Sebastian Moran was a proud man. If asked, that was what most people would say about him, even in spite of his dishonourable discharge. He still maintained the authority of the former Colonel, the quiet, dangerous strength of the man who slaughtered a man-eating tiger with his own hands and kept its pelt, the careful precision of the marksman, and the ever-simmering rage, just below the surface, of the trained killer.
These facts were known, or at least suspected, veiled in varying layers of whispered rumour about the man behind the beast that had poured himself into a dark grey suit. At 6'6", with blonde hair and endless eyes, he was intimidating at best. Most kept their distance, or – if that was not an option – worked their best to stay on his good side, for self-preservation if nothing else.
Something that people didn't know was that, behind all of that, Sebastian Moran was a lonely, touch-starved man. Unable to express his emotions, unable to truly let anyone close after the events of the war and through his own oppressive upbringing (courtesy of Sir Augustus Moran, heartless bastard of the century), he had isolated himself just as much as others had opted to distance themselves.
Not that he could admit that to anyone, of course. He had an image to keep up, for one; and secondly, confessing vulnerability, in his experience, just wasn't the done thing. He was strong. He was guarded. He was always, always fine.
His solution to the above was going to come in a decidedly unexpected form.
James Moriarty had been a proud man, once: headstrong, stubborn, with a tongue as sharp as a blade and a wit even sharper. In truth, his wit and his pride remained just as present as ever, but he had learned to wear a mask over them, and found that he actually enjoyed the results thereof. Trained well, he'd been, marked and broken by hands and mouths that were just the perfect blend of cruel and giving, but his previous master had moved away, returning him to the club from whence he'd been originally picked up. Now, he lay in wait again. For what? For someone to take him in once more, to give him a purpose outside of himself. For someone to claim him once again as he had been claimed before.
These facts were known about the slim, pale-skinned man with dark hair and impossibly darker eyes that had learned to wear what he was told to wear and spoke only when spoken to directly. At 5'7", with carefully manicured hands and eyes that displayed (feigned) timidity, he seemed vulnerable, fragile. Most saw him as an object to be bartered for and sold, or ignored his existence altogether in preference of those who appeared stronger and more conventionally attractive.
Something that people didn't know was that, for all that James played at and enjoyed the role of submissive, he – quietly, and in unnoticed ways – found power in it, in knowing that he could drive his master mad with the right look, or shift of skin over bone, or turn of phrase; because, in truth, when he was given the cruelty and the pain, when things were taken from him with 'yes' under the guise of 'no, please don't,' that was what he wanted just as much as the man who owned him, and possibly even more so.
One of the few men Sebastian could call friend, Alex MacDougal, had made some passing mention of a club whose business centered on 'distribution,' if it could be called that, of men and women referred to colloquially as slaves, alongside the sale of liquor. At first mention, Sebastian had simply shrugged it off as a practice that extended beyond his own inclinations toward BDSM and so forth, and yet after a time – always in silence, secretive, in the hidden space between the shadow and the soul – he became gradually more and more curious. Doing preliminary research, he found that things seemed to be (mostly) above board, and that the men and women involved were, supposedly, all there as fully consenting individuals.
It had been about half a year since the initial mention, and Sebastian had gone through two slaves, one female and one male. They'd each lasted about two months, but he'd eventually grown bored of them; it was almost as though they were too well-trained, like there was no spark or vitality left in them, and Sebastian wanted something…more.
It was a Thursday night when he paid another visit to Subversion – that being the name of the club in question, though it made Sebastian roll his eyes internally every time – in search of something new, something better. Someone better. He wore a simple black T-shirt, dark jeans, and leather work boots. Casual, comfortable, but clearly marking himself off as a dom by temperament and preference. After exchanging a few polite words with the manager, he made his way further into the interior, ordering a glass of whiskey before casting his gaze around. For a good while he just observed, sipping slowly at his alcohol and seeing nothing and no one of any particular interest. Sure, there were plenty of attractive people there, but they were almost all the same as the ones he had seen before. Finally, he reached the other end of the room, and was about to leave, frustrated, when – there. Alone, a short, thin, dark-haired male, naked but for black boxer-briefs and a black, silver-studded leather collar. He was one of the few in the club that had actually been caged, and his collar was chained to the bars – giving Sebastian the impression, at least at first glances, of a more difficult temperament. Where most of the doms that frequented the club preferred those who had been easily broken in, Sebastian (at this point, anyway) was looking for someone a little more readily defiant, so his first impressions boded well. Getting closer, he inspected the younger man appraisingly. He was…hardly a conventionally attractive creature by any standards, and yet his first impressions continued to be supported by the presence of some dark, implacable fire in his eyes that – in the brief moment of eye contact – almost immediately rendered Sebastian harder than an oak tree in January. Too easy, the reaction, too soon, and yet he knew. This one. It was nearly an instinctive reaction, and for a little while he couldn't quite breathe, before he collected himself enough to speak.
