Groovy, a Sentinel valentine by Glacis. Rated NC17 for explicit
homoerotic romance. Copyright held by Pet Fly et
all (1997), no infringement intended. Copyright on appended
lyrics to Carole Bayer Sager and Toni Wine (1966). Any pretense at
anthropological knowledge is just that.
There were
days when being a single guy really sucked. Saturday, Valentine's day, in Major Crimes when there weren't any to be had even
by a desperate man, was about as low as it got.
Then there
was Sandburg.
Jim Ellison
glared briefly at his partner, best friend, and Guide, trying to decide if the
innocent glow in the smile or the wicked gleam in the dark blue eyes told the
true story.
It had
started as soon as they walked through the door.
"Woo-hoo, Ellison, lookee there,
somebody likes you!"
"It's
either true love or somebody died and nobody told us!"
"Somebody
gonna get lucky tonight?"
"Who's mister gotta have it today,
huh?"
Catcalls
from all over the bullpen. No doubt due to the nearly obscene
proliferation of flowers covering his desk. It really did look like a funeral,
or a hospital. The smell attacked his nose, sending his already hyperactive
olfactory abilities into overdrive. Eight sneezes later he finally got his dial
turned down enough to breathe again. Blair stood right behind him, a strong
hand in the middle of his back, keeping him steady. Fighting to control yet
another sneeze that threatened to knock him on his ass, he soldiered on until
he could get to his desk.
Roses. Red
and yellow and pink and white. A hydrangea?
Purple. Some kind of long stick-looking thing with little orange dried flowers
all over it, looked like a fungus and smelled even
mustier. Carnations. Every color of
the spectrum. Made his eyes hurt looking at them. An
African violet, looking pretty damned intimidated by all the long stems and
heavy vases surrounding it. Jim could sympathize.
Steeling
himself, he reached for the first (perfumed, of course) card. Made his fingers
itch. Somebody must've drenched the damned thing in toilet water. And that
would be toilet, not toilette. Yuck. By the time his eyes stopped watering
enough to make out the writing, Sandburg was making a choked noise that was
somewhere between a moan and a chuckle.
"Uhm, man, I don't know how to say this, Jim, but …"
He didn't
have to.
It was
addressed to Blair Sandburg, Major Crimes. So was every other glass full of
murdered bushes on his desk. He glared impatiently down at his partner. It
would no doubt have been much more effective without the sneezes. One of which
rocked the African violet nearly out of its pot.
Amid much
stifled laughter, perfectly recognizable as such to Sentinel ears, Blair got to
work excavating the desk. Twenty minutes later Jim was finally able to sit down
to begin work.
He sat on a
long stemmed red rose wrapped in pink tissue paper with a little plastic water
jug stuffed on the end of it.
The water jug
broke. His pants got soaked, right in the butt.
The stem had
NOT been stripped of thorns.
It only got
worse.
By
Serena
brought a plate of home-made fudge cookies. For him.
The rest of the crew got tollhouse cookies, not a bad deal at all, but not nearly
the killer chocolate orgy of the fudge cookies.
He shared
with Joel and Ryf. Brown patted his tummy, stared
with rapt longing at them, and managed to beg off the temptation. Blair was
impressed with his fortitude, even knowing it was backed up by a girlfriend's
threat to wallop him good if he gained any more weight. Simon hid in his
office. Jim nibbled.
Carol from
Records brought him a teddy bear with a bandit's mask and a huge bag of
Hershey's kisses tied to its paw. He was floored. But he did kiss her cheek and
thank her sweetly. She blushed so deeply he could swear he could feel it a foot
away.
Jianne from Traffic brought
him a Celtic knot hair tie wrapped around a bar of Swiss chocolate. He kissed
her on the lips. Well, a peck really. She was six foot two and weighed two
hundred and ten pounds of solid muscle. He was half afraid she'd break him if
he didn't stand on tiptoe and smooch her.
Sam brought
him Godiva. Grabbed hold of him and dipped him, right
there in front of Jim's desk, and for a brief moment as he was fighting vertigo
and hanging on to her shoulders, she stuck her tongue far enough down his
throat to taste his breakfast. It didn't last long. Jim growled at her.
"I'm
trying to get some damned work done here! You want it so bad, get a room!"
This time it
was Blair who blushed hard enough to redefine 'puce.'
By lunchtime
he was ready to go back home and pull the covers over his head. After all, it
wasn't as if he had asked for
all this.
Lunch was a
hastily swallowed chicken salad sandwich at the desk. After all, someone had to
stay in the office, even when it more closely resembled the morgue. And someone
had to be there to fend off the steady stream of women heading for Jim's desk,
but not for Jim. Blair quietly stacked his love gifts in the corner and tried
to make himself disappear in his chair.
