![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Finished, done, and this last part is about 5,500 words and I'm about ready to collapse and haven't done more than a quick proof but I wanted to post it today.
And see what![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
angstpuppy did for me! An icon :;points:: and a gorgeous banner under the cut with the fic. Thank you so very much; I'm just so happy with them and you rock! ::hugs::
And thanks to those reading for encouraging me in this off-beat, experimental fic; it was a challenge and it got dark in places but I think it ends somewhere not so dark. You've all been so supportive and I needed that :;hugs::
Previous parts are here: Confession Time
Confession Time
Part Six
Blair's standing still already, facing away from Jim (does he think I can't see him? He's reflected in that row of jars over there, seven wavering, distorted images; in the polish of that pan -- indistinct, sure, but I can see the stubborn tilt of his chin, the mutinous mouth. He can't hide from me and I like that more than I should) but the cuff locking around his wrist makes it the waiting stillness of a pond with a stone heading towards it.
That calm, that freeze, is going to shatter now, has to, and Jim's curious; is Blair going to face him, at last, or is he going to try and run?
He holds the other cuff in the curved cup of his palm and waits, ready to close his fingers over the metal and hold Blair in place.
"Why did you do that?" Blair sounds... Jim sorts through the wash of data flooding his brain, piecing stuff together, allocating weight to this factor, discarding that… It's automatic now and it doesn't take long for him to decide that Blair's a little turned on, a little curious, a little apprehensive, the emotions muted, as if they're inhibiting each other, canceling each other out.
Jim doesn't want mild, average, easily dealt with emotions. He wants Blair ripped apart by them, screaming. He wants Blair out of control, wild. He wants to be the calm one and this last week, these last hours, he's felt like he's about to fall apart like wet paper, mushy with despair, or explode, rage ripping holes in him.
"It's what I do," he says. "It's what I did to him." He can't say Owens' name again. Doesn't want its echo trapped, endlessly bouncing off the walls of his home. "Going to tell me it doesn't turn you on?"
"No." Blair's silent a moment, the fingers of his cuffed hand flexing carefully, making the bones of his wrist shift and expand within the tight, inflexible grip of metal. "Sometimes, I've wanted this."
"I know." Jim rests his forehead on Blair's shoulder, feeling tired. The cotton shirt's thin enough to let him feel like he's touching skin, almost, nearly, and he rubs his forehead slowly against it, then kisses the side of Blair's neck through the fall of his hair. "I know that, Blair."
"Then why didn't you ever fucking do it?" Blair's head turns and Jim's lips skate and skid across Blair's cheek before he jerks his head back an inch or two. They're staring at each other, so close that Jim can't see all of Blair's face, but he's only looking at Blair's eyes, so it doesn't matter.
"Ever think I might not want to?"
That hits home. He watches Blair process it and sees the spark of anger in Blair's eyes sputter and die.
"Ever think you've got no right expecting me to cater to your fucking kinks when you don't even tell me what they are? Ever think how it feels when I'm giving you the best I've got -- trying so fucking hard to please you, make it good for you, and it's not enough because you want me to do something that would kill me?"
He lets go of the open cuff, allowing it to dangle, swinging and heavy, and wraps his hands around each of Blair's wrists before forcing them out to the side and forward, bringing them together in front of Blair, a rough, fast grab and shove. He's snuggled up close to Blair's back now, in a parody of an embrace, and he pulls Blair's hands back slowly, deliberately, until they're pressing against Blair's dick, ignoring the soft, protesting grunt of shock Blair makes, holding them there. He's stronger than Blair; it's not difficult.
"Ever think how much it goes against my instincts to hurt you?" he says into Blair's ear. "Protect and serve, remember? Not hurt and dominate. Maybe we're the same…I don't know. You feel like more of a bully to me. But any way you slice it, you don't get that from me."
"Even if I want it?" Blair spits out, starting to struggle now, starting to lose it. "You know I don't want you to really hurt me, not really --"
"No. I don't. I don't know anything." Jim's breathing through water and salt now, each breathe stinging, burning. "Just that when I hurt you, you like it, and when I love you it's not enough."
"You're not that naïve," Blair snaps. "Not that unimaginative."
"Let's pretend I am." Jim bites down on Blair's earlobe, hard, not playful, not the sucking nibble that brings goose bumps springing up over Blair's arm and a happy shiver. Blair's got enough sense to stay still but his fingers clutch and grab and scrabble and there's a whine of pain caught in his throat. Jim eases up before the imprisoned blood breaks free, leaving deep, white dents in the baby-soft skin, and waits for the white to flush dark, purple-red before speaking again. "Was that good? Hit the spot?"
"That hurt," Blair says distinctly. "You asshole." He tries to rub his ear against his shoulder, failing because Jim's grip won't let him lift his shoulder high enough. "Is it bleeding? Did you make it bleed?"
Jim chuckles at the outrage Blair packs into the question. "Relax, Chief. No blood." He nuzzles into Blair's hair, getting a sick, unhappy thrill at doing it now, in the middle of this wasteland. The last time he'd done it, the thick, heavy curls silky against his lips, Blair had been lying on top of him, panting his way back from a climax that had left them both sweat-slick and smiling. "Want there to be?"
"No." Blair's tense now. Sentinel, cop, man; wearing any hat, Jim knows Blair's about to make a move. Judging from the way he's shifting his weight, it's going to be an attempt to lash back with his foot, bending forward, trying to bring Jim with him, off-balance and falling.
"You don't know what you want, do you, baby?" he murmurs, making it indulgent, insulting, deftly distracting. "Poor, mixed-up Blair. Want Daddy to fix it?"
"That," Blair says bitterly, "is not one of my things, man."
"No?" Jim says, already well aware of that. "Suppose it's one of mine? Going to play along?"
"No." Blair shakes his head and his shoulders slump dejectedly, making Jim sharpen every sense he has, the stink of a trap strong and acrid. "And, yes, I get it, right? I'm not stupid."
"Well, okay," Jim says. "I'd call that progress. Want a reward?" he adds casually, his eyes narrowing when he feels Blair's reaction, the ripple of arousal and interest. "Okay, since we're sharing, tell me why that got to you."
"What?" Blair sounds sullen, sulky.
"You like rewards. Treats for being a good boy. Why? How does it fit in with the getting off on being hurt?" He's sincere. He's also feeling as if the man in his arms -- his Blair, his known quantity, his certainty -- is a stranger and that's just not acceptable. "Look, I'm not angry, okay? Not now. We're past that. I just… I want to know. You have to tell me."
