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Another 2,000 words... still not done yet.
Previous parts are here: Confession Time
Confession Time
Part Five
Blair doesn't know if anyone else would notice that Jim's at the point where sex has become as imperative a need as breathing. Jim's good at hiding that feeling. Good at denying it, suffocating his arousal under a smothering blanket of shouldn't, mustn't, can't.
Good at ignoring every 'I'm available' signal Blair had put out for months that had become years until -- well, even Jim can't hold out forever.
He's just not very good at hiding it from Blair.
Blair knows why Jim's like this -- hell, he's the one who mentioned one of Jim's more endearingly primal kinks --and when this is over, if they're still speaking, he's going to apologise for that, because Jim's at a disadvantage now, his attention split, and that's probably not the kindest thing Blair's ever done and all isn't fair in love and war, and this is both.
But he's not going to apologise, ever, for going to the observation room, feeling the obscure need to share in the hell Jim's been going through for hours. And he's not going to apologise for his reaction to what he found himself watching, dry-mouthed, dick happy, because Jim's had a bad week tracking this guy down, but it hasn't been easy on Blair, either. The stink of blood and fear at the crime scenes clung to Blair's hair and clothing as well as Jim's; the dead children walk, broken and bleeding, through his thoughts, too.
And if Jim refused to let Blair type up the reports in case something got missed, well, Blair had already read them and can't forget them.
Jim will get over this; will move on. He's too good a cop not to be able to do that and do it well; Blair's less able.
But it doesn't mean watching Jim work that son of a bitch over wasn't entertaining at a visceral level. And it doesn't mean the clean, familiar ache of arousal wasn't something Blair was glad to feel after a week of lying beside Jim, both of them tense, not touching, sleep, when it came, a choppy, restless sea to drown in not be rocked by.
It's been a lonely week. They're used to having each other to turn to as friends but as lovers? Not so much. That's new to them both, and it's not something they're doing automatically and the old ways don't work like they used to. Blair knows Jim's body now, as thoroughly and well as possible without a medical degree. Doesn't mean he's got a key to everything Jim; it's just one more piece of a fluid, shifting puzzle and sometimes he thinks the first time his dick slid into Jim he lost more than an ounce of bodily fluid and the skin off his knuckles (still doesn't know how he did that but, man, it was worth it).
And now, when Blair was hoping for respite, a chance to heal, they're as far apart as they've ever been. It's all a fucking mess and Blair doesn't like that.
Blair's a fighter. Always has been, always will be. It goes with being too short, too cute, too different. But he admires the strength that's as much part of Jim as his smile and if he gets off on having that strength and control applied to his willing body now and then, well, so what? He's well-adjusted enough to have worked through that particular issue even if his time knowing Jim has raised a multitude of others he's less able to deal with.
Jim's not the easiest person in the world to love. Lust after, yeah, sure. Love takes more than Blair was sure he had to give.
And now he's sure, if a little…restless, because the Jim he's jerked off over all this time turns out to be less of a sex god and more of a middle-aged man dismayed and disturbed by his attraction to a friend. Finally in love, and a few months later he's blown it. Jim can't take it. Jim's had as many illusions as he had and Blair's just not what he expected.
Oh, man, that just sucks. Blair hates disappointing people; it's the reason behind most of his lies.
And when it's Jim…
Blair lets his gaze go down and stay there, so that he's staring at Jim's groin when he says, "Want a timeout, Jim?"
"What?"
"Want to fuck?" Blair asks, deliberately crude, wanting to -- oh, maybe just get Jim off-balance and see if it helps. He's never once said that to Jim. Never needed to. Jim always knows when Blair is in the mood -- or not -- and necking, sprawled out on the couch, becomes foreplay without discussion if Blair wants it.
