Chapter Text
The thing about all of this is – no, the thing about Jim is – or maybe not even just Jim, but the Jim and Ed of it all – is that neither Jim nor Ed are very good at the whole “not dating relationship” thing. Ed isn’t, because he constantly feels the tug of more and please and won’t you love me the way that I want to love you. Jim isn’t either, because they’re like a feral cat, hissing and spitting as soon as he tries to let even the faintest hint of affection show.
Maybe they’re both like feral cats, circling each other, waiting for the other to run. But neither of them will leave. So goddamn desperate that they can’t stop coming together, over and over again.
The rules they set in place after the weekend at the ski resort help. The rules make the ache beneath his breastbone ease, just a little. Because he does trust that Jim will tell him if it’s over. He doesn’t have to keep wondering if someday he'll wake up, find them missing, and never see them again. Or he shouldn’t, anyhow.
The rules are still simple:
- They spend time together outside of work each week. Most of the time they have sex, it's true, but not always. One time he went with them to the gym they like, another time they wandered a museum that had a display on piracy. Jim still bristles any time he suggests something that sounds too much like a date, but it's a work in progress.
- Jim isn't allowed to avoid him at work, or in social situations, unless the job they're on calls for it. Ed does them the same courtesy.
- If Jim decides they want to end this, then they will tell Ed, in person.
- Jim spends the night every time they have sex or do a scene, and allows aftercare. They've never had a scene that didn't involve sex, but Ed doesn't want to discount the possibility.
- They will be exclusive to each other, so long as the arrangement lasts.
- Ed will tell Jim, in person, if he is going to leave, or stop wearing the mantle of Edward Teach, Private Detective.
Number seven isn’t written down on the tiny scrap of paper that Ed keeps in his nightstand. Number seven is one that Ed never agreed to, because he knew, as soon as Jim had said it, that he would break it. But he remembers it. He thinks about it all the goddamn time.
- Ed is not allowed to fall in love with Jim.
Neither of them have ever stated the obvious aloud – that Jim doesn't ever think they will be at risk of falling in love with Ed. That one, though, Ed can't think about at all. He already feels unlovable enough. He knows in his head that it's not him, it's Jim, and whatever hurt that part of them that makes experiencing and receiving love an option. But that's not how it feels, and so he stops feeling it at all.
Yes, the rules help. But they also don't. Because they leave him wondering, leave him waiting for that day when Jim says “This isn't working anymore.”
Sometimes he wonders if they feel the same premature grief and loss of when will this end. He hopes they don’t. Or maybe he hopes that they do, and that they’ll realize the relationship for what it is, and throw themselves in full force. That they’ll both stop wondering about what ifs and whens and how longs.
Wishful thinking, that.
But it’s still worth it. It’s still good. Really fucking good, actually. The sex is phenomenal, and when Jim comes along while he's cooking breakfast and plucks hot bacon from the pan, swearing as it burns their fingers – or when they sprawl on his sofa, tell him that they're watching wrestling and he can suffer through it, a grin on their face and a glint in their eye – or when they’re pressed together during a stakeout, and Jim's head rests on his shoulder, the scent of shampoo rising up to greet him – it feels real.
And they’re learning, both of them. Figuring out the boundaries of where Jim and Ed as individual ends, and the Jim-Ed of it all begins. They’re not always good at it – he’s just as much of a cat as they are, and alleycats are known to fight when tossed in the same place too soon – but they’re trying. Jim is still bad at asking for what they want. Ed finds it hard to give them space. Somehow, they’re finding a middle ground.
Ed was expecting, a little bit, to have to be the one asking for time together. The one reminding Jim of what they’d agreed, that there was a contract between them, an understanding about how this would go. Not because he expected to take charge, but because he expected Jim to try and push against the rules, to try and run like they always do. To avoid spending time, unless they were fucking on a whim.
To his eternal surprise, Jim seeks him out. Not all the time. But at least something edging close to half. They’ll barge into his office, scowling like they’ve just bitten a lemon, and tell him they’re free the next two evenings, and he’d better have one of them open. Or they’ll elbow him in his car, tell him that they’re hungry, asking if he’s ever been to this little spot off the park. It’s never soft, never the sweet syrupy way he might’ve hoped something like this would happen when he was younger, but it’s easy. It’s direct. And god, it’s so very Jim.
So when Jim slams into his office on a Thursday evening, all but buzzing with energy, Ed already knows exactly what they’re going to ask.
He glances at the calendar, then at their face. “You’re early. It’s only been three days since the last time.”
Jim scowls. “Fuck off.”
Grinning back and deliberately not taking the all too easy bait and responding with “Well why would I fuck off when I could fuck you instead,” Ed closes the newspaper he was reading – looking for new jobs he and Jim can take on, officially, and reading about a tempting new art gallery that opened last week, unofficially – and sets it on the desk. Not like he would really steal anything from the gallery, anyway. He just likes the challenge of planning a heist every now and then. Keeps the mind sharp. “You’re in a good mood, then. What happened with the Latham’s?”
With a low groan Jim all but flings themself into the chair in front of his desk, dragging a hand over their face. “He fucking tried to refuse payment. We almost got shot – multiple times! – finding his stupid fucking prized Chihuahua, and he doesn’t want to fucking pay us!”
“Told you I should’ve come with you.”
Their scowl turns his way again. “And I told you, I’ve been collecting on assholes who don’t want to pay up for a fucking long time, I don’t need you to come hold my hand along the way.”
“I never said you did. But having someone to smooth talk him while you hulk behind me and wave your switchblade about –“
“It’s not a goddamn switchblade, who do you think I am –“ Jim cuts themself off, closing their eyes, taking a deep breath. “Jesus fuck, you’re not dragging me into an argument. I came here to –“ their teeth bare a little “- see if you were free this weekend.”
He mentally checks his calendar. He’d wanted to go see a film, but that’s about it. And it’s not like he wouldn’t set everything aside for Jim, anyway. “I’m free any evening you want.”
Jim squirms a little in their seat, refusing to make eye contact. “… I was hoping you might be free for the whole weekend.”
It stops Ed in his tracks. He stares at them, mouth open. “The whole weekend?”
Their scowl deepens, if that was even possible. “I want to try – the thing.”
“Gonna have to be a little more specific than that, Jimbo.”
Jim’s cheeks darken a little. They look away again. Ed probably shouldn’t find it so endearing how embarrassed they get over being forced to say what they want, but so help him, he does. “The edging thing. Like… orgasm denial and shit.”
It took Ed by surprise. That wasn’t what he’d been expecting. It had been something he’d brought up weeks ago, when Jim had been particularly on edge. “A way to keep you in deeper for longer,” he’d phrased it, “and to make it stronger when you finally come.” Or at least he hoped it would be.
They hadn’t experimented with orgasm delay or denial yet, or with edging. But he’d been wanting to. Partially because he thinks Jim will like it, and partially because it was hot as fuck. And, if he’s being honest, because he thinks Jim will be deeply, extraordinarily fun when they’re denied something. Spitting mad, likely. Needy as hell, hopefully.
Mustn’t let on how his cock is starting to twitch just thinking about it, though. Ed raises one eyebrow. “Edging? Really? You didn’t seem very taken on it.”
“Yeah, well, I needed to think about it,” Jim mutters. “Could be fun, though.”
His next words come out a little carefully, and as casual as he can make them. Because he wants Jim to stay for the whole weekend, god, he really does. But he’s also getting to know their limits, and a whole weekend is a long damn time to try edging for the very first time.
“We could start smaller, if you like,” he says. “A couple of hours, rather than a whole weekend.”