"You've got me cuffed and you're not letting me move. You just tried to bite my fucking ear off. This is you not pissed?" Blair screams suddenly, a full-throated howl, a loud, unexpected assault on Jim's eardrums, combining it with a fierce struggle, elbows digging into Jim's ribs, kicking, squirming. Jim rides the tiger for a few seconds and then lets go, stumbling back, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his abused ears.
Blair turns on him, and Jim flinches from the stark despair on Blair's face. "What's the point in telling you? You won't do it. You don't want to do it. Any of it. And, yeah, you don't have to, of course you don't. I fucked up there, and I'm sorry. I didn't -- Jim -- I don't want -- I thought I could just -- you wouldn't know --"
"I want to know!" Jim yells at him and it feels good to yell, feels good to be face to face. "I'm in love with you -- you know that. I love you and that gives me -- no, it doesn't give me, I just… I want to know who I'm in love with! Want to know you're real."
Blair looks stunned, which is a good look on him, but Jim's not really able to appreciate it. He's waiting, with a dull expectancy, for Blair to walk away. Everyone does. You let them down; they leave. He's let Blair down. Blair will leave. There's a Latin term for inevitability and logic like that, but it escapes him.
The cuffs swing and spin as Blair, forgetting he's wearing them, lifts his hands to push his hair back. The loose end narrowly misses his chin and Jim sighs. "Come here. Let me take them off you."
Blair twists his hand, watching the short dangle of chain and cuff. "They don't feel like I expected them to."
"You've been cuffed before."
"Yeah." Blair rolls his eyes. "Couple of times. But not recreationally and not by you."
"I didn't do a very good job," Jim points out, wondering at how quiet, how level his voice sounds. "One cuff… not really slowing you down much, is it?"
It's actually a fairly effective weapon. Blair could do some damage to Jim's face if he masters the angle and flick required. Jim had once broken free of someone trying to cuff him, the job half done, and used the open cuff to blind the man in one eye. As the man had done a piss-poor job of it because his other hand was holding a knife he was planning to use to cut Jim's balls off with, the guilt had been minimal at best.
"Not much," Blair agrees.
They eye each other over the space between them and it's awkward, yes, but it's not angry now. Jim feels the tension slip away from him in degrees, lessening with every breath he exhales that isn't accompanied by the sound of Blair's departing footsteps.
"Tell me something you want," he says, knowing the moment's not going to last. It's too intense; they'll retreat, Blair fastest of all, hide behind assurances, reassurances, build the barriers higher, thicker.
He'll lose Blair. The tension's back and he makes a stricken sound that brings Blair's gaze up.
"Jim?"
"Tell me something you want," he says again, shoving the words at Blair with all the urgency he's got. "I don't want this to be for nothing. I don't want to lose you over this."
Blair moves forward, the intent to hug written all over his face, but Jim wards him off. "No. Not yet. Don't…I don't want the easy way out. I swear if you ask for something I don't want to do, I'll tell you. Like I always do. Like you do. This isn't any different than you telling me I can't rim you because you'd never be able to kiss me again without thinking about where my tongue had been." He compresses his lips together. Hard to admit that he's been so spectacularly wrong but it's got to be done. "It isn't different. I had no right to make you feel that it was. I'm sorry, Chief. I let the job get to me; get between us and that wasn't --"
"Jim. Stop talking." Blair's moving again and this time he doesn't stop until he's as close as he can get without touching Jim. "No; ask me again and then just say yes or no and if it's yes, we do it, if it's no, we try again. And if we run out of options, we just do what we usually do, because, Jim, that's fine, that's good and I don't want you ever thinking it isn't. You get me hot and you get the job done, okay?"
"You're such a fucking romantic, Chief."
Blair smiles up at him, confident and relaxed, and that's a good look on him, too. "Want me to tell you I love you?"
"Yes."
"Oh." Blair reaches up and cups Jim's face with his hands, a firm, sure touch. "I love you, Jim."
"Glad to hear it." Jim flicks the circle of metal hanging down. "So tell me where you want this to go."
"Around my other wrist?"
Jim considers that. "Not until you're naked. Strip."
Blair starts to do just that and then pauses, quirking his eyebrow. "Uh, you're not joining me?"
"I liked the idea of you naked and me not."
"I liked it, too, but right now I want to fuck."
Jim moves fast, clipping Blair's wrists together in front of him and grabbing Blair as he staggers. Blair's still wearing his unbuttoned shirt and shorts but he can work around that. Blair tugs at his cuffed hands and gives Jim an indignant look.
"You liked that," Jim tells him quietly. "And I didn't mind doing it. Let's work with this, okay?"
Blair nods slowly.
"Keep on undressing."
Blair hold up the cuffs in a mute reminder and Jim smiles. "You can do a lot with them cuffed, trust me."
The shorts come off easily enough, though Jim can't help the chuckle he gives when Blair shimmies them down, ass wriggling. Blair huffs and then hooks them up with his foot and kicks them at Jim.
"Shirt," he tells him, not bothering to duck, knowing they'll lose momentum and flutter, with a billow, to the floor.
"I can't," Blair says a moment's ineffective struggle later, his face pinking up, his dick hard, wet-beaded, red.
"Then ask me for help," Jim says equably.
"Jim, would you help me get my shirt off even though you can fuck me with it on and we both know it?" Blair bares his teeth, "Please?"
Why Blair thinks he likes being controlled, Jim doesn't know. It seems to be a delusion on an epic scale.
"Sure, Blair. Always glad to help." He walks behind Blair, hooks his fingers in the neck of Blair's shirt (not angry now, not sick with it, hating it, hating Blair) and tugs. The shirt slips off Blair's shoulders and Jim draws it down slowly until the sleeves are caught in the crook of Blair's elbows and his ass and thighs are covered.
"That made it worse," Blair says, but there's a remembered, familiar huskiness to his voice and Jim nods to himself. Blair likes it when he strips him. Fine. He can do that.
"Not really." Jim glances around. They're not really in the best place to do this and there doesn't seem any good reason to stay here. He slaps Blair's hip through cotton. "Get your ass upstairs. I want a bed handy."
Blair doesn't react to the slap; which tells Jim nothing; it had been the sort of non-minatory nudge he'd have delivered in front of Simon, nothing more. Blair goes to the stairs and begins to climb them. Jim, after rummaging through the kitchen drawers for a pair of scissors; cotton's tough to rip, follows him, catching up to Blair as he reaches the foot of the bed. He sets the scissors down on the night table, smiling slightly at the startled look that crosses Blair's face as he sees them, and goes over to him. Blair's cuffed hands are loosely clasped in front of him, the back of his knuckles brushing the head of his dick. Jim can imagine how that feels, the irregular bumped nudge against sensitive, yearning flesh; teasing, maddening, and wonders how often Blair's seen to his own torment, his own pleasure, unnoticed or misinterpreted.
