Work Text:
Blair is doing it again, watching Jim, working for that all important plausible deniability on the rare occasions that Jim calls him on it –
- In the truck - “Sorry, man, I was thinking.”
-
- In the bullpen after an arrest – “Dozing with my eyes open.”
-
- In a Chinese restaurant for dinner – “ Wool-gathering.”
-
- On their way out the door in the morning - “You’ve got some lint on your back right there.”
There are any number of explanations, delivered with a smile or brazen calm.
But still, he’s watching, he watches all the time – “What can I say, I am the observer after all?”
Or, “Anthropologist here, Jim.”
An anthropologist with his introductory chapter in front of a committee, and more chapters to come – or go, and where will Blair go after that?
But for now, yes, he’s taking notes with his eyes all the damn time. Looking but not touching; not grabbing his courage in his hands and simply asking. Blair has courage and pushiness aplenty, but not for this. Or is it ethics that holds him back, something that Blair does operate under according to his own occasionally twisty but genuine standards. If that’s how it works, Jim wishes that Blair could find the courage to stop looking. But if Blair found that particular courage, Jim wouldn’t get the sour, animal thrill of eyes on him, being sought, being wanted, would he now? Wouldn’t enjoy the heat of Blair’s gaze on his skin while he paid for the warmth with the acid burn in his gut.
They’ve exhausted the possibilities of the current criminal investigation and they’re home by 5.45 pm with dinner done and eaten by seven. Jim sits stretched out on the couch, and Blair is looking again, even when all he can see is the back of Jim’s head. Irritation spreads in Jim, makes his gut hurt again and his face prickle; some sharp words spit from his tongue.
“Doing it again, Sandburg. Cut it out.”
“Sorry, what?”
Tonight’s the night. Tonight’s the night when Jim stands up and looms over the lying little fucker. “Looking at me.”
Blair is suddenly busy with the untidy scatter of papers all over the table but he eventually deigns to lift his gaze to Jim’s. “Oh come on. Like the back of your head is that interesting.” Blair looks down again with feigned concentration at the work he’s been neglecting for that supposedly uninteresting view of Jim.
“And yet, here we are.”
“You need to get over yourself, Jim.” The words are dismissive, but there’s a telling heat in Blair’s skin, which blooms into a flush. Blair shifts in his seat – he can be twitchy and restless at the best of times and Jim often finds it oddly endearing, all that life in Blair springing out. But the day’s been one long professional frustration; add some ongoing personal frustration into the mix and this isn’t the best of times. Something short-circuits into a hard, quiet anger.
Jim’s fingers curl under Blair’s chin, lift the square, strong jaw with its sapling spread of evening stubble. Blair goes with it, but Jim sees an answering spark of something rare in his friend – anger of his own.
“I’ve got a deal to offer you, Chief.”
“Is that so? You could start by taking your hands off me.”
“Take me out for a drink, and you can look as much as you like. No evasion, no excuses, you can just get it out of your system.”
Blair leans away from Jim’s hand, but he stays in his seat. “I’ve got work to do.”
“You’ve been working hard. Your thesis won’t write itself, it’s true, but we could go out, blow off some steam. Time to take a break.”
“Yeah, with me buying the drinks. If I’m paying for the honor then you’d have to dress up for me, man. If I’m supposed to look my fill, then I want something worth looking at.”
It’s most likely a brush-off, unsubtle and mocking. At best it’s a challenge. Never let it be said that Jim doesn’t respond to a challenge. “Deal,” he says. “You buy the drinks, you pick my outfit.”
Blair’s eyes widen and his jaw drops. He recovers and snaps, “That’s not funny.”
Jim steps back a pace or two, crosses his arms. “You were kind of rude about that tie I wore to Don Norman’s retirement. Now’s your chance.”
Blair looks towards the windows for a moment, and then he stands, quick and decisive, and tucks the chair neatly in at the table.
