Title: De Rien
Author: jat_sapphire (Jane)
Feedback Address: jat_sapphire@yahoo.com
Rating: NC-17
Codes: K/Cyrano, K/S implied, PWP
Series: TOS
Summary: Possible continuation of
Hafital's story "Au Revoir." Kirk is drunk. Cyrano Jones (from
"The Trouble with Tribbles") is willing. This is not humor.
Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek.
Hafital convinced me that this pairing could work, in its odd way.
I only claim details and dialog. This is by no stretch of the imagination
(and boy, can we stretch our imaginations!) gainful employment.
Archive: Until the third issue of
the Neutral Zine, this story was exclusive to NZ2. Now, contact me.
Notes: This is the sex scene some
were happy to be spared in the story "Au Revoir," posted to ASCEM in February
2000. Incidentally, "de rien" means something like, "It's nothing."
The epigraph below means something like, "The finest, most exquisite thing
will not be the ultimate goal."
"Au
Revoir" is archived at Hafital's
site. Yeah, read it first, I guess, unless
you are among the few and proud who could have imagined this pairing.
Thank you, Hafital, for your original story, which NEEDS NOTHING TO COMPLETE
IT. It's really terrific.
Hafital knows this story is not to be construed
as criticism of hers; thanks for that too, and for her OK to try
and see where it might have gone (outside her canon--mine too, for that
matter), and for her suggestions. And many thanks, as always, to
T'Aaneli and Islaofhope, beta-readers past compare. Reader dear,
if you're squicked despite all this advice, it's not their fault.
De Rien
(a postscript to Hafital's
"Au Revoir")
"...le fin du fin ne soit
la fin des fins."
--Cyrano de Bergerac
Open your eyes, Jim Kirk. You owe him
that much.
You knew it would be different than sex
with Spock, but you didn't realize how different. Even the touch
on your skin - had you ever felt the dimensions of Spock's hands, their
special texture? But now that the palms are rougher, the fingers
thicker, the skin not as warm, now you notice.
You open your eyes. The dizziness,
the hazy sight is alcohol. The smell of it is all around you, with
his cologne. Oh, his hands feel good as he strokes you, almost reverently,
remakes the skin that has felt dry and sad and cold, as if your whole body
were turning to stone, and now the blunt rough fingertips are teasing back
that supple, living skin you used to wear. Gratitude floods you,
and you reach for the brown hair, lapped over his flushing forehead.
Pink flush. The color seems odd. The hair is strong and thick,
not as smooth as Spock's.
His eyes are beautiful, as you told him
in the bar. Pale blue with a navy rim, and his lashes are full and
dark under the heavy brows. And now the expression in those eyes
is so tender, so sweet, so *human* that you could close yours again, or
cry, though you haven't done that since you were a child. Not much
left of the starship captain, but enough. Courage enough to look
back and let him see how his gaze moves you.
"Please," he says, all the affectation gone,
"please kiss me again." And he lifts your head and you do.
His tongue is large and wet and tastes of the drink he likes, punch... flame punch... it doesn't matter, his lips are soft and move over
yours and your head tilts back and you are drifting away. He lifts
and cradles you - everywhere is soft, like a down comforter - you remember
the cool smooth cotton in those Iowa winters, how the weight of it warmed
you.
Now somehow he's turned and you're lying
on top of him, body curved over his, the rough furry hair on his chest
and stomach and arms brushing you, his hands everywhere, in your hair,
stroking your shoulders, back, ass. You're moving, he's grasping
your waist and pulling your whole body back and forth against his.
You're taller when the two of you are standing but now you feel small,
light-limbed, like the boy you have not been for so long. Your knee
has dropped between the cushions of his thighs and his cock is hard against
your hip. You reach for him, stroke him clumsily - you can feel your
hand fumbling and it's frustrating not to be able to make it obey you.
That sureness of touch, is it gone like the ship? Gone into the past
or to Gol with the flesh you always knew how to please? Or thought
you did.
He turns again - he lays you on your back
and toys with your hair, stroking your side, your hip, just brushing your
cock. "Lovely," he murmurs, "lovely boy, do show me. Show me
what you like. Show me how you touch yourself." And it's as
if there were some drug beyond alcohol in the drinks, because you obey,
your hand moves surely and you fall into the most familiar rhythm, rubbing,
squeezing, and all the time those broad rough-skinned hands are moving
up and down your forearms and those luminous eyes are telling you that
you are beautiful, beautiful. He kisses your throat and your chest,
sucks your nipples, rubs his cheek against the smoothness where you still
use the inhibitor. His thigh is heavy on yours and he strokes
you even with his foot, the hair of his calf rasping warm but not warm
enough. You close your eyes again. His hand bumps yours, he's
pumping himself now, and his breath is loud around you, he's moving hard
against you and your own excitement is building. Almost, almost,
your hand is wet and suddenly he spasms and then you come too. Wet,
warm, not like the lava Spock used to bathe you with, scorch you inside
and out, and the memory forces a sound through your teeth that you hope
he'll take as sexual, but he doesn't - he holds you in his big arms and
says "There, there," as if you'd had a nightmare.
You let the tears come out and even that
feels good, like something you needed, as if you really were the child
he seems to pretend you are. "There, there, there." His own
voice is rough and ragged. "Sleep, sweet, my sweet, my lovely, sleep
now," and you relax slowly, completely in his arms. Yes, you can
sleep now. And you do.
**end**
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