weaslee:

“Oh! ” He started to laugh manically, choking hard on gasps for air as his accomplice dug a strong forearm further into his windpipe.  

“Daddy’s missed you too, Sebastian!”

wow i had to get that out of my system. it’s just a quick sketch- mm 10 mins or so. i’ll leave the situation up to interpretation.. heh.. hehehhh.. 

((Hi! I hope you don’t mind I’ve wrote a little something for your image! I’m afraid I’ve never written Sebastian (or Moriarty) before so I apologize for any inaccuracies! And if this makes no sense. I think I lost a few threads along the way and I apologize for that, too!))

There’s nothing quite like having a hand around someone’s throat.

The feel of muscle against the palm, thick and strong but so easily broken; snapped or twisted or squeezed until lips turn blue and eyes bulge, blood vessels burst and clawing fingers fall slack. The tickle of a man’s adam’s apple as it flutters, unable to swallow; the futile gasps of a body refusing to give in. 

This is not quite the same. A forearm is direct and provides more force with less effort, blocking the windpipe and therefore the body from receiving much, if any, oxygen. When given the choice he prefers the most personal touch or none at all. 

Moriarty has never given him a choice. 

Sebastian does not like to get his hands dirty. Close combat is encompassing; flawed scenarios coalesce and fracture with each exchange of blows. Bones snap and flesh tears. Organs rupture and trauma mounts with each successive action. An advantage one moment fractures into nothing only seconds after. It is inescapable and assaulting to the senses; intoxicating as it is horrifying. Addictive as sin. 

Guns are sterile. Distant. Serene. They offer the quiet challenge of planning; measurements and cool necessity, of knowing both present and future, sighting every moment before the target makes a single move. They are a sleekness and power and a precision he has grasped in desperate fists. They are quantifiable and simple and never, ever forget their selves.

There are only so many times one can pull a trigger.

But Moriarty knew them all. With his dark, wide eyes; his cheerful, shit-eating grin. 

He knew every last one.

“Oh,” This man breathes, at once dead and now reborn; voice tinny and weak yet sing-song sweet. Black eyes sparkle with adulation as he wets his lips in a sinuous curl of his tongue, “Daddy’s missed you too, Sebastian.” 

His fist clenches; forearm pressing harder on the pulse beating steady as drum. Something already torn yawns wider, something deeper renews its howls.

“You’re mad.” He breathes. The beat of his own pulse pounds in his ears. His forearm flexes, instinctively; dark eyelashes flicker, then open comically wide.

Jim’s dark rose lips purse in a mockery of a kiss.

“I know you are, but what am I?”