Author's disclaimer: Nothing's mine but the words...
Author's notes: Thanks to Miriam and Owlet for their excellent advice. And while I'm here with an open mike, thank you Cycles-lovers (you highly discriminating bunch ;) for your feedback — I've been a tad swamped in RL but I will get back to you!
The little prick, Jim thought angrily. He threw the plastic-bound first chapter of Sandburg's dissertation down onto the kitchen table and heard it land with a satisfying thwack.
He squeezed his eyes shut but the phrases were already burned into his brain.
Repressed. Controlling. Fear-driven.
And the tone of the goddamned thing — the calculating, know-it-all, pseudo-scientific tone. "Subject exhibits a pronounced tendency toward denial." "Subject apparently prefers to avoid painful introspection".
Christ: the whole thing was insult upon injury. The Subject had made a hell of an effort to keep his control firmly in place. The Subject had conducted himself like a goddamned gentleman throughout. The Subject had opened his home to that arrogant little bastard, had (like an idiot) allowed himself to be studied, poked, prodded, and continuously lectured well after the time where said Subject could have managed his own goddamned senses by himself, thank you very much. Because the Subject had made a deal, and knew perfectly well that the Researcher needed to get his goddamned book written.
Goddamned book. Goddamned Researcher.
The arrogant little prick. How dare he write like that? How dare he claim that sort of expertise — presenting his wild guesses as assertions, and his assertions as fact? How dare he read self-control as self-denial, good manners as repression, self-protection as pathology?
It had been hard — so hard — to keep his private life private. But he had tried to be considerate. Sandburg seemed to want to live with him — presumably, it made his goddamned research easier. And the little prick had been genuinely helpful to him, and so he had agreed to share his loft. But he hadn't realized the cost. And by the time he had, by the time the cost had become fucking crystal clear, it was already too late.
And Blair Sandburg's bedroom had a door on it, while his own remained open, vulnerable, thoroughly exposed.
Repressed. Controlling. Fear-driven.
What the hell did the stupid kid know about anything — let alone him? He had lived in Peru for eighteen months. He had lived with the Chopek. He was the one who spoke Quechua. He had lived in Virginia and Germany and Turkey and Iran and Indonesia and Yugoslavia, when it had still been Yugoslavia. He had been married and divorced.
What the hell did the stupid kid know about anything? Thirty years old, already, and still living like he was eighteen. Jeans and rock music and adolescent fumblings in the dark — hell, Blair Sandburg hadn't yet figured himself out. Maybe Sandburg had been observing him — but he had been observing Sandburg right the fuck back, and there was no indication that the kid was going to go into his thirties with any more personal insight than he'd had in his twenties.
Hell, if Sandburg wanted to talk about repression...
Jim heard the sound of the elevator doors opening and the soft pad of Sandburg's sneakered feet in the hallway. He stood up, angrily, and turned to the door — there would be no more beating about the bush. Enough was enough — and if Professor Blair Sandburg, B.A., M.A., A.B.D. couldn't tell the difference between repression and goddamned human courtesy, well, maybe he would have to explain the difference to him.
In very small words.
The door opened and Sandburg greeted him with a smile and a wave. "Hey, man." He pushed the door closed and dropped his backpack underneath the coat hooks. "Whatssup?" Blair said, and then the smile fell off his face as he looked from Jim to the black plastic cover of his first chapter and then back at Jim.
Jim picked up the document and took a couple of deliberately threatening steps forward. "Talk is cheap, Sandburg," he growled.
"Oh shit," Blair muttered. "Jim, I told you not to read that..."
"I think I'm sick of doing what you tell me," Jim retorted.
"It's just a first draft," Blair said defensively, backing up a step.
"Oh, well, I can't wait to read the fucking final draft," Jim replied furiously. And then suddenly he couldn't help himself — he threw the document hard at Blair, who recoiled, raising his arms to protect his face. The chapter bounced off his upraised arms, and fell onto the floor.
"Jesus!" Blair exclaimed, staring at Jim in apparent shock.
"You arrogant little bastard." Jim closed the distance between them suddenly, and roughly grabbed the lapels of his partner's jacket. "You think you're so fucking smart." He shoved Blair back against the front door and held him there, hands making fists in the soft corduroy of Blair's coat.