How much has he missed?
He doesn't tell Blair to stop. He just walks behind him and uses both hands to gather the drape of shirt into a thick rope, twisting it up and tight, drawing Blair's hands higher. He keeps hold of the fabric with one hand and reaches around with the other, his face buried in Blair's hair, blindly exploring Blair's chest and belly with his fingers spread wide and his mouth kissing, making words he doesn’t speak, won't say. The bedroom's dim with reflected light from downstairs, but it needs to be darker than this for him to say them aloud.
They'll turn the lights out eventually.
Blair's gasping, his head tipped back, his throat waiting to be kissed. Jim scrapes his thumbnail over Blair's left nipple and then uses the ball of his thumb on the upstroke, feeling the soft smudge of flesh harden, defined, described.
"I could bite them," he offers. "Get them hard so they ache and throb. So they're still tender tomorrow when you get dressed and your shirt feels like sandpaper."
"That… doesn't count as hurting?" Blair gets out, sounding out of breath.
"Wouldn't have asked if I thought it did. Moving on --"
"No! Do it." Blair pauses. "Thank you."
"That's not something you need to say," Jim tells him, a little taken aback going to sit on the bed in front of Blair. "It doesn't work that way. It's not for you, not just for you. Or it shouldn't be."
"I think it can be," Blair says and there he is, dick straining, mouth bitten raw (when did he do that? What sounds did he want to keep inside?) and he's still able to stop and talk. "You've eaten food, watched movies, gone places you didn't want to just to please me; and I've done the same. Why is sex different? Why does it have to be unselfish? How could it ever be equal? How would you know? Who measures it? It's always going to be more fun for one of us and that's down to way too many factors to --"
"I get it," Jim interrupts. "God, Blair, don't make me gag you."
"I'd keep talking and you'd still hear me," Blair points out, unfazed by the threat and profoundly unaroused. Jim thinks of yellow cloth and frightened, furious blue eyes and winces. No gags. Good to find something they're both in agreement on.
"Yeah…" Jim sighs. "So could I ask you, as a favour, to stop yammering when I'm trying to seduce you?"
Blair grins and kicks Jim's foot gently with his bare one. "Job's done, Jim; I'm ready and willing."
Jim gives him a sour smile that tastes sweet. "And we're back to normal."
"No." Blair's expression is solemn. "Too much to process that fast. Going to take time. But I thought we'd run out of that earlier so I'm not complaining."
"I thought so, too."
They stare at each other, appreciating the truce, no matter how tenuous it turns out to be, and then Blair clears his throat and glances down. "I'm waiting…"
"I'd like to make you do that," Jim discovers. "For a long time…"
"You'd be waiting, too."
"You'd be worth it." Jim pictures a frantic, needy, desperate Blair released from… something… grabbing him, taking him, fucking him into boneless bliss, and decides that would work for him whoever was the one getting fucked. Hell, they'd probably both get a shot at it…
"You, my man, are showing hidden depths." Blair purses his lips. "Of course, so far, you're all talk…"
Jim rolls his eye, leans forward, swipes his tongue across the peeled-grape lusciousness of the head of Blair's dick and has his mouth -- and teeth -- around that scratched, scraped nipple before the taste's reached his brain.
He's not sure if Blair's yelp is down to the detour or the depth to which his teeth are sinking into skin.
He doesn't care. He wants that sound again, the one Blair made in the corridor. Wants to hear it untainted, cleansed. He very carefully licks and sucks until Blair's nipple is hard, slippery, and sets his teeth into it, just as carefully, and then holds Blair in place, his hands on Blair's hips, and tugs back experimentally, pulling the skin around it taut.
Blair makes an open-mouthed moan and sways back the fraction Jim's grip allows, increasing the stretch until Jim can't maintain the hold his teeth have and is forced to let go.
He looks at the scarlet, swelling skin and shakes his head. "Okay, I'm done there." He glances up and Blair nods and flickers a look at the hard-in-sympathy, untouched nipple, a question in his eyes.
"Not as much," Jim warns him, but when he's done, it looks about as bruised as its twin and Blair's dick is messy, wet, his balls drawn up tight and rounded. Jim's lost track of the dips and peaks of his own arousal; he feels like he's been close to coming for so long he's not sure a climax is possible; his shorts are clinging damply and the press of the zipper along his erection is approaching unendurable.
The shirt Blair's wearing is in the way now. Jim gets the scissors and, without making a big deal out of it, though he's sure Blair would like him to, shears through the cotton where the sleeves join the body, tossing it aside, then deals with the sleeves. It doesn't take long and Blair stands very still while Jim does it.
"Tell me what you want me to do to make you come," Jim asks when the scissors are back on the table, he's back on the bed, and Blair's naked. "Quick or slow; that's up to you."
Blair puts his linked hands behind Jim's neck and pulls Jim's head down. "Suck me. Don't let me move." His hands move away; Jim can feel them hovering. "Uh, sorry. If that's okay?"
"God, just come here," Jim mutters, contradictorily leaning back into Blair's hands until Blair gets the message and pushes Jim's head down again.
The bed's just a little high and Jim slides down to his knees, his hands still firmly clamped on Blair's hips, fingers biting into the solid muscle of Blair's ass. He knows, without doubt, that Blair wants him to leave marks. He's done that before and felt bad about it; there's a sharp sting of anger as he realises Blair could have spared him that guilt.
He turns his head before his mouth touches Blair's dick and bites down on a point of hipbone between his spread fingers, Blair's frustrated hiss all he needs to soothe himself down. The skin-warmed metal of the cuffs rubs against the back of his neck as Blair clenches his fists and Jim smiles, forgivingly, magnanimously, and lets his mouth kiss a meandering trail across Blair's stomach, wetting down dark hairs until they're lying dark and flat against skin. Blair's belly rumbles and Jim grins, giving it an affectionate, noisy smack of a kiss. "I'll feed you later, Chief."
"I'm fine," Blair snaps, trying hard enough to wriggle his dick closer to Jim's mouth that Jim has to really work to stop him, ducking out of the loop of Blair's arms and the cuffs and muscling Blair away, putting him almost at arm's length. "Jim!"
"You're not supposed to be moving," Jim says reprovingly.
Blair sighs and brings his hands up to scratch at his nose. "And you're supposed to be sucking me," he reminds Jim.
"I was getting there."
"Not fast enough."
"We on the clock here, Chief?"
"I don’t know; ask my blue and aching balls!"
Jim snorts with sudden amusement. "Got a better view of them than you; they're not blue."
