FIC: Stop Looking at Me, 1/1
title Stop Looking at Me, 1/1
pairingKirk/McCoy,
rating nc-17
word-count approx 6,300
warnings There’s lots of naughtiness but be warned, it’s also a bit thinky.
disclaimer I mean no offence and court no profits, these boys belong to others more talented and deserving, I merely borrow them, play a while then return them all cleaned up and smiley. In addition, because I borrowed shamelessly from ‘How Proust Can Change Your Life’ by Alain de Botton, I want to stress all clever/good ideas are Monsieur Proust’s or Mr de Botton’s and this is love for your work wrapped in naked flesh; I mean no offence - all porn, however, is entirely mine.
summary McCoy wants to watch. Jim doesn’t object but he’s been reading Marcel Proust and love is on his mind. Like Autopsy, it’s indie, it’s angsty, it’s thinky - if only they’d talk about their feelings, eh?
A/N this follows the prompt: someone masturbating, or watching someone masturbating, on km_anthology and is a ‘deleted scene’ from Autopsy of the Heart and, while it stands alone, Jim’s mood, the angst, will make more sense if you’ve read it. There’s a scene in the original fic where Jim remembers this: McCoy had told him a whole lot of times in Georgia how he liked to just watch him, like he was some kind of porn movie or something. He rubbed himself while Jim got dressed, or shaved or used his comm or any other mundane act he could 'catch' him in - pervert, he thought with a smirk. This was my other prompt. Enjoy!
Thanks to: awarrington for amazing beta work - love ya, bb!
Dedicated to blcwriter because she’s had a testing couple of weeks and I know thinky-boy-sexing cheers her up!.
Stop Looking at Me
“Uncle Jim!” Joanna squealed. “Eat one, they’re the best!”
Jim glanced at Bones who gave him his best I-dare-you look, and took a tentative bite of the moon pie. He then pretended to choke, slid to the bridge floor and clutched at his throat, dropping the cake.
“Captain, you appear to be in some distress,” he heard Spock’s voice behind him and, Jim knew him well enough to get it was Spock being intentionally funny.
“Come on, baby girl, let’s leave Uncle Jim to his work. You want to see some really cool specimens in the lab?” McCoy drawled and they’d swished into the turbo lift before Jim had even managed to get to his feet, Jo-Jo’s giggles ringing in his ears.
Jim straightened out his shirts, winked at Sulu, and sat back in his chair smiling. The moon pie’s too sickly-sweet taste clinging to his tongue, his teeth coated in marshmallow, he stared at the star field, crossed his legs and found himself remembering spring break, their first year at the academy…
+++
They’d been in Georgia six days, fucking for four; Jim woke up with what had become a familiar press against his ass crack; being sore as hell didn’t stop his own cock leaping with desire. It felt easy, natural to have Bones snoring beside him or bitching in his sleep. Jim usually woke up first, turning to press his face against the strong neck and indulging himself, breathing in the aroma of sweat, musk and come from the night before, sneaking a look at his face while he slept.
They’d barely left the room, other than to step out to buy some booze and chocolate. They ordered their meals in, they fucked - it was some kind of heaven. But this morning, Bones had come to first, his forehead rolling gently against the back of Jim’s neck, the bed gently rocking as he played with himself.
They were making up for lost time. Eight months Jim had wondered, had needed to know; all those times he hadn’t dared make a move. Now, for Jim, it was like the doubt had to be obliterated because something nagged at the back of his mind - he couldn’t imagine this lasting. Good things never lasted.
McCoy’s mouth dragged against his shoulder and Jim could smell toothpaste and freshly washed hair. He’d taken a shower. Jim cracked open an eye. Bright spring sunshine streamed through the windows; they hadn’t closed the curtains for days, the light their only contact with reality. Jim wondered whether he should pretend to be asleep or whether to turn round, look Bones in the eye and take over for him, slide his hand over McCoy’s or slip his cock alongside and they could jerk off together again. But McCoy was muttering dirty-nothings into his skin, breath hot against his neck, his forehead nudging Jim, and his knuckles bumping against Jim’s ass.
“I know you’re awake,” Bones half-whispered, half-sighed and Jim bent his hand behind his back and held onto McCoy’s arm. He kind of liked the fact that his own dick was hard and that he hadn’t touched it yet, just enjoying that ache, that fullness in his cock…
“Is that nice, Bones? Doing whatever you like to my ass?” He pushed into McCoy’s hand, loving the faltering, breathy tone.
“Fuck…yeah…”
“Love knowing you want me…” Jim said against his better judgment.
“Been wanting you…oh…” then the movement behind him stopped. “Jim?”
“Uh-huh?”
“I want to watch you.”
“Watch me what?”
“Doing stuff…” McCoy’s voice trailed off as he slipped his hands to Jim’s hips and pulled him hard, undulating gently.
Jim wanted to chuckle. “What, strip or something?”
He felt the moisture from McCoy’s breath on his neck. “No, dumbass, I want you to do your usual morning routine, and I want to watch. I want to watch you shower, shave, get dressed, drink coffee, and-”
“Can’t I play with this?” A good hard tug at his cock made McCoy straighten his whole body like Jim had dropped ice down his back.
“No, no touchin’, Jim. I want you to pretend I’m not here.”
Jim scooted round so he was on his side looking into the dark, lust-drenched eyes of the freshly-showered, dirty-minded son of a- He pressed his lips against McCoy’s, cradled his face in his hands as he tongue-fucked him, pushing McCoy’s hands away when they groped for Jim’s ass. “Ah, ah - no touching!”
McCoy actually growled and flopped onto his back when Jim stood, watching his cock swaying as he moved. McCoy folded his arms behind his head and blew out an exasperated huff of air. “Where you goin’?”
“I need to visit the head first.” Jim grabbed a PADD and disappeared into the bathroom giving McCoy’s erection a last, little tug.
+++
Jim took one final glance at the PADD, placed it on the window ledge and flushed.
While he washed his hands, he thought about Marcel Proust, the bedridden, late 19th century French writer. Jim had re-read the immense ‘In Search of Lost Time’ then found himself devouring every morsel by and about the writer that he could hunt out. Proust’s richly detailed writing was filled with countless observations about human behaviour, about friendship, and about love, and his words had haunted Jim for the past few weeks.
Jim was intrigued; what he wanted to know was this: how did this sickly man, confined to his bed for the last few years of his life, hidden behind drawn curtains, wrapped in coats and blankets, a man who’d only ever slept with prostitutes, how could he know so much about human nature? Yet he, Jim Kirk, who had lost count of his sexual partners by the time he was seventeen, had roiled from one disaster to another.
He couldn’t take any credit for joining Starfleet - Jim sometimes felt like one of those cheap toys lying in heap at the bottom of a case until a mysterious, grabby arm (aka, Pike) happened to whisk him away.
What Pike couldn’t know was that Jim specialized in was squandering the gifts he was given; Jim examined his reflection and wondered what exactly McCoy saw when he looked at him. He remembered what it felt like looking up at McCoy’s intent, hungry expression, the way he bit his lip when he fucked Jim; he felt a prickle of heat to his belly and cock and, with impeccable timing, there was a knock on the bathroom door.
“Jim, don’t make me break the door down.”
“Yeah, hang on!”
Jim wished he could mail Proust, ask him whether or not he was playing this right.
So far, other than the fact that there had been sex on consecutive nights, and that he’d ‘stayed over’ which, of course would have been kind of unavoidable seeing as they were on Spring Break together in Valdosta, he hadn’t acted any differently around Bones than he had when they were ‘just’ friends. He hadn’t been any different in bed than he’d been with his other partners.
Okay, maybe Jim hadn’t watched any of them sleep, maybe he hadn’t mouthed ‘thank you’ into anyone else’s shoulder, but then, Jim had never let anyone fuck him before. He’d never wanted this before, and now he worried he’d screw things up and lose Bones before he’d even really gotten a hold of him.
Jim grinned as he thought about what his messages to Proust might say.
