Fuck it.
The Boss said I should have a blog, so I got a blog. That's it.Magic!Anon Status: Blind.
((Independent Role Play Blog for Sebastian Moran. Please feel free to contact me with concerns, comments, questions, and criticism.))
Sebastian grinned. He could hear the skip in Jim’s step, the lightness of his voice. Could feel the press of that kiss on his cheek, knew the shape of Jim’s body against his own so, so well. But Jim asked about the glasses and—fuck it. Really. Fuck it. He took the glasses from his eyes and tossed them over his shoulder, then bent low to scoop Jim up in his arms, crushing his lips with a kiss. Fuck it all. Fuck his scars, fuck the blood clots, fuck Irene, fuck the kid, fuck the doctors and the shite and the arse-fuckery that’d gotten life wedged between them.
Jim was Sebastian’s.
He pulled back from the kiss, breathing hard, and rested his forehead against Jim’s. “…Yeah. Missed you, too. Missed you very, very much.” Strong hands pressed firm against Jim’s well-shaped back, palms moving down to cup his perfect, wonderful, well-missed arse. Sebastian grinned, hitching Jim higher against his body. “Missed you right awful, I did.”
His eyes stared blankly ahead, the life in them still there, still lingering, but sightless. Sightless and scarred and patched, but healing well. Sebastian blinked, and what seemed to be a tear rolled down his cheek—it wasn’t. His eyes just knew they were damaged, and produced extra moisture with special antibodies to cope.
A low chuckle rumbled from Sebastian’s chest, and he stole another kiss from Jim’s lips.
Jim grinned into the kiss, happy and elated— not his usual manic glee, but actually fucking happy. It was a perfect moment. Jim reached up to trace cool fingers over Sebastian’s scared skin, humming happily. Sebastian was home, and nothing else mattered. It was only new places to map out with tongue and teeth and lips, to claim it as thoroughly as he had the rest of Sebastian’s body. He was still the most perfect creature in existence, and Jim leaned up to lick the tear away, managing to find his way past his jaw to nibble a bit on his ear. All of this was only possible because Seb was holding Jim up and curling down to meet him, of course. Sebastian was a very big man, and Jim had every intention of making him settle back into his intimidating manner. He always did manage to, whether by teasing or… actually, teasing always did the trick.
“Missed me or my arse? Or I suppose my mouth, you never were picky,” Jim said before slipping back to the floor, guiding one of Sebastian’s hands up to his mouth so he could take the fingers into his mouth, sucking and stroking with his tongue, lips in a smirk Sebastian couldn’t see but there was no way he couldn’t feel it.
Jim always did have a tongue like a cat’s, and Moran wasn’t all that surprised to feel it lick at his cheek—after all, he’d heard the wet slide of saliva and felt the warm pass of breath on his cheek. Then, then there was the bite at his ear (which Seb was less prepared for) and the murmur of words. Ach. That was bollocks.
“Tch, ye ken I don’t—nnnnhh.”
Sebastian shivered. Hard. His entire fekkin’ body felt magnified and raw and Jim, fekkin’ Jim, had to go and put Sebastian’s fingers in his mouth. Wonderful. Dandy. Seb’s cock jumped about a foot in the air, and the man himself let out a low growl to accompany his moan. In seconds, he had Moriarty pinned between himself and the back of the couch (he could feel the leather beneath his fingers, knew the steps and distance by heart), hand gone from mouth to keeping the twink still.
“…”
Sebastian breathed, hard, curled in over Jim—Christ. He was going to fuck the come outta the wee bastard—but no’ jes’ yet.
“Wait, wait,” he mumbled. Taking a second, Sebastian dug in his pocket to fish out the small box from earlier, flipping it open with his thumb. Inside was a small, white band. It looked like ivory, and it was—just not from an Elephant. It was Tiger Ivory, from a tiger’s tooth. Over time, with the glaze Seb had put on it, it’d blacken into a deep onyx, but for now…white.
“Traditional, but…I need something everyone can see. Gimme yer left hand, yeah?”
