Catalyst, a Sentinel/Homicide : Life on the Streets crossover by Glacis. Rated NC17 for adult language and themes. No copyright
infringement intended, just taking the boys out for a little guilty pleasure.
Assassins. Rangers. Victims. Cops. Jim Ellison had a wide range of bed partners, but they
all had a few things in common. They never stayed. They always hurt him. And
they were all women.
Blair Sandburg stared sightlessly up at the ceiling of his small room,
sprawled as comfortably across his bed as a man with three broken ribs and
bruises over seventy per cent of his body could sprawl. It had been another
close one. Jim had been having some problems with his senses. Again. Because of a woman. Again. This time, instead of spiking or losing them all
together, it was like the wires were getting crossed. He'd been tasting scents
and feeling sounds. It had been a three week long acid trip that nearly got
both of them killed by the time it was all over. Thankfully, Blair knew how to
talk a guy through a bad acid trip.
He noticed that Simon had carefully avoided asking him where he'd
learned that particular skill. Good thing, too. There were a few things growing
up with Naomi, and Naomi's friends, that he didnt
want to have to explain to anyone who hadn't been there.
But he'd gotten them through the crisis. Again.
Winging it, flying by the seat of his pants, doing things no one else would
even think of doing, and doing them so well no one cared how he knew to do
them, only that he did. He'd been punched with a lead pipe, hit by a car and
bounced off a wall. But he was alive.
And Jim's senses were finally back on line
again. Because, again, the woman
involved was now safely stowed away in a maximum security women's prison and
would be for the next thirty years.
Blair was sick to his back teeth of Jim and his women.
True, jealousy was a large part of it. He'd known he had it, bad, for
his big guy. Known it for a long time. But they'd been
partners four years, and he'd yet to see any indication of Ellison AC/DC going
on anywhere but in his own fevered imagination. So he consoled himself with the
fact that Jim was a touchy feely kind of guy, and hoarded those touches, to
take them out in the privacy of his room and weave fantasies of fulfillment,
and commitment, and fierce passion around them. Then he hosed himself off and
went back to work.
It wasn't working any more.
He'd nearly socked the latest bitch the first time she'd looked at him
like he was something the cat coughed up. Then, when Jim didn't listen to him,
AGAIN, about the reason for his senses whacking out, he'd nearly socked Jim.
When it was all sorted out and the over-riding impulse to comfort and hold
nearly sent him into the detective's arms, he would have socked himself if he
hadn't already felt like he'd been worked over by a gang of gorillas with
baseball bats.
Something had to give. And he had a sinking feeling it was going to be
him. Why the hell couldn't Jim figure out that the ONLY time his senses worked
right was when he was with Blair??
It really sucked being the emotionally articulate one.
The next nine weeks were hell. He tried. God, did he ever try. No doubt
every person at the station thought that he and Jim were sleeping together.
Every person except Jim. Of course.
He'd changed aftershave. Started shaving twice a day,
so that when Jim reached over and touched him, the silky smooth skin would
please his fingertips. Left his hair down, much more often than usual,
because he'd seen Jim staring at it, and knew the other man liked it free.
Invaded Jim's private space so far he was practically sitting on his lap. Spent
every second he was not actually in a class, sleeping, bathing or peeing glued
next to Jim's side.
Jim rumbled encouragingly. Touched him constantly.
Smiled happily. Contentedly. Obliviously.
Blair was practically walking funny from a near-constant hard-on. God
only knew how Jim was keeping from drowning in pheromones. Surely he could
smell the arousal. Apparently, it just made him
happy.
It was making Blair nuts.
Enough was enough. He picked his day carefully, a Friday when he knew
Jim didn't have to be anywhere, no stake-outs, no real pressing paperwork. NO
DATES. No poker game. Blair turned the phone off. Took a deep
breath. Winced, and re-adjusted his by now constant erection inside his
previously quite comfortable black jeans. Took another, more careful, deep
breath, and cornered Jim in the living room.