From: Jim Kirk, cadet
To: Marcel Proust, French writer guy
Marcel, what I don’t understand is how the hell Bones could have been so hot for me all those months yet manage to hide it.
Thing is, Marcel, I’m kind of in love with the grumpy old bastard but I know I mustn’t let on or he’ll run a mile.
Also, why the hell am I asking you this stuff? You didn’t even ‘come out’ until you died.
From: Marcel Proust, French man of letters, essayist, philosopher and author
To: James Tiberius Kirk, cadet, who believes the world revolves around his member
I understand you consider yourself an extraordinarily adept lover, James, and I am led to believe that you have the unparalleled ability to give all of your fortunate and numerous partners, of varied genders, and species, that which you modern, godless, materialistic and vacuous twenty-third century citizens refer to as, ‘a great fuck’.
Despite my more discerning list of romantic, shall we say, ‘encounters’, I am, nevertheless, able to recommend myself highly as a candidate to offer you advice on romantic problems. While I may not have been particularly sexually active in my life, I was, however, a compulsive masturbator, and my father resorted to sending me to a brothel for a cure lest I lose my eyesight or break my wrist.
It is perhaps relevant that although I may have had few sexual encounters which did not involve pecuniary exchange, I have observed French society from many a well-laden dinner table, drawing room couch, or from my bed, as well as through the second hand, richly detailed tales of my numerous friends, to whom, I may add, I had no need to 'come out' concerning my penchant for the male form. They knew me well and Parisian society was ahead of its time.
My mind, being of similar genius stature to yours, has an unparalleled ability to create associations between my observations. Indeed James, it is my belief you understand human nature better than you may realize. It is foolish to confuse the stupidity and cruelty other people direct at you, with your own inability to understand why they do what they do. After all, it is not the stone’s fault that a foolish and twisted man chose to kick it when he passed. Nor does it follow that the next man to walk past the stone should do the same.
My first piece of advice to you is to continue in what you do best. You have an unparalleled ability to make people happy. Your doctor is currently enjoying his first period of happiness in many a year. Whatever you are doing, it is producing the desired result.
Now, cease your prevarication; your lover awaits.
+++
Jim opened the door. He’d wrapped a towel around his hips, because he was ‘an extraordinarily adept lover’, and he knew this would be more of a tease than if he stood there naked.
“Hello, Bones,” he smirked. “I was about to take a shower.”
Bones was fully dressed in jeans, white t, red plaid shirt and black sneakers. He’d combed his hair back. It was the most clothes Jim had seen him in for a day and a half and it made him harder than hell, knowing he could peel those layers off now, no permission needed. They stood a foot apart and the tension was palpable. Bones may have taken a shower, but he hadn’t shaved and Leonard McCoy did stubble better than anyone ever. His eyes were soot black with lust and he had that predatory look on his face, hooded eyes, half frowning, slight pout, that Jim associated with the second before Bones began working his cock inside him. Fuck he was sore. But God he couldn’t wait to have this again as soon as possible.
“I want to watch you,” Bones repeated, his eyes raking up and down Jim’s body, “and I ordered an old-style shaving kit for after your shower. It’s under the sink.”
Jim pushed his tongue into the corner of his mouth and saw McCoy follow the slight movement. He really wanted to kiss him but this wasn’t part of the game so he spun round and went to the shower booth allowing his towel to drop to the floor as he stepped away from Bones, feeling his eyes boring into his ass.
“Water at 70 degrees,” he said stepping into the stall. Jim heard the scrape of chair legs across the polished, wooden floor and, when he turned to look at Bones, he was slouched in the wicker chair, their dressing gowns tossed to one side, his fly unbuttoned, his cock exposed and his t-shirt pulled up to reveal his taut belly. McCoy’s hands balanced on the armrests and he looked remarkably relaxed considering how turned on he was. Jim smiled to himself, held his hand under the shower gel dispenser and took a large handful, spreading his hands over his chest and sliding the fragrant, pale blue liquid towards his belly. He glanced through the water-proof force-field at McCoy who still hadn’t moved but was obviously breathing heavily while he watched.
“Stop looking at me. You aren’t supposed to know I’m here,” he said, clearing his throat, his right hand finally rolling up and down his cock in slow motion.
“But you look so damn hot, Bones.”
“With my dick in my hand?” Bones raised an eyebrow and Jim saw those long, surgeon’s fingers grip tighter as he worked the most beautiful cock he had ever seen, straight and thick except for that curve at the end which managed to hit his prostate every time Bones fucked him. Sometimes he thought it was like it had been cast from his ass.
“Well, yes, “Jim hissed, his hand straying to the base of his own cock at last. It felt liked he’d been hard for hours. “Can I come over there and suck you?” Jim rolled his hand around gently, watching McCoy’s face. Bones looked tan and exotic somehow, pale nails catching the diffused light, and Jim considered how he’d never experienced this level of detailed desire before.
“No. Stay there. I’m busy pretendin’ you don’t know I’m here,” McCoy said, closing his eyes for a moment, loosening his fingers.
So Jim leaned on the shower wall and rubbed his cock harder. “Shush, it’s part of my morning routine,” he managed to say, looking over again.
“God, you’re the worst actor I’ve ever seen.”
“Not as bad as you, with your eyes doing stuff.”
“What do you mean, uppity little-?”
This. This level of want and awe, Jim thought, it just couldn’t last. He’d never felt so fucking happy before, so desired… something terrible was bound to happen.
+++
From: Jim Kirk, cadet
To: Marcel Proust, French writer guy
Marcel, I’m kind of in love here. At least I think I am. But you say all great love ends in tragedy. Well, that’s how all your stories turn out - and you’ve got me worried. Do you really think that’s true?
Seriously, how can I keep this up? It’s been four days now, just fucking and sleeping for four days. My ass is killing me, Marcel, and you thought that brothel did you in. So, what do you think? Is it doomed to failure?
Like Swan and Odette?
From: Marcel Proust, French man of letters, essayist, philosopher and author
To: James Tiberius Kirk, cadet, who believes the world revolves around his member
James, it is not the case that all love should end badly, always in fire and brimstone. Merely fictitious love; for who would watch the opera that told of domestic love, of fulfilled hearts; who would enjoy the novella if it did not include unrequited love or great passion? There is art, my dear boy, and there is real life. There is the foolishness in your mind’s eye and there is the man who you love.
+++
Jim did his best not to look at Bones. He thought back to before, how he’d take a shower, how every fantasy he’d had since he’d met McCoy on that shuttle had involved those pouty lips, those hands, rubbing his face against McCoy’s groin and he began to pump his hand steadily while leaning on the tile, positioning himself so Bones could watch, and Jim closed his eyes, gave himself over to the warmth of the water running down his face and neck, shaking his head to get it out of his eyes. He could just make out McCoy moaning through the torrent of water now he’d dragged the chair even closer.
McCoy’s right hand had been tight around his cock last time Jim had peeked, and he brought that image to mind like he was alone, like he hadn’t had him yet, recalling that feeling of desperation, how not having what he wanted meant that when Jim came it hurt rather than healed him. Jim did a little quarter turn in the stall so that McCoy could get a good view of him jerking his cock and he could get another handful of shower gel to help him work his finger into his own ass, like Bones prepared him.
“Bones,” Jim hissed. “Fuck me…fuck!”
“Is that good, Jim, huh? You like thinking about me fucking you hard, huh?”
“Not hard enough, come on, Bones, fuck me!”
So close, he opened his eyes, drank in the vision of McCoy with his jeans shunted down mid-thigh, mouth half open, nostrils flared, panting, looking at Jim like he owned him, and Jim came hard, his come washed away by the streams of water, his finger stretching his ass till he had nothing left but warmth and calm and, to his dismay, despite his orgasm, this need, somewhere, to be fucked by this beautiful man as soon as possible.
+++
From: Jim Kirk, cadet
To: Marcel Proust, French writer guy
Marcel, love doesn’t last forever, does it? Well, it doesn’t last until we die?
