“You wanted to see me, Professor Kirk?”
When Jim raises his head from the murky depths of panicked undergraduate word vomit that constitutes the new carpeting on his desk, he’s treated to the faintly blurry yet eminently attractive sight of Leonard McCoy loitering warily in the doorway to his office. His broad shoulders are hunched up and his hands are crammed into the pockets of his patchy, frayed jeans. McCoy’s generous mouth is caught in a sort of unfamiliar twilight phase between disinterest and distaste, the corners of his lips turned down as he apparently does his absolute damndest not to outright scowl. He’s head-butting that personal task right in the face with epic amounts of fail; he already seems well on his way to blistering infuriation even though he’s barely even crossed the threshold yet.
All in all, Jim’s only set eyes on him for thirty seconds and he’s immediately been made painfully aware of what McCoy thinks of Jim, Jim’s class, and probably Jim’s face, hair, clothes, and general existence while he’s at it.
“Yeah, c’mon in, Leonard,” replies Jim, trying hard for a friendly smile to rival McCoy’s stormy countenance. He sets down his pen and slips his reading glasses off his face, folding the chunky black plastic arms and setting them down on top of the sad pile of papers he’s grading.
Like a man headed to his sure-to-be torturous death, McCoy reluctantly crosses from the doorway to the squashy orange armchair opposite Jim’s desk with spare, self-conscious movements. McCoy has only been in Jim’s class for a few weeks, but Jim’s already observed that the tall man carries himself awkwardly, as if he’s constantly ill at ease, his body full of tension or stress. He sinks down into the oft-repaired, over-stuffed chair, folding his long, lean body down into a natural hunch, his hands folded into his lap, and then frowns pointedly at the corner of Jim’s desk rather than look Jim in the eye.
There’s a brief but profoundly uncomfortable silence.
Jim just looks at McCoy, who in turn stares down individual pieces of furniture in the room.
“Your midterm,” prompts Jim, agonized into speaking, and McCoy startles suddenly, muttering oh yeah under his breath and pulling a crumpled exam booklet out of his pocket and setting it on the desk between them.
From here, Jim can see his upside-down handwriting in red ink—the mark of 65% circled on the top right, with ‘see me’ scrawled beneath it.
McCoy doesn’t seem inclined to say anything, now having turned his gaze to the incredibly deceased potted ex-plant sitting on Jim’s windowsill, so Jim represses an explosive sigh and reaches forward for the exam, flipping to the last page, where there’s more red than black ink.
“Let me read out a good example of where your problem lies, Leonard. Okay. ‘To conclude’,” recites Jim, clearing his throat, “‘Victor Frankenstein is a selfish, amoral, meddling prick of a coward, completely bereft of a single compassionate bone in his entire poor excuse for a body. I’ve seen more redeemable examples of humanity scraped from the bottom of my shoe.
“In her rambling, over-the-top treatise on the dangers of the pursuit of knowledge, Shelley attempts to create a scenario where Frankenstein’s act of creation destroys all which he holds dear, but holy crap, I can’t even begin to describe how fucking stupid this is. Frankenstein’s monster destroys because Frankenstein rejects it and gives it no other choice. It’s Frankenstein, not his ‘monster,’ that systemically ruins his entire goddamn stupid life. His resulting carelessness, and lack of ethics and responsibility, is what gets his brother, fiancé, and BEST FUCKING FRIEND killed, not his ingenuity or hunger for knowledge. Victor goddamn Frankenstein is a whiny-ass little bitch that doesn’t stick around to clean up his own messes or deal with the consequences of his actions. He has no moral code and no concept of the proper guidelines for scientific discovery or medicine. I hate him and I want to burn this book. Mary Shelley is a hack, the end. PS, Victor Frankenstein HAS NO SOUL’.”
When Jim finishes reading and lowers the exam booklet, McCoy’s ears are red and he’s gnawing his lower lip, his expression sullen and dark. Jim gets so caught up just watching him—watching his little nervous habits and, ridiculously, counting the freckles across his fucking nose—that the silence stretches awkwardly, adding to Leonard’s discomfort.
“Well,” says Jim loudly, sitting up in his chair, when he finally remembers himself. He sets the exam back down on the desk. “Leonard, I’m gonna be frank, dude. I can’t actually fault your argument, here.”
McCoy does a double-take, glancing quickly at Jim. “What?”
“I agree,” shrugs Jim. “That’s—in your own way, you’ve hit on one of the messages of the novel. That humanity is a cesspit of irresponsibility and disregard for consequences, and if we’re not careful, we’re going to destroy ourselves.”
“Oh,” says McCoy. “Right.”
Jim grins. “I’ve read Frankenstein about a hundred times, man, and I can see the message, appreciate the imagery, the appeal of the sublime, but I still want to throw the book across the room sometimes and hope it ends up in the fireplace. The thing is, that’s Shelley’s intention. It’s a horror story. So she’s not exactly a hack, but I can see why you might think so.”
Leonard flushes further, squirming in his chair. “I passed. Why did you want to see me, then, if the—basic argument is there?”
Jim quirks a smile. “I docked you mostly for grammar and structure. You meander like a drunken frat boy, indulge in—creatively profane digressions, forget the points you’re trying to make... You passed, but I’ll need to see more care in future assignments, Leonard. You grasp the ideas, the themes, but they need refinement. More thought. More effort. I know you can do better.”
“Okay,” mumbles Leonard, clearly not having expected this. “I’m not—this is my elective. I’m not really—I’m biochem.”
“Oh yeah?” asks Jim, not finding this particularly surprising, considering. He leans forward, meets Leonard’s eyes, and for a moment, Leonard looks back before his gaze slides away again in evident embarrassment. “Pre-med?”
Leonard bobs his head.
Jim pushes the exam back across the desk and Leonard reaches out for it, practically crumpling it in a ball as he shoves it back into his pocket. “I can see where the rage over ethics comes from, then.” He pauses and then says, without thinking, “If you need essay advice, feel free to drop by during my office hours. I’d be happy to help.”
Happy to help. Absolutely. Happy to help your fine ass right out of those jeans—
Jim watches Leonard lick his lips and ruthlessly represses the little voice inside his head that says this is a fucking terrible idea.
Pink lips. Wet tongue.
The next essay McCoy submits is a vast improvement.
It’s still heavily laced with what’s fast becoming his signature sarcasm and palpable vitriol, and Jim suspects that the man really just must hate the Romantics and not just literature as a whole, but there’s a cohesive structure and argument to it that’s been lacking up till now.
He has actually only come by during Jim’s office hours a couple of times (with Jim making a concentrated effort at being as professionally brusque as possible) but there’s all this temptation now that Jim’s gotten a taste of McCoy’s intriguingly abrasive and downright hilarious personality. McCoy has revealed himself to be clever and sharp and maddeningly funny, not to mention stupidly good-looking, all tall and broad, with slim hips and deft hands, dark hair falling across his worried forehead into large, emotive hazel eyes. There’s still a touch of adolescence to his face, to his round cheeks and sensitive mouth.
Jim’s pretty sure McCoy must be at least twenty-one or twenty-two, if he’s in Jim’s fourth-year Romantics seminar.
More than legal. No harm in fantasizing.
And, really, it’s not like Jim’s even over thirty yet himself, but he still feels as morally bankrupt as—as Victor fucking Frankenstein when he gives into temptation and ogles McCoy. When he watches him during seminar and wonders about what he’s like in bed, if he talks as much as he does during discussion, if he spits curses as freely when someone’s got a hand around his dick or two fingers up his ass.
Besides, McCoy is in his class. He’s a student. There are all sorts of things that could go completely pear-shaped there.
Jim is actually doing pretty well in ignoring his attraction, which means it’s high time for McCoy to come along and completely destroy it all.
The bar isn’t one of the usual student haunts, not by any means, which is why it’s such a fucking shock to leave the restroom and run directly into Leonard McCoy.
“Professor,” drawls McCoy, stumbling slightly before righting himself. He’s the same height as Jim, so they’re eye to eye when McCoy isn’t hunching over like he wants to disappear into the background.
“McCoy,” says Jim, trying on a wide friendly smile for size. He takes a step back, too conscious of the lack of space between them.
And to his utter fucking surprise, Leonard immediately erases it by stepping forward again. His dark eyes are fixed on Jim’s mouth as he licks his lower lip, following the action rather avidly.
“How old are you?” asks Leonard abruptly, his voice a liquor-roughened molasses purr.
“Twenty-seven,” replies Jim, momentarily bewildered. “Uh, you?”
“Recently twenty-one.” He waves a vague hand around the bar. “You know. Else I wouldn’t be here. You’ve got your MA?”
Leonard whistles low under his breath, flicking his gaze up to Jim’s eyes, liquid courage apparently making him bold. “Shouldn’t let folks like you be professors,” he rumbles. “In your crisp blazers and jeans and shiny white sneakers, barely older’n the damn students. People as young and pretty and criminally attractive as you with your stupid blue eyes and cock-sucking lips—”
He leans up for a kiss.
“McCoy,” says Jim sharply, putting a hand on McCoy’s chest and gently but firmly pushing him away. “Bad idea, kid. Back off.”
Leonard’s eyes flash, and then he flushes with a healthy mix of anger and embarrassment. “Fuck you,” he spits, and disappears back into the crowd.
Jim lets out a long breath.
It’s complicated. Really fucking complicated. Pear-shaped doesn’t describe it at all.
Jim should know better, he should, but that doesn’t stop him from angrily scrawling “SEE ME!!” on McCoy’s next paper, despite the grade of 78% he’s assigned it, because it’s been two weeks of absolute hell in the form of Leonard McCoy at maximum bitchitude, and Jim can’t fucking take it anymore.
When Leonard stalks into his office later that day, Jim snaps, “Close the door,” at him before he can sit down. McCoy freezes in the doorway to pin him with a glare, but does as he’s told before throwing himself into the chair.
“What,” he barks. “There’s nothing wrong with my paper.”
“Aside from seven cuss words and what looks like a dirty limerick, no, there isn’t,” retorts Jim. “There is something wrong and inappropriate and unprofessional and did I mention really fucking wrong with how you’ve been behaving during seminar. If you have a problem with being in my class, then there’s another course to which you can transfer, McCoy.”
McCoy just scowls, sitting slumped in his chair with his hands curled over his knees.
“Well?” says Jim, getting up and coming around to lean on the edge of his desk. “Is this going to be a problem? The innuendo and rudeness and ranting are going too far, kid, I know I shot you down, but you were drunk—”
“I know,” says McCoy shortly, and his expression makes the subtle shift from annoyance to flat-out mortification. “I—you know what, I’m sorry. Forget it. You’re not interested.”
“I am interested, that’s the problem.” The words leave his traitorous mouth like projectile vomit, abrupt and messy and impossible to take back. He desperately wishes he had the ability to kick his own ass. Right on cue, McCoy snaps wide eyes up to Jim.
“Huh,” says McCoy. “No shit.”
Yes shit. Shit shit shit shit.
McCoy kisses him.
The little asshole, with his acid tongue and fucking delicious body, gets up out of his chair, cups Jim’s face in his hands, and kisses him.
Jim gives in. For several long, crucial seconds, he gives in, closing his eyes and returning the kiss, returning it with interest, pushing his tongue between those plush lips, licking into his warm, inviting mouth. Then he shoves a hand between them and shoves McCoy back.
“You have two choices,” says Jim, his voice tight and squeaky. There’s only one choice here, what the fuck is he talking about? What is this magical second choice? A trip to Disney World? Jim doesn’t actually fucking know yet, but whatever it is, there’s hardly reason to believe it’ll be sensible.
McCoy is pink-cheeked and breathing unsteadily, his eyes hooded. Oh good god he’s hot. “You get the fuck out of here right now, and transfer out of my class, and forget this ever happened.”
McCoy’s shoulders visibly slump and that panicked humiliation is back on his face. Aw jeeze.
“Or,” says Jim hurriedly, completely against his better judgement, his heart pounding and his brain screaming that is quite possibly the stupidest fucking thing he could ever hope to say, “You lock the door, pull the blinds, and undress.” There are words emerging and Jim doesn’t have a clue where they’re coming from—his dick, his dick, they’re probably coming from his rock-hard dick—
McCoy stares. Goggles at him with too-wide, smoky-green eyes, and Jim wants very suddenly to know what kind of noise he might make if Jim were to, you know, lick his nipples.
“Haven’t got all day,” says Jim with all the serenity he doesn’t feel, flexing his fingers at his sides.
It’s like a spaghetti western standoff, standing there facing each other with hands poised, until McCoy very slowly walks to the door, clicking the deadbolt shut and tugging the blinds flat. Then he turns around again, just as slowly, and his fingers grasp the hem of his t-shirt.
“Strip,” says Jim, voice hardening. “I said to undress.”
McCoy hesitates for just that second longer, his gaze flickering over Jim’s face, longing and desire and remaining touch of mania still evident in his eyes, before he sets his jaw and strips off his shirt, revealing a flat stomach and wiry body. He shucks off his pants, pausing only briefly before removing his boxers as well. He looks at Jim, expression expectant, and Jim lets out of a breath.
“Hands on the desk,” he commands easily. What? When did his life turn into a porno?
McCoy surprises him by obeying immediately, no mouthy remarks or bitchy quips, no spontaneous commentary on Jim’s sudden hard-on for giving orders. It makes sense, in a vague way, when Jim reads between the lines, reads between McCoy’s low impulse control in saying what’s on his mind and all his needling comments since that unbearably awkward encounter in the bar that Jim’s been trying so hard not to think about. Jim is technically playing right into McCoy’s hands, but at least he’s fucking aware of it.
Confronted with miles of tanned, freckly skin and long legs, a dimpled ass and well-muscled shoulders, all bent over the desk and waiting for him, Jim swallows hard and shakes himself off as he slips behind McCoy. Watches the muscles in McCoy’s back twitch and tense as he waits, on edge and quiet, as Jim stays close enough for them to feel each other’s body heat without touching at all.
“Spread your arms wider,” murmurs Jim.
Doing so forces McCoy to bend over further and Jim splays a palm over his back, stroking down the slender dip of his spine. He detects the way McCoy’s breath picks up at the light touch, his skin warm under Jim’s fingers.
“I think I know what you want, McCoy,” says Jim quietly, sliding his hand down to the curve of McCoy’s ass, teasing over the crease between his cheeks as he nudges his legs further apart, leaving him spread open and exposed over the edge of Jim’s desk. He’s hard, that much is obvious, and his breath is raspy. “You tell me to stop, I stop,” says Jim clearly, resting his hand casually on McCoy’s ass. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” says McCoy, shuddering.
The slap of Jim’s palm against McCoy’s ass is sharp, and McCoy lets out a startled yelp, tensing against the blow in surprise. Jim rubs the pads of his fingers into the mark, giving McCoy the chance to back out and halt proceedings, but McCoy just draws in a shaky breath and relaxes against the desk, breathing shallow and quick as he arches his back toward Jim.
Jim slaps him again. And again, then he braces his free hand on the desk by McCoy’s hip and settles into a consistent, inescapable rhythm as he delivers blow upon stinging blow until McCoy is squirming helplessly, each smack driving a whoosh of breath and a whimper out of him.
“Such a mouthy little bitch,” murmurs Jim, his own hand aching as he fingers the warm, reddened skin of McCoy’s ass, pinching and pulling until McCoy lets out a broken little mewl and pointedly spreads his legs, looking back over his shoulder at Jim, eyes wild and lips bitten red. “All this posturing. All this need. What do you want?”
“Fuck me,” moans McCoy. “Please.”
Jim considers the request and rejects immediately. That’s the outcome, not the next step.
Instead, he drops to his knees, spreads McCoy’s ass cheeks with both hands, and presses his tongue to the hot, tender skin of his hole, eagerly licking responsive flesh.
“Oh god,” whimpers McCoy, bucking his hips forward and crashing noisily into the edge of the desk, jerking the entire thing forward. “Oh Jesus, oh, please.”
Jim doesn’t indulge him, just continues tracing McCoy’s hole without pushing inside and ignoring the desperate sounds coming from above him. He seals his lips over the tight, reddened pucker and sucks, feeling the shudder that runs through McCoy’s body and the echo of his heartfelt groan. Wanting more of that reaction, Jim presses his thumb to the soft, sensitive skin of McCoy’s perineum, rubbing in counterpoint to the strokes of his tongue, before finally nudging his tongue inside McCoy’s pressing heat.
McCoy lets out a half-startled moan that’s edging on a mewl, his hips twitching with the apparent desire to shove back onto Jim’s tongue. Jim digs his fingers into McCoy’s ass, holding him still, and drives his tongue deeper. When he plunges deep enough for his lips to meet over-sensitized skin he starts to suck again and McCoy thrashes, sending something on the desk clattering to the floor as he begins to spit cuss words and impatient pleas for more, anything, please—
Letting his tongue slip out, Jim blows a breath against slick flushed skin, enjoying McCoy’s strangled sob and full-body flinch, before replacing his tongue with two fingers, sinking them easily into McCoy right up the second knuckle.
“This what you want?” hisses Jim, nipping at McCoy’s inner thigh. “This what you’ve been angling for, McCoy?”
“Uh,” grunts McCoy, rocking his hips back onto Jim’s fingers. “Y-yes. No. More, please. Harder. Deeper. You’re exactly like all these fucking Romantics, talking around and around, never fucking saying ordoing anything—”
He cuts off with a whimper as Jim crooks his fingers and strokes firmly over his prostate. “Tell me how you really feel, McCoy,” Jim says dryly. “Want my cock? Want me buried inside you, fucking into you like you’ve been dreaming? Is that it, McCoy?”
“Yes, dammit, you talky son of a bitch, put your—”
“Money where my mouth is? No, scratch that, put my cock where my mouth’s been?” interrupts Jim with a smirk. He withdraws his fingers with a sticky-wet squelch, ignoring McCoy’s vehement protest as Jim gets to his feet. McCoy is slumped bonelessly over the desk, dark hair hiding his face, shoulders trembling with need, and he whimpers when Jim’s clothed hips rub past his ass, pushing back for the contact regardless.
“Please,” says McCoy hoarsely. Jim’s never heard McCoy be so polite before, never heard him spill the word ‘please’ from his lips this many times. “I just want—”
“I know what you want,” murmurs Jim, bending over McCoy’s broad, freckled back and then curling his fingers into his dark hair and tugging sharply. McCoy huffs and squirms restlessly, his arms crossed in front of him, head pressed to his wrists.
When Jim sorts out his pants and underwear and finds condoms and manages to get the second one on because he drops the first and finally—finally—pushes into McCoy, it’s almost too fucking much.
McCoy lets out a sweet groan of relief, rocking tentatively back, his hole flexing and grasping at Jim’s cock, pulling him deeper, fitting their bodies even more snugly together.
“This is such a profoundly terrible idea,” says Jim into McCoy’s back as he bottoms out, mouthing at the crest of his shoulder blade.
“Just shut up and fuck me,” demands McCoy, his voice thick.
“No guarantee on the shutting up. How about just the fucking?”
Jim pins McCoy to the desk, rocks up into him with a stroke of his hips that seems to rob McCoy of breath, and proceeds to fuck the coherency right out of his head.
McCoy ends up with a bite mark on his shoulder, thighs sticky with come, and a spattering of finger-shaped bruises across his ass and hips.
Jim strokes the red flesh of his ass and grins.
Probably not his best idea in the world, but maybe not his worst, either.
McCoy’s next paper is unrepentantly, outrageously, intentionally bad.
Jim frowns at it with laser eyes, picks over the flawed argument and half-assed reasoning, the lack of textual support, the completely ridiculous use of language and analogy.
It’s so bad it’s almost good and Jim is grudgingly impressed by the lengths to which McCoy seems to have gone. He stares at the essay, sure there must be a real assignment just waiting in McCoy’s computer because he’s not the kind of person to truly risk his grade point average like this, and—very slowly, knowing that this is, in fact, habitually poor decision making at its very finest—he writes, “SEE ME,” on the top of the paper.