I disclaim poverty, disease, world hunger and the last couple of seasons of the The X-Files. Everything else is MINE, I say, MINE!

A little kinky, but lovingly, like it should be, hmmm? And it's a little funny, at least I think so. Not betaed, all erriors are mine. Please feed the Dragon.

Jim waxes philosophical, Blair tries not to laugh. Then Jim gets pissed and Blair calms him down. (read: fucks him senseless. tee hee.)

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^

So here I am, whaling away, at this ALLEGED perp, this ACCUSED car-jacker, fingerprints are all OVER the stolen Beemer, not to mention the CAR SEAT, complete with BABY, that he threw out at 30 miles an hour, and who is just fine, thanks to said car seat, and no thanks to the SUSPECT who's still protecting his un-fingerprinted, unknown ALLEGED partner in ALLEGED crime, and I'm scrupulously honoring his PRECIOUS civil rights when what I wanna do is beat the fu ... and then I hear him. Blair.

He was in the observation room, on the other side of the one-way glass, but now he's out in the hall. Just outside the door. And he's talking to me. Saying it over and over again. "Macaroni, Jim, remember the macaroni. Remember, Jim? Macaroni?"

Well, there's a story behind that, let me tell you!

So, I do what Blair wants me to do, and I calm the fuck down, and I take a breath, and I turn to Rafe and say, "Book-em' Danno. And make sure the door doesn't hit him in his precious, alleged, accused, innocent-till-proven-guilty, civil rights protected ass on his way to lock-up." And Rafe does.

I go out in the hall, grab Blair by the arm and pull him into the observation room, glaring at Simon till he gets the hint and leaves, holding both hands up in the air in the universal sign of surrender. His eyebrows are about to climb right into his hairline, but he goes, and that's the point.

Then Blair is there, wrapping himself around me while I vibrate with anger. My face is red, my hands are clenched into fists I could break bricks with, and I don't even want to hazard a guess at what my blood pressure is. Hazard being the operative word, here. Because Blair said our safe word, though it has nothing to do with sex. Whatever it is I'm doing, I'm supposed to stop when I hear the word macaroni, and put my attention, ALL of it, on Blair. And because Blair told me to, I do.

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^

Six months ago:

"I love you," I whisper to him.

He turns his head back to look at me, smiles sleepily, and whispers back, "I know."

He's nestled in my arms, spoon style, warm and sated and drowsy. God, I love him like this, resting his weight back against my body, trusting me to hold him close, to keep him safe. And that's when I made my mistake. Well, not really a mistake, though Blair could hardly hold back the giggles. It ended up okay, anyway.

My mistake was trying to get philosophical. You'd think I'd know better, huh? Especially with Blair, who lives by words, all of them more eloquent than I could ever be. Well, anyway, what I said was, "You know, Blair? We're like macaroni and cheese."

He chuffs out a laugh that I can tell started out a lot bigger. He turns again to look back at me and says solemnly, one eyebrow raised, "Macaroni and cheese, Jim?"

"Yeah, you know. You're the macaroni and I'm the cheese."

He grins and says, "Explain, please?"

"Well, the macaroni sort of supports the cheese, you know? And the cheese sort of surrounds the macaroni, like it's protecting it, holding it close. One without the other isn't nearly as good as the two together. They make a great team, macaroni and cheese. You're my macaroni. You support me, and you make me strong. And I'm your cheese. I protect you, surround you, like now. Macaroni and cheese. That's us." I grin back at him.

"You're a nut," he whispers, smiling sweetly at me. "I love you."

I whisper back, "I know."

Well, it just sort of escalated from there. The words macaroni and cheese became sort of our code words. A way to communicate without anyone knowing what we really meant. When things were good, he'd say "Macaroni, Jim," and I knew it meant "I love you, Jim." And I'd say, "Cheese, Chief." Which meant, "Love you, too."

When we were in a problem situation, macaroni meant, "Help me out here." And if one of us said cheese, it meant, "I need help." The meanings changed according to the situation, but either word always meant, "Stop what you're doing and pay attention to me."

We didn't even stop when frozen macaroni and cheese dinners started appearing mysteriously on our desks at work. Hey, you stick with what works, right?

^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^

And that's what Blair was telling me when he said macaroni. He was telling me to stop what I was doing and get the hell out of there before I did something stupid. So I did. Now he's walking over to the door of the observation room and sticking his head out and saying, "Simon, I need a few minutes with Jim. It's, um, you know, a, um...."

Simon says, "Okay, I know, I know, just fix him, alright?" I've always hoped he meant that as in "repair him," not "neuter him."

Blair comes back in, shuts and locks the door and holds his arms open. I walk into them and he surrounds me. He's both cheese and macaroni, this time, supporting and protecting.

"It's okay, man." He's stroking my back and my hair, hugging me tight, rubbing his face against my shirt. I love it when he does that. His scent stays on me for hours. "The baby is fine. She's back with her mother. Her mother is fine. Everybody's fine. We'll get the other guy. You know we will. He can't hide from a Sentinel, man, he's dead meat."

"Fuck, Blair," I tell him. I'm still pissed.

"What do you need, baby?" I know what he means. I need to get rid of the adrenaline raging through my bloodstream. And, god, is Blair good at burning off adrenaline! He pulls back a bit and looks up at me, eyes soft and full of concern. "You want to fuck me?" he asks. Oh, god.

I pull him back tight against my chest and bury my face in his hair and tell him, "No... no... fuck me. I want you to fuck me."

