![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
More but still not all. 2100 words more, in fact.
Thanks for being patient.
Previous parts are here: Confession Time
Confession Time
Part Four
Jim watches Blair's eyes glaze and dim, breaking what wasn't really a kiss as much as an extension of the assault. He knows so many ways to kill with nothing more than bare hands and the weight and strength of his body; listing them would take longer than doing it. And because he knows how to do it, what it would take, and because he knows Blair's physical limits better than Blair does, he's safe, this is safe, Blair is safe.
It is. He is.
He's willing to bet Blair wouldn't agree with him but it's hard to argue without oxygen to back you up.
He lets his thumb slide up and down in an absentminded caress of Blair's throat, feeling Blair's skin drag against the ball of his thumb, damp and rank with sweat. And he puts his arm around Blair, cradling him as Blair starts to slip away into the darkness, rocking him as he lets Blair take one breath, then another, his hand lightly pressing now, no more.
Blair makes noises, strangled, painful chokes and grunts, his eyes wet, his mouth hanging open. He's looked better.
It's time to speak, but Jim's lost for words -- the right words that is; he has things to say, names he wants to call Blair, sure he does, but something tells him Blair would remember words long after he's forgotten what it feels like to have his air cut off, and Jim's not at the point where he wants Blair irrevocably gone from his life.
Close, though.
"Are you hard now?" he asks, his mouth shaping the words carefully because this feels important, these first words he says, and he wants to do it right.
Blair's head jerks from side to side, a stuttered no.
"Then why were you earlier?"
And, really, that's it, that's all, he's done now. Inside his head he's got a scream, a stream of conversation ricocheting around the cold, hollowed-out emptiness -- tell me why -- when I was -- him and you -- disgusting, vile, God, Blair, God, do you know how that felt? Do you know what you did to me, you, Blair, my Blair, do you, doyoudoyou? -- but he's not listening to it now because he doesn't want to miss a single word Blair says.
Blair lifts his hands, a slow, drugged drift upwards that ends with them resting on Jim's shoulders. Not on his already bruising neck, not to push Jim back, away; no, they rest and cling and grip, pulling Jim closer.
"Don't," Jim says and he doesn't sound calm now, he sounds scared, he can hear the fear quivering in his voice. "Get your fucking hands off me."
Blair's head moves again, rolling against the support of Jim's arm, and his eyes close, but his hands stay where they are and Jim can feel each finger's press, clear and distinct. Through the leather of his jacket (too hot, but it covers his holster), through the cotton of his shirt (the one that he wore, yes, it was this one, it was, the first time Blair kissed him, taking an argument --he'd been yelling, been pushing, hands on Blair, all over Blair -- and turning it into foreplay) through skin and bone and muscle, he feels them press.
He watches Blair swallow and wince and lick his lips and he waits.
"Fuck you," Blair says in a tired, furious whisper.
"Not an option, you sick little bastard." The words make Blair's eyes squinch tighter closed and then open wide. They're blankly dazed. "I asked you a question."
"I was watching you in there with him. The way you broke him." Blair's voice strengthens, unflinchingly honest when Jim wants a plausible lie. "You were hot, okay?"
He's seen Blair fight. It's scrappy, inventive, surprisingly effective sometimes, in a slapdash way. Blair's hurt people, more than maybe he would have wanted to, because he has no training, lavishly overestimating the force required to subdue, disarm, neutralise.
There's no excuse for him when it comes to words, though. Blair knows just what to say, always.
Hot. He'd been interrogating a man who had raped, tortured, strangled children and Blair had thought --
Jim steps back, shrugging off Blair's hands, swiping at where they've touched him, as if he's brushing off filth. He watches Blair sway, regain his balance, and knows he wouldn't have reached out to catch Blair if he'd fallen.
"Blair…" Broken? He's broken. He's lost. Both of them are.
"No, Jim. No. I don't know what you're thinking but, no, listen --"
Now they're not touching, Blair's trying to get to him with words, tying him down with a thousand threads, burying him under a million snowflakes, each one weighing nothing, nothing at all, but still so heavy.
He can't breathe.
"Jim! Stay with me, man."
Drowning.
"Listen to me."
