Nature's Return

by Francesca

Disclaimer: Nothing's mine but the words; everything else belongs to Pet Fly. No infringement is intended, and I'm not makin' a dime. (Who needs money when you've got love?) (Well, *okay*, but I'm still not making any money!) Please go away if you're under 18!

Notes: Thanks again to Miriam and Paulette for betaing. Feedback requested as always.

He woke up with Blair Sandburg's tongue in his mouth, and nearly whooped with joy, except that might have startled his lover, who might have removed said tongue, which would have been entirely counterproductive. And Jim Ellison was above all a practical man.

So he suppressed the whoop and instead reached up to encircle his lover with strong arms, pulling him down hard against his body, welcoming the familiar, heavy weight on his chest, his hips, his legs. He channeled his energy into returning the kiss, giving silent but deeply heartfelt thanks for the return of Blair Sandburg's libido.

Blair hadn't shown much interest in sex for the last three and a half weeks, ever since he had tried to push that goddammed unpushable boy. Blair had gone into a crisis, the worst yet since his Guide powers had started developing. At Blair's request they had spent the first night of the crisis at a motel — Blair had insisted that Jim take him somewhere where he could have a nice, quiet, nervous breakdown. And so Jim had taken him, and Blair had broken down, and they had slept in a tight, anxious embrace until check-out time the next morning.

And Blair had woken up rested, and pulled himself back together, and they had gone home, back to work, back to normal. Except things weren't normal at all. Sandburg's libido had gone bye-bye; his sexual energy had been suddenly, strangely diverted. Blair had come home from the motel and gone into instant intellectual overdrive, and it was as if his small frame simply couldn't support the simultaneous demands of brain and cock. And so his sex drive had shut down (all power to the bridge — Aye, aye, Captain!) as he kicked his mind into its highest gear.

Which was, Jim reflected, a rather frightening thing to behold. Blair went on a massive intellectual binge, reading non-stop for three and a half weeks. He read in the mornings, his free hand cupping a mug of coffee; he read over lunch at the station as Jim reviewed files; he read curled up on the sofa in the evenings, ignoring the television, his sock-clad feet shoved under Jim's ass for warmth. He read in bed at night, the words illuminated by a tiny battery-powered clip-on light, his blue eyes glowing softly with reflected light as they flickered across the words. The soft rustle of turning pages became familiar background noise, and Jim learned to sleep through it.

He watched as Blair immersed himself in psychology, beginning with Freud and Jung and then quickly proceeding through a pile of studies with complex, scientific-sounding titles. And then one night Blair startled him by suddenly closing his current book, calmly detaching the nightlight, and hurling it against the wall of their bedroom.

And that appeared to be the end of Blair's interest in psychology; the next books to appear in the loft were philosophy, and Jim curiously noted the volumes as they accumulated on the coffeetable — works by Aristotle and Kant and Heidegger and Nietzsche — and then one day those books disappeared too.

And Blair started reading theology.

He started on what Jim presumed was familiar-ish territory with Torah and Talmud, then read a number of Vedic texts, and then the Koran. Blair seemed deeply intrigued by a book of Zen parables, and wondered aloud to Jim exactly why it was that Nan-san killed a kitten and put his shoes upon his head. The question had apparently been occupying Buddhist philosophers for thousands of years, but Jim was dammed if he knew, and he was really rather relieved to discover that the answer defied even the concentrated brain-power of a celibate Blair Sandburg. However, it was one of the brighter moments in what was a generally trying time: he and Blair had at least had a good laugh over Nan-san and his kitten before Blair finally put the book down and moved on.

And then Blair had spent a truly obsessive weekend pouring over the New Testament, reading the onion thin pages one after the other as if it were a real beach-novel page-turner, and Jim had even reluctantly suspended House Rule 43 ("No reading during dinner") when Blair had refused to come to the table one evening, claiming mysteriously that he had just gotten to 'the good part'.

However, Blair ultimately turned over the last page of Revelations without appearing to have had any himself. He just put the book down on the coffee table and rubbed his tired eyes. And Jim had gone to him and massaged his tense shoulders, trying to offer silent, sincere support. And Blair had leaned into his hands, and moaned appreciatively as Jim warmed and caressed his strained back muscles, and eventually Blair had turned his face up to be kissed. So Jim had kissed him, but he knew his lover well enough to know that whatever it was he had on his mind just then, it wasn't sex. So he didn't push it.

