The first time Blair bumped into the wooden support, he was talking to Jim as he walked across the room, head turned back to make a point. Stupid place to put it, right where people walked. He suggested Jim get rid of it, just to see the pained look on his host's face as Jim struggled to be polite and not call him an idiot (early days, man, early days) and let Jim lecture him patiently about load bearing walls, roofs caving in, and such for a full five minutes before he cracked up and Jim scowled, realizing he'd been had.
Then Jim's face softened and warm fingers brushed over a bump on Blair's forehead he hadn't known was rising up until Jim winced in sympathy. "Let's put some ice and arnica on this," Jim suggested. And when Blair kicked the pillar as they headed toward the fridge, Jim shook a solemnly reproving finger at the pillar, not Blair.
Cute. The ice cube down his neck and the dance he had to do to shake it free wasn't, though.
That was just evil.
He's close enough to see the grain and the slip-slide of the chisel marks. The wood's old and dark, an original beam from a tree long dead. He's tired of looking at it and it smells mostly of oil and a hundred meals, so he licks it, tasting smoothness and age, bitter and lingering on his tongue.
He sighs and rests his forehead against it, flexing his shoulders. Ten minutes more.
And he wishes Jim had tied him, chained him, cuffed him, something, anything, because this, just standing, for fifteen endless minutes when he could walk away anytime he wants to, is so fucking difficult.
"You wanted to know what it was like," Jim says from the couch.
"And now I do. It's boring."
"'Tell me what you can taste, Jim; what proportion of tarragon, exactly? Is it unsalted butter? What percent cream?'" Jim says in a truly sucky imitation of Blair's voice. "Sandburg, when I take you out for your birthday and you put me through hell in public, you get to find out what payback's like. Now stare at the wood just like you had me doing last week."
"You saw all sorts of interesting stuff," Blair protests. "You fucking zoned on it, man." He glared at the pillar. "All I see is wood."
"So keep looking until you see more. Or walk away if you can't handle it."
Like that humiliation and defeat is ever going to happen. He can do this.
"How much longer?"
"Do you want me to add something on for this conversation?"
"Eight minutes and thirty seconds."
By the time he has seven minutes to go, he's back to licking it again just for something to do.
It's not wide enough to be comfortable to lean against but like he cares, like he fucking cares, man --
He goes up on tiptoe, straining to get his cock deeper into Jim's mouth, hands scrabbling at the wood because if he puts them on Jim he's going to hold Jim in place and fuck that obedient, tormenting, talented mouth raw, and that's a good way to make sure your first blow job from someone is your last.
Jim's tongue curls and flicks there, there, there and Blair's head slams against wood and he gets a splinter in his ass and one in his thumb. Ten minutes after Jim's removed them with a needle, some spit, and much cursing from both of them, he has to wait to be fucked until Jim's sanded the pillar smooth again. There's a tiny frown between his eyebrows the whole time he does it and the rasp of the sandpaper sounds irritable.
And it wasn't his fault.
"I'd tie you to it, naked, bare --"
"Oh, you can keep that on, sure. That leather thong necklace, earrings, the nipple ring… yeah."
"Then I'm not naked."
"Shut up, Sandburg."
"I'm just saying that to be truly naked --"
"Fine, take it all off. God, you're annoying."
"I'm naked. Hypothetically. Go on."
"Yeah. And then I -- you know what? I'm just not in the mood. I was, but then you got all picky and --"
"Jim, Jim… details are the heart of a fantasy; get them right and it becomes three dimensional, vivid..."
"Or I could just skip to the part when I actually fucking do it. Less talking, more sex."
"We did yours."
"Naked, Blair. Now."
"Fine. Getting naked. Getting cold."
"I'll warm you up."
"That was more of a warning."
His tears won't soak in. They roll like rain down the wood, dampening it, darkening it, wetting its surface, but they don't disappear.
The sounds he's making won't, either. They buzz and sing in his head, every moan and whimper and desperate plea Jim's ignored.
The clink of the cuffs is a distant annoyance and he tries to hold still, reach a point where he accepts what he's given, empty of impatience and desire, but he can't do it.
"Please. More. Harder. Please."
Jim doesn't answer, but there's the faint press of a kiss against his shoulder before the next blow lands, frustratingly light, and he guesses it's an apology.
He'll owe Jim one of those later for making him do this again.
It's a defeated whisper, expecting another silent no, and it's why the next one's perfect, a sizzle and a strike, all of Jim's strength of body and will behind it. The pain forces him out of his yammering, clamoring head into a silent space, white and clean and empty.
It's the last one he gets, always is.
Jim can only take so much.
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