Chapter Text
2066
It is freezing in London, colder than Jim prepared himself for. Sure, he had looked at the weather reports, he had packed accordingly, but even in a three piece suit, heavy woollen dress coat, leather, cashmere-lined, gloves and a scarf, he is still cold. He could stay in the comfort of his luxurious hotel room, order himself an obscene amount of room service and avoid the cold altogether. He could drink undisturbed at the lobby bar if he preferred; there is a beautiful, mirrored chandelier hanging in the center of the room, Jim could bask in the ambience without stepping a foot outside. It's the nicest place Jim has ever stayed in his life, truth be told. Jim has kept back most of his Starfleet salary, finding very little to spend it on while out in the black. He hasn't had a family to support, no assets on Earth to maintain, he's been in a mix of Starfleet issued clothing over the last five years and rarely spent anything during his infrequent shore leaves. So he can splash a bit of cash now, if he likes, he can enjoy it.
But, he's not in London for the hotel—nice as it is. His trip is focused on something else, something that Jim suspects will be worth braving the cold for. His destination venue has already called him a car, and it is waiting right outside the hotel doors when he exits. Jim only has to face the dry, blistering cold for a moment or two before he's inside the vehicle; Jim can appreciate a nice car, soft leather interior, more than enough space to stretch his legs. It looks freshly valeted and smells like vanilla and cedar. The driver doesn't wait for an address from Jim, simply drives him through the quiet, nearly-midnight, streets until they come to a road filled with four story Georgian houses, clean yellow bricks, white columns bracketing double-doors. The car slows, and Jim sees the symbol from his invite above one of the double doors—a physical hand-written invite, calligraphy neatly swept across expensive cream card, a touch smaller than an old-fashioned telegram, embossed decoratively with gold leaf. It is a stylised roman numeral six, VI.
When Jim had first been assessing places like this, he had to investigate the meaning of the VI symbol, its significance for the venue. VI, as it turns out, is the number of the tarot card symbolising The Lovers, L'Amoureux in the original french—which is what the venue has become affectionately known as by its patrons, it's diligently selected, private members. Jim has wanted to come to a place like this for some time. Given their five year mission, he had put it off, to the back of his mind, promised himself he would deal with it once he was Earth-side again. And so he had. After all the Starfleet debriefs, after all the bureaucracy and all the necessary social events, he had done his research, chosen a venue, been interviewed, and been accepted. When the driver gets out to open Jim's door, Jim is pretty certain he's made the right choice. VI had promised discretion, opulence, and every dirty fantasy Jim has ever had in his head. There is a doorman when Jim gets to the top of the entrance stairs, he opens the door effortlessly as though he is floating, and Jim walks through, casting a look either side of him.
The foyer is ornate, refined; sultry without being tawdry, dimly lit without being drab. There is a woman standing in a pale pink lace bodysuit, the balconette style bra lifts her breasts to Jim's attention, the lace continues down her stomach, fine enough that Jim can see her naval through the material. It narrows into a v-shape as it descends, which exposes the side of her ribs and hips. Her waist is encircled by a silk ribbon of the same colour. Jim feels guilty that he's catalogued all this detail before even looking her in the eyes, before even hearing her speak.
"Jim," she says gently, like they're old friends. He is not Mr. or Captain Kirk here, just Jim. While the club have all his details on file, know more about him than perhaps Starfleet know from the interview process, the VI house staff will only ever address him by his first name, and it's likely many of them won't know any better. Being Jim feels like a relief, just a man from Iowa, back on Earth for a few months while he decides what is next in his career, just Jim. Could be anyone. "We're so pleased to have you with us," she says.
"I'm very pleased to be here," Jim returns. He is led into a cloak room, where he places his gloves, scarf, comm, wallet into a neat little velvet box, and his coat is set on a hanger. Jim notices both the box and the hanger have his initials on them which means he doesn't need a little cloakroom tag or token. The hostess tells Jim her name is Lyla, and talks him through the house rules in a manner that is thorough while not being condescending, as if she expects Jim to have already read their memo—which they sent him electronically a few weeks ago along with his acceptance note and their payment link—and she is merely discussing the formalities out of politeness. The rules make sense to Jim, no photography, hence no comms past the cloak room, no drugs, minimal alcohol, ask before touching, consent must be enthusiastic. Lyla continues to talk about privacy, discretion, cleanliness; Jim notices that the lighting is turned even lower as he follows her through another lounge area—where two women are kissing each other with a pink cocktail in their hands, Jim tries and fails not to stare, they're beautiful, they're enthusiastic, they're half-naked—to possibly the classiest changing room he's ever been into.
"Your fingerprint will open your booth, you can change if you need to, get comfortable. Or not," she says, giving Jim a genuine but professional smile. "The suit is beautiful."
"You're very kind," Jim says in that perfect diplomatic tone which five years in space has afforded him. He turns to look at his booth, a JK neatly scribed above the doorway and he really is quite impressed. He imagines those can be changed depending on the guests booked to attend on any given night, in the room he is in, there are twelve doorways, six on either side with an open space in the middle. The venue claims to host up to sixty people so there must be other rooms like this one. Jim wonders how they fit everything in, how the place can feel so sprawling and yet so intimate at once. Lyla is gone when Jim looks around. He doesn't intend to walk around half naked, the dress code is anything from refined underwear to expensive tailoring and Jim would prefer to stay towards the latter end of the scale for his first foray into the unknown. He uses his thumb to open the booth door, it's the size of a small bathroom, it has a dressing table and vanity mirror on one wall, a small sink, with a cabinet either side on the other and a small rail to hang clothing from along the third wall. Jim takes off his suit jacket, his waistcoat, his tie, he opens the top button of his shirt before he takes off his watch and washes his hands, mindful not to get his shirt cuffs wet.