Just did, Jim thinks. Look where that got me.
"You've got to tell me why this is freaking you out so much, Jim."
Why?
It's so… ludicrous that Blair doesn't know; Blair of all people, that Jim laughs, watching Blair flinch at the horrible sound.
"Okay. Sure. I'll tell you." It's like running downhill once he starts. Easy, fast, and heading for a crash. "I was in there and I was… I was forcing myself to talk to someone I just wanted to wipe out of existence. Destroy. For hours. It was one of the worst experiences of my life. I had to make him tell me, for the record, what he'd done, and I wanted to scream at him to stop after thirty seconds. Less. But that wasn't the worst part. I could hear the way he got -- when he told me, he…" Jim stops talking, takes a deep breath. There's no satisfaction in this, no need for revenge in him now. Blair asked. He's telling him. "I was so focused on him, had to be. I was using everything I'd got to work him, push him, break him. I was wide open and he was -- his hands -- cuffed -- in his lap and he was rubbing -- until he -- I could smell him --"
Blair makes a sound too close to the one he'd made in the corridor to be bearable, his face twisted with distaste and sympathy.
"Like you, Chief," Jim says, moving forward, getting in Blair's face. He can feel his skin heat and hear the seashell rush of his blood. His voice is steady now, bitingly cold "He was hard. Like you. He was getting off on what he'd done to those kids, not me, but you were both using me the same way and I'm sorry if that's freaking me out, I'm sorry if I'm over reacting --"
"No, no, you're not," Blair says in a whisper, urgent, intense. "Jim --"
"I came out of there and I wanted to throw up," Jim tells him. "And I saw you and I was glad because you always make it better, you know that? Always make me feel clean again because it doesn't touch you, you just let it wash away, light a candle, meditate -- and it's New Age crap, but I don't care because you're happy afterwards and that's good, Chief, that's great, you know?"
Blair turns his face away as if he can't bear to look and Jim doesn't know what expression he's hung on his face that's so hard to deal with, but it doesn't matter. Jim brings his hand up and around, slapping his open palm against the averted cheek and jerking Blair's head around so they're staring at each other again. He keeps his hand there long enough to make sure Blair gets the message and then takes it away. His palm prickles with transferred heat and the roughness along Blair's shadowed jaw.
Blair stares at him. "I didn't know that. Any of it. I was only there at the end, for a little while. I didn't know, Jim."
"You knew who he was. What he'd done."
"That, yes, but it wasn't --" Blair grimaces. "It wasn't relevant. I wasn't looking at him, or even really listening. It was you. Just you."
"Now, see, that's just not good enough --"
"Would you have cared if I was getting off on you being that much in charge, that in control, and he'd just been a thief? A drug dealer?" Blair asks, overriding Jim's words, and he's so fucking calm now, so easy in his skin.
"I don't know." He can't lie to Blair. Has to match Blair's frankness.
Blair smiles, nods. "That's good. That's better than judging me. We can work with that."
"No, Chief, we can't." Jim stabs at the air with his finger. "I can't work with you. I can't be near you right now. You have to leave."
"And go where?"
"I don't know." Jim's voice is cracking open, dry and brittle. "Just away."
"That's not a good idea, you know." Blair sounds certain. "It's still you running away even if I'm the one who leaves."
"Spare me the philosophical shit, will you?"
"Look." Blair scrubs his hands over his face and then steps closer. "I'm going to forget you just compared me to a mass murderer -- yeah, yes, you did, Jim, God, I can't believe you did that -- and ask you something. And then I'm out of here, if that's still what you want."
"Fine. Ask." If it's the fastest way to get himself some space, he'll bite. And he hadn't compared -- he hadn't meant --
"What happened when we met, Jim?"
It's like being dealt four aces.
"You lied to me and pretended to be someone you weren't." He gives Blair his best smirk. "Some things don't change, huh, Chief?"
