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Jim wakes up, arm feeling like lead, head pounding out a punishing rhythm, and there’s an awful taste in his mouth. He hasn't even opened his eyes yet, and already it's a bad day.
The reason for the ache in his arm moves, and the side of a face presses up against his chest, lips brush over sensitive skin, and he shivers, flops his other arm over his bed companion and lets his fingers travel down the length of an arm, a back, the round globe of an ass cheek, and he gives an experimental squeeze.
It feels nothing like Barbara or Lee's ass, nothing like any ass he can recall touching in the most recent past, and he frowns, wondering who he fell into bed with, and what kind of groveling he'll have to do to make it up to Lee. Though something indistinct niggles at the back of his mind, making him think that maybe there’s nothing to make up to Lee, because maybe Lee is no longer in the equation. Jim’s not sure how he feels about that, and isn’t sure whether or not it should bother him when the thought doesn’t exactly bother him so much as it leaves him feeling a little like something’s been lifted off of his chest.
A foot moves, and, with the way his head is hammering, and his stomach knotting, it takes him far too long to realize that it's not his foot that's moving, but rather that of his possible lover. The foot rubs against his calf, and he realizes that he's in the position of the ‘little spoon’. There's a leg nestled between his, knee between his thighs, and there's nothing feminine about what's pressing against the crack of his ass.
He'd panic, but his heart is already racing, and his head feels like it's going to explode, and he isn't sure if the ache in his ass is a phantom one, borne of pure imagination, or real. Either way, he’s not sure how to feel about it.
The body shifts, parts rubbing up against parts, and Jim freezes when he can feel his blood rush south, and tries to will his sudden hard-on into nothing more than morning wood. Perfectly understandable. Easy to explain away if he's sleeping off a night of drinking in Harvey's bed, though, somehow he doubts that's what happened. Doubts that Harvey would be the type to ‘cuddle’ with him the morning after, or share morning wood together. Harvey’s skin wouldn’t be soft or silky either.
If he's sleeping off a bender with Harvey, then his cock standing at full mast, throbbing and leaking with need, has nothing to do with the even, warm breath that's ghosting across his chest, or the delicate fingers that are, even in sleep, tracing some kind of pattern on his abdomen, like his muscles are some kind of stringed instrument -- a violin.
A memory comes rushing back so quickly that it kicks up his headache a notch, and his stomach clenches, the fingers on them still momentarily, and the knee between his legs wedges itself further north, and Jim holds his breath. Works his way through the broken memory.
There was music. Dancing. Dim lighting. A violin played by a beautiful woman. A haunting, yet soulful song that made Jim want to cry.
Lips. Gentle, unobtrusive on his own.
Kind, understanding words whispered into his ear. Heartbreak, and misery lifted.
A voice. Soft, lilting.
Sharp features, milky white skin.
Delicate fingers and skin that felt like silk.
A mouth that tasted like fine wine, and took his breath away, even as it took the pain of...heartbreak? away.
Jim's head spins at the memories. They give him nothing but snippets, too dark and smoky -- covered in a grimy film of alcohol and drugs -- for him to get a clear enough picture of how he wound up in bed with another man. Again.
It's not the first time that he's been with a man after some kind of drinking binge, though he can count on one hand how many times it’s happened. Jim prefers a woman's company in bed, all supple curves and smooth skin, rounded breasts to match an ass soft as peach fuzz. Wet, welcoming heat that doesn't need to be stretched or worked with lube-slick fingers, though he doesn't mind using his fingers, or his tongue when fucking a woman. Her pleasure adds to his own.
He likes being the 'big spoon'. Prefers soft, breathy moans, backs arching like a cat being scratched from his touch, or a perfectly timed word, the purr of a woman's pleasure moaned into his ear. Silken locks to run his fingers through, the sensitive hollow between neck and collarbone. The way a woman shivers, her whole body singing out the hallelujah of an orgasm when she comes.
Lips move, his bed companion mumbling something indistinct in his sleep, not enough voice to give Jim a clue as to who the hell he's jumped off the wagon with this time, but enough for the lips to drag against a sensitive nub where the man’s head, threaded through Jim’s arm, is cradled against his chest. He shivers in unexpected pleasure. Jim gasps, hips jerking of their own accord, and he can feel his bed partner's cock twitch in response, though, clearly the man's still at least halfway asleep, maybe as drunk or drugged out of his mind as Jim had been the night before.
Jim bites his lip, forces breath in and out through his nose. He's not sure what happened last night, or however long ago it was, if he liked it, hated it, did it more than once, if it was done by mutual consent, or coerced, but he's certain (at least a part of him is) that he doesn't want a reenactment of whatever it was that happened last night, right now, even if his body seems to be on a different train of thought than his pounding head is.
