Blair's door-split lip is bleeding, crimson-salt beading and dripping, rolling over and down, caught by clumsy fingers, splashing and staining the washed-white fade of denim he's wearing.
Jim holds out a damp cloth and Blair tilts his head back expectantly, waiting for Jim to be gentle.
Can't. He hates it when Blair pairs 'sentinel' with 'primitive', but that's how he feels right now.
He stays close to Blair and he'll split that lip wider, lick it clean, kiss it raw.
God, it would taste so --
Blair's tongue explores the cut gingerly.
Laps and licks.
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