Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me.
Notes: Written for the prompt battle; prompt: James Moriarty/Sebastian Moran; bored, interest
If anyone else could see them at that moment, they might look nothing more than the picture of two normal, post-coital men; Jim leans against the headboard, sheets pooled around his waist, cigarette in hand (he looks, Sebastian thinks privately, like a scene from a fucking movie, like he's mocking a deliberate pose, which is, in fact, quite likely), and Sebastian pillows his head on his arms and stares up at Jim, eyes half-lidded in the midday-sun. Peaceful as a fucking postcard.
Of course, not half a minute afterward, Jim hisses out a sharp sigh of boredom and stubs his cigarette out on Sebastian's back, like a boy taunting wild dogs, and Sebastian rises up and hits Jim across the face, draws blood from his mouth, and they fuck another time like that, bleeding and gleeful, and all this is simply to say: they are not normal men.
"So what's it take to keep your interest, then?" Sebastian asks, honestly curious, thoroughly untroubled at the implication that he has not yet managed it.
"More than your capabilities could handle, darling," Jim says without looking at him, but his voice is steeped in amusement; Sebastian will never be stupid enough to think anything of that, because all that means is that at this moment, Jim is a little fonder of life with Sebastian in it than he would be without.
Sebastian Moran—tiger-killer, mad bastard, the most dangerous person he knew until he met someone better—leans back in his chair and says easily, "These 'capabilities'—my mouth wouldn't be counted among them, would it?"
Jim looks up, bright eyes, bared teeth, flick of his wrist; Sebastian gets on his knees slowly, takes his time until Jim slaps him and pulls him forward by the front of his shirt. The seams groan under his arms, his cheek stings hotly, his cock fills.
Jim presses a thumb at the hinge of Sebastian's jaw, coaxes his mouth open with sweet words and new bruises around the back of his neck. Sebastian lets his eyes close when Jim draws his head forward and fills him up with cock, because he knows it will get him Jim's voice whip-cracking above him to "Keep your eyes on me, Sebastian."
Sebastian doesn't give him teeth, though he could; and Jim doesn't snap his neck, though he could.
That's its own kind of something: that they are capable of so much, and choose to hold back.
"I am rather fond of your mouth," Jim says contemplatively when he's come in Sebastian's mouth and down his chin and on his shirt (like a destructive six-year-old determined to ruin everything in sight, Sebastian thinks, fond), after he makes Sebastian bring himself off, still on his knees, forehead on Jim's thigh. "But honestly, it's your penchant for murder that really does it for me. What can I say? I'm a romantic."
"Knew that one already, didn't I," Sebastian says languidly, and licks his fingers clean.