"Hey, man, can we talk?" Shit. Great way to
start. Sounded like Joan Rivers, and as nervous as he was, his voice was
about the same pitch. He smiled brightly at his partner.
Jim smiled back. The crystal blue eyes were warm and, as usual, utterly
clueless. "Sure, Chief. What's on your mind?"
You. He swallowed. "You."
Oh, fuck. His eyes closed of their own accord, and his knees folded up, leaving
him serendipitously perched on the edge of the couch. Another inch and he'd've been on his ass at Jim's feet. Not that that would
be a bad thing, precisely, but they really did need to talk first.
Mute surprise met his terse answer. A muscle in Jim's jaw jumped once, then a second time, and long lashes lowered over narrowing
eyes. Good. Maybe he wasn't as clueless as Blair feared. Another swallow to
dampen a suddenly parched throat, and Blair tried again.
"
Jim had gradually grown paler until the only color in his face came from
the eyes blazing back at him. "What are you trying to say to me,
Sandburg?" The words were terse, but the tone was confused and lost.
"Do you want to leave?" It sounded like Jim's throat hurt.
"No way, man!" Blair blurted back, burrowing instinctively along the couch until they
were touching from ribcage to knee. "Anything but!
No, I don't want to go. I don't ever want to go. I love you, man." It was
Blair's turn to freeze. Conversely, Jim seemed to relax.
"Oh." He casually tossed a long arm around Blair's shoulders
and gave him a brief, warm hug. "Good. Me, too."
He settled back against the cushions and rooted around for the remote.
"Want to watch the game? Jags are playing the Lakers tonight. Should be good."
Blair sat there with his mouth hanging open. Was it that easy? Could it
ever be that easy? A blaze of happiness raced through him. Taking the remote
from Jim's unsuspecting hand, he tossed it over onto the coffee table and
climbed into Jim's lap. Wrapping his hands around those brawny shoulders, he
breathed, "Yeah. It's gonna be great!" and latched onto Jim's
mouth with his own.
Less than a heartbeat later he found himself where he'd nearly been when
the conversation began, flat on his butt at Jim's feet. Jim was staring down at
him like he'd just grown a second head and shown up on the X Files.
"What the
what
you
" Blair watched in sick fascination as
Jim tried three times to say something, finally giving up and pointing down at
him. "WHAT?!?" Jim finally managed to yelp.
"Love," Blair answered sensibly. Jim shook his head. Bells
were certainly going off, but not the ones Blair had hoped for. These sounded
more like alarm bells.
"Friend!" Jim ground out. Blair tilted his head to the side, studying him.
Oh. Shit. "You love me. As a friend."
Jim nodded numbly. Blair felt himself start to blush from his toes clear to his
hairline. Inside, the blaze that had started when Jim had, he thought, declared
himself, fizzled out, replaced by an icy ache that threatened to freeze him
from the inside out. He tried to roll over, tried to move, but his arms and
legs didn't work. Neither did his eyelids. He couldn't get them to close, was forced to watch the look on his best friend's
face as the detective finally got the point of the conversation.
There wasn't any censure there, just disbelief, and rejection. Just
repudiation of everything he was, everything he had offered. Dimly, he was
aware of a line drawn in the air between them, a line separating what would be
from what could be. The line was a wavering demarcation of fire. He'd crossed
over it. And he had been burnt.
But if he burned, why did he ache from the cold?
"I'll leave." It was his voice, so he had to have said it, although
for the life of him he couldn't remember doing it. Jim reacted violently.
"No!" One large
hand wrapped around his wrist, tugged him back up onto the couch. Blair stared
down at the long, slender fingers encircling his arm, and forced himself to
breathe. "Please. Don't leave."
"I blew it, man. Screwed up big time."
The words were whispered, Sentinel-soft, and he knew his Sentinel had heard
them by the convulsive tightening of the hand's grip.
