Step on a Crack

by Jane Davitt




It’s a gap, a crack, a sliver; a slice of darkness no more than an inch wide, but it's enough. Jim freezes, breathes shallow and fast and silent, his gaze arrow-sharp, focuses so that his eyes ache with the strain of it, and stares though the crack in Sandburg's carelessly closed bedroom doors to what lies inside.

Blair. Blair lies inside. Lies on his bed naked, asleep, the covers concertinaed at his feet.

(It's February. It's cold. Blair never sleeps naked unless it's sweat-sticky-hot, and it's February, it's cold, so, no, he's not asleep.)

Blair stirs, a soft murmur pushing past his lips, a sleepy grumble. It sounds genuine but Jim matches it against certainties in his head and it falls short.

If Sandburg starts to jerk off, he's out of there; he's gone. This is too much, too much to take, too much to expect him to endure --

But Blair just rolls to his belly, the shadows cloaking the pale curves of his ass, the edges of the doors framing it imperfectly, unevenly, and slides his knee up the bed a little, all loose and sprawled.

Come and fuck me, Jim. You like to look and I'm giving you plenty to stare at, plenty to touch. Come inside.

Come inside
me.

And he could. Could walk over, push open that door, widen the crack to a chasm, walk through. Sit on that bed and run his hand with a light, sure touch, along the tender flesh of Blair's inner thigh, where the skin was baby-smooth in places, up to the damp, musky heat of his balls, peach-fuzzed with hair. Could lick his fingers to catch the taste of Blair's skin and work them into the crack of Blair's ass, crack him open, let his wandering, wondering, wriggling fingers dip and dive and delve into secret places, private places, not there, no, Jimmy, dirty, mustn't touch.

And Blair would pretend to sleep as he was pierced and licked, fucked and sucked. Would keep blue eyes closed and try, try hard, to keep his mouth slack and silent and sweet with sleep.

Would let Jim take what he offered and meet him in the morning with a sunny-side-up smile, open and engaging, because nothing had happened, nothing had changed --

Every time Blair's left his door open, Jim's walked through the crack.

And nothing has changed.

He holds still, the insistent arousal building as he waits, seconds ticking by, so many of them. He's never hesitated this long before -- he's not sure what Blair will do --

The bed creaks and Blair pads over to the door and Jim tenses, waits for it to be closed with a firm, final snick, but Blair opens it wide, knuckling sleep from his eyes, his hair a tumbled crazy weave, pillow-tangled.

He eyes Jim speculatively and then nods and walks, not to Jim, but the stairs, taking them in a leisurely lope, missing steps here and there, an irregular pattern that feels as if it should mean something, a code to be cracked, but which is probably meaningless, random.

"Jim? You coming, man?"

Only Blair could sound so impatient when he's the one who's been keeping Jim waiting.



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