A Very Profane Christmas (A Star Trek Reboot Fanfic)
Title: A Very Profane Christmas
Author: therumjournals
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Drinking, poetry, presents, and sex.
Warnings: First-person, drinking, cursing, run-on sentences.
Word Count: 3,640 (oneshot)
A/N: For space_wrapped .
I’d seen Jim on Christmas morning before, but this year, something was…different. Jim on Christmas morning could usually be described as, well, a kid on Christmas morning, wide-eyed with delight, clapping his hands at the sight of his presents, and refusing to change out of his pajamas until well after noon. He had the pajamas on now (were those…ice-skating penguins? Where the hell did he get these things?), but instead of bouncing up and down with excitement, he seemed a bit on edge, nervous, biting his lip, glancing quickly away every time I attempted to make eye contact. To be honest, I was feeling a bit nervous myself this Christmas morning, but I’d managed to drown that out with only two or three cups of strong Irish coffee. I took a long sip and reflected on the past month. Something had changed, between us. Life on the Enterprise had been moving merrily along, business as usual, Jim getting knocked down, me patching him up, Jim teasing, me bitching, Jim flirting with the everyone, me, well, mostly just bitching. Late nights would often find us somewhere on the ship, a bottle of whiskey between us, Jim tossing back shots while I sipped mine like a true Southerner. And that was how this whole thing had started, wasn't it? Or should I say this whole non-thing, I thought with a scowl. I’d gone over the events of that night about a thousand times in the past month, so it was easy to slip into it again, trying to figure out what exactly had happened, what exactly had changed, and, fine, I might as well admit it, trying to relive the feeling of that moment that had turned my world upside down.
We’d been on the Observation Deck, which had somehow become our post-shift hangout of choice, despite my fear of, ya know, space. Which was why I insisted that we sit on the floor with our backs pressed against the wall farthest from the window, and why I spent most of my time observing anything but that terrifying star-filled blackness. Jim poured himself a shot and threw it back. I made a face at him and told him that was no way to treat a nice glass of whiskey.
"I'm sorry. Should I have taken it out to dinner first?" Jim asked me with a wink. No respect. He reached for the bottle again, and I pulled it back out of his reach. Jim scrambled to his knees and reached across me, laughing, putting a hand on my shoulder to steady himself, then curling his hand around the back of my neck as he leaned over me, grabbing the bottle easily from my hand, because, well, my body had apparently stopped working and my heart was pounding in my ears. Jim pulled back and sat down again with his back pressed to the wall, staring straight ahead, the bottle forgotten in his hand. He'd felt it too, whatever it was, I knew it. We sat in awkward silence for a few seconds before both quickly making excuses to get out of there and go our separate ways. I felt like I was staggering down the corridor, but I knew I sure as hell wasn't drunk, so why did I feel all hot, and why was I suddenly wondering whether Jim's mouth would taste like whiskey. I entered my quarters and fell onto the bed, pressing my hard-on into the mattress and trying to imagine what it would be like to have Jim's lips wrapped around my cock, and what the fuck? Jim was my friend and I swear on Scotty’s stock of contraband liquor, I had never felt anything like this before, had never entertained the thought of kissing him, of tearing his shirt off, of what it would be like to bury my cock in Jim's ass....what the fuck?! My mental analysis of the situation was only making things worse and though I’d been gripping the blankets to keep from touching myself, to keep from giving in to the random, perverted and fucking hot images flashing through my mind, finally I couldn't take it anymore. I gave up with a groan and reached down to stroke myself, hard and desperate and was this what it would feel like with Jim and fuck, I imagined it was Jim coming all over my hand and I bit my lip so hard it bled. I caught my breath and rolled over onto my back to stare at the ceiling. What the fuck?
The next day, I’d met Jim in the mess hall for our usual dinner date - dammit, why had that never sounded so ominous and so…so…romantic before? We got our food and sat down together, only we couldn't quite meet each other's eyes, so instead of gossiping and ragging on each other like we usually did, we spent most of the meal staring at our plates and attempting small talk. I remember noticing that Jim had a cut on his lower lip that looked oddly familiar - where had I seen that before? Oh yeah - that morning in the mirror. I traced the cut on my own lip subconsciously with my tongue and tried hard not to imagine Jim doing the same thing that I'd been doing the night before. Needless to say, I failed miserably, excused myself quickly from the table, and got the hell out of there.
