(no subject)
don't give me no lip
Characters/Pairings: Kirk/McCoy
Warnings: Slash. D'uh.
Word count: ~2k
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Inspired by the lovely pictures over at jim_and_bones.
The most infuriating part, Len thinks to himself, is the fact that the kid doesn’t even seem to notice what he’s doing-unlike other people. They most assuredly notice. He notices, every time, he isn’t particular proud to admit.
But no matter the conversation at hand, whenever Jim has to stall, for just a moment, or let a new piece of information sink in… There it is again, that flick of his tongue over his lower lip as he looks as Len, digesting their conversation with a crease of his eyebrow. One that deepens, and the tongue comes out once more, as he absently waves a hand in front of Len’s eyes.
“Earth to Bones, you still with me here?”
Len looks up to meet Jim’s eyes, only now noticing that he’s been absently tracking the movements of his friend’s tongue as he’d stopped to take a breather from his glorious explications about how the Kobayashi Maru was a) bullshit, b) complete bullshit for letting him fail, and c) had he mentioned how the whole damn thing was bullshit?
(Yes, he had, as a matter of fact, as far as Len had been listening, but since when had done such a thing derail Jim from any track he’d set himself on? Never, that’s since when.)
Len rolls his eyes, cocks his head to the side. “I’m right here, Jim. Is your vision giving out? I have a hypo for that,” he offers, with the most overtly feigned smile, and it’s Jim’s turn to roll those bright blue eyes of his with a groaned “Save it, Bones,” before he adds, “You’ve been staring at me weirdly.”
If he were a man of less composure, that alone would have been enough to make the color rise to his cheeks-as it was, he felt a certain heat, but had high hopes that it hadn’t traveled further than his neck and would stay hidden behind the collar of his cadet reds.
“Get your ego in check, kid,” he says gruffly, and that’s all there is to it. For the time being.
*
The next time Jim brings it up, and, really, how had Len not noticed that he’d fallen so into the habit of watching the kid’s movements so closely? This time, however, it’s with a drunk, triumphant laugh.
“You’re doing it again!”
“What?” Len snaps, somewhat irritated because, whatever it is he might have been doing, it had nothing to do with what they’d been talking about, between two glasses of Whiskey shared on the floor of his luckily single dorm room, and derailed him momentarily.
“Staring. At me. Why, Bones, have I gotten prettier?” He teases, grin in place and eyes sparkling, even through the first glassy traces of the alcohol having settled in comfortably into his system.
Len groans, downs the remnants in his glass, and finds that Jim is still looking at him, equal parts triumphant-though even he can tell that Jim can’t be sure what he’s so victorious about in the first place-and expectant.
“No,” is all he tells him, with one eyebrow artfully arching upward, which … doesn’t quite seem to cut it for the ever inquisitive Jim T. Kirk, and it takes a lot more willpower than he’d like to admit to keep from rolling his eyes. “Just more observant,” he hence adds after a moment, pouring himself another glass.
For someone as observant as Len had just more or less given him credit for, Jim sure looks puzzled. “What?”
It drives the point home that Jim has no idea that he’s exerting quite the tongue aerobics whenever he’s thinking; be that his licking his lips constantly (Len would have to buy him a chapstick, if he ever wanted to get anywhere when they were studying together), chewing old-fashioned pens to near uselessness, or sometimes just biting down on the first thing he could find (at this point, Leonard was somewhat used to the fact that, if they indulged in fast food and drinks that came with straw, Jim would end up biting off an end of it and chewing it like other people might chew gum).
Flummoxed as he seems, Jim does it again-swipes his tongue over his lower lip, just a peek of pink tongue before it disappears again behind his far too full lips, flush from chapstick-free abuse and the alcohol toying with his blood circulation.
“That,” Len says dryly over the rim of his glass that he’s still nursing, eyebrow still arched as he gestures absently with his free hand at Jim’s face.
