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t_veranoFor: Sentinel Thurs challenge #394 - "sleep"
Length: approx 2400 words
Rating: R
Category: slash
Pairing: Jim/Blair
Warnings: none, except maybe some angst
This went a little too long to be posted in the comm.
Sleeping with the Guppy
One moment Jim's standing in the river making a perfect cast and Blair's getting ready to make his own cast five yards upstream, talking trash about how many fish he's going to catch and how many Jim isn't going to catch. The next moment the world ends.
A couple of minor splashes, a muttered "Shit" from Blair — followed by a sound that Jim registers later as having been the thud of flesh meeting rock — and another splash, bigger. Jim turns to look.
Time skids, peels back and drops away, falling out from underneath Jim's feet; then he's running as fast as a man in waders can run against the current in the shallows of the Ulkatcho River.
Five yards, how can five fucking yards somehow be miles further than the distance was between those goddamned steps and that goddamned fountain? Blair's lying face down in the water (again), floating (again), the current pushing him against a boulder and keeping him there. And goddammit, this can't be happening, it can't be happening again —
It isn't. It isn't happening again. Blair's moving on his own; before Jim can get there, he's rolling over in the water with a convulsive flail and scrabbling to his feet, leaning against the boulder, gasping and coughing. By then Jim's beside him. He hauls Blair out of the goddamned river and over to the bank and strips the waders with their cargo of cold Ulkatcho water off him before he lets Blair sink down to sit on the ground.
"That was fun," Blair says between coughs. He says it offhandedly, with an exaggerated shudder, but there's something running underneath the surface of his voice (something Jim doesn't want to think about), and as he's checking out the lump above Blair's right eyebrow where his head apparently met up with the boulder, checking out Blair's pupils, listening to his lungs, Jim murmurs, "You're okay; you're okay," over and over (to himself) to Blair, because it's true.
Christ, it's true.
The shudder Blair gave a moment ago is turning into shivering, which is probably as much from reaction as it is from the temperature of the water, but Jim retrieves the jacket he left hooked over a tree branch nearby and gets it on Blair anyway. Then he kneels to check out Blair's pupils one more time, earning himself a grimace.
"I'm fine," Blair says, wincing as Jim's fingers trace the lump on his forehead again. Maybe not fine, but close enough, it looks like. Jim'll take it, at any rate. (He'll take anything. Anything — any life — Blair's willing to give him.)
"The plan here was fishing, Chief, not sleeping with the fishes," he says, feeling vague pride at how wry he manages to make his voice sound.
"Hey, you know me; I'll sleep with anything around," Blair answers, with his own attempt at wryness, and now Jim's the one who's grimacing. Blair gets led around by his dick, sure, but not nearly as much as Jim rags on him about it.
Not nearly as much as Jim's let himself get led around.
But that's in the past. Too many people have gotten hurt and Jim's not going there anymore. Still, keeping his distance as he kneels beside Blair is a lot harder than it ought to be.
"Well, try to resist next time," Jim says (means it, in more ways than he has a right to mean it). "Not breathing isn't all that good a look for you."
"Yeah," Blair says, not wry any longer but subdued, and closes his eyes. Jim's fingers are lingering (indefensibly) at Blair's temple, and it would be so easy to slide them down the line of Blair's jaw, cup them under Blair's chin, tilt Blair's head up and lean down to taste the drops of water clinging to his lips.
This time the drops of water would taste of wilderness, of snow-melt; not city, not chlorine. This time his lips would warm up under Jim's.
The sun catches the drops of river water on Blair's eyelashes as he begins to open his eyes and Jim lets his hand fall to his side. "Guess I should go get some dry clothes on," Blair says, and now he sounds cheerfully resigned, like he slipped and fell in a puddle and got his favorite jeans muddy, not like he just made a stab (another stab) at learning how (failing to learn how) to breathe under water.
"Good idea," Jim says in agreement, and stands to give Blair a hand up. Then says, annoyed, "Your ankle?" as Blair winces and wobbles and nearly goes down again as soon as he tries to put weight on his left foot. "Anything else I should know about?"
