Author's webpage: http://www.asan.com/users/pongo

Author's disclaimer: No profit but pleasure, as always.

Author's notes: Thanks to Francesca for betaing without inhibition. And for those whose efforts continue to inspire me to keep writing TS.

Men

by Miriam Heddy

The downward slope of a shoulder, the bulge of biceps, the sharp edge of an elbow, a hairy forearm with muscles moving beneath it. Large, square hands clenched around a glass of beer.

Jim Ellison watched, half-amused that he was watching these things and getting hard. And across the room, Blair Sandburg looked away.

Blair stripped his shirt off, tossing it onto the floor. The loft was too cold, and just as he thought of it, he heard the heating come on, a low hum that meant it would be warm in an hour or so. He rubbed at his arms, trying to ease down the prick of goosebumps, and then he couldn't move as Jim's arms encircled him from behind, tightening around his chest from behind, and Jim's chest, pressed against his back, was dry and warm, wicking the sweat off of him. Blair shivered at the sudden difference in temperature, his body caught between the chill air of the loft and the warmth behind him.

Jim's hands moved down, working at Blair's zipper, sliding his jeans down his thighs, then his underwear, leaving Blair to step out of the rest of his clothing, balanced awkwardly against the solidity of Jim at his back. Jim's thighs fit into him; Jim's hands molded him, raising him up onto the balls of his feet until he was holding himself up by reaching behind himself, wrapping his arms back around Jim's neck, pulling him down into a blind kiss, letting his own body arch outward as Jim continued to pull at his cock, dragging him upward, curved away from Jim, pulling toward him.

He could feel his spine crack with the pressure, feel the tension in his shoulders and the backs of his knees. Behind him, he felt Jim tense as the soft-hard cock, fitted so neatly against his cheeks, slid against him as if it wanted to enter but couldn't, the angle all wrong.

Then he was nearly falling with the suddenness of his release, and Jim caught him at his waist, pulling him in close, pushing him forward, bent at the waist so suddenly that the blood rushed to his head, his vision narrowing, but Jim kept him there, held him in place with bruising fingers clutching at his hips as Jim sunk into him, the way easy now that he was relaxed, and he let Jim hold him up, fold him over, as he fell forward against the air, grounded in nothing, as Jim finally came.

The case was going nowhere, and all they had was a punk kid in the box, who might have seen something.

Jim went in first, leaning into the kid heavily. From behind the layered glass, Blair watched Jim do his thing, not listening, just watching, as Jim got right into the kid's face, then eased back, leaning against the wall. The kid rubbed his hands flat against his thighs, wiping the sweat off, and then reached for the cup of water on the table, drinking it unsteadily, not looking at Jim. Then he looked up, suddenly, as if Jim had said something, but Jim hadn't said a word. He'd just moved, lifting one leg and sitting down at the table, straddling a chair, the chair knocking into the table enough to jolt the kid out of his stupor.

Blair caught Jim's nod and left the observation window, easing into the room, not looking at Jim as he came in. Blair kept his voice mild, playing good cop easily, talking the kid's language now, laughing a little selfconsciously until the kid looked up at him, starting to watch him and ignore Jim.

It was a little dance, and the kid opened his mouth, tipping his head upward so that Blair could see the shine of sweat above his lips, and then the kid started to talk softly, his words staggering out in a rough beat. "I saw... and then... he... I..." One of the kid's pupils was blown, and Blair thought of David Bowie, and grinned encouragingly at the kid as he kept talking.

When the kid took his hands off the table, he left raw, damp handprints behind him.

The dim light above the dance-floor started to brighten in pulses of colour as the slow dance number ended and a fast song began. Blair got out of his chair and edged onto the hardwood floor, not letting anyone get close enough to him to dance with him.