“What, that?” He seems to be getting somewhat irritated; Jim never handled not knowing things and more so not getting answers well, he was a pusher through and through, when he thought there was something to be gained from it.
Len just rolls his eyes, before he offhandedly comments, “You should invest in a chapstick.”
Brows furrowed, Jim tries to correlate that to his question, through his slightly booze muddled mind, and this time, when he licks his lips, he stops mid-motion as it sinks in. Len barks out a laugh, because frankly, the kid looks downright stupid with his tongue half stuck out like that.
A flush coloring the kid’s cheeks, something the doctor was sure he would blame on the alcohol, the tongue retracts to where it came from. There’s comfortable silence for a few moments as they nurse their drinks, before Jim speaks again, “Do I do that a lot?”
The arch of Len’s eyebrow gives him the answer he needs, and he grins despite himself. “Okay, okay, I, maybe,” he went on, “Do that a lot, I take it.” Another pause, and this time, it’s obvious that Jim is deliberately licking his lips. It’s not seductive, not really, but most definitely intentional, and something changes about the glimmer in the kid’s eyes.
Len really should cut him off of his drinks sooner, he notes absently.
“However.” Jim seems contemplative for just a moment, twirling the near empty glass between his hands. “Far more interesting is…” The pause that follows, Len wagers, is solely for dramatic effect, “Why do you notice?”
That question, Len knows, he should have been prepared for, but isn’t, and he shrugs listlessly, or what he hopes passes for any semblance of nonchalant, when they both know he’s just stalling for time while trying to come up with a satisfactory answer that might slightly sway from the truth. “Because everything you do is loud and obnoxious?” It comes out like a question when it shouldn’t, Len scolds himself mentally, but it’s too late, Jim has latched onto the topic.
He seems to be contemplating his move, like he’s waiting for something as he keeps his gaze fixed on Len, and it takes a lot not to squirm uncomfortably under such scrutiny. He’s seen that look before, and while it promised a lot of things, none of them seemed particularly harmless. Never, with Jim.
“So.” Another sip of his near empty whiskey, and Len only notices now that Jim has been nursing that glass while Len’s been refilling his own twice over. “If I didn’t invest in a chapstick, Doc, what would you suggest I do?”
Len really, truly isn’t sure where this is headed, and whether he should go on the defensive right about now. Jim was unpredictable at the best of times-something that would make him a great captain, and something that made him an equally perplexing and dangerous drinking partner.
He appears to be waiting for an answer, however, and Len tilts his head back as he thinks for a second. “Break the habit,” he says, then, “But knowing you? You’ll just start biting your nails again, and that ain’t nearly as attractive a habit.”
It’s only when Jim breaks into a beaming grin that it sinks in that he’s used the term ‘attractive’ out loud, and… where the hell did that bottle go? Damned Jim, putting it out of his reach for the time being, and how hadn’t he noticed? Knowing the man, he would’ve used it as leverage to get him to talk, if the alcohol hadn’t loosened his tongue enough already.
“I could replace it with another habit,” Jim says, contemplatively, even if they both know it’s just for show, and it’s easy to tell that he already knows what he’s saying, hasn’t to think, as he meets Len’s eyes. “Or a different set of lips.”
Len just stares, wants to make an offhand comment that he’s sure that a ton of cadets-and a few staff members, truth be told-would be happy to take him up on that offer, but he finds himself merely watching as Jim puts first his own glass aside, then takes Len’s from his hands and places them both on the floor, out of easy-knocking-over reach, and on all fours leans over as he shuffles closer to Len.
“Jim.” There’s a warning in his tone as his forehead creases, but Jim is unrelenting, moving closer still until he has planted himself right in Len’s personal space, or whatever of it has so far remained around the ever hands-on Jim. Len notes the mattress digging into his back and leaving no place to flee, and once more that Jim hasn’t had enough to drink to make any of this reasonable.
But for all his thinking, Jim’s still right there, nose almost touching his, a confusing, small smile playing on the corners of his lips, and then the thinking stops, on Len’s part, because Jim’s actually leaning in and pressing his lips to his.
Len, frankly, is too poleaxed to react at all, and then Jim’s tongue is sweeping over his lips, coaxing them open as he leans in properly, and quite expertly robs Len of his last breath as he decides, everything be damned, this was nice, fucking nice, and repercussions were for early mornings, not drunken late nights.
By the time Jim realizes he’s meeting no resistance, his hand buries in Len’s hair, and the man finally reciprocates, one hand fisted into the front of the younger man’s shirt as he pulls him closer still, tongue meeting tongue almost tentatively for a mere second-then all tentativeness goes out the window, Jim presses himself flush against the doctor as he straddles his laps, apparently intent on exploring every inch of his mouth, tongue, lips, and biting down on the latter impatiently as hands start to roam.
How much time passes neither of them knows, because Jim is as good at kissing as he is intrusive in general, and Len gives as good as he gets, one hand splayed over the small of Jim’s back to anchor him in place, decidedly beneath his shirt and right on warm skin, and by the time they have to pull back, they are both breathless.
And if Len hadn’t been breathless already? The smile on Jim’s face as he relents his assault on his mouth, but stays right in his personal space, would have been enough to knock the wind right out of him all over.
“You know what?” He says, his voice laced with mirth and lack of breath, “T’is better than getting a chapstick.”
It’s Len’s turn to look perplexed, then huffs a laugh as he scrubs one hand over his face. Trust Jim to be entirely ridiculous, given any situation at all. He should be thinking, he knew, about repercussions, implications, grown up things and impulse control, but Jim could see that immediately, and like a flash was on him again-consequently throwing them just off balance enough that, even leaning back against the foot end of his bed, they ended on the floor sideways, and Jim, ever the opportunist? Is right on top of him, going eagerly back to activities that needn’t involve talking.
And Len has no complaints-merely notes to hold off on buying the kid a chapstick. For a long time.
Characters/Pairings: Kirk/McCoy
Warnings: Slash. D'uh.
Word count: ~2k
Rating: PG-13
Notes: Inspired by the lovely pictures over at jim_and_bones.
The most infuriating part, Len thinks to himself, is the fact that the kid doesn’t even seem to notice what he’s doing-unlike other people. They most assuredly notice. He notices, every time, he isn’t particular proud to admit.
But no matter the conversation at hand, whenever Jim has to stall, for just a moment, or let a new piece of information sink in… There it is again, that flick of his tongue over his lower lip as he looks as Len, digesting their conversation with a crease of his eyebrow. One that deepens, and the tongue comes out once more, as he absently waves a hand in front of Len’s eyes.
“Earth to Bones, you still with me here?”
Len looks up to meet Jim’s eyes, only now noticing that he’s been absently tracking the movements of his friend’s tongue as he’d stopped to take a breather from his glorious explications about how the Kobayashi Maru was a) bullshit, b) complete bullshit for letting him fail, and c) had he mentioned how the whole damn thing was bullshit?
(Yes, he had, as a matter of fact, as far as Len had been listening, but since when had done such a thing derail Jim from any track he’d set himself on? Never, that’s since when.)
Len rolls his eyes, cocks his head to the side. “I’m right here, Jim. Is your vision giving out? I have a hypo for that,” he offers, with the most overtly feigned smile, and it’s Jim’s turn to roll those bright blue eyes of his with a groaned “Save it, Bones,” before he adds, “You’ve been staring at me weirdly.”
If he were a man of less composure, that alone would have been enough to make the color rise to his cheeks-as it was, he felt a certain heat, but had high hopes that it hadn’t traveled further than his neck and would stay hidden behind the collar of his cadet reds.
“Get your ego in check, kid,” he says gruffly, and that’s all there is to it. For the time being.
*
The next time Jim brings it up, and, really, how had Len not noticed that he’d fallen so into the habit of watching the kid’s movements so closely? This time, however, it’s with a drunk, triumphant laugh.