The sound of jingling bells brought me back to reality - or, well, as close to reality as a Kirk-inspired Christmas morning onboard the Enterprise could be. The bells were attached to Gaila's wrists, which she was waving about cheerily, and it appeared that she would continue doing so for some time. Goddamn, that was annoying. I looked around for something to distract myself from my thoughts and made my way over to the punchbowl full of eggnog. I figured Jim needed something to calm his nerves and, while bourbon-spiked coffee had sure done the trick for me, Jim usually preferred a raging sugar high with his alcohol, so I poured a large festive cup of the stuff and took it over to him. Then our fingers brushed together as Jim took the cup from me, and I caught a glimpse of his electric blue eyes widening in reaction, and fuck, now my nerves were going crazy, so I decided to skip the next cup of coffee altogether and went straight for the flask. So what if it was 0900 (the latest anyone could convince the captain to start Christmas), and anyway I was sure I'd heard something about drinking and being merry.
Things had gotten slightly better in the month since the Observation Deck incident (or as I secretly called it “the spark” - very fucking secretly), but still, it seemed that whenever we were together, I found myself simultaneously fighting the urge to run away and a ridiculous need to brush up against him, or hand him something or just basically touch him as much as possible without seeming like a total weirdo, or worse, a flirt. Like yesterday - oh God, yesterday - Jim had stopped by sickbay to give me shit about something (at least there was that aspect of normality remaining). We’d spent five minutes making fun of each other, then Jim got all weird and said he'd better get to the Bridge (which, to be honest, was how most of our conversations seemed to end these days), and he’d turned to leave and I’d smacked him on the ass as he walked out the door. I cringed at the thought. It was a well known fact that Dr. Leonard McCoy did not smack people on the ass. Jim smacked people on the ass on a regular basis, or at least he had until Spock had turned around one day and nerve pinched him in response. Something about Vulcan instincts. I’d literally stared at my hand for a good five minutes after the ass slapping, asking the question I’d been asking myself on an all-too-regular basis recently - what the fuck? Maybe excessive exposure to Jim Kirk had me subconsciously absorbing his behaviors. Oh God. I took another large swig from the flask at that thought, then capped it, put it away, and turned my focus to the pile of presents that everyone was starting to gather around.
Jim was clutching his eggnog as his eyes wandered over the pile of gifts, finally spotting the one he was looking for, the one I recognized, with the tag that read "To: Captain Kirk (Jim), From: Dr. McCoy (Bones). He grinned and picked it up, throwing me a salute as he did so. I bit my lip and watched as Jim tore open the wrapping, revealing an old-looking book, the title faded but visible on the cover. I couldn't read the look on Jim's face - disappointment? confusion? - as he realized it was a book of poetry. I was suddenly possessed with a very strong urge to vomit, but instead I uncapped my flask and took another swig, squeezing my eyes shut and thinking "don't open it, don't open it, don't open it" as though if I thought hard enough I could actually control Jim's actions. And maybe I could because here was Jim, throwing an arm around me in thanks then pulling quickly away, tossing the book onto a nearby table and heading back to open his next present. I thanked God profusely and momentarily considered grabbing the book from the table and throwing it down the nearest garbage chute. Jim probably wouldn't have noticed anyway. But then I heard my name and looked over to see Scotty holding up a bottle-shaped present and waving it at me, obviously somewhat disgruntled to find that it wasn’t for him and probably hoping I would share. I took the present from him and checked the tag. Of course. "To: Dr. Bonesy, From: Captain Awesome." Ridiculous. Jim was on the other side of the gift pile, not really paying attention as I started opening the gift, so I called out to him, "Hey Jim! I'm opening your gift!" Jim looked up at me, then his eyes kinda popped out of his head and I swear to God, I have never seen anyone move as fast as Jim did then, launching himself over the pile of gifts, waving his arms and yelling at me not to open it. Obviously, I ignored him and held it up out of his reach as I pulled the wrapping off. It was a bottle of Maker's Mark, which was perfect, ‘cause my flask was running low, but apparently that wasn't what had Jim so worried, as he was staring desperately at the tag hanging from the neck of the bottle. With an evil grin, I reached up and pulled off the tag, elbowing Jim out of the way so I could read it. The tag said:
"I have another gift for you
I hope it’s not too soon
I thought we could drink this whiskey
Tonight together in my room."
My eyebrows shot up in shock and for a moment I thought something had gone wrong with the Enterprise stability controls as I swear I felt the room tilt around me. I looked at Jim and felt something inside me relax (although that could have just been the alcohol). I reached out and grabbed him by the elbow, pulled him close and whispered gruffly in his ear. "Do we have to wait 'til tonight?"