Blair's hands drop down and he starts to jerk off, breaking Jim's loosened grip easily and stepping back. His hands, like this, are able to work his dick and cup his balls -- just -- and he's close enough to coming that Jim's not sure whether to duck or open his mouth.
He settles for saying, "Hey!" and slapping Blair's hands away, lunging forward to do it.
"Dammit, Jim!" Blair tries to gesture wildly, widely with his hands and grimaces as the cuffs remind him they're there. "I don't want to do it this way -- I told you what I wanted -- why won't you just --?" He ends on a dry sob of sheer frustration, and snarls, turning and kicking out at the shredded, ruined shirt. "Take these fucking things off and let me finish, will you?"
"No." Jim rocks back on his heels and waits for Blair to look back at him. When he does, Jim crooks his finger and beckons to him. "Get back here, Blair. I won't make you wait." When Blair walks over, his expression wary, Jim adds blandly, "This time," before putting his hands back where they had been, matching fingers to marks.
Then he murmurs, "Sorry" with his mouth touching the stretched, thin skin of Blair's shaft, hot skin, drum skin tight, and clamps down harder with his hands to stop Blair's hips from arching up even a little. He doesn't take his mouth away until Blair comes, breathing shallowly, swallowing the soft thick spit fast when he has to, keeping his lips and tongue and teeth on Blair, wishing this could take longer, but it can't and he's lucky he gets as long as he does. He feels the hardness forcing his lips round get harder still, and hears Blair's moans lose even a semblance of control. Then he feels the body he's holding quiver and jerk and fight him and chokes, gulping down one, two mouthfuls of spit and come and trying not to mind that his fingers can feel Blair's skin bruise and heat under their brutal grip.
Blair's hands are behind Jim's neck again and he pulls Blair down to join him on the floor, meeting no resistance. Blair puts his head on Jim's shoulder and then starts to bite and kiss at Jim's neck making sounds that aren't words. He's shaking, trembling, his body pressing as close as it can to Jim's.
Jim gives the nascent bruises a gentle pat -- he can't help it -- and then threads a hand up into the weight of Blair's hair to cup his skull. He twists his fingers into the thick mass and uses his grip to pull Blair's head up. "You're hurting me," he whispers.
Blair's eyes take a second to focus. "Fuck me."
It's less of a non sequitur than it seems, Jim supposes. "Thought you'd never ask."
"You were waiting to be asked?"
"Not really," Jim tells him. He fumbles in his pocket for the key to the cuffs.
"You can leave them on." Blair lifts his hands over Jim's head and studies them. Jim can see that the skin's chafed but no more than that.
"I'm not ready to fuck you with them on," Jim says and means it enough that Blair shrugs and doesn't argue, even though it's a day ending in 'y'.
"You're going to get undressed, though, right?"
Jim nods. "Yeah. If you insist." He gets out of his clothes, taking the zipper down with more care and attention than usual, watching Blair matter-of-factly get out a condom and lube and put them on the bed, after ripping the condom packet open along one edge. Blair's still half hard and it seems to Jim that he's getting hard again rather than relaxing into a satiated laxness. Fine with him.
He gets onto the bed beside Blair and stares at him in silence for a moment. "I don't know what to do," he says finally. "What I was doing wrong before. You're going to have to tell me. It'll make it awkward but to be honest, I'm not going to last long so we can write this one off anyway." He slides his hand into Blair's lifting them so he can kiss the roughened skin braceleting Blair's wrist.
"That for a start," Blair says. There's no anger there and no apology. "I like the way those marks look. Don't treat them like they're an accident, like they need kissing better."
Jim mouths them, biting down, flicking his tongue over the tiny, near-invisible abrasions, making the licks strong and fast, drawing the blood to the surface. "Better?" he asks, surveying the wet skin without satisfaction or guilt.
Blair kisses him, his hands hauling Jim closer, touching him in frantic, hungry, uncoordinated sweeps of palm against skin. "Jim -- get in me, get in me now, please --" he says between kisses that leave Jim's mouth stinging, tingling.
"I'll take that as a yes," Jim mutters, reaching for the lube and the condom and getting both where they need to be with Blair a twitching, impatient, distracting presence beside him. Suited up, he slicks his fingers and jerks his head at Blair. "How?" he demands. Rolling the condom down had meant touching his dick which had nearly triggered a climax. The potential embarrassment of an anticlimax like that -- and he could imagine Blair's amusement at the aptness of the word -- had worked wonders, but he wasn't going to last long.
Blair goes to his hands and knees and edges his knees wider, settling into position. Jim kneels behind him and runs a dry finger down Blair's spine, chasing a shudder.
"I'd normally open you up and slide inside you."
"Do it," Blair tells him. "But skip the first part."
"I'm not doing this dry."
Blair sighs and rolls over to his back, grabbing the lube and drizzling some over Jim's dick. He smoothes it around with merciful quickness and a light touch and then glares up at Jim. "You fuck me a lot. I'm used to it. Use some on the outside and go slow and you won't hurt me. That's not something I ever want because it'll stop us doing it again for a while and I'm not stupid. Don't treat me like I am."
"Fine," Jim says, feeling dismally sure this is going to be a disaster.
Blair's expression softens and he pats Jim's face with his clean hand. "We're writing this one off, remember? And you can do it the way you always do, just --"
"Just don't," Jim finishes. He rubs his forehead. "Blair, I'm not sure I can do this. You're asking me to relearn the way I make love after twenty years."
"No, I'm asking you to keep on being the considerate, hot as hell man you've always been," Blair says evenly. "Now you know what I want -- sometimes, doesn't have to be always, doesn't have to be a routine, either -- you'll give it to me because that's the way you are. You don't need me telling you like this, either, which is really killing the mood. You're not just an experienced man, you're a Sentinel; use what you've got, like you did downstairs. Pay attention to me -- and fuck me before we fall asleep debating it, will you?"
Jim gives in. He'll think about this tomorrow; Blair's making it sound way too simple, like always, but he'll sleep on it and spot the flaws, point them out and watch Blair's eyes light up as he scents an argument.
He closes his eyes and thinks, then leans over Blair, planting his hands on either side of Blair's head and dragging his mouth slowly across Blair's face, licking Blair's lips. "Taste that? Your come? I can. Will do for hours, did you know that? Remembering your dick in my mouth every time I swallow. I guess you need something to remember me by, too, don't you?" He reaches down and pinches Blair's nipple. "More than this. Much more. So roll over and I'll give it to you." He lets his hand go down to Blair's dick and squeezes it, an assessing, brutal squeeze he tempers with a kiss against Blair's parted, gasping lips, a kiss he doesn't give until Blair's made that sound again for him, a sound he knows he can get any time he wants.
