tigerjaw:

As Jim bit him Sebastian laughed, gasped a bit and fell back onto the bed, his arms shaking slightly as his breathing came out in half chuckles and sharp exhalations. He smiled though, closed his eyes and put his hands behind his head as Jim moved his mouth, lips, tongue over his sharp marks. Sebastian was hyper sensitive along his scars, even more so now that he could only focus on the upper half of them and he gasped when Jim’s teeth trailed along a few if the ones that stood out white along his side. 

He moaned a bit as Jim’s mouth gently grazed over his burned side, his hands slipping to the top of Jim’s hair, almost pushing him down before he forgot, and then his hands fall to his sides and he groaned when Jim pulled down his trousers. He arched his back as much as he could, muscles flexing hard against his hips, ribs and spine, twisting to the side as his fingers clenched the too-soft comforter, almost ripping it in small places, something so soft that even his hands could tear it to shreds. 

Then Jesus, Jim was there, (wasn’t he always there?) and Sebastian opened his eyes wide, taking in the wildness that was Jim Moriarty, a tempest more unpredictable than any storm. He was the ocean and Sebastian was the cliff and Moriarty was crashing down on him, the words coming out in dark tides and caressing him like the ebb and flow of the tides, pushing against him, pulling back, and if Sebastian was aroused he couldn’t feel it.  He could feel his heart rate jump, his mouth suddenly dry at the suggestion, the shiver and goosebumps that exploded over his chest as Jim pressed the ice-cold knife to his skin.

Sebastian stared at Jim, mouth still parted, halfway through a gasp and a moan, the sound stuck in his throat, pinned by the knife on his chest. He had to close his eyes tilt his head back, get further away from Jim, as far as he could. No. 

“Jim, please,” his breath came out slowly, a tide pool slipping under the waves, “not tonight.” The rain came pounding down.

Sebastian’s hands moved then, up Jim’s bare torso, over his arms, to his neck. He hurt so much so often, the badly mauled bundles of nerves in his back making aches appear all through his side, his spine. He hurt so much, during therapy and during rest. Breathing and eating and even moving, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt. His entire life was made of pain, of the breaks in between, the lulls and slack tides in between the extremes of his own pain. He didn’t need anything like that from Jim. He couldn’t take it. He’d break, shatter like the mugs when they crashed against hard surfaces.

“Jim I can’t, please,” He pulled Jim down, kissing him softly, then pressing their foreheads together, making no move to push away the knife in Jim’s hand, his mouth barely moving against Jim’s, hands cupping his face, sliding towards his hairline on his neck, thumbs just under Jim’s ears, pressing against his jaw, “take me this way, yeah? I can’t bleed anymore.”

Jim felt himself shatter instead at Sebastian’s words, something that was already cracked chipping away and letting water seep inside. He took a deep breath, lips moving slightly but without words, brushing against the other man’s mouth. He was held, immovably held by the force that was still Sebastian Moran, no matter how helpless the man himself felt.

The rain was suddenly inside his skull, behind his eyes, tears that would never wet his eyelashes but stayed there, hidden. Pouring into his head, down his throat.

He nodded, taking another shuddering breath past that imaginary water, agreeing before he could think, agreeing because it seemed impossible to continue now. His hand shook as he pulled the knife away, the very tip just knicking Sebastian’s shoulder by accident, the tiny wound caused by Jim’s hurry to avoid marking him. He hurt whatever he touched. Everyone has a baseline. His was pain.

The knife skittered along the floor when he flung it, clanging first against a bar on the abandoned wheelchair by the side of the bed. Jim was still nodding, hand tightly gripping Sebastian’s shoulder.

“Alright. Yes, alright. I’m not trying to hurt you, I’m not. It’s just…I just need to know that you want me.” He quieted himself, kissing Sebastian with the violence he’d dropped to the floor with the knife. Every part of his body was desire, was need, just need and there were no words, there was no way to say the things he wanted to say, whether the words were his or the words were from someone else’s poem or holy book or pornography. He couldn’t say them, not his name, not anything in English, Irish, Russian, Latin, nothing. There was no language he knew fluently that had the right words. He could create no sentences. No explanations.