“You look good in a suit, but I don’t want to go anywhere that you’d need a tie. That tie did suck, by the way, I’m not changing my opinion on that.”
Jim simply tilts his head, and makes sure that he’s keeping a smile (an annoying smile) on his face. “Fine, no tie required.”
“I need to go review your wardrobe. Shall we?” Blair gestures with extravagant and false courtesy towards the bedroom. “After you.” He’s already taking the license that Jim’s given him. Those bright blue eyes are fixed on him all the way to the top of the stairs, and only leave him when Blair goes on his quest in Jim’s drawers and closet for whatever it is he thinks will be worth looking at. A casual black cotton button-down shirt is laid on the bed, a pair of blue jeans, plain black socks that usually go with the court suit; the dressier boots Jim owns are placed nearby.
“It’s not that cold,” Blair says. “You don’t really need an undershirt, and you can wear your old leather jacket.” He eyes his selections and then opens Jim’s underwear drawer. “Always wondered if you owned anything that was a variation on all boxers all the time,” he mutters and then with a small noise of triumph brandishes a pair of black cotton-knit briefs from the back of the drawer. “I haven’t seen these before.”
“You telling me you keep track of my underwear, Sandburg?”
The glare he gets is possibly the one that Blair applies to students with dubious explanations for late essays. “I don’t even have to make an effort, you’re not exactly shy. Between that and laundry, I’ve seen quite a lot of your underwear.” He tosses the briefs onto the bed. “Caroline bought those for you, didn’t she?”
Blair can be annoying when he’s right. Jim shrugs, and decides to not mention that Caroline would hint that he wear that underwear for date nights. She liked how he looked in them, she liked how he felt in them under her small, slim hand, whether he was soft, half-hard, or all the way up and leaking a dark spot of pre-come. He has a suspicion that Blair wouldn’t be pleased by those details, and he simply says, “Good guess.”
They stand there a moment, and then Blair gestures once more, impatiently this time. “Well, come on, man. I’ve provided the outfit, time for you to get all gussied up.” He makes no move to leave, or look away. Why would he look away, after all? That’s not tonight’s deal.
Jim strips in a leisurely way, and hides a smile at the stifled gasp behind him when the boxers come off. He dresses again just as leisurely – fusses with the fit of the briefs, makes a play of fiddling with the buttons of the shirt as if he’s tempted to leave them open like some seventies throw-back, before he decides on something less flamboyant. The socks go on, the boots, and then he grabs his wallet and walks downstairs, taking his jacket off the coat-hook.
“Ready to go, Chief?”
Blair appears at the top of the stairs, flushed in the face. He pushes a few loose strands of hair back and then walks with deliberation down to join Jim.
“Sure. Let me grab my stuff.”
Blair’s right about the evening – it’s not cold. He puts a light jacket over the bowling shirt and chinos he wears, and they climb into the truck’s cab and Jim looks ahead out the windscreen but doesn’t start the ignition.
“Where are we headed?”
“I figured we could try Montgomery’s.”
“It’s a nice place,” Jim says.
“You’ve gone to all this trouble,” Blair says, with a glance at Jim’s ensemble. “And Montgomery’s does good snacks and cocktails.” His voice is perfectly nonchalant. His hands fumble with the latch of the safety belt.
“I feel more like a beer, myself.”
“They have good beer,” is all Blair’s reply.
It’s a Wednesday. Traffic is manageable, parking should be okay. The drive into the center of town is quiet inside the truck as well as out. Blair looks out the window as much as he looks at Jim. Are the city lights a palate cleanser, or is the novelty wearing off already? Jim clenches his jaw at that thought, and then reminds himself of the last sleepless night he had with jaw pain, settled with some deep breathing and dialing down. Things that Blair taught him.
They’re parked, Jim is getting ready to get out, but Blair grabs his arm. Blair’s got some strength to him; Jim figured that out early. “Jim… Jim, are we okay? I get… I get that you’re pissed off, and I ended up leaning into that, but are we okay? Because I don’t want… if we need to go home and talk this out, I’d prefer we did that.”
