On the Side of the Sniper

Rating: NC-17

Pairing: Jim Moriarty/Sebastian Moran

A/N: I come back from the grave with legitimate porn. I'm sorry. This one is for Katie, and she hates me because I delayed on this so badly but let me just hope for the best. Again, I'm sorry.

Seb's sitting in a chair and has the interpreter right where he wants him, just at the right angle, at the right lucky breeze, and the just the right trigger pressure, when. When dainty, tricky fingers suddenly brush against his inner thigh and a perfectly justified "What in the fuck?" erupts from his mouth because god-fucking-damn it he works for Jim Moriarty and if he fucks this up, Seb's an old tire waiting to be replaced and by replaced he means dead, so if this fucker who just managed to sneak past all the security setup meant to keep him in the sniping mode doesn't say that the world is going to end or that the good stuff arrived from the east, Seb will abandon ship and just—

He takes a mental breather before he looks down.

Jim Moriarty, criminal mastermind, consulting criminal, network of everything big and illegal, knelt between his thighs, mouthing at the zipper of his jeans.

For a very brief moment Seb has a little question mark across his face, like this is new, but he very quickly catches on again that this is simply where his life ended up. Something wrenches in the pit of his stomach, something like anxiety, something like arousal. The gun feels removed from his hand but he tries to be still, as still as possible, and then calm, as calm as possible. Sly, smooth as a silk, Jim half speaks into his crotch and half at him. "Cat got your tongue?" Seb can almost sketch out the curves in his accent, the playful rise and fall in the sound waves. Jim strokes his inner thigh again with those fingers, leg twitching almost immediately at the sensation. "I know what's going to be on my tongue." A hot, humid puff of breath highlights the last word, a little surge of warmth.

Seb's grip on his custom just get a little closer to the shade of white because he should be used to this by now, but it still manages to astonish some honest-to-god normal side of him. His eyes do a little flash of incomprehension because he said, he did say—

"My life," he pauses at the two words, at the incredibility, at the preposterous notion, "You fucking told me my life depended on this job."

"And it still does," he replies, breath still warm tingling, vibrating sensations against his unwillingly coaxed erection, goddamn him, all confident and undeterred even at the lap of the most gun-capable man before him. Jim very vaguely and very subtly motions to the phone in his inner jacket pocket, bridled with luxury, one little gallop away from a world without Sebastian. "I want to see if you really are the best shot money can buy, Colonel Moran."

The notion of a sick and unexplainable game a la Moriarty registers in his mind, then the rank jogs an area in his brain that causes him to lose all coherency for a few lulled seconds, a pause for the way Jim says it, mocking but not, again, incomprehensible; and finally, an influx of memory, the job and his target, arrives at the station, and his brain suddenly switches gears and forces his gaze into the sniping view with a little skipped thrum in his veins. The interpreter's still there, chatting it up with some older man, normal. Funny, the only bit of normal he can ever see anymore is only through these lenses. And hunting the normals is his job, which should make him not-normal, but he's not Jim, so this is what happens because he's right in the middle somewhere, feeding ducks over his bridge between fuck-up and normal. He nearly, quite nearly, slips back into the zone, like a welcoming bed, a calming morning.

Then Jim fucking palms him, hard, through the material of his jeans, and it's almost too hard (but why, oh why, does he manage to get hard) which elicits a guttural, throaty noise, trained eyes defocusing from the sniper view, and for the first time, he almost feels like he'll actually drop the gun. A flurry of panic overrides him, steadying his grip again, again, again. Laughter floats from between his legs, and Seb just wants to say that he doesn't fucking think so. But Jim does one little rough finger-trace through the fabric and starts unbuttoning him, dexterous, at the blink of an eye. Which makes for no time for Seb to damn him verbally because he honestly just wants him get on with it at this point, but. But this is a job. On his life.

"God fucking damn it, Jim," he manages before thoughts and breath both fly out again when Jim haphazardly pulls out his cock, hand slightly cool to the touch. He pushes the issue though, voice taut with dreaded almost unwanted arousal, "Stop this right now before I accidentally put one through you."

Jim blinks once purposely and traces Seb's body with his eyes in that undressing kind of way, from cock and up to face, does a little devil smile, and pumps him hard for a few seconds (which only makes Seb want to tear his own hair out because he can't fucking stand how this is affecting him, he honestly can't), before he has a response. "That's all I ever wanted from you, but you're so tame, so abstinent," he dips his finger against the spot of wet at the tip his cock and Seb jerks into the touch, a little moan up his sleeve, telling, telling, "So I thought I'd give you little push." Jim grazes his teeth along the head, and that almost makes Seb pull away from the touch because he could just bite it off, it was possible, he could never count that out. Then a murmur, teeth on the delicate balance of play and threaten, "Oh, and concentrate."

"I was," he grinds out, heat on his face from both frustration and arousal, a combination far too common when working for Jim, "Until you breached security and crept up on me."

"Security, that's cute," he pauses and a hot tongue sweeps over the head, just where he grazed with his teeth, "Now back to work, Seb, and make it quick, or something might go boom."

