shayvaalski:

shayvaalski:

swing-swing-baby:

reallysherlock:

yaahoooo:

moran is going to shot moriarty in his sleep but whoops, gets busted.

For some reason

I feel the need for a fanfic

A lot

I too would desire a written few paragraphs about this. 

Wish, command. A few paragraphs of fic. 

—

Moriarty does not look peaceful when he sleeps. This is the main thing Sebastian notices, the first time he walks into Jim’s room and stands over his boss, four weeks after they start living together. 

(It’s cheaper, Sebby, he’d said, Much more economical, but Jim has money to burn, enough to pay cash for a Westwood that catches his eye one day in the smart district of London, enough to buy Seb the newest model of sniper rifle, which he does not use, preferring the one he has used to kill people for the past three years. She is familiar in his hands. Seb does not know why they are living in the same flat. It’s easier not to ask, not to examine the long looks Jim gives him in evenings.)

The second time he opens Moriarty’s door, noiselessly, Jim is curled on his side, knees drawn all the way up to his chest, a tight tense ball of bone and muscle. Seb sits on the other side of the bed, puts a hand to the small man’s back, and Jim makes a soft noise and relaxes, just the tiniest bit. 

(Jim is brutal, almost all the time, and Seb finds this both terrifying and desperately hot, the way Moriarty’s eyes burn when Sebastian drops a man from fifty yards away, blood a spray against the wall, the way his fingers curl into Seb’s shoulder, possessive, intimate, and then shove him away. It makes him want to grab Moriarty, fling him up against a wall or press him there, those thin hipbones pressing into Sebastian’s thighs, thin chest heaving, heart pounding so hard Seb can feel it—he never follows the thoughts any further than that. Refuses to follow them any further. Jim is barely human, he tells himself. You don’t need to fuck with that kind of crazy, Moran.)

The third time he brings a gun, not the rifle he loves and cherishes but a Browning, small and portable and suited to the task at hand; and Seb has it leveled at Jim’s temple when there is a small movement, a finger pressed against the barrel, “Sebby, baby, I wouldn’t, if I were you.” Moriarty doesn’t even open his eyes, does not stir aside from that one pale raised finger. He lowers the gun, and Jim laughs, low and savage, and Sebastian flees the room.

(When they start fucking, Jim gives orders and Seb takes them, the same in bed as out, and one night when Sebastian is arched and groaning there is the coolness of steel at his throat and Jim leans down and whispers, If one of us is going to die, Sebby, it’s going to be you. Are we clear? Yeah, boss, he says, and Sebastian knows the truth of it in his blood and in his bones.)

After that they sleep in the same room, and Sebastian knows he should not sleep so soundly, next to a man who smells of death and blood and sex, of a fire lit and burning out of control. 

But he does. 

Hand to god, I forgot I wrote this. One of my favorite pieces, honestly.