The sound Blair makes when he's confessing; the kiss he gets as absolution.
And see what
angstpuppy did for me! An icon :;points:: and a gorgeous banner under the cut with the fic. Thank you so very much; I'm just so happy with them and you rock! ::hugs::And thanks to those reading for encouraging me in this off-beat, experimental fic; it was a challenge and it got dark in places but I think it ends somewhere not so dark. You've all been so supportive and I needed that :;hugs::
Previous parts are here: Confession Time
Confession Time
Part Six
Blair's standing still already, facing away from Jim (does he think I can't see him? He's reflected in that row of jars over there, seven wavering, distorted images; in the polish of that pan -- indistinct, sure, but I can see the stubborn tilt of his chin, the mutinous mouth. He can't hide from me and I like that more than I should) but the cuff locking around his wrist makes it the waiting stillness of a pond with a stone heading towards it.
That calm, that freeze, is going to shatter now, has to, and Jim's curious; is Blair going to face him, at last, or is he going to try and run?
He holds the other cuff in the curved cup of his palm and waits, ready to close his fingers over the metal and hold Blair in place.
"Why did you do that?" Blair sounds... Jim sorts through the wash of data flooding his brain, piecing stuff together, allocating weight to this factor, discarding that… It's automatic now and it doesn't take long for him to decide that Blair's a little turned on, a little curious, a little apprehensive, the emotions muted, as if they're inhibiting each other, canceling each other out.
Jim doesn't want mild, average, easily dealt with emotions. He wants Blair ripped apart by them, screaming. He wants Blair out of control, wild. He wants to be the calm one and this last week, these last hours, he's felt like he's about to fall apart like wet paper, mushy with despair, or explode, rage ripping holes in him.
"It's what I do," he says. "It's what I did to him." He can't say Owens' name again. Doesn't want its echo trapped, endlessly bouncing off the walls of his home. "Going to tell me it doesn't turn you on?"
"No." Blair's silent a moment, the fingers of his cuffed hand flexing carefully, making the bones of his wrist shift and expand within the tight, inflexible grip of metal. "Sometimes, I've wanted this."
"I know." Jim rests his forehead on Blair's shoulder, feeling tired. The cotton shirt's thin enough to let him feel like he's touching skin, almost, nearly, and he rubs his forehead slowly against it, then kisses the side of Blair's neck through the fall of his hair. "I know that, Blair."
"Then why didn't you ever fucking do it?" Blair's head turns and Jim's lips skate and skid across Blair's cheek before he jerks his head back an inch or two. They're staring at each other, so close that Jim can't see all of Blair's face, but he's only looking at Blair's eyes, so it doesn't matter.
"Ever think I might not want to?"
That hits home. He watches Blair process it and sees the spark of anger in Blair's eyes sputter and die.
"Ever think you've got no right expecting me to cater to your fucking kinks when you don't even tell me what they are? Ever think how it feels when I'm giving you the best I've got -- trying so fucking hard to please you, make it good for you, and it's not enough because you want me to do something that would kill me?"
He lets go of the open cuff, allowing it to dangle, swinging and heavy, and wraps his hands around each of Blair's wrists before forcing them out to the side and forward, bringing them together in front of Blair, a rough, fast grab and shove. He's snuggled up close to Blair's back now, in a parody of an embrace, and he pulls Blair's hands back slowly, deliberately, until they're pressing against Blair's dick, ignoring the soft, protesting grunt of shock Blair makes, holding them there. He's stronger than Blair; it's not difficult.
"Ever think how much it goes against my instincts to hurt you?" he says into Blair's ear. "Protect and serve, remember? Not hurt and dominate. Maybe we're the same…I don't know. You feel like more of a bully to me. But any way you slice it, you don't get that from me."
"Even if I want it?" Blair spits out, starting to struggle now, starting to lose it. "You know I don't want you to really hurt me, not really --"
"No. I don't. I don't know anything." Jim's breathing through water and salt now, each breathe stinging, burning. "Just that when I hurt you, you like it, and when I love you it's not enough."
"You're not that naïve," Blair snaps. "Not that unimaginative."
"Let's pretend I am." Jim bites down on Blair's earlobe, hard, not playful, not the sucking nibble that brings goose bumps springing up over Blair's arm and a happy shiver. Blair's got enough sense to stay still but his fingers clutch and grab and scrabble and there's a whine of pain caught in his throat. Jim eases up before the imprisoned blood breaks free, leaving deep, white dents in the baby-soft skin, and waits for the white to flush dark, purple-red before speaking again. "Was that good? Hit the spot?"
"That hurt," Blair says distinctly. "You asshole." He tries to rub his ear against his shoulder, failing because Jim's grip won't let him lift his shoulder high enough. "Is it bleeding? Did you make it bleed?"
Jim chuckles at the outrage Blair packs into the question. "Relax, Chief. No blood." He nuzzles into Blair's hair, getting a sick, unhappy thrill at doing it now, in the middle of this wasteland. The last time he'd done it, the thick, heavy curls silky against his lips, Blair had been lying on top of him, panting his way back from a climax that had left them both sweat-slick and smiling. "Want there to be?"
"No." Blair's tense now. Sentinel, cop, man; wearing any hat, Jim knows Blair's about to make a move. Judging from the way he's shifting his weight, it's going to be an attempt to lash back with his foot, bending forward, trying to bring Jim with him, off-balance and falling.
"You don't know what you want, do you, baby?" he murmurs, making it indulgent, insulting, deftly distracting. "Poor, mixed-up Blair. Want Daddy to fix it?"
"That," Blair says bitterly, "is not one of my things, man."
"No?" Jim says, already well aware of that. "Suppose it's one of mine? Going to play along?"
"No." Blair shakes his head and his shoulders slump dejectedly, making Jim sharpen every sense he has, the stink of a trap strong and acrid. "And, yes, I get it, right? I'm not stupid."
"Well, okay," Jim says. "I'd call that progress. Want a reward?" he adds casually, his eyes narrowing when he feels Blair's reaction, the ripple of arousal and interest. "Okay, since we're sharing, tell me why that got to you."
"What?" Blair sounds sullen, sulky.
"You like rewards. Treats for being a good boy. Why? How does it fit in with the getting off on being hurt?" He's sincere. He's also feeling as if the man in his arms -- his Blair, his known quantity, his certainty -- is a stranger and that's just not acceptable. "Look, I'm not angry, okay? Not now. We're past that. I just… I want to know. You have to tell me."
"You've got me cuffed and you're not letting me move. You just tried to bite my fucking ear off. This is you not pissed?" Blair screams suddenly, a full-throated howl, a loud, unexpected assault on Jim's eardrums, combining it with a fierce struggle, elbows digging into Jim's ribs, kicking, squirming. Jim rides the tiger for a few seconds and then lets go, stumbling back, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his abused ears.
