Three O’Clock (Jim/Sebastian) (nsfw)
(This was fun, in that I am not as good at writing rough sex as I think I am, so it took some revision. It isn’t as twisted as I intended it to be, but it’s my best shot for now. Haha.
I really need to stop procrastinating. Remind me to never write in present tense again.)
Fandom: BBC’s Sherlock
Pairing: Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
Rating: M
Warnings: Rough sex, very mild blood. Essentially hate sex.
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He steps into his bedroom, barefoot and still fumbling with his belt, and punishing hands slam him back against the door frame. Fingers wrap into the thin fabric of his shirt and pull him down to make up for the difference in height, and a thigh wedges itself between his legs.
Moriarty doesn’t kiss. He bites.
Sebastian has long since reached the point in his life where he refuses to be surprised by anything- even at three in the morning on his night off, even when he hasn’t heard from his boss for the better half of a week, even when his senses have been dulled by straight liquor and lipstick smudges below his belt.
Jim pulls away to give a breathy, condescending “Out late?”, and Sebastian uses that moment to drive him back against his bookcase. Paperbacks fall and crease under their heels, and Jim’s fingers dig into the hollow of his collarbone as he scrabbles at that pointless, polished suit, sending buttons spinning across the wooden floor.
He drags him to the bed by the knot of his tie before he even has the chance to smirk about the sizable dent that his custom tailoring bill will make in Sebastian’s paycheque. Clever, sober fingers unfasten the makeshift Hermes garrotte while they have the chance and Sebastian makes swift work of Jim’s shirt buttons.
If anything else, he is going to leave him creased, limp and undone, like the silk tie that falls and catches on the hard angles of his desk.
Jim doesn’t care enough to drag away Sebastian’s undershirt or to bare and humiliate him in the dim London light that streams over the bed. He digs his nails into muscle and lifts his hips obligingly and purses his lips in an almost coquettish way, as if he wants to remind Sebastian of exactly what he isn’t. It works.
The belt and the hem of Sebastian’s trousers dip, and Jim catches sight of small bruises and smeared lipstick along his thigh. He grins and Sebastian’s expression hardens as he fumbles through his wallet for a condom.
“You have one left?” he asks, already completely aware of the details of Sebastian’s night, unable to resist smearing dirt into the wound. “Pity that she didn’t want you to come back to hers. Was she nice?”
Sebastian rifles through the bedside table, finds the lubricant, thinks better of it. One hand pins Jim back against the mattress, the other presses against his lips.
Jim swallows them down, rolls his tongue along three thin, strong fingers, makes eye contact, bites. He draws blood from his knuckles and swallows and makes low, unmistakably masculine noises in the back of his throat. Sebastian drags his hand back, smears blood and saliva down Jim’s chest and to his parted thighs, pointedly avoiding his erection.
He pauses, and Jim’s lips twist into a full, reddened grin.
“Can’t do that, now can we?”
Sebastian tweaks one of his nipples sharply, digging his nail into the sensitive skin and earning a stifled hiss for his trouble. He has half a mind to tell Jim to prepare himself if he wants it so badly, but he doesn’t want to give him the chance to show off- nor does he particularly want to watch in the first place.
He finds the lubricant again and uses the barest minimum on his uninjured hand, firmly ignoring the way that Jim watches him with an insufferably smug look on his face.
It doesn’t even disappear when he presses into him with two fingers at once, then three. His head falls back and his chest lifts and his back curves upwards when he presses the right spot at the right time, but that tiny, self-satisfied grin is still there.
It makes him sick to look at it, to be within touching distance of Jim’s cock again, to be here, finger-fucking his boss instead of bedding the beautiful woman from the pub. He slams his fingers in, down to the knuckle, and Jim tenses around him involuntarily as he pulls them out again.
He uses his bloodied hand to turn him around, to hide that smirk, to hide the curve of his erection and the red fingerprints that spread across his chest, and he fights with the condom packet for a few infuriating moments before sliding it on properly. Jim has positioned himself accordingly, arse-up, hands braced against the wall, dark eyes staring at him over his shoulder, practically glowing with smug satisfaction, and Sebastian presses in, dragging his nails down Jim’s sides just to make him squirm. He wants to leave welts and bruises under his suit, wants to smear away his haughtiness, wants to exploit him in his vulnerability, wants to get the fucking upper hand for once…
The pace quickened into no less than a fucking. He didn’t want it to be comfortable for either of them, and if he had been more in his right mind, he might have wondered if Moriarty was seeking the exact same thing. His hips jutted and rolled and fuck being a good lay, fuck satisfaction if it keeps him out of my fucking bedroom…
Even with his back arched and his head down and his face angled to the wall, Jim Moriarty was distinctively, distractingly male. Even if he only focused on the way that his spine curved and his shoulders braced, he couldn’t pretend that the person he was fucking was anybody else on the entire planet. He couldn’t rid himself of the churning in his stomach, couldn’t focus on raw pleasure, could hardly pay attention to causing enough pain-
Sebastian leans down and scrapes his teeth over his shoulder, unable to bite down properly on the first go, and as to make up for the momentary frustration, he slams forward until Jim’s elbows buckle. The force of it shoves him up against the wall with a satisfying thud. Blunt fingernails scrape into Jim’s scalp as he tries to lift his head, dragging him back and holding him in place with his hair as his narrow hips roll back erratically to meet him.
Sebastian uses him in a way that he expects nobody else would ever get away with, and even when his hips stutter to a stop, he still holds Jim back, forcing his back to arch uncomfortably as he supports himself against the wall with one reddened fist. He had barely even noticed the hand working furiously beneath him, milking every last moment of discomfort for what it was worth.
By the time he comes with a low groan, Sebastian has already pulled out and moved away to open the window and pour himself a drink. He is still clothed, mostly, and barefoot. He sets his drink down to fumble for a cigarette and Jim, still naked, still smug, still hot to the touch, presses up against him to reach down and claim Sebastian’s whiskey as his own. The Hermes tie mops up most of the mess on Jim’s abdomen and along his thighs, and when he’s done, he lets it drop back onto the desk.
“I prefer ice.”
Sebastian resorts to drinking from the bottle as Jim finishes his whiskey, redresses and reaches up to mockingly tousle his hair.
“You’re needed tomorrow night. I’ll text you the details.”
He sets the glass tumbler upside down, on top of the ruined tie, and he leaves.
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