"Were still friends, Chief," Jim whispered back, just loudly
enough for his Guide to hear and understand him. "I need you." The
fingers loosened, then soothed the reddened skin where they had gripped,
patting the wrist gently before withdrawing. Blair stared down at the absence
of warmth. Beside him, he felt the cushions shift as Jim levered himself up off
the couch.
"I'm going to the station, Sandburg." Blair couldn't quite
force himself to look up. He really wanted to curl up into a little ball and
disappear, but he had a gut feeling Jim wouldn't let him do that. "Have
some work to do."
They both knew that was a lie, but Blair let it pass. Another
useful obfuscation that made it possible to get through the day without hurting
another. Without coming out and saying, I can't stay here with you. I need
you but I don't want you.
Jim paused at the doorway. Blair still stared down at his abandoned
hand, lying on the couch beside him. "I'm sorry," he said softly.
Blair's head lifted up, finally, and they stared at one another for a long
moment. Before Blair could counter with his own apologies, Jim added, "I
don't want you to go. Stay. Please?"
Blair responded to the need hidden under the words with a nod, unable to
say a word. Jim nodded back, grabbed his coat, and slammed the door shut behind
him. Blair watched the knob click shut, then looked
numbly around the loft.
He couldn't stay here.
He couldn't leave.
The walls were already closing in on him.
He felt like the biggest fool in the universe. And the universe was
condensing rapidly into a black hole that he simply had to escape.
Five minutes later, jacket tossed over his shoulder, he scrambled into
his car and headed for the U district.
Vacations were supposed to help, not confuse things even more. Tim Bayliss stared at the amber liquid in his glass, shook his
head no to the third offer of company in the last half hour, and wondered what
the hell he was doing in a bar in Cascade, Washington that he couldn't do in a
bar in Baltimore. Glancing up into the mirror behind the bottles, he watched
the dancers for a moment.
Young, college kids mainly. Not too crowded, it was early yet for a
Friday. Music wasn't too bad, the beer was pretty good. There wasn't a woman in
the place. At least not one that was dancing.
They were having fun.
He should be having fun. He'd told his partner, Frank,
that he was going to go as far away from
He hadn't called Chris Rawls before he left. He had told Laura Ballard.
Maybe that had something to do with the fact that Ballard was a woman and Chris
was a man. He wasn't sure. Maybe that
had something to do with the fact that instead of the beach, he was at a gay
bar. If he'd really wanted to go to a gay bar in
He'd been hungry for a very long time.
Tired of his bouncing thoughts, tired of chasing himself through
circular loops of logic that left him right where he started, he took his
glasses off. Pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, he pushed,
trying to relieve the pressure, rubbing his hands over his face before wearily
putting the glasses back on. He knew he was hungry. Didn't know what he was
hungry for.
The scent hit him like a fist under the diaphragm. When he got his
breath back, he turned and looked at the man who had moved onto the bar stool
next to him. Compact, graceful, shorter than he, but then most people were. Low
light gleamed off sable brown curls falling to shoulder length, pooled in deep
blue eyes that held shadows Tim recognized. Long fingers wrapped around a beer
glass, full lips smiled thanks at the bartender.
Tim's eyes wandered, taking in surprisingly broad shoulders, long arms
and legs, nicely full basket under black denims. Up a sturdy
chest to a long throat, past that incredible hair to a beautifully angled face.
Tip tilted nose, an edible mouth, big eyes with long
lashes casting shadows onto pale cheeks. He was fucking gorgeous. Then the man
turned toward him, gave him as thorough a going-over as Tim had given the
stranger, and smiled, slowly. The breathe he'd found, he lost again. For once
in his life, Tim Bayliss forgot every rule he knew
and decided to live in the moment.
He'd worry about thinking later. Right now, he was hungry.
Blair knew as soon as he walked in the door that he was in the right
place. The music was okay, kind of slow, and the crowd was pretty well tied up
in itself. But up against the bar
god. Well, not really a god, but close enough to shine a light through
the wall of ice that had taken up residence in his chest earlier that evening.