Sebastian knew the keycodes, knew the steps. Could type the letters and push past the gates and the doors; punch in the right number for the lift, did it all by touch and by ear and by the way his mind shaped, remembered, calculated approximate distance even as he’d seen because hell, that’s what snipers did, wasn’t it? And it was odd. It was odd because sometimes, when he was walking and not seeing the ground (even with the flimsy cane they’d given him), he’d get the strangest sensation of falling. His stomach’d shoot up into his throat and, for two seconds, his heart would stop.
And then Seb’d remember that the ground was just there, and curse himself for bein’ a fekkin’ edjit.
Still, he made it up and up and up, and the elevator chimed once—signaling his arrival—and again, once he’d filled out the second security code. The doors slid open with a quiet hiss, and Sebastian stepped inside. Took off his boots, set his cane down. So absorbed in his thoughts was Sebastian, that he didn’t notice the sound of Jim’s pacing (close) or the quick slide of his breath (worried). Moran had a mission to complete. Three paces to his right, couch, leather jacket, Jim’d lain it out. Good. Reach into the front pocket, pull out a small box, slip it into the pocket of your jeans—yes. Alright.
Sebastian sighed quietly, slipping out of the jacket he was wearing, reaching up to the dark glasses covering the scarred skin surrounding his eyes—been lucky in that, really. The eyes themselves had healed perfectly. No milkiness, no discoloration of the cornea—it was just that his optic nerve was…shot to hell. Swollen and painful, but they’d given him drops for that. Seb even began to take his sunglasses off, but…decided against it. He had felt how bad the burns were, knew the skin must be angry and pink. Knew that, in places, his eyebrow’d been burned away. Knew that the skin grafts they’d used to replace parts of his eyelids still didn’t look…quite right. But at the very least, there wasn’t any pulling or distortion (that he could feel), and most of his eyelashes were growing back, so…thank God for small favours, yeah?
Sebastian took a hesitant step away from the couch, breathing in deeply. Jim was everywhere. Everything smelled like him, but…Sebastian thought he could hear…breathing? Maybe? He tilted his head in the direction of the sound, brow furrowing.
“Jim?”
Jim turned, seeing Sebastian near the couch. A familiar sight, the tall, hulking figure blocking out the light from some of the windows. Jim practically skipped over, smoothing his fingers over Seb’s furrowed brows. “Welcome home, honey,” Jim cooed, pressing up against him. A little knot inside of him relaxed and Jim grinned, standing on tiptoe to kiss Sebastian on the cheek before rocking back on his heels. “Missed you…”
He frowned, seeing Sebastian’s dark glasses reflecting his own pale face back at him. “Why are you wearing those? You’re inside, you don’t need them.”
Sebastian grinned. He could hear the skip in Jim’s step, the lightness of his voice. Could feel the press of that kiss on his cheek, knew the shape of Jim’s body against his own so, so well. But Jim asked about the glasses and—fuck it. Really. Fuck it. He took the glasses from his eyes and tossed them over his shoulder, then bent low to scoop Jim up in his arms, crushing his lips with a kiss. Fuck it all. Fuck his scars, fuck the blood clots, fuck Irene, fuck the kid, fuck the doctors and the shite and the arse-fuckery that’d gotten life wedged between them.
Jim was Sebastian’s.
He pulled back from the kiss, breathing hard, and rested his forehead against Jim’s. “…Yeah. Missed you, too. Missed you very, very much.” Strong hands pressed firm against Jim’s well-shaped back, palms moving down to cup his perfect, wonderful, well-missed arse. Sebastian grinned, hitching Jim higher against his body. “Missed you right awful, I did.”
His eyes stared blankly ahead, the life in them still there, still lingering, but sightless. Sightless and scarred and patched, but healing well. Sebastian blinked, and what seemed to be a tear rolled down his cheek—it wasn’t. His eyes just knew they were damaged, and produced extra moisture with special antibodies to cope.
A low chuckle rumbled from Sebastian’s chest, and he stole another kiss from Jim’s lips.
