Mormor really is a sickness…  and then fic happened.  *facepalm*  Oh well, might as well share now that it’s written:

——–

The room was dark, just this side of uncomfortably cool – for now; the coolness would be welcome, soon enough – and almost painfully quiet. Jim waited as patiently as he ever did for a long-game or an involved plan; still, quiet, unconcerned. It was Sebastian’s turn, this time, and he well knew his lover’s penchant for theatrics; similarly, Jim well knew he had nothing to actually fear from Seb, regardless of where he’d been led. And led was the word for it, black satin cloth blocking out any hint of light he might have caught during their trip. He didn’t go so far as to tape smaller cloths over Jim’s eyes, but the blindfold was shaped in such a way to hug the rise of his nose, and wide enough to cover from the top of his cheeks to the middle of his forehead. Jim had grinned almost impishly when he’d been presented with it, but hadn’t hesitated at all, simply inclining his head slightly in tacit permission, letting Sebastian come around behind him to place the cloth in position with light, trailing fingers caressing over the line between fabric and flesh, pulling it comfortably snug and securing it in such a way that Jim would have to struggle violently to remove it.

Seb knew he wouldn’t.

Sebastian’s fingers had drifted down, tracing the line of Jim’s neck to shoulder, then tracing over fabric, down his arms to collect thin wrists in his palms, pulling them back and chaining them together with handcuffs, accompanied by the soft huff of a laugh Jim offered in return. “Interesting night planned, tiger?” he’d asked teasingly, voice soft and lilting, head cocked just so to imply his full attention, without ever trying to turn in Sebastian’s direction. He hadn’t spoken back – wouldn’t, not yet – simply squeezed the wrists in one broad palm before releasing his grip and guiding Jim out with the slight pressure of one hand on the back of his shoulder, warmth bleeding into the skin beneath the fabric. It wouldn’t have taken much; he’d caught Jim in a simple button down and slacks – smartly cut and flattering, but far fewer layers than usual, not even a vest beneath his shirt. Jim chuckled softly again, and complied, steps nearly as sure as they’d have been with full sight; trust was not a word they would openly use, but Jim had every deserved expectation that Seb would never lead him wrong.

[Read More]  (AO3)