The guy was tall, as tall as Jim if not a little taller, but not nearly
as broad. More of a runner, or swimmer, broad shoulders,
long, lanky body. Hair the same color as Jim's, but
more of it, with much less discipline, falling over his forehead. Wire
rimmed glasses framed tired light eyes, and long fingered hands played
restlessly with his drink. Something about him screamed 'cop' to Blair, and the
irony of it lit another corner of iciness up and flushed it with the beginning
of arousal.
If he couldn't have what he wanted, and by the reaction he'd gotten he
never would, then he would surely take what he could get.
He eased through the crowd, watching the stranger shrug off a would-be
suitor, then take off his glasses to run his hands over his face. He was
younger than Blair had originally thought, maybe early thirties, and from the
look on his face, he had as much to forget as Blair did. Good. They had
something in common.
Propping himself on the stool, he ordered a beer. He could feel the
other man's eyes raking over his body, appraising, enjoying. The heat of the
gaze strayed to his crotch, settled there for a moment before sweeping over the
rest of his body. Okay, cool, something else in
common. Lust was good. When there was nothing better on tap.
He swiveled on the stool and smiled up at the other man. "Hey, man.
Stranger here?"
A sweet smile met his own. "Yeah.
Stand out that much?"
"Nah, just don't remember seeing you here before." He downed half his
beer in two graceful swallows, then clinked the edge
against the other's. "Want another one?"
The stranger stared at him for a second, then
relaxed completely. "Sure. Why not." He
paused while the bartender replaced his glass with a full one, then reached out one hand toward Blair. "My name's
Tim."
Blair took the hand, a lance of pain going through his gut. So close. And yet so fucking far away. "Blair. Nice
to meet you, T--Tim." His tongue caught on the name, and he
squeezed the hand he held before letting it go. Tim leaned closer.
"You okay, Blair?" Soft concern made his eyes seem bigger in
the dim light of the bar than they had before. Blair found himself leaning
forward as well, his face near to touching the other man's.
"Yeah. Just
I
know this is sudden, but you want to go someplace more quiet?
Just, you know, talk?"
Tim took his wallet out, tossed a ten on the counter and stood up.
"I'd like that."
Blair smiled up at his new found friend, and led him out the door to his
car. Part of his mind was shrieking at him that he was a total moron, the guy could be Jack the Ripper in cop-drag for all
he knew. But the rest of his mind, in near melt-down from weeks of arousal that
he now knew would never be doused by the one man he really needed, flipped off
the rational part of his brain and headed the car toward the loft.
After all, Jim was at work. One of them might as well enjoy himself.
Underneath the defiance, the icy shell thickened.
They stopped for Chinese food on the way, spicy and hot and full of
garlic and deep red peppers, all the dishes Jim couldn't eat any more. They
laughed over the fortunes, until Blair flashed on another afternoon laughing at
fortunes. Loved by many. Well, wanted, anyway. Loved?
Not really. The one he loved had gone after a
Tim was fighting his own issues, an abusive uncle, a
poorly remembered childhood that was still scarring him. Questions about his
sexuality, his choices, his driving need to simply stop thinking for a little
while and have some fun for once in his life. Blair opened up a little about
his own demons, a man he loved who couldn't love him back the way he wanted,
but still needed Blair to stay in his life. Tim was, indeed, a cop, a detective
like Jim, and for a little while they shared horror stories. Not the cases
themselves, really, but the wounding that went on underneath the
professionalism. Tim spoke of a young girl who had died, who haunted him still,
five years later; another case, a hustler who had forced an admission of lust
out of him in exchange for an admission of murder. Blair spoke of helplessness,
and nightmares, and yellow scarves, and losing too many friends to violence.