Jim pulled back, hands on Sebastian’s face as wall, brushing his fingers along his lips, tracing his scars, pushing his hair back, thumb on his jaw.

“Mere shere.” And the accent was wrong, the pronunciation not native, just an attempt. A man trying so hard to do what he was supposed to be able to do. He kissed Sebastian again, closing his eyes tightly. And the rain was on the windows, the storm kept out just a little bit longer.

tigerjaw:

As the lift slowly opened up Sebastian removed his arms from Jim but kept his face turned to the side, pressed up against the arch of Jims shoulders, his breath hot along the thin cotton of Jim’s shirt and he knew that the other man could feel him there. All of his muscles in his shoulders and arms were tense as he pushed forwards, Jim’s extra weight negligible with his harder body pressed against him. They went into the bedroom and Sebastian leaned down, pressed his lips to the curve of Jim’s spine, slipping forwards as Jim stood up.

Sebastian watched, eyes awed as Jim moved in all the ways he never would bend again and smiled through the kiss. It was as rough and as needy as before, desperate in how rushed Jim was, mouth to mouth. Jim’s hands lightly cupping the sides of Sebastian’s face, as if he could just command him to rise up and lo and behold, the saint would tear out the arrows in his back and stand. And Sebastian smiled anyway, head tilted up, neck straining upwards as Jim spoke.

Neruda, Shakespeare, that last one was from Julius Ceasar. He almost grinned as Jim’s face was illuminated by the storm outside, the look he knew from many nights with a man who at this moment, only wanted him. 

“If every tempest brings such calms,” Sebastian muttered, wheeling himself to the bed, in front of Jims arms. He placed his hands on the bed and pushed himself on top of  Jim, tilting him onto the bed and then, in another quick motion slid a hand in between Jim’s shoulders, moving him so that Jim was lying on top of Sebastian. “May the winds blow until the have wakened death.” Othello to Desdemona. Melodramatic, but Sebastian thought he could afford such things considering the state of the weather. 

A flash and Sebastian sat up, sliding back on the bed, and as the thunder rolled through the house he reached out with one hand, hooking Jim behind the neck and kissing him hard. “Le gustaría que yo hablarte en lengüetas extrañas?” Sebastian could feel his amusement rumbling through his body, a soft purr that came out in the rolling r’s and tilde’s over the enye’s. 

“¿Qué es la vida? Un frenesí. ¿Qué es la vida? Una ilusión,” Sebastian slipped out of his shirt, pulled it over his head and tossed it to the side, falling backwards without his arm behind him supporting his weight. He corrected himself and kissed Jim’s neck, his free hand deftly undoing the tie completely and his mouth still moving as his fingers unfastened the buttons slowl. “Una sombra, una ficción, y el mayor bien es pequeño: que toda la vida es sueño,”

He tugged the shirt off Jim’s shoulders, kissing collarbones and shoulderblades lightly as he did so, all with one hand. “Y los sueños.” His voice was husky as he slipped a hand  down Jim’s pants and then up Jim’s under shirt, taking it off the other man in one smooth motion, his lips parting from Jim’s skin for a second before finding his lips again, Sebastian’s mouth moving over Jim’s as he spoke the final words of the soliloquy; “sueños son.”

He smiled then, kissing Jim and then laughed as outside the thunder roared.

It was like everything coming undone and being put back together again.

Jim let Sebastian move him, sliding to straddle the other man’s body again, watching him in every flash of cold lightning that lit the room. The words were familiar, the sounds rolling from Sebastian’s mouth smoothly, into his ears, his own throat when the man kissed him again. Smooth like the rain’s path down the windows; he still didn’t know what most of the words meant, but the sound of them, the knowledge that Sebastian’s voice was rougher, slightly irregular, the smooth syllables husky with want of him…