“It’s Christmas, Bones. We need to be social,” but then he must have seen something in my eyes, something he wanted, because he quickly added “for at least another fifteen minutes.”
I smiled and let go of his elbow and let myself collapse into a chair, having lost all confidence in my ability to stand. Finally, part of me was thinking, while another part was thinking, rather unsurprisingly, what the fuck.
* * *
"I can't fucking believe I wrote you a poem." Jim was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his head in his hands. We were in Jim’s quarters, it was 10:30 on Christmas morning, and I was well on my way to a pleasant level of intoxication.
"I'm just surprised you didn't decorate the card with glitter and macaroni noodles while you were at it."
"Shut up." Jim elbowed me, but he couldn’t keep a smile from his face. "What?" I was looking at him somewhat seriously, and I was about to do something very dumb.
"Open the book," I told him.
"What?"
"The book I gave you. Remember it?"
"Of course."
"Open it."
"Okay..." Jim pulled the book out of his back pocket.
"Wait." I drained my glass, poured another, and drained that one too. "Okay. Now open it."
Jim opened the cover, revealing the title page. Across the top of the page, I’d written:
“Jim, Since this is a book of poetry, I guess it’s only fitting to include a poem of my own.”
As a bright-light-of-the-morning afterthought, I’d scrawled next to it:
“(On second thought, that was a terrible idea. Please don’t read it.)”
Jim chuckled and glanced at me - at least, I think he did, but I was intently studying the bottom of my glass as if my life depended on it - before reading the rest of the page. I remembered exactly what I’d written, and thought the words as Jim read them:
“You probably think that poetry is the ‘lamest’ present ever
Which is why I’ve had this book hidden in my closet for forever
And now I feel like something’s changed but it’s always been true
That I always think of poetry when I think of you.”
When I finally got up the nerve to look at Jim, he was staring at me, his mouth hanging open a little. "Bones...."
"I was drunk when I wrote that," I said quickly.
"You're drunk now."
"So?"
"Will you write me some more poetry?"
The kid cracks himself up, he really does. I growled and tackled him onto the bed, pinning him by the shoulders. His eyes twinkled with amusement. Okay, yeah, I was drunk. But fine, if that's what it took to be able to lean down and press my lips against Jim's and, God, I'd really been planning to just do that and pull away, obviously I’d had no idea how hard that would be, but I was going to, in just a second I was going to pull away, but then Jim had a hand on the back of my head, and okay, fine, I'd just stay here for a while, letting Jim slide his tongue over my lips and then I remembered to open my mouth, and shit that was good, and if I'd thought our fingers brushing together was bad for my nerves, then holy fuck - Finally, I wrenched myself away, pushing myself up on rigid arms and staring at Jim.
"Bones? You look confused."
I was confused. I’d been confused for a month. Why didn’t Jim look the slightest bit confused? "Why do you look like this happens every day?"
" I knew this was going to happen today, that's all."
"How did you know?"
"It's Christmas, Bones. I wrote you fucking poetry. And you wrote me poetry. So I think you knew it, too."
"I don’t think I know much of anything anymore, Jim,” I drawled, falling onto my back beside him. We both stared up at the ceiling for a long moment before Jim spoke.
“What you said about…something changing…I felt it, too.”
"Ever since that-"
"Night on the observation deck?"
"Yeah."
"I know."
“What the fuck.”
“I know. You fucking slapped my ass, Bones.” Oh God. I’d known that would come back to haunt me. I debated telling him that that was probably the tamest thing I’d considered doing to him over the last month, but I think he figured that out, because then he was leaning over me and grinning and sliding a hand up my shirt and brushing his fingers over a nipple and I was writhing beneath him and making embarrassing whimpering noises. I could feel his breath against my skin as he whispered in my ear. “I liked your poem.”
I groaned. “Can we not talk about it, Jim, please?”
I might as well have asked him to give a lecture on the damned thing. “That last part…I honestly think that is the sweetest thing that anyone has ever said to me, ever. Written to me, I should say. Hell, as far as I know, it’s nicest thing anyone’s ever thought about me.”
My face was so hot, I thought it might actually burst into flames. Jim didn't seem to notice. "So, how long have you had this book in the closet?“.