From the bar, Jim took note of his partner's whereabouts, then turned his attentions to the rest of the bar, finding the tall blond right where he'd left him, swiveling his narrow hips to the beat, his movements sinuous, easy, his body swaying as a whole, his hair lofting upward as he danced under the ceiling fan, lifting his arms to the ceiling. The current of air caught him for a moment, seeming to hold him in place before letting him go again. Jim watched the uptilt of his chin as the blond first felt the cool air hit him, his long pale neck exposed as his long hair fanned away from his shoulders. Jim let his eyes wander downward to the flat chest, to the taut brown nipples there, and the trace of hair circling each one, running in a line down his flat stomach to his low-slung jeans where Jim could see the hair darkened with sweat, curling, growing denser, hidden beneath the worn denim.

When the man's eyes opened again, Jim saw they were a warm brown, and the blond saw him looking and grinned, not quite an invitation, but an opening. Keep watching. Jim needed no invitation but offered a nod in the man's direction. Keep dancing. There were others, but Jim was not yet tired of the floorshow.

Blair took his glasses off, pinching his nose to stop the pressure building up there before it could turn into a throb. Already, he could feel his own pulse, loud in his ears.

"I'll finish up here, Chief."

Without opening his eyes, Blair nodded, leaning back in his chair. Too many sleepless nights lately, or too much coffee, or maybe nothing more than the ordinary stresses of a job he'd never quite considered before really having it for his very own. Inwardly, he sighed, wondering just how many times he'd assumed Jim was suffering from Sentinel senses, or bad temperament, when it was just the job, no sleep, bad coffee, the fatal buzz and flicker of the broken fluorescent light about to go out for good, the endless forms, the ticking of the keyboard with the sticky "n" key.

"Done."

Again, Blair nodded, not wanting to open his eyes just yet, preferring to pretend that he was at home and his bed was only a few inches away where he could crawl into it.

"C'mon, let's get out of here."

Blair gave up, wincing as he put his glasses back on and everything came into sharper focus, including the pile of folders that still needed to be dealt with. Monday. They could wait. Sleep couldn't.

On the ride home, he could feel Jim looking at him oddly, and he could hear the almost question that Jim didn't ask.

"Just tired."

Jim grunted, pulling into the lot, and he didn't wait for Jim to make dinner before he crawled into bed, pulling the yellow covers over his head and closing out the last bits of daylight that stubbornly clung to the clerestory window and seeped inward.

The Saturday night crowd was in full swing, literally, and Jim ignored most of them, letting his eyes find what he was searching for, the way he did at a crime scene, watching for what stood out, stood apart, waiting to be seen.

He was there, in the corner, dancing with two different women at once, not touching either of them.

Jim moved closer, until he was close enough to be in their space, sharing their floor, and both women looked at him at once, their eyes skimming over him approvingly, curiously, their scents hungry, tinged with sweat and the slightest tang of sex under their perfumes, lingering around them, washing over him as the dancers moved the air around him. He inhaled deeply, waiting for the man himself to acknowledge Jim's presence.

Jim was moving with the women now, or rather, they were moving with him, one of them draping a hand on his shoulder, so that he felt it natural to rest his hand on her hip, trying to remember the right steps as the man's eyes finally met his over her shoulder. Blue eyes, darkened in the low light, his cheeks a little flushed, his brown hair cropped short, curling at his neck where his Banana Republic shirt collar was dampened with sweat, the linen turning a dark brown there and under his arms, where the scent of him was strong. The man continued swaying to the music, as if he didn't notice he'd lost his partners, and Jim danced with him, matching his movements, the petite brunette between them moving easily in this dance, as if she'd been here before.

Jim grinned when the man did, when the woman finally took her leave to the ladies' room, borrowing her redheaded friend who'd been dancing beside them for two songs, slowly losing the steps as she watched, her mouth slowly turning downward at the corners, her forehead creasing slightly as she worked it all out.