“Perhaps we communicate better when we use the words the other doesn’t know,” he murmured, smiling, bending down over the man’s body to speak against his mouth again. His dark hair was mussed by his quick undressing and he felt intensely the warm hands on his skin, felt the already forming bruises on his ribs. “Maybe we’re saying all sorts of things. Telling all manner of secrets.” He bent further to kiss the hollow of Sebastian’s throat, unable to stop himself, to keep his jaw from flexing, locking, teeth nearly meeting in that soft spot where neck met shoulder. His own mark, a bruise born to be deep and dark on the other man. Jim inhaled shakily, silent for a moment as the deep thunder outside spoke for him, the intensity seeming to rattle the mirrors against the walls, the silent words in the books on the shelves, the bed itself. It was a sudden cold fever of ugly desire, a need to touch, take everything that was Sebastian for himself. Because the thought of not having him was the naked rain alone, the brilliance of the lightning gone, the threat of the thunder silenced.

Jim ran his hands up Sebastian’s bare torso, fingers sliding over muscles more defined than he remembered, but scars that were precisely the same.

“The wound is the place,” he whispered hoarsely, “Where the light enters you.” In that moment, he didn’t remember where the quotation came from, but saw the words as though printed on his eyes. The criminal glanced up again to see Sebastian’s face as he curved his body; the line of light through the curtain break kindled green fire in Sebastian’s eyes and bleached Jim to the pallor of a madman. He trailed his mouth along each scar as he moved down Sebastian’s body, his teeth for the tiger’s claws, his tongue for the ones he’d made to match, his lips covering the other man’s damaged side. He pressed his body down against him, his own bare skin hardly marked, his scars so few and so nearly invisible. Really, only Sebastian’s hands would have been able to find them in the dark, to run a strong finger down that thin white line of lightning on his chest.

Jim continued to move down the other man’s body, fingers sliding to the waistband of Sebastian’s trousers, tugging them down over sharp hips to let the flashes of light show him that mark. He traced it out, his initials, the ones Sebastian could only half feel. Part ownership. The way he had matched and thereby negated the tiger’s marks. Jim couldn’t breathe for a moment, actually gasped, strained for a gulp of swallowed air.

As the thunder complained again, he was up by Sebastian’s face, eyes suddenly red-rimmed and wide, the small constant knife from his pocket out and in his hand, the flat of the chilly blade against Sebastian’s collar bone.

“Oh, God, Sebastian,” he moaned, voice cracking. “Let me do it again. I just have to…have you. You’re mine, and I…” He licked his lips, pausing. Ungraceful words, unpolished, unpracticed. The psychopath’s desperate, uncomfortable emotions, the obsession he didn’t have the vocabulary to understand or relate. “I can’t let it-I just want.” He turned the knife slightly, pressing but not cutting. “I need you to know.”

tigerjaw:

Sebastian shifted, put one hand behind him, steadied himself against the torrent that was rushing away from Jim. He swallowed, his other hand clutching at the mans side and he knew he was pressing too hard against his skin, knew that he would leave dark bruises on the fair palette there. Sebastian groaned and it may have been the empty house moving alongside them, the thunder outside, any number of things that seemed so much more overwhelming than just Sebastian Moran stuck in a wheelchair.

There was Jim, right here, right in front of him, and his words were a deluge that carried Sebastian forwards, put his mouth on Jim’s neck as if he could memorize the vibrations of his throat and words as the other man spoke and the storm answered. What else could Sebastian do but press closer, lean and lose his balance before his hands backtracked his head knocked against the cabinet. He was out of breath, eyes open,  mouth open, hands open against the stone of the countertops, pulled forwards by Jim’s words and those alone.

“I can’t exactly throw you over my shoulder,” Sebastian muttered, and he chuckled, had to laugh to keep from throwing Jim to the ground too, watching him shatter and bleed from a dozen or more places. The conquering hero. Laid low by just a few feet. Sebastian sat up, pressed his hands against Jim’s stomach, grabbed his shirt, pulled him down to kiss him, almost softly. 

It was a trial getting Jim away from him, slipping down into his chair, careful not to tip the wheels over, fall to the glass that crunched under his enforced wheels. He reached up and tugged Jim onto his lap, patiently whispering in his ear to rearrange his station, before he slowly pushed both of them over to the elevator with the buttons down at his level, pressed the up and waited, wheeling them both into the elevator again. The doors slid shut as Sebastian pressed the ‘3’ and he wrapped his arms around Jim’s torso, pulling his back flush against Sebastian’s chest.

