invado:

Anatomic Illustrations

jiminwestwood:

tigerjaw:

As Jim bit him Sebastian laughed, gasped a bit and fell back onto the bed, his arms shaking slightly as his breathing came out in half chuckles and sharp exhalations. He smiled though, closed his eyes and put his hands behind his head as Jim moved his mouth, lips, tongue over his sharp marks. Sebastian was hyper sensitive along his scars, even more so now that he could only focus on the upper half of them and he gasped when Jim’s teeth trailed along a few if the ones that stood out white along his side. 

He moaned a bit as Jim’s mouth gently grazed over his burned side, his hands slipping to the top of Jim’s hair, almost pushing him down before he forgot, and then his hands fall to his sides and he groaned when Jim pulled down his trousers. He arched his back as much as he could, muscles flexing hard against his hips, ribs and spine, twisting to the side as his fingers clenched the too-soft comforter, almost ripping it in small places, something so soft that even his hands could tear it to shreds. 

Then Jesus, Jim was there, (wasn’t he always there?) and Sebastian opened his eyes wide, taking in the wildness that was Jim Moriarty, a tempest more unpredictable than any storm. He was the ocean and Sebastian was the cliff and Moriarty was crashing down on him, the words coming out in dark tides and caressing him like the ebb and flow of the tides, pushing against him, pulling back, and if Sebastian was aroused he couldn’t feel it.  He could feel his heart rate jump, his mouth suddenly dry at the suggestion, the shiver and goosebumps that exploded over his chest as Jim pressed the ice-cold knife to his skin.

Sebastian stared at Jim, mouth still parted, halfway through a gasp and a moan, the sound stuck in his throat, pinned by the knife on his chest. He had to close his eyes tilt his head back, get further away from Jim, as far as he could. No. 

“Jim, please,” his breath came out slowly, a tide pool slipping under the waves, “not tonight.” The rain came pounding down.

Sebastian’s hands moved then, up Jim’s bare torso, over his arms, to his neck. He hurt so much so often, the badly mauled bundles of nerves in his back making aches appear all through his side, his spine. He hurt so much, during therapy and during rest. Breathing and eating and even moving, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt. His entire life was made of pain, of the breaks in between, the lulls and slack tides in between the extremes of his own pain. He didn’t need anything like that from Jim. He couldn’t take it. He’d break, shatter like the mugs when they crashed against hard surfaces.

“Jim I can’t, please,” He pulled Jim down, kissing him softly, then pressing their foreheads together, making no move to push away the knife in Jim’s hand, his mouth barely moving against Jim’s, hands cupping his face, sliding towards his hairline on his neck, thumbs just under Jim’s ears, pressing against his jaw, “take me this way, yeah? I can’t bleed anymore.”

Jim felt himself shatter instead at Sebastian’s words, something that was already cracked chipping away and letting water seep inside. He took a deep breath, lips moving slightly but without words, brushing against the other man’s mouth. He was held, immovably held by the force that was still Sebastian Moran, no matter how helpless the man himself felt.

The rain was suddenly inside his skull, behind his eyes, tears that would never wet his eyelashes but stayed there, hidden. Pouring into his head, down his throat.

He nodded, taking another shuddering breath past that imaginary water, agreeing before he could think, agreeing because it seemed impossible to continue now. His hand shook as he pulled the knife away, the very tip just knicking Sebastian’s shoulder by accident, the tiny wound caused by Jim’s hurry to avoid marking him. He hurt whatever he touched. Everyone has a baseline. His was pain.

The knife skittered along the floor when he flung it, clanging first against a bar on the abandoned wheelchair by the side of the bed. Jim was still nodding, hand tightly gripping Sebastian’s shoulder.

“Alright. Yes, alright. I’m not trying to hurt you, I’m not. It’s just…I just need to know that you want me.” He quieted himself, kissing Sebastian with the violence he’d dropped to the floor with the knife. Every part of his body was desire, was need, just need and there were no words, there was no way to say the things he wanted to say, whether the words were his or the words were from someone else’s poem or holy book or pornography. He couldn’t say them, not his name, not anything in English, Irish, Russian, Latin, nothing. There was no language he knew fluently that had the right words. He could create no sentences. No explanations.

Jim pulled back, hands on Sebastian’s face as wall, brushing his fingers along his lips, tracing his scars, pushing his hair back, thumb on his jaw.

“Mere shere.” And the accent was wrong, the pronunciation not native, just an attempt. A man trying so hard to do what he was supposed to be able to do. He kissed Sebastian again, closing his eyes tightly. And the rain was on the windows, the storm kept out just a little bit longer.

jiminwestwood:

It was like everything coming undone and being put back together again.