"Hey, it's no big deal. I just twisted it when a rock slipped under my foot, which is why I took the header against the boulder in the first place," Blair answers. He gives Jim a smile that's half fake chagrin, half self-mockery, and all charm, the kind of smile that always makes Jim want to do something in response (prove he can resist that smile or prove he can't — yank Blair into his arms and chase the smile straight into Blair's mouth, chase it tonsil-deep and get to the bottom of it, get to the bottom of Blair), and Jim shakes his head.
"I can't take you anywhere," he mutters, more to himself than to Blair. It's true. He can't take Blair where he really wants to take him. He won't take Blair where he really wants to take him. He owes himself that much.
He owes Blair that much.
"I want to check out your ankle before we get you back to camp," he says to Blair, getting back to practicalities, and Blair rolls his eyes.
"I'm fine, Jim," Blair protests as he wobbles on one foot, soaking wet and shivering, with a lump the size of a duck egg coming up on the side of his forehead. "Cold and wet, but that's my life, right? Unless I move to Tahiti, which I'm seriously starting to consider." He bats Jim's hand away (tries to, anyway) as Jim steadies him.
He's fine. Or close enough to being fine.
This time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The flickering light from their campfire looks good on Blair, advancing and retreating and advancing again, sliding over Blair's face and jaw and throat and tangling itself in his hair the way Jim's fingers itch to slide, to tangle; the way they itch to advance and retreat and advance until Blair's as lost as Jim is.
Blair yawns. "I think I'll turn in," he says, and stands up and limps over to the tent and disappears inside after giving Jim some sort of half-wave Jim figures probably means 'good night'.
Jim lets himself float a little, watching the flames and listening to the breeze stirring the tops of the pines far overhead, listening to Blair breathe. Listening, he realizes after a while, to Blair breathe as steadily as a metronome; to Blair making himself breathe slowly and steadily and deliberately, trying to keep his heart rate down, trying to feign sleep.
Maybe the headache from his little encounter with the boulder is keeping him awake or his ankle's bothering him again. Jim sighs and puts the fire out and joins Blair in the tent, carrying a bottle of water and the Tylenol from the first aid kit. Blair's a shapeless lump huddled in his sleeping bag, barely visible even to Jim's eyes in the small amount of starlight filtering in through the tent flap, and he's definitely not sleeping.
"Here," Jim says, nudging the side of the lump with his foot. "Aspirin."
"Thanks, but I'm okay," Blair says.
He's lying through his teeth. Jim can hear that same note in Blair's voice that he heard this afternoon: 'That was fun,' Blair had said, while underneath the bravado something else was running like the current of a river, something deep and dark and airless.
Jim changes into the sweats he intends to sleep in, watching what he can see of Blair, which is mostly spread-out hair and curled-up sleeping bag since Blair's face is turned away towards the side of the tent. "Tahiti?" Jim says tentatively as he unzips his sleeping bag and lies down. "Didn't know they had guppies in Polynesian rivers."
Blair snorts and the tightness in Jim's chest (the tightness that's been there since Blair left the campfire, the tightness Jim hadn't even realized was there) eases a little.
The problem is, that's not enough. Not for him. Not for Blair, either; the lump lying in the sleeping bag next to Jim's sleeping bag is starting to shiver.
"Blair," Jim says, hating how helpless he sounds. He rolls onto his side until he's right next to Blair, props himself up on his elbow (doesn't grab Blair and pull him close, doesn't let himself pull Blair close) and looks down at the wild hair and the side of Blair's face. Helpless. Why does he always have to be so fucking helpless?
