Moonridge fic
Wot, me spam? But I missed my little PC so much... *smooches PC*
This is a short that I wrote for Terry, which timed out while I was away. J/B slash, 2,300 words approx, explicit sex so totally not work safe, otherwise pretty fluffy.
ETA Eeep. I forgot to mention that this was handily betad by the lovely elmyraemilie. Mea culpa...
Public and Private
Blair has done subtle in about the most unsubtle way possible, if you're Jim Ellison. His shirt's a nice shade of red, sure. It looks good on him and he's tucked it in; Sergeant Natalie Martinez at the front entrance might be a happily married woman but Jim knows that she always takes a quick peek and smiles when Blair's shirt-tails aren't covering his ass. He's wearing jeans, of course. Not old ones, not tackily tight, simply - closely attached - and following the lines of Blair's ass and groin and thighs.
His hair is pulled back. Blair does that at the PD as a nod to professionalism. If Blair's hair is pulled back then it doesn't need so much of what Blair calls product, and Jim calls either gloop or shit, to control it. Just clean, silky hair held back in a black elastic band, bunched at Blair's nape, so that Jim has his choice of distractions. He can admire the loops and waves of all that hair, or he can admire the boundary of nape to each side of it; Blair's skin is smooth and there's a glow to it that's more healthy male than the reflected light of a warmly coloured shirt. He put his earrings in this morning, two silver rings to send back the sheen from fluorescent lights, and occasionally spark off rays that only Jim can see. They're like little arrows on a diagram or map, pointing to a destination. They ought to be accompanied by the legend 'You could be here'. Right there, close enough that Jim could warm and moisten the shell of Blair's ear with his breath.
Jim's delayed by a phone call. When he follows Blair's trail to the break room Jim finds him talking to Marcia Simmons. More precisely Blair is flirting with Marcia Simmons, which is a game for both parties. It doesn't bother Jim. Marcia's in Archives. She has a good, methodical memory, and a sparkling, warm smile, with very white teeth against the brown of her skin. Her close cut hair is grizzled and she's organising a baby shower for grandchild number three. She leans her head back and laughs. "Blair, I should introduce you to Larisse. You need someone to take you in hand and she'd know how to get it done."
Blair's face is creased in a broad smile. "But it wouldn't be fair, Marcia. How can you encourage me to lead your daughter on when you know that I only have eyes for you?"
Marcia rises to her feet. "If you thought I'd take you seriously, you'd run to one of those foreign places of yours at about the speed of light. But your nonsense does brighten my day. See you later."
Blair salutes her with an arced, finger-waggling wave of his hand. Jim has his candy bar by now and he sits at the seat Marcia's just vacated. Blair's sitting astride his chair, his elbows leaning against the back. The gap between the back and the seat of the chair neatly frames his groin. "Escaped at last, Jim?"
"Yeah." Jim pulls his face into a look of mock sadness. "But too late to stop you from breaking Marcia's heart again."
After Blair showered that morning, he put little dabs of scented oil in various places all over his body. Nothing strong; far less noticeable than the eye-watering, nose-twitching reeks that some of Jim's co-workers think is a subtle splash of aftershave. There's a dab of scent in the hairline at the back of Blair's neck; there's some on Blair's collarbones, in the creases of his elbows and his knees; and there's some, just a touch, in the crease between Blair's thighs and groin, a touch rising from the top of the line of his buttocks. Jim can place all of those tiny hotspots of spice and citrus, and Blair knows that he can.
Blair shakes his head at Jim's reference to Marcia's heart. "Yeah, I know." His voice is soft, and in a tone that can reach straight into Jim's gut and do strange things there for both good and evil. "I'm a bad, bad man. Like Marcia said, someone needs to take me in hand." Definitely evil.
The sticky goo that's Jim's chewed-on candy bar catches at Jim's throat, and he swallows a second time for the same mouthful. "Time to get back to work, Chief. Suspects to ID, perps to catch."
