bakerstreet | So not appropriate

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So not appropriate

The Highly Inappropriate Sexual Tension Meme

Touches. Glances. Sides brushing, so close to each other. The moment is, most likely, quite, subdued, and calm. Or it could be loud and full of life, right in the middle of a vivacious party. Yet, no matter the case, your blood is pumping - no, nearly boiling with the passion bubbling between you and your companion.

Unfortunately, this sexual tension is completely and absolutely out of line. Whether it be the place, the time, your relationship with the person (be that literal relation or power difference, age difference, experience difference, and so on), your own lack of knowledge, or personal convictions, you should not act on any building desires.

But here's the thing about tension: it builds. It builds, and it builds, until...

Well, even subtlety can come to an inappropriate head.

HOW TO PLAY

This meme isn't for smut, though smut is allowed. What it is for is the delicious, anticipatory build up and the dances people can do to deny attraction. Foreplay, especially creative foreplay, is encouraged.
Comment with your character, canon, and preferences in the subject. In the comment body, be sure to mention if there are any squicks you have, scenarios you don't/do want to play out, and if you're okay with AUs or handwaved CR.
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OTA

[ On a certain level, Will knows that this is wrong. It sits in the pit of his stomach alongside the anticipation of what may happen—what he hopes will happen. He'd never imagined they'd get so close to talking about this through fire messages, and that had been a thrill enough. The possibility of a message being intercepted had forced Will to be vague, but as he silently walks down a shadowy hall of the Institute towards Jem's room, he thinks about how he can be more of his blunt self in the privacy for four walls. He's a gentleman at heart, but his heart is also an open book for Jem.

He doesn't knock—why would he when Jem can probably feel him there, either through knowing Will so well or the convenience of their Parabatai bond? It's said bond that brought him here as much as it should have kept him away. He knows the laws, but through feigning indifference in his efforts to cultivate the image of a casanova, perhaps some of that devil-may-care attitude really has seeped into his soul. ]

Jem.

[ His voice is soft as he pushes the door open, wondering if he might have guessed wrong and his target would actually be asleep in bed. It was a gamble considering some evenings, he was so exhausted to stand, while others would find him passionately playing his violin into the wee hours. ]

[ It's a good evening, at least, or perhaps one of the better ones--that might be why his messages had been so forthcoming, so unusually twisted into playful shapes by the helpful hand of Will's own recklessness; after all, if Will's allowed to act in such a way, then what's to say it won't rub off on him eventually? It's not thanks to the drug, either, not yet; he intends to have a bit of the powder before bed, enough that it will hopefully give him a sleep that's more rested than restless, but for now, it's his own wickedness that seems to be providing some flush to his cheeks, making his pale skin seem more radiant, even in the low lamp light.

He knows Will is there before he even comes through the door, though he doesn't want to think about the weight of their parabatai bond hanging between them. He wonders if he should have heartily refused, all those years ago, instead of merely accepting the fate of the lost wager. They wouldn't be here now, talking around it as though they were both blind to the fact that breaking such a law would surely mean severe action taken upon them. Even Charlotte would not be able to save them.

Instead, he focuses on the way his heartbeat seems to quicken now that Will's in the doorway, saying his name in that soft, tentative voice that makes him feel oddly sought after. Could he really be someone that Will could see, like that? Or is it just the kindness of a friend seeking to help someone slowly dying? ]

Will. [ He says, and turns away from his desk; there's music scattered there, and a quill in one of his hands, as though he'd been making a few notations. There's ink on his fingers, and a little on one of his lips--surely from chewing at the thing in thought.]

Hungry again, so soon?

[ He's relieved to see that Jem is awake and out of bed, though in hindsight, he isn't surprised. They've always been so well synchronized with one another that finding him asleep would have been more of a shock regardless of the late hour. Sleep has never come easily to either of them.