"I know," Blair says, his voice so low it nearly sinks into the tent floor before Jim can make out the words he's saying. "I'm sorry. I'm being a wuss here, I know. Just ignore me, okay? I just… I can't…"
"No," Jim says. It comes out with a fierceness that freezes Blair mid-shiver, and Jim doesn't have a choice anymore (if he ever really had one) — he has to take Blair away; he has to take Blair, take Blair —
— wherever Blair wants to go — he has to take Blair away, to take Blair —
— to give Blair —
His hand's turning Blair's head towards him and he doesn't (desperately) care, he has to kiss that mouth (desperately), he has to learn the way those lips feel when they're alive and warm and not tasting of water at all, tasting only of Blair (and coffee and pan-fried trout and scorched marshmallows), he has to —
And Blair isn't objecting (as desperate as Jim? he's as desperate as Jim), thank God, because Jim can't imagine stopping. Not now. Not when Blair's shivering harder, but not for the same reason he was shivering a few minutes ago.
Not when Jim can't fucking tell what's leading him where. His dick has a claim, an aching claim that Jim's already pushing against what feels like Blair's hip underneath the padding of Blair's sleeping bag, but it isn't the only claim going.
No. The other claim, the claim Jim's been trying so hard not to think about for months now (longer, longer), is probably even worse for Jim to give in to; will probably screw things up even worse than Jim's dick ever has.
Too bad Jim's not strong enough to resist it anymore.
Blair's wriggling under Jim like a fish out of water, trying to shed the sleeping bag and his clothes and get Jim's clothes off without breaking their kiss for more than a moment at a time, poking Jim with his elbows and knees. He loses his lock on Jim's lips and misses Jim's mouth entirely when he tries to reconnect, his lips landing an inch away from Jim's mouth instead. It makes Jim feels like a teenager again: spin-the-bottle kissing and frantic awkward humping in the back seat of his dad's car. He should slow down. Slow Blair down.
But Blair's got them nearly skin on skin now, down to their shorts, and one of his hands is on Jim's ass, tugging Jim in more closely so he can rub against Jim like a bitch in heat. His other hand is on Jim's face, cradling Jim's cheek, as his mouth finds Jim's mouth again.
No slowing down.
No slowing down at all; it's only another minute (half a minute, a few seconds, a heartbeat) before Blair makes a sound low in his throat (a sound Jim wants to hear again, again, again) and stiffens and comes. His head falls back against the pillow of his sleeping bag and his chest heaves against Jim's chest. He's saying something in panted gasps, but it's in a mumble Jim can't concentrate on enough right now to follow.
He needs to follow something else first.
He needs…Christ, he needs…
He shifts a little to give Blair's still-twitching dick some recovery room and angles himself against the firm line of Blair's hip again, lets himself fall into the scent of Blair's spunk; lets himself fall over the edge, following Blair, groaning with the relief of it (the pleasure of it).
(The worry of it.)
As soon as he can get his muscles to cooperate Jim rolls away (no point in getting stuck together; they're both a mess) and lets himself fall back against his own sleeping bag, his own pillow. His hearing is coming back, or his ability to interpret what he's hearing, because he's starting to pick out words from Blair's mumbling.
"Oh, my God" is the first thing Jim picks out, and he's willing to agree with that (as long as he doesn't have to agree with it out loud), even though he's not thinking about the sex they just had as much as he's thinking about what was underneath the sex (underneath it like the current of a river, a current carrying everything away). "Oh, my God" about covers it.
Or maybe just "Fuck".
Jim's starting to decipher something else, something that sounds like it starts with "Shit, that was —" when Blair stops mumbling and says, quietly but clearly — with that same (fucking) bravado in his voice — "Jim, did you mean that? Are we… Are we…"
Apparently even bravado isn't enough to help Blair finish that sentence.
Jim doesn't have enough guts to finish the sentence for him, either (so fucking helpless). It doesn't matter, though. There's really only one answer Jim can give and he gives it, rolling onto his side and pulling Blair in close to him, spunk-soaked shorts and all. (So they'll be stuck together in the morning. Worse things have happened.)
"Go to sleep," he says to Blair, and nuzzles Blair's neck. "Just go to sleep, Chief. It's okay."
Worse things have happened, after all. And they're both still here.
Blair's still here.
