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“Ugh.”
You look up from your reading, quickly. Jim annoyed is something that often needs intervention, to prevent it from escalating, and you’ve got good at nipping this sort of thing in the bud. Although at the moment, the irritation seems relatively limited. More mild disgust than genuine frustration, which probably means…
“Client?” you ask.
“A rather detailed one, yes.” Jim rubs his eyes.
“Meaning?”
“He has given rather a lot of specific instructions, which I don’t particularly care for.”
“Imaginative, is he?”
“Hm, not exactly," Jim says, frowning at his screen. "Extensive, yes, original, no.”
“Why, though?” you ask, a bit puzzled. “The whole reason he’s consulting you is to have you solve it, right? So if he has his own ideas, why…”
“Oh, they aren’t particularly useful ideas. Just… let’s call it detailed wishes.” He smiles. “People do love fantasising about what they can't have.”
You snort. “Yeah, I can attest to that bit personally.”
Jim raises his eyebrow, eyes still on his screen. “Why, what are you yearning for that's outside of your considerable reach?”
“Right now, nothing much, but about two years back…”
“Yes?" Jim asks, a little absently.
“You.” You leer. “I used to have a lot of explicit fantasies about you.”
Jim picks up his head from behind the laptop. “Did you, now?”
“Yeah, back while you were still being a cocktease, so, admittedly…”
“One, I was no such thing, and two, tell me more. What kind of fantasies?”
“Nothing compared to the real thing, obviously. Pretty bogstandard ones, although even then you brought out the submissive in me.”
“Did I.”
“Yeah, you know, there was one recurring pretty often, now I think of it, where you…” You trail off and look up. Jim is watching you avidly, chin leaning on his hand.
“One where I what?” he asks, innocently.
You lean forward, forearms on your thighs. “Where you tied me up,” you say, pitching your voice low, and Jim's eyes glitter, “and you had me kneel in front of you, and…”
“And?”
“Surprisingly, you were even more of a bastard in my fantasies than in real life.”
Jim suddenly stands up. “Right. Let's.”
“Sorry?” you say, a little startled.
“Kneel.” He snaps his fingers and points to the floor and you stare at him, wide eyed.
“You mean—”
“As if you weren't deliberately provoking me into this.”
“Well, sort of, but…right now?”
“Yes.” He takes a coil of rope from a drawer and comes back, clucks his tongue. “Well?”
You slide from the chair and drop to your knees without needing another word.
Jim yanks your wrists up behind your back and loops the rope around them, ties a tight knot, and you can feel yourself reacting. Part conditioning, at this point, but also…
You’d never realised how much of a bondage thing you have before you met Jim.
He finishes off the knot, then strides off and drops into a chair, one leg cocked over the armrest.
And then he smirks.
It's… a different smile than you're used to. The same sadistic delight as always but without the usual warmth, or fond amusement. The smile he uses for his victims.
Uncannily alike to the one you used to imagine, in fact.
“Now, what was it, an even bigger bastard than I turned out to be?” he says, his voice deceptively soft.
“Er,” you say.
“I can work with that.” He drops his hands to his flies.
You swallow, mouth dry. Nerves mounting. Not that in normal circumstances sex with Jim is completely danger-free, but even when you know beforehand there’s a high risk of pain or injury or pure bloody desperation, you’ve never once felt anything like fear, or reluctance.
And it’s not like you actually want to back out now, either. But it does feel a bit off. Of course it's still Jim, even with the roleplay, but…
“Here,” Jim says, coolly. “Let's see if you're worth anything.”
You scoot forward, a little hesitantly, but as soon as you come within range Jim stops you, the tip of of his shoe on your thigh.
He tilts his head, then slides his foot up until it's resting on your crotch.
You swallow.
He shakes his head, still with that cold, impersonal look about him. "You desperate little slut," he murmurs.
And while usually that sort of talk leaves you entirely indifferent, right now, for some perverse reason, it hits. You lower your eyes, cheeks heating up.
Jim scoffs, then grabs your neck, none too gently, and shoves your face between his legs.