Smiling as Jem turns towards him, Will silently closes and locks the door behind him. It's a safety precaution, he tells himself, though even he can't lie about his true intentions. He continues the charade by drawing a silence rune on the door, unable to convince himself that it's a courtesy to others who are sleeping. Will has always been a prisoner to his own thoughts, and tonight is no different. ]

My appetite is one that can never be satiated, even by a feast of your company.

[ He crosses the width of the room to stand beside the desk, fingers gentle as he trips them across the crisp sheet music and shuffles them around. Part of it is to feign interest and bide them both time to rethink their actions, but most of it is a genuine curiosity about what Jem is composing. ]

Is there an occasion that calls for a new song? [ His eyes fall to Jem's ink-splattered fingers, drawing a bemused smirk from Will. Dropping to his knees beside Jem's chair, he withdraws a handkerchief and sets to the task of meticulously cleaning his parabatai's hands. ]

[ There's something fluttering in his chest, something dark and dangerous, as he watches Will draw the rune in silence. He doesn't want to ask him what it's for, doesn't want to know what it is about what they might do, in here, that will need such protection; his mind can jump to all sorts of conclusions on its own, embarrassing and borderline filthy, and he doesn't want to admit them out loud for fear that they might just disappear, burst into the air never to be seen again. He doesn't question him, doesn't want to question him, make him think that he doesn't want the things he wants, too.

Though--apparently what Will wants is to rifle through his sheet music, and Jem's lips curl into a bashful sort of smile. He's never been afraid to show them off to Will before; he's even asked for help, from time to time, but now it feels more like it's just those flimsy papers keeping them apart from each other, and the closer Will gets to the end of them, the closer they get to the real reason for his company. He glances from them to Will in earnest.]

Perhaps it is merely a way to exhaust the excess of my emotions. [ His hand hangs, dutiful and unmoving, as Will gets on his knees next to him, rubbing the ink off of a few fingers.] I seem to have too many for the night to handle.

[ He's a good patient until he isn't--his fingers curl in, away from the fabric, escaping it so that he can smear his middle finger down one of Will's cheeks, a fleeting smudge of ink that goes over the sharp cheekbone and leaves off before it hits his jaw.]

Ah, my mistake. I'm sorry. [ His smile says he is most certainly not.]

[ Will feels bare under Jem's gaze, like his wealth of emotions might give him the ability to see Will's that he often keeps so close to his heart. He acts emotionally, it's true, but so rarely with genuine emotions rather than feigned ones. His curse is as much from a demon as it is himself as he pushes people away with outbursts and false debauchery. Tonight, however, the debauchery is entirely real.

He's so focused on the task to wiping Jem's fingers clean that his attack goes unhindered, leaving Will blinking up at him. Surprise melts to give way to fondness, and he leans into Jem's stained hand to get more of the ink on his skin. Turning into the touch, he kisses the pale heel of his palm. ]

It seems we're both a bit clumsy tonight. Would you clean it up for me?

[ He's so rarely the subject of Will's ire that he worries, briefly, blindly, in that moment, where Will stares up at him, surprised, that perhaps he might have ruined some kind of elaborate, pretty plan with his playful touch. Maybe he should have sat still, prim and patient, and waited for Will to finish cleaning him up before touching him, drawing him in close. It wavers to the point that he even considers actually apologizing, but Will leans into the touch, rather than away from it, and it's like he's reminded in that small moment of why they had become parabatai in the first place. Because where one ends, the other begins--because they bleed so effortlessly into each other, just like the ink that smears across Will's jaw.

It's not the first time that Will's kissed him: these sorts of things are fond and seemingly acceptable, even between the two of them; he's had his wounds playfully dotted with warm lips, his fingers brushed with a kiss when he's worked too hard and they've grown too stiff from fitting around the hilt of his blade. Yet this one is different, lingering, and Jem's eyes shine with amusement despite however dull they might look, hanging in his pale features. ]

I thought you'd never ask. [ Teasing and soft, though it's with the soft brush of his clean fingers that he tries to rub the ink away, blotting it out until there's just the gray shadow where it used to be. His fingers don't stop there--they dip down to cradle Will's jaw, to fit underneath his chin and draw his face up so that he can look at him properly, admire all the handsome features that seem too good for him to be touching. ]

Though I'm afraid some of it may have dripped down your neck. [ He twists a little like he's examining, even though he knows he's lying through his teeth. ] It may be wise for you to loosen your shirt a little so we can see.