That will do for now, he thinks. He can feel himself becoming at risk of stalling, of faffing about in this booth so long that he can just walk straight out and go home. Nervous energy fills him. It shouldn't, Jim knows that, Spock's logical voice reminds him that everyone is here for the same reason. The less Spockish part of Jim's brain also reminds Jim that he's had sex hundreds of times before. This isn't new and uncharted territory... until Jim reminds himself that it kind of is... that the precise point of a place like this is for Jim to work through the things he won't work through in his normal—and he blanches at the word—everyday sex life. Things like being held down and fucked until he cries. He wants something anonymous with someone who holds no preconceived notions of what Jim should or shouldn't want in bed. He wants to allow himself to have it and then walk away and not have it follow him around like a spectre, like something that could taunt him, make Captain a difficult thing for him. He exhales, looks at himself one more time. Forces himself not to be a flight risk, and leaves the booth.
As he makes his way through the house, because that is most certainly what it feels like, he realises he has no choice but to make his way upstairs. The lower ground and ground floor must all be reception, foyer, cloakroom, changing rooms, and other than that couple Jim passed, all the action is laid out across the first, second, and third floors. The first floor is a sequence of coves and nooks and small bars; it's incredibly dark and Jim feels a little more confident as he takes a glass of champagne from a waiter and is set upon by a charming young lady in a dark—Jim assumes black— strapless gown. The material of the dress is silk, and it clings to her body like a second skin, the slit that goes up the thigh allows Jim to see line of her garter; she is clearly braless, her nipples are hard, she is biting her lips when he finally looks at her face.
"I'm sorry," Jim says gently, with a smile. He's been caught, although he thinks it's the exact trap she has laid.
"Don't be," she returns. "First time?"
Jim huffs out a breath and nods.
"That obvious?"
"No," she assures him with a hot hand on his arm. "I'm here quite a lot, I would remember eyes like that."
Jim gets the distinct impression she is hoping to run whatever show unfolds between them, and Jim relaxes into the sensation. Her clipped English accent makes her sound even more bossy than she might be; he thinks about her elegant fingers around his throat, wonders whether her teeth are as sharp as her accent. Jim graces her with a bashful look and licks his lips. She wants him to be a little nervous, she's enjoying his inexperience.
"Do you have any advice, for someone's first time?" Jim asks, hopes he is suitably coy. She laughs, a rich, rumbling thing and leans in close to him, her body pressed tight to his, the wall hard against his back. He can smell her perfume, citrus and spices.
"Say yes to everything," she whispers.
"You promise I won't regret it?"
"Will you let me touch you?" She counters, despite the fact her body is curved against Jim's as though they were two strips of wet clay, entwined, almost one.
"Yes." Jim's voice is barely above a whisper. He can do what he's told, it's exactly what he wants to do. Say yes, get what he's given.
She kisses him slowly at first, tender and exploratory. Jim's reflexes make him want to hold her, want to deepen the kiss, but he squashes the feeling, tries to find what he wants in all this, what sensation he wants to follow. She encircles her hands around his wrists, her nails dig into the soft skin over his veins. She draws her mouth away from his, moves him another step back against the wall, as if he wasn't close enough to it already, and flicks her tongue over his earlobe, follows it with her teeth.
"Is this okay?" She whispers, her voice isn't hesitant in the slightest, doesn't need approval, praise, doesn't need anything that Jim knows he needs. She's asking him because she wants him to enjoy this, because she knows he wants to tell her he is.
"More than," Jim agrees and she undoes the second and third button of Jim's shirt, sucks a love bite into the base of his neck where it meets his collarbone and she must be able to feel Jim harden against her. She lets go of one wrist in order to lead him away from the more communal area, around a corner to a cove with a raised cushioned platform, not quite a bed, it's semi-circle in shape and is sans pillows but the base is comfortable when Jim climbs onto it. She straddles Jim, her dress hitching up around her waist and exposing her legs. Jim holds her hips instinctively but she resolutely takes his wrists again and holds him down, Jim could wiggle free if he had to but she's resolute, she's not playing. Besides, he doesn't have to, doesn't want to. He lies underneath her as she licks her tongue into his mouth, dragging her teeth across his lips, holding his arms almost painfully above his head. He's uncomfortable, physically, but he's rock hard and a little euphoric as they kiss, she draws back so that she is sitting up straight again.
She has a devilish spark in her eye.
"Do you just want a little bit of pain tonight, or will you beg for me?" She asks the question so primly, so eloquently that Jim feels his heart begin to race. He wants to beg, wants to beg to kiss her, to lick her, to be inside her, wants to beg for her to say no to it all, to make him desperate with want and need until he comes in his trousers like a kid. He wants her to perch over his face, use her knees like a vice over his arms, keep him from moving, from trying to touch where he's not allowed, he wants to suffocate in the wet warmth of her body.
"Please," he whispers. "Just use me like I'm nobody, like I'm just here for your pleasure."
"You are," she whispers back, a cruel twist to her voice that makes Jim moan. "I'm forewarning you. There is no guarantee of an orgasm."
Yes, Jim thinks. She unclips the skirt portion of her gown and sets it beside them, now in nothing but a silk bandeau and a lace thong, garter still in place. She undoes the buttons on Jim's trousers, he lifts his body so she can take them off all the way. She smiles at the fact he's not wearing underwear, like he made her life easier intentionally, like everything Jim has ever done to this point has been for her. She takes him in hand, teasing the base of the slit with her thumb. Jim feels hyperaware, so sensitive, she ducks down to wrap her lips around the head and Jim mewls. She chuckles as she draws back.
"You're so easy," she says, thrilled. Jim wants to chase the heat of her mouth, but she is pressing a hand into his abdomen, holding him down. She presses her nails into the skin again and with her other hand she reaches up the length of Jim's body to hook three fingers in his mouth. He sucks as ardently as he wants her to suck him and he can feel her watching him appreciating the display. She draws her hand back, spit catching on Jim's lips as she licks a stripe up the underside of his cock then lets her teeth ever so carefully chase the wet line until Jim mewls again. It feels like her teeth, her nails are everywhere, there is so much sensation, so much to keep hold of.
"Please," he gasps.
She bobs her head, two, three, four, more times, and just as Jim's hips twitch to the rhythm she stops, pulls away and bites the top of his thigh.