Liam inwardly frowned at Jim’s professional greeting, but he couldn’t really blame him. Liam was always the one to do the coddling, never vice versa. Liam was pissed about the whole situation, angry that Jim would dare to bring Sebastian into their home, would dare to even be around the other sniper out of work, but he didn’t voice his jealousy, Jim would only find it childish and entirely insecure. Liam fleetingly wondered how they’d gotten together, why Jim hadn’t thought to contact Liam, but again, didn’t speak the words.
He hated this feeling. He didn’t want to lose Jim, he didn’t want to hand Jim over to the other sniper, but he couldn’t exactly make Jim stop, now could he? Liam wouldn’t stand in the way of Jim’s happiness, and if his happiness wasn’t with Liam, he’d let him go.
Liam snorted at Sebastian’s input, shaking his head as he took a drink of his beer, but his eyes were draw to Sebastian as he started to strip his outerwear off, cursing the other man for being sex on legs. ‘Fuck you, Moran. Fuck you and your body and your lips and your arms and… just Fuck you,’ Liam thought to himself as Sebastian rolled his sleeves up, then called to Jim, ordering him to go to him.
Liam didn’t say anything, though. He just looked up at his boss, keeping his face unreadable as he watched what was about to happen in front of him. His whole body screamed to ask Jim to stop, he tell him not to go to the other man, but he couldn’t find the words. He was drowning in his own stupid insecurities.
‘Don’t go. Please don’t go to him. Fuck this…’
He could feel his hold slipping though, he could feel his anger rising and his insecurities melt away. He’d bide his time, see what Jim was going to do, see what Sebastian had planned, then he’d make his move.
“We’re well aware of your name,” Jim replied coolly, his tone smooth and brittle as glass, one that both the other men had heard before, and often - a tone that said Don’t push me. Subtle emphasis on the ‘we’re,’ his own jab at Sebastian. After all, if neither Liam nor Sebastian were planning on being pleasant, why should Jim? But then -
Removing your clothes in my house. Don’t you dare. Still, eyes flickered up, over face, shoulders, curves and lines, muscles. The sharp tug somewhere between his navel and his crotch, the familiar rope that bound them even after all that had happened and changed, between them and in general. Some bonds don’t just break.
Bastard.
“Is there a problem, Sebastian?” he inquired, rising near-involuntarily to his feet, though keeping his voice chilly, his eyes hard and impassive as he tried to ignore his admittedly less-than-pure thoughts at the timbre Sebastian’s voice had adopted. Half-hoping that it wouldn’t be noticeable.
Half-knowing it was probably excruciatingly so.
So, the pixie fuck didn’t want to walk all of the way? Fine. Fekkin’ fine. Sebastian growled quietly and strode across the room, instead. He could see then tension in Liam’s skin, knew well the worry that rested their. Now you know how I felt, the first time he saw you. Bastard. Bastard, I should take him back. You don’t deserve him. You don’t hold him or kiss him or fuck him like I could.
But Moran had drugs and Moran had women and Moran didn’t need the little fuck, didn’t need him. Laying in bed at night, sweating, hard, mind full of black eyes and the feel of a body that fit so perfectly beneath his own, Sebastian didn’t need him.
Close, closer, he reached out with a calloused palm to grasp Jim by the nape of the neck, to curl strong fingers in dark hair. Yes. Just there. Just that. Just this. One body slid against the other and the other pushed back, and it was good and right and too long, far, far too long. Sebastian grinned. Slow, feral, the quirk of lips made his eyes shine. Lips drew close and bypassed lips, heading instead to ear as Moran wrenched Jim’s head to the side with the controlled sort of violence only a man like him was capable of—and there were no other men like him.
“…Ye see him? Look, Jim. I want ye to really look. He’s been waitin’ up for you all night. All fekkin’ night, ma chuisle.” Lips ghosted over Jim’s neck to a place where a collar used to hold, teeth barely scraping skin as his free hand slid to Jim’s hip. Yes. Because this, this was enough. This was always enough.