Blair turns on him, and Jim flinches from the stark despair on Blair's face. "What's the point in telling you? You won't do it. You don't want to do it. Any of it. And, yeah, you don't have to, of course you don't. I fucked up there, and I'm sorry. I didn't -- Jim -- I don't want -- I thought I could just -- you wouldn't know --"
"I want to know!" Jim yells at him and it feels good to yell, feels good to be face to face. "I'm in love with you -- you know that. I love you and that gives me -- no, it doesn't give me, I just… I want to know who I'm in love with! Want to know you're real."
Blair looks stunned, which is a good look on him, but Jim's not really able to appreciate it. He's waiting, with a dull expectancy, for Blair to walk away. Everyone does. You let them down; they leave. He's let Blair down. Blair will leave. There's a Latin term for inevitability and logic like that, but it escapes him.
The cuffs swing and spin as Blair, forgetting he's wearing them, lifts his hands to push his hair back. The loose end narrowly misses his chin and Jim sighs. "Come here. Let me take them off you."
Blair twists his hand, watching the short dangle of chain and cuff. "They don't feel like I expected them to."
"You've been cuffed before."
"Yeah." Blair rolls his eyes. "Couple of times. But not recreationally and not by you."
"I didn't do a very good job," Jim points out, wondering at how quiet, how level his voice sounds. "One cuff… not really slowing you down much, is it?"
It's actually a fairly effective weapon. Blair could do some damage to Jim's face if he masters the angle and flick required. Jim had once broken free of someone trying to cuff him, the job half done, and used the open cuff to blind the man in one eye. As the man had done a piss-poor job of it because his other hand was holding a knife he was planning to use to cut Jim's balls off with, the guilt had been minimal at best.
"Not much," Blair agrees.
They eye each other over the space between them and it's awkward, yes, but it's not angry now. Jim feels the tension slip away from him in degrees, lessening with every breath he exhales that isn't accompanied by the sound of Blair's departing footsteps.
"Tell me something you want," he says, knowing the moment's not going to last. It's too intense; they'll retreat, Blair fastest of all, hide behind assurances, reassurances, build the barriers higher, thicker.
He'll lose Blair. The tension's back and he makes a stricken sound that brings Blair's gaze up.
"Jim?"
"Tell me something you want," he says again, shoving the words at Blair with all the urgency he's got. "I don't want this to be for nothing. I don't want to lose you over this."
Blair moves forward, the intent to hug written all over his face, but Jim wards him off. "No. Not yet. Don't…I don't want the easy way out. I swear if you ask for something I don't want to do, I'll tell you. Like I always do. Like you do. This isn't any different than you telling me I can't rim you because you'd never be able to kiss me again without thinking about where my tongue had been." He compresses his lips together. Hard to admit that he's been so spectacularly wrong but it's got to be done. "It isn't different. I had no right to make you feel that it was. I'm sorry, Chief. I let the job get to me; get between us and that wasn't --"
"Jim. Stop talking." Blair's moving again and this time he doesn't stop until he's as close as he can get without touching Jim. "No; ask me again and then just say yes or no and if it's yes, we do it, if it's no, we try again. And if we run out of options, we just do what we usually do, because, Jim, that's fine, that's good and I don't want you ever thinking it isn't. You get me hot and you get the job done, okay?"
"You're such a fucking romantic, Chief."
Blair smiles up at him, confident and relaxed, and that's a good look on him, too. "Want me to tell you I love you?"
"Yes."
"Oh." Blair reaches up and cups Jim's face with his hands, a firm, sure touch. "I love you, Jim."
"Glad to hear it." Jim flicks the circle of metal hanging down. "So tell me where you want this to go."
"Around my other wrist?"
Jim considers that. "Not until you're naked. Strip."
Blair starts to do just that and then pauses, quirking his eyebrow. "Uh, you're not joining me?"
"I liked the idea of you naked and me not."
"I liked it, too, but right now I want to fuck."
Jim moves fast, clipping Blair's wrists together in front of him and grabbing Blair as he staggers. Blair's still wearing his unbuttoned shirt and shorts but he can work around that. Blair tugs at his cuffed hands and gives Jim an indignant look.
"You liked that," Jim tells him quietly. "And I didn't mind doing it. Let's work with this, okay?"
Blair nods slowly.
"Keep on undressing."
Blair hold up the cuffs in a mute reminder and Jim smiles. "You can do a lot with them cuffed, trust me."
The shorts come off easily enough, though Jim can't help the chuckle he gives when Blair shimmies them down, ass wriggling. Blair huffs and then hooks them up with his foot and kicks them at Jim.
"Shirt," he tells him, not bothering to duck, knowing they'll lose momentum and flutter, with a billow, to the floor.
"I can't," Blair says a moment's ineffective struggle later, his face pinking up, his dick hard, wet-beaded, red.
"Then ask me for help," Jim says equably.
"Jim, would you help me get my shirt off even though you can fuck me with it on and we both know it?" Blair bares his teeth, "Please?"
Why Blair thinks he likes being controlled, Jim doesn't know. It seems to be a delusion on an epic scale.
"Sure, Blair. Always glad to help." He walks behind Blair, hooks his fingers in the neck of Blair's shirt (not angry now, not sick with it, hating it, hating Blair) and tugs. The shirt slips off Blair's shoulders and Jim draws it down slowly until the sleeves are caught in the crook of Blair's elbows and his ass and thighs are covered.
"That made it worse," Blair says, but there's a remembered, familiar huskiness to his voice and Jim nods to himself. Blair likes it when he strips him. Fine. He can do that.
"Not really." Jim glances around. They're not really in the best place to do this and there doesn't seem any good reason to stay here. He slaps Blair's hip through cotton. "Get your ass upstairs. I want a bed handy."
Blair doesn't react to the slap; which tells Jim nothing; it had been the sort of non-minatory nudge he'd have delivered in front of Simon, nothing more. Blair goes to the stairs and begins to climb them. Jim, after rummaging through the kitchen drawers for a pair of scissors; cotton's tough to rip, follows him, catching up to Blair as he reaches the foot of the bed. He sets the scissors down on the night table, smiling slightly at the startled look that crosses Blair's face as he sees them, and goes over to him. Blair's cuffed hands are loosely clasped in front of him, the back of his knuckles brushing the head of his dick. Jim can imagine how that feels, the irregular bumped nudge against sensitive, yearning flesh; teasing, maddening, and wonders how often Blair's seen to his own torment, his own pleasure, unnoticed or misinterpreted.