From: Marcel Proust, French man of letters, essayist, philosopher and author
To: James Tiberius Kirk, cadet, who believes the world revolves around his member
Dearest, foolish, James. Love doesn’t last forever, but this is not because of the nature of love per se, rather, it is due to a certain ‘lack’ in human beings I have detected. My observation of human nature has led me to conclude that they are unable to maintain appreciation for an object long enough, including the object of their desire. Take for example the invention of the telephone by Alexander Graham Bell. You will have read, no doubt James, how once upon a time, talking to another human being in a different location to your own, was considered a magical innovation. I recall I wrote this on the matter:
…a supernatural instrument before whose miracle we used to stand amazed and which we now employ without giving it a thought, to summon our tailor or to order an ice-cream…
Think, dearest James, when did you last consider the wonder of your food replicators? I expect most mentions of them, in the twenty third century, center on complaints of the quality of their output and how they bear no comparison to the original fruit they replicate. And your transporters - you move from location to location like Gods appearing from Olympus, yet when did you last appreciate, fully, their miraculous qualities?
As an aside, James, I believe Leonard appreciates transporters well enough. Fear forces a keenness, an acuity of the senses, in much the same way as love does. To truly appreciate something, you need to love it or fear it fully.
+++
Jim ran some shampoo through his hair, rinsed, instructed the computer to stop the water and stepped out onto the mat. He was maybe a foot away from Bones but he did his best not to acknowledge him, although he was aching to kiss him, to take his cock in his mouth and finish him off, to swallow every part of him.
He watched McCoy out of the corner of his eye while he dried off, making a show of running the towel back and forth across his chest, rubbing the towel over his short hair, eyes lowered, as he dried his legs and feet.
He went to the sink and picked up his tooth-brush.
Bones was showing remarkable stamina and self-control. He could have allowed himself to come when Jim did, but now, Jim could see in the full-length mirror, he’d settled into an easy rhythm, passing one hand over his shaft and then the other while he watched.
+++
From: Jim Kirk, cadet
To: Marcel Proust, French writer guy
Marcel, I’ll bet you’ve never seen someone as hot as Bones.
I can’t believe he wants me. I mean, I can believe he wants to fuck me but…
He’s been married. He’s got a kid. I’m just a distraction.
He must have loved her once upon a time, yet that all went from sweet to bitter. Isn’t it just the same as when I fuck someone new? I want them so bad, then soon as I’ve had them, it’s over?
I wish you could see him now, Marcel, I swear to God, he makes me want to write fucking poetry or something, but you so much as whisper that to him, I’ll break your back even if you are an invalid.
And his voice, you should hear how he talks to me. He can’t get enough - at least for today. But it won’t last, how can it? You said so yourself? How long can I expect to be appreciated, Marcel?
By the way man, I’m probably as shit with the allergies as you are - thing is 23rd Century medicine takes care of all that. Who knows, you might have been on command track if you’d been born now.
From: Marcel Proust, French man of letters, essayist, philosopher and author
To: James Tiberius Kirk, cadet, who believes the world revolves around his member
James, indeed, habit has a remarkably dulling effect on the senses.
I have, despite what you say, seen many beautiful boys. In my day, Paris was filled with dashing gentleman, dressed in a way that is alien to you strange creatures of the future. Clothing was sensual and rich…expensive: the creak of leather boots; the soft touch of kid gloves on your chin; the rustle of silk; the feel of stiff linen; the contrast between a starched collar and the pink flesh of a virgin boy’s neck.
James, you have not lived; indeed, how can you have when your experiences center around denim and regulation, flame-retardant clothing, and too easily-revealed naked flesh which bears no scars. And this, your current obsession with the doctor - his beauty is unquestionable, but I fear that soon you will be as a spoiled child on Christmas Day, unwrapping one gift after another. And you, James, will no more be enchanted by the constellation of freckles across Leonard’s back than that child would appreciate the individual merits of each of his unasked for gifts. And before you counter, James, I know you did not celebrate Christmas in your household, yet, my metaphor should not be lost on your considerable brain.
+++
Jim was a little taken aback at his own acting skills when McCoy stood up and shifted to the edge of the bath so he was just a few inches away from Jim’s bare legs and Jim didn’t allow himself to react. He could feel the heat from his body, could hear the gentle slap of flesh as McCoy jerked off, could hear the occasional sharp gasp, and as Jim raised the brush to his teeth, he felt the gentle drag of McCoy’s blunt finger nail across his hip and on to his buttock. Somehow he managed not to stab the roof of his mouth. He knew he wasn’t supposed to look, but he couldn’t resist.
Bones angled forward, his hair flopped across his forehead, a fine sheen of perspiration across his nose and cheeks, his eyes scouring Jim’s skin intently while he squeezed the base of his cock with one hand and explored Jim’s ass cheeks with the other. Jim was acutely aware of how pale he must have looked in the diffused light, and the contrast of McCoy’s olive skin against his moonlight tones thrilled him so that his own cock had begun to twitch to life again.
He leaned over and scooped water to rinse his mouth, felt McCoy’s hand slide between his legs, down and forward to touch the back of his balls. Fuck. He crouched down and opened the cupboard under the sink to find the razor and McCoy’s hand trailed up Jim’s back, towards his shoulders.
+++
From: Jim Kirk, cadet
To: Marcel Proust, French writer guy
Let me get this straight, Marcel, if something is a habit, it dulls the senses, is that what you’re saying? And if we dull the senses, we don’t feel and if we don’t feel, it means that love just evaporates?
But seriously, man, I’ve been fucking this guy for four days now and it’s only hunger pangs and the need to sleep that stops me fucking more.
Oh and the fact that my ass feels like I passed a porcupine. Sorry about that image, I know you guys were a little more elegant than us guys, but I figured, you being French, you wouldn’t mind.
See, right then, when I brushed my teeth, did you see what it did to him? And what seeing that did to me? Nothing yet means I’m getting bored, Marcel. I’ve got it bad, man.
From: Marcel Proust, French man of letters, essayist, philosopher and author
To: James Tiberius Kirk, cadet, who believes the world revolves around his member
James, are you familiar with the old Bible tale of Noah and the Ark? Indulge me; I know that you are well aware of most cultural references even though you continue to behave like Atavistic Man. Noah refused to come out of the ark when land was first espied; this is an intriguing fact, and I will help you to understand why he did this. It is my theory, James, that we only truly ‘see’ objects when we are deprived of their presence. Noah, in the long days in the ark, was deprived of landscape, so he was forced to recreate it in his mind’s eye.
This is akin to what the artist or the writer does, who strive to capture the details, the essence of an object, a person, a situation, a feeling and, in so doing, truly appreciate them.
Compare this to when a man, such as Noah, is in the presence of an object. He is no longer able to see it, and details pass him by. Indeed, James, if I were to ask you what color shirt Leonard wore the first time you met him, would you be able to recall?
Noah had enjoyed his heightened awareness - even after 600 years of life, he did not want to become jaded again. So he stayed in the ark.
I know that many have wondered how I could ‘know’ so much, see so much, from my sickbed. I think, James, I have explained that too. It is not necessary to deprive yourself of something in order to appreciate it, but it does us good to remember what deprivation does to the mind.
+++
It took Jim a moment to recall how these razors worked. He filled the sink with water and watched McCoy’s reflection in the full length mirror behind the door; he’d moved to collect the chair and settle down so he could watch Jim shave. McCoy’s jeans were round his ankles now and he’d grasped both hands around his cock and rather than pumping it with his hands, he used them as a tunnel he could fuck lazily while Jim soaped up his neck with the hair brush.
Jim looked in the mirror and dragged the razor across the dark hairs - he hadn’t shaved in days and it took him a while to remove every hair, rinsing the razor in the sink between strokes. He let the water run away and rinsed the sink then rubbed his face clean with the hand towel. He searched in the cabinet and took out McCoy’s aftershave and then his moisturizer and applied liberal amounts ignoring the mumble of, “Little fuck,” from beside him.