Blair stared up at him with wide blue eyes. "Hey Jim — chill out! I never said — "
Jim knocked him once against the door to get him to shut up. "What the hell do you know about me?" Jim opened his fists and slid his hands up Blair's coat, palms pressing Blair hard against the door. "You don't know shit, Sandburg," he added, answering his own question. "You don't know shit about anything."
Blair's heart was pounding anxiously, but his expression remained infuriatingly calm. "Okay, right, fine — I don't know shit about anything, okay? You win — just get off me."
"Sorry, no." Jim leaned forward and pinned Blair against the door with his weight. He let his hands slowly slide up to Blair's shoulders, and then skim the skin of his neck. Blair blinked hard, but didn't flinch, as Jim's fingers skated threateningly around his throat.
You had to hand it to the kid; he had guts. Jim brushed a fingertip against the soft skin underneath Blair's ear, then molded his palms gently around Sandburg's throat. "You think you know me?" he asked softly, dangerously.
Blair's heart pounded faster, and his eyes reflected a sudden awareness of covert ops. Hell, if Sandburg only knew the half of it...
"Yes," Blair answered, holding his eyes. "I know you, and you wouldn't."
You had to hand it to the kid. Stupid but gutsy. He tightened his fingers fractionally around Blair's throat, and heard the small hitch of fright. Good — because someone was gonna blink in this here game of chicken, and it wasn't gonna be him. "You think so?" Jim asked again, pressing his thumbs down slightly against Sandburg's windpipe.
The certainty in Blair's eyes was starting to fade; his heart was jackhammering, now, and his breathing was harsh and ragged. "I — no," Blair blurted, suddenly. "No, okay? I don't know, I don't know anything."
"You got that right," Jim answered softly, and then he tightened his fingers yet again, and felt Blair's body tense beneath his. He waited until he heard the soft cry of protest — and then he dropped his mouth to Blair's and kissed him hard.
Blair jerked wildly and tried to buck him off, but Jim was bigger and heavier and he simply pinned Blair to the door with his weight, still holding him by the throat. Beneath him, Blair kept struggling — but Jim kept their mouths glued together and just hung on, certain that he was right.
His own mode of observation was maybe not so "scientific", but Jim'd been around the block a few times, and he was pretty sure that he'd read Sandburg right, all right.
And sure enough, Sandburg eventually gentled. Finding physical struggle useless, Blair fought less and less until he collapsed into resignation, holding himself still and simply letting his body go limp against the door. But this was a ploy too, and Jim knew that to let up now would only earn him a thump to the solar plexus. If covert ops had taught him anything, it was patience — and that was something else Sandburg hadn't realized about him. He was a supremely patient man. And so he held on, caressing Blair's jaw with his thumbs, bumping his groin into Blair's in a grinding tease, until Blair's resignation seamlessly mutated into submission, and Blair slowly opened his mouth for him.
Gotcha, Jim thought triumphantly, sliding his hands up into Blair's hair. And god, Blair's mouth was sweet — sweet and wet and soft and warm. Vaguely, he felt Blair's hands fumbling for him, felt Blair's hips helplessly thrusting up to meet his. Gotcha, he thought, and he slid his tongue deep into Blair's mouth, knowing that the kid would suck it instinctively. The stupid kid couldn't help it — he was a natural, and too busy sticking his nose into everybody else's business to see the clue bus zooming past him, leaving him in a cloud of dust and exhaust.
And then Blair was clutching at his sides, and kissing him back with desperate, adolescent enthusiasm and a palpable lack of expertise. Jim tugged backwards, pulling Blair with him, and moved them, mouths still locked together, toward the sofa. Blair's strong arms were wrapped tightly around his back, hands fisting the fabric of his shirt, and he realized that he could monitor the level of Blair's excitement by simply following the pulse of blood through his shaking body.
And Blair's body was thrumming with excitement, vibrating in his arms. Abruptly he shoved Blair away, breaking the kiss for the first time since this whole crazy thing had started, and he only had a glimpse of Blair's pale, dazed expression before he whirled Blair around and yanked his jacket down his arms and onto the floor.
Blair swayed and sort of stumbled backwards into him. Jim pulled Blair hard against him, steadying him, and then slid his hands across Blair's broad chest, exploring the muscles there. Blair inhaled violently as Jim rubbed his already-hard nipples with the palms of his hands, and blindly turned his head back for another kiss.