"Funny." Blair licks his lips. Jim wishes he wouldn't do that because he still wants to kiss Blair; part of him does, anyway. The rest wants to get back to choking him quiet and feeling the flutter of Blair's pulse against the heel of his hand. It's going to disturb him later how much he liked bringing Blair to that point of silent and waiting for what was going to happen to him next. "Later. In my office. When you walked in, and sat down, staring at me. Like a cop, all cold eyes. And you know what came next. What you did to me when I pushed you just a little. You miss how hard that got me?" Blair demands, his voice rising. "Don't see how you could; you were standing close enough. You didn't get a clue back then? Didn't notice the times we had sex and I came just that little bit harder and louder because you'd left me no other choice and I loved it? It took today for you to get it?"
"Get what? That I'd hooked up with a cop groupie?" Jim says, not faking the scorn.
"Cop? No. It's you I get off on, Jim. Just you."
"It's fucking sick."
Blair gives an irritated hiss. "Don't make me list your triggers when it comes to me. Some of them don't fit your self-image as the normal one in this relationship, you know."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Jim snarls at him.
"Exactly what it sounds like," Blair says calmly. "If I'm sick, so are you, but don't worry, Jim, I won't make you feel like crap for getting off on coming on my face."
He remembers this feeling from fighting with Carolyn. The way intimacy, shared secrets, become weapons to be used, sharp-edged, poison-tipped. He'd never expected that ultimate betrayal from Blair.
"After all," Blair goes on, remorseless in the face of Jim's silent, scarlet-faced humiliation. "I like it, too, in case you missed that memo, and somehow I don't see how you could miss it when I'm lying under you begging for it."
Blair, gaze focused on him, looking up at him, a moan escaping from bitten-red lips, spread out and squirming on the bed as best he can given that Jim's straddling him, holding him down. Blair turning his head, chasing the chance to give Jim's dick one last lick, one last sucking kiss, before Jim starts to fist his erection, his hand blurring, because he loves fucking Blair's mouth with slow, lazy strokes that go deep, but he loves this more, watching his come shoot and splatter over Blair's flushed skin and babbling, begging, smiling mouth…
And suddenly, with a sharp, sweet shiver, Jim's as aroused as he's ever been and that's fine, he can hide it, he can ignore it, he can deal -- but Blair hasn't even glanced down and he knows, Jim can tell, and this isn't good, this isn't --
Continues here
Thanks for being patient.
Previous parts are here: Confession Time
Confession Time
Part Four
Jim watches Blair's eyes glaze and dim, breaking what wasn't really a kiss as much as an extension of the assault. He knows so many ways to kill with nothing more than bare hands and the weight and strength of his body; listing them would take longer than doing it. And because he knows how to do it, what it would take, and because he knows Blair's physical limits better than Blair does, he's safe, this is safe, Blair is safe.
It is. He is.
He's willing to bet Blair wouldn't agree with him but it's hard to argue without oxygen to back you up.
He lets his thumb slide up and down in an absentminded caress of Blair's throat, feeling Blair's skin drag against the ball of his thumb, damp and rank with sweat. And he puts his arm around Blair, cradling him as Blair starts to slip away into the darkness, rocking him as he lets Blair take one breath, then another, his hand lightly pressing now, no more.
Blair makes noises, strangled, painful chokes and grunts, his eyes wet, his mouth hanging open. He's looked better.
It's time to speak, but Jim's lost for words -- the right words that is; he has things to say, names he wants to call Blair, sure he does, but something tells him Blair would remember words long after he's forgotten what it feels like to have his air cut off, and Jim's not at the point where he wants Blair irrevocably gone from his life.
Close, though.
"Are you hard now?" he asks, his mouth shaping the words carefully because this feels important, these first words he says, and he wants to do it right.
Blair's head jerks from side to side, a stuttered no.
"Then why were you earlier?"
And, really, that's it, that's all, he's done now. Inside his head he's got a scream, a stream of conversation ricocheting around the cold, hollowed-out emptiness -- tell me why -- when I was -- him and you -- disgusting, vile, God, Blair, God, do you know how that felt? Do you know what you did to me, you, Blair, my Blair, do you, doyoudoyou? -- but he's not listening to it now because he doesn't want to miss a single word Blair says.
Blair lifts his hands, a slow, drugged drift upwards that ends with them resting on Jim's shoulders. Not on his already bruising neck, not to push Jim back, away; no, they rest and cling and grip, pulling Jim closer.