Now Blair is second-guessing himself? Jim sighs. “We’re here. It’s been a crap day, and maybe I didn’t ask nicely, but is taking a break such a terrible idea?”
“Taking a break, getting it out of my system. What do you think ‘it’ is?”
“Your ongoing fascination with your subject, presumably,” Jim says.
Blair’s hold gets tighter. “That fight in the parking garage… you said that you thought we were friends, and we are. We are friends.” He shakes Jim’s arm, just the once, emphatic. “We are.”
Jim struggles for a moment. They both know how this started, and if they went home to talk this out - it would take a while. Jim’s spoiling for a fight, he knows it, and he’s briefly ashamed. Blair can get angry, but it doesn’t fuel him the way it sometimes fuels Jim, and Blair doesn’t look angry right now. He looks earnest. Pleading. A little scared even, and Jim’s petty side basks like a cat in the sun. He glances at Blair’s hold on him, before looking pointedly into Blair’s face until he lets go.
“I guess we need to have that talk some time. But not right now.” He briefly brushes his knuckles against Blair’s jaw, gentler counterpoint to the angry grip of earlier, but there’s no tenderness in it. Blair doesn’t lean into it the way that Jim might enjoy seeing another, less fraught evening. The earnest endeavor to be the adult in the truck’s cab hardens into something more calculating.
Montgomery’s has big picture windows looking out onto the historic end of Green Street, and the gods of contrary bastards with unspoken agendas must be on Jim’s side, because they spot two freshly vacated club chairs with a view of the street as they walk in the door. Jim secures the position, Blair goes for supplies and returns with a beer and, given the Montgomery’s specialties, a cocktail, something with vermouth.
“One beer for you, one Rob Roy for me,” Blair says and sits opposite Jim, stretching out in the chair and taking in the view – mainly Jim, with the occasional glance at Green Street and its gentrified old brick facades. Jim takes a sip of his beer, which is styled at the richer end of the lager spectrum. Blair might try out the various IPAs that local specialty breweries produce, but he knows what Jim likes, and he’s provided it.
“Have you heard back from your committee? About your chapter?”
Blair holds his glass in his hand and takes a good, long look out the window. “Yeah, they have some thoughts.”
A platter of bite-size snacks is delivered to the table. Montgomery’s is hardly a beer-nuts and potato chips establishment, but by any standard this is looking to impress territory, the sort of platter you buy to share with your hot date. Jim has dressed to impress, by decree even, and he takes the first choice of the morsels on the plate as the server walks away.
Blair sips his drink, runs his tongue over his lips. It’s nerves, nothing to do with savoring the taste. The tongue comes out once more, and bright blue eyes stare directly into Jim’s. “So. What do you think about the Jags chances now that they’ve brought Hannay in?” Faced with Jim’s stare, he shrugs, and says, “I’ve never claimed to be subtle. And I don’t think that’s a conversation we want to have here.”
They look at each other across the little table and the expensive, delicious food, and Jim agrees to play along. If he actually wanted that conversation he could have had it back at home. “He’s going to fill the gap that Roschman left pretty well, I think. And if his interviews are anything to go by, he doesn’t have Roschman’s attitude, which can’t be bad.” And they’re away, talking about sports, segueing into local politics, given who owns the Jags and who else they know, just two guys talking in a bar, and if Blair focuses on Jim with more intensity than your average guy in a bar, that was, after all, the deal.
Blair can talk for hours about things that interest him; the tension in him eases. Jim tells a few stories – there’s Alan Archer, and his time sense. It’s something Jim thinks might interest Blair, all things considered, and he’s right. He frames it as a curiosity, and listens while Blair speculates. He doesn’t mention Alan’s name, or Veronica’s, or just how complicated and bitter things became with the three of them.
