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[ Crane can't figure out Moriarty and that bothers him--bothers him a lot. It's the reason why he's up when he shouldn't be, sleep schedule messed, and it's the fourth or fifth time he's paced his own room that he fires a text off to one Jim Moriarty. ]
My place when you're available.
[ Nothing else. He's at least figured that no matter the circumstances Moriarty will come at his own leisure. The best he can do is wait. ]
My place when you're available.
[ Nothing else. He's at least figured that no matter the circumstances Moriarty will come at his own leisure. The best he can do is wait. ]
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But even now, in days that surrounding eyes are at their peak of attention, he is squirming in the skin of Richard Brook. As if sweating in it, eager to claw and peel away. Just dreadful, absolutely dreadful. It's moments like these he wants to go back to that moment. That laugh of Sherlock Holmes and their final problem—staying alive in this hell hole of disappointments.
Then he hears the chime; a message. Whether it be a gift from God or the Devil himself, he welcomed it. The glowing text is delivered as a blessing, smiling to himself before typing away:]
When am I not? Expect three knocks.
JM
[And by the prophecy of Jim Moriarty, there are three knocks. Tap. Tap. Tap. And if that door should open, Crane will be welcomed to a very peculiar appearance. Not the sharpness of a good suit, but Jim Moriarty in loose and comfortable fabric. That wasn't Jim Moriarty lurking through the halls, but Richard Brook. Just giving someone a friendly visit, that's all. Yet the reptilian movement of his neck is dead give away, tilting for better view. He's leaning against the wall by the door, patient and content.]
Hello.
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Somehow, Crane isn't sure it's an ego thing. It's something else. ]
Mr. Moriarty.
[ He lets the other in, closing the door behind them. He dislikes lack of privacy. Now it's them. All alone.
"Don't flirt with me, Dr. Jonathan Crane."
A shiver moves through his spine, and to cover it he clears his throat. ]
Didn't think you'd actually come.
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Finding comfort in his place, he rolls his neck from tension aching his body. Finally, behind walls that do not call for Richard. He peeks up at the other man, absentmindedly tugging at the edge of his sleeve. Such an itchy guise.]
Oh, a schedule is clear when you're storyteller bound by space itself. And I should be the one who is surprised by the invitation, really.
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Just like you've never been scared.
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But nothing, absolutely nothing. He's here with that mystery, something Jim Moriarty doesn't quite understand. Sherlock is another who laughed in his face and got away. The feeling swelled in his stomach, but he couldn't quite identify it. Was that fear? The fear that he was out smarted? Defeated? Ordinary?
If it weren't for that thought, he would take into account this distance Crane seems so comfortable with. But he doesn't move, narrowing his vision.]
Never been, never will.
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I was right the first time. [ It's a whisper, but it's hushed and it's there, Crane looming over Moriarty. ]
It's being ordinary.
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But he doesn't, good god, he doesn't. It's a secret thrill that makes this life worth living, those few gleaming individuals that just push. The ultimate distraction.]
You would like that— [A huff of hot breath trapped between of them.] —wouldn't you?
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And I've figured you out, haven't I, Mr. Moriarty?
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Tease.
[Possessive hands snake upwards starting at his chest, smoothing along until he feels flesh at the nape of Crane's neck. He leaves it there, lightly tapping as the snake suddenly mutates into a spider. But keep focused, that inch of space is closing with lips brushing against his.
So.
Still.
The spider's legs tap again. Three times.]
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You're the one that suggested I was flirting with you, Mr. Moriarty.
[ And just like that he has his lips against the other's, hand slowly snaking up the loose fabric of his shirt. ]
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You were, but you didn't let me finish.
"Don't flirt with me, Dr. Jonathan Crane—"
[His kisses have soft pressure, but it's not long before he deepens it to the point their teeth might clatter. A tap suddenly digging in flesh like needles and a kiss nipping at his lower lip, craving for that warm trickle of blood.]
"—because I just might flirt back."
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Good.
[ It's breathy and he uses his free hand to grab the other by his hair, however short, pulling it back so teeth can scrap at that beautiful, long neck before murmuring: ]
That's very good.
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Antsy man.
[He reaches for the hand at his hip, preparing for a struggle. Honestly, thinking he can be the one who tugs and dominates. As usual, it was all a game. A flirtatious game that he aimed to win.]
