Work Text:
He's standing in a room, tied.
The room is featureless: no furniture that he can see, just a bare expanse. The light is a twilight kind of blue, which grays the boundary between carpet and wall. His hands are over his head, together; his legs are apart. Whatever's holding him is solid. Not painful; not metal, maybe some kind of leather. He could crane his neck to look, but he doesn't want to give whoever might be watching him that kind of satisfaction. He keeps his chin up and his eyes on a spot on the far wall, as if at parade rest, as if on display.
Of course, he is on display.
And he's naked. Was he naked a minute ago? He can't tell. The room seems to fluctuate: he can't pinpoint the distance to the far wall, has no sense of the room's size in the diffuse light. He focuses on these things because he does not want to focus on the fact that he is splayed, and naked, and hard. His dick is hard.
The sound of quiet breathing slams into him like an electric shock. There is someone else in the room. The person's heartbeat is right behind him, soft breathing right behind him, and Jim flinches, wrists jerking slightly at what's holding them high. His restraints don't give.
Mouth moving softly over his neck, between his shoulders, and Jim closes his eyes. A touch of tongue, a nibble, and he bites his lip. Then cool air, as the person moves slightly away--
--and then slick fingers cup his dick. Jim opens his eyes, startled almost into moaning, but closes them again immediately. Even in the blue light he can almost see the hands, and he doesn't want to know whose hands they are.
The hands are slippery, stroking him with something cool, creamy. He inhales hard: vanilla. Sliding over his dick, now so hard it's almost painful. A thumb brushes the stuff over the tip, stays there rubbing circles, then the fingers close just beneath the head. Jim's breath catches in his throat, his body is tensing, his legs are refusing to hold his weight. God, it feels so good.
And then the hands pull away, and one slick hand moves back, tracing the vein on the underside of his balls, moving towards his asshole. He's horrified into speaking. "Wait," he manages, his voice hoarse.
A finger brings a dollop of cream to the pucker of his ass, rubbing it in circles around the edge of the muscle. The other hand returns, filled with the slippery stuff, to his aching dick. Nothing has ever felt so good.
But he can't. Can't let that finger slide where it's obviously about to slide. "No," he croaks. The finger teases, slipping in just past the knuckle.
He draws a deep breath and manages to say it again, louder. Emphatic. Like he means it.
Jim wakes to his heart pounding and his bed damp with sweat. He peels back the sleep mask to check the clock. One in the morning: he's only been asleep for forty-five minutes, maybe an hour. It's okay. He's home. He's in his bed.
It takes a dozen deep breaths before he can calm his racing heart.
Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell was that?
Just a dream. It's okay. Dreams are weird. They don't have to make sense. They don't have to mean anything.
And the longer he stays awake, the more he begins to forget the dream. Or at least to block it from his mind. No point in dwelling; just a dream.
The alarm's going to ring in five hours. He goes back to sleep.
The day sucks: wasted on an intensive training session. Workshops on all kinds of bullshit: interdepartmental cooperation, sensitivity training (ha), Internet research techniques. He and Sandburg are Major Crimes' representatives.
("The commissioner wants my best team, Jim," Simon said, smiling around his cigar.)
Jim's bored stiff; Sandburg actually seems interested. Or maybe he just fakes well; he sits up in his chair as if he were paying attention, nods occasionally, asks questions here and there.
He doesn't mean to, but every time Jim tunes out the training session he finds himself paying attention to the way Sandburg talks. The way he uses his hands. When he talks, they gesture. When he listens they fiddle with whatever's nearby: his legal pad, his pen, the paperclip attached to the edge of his pants pocket. ("You never know when you might need one," he explained, months ago, when Jim first noticed the silver glint.)
Something about his hands...
They get out of hell at six; Jim has the radio on during the drive home.
They cook dinner with the television on, watch a basketball game, Jim goes to bed pretty early. He's tired: must not have slept well.
Tied, again, and blindfolded. A relief: this time he doesn't have to fight not to see.