I had to make him stop talking. I covered his mouth with mine and reached down to tug the ice-skating penguin pajama pants over his hips. It was so easy to touch him, to kiss him, to stroke him hard enough to make him moan, the feel of him almost familiar in my hand, as though I’d been doing this every night instead of just imagining it. Needless to say, Jim had forgotten about the goddamn poem, and was bucking into my hand, a fist in my hair, kissing my neck, and then he bit hard at my shoulder as he came, and goddamn that was hot, and I was glad I hadn’t just stuck to the imagining because I’d never even considered how hot biting could be. I’d also neglected to imagine Jim pulling my hand off his dick and bringing up to his mouth and running his tongue over my come-covered fingers as he was doing now and it was just about the hottest thing I’d ever seen. He slid two of my fingers into his mouth and sucked and I probably would have come right then if I my senses hadn’t still been slightly dulled by copious amounts of booze. Instead I just said “holy fuck, Jim,” and tried not to pass out. Jim slid my fingers out of his mouth and grinned. “Tastes like eggnog.”
“I’d prefer whiskey,” I growled, but pulled him down for a kiss nonetheless, pressing my tongue into his mouth to taste him. I lost myself in the kiss, forgetting to breathe, forgetting everything until I felt Jim’s hand slide over my ass and then around to wrestle with the zipper of my pants.
“You really need some pajama pants, Bones. Much easier to take off.”
“I don’t know. The cartoon penguins kinda kill the mood.”
“Oh yeah? Didn’t seem to bother you that much five minutes ago.”
“Will you shut up about the goddamn penguins and just touch me already,” I groaned. Look, I love playful banter as much as the next person, but if you had Jim Kirk’s body wrapped around yours, you’d understand my impatience.
He did better than touch me, moving down the bed until he was between my legs, and I saw stars just thinking about what he was about to do, so when his lips finally wrapped around my aching cock, I was done for, and Jim didn’t even have time to show off half the tricks he was known for before I was spurting into his mouth. Oh holy fuck that was amazing, a white hot flash behind my eyes, and I blacked out to the feeling of Jim’s kisses along my thighs.
“What the fuuuuuuck.” When I regained my senses I was lying on my back, half off the bed with my head perilously close to the floor. I was quite comfortable actually, though I did try to remember whether there were actual medical implications for letting all the blood rush to one’s head.
“Merry Christmas, Bones.”
“Oh fuck. What time is it?”
“Almost noon.”
“Jesus Christ. I feel so dirty. I can’t believe we fucking did this on Christmas.”
“Christmas morning,” Jim clarified. I groaned. “Although, to be fair, you were the one who started in on the booze.”
“Yeah, well, booze has always been a staple of my Christmas mornings. This, however,” I said, making a vague gesture meant to illustrate
that we were naked and sprawled on Jim’s bed, or halfway off of it in my case, “this is new.”
“A new Christmas tradition,” Jim said cheerfully.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” I exclaimed.
Jim pushed himself up onto his elbows and winked. “Literally.”
“You’re a sick, blasphemous man, Jim.”
“I’ll make a believer of you yet, Bones.”
“A believer in what? The church of Jim Kirk’s cock?”
“Over one hundred members and counting,” he said, enjoying this conversation far too much.
I reached over and swatted at him.
“Don’t worry, babe. You’re the high priest.”
“I’d better be. Wait…did you just call me babe?”
“Sorry.” He blushed. I raised an eyebrow. Was Jim Kirk actually…embarrassed? “It’s just…what I call you sometimes…in my, ya know, fantasies.”
His blush was deepening, and I really, really wanted to make fun of him, but the effect was ruined by the smile that seemed to be taking over my whole face. I finally sat up, but only so I could tackle him back onto the bed and wrap myself around him.
“So…did you call me anything…in your fantasies?” he asked, hopefully.
“Sure did, darlin’.”
Jim grinned, and we smiled idiotically at each other for a few seconds, while I reflected that, up until about a month ago, if I had imagined that I would ever be a part of something so disgustingly sappy, I probably would have just killed myself immediately. I had to bring this back into more comfortable territory. I pressed my face into Jim’s neck. "You have no idea what kinds of things I've imagined doing to you since that night.”
“Please tell me, in exquisite detail.”
“I’ll show you.”
Jim raised an eyebrow. “Will you?” He wrapped his arms around me and I was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to take a very long nap.
“Mmm-hmm. Later.”
“When?”
“Christmas night?”
“Bones?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“This has been the best fucking Christmas ever.”
I smiled into his neck. “Literally.”