How much has he missed?
He doesn't tell Blair to stop. He just walks behind him and uses both hands to gather the drape of shirt into a thick rope, twisting it up and tight, drawing Blair's hands higher. He keeps hold of the fabric with one hand and reaches around with the other, his face buried in Blair's hair, blindly exploring Blair's chest and belly with his fingers spread wide and his mouth kissing, making words he doesn’t speak, won't say. The bedroom's dim with reflected light from downstairs, but it needs to be darker than this for him to say them aloud.
They'll turn the lights out eventually.
Blair's gasping, his head tipped back, his throat waiting to be kissed. Jim scrapes his thumbnail over Blair's left nipple and then uses the ball of his thumb on the upstroke, feeling the soft smudge of flesh harden, defined, described.
"I could bite them," he offers. "Get them hard so they ache and throb. So they're still tender tomorrow when you get dressed and your shirt feels like sandpaper."
"That… doesn't count as hurting?" Blair gets out, sounding out of breath.
"Wouldn't have asked if I thought it did. Moving on --"
"No! Do it." Blair pauses. "Thank you."
"That's not something you need to say," Jim tells him, a little taken aback going to sit on the bed in front of Blair. "It doesn't work that way. It's not for you, not just for you. Or it shouldn't be."
"I think it can be," Blair says and there he is, dick straining, mouth bitten raw (when did he do that? What sounds did he want to keep inside?) and he's still able to stop and talk. "You've eaten food, watched movies, gone places you didn't want to just to please me; and I've done the same. Why is sex different? Why does it have to be unselfish? How could it ever be equal? How would you know? Who measures it? It's always going to be more fun for one of us and that's down to way too many factors to --"
"I get it," Jim interrupts. "God, Blair, don't make me gag you."
"I'd keep talking and you'd still hear me," Blair points out, unfazed by the threat and profoundly unaroused. Jim thinks of yellow cloth and frightened, furious blue eyes and winces. No gags. Good to find something they're both in agreement on.
"Yeah…" Jim sighs. "So could I ask you, as a favour, to stop yammering when I'm trying to seduce you?"
Blair grins and kicks Jim's foot gently with his bare one. "Job's done, Jim; I'm ready and willing."
Jim gives him a sour smile that tastes sweet. "And we're back to normal."
"No." Blair's expression is solemn. "Too much to process that fast. Going to take time. But I thought we'd run out of that earlier so I'm not complaining."
"I thought so, too."
They stare at each other, appreciating the truce, no matter how tenuous it turns out to be, and then Blair clears his throat and glances down. "I'm waiting…"
"I'd like to make you do that," Jim discovers. "For a long time…"
"You'd be waiting, too."
"You'd be worth it." Jim pictures a frantic, needy, desperate Blair released from… something… grabbing him, taking him, fucking him into boneless bliss, and decides that would work for him whoever was the one getting fucked. Hell, they'd probably both get a shot at it…
"You, my man, are showing hidden depths." Blair purses his lips. "Of course, so far, you're all talk…"
Jim rolls his eye, leans forward, swipes his tongue across the peeled-grape lusciousness of the head of Blair's dick and has his mouth -- and teeth -- around that scratched, scraped nipple before the taste's reached his brain.
He's not sure if Blair's yelp is down to the detour or the depth to which his teeth are sinking into skin.
He doesn't care. He wants that sound again, the one Blair made in the corridor. Wants to hear it untainted, cleansed. He very carefully licks and sucks until Blair's nipple is hard, slippery, and sets his teeth into it, just as carefully, and then holds Blair in place, his hands on Blair's hips, and tugs back experimentally, pulling the skin around it taut.
Blair makes an open-mouthed moan and sways back the fraction Jim's grip allows, increasing the stretch until Jim can't maintain the hold his teeth have and is forced to let go.
He looks at the scarlet, swelling skin and shakes his head. "Okay, I'm done there." He glances up and Blair nods and flickers a look at the hard-in-sympathy, untouched nipple, a question in his eyes.
"Not as much," Jim warns him, but when he's done, it looks about as bruised as its twin and Blair's dick is messy, wet, his balls drawn up tight and rounded. Jim's lost track of the dips and peaks of his own arousal; he feels like he's been close to coming for so long he's not sure a climax is possible; his shorts are clinging damply and the press of the zipper along his erection is approaching unendurable.
The shirt Blair's wearing is in the way now. Jim gets the scissors and, without making a big deal out of it, though he's sure Blair would like him to, shears through the cotton where the sleeves join the body, tossing it aside, then deals with the sleeves. It doesn't take long and Blair stands very still while Jim does it.
"Tell me what you want me to do to make you come," Jim asks when the scissors are back on the table, he's back on the bed, and Blair's naked. "Quick or slow; that's up to you."
Blair puts his linked hands behind Jim's neck and pulls Jim's head down. "Suck me. Don't let me move." His hands move away; Jim can feel them hovering. "Uh, sorry. If that's okay?"
"God, just come here," Jim mutters, contradictorily leaning back into Blair's hands until Blair gets the message and pushes Jim's head down again.
The bed's just a little high and Jim slides down to his knees, his hands still firmly clamped on Blair's hips, fingers biting into the solid muscle of Blair's ass. He knows, without doubt, that Blair wants him to leave marks. He's done that before and felt bad about it; there's a sharp sting of anger as he realises Blair could have spared him that guilt.
He turns his head before his mouth touches Blair's dick and bites down on a point of hipbone between his spread fingers, Blair's frustrated hiss all he needs to soothe himself down. The skin-warmed metal of the cuffs rubs against the back of his neck as Blair clenches his fists and Jim smiles, forgivingly, magnanimously, and lets his mouth kiss a meandering trail across Blair's stomach, wetting down dark hairs until they're lying dark and flat against skin. Blair's belly rumbles and Jim grins, giving it an affectionate, noisy smack of a kiss. "I'll feed you later, Chief."
"I'm fine," Blair snaps, trying hard enough to wriggle his dick closer to Jim's mouth that Jim has to really work to stop him, ducking out of the loop of Blair's arms and the cuffs and muscling Blair away, putting him almost at arm's length. "Jim!"
"You're not supposed to be moving," Jim says reprovingly.
Blair sighs and brings his hands up to scratch at his nose. "And you're supposed to be sucking me," he reminds Jim.
"I was getting there."
"Not fast enough."
"We on the clock here, Chief?"
"I don’t know; ask my blue and aching balls!"
Jim snorts with sudden amusement. "Got a better view of them than you; they're not blue."
Blair's hands drop down and he starts to jerk off, breaking Jim's loosened grip easily and stepping back. His hands, like this, are able to work his dick and cup his balls -- just -- and he's close enough to coming that Jim's not sure whether to duck or open his mouth.
