Tested to Destruction



His gloved hands clutch the railing over his bed. It had felt like gripping broken glass barehanded. He's dialed up touch so high his skin is singing, screaming, but Blair's still not done.

He expects a lot. Jim's not sure he can even do this, but he's promised to try. He's not even sure he's going to enjoy it, but somewhere in the discussion that led up to this little experiment, that stopped being the point, if it ever was.

This is for Blair, who wants to prove, wants to see… hell, something. Jim's indulgent without real comprehension. Power? Yeah. Maybe. Over him.

Part of him thinks Blair should already know he's got that in spades. Jim's agreed to this little stunt; what more proof does he need?

"Just there, Jim. Just there. Nowhere else now."

Blair sounds husky, unbearably excited and a little nervous. Jim just feels that if he doesn't come soon he's going to throw up or pass out or something really sexy like that.

He concentrates. Just there…let the rest of his body fade back to normally receptive to touch and let his dick stay cranked up to eleven.

Oh, this is real useful…he can just see this talent coming in handy… except, later, when his brain isn't fried from lust he probably will come up with a way to use it, or Blair will. Juice up his fingertips when he needs an extra boost, maybe… because there's no denying it; focusing like this is, oh, yeah, it's working. Fuck eleven; he's off the scale here. His dick jerks, impatient, needy, and he can feel each hair at his groin brush its neighbour like a tickle from a breeze.

His fingers curl and flex and he watches Blair exhale, his head turned away, and then move over him, not touching him at all. The thick spring of his hair is tied back and slicked down -- Blair doesn't want a stray hair drifting free and falling onto Jim. Thoughtful of him? No. It'd interfere with what he wants to do, that's all. Never mind that it'd feel like being hit with a stick… because Blair doesn't know that. Not really.

Blair doesn't, can't, won't ever know just what it feels like to push the limits like this. And Jim's not planning on sharing because he lacks the words and he's sick of stumbling through inadequate sentences and watching Blair make careful notes about nothing worth saving.

Blair's kneeling in the wide vee of Jim's legs now, his hands on the bed, not Jim's skin.

Jim's missing touching and being touched, starved for it and more than a little resentful.

What the fuck is this going to prove anyway? He opens his mouth to tell Blair to forget it but as his lips part it's already too late. Blair leans over with the slow grace of a waterless flower stem drooping -- not a problem Jim has at the moment after what Blair did to get him up and hard -- and licks the air above Jim's erection in a long, slow swipe, the final remnants of his exhalation forcing the heavier, wetter molecules of air down.

Down. Falling, landing, caressing, smacking, exploding, touching him --

Blair's tongue moves so slowly that by the time it reaches the tip of Jim's cock he's already started to come, balls drawing tighter, hair on them crisping erect.

It hurts to come. It's never hurt before. He can feel the rising rush, the sudden expansion of blood vessels, the stress his dick's under. He isn't looking at anything but the crown of Blair's head, but he imagines his dick peeling like a ripe banana, exposing mush and mess, because he's being destroyed here, he's being ripped apart.

Blair reaches his destination and blows a kiss at the head of Jim's dick and it's over, he's finished, he's coming, emptying himself into the air, graceless gobs of spunk spat out by an aching, agonized, brutalized dick he's going to have to be nice to if he ever expects it to get hard for him again after this.

He's fucking traumatized for life here. Sandburg's getting every one of his therapy bills when Jim becomes impotent at an early age.

He's yelling hoarsely, hips hammering up and he's arched like a bow, muscles corded in his thighs, and his control's gone, it's out the door, senses retreating, shrinking, scared, and he's feeling the memory of pain fade with them. He's washed warm and loose by an afterglow that's bright enough to qualify as a nova, just stick it in the sky and watch it burn, baby…

He subsides back on the bed, whimpering with pleasure, and Blair smiles at him, happy and approving.

"Wow."

No. Not wow. Ow.

"I didn't think I could do it."

Jim doesn't answer.

"Sorry, sorry; I didn't think we could do it," Blair amends. He looks hopeful but Jim doesn't even give him a whimper now, closing off every sound but the harsh panting he can't seem to stop.

"Jim, man, talk to me."

He releases the metal bars and feels the cramp in his fingers strike out and hit. He holds out his hands to Blair who meekly peels the leather gloves free and then rubs Jim's hands until he can use them again.

He's keeping everything down, slightly below normal, in fact, and he's still flying, still dizzy. He cleans the come off his skin, hand trembling, not letting Blair do it for him.

"Blair?"

"Yes?" Blair's expression is so anxious it's comical, except he's never found Blair upset all that amusing.

"That… wasn't much fun. I don't want to bust your bubble but it fucking hurt."

Blair's mouth gapes open pinkly. "Hurt?"

"Oh, God, yes."

"It didn't look like it hurt."

"Well, it did," he mutters and lets Blair's stammered, frantic apologies chase away his resentment because it had, way more than he'd expected.

But the guilt increases.

He could have stopped Blair. Drawn a line, pitched his usual rant about where Blair's research could go and where, even now they were fucking, it couldn't.

But he'd been curious.

And now he knew.

And now… fuck, he wants that high again. Not now; God, no, his skin feels rubbed raw, scratched scarlet, even though it isn't, not really, his dick a plaintive, shrunken curl… but soon.

And he wonders what it would feel like to be inside Blair the next time, in his mouth, wet and turbulent; in the tight clench of his ass.

Blair's taking his temperature, checking his pulse, his blood pressure, fussing over him, telling him that they can't, not ever again, no more, sorry, sorry, too risky, Jim, you should see this, man, maybe we should get you checked over because that had to be a strain on your heart, God, it's going wild

Wild.

Oh, yeah.

He wants it again. He does. The payoff's worth the pain and the risk's one he'll take.

And he wonders how many Sentinels have killed themselves like this, in the ultimate zone, and if Blair already knows.

Blair won't shut up, telling him over and over that they won't be doing it again.

Yeah. Blair knows.

And he still persuaded Jim to try it.

He shuts Blair up the simple way, putting his hand over Blair's mouth -- clever, destructive, damning mouth -- and feels the dampness of breath and tongue against his palm.

"Blair. Sweetheart." Blair blinks at the unexpected endearment and swallows hard. "It's too fucking late. Start thinking about ways to make it good for me next time. Ways to bring me back. Because I'm doing this again and I can do it solo if I have to."

Blair's shaking his head violently and he has to dig his fingers into the soft pooch of Blair's cheeks to keep his hand in place.

And then, because he loves the little fucker, he really does, he slides his hand away and down and kisses the worried pout smooth and spit-slick and takes care of Blair, who's been waiting all this time, Blair who's frantic and trying to talk even when he's pushing his hard, hard dick through Jim's tight hand into Jim's kind mouth.

Because it had hurt and it was Blair's idea, so yeah, it's nice of him to make it good for Blair and not to hurt him even a little.

Blair's still crying after he comes, though, slow tears trickling from the corners of his eyes and down into his hair.

Still saying no, not again, please.

Still saying he's sorry.

Jim's just not sure why any more.



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