Falling asleep in Jim's arms (Jim could get used to this).
"It's okay," Jim says again, quietly. It has to be okay.
It has to be.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
note: The Ulkatcho River doesn't actually exist, as far as I can tell. At least I hope it doesn't exist. If it does, I'm sending Google to bed without any supper…
Length: approx 2400 words
Rating: R
Category: slash
Pairing: Jim/Blair
Warnings: none, except maybe some angst
This went a little too long to be posted in the comm.
One moment Jim's standing in the river making a perfect cast and Blair's getting ready to make his own cast five yards upstream, talking trash about how many fish he's going to catch and how many Jim isn't going to catch. The next moment the world ends.
A couple of minor splashes, a muttered "Shit" from Blair — followed by a sound that Jim registers later as having been the thud of flesh meeting rock — and another splash, bigger. Jim turns to look.
Time skids, peels back and drops away, falling out from underneath Jim's feet; then he's running as fast as a man in waders can run against the current in the shallows of the Ulkatcho River.
Five yards, how can five fucking yards somehow be miles further than the distance was between those goddamned steps and that goddamned fountain? Blair's lying face down in the water (again), floating (again), the current pushing him against a boulder and keeping him there. And goddammit, this can't be happening, it can't be happening again —
It isn't. It isn't happening again. Blair's moving on his own; before Jim can get there, he's rolling over in the water with a convulsive flail and scrabbling to his feet, leaning against the boulder, gasping and coughing. By then Jim's beside him. He hauls Blair out of the goddamned river and over to the bank and strips the waders with their cargo of cold Ulkatcho water off him before he lets Blair sink down to sit on the ground.
"That was fun," Blair says between coughs. He says it offhandedly, with an exaggerated shudder, but there's something running underneath the surface of his voice (something Jim doesn't want to think about), and as he's checking out the lump above Blair's right eyebrow where his head apparently met up with the boulder, checking out Blair's pupils, listening to his lungs, Jim murmurs, "You're okay; you're okay," over and over (to himself) to Blair, because it's true.
Christ, it's true.
The shudder Blair gave a moment ago is turning into shivering, which is probably as much from reaction as it is from the temperature of the water, but Jim retrieves the jacket he left hooked over a tree branch nearby and gets it on Blair anyway. Then he kneels to check out Blair's pupils one more time, earning himself a grimace.
"I'm fine," Blair says, wincing as Jim's fingers trace the lump on his forehead again. Maybe not fine, but close enough, it looks like. Jim'll take it, at any rate. (He'll take anything. Anything — any life — Blair's willing to give him.)
"The plan here was fishing, Chief, not sleeping with the fishes," he says, feeling vague pride at how wry he manages to make his voice sound.
"Hey, you know me; I'll sleep with anything around," Blair answers, with his own attempt at wryness, and now Jim's the one who's grimacing. Blair gets led around by his dick, sure, but not nearly as much as Jim rags on him about it.
Not nearly as much as Jim's let himself get led around.
But that's in the past. Too many people have gotten hurt and Jim's not going there anymore. Still, keeping his distance as he kneels beside Blair is a lot harder than it ought to be.
"Well, try to resist next time," Jim says (means it, in more ways than he has a right to mean it). "Not breathing isn't all that good a look for you."
"Yeah," Blair says, not wry any longer but subdued, and closes his eyes. Jim's fingers are lingering (indefensibly) at Blair's temple, and it would be so easy to slide them down the line of Blair's jaw, cup them under Blair's chin, tilt Blair's head up and lean down to taste the drops of water clinging to his lips.
This time the drops of water would taste of wilderness, of snow-melt; not city, not chlorine. This time his lips would warm up under Jim's.
The sun catches the drops of river water on Blair's eyelashes as he begins to open his eyes and Jim lets his hand fall to his side. "Guess I should go get some dry clothes on," Blair says, and now he sounds cheerfully resigned, like he slipped and fell in a puddle and got his favorite jeans muddy, not like he just made a stab (another stab) at learning how (failing to learn how) to breathe under water.