Blair stands. "Yeah, the usual grind. It's a tough life." Blair puts absolutely no stress on 'grind', not so much as a suggestion of a joking leer, but Jim still knows that Blair chose *exactly* that word.
They stop off for dinner at some cheap but good little Chinese place. It's Blair's suggestion, and Jim thinks it's a wise idea. Once they get behind home's locked door, food isn't going to be anywhere on the agenda. Jim might have suggested eating before they get home himself, but he likes to watch Blair play Machiavelli.
So. They're quiet in the elevator. Blair leans against the wall, his hips canted slightly out, and Jim moves in quick; a speedy taste of Blair's mouth, a swift rub with his palm between Blair's legs. "Still flaunting what you've got, huh?"
"It's been a long day. Can't a man slouch?" Yes, Blair's still slouching, but there's a flush of heat warming his face.
Jim's back to doing his own lean against the wall now. "You tell me that you're tired, Sandburg, and I will kill you. Slowly and ingeniously."
By then the elevator's jolted to a stop. Blair grins lazily. "I feel pretty safe."
"Just so long as it's not because you have a mistaken idea of my good nature."
"You'll get yours, tough guy. Don't worry." Anticipation lengthens the short walk down the hall. Blair has his keys ready and the door opens into the loft and then shuts behind them and the world. The locks have barely snicked into their places before Jim has Blair pressed between the unforgiving hardness of the wall and Jim. Jim's right arm is slung across Blair's back, and Jim can feel the warmth where Blair's neck rests just above his arm, even through his jacket. He lowers his head to lean his nose on that point on Blair's neck midway between ear and shoulder and breathes in deep.
"Congratulations, Chief. You have successfully driven me crazy all day."
Blair's voice travels over Jim's cheek in a tiny trail of vibration. "I had fun. Watching you be all stoic. Lots of fun."
Jim nibbles gently at Blair's ear lobe. "I'm not at work now. I don't have to be stoic any more."
"Yeah." There's an oddly gentle smile on Blair's face, given the way that he's butting his pelvis into Jim's body. He eases his way out from under Jim's grip and takes Jim's hands, stepping backwards for a moment as if he's pulling Jim out on to a dance floor. Oldest dance of all, Jim thinks, as Blair lets go of one hand but keeps a hold of the other and leads the way up the stairs. Once at the top, Blair releases Jim and wanders over to the bureau. His watch and his hair tie are abandoned there, and the red shirt falls to lies limp and discarded on the floor. Jim takes some time to admire the view. He's had to control his face all day, watch Blair without giving things away, and now he can look his full. He shrugs out of his own jacket, the rest of his clothes, and goes to join Blair on the bed.
There aren't any hotspots of scent left on Blair. It's all a melange of good smells, rising like mist to envelop Jim. He kisses Blair's mouth, and then lifts his head to listen to the long sigh that Blair makes. Blair's hair wanders out over the pillow, following its own path on the smoothness of the pillow case. Blair's hands wander too, in long sweeps over Jim's back, in gentle squeezes at Jim's ass. Jim sits up finally. They could just rub off against each other. They have before, when quick and dirty was easier, when the reach across the bed to the night stand was just too much work. But Jim wants it all for tonight. He squeezes gel onto his hand and works on Blair, wraps that beautiful dick in the circle of his fingers and palm and eases up, eases down. There are plenty of ways for Jim to judge the effect he's having; the sound of Blair's heart, the heat of his skin, the dilation of his pupils, the hiss of Blair's breath. The information Jim receives is gratifying, and close to overwhelming.
Blair bites his lip, and looks like he's about to say something. The brightness of his eyes is softened by the dark pupils, opened wide to see everything that there is to see.
"What?" Jim enquires. His voice comes out rougher than he expected.
"Nothing. Well, nothing bad. Just intense."
Jim grins. "I've got my hand on your dick. It's supposed to be intense."