This was more of a challenge, and for a moment, he and the man--who couldn't've been more than twenty-five--silently agreed that there was nothing more to it than this, but this was a pretty good time, wasn't it? The man blushed again, and Jim found himself wondering if this guy knew, or if he was just figuring it all out, what he wanted. Jim sympathized, knowing what he wanted now. He wanted to tell this kid that it wasn't going to get much easier, but that it would get easier, but the girls were back from the restroom, and now they both had a vaguely unhappy look, though they were now freshly powdered, deodorized, their hair tamed down and frozen in place.

Jim smiled at them, but his smile slid over them and he was left with one last lingering look as the girls rescued their Banana Republic boy from the clutches of Jim Ellison, before he'd even had the opportunity to clutch.

Shrugging and still buzzing from the excitement, he weaved through the crowd of fast-stepping couples, catching a glimpse of panties as a young woman was swung over the shoulder of her partner, landing on her feet for seconds before she was lifted high again into the air, her skirts susurrating against her stockings.

"Jailbait, man."

Jim nodded, leaning back against the bar, still scanning the crowd. Nothing else looked good, so he turned back to Blair, grinning slightly with good humour. "I seem to remember you were twenty-five once."

Blair snorted, picking up his beer and downing a large gulp of it that made his Adam's apple bob enticingly. Jim didn't reach out to swipe at the sweat trailing a path down Blair's neck, into his chest hair, dampening his t-shirt.

"You gotta watch it with the ladies."

Jim raised an eyebrow. A flash of red caught his eye and he focused on the back wall where a short man with a reddish buzz-cut was quietly talking with another man at a corner table. "Everybody's having a good time, Sandburg."

Again, Blair made a small sound in his throat, and Jim turned to look at him.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Don't give me that shit, Sandburg. What's the problem."

"No problem, Ellison. Buy me another beer."

Jim turned to the bartender and caught his attention, noticing the way the bartender looked at him a second too long, his eyes darkening, his scent changing as he brought the beers over, as their hands brushed for a brief second. Jim picked up his beer and drank down the foam, licking his lips, watching himself in the mirror behind the bar, seeing, in the distance, the red buzz-cut leaning in to talk to his "friend," seeing the bartender working the far end of the bar, mixing drinks, bending down to reach something under the bar, his jeans tightening across his back, saw, finally, Blair beside him, eyes narrowing.

"Problem, Sandburg?" he taunted, knowing he was going too far when Blair frowned, setting his beer down hard on the bar, pushing himself off the barstool and moving out of range before Jim could gather himself to catch him, stop him from leaving.

"Sandburg, hang on."

Jim dug in his pocket and pulled out a couple of bills, dropping them in the bartender's glass as he left, keeping his eyes on Blair as long as he could before Blair disappeared into the crowd by the door.

"Shit," he tripped and banged his leg on a table as he passed, nearly knocking over somebody's drink, not hearing their curse as he failed to apologize.

Then he was outside, the noise from the bar fading behind the swinging double-doors, the air suddenly cold after the close heat of the bar, the crush of bodies inside. He rubbed at his arms, then clenched his hands into fists, spotting the truck and Blair standing outside it, leaning heavily on the passenger side door.

"Lost your keys?"

Blair ignored him, or pretended to, but Jim could hear his heart speed up, see the tension in his arms, in the tight clench of his hand on the doorhandle as he swung up into his seat. Jim slid in next to him, deciding he hadn't had that much to drink as he turned on the ignition and the truck rolled forward out of the spot.

They were halfway home before Blair leaned forward, turning on the radio, then leaning back against the door, his damp head leaving a sweaty streak on the window. The air was already crisp and Jim turned on the defroster and the heat, knowing Blair was cold, always cold.

Blair waited for Jim to go inside, waited for him to climb the loft stairs, waited for him to strip off his clothes, waited for him to lie face-down on the bed, limbs splayed out, arms raised above his head, gripping the headboard.

"Slut," Blair said, softly, waiting for Jim to react. When he didn't, Blair added, "You'd spread your legs for anybody, slut."

"Anytime, anywhere, Sandburg."