But now it seemed that whatever had snapped in Sandburg had just snapped back.

Because here was Blair now, on top of Jim with his tongue in Jim's mouth, and Blair was kissing him roughly, furiously, having slid one muscular arm under Jim's neck so that he could tilt his head as he wished, plunder his mouth as he wished. And Jim sucked Blair's tongue eagerly and shouted a silent "Welcome back!" to Blair's libido.

And then Blair broke away and whispered, "Can I top you?"

Jim felt a bolt of heat shoot through his body. The question surprised him, excited him: Blair had never asked him that before.

Yes, the obvious answer was yes, and he was about to say yes before deciding to tease a bit, to stretch out the pleasure of the moment.

"Top?" he questioned softly, letting amusement color his voice.

"Please," Blair whispered urgently. "I need to fuck, I need — " and Jim grabbed his shoulders and kissed him hard, sliding his hands down Blair's body to his ass. He squeezed Blair's ass once tightly before whispering back more seriously, "Yes. Of course. Yes."

And Jim hadn't been wrong in estimating urgency, because Blair immediately launched into action, stripping Jim of his boxers and pulling his legs apart. Jim took a deep breath as Blair slid a first, slick finger into him — god, it felt so good! — and unconsciously he tightened his muscles to caress the welcome intruder. And then his sight suddenly sharpened, and his lover came into focus above him.

Blair was kneeling between his legs, and he saw that Blair was deeply engrossed in the moment, dark eyes fixated on the point of intersection between them, on his own fingers sliding in and out of Jim's body. Jim felt a sudden, strange thrill at watching his lover watch him, at watching his lover watch him be penetrated, and with a soft groan he spread himself wider and thrust gently up, wanting Blair to see, wanting Blair to see everything, offering the most intimate part of himself to Blair's view.

He heard Blair's breath catch and then Blair's head jerked up to look at him, and Jim caught his lover's eye and held it for a long, deliberate moment. Then he slowly pulled his arms up, sliding one under his head, lazily, as a cushion, and letting the other stretch out toward the headboard — and he held Blair's eyes and consciously posed for him, arching his back and flexing his muscles, letting desire glint in his eyes.

Blair bent and gripped his cock hard, squeezing his eyes shut, and Jim couldn't suppress his grin, couldn't repress the joy that seized him as he watched his lover struggle with his lust, fighting down the urge to come. Blair had his eyes closed and was breathing hard, trying to control himself, and Jim smiled and began slowly rocking back and forth, gently fucking himself on Blair's suddenly stilled fingers, letting his lover know he was still there, that he was waiting, that he was waiting for him.

And that tore a ragged moan from Blair's throat, and suddenly he was fumbling with the lube, and Jim saw that his hands were shaking. Blair brusquely lubricated his cock, and grabbed Jim's hips with strong fingers, and tilted him into position.

Jim tried to keep his breathing under control as Blair began the slow press into him, and Blair's cock was hot and smooth, alive and thrumming with his heartbeat, and Jim sighed with satisfaction as the hard length slid into him, and he heard Blair's reciprocal cry, a long, drawn-out "Ohhhhhhhh."

Jim could feel his internal muscles spasming as they strove to accommodate Blair's length and thickness, and Blair cried out as those muscles caressed him, and sucked in harsh, gasping breaths.

And Jim loved the feel of Blair inside him, and moaned as Blair began to pull back slowly, push in slowly, gradually building speed. He lay back and let Blair move within him, trusted Blair to set the pace. And Blair did, his smooth hips moving rhythmically, his erection hitting Jim's prostate each time, and Jim closed his eyes and let his body absorb the pleasure of it, the shocking pleasure of each crashing wave.

Jim slowly touched his chest with his hand, stroking the muscles, fingering his nipples, because he knew Blair was watching him. He himself was focused almost entirely on Blair's cock within him, on the rare pleasure of being fucked by Blair's hardness, his life, his heartbeat — and he let his pleasure in it show clearly on his face, knowing that Blair would see it, wanting Blair to see it all.

And he could hear the cries and whimpers from above which meant that Blair was seeing, was watching, was looking at his face and his hand and his erection, which lay hard and heavy on his belly between them, and Blair's little pleasure-pain noises aroused him, and the soft head of Blair's cock was caressing him, massaging his interior walls, and then the thrusts were coming faster, and the cries were coming faster, and Blair was sobbing above him, and the stimuli was too much, it was all too erotic the sobs the heartbeat the bruising grip of Blair's hands each warm hard slamming jolt! into him and he made a strangled noise and came, spraying jets of semen across his belly and chest.

