by Francesca and Owlet

You can find Owlet's website at:

Author's disclaimer: Their ideas, our words.

Author's notes: Ok, well this was a fun one. I had this little basketball story that ended in a kiss, and then Miriam came in and reworked that kiss brilliantly, and then Owlet came in and did her sex-goddess thing and got the guys all sticky (g), somehow managing to sound more like me than I do. Lemme tell you, this is the way to work. Currently, here in the labs at FrancescaTech, I'm working to get the entire process automated.(g) Someday I'll be the Henry Ford of slashdom...

" — no, no, no No NO NO NO!!!" Blair Sandburg was screaming, and hell, Jim pretty much felt the same way himself. Because you just could not pass that fucking badly with only forty-three seconds on the clock and the score at 89-91. No fucking way! What the hell was the matter with these guys? Hello? Johnson? MacElroy? Come on, assholes!!

Beside him, Blair crouched forward and muttered, "Come onnnnnn....come onnnnnn...."

He reached out and patted Blair's knee and muttered back, "It's gonna be okay..."

"No, man," Blair said sadly, eyes glued to the screen.

"It's gonna be okay," Jim repeated.

"No." Blair sounded terrified. "No, man, that's it. We're fucked. We're totally — -YES YES YES!" and Blair was up in the air, off the sofa, arms flying madly as he tried to physically shoo the Jaguars back up the court, up the court, to the basket, assholes, come on, come onnnnnnnn.....

"What the hell!" Blair yelled as the Jags missed again. He whirled on Jim in a burst of energetic frustration. "Jim — tell me what the hell is the matter with those crazy assholes? Are they ballplayers or what? What is this, gym class for retards? "

"I don't know," Jim snarled, and he didn't. Time out. Yeah, well, they had damn well better call a time out, with thirty-four fucking seconds on the clock and the score at 89-91.

Blair collapsed back on the sofa beside him. "I'm gonna kill myself."

"Don't kill yourself."

"I'll kill them. I'll kill them all. They deserve to die. They suck," Blair spat, hurling a throw pillow at the screen.

"They don't deserve to be in the playoffs," Jim said, shaking his head. "Not with this bullshit they're playing."

"They don't deserve to live," Blair said dangerously, and then the clock was running again, thirty-four seconds...thirty-three seconds...thirty two...."What the hell are they doing out there?" Blair yelled.

Dammed if he knew. "They're running around." Thirty...twenty-nine...twenty-eight...

"They're assholes." Twenty-seven....twenty-six...

"They're trying to keep up defense." Twenty-five....twenty four...

"You call this — NO! NO! SHIT! NO — oh, thank God," Blair sighed, as the other team missed their shot.

Twenty-two seconds. 89-91.

Jim reached for his beer, pressed it up against his forehead. "I don't think I can take this."

"What a shitty game!" Blair covered his face with his hands.

"What the hell are they waiting for?" Jim asked Blair, and then decided to cut out the middleman and talk directly to the screen. "Get Elvin the fuck out of there, put Marrsky back in — "

"They're not gonna put Marrsky in," Blair snorted dismissively.

"They should, though!" Jim objected.

"I know they should but they're not gonna because — wait, wait — -"

Their attention jerked back to the screen as the clock started running again. Twenty-one... Twenty... Nineteen... The Jags set up, got the ball to MacElroy and —

"Foul!" Jim yelled. "Foul! That asshole Davis!"



"We get a freethrow, though," Blair pointed out.

"Yeah, well, we'll take it," Jim said, watching closely as MacElroy crouched at the foul line, dribbled, contemplated the basket, dribbled —

"Oh, for god's sake get on with it!" Blair yelled.

"Shhhhh!" Jim hissed. MacElroy crouched, dribbled, crouched, and then straightened up and threw....

Jim yelled, "YES!" as the ball splunked into the net.

Eighteen seconds. 90-91.

"Ohmigod. Ohmigod. They could tie it," Blair whispered.

"SHHHHH!" Jim said, watching as MacElroy crouched, dribbled, crouched —

"I think I'm having a heart attack. I think I'm having some sort of seizure. Jim, will you take me to the hospital if I'm having a seizure?"

"Yeah, okay. He's got it," Jim murmured. "He's got it. He's totally got it," and splunk, he did.

Eighteen seconds. 91-91.

"You think we're gonna actually make it to overtime? You think we might actually — -"

"Shut up before you jinx it!" Jim yelled, and Blair shut up. "They're trying to set up. They're trying to get the ball to Elvin." Seventeen....sixteen....

"That's not gonna work," Blair muttered. Fifteen...fourteen...thirteen...

"They're trying to pass to Elvin." Twelve...eleven...ten — goddammit, just throw already! Throw!

"They're not gonna be able to get to Elvin! Elvin's all bricked in!"