"No." She means it, her voice is stern, like a policewoman or a headmistress and that thought makes Jim's stomach flip flop, makes him think about canes and batons and being handcuffed.
"Please," Jim begs.
"Do not move," she says, blowing cold air over his ball sack before she continues. Jim keeps his hips still, clenches his entire lower half to avoid any movement at all. He feels a bit desperate, so turned on he can't think properly. He can hear himself begging repeatedly now, voice broken, marked by breathy hitches and whines.
Just as Jim thinks he could come, just as his body feels that wave of something wonderful she stops. She leans back, and waits for Jim to open his eyes.
"Can you do it now?" She asks, voice so commanding Jim is nodding before he really understands. "If I tell you to, can you come for me?"
"Fucking hell," Jim breathes, aching, craving.
"That is not an answer."
"Yes," Jim shudders, "please."
She jerks her hand up his cock again, squeezing the base delightfully.
"You have been very good," she says and Jim is nodding, mouthing a litany of please, please, please. "Come for me then."
She takes her hand off Jim just as his orgasm hits and he ruts into the air, coming all over himself. He is panting, he thinks she is probably smiling to herself. He can feel her fingers tracing the lines of come up his stomach and he opens his eyes.
"Regret saying yes?" She asks.
"No," Jim admits.
"Good.” She considers him for a moment, as if measuring him up for some uncertain task, before she speaks again. “I have a friend, I think you'll get a lot from him. He's here, if you wanted to continue your evening?"
She's offering him what feels like a lifeline. Jim's not done yet tonight, not done exploring and pushing his boundaries and working through all the images he has catalogued in his head over the years. It's not that Jim hasn't had kinky sex before, he has, but it's been rare that it ever felt more than surface level, playful, a tick on someone's majoritively vanilla checklist. When it has ventured into something real, Jim has always been the one in control, the one performing on his partners what he wishes more than anything someone would perform on him.
"Yes," he says, because he remembers her words from earlier. She grins at him and clips her skirt back on. Good people know good people, Jim thinks, something he remembers from a HR seminar on Starfleet's employee referral scheme.
"You didn't—" Jim is rarely lost for words but he simply gestures vaguely at her.
"That was never the aim," she says, a haughty look on her face as though she has gotten everything she wanted from this exchange. "I'm soaking, if that makes you feel any better."
Jim groans. It does and it doesn't.
"Next time, maybe," she says before she climbs off the bed. "Stay put," she orders and Jim obeys. "Take off your shirt and lie on your front," she instructs seductively as she walks away.
Of course, Jim obeys.
After a few minutes of nothing, Jim wonders if this is supposed to be a test in patience, obedience, wonders if his next supposed partner has declined, gotten cold feet, or if he's maybe just watching Jim lie there, restless. That last thought makes Jim's cock twitch. Jim feels the dip of another body joining him on the bed and it takes every bit of discipline he's not sure he possesses not to turn around. Anonymity, that's what he can have here, complete freedom, liberation.
"Do you want me to touch you?"
Jim frowns, something recognisable in the twang. Another American accent, not like his own but still familiar; faintly Southern, Jim thinks. It reminds Jim of Leonard, which he knows he should suppress. Although he's not supposed to be suppressing at the moment. He thinks of hazel eyes, tanned skin.
"Yes," Jim breathes. His voice is not deliberately quiet, but he can't bring himself to break the sensual haze he has wrapped himself in. Two strong palms sweep their way up the back of Jim's thighs, the grip is assured without being heavy handed, Jim feels the man's breath on his skin, feels the heat of the other body so close to his. When the hands travel higher, when they part Jim's arse cheeks, Jim feels exposed, trepidation and lust pool in his stomach as he waits to see what will happen next. The shock of a hot tongue inside him makes him flinch, his breath catches, he grinds forward into the material below him and realises he is hard again, his cock trapped beneath his body. Jim has been rimmed before, but not like this, not with two huge hands holding him in place, not like the man behind him is single minded in his endeavour, not as if Jim's body is something to be consumed, worshipped. When the mouth pulls away, Jim feels a smear of spit on his arsecheek and realises with a thrill the man behind him has just wiped his mouth against Jim's body, the way a messier eater might wipe their mouth on the back of their hand. It's casual, a little disregarding.
Jim hears himself whimper.
"Don't stop, please. Please, don't stop," Jim begs. He can feel precum at the slit of his cock and he wriggles to relieve the pressure. The hands on his hips tighten, holding him in place. Jim gets a bite high on the back of his thigh for his troubles and the tongue resumes, a spit slick finger joining alongside. Eventually, the tongue is replaced by a second finger and Jim can feel lips and teeth and tongue tracking a path along his spine instead.
"Stay still," his partner says, the voice is like gravel and leaves no room for Jim to argue. If he wasn't already lying down it would make his knees buckle, Jim is sure of it. "Can you take a third?"
"Fuck—yes," Jim chokes on his own words, the need that comes with them. His partner adds a third, scorching finger and Jim feels like he is being torn open, cleaved in two and set alight and it feels like every fantastic wet dream he's ever had. Jim hears more than feels the addition of spit onto his arsehole, it makes no difference, Jim is still burning delightfully, his skin prickles with goosebumps. He is overwhelmed with the sensation and he writhes and moans and presses his forehead into the bed.
"You're so tight. You take it so well. You're so good, so good at this, so good for me." Jim basks in the praise, tries to tilt his hips back to give his partner even more access, which must be desired as Jim feels himself heaved backwards, arse in the air, cock bobbing against his stomach. The addition of a fourth finger makes Jim lose his voice altogether, keening so high pitched that no sound comes out at all. He can feel tears stinging at his eyes, this is what he's wanted all along, to be so lost in everything that he doesn't know up from down, that he can't feel or know anything other than the way the other body feels behind him, inside him. Jim mourns the momentary loss of fingers, whines for contact again, doesn't care about the way the fingers at his hips feel bruising. The lube slick cock that slides inside him turns his world upside down, and the hands that were on his hips now grapple at Jim's chest, pulling him upwards so that both men are on their knees, backs straight. Jim keeps his eyes closed while the man behind him thrusts deeper, filling Jim to the brim before he pulls back, hips snapping hard, a punishing pace, force.