“Ye’re his. His, an’ yet ye called me. Me. Now tha’s a cunt ofa thing t’do if I ever heard one,” he growled, voice pulling from low in his chest. He tugged at Jim’s hip and felt that little body fire off every nerve ending Sebastian possessed, cock twitching in his trousers. Shite. Lewd terms to define that sort of instant connection came to mind—“snake charmer” being the least vulgar—but it was all bullshite. All bullshite, because what Sebastian and Jim had went bone-deep, as much as they both tried to deny it.
“I’m gonna let ye go, Jim. I’m gonna let ye go, and when I do, I want ye to walk over him. Then, I want ye on yer knees. I want ye demure as a fekkin’ church mouse, and I want ye to apologize to Liam for the trouble you’ve caused, bringin’ me into his home.”
Sebastian turned Jim’s face back towards his own, and just barely brushed a kiss there.
And then…then, he let the pixie Irish cunt go, staring down at Moriarty in a way that dared him to defy.
Jim paced up and down the flat, hands tapping against his thighs. Agitated, coiled, skin pulled too tight over his muscles and bones. He had cleared all the various clutter away, put out way the odds and ends that Sebastian could trip over. Not that it had been terribly messy before, but now… Now Jim’s eyes were constantly scanning, looking. He didn’t know what to do now, it was… it didn’t feel right.
He checked his phone again, looking for a message from Sebastian. Things couldn’t have gone wrong, could they? No, no. Things would be fine. They would have to be.
Sebastian knew the keycodes, knew the steps. Could type the letters and push past the gates and the doors; punch in the right number for the lift, did it all by touch and by ear and by the way his mind shaped, remembered, calculated approximate distance even as he’d seen because hell, that’s what snipers did, wasn’t it? And it was odd. It was odd because sometimes, when he was walking and not seeing the ground (even with the flimsy cane they’d given him), he’d get the strangest sensation of falling. His stomach’d shoot up into his throat and, for two seconds, his heart would stop.
And then Seb’d remember that the ground was just there, and curse himself for bein’ a fekkin’ edjit.
Still, he made it up and up and up, and the elevator chimed once—signaling his arrival—and again, once he’d filled out the second security code. The doors slid open with a quiet hiss, and Sebastian stepped inside. Took off his boots, set his cane down. So absorbed in his thoughts was Sebastian, that he didn’t notice the sound of Jim’s pacing (close) or the quick slide of his breath (worried). Moran had a mission to complete. Three paces to his right, couch, leather jacket, Jim’d lain it out. Good. Reach into the front pocket, pull out a small box, slip it into the pocket of your jeans—yes. Alright.
Sebastian sighed quietly, slipping out of the jacket he was wearing, reaching up to the dark glasses covering the scarred skin surrounding his eyes—been lucky in that, really. The eyes themselves had healed perfectly. No milkiness, no discoloration of the cornea—it was just that his optic nerve was…shot to hell. Swollen and painful, but they’d given him drops for that. Seb even began to take his sunglasses off, but…decided against it. He had felt how bad the burns were, knew the skin must be angry and pink. Knew that, in places, his eyebrow’d been burned away. Knew that the skin grafts they’d used to replace parts of his eyelids still didn’t look…quite right. But at the very least, there wasn’t any pulling or distortion (that he could feel), and most of his eyelashes were growing back, so…thank God for small favours, yeah?
Sebastian took a hesitant step away from the couch, breathing in deeply. Jim was everywhere. Everything smelled like him, but…Sebastian thought he could hear…breathing? Maybe? He tilted his head in the direction of the sound, brow furrowing.
“Jim?”
No. No no no, he didn’t want to be forgiven. He wanted to hurt, wanted to bleed. Wanted Jim to cut him open and fix all of the wrong things, the things that kept fucking up. He wanted to scream. To scream and fight and yell and stay—God, he wanted to stay—but Sebastian was so tired of fighting. So tired of proving to the world that his living on was inevitable. It was ripping him apart.