Just as kissing the back of Jim's neck as he washed dishes can sometimes get him soapsuds flicked at him; sometimes get him a naked Jim in a surprisingly short space of time, again without more than an inquiring lift of an eyebrow and a mellow, wicked chuckle. Jim, serious, hardworking Jim, stubborn as hell and impatient with Blair's whims has turned out to be the kind of man who will spend the day smiling because of an unplanned, spur of the moment, encounter.
Blair hadn't taken long to figure out that Jim loved feeling loved. Simple as that.
They didn't need words.
He expects Jim's lip to curl but this isn't his Jim today and Blair's feeling the difference. Jim's mouth hardens and he jerks his head up towards the bedroom. "Sure, Sandburg. Why not?"
Sandburg. Inside the loft, since they became lovers, it's always been 'Blair', with the odd pet name thrown in now and then. Blair, for whom labels and names have significance, isn't sure Jim knows he's made that subtle change but he's sure Jim's using 'Sandburg' deliberately now.
He swallows, feeling a shiver of unease. "Maybe that's not such a good idea."
"No, Chief, you want it or you wouldn't have asked for it." There's a cold gleam in Jim's eyes. "You want what I gave Owens, right?"
"No." There's enough indecision in Blair's voice for Jim's eyes to darken. He still can't lose that fantasy, still thinks he's got an itch that's not being scratched. Still just a bit curious…
"Right." That disbelieving drawl dries Blair's mouth and he starts to shake his head, but Jim's there, crowding him, and Jim's hand --
"You're hurting me," he chokes out.
"Owens didn't whine that much," Jim observes, releasing Blair's chin and giving his nose a careless flip. "I guess he wanted to stay on my good side." Jim's eyes widen with fake concern that spills over into his voice. "Hey, don't worry; you can make it up to me, sweetheart. Want to pretend you've just started a five-year stretch and need to negotiate some special treatment with your very own prison guard? Promise I'll protect your cute little ass… when I'm on duty, anyway. Come on; get down on your knees and give me a taste of what you've got."
"I'm not into a scene like that," Blair says through his teeth, his heart pounding.
"You do know I can tell when you're lying, right?" Jim asks, his voice so normal that it takes a second for the implicit threat to break through the skin of casual.
Yes. He does. But Jim doesn't do that. It's an invasion of privacy; worse, it's bad manners.
"I'm not lying," Blair says, going on the attack. "My heartbeat's up; sure it is; I'm feeling emotionally disturbed right now. I'm feeling bad about what's happening here, Jim, why won't you accept that?"
"Heartbeat's just one factor, babe."
Jim moves behind Blair, a slow, tight circle of a move that leaves Blair facing empty air and determined not to give Jim the satisfaction of turning to face him. even though every instinct he's got is telling him that you don't turn your back on a threat.
He shudders as Jim's fingers scoop up his hair and lift it away, baring skin. His head feels heavy as if it wants to betray him, tip forward, turn the inward curve of his nape into a taut bow, an exclamation point of pale, hidden skin and the bony knob of his first vertebra. Keeping his chin, aching dully from the brutal pinch of Jim's fingers, jutting stubbornly up, takes more effort than he could ever have expected.
He's seen Jim do this to suspects. Seen and absorbed the rhythm of the attack, so that when Jim leans in and whispers in his ear, he's expecting it, can feel the rush of displaced air, the warm waft of breath, like gentle touches on his skin.
Jim's words aren't gentle. They're darkly sweet, rough-edged and filthy. They don't even make that much sense from a practical point of view but Blair's not listening to them to find out what it is he's expected to do. None of it's outside what he's willing to try, anyway. He takes a contemptuous comfort in that, adding a silent, scathing commentary to Jim's monologue.
Then he realises it's disjointed for a reason; that Jim's probing him for reactions with those slick, pointed words, abandoning anything that doesn't get him a hitch of breath, a quiver, and moving on. In the space of a few minutes, Jim's on the way to getting himself a shortlist of some of Blair's favourite things -- and whiskers on kittens aren't anywhere to be seen.