[ When it comes to Jem, the concept of ire so rarely enters his mind, and never because of the man himself. True, he feels frustrated with the effects of the yin fen as well as annoyance towards how careless Jem can be with it at times. All of those negative feelings are rooted in the drug, however, in the agonizing paradox of slowly killing Jem even as it keeps him alive. He could never hate Jem for the evil fate thrust upon him, only the actions that it forces him to carry out. Will tries desperately not to think about the white powder, hidden so obviously in Jem's precious box that shines in the moonlight, and entrances himself with black ink instead.

His favorite moments are these tender ones when Jem can be playful and frivolous, something as simple as smearing ink across Will's face making his heart pound with affection for his parabatai. He dutifully turns his head from side to side as Jem wipes away the smudges, easily ignoring the hard floor beneath stiff knees thanks to years of training. He closes his eyes when Jem's touch lingers, reopening them halfway to look up at him through his eyelashes.

The thinly-veiled suggestion comes as a mild shock, his eyes widening fully even as a smirk tweaks at the corner of his parted lips. Without speaking, he lifts his hands to the top buttons of his shirt, undoing several so that the collar hangs open far more than a simple loosening. Down, down, down his fingers work until the shirt is fully undone, the two halves falling apart from the rise and fall of his chest. ] Be thorough, I wouldn't want any stray blots to stain a rune.

[ Will doesn't even hesitate--and though it's something that has gained the ire of the others, that on ocassion he's the type to move without thinking, to react before calmly processing things, in this instance, Jem can think of nothing better. It doesn't come with the soft consternation of someone considering whether this could be right or wrong; it doesn't come with the kind of reluctance of someone wondering how to politely turn the other down. Will's fingers move to the top of his shirt, undoing the buttons with a slow, gentle sort of fervor that draws Jem's gaze, his eyes watching with appreciation as the shirt comes undone and the skin beneath is revealed, littered with the runes he knows to be there.

There's no ink there, of course, but Jem must play to the ruse--his fingers start, long and wondering, at the top of Will's throat, down to the space between his lifted collarbones, following the path where his ribs must gap in the middle, where his chest gives way to the flat expanse of his stomach, though he can hardly reach that far. At the angle they're sitting, with Will still dutifully on his knees in front of him, he barely gets past his chest.]

It looks rather clean. [ He says with appreciation, though his eyes have not yet lifted to meet Will's gaze--perhaps he's a little bashful to do so.] You may be safe for now.

[ His fingers stray to the part of Will's shirt, rubbing the fabric of it thoughtfully between thumb and forefinger.]

Though I wouldn't be particularly put off if you decided to get rid of this, all the same. Just to err on the side of caution.

[ Will stifles a shiver at the first wandering brush of fingers. This is hardly the first time that Jem has seen his bare chest, and isn’t the first time he’s touched it as they’ve applied runes for each other before a mission. Yet this time is entirely different, explorative and gentle rather than calculating and sharp. There’s no stele between them, just skin upon skin.

His eyes remain fixed on Jem’s face even as the other’s eyes follow his searching hand. There’s no ink staining his skin, only desire running hot beneath it. Will isn’t sure how much longer he’s going to be able to hold up this charade when his impulsive nature is clawing as the surface of his patience. When Jem suggests removing the shirt, there’s no answering quip or hesitation as he shrugs it from his shoulders to let it pool around his legs. ]

Jem. [ He says it softly like the prayer he means it to be, silently begging for some indication that this will become more than playful flirtations. ] I want to— Can I see you? You’ll be warm in the bed.