“I’m glad you’re here.” He murmured into the fabric, mouth pulling at the cotton, making the shirt ride up slightly. His husky voice dropped even lower, so soft it would be hard for even Jim to hear; “It’s all I want.”

Everything was movement and broken glass and Jim remembered his shoes were somewhere with all the shattered mugs and goblets. He laughed and leaned back against Sebastian’s body, wanting to feel him through the layers of shirts separating them. He remembered what it was like sitting on Sebastian’s lap a few times, teasing him, and he remembered the hard lines of the muscles in the sniper’s thighs tensing, pressing up against his own legs. Now there was nothing beneath him, but he could feel it behind him. The stronger, leaner muscles of Sebastian’s chest and stomach moving as he wheeled the chair along. Jim wondered how much more difficult his position as passenger was making the trip. He didn’t ask; he was uncharacteristically quiet as they waited for the lift to move.

Then he was held and it was more than just muscles. Jim closed his eyes as he heard Sebastian’s voice and he leaned his head forward. He could feel everything with disturbing clarity. The hot moist breath through the back of his shirt, seeming to go right into his lungs from behind. The almost frantic pounding of Sebastian’s heart behind him, as though it intended to shatter the other man’s ribs and then Jim’s. It would hurt and there would be blood and Sebastian’s mouth on his back, against the bones running down his own back, whole. They should be shattered too. He couldn’t hear the storm in the lift.

He took a deep breath when the doors finally opened and Sebastian moved them into the hallway. Jim didn’t say anything until they were in the bedroom, though.

“Alright, now I want inspiration.” He arched his back, letting himself smile, trying to inhale more of himself, to give himself more air, more words, more body. “Tell me what to say first. What do you want? Neruda?” He licked his lips, standing slowly. “’I have scarcely left you when you go in me, crystalline, or trembling, or uneasy, wounded by me.’”

He reached above his head as he faced Sebastian, stretching, looking disheveled with his shirt untucked and his shoes abandoned in the kitchen. Then the criminal looked down at the other man, licking his lips as he leaned down to kiss him. The kiss was violent, as though he would steal any of the words Sebastian could say.

“Or do you want something you don’t even quite understand?” His voice was rough. “Taibhríodh dom in aois coinlíochta, i mo leaba chúng sa tsuanlios aíochta, go rabhas i halla mór ag rince.”

He inhaled deeply again, his head moving back and forth slightly.

“Take me to bed, Sebastian. The storm is up, and all is on the hazard.” The room was dim and the lightning flashed, bright through the gaps in the curtains, flaring off mirrors and polished glass. He widened his eyes and backed up until he was sitting on the edge of Sebastian’s bed. He held his hands out, backlit by the storm. The look on his face was one from the past, it was the smile and the desire, teeth and eyebrows and dark dark eyes, that just wanted to possess all of Sebastian. The type of urgent need that had once made permanent marks on the other man’s body.

tigerjaw:

He didn’t know where his hands were, his shoulders cruelly pressed against the cabinet, his linear scar just catching on the lip of the wood. Sebastian couldn’t imagine what Jim wanted from him now, didn’t understand why he was kept around if only for the simple pleasure of Jim having him and maybe, Sebastian realized, maybe just having him was enough.

 Then Jim moved and Sebastian tried to shift with him, finding his thighs uncooperative grunted angrily and pulled at Jim’s shirt, untucking it completely, rushed and hurried and desperate for this attention. He tilted his head up, shifted, leaned against the other man, ignored everything else, eyes closed, hands slipping under Jim’s shirt and he pulled him closer, tried to push his hands into Jim’s torso, entwine his fingers with the ribs there, grab him and hold him too close to leave him again. 

When Jim talked and his head lilted up like the Irish accent that was so familiar to Sebastian’s ear the ex-sniper moved his mouth from Jim’s to his neck, kissing him lightly there, holding him tight but barely biting, teasing the other man with dark breaths against his pulse and soft grazings against his jaw.