Jim let Sebastian move him, sliding to straddle the other man’s body again, watching him in every flash of cold lightning that lit the room. The words were familiar, the sounds rolling from Sebastian’s mouth smoothly, into his ears, his own throat when the man kissed him again. Smooth like the rain’s path down the windows; he still didn’t know what most of the words meant, but the sound of them, the knowledge that Sebastian’s voice was rougher, slightly irregular, the smooth syllables husky with want of him…

“Perhaps we communicate better when we use the words the other doesn’t know,” he murmured, smiling, bending down over the man’s body to speak against his mouth again. His dark hair was mussed by his quick undressing and he felt intensely the warm hands on his skin, felt the already forming bruises on his ribs. “Maybe we’re saying all sorts of things. Telling all manner of secrets.” He bent further to kiss the hollow of Sebastian’s throat, unable to stop himself, to keep his jaw from flexing, locking, teeth nearly meeting in that soft spot where neck met shoulder. His own mark, a bruise born to be deep and dark on the other man. Jim inhaled shakily, silent for a moment as the deep thunder outside spoke for him, the intensity seeming to rattle the mirrors against the walls, the silent words in the books on the shelves, the bed itself. It was a sudden cold fever of ugly desire, a need to touch, take everything that was Sebastian for himself. Because the thought of not having him was the naked rain alone, the brilliance of the lightning gone, the threat of the thunder silenced.

Jim ran his hands up Sebastian’s bare torso, fingers sliding over muscles more defined than he remembered, but scars that were precisely the same.

“The wound is the place,” he whispered hoarsely, “Where the light enters you.” In that moment, he didn’t remember where the quotation came from, but saw the words as though printed on his eyes. The criminal glanced up again to see Sebastian’s face as he curved his body; the line of light through the curtain break kindled green fire in Sebastian’s eyes and bleached Jim to the pallor of a madman. He trailed his mouth along each scar as he moved down Sebastian’s body, his teeth for the tiger’s claws, his tongue for the ones he’d made to match, his lips covering the other man’s damaged side. He pressed his body down against him, his own bare skin hardly marked, his scars so few and so nearly invisible. Really, only Sebastian’s hands would have been able to find them in the dark, to run a strong finger down that thin white line of lightning on his chest.

Jim continued to move down the other man’s body, fingers sliding to the waistband of Sebastian’s trousers, tugging them down over sharp hips to let the flashes of light show him that mark. He traced it out, his initials, the ones Sebastian could only half feel. Part ownership. The way he had matched and thereby negated the tiger’s marks. Jim couldn’t breathe for a moment, actually gasped, strained for a gulp of swallowed air.

As the thunder complained again, he was up by Sebastian’s face, eyes suddenly red-rimmed and wide, the small constant knife from his pocket out and in his hand, the flat of the chilly blade against Sebastian’s collar bone.

“Oh, God, Sebastian,” he moaned, voice cracking. “Let me do it again. I just have to…have you. You’re mine, and I…” He licked his lips, pausing. Ungraceful words, unpolished, unpracticed. The psychopath’s desperate, uncomfortable emotions, the obsession he didn’t have the vocabulary to understand or relate. “I can’t let it-I just want.” He turned the knife slightly, pressing but not cutting. “I need you to know.”

As Jim bit him Sebastian laughed, gasped a bit and fell back onto the bed, his arms shaking slightly as his breathing came out in half chuckles and sharp exhalations. He smiled though, closed his eyes and put his hands behind his head as Jim moved his mouth, lips, tongue over his sharp marks. Sebastian was hyper sensitive along his scars, even more so now that he could only focus on the upper half of them and he gasped when Jim’s teeth trailed along a few if the ones that stood out white along his side. 

He moaned a bit as Jim’s mouth gently grazed over his burned side, his hands slipping to the top of Jim’s hair, almost pushing him down before he forgot, and then his hands fall to his sides and he groaned when Jim pulled down his trousers. He arched his back as much as he could, muscles flexing hard against his hips, ribs and spine, twisting to the side as his fingers clenched the too-soft comforter, almost ripping it in small places, something so soft that even his hands could tear it to shreds. 

Then Jesus, Jim was there, (wasn’t he always there?) and Sebastian opened his eyes wide, taking in the wildness that was Jim Moriarty, a tempest more unpredictable than any storm. He was the ocean and Sebastian was the cliff and Moriarty was crashing down on him, the words coming out in dark tides and caressing him like their ebbs and flows, pushing against him, pulling back, and if Sebastian was aroused he couldn’t feel it.  He could feel his heart rate jump, his mouth suddenly dry at the suggestion, the shiver and goosebumps that exploded over his chest as Jim pressed the ice-cold knife to his skin.

Sebastian stared at Jim, mouth still parted, halfway through a gasp and a moan, the sound stuck in his throat, pinned by the knife on his chest. He had to close his eyes tilt his head back, get further away from Jim, as far as he could. No. 

“Jim, please,” his breath came out slowly, a tide pool slipping under the waves, “not tonight.” The rain came pounding down.

Sebastian’s hands moved then, up Jim’s bare torso, over his arms, to his neck. He hurt so much so often, the badly mauled bundles of nerves in his back making aches appear all through his side, his spine. He hurt so much, during therapy and during rest. Breathing and eating and even moving, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt. His entire life was made of pain, of the breaks in between, the lulls and slack tides in between the extremes of his own pain. He didn’t need anything like that from Jim. He couldn’t take it. He’d break, shatter like the mugs when they crashed against hard surfaces.

“Jim I can’t, please,” He pulled Jim down, kissing him softly, then pressing their foreheads together, making no move to push away the knife in Jim’s hand, his mouth barely moving against Jim’s, hands cupping his face, sliding towards his hairline on his neck, thumbs just under Jim’s ears, pressing against his jaw, “take me this way, yeah? I can’t bleed anymore.”