Dear Sebastian,
You will ‘knot’ move until I come home.
Get it?
Love you. JM.
Part of the #Moran-Series
Dedicated to manic-intent, who writes such nice little fics to accompany my Jim/Sebastian manips.
The rope around his wrists that binds him to the solidly antique posts of the four-poster bed is silk weave, with simple knots that he could undo blindfolded if he wanted to, but Sebastian rests his chin on the rich brown sheets with a deep sigh, glaring at the yellow post-it note stuck onto the solid maple bar over the foot of the bed. His bastard of a lover-employer-tormentor has even drawn a little smiley face at the corner. Moriarty always thinks that he’s so fucking funny.
Yawning widely, Sebastian drops himself back down into the semi-alert doze of a trained soldier. He’s learned to sleep anywhere, anytime, and being tied on a bed isn’t much hardship when you’ve spent more than half a decade crabbing around the Middle East, dodging shrapnel and land mines. The hunter within him doesn’t like being held down, doesn’t like being forced to be stationary, but logically Sebastian knows that if he really wants to, he can get out of the knots and over to the pistol at the side table within a matter of minutes. This isn’t about being firmly restrained, after all - Moriarty knows that, and so does Sebastian. It’s about the bloody symbolism that Moriarty loves so goddamned much, and the smart little bastard loves testing his limits.
Asshole.
It takes a few hours or so, give or take, judging from the creep of the sun up the wall, when Sebastian starts to feel hungry and thirsty, that the discomfort really starts. His stomach is growling where it’s pressed against the sheets, and although Sebastian’s been hungrier and thirstier before and in worse circumstances, it’s not particularly a life experience that he usually cares to repeat. He squirms, muscle flexing against the rope, as he grits his teeth. His arms are cramped, strained in their sockets from the enforced stretch, and Sebastian groans, pressing his forehead against the sheets and cursing under his breath in Spanish.
By the time he runs out of invective, his throat feels raw, but at least he no longer feels hungry. Licking his lips, Sebastian glowers at the post-it note and resents the leather pleated collar snug against his neck, fingers curling. He might have sold his soul and his gun to the devil, but he’s still a proud man. Enforced, passive compliance goes against the very grain of his nature.
The sun’s beginning to creep back down by the time Sebastian’s exasperation starts to bleed into worry. Surely Moriarty should have been back by now. Maybe Moriarty got too cocky. Maybe some MI6 agent got too lucky. Maybe that uptight brother of that private detective decided to go for more direct means of getting rid of one of London’s blackest sheep.
Sebastian twists his right hand, his teeth pressed into his lip, fingering the knots. He’ll wait another five minutes. Ten. All he needs to do is get to a phone, call one of Sebastian’s security detail-
The sun’s several inches lower by the time Sebastian’s worry is winning its flanking battle against his instinct to obey, and he shifts his weight, twisting his right hand over to start at the knots. Thankfully, he doesn’t get far - the door creaks open, and for a long, blessed moment of relief Sebastian is so gratified to realize that Moriarty is alive and impeccably in one piece that he forgets how he’s obviously begun to disobey.
Moriarty clucks his tongue - nothing escapes the bloody devil - but he sidles over, hands curled behind his back, a knowing little smirk on his lips. ”Was my note a little too subtle for you?”
“Fuck you,” Sebastian rasps. He’s hungry again, and he has an increasingly pressing need to piss; his arms ache and he’s fucking had it with Moriarty’s idiotic little power games.
“My word, such language,” Moriarty shakes his head, and slides his palm lazily down the black sleeve over Sebastian’s right arm, fingertips pressing into the muscle definition, up to his shoulders, to the collar pressed against Sebastian’s neck. ”What shall I do with you.”
“You could let me bloody go,” Sebastian growls, “I need to use the bathroom.”
“Oh, dearest,” Moriarty chides, his smile now small and sharp, “Such a simple thing I ask of you, and you become so very, very difficult. We can’t have that, can we?”
Sebastian is about to advise in crude terms that he’s either going to have to insist on being difficult or the sheets are going to regret it, when Moriarty shifts up onto the bed to straddle his back, shoes pressed against Sebastian’s thighs and knees against his ribs, and through his peripheral vision Sebastian can see Moriarty drawing a switchblade from his breast pocket. The blade flicks out, silent and deadly, and Moriarty arches an eyebrow at him.
When Sebastian doesn’t move, Moriarty fits the tip of the knife against the cuff of his shirt, holding the knife with arch delicacy as he begins, so very deliberately, to slice the sleeve off Sebastian’s arm, working all the way up to his shoulder. Eyes fixed on the edge of the knife, Sebastian doesn’t even realize that he’s stopped breathing until spots begin to dance over his vision.
Moriarty takes his damned time, and he isn’t gentle about it; Sebastian’s suffering from quite a few nicks by the time the shirt’s sliced off his back, and he sucks in a tight, high breath as Moriarty digs the thumb of his free hand into one of the fresh, shallow cuts, and grins, teeth bared, like a snarl. Sebastian’s throat feels raw, he’s hungry again and oddly tired, his arms hurt now and his back and shoulders sting from the blade of the knife and he’s hard, so fucking hard that it’s agony. He tries to rub himself against the sheets, anything, but Moriarty’s pinned him with his weight and his knees.
“Sir-“
“We’re back to the honorifics now, are we?” Moriarty interrupts, so goddamned smug about it. ”What do you want, Seb?”
“I want you to-“
“Ah, ah, ah, wrong answer, darling,” Moriarty nicks his left bicep with the tip of the knife, and Sebastian hisses at the sting, then moans as Moriarty leans over, presses the tip of his tongue against the bead of welling blood.
“Jesus Christ,” Sebastian groans, “What the fuck do you want me to say?”
“I need you to understand,” Moriarty flicks the blade back into its handle and tosses it off the bed, “That your place by my side must come with unquestioning obedience. No matter what I tell you to do. No matter what might happen to me. Otherwise, I have no use for you. Do you understand?”
“If you wanted a dog you could have bought a dog,” Sebastian snarls, but he doesn’t pull at his bindings, and Moriarty smirks at him, hands splayed over his shoulders, teeth finding the lobe of his left ear and tugging.
“I don’t want a dog,” Moriarty whispers into his ear, all censure in his tone melted into honey, “I wanted a soldier, Colonel. Now. We’ll try this again. What do you want?”
Sebastian’s shoulders flex, but he grits out, “Whatever you want, sir.”
“Better.” Moriarty nips at the nape of his neck, pushing up his collar, making him gasp. ”But there’s so much work that needs to be done on you yet, my dear.”
As Moriarty’s lips and teeth creep gradually down his spine, Sebastian finds that he’s beginning to look forward to it.