Instead of words, a hiss of air passes his teeth, and his hips do a forward roll, visceral, like he doesn't mean to but it's a calling. He squares his jaw, the muscle bulging where his bite is, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, hot, wet tongue making its way down, down his shaft, and, fuck, the gun, the fucking gun. With short choppy motions, he looks into the sniping view and spots the interpreter again, thankfully still in the same place. But not before long, he's thinking, probably because of that warning that he'd vaguely paid attention to while he'd contemplated actual, frustration-driven homicide, yes, something might go boom. His hands shake from heavy pulsation, and then Jim's nails dig deep into his hip bone, tongue now finding its way open and wet, down the underside of his shaft; he's making slurping noises, fucking loud and fucking distracting, sleazy, eyes blinking up at him, largely filled with feigned innocence. And the little half-smile doesn't go overlooked, not at all, and Jim knows it, he knows.

Seb glues his eyes to the magnified lenses because if he sees that smug little face one more time he might actually do this job wrong; understandably, yes, but still wrong which means wrong for his life, or the eventual lack thereof one. The interpreter, the fucking interpreter—he's still doing a little laugh for his boss or whatever which means Seb needs to wait, wait until they're done fucking chatting—

Then one side of the building where they're standing gets blown apart.

It's a big fucking explosion and the debris go every which way, cloud of smoke, and there goes the interpreter too, dust and all. Seb's jaw goes slack for a full second before Jim suddenly takes all of him in his mouth, to the hilt, and wet and fuck. "You fucking bastard," Seb gasps out, eyes still fixed into the sniper view but just barely, "You made me lose him—he's fucking gone, Jim, I can't see through all this—fuck." He responds by gaining a rhythm very quickly, to the throat and back, swift and smooth, and then the little hand motion to his pocket again, gesturing to the phone, gesturing to Seb's life, so Seb searches, he'll fucking find the bastard, then fine. The debris settles a bit and he's looking for the man, the fucking interpreter, and, ngh, fucking Jim, still slick and wrong, why—

The interpreter's on the ground, dead.

Seb stares at the body on the ground, while people run in various directions, and he's fucking gone, cold as cement, just on the ground, unmoving. He bucks his hips forward, into his mouth because he at least has that and a hoarse moan escapes him, like he's been holding his breath, then mouths his words before he can actually say them, "He's dead. Your fucking bomb killed him, and I didn't need to set up camp for this bullshit."

Jim is at the hilt of Seb's cock when he says this, and he withdraws slowly, with a little lewd lick at the end, voice husky, eyes comically wide, "I never said it was mine."

Seb squints, confusion, and then more words, "As much as I love bombs, I wouldn't make mine so obvious." With a little laugh he takes him to the throat again, and Seb's thoughts start dissolving, and—shit, shit, shit. He hastily looks, again, far more frequently than he'd ever had to during his career as a personal sniper, and watches for the dead body, that fucking cheat, that sneaky bastard.

And as predicted, he gets up and looks around a little, wondering—well, wonder no longer.

Seb takes the shot, clean through the head, his man dropping dead perfectly genuine. Done, he's fucking done, he'd like to go home now, but first. He groans out loud, beads of sweat forming along his temple, the clutches of stress leaving sharp mental scratches, and he puts the gun away, hands going shaky with anger, more like, and he slips his hand in Jim's perfectly smooth hair and grips it, like a lifeline. Then he leans over voice dropping, almost menacing, "I like your hair this way, Jim. It suits you." A giggle escapes Jim's fucked mouth, which Seb takes a sign of proposal of sorts, and he pushes him back on his cock, now dripping with slick, back-of-the-throat spit, to which Jim responds by eagerly moving with the direction of the hand, little noises like moans and gags, a pleasurable cacophony. Seb's chest heaves up and down, moans loud, at the way it feels and the way Jim looks, eyes practically glittering with laughter, always having won at everything he'd ever tried at and he'd just won again. Seb bucks into his mouth and the pool of pressure gathers along his abdomen, and Jim doesn't stop either, he's far too ecstatic to stop because he likes toying with him, he just does. And Seb cries out a string of words like he can't control them, fuck, Jim, you fucking bastard, fuck, nngh, hisses, breathing, thoughts, that first little touch to his inner thigh—and he goes over the edge. He yells out Jim in a way that shouldn't be yelled, the grip in his hair gets even tighter, and he pours into his mouth, cum starting to drip on the Westwood, which Jim will burn later. He pulls away, face reddened but smug and he swallows, and Seb slumps back against his chair, limbs going limp, head dizzy.

Jim takes off his jacket and throws it on the ground at Seb's feet. "Your new ashtray. Enjoy."

Seb takes out his pack of cigarettes and plucks one in his mouth. Jim starts stalking away, hands in his pockets, and he yells out, "You owe me one, Sebastian," he kicks his heel in a way that's a bit too intimidating for what the movement is, "You could've died." Seb just scowls and starts putting things away, lips moving casually around the cigarette.

Then when the realization hits him, Jim's already long gone, laughing away in the car air conditioning wind, calling up some Russians and making a phone call.

Did Jim just save him?

A/N: Again, I'm sorry.