Jim obliged, covering Blair's mouth with his own and taking the opportunity to tug Blair's shirt out of his pants. Blair shivered violently as Jim's hands caressed his belly and then slid down into his jeans, fingers extending and stretching down under the tight denim. A tease only — only a tease; Jim felt the soft line of hair on Blair's belly grow crisper and thicker as he reached down toward Blair's cock, and then he was pulling his hands up out of Blair's pants and reaching to undo the hard, brass buttons.
And Blair was close to hyperventilating; Blair's perpetually-cold body was now furnace-warm as the blood raced through his body. Clue bus, kid — here it comes! — and Blair was kissing him with urgency now, Blair was thrusting his hips forward into Jim's hands in helpless anticipation.
Excitement was creeping up Jim's spine, too, as the last button came free and he was able to shove Blair's jeans and underwear down his hips. He held back for just a moment, teasing himself now, before reaching down to fondle Blair's cock and balls. His lips drifted off Blair's as he sighed. He heard Blair's answering groan and closed his eyes because god, it was good, so good to be touching a man again, to have the warm-soft-hardness of male genitals in his hands.
He gently squeezed Blair's balls with one hand as he slid his other up the burning heat of Blair's erection. Blair's head fell back against his shoulder, as if he could no longer keep it upright, and Blair was panting openly now, the harsh sound rending the silence. Jim found Blair's ear and kissed it, circled it wetly with the tip of his tongue, pleased with the soft, strangled cries this produced. Oh yes. Blair's balls grew heavy in his hand as he rolled them carefully; his other hand grew slick with wetness as he stroked. Oh yeah, kid — come on board, baby. On his next stroke he raked his middle finger up the vein that ran along the underside of Blair's cock — and Blair gasped and shoved his ass backwards, against Jim's own still-trapped erection.
Jim pushed forward suddenly, toward the couch, guiding Blair — who simply folded in half under his hands, resting his weight on the back of the sofa. Jim bent over, molding his body to Blair's, and kissed Blair's neck once, gently, before sucking harshly at the pulse point. Jim positioned his legs between Blair's and then spread them slightly, encouragingly. The effect was more than he had hoped for — hell, Blair was way far gone, immediately spreading his legs apart and pressing back against Jim.
Jim gave Blair's neck one final kiss and then lifted his head to survey the situation. Beautiful — totally fucking beautiful; he had Blair bent over the sofa back, jeans down around his legs, which were spread apart as far as the jeans would allow. Blair's red flannel shirt had hitched up, exposing his bare ass. Jim took a deep breath and ran his hands seductively down Blair's flannel-covered spine until he ran out of fabric and cupped Blair's pale, rounded ass in his hands. Fucking beautiful — and pretty easy, really. Even easier than he had expected.
His heart was pounding in excitement and triumph as he bent forward and kissed Blair's neck again. And then he moved his lips to Blair's ear and whispered, "So who's repressed about what, Chief?" as he nudged Blair's ass with his trapped erection. Hell, that ought to clean the kid's clock — Mr. Expert on Everyone Else's Psychological Problems was thirty fucking years old and didn't even know which team he was batting for. The thought made him smile, and he sucked Blair's earlobe into his mouth, and caressed it with the tip of his tongue.
Blair sobbed softly underneath him, and Jim reminded himself to remember how sensitive the kid's ears were. An erogenous zone, clearly, because Blair's face was heating up — and he stretched forward to press a kiss to Blair's cheek before realizing that Blair's face was hot, too hot, stinging hot. He frowned and then suddenly felt Blair's muscles hardening beneath him — tensing, he realized. Blair was tensing up.
Jim lifted his body off Blair's and stared down at him, suddenly flooded with concern. Blair didn't lift his head up from where it hung, but he pulled his arms up and curled them around his head protectively — and then suddenly the muscles along Blair's back spasmed and Jim realized that Blair was actually sobbing.
Holy shit — Blair really hadn't known — Blair really hadn't known! — and Jim felt his lungs tighten painfully inside his chest. Holy shit. Holy shit.
And he found himself just staring helplessly at Blair's heaving back, not knowing what to do, what to say, how to undo what was clearly an unwelcome and painful revelation. Dear god — maybe thirty was already too late for this sort of painful admission...
And hell — maybe this hadn't been the kindest way of forcing Blair to confront his own repression. Oh, shit...
"Sandburg..." Jim began, finally, but he didn't really know what to say. He reached out and laid a reassuring hand on Blair's back — and blinked as Blair visibly stiffened and shrank from his touch.