Jim shrugs, a little too nonchalant in the same way Ed’s casual tone of voice is. Something about it makes his heart patter, hope that maybe they want this as much as he does blooming. Like maybe they want to spend a whole weekend together too, but can’t say it.
“Go big or go home, right?” they say. “Might as well give it a solid go. Try things out properly.”
“Sure.” Ed drums his fingers on the table, thinking it through. “Do you want to start tomorrow evening, or Saturday?”
“Tomorrow.”
The finality surprises him again. Ed nods, giving them a smile that’s barely returned. “Alright. And discussion now, or –“
Jim’s cheeks colour. “Jesus, man, not here.” They glance over their shoulder. “Lucius hasn’t even fucking gone home yet.”
As if summoned by his name, the door to Ed’s office creaks open. Lucius sticks his head in, eyebrows raised and a coy smile on his mouth. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. “What’s that about me?”
Jim groans, and Ed tries very hard not to glare at their secretary. Fucking nosy bastard. Ed wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been listening in.
“We were saying that you need to go home,” Ed says. “I’m not paying you overtime.”
Lucius scoffs and saunters in, holding a file folder that Ed is sure could’ve waited until the morning. “You don’t pay me at all, Jim does. And Jim, you had wanted this tonight –“
They grab the file folder before he can set it on Ed’s desk, quick enough that Ed notices it. Quick enough that he gets curious. Something they don’t want him to see, obviously. Which, of course, means that he wants to steal it from them and read it as soon as he possibly can.
“Gracias,” Jim mutters, not even looking at it before they tuck it neatly inside their suitcoat. Dammit, Ed was hoping he might peek at something inside. They stand up, and Ed doesn’t even bother trying to hide the way he watches them move, all fluid grace. Lucius will notice him watching, but Ed is past the point of caring about that.
“I’m going home,” they say. “Lu, you want a ride?”
He gives Ed a sly smile. If Ed didn’t know better, he’d think Lucius was trying to make him jealous. “Sure, thanks Jim.”
It doesn’t work. Not at all. Definitely, absolutely not at all. Lucius has Pete, and Jim offers Ed rides all the time. Alllll the time.
“I’ll see you both tomorrow then,” Ed says, picking back up his newspaper and snapping it open.
Jim’s knuckles rapping lightly on the edge of his desk forces his eyes back on them. They give him a half-quirked smile, and somehow, it’s enough to settle the growing green pit in his stomach. “Don’t stay too late.”
His heart pitter-patters in his chest, because it’s a treacherous thing. “Promise I won’t.”
Two hours later he’s still at the office. He meant to keep his promise to Jim, he did, but he’s also lonely, and a little sad, and being at the office at least lets him pretend that he’s got work to do. He’s slowly making his way through some paperwork that he knows Jim was hoping to get done, because maybe he can take something off their plate while he’s here avoiding his empty apartment. Not that the empty, sleek office is much better.
His phone rings. Ed stares at it, contemplating whether or not he should just leave it. It’s too late for anyone to call.
… but there’s only a handful of people who have his extension. And if it’s an emergency –
“Edward Teach,” he answers into the receiver, cool round plastic pressed against his ear and the corner of his mouth.
Jim’s voice answers, dry and a little amused. “Thought you were going home soon.”
Ed leans back in his chair, huffing a laugh. “Calling to check up on me, are you?”
“Calling to see if I have to pay you overtime.” There’s shuffling on their end, the clink of a spoon in ceramic. He can just picture them, stirring the coffee they shouldn’t be drinking this late, or the tea they profess to hate but he knows they like. “I tried calling your place to see if we could… discuss the weekend. Thought it might be good to get it out of the way when we’re not at work.”
“Oh. Alright. Yeah, sure, we can do that.” Ed starts tapping on his desk with his free hand, a quiet tik-tik-tik that helps his mind focus. “Alright, what were you hoping for out of this weekend? You want me to edge you – do you want surprises in it, or not? And just edging, or full orgasm denial as well?”
There’s a beat of silence. “Maybe both? But like – don’t stop me from coming entirely forever. I dunno, I don’t really know how it’s supposed to go. Surprise me, maybe. That way I can’t get in my head about it.”
“I can do that.” An idea is forming in his head. Or, perhaps more accurately, has been forming in his head since Jim first walked into his office this evening. “… how do you feel about only being allowed to come a few times over the weekend, and I decide when? Or only being allowed to come at the end of it?”
They let out a low turned-on noise, and he’s not even sure they’re aware of it. “Yeah, okay.”
“Cool. I can do that. Is there anything you don’t want?”
Another silence, longer than before. This one feels different. Less Jim thinking of what to say, and more Jim hesitating to ask for what they need.
Ed can wait. He can be far, far more patient than they are.
“… don’t force me to be good.” They take a deep breath. “And maybe – I want to fight you on it a little. I want it to be hard. Like – kind of like that first time.”
Oh. A low thrill runs through him. “You want me to toss you around a little.”
“Yeah,” Jim says hoarsely. “Yeah, I do. I want it to hurt.”
He can do that. He can make it hurt, and then make them feel so goddamn good that the hurt starts all over again.
“And if you disobey…”
An edge of daring enters their voice. “Punish me.”
There’s more that gets discussed. When they’ll come over, reminder of safewords even if he doesn't think it’s strictly necessary anymore, and all the regular bits. They also talk about meals, because Ed likes cooking, and he likes making sure Jim enjoys what they eat, even though they profess to have little preference in how things taste. Jim promises to bring their strap, and their cocks, and it makes Ed hard sitting in his office just thinking about it.
“Do you want me to pick you up in the morning?”
They hum, a settled, quieter sort of contemplation than the silences of before. “No, I don’t think so. It’s helpful for me to come home first, get my head on straight rather than coming over right from work.”
Huh. Ed’s noticed that they tend not to take him up on rides like this, but he’s always assumed it’s out of some hidden shame, or the ongoing desire to not let Lucius know. Which feels silly, because Lucius obviously knows. “Oh. Yeah, that’s a great call. Probably give me time to get ready, too.”
“Cool.” He can almost hear a hint of a smile in their voice. “Alright. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Ed can’t help the way his own voice goes soft, the love he’s trying to hide creeping in. “Yeah, Jimbo. Tomorrow. Night.”
“Night, Ed.”
The phone clicks. Ed settles the phone back on the receiver, tilts his head back against his chair, and sighs.
“Get it together, mate,” he mutters to himself. “Stop fucking falling in love with someone who won't love you back.”
Ed pushes himself out of his chair, looks one last time around his empty office – and goes home.
Jim is… tense, the next day. At first he thinks it’s about him, and the weekend, but after spending most of the morning watching them while pretending to do paperwork, he thinks it must be something else. Something, he thinks, that might be connected to the very mysterious file folder Lucius gave them the day before.
“Give you a hundred bucks if you tell me what the file was about,” he says to Lucius, when Jim has stalked out of the office to go do – something or other, he kind of stopped paying attention. “The one you gave Jim last night.”
Lucius raises one eyebrow, but doesn’t stop clicking away at his extremely large and quite frankly unnecessary computer. Typewriters and phone calls work just fine, Ed doesn’t understand why they need such fancy technology. “Blackmail, Ed? Really?”
“Come on, it can’t be that secret –“
“Go away,” Lucius sing songs, “or I’ll tell Jim you asked.”
“Asshole,” Ed mutters, but does as he’s told. God, he hates Jim’s assistant, sometime. He stops at the doorway, hovering. “Don’t tell them.”
Lucius doesn’t even look up. “Don’t bother me for at least an hour and I won’t.”