It didn't
help.
In rapid
succession, Wanda from IA, Myriah from Vice, Sheryl
and Pamela from Homicide and three uniformed cops, Marci, Nichelle
and Raya, came by with everything from boxes of
chocolate to home-made cookies to a little stuffed alligator with big red lips
and googly eyes.
Blair's blush
became permanent.
Jim's growl
became continual.
By three
thirty, Blair tried to break the tension in his usual bouncy explanatory way.
He was, when all was said and done, a teacher, and when he got incredibly
uncomfortable, he fell back on his basic instincts.
Talk them to
death … disarmament by avalanche of words.
Straightening
up from bending over to carefully stack the large lipped alligator atop the
bandit bear, he turned to find Jim staring at him fixedly, an odd gleam in his
eyes, his lips drawn back in what could only be called a snarl, a low
exhalation that sounded remarkably like a growl whistling through clenched
teeth. He backed away instinctively, flapped his hands nervously, and felt his
mouth fall open, words dropping from it in a torrent.
"You
know, Jim, it says a lot about modern society when an ancient mating ritual
such as the giving of tokens of affection or intent can be precipitated by
commercial concerns. You did know that Valentine's day,
as a holiday, was essentially invented by the greeting card industry as a
method of selling their products at a time when paper and art were much more
expensive to produce. However, the basic tenet is sound. It seems to fulfill
some human need for members of either gender to feel free to express their
appreciation for non-mated others whom they find attractive, even if those others
have no articulated intent to pursue that appreciation, or even, for that
matter, knew that there was any appreciation to begin with. Not that it's a bad
thing, necessarily, to be the recipient of so much attention, it's just, like,
totally unexpected, you know, so
not what I was thinking was going to happen, just another day at the station,
paperwork, routine, hadn't even thought about it being the V-day, you
know?"
He paused to
gulp air, reassured by the slightly glazed look in Jim's eyes. At least the
feral gleam was dissipating. Waving his hands, spreading his fingers, making
his point, he plunged back in. "Certain tribes, such as the Ntwumi of the lower Amazon basin, have ritual days where
the social order is turned around, upside down. It's a misogynist culture but
on that day the women have the power, they make the first moves, they are the
important ones in the hierarchy, and unmarried women, usually the least
influential group within the culture, are allowed the most leeway in their
actions. It is a bit like Saturnalia, in ancient Rome, when the social order
was inverted and the masters become the slaves and vice versa. There are some
cultural parallels here, in that normally shy or retiring individuals are
empowered by the societal imperatives of the holiday and make their wishes
known in a manner they might otherwise never have considered-"
Jim's voice
cut across his like a bandsaw going through balsa
wood. "I never considered Sam particularly shy, Chief. You still got all
your teeth?"
He reflexively ran the tip of his tongue over his molars, checking for residual
looseness. Realizing what he was doing, he clamped his jaw shut, accidentally
biting the tip of his tongue. The resultant yip of pain and total silence
brought the first real smile he'd seen all day to Jim's face. He subsided back
into his chair and nursed his wounded tongue. Mutely offering Selena's tray to
Jim, who patted his arm in thanks, he settled back to working on his lecture
notes and munched on a fudge cookie.
The kid had
no idea. Jim had been getting grumpier and grumpier, with the constant traffic
flow interrupting his concentration and, yes, he could admit it if only to
himself, the jealousy eating him raw with all those women all over his Guide. Valentine's day had never been one of his favorite holidays -- in fact,
it usually depressed the hell out of him. Then Blair had turned around. Bent
over to put that stupid stuffed snake with lips on the pile of loot he'd been
hauling in. And for the first time all day, Jim had seen the heart to go with
the flowers. A perfect, compact, round, muscular heart-shaped
ass standing there, begging to be bitten.
For a
heartbeat, he zoned, caught in a mental image of him doing just that. The small
involuntary noise he'd made had caught Blair's attention, and thankfully the
kid had turned around, breaking the spell. Jim could feel the heat from Blair's
blush, they were so close, and he dialed up his tactile senses to enjoy the
shared warmth. He was so in synch with his partner that he could literally feel
his heart beat, that all he could hear Blair's breathing in his ear.
It sent a
shiver right through the middle of him.
Arrowed
straight from his ear to where his heart was lodged in his throat, burned right
through the road block and shot straight to his groin. Unable to make a
coherent sound if his life had depended on it, he was relieved when Sandburg
went into Professor mode and started yapping
animatedly at him.
The kid had a
beautiful voice.
Beautiful
hands, too, weaving patterns in the air. Following the flow
of the words, not paying any attention to the content, happy to lose himself in
his partner. This part of Blair, this attention, this response, was his.
And in return, whether the other man knew it or never did, Jim was his. Any
time the kid wanted him, he'd be there. All it took was a look, a wiggle … a
grin, and Jim was totally turned on. And it was getting worse. Pretty soon it
was going to be impossible to hide, and then he had no fucking clue what he was
going to do. Sure, Blair was a flirt, he did it like breathing. He had no idea,
or at least Jim didn't think he did, that every time Blair touched him, he went
up like a flare.
He sure as
hell hoped Blair was unconscious of it. He'd hate to think his best friend was
a prick tease.
A few words
filtered through, something about helpless women, and Sam flashed through his
mind. He interrupted the comforting flow of words, and Blair got the funniest
look on his face. Guess he was remembering Sam, too. Whatever, it worked, and
they settled down companionably to eat double Dutch chocolate fudge cookies and
tap keyboards.
Under cover
of the desk, Jim just got harder.
Simon had
gotten the last of the fudge cookies. By the time they put the tray on his
desk, they were both on a chocolate high.
The Swiss bar
with the raspberry filling had helped. As had the mandarin
dark chocolates from the Godiva box. Blair was
more than a little wired, bouncing from the ball of one foot to the other, and
from the tiny tremor in Jim's forearms, the big guy was tight too.
Or it could
just have been the weight of the Valentine's gifts.
The ride home
was tense. He tried to start a few conversations, but Jim was concentrating
fiercely on the road. He looked out at the rain streaked streets, being
battered yet again by an El Nino storm, and sighed. Talking could wait until
they got home.
All the way
up the elevator he was conscious of Jim's eyes on him, barely visible over the
pile of packages leaning against his broad chest. For just a moment, he allowed
himself a touch of weakness, a mental image of himself cuddled close where the
gifts rested, no clothes in sight, their hands all over each other, skin
sliding all over skin. Well
versed in hiding this long-standing reaction to his Sentinel from his Sentinel, he quickly tamped
down the need.
It was
getting harder and harder to hide. One of these days he was going to slip. When
he did, it would all be over, and he would be so gone they wouldn't even be
able to track his dust. 'Cause if they did, if Jim did, he'd probably get pounded
flat.
Before that
little thought could depress him right out of his chocolate high, they reached
the loft door. He took the pile from Jim so that the other man could unlock the
door, since his key was, as usual, in his desk drawer at the university. Unable
to see past the wall of boxes and stuffed animals in front of his face, he
trusted Jim to lead him into the room.
Might
have been a mistake.
Strong hands
caught his shoulders, guided him inside, left him
standing in the entryway. There was the solid slam of the door, then perfect
stillness.
"Jim?"
Some strain in his voice. He couldn't see his partner, didn't know what had
caused the abrupt lack of movement behind him, but experience taught him to
fear the worst. Could be a zone out. Moving carefully,
he bent his knees slightly then bent at the waist to settle the packages on the
floor. Then he tried to turn around and see what was wrong with his Sentinel.
Well, that
was the plan, anyway. It didn't quite work out that way.
In a sudden
flurry of movement, Jim caught him, holding him perfectly still with one hand
at his hip and one in the small of his back … and bit his right ass cheek.
Chewed. Nuzzled.
Doing his
damnedest to ignore the spike of arousal that went through him, he jumped
against the constraining hand, not getting very far, and yelped in protest.
"JIM! What the hell was THAT all about, man? I'm standing here minding my
own business and you bite my as-"
Before he complete the complaint, Jim whirled him around, plastered
him against the door, and proceeded to prove that Sam was a rank amateur when
it came to oral excavations.
The top of
his head was exploding, and it wasn't just lack of oxygen. Jim's mouth
completely covered his, the tongue stroking his own
was large, mobile, thrusting rhythmically along his palate, rimming his teeth,
the warm lips sucking at his own, the gentle teeth nipping at his lower lip.
Any thought of protest he might ever have entertained was stillborn, overtaken
by a soul-deep quiver that ran through him like a tuning fork hitting high C.
If he had been fine crystal, he would have shattered into a million shards,
fragments of a rainbow right there in the doorway, and he wouldn't have given a
damn.
Happily, he
wasn't crystal, he was flesh and blood. Rather than shatter, the blood was
rushing to various and sundry bits of flesh, and he was no longer a bystander,
but an active participant in his own seduction. Because even though he felt
like he had been run over by a bulldozer, it was a seduction, and a highly
successful one at that. He didn't know how Jim had gotten them to the couch, but
they were there, and large, capable hands were tugging his jeans and his shirt
and his sweater and his scarf and his jacket and his socks and his boxers and
his shoes right off his body, not necessarily in that order. Sometime in there
he must have been given the opportunity to breathe, too, because he hadn't
passed out, and Jim must've taken a break in there along the way in order to
get naked himself.
Sweet
God.
And Goddess. And all the minor
Deities. He was fucking beautiful. All solid muscle and soft skin, tight
beaded nipples and trembling hands, strong thighs and rigid cock, seeking mouth
and eyes … eyes … the feral gleam was back. Before his molten brain could
figure out just what that would mean, those eyes locked to his, and that
seeking mouth found its target.
So
much for not eating on the couch.
It was the
last semi-intelligent thought Blair had for some time, as Jim proceeded to
prove that not only was he not a beginner at making love to a man, he could
pass for expert in any cock-sucking competition. Between the hands spreading
his thighs, kneading his ass and opening him up, and the hot mouth slowly
devouring his cock and balls, Blair was absolutely certain he was going to
spontaneously combust before Jim ever let him come. Using an unfair advantage
that Blair was too busy enjoying to protest, Jim brought him to the edge and
backed him off time and time again. Blair had regressed to a nonverbal world of
sound, sensation and mind-numbing bliss before Jim finally, finally took the entirety of his shaft
down that oh-so-talented throat and sucked hard.
Had he
thought his head had exploded before? Silly him. This was true sexual fission, pure
release, shattering him as he had not shattered before, ever, in his life. As
he slowly wound down, drawing the tatters of his mind back to himself, he
looked down at the man still gently milking him, and whimpered.
"Too
cool."
It was the only thing he could think of to say. Everything else was simply too
big, too complex for him to get his head around.
Jim slid up his
body, and Blair felt the heated strength of his erection pressing between his
thighs. He tried to cooperate, to spread his legs a little wider, but his
muscles were all melting into the cushions and he couldn't. So he tilted his
head back -- that was easy, his hair felt very heavy and his neck very weak --
and accepted with alacrity the offering Jim made to him of his own seed. The
slick taste was incredibly erotic as the wide mouth settled over his, tongues
twining as Jim thrust against him. One broad hand cupped the outside of his
thigh, pushing his hips into the couch, trapping Jim's cock between his thighs.
The thin skin of his perineum reacted to the slick sawing of thick flesh
against it, nerve endings still raw from his climax, causing him to jerk and
shiver against Jim's thrusts.
It wasn't
very long at all before it was too much to maintain, and his Sentinel, now
lover, wrapped himself completely around Blair, thrust once, pumped twice, and
came hard. Blair felt the hot spray of liquid under his ass, pulsing up into
his cleft, across the clenching muscle there, and moaned. Wouldn't be long now,
and that emptiness would be filled. His cock twitched at the thought.
A drugged,
sleepy whisper answered his own earlier comment on
fulfillment. "Groovy." He couldn't hold back the bubble of laughter
that worked its way out of his chest. Jim grinned back at him. Wriggling in
Jim's arms until their positions were reversed, he looked down into his lover's
sated face, and felt a glow start somewhere around the region of his heart.
Nuzzling his head down on that warm chest, listening to the thundering beat
gradually calming as the Sentinel dropped into a much needed nap,
Blair hugged him tightly and closed his own eyes. They could talk later. For
the moment, in a topsy turvy
totally unexpected way, everything clicked.
It was
turning out to be a much happier Valentine's day than
he had ever expected.
~~~finis~~~~
Notes: The
song Groovy Kind of Love, written by Carole Bayer Sager and Toni Wine and sung
by Phil Collins, inspired this story. Appended here are the lyrics. Deciphering
which lines apply to which character, and their place in the story, is left as
an exercise for the reader (if the gentle reader is really, really bored).
When I'm feeling blue,
all I have to do
Is take a look at you,
then I'm not so blue
When you're close to
me, I can feel your heart beat
I can hear you
breathing in my ear
Wouldn't you agree, baby you and me, we've got a groovy
kind of love
Any time you want to,
you can turn me on to
Anything you want to,
any time at all
When I kiss your lips,
ooh I start to shiver
Can't control the
quivering inside
Wouldn't you agree,
baby you and me, we've got a groovy kind of love, oho
When I'm feeling blue,
all I have to do
Is take a look at you,
then I'm not so blue
When I'm in your arms,
nothing seems to matter
My whole world could
shatter, I don't care
Wouldn't you agree,
baby you and me, we've got a groovy kind of love
We've got a groovy
kind of love, we've got a groovy kind of love
Oho, we've got a
groovy kind of love
©1966
Happy Hallmark day, everyone.