(Now with a sequel - written for space_wrapped 2010: Perverse Christmas Cheer)
Author: therumjournals
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Drinking, poetry, presents, and sex.
Warnings: First-person, drinking, cursing, run-on sentences.
Word Count: 3,640 (oneshot)
A/N: For space_wrapped .
I’d seen Jim on Christmas morning before, but this year, something was…different. Jim on Christmas morning could usually be described as, well, a kid on Christmas morning, wide-eyed with delight, clapping his hands at the sight of his presents, and refusing to change out of his pajamas until well after noon. He had the pajamas on now (were those…ice-skating penguins? Where the hell did he get these things?), but instead of bouncing up and down with excitement, he seemed a bit on edge, nervous, biting his lip, glancing quickly away every time I attempted to make eye contact. To be honest, I was feeling a bit nervous myself this Christmas morning, but I’d managed to drown that out with only two or three cups of strong Irish coffee. I took a long sip and reflected on the past month. Something had changed, between us. Life on the Enterprise had been moving merrily along, business as usual, Jim getting knocked down, me patching him up, Jim teasing, me bitching, Jim flirting with the everyone, me, well, mostly just bitching. Late nights would often find us somewhere on the ship, a bottle of whiskey between us, Jim tossing back shots while I sipped mine like a true Southerner. And that was how this whole thing had started, wasn't it? Or should I say this whole non-thing, I thought with a scowl. I’d gone over the events of that night about a thousand times in the past month, so it was easy to slip into it again, trying to figure out what exactly had happened, what exactly had changed, and, fine, I might as well admit it, trying to relive the feeling of that moment that had turned my world upside down.
We’d been on the Observation Deck, which had somehow become our post-shift hangout of choice, despite my fear of, ya know, space. Which was why I insisted that we sit on the floor with our backs pressed against the wall farthest from the window, and why I spent most of my time observing anything but that terrifying star-filled blackness. Jim poured himself a shot and threw it back. I made a face at him and told him that was no way to treat a nice glass of whiskey.
"I'm sorry. Should I have taken it out to dinner first?" Jim asked me with a wink. No respect. He reached for the bottle again, and I pulled it back out of his reach. Jim scrambled to his knees and reached across me, laughing, putting a hand on my shoulder to steady himself, then curling his hand around the back of my neck as he leaned over me, grabbing the bottle easily from my hand, because, well, my body had apparently stopped working and my heart was pounding in my ears. Jim pulled back and sat down again with his back pressed to the wall, staring straight ahead, the bottle forgotten in his hand. He'd felt it too, whatever it was, I knew it. We sat in awkward silence for a few seconds before both quickly making excuses to get out of there and go our separate ways. I felt like I was staggering down the corridor, but I knew I sure as hell wasn't drunk, so why did I feel all hot, and why was I suddenly wondering whether Jim's mouth would taste like whiskey. I entered my quarters and fell onto the bed, pressing my hard-on into the mattress and trying to imagine what it would be like to have Jim's lips wrapped around my cock, and what the fuck? Jim was my friend and I swear on Scotty’s stock of contraband liquor, I had never felt anything like this before, had never entertained the thought of kissing him, of tearing his shirt off, of what it would be like to bury my cock in Jim's ass....what the fuck?! My mental analysis of the situation was only making things worse and though I’d been gripping the blankets to keep from touching myself, to keep from giving in to the random, perverted and fucking hot images flashing through my mind, finally I couldn't take it anymore. I gave up with a groan and reached down to stroke myself, hard and desperate and was this what it would feel like with Jim and fuck, I imagined it was Jim coming all over my hand and I bit my lip so hard it bled. I caught my breath and rolled over onto my back to stare at the ceiling. What the fuck?
The next day, I’d met Jim in the mess hall for our usual dinner date - dammit, why had that never sounded so ominous and so…so…romantic before? We got our food and sat down together, only we couldn't quite meet each other's eyes, so instead of gossiping and ragging on each other like we usually did, we spent most of the meal staring at our plates and attempting small talk. I remember noticing that Jim had a cut on his lower lip that looked oddly familiar - where had I seen that before? Oh yeah - that morning in the mirror. I traced the cut on my own lip subconsciously with my tongue and tried hard not to imagine Jim doing the same thing that I'd been doing the night before. Needless to say, I failed miserably, excused myself quickly from the table, and got the hell out of there.