Jim feels a hand travel up from his chest to around his throat, it's loose enough not to be alarming but the intent is there.
"Please," Jim pleads, covering the hand with his own, asking wordlessly for more. Jim wants the pressure, he wants the thrill. The man's palm moves slightly, as if he knows exactly where his hand needs to be, Jim can feel the press of fingertips, knows they will leave red marks, but he can still heave air into his lungs, can still gasp and scream as he is fucked mercilessly. The hand travels over Jim's jaw, slips two fingers in Jim's mouth to suck, and he does, he sucks them like he would suck a cock and the answering moan from the man behind him is enough to send Jim over the edge, enough to have him almost spilling his load for a second time without his cock even being touched.
"You're perfect," the man whispers, pressing open mouthed kisses and bites along Jim's shoulder, up his neck, under his ear.
"Please," Jim pants, doesn't even know what he's begging for now, just wants everything, wants this man to ruin him.
He must get the picture because he pushes Jim down again, holding the back of his neck and keeping his face pressed down, he uses his other hand for leverage and thrusts his body into Jim with a determination Jim has never been on the receiving end of.
"Can I come?" Jim urges, he can feel it building whether they like it or not. "Let me—fuck, please let me."
"Yes, darlin', come." It's an order, one Jim needs to react to immediately. Doing what he's told, like this and not by Starfleet, is the best feeling in the world, the easiest thing in the world. He feels the man's forehead on the centre of his back. He's not sure if it's his own sweat or his partner's he can feel. Jim is boneless under the other man, though he feels like he's even more aware of everything now, like the trance has been cut through and he can hear the slap of their bodies, feel the roll of the hips behind him, he feels like he can taste the other man from the smell of his cologne in the air, sandalwood and bergamot and—wait, darlin'... huh, that's really familiar, that's—
"Bones?"
Although Jim doesn't have the courage to look round, and the other man doesn't immediately say anything in response, the stutter of his hips, the way he rips his cock from Jim's body and huffs a surprised, panicked noise, gives him away completely. Leonard's fingers turn so gentle on Jim's skin before they disappear completely.
"Don't—" Jim wants to say don't stop but realises he can't. This is not the anonymity he wanted, this is not what he signed up for. This is Leonard McCoy, this is his Chief Medical Officer, a senior Starfleet officer, his subordinate, his friend of a decade, his best friend. He can feel Leonard, stock still behind him, slow puffs of breath hitting the back of Jim's neck. Leonard carefully rights them so they're kneeling on the bed facing each other. Leonard's lips are swollen from the way he's been—for lack of a better word—mauling Jim and his pupils are still blown wide with lust, Jim can see that even in the low lighting. Jim wonders how he himself looks, hair a mess, face red, covered in his own come; the thought of what he might look like to the right person, the way that might make someone want to smear their fingers through it and wipe it on Jim's cheek, down his lips, makes Jim's body thrum like he's filled with electricity. But Leonard is not the right person, no matter what they have just shared, he could never be that.
"I don't really know what to say." Jim has to break the silence, can't cope with the way Leonard's erection still hasn't flagged. Another person Jim has cheated out of an orgasm tonight.
"I'm so sorry," Leonard says, voice rough, the Southernness of his accent deepens like hot honey, and it is so clearly Leonard Jim doesn't know how he didn't recognise it before, or why Leonard decides to try and mask it in places like this. Jim hates that he has apologised, hates what it implies, like Leonard is the one who has done wrong to Jim, not like they were equal participants.
"You haven't done anything wrong," Jim assures him. “We didn’t know, so we didn’t do anything, you know—“
“Wrong?” Leonard supplies.
“Exactly. We just—stop now and then go home and then forget about it.”
“Right,” Leonard says, and Jim thinks he can see a flash of regret in his eyes. Jim thinks about the source of it, the fact they’ve just had sex… or the fact that they have stopped. Jim can’t quite pin it down. It flickers away and Leonard looks up at Jim, right into his eyes. “Why were you here tonight, Jim?”
“Uh, same reason as you I guess. To get out of my head.”
Leonard nods, understanding.
“And how are you doing with that?”
“Bones, please—“
“You came to London for this, so did I. We submitted applications for this. And, I don’t know about you but—but it was working for me until about 60 second ago.”
“I don’t do it for you, Bones?” Jim can’t help but tease, it’s natural to him, to them. It’s easy as everything else has been for them tonight.
“You know what I mean, Jim.”
“So what are you proposing?”
“What if we just—continued, just for tonight.” Leonard pauses, runs a hand through his hair and a curl falls onto his forehead. Jim watches it catch on the sweat of his brow and is mesmerised, has the strangest compulsion to sweep it back into place. “What if we were just Leo and James and we didn’t really think much past that?”
“Leo and James,” Jim repeats, voice raspy, not Bones and Jim.
“If you like.” Leonard doesn’t phrase it as a question, for which Jim is grateful. Jim thinks about the proposition, just one night, just fulfilling the needs they both came here to fulfil—needs that are seemingly complimentary. While Jim hasn’t overtly thought of Leonard in this context before, it’s not a disgusting idea, it doesn’t completely turn Jim off. Sure, they have always been friends before anything else—best friends, for the last ten years—which means no matter how good looking Jim can admit Leonard is, it has never, could never, amount to anything else, anything romantic or sexual or intimate. And yet now that Jim knows first hand what Leonard is working with, knows how he moves and talks and knows there is the potential for more, for even more deviancy, filthiness, for even more of all the things Jim has craved so badly over the last few years, Jim cannot say he is not temped.
Jim reaches out to tuck the errant hair off Leonard’s forehead and Leonard’s hand shoots out to grip Jim’s wrist before his fingers can brush against his face. They’re both panting, Leonard is still half hard and so close to Jim. Jim focuses on the feel of fingertips on his skin, remembers how they felt on his throat, his hips, inside him.
