Shorn

by Jane Davitt


 
They stare at each other and Jim's the first to smile. It spreads into a chuckle and he goes to the doorway and pries Blair's fingers off the door so that it can be closed, sealing them inside, safe, alone.

Blair leans back against it, against the rough, scarred paint, and smiles up at Jim.

Their hands rise, explore, learning each other again, and they murmur, listening only to themselves because they don't need an answer.

Took off more than you wanted, Chief?

Soft -- God, Jim, why does it get softer the shorter it is?

There's no urgency as fingers thread through shorn hair, no arousal building. Later, yes. Later, Blair's hands will skate, complaining, over Jim's buzz cut, all fresh, short, sharp prickles if he brushes it the wrong way, and he'll growl, impatient, frustrated that he has nothing to grip as he fucks Jim's mouth and makes it smile, makes it wet and chafed and tender. Later, Jim's fingers will card through Blair's wind-tangled hair and stop, abruptly, thwarted by its new length, and he'll gather what's left in his palms, bringing it to his face to smell and kiss, parting it until he's found the pale, secret skin of Blair's nape, where he'll bite a mark, setting it into the waiting skin, warm and smooth.

But now, they look and touch and smile and Jim finds each tiny snipped strand clinging stubbornly to Blair's face and neck and blows them away gently because they make Blair itch and watches them fall.



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