The sound of jingling bells brought me back to reality - or, well, as close to reality as a Kirk-inspired Christmas morning onboard the Enterprise could be. The bells were attached to Gaila's wrists, which she was waving about cheerily, and it appeared that she would continue doing so for some time. Goddamn, that was annoying. I looked around for something to distract myself from my thoughts and made my way over to the punchbowl full of eggnog. I figured Jim needed something to calm his nerves and, while bourbon-spiked coffee had sure done the trick for me, Jim usually preferred a raging sugar high with his alcohol, so I poured a large festive cup of the stuff and took it over to him. Then our fingers brushed together as Jim took the cup from me, and I caught a glimpse of his electric blue eyes widening in reaction, and fuck, now my nerves were going crazy, so I decided to skip the next cup of coffee altogether and went straight for the flask. So what if it was 0900 (the latest anyone could convince the captain to start Christmas), and anyway I was sure I'd heard something about drinking and being merry.
Things had gotten slightly better in the month since the Observation Deck incident (or as I secretly called it “the spark” - very fucking secretly), but still, it seemed that whenever we were together, I found myself simultaneously fighting the urge to run away and a ridiculous need to brush up against him, or hand him something or just basically touch him as much as possible without seeming like a total weirdo, or worse, a flirt. Like yesterday - oh God, yesterday - Jim had stopped by sickbay to give me shit about something (at least there was that aspect of normality remaining). We’d spent five minutes making fun of each other, then Jim got all weird and said he'd better get to the Bridge (which, to be honest, was how most of our conversations seemed to end these days), and he’d turned to leave and I’d smacked him on the ass as he walked out the door. I cringed at the thought. It was a well known fact that Dr. Leonard McCoy did not smack people on the ass. Jim smacked people on the ass on a regular basis, or at least he had until Spock had turned around one day and nerve pinched him in response. Something about Vulcan instincts. I’d literally stared at my hand for a good five minutes after the ass slapping, asking the question I’d been asking myself on an all-too-regular basis recently - what the fuck? Maybe excessive exposure to Jim Kirk had me subconsciously absorbing his behaviors. Oh God. I took another large swig from the flask at that thought, then capped it, put it away, and turned my focus to the pile of presents that everyone was starting to gather around.
Jim was clutching his eggnog as his eyes wandered over the pile of gifts, finally spotting the one he was looking for, the one I recognized, with the tag that read "To: Captain Kirk (Jim), From: Dr. McCoy (Bones). He grinned and picked it up, throwing me a salute as he did so. I bit my lip and watched as Jim tore open the wrapping, revealing an old-looking book, the title faded but visible on the cover. I couldn't read the look on Jim's face - disappointment? confusion? - as he realized it was a book of poetry. I was suddenly possessed with a very strong urge to vomit, but instead I uncapped my flask and took another swig, squeezing my eyes shut and thinking "don't open it, don't open it, don't open it" as though if I thought hard enough I could actually control Jim's actions. And maybe I could because here was Jim, throwing an arm around me in thanks then pulling quickly away, tossing the book onto a nearby table and heading back to open his next present. I thanked God profusely and momentarily considered grabbing the book from the table and throwing it down the nearest garbage chute. Jim probably wouldn't have noticed anyway. But then I heard my name and looked over to see Scotty holding up a bottle-shaped present and waving it at me, obviously somewhat disgruntled to find that it wasn’t for him and probably hoping I would share. I took the present from him and checked the tag. Of course. "To: Dr. Bonesy, From: Captain Awesome." Ridiculous. Jim was on the other side of the gift pile, not really paying attention as I started opening the gift, so I called out to him, "Hey Jim! I'm opening your gift!" Jim looked up at me, then his eyes kinda popped out of his head and I swear to God, I have never seen anyone move as fast as Jim did then, launching himself over the pile of gifts, waving his arms and yelling at me not to open it. Obviously, I ignored him and held it up out of his reach as I pulled the wrapping off. It was a bottle of Maker's Mark, which was perfect, ‘cause my flask was running low, but apparently that wasn't what had Jim so worried, as he was staring desperately at the tag hanging from the neck of the bottle. With an evil grin, I reached up and pulled off the tag, elbowing Jim out of the way so I could read it. The tag said:
"I have another gift for you
I hope it’s not too soon
I thought we could drink this whiskey
Tonight together in my room."
My eyebrows shot up in shock and for a moment I thought something had gone wrong with the Enterprise stability controls as I swear I felt the room tilt around me. I looked at Jim and felt something inside me relax (although that could have just been the alcohol). I reached out and grabbed him by the elbow, pulled him close and whispered gruffly in his ear. "Do we have to wait 'til tonight?"
