If it rains, the picnic's cancelled and every child connected to Major Crime is going to go to bed without having their face painted by Rhonda and a balloon animal created by Joel for their (fleeting) amusement. Not go to bed hungry, of course, no, but with stomachs unstuffed by scorched hotdogs, raw corn, melted ice cream, and stale cake all washed down with flat soda and warm juice.
Given the benefit to juvenile digestions, Jim doesn't feel too guilty about staring up at a gray and heavy sky with a hopeful squint.
It isn't the kids he's really thinking of, though.
Upstairs, Blair's lying supine, sleepy, sated between sheets redolent of sweat and sex. Ready for more of whatever Jim wants to give him. He'll mewl and whine about being sore even as his legs spread wide and he arches his ass up; grumble and pout just to make Jim shut him up, not with a kiss; they rarely work, but the thick, solid weight of his cock pushed past the open gate of lips and teeth.
Jim trusts Blair not to bite. Sometimes, though, Blair lets his teeth, sharp and white, dig in just a little, just enough to make sweat prickle Jim's back as threat and pleasure vie. He cups Blair's face and smiles down at him then, sharing his calm certainty that Blair won't hurt him, and tugs Blair's hair gently in a thank you when Blair eases off and goes back to playing with his gag until the noises they're both making are loud in the quiet space.
Maybe today he'll do that even if Blair doesn't complain, slow, lazy thrusts into liquid heat and then ease out to come over Blair's face, opaque splashes writing love letters on flushed, warm skin, strands of white caught in the wild tangle of Blair's hair. Clean Blair up with his tongue, so that the rich reek of come and spit lingers for hours in a cloud around Blair, marking Blair as taken, claimed.
Blair, who no longer owns a single piece of jewellery that wasn't a gift from Jim (leather looped around his neck or wrists, metal piercing his flesh; so fucking personal -- has to be from Jim's hand, has to be) loves being marked, scent-subtle, bruise-vivid and everything in between.
Sensual little fuck, Jim thinks fondly, indulgently.
Filled with a need to touch Blair that he has no intention of denying, Jim turns away from contemplating the heavy sky and takes the stairs to their bed in long strides.
Blair stirs, smiles at him, his eyes narrowed, speculative, as he glances at Jim's hands. Empty, but that doesn't mean much. Jim's hands can hold wrists and ankles in place as well as cuffs would do, can spank as hard as a paddle, can trail lightly over quivering skin like the dry furl of a feather. His hands, like the rest of him, are ready to give Blair everything, anything Blair wants.
The rain begins to patter down on the balcony outside, striking dusty concrete and neglected plants alike.
"It's raining," Jim tells him and begins to strip off the little he's wearing. "I'm going to keep you in bed all day, so get comfortable."
"Got to eat," Blair says reasonably enough but with a challenging glint in his eyes, sun sparks off the ocean.
Jim pats his cock, already thick and hard in anticipation of what's to come, and gives the only possible reply. "Got that covered."
He gets a smirk for the witticism that's about all it deserves. "Got to piss," Blair remarks idly.
Jim winces and concedes the point. "True. I'd tell you to cross your legs, but that wouldn't work with everything else I've got planned for you."
"So I get bathroom breaks?" Blair purses his lips. "Hmm. Well, if we've established that all day is more hyperbole than actual fact, there's this documentary on at eleven I really want to watch. Mating rituals of penguins. Fascinating stuff."
If it was anyone but Blair, Jim would've made him watch it just to teach him a lesson, but the odds were good that the little shit was sincere about being interested.
"You don't make it easy for me to be romantic," he complains. The bed creaks a protest as he lies down beside Blair, and reaches for him greedily, hands on bare skin still warm from sleeping curled close.
Blair huffs. "Keeping me naked and chained to the railings and fucking me raw is your idea of romance?"
"Beats roses," Jim tells him serenely. "And do we even own any chains?" He knows they don't, but the idea's interesting. Light ones, silver bright, clashing coolly like ice in water as Blair tests them to breaking point, the way he does everything he owns. The way he does to Jim.
"We will after your birthday." Blair's mouth shapes a dreamy curve. "Not to mention assorted plugs, a glow in the dark vibrator, and a cock ring. For you, not me; I can hold it."
Brat. He's not sure he believes him, but Jim says, "That just cost you the penguins, Chief," and makes Blair snicker, unrepentant, unabashed.
Jim straddles him, his ass snug in the cradle of Blair's thighs, and begins to lick and kiss his way across Blair's chest, bare nipple to adorned one, the pressure of his mouth leaving fugitive color only he can see under the swirls of dark hair.
"I might have lied," Blair admits.
Jim hooks a fingertip into the ring of metal set into Blair's nipple and gives it a minatory tug, genuinely, if superficially, annoyed that Blair won't let him enjoy this moment in peace. He meets Blair's eyes, and knows that his own are wary. "About the delivery of sex toys to a cop's apartment and giving me something you want for my birthday?"
Blair snorts and rolls his eyes, dismissing the charges against him with an airy roll of his eyes. "The penguins, Jim, the penguins. It's on tomorrow. And you already signed for the toys; remember, last week? That big box with the dent in one side?"
"You said it was some books from Naomi."
"My fingers were crossed."
"You lie to me a lot." Jim frowns down at him,
"Not about anything that matters," Blair assures him sunnily. "And not that often." His expression turns beguiling, flattering. "You always find out; it's just not worth it. And you held that box, Jim; did it feel like books?" Blair shakes his head more in sorrow than in anger. "You weren't paying attention."
"I'll set up some tests with things in boxes," Blair muses. "Block off your senses so that all you have to go off is --"
"Hey." Jim smacks his hand into the pillow beside Blair's head. "Later, Blair," he says and puts a growl in it, just to send a shiver through Blair and get his attention.
"I love you," Blair says with a simplicity that's suspect but Jim needs to hear it too much to doubt it. "Really do," Blair adds. "Always have, always will."
Jim considers that and shrugs, knowing that it's broadly true, and goes back to making Blair's pierced nipple sting and throb hot against his lapping tongue as the rain pours down from a dark gray sky.
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