+++
From: Jim Kirk, cadet
To: Marcel Proust, French writer guy
Marcel, I went about this the wrong way round, didn’t I? We didn’t even date. We went from being friends to … this. If he had any idea how I felt, it would all be over.
I should have known better. After all, I’m a guy too. It’s what we like - the hunt. Thing is, it doesn’t take much to bag Jim Kirk. He didn’t even have to ask, I just threw myself at him. Shit, Marcel, you said it yourself - desire is fueled by uncertainty. Oh, and sorry, I can’t do the quote so well in French - my Spanish is way better:
…Women who are to some extent resistant, whom one cannot possess at once, whom one does not even know at first whether one will ever possess, are the only interesting ones…
See, this is why no one wants me for long. Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. I can’t really get hooked up when I’m going to be in the black in a couple of years.
But look at him, Marcel. The only reason he wants me so bad now is ‘cause he can’t have me. I’ve fucked up.
From: Marcel Proust, French man of letters, essayist, philosopher and author
To: James Tiberius Kirk, cadet, who believes the world revolves around his member
James, I would not, under any circumstance, use profanities, however I concur. The circumstances in which you have seduced your lover are less than ideal! This was not courtship, it was a burlesque show, the ready unveiling of your assets before sufficient want had grown between you. The best seductions are a series of refusals.
You will have observed, my poor boy, that you are very different than your doctor friend. He resists you, even while you plunder his lips, touch him intimately; he fights against you possessing him. Tell me with your hand on your heart, is this not arousing? Does it not make capitulation sweet? It is not like the lion sinking his teeth into his prey. This is what a man wants, why he lives. What a sharp contrast to your behavior. You put me in mind of the prostitutes I would visit. On the surface they offered everything a man could want, but they attract us so little. I take the liberty of quoting myself yet again - ah, such vanity…
…If prostitutes attract us so little, it is not because they are less beautiful than other women, but because they are ready and waiting; because they already offer us precisely what we seek to attain…
The Duchess of Guermantes was in possession of a great many, beautiful dresses but she did not appreciate her collection because she thought she already had everything she wanted. This denied her imaginative possession; not having the thing you most desire makes you pursue.
Now that the doctor has you, he will no longer want to possess you. Such is human nature.
Is this scenario, here in this bathroom, not a pastiche of the same desire?
+++
McCoy had gone back to one hand, his right, shifting a little in his chair and Jim began to wonder why he was torturing himself like this.
Jim stepped towards McCoy, lifted one leg so he was straddling his thighs, so their cocks were a hair’s breath away from each other; they both looked down to admire the sight at the same moment.
“What do you think about when you jerk off, Bones?” He rested his arms on McCoy’s shoulders but resisted the urge to kiss him.
“Sex, you idiot.”
“No, specifically.” McCoy’s face came close to Jim’s neck, not quite touching. He sniffed at Jim’s throat, breathed in deep near his mouth, his left shoulder blade, his tongue between his teeth. “Do you ever think about me?” Jim whispered.
McCoy stopped rubbing. “I’m thinking about you now. “ He’d pulled his t-shirt higher; he must have been ready to come for a while, maybe since he’d stepped into the bathroom.
Jim moved away and pulled the bathroom mat close and knelt between McCoy’s thighs. First he undid the laces on McCoy’s sneakers and sat back while Bones toed them off. Then he pulled his jeans and underpants away and threw them behind him. He nudged McCoy’s knees further apart and brought his mouth close to his cock.
“This is different,” Jim said. He breathed across the tip of Bones’ cock and felt him flinch. “Do you think about me when I’m not there?”
“Some…times…oh fuck…” Jim could feel McCoy’s stuttering breath on the back of his neck.
“You close, huh?”
+++
From: Jim Kirk, cadet
To: Marcel Proust, French writer guy
Marcel, how am I going to make this last? Are there any secrets to long-lasting relationships? Seriously, man, he’s everything I’ve ever wanted without knowing it. And I’m not sure, but maybe, just maybe he feels the same. Shit. I sound like a fucking girl.
From: Marcel Proust, French man of letters, philosopher, author
To: James Tiberius Kirk, cadet who believes the world revolves around his penis
Infidelity, James - that is the secret of long lasting relationships. Or the threat of it. Even then you are forced into a vicious circle. Here is how it can be thought of when applied to men and women. I quote myself for the last time:
…Afraid of losing her, we forget all the others. Sure of keeping her, we compare her with those others whom at once we prefer to her…
Love is a spinning wheel from anxiety to boredom to anxiety - for ever.
I wish you luck, James.
+++
Jim wrapped his hand around his own cock and, from the floor, looked up at Bones, whose eyes were black with want, his mouth bruised from where he’d bitten himself, his teeth bared as he got closer and closer. Jim brought his mouth close to the tip of what must have been a very sore cock by now and made sounds of encouragement.
“Come on, Bones, I’m here, just come, come on…” and with that, Bones let out a desperate noise which might have been his name, and held on to the back of Jim’s head as he anointed Jim’s face. Jim watched in wonder and managed to stop himself saying that this - Bones’ face - the way he looked at him, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and he licked at his rapidly softening cock, used his thumb to sweep come off his cheeks and swallowed that down too, rubbing his cock furiously until he came shortly behind him, with his head on McCoy’s thigh and the feel of his fingers stroking his head.
They stayed like that for some minutes, Jim contemplating the fact that before long they’d be back at the Academy, back to the real world.
+++
McCoy lay naked on the rug, his feet up on the bed next to where Jim sat. His eyes were closed and he looked more peaceful than Jim had ever seen him. It kind of hurt to look at him.
“We should have gone outside for breakfast,” Jim said. “I need to get some sun on my skin before we go back or people will think we lied about where we went.” He sipped his coffee. “Plus, I’m still hungry.”
“Yeah, well, you burned up a shit-load of calories is why, but I may have just the thing for this medical emergency.” McCoy didn’t move. “Fuck, I’m beat.” He opened an eye and looked up at Jim. “And I may have fractured my wrist.”
“I’ll have to do it for you, no problem, and at least you gave my poor ass a break.”
“Get my bag, Jim, I can’t move. Get the regen out and there’s a bag of moon pies I bought the day we got here.”
“What the fuck are moon pies?” Jim took McCoy’s nearest foot and guided it to his mouth. “See, I’m hungry.”
“They’re a southern classic.”
“How come I’ve never heard of them?”
“Because you are a hick and I am a gentleman and you won’t have moved in the same circles I have.”
Why was it that just the way McCoy dragged out the single syllable in ‘I’ sent a shudder of heat across Jim’s thighs?
“You don’t sound like a gentleman when you’re in my ass, Doctor.”
McCoy huffed but it sounded half-hearted to Jim. He managed to raise a hand and gesture towards his bag. “Seriously, get the stuff. You need to try these, and I need to fix your ass so I can fuck you just as soon as I-”
Jim couldn’t believe it, Bones had dozed off, right there on the floor. He grabbed a blanket off the bed and covered McCoy with it then fetched his messenger bag which he’d dumped next to the gorgeous, vintage riding boots he’d bought in town a few days before.
Inside there was a packet of six highly processed looking cakes. Jim slid one out and gingerly bit a corner. Way too sweet but he tried a proper mouthful. Marshmallow - shit, he hated the texture of marshmallow. He spat into his hand and put the soft piece of cake into the waste paper basket alongside empty water bottles and discarded condoms. He made a mental note to fish the bottles out and toss them in the recycler later. He grabbed two pillows and joined Bones on the floor - what was it with him and snoring? He edged one pillow under McCoy’s head and arranged one close for him. McCoy’s legs had both slipped to the floor and Jim slid under the blanket alongside him, wrapping himself around his warm, hairy legs and chest and rubbing his forehead against his rough chin.
“Bones?” he whispered.
“Ung…?”
“Moon pies taste like shit, like sugar covered shit. I swear, I’m never going to let one pass my lips again.”
And with that, he allowed himself to doze off too.
~FIN~
pairingKirk/McCoy,
rating nc-17
word-count approx 6,300
warnings There’s lots of naughtiness but be warned, it’s also a bit thinky.
disclaimer I mean no offence and court no profits, these boys belong to others more talented and deserving, I merely borrow them, play a while then return them all cleaned up and smiley. In addition, because I borrowed shamelessly from ‘How Proust Can Change Your Life’ by Alain de Botton, I want to stress all clever/good ideas are Monsieur Proust’s or Mr de Botton’s and this is love for your work wrapped in naked flesh; I mean no offence - all porn, however, is entirely mine.
summary McCoy wants to watch. Jim doesn’t object but he’s been reading Marcel Proust and love is on his mind. Like Autopsy, it’s indie, it’s angsty, it’s thinky - if only they’d talk about their feelings, eh?
A/N this follows the prompt: someone masturbating, or watching someone masturbating, on km_anthology and is a ‘deleted scene’ from Autopsy of the Heart and, while it stands alone, Jim’s mood, the angst, will make more sense if you’ve read it. There’s a scene in the original fic where Jim remembers this: McCoy had told him a whole lot of times in Georgia how he liked to just watch him, like he was some kind of porn movie or something. He rubbed himself while Jim got dressed, or shaved or used his comm or any other mundane act he could 'catch' him in - pervert, he thought with a smirk. This was my other prompt. Enjoy!
Thanks to: awarrington for amazing beta work - love ya, bb!
Dedicated to blcwriter because she’s had a testing couple of weeks and I know thinky-boy-sexing cheers her up!.
Stop Looking at Me
“Uncle Jim!” Joanna squealed. “Eat one, they’re the best!”
Jim glanced at Bones who gave him his best I-dare-you look, and took a tentative bite of the moon pie. He then pretended to choke, slid to the bridge floor and clutched at his throat, dropping the cake.
“Captain, you appear to be in some distress,” he heard Spock’s voice behind him and, Jim knew him well enough to get it was Spock being intentionally funny.
“Come on, baby girl, let’s leave Uncle Jim to his work. You want to see some really cool specimens in the lab?” McCoy drawled and they’d swished into the turbo lift before Jim had even managed to get to his feet, Jo-Jo’s giggles ringing in his ears.
Jim straightened out his shirts, winked at Sulu, and sat back in his chair smiling. The moon pie’s too sickly-sweet taste clinging to his tongue, his teeth coated in marshmallow, he stared at the star field, crossed his legs and found himself remembering spring break, their first year at the academy…
+++
They’d been in Georgia six days, fucking for four; Jim woke up with what had become a familiar press against his ass crack; being sore as hell didn’t stop his own cock leaping with desire. It felt easy, natural to have Bones snoring beside him or bitching in his sleep. Jim usually woke up first, turning to press his face against the strong neck and indulging himself, breathing in the aroma of sweat, musk and come from the night before, sneaking a look at his face while he slept.
They’d barely left the room, other than to step out to buy some booze and chocolate. They ordered their meals in, they fucked - it was some kind of heaven. But this morning, Bones had come to first, his forehead rolling gently against the back of Jim’s neck, the bed gently rocking as he played with himself.
They were making up for lost time. Eight months Jim had wondered, had needed to know; all those times he hadn’t dared make a move. Now, for Jim, it was like the doubt had to be obliterated because something nagged at the back of his mind - he couldn’t imagine this lasting. Good things never lasted.
McCoy’s mouth dragged against his shoulder and Jim could smell toothpaste and freshly washed hair. He’d taken a shower. Jim cracked open an eye. Bright spring sunshine streamed through the windows; they hadn’t closed the curtains for days, the light their only contact with reality. Jim wondered whether he should pretend to be asleep or whether to turn round, look Bones in the eye and take over for him, slide his hand over McCoy’s or slip his cock alongside and they could jerk off together again. But McCoy was muttering dirty-nothings into his skin, breath hot against his neck, his forehead nudging Jim, and his knuckles bumping against Jim’s ass.
“I know you’re awake,” Bones half-whispered, half-sighed and Jim bent his hand behind his back and held onto McCoy’s arm. He kind of liked the fact that his own dick was hard and that he hadn’t touched it yet, just enjoying that ache, that fullness in his cock…
“Is that nice, Bones? Doing whatever you like to my ass?” He pushed into McCoy’s hand, loving the faltering, breathy tone.
“Fuck…yeah…”
“Love knowing you want me…” Jim said against his better judgment.
“Been wanting you…oh…” then the movement behind him stopped. “Jim?”
“Uh-huh?”
“I want to watch you.”
“Watch me what?”
“Doing stuff…” McCoy’s voice trailed off as he slipped his hands to Jim’s hips and pulled him hard, undulating gently.
Jim wanted to chuckle. “What, strip or something?”
He felt the moisture from McCoy’s breath on his neck. “No, dumbass, I want you to do your usual morning routine, and I want to watch. I want to watch you shower, shave, get dressed, drink coffee, and-”
“Can’t I play with this?” A good hard tug at his cock made McCoy straighten his whole body like Jim had dropped ice down his back.
“No, no touchin’, Jim. I want you to pretend I’m not here.”
Jim scooted round so he was on his side looking into the dark, lust-drenched eyes of the freshly-showered, dirty-minded son of a- He pressed his lips against McCoy’s, cradled his face in his hands as he tongue-fucked him, pushing McCoy’s hands away when they groped for Jim’s ass. “Ah, ah - no touching!”
McCoy actually growled and flopped onto his back when Jim stood, watching his cock swaying as he moved. McCoy folded his arms behind his head and blew out an exasperated huff of air. “Where you goin’?”
“I need to visit the head first.” Jim grabbed a PADD and disappeared into the bathroom giving McCoy’s erection a last, little tug.
+++
Jim took one final glance at the PADD, placed it on the window ledge and flushed.
While he washed his hands, he thought about Marcel Proust, the bedridden, late 19th century French writer. Jim had re-read the immense ‘In Search of Lost Time’ then found himself devouring every morsel by and about the writer that he could hunt out. Proust’s richly detailed writing was filled with countless observations about human behaviour, about friendship, and about love, and his words had haunted Jim for the past few weeks.
Jim was intrigued; what he wanted to know was this: how did this sickly man, confined to his bed for the last few years of his life, hidden behind drawn curtains, wrapped in coats and blankets, a man who’d only ever slept with prostitutes, how could he know so much about human nature? Yet he, Jim Kirk, who had lost count of his sexual partners by the time he was seventeen, had roiled from one disaster to another.
He couldn’t take any credit for joining Starfleet - Jim sometimes felt like one of those cheap toys lying in heap at the bottom of a case until a mysterious, grabby arm (aka, Pike) happened to whisk him away.
What Pike couldn’t know was that Jim specialized in was squandering the gifts he was given; Jim examined his reflection and wondered what exactly McCoy saw when he looked at him. He remembered what it felt like looking up at McCoy’s intent, hungry expression, the way he bit his lip when he fucked Jim; he felt a prickle of heat to his belly and cock and, with impeccable timing, there was a knock on the bathroom door.
“Jim, don’t make me break the door down.”
“Yeah, hang on!”
Jim wished he could mail Proust, ask him whether or not he was playing this right.
So far, other than the fact that there had been sex on consecutive nights, and that he’d ‘stayed over’ which, of course would have been kind of unavoidable seeing as they were on Spring Break together in Valdosta, he hadn’t acted any differently around Bones than he had when they were ‘just’ friends. He hadn’t been any different in bed than he’d been with his other partners.
Okay, maybe Jim hadn’t watched any of them sleep, maybe he hadn’t mouthed ‘thank you’ into anyone else’s shoulder, but then, Jim had never let anyone fuck him before. He’d never wanted this before, and now he worried he’d screw things up and lose Bones before he’d even really gotten a hold of him.
Jim grinned as he thought about what his messages to Proust might say.