Eventually, under the weight of memory and pain that they could do
nothing to alleviate, the words died away. They sat, half turned toward one
another on the comfortable sofa where Blair had gambled and lost earlier that
night. Tim fiddled with the bottle of beer in his hand, fingers picking at the
label, wanting, desperately, to move, unsure of exactly what form that movement
should take. Blair read it all in the tension in his shoulders, the quick
glances shot at him under dark lashes, the sharp musk of arousal, both Tim's
and his own.
Knowing that it would turn out much differently
this time, wishing with all his heart before he brutally throttled the wish
mid-thought, that this could be Jim, Blair reached out and gently took Tim's
glasses from his face. Took the bottle from his hands
and set it safely on the tabletop. Loosened the strangling tie with two clever
fingers, and bit softly at the tender flesh of Tim's throat.
He unleashed a wildcat.
Jim Ellison sat at his desk, staring with blind eyes at a screen that
had given up its data in favor of a screensaver cat chasing a mouse over its
surface quite some time ago. It didn't make any sense. None
of it.
Oh, Christ. All of it. Did. He just didn't want
to
couldn't bring himself to admit it. He'd known for quite some time that
Blair found him attractive. He'd played off that, unconsciously, allowing
himself the comfort of physical contact with the younger man that he'd never
allowed himself with anyone else. He'd told himself it was just tactile
reassurance. Those stupid damned senses of his needed grounding, and Sandburg
was there, always, for him to reach out and ground himself.
A mental image of grinding himself in a completely different way against
his Guide nearly sent him into a zone out.
It scared the shit out of him. Why? He wasn't a homophobe. Wasn't particularly choosy, either, under the right circumstances.
He'd had fuck buddies before, it wasn't nearly as
uncommon as the brass would like the public to believe. But he'd never fallen
in love with any of them.
The thought stopped him cold.
Yeah, he loved the kid. Told him that. But it
wasn't -- couldn't be -- Sandburg had kissed him. Jolted him
clear to the soles of his feet. Given him a hard on
that wouldn't quit, and shocked the shit out of him, sending him into
instinctive withdrawal, so he'd shoved the kid clear off his lap and onto the
floor before Blair could figure out exactly how much he'd gotten into that
kiss. So why the panic? Why the fear? Okay, get
to the brass tacks, why the sheer fucking terror?
Ellison was used to living behind masks, presenting the right one for
whomever he was addressing, pulling out the right cover for whatever situation
he found himself in. He'd been damned good undercover, until he'd started to
lose the boundary between what was him and what was subterfuge. He'd lived a
double life his whole life, covering his senses as a kid until he'd finally
submerged them completely, because that was the only way to survive in his
father's world. Covering the sensitive man inside with the shell of a hard ass,
because that's what it took to survive in the Army's world. Fucking in the dark
and denying in the light, because that's what it took to survive in the world
he lived in. Living in the dark, and fearing the light, because the light
showed parts of himself that no one else could ever
accept.
Except Blair Sandburg.
Sandburg had taken his crazy senses, his cold attitude, his anger, his
fear, and brought him through to the other side so many times the kid was his
own personal footbridge to sanity. He'd hidden his attraction because Jim
hadn't made any sign of noticing it, until Jim had opened the door. Only to
slam it in his best friend's face. I love you, but not
that way, Sandburg, and you can never have what your
body and your eyes tell me you want, but please don't leave me. Stay here, and
suffer, for me.
And the kid --no, the man -- would do it. For him.
He could almost hear the tearing as the barriers gave way inside him.
The fear was overwhelmed, washed away in a flood of need, as he finally faced
the light and stepped out from behind the mask he'd used even to himself. Oh, yeah, he loved Blair Sandburg all right. With every part of him, from his head to his heart to his cock.
Now he just had to go home, and hope like hell he hadn't taken the last spark
of hope from his Guide. The need to go to Blair over-rode every logical
built-in response he'd had hammered into him in nearly four decades of life,
and the primal instinct that called Sentinel to Shaman roared to life. His
world was tilted off-axis, totally fucked up, and he'd done it to himself. Now
he had to find his mate and put things right.