Blair orders more drinks. Jim sticks to beer; Blair orders a Manhattan, and then a Black Russian.
“If you’re planning on working your way through the cocktails list then we’re going to be grateful that I’m the one who drove us here.”
“I know when to stop.”
“When it comes to your drinks maybe.”
“What about you, Jim? Where are you planning to stop?”
Jim leans forward in his chair. “I guess we’ll find out. Finish your drink. It’s getting late for a work night. We should get home to bed.” He puts a low intimacy into his voice, and watches the cogs working in Blair’s mind – and not just his mind. Blair’s colour is high again, and it’s not only the alcohol or the heat in the bar. Blair refuses to be rushed with the last drink – it’s not dragged out, but it’s finished with steady sips, not knocked back. That steadiness is belied by nervous taps of his fingers across the side of his knee and the curve of the chair’s arm.
They leave, Blair close at his shoulder. He always is; at Jim’s side, still watching him even though he’s got enough information for ten dissertations.
“Home again,” Blair says as they turn out of the ramp of the parking garage. He’s angled slightly towards Jim in his seat. His gaze strays now and again to Jim but he’s mainly watching the road ahead, with as much care as if he was driving rather than Jim.
That’s the plan,” Jim says.
“Is it? I’d ask what hair got up your ass, but that would spoil this nice time we’ve been having. What is the plan, Jim?
“You’re the guy who knows how I tick, Chief. Take a guess, see if you’re right.”
“Damn it, Jim! Just… if you’ve got something to say then say it!”
But that isn’t the deal for tonight. “Sorry. No spoiling this nice night out.”
Blair’s mouth sets in a hard, straight line, and his face turns outwards to the city and the street for the rest of the drive. It ought to make concentrating on the drive home easier, but instead Jim’s senses latch on to Blair – silence isn’t ever really silence to a sentinel, not without something creepy or ‘scientific’ happening. Blair put him in a isolation chamber once and it was fucking weird. Blair’s breathing is consciously steady – he’s working out a plan of his own maybe, something of his own to say. The cab is full of the scent of his hair and his body. It’s a sweet and sour mix – the day’s end traces of shampoo and deodorant losing the last fight against Blair’s natural scent. Jim wouldn’t know how to describe that scent, but he’d know it anywhere. Isn’t that just peachy. Wouldn’t that just be a turn-up for the books, for Blair’s book in particular? Jim knows exactly, to a fine point, how Blair Sandburg smells.
They cross Barrett Bridge, and put the city center behind them. One last haul up Landon, turn into the southern end of Prospect and they’re home.
“Well, that was a lovely evening out,” Blair says. There’s an edge to his voice. “Pity it has to end.
“Who says it has to end. I know you, Chief; always with the plans. What do you have in mind? A good night kiss at the door?
Off to the side in the passenger seat, Jim sees Blair’s hands clench into fists. “Very boy next door of you, Jim. I was dreaming bigger than that.”
Jim spreads one hand in a ‘do tell’ gesture, while his heart beat runs hard and fast.
“I was thinking, what if I wanted to eat you out? What if I wanted to do that and then nail that gorgeous ass of yours? What would you say?”
Jim swallows. Those are quite some images from Blair, delivered jerkily in a voice full of nerves.
“Hidden depths there, Chief.”
There’s still that hint of a tremble in Blair’s voice, not quite controlled. “You know, I think that would be more applicable to you. If you said yes.”
Jim barks out a laugh. Blair is looking at him, head tilted back, eyes narrow, like he hasn’t just tipped this conversation into the gutter. Jim’s not actually averse to that. Blair’s terrible jokes, maybe not so much, but they’re part and parcel of Blair, and Jim will take that over the goddamned, fucking dissertation any day of the week.
“Oh, I bet you were a blast at frat parties.”
“I was more geek life than Greek life,” Blair says but he’s not really thinking about what he’s saying. Jim could half expect the passenger side of the truck’s bench seat to vibrate with the tense anticipation animating him.