Sebastian rolled, not minding the tug of IV (he was a junkie, he’d had worse) as Jim slipped under him and he slipped between those thighs, lips still attached to collar and neck. The hospital garb they’d given him (after a bit of cash-flashing, the fuckers were willing to do next to anything) was more like traditional pyjamas than it was that gown bullshit, and it fit against his skin snugly. Warmly. Sebastian’s hands wound around Jim, pulling and comforting, protecting, demanding. Needing. And against a perfect ear, in quiet tones, he murmured.
“Make me live, Jim. Tell me I have to stay. I don’t think I can, on me own. Keep me here, aye? Always. Jes’…tell me to stay, even if you don’t want me. Please.”
Jim gave a pleased sigh as Sebastian moved, rolling until they were in a familiar position that made Jim relax just a bit more. He always felt… safer, almost, under Sebastian. Isolated, certainly, and completely protected. It was perfect, being bundled away into a little bubble where the rest of the world couldn’t touch him. Sebastian moved against him, needing something, reminiscent of what they should be doing, instead of being coddled up in the hospital.
“Of course you have to stay,” Jim said with a frown. “That’s the implied order. The default. You have to live, and you have to stay, and you have to stay here with me. Why would you think that order changed? It hasn’t.” Had Sebastian really forgotten it? It was basic— Sebastian was to always be there for Jim. Always. He stayed alive for him. That was simply the rule.
Jim swallowed panic, his already instable world coming crashing down around his ears. Sebastian made mistakes and they hurt, but he was always to come back. Always. Always always always and this was a Truth to Jim, it was something he had anchored his entire life around. How could Sebastian assume it was fluid? How could he ask to be ordered, when it was woven into the very foundation of what was them? Was it even stable at all? Had Jim been imagining all of it?
Jim bucked against his wild thoughts, trying to remain fixed on Sebastian, perfect, blind Sebastian who needed Jim, he did. Jim couldn’t go flying to bits when Sebastian needed him, so he made himself come back together, jamming back inside his packaging, pushing until everything fit. It was cramped and tight, pressing and bending uncomfortably, until Jim wasn’t quite comfortable in his own skin. Sebastian. He could do this for Sebastian. He could not be empty for Sebastian.
Teeth bit hard at neck as Sebastian sensed, felt, knew that Jim was falling apart. God. Jim, so fragile, so perfect, so very much Sebastian’s. He may have been tired of fighting, but he’d go on. For Jim, he would. Wouldn’t he? He’d keep living and breathing and trying. For Jim, he’d do anything. And that was all that mattered. that was really all that mattered, wasn’t it? His loyalty, his devotion. His promise. His never-ending oath.
He couldn’t leave. He’d given his word.
Moment of hesitation over, Sebastian growled softly and allowed his grip on Jim to tighten, hands moving down to the twink’s hips. “Hey,” he murmured. “Hey. ‘S arright, Hiyati. It’s arright. I have you. I ent leavin’. I’m sorry—I ent leavin’, Hiyati. Shhh, shh. I’m here. I know. I’m sorry. I belong to you, I cannae leave. I know.”
Hands pressed tight to skin, and Sebastian closed his eyes against a world he couldn’t see, gauze fluttering against his eyelashes and tugging at his skin. He could fekkin’ deal with this shite. He’d work around the blindness. He’d manage, he’d thrive, he’d work it the fuck out. Why? Because Jim needed it. Because Jim, above all else—even the unborn child—mattered. Jim was alpha and omega, and Sebastian’s entire world began and ended with the precious, black thing he’d pinned against him.
Jim’d managed to sink into his bones. Had managed to curl around his heart and entrap his soul, and everything that Sebastian was centered on Jim. It was self-preservation, keeping Jim alive, and as much as he cared for his child…
Well. Moran’d always been a selfish bastard.