He didn't remember the drive home, as his need gradually grew until he
was operating completely on autopilot. He had no idea what he was going to say
when he saw Sandburg, but knowing his partner, he wouldn't have to say much.
Blair could read his mind. Even when he himself hadn't an idea in hell what was
actually up there in his head.
Rounding the stairwell toward his door, an alien sound stopped him in
his tracks. A moan, quiet but intense, and familiar, if not
in this particular vocalization. His head tilted, his nose lifted to the
air, and he sniffed cautiously.
Sweat. Musk. Semen.
Feet carried him to the door, and he stopped, arms paralyzed, unable to
bring his hand to his pocket to take out his keys. Instead, he found himself
listening. The moans were breathier, needier, and getting louder. Underneath
them, he could make out the slide of hair-roughened skin along skin, the
slurping sounds of a wet mouth around dripping flesh, the slight pop of air
pressure as the lips' broke their seal and tightened again, the swallowing
gurgle of a man suckling at another man.
Without his permission or even deliberate intent, his senses swung
on-line with a vengeance. His sight arrowed through the
peephole in the door, weaving with hearing and smell to follow the sounds and
the scents that had assaulted him in the hallway. His heart froze, then lurched into a gallop at what he saw.
Blair lay on the floor with his head toward the door, arching up into a
stranger's mouth. His legs were splayed widely, feet digging into the rug to
give himself purchase as he thrust upward, fingers
scrabbling at short dark hair on the head slowly raising and lowering itself at
his crotch. His nipples were erect, peaking through the swirls of chest hair,
wet and slightly swollen from where they had been bitten. Sweat gleamed along
his skin, turning it molten in the soft light falling from the lamps by the
sofa. His head was thrown back, eyes clenched tightly shut, mouth dropped open
to gulp air and sigh out those needy moans.
Jim's eyes were drawn to the junction of mouth and cock, enthralled by
the slick glide of hard, red flesh disappearing into the stranger's mouth,
stretching the man's lips, sliding past his jaw until his nose was buried in
Blair's pubic hair before slowly drawing back out, suckling, working his tongue
over Blair's cock the entire time. His partner was writhing under the
stranger's touch, whimpering now, close to coming. Jim could see the blood
pounding under the skin in the thick vein running from root to crown, could see
the stranger's tongue pressing into it, the trail of saliva and pre-ejaculate
tying that mouth to Blair's cock, the long fingers weighing and pressing
Blair's balls, delving between the strong thighs to disappear under Blair's
ass. The sound of skin sliding apart, the hitch in Blair's breathing, the
dimpled flex of hip and flank told Jim precisely what the stranger was doing to
his partner, and how very much Blair was enjoying it.
A tiny voice was screaming at him to leave. To get out before he saw the
final betrayal, saw how little Blair really loved him, to have gone out so
quickly and gotten a substitute, how little Jim meant to him. A much louder
roar, sounding suspiciously like a pissed off panther, reminded him that it was
his own damned fault. He'd demanded the unthinkable, that Blair stay in spite
of his love, not because of it, and had made it blindingly clear to Blair that
his love was not what Jim wanted or needed. Territoriality and jealousy fought
with need and arousal, tearing him between killing this stranger and claiming
Blair for his own or admitting that his own rejection had set this whole
situation in motion, and leaving Blair until the fire had been tamed and they
could discuss this rationally. Caught in the cusp of action and reaction,
motionless, in turmoil, a sudden convulsion in the body he was so intently
watching caught all his attention and held it captive.
Blair in orgasm was incandescent. Tiny shivers ran through every muscle,
causing his body to dance, beads of sweat on glowing skin reflecting lamp
light, throwing off sparks of light to dazzle Sentinel sight. His head thrashed
from side to side and his spine arched into a perfect bow. His mouth opened,
but only a sigh of breath came from it, as if his entire being was concentrated
on feeding himself to his lover. It took a moment, but eventually it penetrated
the maelstrom of sensory input Jim was lost in, and he recognized the word
whispered on that sigh.