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The moment he realizes this, however, he pulls his hand back down to settle it on the other's hip, biting the other's lip. ]
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Does he have to do everything himself?
The few buttons and film hold of Jonathan Crane's clothing keep temporary hold of his own attention. Button by button, stripping away the layer between them to reveal slick skin. He works his way down, grazing every inch, greedy and afraid for a lack of opportunities. But the tie, no, he leaves that there. Actually giving it a sharp tug while pressing his face into his collarbone, inhaling. See what you are making me do, asshole?]
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Stop.
[ But it's laced with lust--Crane doesn't want to stop, which is exactly why despite shoving him away hands are slowly moving to the other's pants, carefully, skittish. He's shaking, he realizes.
He's scared. ]
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But he doesn't react much upon it, not this time. Already quite worked up, he doesn't really see the point as he's shoved slightly back. If anything, the contradictory move back just indicates there's a bit of a power struggle here.
Like. Hell.]
Serious now? Are you a saint, you would much rather top than--
[And the slight movement in his tremble catches his eye. Something he didn't quite expect to ever see, Jonathan Crane in rare form, full of a strange fear layered in neediness. Pleasing, soooo pleasing that he can't help but giggle to himself, gently pressing his form closer into his. Shiftiness and friction that dares, complete with a voice that sings:]
You don't really get around, do you?~
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The giggling reminds him of Squires.
Crane closes his eyes, wondering why and how he's simultaneously terrified and yet leaning closer, grabbing Moriarty by the soft fabric of his hoodie and pulling him closer into a kiss. ]
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Clothes. Off.
[A demand from a spoiled brat, matched with eyes that declared "you're mine now." The King has spoken and he's not one to let go. Otherwise, heads will roll. It would be disastrous to end this relationship in such a way, so why not comply?
A finger finds itself trailing up Crane's neck, smoothing over his chin and meeting at his plush lips.]
Pleeeeease, Jonathan?
[He's the one wearing the crown, so OBEY.]
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He slowly loosened his tie, and the blazer came off. The sweater vest as well and it was only until he was in his white button-down and slacks and he's already leaning in for another kiss, unable to take his hands off of one Jim Moriarty despite the glare. ]
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rollssss SORRY BABY so much creepiness
He likes to make that clear, first defined by the afflictive set of motions: A push and hands that intend to smother all sweet breath that struggles to enter; choking. He removes one to begin slipping off his own clothes, a set of motions that display a desperation to be fast, quick, and to the point. Weight on top of the other man, he leans in and breathes against his ear, now intending to tease his nerves.]
I.
[Those damned hands again, tracing along until it stops at his trousers. Oh, nice, that was kind of you to keep on. There's the hasty sound of pants unzipping without permission.]
Will tear you apart.
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uh hello crane literally gets off on fear it is OH. KAY.
And still, all he can say is this: ]
Let go of me.
[ But don't, Moriarty, don't--Crane has never been so secretly thrilled in his entire life.
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Eventually his interest shifts, now with distracting, sleazy eyes blinking up at him.]
Alright, if you say so.~
[Hush of words following in that Cheshire cat grin, plunging into a deeper insanity that calls for torment. Pressing himself up by the chest, he tauntingly causes his lower half to push forward, creating delicious friction. His voice is lilting, slightly raspy from a throat that hardly holds back a moan:]
If you change your mind, you could always beg.
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[ But he's simultaneously urging to get free, to buck his hips (which he does), and the lets out a grunt that's less of a moan and more of a growl, grabbing the other by the hair and pulling him upwards, eyes narrowed.
he wants nothing more than to smack that smirk off his face but he's never been so turned on in his entire life. ]
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Meeting that look with a sniff of disdain, he lets his hands enthusiastically continue their process, tugging both thumbs under the waistband of trousers.]
Sweetheart, you're playing hard to get. [A beat. Ha. Ha.] Wellllll, we could always glare into each others' eyes? That's an entertaining way to get off.
[His voice drips with a sickly sweet tone. Hon-est-ly, he's looking a bit restless, squirming in this bullied hold to find contact.]
Oh wait, you prefer screamy, waily activity. That's intensely different.
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You will scream for me, Jim.
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Kinky.
[Searching hands eventually find their way, ripping constraints to curl tapered fingers around his cock, running smooth strokes down its length. One withdraws to remove his boxers.]
We'll have to see. [—A smooth, entrancing voice—] I bet you ten quid you're screaming "Jimmy" first~