"What's his name?" Sebastian inquired of the manager, who had noticed his unspoken interest and had followed him further into the club.
"Why don't you ask him yourself?" he supplied in return, tone careful to keep out any note of impatience.
Taking a careful breath, Sebastian turned back to the caged man, and stepped a little closer. "What's your name?" he repeated, eyes at once sharp and gentle where they fixed on the other's face.
"James, sir," he answered cautiously, his own eyes flickering up briefly to Sebastian's face before falling away again. "James Moriarty."
A good name, he thought to himself, but didn't say aloud. Not yet anyway – though, God, that accent…and the slide of breath and pitch in that voice…oh, he was going to make this one scream, there was really very little question in that.
He nodded, then, and gestured for the manager – who had brought the cage keys with him pre-emptively – to unlock the cage. Once that was done, the chain of James' collar was transferred from the manager's smooth hand to Sebastian's larger, far more callused one, and for a moment he simply tested the weight and coolness of the metal against his palm before tugging on it firmly but gently.
"With me," he ordered, stepping away from the cage, wanting to test his impressions before taking the younger man home.
"Yes, sir," James supplied, almost as a reflex, and followed close behind. God forbid it be said that he wasn't a good actor.
Too easy to begin with, that had been, and yet Sebastian held out hope that he'd find the defiance, that he'd bring out the fire he'd seen in those impossible eyes. The thought of it sent a pleasant thrill down his spine, and the tip of his tongue darted out to moisten lips grown dry.
Guiding James over to a couch in the corner, he gestured for him to sit, though he kept a good grip on the chain in his stronger right hand. Once seated, he placed his free hand on James' knee, absentmindedly enjoying how smooth and unmarked his skin still was, and studied the other's face for a moment in silence before striking up conversation. "Tell me about yourself, James," he instructed, his voice a careful blend of authoritative and gentle.
"What do you want to know, sir?" James half-hummed, half-purred, corners of his lips curving up into something of a wry smile. "That's a very broad question." Some doms wouldn't put up with even that level of back-talking, but…hmmn, there was something different about this one, something he hadn't yet had enough time to put his finger on. Either way, it was something that made him want to test the limits of what he could and couldn't do, even at the risk it incurred.
Sebastian quirked an eyebrow up in response to the attitude received, and carefully kept from mirroring the other man's smile before specifying more clearly. "Kinks, dislikes, safe-word, and so on," he elaborated, still maintaining the same tone of voice as before. If things went well, he might start asking more personal questions, but for now that wasn't really the point.
"Mm, they don't usually ask, sir," James replied, his tone still light and teasing for a moment before growing at least slightly more serious, voice then sounding almost bored as he moved through his list. "Kinks: agoraphilia; exhibitionism; haematolagnia; keraunophilia; odaxelagnia; pyrophilia; vincilagnia; bondage; breath control; gunplay; knife play –" he paused, fingering his collar briefly before continuing – "collaring, obviously; consensual non-consensuality; orgasm denial; impact play; edge play; masochism; wax play. Safe-words are irrelevant, though I can find one if you insist. Is that a comprehensive enough list, sir?"
Sebastian mused for a moment in silence, committing the list to memory as best he could, and yet still almost felt as though he ought to be taking notes. Evidently this was a question the younger man had been asked many a time before, in spite of his assertion that potential masters didn't usually inquire after such things – either that, or he was purposely giving the outward appearance of indifference. "Hmm," he eventually supplied in approval, eyebrow still slightly cocked.
"Hmm?" James repeated, corners of his lips twitching again – he knew what the sound meant, but not being owned yet, he saw no reason not to have his own private fun at the other's expense while he still could. He would have almost asked if the still-nameless other didn't know what some of the terms meant, but he gave off the air of an experienced enough dom, so that was relatively unlikely. In any case, he could just look things up for himself; it wasn't James' problem unless he was expressly asked to define something.