"Good idea," Jim says in agreement, and stands to give Blair a hand up. Then says, annoyed, "Your ankle?" as Blair winces and wobbles and nearly goes down again as soon as he tries to put weight on his left foot. "Anything else I should know about?"
"Hey, it's no big deal. I just twisted it when a rock slipped under my foot, which is why I took the header against the boulder in the first place," Blair answers. He gives Jim a smile that's half fake chagrin, half self-mockery, and all charm, the kind of smile that always makes Jim want to do something in response (prove he can resist that smile or prove he can't — yank Blair into his arms and chase the smile straight into Blair's mouth, chase it tonsil-deep and get to the bottom of it, get to the bottom of Blair), and Jim shakes his head.
"I can't take you anywhere," he mutters, more to himself than to Blair. It's true. He can't take Blair where he really wants to take him. He won't take Blair where he really wants to take him. He owes himself that much.
He owes Blair that much.
"I want to check out your ankle before we get you back to camp," he says to Blair, getting back to practicalities, and Blair rolls his eyes.
"I'm fine, Jim," Blair protests as he wobbles on one foot, soaking wet and shivering, with a lump the size of a duck egg coming up on the side of his forehead. "Cold and wet, but that's my life, right? Unless I move to Tahiti, which I'm seriously starting to consider." He bats Jim's hand away (tries to, anyway) as Jim steadies him.
He's fine. Or close enough to being fine.
This time.
The flickering light from their campfire looks good on Blair, advancing and retreating and advancing again, sliding over Blair's face and jaw and throat and tangling itself in his hair the way Jim's fingers itch to slide, to tangle; the way they itch to advance and retreat and advance until Blair's as lost as Jim is.
Blair yawns. "I think I'll turn in," he says, and stands up and limps over to the tent and disappears inside after giving Jim some sort of half-wave Jim figures probably means 'good night'.
Jim lets himself float a little, watching the flames and listening to the breeze stirring the tops of the pines far overhead, listening to Blair breathe. Listening, he realizes after a while, to Blair breathe as steadily as a metronome; to Blair making himself breathe slowly and steadily and deliberately, trying to keep his heart rate down, trying to feign sleep.
Maybe the headache from his little encounter with the boulder is keeping him awake or his ankle's bothering him again. Jim sighs and puts the fire out and joins Blair in the tent, carrying a bottle of water and the Tylenol from the first aid kit. Blair's a shapeless lump huddled in his sleeping bag, barely visible even to Jim's eyes in the small amount of starlight filtering in through the tent flap, and he's definitely not sleeping.
"Here," Jim says, nudging the side of the lump with his foot. "Aspirin."
"Thanks, but I'm okay," Blair says.
He's lying through his teeth. Jim can hear that same note in Blair's voice that he heard this afternoon: 'That was fun,' Blair had said, while underneath the bravado something else was running like the current of a river, something deep and dark and airless.
Jim changes into the sweats he intends to sleep in, watching what he can see of Blair, which is mostly spread-out hair and curled-up sleeping bag since Blair's face is turned away towards the side of the tent. "Tahiti?" Jim says tentatively as he unzips his sleeping bag and lies down. "Didn't know they had guppies in Polynesian rivers."
Blair snorts and the tightness in Jim's chest (the tightness that's been there since Blair left the campfire, the tightness Jim hadn't even realized was there) eases a little.
The problem is, that's not enough. Not for him. Not for Blair, either; the lump lying in the sleeping bag next to Jim's sleeping bag is starting to shiver.
"Blair," Jim says, hating how helpless he sounds. He rolls onto his side until he's right next to Blair, props himself up on his elbow (doesn't grab Blair and pull him close, doesn't let himself pull Blair close) and looks down at the wild hair and the side of Blair's face. Helpless. Why does he always have to be so fucking helpless?