There's a small quake on the surface of the mattress, as Blair leans up on his elbows, his dick still inexorably held by Jim.
"No, I mean...the way that you look when you do it." Blair looks down his torso to where Jim holds him, and then his gaze returns to Jim's face. "Just the way that you look." He flops down to his back again. "Yeah, that's articulate."
Jim lays himself alongside Blair. He has to release his grip but only for a moment or two. He has Blair's dick. The angle's wrong for Blair to return the favour but his hand strokes across Jim's chest and down his abdomen.
"I don't need you articulate," Jim murmurs. There are tiny kisses formed in the words, which he pouts onto Blair's skin. "I need you hard."
Blair laughs. "Oh, you've got that. Absolutely."
"Good. Excellent even." With that, Jim's astride Blair, and Blair watches with big eyes as Jim sinks down on Blair's dick, slowly, slowly. Blair's given up complaining that Jim doesn't open himself first, doesn't let Blair do it for him. This is how Jim likes to do it, this slow, steady pressure until he's finally seated in Blair's lap, until Blair is all the way in him. Blair's hands sit on Jim's thighs in a warm, firm grip. Their hold is surer than the look on Blair's face, which is a little lost right now, and Jim loves that he can put that look on Blair's face. He rocks back and forth, leaning his hands either side of Blair's face, his hands pressing down amidst the filling of the pillow.
Jim doesn't need to be stoic any longer. "God, you feel good," he whispers. "You look good. You smell good." He sits up, arching his back, tilting his head back. A slow hum comes out of him. Yeah, so good.
Blair's breath hitches, and his hands reach for Jim's dick and close around it in a rough, sweet, dry friction. Jim takes those busy hands and presses them down to rest beside Blair's head, his fingers caught in Blair's, keeping them still, while he rocks back and forth against the heave and tilt of Blair's hips.
"Uh, uh, Chief." Jim bends down to kiss Blair with a determined, invasive tongue; he shifts in the movement, nearly losing that warm, hard fullness within him, but not quite. "You think I care if you come first? Doesn't matter. I can fuck you to get off. Or you can suck me. Or I can jerk off all over your beautiful face."
Blair's hands are caught, stilled. His hips move, though, and Jim shuts his eyes and hangs his head low, just feeling it.
"I want you to come on my cock, Jim. I want to see it. Want to watch you..."
And if that's what Blair wants, then Jim has to shift, because this, while it feels great, isn't enough.
"Yeah, that's it, man, so fucking hot." Blair's hands are warm, and they slip infinitesimally when he grasps Jim's hips; light sweat sheens them both now. Blair's legs are bent and braced, and secure in this unlikely cradle, Jim is able to let go, to *go* for it, to move, knowing that Blair is watching every jolt of motion, listening to every moan and shudder of breath. Jim puts his own hands on himself, to a low, approving noise from Blair. He wants it to last forever, but it's such a relief, glowing, sparking, white space behind his eyes when he finally comes, comes forever, and finally, finally, comes down from wherever he's been, warm and heavy in his gut, and light-hearted.
"You ready, Blair?"
Blair's silent; or more precisely, without words. He thrusts up, setting a rhythm that Jim follows, until Blair's mouth goes slack, and a long low groan like a dungeon door opening escapes his mouth, and any rhythm he had is gone, gone into spasm and twitches, and eventually, stillness.
Words don't abandon Blair for long. "You are going to kill me."
Jim lifts himself up and away. The air is cool and weird on his ass, and he lies down beside Blair and pulls up the covers.
"I don't think so," he tells Blair. "Sentinel, remember? I think I can get this thing down to a fine art."
"Oh, definitely fine. Finest thing the world has ever seen." Blair's hand lays a claim on Jim's cheek, traces the line of jaw. His eyes turn briefly away as he considers obligations outside of the bed. "I should get up and do some work."
"Not yet, though."
A smile. Blair's gaze returns to Jim. "No, I guess not. Not yet."
This is a short that I wrote for Terry, which timed out while I was away. J/B slash, 2,300 words approx, explicit sex so totally not work safe, otherwise pretty fluffy.
ETA Eeep. I forgot to mention that this was handily betad by the lovely elmyraemilie. Mea culpa...
Public and Private
Blair has done subtle in about the most unsubtle way possible, if you're Jim Ellison. His shirt's a nice shade of red, sure. It looks good on him and he's tucked it in; Sergeant Natalie Martinez at the front entrance might be a happily married woman but Jim knows that she always takes a quick peek and smiles when Blair's shirt-tails aren't covering his ass. He's wearing jeans, of course. Not old ones, not tackily tight, simply - closely attached - and following the lines of Blair's ass and groin and thighs.
His hair is pulled back. Blair does that at the PD as a nod to professionalism. If Blair's hair is pulled back then it doesn't need so much of what Blair calls product, and Jim calls either gloop or shit, to control it. Just clean, silky hair held back in a black elastic band, bunched at Blair's nape, so that Jim has his choice of distractions. He can admire the loops and waves of all that hair, or he can admire the boundary of nape to each side of it; Blair's skin is smooth and there's a glow to it that's more healthy male than the reflected light of a warmly coloured shirt. He put his earrings in this morning, two silver rings to send back the sheen from fluorescent lights, and occasionally spark off rays that only Jim can see. They're like little arrows on a diagram or map, pointing to a destination. They ought to be accompanied by the legend 'You could be here'. Right there, close enough that Jim could warm and moisten the shell of Blair's ear with his breath.
Jim's delayed by a phone call. When he follows Blair's trail to the break room Jim finds him talking to Marcia Simmons. More precisely Blair is flirting with Marcia Simmons, which is a game for both parties. It doesn't bother Jim. Marcia's in Archives. She has a good, methodical memory, and a sparkling, warm smile, with very white teeth against the brown of her skin. Her close cut hair is grizzled and she's organising a baby shower for grandchild number three. She leans her head back and laughs. "Blair, I should introduce you to Larisse. You need someone to take you in hand and she'd know how to get it done."
Blair's face is creased in a broad smile. "But it wouldn't be fair, Marcia. How can you encourage me to lead your daughter on when you know that I only have eyes for you?"
Marcia rises to her feet. "If you thought I'd take you seriously, you'd run to one of those foreign places of yours at about the speed of light. But your nonsense does brighten my day. See you later."
Blair salutes her with an arced, finger-waggling wave of his hand. Jim has his candy bar by now and he sits at the seat Marcia's just vacated. Blair's sitting astride his chair, his elbows leaning against the back. The gap between the back and the seat of the chair neatly frames his groin. "Escaped at last, Jim?"
"Yeah." Jim pulls his face into a look of mock sadness. "But too late to stop you from breaking Marcia's heart again."
After Blair showered that morning, he put little dabs of scented oil in various places all over his body. Nothing strong; far less noticeable than the eye-watering, nose-twitching reeks that some of Jim's co-workers think is a subtle splash of aftershave. There's a dab of scent in the hairline at the back of Blair's neck; there's some on Blair's collarbones, in the creases of his elbows and his knees; and there's some, just a touch, in the crease between Blair's thighs and groin, a touch rising from the top of the line of his buttocks. Jim can place all of those tiny hotspots of spice and citrus, and Blair knows that he can.
Blair shakes his head at Jim's reference to Marcia's heart. "Yeah, I know." His voice is soft, and in a tone that can reach straight into Jim's gut and do strange things there for both good and evil. "I'm a bad, bad man. Like Marcia said, someone needs to take me in hand." Definitely evil.
The sticky goo that's Jim's chewed-on candy bar catches at Jim's throat, and he swallows a second time for the same mouthful. "Time to get back to work, Chief. Suspects to ID, perps to catch."
