Admit One/ Silently Waiting

by Jane Davitt

A/N These are two ficlets that show the same event from different POVs so I decided to archive them together.

Admit One

I'm lying in Jim's bed, ass raw, jaw aching, lips bruised red. The sheets are damp with sweat and spunk, clinging to my skin, peeling free reluctantly when I roll to my stomach, sprawling wantonly, legs wide, over as much of the bed as I can stake a claim to.

Jim's pillow yields to the press of my cheek and I see, caught against the yellow cotton, a single straight, dark hair. I breathe on it and watch it move, caught in the flow of air, tossed and helpless as I'd been the night before, Jim over me, surrounding me, all muscles and heat and a starkly direct hunger.

He'd consumed me. Chewed me up and spit me -- well, no. He'd swallowed. Licked his lips with a faint, pensive frown of concentration and then smiled, a dark, promising smile that had made my hips arch up off the bed involuntarily, a mute offering that had won me an approving caress, his hand passing over my spent, limp body with an assurance I'd fostered.

I'd put that hunger in his eyes, that smile on his lips --

I'd given him permission to take me, use me to fulfill any need he had or wanted. He hadn't disappointed me with a half-hearted, token acceptance.

My ass hurts, a red, raw soreness I feel with every shift on the rumpled sheet. He hadn't been gentle, but then, I hadn't wanted him to be. I clench on emptiness and moan, biting into his pillow the way I'd dug my teeth into the meat of his arm, the flat expanse of his chest. My lips are frayed, abraded, the corners tender against my probing tongue. His fingers beside his cock as he fucked my mouth, spreading my lips open, obscenely wide, choking me, filling me, until all I could taste, all I could smell, was the ripe, male reek of his arousal, smeared and painted on his skin…

I'm arching and rubbing against the sheet now, my cock carving a groove in the fabric, but I won't let myself come when he's not there to watch me, blue eyes intent, or hear my anguished, ecstatic cries. He made me talk to him last night, say stuff I've never spoken even in the secret darkness of my head. I was scarlet, stammering, but I could see what it did to him, meant to him, and my voice steadied, went husky, confident, blatantly seductive. I told him what he was going to do to me and he nodded, did it, and did it, and did-- oh, fuck, Jim, what you did to me. God.

What did you do?

I don't know. But I'm lying here in your bed, my world narrowed to sheets and pillow and the scent of you, lying here hot and aching, waiting for you to come back and do it again.


Silently Waiting

I'm almost at the door when I stop, halted in my tracks. I can hear Blair. I can smell him. I harden, helplessly, completely, in the space of a few quick, gulped breaths and hope that no one appears in the hallway, because I'm so turned on, I can't move without spilling in my pants like a teenager.

He's moaning, guttural, pained whimpers that make me close my eyes so that I can hear them better. I'm concentrating on him to the exclusion of everything else and it feels as if I'm standing beside our bed listening, watching, my hands empty, yearning to touch.

He's hurting, he wants me so much. I -- I can't -- God, that's just -- I did that to him? Me? I separate out the words from the whimpers and hear my name, over and over, Jim, Jim, Jim a prayer, a plea.

I should go to him. Quiet him down with my mouth on his, my hand soothing the tremors running through his body. His skin's so warm where I touch him, every time, flushing hot with blood, tiny hairs prickling up, stiff and strong against my palm, something only I can feel. It's selfish of me, but I get off on knowing him better than any other lover has.

Last night I used him. Played with him. Enjoyed him, with his words and body urging me to take everything just that single step further, again and again, until I was so lost in lust that the only thought left was the hope that I didn't go too far.

When I'd finished with him, he was a mess, sweaty, spattered with spit and come, his skin marked by my teeth and nails, and I loved him. God, the way he looked up at me from our bed, drowned eyes, scarlet cheeks, his mouth open on a breath. He looked…dazed, adoring. Blair.

I put my hand on him when I was done and felt him quiver, arch up into the light caress. We couldn't have gone again, but I wanted so much from him still and I don't see that changing. I held him close until he fell asleep, every breath tormenting me, because I was aroused in my head and physically incapable of getting it up.

Not a problem I've got right now.

My hand is on my key, the sharp edges digging into my skin. I'm going to use it; walk in, close the door behind me, and go up to where he's waiting for me in a bed that smells of sex and both of us. Stand by the bed, and watch him turn to his stomach, spread his legs, and look back at me, imploring, impatient, inviting.

And whatever it was I did to him last night, I'll do again until we're both raw from fucking, exhausted and smiling.

Smiling. I've been doing that all day…

The key slides into the lock easily; accepted, familiar, and I walk inside.

He says my name, not a greeting but a sigh of relief.

Waiting's over, Chief…but I still walk slowly up the stairs, just to hear him whisper my name again, hooking me with a word and reeling me in.

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