“You’re doing it again!”
“What?” Len snaps, somewhat irritated because, whatever it is he might have been doing, it had nothing to do with what they’d been talking about, between two glasses of Whiskey shared on the floor of his luckily single dorm room, and derailed him momentarily.
“Staring. At me. Why, Bones, have I gotten prettier?” He teases, grin in place and eyes sparkling, even through the first glassy traces of the alcohol having settled in comfortably into his system.
Len groans, downs the remnants in his glass, and finds that Jim is still looking at him, equal parts triumphant-though even he can tell that Jim can’t be sure what he’s so victorious about in the first place-and expectant.
“No,” is all he tells him, with one eyebrow artfully arching upward, which … doesn’t quite seem to cut it for the ever inquisitive Jim T. Kirk, and it takes a lot more willpower than he’d like to admit to keep from rolling his eyes. “Just more observant,” he hence adds after a moment, pouring himself another glass.
For someone as observant as Len had just more or less given him credit for, Jim sure looks puzzled. “What?”
It drives the point home that Jim has no idea that he’s exerting quite the tongue aerobics whenever he’s thinking; be that his licking his lips constantly (Len would have to buy him a chapstick, if he ever wanted to get anywhere when they were studying together), chewing old-fashioned pens to near uselessness, or sometimes just biting down on the first thing he could find (at this point, Leonard was somewhat used to the fact that, if they indulged in fast food and drinks that came with straw, Jim would end up biting off an end of it and chewing it like other people might chew gum).
Flummoxed as he seems, Jim does it again-swipes his tongue over his lower lip, just a peek of pink tongue before it disappears again behind his far too full lips, flush from chapstick-free abuse and the alcohol toying with his blood circulation.
“That,” Len says dryly over the rim of his glass that he’s still nursing, eyebrow still arched as he gestures absently with his free hand at Jim’s face.
“What, that?” He seems to be getting somewhat irritated; Jim never handled not knowing things and more so not getting answers well, he was a pusher through and through, when he thought there was something to be gained from it.
Len just rolls his eyes, before he offhandedly comments, “You should invest in a chapstick.”
Brows furrowed, Jim tries to correlate that to his question, through his slightly booze muddled mind, and this time, when he licks his lips, he stops mid-motion as it sinks in. Len barks out a laugh, because frankly, the kid looks downright stupid with his tongue half stuck out like that.
A flush coloring the kid’s cheeks, something the doctor was sure he would blame on the alcohol, the tongue retracts to where it came from. There’s comfortable silence for a few moments as they nurse their drinks, before Jim speaks again, “Do I do that a lot?”
The arch of Len’s eyebrow gives him the answer he needs, and he grins despite himself. “Okay, okay, I, maybe,” he went on, “Do that a lot, I take it.” Another pause, and this time, it’s obvious that Jim is deliberately licking his lips. It’s not seductive, not really, but most definitely intentional, and something changes about the glimmer in the kid’s eyes.
Len really should cut him off of his drinks sooner, he notes absently.
“However.” Jim seems contemplative for just a moment, twirling the near empty glass between his hands. “Far more interesting is…” The pause that follows, Len wagers, is solely for dramatic effect, “Why do you notice?”
That question, Len knows, he should have been prepared for, but isn’t, and he shrugs listlessly, or what he hopes passes for any semblance of nonchalant, when they both know he’s just stalling for time while trying to come up with a satisfactory answer that might slightly sway from the truth. “Because everything you do is loud and obnoxious?” It comes out like a question when it shouldn’t, Len scolds himself mentally, but it’s too late, Jim has latched onto the topic.
He seems to be contemplating his move, like he’s waiting for something as he keeps his gaze fixed on Len, and it takes a lot not to squirm uncomfortably under such scrutiny. He’s seen that look before, and while it promised a lot of things, none of them seemed particularly harmless. Never, with Jim.