“Read to me.” Sebastian muttered into Jim’s mouth as he was pulled upwards again. “Anything you want. Tear out the pages after you finish. Tell me a story about one of our fucked up adventures. Remind me how fucking stupid we were. I don’t fucking care. Tell me all the stories you fucking know.” Sebastian was muttering, incoherent. “I just want to keep you here-” his hands tightened- “I just want you here for as long as you can keep talking to me. Breaking this bloody silence like thunder.”

He pulled away and stared at Jim, unsmiling. He couldn’t see anything but dark contours and barely there shapes. It began to rain softly outside, the only sound after the sudden shattering of mugs and glasses.

 “It’s so fucking quiet without you.”

Jim let Sebastian’s hands move over him; there was nothing of his body that was unfamiliar to the man’s hands, no part of him that hadn’t been touched, kissed, bitten, known, that was the crux of it, he was so known to the tall man. There was no one else this familiar, no other hands his skin, his muscles, his bones and blood accepted like this. Their movements together were furtive, oddly secretive in in this house (both of their names on the deed, Sebastian Moran and Matthew Parker, that name that wasn’t a game anymore, not an identity to laugh in, but a name with PoA, long talks with surgeons, a name that endured those pitying looks and smiled to hide the real man underneath whose teeth were bared in resentment) where they could do anything they wanted because they were the only ones here. It was quiet, so damned quiet with the glass graveyard around them.

All Jim could hear was his own breathing quickened and Sebastian’s stifled grunt of annoyance, then the other man’s breath by his ear and the air going in and out of them was rough, the oxygen jagged and shattered as it crashed into the back of throats, plummeting into lungs, forced out again against throats and cheekbones as the two pressed closer. Jim held Sebastian up, to him, the faint tremble of strain seeming a noise on its own, everything building.

The criminal took a breath when Sebastian started talking and inhaled words, closing his eyes as he took them all in. He felt like he would choke on them, on the voice that was gruff and slightly unsteady, demanding his due. His right. His reward. Jim swallowed when Sebastian pulled back, feeling the words, some settling, some trapped in his windpipe, halfway up and halfway down. He felt them whistle when he inhaled, an aeolian harp in his throat.

He wasn’t smiling either. He licked his lips, hearing the rain. The one type of water sound he didn’t mind; he loved to sleep in storms. He looked down, feeling the intensity of Sebastian’s gaze; he looked up when a flash of lightning suddenly illuminated the other man’s face in a wash of blue white.They were both bleached of colour in the sudden light.

“I’ll talk. Ah, fuck, Sebastian…I’ll read and rhyme and recite until you want to strangle me to shut me up. What do you want? Swinburne? Rushdie? Edward Lear?” Jim’s voice was strangled and low, urgent and rushed. The usual highs and lows were absent. He felt Sebastian’s hands tighten on his sides, and he could almost hear bruises forming, the livid particular ovals that fingertips left. The creak of his ribs exhaling. “I’ll tell you about the Forty Holy Martyrs dying on the frozen lake by Sebaste, about the sounds you make under my mouth, about Cuchulain tying himself to the pillar with the crow goddess on his shoulder so he wouldn’t fall before his enemies even as he died.” He drew a harsh breath. “Bring me the books to destroy. I’ll lecture you on binomial theorum or when a waistcoat is acceptable.”

The thunder rumbled, closer to the house now. He tightened his hands on the back of Sebastian’s neck, moving them up to grip at his hair (Sebastian wore it a bit longer now, not as careful). He pulled his head back, leaning forward to kiss his throat, the long line of muscle and hidden arteries, life just there under his mouth, unable to stop himself biting.

“Take me upstairs. And I’ll remind you of running wild with Declan Haury in South America, or the first big mistake you made.” He held his breath. “You let me kiss you. And you know why you did? Because I talked you into it. God, Sebastian, it’s all I know how to do.” He spoke in a rush. “Take me upstairs. And I’ll do it. The thing I’m good at, for you.” The lightning flashed outside again, and the  thunder followed it immediately. A storm directly overhead, the desperation of water lashing against the kitchen windows.  “And you just hold me down and tell me to keep going. And I’ll stay.”