Liam was sitting on his couch when he heard the two men come through the door, Sebastian’s boot thudding on the floor as he went for a beer. Part of Liam was angry that he hadn’t taken his boots off, just another sign of disrespect, but the other half of him didn’t give a shit. Liam just sat there on the couch, his legs stretched out, the heel of one foot on the edge of the coffee table, his other foot crossed on top as he sipped his beer.
He wasn’t sure he liked this, having Sebastian in his home, in the home he’d been sharing with Jim for the last few months, but he wasn’t going to do anything about it, thinking that if he did, Jim wouldn’t be too please. He rolled his eyes at himself, feeling like he’d been reduced to Jim’s slave, a fucking whipping boy that was meant to take all the shit that Jim ever dished out, but not to say or do anything in return. It wasn’t fucking right, and Liam wasn’t going to have it anymore. Things were going to change. If Jim wanted that asshole, who was currently sipping Liam’s beer and clomping around in his muddy boots, then Liam could be exactly like that.
Arching an eyebrow at Jim as he came through to the living room, Liam made his face as unreadable as he could. “‘Lo, boss.” He greeted, then turned back to the television, watching the images flash across the screen. He wanted to ask how his night was, if he’d had fun. Instead, taking on the cold indifference he’d shown through texting, Liam just ignored the other man’s presence, waiting for something, anything to happen to give Liam a clue as to what he should do.
Passive aggressive. The stomping, the opening the beer with his teeth. It was all, consciously or not, designed to send a message, and it was working. You’ve made your point, Sebastian. Are you quite finished?
Jim, for one, was determined to sober up. Just this once, at least. He had had enough liquor for one night, he thought, especially considering the circumstances he had now thrown himself into.
Liam, Sebastian, and himself, all under one roof, and he could hardly understand or remember how it had all happened. Why had he texted Sebastian, not Liam, in his drunken stupor?
Idiot.
Then again, a drunk man is an honest man, isn’t he?
Hmm. Telling, that.
“McClenaghan,” he responded simply, if a little sharply, perching himself on one of the arm chairs. Two could play at that game.
This was all just…fekkin’ balmy, wasn’t it? Sebastian rolled his eyes at the silence, stomping back out of the kitchen with a sneer on his lip. Liam made his greeting. Sebastian leaned against the far wall, each of them as far from the other as they could be. Then, came Jim’s reply. Really? Reallly? Sebastian stifled a chuckle, then a growl, then a slur of curses as he realized what the fuck he’d got himself into. Well, if that was the way of it, then fine.
He finally crossed his arms over his chest, regarding the two men, beer neglected in the flat of his broad palm. Bloody fekkin’ Christ.
“Moran,” he contributed, shrugging. “Just thought I’d throw me own name out there, for, you know. Consideration.”
Beer remembered. He took a swig. Set it down on the open-bar in the far corner of the room. This place, their “home,” looked more like a hotel set up than anything—but hey. Who was Seb to judge? He lived in a flat that looked like Keith Richards’ liver. Didn’t smell much better, neither.
But Moran’d be damned if he was going to pin that pixie Irish cunt between himself and Liam, and fuck him until he couldn’t—
He slipped out of his work jacket and was left in a dress-shirt and tie, a few blood stains drying on the sleeves and pressed silk, the obvious dent of fresh bandages at his side. Knife fight. Not pretty. Moran won. Next to be removed was the shoulder holster he always wore—both it, and his grey suit jacket, were lain beside the beer. Little outlines of the fabric reflected on the marble. Sebastian unbuttoned his cuffs, and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows—like he did when they were on a job, or when Jim needed the press of skin, or needed something to cut into, or needed someone to touch.
Boots still on. Imagine that.
“Jim.” His voice was flat and dark; in a tone Moriarty should’ve known. There’d been a time, after all, that he’d begged for it. “Come here.”
Doing this so I can read and reply clearly. Also, YOU SHOULD REBLOG THIS FROM ME TO WRITE YOUR REPLY SO I CAN FOLLOW YOUR TUMBLR AND I CAN CREEP ON YOU, TOO.
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((Because I agree. That’s why.))
((So it wasn’t just me? Are you sure?))