“Just for tonight,” Jim agrees.
Chapter Text
This isn’t exactly how Leonard had expected his night to go. When he had heard about VI from someone he had slept with a few years ago, the prospect of an exclusive, highly discerning sex club intrigued him. Leonard supposed it played into his gentile, refined upbringing, allowed him to clash his desire for a sophisticated, intelligent, elegant partner with his more primal desire for a partner as kinky as he was. Leonard had wanted for so long to find someone who wanted him to command them, hurt them, tease them, praise them, make them beg until they cried. The list was endless, it was greedy, and Leonard had struggled to fulfil those needs while tending to a starship full of people or trying to survive his gruelling Academy schedule before that. He had promised himself that once he was back on Earth, once he had more than a few days to himself, he would make good use of it, would flex some of the muscles that had gone unused since the beginning of his and Jocelyn’s relationship, before their marriage went to hell and the sex—of any kind—stopped altogether.
Sure, Leonard has been with people casually here and there since. It’s hard to juggle relationships in Starfleet though; there is the chain of command, the ethics, there is the fact that someone might not trust their doctor if they knew how much of a sadist that doctor was. Is. Current situation as case in point. Jim has asked to continue the charade, for which Leonard is grateful. It’s not that he has had the hots for Jim before this point necessarily, but he’s just had his tongue buried in the man’s body, followed by his fingers and his cock, and it has changed Leonard’s perspective on things where Jim is concerned.
Jim has gone from not really on his radar as a sexual interest to the only thing of sexual interest on Leonard’s radar. In fact, Leonard’s radar is no longer functioning properly as it can now only point out Jim. Jim, whose eyes are bright blue and searching, so unsure of himself, so desperate for Leonard to lead them through this patch of turbulence. Leonard wouldn’t have guessed this would be their dynamic, if he’d ever thought about it. Jim is confident verging on arrogant with the people he pursues for sex, and while Leonard knows that is ninety percent a veneer, that Jim is in fact diligent and careful and thoughtful when it comes to those he loves, Leonard also assumed that the ten percent that wasn’t just for show would still make him bossy as all hell and cocksure in the bedroom.
And maybe he is, maybe he has been, maybe this is exactly for Jim what it is for Leonard, the chance to just let go, not overthink, not curate, not weave the acceptable story, just be exactly what he is and feel exactly what he wants to feel.
“Leo?” Jim breathes, pulling Leonard out of his thoughts. He realises quickly that he can’t lose this, can’t give up the chance to undo Jim, to wreck all his purposefully built defences and hear him scream. The thought makes Leonard shiver.
“Lie back,” he instructs, and Jim does so in a fluid, graceful movement. It takes Leonard’s breath away. “You are perfect,” Leonard repeats, even more true now than it had been earlier. Leonard looks over Jim’s torso, there is come drying on his skin, in the patch of stubble over his cock. “You’re a mess, James,” he continues as though he is engaging in an exercise of say what you see.
“Leo, please,” Jim whispers, urging Leonard to do anything but look too closely at him. Leonard watches Jim turn his face away slightly, he understands this, understands the tinge of embarrassment, the hesitation.
“Don’t you dare hide from me,” Leonard counters, gripping Jim’s chin in his hand to force Jim to look at him. He lets his nails press crescent-shaped indents into Jim’s skin before he drags him forward into a painful kiss, where he sucks and bites Jim’s lips, sticks his tongue into Jim’s mouth in a debauched show of dominance. Jim melts into him, takes everything Leonard has to give him, squirms and writhes and rubs himself against Leonard as Leonard continues their kiss. “You’re such a slut,” Leonard realises at the same time Jim hisses deliciously as Leonard fists a hand in Jim’s hair, he pulls, the way a girl he once dated had shown him to pull. Not pinching at the strands but gripping the hair at the root, it's not a pain Jim will wince away from, it’s a deep, ebbing pain that Leonard hopes will anchor Jim.
If Leonard is half right about this, about what is being exchanged here, he suspects Jim needs a lot of pain, a lot of excuses to beg, a lot of things that overwhelm him, get him out of his head—as he’d said in his own words—and then a whole lot of adoration, approval, affection. He wants to be a good boy and Leonard will make it so. Leonard sticks his fingers back into Jim’s mouth, revels in the way Jim’s lips part obediently, is almost choked at the sight of Jim’s cheeks hollowing out as he sucks the digits like his life depends on it, his eyes rolling back in his head as Leonard’s other hand reaches between them to rub over Jim’s red, swollen hole. Leonard fingers him until he is fully hard again and when Jim has sucked Leonard’s fingers until they are almost numb from the sensation he pulls them away, turns Jim onto his side, and climbs around him so his crotch is level with Jim’s face.
Jim takes Leonard’s cock in his mouth eagerly, he is sloppy and enthusiastic and a complete mess. Leonard says as much and Jim whines, makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat and holds his hands on the back of Leonard’s thighs to encourage him to go deeper, to nudge his cock past the tight ring of muscle at the back of the throat until he gags and chokes and gets right back to the task. Leonard places the palm of his hand on Jim’s throat and can feel his cock ripple inside it, can feel the way Jim swallows around him, spit slick on his chin and down his neck.
Leonard watches as Jim lets him fuck his face with a joy Leonard has never seen in partner while performing fellatio. So Leonard spits in his hand and wraps it around Jim’s cock and Jim bucks into Leonard in the opposite rhythm to how Leonard is thrusting into him. After a few minutes, when Leonard is so close to coming he wonders if he’s got enough strength to stay on his knees, Jim puts his hand over Leonard’s in a wordless plea. If he continues, Jim will come. Leonard doesn’t think Jim’s allowed to come quite yet, he’s still one in front after all. So Leonard squeezes the base of Jim’s cock and moves his hand lower instead, dipping his spit slick fingers back into Jim. He doesn’t really move them, just presses into Jim’s prostate, fingers crooking as if it’s the only way Leonard can keep hold of Jim, the only way they can stay tethered together.
Leonard watches his fingers disappear onto Jim, watches his cock disappear into Jim.