He settles for saying, "Hey!" and slapping Blair's hands away, lunging forward to do it.
"Dammit, Jim!" Blair tries to gesture wildly, widely with his hands and grimaces as the cuffs remind him they're there. "I don't want to do it this way -- I told you what I wanted -- why won't you just --?" He ends on a dry sob of sheer frustration, and snarls, turning and kicking out at the shredded, ruined shirt. "Take these fucking things off and let me finish, will you?"
"No." Jim rocks back on his heels and waits for Blair to look back at him. When he does, Jim crooks his finger and beckons to him. "Get back here, Blair. I won't make you wait." When Blair walks over, his expression wary, Jim adds blandly, "This time," before putting his hands back where they had been, matching fingers to marks.
Then he murmurs, "Sorry" with his mouth touching the stretched, thin skin of Blair's shaft, hot skin, drum skin tight, and clamps down harder with his hands to stop Blair's hips from arching up even a little. He doesn't take his mouth away until Blair comes, breathing shallowly, swallowing the soft thick spit fast when he has to, keeping his lips and tongue and teeth on Blair, wishing this could take longer, but it can't and he's lucky he gets as long as he does. He feels the hardness forcing his lips round get harder still, and hears Blair's moans lose even a semblance of control. Then he feels the body he's holding quiver and jerk and fight him and chokes, gulping down one, two mouthfuls of spit and come and trying not to mind that his fingers can feel Blair's skin bruise and heat under their brutal grip.
Blair's hands are behind Jim's neck again and he pulls Blair down to join him on the floor, meeting no resistance. Blair puts his head on Jim's shoulder and then starts to bite and kiss at Jim's neck making sounds that aren't words. He's shaking, trembling, his body pressing as close as it can to Jim's.
Jim gives the nascent bruises a gentle pat -- he can't help it -- and then threads a hand up into the weight of Blair's hair to cup his skull. He twists his fingers into the thick mass and uses his grip to pull Blair's head up. "You're hurting me," he whispers.
Blair's eyes take a second to focus. "Fuck me."
It's less of a non sequitur than it seems, Jim supposes. "Thought you'd never ask."
"You were waiting to be asked?"
"Not really," Jim tells him. He fumbles in his pocket for the key to the cuffs.
"You can leave them on." Blair lifts his hands over Jim's head and studies them. Jim can see that the skin's chafed but no more than that.
"I'm not ready to fuck you with them on," Jim says and means it enough that Blair shrugs and doesn't argue, even though it's a day ending in 'y'.
"You're going to get undressed, though, right?"
Jim nods. "Yeah. If you insist." He gets out of his clothes, taking the zipper down with more care and attention than usual, watching Blair matter-of-factly get out a condom and lube and put them on the bed, after ripping the condom packet open along one edge. Blair's still half hard and it seems to Jim that he's getting hard again rather than relaxing into a satiated laxness. Fine with him.
He gets onto the bed beside Blair and stares at him in silence for a moment. "I don't know what to do," he says finally. "What I was doing wrong before. You're going to have to tell me. It'll make it awkward but to be honest, I'm not going to last long so we can write this one off anyway." He slides his hand into Blair's lifting them so he can kiss the roughened skin braceleting Blair's wrist.
"That for a start," Blair says. There's no anger there and no apology. "I like the way those marks look. Don't treat them like they're an accident, like they need kissing better."
Jim mouths them, biting down, flicking his tongue over the tiny, near-invisible abrasions, making the licks strong and fast, drawing the blood to the surface. "Better?" he asks, surveying the wet skin without satisfaction or guilt.
Blair kisses him, his hands hauling Jim closer, touching him in frantic, hungry, uncoordinated sweeps of palm against skin. "Jim -- get in me, get in me now, please --" he says between kisses that leave Jim's mouth stinging, tingling.
"I'll take that as a yes," Jim mutters, reaching for the lube and the condom and getting both where they need to be with Blair a twitching, impatient, distracting presence beside him. Suited up, he slicks his fingers and jerks his head at Blair. "How?" he demands. Rolling the condom down had meant touching his dick which had nearly triggered a climax. The potential embarrassment of an anticlimax like that -- and he could imagine Blair's amusement at the aptness of the word -- had worked wonders, but he wasn't going to last long.
Blair goes to his hands and knees and edges his knees wider, settling into position. Jim kneels behind him and runs a dry finger down Blair's spine, chasing a shudder.
"I'd normally open you up and slide inside you."
"Do it," Blair tells him. "But skip the first part."
"I'm not doing this dry."
Blair sighs and rolls over to his back, grabbing the lube and drizzling some over Jim's dick. He smoothes it around with merciful quickness and a light touch and then glares up at Jim. "You fuck me a lot. I'm used to it. Use some on the outside and go slow and you won't hurt me. That's not something I ever want because it'll stop us doing it again for a while and I'm not stupid. Don't treat me like I am."
"Fine," Jim says, feeling dismally sure this is going to be a disaster.
Blair's expression softens and he pats Jim's face with his clean hand. "We're writing this one off, remember? And you can do it the way you always do, just --"
"Just don't," Jim finishes. He rubs his forehead. "Blair, I'm not sure I can do this. You're asking me to relearn the way I make love after twenty years."
"No, I'm asking you to keep on being the considerate, hot as hell man you've always been," Blair says evenly. "Now you know what I want -- sometimes, doesn't have to be always, doesn't have to be a routine, either -- you'll give it to me because that's the way you are. You don't need me telling you like this, either, which is really killing the mood. You're not just an experienced man, you're a Sentinel; use what you've got, like you did downstairs. Pay attention to me -- and fuck me before we fall asleep debating it, will you?"
Jim gives in. He'll think about this tomorrow; Blair's making it sound way too simple, like always, but he'll sleep on it and spot the flaws, point them out and watch Blair's eyes light up as he scents an argument.
He closes his eyes and thinks, then leans over Blair, planting his hands on either side of Blair's head and dragging his mouth slowly across Blair's face, licking Blair's lips. "Taste that? Your come? I can. Will do for hours, did you know that? Remembering your dick in my mouth every time I swallow. I guess you need something to remember me by, too, don't you?" He reaches down and pinches Blair's nipple. "More than this. Much more. So roll over and I'll give it to you." He lets his hand go down to Blair's dick and squeezes it, an assessing, brutal squeeze he tempers with a kiss against Blair's parted, gasping lips, a kiss he doesn't give until Blair's made that sound again for him, a sound he knows he can get any time he wants.
The sound Blair makes when he's confessing; the kiss he gets as absolution.
Tags: