::trying to type while giggling and loving what Sentinels of Peru do when they get the sniffles::

Except judging by Blair's snuffled grunt as he latches onto Jim's arm when Jim tries to edge backward, and the thick, rich smell of a sleeping Guide with a morning erection that's pinning Jim in place just as effectively, it might be a possibility.

Jim sniffs. Even through the snot, Blair smells good in the morning. This shouldn't be something he's had to wait eighteenth months to discover. he feels unreasonably annoyed, as if Blair's been holding out on him, denying him a treat.

He stops moving and Blair makes a peculiarly smug, satisfied sound in his sleep and tucks up close so that Jim has soft as a bunny flannel plastered all over the front of his body, rubbing against him with every breath Sandburg takes. He's hard in moments, with nowhere for it to go but up, which means it's wedged around Blair's hip, just where the yacht with the blue sails is setting off to find pirate loot.

It's the most erotic, kinky, flat-out wrong thing in the world to be three breaths away from coming all over his (ex) favorite pair of jim-jams.