"I know," Blair says, his voice so low it nearly sinks into the tent floor before Jim can make out the words he's saying. "I'm sorry. I'm being a wuss here, I know. Just ignore me, okay? I just… I can't…"
"No," Jim says. It comes out with a fierceness that freezes Blair mid-shiver, and Jim doesn't have a choice anymore (if he ever really had one) — he has to take Blair away; he has to take Blair, take Blair —
— wherever Blair wants to go — he has to take Blair away, to take Blair —
— to give Blair —
His hand's turning Blair's head towards him and he doesn't (desperately) care, he has to kiss that mouth (desperately), he has to learn the way those lips feel when they're alive and warm and not tasting of water at all, tasting only of Blair (and coffee and pan-fried trout and scorched marshmallows), he has to —
And Blair isn't objecting (as desperate as Jim? he's as desperate as Jim), thank God, because Jim can't imagine stopping. Not now. Not when Blair's shivering harder, but not for the same reason he was shivering a few minutes ago.
Not when Jim can't fucking tell what's leading him where. His dick has a claim, an aching claim that Jim's already pushing against what feels like Blair's hip underneath the padding of Blair's sleeping bag, but it isn't the only claim going.
No. The other claim, the claim Jim's been trying so hard not to think about for months now (longer, longer), is probably even worse for Jim to give in to; will probably screw things up even worse than Jim's dick ever has.
Too bad Jim's not strong enough to resist it anymore.
Blair's wriggling under Jim like a fish out of water, trying to shed the sleeping bag and his clothes and get Jim's clothes off without breaking their kiss for more than a moment at a time, poking Jim with his elbows and knees. He loses his lock on Jim's lips and misses Jim's mouth entirely when he tries to reconnect, his lips landing an inch away from Jim's mouth instead. It makes Jim feels like a teenager again: spin-the-bottle kissing and frantic awkward humping in the back seat of his dad's car. He should slow down. Slow Blair down.
But Blair's got them nearly skin on skin now, down to their shorts, and one of his hands is on Jim's ass, tugging Jim in more closely so he can rub against Jim like a bitch in heat. His other hand is on Jim's face, cradling Jim's cheek, as his mouth finds Jim's mouth again.
No slowing down.
No slowing down at all; it's only another minute (half a minute, a few seconds, a heartbeat) before Blair makes a sound low in his throat (a sound Jim wants to hear again, again, again) and stiffens and comes. His head falls back against the pillow of his sleeping bag and his chest heaves against Jim's chest. He's saying something in panted gasps, but it's in a mumble Jim can't concentrate on enough right now to follow.
He needs to follow something else first.
He needs…Christ, he needs…
He shifts a little to give Blair's still-twitching dick some recovery room and angles himself against the firm line of Blair's hip again, lets himself fall into the scent of Blair's spunk; lets himself fall over the edge, following Blair, groaning with the relief of it (the pleasure of it).
(The worry of it.)
As soon as he can get his muscles to cooperate Jim rolls away (no point in getting stuck together; they're both a mess) and lets himself fall back against his own sleeping bag, his own pillow. His hearing is coming back, or his ability to interpret what he's hearing, because he's starting to pick out words from Blair's mumbling.
"Oh, my God" is the first thing Jim picks out, and he's willing to agree with that (as long as he doesn't have to agree with it out loud), even though he's not thinking about the sex they just had as much as he's thinking about what was underneath the sex (underneath it like the current of a river, a current carrying everything away). "Oh, my God" about covers it.
Or maybe just "Fuck".
Jim's starting to decipher something else, something that sounds like it starts with "Shit, that was —" when Blair stops mumbling and says, quietly but clearly — with that same (fucking) bravado in his voice — "Jim, did you mean that? Are we… Are we…"
Apparently even bravado isn't enough to help Blair finish that sentence.
Jim doesn't have enough guts to finish the sentence for him, either (so fucking helpless). It doesn't matter, though. There's really only one answer Jim can give and he gives it, rolling onto his side and pulling Blair in close to him, spunk-soaked shorts and all. (So they'll be stuck together in the morning. Worse things have happened.)