Jim quickly snatched his hand back. "Sandburg, I'm sorry."
Blair didn't answer, and Jim just stood there watching as Blair's body shook with silent grief.
"I mean it," Jim added nervously, feeling sick with guilt, nauseous with guilt. "I swear I mean it." He clenched and unclenched his fingers, wanting to comfort Blair with his hands, but the memory of Blair's physical revulsion made him keep his hands to himself.
And still Blair said nothing, and still Blair wept, and suddenly it seemed horrible and obscene that Blair was bent over and exposed in front of him, the flannel shirt barely covering —
He reached out and gently moved Blair's shirt so that it covered him better, and this, finally, drew a reaction. Blair's suddenly straightened up, and jerked away from Jim's hands, and Jim saw that his eyes were glistening, and his cheeks were stained red with humiliation. "God, I'm sorry," Jim whispered, feeling stunned and shamed. "I'm so, so sorry. Sandburg," he said, shaping the name into a plea. "Blair..."
Blair was hastily yanking up his pants, buttoning them, moving away from him without meeting his eye. "Fuck you," Blair said, turning his face away, and his voice was eerily far away, eerily toneless.
"I'm sorry," Jim said again, drifting helplessly after Blair as Blair headed toward his room. "You have to believe me."
Blair stopped short but didn't turn around; he trembled and then raised his arms to hug himself. "Talk is cheap," Blair said in that same, distant, toneless voice — and then he shuddered and sort of crumpled in on himself again, hunching his shoulders to hide his face.
Jim immediately closed the distance between them and caught Blair round the chest. He held Blair up and tried to turn him around — but Blair refused to face him, refused to be turned. They struggled for a moment as Blair tried to shake his hands off, but again Jim held on tightly, clutching Blair's back to his chest.
"Asshole," Blair gasped harshly; he sounded like he was choking on his own snot.
Jim pressed his face into the hair at the back of Blair's head. "I love you," he confessed in a rough whisper.
"Asshole," Blair repeated brokenly, wriggling violently within Jim's arms. Jim gritted his teeth and hung on, realizing that he was overpowering Blair again, forcing him, committing the same crime twice. History tended to repeat itself, and especially in his case, but there was no way he could let go now — no way he could ever willingly let Blair go.
And if that was his crime then he was guilty — had always been guilty, would ever be guilty. It was the crime that had gotten him into this mess — he had controlled his feelings for Blair for fear of chasing Blair away, for fear that Blair would go. And Blair had read that as repression — like any good writer, Blair had written what he knew. And so here they were again, doing the bizarre dance they had been doing since they'd first met in Blair's office. But he had never been this close before, and he had to believe that everything would be all right if he could just hang on — just hang on to Blair and be patient for just a little while longer.
So he hung on. "I mean it," Jim insisted. "I love you."
"Look, you've made your point, okay?" Blair hiccuped. "You're right. I don't know you, I don't know me, I don't know anything — "
Jim tightened his grip on Blair. "You know me," he murmured, tilting his head forward to brush his cheek against Blair's sideburn. "You know me and I know you. I've been waiting for you — I've been waiting so goddamned long for you..."
"You win, already," Blair moaned softly. "You win, Jim...please stop."
"I don't want to win," Jim said. "I don't want to stop."
"What the hell do you want from me?" Blair choked out.
But that was the wrong question. "What do you want from me?" Jim asked, quietly, relaxing his grip on Blair.
"I want you to leave me alone!" Blair spat furiously, jerking away and whirling to face him finally. "I want you to just leave me the fuck alone! I want you to — I want — "
Blair stopped speaking abruptly; his face was flushed and he was breathing hard from emotional distress. "I didn't want to know!" Blair yelled suddenly.
You can't always get what you want, Jim thought bitterly, knowing it was uncharitable — but a part of him had really expected Blair to just admit it, to just say, "I want you". Because everything would be okay if Blair just said the words. If Blair could just say the words.
Because then they could — what? — go back to fucking over the back of the sofa? Nice, Ellison. Real nice. You're a prince.
Okay, so he needed to stay calm, to just relax, to try to remember what it had been like when he'd first known — but dammit, he couldn't remember, and it wasn't repression or any of that psychobabble Sandburg was always throwing at him. He'd just...always known.