And Blair cried out, practically screaming, as Jim's orgasm overcame him, but he rode out that pleasure, fucking his way through it, fucking hard. And Jim opened his pleasure-clouded eyes and looked at his lover's lost expression, and sensed despair beneath Blair's lust, as if Blair were running a race that he knew he would lose.

And so Jim began quietly to encourage him. "Come on," he murmured roughly. "Come on, baby, come on," and Blair groaned at the sound of his voice and then cried out incoherently and came finally, stumbling over the finish line. Jim sighed in satisfaction as he felt the first pulse of Blair's come deep within him, bathing him in its soothing warmth.

Blair closed his eyes and arched and kept coming, trembling as he was gripped by wave after wave of his release, cock still spurting into Jim, who felt the creamy semen flood him and then begin to trickle out of him.

And still Blair was shaking, and so Jim sat up and pulled Blair into his arms, holding his twitching lover tightly and kissing his face until he finally stilled and sighed and relaxed.

"What have you done with the real Jim Ellison?" Blair murmured finally, reaching to swirl a finger in the semen splattered across Jim's broad chest.

"I am the real Jim Ellison," Jim whispered into Blair's ear before taking Blair's earlobe between his teeth gently.

And it was true, and maybe it took three and a half weeks of sexual deprivation to make Jim understand how true it was, how thoroughly he had become his real self, because there was a time when Jim would have thought himself lucky to have gotten laid once a month, when it would have been a real lucky streak — but then sex had never been like this, he thought, watching Blair lazily tracing patterns in the semen on his chest, sex had been something so very else that he couldn't believe that the word could stretch to mean such very different things.

And Jim suddenly, perversely, thought of Carolyn, thought of their early days here in the loft, before things had moved so fast and she had moved in and they had married — and in hindsight it was easy to see that it was all one bad patch up job, thought Jim, closing his eyes, on an essentially leaky boat — moving in, getting married, an attempt to plaster over the essential weaknesses in the relationship, an attempt to prove to the world and to themselves that their mutual like of each other was something more than it was, was that elusive thing — love — which other people seemed to find, that thing which was making their friends buy china and houses and have children and which had thus far eluded them both.

But they hadn't had hindsight then, and they had tried to convince themselves that their liking was more than it was, and that was part of why sex between them had been such a desperate performance, because Jim had liked her and she had been objectively beautiful, tall and slim with very long legs and smooth round breasts, and beyond that she had been kind, and he had made himself look at her and he had told himself, with his usual pig-headed determination, that there was nothing not to like here, that there was no reason not to be in love with and aroused by such a woman.

And so he made up his mind and committed himself to action, except that the fiction kept slipping, slipping though his fingers like so much soapy bathwater, and whenever he looked at her he could see the hurt in her eyes. And so he tried to prove his love to her, and had made love to her as best he could, and from behind his closed eyes Jim could remember what it was like to be up here with her, in bed with her, with her warm silky legs locked around his back, with her erect nipples brushing against his chest, deep in the warm soft wetness of her and feeling nothing — and by the end they had both been faking it, and so they had stopped. And for a while they at least fought, but they were faking even that, really — their anger was just form, just bluster and histrionics used to stave off the more awful realization that there had never been any real passion between them at all.

But it had been two years of his life, two years of what they called marriage, two years of sleeping in this bed with a woman whom he had once liked very much and would come in time to like again, and in all that time — hell, in that time, in the time before, in the time after, at any time — in fact, at no time, to be strictly accurate — had he ever been one tenth as aroused as he was right now by this wild-haired boy who swirled a single finger upon his chest.

Jim opened his eyes and looked at his lover, and saw that Blair was watching his face intently, curious but silent. Jim smiled at him and then looked down to where Blair was stroking his chest. Blair pulled his hand away, and was bringing his semen-tipped finger to his lips when Jim gently intercepted it, and pulled it to his own mouth. Blair inhaled violently as Jim kissed the taste of himself off his fingertip, then took the finger into his mouth. He sucked on it gently, teasing it with his tongue; he held Blair's hand to his mouth and performed fellatio on his fingers — and Blair's heart pounded and he gasped, "What is with you?"

