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So Screwed

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It′s not that Jim is completely lacking in self-awareness. It′s more that he knows he′s pretty fucked up, and that thinking about why he's doing what he's doing is a sure way to screw himself over even more. Since the Academy is the first thing he′s actively let himself want in... a really long time, and since he hasn′t managed to sabotage it yet, he′s not looking at his motives too closely.

Besides, he only does it once every couple of months, and he lets Bones know when he′s taking off, so, as Bones puts it, in case Jim doesn′t make it back from one of his little walks on the wild side, Bones at least knows he should call the cops to start looking for Jim′s body. Jim feels a little bad that he lets Bones keep thinking that there′s much of a possibility of that, that he lets Bones worry that he′s off on some kind of tour of the really shady sides of the Bay Area sex scene when the reality is so much different, but if he tells Bones the truth, he′ll have to think why it is he′s doing it, and that′s a little too much honesty for the moment.

So he just quirks an eyebrow at Bones on his way out, and smirks at how Bones sighs at him, and then takes a cab not to the Tenderloin, but downtown, to where all the high-end hotels are, the ones that cater to the business crowd with a side-helping of the executive tourist types. He′s careful not to hit the same place twice in a row--he really doesn′t need the bartenders pegging him for a hooker--but there are enough options that it′s not a big deal. The only real effort he goes to is to make sure nobody will look at him and think ″cadet″; with a plain white shirt and a pair of jeans, mostly people think he′s a boring office drone, a junior exec or something, anything but accelerated Command Track at Starfleet Academy.

It doesn′t usually take too much time to find what he′s looking for; most nights, he can pick and choose, find the best possible combination of eyes and voice and attitude. It′s not a prime crowd tonight, and he has to work a little harder than usual, but it′s still not all that long before he′s got a couple of drinks on the bar in front of him, and the guy who bought them for him on the way over to take things to the next level. Jim′s a little disappointed with the guy up close; he′s a older than Jim usually looks for--closer to 30 years older than Jim--and his attitude is more blow-hard than quiet competence and confidence, but he′s still in great shape and he doesn′t blink when Jim suggests getting a room, no matter that a night in this particular place costs as much as the stipend Jim gets for a full month.

The guy wants him on his hands and knees almost before Jim can get his clothes off, which is fine with Jim; he′s not looking for romance or seduction even with the best of them, which this guy really isn′t. Jim just wants to get fucked, and the guy is good enough for that, opening Jim up with a couple of slick fingers before giving it to him fast and hard. Jim drops his shoulder down on the mattress and gets his hand on his dick, and if it′s not even remotely the best he′s had, it′s still a dick in his ass. It′s enough of what he wants that he′s fine with it, but then the guy can′t help running his mouth, all about how he knows what it is that Jim needs and he′s gonna give it to him, daddy′s gonna give it to him good, and Jim goes from yeah, fine, whatever to jesusfuckingchrist, shut UP in no time flat.

It′s all pretty standard; most of the guys he picks up assume he's got a daddy-kink--hell, if Jim′s honest, that′s what he′d thought it was, if, y′know, he′d actually been thinking about it. This guy is far from the first Jim′s heard it from, but tonight for some reason, he′s tempted to flatten the guy (which he could, no doubt about it; nobody ever takes Jim in hand-to-hand, not when he′s serious about it) and snarl that he actually had a father, one that makes this guy look like shit in comparison, even if the most Jim′s ever heard him speak is a static-filled transmission recording of the last minute of his life. BigMan is already finished, though, pulling out of Jim and heading off to the bathroom with a swagger that′s ridiculously out of place considering how quickly he′d shot his wad and how he managed to miss Jim not even close to coming.

Jim hears the shower starting up and rolls over, considering. It′s early yet; he can go hit another hotel, try again, no problem, except for how that seems like entirely too much effort. If he's honest, none of them are ever good enough--he never really gets what he wants. Something′s always not quite right, usually not to the scale that this one ended up being, but... They never fit, not with whatever it is in the back of his brain, and maybe he should figure that out before he goes off and lets some other loser fuck him.

The attitudes are always a little off, Jim thinks, rubbing his hand low on his gut, teasing at where he wants touched. Whatever it is that he′s looking for--whoever it is that he′s looking for--walks that fine line between confidence and arrogance. Maybe one or two of the ones he′s found like this have that for real, have that baseline attitude that never breaks, never cracks, no matter what. Most of them think they have it, but they′re in a dream world.

Jim traces a lazy path up over his abs, scrapes his nails over his nipples until they′re tight, and then pinches them roughly, makes them throb. Deliberately, he does it again, and once more, so that his heart is pounding and he′s starting to breathe more quickly. He doesn′t need muscles or bulk, but a little height is good, he thinks. He draws one knee up and reaches down, ignoring his dick in favor of working two fingers up inside of himself, hissing at the sudden stretch. He′s already tender and sore from being fucked, but he imagines spreading his legs and lifting his ass and taking it rough and deep, every stroke stretching him and filling him; imagines begging for it (pleasefuckmore*please*) until he can′t breathe.

The voice is never right, either, he thinks wildly as he fucks himself with three fingers, and then four. Even when he′s thought they sounded good--deep enough, strong enough--they miss what he′s looking for, what he′s craving. It′s the attitude again; he′s never really found that and it comes through in the voice, too, but that′s not all. He wants... he wants that voice, and he wants it to care.

″Fuck,″ he gasps, pushing his hand deep and twisting it so that he′s rubbing hard across his prostate. ″Fuck.″ That idiot is still in the bathroom and Jim′s fucking himself raw on the bed, thinking about a goddamned ghost, and he′s such a mess, such a total goddamned mess but he can′t stop. He fucks himself on his hand, arches up off the bed and shoves it in hard and fast, twice, three times, and then pulls out and grabs for his cock, already harder than he′s been all night, heavy and leaking and aching to be touched.

He strips it roughly, drags his nails in a spiral, base to tip, across the head; and it hurts bad enough that he can′t stop the low, animal noises spilling out of his throat, but he does it again harder, makes himself take it over and over, because he knows that voice, and it is so much worse than a random daddy kink. It′s Pike, set to captain the flagship that Jim would kill to be assigned to; Pike, thoughtful and concerned and never once taken in by any of Jim′s bullshit. It′s his hand Jim wants on his dick, his voice Jim wants in his ear telling him to take it, his cock Jim wants to ride. He pinches the tip of his dick viciously and comes in a blinding rush, jizz splattering across his belly, up his chest.

He rolls off the bed in as much of a blind panic as he′s ever been in, scrabbling on his clothes and making for the door before he can really even see. He gets to the elevator and stares at his reflection in the polished doors, his skin flushed from the orgasm still echoing through him, mouth red and swollen where he′d bitten it raw to keep from screaming Pike′s name as he came. This is why Jim never thinks about why he does what he does. This is why. The genie′s out of the bottle and Jim can′t put it back even if he could convince himself that he wants to, and he is so. fucking. screwed.