Ed doesn’t pout about it. Definitely not. And he definitely doesn’t go snooping through the filing room that serves as Jim’s office, either. Not that it works. He doesn’t even know what he’s looking for. They probably took it home, and Ed still doesn't even know where they fucking live, so that's not any help either.
At first it didn’t bother him that Jim kept their office in a filing room. But now it makes him wish they would get something better. He keeps trying to convince Jim to come share his big, client-worthy office, but they keep refusing. “We have to keep up appearances,” they argue, while the stacks of papers around their desk grow taller. “You’re supposed to be the fancy boss, remember?”
More and more hates that he's got the title and they don't. The way their hard work and brilliance is attributed to him, all because he's a man, has an impact, Ed knows it does. If sharing the office would help, Ed would do it in a heartbeat. But he’s also seen the way they tense when there’s too much open space in a room and no place to hide, and the way their shoulders seem to ease in their cramped little office. He thinks they like having a space to hide away. So he stops pushing.
And – if he’s being entirely honest, which he’s trying to be, sometimes at least - Ed likes the big fancy office, with it’s sleek, modern feel. It’s so spacious, and makes him feel like he’s finally made it. Even if it’s not his work that earned him the office, it’s his work that’s kept him here. He’s learning how to be the detective that Jim crafted out of nothing. Their work feels more even, and Ed feels less and less like he's just a figurehead by the day. He can see a future here, in a way he never could before.
Christ but if it doesn’t scare the shit out of him sometimes.
Lucius leaves early, picked up by Pete for a Friday dinner. Ed gives him fifteen minutes to make it out of the building, then gathers up his things and heads for Jim’s office. They’re deep in paperwork, frowning and squinting at their typewriter, not even looking up when he comes in.
When Ed raps on their desk with his knuckles they jerk, staring at him with clear surprise.
“I’m going home,” he says. “You’re almost done.”
Jim frowns a little. “I’ve got this report to finish –“
Ed deepens his voice just enough to hold weight. “Jim.” Their mouth snaps closed. “You’ll be at mine by seven for dinner.”
Jim’s pupils blow a little. They swallow, then nod tightly. “Seven.”
“Good.” He dips, leaning across the desk until he can smudge a kiss to the corner of mouth. “See you soon.”
He sweeps out of their office, and only barely manages not to look back.
It’s 6:58 when a knock sounds at his door. When he opens the door Jim is there, a bag slung over their shoulder, jaw set in a scowl. Ed doesn’t even bother looking to see if any of his neighbours are nearby before he leans down, presses a kiss to their mouth, right there in the hallway. Fuck privacy. Fuck waiting any longer.
Jim doesn’t pull away. The thin set of their mouth eases, and they kiss back, soft and easy.
When Ed draws back he gives them a smile, then holds the door open. “Glad you made it.”
“I said I would, didn’t I?” Jim saunters in, dropping their bag on the floor before darting a slightly daring glance back at him. “Not going to say anything about how late I am?”
Ed shrugs. “You’re not late. I told you seven, and you were here before seven.” He nods at their bag, fairly certain he knows where this is heading. “Bag in the bedroom, please.”
Their eyes narrow. Their jaw sets. “I’ll get it later.”
Yeah. They’re itching for a fight. But he’s not going to give them one. Not yet, anyhow.
He reaches out and curls a hand around the back of his neck, squeezing lightly. Ed drops his voice a little deeper. “I’m not fighting with you before dinner. Either you go and put your bag in the bedroom, or I won’t touch you for the rest of the evening.”
Jim tenses. Their mouth opens. Ed dips, kissing them gently before they can say whatever volatile thing they’re going to spit out.
It works. When he pulls away Jim’s brow is furrowed, and they’re staring at him in confusion rather than anger.
“Later,” he promises, voice dipping quieter. “I remember what you asked for, and you’ll get it. We can brawl in the living room, if that’s what you really want. But dinner first. We both need to eat.”
Ed barely stops himself from calling them love at the end of it. It’s getting increasingly hard not to do with each passing day.
Jim takes in a deep breath, then lets out. They pick up their bags, and head for the bedroom.
He watches them go, then heads back into the kitchen. Something feels off. By the end of the weekend, he hopes Jim trusts him enough to tell him what it is.
Dinner goes smoother than Ed is expecting. By the time Jim returns from dumping their bags in his bedroom they’re mellower, quiet as they help him set the table and as they sit down to the meal he’s cooked. They seem almost… washed out. Ed can’t help but notice the bags under their eyes, the lines at the corners of their mouth that appear when they think he isn’t looking. He wonders if they’ve been sleeping lately. Wonders if he fucked up by not giving them the fight they wanted right away, just to keep some vibrancy in their eyes.
He hasn’t cooked anything fancy. Just salmon, potatoes, and steamed veggie. Simple, nutritious, and filling. He was serious about wanting them to eat before they fell into things. He would bet his left hand that Jim hadn’t eaten anything since Lucius forced them both to eat lunch. Not that he has, either. They both need to eat, and Jim almost never eats anything after a scene, despite how often he offers.
Jim accepts the offer of white wine. Only one glass each, because he’s not about to start a scene while either of them are drunk. Recipe for disaster, that.
It’s a quiet dinner. Ed chatters, because he’s good at that, but Jim is slow to engage. He’s not sure if it’s the fatigue, or whatever has them itching for a fight – but they barely feel in the room.
He wants to ask about it. He doesn’t.
At least they clear their plate. He’s learned, over the weeks and months that he’s known Jim, that the biggest warning for them being out of sorts is whether or not they eat. They usually have a fierce appetite, devouring whatever he brings them. As they should. They’re both active as hell, and Jim is a regular devotee of their boxing gym. So when they don’t finish a meal, he gets worried.
He’s still worried. But it does ease his mind.
“I can help with the dishes,” Jim says quietly as Ed chases the last potato around his plate. “Since you cooked.”
“Sure,” Ed says, giving them a smile. “But not quite yet.”
He abandons the potato and stands, taking the cushion from his chair and moving beside Jim. When he leans down and grabs their chair they yelp, grabbing it for purchase as he drags it around. The cushion goes on the ground, because he’s not about to kill his knee this early in the game.
Ed drops to his knees, and reaches for Jim’s belt.
“Ed, what –“ Their belly shifts under his hand, trembling for a half breath. Their legs spread, making room for him, letting him slide closer between them.
He smiles up at them. “You’ve been so good tonight. Thought I’d suck your cock as a reward.” He pauses, hand on their fly. “Unless you’d rather I didn’t.”
Dark eyes stare down at him with burning intensity. They look awake for the first time since he asked them to go take their bags into the bedroom.
“I don’t deserve a reward,” Jim rasps, shifting in their seat. His knuckles brush against their belly.
Ed tsks and focuses back on their groin, unzipping the fly of their jeans – god, they’re in jeans, how rarely does he get to see that, when all they wear to the office is slick suits, same as he does – and shuffling a little closer. “You’re not the one who gets to decide that.”
When he drags their jeans and briefs down in one tug Jim lifts up a little, letting it happen. The scent of them fills the air, sweat and brine, and when he grabs their hips, hauls them to the edge of their seat, Jim lets out a quiet, desperate moan. Ed flashes them a smirk - then leans in and drags his tongue up the underside of their cock.
The result is instantaneous. Jim sucks in a breath, whole body tensing. A hand flies to his head, hesitantly touching his hair as he licks them again, broad flat of his tongue along their folds, lingering on their clit.