The breathing is coming from in front of him, slow and even. He feels his dick start to harden. Whatever's coming, it's going to feel so good. Last time--
Before he has the chance to relive the last time, a mouth closes over one nipple. He sighs, feeling them both tighten, one tormented by a warm tongue, the other exposed to cool air.
"Mmm," his captor hums, softly, then whispers "I like to hear you."
Jim closes off the part of his mind that could recognize the timbre of that whisper. "Harder."
Fingers twist one nipple, almost cruelly, and Jim moans softly.
"Like that?"
"Yess...."
The fingers are gone and Jim shifts in his bonds, wanting to move, wanting to know what's coming next.
Something bumps against his thighs, something soft. Whatever's holding his hands up loosens, but before he can take control of his arms they're pulled forwards and he falls onto the bed in front of him. Secured, again, over the bed.
A hand reaches under him and adjusts his cock. He feels himself blush at the intimacy of it, and at his own helplessness.
His captor is kneeling behind him. Hands part his ass.
"Wait," he says, again, suddenly remembering how the last time ended. Panic floods him.
"Shh," the person whispers. And then his mouth--
He has his mouth on Jim's ass, his tongue probing it gently, and Jim groans. He's mortified but he's helpless, there's nothing he can do but lie there and let the strange man lick his ass, sending shuddering waves of pleasure through his entire body
(strange man? but that's not a strange man it's)
Jim arches his back, desperate, wanting more. Wanting to come before his mind makes him remember that he knows who this is, knows who he's dreaming about, because he'll wake up if he realizes--
(Blair Blair Blair it's Blair)
It's three in the morning and his sheets are tangled around his legs. Three hours until the alarm. Not quite as shell-shocked as...
...as last night. Damn it, this happened last night, too. What the fuck is going on?
He's still rattled. Breathing sounds loud in his own ears.
Got to get back to sleep. Because tomorrow's going to be a long day, and with his luck if he doesn't get enough sleep they'll wind up chasing some rapist on foot across town.
Going back to sleep's the responsible thing to do. It's not that he wants to get back to the dream. That's not why. Of course it's not why. Breathing in and out, following the waves off the shore--
For an instant he's disappointed when the alarm rings: did the dream come back but he can't remember it?
Probably the dream's gone, and it's just as well, he tells himself. Jesus. What is the matter with you, anyway?
"Morning," Sandburg says when Jim comes down the stairs, and Jim almost flinches. His voice seems to cling to the inside of Jim's ears. Sandburg's making coffee, swift efficient motions, and Jim has to tear his eyes away from his hands. The kitchen is permeated with the thick smells of coffee and Sandburg's shampoo. Hands, voice, scent--Sandburg's all around him, like he was in the very beginning when he first moved into the loft, before Jim could control the sense-input of having another person in his space.
He feels hot, almost feverish. Wonders for a moment if he's getting sick. But the feeling passes, and the overload passes. I am putting this behind me, he thinks. Whatever it is, it's over.
Only maybe it isn't over. Not really. Because he's not able to shake it off.
Yesterday he couldn't stop staring at Sandburg's hands; today everything Sandburg does pisses him off.
Humming in the car on the way to the station. Flirting a little with the donut girl. Bringing Jim turkey with mayo instead of turkey with mustard at lunch. (That one was probably the fault of the guy at the deli, but it annoys Jim anyway.)
When he slips on the newly-mopped floor and spills part of his coffee on Jim's jacket where it's hung on the back of his chair, Jim slams his hand into the desk.
"What the fuck is the matter with you?"
The edge of his hand throbs slightly, but he ignores it.
Sandburg is rummaging in a desk drawer for paper napkins. "Simmer down. Jeez." He's kneeling, mopping up the coffee. Putting his head way too close to Jim's lap for comfort.
Jim tears his eyes away from the peach-fuzzed expanse of skin at the nape of Sandburg's neck. "Simmer down? You're—"
"Sandburg! Ellison!" Simon's voice cuts through their argument and Jim takes a deep breath, standing, moving out of the way before Sandburg stands up.
On the way into Simon's office, Sandburg puts a hand gently on Jim's shoulderblade, just for a minute. He can feel the spot burning minutes later.