“It’s Christmas, Bones. We need to be social,” but then he must have seen something in my eyes, something he wanted, because he quickly added “for at least another fifteen minutes.”
I smiled and let go of his elbow and let myself collapse into a chair, having lost all confidence in my ability to stand. Finally, part of me was thinking, while another part was thinking, rather unsurprisingly, what the fuck.
* * *
"I can't fucking believe I wrote you a poem." Jim was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his head in his hands. We were in Jim’s quarters, it was 10:30 on Christmas morning, and I was well on my way to a pleasant level of intoxication.
"I'm just surprised you didn't decorate the card with glitter and macaroni noodles while you were at it."
"Shut up." Jim elbowed me, but he couldn’t keep a smile from his face. "What?" I was looking at him somewhat seriously, and I was about to do something very dumb.
"Open the book," I told him.
"What?"
"The book I gave you. Remember it?"
"Of course."
"Open it."
"Okay..." Jim pulled the book out of his back pocket.
"Wait." I drained my glass, poured another, and drained that one too. "Okay. Now open it."
Jim opened the cover, revealing the title page. Across the top of the page, I’d written:
“Jim, Since this is a book of poetry, I guess it’s only fitting to include a poem of my own.”
As a bright-light-of-the-morning afterthought, I’d scrawled next to it:
“(On second thought, that was a terrible idea. Please don’t read it.)”
Jim chuckled and glanced at me - at least, I think he did, but I was intently studying the bottom of my glass as if my life depended on it - before reading the rest of the page. I remembered exactly what I’d written, and thought the words as Jim read them:
“You probably think that poetry is the ‘lamest’ present ever
Which is why I’ve had this book hidden in my closet for forever
And now I feel like something’s changed but it’s always been true
That I always think of poetry when I think of you.”
When I finally got up the nerve to look at Jim, he was staring at me, his mouth hanging open a little. "Bones...."
"I was drunk when I wrote that," I said quickly.
"You're drunk now."
"So?"
"Will you write me some more poetry?"
The kid cracks himself up, he really does. I growled and tackled him onto the bed, pinning him by the shoulders. His eyes twinkled with amusement. Okay, yeah, I was drunk. But fine, if that's what it took to be able to lean down and press my lips against Jim's and, God, I'd really been planning to just do that and pull away, obviously I’d had no idea how hard that would be, but I was going to, in just a second I was going to pull away, but then Jim had a hand on the back of my head, and okay, fine, I'd just stay here for a while, letting Jim slide his tongue over my lips and then I remembered to open my mouth, and shit that was good, and if I'd thought our fingers brushing together was bad for my nerves, then holy fuck - Finally, I wrenched myself away, pushing myself up on rigid arms and staring at Jim.
"Bones? You look confused."
I was confused. I’d been confused for a month. Why didn’t Jim look the slightest bit confused? "Why do you look like this happens every day?"
" I knew this was going to happen today, that's all."
"How did you know?"
"It's Christmas, Bones. I wrote you fucking poetry. And you wrote me poetry. So I think you knew it, too."
"I don’t think I know much of anything anymore, Jim,” I drawled, falling onto my back beside him. We both stared up at the ceiling for a long moment before Jim spoke.
“What you said about…something changing…I felt it, too.”
"Ever since that-"
"Night on the observation deck?"
"Yeah."
"I know."
“What the fuck.”
“I know. You fucking slapped my ass, Bones.” Oh God. I’d known that would come back to haunt me. I debated telling him that that was probably the tamest thing I’d considered doing to him over the last month, but I think he figured that out, because then he was leaning over me and grinning and sliding a hand up my shirt and brushing his fingers over a nipple and I was writhing beneath him and making embarrassing whimpering noises. I could feel his breath against my skin as he whispered in my ear. “I liked your poem.”
I groaned. “Can we not talk about it, Jim, please?”
I might as well have asked him to give a lecture on the damned thing. “That last part…I honestly think that is the sweetest thing that anyone has ever said to me, ever. Written to me, I should say. Hell, as far as I know, it’s nicest thing anyone’s ever thought about me.”
My face was so hot, I thought it might actually burst into flames. Jim didn't seem to notice. "So, how long have you had this book in the closet?“.