"They're trying to — YEAH, GO, GO, GO!!" Jim screamed, jumping out of his seat and knocking his beer over as the ball arched in the air, gracefully, and sailed through the hoop at three seconds.

And then he was screaming, and Blair was screaming, and the fans were screaming and the TV announcers were screaming, and the Jags were going to the playoffs! those dirty rotten bastards! and Blair was up, off the sofa, jumping into his arms and he grabbed Blair and lifted him up off the ground, whirled him around, barely able to breathe from all the laughing and yelling.

"I can't fucking believe it!" Blair was yelling. "I can't fucking believe it! Do you know how much this was? Five hundred bucks!"

Five hundred? Hell, he shouldn't even be hearing this, but he gave Blair a hug, and Blair slapped him on the back, continuing to scream in his ear, flushed and stupid with victory.

Blair leaned in suddenly and grabbed his face, sweaty hands slapping his cheeks and then pulling him down, until they were nose to nose. "I love the Jags, man."

And Blair's mouth was wet on his, a big sloppy wet victory kiss, and Jim's mouth was open, caught in the middle of some word he never got out, and he felt his lips press against Blair's, the hot air gusting out of Blair as he squeezed him a little too hard, or maybe Blair was panting from all the jumping up and down and screaming. Breathless, a breathless kiss, a victory kiss, an "I love the Jags" kiss that ended just as suddenly as Blair pulled back, stumbled backward on his feet and half-turned to the television set. Jim turned to look, and saw the men still on the court, and in the corner, they were replaying the winning shot. The cheering was still going on.

It had lasted all of about twenty seconds, less time than was on the clock, Jim realized with a shock. And the crowd was still cheering, and Blair was picking up his beer and taking a long swallow, then wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Jim heard him say again, "Five hundred bucks, Jim! Can you believe it?"

Jim shook his head, no, numb, speechless, unable to believe it himself.

He'd kissed Blair. Blair had kissed him.

"Blair?" he said, finally, rasping it out, his throat hoarse from yelling at the screen, and Blair turned, his eyes —

— too wide. Shit. "Yeah?" Blair turned his eyes back to the screen even though nothing was happening now, just shots of the sold-out stadium.

"Blair," Jim said again, for no real reason, except maybe to reassure himself that this really was Blair in his living room, drinking beer and flushed with elation. But it was Blair, eyes now seemingly glued to the screen, shivering all over as if he wanted to move, wanted to do something...wanted to do something more than drink his beer and gloat and kiss Jim on the mouth...

Jim shivered himself, and sat down hard.

"Yeah, Jim?" Blair asked, turning around again, and he'd had time, now, to collect himself. Now his eyes gave nothing away — but his face, his face was totally different, and his face gave it all away. Jim watched in fascination as a shadow of tongue slipped out, brushed along pale lips, and vanished back into Blair's mouth. He watched as Blair struggled to look careless, as Blair's throat worked as he swallowed. His gaze dropped to Blair's hand — tense around the beer bottle, forcibly restrained and unnaturally still — and Jim knew he hadn't imagined it.

Painfully he pulled himself back up — lifting Blair was no easy feat, and his back was screaming at him. He edged closer to where Blair was grinning, talking loudly to him, still patently smug and gloating — and watched as Blair's eyes went wider and wider and slowly the words stopped in his mouth.

Jim reached out and patted Blair's cheek — a manly touch, an innocent touch, a perfectly acceptable jock touch.

"Congratulations, Chief," he said deeply, and when Blair's eyes came up to meet his, when his face followed — unable to resist — when Blair was looking up at him, still shivering with the need to move, adrenaline vibrating the air between them...

He tilted Blair's face up, and swiftly kissed it. On the forehead.

And, when Blair didn't object, didn't move, on the cheek.

And, when Blair remained still and shaking underneath him, so close that Jim could feel the heat steaming off him —

He kissed him on the mouth again.

And Blair exploded into motion, shoving him backward, following him forward down onto the couch, pinning him there with one hard knee while he yanked at Jim's shirt.

"Slide back," Blair murmured into his ear as the shirt tore, and Jim arched and grunted into the heavy solid pressure of Blair's knee in his lap, in his stomach, slipping down to push with almost painful pressure against the root of his dick. It felt good, hard and rough and totally unlike anything he'd ever felt before, unlike the gentle caresses of women, the hesitant squeezes and light strokings suddenly seeming pale, weird, unnatural against this avalanche! this onslaught! this adrenaline rush of weight and heat and Blair.

"Jesus — " he moaned, and suddenly he was moving as well, pulling hard at Blair's clothing, stripping him roughly, pushing his jeans down and his shirt up with skin-scraping force. Blair hissed and bit his chest hard in rebuke, and then allowed Jim to clumsily yank the jean legs off his feet, tug the shirt over his head, until he was bare, and muscled, and astride Jim's lap with his hair everywhere, and his face broadly handsome and grinning like a wild man.