It's brutally effective, and it should be about as erotic as getting his teeth cleaned, but there's something about the way Jim's doing it, the way he's trying to get to the truth, to the hidden truths Blair's fooled himself into thinking he wanted Jim to know…
"Going to make you beg, Sandburg. On your knees, naked. Could keep you like that. Make you strip as soon as you walked through the door. Watch you shiver and whine to get close, get held by me…"
He imagines that and knows they'd never do it. Not like that, not always. But on a rainy Sunday, with the shades lowered to block out grey skies and the loft filled with the flicker of firelight and candlelight, a dozen tiny suns, scattered around… and Jim watching him, not touching him, not for hours, talking to him, smiling at him, his eyes frankly appraising… He'd be so fucking vulnerable, feel so exposed… Blair shudders at the thought, and then, because it's him, twists it around. Naked. On display. Hard, yeah, he'd be hard, and Jim would be watching that, would he? And keeping his distance? I don't think so, Jim, Blair thinks, with a savage smile splitting his lips. You'd be on me in, like, fifteen minutes and fucking me over whatever was handy.
"Do it," he says aloud. "Get it out of your system, Jim. Any of that. All of it. There's nothing I wouldn't let you do to me because I trust you not to go too far."
And really, that's all he needed to say and he should've said it sooner, spelled it out. Shouldn't have expected poor Jim to be a mind reader. He thinks, with a certain smugness, that fucked up though this has been, it might have been all for the best that they got it out in the open… and if Jim wants to take out any residual frustration with a walk on the wild side and fuck him right here, right now, Blair's more than willing to strip, bend, and spread.
Love to, in fact.
"Mistake," Jim hisses in his ear and okay, maybe Blair got his epiphany a little sooner than Jim, because Jim still sounds pissed as hell.
He tries to turn and Jim does something really painful to the inside of Blair's elbow that freezes him in place, and a moment later there's the not entirely unfamiliar sound and feel of a cuff clicking coldly closed around his wrist.
Mistake. Right.
Go to conclusion here
Previous parts are here: Confession Time
Confession Time
Part Five
Blair doesn't know if anyone else would notice that Jim's at the point where sex has become as imperative a need as breathing. Jim's good at hiding that feeling. Good at denying it, suffocating his arousal under a smothering blanket of shouldn't, mustn't, can't.
Good at ignoring every 'I'm available' signal Blair had put out for months that had become years until -- well, even Jim can't hold out forever.
He's just not very good at hiding it from Blair.
Blair knows why Jim's like this -- hell, he's the one who mentioned one of Jim's more endearingly primal kinks --and when this is over, if they're still speaking, he's going to apologise for that, because Jim's at a disadvantage now, his attention split, and that's probably not the kindest thing Blair's ever done and all isn't fair in love and war, and this is both.
But he's not going to apologise, ever, for going to the observation room, feeling the obscure need to share in the hell Jim's been going through for hours. And he's not going to apologise for his reaction to what he found himself watching, dry-mouthed, dick happy, because Jim's had a bad week tracking this guy down, but it hasn't been easy on Blair, either. The stink of blood and fear at the crime scenes clung to Blair's hair and clothing as well as Jim's; the dead children walk, broken and bleeding, through his thoughts, too.
And if Jim refused to let Blair type up the reports in case something got missed, well, Blair had already read them and can't forget them.
Jim will get over this; will move on. He's too good a cop not to be able to do that and do it well; Blair's less able.
But it doesn't mean watching Jim work that son of a bitch over wasn't entertaining at a visceral level. And it doesn't mean the clean, familiar ache of arousal wasn't something Blair was glad to feel after a week of lying beside Jim, both of them tense, not touching, sleep, when it came, a choppy, restless sea to drown in not be rocked by.