"How about here?" Blair asked, bringing his hand down hard against Jim's naked ass, leaving a reddened mark there. "How about now?" he asked again, bringing his hand down again over the same spot, trying to match his handprint, mildly disappointed when he missed, broadening the red flush onto Jim's other cheek, watching as Jim's ass and thighs tensed, waiting for it.

"Blair?"

Blair stopped, hearing the uncertainty in Jim's voice, waiting to see if Jim would be contrite or defiant, or if he would say the word.

"Say it again, Sandburg," Jim said, and this time there was no uncertainty in his voice. It was a dare now, and Blair nodded.

"Slut. Easy bitch."

Jim gasped even before his hand came down again, and Blair got harder, hard enough to be distracted for a moment as he ignored Jim's still-flushed buttocks and instead stroked his own cock through his jeans, adjusting himself in them, not yet ready for the relief of letting himself out, letting himself go.

He brought his hand down again, wondering why anyone wanted to use a whip or paddle for this when it left such a wonderful warm tingle in his hand, when he could feel Jim's ass under his palm, warm and trembling. He left his hand there, flat on the curve of Jim's ass, rubbing roughly over the reddened skin. He leaned forward and blew a stream of air across Jim's skin, and Jim opened his legs wider, so that Blair could see the darker skin there, the hair that would softly caress his cock as he sank into Jim's ass.

"Anybody, you'd take anybody into that hole," he muttered to himself, even as the scene faded from his mind, hazy now with lust, with the truth of it, that nobody else had ever had Jim this way, would ever have Jim this way.

"The bartender wanted me," Jim whispered, when nothing more happened, and Blair shook his head, torn between the heat between his legs and the burning jealousy that wracked him whenever Jim did this.

"He isn't going to get you, slut," Blair answered, reaching for the lube, squeezing out just a little onto his palm, using his other hand to finally free his cock. Jim shivered at the sound of his zipper coming down and Blair grinned, licking his lips, pushing his jeans and underwear down over his hips, one-handed, not able to wait to remove them before coating his cock with the gel, knowing Jim would recognize the wet sound of it.

"You want it, slut?" he asked, knowing the answer. Jim was already crawling onto his hands and knees, his head bent down, his ass high in the air, his legs curled under him. "Yeah, you want it, anytime, anywhere."

"Want you, Blair."

"Yes," Blair answered, gripping Jim's hips and pulling him back onto Blair's cock as he thrust forward, sliding in, falling forward onto Jim's back as he thrust forward, staying there a moment to rest, to catch his breath, to get back control again. Underneath him, Jim was making small circling motions with his hips, and Blair couldn't rest for long as Jim was urging him on.

He pulled partway out and then thrust forward again, then out and in again, the simple steps in perfect rhythm with Jim's small circling motions that drew him forward, Jim always there to catch him as he fell.

The hitching breaths Jim was taking reminded him to reach around and grab Jim's cock, milking it in time with his own thrusts, his hand still slick from preparing himself. They danced wetly together until Jim finally gasped and pushed back, hard, impaling him and nearly throwing him off, but he held on tight, riding Jim through the wave of his own orgasm, hearing Jim's sobbing breaths muffled against the pillow, hearing his own faraway groans muffled against Jim's back as he fell forward, draped dead-weight across Jim's broad-muscled back.

Jim's legs uncurled as he tipped them both onto their sides, so that they were spooned against each other, Blair's softening cock still safely nestled between Jim's legs.

"You good?" Blair asked, kissing one of the many perfect spots between Jim's shoulder blades.

"God, I love men," Jim answered, his voice rough still with sex, his breathing still uneven, his heart still beating fast under Blair's hands, which held him tight.

"Hmm," Blair offered, knowing Jim would hear it as "Hallelujah!"

"I love you," Jim added, an afterthought that wasn't.

Blair nodded, offering a silent "Hallelujah, Amen!" into Jim's back, too tired now to say anything more profound.

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