From: Jim Kirk, cadet
To: Marcel Proust, French writer guy
Marcel, what I don’t understand is how the hell Bones could have been so hot for me all those months yet manage to hide it.
Thing is, Marcel, I’m kind of in love with the grumpy old bastard but I know I mustn’t let on or he’ll run a mile.
Also, why the hell am I asking you this stuff? You didn’t even ‘come out’ until you died.
From: Marcel Proust, French man of letters, essayist, philosopher and author
To: James Tiberius Kirk, cadet, who believes the world revolves around his member
I understand you consider yourself an extraordinarily adept lover, James, and I am led to believe that you have the unparalleled ability to give all of your fortunate and numerous partners, of varied genders, and species, that which you modern, godless, materialistic and vacuous twenty-third century citizens refer to as, ‘a great fuck’.
Despite my more discerning list of romantic, shall we say, ‘encounters’, I am, nevertheless, able to recommend myself highly as a candidate to offer you advice on romantic problems. While I may not have been particularly sexually active in my life, I was, however, a compulsive masturbator, and my father resorted to sending me to a brothel for a cure lest I lose my eyesight or break my wrist.
It is perhaps relevant that although I may have had few sexual encounters which did not involve pecuniary exchange, I have observed French society from many a well-laden dinner table, drawing room couch, or from my bed, as well as through the second hand, richly detailed tales of my numerous friends, to whom, I may add, I had no need to 'come out' concerning my penchant for the male form. They knew me well and Parisian society was ahead of its time.
My mind, being of similar genius stature to yours, has an unparalleled ability to create associations between my observations. Indeed James, it is my belief you understand human nature better than you may realize. It is foolish to confuse the stupidity and cruelty other people direct at you, with your own inability to understand why they do what they do. After all, it is not the stone’s fault that a foolish and twisted man chose to kick it when he passed. Nor does it follow that the next man to walk past the stone should do the same.
My first piece of advice to you is to continue in what you do best. You have an unparalleled ability to make people happy. Your doctor is currently enjoying his first period of happiness in many a year. Whatever you are doing, it is producing the desired result.
Now, cease your prevarication; your lover awaits.
+++
Jim opened the door. He’d wrapped a towel around his hips, because he was ‘an extraordinarily adept lover’, and he knew this would be more of a tease than if he stood there naked.
“Hello, Bones,” he smirked. “I was about to take a shower.”
Bones was fully dressed in jeans, white t, red plaid shirt and black sneakers. He’d combed his hair back. It was the most clothes Jim had seen him in for a day and a half and it made him harder than hell, knowing he could peel those layers off now, no permission needed. They stood a foot apart and the tension was palpable. Bones may have taken a shower, but he hadn’t shaved and Leonard McCoy did stubble better than anyone ever. His eyes were soot black with lust and he had that predatory look on his face, hooded eyes, half frowning, slight pout, that Jim associated with the second before Bones began working his cock inside him. Fuck he was sore. But God he couldn’t wait to have this again as soon as possible.
“I want to watch you,” Bones repeated, his eyes raking up and down Jim’s body, “and I ordered an old-style shaving kit for after your shower. It’s under the sink.”
Jim pushed his tongue into the corner of his mouth and saw McCoy follow the slight movement. He really wanted to kiss him but this wasn’t part of the game so he spun round and went to the shower booth allowing his towel to drop to the floor as he stepped away from Bones, feeling his eyes boring into his ass.
“Water at 70 degrees,” he said stepping into the stall. Jim heard the scrape of chair legs across the polished, wooden floor and, when he turned to look at Bones, he was slouched in the wicker chair, their dressing gowns tossed to one side, his fly unbuttoned, his cock exposed and his t-shirt pulled up to reveal his taut belly. McCoy’s hands balanced on the armrests and he looked remarkably relaxed considering how turned on he was. Jim smiled to himself, held his hand under the shower gel dispenser and took a large handful, spreading his hands over his chest and sliding the fragrant, pale blue liquid towards his belly. He glanced through the water-proof force-field at McCoy who still hadn’t moved but was obviously breathing heavily while he watched.
“Stop looking at me. You aren’t supposed to know I’m here,” he said, clearing his throat, his right hand finally rolling up and down his cock in slow motion.
“But you look so damn hot, Bones.”
“With my dick in my hand?” Bones raised an eyebrow and Jim saw those long, surgeon’s fingers grip tighter as he worked the most beautiful cock he had ever seen, straight and thick except for that curve at the end which managed to hit his prostate every time Bones fucked him. Sometimes he thought it was like it had been cast from his ass.
“Well, yes, “Jim hissed, his hand straying to the base of his own cock at last. It felt liked he’d been hard for hours. “Can I come over there and suck you?” Jim rolled his hand around gently, watching McCoy’s face. Bones looked tan and exotic somehow, pale nails catching the diffused light, and Jim considered how he’d never experienced this level of detailed desire before.
“No. Stay there. I’m busy pretendin’ you don’t know I’m here,” McCoy said, closing his eyes for a moment, loosening his fingers.
So Jim leaned on the shower wall and rubbed his cock harder. “Shush, it’s part of my morning routine,” he managed to say, looking over again.
“God, you’re the worst actor I’ve ever seen.”
“Not as bad as you, with your eyes doing stuff.”
“What do you mean, uppity little-?”
This. This level of want and awe, Jim thought, it just couldn’t last. He’d never felt so fucking happy before, so desired… something terrible was bound to happen.
+++
From: Jim Kirk, cadet
To: Marcel Proust, French writer guy
Marcel, I’m kind of in love here. At least I think I am. But you say all great love ends in tragedy. Well, that’s how all your stories turn out - and you’ve got me worried. Do you really think that’s true?
Seriously, how can I keep this up? It’s been four days now, just fucking and sleeping for four days. My ass is killing me, Marcel, and you thought that brothel did you in. So, what do you think? Is it doomed to failure?
Like Swan and Odette?
From: Marcel Proust, French man of letters, essayist, philosopher and author
To: James Tiberius Kirk, cadet, who believes the world revolves around his member
James, it is not the case that all love should end badly, always in fire and brimstone. Merely fictitious love; for who would watch the opera that told of domestic love, of fulfilled hearts; who would enjoy the novella if it did not include unrequited love or great passion? There is art, my dear boy, and there is real life. There is the foolishness in your mind’s eye and there is the man who you love.
+++
Jim did his best not to look at Bones. He thought back to before, how he’d take a shower, how every fantasy he’d had since he’d met McCoy on that shuttle had involved those pouty lips, those hands, rubbing his face against McCoy’s groin and he began to pump his hand steadily while leaning on the tile, positioning himself so Bones could watch, and Jim closed his eyes, gave himself over to the warmth of the water running down his face and neck, shaking his head to get it out of his eyes. He could just make out McCoy moaning through the torrent of water now he’d dragged the chair even closer.
McCoy’s right hand had been tight around his cock last time Jim had peeked, and he brought that image to mind like he was alone, like he hadn’t had him yet, recalling that feeling of desperation, how not having what he wanted meant that when Jim came it hurt rather than healed him. Jim did a little quarter turn in the stall so that McCoy could get a good view of him jerking his cock and he could get another handful of shower gel to help him work his finger into his own ass, like Bones prepared him.
“Bones,” Jim hissed. “Fuck me…fuck!”
“Is that good, Jim, huh? You like thinking about me fucking you hard, huh?”
“Not hard enough, come on, Bones, fuck me!”
So close, he opened his eyes, drank in the vision of McCoy with his jeans shunted down mid-thigh, mouth half open, nostrils flared, panting, looking at Jim like he owned him, and Jim came hard, his come washed away by the streams of water, his finger stretching his ass till he had nothing left but warmth and calm and, to his dismay, despite his orgasm, this need, somewhere, to be fucked by this beautiful man as soon as possible.
+++
From: Jim Kirk, cadet
To: Marcel Proust, French writer guy
Marcel, love doesn’t last forever, does it? Well, it doesn’t last until we die?
From: Marcel Proust, French man of letters, essayist, philosopher and author
To: James Tiberius Kirk, cadet, who believes the world revolves around his member
Dearest, foolish, James. Love doesn’t last forever, but this is not because of the nature of love per se, rather, it is due to a certain ‘lack’ in human beings I have detected. My observation of human nature has led me to conclude that they are unable to maintain appreciation for an object long enough, including the object of their desire. Take for example the invention of the telephone by Alexander Graham Bell. You will have read, no doubt James, how once upon a time, talking to another human being in a different location to your own, was considered a magical innovation. I recall I wrote this on the matter:
…a supernatural instrument before whose miracle we used to stand amazed and which we now employ without giving it a thought, to summon our tailor or to order an ice-cream…
Think, dearest James, when did you last consider the wonder of your food replicators? I expect most mentions of them, in the twenty third century, center on complaints of the quality of their output and how they bear no comparison to the original fruit they replicate. And your transporters - you move from location to location like Gods appearing from Olympus, yet when did you last appreciate, fully, their miraculous qualities?
As an aside, James, I believe Leonard appreciates transporters well enough. Fear forces a keenness, an acuity of the senses, in much the same way as love does. To truly appreciate something, you need to love it or fear it fully.
+++
Jim ran some shampoo through his hair, rinsed, instructed the computer to stop the water and stepped out onto the mat. He was maybe a foot away from Bones but he did his best not to acknowledge him, although he was aching to kiss him, to take his cock in his mouth and finish him off, to swallow every part of him.
He watched McCoy out of the corner of his eye while he dried off, making a show of running the towel back and forth across his chest, rubbing the towel over his short hair, eyes lowered, as he dried his legs and feet.
He went to the sink and picked up his tooth-brush.
Bones was showing remarkable stamina and self-control. He could have allowed himself to come when Jim did, but now, Jim could see in the full-length mirror, he’d settled into an easy rhythm, passing one hand over his shaft and then the other while he watched.
+++
From: Jim Kirk, cadet
To: Marcel Proust, French writer guy
Marcel, I’ll bet you’ve never seen someone as hot as Bones.
I can’t believe he wants me. I mean, I can believe he wants to fuck me but…
He’s been married. He’s got a kid. I’m just a distraction.
He must have loved her once upon a time, yet that all went from sweet to bitter. Isn’t it just the same as when I fuck someone new? I want them so bad, then soon as I’ve had them, it’s over?
I wish you could see him now, Marcel, I swear to God, he makes me want to write fucking poetry or something, but you so much as whisper that to him, I’ll break your back even if you are an invalid.
And his voice, you should hear how he talks to me. He can’t get enough - at least for today. But it won’t last, how can it? You said so yourself? How long can I expect to be appreciated, Marcel?
By the way man, I’m probably as shit with the allergies as you are - thing is 23rd Century medicine takes care of all that. Who knows, you might have been on command track if you’d been born now.
From: Marcel Proust, French man of letters, essayist, philosopher and author
To: James Tiberius Kirk, cadet, who believes the world revolves around his member
James, indeed, habit has a remarkably dulling effect on the senses.
I have, despite what you say, seen many beautiful boys. In my day, Paris was filled with dashing gentleman, dressed in a way that is alien to you strange creatures of the future. Clothing was sensual and rich…expensive: the creak of leather boots; the soft touch of kid gloves on your chin; the rustle of silk; the feel of stiff linen; the contrast between a starched collar and the pink flesh of a virgin boy’s neck.
James, you have not lived; indeed, how can you have when your experiences center around denim and regulation, flame-retardant clothing, and too easily-revealed naked flesh which bears no scars. And this, your current obsession with the doctor - his beauty is unquestionable, but I fear that soon you will be as a spoiled child on Christmas Day, unwrapping one gift after another. And you, James, will no more be enchanted by the constellation of freckles across Leonard’s back than that child would appreciate the individual merits of each of his unasked for gifts. And before you counter, James, I know you did not celebrate Christmas in your household, yet, my metaphor should not be lost on your considerable brain.
+++
Jim was a little taken aback at his own acting skills when McCoy stood up and shifted to the edge of the bath so he was just a few inches away from Jim’s bare legs and Jim didn’t allow himself to react. He could feel the heat from his body, could hear the gentle slap of flesh as McCoy jerked off, could hear the occasional sharp gasp, and as Jim raised the brush to his teeth, he felt the gentle drag of McCoy’s blunt finger nail across his hip and on to his buttock. Somehow he managed not to stab the roof of his mouth. He knew he wasn’t supposed to look, but he couldn’t resist.
Bones angled forward, his hair flopped across his forehead, a fine sheen of perspiration across his nose and cheeks, his eyes scouring Jim’s skin intently while he squeezed the base of his cock with one hand and explored Jim’s ass cheeks with the other. Jim was acutely aware of how pale he must have looked in the diffused light, and the contrast of McCoy’s olive skin against his moonlight tones thrilled him so that his own cock had begun to twitch to life again.
He leaned over and scooped water to rinse his mouth, felt McCoy’s hand slide between his legs, down and forward to touch the back of his balls. Fuck. He crouched down and opened the cupboard under the sink to find the razor and McCoy’s hand trailed up Jim’s back, towards his shoulders.
+++
From: Jim Kirk, cadet
To: Marcel Proust, French writer guy
Let me get this straight, Marcel, if something is a habit, it dulls the senses, is that what you’re saying? And if we dull the senses, we don’t feel and if we don’t feel, it means that love just evaporates?
But seriously, man, I’ve been fucking this guy for four days now and it’s only hunger pangs and the need to sleep that stops me fucking more.
Oh and the fact that my ass feels like I passed a porcupine. Sorry about that image, I know you guys were a little more elegant than us guys, but I figured, you being French, you wouldn’t mind.
See, right then, when I brushed my teeth, did you see what it did to him? And what seeing that did to me? Nothing yet means I’m getting bored, Marcel. I’ve got it bad, man.
From: Marcel Proust, French man of letters, essayist, philosopher and author
To: James Tiberius Kirk, cadet, who believes the world revolves around his member
James, are you familiar with the old Bible tale of Noah and the Ark? Indulge me; I know that you are well aware of most cultural references even though you continue to behave like Atavistic Man. Noah refused to come out of the ark when land was first espied; this is an intriguing fact, and I will help you to understand why he did this. It is my theory, James, that we only truly ‘see’ objects when we are deprived of their presence. Noah, in the long days in the ark, was deprived of landscape, so he was forced to recreate it in his mind’s eye.
This is akin to what the artist or the writer does, who strive to capture the details, the essence of an object, a person, a situation, a feeling and, in so doing, truly appreciate them.
Compare this to when a man, such as Noah, is in the presence of an object. He is no longer able to see it, and details pass him by. Indeed, James, if I were to ask you what color shirt Leonard wore the first time you met him, would you be able to recall?
Noah had enjoyed his heightened awareness - even after 600 years of life, he did not want to become jaded again. So he stayed in the ark.
I know that many have wondered how I could ‘know’ so much, see so much, from my sickbed. I think, James, I have explained that too. It is not necessary to deprive yourself of something in order to appreciate it, but it does us good to remember what deprivation does to the mind.
+++
It took Jim a moment to recall how these razors worked. He filled the sink with water and watched McCoy’s reflection in the full length mirror behind the door; he’d moved to collect the chair and settle down so he could watch Jim shave. McCoy’s jeans were round his ankles now and he’d grasped both hands around his cock and rather than pumping it with his hands, he used them as a tunnel he could fuck lazily while Jim soaped up his neck with the hair brush.
Jim looked in the mirror and dragged the razor across the dark hairs - he hadn’t shaved in days and it took him a while to remove every hair, rinsing the razor in the sink between strokes. He let the water run away and rinsed the sink then rubbed his face clean with the hand towel. He searched in the cabinet and took out McCoy’s aftershave and then his moisturizer and applied liberal amounts ignoring the mumble of, “Little fuck,” from beside him.