His name.
Jim.
One hand was reaching for the knob, his other pulling at his clothing,
before he even recognized the primal reaction that one word triggered.
Strong hands slid firmly along Blair's torso, calming the quivering
muscles, taking him gently down from his climax. He hadn't had sex in so long,
between not wanting to jerk off when Jim was around and not being able to find
a woman willing to put up with being called a guy's name,
that the force of his coming nearly made him black out. Didn't hurt that
Tim really knew what he was doing with that mouth of his. A tongue was
thoroughly bathing his cock and balls, cleaning up every last drop of fluid. He
floated, in a daze, a hidden part of his soul pretending it was Jim holding him
like this, caring for him. Loving him.
The hands curved up around his shoulders as the mouth finished its work,
and he was drawn into a sitting position. He responded automatically, drawn to
the warmth and solidity of the naked body pressing into his own. Some of his
natural energy was returning, and with it came acknowledgement of the weeping
erection pressing into his thigh. He angled his head toward Tim's throat again,
sliding down the tendon there, over his collarbone and down his chest.
Wriggling to get himself into a comfortable position, he pushed himself onto
his knees and buried his head in Tim's lap. Wrapping a lazy hand gently around
the straining cock now directly in front of his face, he opened his mouth and
lowered himself onto it, lapping and nibbling at it like a kid with a Popsicle.
Blair's world narrowed to the warmth suffusing his muscles and the taste
of hot flesh and salty semen on his tongue. Content to keep his eyes closed and
suck languidly, he was unaware when the body under his hands suddenly tensed
and stopped moving. He didn't hear the door open, or close. He was equally
unaware of the now naked body of his best friend behind him. When large hands
clamped over his hips and angled them upward, it was simply one more wonderful
sensation in what was turning out to be a damned incredible session of sex. The
hands were at the wrong angle, but that didn't make any impression either, even
as they were gently but firmly pulling his buttocks apart.
Then the tongue slid into him.
The world tilted. How had Tim gotten his tongue back there? Was he that tall? Before his rational mind
could come out of sexually-induced nirvana long enough to make the connection
between the hands holding him apart and the hands tangled in his curls, and
realize that there were too many hands for the single lover he thought he was
with, the tongue began to move, and so did the cock in his mouth.
He moaned around the bulk moving over his tongue, and Tim thrust
forward. Concentrating on breathing through his nose, relaxing his throat and
not choking to death, he was utterly vulnerable to the sensations attacking his
anus. Warm, wet velvet around a living prod was opening him, sinking deep,
curling back, sending flash fire to every nerve in his
body. His own cock, so recently drained, took an interest in the proceedings,
and hardened, straining toward his stomach, pulsing in time with the thrusts
down his throat, up his ass, the blood pounding in his head, along his veins,
until his entire body contracted in rhythm with the lovers surrounding him.
Gentle hands made hard with need cupped his jaw, his skull, and pulled
him up as Tim began to fuck his face in earnest. Blair wrapped his arms around
Tim's hips and held on for dear life, as his own hips were canted still further
up. His knees were firmly spread, and strong thighs parted them as a bulkier,
hotter, slick length prodded at his hole, sinking in firmly, filling him
completely. As he was pulled back and firmly seated into the searing heat of
another's pelvis, his knees left the floor, and his entire weight rested
against the pole buried in him. Gravity and mindless need pushed him backward,
and he was entered more deeply than he had ever been before. Hands came around
his waist and began to rub his erection, kicking the fire into an inferno.