But he could remember being in Sandburg's office, with Sandburg waving that stupid book at him and telling him what he was, putting a label on him.
And he hadn't liked that at all — he remembered perfectly well not wanting to know anything about that.
Blair started pacing in front of him, looking very much like he wanted to punch him or shove him up against a wall or something. "When did you know?" he blurted finally.
Jim sighed wearily. "I dunno, it's hard to say. I think I've always known, though I've gone through various periods of denial — "
"No," Blair interrupted with a little cough. "I meant about me."
"Oh." Well, that was a tricky question. Blair had pinged his gaydar from the word go, but Blair might not be pleased to hear about that. And truthfully, if Jim had known right up front that it would be well over three years before he'd even get to kiss the stupid bastard — well, he might have just given up in despair and tried the anthropologist next door. "I dunno," Jim said finally. "A while, I guess."
Blair squinted at him. "Was it some sort of Sentinel thing?"
Jim couldn't help but groan. "No," he said. "It was just a forty-year-old-gay-cop thing. Sorry."
Blair had the good grace to look embarrassed, and he rubbed at his face to conceal it. "No, I'm sorry — stupid question."
They stood there for a moment, just looking at each other. And then Jim said, finally, "Do you really want me to go? I'll go if you want me to go." He jerked his head toward the door.
Blair answered nervously, "Hell, I don't know. I don't know what I want. If I knew a little more about what I wanted we wouldn't be having this fucking conversation, now would we?"
Jim took a deep breath. "All right: look. Here's my position. I love you. I want to have sex with you. I thought you wanted to have sex with me, too. If I'm wrong, if you want me to go fuck myself, I can do that too, okay? It's your call."
He'd said it flippantly, but Blair frowned and seemed to be seriously thinking about it. "You don't have to decide now or anything," Jim added, in case Blair didn't know that.
Blair stared at him, his head tilted slightly to one side. "You mean that?"
"Sure — I mean we could just have a beer and — "
"No, I mean the other thing," Blair interrupted. "The — you know. The other thing."
Jim had to think for a minute to remember what the other thing was. "Yes," he said firmly, hoping this was the right answer.
But maybe it wasn't, because Blair's face seemed to close down. "You had better not be shitting me," Blair said quietly. "You had just better not be yanking my chain, here."
"I'm not," Jim answered. "Honest to god, I'm not."
Blair closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and Jim waited nervously, wondering what was coming next. And still Blair said nothing, and still Blair said nothing, and finally Jim prompted softly, "Blair...?"
"Shut up," Blair answered, not opening his eyes. "I'm processing."
"Sorry," Jim mumbled, and went back to waiting.
Finally Blair opened his eyes. "Okay," he exhaled. "So let me get this through my head. You're not repressed."
"I'm not repressed," Jim agreed.
"I'm repressed," Blair continued.
"Yeah," Jim said softly. "Yeah, I think so, sorry."
Blair let out a long sigh of resignation. "And you want to have sex with me."
"Definitely," Jim said instantly, and Blair raised an eyebrow at him.
"And I want..." Blair frowned. "Shit, that's the tricky bit, isn't it? What I want. " Jim stood up straighter as he saw Blair's eyes drifting down his body, the wide blue eyes staring at him, taking him in. "What I want," Blair mused, and then he closed his eyes again and seemed to concentrate. "I want to have sex with you," Blair said finally, eyes still closed.
Jim heard his the sudden jackhammering of his own heart. He took an eager step forward and stopped short as Blair raised his hand.
"I want to have sex with you," Blair said again, and this time Jim understood: Blair was simply trying the phrase on, seeing how it felt. "I want to have sex with you," Blair said again, more softly, eyes still shut. "I want to have sex with you."
And you know, this was some unique of torture that only Blair Sandburg could develop. Trust him to turn their goddamned sex life into a series of tests. "I want to have sex with you, I want to have sex with you" — the phrase was searing his ears, frying his brain, making his cock ache — and still he wasn't getting any, for Christ's sake!!
"I want to have sex with you," Blair said again, for like the hundredth time, and Jim took a deep breath, vowing to be calm, to be patient. "I want. You. I want to have sex with you." Jesus wept. Jim glanced at his watch: god, did these academics do nothing but talk?
"I want to have sex with you," Blair murmured, and his tone on that particular go-around gripped Jim's spine, and he felt a flush of pleasure radiating up from his groin. Hell, maybe this was it — maybe this was what sex with Blair Sandburg was like. He'd never been talked to orgasm before, but if there was anyone who could do it...