You take him into your mouth, listen to him react. It’s familiar, and yet not. The position is a bit of a strain, without your hands to support you, and his grip on your neck is still too hard, uncomfortable.
And even his reactions are weird, less open, less honest. It's a bit unsettling, your usual tricks and teasing suddenly seeming like a potentially very bad idea. So you just focus on getting him off as quickly as possible, and try to shake the impression that you're fellating a stranger, and a dangerous one at that.
You don't know how to deal with this. Even in those first days, when he treated you as nothing more than a cheap whore, he never was actively malicious.
He comes with a curse, then shoves you off, forcefully enough that you lose balance and end up prone on the floor, head turned towards him.
And now what? This is usually where your fantasies took a turn for the decidedly masochistic, to the point that you occasionally seriously started questioning yourself.
And Jim is Jim. He’ll know.
Jim pushes himself up, slowly. He saunters over to you, crouches down, then fists your hair and pulls your head up, painfully.
“Still living up to your fantasies?” he asks, sweetly.
“Surprised you're enjoying this so much, actually,” you say, voice slightly strained. “Didn't peg you to be a roleplay enthusiast.”
“I spend most of my professional career finding ways to fulfil other people's wishes, let me do this one just for me.”
“Just for you? What about me?”
“Happy side effect. Now, where were we…” He pulls you up even further and tears spring to your eyes.
And you've got no fucking clue what he’s going to do next. He’s already come, so it’s not like he can use you for that again this soon. And he won’t be interested in your pleasure either, not like that, not unless he can put a twist on it but even then it’s…
You have no idea.
He reaches around with his free hand, gives your throat a rough squeeze—you choke for air, surprised— then moves up and shoves his fingers into your mouth.
"Is this what you want, then?" he asks, and it's weird how different he sounds. You can't put your finger on it exactly, other than again that feeling that there's a warmth missing, a fondness, that he sounds more like when he's with his clients than with you, and…
You moan around his fingers, helpless.
He pulls his hands back, drops you to the floor, then reaches between your legs. You lift your hips a little, instinctively, then immediately regret it as he grabs your balls, hard.
"Or this?" he asks, tightening his grip even further.
You grit your teeth, press your forehead briefly against the ground.
"Oh, come on, now you're being coy? You've been gagging for it, so shouldn't you be overjoyed I'm finally getting my hands on you?"
You press your lips together, keep silent.
"As if I'd debase myself like that," he says, disdainfully, and yeah, that's pretty much what happened in the worst of your fantasies back then. Something you preferred not to think about too deeply, but hearing it out in the open like this is a mindfuck.
He lets go, and you sag in relief, take a moment to breathe. After a moment he takes your tied wrists and pulls them up, but that's all he does, holding you, thumb rubbing your palm.
You tense up in anticipation.
"Let's get this straight," Jim says, and yeah, there it is, that ice-cold suppressed fury, the exact same tone you've heard him use with people just before he tells you to kill them, and, fuck. "I'm not interested in what you want. You're nothing but a disposable tool to me, and even fucking thinking otherwise should be enough to have you killed. So consider yourself lucky."
And then he gently takes hold of your little finger.
Your breath catches.
He's hurt you more times than you count, and often enough seriously too, bad enough that you'd had to have a doctor's visit afterwards.
It's always tied to sex, though. Punches between kisses, knives to your throat while his hand is around your cock, mixing pain with enjoyment until you can’t tell the difference, and frankly a lot of the time that’s exactly the kind of thing you need.
But this?
You quickly try to think of your planning for the next few days, anything important where you'd need your hands 'cause usually it's Jim who keeps track of that sort of thing but there's something off with him and if he's getting in too deep he might not—
He snaps your finger back and you yell, reflexively.
Pain, pure and clear and even you can't get off on this. He lets go, there’s a rough pull at your wrists and then the pressure falls away, rope loose. He grabs your shoulder and rolls you onto your back, and at least this fucking shitshow is over and done wi—
You freeze.
Jim is studying you. Calm, focused, and completely devoid of all empathy.
And suddenly it isn't a game anymore.
