The Dying

by Jane Davitt

It shouldn't ever be about this when he's fucking Sandburg. No taint of the day should invade the night, when he's so close to the man he's come to depend on that each rough, possessive caress to the pliant, straining body under his feels as if it's sinking into flesh, not stroking over it.

He tells himself that as he forces his cock past muscle into heat, a torturous, lube-slicked grind and screw that hurts Sandburg, judging by the deep grunt, but doesn't stop either of them. Reminds himself that Sandburg isn't the one who hurt three children, made them -- no, he can't think about that, not now, not here.

He's leaving bruises on Sandburg, small, oval smudges that any Forensics team could match to his fingertips. His teeth are worrying at the thin, tough skin of Sandburg's neck, his mouth sucking blood up to the surface, hot and salt.

He wants to come with the same ferocious, rage-filled need that had his finger tensing on the trigger of his gun as he pointed into a monster's face earlier on.

He can't. Couldn't wipe the dirt out of existence, can't fill the tight clench of Sandburg's ass with his come.

Then Sandburg reaches back, balancing awkwardly on one hand and two knees, and works his fingers into the hand that's marking him, punishing him, until his palm is tight, sweat-stuck to Jim's.
Hot damp skin. Warm. Alive.

Jim takes a deep, shuddering breath and eases out of Blair and plunges back in slowly, lovingly, a silky glide into yielding, welcoming warmth.

Comes with Blair's name shaping his mouth, and Blair's hand still holding his.

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