"Go to sleep," he says to Blair, and nuzzles Blair's neck. "Just go to sleep, Chief. It's okay."
Worse things have happened, after all. And they're both still here.
Blair's still here.
Falling asleep in Jim's arms (Jim could get used to this).
"It's okay," Jim says again, quietly. It has to be okay.
It has to be.
note: The Ulkatcho River doesn't actually exist, as far as I can tell. At least I hope it doesn't exist. If it does, I'm sending Google to bed without any supper…
no subject
Date: 2011-07-11 07:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-12 04:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-11 09:19 am (UTC)Loved the image of Blair wriggling like a fish out of water, kind of gasping for what he needs, and at the end, asking the thing that's been running beneath the surface of their relationship since the fountain.
Maybe it was because of the merging of their spirit animals, or the wake up call of almost dying (for real), but they mean more to each other than they'd realized and they're unsure of what happens next.
And now they've acted on the physical side of what's been driving them, and really this wasn't as impulsive as it seems on the surface, and had sex. But Blair, guiding the way, asks for both of them (well, he chickens out before he says the last part out loud, but he says it just the same). Is this real?
And Jim thinks that it is, but there's still that tinge of doubt running through the back of his mind.
Laurie
no subject
Date: 2011-07-13 12:34 am (UTC)I also love your analysis -- I had in mind to use three different meanings of "sleep", but other than that it was all pretty vague in my head and I just sorta let it happen; I totally love that it fits together this way for you.
::squishes you in thanks::
no subject
Date: 2011-07-11 11:09 am (UTC):-)
I too loved the image of Blair wriggling like a fish out of water.
Very effective.
no subject
Date: 2011-07-12 05:00 pm (UTC)Heh. Funny how things happen. :-)
I'm glad you enjoyed the fic!
no subject
Date: 2011-07-11 01:23 pm (UTC)Dee-lish-us!
I love your resistant Jim; poor boy, like resisting was ever going to help *g*
Especially I loved: lets himself fall over the edge, following Blair, groaning with the relief of it (the pleasure of it). (The worry of it.) Beautiful.
Thanks babe.
no subject
Date: 2011-07-12 05:05 pm (UTC)I'm glad you liked that line! (And there's no way Jim isn't going to worry about this. At least a little. :-))
Thanks yourself, lovely Snail.
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Date: 2011-07-11 02:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-13 12:37 am (UTC)Thank you so much for reading and for your lovely comment!
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Date: 2011-07-12 03:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-13 12:40 am (UTC)Thanks for reading & commenting!
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Date: 2011-07-12 08:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-13 12:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-12 05:50 pm (UTC)Marion
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Date: 2011-07-13 12:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-13 09:51 pm (UTC)Marion
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Date: 2011-07-13 11:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-13 02:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-13 04:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-14 02:11 am (UTC)First you did a second-person story and now these parentheses for thoughts, emphasis? I don't know but I found it really kept my attention, made me smile. Sleep; water...so many themes running through this story...complicated and simple; cold and hot...oh hell, I loved it! :)
Let me just use a Blairism to sum up my thoughts, "Right (write) on!"
Hare...
no subject
Date: 2011-07-14 12:12 pm (UTC)I love parentheses in certain situations (both as a reader and as a writer), and I've seen some stories that use them so wonderfully that I can't imagine the fic without them -- the most recent example of that being a terrific fic (non-con fantasy, in case that's triggery) by Carodee in the kinkmeme http://multikinkmemes.dreamwidth.org/3374.html?thread=46382#cmt46382. I'm very glad the parentheses in this fic worked for you (especially since I've still got a lot to learn about knowing when and how to use them) -- Jim's thoughts just seemed to need some "asides" sometimes here.
You've got me beaming here with your description of the fic and I'm delighted that you enjoyed it so much.
Thank you so much for the very lovely feedback!
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Date: 2011-07-14 07:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-15 01:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-08-17 04:59 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-22 01:29 pm (UTC)I'm so glad you enjoyed the fic! Thank you so much for reading & for letting me know that you enjoyed it!