Perfect
Summary: The line between dreams and reality has always been a little blurred. JB, post-TSbBS, heavy R for sexual content.
Disclaimer: Blah, blah, Pet Fly.
Warnings: I finished this fic at three o'clock this morning. Also, does it count as beastiality if it's with a spiritual representation? If you're going to read this just to flame me, exits are located on the 'back' button of your browser. Have a nice day.
There is nothing else in the world; only the chase, here, forever, unending.
There is something perfect about it. In all the secret pathways of the jungle, he runs, sweat-slicked, tireless, his pounding feet kicking up the soft black earth. The wind skims over his bare skin and through his hair, and the leaves whip his shoulders and shins as he runs; the blood roars in his ears and thunders through his body. He knows what's behind him. He knows that it's only a matter of time before it catches him.
And suddenly, bursting into a clearing, he stumbles. A growl; something huge and fever-hot slams into his back and they tumble end over end on the mossy jungle floor until at last he is pinned on his back, and the jaguar's teeth are latched onto his throat. He goes still. The chase is over.
Feeling his heartbeat thumping in his neck, he grumbles in feigned resignation and submits, a grin of silly ecstasy stretching his mouth. The jaguar's hold is so careful, so gentle, that it hasn't even broken the skin. It releases him, and their panting breath mingles. Then he opens his eyes, reaches up and touches its magnificent head, stroking the soft fur with both hands, almost blind in the moist, noisy darkness. The jaguar growls very softly, straddling his prone body and settling on top of him, front paws on either side of his head supporting itself. The muscles of its powerful back legs ripple sensuously against his.
Such a deliberately possessive act signals a shift in the mood; more urgent, more serious. This is an ancient game, but not one meant to be taken lightly; it is necessary to them, completely necessary. He closes his eyes and tips his head back, trustingly. With absolute tenderness, the jaguar begins to lick at the tiny indentations it has left in the skin of his throat: long, slow, wet strokes, now over his lips, now lapping at his open mouth, tasting him, breathing his breath; the soft fur of its chest rubs agonisingly over his nipples. He moans and spreads his legs wider, trembling with need, desperately inviting, and almost sobs in relief when the jaguar pins his hips against the thick moss, its larger, heavier sex thrusting lazily against his. It's not enough, it's never enough, but he knows his jaguar is teasing him; they've tumbled like this many times before, and by now he knows its mind better than his own. Sure enough, he groans in frustration and looks up to see the jaguar's pale blue eyes laughing at him. He raises his knees, writhing more insistently under it.
Then at last, at long last, the jaguar repositions itself, and he gasps and bites his lip as he feels it pressing into him, deep, deeper, deep as possible, filling him completely, until they are one being. He arches his back and howls silently at the sky.
For this is the most perfect thing of all.
The jungle is alive, now. He can hear the susurration of the leaves of every tree in the forest; he can hear the roar of the distant river, and the rush of its tributaries above and below ground; he can hear the hushed chittering of the birds and animals gathering in the trees to witness their union. He can see every detail of the clearing as if it were lit by sunlight; he can count every different shade of blue in the striations of the jaguar's irises, brighter and more captivating than any jewel or feather. He can feel the softness of the moss underneath him, chosen specifically by his mate for its comfort to him; he can feel every individual silky strand of fur rub against his naked skin in time with the jaguar's possessive thrusts; he can feel the incredible, slick heat of their connection, far more intense than it could possibly be with another.
Their mating will last all the night long; they will not stop until the sun rises, whereupon they will finally collapse, aching, utterly sated, sided by side, and sleep until it sets again, protected for this one day by others. It is their right, this day and night of peace once in every while. Then they will be up again, protecting, guarding and standing vigil, stealing moments when they can, until the next time.
"Gaah," said Blair Sandburg, and woke with a start.
Disoriented, it took several seconds to establish where he was, what his name was, and what the hell he'd been dreaming about. He managed all but the last one, which was already slipping away from him as dreams usually did, but he made a mental note to get the sheets in to wash. Like, now. This amount of stickiness couldn't wait.
Muttering inarticulately to himself, he started gathering up the soaked sheets, wrinkling his nose sleepily at the acrid smell. Jesus, he hadn't had that much fun in his sleep since he was a teenager. He made an additional mental note to change his boxers as soon as possible. Rooting around among the drifts of dead laundry (which Jim swore growled sometimes), he quickly found a clean pair and donned them triumphantly.
As he shuffled out of his room, he became aware of other things, like the pleasant ache in his ass which he couldn't think of any explanation for; he also remembered that he didn't have to sneak around in the dark bumping into things, because Jim was on the other side of the continent, at some stupid convention thing that Joel and Simon had been roped into as well.
Blair turned on a light, wincing at the unaccustomed brightness, and started to wind the sheets into one big bundle to be dealt with later. As he did, a small tuft of black fuzz tumbled out and drifted to the floor.
Blair blinked. He had a very strange feeling about that fuzz.
On closer inspection (and God, wasn't he too young for his knee-joints to pop like that?), the black fuzz turned out to be… fur. Soft, downy fur, that smelled like… his semen, of course, and sweat, and…
…warm, rich earthy darkness…
He suddenly really, really needed to hear Jim's voice.
Dropping the sheets without a thought, Blair wandered over to the telephone and, absently glancing at the clock, did some quick calculations. Would Jim be awake? Yes, Jim should be awake. What if Jim wasn't awake? Well, Blair would wake him up, then. Now, if only those numbers on the papers would stop moving…
Just as the click at the other end signalled that Jim was, in fact, there, Blair had the horrible thought: what if he was with someone? What if he'd picked up some really hot date and he was going to have his date interrupted by his crazy roommate who was sitting around in his underwear in the middle of he night calling him for no plausible reason at all—
"Hello?"
"…Jim?" No, you idiot, it's Ghengis Khan. Jeesh.
"Chief? Hey, what time is it over there?"
Well, he didn't sound mad, at least. Or very tired. That was good. "Uh… Late," Blair said. "I was up," he added quickly, just in case Jim hadn't realised this yet.
"Uh huh."The tone suggested that Jim had, in fact, worked this out. Then concern tinted his voice. "What's going on over there?"
Thinkofareasonthinkofareasonthinkofareason—
"Uh…"
"Sandburg?" Amusement. He didn't know whether to take this as a good sign or not. "Are you just calling to say hello?"
"… Yes," he confessed, in a somewhat small voice.
"Really?"
Odd. He sounded… pleased.
Jim sounded pleased. To hear from him.
And from there, they talked about absolutely nothing and absolutely everything, for hours. When Blair finally hung up, the sun was rising. He was glad it was a day off. It meant he could actually get some sleep.
Taking one look at his bare bed, Blair decided that grabbing a blanket and pillow and crashing on the couch was a really good idea right now. Or… His gaze went upward. Ooh. Big bed. Jim wouldn't mind this once, would he?
Snuggling into the warm, roommate-scented sheets, Blair sighed in complete contentment.
He couldn't wait for Jim to get home.
END