The Debt

by Kira

Note: I just had to post something more substantia. If anyone's ever been to my site and seen my slash, this is familiar. But since Ihket's a Virgin Slasher and all I thought I'd give her an example...well more than an example really. This is my Virgin Fic piece. Both for fanfic in general and slash. This started me on the path to ruin <g> Its the first in a series which I thought I was finished but now am inspired to
write some more....Pierre is being kinda funny.

Warnings...none other than Parody. I'm kinda poking fun at all us slashers.

Rating: I'll give it an R for raunchiness...but nothing really explicit <g>

The Debt
by Kira

Blair sat at the table, calculator in hand. There was no denying the figure in front of him. He just hadn't expected it to be so....big. A couple of hundred he could understand...but this? This was unbelievable. *Oh well. Not much else to do I suppose* He mused regretfully. He tossed the calculator on the pile of papers before him and went upstairs.

Sentinel, detective, and lover to the cutest man on earth (Blair for any of you who have any doubts), Jim Ellison, let himself into the loft.

*Must have beer*

After dropping his keys in the basket, his gun on the coffee table and his jacket onto the back of the chair (the latter two, flagrantly breaking Ellison House Rules 57(b) subsection 3 and 5) he moved to the fridge and pulled out a beer. Vaguely wondering what the pile of papers on the table was he plunked his ass (and what a fine ass it is) on the couch and turned on the television. Sucking the beer out of the long necked bottle, wondering when he'd be able to put the talent to even more enjoyable pursuits later that evening, he looked up when Blair came down the stairs to greet him. And promptly spewed his mouthful of beer
over couch, jeans, coffee table and gun, (Breaking Ellison House Rule 65).

His guide, partner and snuggle bunny was dressed in a pair of stone washed jeans that were so threadbare as to be...well...bare. In all the right places. They also appeared to be spray painted on. A tight white T-shirt stretched across his chest, allowing the nipple ring to poke teasingly through the material. His blow dried hair curled softly to his shoulder in a cascade of what Jim knew was like spun silk. Jim felt his groin tighten, his cock sending *must fuck* signals straight to the part of his brain labelled Neanderthal. Engaging his mouth, he managed to sputter.

"Blair...what...why..."he trailed off as his erection overtook all higher functions.

"Hey Jim. Look I'm going out to work. I’ll be back really late."

"Work? Like that?"

Blair looked down at his state of dress.

"Oh...well...uh, you see Jim, I've been looking at our financial situation, and well, frankly, I think the time for drastic measures has come. I talked to a guy in Vice and gave me the name of someone to see on Tenth Avenue."

Tenth Avenue. AKA Get Laid Lane. Jim tried frantically to start thinking with his head, the one with the brain actually in it.

"But...but...but"

"Yes Jim. Butt. If we're going to make any headway in getting out of this mess, someone's got to sell it."

"WHAT MESS?" Jim shouted in frustration, sexual and otherwise.

Blair took his Sentinel by the arm and led him over to the table, pushing him into a chair.

"Look at this Jim. I've looked at our finances. We are in debt Jim. IN DEBT!! And not a little one by any means. Our credit cards are maxed out, our line of credits over drawn and the bank accounts have been sucked dry."

Jim processed this, stunned. "How"

Blair whipped out a sheaf of papers.

"Lube , four dollars a tube, two tubes a day, three hundred and sixty-five days, that's two thousand nine hundred and twenty dollars. Baby wipes, six dollars a box, one box every week, fifty two weeks, that's three hundred and twelve dollars. Take-out, twenty dollars every two days for the year, that's three thousand six hundred and fifty dollars. The toys we bought at the Flirt-n-Buy, one thousand dollars (I
told you the harness was too much). One shirt per day that you've torn off me, thirteen dollars (you're lucky I buy at Frenchies) that four thousand seven hundred and forty-five dollars. Put insurance for the
truck, monthly eight hundred dollars (thanks to your expert driving)- nine thousand six hundred dollars; water bill, monthly two hundred dollars (no matter what you say, sharing showers doesn't save) - two
thousand four hundred dollars; beer, eighty bucks a month (we have got to stop drinking imported)- nine hundred and sixty dollars; medical bills, ten days in the hospital a month between the two of us, including
prescriptions for a year,- eighteen thousand dollars. Jim... when you figure in the cost of groceries, the telephone bill (we really shouldn't have had all that phone sex while I was at the conference), electricity,
gas, replacing all the guns that you've lost and trucks you've crashed, payments on my student loans, tuition, books, renovating my old bedroom, our trip to Hawaii, the wedding costs, in the four years we've
been together we've accumulated...four hundred and forty six thousand one hundred and seventy-four dollars in expenses."

Jim sat stunned. But the figures didn't lie.

"Jim, together we barely take in fifty thousand a year after taxes. That means we have over two hundred thousand dollars to pay off before the bank comes to take everything away. If everything works out like
John in Vice said, I could take in over five thousand dollars a night. That's pretty good. At that rate, we could have the debt paid off in two months, with the weekends off of course."

Jim thought of another man having sex with...Wait. Blair having sex with another man. Blair having sex....not with him (except on weekends) for two months. No Way.

Blair looked at Jim's retreating back (actually at his backside).

"Where you going Jim? Jim?"

"There's no way I'm waiting two months. With the two of us it should only take not even half that. I'm getting my leather pants. Go warm up the truck."

THE END