Reaching up, Ed slides his hand over the one gingerly touching his hair and presses it firmly to his head. They should know by now that he likes being touched when he’s giving them a blowjob. “You can pull,” he says into their cunt, breathing hot over their skin. “Might even let you fuck my mouth a little if you’re good.”
Jim sucks in a breath, hips jerking. Ed shoves their thighs further apart with one hand, the other grabbing their hip to pin them in place. And then he just… dives in.
He likes giving oral sex. He likes the reactions he gets, likes the taste and feel of something in his mouth. Likes making someone feel good, most of all. Yeah, he likes eating people out. But Jim – oh, Ed fucking loves eating Jim out.
They’re more responsive than most of the partners he’s had, all while so obviously trying to tamp down on their reactions and hold everything in place. It’s like they can’t help the noises they give, the way their body shifts and twitches, how their hand clenches in his hair. They’re normally so goddamn controlled. But like this, all that control disappears. He slides his tongue deep into their cunt, and they moan like they forget he can hear it. He sucks their folds into his mouth, and they twitch a little under his hands. He drags the point of his tongue over their cock, over and over again, and their whole body tenses, legs coming up to wrap around his shoulders, hand clenching tight in his hair.
He could make them come so easily. But this is about edging them, about bringing them to the edge and backing off, just so he can do it over again. He’s not going to let them come for at least a day, possibly two, and this is just the beginning.
“Being so fucking good for me,” he says when he comes quickly up for air, “letting me eat you out –“
But when he looks up to visually check in, expecting to see their face close to orgasm – Jim is crying. Quietly, eyes closed and head tilted back, arm over their eyes. But he can see tears running down their cheeks, see the faint tremble of their lower lip.
Alarm fills him. It feels to soon for them to be crying. It happens with Jim, fairly frequently after or during a tough scene – but rarely for something like this. And even then it’s not like this. It’s messy and raw, not quiet desperation.
“Jim.” He squeezes their thigh, watching like a hawk as they flinch. “Can you check in with me?
Jim wipes roughly at their eyes and looks to the side, visibly trying to compose themself. “I don’t want you to stop.”
Ed straightens a little, letting his lower back ease into a better position, and rubs their thigh. “That’s not really an answer.”
Their eyes squeeze shut again. Then, quietly – “This isn’t working for me.”
Yeah. Yeah, he’d figured that part out. It does, however, take him by surprise that Jim is willing to tell him about it. They say it like a confession, like an admittance of some wrong doing. And it’s not. He wishes they understood that.
His knee is starting to ache. Ed shifts onto his ass, stretching his leg out so there’s no pressure on the joint. “Okay. Thank you for telling me. What do you need to change?”
One of their hands grips their other wrist tightly, thumb digging into their skin. Words come quicker, tumbling out of them. “It’s too fucking soft. I need it to – to hurt. Hurt me. I’m not good, I’m a fuck-up who can’t even –“
They cut off sharply. Suck in a breath, then another one, thumb digging harder into their wrist. Their eyes open, finding his, turning into a glare before Ed can even speak.
He knows where it’s going before Jim even moves. They’re not the sort of person who enjoys relying on words, not when actions are right there. Especially not when they’ve just slipped up, baring more than he’s sure they meant to give. And they’re smart, too fucking smart. They know how to get what they want, know how to goad him in the right direction.
His own fucking fault, anyway. Ed had promised them a fight, and he hasn’t delivered. He’d just thought – he’d wondered – that maybe they could start with something easy, bringing them close and then cutting them off before he did the dishes. Something soft, gentle, to start them off. The brawl in the living room could happen later, maybe.
Should’ve known better. This isn’t Jim’s fuck-up, it’s his. He’s not doing his job as their dom, and not doing what they’d all but begged for. Sometimes being a dom is about denial – often, actually – but it’s also about reading Jim and giving them what they need.
What Jim needs is a fight. They’ve clearly made the decision that if he’s not going to give it to them, they’re going to make it happen of their own accord.
Ed braces himself. When Jim’s foot comes up to shove him away he catches it, hauling with all his strength. Jim comes down hard in a flail of limbs, falling off the chair into his lap, narrowly avoiding his stretched out knee in the process. It’s a messy fall, their shoulders smacking against the seat of the chair. Ed barely manages to reach and catch their head, haul them in before it hits, too. Jim is already snarling and struggling against him, one hand shoving at his chest as they try and gather their legs underneath themself.
But he’s stronger than they are, even if they’re generally more determined. Ed tightens his grip on the back of their neck, slides his hand up to their hip, and rolls until Jim is underneath him on the kitchen floor. From there it’s easy to drag their thighs apart and slot himself between them, to snatch up one of their hands and pin it to the floor beside their head.
Well. Not easy. Nothing with Jim is ever easy. But it's as painless as it gets, he supposes.
He has a choice, now. The punishment Jim is seeking would be more of a reward, and a part of him doesn’t want to reward them trying to hit him. There are other punishments he could do; making Jim wait for him to touch them again, or putting them in the corner and ignoring them for a while. But he knows that if he walks away now, Jim will leave.
They would be right to. Maybe it’s not really a choice at all. Jim said that this wasn’t working, and asked for what they need, through both word and action – so Ed can give it to them. Ed is going to give it to them.
“That wasn’t very nice, Jim,” he says, voice deep and low. “Are you itching for a punishment, or just trying to be unpleasant?
They struggle against his hands, bucking under his body. Ed has to drop his weight, pinning them down with hips and thighs and hands. They’re stronger than they look. “I told you,” they gasp, “I’m a fuck-up. I’m not fucking good. So punish me for it.”
He doesn't know what the fuck happened to put them in this headspace, but Ed is determined not to let it stay. He knows what it feels like to believe you're nothing good, and god, he doesn't want that for Jim.
Ed shakes his head, then kisses them hard, teeth sinking into their lower lip. “I’ll punish you,” he says, dragging his mouth down to bite their jaw with enough force that he knows it’ll bruise. “But not because you’re a fuck up. I’m going to hurt you because you asked me for it, and because I know it’s what you need.”
Jim’s tears haven’t stopped. The whole of Ed’s attention is on them, focus so sharp it hurts. They’re struggling, but it doesn’t feel like the shaking from before.
“You have three options,” he says, voice still low and just on the edge of angry. “One – I put you in a stress position and leave you for a while.” They’re not going to take it. He knows they won’t. It's not harsh enough. “Two – ice.”
Jim’s head tilts back, giving him better access to their throat. “Ice?”
“Ice,” he agrees, nipping sharply just under their jaw. He wants another option that will be physical, non-impact, and painful in a way the stress position won’t be. He doesn’t know if Jim will take the ice either, but they might. They might want a different sort of pain tonight than impact play. “It will hurt.”
They shiver. “You said three options.”
“I did.” His hands tighten around their wrists, hips grinding together. “Three – I bend you over my lap right here and now, and beat your ass until its cherry red.”
Their answer comes immediately. “Three!” One of their legs wraps around his hips as they grind up against his cock. “I want you to hit me –“
It’s so fucking hot that he can barely stand it. The guilt and self-hatred doesn't do it for him, but the way they love being hurt does. Ed closes the scant distance and presses his mouth against theirs, kissing them hungrily. Jim kisses back just as hard, teeth and tongue against his wet mouth –
He could stay here for hours, just like this. Just kissing them, feeling them underneath him, listening to each noise he drags out of them. He’s never met anyone that he wants to kiss as much as he wants to kiss Jim, and it kills him every fucking day that they don’t feel the same.
But that’s still not what this is about. It’s about Jim, and what they need, and the way he’s going to bend them over his knee.
He breaks the kiss. “Check in with me.”