“You’re filled up with me, darlin’,” he murmurs, using his free hand to hold Jim’s head in place as he gets just the right angle. “Both your holes, does that turn you on?”
Jim makes a strangled noise, opens his eyes to look up through his lashes at Leonard. They’re wet. Leonard comes so hard he thinks he might go blind. Jim just takes it, takes the way Leonard shudders into the back of his throat, swallows obediently and lets Leonard kiss the taste of himself out of Jim’s mouth. Leonard lets Jim have a moment's reprieve, a moment to come back to himself slightly before he asks: “do you want to go upstairs and put on a show, or do you want to come back to my hotel?”
Jim is probably wondering, why not both? But if he is, he doesn’t say as much, just lets his mouth part, blinking slowly, looking like the innocent teenager that he’s not. His brain is whirring to figure out the right answer, to play out the scenarios, Leonard hates the torture he is putting himself through trying to get things right, trying to behave as expected—Leonard will control the torture levels and this psychological ping pong is not part of the program. Leonard puts his hand up to Jim’s throat again, a barely there touch but just enough to bring Jim back to him, to let Jim shed the skin of presumption and hierarchy and just be.
“Your hotel please,” Jim says quickly, looking hopeful, eyes big and blue and startling even in the dark light of the playroom.
Leonard knows exactly how he needs to play this, he needs to lean into Jim’s uncertainly—not because of the outside stuff, the stuff they are resolutely parking, but because this is also part of Jim’s fantasy, to be led and guided and reassured.
“I want you to go back to your changing room, shower, get dressed, don’t bother putting on anything that isn’t necessary for common decency and I’ll meet you outside. I’ll have a car waiting, take as long as you need.” Leonard's voice is warm, firm, and he knows by the way Jim nods along almost automatically that he will be listened to.
“There will be a cock ring in your booth, put it on and I’ll pay the charge,” Leonard adds, and Jim bites his lip, trying to hold back a moan. “Do not touch yourself aside from that. Do you understand, James?”
Jim nods.
“Use your words,” Leonard encourages.
“Yes, I understand.”
Leonard watches Jim pick up his shirt and his trousers and walk away from their little cove. He thinks about what he wants to do to Jim once they get back to his hotel room. He can’t believe he is still so turned on, that the pause in their activity hasn’t managed to break the spell they have cast between them.
Pamela is sitting at the bar with two gentlemen when Leonard walks past towards his own changing rooms.
“Did you enjoy him?” She asks, smirking as though she can see the answer painted all over Leonard’s face. Leonard has been to this club four times in the last three months that the crew has been Earth-side and she has been there every visit. While they’re not sexually compatible, they have a scarily similar type; they had even shared a partner on Leonard’s last visit.
“You know that I did,” he admits.
“Want to play with a few more lovely gentlemen?” She asks, as if the two said lovely gentlemen are not even in the room.
“No, I have to get going.”
“See you soon, I hope,” she calls after him.
Leonard showers and dresses in record time, thanks Lyla for a wonderful evening, lets her know that Jim will be joining him in his car home. She smiles at him knowingly and tells Leonard not to worry, that she will see Jim out to the car herself once he is ready.
It is only a few minutes later when Lyla—now donning a brown fur coat—leads Jim out of the house and down the steps to the car. Behind them, the doorman has a suit bag—filled with the articles of clothing Jim has decided to forgo putting back on, Leonard assumes—which he puts into the trunk of the car as Jim gets into the passenger seat beside Leonard. No one says anything on the short drive back to Leonard's hotel, he's glad that he decided to stay somewhere close to the venue, relieved that not too many moments have to stretch between them, unwinding the strands of the illusion they have carefully tried to weave.
Leonard gets out of the car first, and Jim shuffles along the seat to get out the same side as him, onto the pavement. Leonard takes Jim's hand instinctively to help him out of the car and Jim looks a little surprised at the gesture before he offers a small smile, the kind of smile that makes Leonard's knees weak. Leonard presses a possessive hand to the base of Jim's back, thanks the driver, and manoeuvres Jim into the hotel, through the lobby, into the elevator. The urge to kiss Jim, despite the mirrors surrounding them as they go up floor by floor, exposing them, is overwhelming, and Leonard pushes his body against Jim's, crowding him into the corner of the elevator and pressing their lips together. Leonard's hands find the inside of Jim's coat, trying to untuck his shirt to touch the warm, soft skin its covering. Jim makes a startled noise at the back of his throat which Leonard simply swallows, uses it to motivate him further, yanking at Jim's shirt tails and running his hands up Jim's body.
The ding as they reach their floor is frustrating, and Leonard bats his hand back to the control pad to hold the door open, not wanting to break contact with Jim just yet. When they do eventually pull apart, a thin string of spit snaps between them and Jim leans forward to follow Leonard's mouth, pouting that the kiss has come to an end. Leonard wipes his thumb across Jim's lips and threads their fingers together to lead him down the hallway to his room. When Leonard taps the key card to the reader and the door clicks open, he pulls Jim inside and shoves him right up against the door as it closes with a thud.
"Tell me what you want," Leonard demands, voice rough. He grunts against Jim as he presses his hard-on into Jim's hip, holding Jim against the door with an immovable grip on his biceps. Jim doesn't stay a word, turns his head, offers his neck to Leonard, but that isn't enough now. To bite and scratch and bruise is not enough now they're in the confines of the hotel room, he wants Jim to feel it deeper, wants Jim to get what he needs in that dark little place he's been concealing all these years. Leonard is starting to understand; he sees Jim, vulnerable in his want to do the right thing, to be a good Captain to his crew, to save everyone he comes into contact with... he understands it now. The world sees it as leadership, authority, command—and on a working day to day, they're almost right—but it's also service, devotion, sacrifice. It's all those things but it's so tightly controlled, Jim can never let go, never miss a step, everyone looking to him for answers, for direction, for reassurance. In bed, with Leonard navigating him through things, Jim can just be Jim, no one else to worry about. Leonard can see it now, clear as anything, Jim wants to be used up, wants to bend, to yield, to be pushed to every limit he thought he ever had and ask for more. It's so Kirkian, so obvious.