Blair stands. "Yeah, the usual grind. It's a tough life." Blair puts absolutely no stress on 'grind', not so much as a suggestion of a joking leer, but Jim still knows that Blair chose *exactly* that word.
They stop off for dinner at some cheap but good little Chinese place. It's Blair's suggestion, and Jim thinks it's a wise idea. Once they get behind home's locked door, food isn't going to be anywhere on the agenda. Jim might have suggested eating before they get home himself, but he likes to watch Blair play Machiavelli.
So. They're quiet in the elevator. Blair leans against the wall, his hips canted slightly out, and Jim moves in quick; a speedy taste of Blair's mouth, a swift rub with his palm between Blair's legs. "Still flaunting what you've got, huh?"
"It's been a long day. Can't a man slouch?" Yes, Blair's still slouching, but there's a flush of heat warming his face.
Jim's back to doing his own lean against the wall now. "You tell me that you're tired, Sandburg, and I will kill you. Slowly and ingeniously."
By then the elevator's jolted to a stop. Blair grins lazily. "I feel pretty safe."
"Just so long as it's not because you have a mistaken idea of my good nature."
"You'll get yours, tough guy. Don't worry." Anticipation lengthens the short walk down the hall. Blair has his keys ready and the door opens into the loft and then shuts behind them and the world. The locks have barely snicked into their places before Jim has Blair pressed between the unforgiving hardness of the wall and Jim. Jim's right arm is slung across Blair's back, and Jim can feel the warmth where Blair's neck rests just above his arm, even through his jacket. He lowers his head to lean his nose on that point on Blair's neck midway between ear and shoulder and breathes in deep.
"Congratulations, Chief. You have successfully driven me crazy all day."
Blair's voice travels over Jim's cheek in a tiny trail of vibration. "I had fun. Watching you be all stoic. Lots of fun."
Jim nibbles gently at Blair's ear lobe. "I'm not at work now. I don't have to be stoic any more."
"Yeah." There's an oddly gentle smile on Blair's face, given the way that he's butting his pelvis into Jim's body. He eases his way out from under Jim's grip and takes Jim's hands, stepping backwards for a moment as if he's pulling Jim out on to a dance floor. Oldest dance of all, Jim thinks, as Blair lets go of one hand but keeps a hold of the other and leads the way up the stairs. Once at the top, Blair releases Jim and wanders over to the bureau. His watch and his hair tie are abandoned there, and the red shirt falls to lies limp and discarded on the floor. Jim takes some time to admire the view. He's had to control his face all day, watch Blair without giving things away, and now he can look his full. He shrugs out of his own jacket, the rest of his clothes, and goes to join Blair on the bed.
There aren't any hotspots of scent left on Blair. It's all a melange of good smells, rising like mist to envelop Jim. He kisses Blair's mouth, and then lifts his head to listen to the long sigh that Blair makes. Blair's hair wanders out over the pillow, following its own path on the smoothness of the pillow case. Blair's hands wander too, in long sweeps over Jim's back, in gentle squeezes at Jim's ass. Jim sits up finally. They could just rub off against each other. They have before, when quick and dirty was easier, when the reach across the bed to the night stand was just too much work. But Jim wants it all for tonight. He squeezes gel onto his hand and works on Blair, wraps that beautiful dick in the circle of his fingers and palm and eases up, eases down. There are plenty of ways for Jim to judge the effect he's having; the sound of Blair's heart, the heat of his skin, the dilation of his pupils, the hiss of Blair's breath. The information Jim receives is gratifying, and close to overwhelming.
Blair bites his lip, and looks like he's about to say something. The brightness of his eyes is softened by the dark pupils, opened wide to see everything that there is to see.
"What?" Jim enquires. His voice comes out rougher than he expected.
"Nothing. Well, nothing bad. Just intense."
Jim grins. "I've got my hand on your dick. It's supposed to be intense."