Jim climbs out of the truck, but as he turns to shut the door, he leans down and makes very direct eye-contact with Blair– like they haven’t been eyeballing each other all evening, and says, “Yes.”
He shuts and locks his side of the truck and walks across the road to the building entrance. Blair doesn’t move for a few seconds, and then from behind Jim hears the slam of the door, footsteps, a curse, and a second slam of the door as Blair realizes he hasn’t locked it, before he runs to the door barely behind Jim. They’re silent up the stairs, silent into the loft. Jim knows his way in his own home, can see pretty well even in the dark, and he crosses the floor to turn on a table lamp rather than the harsher light from the wall switch. This isn’t an evening to cast that much light.
“Gotta use the can.” Jim says. “Guess I’ll see you upstairs.”
“Yeah, sure, sure,” Blair says. His eyes are huge, and he runs his gaze once up and down Jim’s body, speculative and still unbelieving. ‘Believe it,’ Jim thinks and turns away for the bathroom.
He empties his bladder. He brushes his teeth. He looks thoughtfully at the wash cloth hanging on its rail and he runs some water and carefully washes his armpits, and his groin and the crease of his ass. It’s rough against his skin and bracing despite the warmth of the water. No soap, just plain water, but he feels armed, somehow. He doesn’t bother dressing again, simply gathers his clothes up over his arm, to walk to the stairs. He looks up them for a moment or two; he can’t see Blair at this angle, but he can see all the ways that this is a mistake and something he never should have started. He could have let Blair look at him (and take his damn notes,) and made no comment; but he didn’t. He can’t. He takes a breath and walks upstairs, to see if Blair is going to stand by his lewd declaration in the truck.
Blair is shoeless, sockless, shirtless, when Jim reaches the top of the stairs. He stands with his back to Jim, his head bowed, apparently staring at his shirt, worrying the fabric in his hands.
“Reading the laundry instructions?” Jim asks with an entirely fake casual tone.
Blair turns. If Jim had thought his eyes were big downstairs? For a moment they widen in utter shock and surprise as if he hadn’t already seen Jim naked earlier tonight. As if he hadn’t told Jim what he wanted when they came home. “Holy fuck,” Blair says, almost reverent with it. He rallies and lifts an eyebrow. “Looking pretty good there, Jim.”
“Figured you thought that given how much you’ve been eyeing me up, Sandburg.”
Blair’s shirt drops to the floor and Jim’s clothes, plucked from his hold by Blair, follow likewise. Blair pulls Jim’s head down and holds him there for a hungry kiss; he doesn’t give a damn that Jim’s taller, heavier, older. He cups Jim’s face firmly and makes this little ravenous noise in the back of the throat.
Jim’s not about to deny that he likes it. He pulls Blair into a tighter embrace, feels the hardness behind the zipper of Blair’s pants. “Ready to go, aren’t you?” he murmurs softly.
Blair chuckles. He lifts his eyes, not abashed at all. “Hey. You’re inspiring, like you didn’t know.” The light in his eyes deepens. “I wasn’t making idle suggestions in the truck, man. Ready for me to rock your world?”
Jim’s smile widens, and if it’s baring his teeth as much as anything – well, it’s been that kind of mood, Jim pushing and Blair pushing back. “Yeah,” he says lazily. "I think I’d be ready for that.”
Blair’s hands grip hard on Jim’s shoulders. “Okay, then. Let’s get you comfortable. I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong sort fidgety when I’ve got my mouth on you.” He gives Jim a gentle shove in the direction of his bed. “Got any preferences? Because I was thinking that when I fuck you I really want to be able to see your face, so maybe part one of the evening’s entertainment you should get on your front.”
He’s right behind Jim, body-heat and skin and the roughness of cloth, and his hands rest with a light but proprietary air on Jim’s hips. They’re warm, broad hands, and Jim’s always known that Blair’s strong – square-shouldered and sturdy and enduring. Blair presses a kiss that turns into a wet stripe of tongue between Jim’s shoulder blades, and Jim can almost see the grin at the shudder that Blair must observe run up his spine. “Jim? Got any suggestions, or do you just want me to lay you down how I want?”