Their pupils are blown. The tears have started to dry. Jim bucks against his weight again. “I’m good, keep going –“
Good. Ed nods. “Okay.” Kisses them again, hard. “Are you going to behave and let me move you, or are you going to make this hard?”
Their hips roll against his. “Think it already is.” There’s a flash of a grin, and Ed barks out a startled laugh as the joke sinks in. Jim almost never jokes during sex, and especially not during a scene. Especially not after they've been crying. Just that one time, what feels like ages ago now, when they’d teased him about freezing cold fingers in his ass and god, he wants them to get to this point all the fucking time. It's reassuring, though, makes him think that this can be fun for them too, and not just release.
Jim tenses, and he has a split second to get out of his head and bear down with his weight before they speak. “And you’re just going to have to see, aren’t you?”
Ed doesn’t want a full on fight in the kitchen. There’s no space for it. Too narrow, too many hard surfaces. Tomorrow he’ll move the coffee table out of the living room, wrestle Jim until they’re worn out on the soft carpet. But here, now, he’s got to keep control of flailing limbs as much as he’s got to keep control of their will.
He moves quickly. Doesn’t give them warning, tries to limit any telegraphing of his movements. Jim is a good fighter – better than he is by far – and it takes effort to make sure they don’t see him coming.
Push to his knees, never letting go of Jim’s wrists. Twist off of them as they start to kick, flipping them over in the same motion until they’re face down on the kitchen floor. Drag them across the floor, ignoring the way the sharp yell of rage they give out. Then he’s close enough to the cabinets that he can let his own ass hit the floor so he sits down, lets go of one of Jim’s wrist and reaches for the inside of their thigh instead. Grip hard enough to give them bruises, and haul with all his strength, dragging them into his lap as his back finds the cabinet doors. They shove up with a curse, wrist twisting out of his grip – but Ed gets a hand on the back of their neck, slamming them back to the floor. Not hard enough to hit their head, but hard enough that they cry out, going limp for a split second.
The split second is all he needs. He re-claims Jim’s wrist with the other hand, dragging it up behind their back, pinning it ruthlessly against their spine. Gives their neck a warning squeeze, then lets go, transferring his hold on their wrist between hands so that the hand closest to their ass has easy access.
By the end of it, Jim is soldily lying across his lap, head resting on the floor, chest and belly across his thighs, ass at the perfect place for him to smack it. He’ll be able to put just enough power into each blow.
At least their jeans are already down, tangled around one of their ankles. It’s half of why he was even able to wrestle them into his lap so easily, Ed is sure of it. He smoothes his free hand down Jim’s back, palming their naked ass. Their skin is cool to the touch, but it won’t be for long.
“Count them out, Jim,” he orders, rubbing their ass to warm it up. “If you miss one, we’re done.”
Usually he would start over if one got missed. But he’s got a strong suspicion that Jim would keep missing them on purpose, just to get him to go longer.
Jim bucks against his hold. “Fuck you –“
He doesn’t even bother responding. Just raises his hand, then cracks it swiftly across one beautiful ass-cheek. Jim jolts with the hit, their cursing turning into a cry of pain.
“Count them,” Ed repeats, voice dipping into a growl as he rubs his hand across their ass. “I won’t ask again.”
“One,” Jim pants out, whole body tensing as they struggle against him again, “you motherfucker –“
Ed hits them again. He’s keeping the first strokes light, giving Jim a chance to warm to the sensation. If he were to ask, he knows that Jim would tell him to just hit as hard and as fast as he can, but that’s why he isn't going to ask. Fuck, if he were to only listen to what they want, and not take safety into consideration at all, he’s sure Jim would have him carving pieces out of their flesh, bit by bit.
No. He can do better. He can be safer than they want him to be.
Besides. Starting out light, warming them up, will make it hurt even more in the long run.
They cry out again as his hand smacks their ass, shifting on his lap. But they don’t speak. So he waits. Hand raised, waiting.
“… two.”
“Good,” Ed murmurs, easing their wrist down to lessen the strain on their elbow, pinning it to the small of their back instead. And then he spanks them again, the palm of his hand blooming their other ass cheek a gorgeous red.
The answer is quicker, this time around. He only has to wait to a count of four with his hand raised before Jim spits out another curse. “Fucking - three!”
The next hit lands a little lower on their ass cheek, but just as easy. The next after that, their opposite thigh. Five spanks turns into ten. His strokes become harder. He stops holding back; starts aiming for that tender spot between their ass and their thighs in between varied strokes to the meat of their ass and the thick of their thighs; keeps listening, watching, for all the signs that this is having the impact Jim wants.
At five strokes they were still cursing, tense and angry on his lap, fighting him with every step. At fifteen they’re counting off each stroke immediately, free hand clenched into a fist on the floor by their head. By thirty they’re squirming against his legs, making small, unconscious noises with each hit.
“Check in with me,” Ed says lowly, pausing to slide his hand over Jim’s reddened ass. It looks fucking gorgeous, and he can’t help but give one ass-cheek a squeeze, heat growing in his groin at the gasp it gets him.
Jim shudders. “I’m not done.”
“I never said you were.” He taps his fingers against their ass just to feel them shudder again. “But I want you to check in with me before I’ll keep going. Does anything other than your ass hurt?”
They squirm against his lap, and he’s not sure if it’s discomfort over being forced to check in, or squirming from the pain. “Man, I don’t need –“ he squeezes their ass, and they stop. Breathe. Start again. “I’m fucking fine.”
Ed waits. He’d asked them for more than that, and Jim knows it. Checks in with himself, too. His hand is sore, but nothing unmanageable. Same with his thigh, his knee, holding the weight of them. He can keep going.
“… I need my arm free,” Jim mutters. “Fingers are going numb.”
Ed gives their wrist a light squeeze and lets go so they can reposition. “Thank you for telling me. Anything else?”
Their head twists, and they glare at him out of the corner of one eye. Their shoulders tense, and he has just enough presence of mind to slide his hand to the back of their neck, pinning them to the floor, before they try and shove up. “I already answered. Now will you just stop fucking talking and hit me like you fucking mean it –“
He's being baited, he knows he is. But it still works. Ed doesn't wait, just rears his hand back and hits them again. He flattens his hand, because he knows it’ll hurt more; he aims for the soft, tender spot just below the curve of their ass; he hits harder, and faster, and then slow just to make them squirm. He hits them over, and over again, until his hand burns, until their ass and thighs are so fucking red that he wonders if it can get any worse. Until Jim starts crying all over again, whole body shaking with it.
They make it two strokes after they start sobbing before they lose count. Ed was preparing to call it, counting down in his head, when Jim trips over the same number twice, and that’s it, they’ve hit their limit. Ed rests his hand on the back of their burning hot thighs, smoothing his other hand up and down their back. They’re all but clinging to him now, shaking on his legs.
“All done,” he says softly. “You did so well.”
Jim shakes their head, tensing up. Their voice comes out pleading, half-broken from tears. “Keep going. Please, Ed –“
Ed wants to give them everything they want, everything they need. But he’s not going to let them keep going so long and so hard that they get hurt. Or that he does. Sitting on the kitchen floor won’t do him any favours if he stays much longer.
“No,” he says, just as soft and twice as firm. “We’re done. I’m not hitting you again.”
Jim doesn't ask again. They bury their face in one arm and cry, all quiet sobs and hitching breath. Ed strokes their back, firm, gentle touches, rucking their shirt up higher. Never under their binder, but over it, the whole length of their spine. He doesn't talk, just makes low, soothing sounds as they cry it out.