"Jesus, Chief," only now he was growling it, almost inaudibly, a rumble of dark heat and appreciation for the sight of his partner on top of him. Shit, he'd never thought it through, never thought this would or could happen — god, Blair was thrusting on top of him, surging, and that heavy, flushed cock was scraping against the bulge in his jeans. Strong fingers were rubbing his nipples, and that wasn't like a woman either. He'd never felt anything like this rough, powerful touch —

He shuddered and shoved his hands between them, fumbling for the button of his jeans, jerking his zipper down. He inhaled raggedly as he yanked his fly open, as he pulled his aching cock free of the confining material. Get the damn pants off, get them off, get them off — ! He strained to lift his hips, pushed down, and there, there they were, down around his thighs. Above him, Blair moaned — and he grabbed Blair hard by the narrow hips straddling his own, and pulled him down, pushing up from the couch, desperate for the scrape of skin against skin.

Blair moaned again, louder this time, as their cocks met, and then drove himself down harder on Jim's body, twisting his nipples between broad fingertips, leaning down to engage his mouth with an aggressive, eager tongue. Jim bit it, very gently, and in a moment of hilarity he wondered if either of them were going to survive this.

Blair was gripping his nipples roughly, scratching his chest with his nails, and he was holding Blair so tightly he could feel bruises forming under his fingertips. But Blair's scent was pure musk, intoxicating and maddening; there was no pain there, and if Blair wasn't complaining, then neither was he. He urged Blair to a harder, longer stroke, began pumping up in time, and caught a scream behind clenched teeth as his body surged and convulsed, and the world went blue and black, spots dancing behind tightly closed eyelids. Rough and exquisite and rasping, waves of pure pleasure wracked his body, adrenaline and arousal and release melting his nerves one by one.

In the haze of orgasm and after, he felt Blair shudder against him, felt him dig his fingers into Jim's side, clamp his knees down tight, and ride out his orgasm with a breathless, choked yell. Jim raised a hand weakly and ran it down Blair's sweaty back as he trembled in the last throes of it, and gratefully let his arms fall around Blair's torso when Blair collapsed, straightening his legs to lay at a listing angle off Jim's body and the couch, sweat and come holding them glued together.

"What...the fuck..." Jim croaked eventually, "was that?"

"I don't know," Blair answered, sounding breathless and muffled. "Man, I'm sore." He peeled himself up off of Jim's body and rolled sideways and up, sprawling on the couch at Jim's side in a state of collapse. He groaned and stretched out, one sock-clad foot finding the coffeetable. "Ohhhhh man," he said with deep satisfaction. "Yeah. Gotta love that buzz, man."

Jim snorted. "So glad you had fun, Chief," he said gruffly, trying to hide his own lazy satiation. "What the hell was that all about?"

Blair turned his head to look at him, and smirked. "Didn't you see?"

"What?" Jim pushed himself into more of a sitting position on the couch, and swore as one of the cushions came out from under him. The living room was a wreck; clothes everywhere, the coffeetable askew, papers and books spilled, a puddle of beer on his nice clean hardwood floor. "Jesus Christ, Sandburg, you wrecked the place!" Stubbornly he ignored his own part in the disaster; he hadn't been the one on top, now had he?

"So what?" Blair hauled himself forward as well, then grabbed Jim's chin with one hand and slid the other around his neck, pulling him close for a deep kiss. "That was a fucking great play, there," he murmured when it broke, and Jim waited a half-second before bursting into laughter.

"Okay, that's it. Come on, Michael Jordan," he said, pushing himself off the couch and pulling up his pants. He watched Blair come to his feet — the damp, half-hard cock swaying with his movement, the hard, tight flex of ass and thigh and shoulder, the debauched explosion of hair. His cock ached mutely where it hung out his fly, and he closed his eyes against the sight of himself, half-hard and hopeful; of Blair, sleek and lean and hungry — abruptly he couldn't take it, reached for Blair and without warning pulled him close and kissed him back. Blair's muscles twitched beneath his hands, and renewed arousal kindled in his gut.

"Playoffs aren't for a while, Chief," he whispered into Blair's mouth, nipping at his tongue and nose gently. "Let's go pass the time, hmm?"

"Yeah..." Blair moaned, and that was it, they were gone, Jim hauling Blair towards the stairs while Blair tugged at Jim's jeans, almost killing them both when he tried to shuck them off Jim's legs three steps from the top.

Behind them, the television played on, showing a hysterical crowd, a jubilant team, an exultant manager, through the thin fabric of a blue t-shirt.  

The End