It's been a lonely week. They're used to having each other to turn to as friends but as lovers? Not so much. That's new to them both, and it's not something they're doing automatically and the old ways don't work like they used to. Blair knows Jim's body now, as thoroughly and well as possible without a medical degree. Doesn't mean he's got a key to everything Jim; it's just one more piece of a fluid, shifting puzzle and sometimes he thinks the first time his dick slid into Jim he lost more than an ounce of bodily fluid and the skin off his knuckles (still doesn't know how he did that but, man, it was worth it).
And now, when Blair was hoping for respite, a chance to heal, they're as far apart as they've ever been. It's all a fucking mess and Blair doesn't like that.
Blair's a fighter. Always has been, always will be. It goes with being too short, too cute, too different. But he admires the strength that's as much part of Jim as his smile and if he gets off on having that strength and control applied to his willing body now and then, well, so what? He's well-adjusted enough to have worked through that particular issue even if his time knowing Jim has raised a multitude of others he's less able to deal with.
Jim's not the easiest person in the world to love. Lust after, yeah, sure. Love takes more than Blair was sure he had to give.
And now he's sure, if a little…restless, because the Jim he's jerked off over all this time turns out to be less of a sex god and more of a middle-aged man dismayed and disturbed by his attraction to a friend. Finally in love, and a few months later he's blown it. Jim can't take it. Jim's had as many illusions as he had and Blair's just not what he expected.
Oh, man, that just sucks. Blair hates disappointing people; it's the reason behind most of his lies.
And when it's Jim…
Blair lets his gaze go down and stay there, so that he's staring at Jim's groin when he says, "Want a timeout, Jim?"
"What?"
"Want to fuck?" Blair asks, deliberately crude, wanting to -- oh, maybe just get Jim off-balance and see if it helps. He's never once said that to Jim. Never needed to. Jim always knows when Blair is in the mood -- or not -- and necking, sprawled out on the couch, becomes foreplay without discussion if Blair wants it.
Just as kissing the back of Jim's neck as he washed dishes can sometimes get him soapsuds flicked at him; sometimes get him a naked Jim in a surprisingly short space of time, again without more than an inquiring lift of an eyebrow and a mellow, wicked chuckle. Jim, serious, hardworking Jim, stubborn as hell and impatient with Blair's whims has turned out to be the kind of man who will spend the day smiling because of an unplanned, spur of the moment, encounter.
Blair hadn't taken long to figure out that Jim loved feeling loved. Simple as that.
They didn't need words.
He expects Jim's lip to curl but this isn't his Jim today and Blair's feeling the difference. Jim's mouth hardens and he jerks his head up towards the bedroom. "Sure, Sandburg. Why not?"
Sandburg. Inside the loft, since they became lovers, it's always been 'Blair', with the odd pet name thrown in now and then. Blair, for whom labels and names have significance, isn't sure Jim knows he's made that subtle change but he's sure Jim's using 'Sandburg' deliberately now.
He swallows, feeling a shiver of unease. "Maybe that's not such a good idea."
"No, Chief, you want it or you wouldn't have asked for it." There's a cold gleam in Jim's eyes. "You want what I gave Owens, right?"
"No." There's enough indecision in Blair's voice for Jim's eyes to darken. He still can't lose that fantasy, still thinks he's got an itch that's not being scratched. Still just a bit curious…
"Right." That disbelieving drawl dries Blair's mouth and he starts to shake his head, but Jim's there, crowding him, and Jim's hand --
"You're hurting me," he chokes out.
"Owens didn't whine that much," Jim observes, releasing Blair's chin and giving his nose a careless flip. "I guess he wanted to stay on my good side." Jim's eyes widen with fake concern that spills over into his voice. "Hey, don't worry; you can make it up to me, sweetheart. Want to pretend you've just started a five-year stretch and need to negotiate some special treatment with your very own prison guard? Promise I'll protect your cute little ass… when I'm on duty, anyway. Come on; get down on your knees and give me a taste of what you've got."
"I'm not into a scene like that," Blair says through his teeth, his heart pounding.