And Jim laughed and pulled Blair's hand out of his mouth and kissed the palm. "I missed you," he said, sincerely.

"You missed me?" asked Blair, wide-eyed. "You missed me? Well, Jesus God, Ellison, miss me more fuckin' often — " and he slid one hand against Jim's cheek and pulled him forward and kissed him deeply, sliding his tongue into Jim's mouth. Jim sucked on it gently, sensuously, reaching out to slide a slow hand down the muscles of Blair's back. Blair shivered under his hand and pulled away suddenly.

"Why didn't you say something?" Blair demanded, and then pressed his mouth back to Jim's without waiting for an answer. They kissed again for long minutes, Blair moaning softly into Jim's mouth as Jim's hands explored his body. And then Jim's hands reached Blair's shoulders and he pushed his lover away for a moment.

"You were busy," Jim explained, and then he yanked Blair's shoulders forward and sought his lips again. And suddenly Blair's hand was on his erection, stroking gently, and now it was Jim's turn to moan. Blair tightened his grip on Jim's cock and then broke away again — and Jim saw that his lover's eyes were dancing.

"I'll get unbusy," said Blair, breathlessly. "I'll clear my schedule, cancel appointments, don't you worry — " he said, and moved forward to capture Jim's mouth again.

Except that Jim didn't think that was right, and so he gave Blair one hard kiss and pulled away again.

"It's okay to be busy," he said, inhaling deeply as Blair stroked him. "You're not my personal sex slave."

"Oh yes I am," Blair murmured, letting go of Jim's cock and pushing him back against the headboard with flat palms pressed to his chest. He leaned forward and began to suck at Jim's neck. "You bet I am. It's in my contract."

"Is it?" asked Jim, tilting his head back, offering Blair his throat.

"Oh yeah," Blair replied softly, suckling the soft skin under Jim's left ear. "On page 37. Underneath the part about routine backup duties and above the part about keeping the bathroom clean."

"I guess I missed it," said Jim, plunging his hands deeply into Blair's hair.

"Well, that's a shame," said Blair, leaning back, letting his head fall back into Jim's large hands, and Jim could see that his eyes were dark, the pupils dilated. "Because you can have anything you want from me. Anything, Jim," and the words felt like a hand caressing his cock, and he tugged Blair's head close and kissed the full lips once, lingeringly, before gently guiding his lover's head into his lap.

And he had really no idea what was making him so bold, except maybe deprivation — but he felt bold, guiding Blair's head into his lap, and he gently stroked the tip of his erection across Blair's face, leaving a wet trail of precum across his cheek. He heard Blair's soft moan of desire and felt Blair gently straining toward his cock, wanting to suck him, and he tightened his grip on Blair's head, stopping the movement. He changed his grip quickly so that his new hold on Blair's head pulled Blair's hair away from his face, and then pulled Blair's full lips to the head of his cock. And watched, rapt, as Blair began to kiss it softly, devotedly, and watched, until it became too much, much too much, and he had to close his eyes.

And still he could feel the wet kisses, and still he could feel the drops of precum leaking out of him, coating Blair's lips and making them slide smoothly, slickly, against him, and still he could feel the heat of Blair's breath, warming him.

He relaxed his grip on Blair's head, allowing him greater mobility, and Blair began to drive him slowly toward the edge, kissing and licking the leaking head, taking just the tip into his mouth and sucking sensuously, then letting go. And kissing. And licking. And sucking. And letting go. Until Jim had thrown his head back, and was writhing beneath him, tortured by the exquisite pleasure of it, and desperately wanting — needing — more.

He groaned and made fists in Blair's hair, and Blair obligingly opened his mouth and let him slide deeper inside, sucking more of him, caressing his shaft with his tongue. And then Blair relaxed and deep-throated him, and Jim jerked and gasped, and it was all he could do to not pull Blair's hair out of his head.

"Oh shit — Blair! Fuck. Fuck. Blair..."

Blair continued to work him, pulling back and letting his lips slide over Jim's erection from base to tip, and then taking Jim into his mouth again, and after a few minutes of this Jim was begging, begging for release, chanting, "please, please, please..." — and then, surprisingly, Blair pulled back, lifting his head and letting Jim's erection slide out of his mouth.

Jim opened his eyes, breathing raggedly, and looked down at Blair, who met his gaze and held his eyes. Then Blair took Jim's hands and pulled them back to his head, to his hair, and said, suddenly, "Do it."