Jim surveys the neat, untouched surface of his bed while Blair’s voice thrums in his skull. He thinks of himself placed on the bed the way Blair had placed his clothes when Jim let him search through his things. “I think you can lay me down. You sound like a man with a plan, like usual. I wouldn’t want to get in your way.” His own voice sounds a little far away, but Blair doesn’t seem to notice. There’s another kiss, teasing and gentle directly on one shoulder. The feeling lingers. Every touch that Blair’s given him tonight has a sense echo running over his skin, a sensual layer that Jim’s deeply suspicious of but isn’t willing to try to shift or disperse.
“Well then,” Blair says. “Alley-oop.” And with that bit of nonsense, he pushes Jim onto the bed and Jim goes with it. He just… goes, pliant and on his front, his head resting on his arms. There’s a brief silence, broken only by Blair’s breath and the sound of a zipper coming down and the rustle of clothing. Blair’s naked, and he’s coming around the side of Jim’s bed so Jim opens his eyes and takes in the view. It’s a good one. Blair must think the same, because his eyes are bright and he puts a hand around his cock and strokes it gently, gazing, staring, looking at Jim all the while. Then he kneels, a little cautiously, and strokes his hand across the back of Jim’s head. His touch stalls at the nape of Jim’s neck and just rests there, not light, not heavy but very there, very present as yet another sensation that Jim doesn’t quite know how to process.
“Do you know what you do to me?” Blair’s voice is rough, and Jim’s just vain and stupid enough to hope that Blair isn’t talking only about sex now. Or the dissertation.
“You gonna show me?” he rasps.
“Yeah, guess I am.” But instead of getting his mouth on Jim, Blair sets himself to checking out the pillows; he adjusts the one Jim is lying on, puts a spare under Jim’s chest as he urges him ass-up, and there Jim is, all comfortably arranged to be eaten out, and feeling unbearably turned on and unbearably embarrassed by the fact that his ass and all the rest is displayed in front of this guy that he’s cleaned his home with, and watched sports with, and driven home from late night stakeouts with. All those ordinary little moments, and it’s so extraordinary when the bed sinks under Blair’s weight and he crawls behind Jim and uses those warm, strong hands to fully part Jim’s ass cheeks.
Jim wonders if Blair’s thought about this before now. He stays still a few moments that feel like forever to Jim, before Blair kisses him at the top of the crease of his ass and then works his way down, and kisses his hole. A little pucker of a kiss for the puckered skin there, before Blair takes a deep breath and lays down the flat of his tongue, broad and wet and strange, but not so strange that Jim doesn’t try to push back into it while a choked noise comes out of his throat,
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Blair murmurs softly and then he keeps on doing it, keeps putting his lips and his tongue on Jim, the humid warmth of saliva and Blair’s breath counterpointed by the scrape of Blair’s beard when he presses in ever closer. Blair likes it, if the quiet noises he makes are anything to go by, the way he doesn’t stop, the way that he keeps his hands on Jim to hold him in place, and Jim sinks into that sensation, the pleasure of it and he drifts on it. Blair doesn’t handle his cock at all; all of his attention is for Jim’s ass, his taint, the base of his balls. Jim couldn’t come from this, he doesn’t think, but he likes it. Loves it. Loves the sensation, loves that Blair is so very willing to do this. A slightly broken, humming noise comes out of his throat, and Blair gently strokes one cheek of his ass, and down the side of his hips, murmuring again, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” and puts his mouth back on Jim.
It isn’t the sort of thing where you keep track of time, where you’d want to keep track of time. Blair has his way for as long as he wants, however long that is and then he says,” I liked that.” Softly, but out loud, and his voice has fallen into one of his deeper registers, almost a growl. “I want to get some lube in you, Jim, okay?” Jim nods, the slide of pillow on his face strange when all his awareness has been for another part of his body. “Jim?”