"Don't," Jim says and he doesn't sound calm now, he sounds scared, he can hear the fear quivering in his voice. "Get your fucking hands off me."
Blair's head moves again, rolling against the support of Jim's arm, and his eyes close, but his hands stay where they are and Jim can feel each finger's press, clear and distinct. Through the leather of his jacket (too hot, but it covers his holster), through the cotton of his shirt (the one that he wore, yes, it was this one, it was, the first time Blair kissed him, taking an argument --he'd been yelling, been pushing, hands on Blair, all over Blair -- and turning it into foreplay) through skin and bone and muscle, he feels them press.
He watches Blair swallow and wince and lick his lips and he waits.
"Fuck you," Blair says in a tired, furious whisper.
"Not an option, you sick little bastard." The words make Blair's eyes squinch tighter closed and then open wide. They're blankly dazed. "I asked you a question."
"I was watching you in there with him. The way you broke him." Blair's voice strengthens, unflinchingly honest when Jim wants a plausible lie. "You were hot, okay?"
He's seen Blair fight. It's scrappy, inventive, surprisingly effective sometimes, in a slapdash way. Blair's hurt people, more than maybe he would have wanted to, because he has no training, lavishly overestimating the force required to subdue, disarm, neutralise.
There's no excuse for him when it comes to words, though. Blair knows just what to say, always.
Hot. He'd been interrogating a man who had raped, tortured, strangled children and Blair had thought --
Jim steps back, shrugging off Blair's hands, swiping at where they've touched him, as if he's brushing off filth. He watches Blair sway, regain his balance, and knows he wouldn't have reached out to catch Blair if he'd fallen.
"Blair…" Broken? He's broken. He's lost. Both of them are.
"No, Jim. No. I don't know what you're thinking but, no, listen --"
Now they're not touching, Blair's trying to get to him with words, tying him down with a thousand threads, burying him under a million snowflakes, each one weighing nothing, nothing at all, but still so heavy.
He can't breathe.
"Jim! Stay with me, man."
Drowning.
"Listen to me."
Just did, Jim thinks. Look where that got me.
"You've got to tell me why this is freaking you out so much, Jim."
Why?
It's so… ludicrous that Blair doesn't know; Blair of all people, that Jim laughs, watching Blair flinch at the horrible sound.
"Okay. Sure. I'll tell you." It's like running downhill once he starts. Easy, fast, and heading for a crash. "I was in there and I was… I was forcing myself to talk to someone I just wanted to wipe out of existence. Destroy. For hours. It was one of the worst experiences of my life. I had to make him tell me, for the record, what he'd done, and I wanted to scream at him to stop after thirty seconds. Less. But that wasn't the worst part. I could hear the way he got -- when he told me, he…" Jim stops talking, takes a deep breath. There's no satisfaction in this, no need for revenge in him now. Blair asked. He's telling him. "I was so focused on him, had to be. I was using everything I'd got to work him, push him, break him. I was wide open and he was -- his hands -- cuffed -- in his lap and he was rubbing -- until he -- I could smell him --"
Blair makes a sound too close to the one he'd made in the corridor to be bearable, his face twisted with distaste and sympathy.
"Like you, Chief," Jim says, moving forward, getting in Blair's face. He can feel his skin heat and hear the seashell rush of his blood. His voice is steady now, bitingly cold "He was hard. Like you. He was getting off on what he'd done to those kids, not me, but you were both using me the same way and I'm sorry if that's freaking me out, I'm sorry if I'm over reacting --"
"No, no, you're not," Blair says in a whisper, urgent, intense. "Jim --"
"I came out of there and I wanted to throw up," Jim tells him. "And I saw you and I was glad because you always make it better, you know that? Always make me feel clean again because it doesn't touch you, you just let it wash away, light a candle, meditate -- and it's New Age crap, but I don't care because you're happy afterwards and that's good, Chief, that's great, you know?"
Blair turns his face away as if he can't bear to look and Jim doesn't know what expression he's hung on his face that's so hard to deal with, but it doesn't matter. Jim brings his hand up and around, slapping his open palm against the averted cheek and jerking Blair's head around so they're staring at each other again. He keeps his hand there long enough to make sure Blair gets the message and then takes it away. His palm prickles with transferred heat and the roughness along Blair's shadowed jaw.