Leonard still needs to hear Jim say it.
"James," Leonard prompts, leaning forward to gently kiss Jim's cheek. Leonard can feel Jim's heartbeat against his chest. He doesn't want Jim to be embarrassed, he doesn't care if Jim needs to play shy or uncertain or even afraid, but he doesn't want Jim to hide this part of himself.
"Break me into pieces," Jim whispers, turning to look Leonard in the eyes.
"Will you beg for me, James?"
Jim nods, barely, and then follows it with a soft but clear yes.
"Will you cry for me?"
Jim bites the inside of his mouth and closes his eyes. Leonard doesn't think he's gone too far, doesn't think he's missed the mark, so he waits.
"Yes," Jim agrees. "Make me." It is not a cocky retort, it is a request, a supplication.
"Take off your clothes and go and kneel on the floor by the window," Leonard instructs. He watches as Jim diligently carries out the tasks, folding his clothes neatly and draping them over the back of a chair. The cock ring, in place as instructed, keeps Jim hard, standing proud to attention, cock bobbing as he moves to kneel in front of the floor to ceiling window on the far side of the room. They are fifteen floors up and it is still dark out, the room itself only illuminated by a small reading lamp on the nearside of the bed. Leonard looks at Jim, kneeling side-on to the window, something so alluring about Jim's pale body laid bare in front of the glass. Does it thrill Jim too, the thought that people might see him high up in the window, nude, on his knees, waiting so obediently for Leonard?
"You're so good," Leonard says, slowly walking towards Jim. He sets the room's speaker to play white noise and picks up a silk scarf from his suitcase. He shows it to Jim before he steps behind him and places it over Jim's eyes, tying it behind his head. He hopes the sensory deprivation brings Jim close to getting out of his head, helps the last of those inhibitions fall away. Leonard sets a hand on Jim's shoulder and rocks him back and forth with some force, wanting to see how steady Jim is on his knees, what he can take. Jim's back remains ramrod straight, his legs do not falter and Leonard's chest clenches, lust and pride mingling.
"No means no, and yes means yes," Leonard reminds; he needs Jim to have an exit strategy if he wants it. "Do you understand?"
"I understand. Yes," Jim says pointedly. "Please don't stop."
The sound of Leonard's hand against Jim's arse cheek cuts through the white noise, the impact of it leaves a red handprint on Jim's skin and Jim makes a guttural sound low in his throat, something between a purr and a groan. The sharp clapping sound as Leonard continues keeps him harder than he thought possible. He watches Jim's erection too for any sign he should stop, but there is none. So Leonard spanks, pauses, stares at Jim for his reaction, waits until Jim gives the slightest gesture—the smallest incline of his chin to the side or the tilt of his arse back towards Leonard—and then continues. After the fifth or sixth spank, Jim starts to loosen, un-bunches the muscles in his thighs, lets himself rock forward with the impact. Jim has been so good to keep his hands still on the front of his thighs, but Leonard watches as his hands turn into fists like he needs something to hold onto. Leonard unties the blindfold and Jim doesn't flinch.
"Lean forward," Leonard says. "On all fours."
Jim obeys effortlessly, folding his body into position and scrubbing his nails through the plush carpet beneath his fingers. Leonard slaps him six more times, three on each cheek, and Jim's resolve cracks, he whimpers. A tear slips down his cheek, followed by another.
"Yes," he breathes, "yes, yes, yes."
And so Leonard flips Jim onto his back, takes the small bottle of lube he had left on the bedside table and slicks a hand over his dick. He holds Jim's thighs against his stomach and pushes into Jim without preamble. Jim clutches at Leonard's arms, his shoulders, he tries to reach around to the backs of Leonard's thighs to urge him on, encourage him deeper. Leonard tries to keep a sensual, timely roll of his hips, not ramming into Jim like he had earlier but trying to angle himself to find all the places inside Jim that make him sing... and he does. He moans and mewls and careens his pelvis upwards to meet Leonard's thrusts, back arched obscenely off the floor, Leonard can't help but kiss every inch of Jim's skin that he can reach. Then Leonard pulls Jim up so that he's practically sitting in his lap, wraps his arms around Jim's body and thrusts upwards. Jim clings to Leonard, mouths a wet kiss into his shoulder and threads his hands in Leonard's hair, that need to hold something, to feel something in his hands. Leonard doubts Jim can come like this, trapped by the cock ring, but Jim hasn't asked to come, maybe doesn't want this to be over in the way an orgasm might make happen.
The thought makes Leonard spiral, makes him want to know what will happen, to know what has changed between them and how far they could take this.
Leonard reaches between their bodies and fiddles with the cock ring, pulling Jim free of it and wrapping a hand around him instead, when Leonard looks at Jim again he can see the drying tear tracks down his cheeks and he kisses them, licks his tongue into Jim's mouth and tries to move in long, achingly slow strokes, matching his hand to that pace.
"You're a fucking tease," Jim hitches, breath caught like he is still crying.
"I want you to feel good," Leonard whispers, "I want you to have everything, so perfect, like you are."
"This is perfect, this is ever—fuck, Bones please."
And the levee breaks, the line they had drawn in the sand between each other is washed away and Leonard fucks into Jim with everything he has left, his abdomen and thighs screaming at him under the tension as he drives into Jim. Jim sounds like a porn star the way he moans, and Leonard wants to bottle the sound.
"Can I come?" Jim implores. "Please let me come."
"Yes, darlin'. Yes, Jim. Come."
Leonard feels his own orgasm course through his body and he rides through it, holding onto Jim tightly until they are both panting and slack. Jim can't really move off of Leonard without help gracefully and so Leonard eases them onto their sides, holding Jim until they are both settled on the floor in less of a heap.
"I need to shower," Jim says, sounding distant.
"I'll come with you."
"You don't have to," Jim assures, holding the bed to get up, his ankle clicking as he takes a step away from Leonard.
