“I wasn’t aware that they made shirts like that, sir,” Sebastian remarked, raising an eyebrow as Jim tugged it over his head.
“Sebby, the ‘kiss me, I’m Irish’ shirts are a rich, cultural aspect of St Patrick’s Day,” Jim admonished, tugging the hem of the shirt down so all of the text was visible.
“And the ‘fuck me, I’m Irish’ shirts, sir?”
“Are equally important and cultured,” the shorter man replied, smirking his smirk that was reserved for banter with Sebastian.
“Interesting. Are there any more variations you’d care to tell me about?”
“Well, you can get shirts with minor personalised features.”
“Minor? ‘Fuck me over a desk until I’m screaming your name, Sebastian’ is just a small modification then?”
“Details, Seb. And you read it wrong, look here,” Jim answered, walking over to the sniper and pointing at the shirt, “It’s ‘fuck me over a desk until I’m screaming your name, Sebby’.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound too bad, sir.”
“Careful, Seb. Bad things happen if you disobey the shirt” Jim muttered, leaning into Sebastian, “Very bad things.”
Sebastian just grinned, pulling the consulting criminal into a rough kiss.
“I think I can manage it, Jim.”
Later that evening, Jim would reveal to Sebastian that pretty much any modification could be made to the shirts if you held a gun to the factory supervisor’s forehead.
((Hope you liked it, feel free to send prompts, headcannon questions and random spam my way))