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Title: Arrangements
Chapter: 1/?
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Jim Moriarty/Sebastian Moran
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 800-ish
Notes: I’m trying something a bit different to my usual way of writing these two, not quite sure where I’m going with it yet but I have a few ideas.

Sherlock Holmes is entirely responsible for Jim overstepping the boss/employee boundaries.

As soon as Jim calls us off at the pool, I’m down the back stairs and out – he’s in the sort of mood where he’ll leave me behind to walk if he gets to the car first. Luckily I’m down first and in the back of the car by the time he arrives and we speed off.

“This better not be a wind-up, I was having fuuuun!” His petulant whine grates and I roll my eyes while he’s not looking, then he turns to face me. Ah. Jim isn’t usually involved in the dangerous stuff so the combination of Sherlock’s brain and the adrenaline have had an interesting effect.

“So I see,” I reply with a glance at his crotch, the seam of the tight trousers now under considerable pressure. He seems to take that as permission because he swings a leg over and straddles my lap.

“Fix it,” he hisses in my ear, the spearmint of his recently-discarded chewing gum still hanging around. His breath tickles my neck just under my ear and I sigh as I pull open his trousers and slide down the zip. “Don’t be so dramatic, Seb. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

I enjoy most of my work with Jim, so there’s every chance he’s right. I have the money to live well, access to nearly anything I could dream of doing and I still get to hold my baby – the rifle currently on the floor – in intense situations, just like being back in the SAS before I was invalided out.

I take Jim’s cock in my hand and make a few long, drawn-out strokes but this only serves to make him growl impatiently. The next few strokes are faster, then I push back the foreskin and roll the tip between my thumb and forefinger until he braces himself on my shoulders. His head leans back a little as his eyes close and his mouth opens.

A soft moan fills the rapidly-thickening air and Jim rolls his hips forward, forcing my hand back to the previous movement.

“Need...” he groans, frustrated, tries again. “Need more.

I speed my hand up on the shaft and let my other hand continue the focus on the head, keeping everything firm and quick.

His phone starts to ring and he lifts one hand from my shoulder to take it from his jacket pocket and check the screen. From his expression, I’m assuming it must be an important client and he confirms it with a gesture for me to stop. I comply, resting my hands on either side of me as he speaks.

He still has a hand on my shoulder and he uses it as leverage to shift his weight slightly, meaning we make contant briefly and he leaves a damp trail across the abdomen of my shirt. I regard it and, with an eyebrow raised, look up at him. A slight twitch as our eyes connect and more pre-come drips from the head, this time stopping precariously for a second before falling to the crotch of my trousers.

I can tell he’s stopped listening to the conversation when his eyes glaze over. Another twitch and I’m sure he’s re-living those few brief minutes he spent bantering with Sherlock. Suddenly he screws his eyes shut and grips the base of his cock tightly, clearly trying desperately to stave off his orgasm. He drops the phone and moves up to a kneeling position, managing to grunt in warning just in time. Then, a high-pitched keening sound as he starts to come, the first hot pulse hitting me square in the face. He grabs at my hair to hold my head still.

When he’s sure he’s finished, he pulls away and back to that straddle position, glaring at me and pouting.

“You know I hate mess, Seb. You weren’t ready and now look at you.”

I can imagine I’m in a bit of a state. My hair is probably messy from where Jim held it, I have semen across my face and dripping down my chin, my shirt is stained and my own arousal is more than obvious.

“I’m sorry,“ I reply with as much sincerity as I can muster.

He lays one finger against the head of my cock through the fabric, then another, then rubs them harshly across as he speaks again. “Sorry isn’t good enough. Sort that out,” he moves his fingers again, “and then we need to sort out this client. My office, five minutes.”

With that, he’s out of the car and into his house, letting the door slam behind him. The driver looks at me in the rear view mirror and we share a smirk, then I set about finishing myself off so I can find out what His Lordship wants.


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April 2012

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