“So.” Another sip of his near empty whiskey, and Len only notices now that Jim has been nursing that glass while Len’s been refilling his own twice over. “If I didn’t invest in a chapstick, Doc, what would you suggest I do?”
Len really, truly isn’t sure where this is headed, and whether he should go on the defensive right about now. Jim was unpredictable at the best of times-something that would make him a great captain, and something that made him an equally perplexing and dangerous drinking partner.
He appears to be waiting for an answer, however, and Len tilts his head back as he thinks for a second. “Break the habit,” he says, then, “But knowing you? You’ll just start biting your nails again, and that ain’t nearly as attractive a habit.”
It’s only when Jim breaks into a beaming grin that it sinks in that he’s used the term ‘attractive’ out loud, and… where the hell did that bottle go? Damned Jim, putting it out of his reach for the time being, and how hadn’t he noticed? Knowing the man, he would’ve used it as leverage to get him to talk, if the alcohol hadn’t loosened his tongue enough already.
“I could replace it with another habit,” Jim says, contemplatively, even if they both know it’s just for show, and it’s easy to tell that he already knows what he’s saying, hasn’t to think, as he meets Len’s eyes. “Or a different set of lips.”
Len just stares, wants to make an offhand comment that he’s sure that a ton of cadets-and a few staff members, truth be told-would be happy to take him up on that offer, but he finds himself merely watching as Jim puts first his own glass aside, then takes Len’s from his hands and places them both on the floor, out of easy-knocking-over reach, and on all fours leans over as he shuffles closer to Len.
“Jim.” There’s a warning in his tone as his forehead creases, but Jim is unrelenting, moving closer still until he has planted himself right in Len’s personal space, or whatever of it has so far remained around the ever hands-on Jim. Len notes the mattress digging into his back and leaving no place to flee, and once more that Jim hasn’t had enough to drink to make any of this reasonable.
But for all his thinking, Jim’s still right there, nose almost touching his, a confusing, small smile playing on the corners of his lips, and then the thinking stops, on Len’s part, because Jim’s actually leaning in and pressing his lips to his.
Len, frankly, is too poleaxed to react at all, and then Jim’s tongue is sweeping over his lips, coaxing them open as he leans in properly, and quite expertly robs Len of his last breath as he decides, everything be damned, this was nice, fucking nice, and repercussions were for early mornings, not drunken late nights.
By the time Jim realizes he’s meeting no resistance, his hand buries in Len’s hair, and the man finally reciprocates, one hand fisted into the front of the younger man’s shirt as he pulls him closer still, tongue meeting tongue almost tentatively for a mere second-then all tentativeness goes out the window, Jim presses himself flush against the doctor as he straddles his laps, apparently intent on exploring every inch of his mouth, tongue, lips, and biting down on the latter impatiently as hands start to roam.
How much time passes neither of them knows, because Jim is as good at kissing as he is intrusive in general, and Len gives as good as he gets, one hand splayed over the small of Jim’s back to anchor him in place, decidedly beneath his shirt and right on warm skin, and by the time they have to pull back, they are both breathless.
And if Len hadn’t been breathless already? The smile on Jim’s face as he relents his assault on his mouth, but stays right in his personal space, would have been enough to knock the wind right out of him all over.
“You know what?” He says, his voice laced with mirth and lack of breath, “T’is better than getting a chapstick.”
It’s Len’s turn to look perplexed, then huffs a laugh as he scrubs one hand over his face. Trust Jim to be entirely ridiculous, given any situation at all. He should be thinking, he knew, about repercussions, implications, grown up things and impulse control, but Jim could see that immediately, and like a flash was on him again-consequently throwing them just off balance enough that, even leaning back against the foot end of his bed, they ended on the floor sideways, and Jim, ever the opportunist? Is right on top of him, going eagerly back to activities that needn’t involve talking.
And Len has no complaints-merely notes to hold off on buying the kid a chapstick. For a long time.