The first time it had happened, Moran had wondered if he was dreaming, because… well. Sex with Jim was angry, fierce, full of violence and desperation and teeth and nails and bruises, nothing tender about it at all. But after they’d both come down from their highs and cleaned themselves of a little, Jim had curled close to him and thrown a proprietary arm over his shoulder, nuzzling at the side of his neck and kissing the bitemark there before falling into an easy sleep. Moran had lain there for hours, watching the sleeping form of his boss and wondering how on earth anyone flipped a switch inside themselves that quickly, went from wild and gleeful to soft and needy in the blink of an eye.
This time, though, he’s not surprised at all when Jim presses closer, curling around him in a heavy-limbed grip and pressing his face against the solid weight of Moran’s chest. And this time, Moran curls an arm over him in return, pulling him closer, and the quiet, happy sigh he gets in return makes the uncustomary display of affection entirely worth it.