"I want," Blair Sandburg said, and Jim raised his head to look at his partner — and Blair's eyes were open. Open and deep blue and looking straight at him, though his voice faltered on the rest of the phrase, " — t-to have s-sex with you."
"Try again," Jim said softly, and Blair nodded and took a deep breath.
"I want to have s-sex with you," Blair said, and then he muttered, "..god, I can't believe this..."
Jim took a step closer. "Again," he encouraged.
"It's easier with my eyes closed," Blair confessed.
"You can't do this with your eyes closed," Jim said seriously.
Blair exhaled nervously. "Right. Yeah." Blair cleared his throat and said, more strongly, "I want to have sex with you."
"Jim," Jim prompted, coming closer still.
"Jim," Blair repeated. "Right." He took a deep breath. "I want to have sex with you. Jim," he added, a second later, having already forgotten.
"Give it another shot," Jim said.
"I want to have sex with you, Jim," Blair said, and then immediately twisted the phrase the other way round. "Jim, I want to have sex with you."
Jim took Blair's biceps into his hands, and then slid one hand up to caress a shoulder. "I want you, too. So much."
And it took that final bit of patience to wait until Blair kissed him, but it seemed really important, suddenly, that Blair kiss him first. And you know, maybe he had overrated experience and underrated adolescent enthusiasm, because the way Blair kissed him made his whole body tingle. And Blair's hands were in his hair, stroking his hair, and he felt the warmth of Blair's body as it pressed against his — and he suddenly realized that it was going to be a helluva lot of fun having all those first times with Blair, doing everything for the first time with Blair. Blair would make everything new again — and then they'd have second times, and third times, and fourth times...
He swayed slightly and realized that Blair was tugging him forward, tugging him toward the spare room, toward the futon. He took a stumbling step forward and then clutched Blair to himself in a full body press, kissing him deeply, realizing that he'd wanted this, wanted him, more than he'd ever wanted anything. Enough to wait three years, though right now he didn't think he could wait three more minutes, and he had to forcibly resist the impulse to just yank Blair's feet off the floor and drag him bodily to the bed.
"...wannahavesexwithyou, wannahavesexwithyou," Blair was murmuring against his neck as they stumbled through the doorway, and the urgency in Blair's voice snapped what was left of his restraint. He shoved himself forward, forcing Blair backwards, and they fell onto Blair's futon together with Jim on top. Jim groaned as he felt Blair's denim-clad legs part and wrap around him, and his mouth found Blair's just as Blair arched up against him.
Oh, god — Blair was hard for him, hard beneath him, and it felt so very good to be with a man again. Blair was scrabbling frantically at his shirt, and he lifted himself off Blair and raised his arms so that Blair could pull the shirt off him.
Blair was flushed and panting beneath him, and Jim moaned as Blair ran appreciative hands over his chest. "You like?" Blair whispered, dragging a finger hard over an erect nipple.
"Oh yes," Jim hissed, and Blair began to rhythmically circle Jim's nipples with his thumbs. "Yes, please...more. Harder," and then Blair was pinching and tugging them and he was reduced to gasps.
"You have to tell me what you like," Blair whispered to him. "You have to tell me what you want."
Jim struggled to form a coherent sentence; long-denied desire was uncoiling in his belly, robbing him of speech. "Why don't you fuck me?" he suggested finally, somewhat breathlessly.
Blair shuddered and closed his eyes. "You'd let me?"
"I'd love it," Jim answered honestly.
"Oh wow..." Blair breathed.
Jim dropped his mouth to Blair's ear, finding it in the tangle of hair. "I want you to fuck me. Please fuck me."
He heard Blair panting raggedly, and then the soft echo of his own words. "...please...fuck me..." Blair murmured, trying this phrase on, too.
Jim smiled and licked a circle around Blair's ear. "Try again," he whispered.
"Please fuck me," Blair repeated obediently; his voice had gone deep and dark. "Please fuck me, Jim." He opened his eyes and raised his hands to caress Jim's face, and Jim leaned helplessly into the touch. "Please fuck me, Jim," Blair said again, and then it was as if something deep within him broke, and in a stuttering, desperate rush he began to improvise: "...god, I w-want you, I want you so b-bad..."
And maybe talk was cheap — but some words were priceless.