“Yeah, sure, Blair.” He tenses – he already misses the soft, wet touches from before. Blair’s presence is gone from behind him, and Jim opens his eyes to see Blair once again alongside, opening Jim’s nightstand drawer.
Blair’s face is pink, and he wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, over full, red lips before he speaks. “Saw your brand of ‘personal lubricant” on top of a grocery bag once,” he says with a grin. “So I’m guessing that you keep it here.” He’s not wrong, because of course Blair Sandburg, nosy little shit extraordinaire noticed what Jim uses to jerk off with, and knows Jim’s home well enough to find the logical place for it. “Should have got it out earlier, sorry, man.” He crouches down, his face level with Jim’s. “I’d kiss you, but not before some serious tooth brushing and mouthwash, you know?”
“I’m grateful for your consideration,” Jim says as dryly as he can. He’s laid himself flat against the mattress now, resting joints and muscles that he hadn’t noticed earlier, and he’s so hard. He tilts his hips into the mattress, a continuous, hungry stimulation, but he’s not going to put a hand on himself yet. It’s unspoken but he doesn’t feel it’s part of tonight’s deal and Blair’s easy assumption of control implies that he feels the same. Something where they’re on the same page, not off-kilter the way it’s felt ever since that argument in the parking garage.
Blair watches with fascination, his fingers rubbing against the plastic of the container of lube. He strokes his own hard-on a few times – Jim knows that sort of touch, a little promise that satisfaction is on the way - before he gets back on the bed. There’s the sound of lube being put in his hand, but he sits there a while, the empty hand carefully stroking Jim’s ass. “Just letting things warm up here,” he says. “Figure you’ll thank me for that consideration too.”
The first touch still feels cool and oddly tacky as well, despite the generous amount of lube Blair’s squeezed out of the tube. But then his finger breaches Jim for that first moment, and Jim goes still, so still. So does Blair.
“You’re okay?”
“Yeah, it’s been a while, that’s all.” And he’d forgotten how this feels – something that’s alien (but very much wanted). He takes a breath. “Don’t stop.”
Something spikes in Blair’s scent – not arousal exactly, but interest. Jim sighs into his arm, because he guesses that Blair is cataloguing somewhere in his busy mind; a hypothesis confirmed. Maybe he’s grateful that Jim knows what to expect, or disappointed, that he’s not discovering unknown territory. And then he moves carefully inside Jim, and adds another finger. Makes a breathy noise of his own.
“Look at you,” Blair says. It’s turned on, and unexpectedly almost unbearably fond. “Look at you,” he says again like he can’t quite believe his eyes. His blunt, clever fingers keep moving in Jim, stroking, exploring, and Blair knows when he finds Jim’s prostate because a little shudder runs right through him, and Blair puts his other hand in the small of Jim’s back in a comforting, grounding touch. Jim’s moving his hips in rhythm with Blair’s touches now. Another stroke of sharp pleasure makes him grunt, and Jim doesn’t tend to be noisy in bed but that feels so very good.
“I think you might be just about ready for me. You ready for me, man?” Gentle hands help Jim turn over, and now Jim puts a hand on his erection because, god, he is so hard. Blair’s eyes glitter. “Oh yeah, I’m going to make you feel so good,” he croons. He grabs the spare pillow and pushes it under Jim’s hips. “Might as well make you comfortable, Jim, you comfortable?”
“I’m not that fuckin’ delicate, Chief, get on with it.”