+++
From: Jim Kirk, cadet
To: Marcel Proust, French writer guy
Marcel, I went about this the wrong way round, didn’t I? We didn’t even date. We went from being friends to … this. If he had any idea how I felt, it would all be over.
I should have known better. After all, I’m a guy too. It’s what we like - the hunt. Thing is, it doesn’t take much to bag Jim Kirk. He didn’t even have to ask, I just threw myself at him. Shit, Marcel, you said it yourself - desire is fueled by uncertainty. Oh, and sorry, I can’t do the quote so well in French - my Spanish is way better:
…Women who are to some extent resistant, whom one cannot possess at once, whom one does not even know at first whether one will ever possess, are the only interesting ones…
See, this is why no one wants me for long. Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. I can’t really get hooked up when I’m going to be in the black in a couple of years.
But look at him, Marcel. The only reason he wants me so bad now is ‘cause he can’t have me. I’ve fucked up.
From: Marcel Proust, French man of letters, essayist, philosopher and author
To: James Tiberius Kirk, cadet, who believes the world revolves around his member
James, I would not, under any circumstance, use profanities, however I concur. The circumstances in which you have seduced your lover are less than ideal! This was not courtship, it was a burlesque show, the ready unveiling of your assets before sufficient want had grown between you. The best seductions are a series of refusals.
You will have observed, my poor boy, that you are very different than your doctor friend. He resists you, even while you plunder his lips, touch him intimately; he fights against you possessing him. Tell me with your hand on your heart, is this not arousing? Does it not make capitulation sweet? It is not like the lion sinking his teeth into his prey. This is what a man wants, why he lives. What a sharp contrast to your behavior. You put me in mind of the prostitutes I would visit. On the surface they offered everything a man could want, but they attract us so little. I take the liberty of quoting myself yet again - ah, such vanity…
…If prostitutes attract us so little, it is not because they are less beautiful than other women, but because they are ready and waiting; because they already offer us precisely what we seek to attain…
The Duchess of Guermantes was in possession of a great many, beautiful dresses but she did not appreciate her collection because she thought she already had everything she wanted. This denied her imaginative possession; not having the thing you most desire makes you pursue.
Now that the doctor has you, he will no longer want to possess you. Such is human nature.
Is this scenario, here in this bathroom, not a pastiche of the same desire?
+++
McCoy had gone back to one hand, his right, shifting a little in his chair and Jim began to wonder why he was torturing himself like this.
Jim stepped towards McCoy, lifted one leg so he was straddling his thighs, so their cocks were a hair’s breath away from each other; they both looked down to admire the sight at the same moment.
“What do you think about when you jerk off, Bones?” He rested his arms on McCoy’s shoulders but resisted the urge to kiss him.
“Sex, you idiot.”
“No, specifically.” McCoy’s face came close to Jim’s neck, not quite touching. He sniffed at Jim’s throat, breathed in deep near his mouth, his left shoulder blade, his tongue between his teeth. “Do you ever think about me?” Jim whispered.
McCoy stopped rubbing. “I’m thinking about you now. “ He’d pulled his t-shirt higher; he must have been ready to come for a while, maybe since he’d stepped into the bathroom.
Jim moved away and pulled the bathroom mat close and knelt between McCoy’s thighs. First he undid the laces on McCoy’s sneakers and sat back while Bones toed them off. Then he pulled his jeans and underpants away and threw them behind him. He nudged McCoy’s knees further apart and brought his mouth close to his cock.
“This is different,” Jim said. He breathed across the tip of Bones’ cock and felt him flinch. “Do you think about me when I’m not there?”
“Some…times…oh fuck…” Jim could feel McCoy’s stuttering breath on the back of his neck.
“You close, huh?”
+++
From: Jim Kirk, cadet
To: Marcel Proust, French writer guy
Marcel, how am I going to make this last? Are there any secrets to long-lasting relationships? Seriously, man, he’s everything I’ve ever wanted without knowing it. And I’m not sure, but maybe, just maybe he feels the same. Shit. I sound like a fucking girl.
From: Marcel Proust, French man of letters, philosopher, author
To: James Tiberius Kirk, cadet who believes the world revolves around his penis
Infidelity, James - that is the secret of long lasting relationships. Or the threat of it. Even then you are forced into a vicious circle. Here is how it can be thought of when applied to men and women. I quote myself for the last time:
…Afraid of losing her, we forget all the others. Sure of keeping her, we compare her with those others whom at once we prefer to her…
Love is a spinning wheel from anxiety to boredom to anxiety - for ever.
I wish you luck, James.
+++
Jim wrapped his hand around his own cock and, from the floor, looked up at Bones, whose eyes were black with want, his mouth bruised from where he’d bitten himself, his teeth bared as he got closer and closer. Jim brought his mouth close to the tip of what must have been a very sore cock by now and made sounds of encouragement.
“Come on, Bones, I’m here, just come, come on…” and with that, Bones let out a desperate noise which might have been his name, and held on to the back of Jim’s head as he anointed Jim’s face. Jim watched in wonder and managed to stop himself saying that this - Bones’ face - the way he looked at him, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and he licked at his rapidly softening cock, used his thumb to sweep come off his cheeks and swallowed that down too, rubbing his cock furiously until he came shortly behind him, with his head on McCoy’s thigh and the feel of his fingers stroking his head.
They stayed like that for some minutes, Jim contemplating the fact that before long they’d be back at the Academy, back to the real world.
+++
McCoy lay naked on the rug, his feet up on the bed next to where Jim sat. His eyes were closed and he looked more peaceful than Jim had ever seen him. It kind of hurt to look at him.
“We should have gone outside for breakfast,” Jim said. “I need to get some sun on my skin before we go back or people will think we lied about where we went.” He sipped his coffee. “Plus, I’m still hungry.”
“Yeah, well, you burned up a shit-load of calories is why, but I may have just the thing for this medical emergency.” McCoy didn’t move. “Fuck, I’m beat.” He opened an eye and looked up at Jim. “And I may have fractured my wrist.”
“I’ll have to do it for you, no problem, and at least you gave my poor ass a break.”
“Get my bag, Jim, I can’t move. Get the regen out and there’s a bag of moon pies I bought the day we got here.”
“What the fuck are moon pies?” Jim took McCoy’s nearest foot and guided it to his mouth. “See, I’m hungry.”
“They’re a southern classic.”
“How come I’ve never heard of them?”
“Because you are a hick and I am a gentleman and you won’t have moved in the same circles I have.”
Why was it that just the way McCoy dragged out the single syllable in ‘I’ sent a shudder of heat across Jim’s thighs?
“You don’t sound like a gentleman when you’re in my ass, Doctor.”
McCoy huffed but it sounded half-hearted to Jim. He managed to raise a hand and gesture towards his bag. “Seriously, get the stuff. You need to try these, and I need to fix your ass so I can fuck you just as soon as I-”
Jim couldn’t believe it, Bones had dozed off, right there on the floor. He grabbed a blanket off the bed and covered McCoy with it then fetched his messenger bag which he’d dumped next to the gorgeous, vintage riding boots he’d bought in town a few days before.
Inside there was a packet of six highly processed looking cakes. Jim slid one out and gingerly bit a corner. Way too sweet but he tried a proper mouthful. Marshmallow - shit, he hated the texture of marshmallow. He spat into his hand and put the soft piece of cake into the waste paper basket alongside empty water bottles and discarded condoms. He made a mental note to fish the bottles out and toss them in the recycler later. He grabbed two pillows and joined Bones on the floor - what was it with him and snoring? He edged one pillow under McCoy’s head and arranged one close for him. McCoy’s legs had both slipped to the floor and Jim slid under the blanket alongside him, wrapping himself around his warm, hairy legs and chest and rubbing his forehead against his rough chin.
“Bones?” he whispered.
“Ung…?”
“Moon pies taste like shit, like sugar covered shit. I swear, I’m never going to let one pass my lips again.”
And with that, he allowed himself to doze off too.
~FIN~