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As downright infuriating it is so see Moran has ruined yet another suit - it was Armani's new fall collection for heaven's sake - Jim can hardly be bothered about the blood splattered clothes and the irredeemably scuffed shoes when the man looks so damn...intoxicating. The fact that Moran waltzes around like he merely came in from a sudden spring rain, completely heedless of where he throws the red stained trench coat - it lands on a very old, very expensive wing back chair and Jim thinks he'll have to punish him for that later - and the Rorschach like splotches that paint his chest and arms - obviously he wore the trench for whatever initial...misdeed, he carried out and removed it and his suit coat for the clean up - makes Jim eye him predatorily from across the room, abandon his latest scribblings and slink back in his chair with his legs spread, ready to enjoy the show.

And Moran does not disappoint. There is no doubt in Jim's mind that Moran knows exactly what he's doing, because Sebastian Moran is a goddamned tease, and Jim fucking loves it.

Moran never pays Jim any mind at times like these, but wears a half smirk of knowing as he goes about putting on his show for Jim. After he loosens his tie - never fully removing it - he takes the tip of the middle finger of the black leather gloves he wears into his mouth and yanks his hand free, and grabs it from his mouth with his other hand, only to repeat the process. The gloves are soaked and scratched beyond repair, but they're disposable, much like the outfit - damn the man for knowing Jim this well, that no matter how badly he treats the clothes, Jim refuses to see him any way but dressed to the nines - and drops them one, by one, at his feet. His suit coat practically just slides off his arms to pool on the floor, an expensive heap of wool.

The shoes are next, and he props himself with one foot on the same wing back chair - and Jim narrows his eyes in a warning he knows has utterly no effect on Moran, which only makes him grin wider - and with the flick of an elegant wrist, unties one shoe, a switch, then the other. This next bit is Jim's favorite and Moran looks over at him casually, lips quirked, knowingly. He toes off his shoes and kicks them away this twin 'thuds' of leather hitting fancy hardwood, but at the same time brings his wrist up to his mouth to pull out the solid gold cuff links on his shirt. He pauses after the first one, gold dangling from between pink lips, looking up at Jim with half lidded eyes, for a beat before reaching up and taking it in one long fingered hand and repeating the process with the other one. Moran doesn't toss the cuff links aside after this though, he sets them gently on the table next to the chair, carefully making sure at least one etched skull faces Jim.

The tie goes next, flung on top of the coat. He undoes the buttons on his once-white shirt with that same wrist flick, keeping sure to keep the shirt from actually opening and revealing something faster than Moran wishes to. He lets the shirt fall in much the same fashion as the suit coat. Slowly revealing still pale skin and a handful of faded black tattoos.

By now Jim's far past caring about the price of the suit, the shoes or even the fucking chair as he jumps out of his and stalks across the room. To anyone else this sight would be the equivalent of a storm sent by Satan himself barreling down on you, but Moran has never been afraid of Jim Moriarty and Jim often wonders if the man is too smart for it or too damn stupid.

When he reaches Moran there's no hesitation or moment of appraisal at the sight of his right hand man in nothing but a plain white undershirt. He fists a hair in Moran's too blonde hair and wrenches his head back, surely to the point of pain though Moran makes no indication of it, and licks a hot stripe up the column of throat that's bared.

Because despite all his stripping, despite all his fucking teasing, the blood stains persist, not on the clothes littering the floor or soaking into the wing back chair, but on his skin, splashed here and there over his throat and face, sharp lines of contrast on skin where the clothes used to be making the blood look like its own tattoo, so perfectly planned and chaotic, so stark on white, white skin, threaded into blonde hair, cracking in the creases around dark grey eyes and even dotting the inch of wrist rucked up in the heat of the moment. Jim tastes the metal of it, the heat of the skin beneath, so much living and dead in one second, so much of some crazy, psychotic man who Jim hates to love.

He yanks Moran's hair back just a touch too far and Moran just huffs out a laugh, and Moriarty grins from ear to ear.