Something finally clicked, pushing past the fire of arousal eating his
mind, and he abruptly realized that he was getting fucked at both ends, which
meant that someone else had joined the party. He instinctively began to bolt,
which pushed his face completely into Tim's crotch. The pressure on his throat
made him back up, shoving him back onto the cock buried inside him, sending him
forward again. As the panic gave way to pure sensation, he finally recognized
the deep voice murmuring from behind him. Along with the voice, he knew the
hands that were working at his own cock, pulling and milking it, knew them as
if they were his own.
Jim.
Jim was holding him. Had rimmed him until he was mindless, and was now
fucking what little sense he had left clear out of him. The realization made
him scream, Yes! God, yes! Only small sounds made it
past the bulk of cock now plowing frenziedly into his throat, and the
vibrations were the final straw for Tim. With an incoherent groan, he emptied
himself down Blair's throat. Instinctively, he swallowed as quickly as he
could, the motion milking Tim's orgasm from him. He clamped down everywhere,
including his ass, and the sudden wrenching motion triggered Jim's orgasm. As
the flow down his throat tapered off, the hands around his cock clenched,
pulling him tightly into the cradle of Jim's pelvis. Blair distinctly felt the
spasms ripping through Jim's cock as it spilled inside him, and the fire
bathing his guts combined with the convulsive tightening of Jim's hands on his
cock pulled the second climax of the night from him.
His body felt like it was exploding, filled to overflowing, melting into
nothingness. His mind was overloaded, stimuli sending
sparks of flame running through his thoughts, sending him reeling into muzzy
whiteness. His heart finally broke free, the last of the ice melting in the
face of the heat of his lover's claiming. Exhausted, mentally, emotionally and
physically, Blair nestled back against Jim, curled into the heat of his body,
and decided to sort it all out in the morning. Before he could complete the
thought he was soundly asleep.
Reality came back to Jim with the ease of pressure as his softened cock
slid from Blair's body. His arms were wrapped protectively around his partner, Blair's head snuggled up under his chin. The
younger man was snoring softly, resting with complete trust in his Sentinel's
grip. The soft rustle of wool and linen caught his attention, and he looked up
to see the stranger quietly getting dressed.
He stared at the man, noting the suit, the glasses, the glint of badge
before he tucked it away in his jacket pocket. The other man stopped, fully
dressed, and smiled gently down at Blair. Jim's arms tightened instinctively.
"I'm glad it worked out for somebody. He really loves you,"
the man whispered, then headed for the door. Jim heard him stop, knew he was
watching them both, then the quiet snick of the latch
catching told him that he and his partner were finally alone.
Gathering the lax body of his sleeping lover close, he shifted until he
had Blair in a firm grip and carried him upstairs. Settling him into his --no, their bed, he slipped in beside him and
gathered the covers up over both of them. Blair muttered something in his
sleep, too muffled even for Sentinel hearing to decipher it, then turned and
burrowed into Jim's arms without ever waking. Jim buried his face in soft
curls, wound himself around his Guide, and let the rhythm of Blair's heartbeat
lull him into sleep.
The world wasn't tilted anymore. It was back on its axis; the natural
order had been restored. They would figure out the details later. All the
important stuff was right there, wrapped up in his arms, sleeping like a baby.
Frank Pembleton had been staring at his
partner all morning. Tim knew it, and had done his best to avoid mentioning it.
If something was bugging the other detective, he'd say something. He wasn't
exactly the shy type. And Tim wasn't about to offer anything. Not this time.
Finally, Frank brought it up himself.
"You okay, Bayliss? Vacation go okay?" There was an underlying tinge of worry. Tim
smiled briefly at him, then looked back at the case
file he'd been staring at for the last half hour.
"Yeah, Frank, I'm good. It was fine." End of conversation. The
other man gave him one more concerned look, then let it drop.
Tim watched his partner head off into the staff room for coffee. As the
dark head disappeared around the corner, he took a deep breath and reached for
the phone. He'd never know, not unless he tried. It was answered on the second
ring.
"Chris. Uhm, yeah, hi. It's Tim. I was wondering
Would you like to go
out?"
finis