Blair stares at him. "I didn't know that. Any of it. I was only there at the end, for a little while. I didn't know, Jim."
"You knew who he was. What he'd done."
"That, yes, but it wasn't --" Blair grimaces. "It wasn't relevant. I wasn't looking at him, or even really listening. It was you. Just you."
"Now, see, that's just not good enough --"
"Would you have cared if I was getting off on you being that much in charge, that in control, and he'd just been a thief? A drug dealer?" Blair asks, overriding Jim's words, and he's so fucking calm now, so easy in his skin.
"I don't know." He can't lie to Blair. Has to match Blair's frankness.
Blair smiles, nods. "That's good. That's better than judging me. We can work with that."
"No, Chief, we can't." Jim stabs at the air with his finger. "I can't work with you. I can't be near you right now. You have to leave."
"And go where?"
"I don't know." Jim's voice is cracking open, dry and brittle. "Just away."
"That's not a good idea, you know." Blair sounds certain. "It's still you running away even if I'm the one who leaves."
"Spare me the philosophical shit, will you?"
"Look." Blair scrubs his hands over his face and then steps closer. "I'm going to forget you just compared me to a mass murderer -- yeah, yes, you did, Jim, God, I can't believe you did that -- and ask you something. And then I'm out of here, if that's still what you want."
"Fine. Ask." If it's the fastest way to get himself some space, he'll bite. And he hadn't compared -- he hadn't meant --
"What happened when we met, Jim?"
It's like being dealt four aces.
"You lied to me and pretended to be someone you weren't." He gives Blair his best smirk. "Some things don't change, huh, Chief?"
"Funny." Blair licks his lips. Jim wishes he wouldn't do that because he still wants to kiss Blair; part of him does, anyway. The rest wants to get back to choking him quiet and feeling the flutter of Blair's pulse against the heel of his hand. It's going to disturb him later how much he liked bringing Blair to that point of silent and waiting for what was going to happen to him next. "Later. In my office. When you walked in, and sat down, staring at me. Like a cop, all cold eyes. And you know what came next. What you did to me when I pushed you just a little. You miss how hard that got me?" Blair demands, his voice rising. "Don't see how you could; you were standing close enough. You didn't get a clue back then? Didn't notice the times we had sex and I came just that little bit harder and louder because you'd left me no other choice and I loved it? It took today for you to get it?"
"Get what? That I'd hooked up with a cop groupie?" Jim says, not faking the scorn.
"Cop? No. It's you I get off on, Jim. Just you."
"It's fucking sick."
Blair gives an irritated hiss. "Don't make me list your triggers when it comes to me. Some of them don't fit your self-image as the normal one in this relationship, you know."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Jim snarls at him.
"Exactly what it sounds like," Blair says calmly. "If I'm sick, so are you, but don't worry, Jim, I won't make you feel like crap for getting off on coming on my face."
He remembers this feeling from fighting with Carolyn. The way intimacy, shared secrets, become weapons to be used, sharp-edged, poison-tipped. He'd never expected that ultimate betrayal from Blair.
"After all," Blair goes on, remorseless in the face of Jim's silent, scarlet-faced humiliation. "I like it, too, in case you missed that memo, and somehow I don't see how you could miss it when I'm lying under you begging for it."
Blair, gaze focused on him, looking up at him, a moan escaping from bitten-red lips, spread out and squirming on the bed as best he can given that Jim's straddling him, holding him down. Blair turning his head, chasing the chance to give Jim's dick one last lick, one last sucking kiss, before Jim starts to fist his erection, his hand blurring, because he loves fucking Blair's mouth with slow, lazy strokes that go deep, but he loves this more, watching his come shoot and splatter over Blair's flushed skin and babbling, begging, smiling mouth…
And suddenly, with a sharp, sweet shiver, Jim's as aroused as he's ever been and that's fine, he can hide it, he can ignore it, he can deal -- but Blair hasn't even glanced down and he knows, Jim can tell, and this isn't good, this isn't --
Continues here
Tags: