Apple Cores



An apple core, browned and slimy, juices soaking the wood of the shelf. A scatter of papers over the bed -- and wasn't that a leaking pen wedged under the pillow?

Clothes, draped, dropped, discarded; a calendar of Blair's week, read correctly. Jim counted pairs of shorts. Four days since Blair had picked up his laundry. Four.

And talk about elephants' graveyards; this was where crockery came to die. Mugs, stained dark with tannin, plates decorated with crumbs and smears, a crusted fork wedged into an uneaten wedge of… something. Something green that hadn't started out that color.

Behind him, plastered up against his back, Blair was a fizzing, fermenting, about to pop bundle of lust.

"Come on, Jim, come on… Naked. Naked would be good." His hands, warm, knowing, started to work their way inside Jim's jeans, the nudge of his hips a not-so-subtle prod to get Jim moving into -- that.

"No way, Sandburg."

"Huh?" Blair's hand moved down an exploratory inch, and patted Jim's erection, which, being blind, was still in the game. "You want to," Blair crooned happily, taking time between words to deliver some surprisingly light, blood-stirring nips and kisses to the back of Jim's neck. Shiver time. "So let's do it."

"First things first," Jim said and turned so he could stare down at Blair. "You clean up this --- this --"

Blair ran his tongue over his lips, a calculated flirt 'n tease. "Or we could just use your bed?" he suggested with a total lack of subtlety.

Cherry, cherry, cherry… jackpot.

Four days' worth of mess. A planned seduction just at the point where Blair was sick of living in his carefully created pig sty.

Blair didn't want the quick, the easy, the no-strings fuck. Blair wanted to storm the only place in the loft Jim had made clear was off limits because he needed somewhere of his own.

Jim hesitated. Blair on a clean bed, with smooth sheets, plumped pillows, his smell raw against crisp cotton.

His smile slightly smug.

Or fucking on Jim's terms in a bed redolent with -- God, had Blair been eating curry under the covers?

Jim folded his arms. If there was one art he'd learned during his time with Sandburg, it was the art of compromise.

"Couch. Bend over it. Now."

Blair pouted, which almost got him everything his heart desired. Almost. "Okay, I guess." His eyes narrowed. "But you do the bending."

"Why?" Jim asked, not unwilling, but curious.

Blair winced. "That bed… my back… not sure I can bend over, if you want the truth, Jim. I'm aching here."

Jim sighed and caved. "Come on up to my bed. I'll give you a back rub before we, uh..."

"Fuck?"

"Yeah. That."

He knew he'd been had when Blair ran up the stairs, flung himself on Jim's bed -- still wearing shoes, dammit -- and gave him a sunny smile.

"Got something else aching you can rub first, Jim."

"Did anyone ever tell you that you get too many of your lines from cheesy porn movies?" Jim inquired.

Blair gave that some thought, and managed to strip without ever becoming vertical as he pondered it, which meant that Jim lost interest in the answer.

He got it anyway. "No. Only you. And how do you know? What porn have you been watching without telling me?"

The Blair Show. Months of it. X-rated, glorious Technicolor, 3-D, Smell-o-Vision. Oh, yeah, Jim had been watching porn. Blair breathing was erotic, that fucking nipple ring outlined, blurred, drawing his gaze as Blair inhaled, lost on the exhale.

"Shut up." Weak, Jim, very weak. And when had that particular command ever worked on Blair?

Blair, who took the offensive, and skimmed his fingers down his body, from the hollow at his throat to the furry squash of his balls, and murmured gently, "Make me." Then cleared his throat and added a meek -- because he'd gone too far, he really had, and no one knew Jim's limits better -- "Please?" that had Jim's hands moving to buttons and zippers, because they were finally in the right place, both of them, and it didn't really matter how they'd gotten there, just that they had.



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