Your breath is coming harshly, eyes glued to Jim’s face. He carefully takes your hand back, fingers interlacing with yours, and it hurts.
“This isn’t just fantasy, Seb,” he says, softly, as he squeezes your broken finger. “This isn’t play-pretend. This is me. Do you understand?”
You nod, panting through the pain.
“This is me as well.” He digs his fingers into your knuckles and you sob. “Do you want out? Do you want to go back to the nice version?”
You shake your head and he eases up the punishing grip.
“No?”
“I want you.” You try to meet his eyes. “I want you, all of you. I want—fuck, I want the, the part of you that makes me coffee in the mornings, and, and bandages me up and when I’m hurt and—” You bite your lip.
“And?”
“And I want this. I want this as well. I want it all.”
“Sure?” And with a sharp yank he breaks your ring finger as well and you can’t bite back another yell. “Sebastian, I could cut open your chest and pull out your beating heart if I—”
“And I’d let you.” You blink away the tears, try to even out your breathing enough to speak. “I would let you. Do you understand that? All of you, Jim, it’s always been—fuck—”
He relaxes his grip on your broken fingers a little, watches you, head held to one side. Then, very slowly, deliberately, he wraps his fingers around your middle one, his other hand still around your wrist, trapping you.
He’s still looking at you but it isn’t a question, like it sometimes is, in a way almost asking for permission. And it’s odd because you never realised how often he does that, actually, those quick checks, giving you a moment to breathe, this modicum of control, of agency.
It’s only by its absence now that you realise how much that’s always reassured you before.
He looks down at your hand, back up. He’s going to do it, no matter what, no way out.
You close your eyes, let out a breath. Relax. Surrender. You can hear him breathe as well, slow, deep.
And then he yanks back your finger and you scream, pain whiting your vision for a second.
When you come back to it, Jim has let go of your hand and has settled back, leaning against the wall, arms resting on his drawn-up knees. He's frowning, thoughtful, but as he catches your eyes he smiles, small and tired. Back to his normal self.
Or rather, the self that you are used to.
“Sebastian,” he says, after a moment. “You’re a very strange and stupid man.”
“Yeah, I know.” You sit up, slowly, cradling your hand to your chest. “You’ll have to drive.”
“I will.” He holds out his hand and, with a nervous swallow, you put your own on top of it.
He traces the line of your broken fingers, feather-light. No more threat there, now.
“You shouldn’t, you know," he says softly. "Let me do this.”
“There’s a whole lot of shouldn’ts for both of us, aren’t there.”
He smiles, almost sadly, eyes still on your hand.
“Jim…”
He looks up, then takes your neck, lightly, and very carefully kisses your forehead.
Then he stands up. “Come on. Let’s get you to the doctor.”
You get to your feet, still a little light-headed with the pain, and Jim steadies you. “She isn’t going to be happy about this, is she?” you say. “Unless you want me to lie, say it was a fight…”
“No, she’ll know. It’s fine. She already disapproves of me in many ways, this is just one more on the giant pile. Do you want me to splint them before we go or…?”
“Nah, better that it’s done professionally. I’ll just be careful on the drive there.”
“Fine.” Jim takes his wallet and phone, holds open the door. You go over, hesitate.
“Jim…”
“What?”
You look at him.
Those fantasies. Odd to think back at them. They seem so…simplistic now, a caricature of who he really is. Not that that side of him is nonexistent, that's clear enough—
—this is me as well—
But he’s also so much more than that.
You try to smile. “Next time, let’s do your fantasies.”
He laughs and opens the door, lets you out. “But Seb, darling, what on earth makes you think we haven’t already, extensively.”
“Dream come true, am I?”
“You are painfully right. Come on, let’s get you fixed up.” He locks up and goes past you, to the lift. You watch his back as he presses the button, shifts onto his other foot.
A dream come true. Except you never could have dreamed anything like this. You weren’t even aware this was something you were missing, something you could have.
All of you. Not despite of, not on top of. Just all of him.
“Seb?” He looks over his shoulder, raises his eyebrow.
You smile and follow him down.