Ignoring the slight jibe, Sebastian just shook his head, now giving an affirming but not over-warm smile in encouragement. "My name is Sebastian," he eventually said, "but you're to continue calling me 'sir,' or 'master' if you prefer."
Good, then – that was a deal sealed, in the insistence on the continued use of title. James himself had always found referring to his masters by their names too personal, too intimate, anyway. "Yes, sir," he replied, again making a show of falling to, looking up at Sebastian through dark lashes.
"Good boy," Sebastian supplied in return, the hand that had been on James' knee now trailing a rough forefinger gently up his thigh and back down again a few times, sure to scrape the nail a little against the skin.
"Is there anything else you wanted to know, sir?" James asked, quietly revelling a little in having earned praise so easily, as well as in the welcome – though entirely insufficient – sensation of the nail scratching against his bare thigh.
Oh, there were things he wanted to know. Mostly, for the moment, centering around that fucking gorgeous mouth and more than likely ungodly tongue – but that could wait. Would have to. Exhibitionism or not, he wanted the first contact to be just them, just him and what was now going to be made his.
"Later," he commanded firmly, rising to his feet and pulling James after him before nodding to the manager and moving in the direction of the door in front of which he'd left his driver waiting with the car.
"Yes, sir," James half-purred, half-breathed, not quite caught off-guard but already enjoying the sudden show of forcefulness and its contrast with the previous kindness that had almost been too gentle for his liking. In the back of his mind he found himself amused by the ease with which he'd earned that response and the apparent impatience of his new master, but he didn't let it show on his face except for the brief and mischievous flash of dark eyes that went unnoticed.
Stepping out into the night, he was chilled by the cool night air against his bare skin, but he was quickly guided into the hushed interior of the car's back seat, where it was much warmer. Sebastian soon took his seat next to him, still not letting go of the chain attached to his collar, and gave a wordless nod to the driver telling him to take them home. The engine was kicked into life with a rich, pleasing hum, and the drive back to Sebastian's residence passed in silence.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled up outside the house itself. Sebastian, being a wealthy man but one of simple enough tastes, had bought a large house that was grand without being too pretentious. Being once again coaxed out of the car, James cast an appraising glance over what would be his new place of residence. Outer walls constructed of wooden planks, painted white, with a dark grey tiled roof and a garage obviously added later, as an extension. From the outside, he estimated six bedrooms – why six? Surely that was unnecessary given…well, he'd assumed that Sebastian lived alone, but maybe he'd been too hasty. Time would tell, he supposed, and shrugged inwardly to himself.
Steered inside just as briskly as he'd been brought to the car from the club, there wasn't much time to draw any other conclusions from the exterior of the house. The interior matched the outside in simple, comfortable, understated grandeur – but was actually a good deal more open and airy than James had expected, with off-white walls and lots of wide windows. The living room held three sizeable armchairs and a long sofa, dark wood with cream cushions; the low table in the centre of the room was of considerable length and made of mango wood, and there were two abstract paintings on the walls. One Jackson Pollock and one Kandinsky, upon getting a closer glimpse. Moving up the stairs, then, still not really talking or having a chance to scope out the other rooms – though he imagined that would come later – he took a moment to get use to the soft carpeting on the stairs under his still-bare feet.
Sebastian brought him in the direction of one of the bedrooms, and finally lifted his voice to speak. "This is where you'll be sleeping," he explained, nodding in the direction of the surprisingly comfortably furnished room. James gave him a bit of a quizzical look, having not expected to be set up this well at all, but merely nodded his understanding. "Now, it's late, so that'll be all for tonight," he added, "but I'll be expecting you in my room at the other end of the hall at noon tomorrow."
"Yes, sir," James agreed, still not quite sure how to react to the…lenience being extended. He'd just as well expected Sebastian to put him to use right away, but instead the hand on his chain was released, giving him free rein – wait, free rein? – to move toward his new bed of his own accord. Deeming it better to comply than to ask questions or talk back, lest something abruptly change, he added a quiet "Goodnight, sir," and moved in the direction indicated.
"Goodnight, James," came the still unexpectedly gentle reply, touched by some inexplicable warmth, and…removing the collar to set it on the nightstand before bed, James closed the door behind himself and came to rest on his sheets. Though not especially tired, he let his eyes fall closed, and drifted off within the hour, mind full of the gentle scrape of a new fingernail against his bare thigh.