"Oh, my pleasure, Jimmy, my pleasure," he whispers, nuzzling at my right nipple. Simon will make sure we're left alone in here as long as we need to be. We can take our time. "You want slow and sweet, or hard and dirty?"

My mouth finds his neck and I bite him, hard, then whisper into his ear, "Both."

He moans deep in his throat and he might as well be throwing a switch that says "on." I'm half-hard instantly and getting harder by the second. Adrenaline will do that to you. As will Blair. He pulls away from me, all business now. He takes his Guide duties very seriously, and taking care of the Sentinel is his job. He does it well. "Open your pants," he orders. God, I love it when he uses the Guide-voice when he fucks me. His eyes never leave mine as I unbutton and unzip my slacks. I don't do anything else. He'll tell me what to do. He takes the choices away from me, and all I have to do is just feel. I'm hard as a rock.

"Unbutton your shirt." He's looking me over like I'm a museum exhibit. He seems to like what he sees, and that makes me smile. "Something funny, Jimmy-boy?"

"No, sir," I say back. It turns him on when I call him sir. He grins back at me.

"Pinch your nipples, baby." So I do. I pinch and roll them till they're tight little buds, aching for his mouth. "Oh, so nice, Jimmy-boy. So nice." He pulls two leather thongs out of his pocket and holds them up for me to see. They're not for his hair, they're for other things. Part of his portable Sentinel-maintenance kit. I growl, low in my throat. "Pull your pants down, Jimmy. Just far enough that I can see your cock. Then spread your legs."

When I do, he wraps one thong around my cock and balls and ties it tight. I won't be coming any time soon. Lots of adrenaline to burn off, here. Lots. Then he pulls a tiny plastic bottle out of his pocket that I know from experience is filled (and re-fillable!) with Astrolube. He squirts some of it into his palm, warms it for a few seconds, then spreads it over my cock. Then he strokes me, slow and tight, till my heart is racing and I'm gasping for breath, ready to come.

But he knows it's too soon. He'll keep me on the edge for a long time, letting my pounding heart burn off the adrenaline, and the anger, till I'm boneless, mindless. Till I'll do anything to get him to let me come.

I stand there, with my pants around my thighs, my legs spread, with him jerking me off, for long, agonizingly sweet minutes. Every time I get really close to coming, he backs off. Then he whispers, "Dirty, Jimmy-boy, you want dirty?"

"Yes..." I whisper back, "Yes..."

He takes the second thong, wads it up and puts it in his mouth, getting it good and wet with his saliva. Then he takes it out, folds it in half, holding it in the middle so the two ends are hanging loose. I know what he's going to do. I love it, and I hate it, and it's just what I need. My cock jerks, and he grins at me. "Oh, you're such a slut, Jimmy-boy. Such a little slut."

"Yes..." I whisper again, "Yes..."

He puts the index finger of his left hand on my cock. He'll use it to position my cock where he wants it. Then he'll whip my cock with the ends of the wet leather thong. He starts slowly, gently, the first stroke to the top of the shaft. I jerk, my cock jerks, and we both moan. "Take your cock out, Blair," I whisper to him. "Take it out so I can see it... please, baby..."

He pulls back, looking at me with narrowed eyes, deciding if he will or not. Then he nods, once. He unzips his jeans and pulls his hard cock out through the fly. This is all he's decided to give me, and I'll take it. Me, standing there with my shirt open, nipples erect, and my pants around my thighs with his leather thong around my cock and balls. And all he gives me is his hard-on, through the fly of his jeans. "Tease," I grind out.

"Slut," he shoots back at me, his voice full of affection. He puts his finger back on my cock, and starts whipping it in earnest now, still lightly, but fast, and I jerk and gasp each time the wet leather hits my engorged flesh, my heart-rate skyrocketing. He keeps whipping my cock, harder and harder, with the wet leather, till I'm gasping for air, till it feels like each stroke is flaying bits of skin off, till the endorphins are screaming through my bloodstream, and the adrenaline is gone, baby, gone, as Blair says. Then I've had enough.

"Stop..." I gasp out, barely able to speak, "Stop...." And he does, immediately. Then he drops to his knees in front of me, unties the thong that's around my cock and balls and takes me deep into his wet, soft mouth. I come, long and hard, pouring the anger and the hatred and the fucking RAGE down his throat, because I know he can handle it. It doesn't touch him, my sweet, sweet Blair, the anger and rage and hatred never, ever touch him. He cleanses me, heart and soul, and the filth of it never touches him.

I start to collapse and he reaches out and pulls me into a chair and I fall back, gasping. He finishes cleaning my cock with his tongue till I'm soft and oh, so sensitive. Then he grins up at me and whispers, "Feel better, baby?"

I look down at my flayed cock, and it's a little pink, but there's certainly no bits missing, the way it felt. He's so fucking good at this it scares me. "Good..." I gasp out, still trying to catch my breath. "So fucking good, Blair...."

"Suck me," he orders. He's standing in front of me now, his cock right at mouth level, sticking impishly out his fly. I reach for him and rip his belt open, unbutton his jeans and pull them and his boxers down to his knees, fast, raking the rough material over his hard-on and making him gasp.

"Fuck my mouth, baby..." I whisper to him, then I deep-throat him and he chokes back a yell. Then he's thrusting in and out of my mouth, fast and hard, eyes full of love and never leaving mine. I take him, all of him, and let him use my mouth the way he uses my ass. However he wants. Whenever he wants. Wherever he wants.

Because he's my macaroni, and I'm his cheese.

End Macaroni and Cheese by Pink Dragon: pinkdragon456@aol.com

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