When the man behind him shifts (and just how fucking limber is his bed companion?) jamming his now hard cock further in between the cheeks of Jim's ass, Jim can feel the drying stickiness there, and he knows that the ache he felt earlier was no figment of his imagination. The thought that they'd foregone the use of protection makes Jim's stomach clench in fear, and he curses himself, even though he has no clear memory of what happened.
One AIDS scare should've been enough for a lifetime, and he knows that he shouldn't have spent any time or money on whores when he was serving his country, but he'd been lonely and scared, and in need of something he couldn't get anywhere else, but in the arms of someone, who, for a few hundred dollars, would at least pretend to care whether he lived or died. It was another time, another place. Not something that should have happened in Gotham.
"Mmm," the man he's tangled up with rouses, the tip of his tongue darting out to lick lips, inadvertently licking the already sensitive nub on Jim's chest, and Jim wonders how comfortable the other man is, with his chest pressed to Jim’s back, head threaded through Jim’s arm, legs tangled up in Jim’s.
Jim holds his breath, waits for his roused partner to stop mouthing at him as the man smacks his lips, and turns his head to the side, digs long, slender fingers into Jim's ribcage and hip, causing goosebumps to explode across Jim’s torso.
Jim rocks back, trying to disentangle them, even just a little, but it his movement was ill-calculated and the man's arousal nudges at his quivering hole. Jim's dick twitches, and he slowly lets out the breath that he's been holding as his apparent lover grips him tighter, shoving the head of his cock into Jim's welcoming entrance. It's clearly stretched, and still tacky from whatever they got up to prior to Jim's waking, or maybe this is his second, third, indeterminate number of wakings, because the head goes in smoothly, and Jim's eyes fly open as another memory makes its way to the surface of his mind.
Dark hair, razor sharp features on an angular face.
A smile that is both welcoming and predatory.
Jim bites his lip and presses back. He’s not sure if he wants this to be over, or if he wants to encourage something more. His head is still pounding, and his stomach is threatening to rebel, but his body’s on a different course of action entirely, like it has a mind of its own, and right now it wants what his bed companion clearly does as the man slowly, deliberately rocks his hips forward and Jim’s completely filled.
It’s not as foreign a feeling as Jim feared (wanted?) it to be, and, instead of moving away, or fighting against it, his body, clearly more with the program than he is, rolls over, hips arching off the bed, an arm keeping him centered. The man moves behind him, lips brushing Jim’s shoulder blade, gentle as a butterfly’s wing.
“Jim,” the voice is drunk with sleep, but Jim can hear the smile, can almost see it. Remembers it from the night before.
Remembers everything, but the memory quickly slips away as his body reacts to the ministrations of his male lover, and he’s lost in the rhythm of sex that feels much too familiar, is much too welcome, much too thrilling.
“Jim, oh ghods, you feel so good,” his lover says, voice low and husky, a touch of the ever present smile that Jim remembers this man almost always wearing.
“As good as our first time. Love you, love this, love us.”
Each breathy word is punctuated by a thrust of hips, the tip of a thick cock brushing against Jim’s prostate, making his own breath hitch and he bucks up, encouraging, welcoming, loving every second of this in a way he’s never experienced before. At least not as far as he can remember clearly, because he thinks that it must’ve been this good last night, too, except he’d been too drunk, too high, too pigheaded to think of anything other than what he’d lost when Lee had walked out on him.
Jim remembers that clearly now. Remembers Lee leaving him, his stubborn refusal to follow after her, how he’d sought escape in drink, and wound up, a week later, in bed with Oswald Cobblepot, a golden wedding band around his finger, his heart wrapped securely around Oswald’s little finger.
He rocks his hips backward as smooth, warm hands work their way around his hard cock, coaxing half formed words of pleasure from him that bleed into whimpered pleas.
The release, when it comes, robs him of all coherent thought and takes his breath away. The feel of Cobblepot’s release is one of completion that makes him feel whole. Jim thinks that maybe he sees stars, comes back to earth with the press of feather light kisses trailing down his sweat soaked spine, the playful bite on his ass that makes him smile.
He’s hitched, and he knows that he should probably be terrified, because he’s hitched to a criminal, and he’s a cop, but with Cobblepot peppering him with kisses, and massaging his ass, he’s finding it a little hard to feel anything other than turned on, and loved...cared for, and taken care of.
Funny how things work out, Jim thinks as he falls asleep with Cobblepot tucked close to his side, cold nose digging into his neck, all traces of his headache gone.