He still doesn't know what it is. Doesn't know if it's the headspace from before, or the spanking, or the pain finally giving them space to be upset. Wonders if that's why they sought him out for tonight, if they knew they would need this. He wants to ask. He doesn't.
But their tears ease, and then Jim starts shifting, squirming on his lap in a way that makes him smile. Ed slides his hand back down to their ass, palming over heated flesh until his hand meets one reddened thigh. It’s beautiful. Squeezing their thigh gently, Ed then slides his hand between them, fingers nearly brushing their cunt. They’re soaked, slick wet on their thighs.
“Do you want a reward for being so good for me?” he asks, voice as tender as he thinks they'll permit. He doesn't want this to feel like an order. “You took your punishment very well. Or do you want us to be finished?”
Their legs part immediately. Jim shudders, squirming harder on his lap, rutting back so they can just rub against his fingers. “Touch me, por favor –"
The eagerness, even as their voice is still thick with tears, sends heat spreading through him. This whole thing has been a fucking turn on, and he's glad it is for them too, even if it's not a surprise. They wanted a distraction, and this is part of it. The pleasure, along with the pain. And the two go hand in hand for Jim, he knows they do. Pain turns them on. Turns both of them on. And thank fuck for that.
“Look at you, asking so nicely.” Ed runs the pads of his fingers against Jim’s folds. “You can choose, because you’ve been so good for me. Do you want my fingers, or my cock?”
That gets him another low, needy noise as one of Jim’s hands finds his thigh, clutching tight. “I don’t – don’t fucking care, just touch me –“
Ed has been dreaming about fingering Jim open after beating their ass for what feels like forever. At least since that second time they fucked, when he belted them on his couch. The mix of pain followed immediately by pleasure is just so goddamn intoxicating. Someday he wants to do both at the same time – a moment of touching them followed by his hand cracking across their ass, just to see how high he can drive them. But tonight he'll just finger them, exactly as they are.
It's not a good angle for this. There are better ways – he could bring Jim up to straddle his thigh, grind on his fingers so he can see the look on their face when he denies their orgasm. He could lay them out, slide a hand under their ass to squeeze as he fingers them open. Stand them up, see how long their legs last while he watches from below –
But Ed doesn't want better. He wants the weight of them across his lap, warm and solid and real. He wants their hands clutching his thigh, their body shifting desperately as he slides two fingers inside them. He wants the awkward angle, the pinch in his wrist as their legs part wider and he tries to fuck in deeper.
Ed hasn't been in a habit of giving himself what he wants for a long, long time. But he's trying, and fuck if he's going to deny himself this, not when Jim wants it just as much.
His fingers fit inside Jim like they were meant to be there. Even like this, even with the awful angle and the cramped wrist. They're so wet, and it makes Ed moan, makes his cock twitch in his trousers just at the feel of them. Jim makes their own noise, too quiet like they're trying to hide it, grinding down onto his hand, shoulders shaking with the effort.
“Let it out,” Ed murmurs. He palms their ass with his free hand, squeezing over the bright red marks where he hit them. They're hot here too, burning, and he knows it hurts. That's the point of it all. And sure enough, as he squeezes their ass cheek the noise Jim has been trying to hide turns sharper, louder. They cry out as he rubs inside them and admires their ass, as he works them with both hands, as he drives them higher.
“And tell me when you're close.” He doesn't think it'll take long. It never does, after a scene like this, and Jim is already rocking onto his fingers in tight, sharp moves. He knows what they look like when they're close, he's been drinking in every sign of it for months, now.
He gets it. He's close, too, has been for ages. Spanking them works for him, and his cock is hard in his trousers, trapped beneath layers of cloth. He can ignore it, he's always been good about ignoring it, but he loves the way Jim moves on his lap, loves the muted pressure it brings.
“You are not to come without permission.”
Jim makes a wounded noise, fingers digging into his thigh. “That's not fair -"
“You didn't come here for fair. You came here because you wanted me to push you.” He leans forward, shifting the angle of his arm so he can fuck his fingers in deeper, because they like it deep, like feeling full. He adds another finger for good measure, smiling at the noise they make. “Now tell me when you're close.”
Their whole body jerks. Jim moans, legs and back tensing as they grind not back onto his hand, but forward onto his thigh, trying to get any contact on their clit. Ed drags blunt nails across their bright red ass cheek, just to hear them moan again, desperate and loud –
“I'm close,” Jim blurts out, voice that same messy desperate pleading and god, Ed doesn't think he's ever heard anything as beautiful as the way they beg, “fuck, Ed, please, let me come -"
He wants to let them. He really does. They're so stunning when they come.
But Ed wants to see what they'll be like after three days of riling up even more.
“No. Not today.” Ed eases his fingers out of them, laughing as their thighs clamp around his hand. Their thighs are strong, but there's still no contest. “Oh no, you can't keep me here.”
Jim's face turns towards him. Blotchy, darkened cheeks, eyes still red from crying. “If you won't let me come then please – please come in me – or on me, or let me suck you off –“
It's a fucking miracle that Ed doesn't come in his pants right there and then. “Fuck, Jim, you can't just say that –“
He spills them off his lap, urgency he hasn't felt until now coming on strong. His cock aches, and all he wants to do is jerk off all over Jim's cherry-red ass. Jim starts to push themself up, another plea on their mouth, but Ed presses them back down with a rough hand, climbing to his knees. It's a bad idea, his knee is already aching, but he won't be here long.
Jim relaxes back onto the kitchen floor, twisting their head to peer at him over their shoulder. He straddles one thigh, fumbling with his fly, hands suddenly clumsy. Drags his cock out, gasping at the firm feel of his own hand around himself. He's hard, achingly so, pre-come already dripping from his slit.
There's something so fucking filthy about this that's doing it for him. Because it's not just the way he'd spanked Jim, or how well they'd taken it; it's not just the noises Jim makes, or the way their ass looks so fucking good, or the blissful look on their face. It's also the grit of the kitchen floor, and the way his boxers are wet with his own pre-come, and the way Jim's clothes have been so hastily shoved up and down for him to get at what they want. It's the scent of them on his fingers, and the taste of their slick when Ed raises his free hand to his own mouth, shoves two fingers inside so he can suck them clean. It's the way that Jim reaches back, curls a hand around his calf, saying “I want your come -"
Ed barely has his hand around his cock for thirty seconds before he's coming. It's a hard orgasm, the kind that takes his breath away, the kind that leaves him weak at the knees. Come splatters across Jim’s ass, their thighs, their lower back. Jim gasps, eyes closing, face twisted in pleasure, and Ed is sure he looks the same. He feels wrecked.
The sight of his come on their skin is… it's so much. It's gorgeous, for one, and makes him feel possessive as hell, for another. He wishes he had a camera, a polaroid, so he could capture this instantly. Capture it, tuck it away in a drawer so he never forgets. Or display it on the fridge, so he gets to see the look on Jim's face every time they come over and see it.
But he doesn't own a camera. So he just stares at them, reverant, drinking it in as long as he can. Reaches out with one hand to touch them, lightly at first, then smearing his come across one heated ass cheek.
They had begged for him to come inside them. And he didn’t, he knew he wouldn't last that long, and he wanted to see this. But the idea of it is a heady one.
Ed swipes two fingers through a thick smear of come, then slips his hand back between Jim's thighs. “There you go,” he says roughly, sliding his fingers home, pressing his come deep inside them, “you wanted my come in you.”
He barely has time to register the desperate noise Jim makes before they're scrambling up, turning around, and crashing into him with a furious kiss. Mouth open against his, biting and hard, hands coming up to fist in his long hair, to claw at his shoulder.