After work Sandburg invites him to see an Iranian film, but Jim opts out. Sandburg drops him at home, then calls from his cell to say he's catching dinner with someone after the flick and won't be home until late. Jim eats a can of soup, reads for a while, puts himself to bed. He doesn't want to admit he's eager to sleep again.
Standing. Legs open, left hand clasping his right wrist behind his back. Not tied, this time, but standing perfectly still.
Knowing Blair's watching, knowing it makes Blair hot to see him like this. Displayed. Waiting for Blair.
The hands come from behind him, familiar square hands, slick again. This time they smell like lemon, and the gel they spread is warm. Jim moans: he can't help thrusting into them.
"You'd better not come now." Blair's voice is right in his ear, deep and low, and it makes Jim shiver. "I have plans for you. Come now and I'll have to punish you."
"Punish me?"
Jim means to ask, 'what do you mean, punish me?' but the words come out sounding more like a request. Blair's hands pull away from his swollen cock and he hisses in regret.
"Bend over."
He can't believe he's doing it, but he bends and holds on to his ankles.
"Very nice."
Is the blood rushing to his face because his head is down, or from the approval in Blair's voice? Not just approval; appraisal.
Blair's hand runs over his ass, rough circles, and Jim takes a deep breath, knowing what's coming.
He's not disappointed. The hand smacks down on one cheek and he gasps. It's harder than he expected.
Then the other cheek.
"Blair," he pleads. What's he pleading for: does he want Blair to stop? Does he want more?
Then the newly-slicked hand returns and a finger pushes into his ass. Flame licks up his spine and he moans.
The finger rotates, twisting back and forth, and Jim's breathing hard and on the verge of coming when it pulls away.
Hands on his shoulders pull him back up to standing and the sudden head rush makes him dizzy: he staggers back half a step and winds up pressed against Blair's body. Chest hair rough against his back, Blair's cock pushing gently against his ass.
This time when he wakes he's so hard his boxers chafe. He yanks them off and closes a hand around his dick. Behind his closed eyes he sees Blair's hand instead of his. He rubs the tip the way Blair did in his dream and bites back a gasp.
He's hovering on the edge of coming, motions becoming frantic, when the idea occurs to him. He curls slightly to the right and snakes his left hand behind him, rubbing gently at the sphincter muscle of his ass. The sensation is almost blinding.
Two-handed now, one before, one behind, he falls into an escalating rhythm. He's making small sounds now, can't help himself, it's so impossibly good. When he comes he feels himself clench around his finger. It goes on forever. Even when it's over he's reluctant to let go, but after a few minutes he does, wiping both hands on an edge of the sheet.
5:41. Almost twenty minutes left. But he doesn't sleep: his mind is spinning.
He's had pieces of the dream before, but he can't quite draw them into consciousness. Thinking about it now he remembers the room, the feeling of his hands drawn high, from other nights he's woken at strange hours. Happened a few months ago; happened right after Sandburg started at the academy. Maybe it's been happening even longer than that.
But this is the first time the dream has gone further--maybe the first time he's let it go further. He scrubs over his face with his hand, rubbing the bridge of his nose where tension's coiling to spring. Forty years old: hell of a time to be figuring this shit out about yourself.
When he hears the near-silent click that means the alarm's about to ring, he reaches over and shuts it off. Even set soft enough for him, it can be heard through the floorboards in Sandburg's room, and he doesn't want it to wake him; he's not ready to face him. Sandburg. Blair.
And then he hears bare feet padding across the floor to the bathroom. Oh God. He's up.
Blood rushes to Jim's face, coloring it red for what feels like the tenth time since yesterday evening. How long has Sandburg been awake? How much noise was he just making? He didn't--he didn't say anything, did he?
The toilet flushes, water runs into the sink and shuts off, then the door swings open. "Shower's all yours," Sandburg calls softly up the stairs.
Okay. I am okay. It is going to be okay. Repeating it to himself seems to be making it almost true. Amazingly, stupidly, it seems that letting the fear be makes it easier to bear.
There's panic in his chest, but also a growing sense of...possibility.
Jim takes a deep breath, puts on his robe, and heads down into the kitchen's yellow light.