And as Blair again bent over him, letting his hair spill down into Jim's lap, Jim suddenly knew what his lover meant, and he shuddered as the first lock of Blair's thick, dark hair brushed over his cock — and he could feel his touch dial slipping out of his control, and he fought to grab hold of it, stop it, and then he felt the soft murmur of Blair's breath in his lap, and he didn't even have to bother to strain to hear the words because Blair pushed them right into his head, and Blair said, *Do it — take it — it's yours — yours to have — anything, Jim — * and Jim felt as if something had broken inside him and he let his touch dial slip away and he thrust up into the soft hair, and each strand seemed to caress him, stimulate him, love him, and each curl was Blair — and it seemed wrong to do this, but god, he wanted to do it — he wanted it — and it was so private intimate erotic and how did Blair always push his buttons like this how did Blair always know what he wanted wanted Blair exotic Blair ah, Blair — Blair! —

And Jim exhaled a long, shuddering groan and came in Blair's hair.

When he came back to himself, he looked down at Blair, who was lying comfortably on his back with his head in Jim's lap, and said, "What is with you?"

And Blair looked up at him and laughed and said, "*You're* with me. God, you're amazing," he said wondrously. "You've gotten so fucking amazing in bed."

"Well," said Jim, reflectively, smoothing Blair's sticky hair away from his face, "You did better teaching me about sex than I did teaching you about violence."

Anxiety flickered across Blair's expression at the very mention of the word. "I'm sorry," Jim said instantly, "I shouldn't have said — "

"No, no, it's okay," interrupted Blair. "Of course you can say — you can say anything you want."

"I don't — " said Jim, and he hesitated before going on. "I don't want to bring it into bed," he said, finally.

"But I already did, didn't I?" asked Blair, pulling a regretful face. "I've been doing it for weeks, now. It's too late for that."

Jim twitched an eyebrow, reluctantly admitting the truth of this.

"I've been trying to think my way through it," Blair confessed, gently chewing his lower lip. "I wanted to — to intellectualize it. Because I didn't want to feel it."

"Feel what?" asked Jim.

"Fear," said Blair simply. He sat up suddenly, pushed his semen-slicked hair away from his face.

"Jim, that kid, that rapist, that first serial killer I couldn't push — those guys scare the shit out of me."

Jim nodded, reached out and squeezed his lover's hand.

"You just have no idea how shit scared I am," said Blair, and then he laughed suddenly, nervously. "Fucking shit scared, Jim," and he clutched back at Jim's hand tightly.

"I'm sorry," said Jim sincerely.

"I'm not," said Blair firmly. "Not any more, I'm not. I mean, it makes me feel close to you," he added softly, and swallowed. "And I want to be close to you. I want us to be in this together."

"Oh, Blair..." breathed Jim, reaching out to touch Blair's cheek.

"I don't want to be an observer," continued Blair fervently. "I don't want to be an observer any more. And if this is the price...well, I'll pay it. I'll pay it, Jim." He stopped, looked at Jim hard. "You pay, don't you? You pay all the time. You've always had to pay for your gift. Now I'm paying for mine. No free lunch," he added, and his lips twisted into a smile.

"No," Jim agreed. "No free lunch."

"You've felt this, I know you have. The pain of — well, knowing too much about people. You've always known too much — you've always heard too much, saw too much. You've always known what I'm just discovering. Human nature," Blair explained, "in all it's infinite varieties."

"Well, yeah," sighed Jim.

"I mean, with this Guide thing — all of a sudden I can discriminate. Its like having another sense. It's like there's another color in the world now — a sort of moral color, I can't explain it any better than that. But it feels like — like I've been thrown out of Paradise," said Blair, ruefully. "You touched me, and now I have knowledge of good and evil. I feel like Adam."

"So does that make me Eve?" asked Jim

Blair broke into sudden laughter. "Okay, look, fine — *I'll* be Eve. You can be the snake."

"I don't think I like that either," said Jim, with mock-seriousness.

"Consider the phallic implications," teased Blair. "It's a compliment, really. Look, fuck the metaphor, Jim, I'm just trying to say — well, to say..."

"That we're in it together, now? That my fight is your fight?" asked Jim quietly.

"Yeah," said Blair softly. "Yeah. Exactly that. So it's worth it. Worth it. Worth everything."

Jim leaned forward and kissed him once, softly, and then said, "You know, lover: you need a shower like nobody's business."  

The End