Written as a sequel to sodafly's Sway Me Smooth, which you should go check out. /works/254707?view_adult=true
Title: Comanche, Part I of II
Warnings: PWP, next chapter.
Notes: Lots of song references, you can find em on Youtube.
Summary: Jim and Seb play a little game in the car and garage, but Jim needs to make sure that he's the winner.
Sometimes, James Moriarty feels his life is a bit like Pulp Fiction. Without the heroin overdoses; but the rest of it is there, if you squint. No foot massages either. Unless it's Thursday and neither he nor Sebastian have anything more worthwhile to do, which is a rare occasion indeed. And tonight isn't Thursday, anyway. Besides, who would want a foot massage when their personal assassin is high off blood lust and raring to fuck? Maybe tonight isn't a Pulp Fiction kind of night. Unless you count the fact that The Revels' "Comanche" is blasting from the car stereo.
"Louder!" Jim practically has to shriek, because it's close to full volume already. From the backseat he glances into the rear-view mirror, seeing his own partial reflection and an even smaller portion of Sebastian's face. Seb must be trying desperately to focus on the road, but Jim knows he keeps spying on him through the mirror, looking him over and grinning like an idiot. Sebastian obeys, and the resulting roar of saxophone is deafening. Jim sways a little, assured Seb can see him slither around in his seat and is enjoying the show.
"Comanche" is over as fast as it's begun, and The Genteels' "Take It Off" is quick to take its place, not as wild but all the more provocative with the repeated shout of, "Take it off!" with familiar surf guitars and bass and percussion. Sebastian shouts along, laughing and watching the mirror. The song is also a painfully short two minutes long, but Jim manages to pull off his suit jacket, loosen his tie, and undo a few buttons of his shirt in rhythm before the song changes again.
The Instrumentals' "Are You Nervous?" starts next, as if Sebastian had planned for a backseat strip tease when he compiled the playlist. Of course he did. They're almost back to the flat now anyway, but Jim undoes the rest of his shirt buttons for the hell of it. Less to do when they get inside. Less for him to do at least. Seb, soaked in blood and not daring to get anything nasty on Jim's expensive clothes, will stand and stare and keep his hands to himself while Jim decides to keep him waiting or give him what he wants. They've played this game countless times.
Seb switches the speakers off before they get to the garage, then pulls the car in and presses the remote to shut the garage door in silence, save for the sound of their mixed breathing. They both stare into the mirror as their chests rise and fall, waiting to see who will move first; who is more desperate to get upstairs and on the nearest surface (Jim runs through the options in his head: wall, floor, couch, table, could they make it all the way to the bed? Shower, or does he want to taste someone else's blood for the rest of the night?). Seb seems to have something entirely different in mind. He switches the stereo back on.
Next on the playlist is not surf but a slinky little jazz number: "The Big Twist" with Plas Johnson on sax. Seb finally turns to look Jim in the face, a lecherous smile forming unchecked.
"Why don't you get in front and I'll put a spotlight on your little show?" he asks, voice gravelly and just right, barely audible under the music.
"I'll be needing a cigarette first. And drinks. You can't possibly expect me to do such a thing sober."
Seb shrugs, "True enough," and pulls a bottle of Jack Daniels out from under his seat. He lights a cigarette for Jim and passes it back, then the whiskey once he has some for himself. They smoke and drink their way through the song, as well as Earl Palmer and King Curtis playing "One Mint Julep".
"Don't keep me waiting!" Seb implores halfway through the song when it switches to a faster rhythm and more complicated saxophone trills.
"No, no, no," Jim waves his hand dismissively, tossing back as much whiskey as he can handle, "I'm waiting for the right song. No sense in doing this wrong."
Seb drums a bit of a rhythm on the steering wheel, trying to distract himself with the liquid sex of the music since Jim is ignoring him. Jim giggles (yes, giggles) and kicks the back of the seat a bit, goading his impatient friend.
"I didn't say you could ignore me!" he starts, but nearly shoots out of his seat shouting, "Oh! This one, this one!" when Plas Johnson playing "Tanya" comes on. As if Seb had planned it. Of course he did.
Jim rockets out of the car and stumbles to the hood, where after a moment of steadying himself he steps back and slowly continues to undo the knot on his tie that he had started on earlier. He can't really see Seb's expression with the headlights in his eyes, but he tosses the tie onto the windshield and tugs off his already unbuttoned shirt. It isn't elegant, and it can't possibly be sexy. The whiskey is doing its work and he feels warm and hazy. He looks at his shirt uselessly for a moment, not knowing where in the garage it should go, because it is not going on the floor. Somewhere under the saxophone, Sebastian is laughing. Jim dashes out of the spotlight for a moment to place his shirt on the coat peg by the door that connects the garage to the flat. While he's there he removes and hangs up his trousers for good measure.
He returns to the car just in time for Sam Butera playing "Street Scene." As the song opens with its dramatic flare, he stands in his undergarments and socks in front of a man he can't even see behind a barrier of metal and glass. That can be changed easily. Jim slinks (or he thinks he slinks) to Seb's car door. He doesn't mind if a little blood gets on his underclothes. Seb appears to be with the program, and is stepping out of the car before Jim even gets to the door. He closes it behind him just as Jim leans in for a kiss at the final, loud note of saxophone. They're both laughing so hard that it's barely a kiss at all, more like mashing their faces together while they grab at each other's hair and necks.
And of course, as if on cue the music slows down for "C'est Magnifique" a la Nelson Riddle, and Sebastian initiates what Jim assumes to be an attempt at a slow dance. Back at the lounge, he had been so ready to rush home and fuck, but the alcohol and the music seems to have tamed him somehow, made him genial and affectionate. Jim feels out of place, swaying half naked against a blood-caked killer, and realizes that he's losing control of the situation.
Their foreheads are pressed together and Seb's eyes are closed, and it's almost romantic. But Jim Moriarty doesn't want to be romanced right now, he just wants, and Sebastian seems like he's half asleep standing. So Jim presses in closer, standing on his toes to put his mouth to Sebastian's ear. He can smell the blood and his eyes nearly roll back into his head. He knows just what to say to get his pet back in line.
He moans, "Seeing you work with that nail and hammer earlier, my god, it was like watching an artist. Or porn. I think I might have bitten through my finger if you went on any longer."
And that's all it takes; the game is his again.
"In the car or on the car?" Seb growls, his hands lowering to Jim's hips and gripping hard.
"No," Jim replies, determined, "No, that won't do. That's giving me the option to either ruin the upholstery or ruin the paint job, neither of which I'm particularly eager to destroy."
Seb grunts, annoyed. Right where he wants him. Check.
Jim places a palm on Seb's cheek and offers a placating smile, "Tell you what, we'll get a second car and do that next time. Right now, however, I think I want you to clean up."
There will be another chapter, nary you worry.