I had to make him stop talking. I covered his mouth with mine and reached down to tug the ice-skating penguin pajama pants over his hips. It was so easy to touch him, to kiss him, to stroke him hard enough to make him moan, the feel of him almost familiar in my hand, as though I’d been doing this every night instead of just imagining it. Needless to say, Jim had forgotten about the goddamn poem, and was bucking into my hand, a fist in my hair, kissing my neck, and then he bit hard at my shoulder as he came, and goddamn that was hot, and I was glad I hadn’t just stuck to the imagining because I’d never even considered how hot biting could be. I’d also neglected to imagine Jim pulling my hand off his dick and bringing up to his mouth and running his tongue over my come-covered fingers as he was doing now and it was just about the hottest thing I’d ever seen. He slid two of my fingers into his mouth and sucked and I probably would have come right then if I my senses hadn’t still been slightly dulled by copious amounts of booze. Instead I just said “holy fuck, Jim,” and tried not to pass out. Jim slid my fingers out of his mouth and grinned. “Tastes like eggnog.”
“I’d prefer whiskey,” I growled, but pulled him down for a kiss nonetheless, pressing my tongue into his mouth to taste him. I lost myself in the kiss, forgetting to breathe, forgetting everything until I felt Jim’s hand slide over my ass and then around to wrestle with the zipper of my pants.
“You really need some pajama pants, Bones. Much easier to take off.”
“I don’t know. The cartoon penguins kinda kill the mood.”
“Oh yeah? Didn’t seem to bother you that much five minutes ago.”
“Will you shut up about the goddamn penguins and just touch me already,” I groaned. Look, I love playful banter as much as the next person, but if you had Jim Kirk’s body wrapped around yours, you’d understand my impatience.
He did better than touch me, moving down the bed until he was between my legs, and I saw stars just thinking about what he was about to do, so when his lips finally wrapped around my aching cock, I was done for, and Jim didn’t even have time to show off half the tricks he was known for before I was spurting into his mouth. Oh holy fuck that was amazing, a white hot flash behind my eyes, and I blacked out to the feeling of Jim’s kisses along my thighs.
“What the fuuuuuuck.” When I regained my senses I was lying on my back, half off the bed with my head perilously close to the floor. I was quite comfortable actually, though I did try to remember whether there were actual medical implications for letting all the blood rush to one’s head.
“Merry Christmas, Bones.”
“Oh fuck. What time is it?”
“Almost noon.”
“Jesus Christ. I feel so dirty. I can’t believe we fucking did this on Christmas.”
“Christmas morning,” Jim clarified. I groaned. “Although, to be fair, you were the one who started in on the booze.”
“Yeah, well, booze has always been a staple of my Christmas mornings. This, however,” I said, making a vague gesture meant to illustrate
that we were naked and sprawled on Jim’s bed, or halfway off of it in my case, “this is new.”
“A new Christmas tradition,” Jim said cheerfully.
“Oh for Christ’s sake,” I exclaimed.
Jim pushed himself up onto his elbows and winked. “Literally.”
“You’re a sick, blasphemous man, Jim.”
“I’ll make a believer of you yet, Bones.”
“A believer in what? The church of Jim Kirk’s cock?”
“Over one hundred members and counting,” he said, enjoying this conversation far too much.
I reached over and swatted at him.
“Don’t worry, babe. You’re the high priest.”
“I’d better be. Wait…did you just call me babe?”
“Sorry.” He blushed. I raised an eyebrow. Was Jim Kirk actually…embarrassed? “It’s just…what I call you sometimes…in my, ya know, fantasies.”
His blush was deepening, and I really, really wanted to make fun of him, but the effect was ruined by the smile that seemed to be taking over my whole face. I finally sat up, but only so I could tackle him back onto the bed and wrap myself around him.
“So…did you call me anything…in your fantasies?” he asked, hopefully.
“Sure did, darlin’.”
Jim grinned, and we smiled idiotically at each other for a few seconds, while I reflected that, up until about a month ago, if I had imagined that I would ever be a part of something so disgustingly sappy, I probably would have just killed myself immediately. I had to bring this back into more comfortable territory. I pressed my face into Jim’s neck. "You have no idea what kinds of things I've imagined doing to you since that night.”
“Please tell me, in exquisite detail.”
“I’ll show you.”
Jim raised an eyebrow. “Will you?” He wrapped his arms around me and I was suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to take a very long nap.
“Mmm-hmm. Later.”
“When?”
“Christmas night?”
“Bones?”
“Mmm hmm.”
“This has been the best fucking Christmas ever.”
I smiled into his neck. “Literally.”
(Now with a sequel - written for space_wrapped 2010: Perverse Christmas Cheer)