Blair grins, a little wild, a little …off. His skin is flushed, and his hair is an utter mess. “You’ll thank me later.” He moves up close, and suddenly the scent of him is almost overpowering. Not bad, but it’s all that there is – shampoo and deodorant, the traces of alcohol on his breath, the simple human scent of his skin and his arousal. Jim shuts his eyes as Blair lifts his legs with hot, sure hands, and rests one up on his shoulder. He leans in, his cockhead blunt against Jim’s ass, and then he’s in, and Jim clutches the sheets under his hand. Blair outright moans. “Oh god,” he mutters. Jim opens his eyes, and there Blair is. Looking at him. Blair can be intense, and Jim doesn’t think he’s ever seen him more so. Jim gets a shaky smile, and a sweet, stupid kiss to the leg propped on his shoulder; a mix of lust and an equally stupid affection swoop through Jim’s gut. “Gonna make you feel so good,” Blair says again, frowning, all the concentration he has brought to bear on one job. Making Jim feel good.
Blair has powerful concentration, and he has skills, Jim will grant him that in the sharp push and pull of pleasure. Had to be a reason that Sam kept taking him back when half the time she was ready to kick him to the curb. There’s a sheen of sweat along Blair’s temples now, and his eyes are very dark; those enormous pupils should soften his face, but they don’t. He adjusts his grip and his angle and Jim, resting very fully now against Blair’ thighs, cries out. Blair bends his head, forces the pace, and Jim cries out again in helpless pleasure. Blair’s head snaps back on a gasp, all the line of his throat and jaw exposed, and he grits out, “Better come soon, Jim, if you want to come with me inside you.” He visibly drags some control to himself, and asks, honey-sweet, “You want to come with me inside you, don’t you?”
Jim’s answer to that is to put his hand on his cock, and stare Blair down once more. “Do it,” he says, and fucks mindlessly against his grip, wanting to come, and wanting Blair to come too. When Blair’s face creases in the final pleasure, Jim tries to hold off, and see it to the end, but it’s all too much, and his body finally takes its due as his mind and his vision both white out.
He’s barely aware of Blair sliding out of him. Something like alertness comes as Blair leans over him, hands either side of Jim’s shoulders, eyes shut and breathing hard. He doesn’t lean down to try and take a kiss, and Jim doesn’t think it’s any lingering concern over butt-breath that’s keeping him there, caging Jim down on his back with his legs sprawled and open.
“I don’t… maybe this wasn’t a good idea,” Blair says, but he doesn’t move. “Jim…”
Jim’s hand comes up. One finger rests on Blair’s lips – asking for hush, maybe even getting it. It’s not like Blair’s wrong, but Jim doesn’t want to hear it.
“Just blowing off some steam, Chief. That’s all. It’s okay. Back to business as usual tomorrow, right?” Tomorrow, and the tap of the keys of Blair’s laptop, and leafing of notebook pages, and Blair looking. He’s looking right now, staring as if Jim is a thousand feet deep and Blair wants to see to the bottom.
Finally, he nods and sits back on his haunches. “Yeah, sure.” He gently eases out from between Jim’s legs and rubs along one thigh in an assessing way, measuring how easily Jim moves. “Pretty limber there still. Not so bad for an old guy,” he teases, with all the condescension of a ten-years younger man who does yoga on the living area rug. Jim rolls his eyes because he knows it’s expected, and then an awkward silence falls. Blair looks away towards his clothes strewn on the floor. “Well then. I guess…”
“Good night. Get some sleep,” Jim says, and draws his covers up, all too aware of the wet mess all over him, but not willing to wipe it away in front of Blair, who gathers his clothes and walks naked down the stairs. The blinds on the window looking out over the sound are still open and Blair walks through the dim light to look out at the view for a moment before he turns his head and looks up at Jim’s bedroom space, and then away with eyes averted. But Jim’s gaze follows him (and who’s looking now) from window to couch across the floor until he’s lost to the angles of the room and Jim hears the door to his little room open and shut.
Jim shifts restlessly in his bed and then grabs some tissues to wipe himself down, front and back. “You’re a fucking mess,” he mutters, and knows it for truth in too many ways, before he buries himself in sex-smelling sheets, and tries to get to sleep.