“Jesus christ,” they gasp, “fuck, I can't –“
Their hand on his shoulder disappears, reaching down between them. For a moment Ed thinks they might be reaching for his cock, but then he realizes they're going for their own. They shove two fingers into themself, and that's all the time they get before he grabs their wrist, drags their hand away.
“Oh, no,” he says, kissing them again and then standing, dragging them to their feet, “no, none of that, come on now. We're done.”
Jim struggles, trying to pull out of his grip, but Ed just drags them in, enveloping them in a hug. The kind of hug that's less about holding them, and more about keeping them restrained, but he'll take any excuse to have them in his arms. They thrash, trying to shove away, but Ed just holds them closer, arms tight around them. Like a switch being thrown it shifts, and they're no longer struggling. They're holding him back just as tight, fingers clawing at his back, face pressing into his shoulder. Ed makes a low sound, rocking them gently as they start to shake.
And then the tears come again. Quiet, but soaking through his shirt as Jim cries into his shoulder.
“I know,” Ed murmurs, because he gets it, or he thinks he does. “It's a lot.” He presses a kiss to their hair, smooths a hand up and down their back. “You're alright.”
Aftercare is still something they’re working on. They’ve got a routine, now, which Ed is eternally grateful for. And Jim’s willingness to let Ed cuddle them keeps growing, bit by bit. It helps that he runs warm, while Jim is eternally cold; once he realized that he could strip down, give them a space heater to plaster themself against, cuddle time became much, much longer.
Today it’s simple – peel sweaty clothes off both of them, wipe the come off their ass and thighs because it'll dry into something awful, make Jim drain a glassful of water (with only a bit of grumbling and complaining), and grab the thick warm blanket that they seem to favour. Wipe the tears from their face, and then kiss them for good measure. Check out the already faintly bruised line across their shoulders where they'd hit the chair after Ed first pulled them off it, then rub bruise cream on, just in case. Then Ed sprawls on his back on the bed, drags Jim on top of him, and puts the towel-wrapped ice pack on Jim’s ass. Another ice pack goes on his knee, because yeah, he'd pushed it a bit hard tonight. The blanket goes over both of them, although he doesn’t need it.
Jim cries for the first ten minutes, and quiet for the next ten after that. They’re often quiet, this close after a scene; they’ve yet to go fully non-verbal, but they seem to need the quiet. Ed doesn’t mind. Even his mind, which is usually so fucking full that he can barely get his thoughts to stop, goes calm in these moments.
Every five minutes, Ed shifts the ice pack to another part on Jim’s ass, and moves it on and off his knee. They shiver against him, tucking both hands under his torso. He presses a kiss to their head, wraps both arms around their back to give them a bit more warmth.
At twenty five minutes, Jim speaks.
“Can’t believe you asked me if I wanted ice as a punishment,” they mutter against his collarbone. They start shaking a little, and he has a split second of panic before he realizes they’re laughing. “After I fell through the ice only two fucking months ago, man. Gonna give me hypothermia all over again.”
… well. Fuck. He hadn’t thought of that. “I was caught in the moment,” Ed protests, like he hasn’t been idly planning out punishments for the past few weeks whenever he has down time. He thought ice would be fun. He hadn’t forgotten about Jim falling through the ice – he doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget the sight of them disappearing underneath it, or their blue lips and frozen hair – but he hadn’t connected the two at all. “It seemed like a good idea at the time –“
Jim’s voice dips, taking on what he thinks is a quite frankly terrible approximation of his accent. “’Here, Jim, I’ll punish you by making you re-live the time you almost died – next we’ll dump you in a freezing cold bath –“
“I will if you don’t stop,” Ed threatens, his own laughter marring the words. He digs his fingers into Jim’s ribcage, grinning at the way they jerk to get away, yelping. The yelp quickly turns into giggles as he keeps tickling their sides, sharp breathless laughter that Ed has never heard from Jim before. He keeps going, greedy for it, drinking in every sound they can’t help to make. He loves them, so goddamn much -
Jim’s hand curls around his wrist, slamming it to the mattress. They shift up to hands and knees, the ice pack falling off of them, and grab his other wrist, slamming that one down too as they lean over him and grin.
“You motherfucker,” they say breathlessly, grinning wider than he’s seen in… weeks, maybe. At least this week. How long has it been? “I am not fucking ticklish.”
“No?” Ed grins and wiggles his fingers, curling them around to tickle the insides of Jim’s wrists. The sensitive insides of Jim’s wrists. They yelp, moving their hands further up his arms until he can't reach their wrists anymore, then shoving his whole hands under their knees to keep them pinned. It makes Ed laugh even harder. “You’re so right,” he says, gasping for air, not even trying to get a hold of himself. “The great detective Jim Jimenez is far too hardened and stoic to be ticklish –“
“I’ll show you ticklish –“ Two hands come for his armpits, and it’s only a matter of seconds before Ed is writhing underneath them, howling with laughter, trying his hardest not to throw them completely off the bed. He gets one hand out from under their knee, bucks at the right moment, and flips –
The thing is – Jim’s a good fighter. No, Jim is a great fighter. They had the leverage. If they didn’t want to go over, they wouldn’t have.
Ed feels the moment they give in. The strength they’re holding him down with dissolves, their face twisting into something like bliss as Ed rolls them over in bed, pinning them down with all his weight. He catches both of their hands, drags them up beside their head, reversing the move they had him in but moments before. Jim arches against him, one leg wrapping around his waist, grinding against his cock as they grin up at him, bright eyed and breathless –
They’re so fucking handsome like this. Ed can’t help but lean down and kiss them, letting his weight melt onto them, feeling them relax under him in turn. He reaches up, cups their face with his hand, reeling all over again from something so simple as the softness of their skin. Jim’s tongue drags across his bottom lip and Ed opens for them, moaning as they slip into his mouth. They kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him, until they’re both breathless from it.
Jim grinds up against him again, and he realizes that they’re still wet. Soaked, actually, bare cunt dragging slickly across his soft cock. He won’t get hard – not this soon after coming – but Jim doesn’t have that problem. And even more, Jim didn’t come. Jim won’t come, not for days.
“Feeling a little desperate?” he teases, breaking the kiss to pant down at them. He slides a hand between their bodies, finds their clit. “Need me to work you up all over again?”
Jim groans and arches into him, hands clawing at his shoulders. “I’m so fucking horny, man, this edging thing is the fucking worst –“
Ed barks a laugh and starts rubbing them, hard and fast. “You asked for it.”
“Doesn’t mean – fuck – doesn’t mean I have to like it, Jesus Christ, right fucking there –“ Nails dig into his shoulders. Jim’s head falls back, baring their throat.
He doesn’t want to start another scene. This is part of their aftercare, and he’s not willing to fuck that up. But god does he want to put his hand around their throat.
Ed settles for leaning and sinking his teeth in, instead. And yeah, it's probably edging too close to another scene, too, but fuck. Jim gasps, whole body tensing, slick cock rocking down harder onto his fingers.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, mouth trailing an inch south before he sinks his teeth into their throat again. He’s going to litter them with bruises, so that anyone who looks at them knows that they’re his.
“Make me come –“
He bites them harder, rubs at their clit a little faster. “No. Not yet. You’re not the one who gets to decide when it happens.”
Jim lets out a wounded noise and shudders under him. “Then put your fucking – fingers inside me again –“
That, he can do. Ed curls his hand down and buries two fingers into their cunt, moaning at how wet they are. He hasn’t cleaned them up yet. It’s his cum mixed with their slick and Ed’s half-tempted to crawl down their body and bury his tongue inside them all over again, just to see what they taste like mingled together.