"You do know I can tell when you're lying, right?" Jim asks, his voice so normal that it takes a second for the implicit threat to break through the skin of casual.
Yes. He does. But Jim doesn't do that. It's an invasion of privacy; worse, it's bad manners.
"I'm not lying," Blair says, going on the attack. "My heartbeat's up; sure it is; I'm feeling emotionally disturbed right now. I'm feeling bad about what's happening here, Jim, why won't you accept that?"
"Heartbeat's just one factor, babe."
Jim moves behind Blair, a slow, tight circle of a move that leaves Blair facing empty air and determined not to give Jim the satisfaction of turning to face him. even though every instinct he's got is telling him that you don't turn your back on a threat.
He shudders as Jim's fingers scoop up his hair and lift it away, baring skin. His head feels heavy as if it wants to betray him, tip forward, turn the inward curve of his nape into a taut bow, an exclamation point of pale, hidden skin and the bony knob of his first vertebra. Keeping his chin, aching dully from the brutal pinch of Jim's fingers, jutting stubbornly up, takes more effort than he could ever have expected.
He's seen Jim do this to suspects. Seen and absorbed the rhythm of the attack, so that when Jim leans in and whispers in his ear, he's expecting it, can feel the rush of displaced air, the warm waft of breath, like gentle touches on his skin.
Jim's words aren't gentle. They're darkly sweet, rough-edged and filthy. They don't even make that much sense from a practical point of view but Blair's not listening to them to find out what it is he's expected to do. None of it's outside what he's willing to try, anyway. He takes a contemptuous comfort in that, adding a silent, scathing commentary to Jim's monologue.
Then he realises it's disjointed for a reason; that Jim's probing him for reactions with those slick, pointed words, abandoning anything that doesn't get him a hitch of breath, a quiver, and moving on. In the space of a few minutes, Jim's on the way to getting himself a shortlist of some of Blair's favourite things -- and whiskers on kittens aren't anywhere to be seen.
It's brutally effective, and it should be about as erotic as getting his teeth cleaned, but there's something about the way Jim's doing it, the way he's trying to get to the truth, to the hidden truths Blair's fooled himself into thinking he wanted Jim to know…
"Going to make you beg, Sandburg. On your knees, naked. Could keep you like that. Make you strip as soon as you walked through the door. Watch you shiver and whine to get close, get held by me…"
He imagines that and knows they'd never do it. Not like that, not always. But on a rainy Sunday, with the shades lowered to block out grey skies and the loft filled with the flicker of firelight and candlelight, a dozen tiny suns, scattered around… and Jim watching him, not touching him, not for hours, talking to him, smiling at him, his eyes frankly appraising… He'd be so fucking vulnerable, feel so exposed… Blair shudders at the thought, and then, because it's him, twists it around. Naked. On display. Hard, yeah, he'd be hard, and Jim would be watching that, would he? And keeping his distance? I don't think so, Jim, Blair thinks, with a savage smile splitting his lips. You'd be on me in, like, fifteen minutes and fucking me over whatever was handy.
"Do it," he says aloud. "Get it out of your system, Jim. Any of that. All of it. There's nothing I wouldn't let you do to me because I trust you not to go too far."
And really, that's all he needed to say and he should've said it sooner, spelled it out. Shouldn't have expected poor Jim to be a mind reader. He thinks, with a certain smugness, that fucked up though this has been, it might have been all for the best that they got it out in the open… and if Jim wants to take out any residual frustration with a walk on the wild side and fuck him right here, right now, Blair's more than willing to strip, bend, and spread.
Love to, in fact.
"Mistake," Jim hisses in his ear and okay, maybe Blair got his epiphany a little sooner than Jim, because Jim still sounds pissed as hell.
He tries to turn and Jim does something really painful to the inside of Blair's elbow that freezes him in place, and a moment later there's the not entirely unfamiliar sound and feel of a cuff clicking coldly closed around his wrist.
Mistake. Right.
Go to conclusion here
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