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 on Geocities. 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")
Open your eyes, Jim Kirk. You owe him that much."... le fin du fin ne soit la fin des fins."--Cyrano de Bergerac
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**