The thigh around his waist tightens, heel digging into his ass. Jim rocks down onto his fingers in sharp, furious jerks, and oh, fuck, they’re so much closer than he thought they were. Small noises fall from their mouth, and if Ed doesn’t back off now they’re going to come –
He drags his fingers out of them and shoves up, away from their body. Jim makes a furious noise and grabs for him, but he’s already dragging their leg from around his waist, reaching for a wrist, pinning both to the ground.
“Nice try,” he laughs, grinning down at them. “I told you – you’re not coming.”
They let out another noise of rage, struggling against his hold. Ed hooks his knee over their thigh, grabs their other wrist before they can reach for their own cunt. “You motherfucker –“
“Yes, I’m very terrible. But we’re not fighting, and I’m not letting you up until you’re relaxed.” He leans more weight on them, tensing to keep them in place. He can do this for a lot longer than they can.
Jim only struggles for another moment before slumping to the bed. They’re still twitching a little, eyes shut, sweat beading at their forehead. “I want to come.”
He’s a little surprised that Jim is stating it so bluntly. Asking for what they want and need is always a struggle for Jim – they’re more likely to just take what they want instead. But maybe they’re so comfortable saying it out loud when there’s no chance in hell that Ed will let them.
“That’s nice. Still not going to happen.” Ed smoothes a thumb over the tender spot on their wrists. “When you’re done fighting me on this, we’re going to go take a shower. Then I’m going to do the dishes. You can help, or you can do whatever you want. Then bed, unless you want to stay up and read.” He leans down, presses his mouth right beside their ear. “And if you touch yourself, you won’t come this weekend at all.”
Their head tilts into him, cheeks pressing together. A mouth smudges against his jaw. “I hate you,” Jim mutters, and he knows they don’t mean it.
He presses a kiss just under their ear. “You too, babe.”
Ed fingers them again in the shower. Easing off just before they come, kissing them until they stop cussing him out. Jim leaves the shower first, and sits on the toilet seat watching him through the glass shower door as he washes his hair, something curious in their eyes. They stay while he dries off, and while he oils his hair, and when he’s done brushing his teeth, lean in to kiss him with a mouth that tastes like mint.
He’s tempted to eat them out again after he does the dishes. But while they’re drying what he washes, Jim gets quiet again. Contemplative, maybe, or just lost in their own thoughts. He doesn’t want to push them into another fight. He’s feeling too worn out for another scene, and he doesn’t want to push Jim too far, either.
Tomorrow. He’ll edge them, and maybe let them come after three or four times backing off; and then he’ll let them come again on Sunday. He still can’t believe Jim gave him free reign over when and how they come, but he’s going to milk it for all its worth. Deny them, and deny them, with the barest hint of relief; and then, at the end of it all, he’s going to make them come so long and so hard that they won’t be able to walk after.
It’s going to be a good weekend.
Later, with Jim pressed against his back in bed, their arm over his waist, warm against his skin, Ed finally dares to ask.
“Hey. You alright? You’ve been quiet today.” He doesn't ask directly about what they'd said earlier. The question is there, sitting on his tongue, but it feels too big.
They don’t move. Their arm is already heavy, and he wonders if they’re asleep. For someone as jumpy as they are, Jim always falls asleep quickly.
“’M fine,” the answer finally comes, quiet in the darkness. “Just tired.”
Ed finds their hand against his belly, gives it a squeeze. He can let them lie, even if it makes a lump grow in his throat. “Okay.”
He could dig more. He could pry. But it’ll only start another fight.
Ed falls asleep, Jim warm and safe against him.
Ed doesn’t know what wakes him. If he were a superstitious man he would call it fate, or the intrinsic tie between he and Jim, or luck; but he’s not superstitious, anymore. Maybe once upon a time, when love was easily at hand, and the one who whispered about it was there to guide him into foolish dreams.
He’s more grounded, now. He thinks he likes that about himself, but sometimes he’s not sure. He misses the dreams, the wild fantasy, the way that he felt young and invincible. But he doesn’t miss the crash that always came after, the wings of love melting away, heartbreak drowning him for months or years at a time. Betrayal is a difficult thing to live with.
Sometimes he still dreams about blond hair, shining in the sunlight. But more and more, these days, all he sees is tangled black curls, dark eyes and a wicked mouth. He’s still not sure if it’s a welcome change.
But for all that he’s not sure about whether or not Jim will ever love him the way that he does them, this is still better. He likes this life – the work is good, and meaningful. He likes helping people, and likes not being constantly on the run even more. And he knows, more surely than he’s ever known with anyone else in his entire goddamn life, that Jim will never, ever betray him. Not like that. Not unless he betrays them first.
No, it’s not fate that wakes him up. It might be the slight ache in his lower back, the stiffness in his knee; it might be the slow, quiet hitching of breath that sounds an awful lot like someone is crying; or it might be the way he’s gotten colder, no warm body plastered up against him.
Wait, circle back. Someone is crying – Jim, Jim is crying –
Ed reaches for the lamp on his bedside table, forcing himself to fully wake up. “Jim?”
Click. Dim light floods the room. He turns back towards Jim, searching the bed for them.
They’re still asleep. Curled up on their side in the fetal position, hands tucked close to their face. Tears track down their face, and their hands are twitching, like they’re trying to reach for something but can’t.
He reaches for them without even thinking about it. “Jim – wake up, love –“
The moment his hand touches their shoulder they’re jolting awake. A hand grabs his wrist, tight enough to bruise, as dark eyes snap to his, wide eyed and frightened.
Ed freezes. Jim keeps staring, not seeming to notice the tears running down their cheeks. If they weren’t holding his wrist he’d think they were still asleep, they’re so goddamn still.
“Jim,” he tries, wetting his bottom lip. His wrist hurts. “You’re okay.”
Jim flinches. “I’m fine,” they rasp, eyes squeezing shut. They’re still crying. “It’s fucking fine –“
“I know,” Ed says softly. “Just a nightmare. You’re at my place, and we’re both okay.”
No response. Just quick, shallow breathing. Their hand tightens around his wrist.
“Jim. Can you let go of me?”
Their eyes snap back open. Jim stares at him, and then at their hand. Upset flashes over their face, there and gone in an instant. They let go, snatching their hand away from him and rolling onto their other side, putting their back to him.
Ed’s heart sinks. It’s a clear sign to leave them alone, but he doesn’t want to. All he wants to do is slide in close behind them, gather them up in his arms. It’s the only thing he wants when he has a nightmare – someone to hold him, and tell him it’ll be alright, and that whatever he dreamt about is so far in the past that it can’t get him anymore.
But Jim isn’t him. And he’s afraid that if he tries, they’ll leave.
“Hey, it’s okay –“
Jim flinches at the sound of his voice. “I’m alright,” they snap, curling tighter in on themself. “It wasn’t a nightmare. Just a stupid fucking dream about shit that doesn’t matter.”
“Jim,” Ed says softly, heart aching. “Come on –“
“I said I’m fine.” Their voice breaks on the word, and Ed’s heart aches. But Jim just curls tighter in on themself, dragging the blankets up around their shoulders, tense and hurt and untouchable. “Go back to sleep.”
Weariness washes over him. Ed closes his eyes, swallows down the sudden lump in his throat. He reaches over, clicks off the light, and lays back down.
Tries one last time.
“If you ever want to talk about it –“
“I don’t.”
Ed closes his eyes, and tries desperately to remind himself that it’s not about him. “Okay. Goodnight.”
He doesn’t get a response.