Date: Wed, 08 Mar 2000 15:31:13 -0500

Notes: Thank you to Mama Deb who coached me through rating this thing.
---

We'd had a hard day, harder than it should have been, on top of a hard
week. We'd come home and looked at each other, and then Blair took some
cold spaghetti out of the fridge and ate it standing up, while I put
together a peanut butter sandwich. We were angry and frustrated and
too tense to be tired.

I slouched in one corner of the couch, watching Blair, in a tshirt and
boxers, bending himself backwards over the other couch arm, trying to
crack his back. The shirt rode up a little, exposing his navel, and
I could smell the tension rolling off of him. He wanted to fuck something,
fuck it hard and fast to bleed off some of the knots in his muscles and
the anger that informed every line of his body. He was half-hard with
wanting, but too tired to call one of the women he sometimes slept with--and
too worn to leave the loft in any case. While I didn't mind him fucking
people quietly in his room, should he have the inclination--and he
frequently did--he was in the mood for screaming-sweaty-violent sex, not
that I could blame him. God knows I wanted that, too, wanted to fuck
something hard, leaving-bruises-hard, wanted some kind of human connection
without having to worry about what-comes-after.

None of which explains why I leaned over and hooked my fingers under
the waistband of his boxers as he leaned back over the arm of the couch,
and slid them down and sucked his cock into my mouth. His hips bucked
upwards, and he gasped and sat up, and I lifted him up and twisted until
he was sitting on the couch, and I was kneeling in front of him, his
cock still in my mouth. He was hard now, and shaking, and I moved, trying
to take him all in, trying not to gag as he pressed against the back
of my throat.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he asked, his voice raspy.

I didn't answer, just kept moving, loving the feel of his skin against
the inside of my mouth, the pulse of blood hot just beneath it, and the
vibrations as he shuddered.

"Jim," he said, and then louder, "Jim. What the fuck--" and he moaned,
lifting his hips, thrusting into my mouth, and I closed my eyes and relaxed
and he slid deep. I could feel his thighs, tense and trembling, underneath
my hands, and smell musk and God, at I could taste him as I never had
before. The occasional "accidental" mistaking his glass or fork for
mine, and the coolness of his mouth that day at the fountain--those had
been my only tastes of him, but this was Blair, raw and warm, tired and
angry and confused. I slid one of my hands down and under my sweats
and began to jerk off, roughly, in rhythm with his thrusts; his hands
were on my head, forcing me closer and I could barely breathe and he
was shaking and God, it had been years since I'd given head and I forgotten
what it felt like rough and then he came, hard, crying out, his body
arching back against the couch and his spine cracking the way he'd wanted
it to earlier.

I let his cock slip out of my mouth and leaned my forehead against him,
and muffled my own cry of release against his hip.

For several moments, I knelt there, resting against him, but he didn't
move or speak. I wondered what was going through his head. I kissed
his hipbone, and then I felt his fingers in my hair. "Jim," he said,
still breathless, "what the fuck was that?" Breathless, but not angry,
or frightened, and his fingers were in my hair.

I shrugged. What the hell could I say? I'd jumped him and sucked him
off without ever once warning him that I was likely to do something like
that. He'd be well within his rights to knock me on my ass and move
out. Not that he was going to.

It occurred to me that I wasn't worried, hadn't been worried, had never
*thought* he might react badly. He just wasn't going to, that was all;
there was no reason for him to react badly, just his male roommate
practically raping him--

"Up," he said, and I lifted myself up next to him on the couch.

"Um," I said.

He reached over and pulled my hand out of my sweats. My semen ran over
my fingers and dripped onto his bare leg, but he didn't flinch. "Jim,"
he said, "you idiot, you didn't have to do that, you could have fucked
me," and I smiled and leaned back into the cushions.

"Next time," I said, looking at the amused expression on his face. "Maybe
next time."



### The End ###