There's a small quake on the surface of the mattress, as Blair leans up on his elbows, his dick still inexorably held by Jim.
"No, I mean...the way that you look when you do it." Blair looks down his torso to where Jim holds him, and then his gaze returns to Jim's face. "Just the way that you look." He flops down to his back again. "Yeah, that's articulate."
Jim lays himself alongside Blair. He has to release his grip but only for a moment or two. He has Blair's dick. The angle's wrong for Blair to return the favour but his hand strokes across Jim's chest and down his abdomen.
"I don't need you articulate," Jim murmurs. There are tiny kisses formed in the words, which he pouts onto Blair's skin. "I need you hard."
Blair laughs. "Oh, you've got that. Absolutely."
"Good. Excellent even." With that, Jim's astride Blair, and Blair watches with big eyes as Jim sinks down on Blair's dick, slowly, slowly. Blair's given up complaining that Jim doesn't open himself first, doesn't let Blair do it for him. This is how Jim likes to do it, this slow, steady pressure until he's finally seated in Blair's lap, until Blair is all the way in him. Blair's hands sit on Jim's thighs in a warm, firm grip. Their hold is surer than the look on Blair's face, which is a little lost right now, and Jim loves that he can put that look on Blair's face. He rocks back and forth, leaning his hands either side of Blair's face, his hands pressing down amidst the filling of the pillow.
Jim doesn't need to be stoic any longer. "God, you feel good," he whispers. "You look good. You smell good." He sits up, arching his back, tilting his head back. A slow hum comes out of him. Yeah, so good.
Blair's breath hitches, and his hands reach for Jim's dick and close around it in a rough, sweet, dry friction. Jim takes those busy hands and presses them down to rest beside Blair's head, his fingers caught in Blair's, keeping them still, while he rocks back and forth against the heave and tilt of Blair's hips.
"Uh, uh, Chief." Jim bends down to kiss Blair with a determined, invasive tongue; he shifts in the movement, nearly losing that warm, hard fullness within him, but not quite. "You think I care if you come first? Doesn't matter. I can fuck you to get off. Or you can suck me. Or I can jerk off all over your beautiful face."
Blair's hands are caught, stilled. His hips move, though, and Jim shuts his eyes and hangs his head low, just feeling it.
"I want you to come on my cock, Jim. I want to see it. Want to watch you..."
And if that's what Blair wants, then Jim has to shift, because this, while it feels great, isn't enough.
"Yeah, that's it, man, so fucking hot." Blair's hands are warm, and they slip infinitesimally when he grasps Jim's hips; light sweat sheens them both now. Blair's legs are bent and braced, and secure in this unlikely cradle, Jim is able to let go, to *go* for it, to move, knowing that Blair is watching every jolt of motion, listening to every moan and shudder of breath. Jim puts his own hands on himself, to a low, approving noise from Blair. He wants it to last forever, but it's such a relief, glowing, sparking, white space behind his eyes when he finally comes, comes forever, and finally, finally, comes down from wherever he's been, warm and heavy in his gut, and light-hearted.
"You ready, Blair?"
Blair's silent; or more precisely, without words. He thrusts up, setting a rhythm that Jim follows, until Blair's mouth goes slack, and a long low groan like a dungeon door opening escapes his mouth, and any rhythm he had is gone, gone into spasm and twitches, and eventually, stillness.
Words don't abandon Blair for long. "You are going to kill me."
Jim lifts himself up and away. The air is cool and weird on his ass, and he lies down beside Blair and pulls up the covers.
"I don't think so," he tells Blair. "Sentinel, remember? I think I can get this thing down to a fine art."
"Oh, definitely fine. Finest thing the world has ever seen." Blair's hand lays a claim on Jim's cheek, traces the line of jaw. His eyes turn briefly away as he considers obligations outside of the bed. "I should get up and do some work."
"Not yet, though."
A smile. Blair's gaze returns to Jim. "No, I guess not. Not yet."