"What if I wanted to?" Leonard's voice phrases it as though it were an offer when really he knows it is a plea, that he is seeking permission. Jim has been as honest as he can be with his body all night, he has shown every inch of his submission, his obedience, his pain. Leonard wants to give him a little honesty in return. "What if a part of this, for me, is the aftercare, is washing your body and making you tea and doting on you until the morning."
"It is the morning, Bones," Jim says gently, the clock reads almost six.
"Tomorrow morning then," Leonard says.
Jim turns back to look at Leonard, a hint of confusion in his eyes.
"I don't think I can come again," Jim teases, although his voice is a little unsure, a little hollow.
"Let me look after you."
"I fly back to San Francisco at noon," Jim begins. "I can't take this back with me, Bones."
"I know," Leonard promises, nodding like he understands although he doesn't really. Doesn't know why Jim couldn't come to him stateside if he needed to, why Jim couldn't knock on his door in medbay on their next five year mission if he needed to.
Jim holds out his hand to Leonard, who stands up to take it and walks behind Jim to the ensuite. The shower is room enough for four people, let alone two, and Leonard sets the temperature, waits for the water to get hot, guides Jim under the spray and lathers soap onto his body. He washes Jim from the crown of his head to the base of his feet, stopping only once to kiss a sore looking love bite at the top of Jim's thigh; he's not sure it was even him who gave Jim the mark, but he will claim it as his own anyway. Jim watches Leonard with a detached, curious look and doesn't pull away when Leonard's lips touch his skin. He seems calm, as far as Leonard can tell, he isn't shaking, his pulse feels even, his breathing is deep and slow. Leonard wishes Jim would say something, give Leonard even a small heads up about what he's thinking, feeling, but Jim just holds his various body parts out to Leonard obediently and lets himself be scrubbed clean.
Leonard doesn't bother to wash himself, he gets wet under the spray second-hand and towels himself dry before he refocuses on Jim, pulling a big fluffy white towel off of the pile and wrapping it around Jim's shoulders, drying him in sections, hyper aware of the red raw skin of his backside.
"Is it sore?" Leonard asks. He knows the answer but he needs to hear Jim say it.
"Yes," Jim admits, his cheeks turn pink like a drop of red dye in water, spreading over his face and down his neck.
"Will you let me see?"
Jim frowns then, and Leonard can see that some part of him wants to retreat. He pushes past it, he's letting them have until noon. He nods and sets the towel on the counter before walking back into the bedroom. He lies stomach down on the bed and Leonard is surprised at how dark the reddening of his skin has become. He settles between Jim's legs with a small tube of ointment and slowly, gently, rubs it into Jim's skin. It won't really stop the bruising but it will soothe the heat radiating from the skin and numb Jim a little bit. He's got to spend hours sitting on a shuttle back to the US and his arse will be aching.
Leonard begins absent-mindedly tracing his fingers over the patterns of handprints, welts, that have formed, trailing down to Jim's thighs and tickling the sensitive skin behind his knees.
"Bones," Jim says softly, and moves to turn around so he is lying on his back and Leonard's head is suddenly right beside Jim's groin. Jim doesn't seem bothered at all, in fact, he seems a little calmer with this intimacy than he first had when Leonard suggest they shower.
"Jim," Leonard returns, looking up Jim's body to his face.
"I'm going to get a promotion to Vice Admiral," Jim begins. "I'm not going back on the Enterprise at the end of the year."
"You never said before." Leonard is a little hurt by that; they're best friends, he should know this sort of thing about his best friend, his Captain.
"You never mentioned you were a raging sadist before," Jim counters.
"Changing the subject?"
"Mingling them," Jim counters.
"How do you mean?" Leonard asks.
"I know we said maybe just for tonight, or today, or whatever the time is... but I trust you Bones, I trust that maybe you can get this side of me without confusing it with anything else. I wanted to back off, when I realised it was you it terrified me, and then I thought... well, logically, if you like what you do to me, and I like what I do to you, then isn't that kind of symmetry?"
"Logically, Jim? You mean like if Spock were talking?" Leonard smiles and sets his cheek on Jim's thigh. "I guess you could call it symmetry, or, or a harmony."
"Yeah," Jim agrees. "Harmony. That's how I felt, all night, from the moment you asked me if I wanted you to touch me. I was aching for it, and then it was you, Bones. It should have ruined it, made it awkward and humiliating but it didn't. You gave me everything I needed tonight, I feel like I can go back into the world again. Like I see better, hear more clearly. Does that make any sense?"
Leonard nods, what he feels is different, but what Jim is saying makes sense on a basic personal level.
"I want to be a safe place for you Jim, like always, kind of."
"You are, you have been. I won't promise you a little house on the prairie, I don't care about monogamy or traditions or having a nuclear family, but I do care about you, and I like this. And maybe we can be Jim and Bones still with this as a new part of what that means?" Jim suggests, observing Leonard's reaction.
"I think you're going to give me an aneurysm," Leonard says, smiling.
"Nothing I want to do with you in the next few hours is going to lower your blood pressure."
"And you mean it?" Leonard asks. "You don't care that I'm rough and possessive and mean?"
"I think it's in you to be meaner," Jim admits, licking his lips. "I liked it when you called me a slut."
Leonard thinks he might look like one of those old fashioned cartoons with the wide-eyes and the bright red cheeks and the little stars and love hearts popping around his head. He grits his teeth and drops his forehead onto Jim's thigh, groaning.
"You are a fucking slut," he mutters, can't bring himself to look Jim in the eye for fear of what he'll do. Leonard feels Jim card his hand through his hair and revels in the gentle scratch at the nape of his neck.
"Don't get shy now," Jim says, yawning.
Leonard yawns reflexively and looks up at Jim.
"We should sleep," he begins. "Move your shuttle to next week, stay here with me."
"A dirty week away?"
"Filthy," Leonard promises. "I'll show you mean."
Jim picks up his comm from the bedside table and Leonard watches him click through the automated booking system to move his reservation. Leonard smirks up at Jim who smirks right back at him.
"You better."