Anyone else and the more intense the orgasm, the more satisfied they'd be. But he knew James. The way to make him want more, to get him pawing at a spent cock after only a short rest... was to go hard.
He smirked a bit at a thought. Maybe, once he was done with this and driving James into the bed, he'd get to see James fuck himself riding him.
"First, though." He took the bottle of lubricant from the nightstand and abandoned his hold on James's prick long enough to apply a new coat to that hand. Then he rubbed the length once, gripped near the head, and gently ran his nail across the tip. "You're going to come for me."