Sexual content, of a very frank nature. The author firmly believes that sex and sexuality is a part of life. Please move along if that offends you. Adult 18+ only.
The CMO had been fascinated (even horrified) by his appendix scar, that day in sickbay when Harold had been given a once-over before being allowed back amongst the crew. Harold Lee wondered now, in retrospect, why his scans hadn't come back with his circumcision as well.
Scotty had seemed so -- well, shocked was not serious enough a word -- disturbed by the absence of Harold's that he thought it must be especially uncommon in Scotty's time.
He hadn't given it much thought before. Didn't so much now, except to marvel at the contrast. The pair of them had many. Pale skin, dark skin, a few inches height, an accent, a universe, a little over a decade, a couple of centuries, and a foreskin.
It drove Harold crazy.
In the same way he still thrilled to see his own dark hands splayed out over light expanse of skin, he had a serious love affair with this man's erection. Touch, lick, suck, taste. The slide of skin under his (admittedly expert) fingers, watching it roll back and shivering for the exquisite, soft little noise Scotty made in response. Handjobs on the fly, no lube required; standing behind, he'd held Scotty's hip with one hand as they leaned over the kitchen counter. Harold's fingertips had drawn a deliberate, ghosting tease before he curled his hand around that hardon, working beneath boxers as his lover scrambled to stay standing against the counter surface.
Or another day, Harold would grin as he slid his tongue up the underside of that erection, one hand firmly across Scotty's belly, anticipating little pushes and feeling Scotty writhe and grab for Harold's hair to hold back barely-contained rocking of those gorgeous, pale hips. He'd slip the tip of his tongue underneath the skin for a slow, slick little half-circle across the bare head, and pray silently that Scotty had remembered to breathe.
Harold's name would grace his ears in a little gasp as Scotty curled around him, all taut muscle and strength, sliding over Harold's tongue once more and coming into his mouth. A rare, pure joy for Harold Lee that even now was rarely granted.
He would probably never convince Scotty of the extent of his little fetish for using his mouth, one that belonged solely to Montgomery Scott, born largely of those reactions and that contrast. ...and maybe little of the fact that the first time Harold had tried going down on him, his lover had fainted dead away.
Harold Lee wasn't the only one with a talented mouth; this was one aspect of their unlikely coupling that held no contrast at all. Scotty, very simply, could suck chrome off a ball hitch.
What had started as a head-tilted examination in the shower had grown to an expertise with Harold's dick that Mister Lee was in awe of to this day.
Scotty could manage his own handjobs on the fly, learning to work the fabric of Harold's boxers to create a delicious dry slide, or pulling a bottle of lube from a myriad of hiding places in his clothes. Harold wondered sometimes - when his headspace wasn't filled with how they were about to use it - if Scotty could start a walking lube shop for as often as the man seemed to carry it on him.
It was as though Scotty treated Harold's dick as a loving exercise in mechanics; he'd observed and experimented and mapped Harold's body and responses so intimately that he was sure Scotty could feel him coming before Harold could. He felt it, deep in his chest, a pang of pure love and gratitude that Scotty could adapt to the difference so readily and learn to get him off.
And get him off, Scotty did. Often. With talent, curiosity, skill and good lord the way he looked up at Harold with dark eyes as he sank his mouth on him. No foreskin to slip his tongue under, Scotty more than made up the difference, licking a feather touch over the opening or flicking just under the head after sucking his way up the shaft. As with anything he seemed to put his engineering head to, Scotty had quickly mastered the ability to reduce Harold to desperate gasps and scraping marks up his own sides; a defense, a reminder to save himself from shoving into the heat and skill of that mouth.
They would come together, too. Rocking hips, the slide of skin against skin, heated lube, even their sounds of lovemaking a contrast; Scotty the more quiet of the pair, Harold embarrassingly vocal, though that was changing now. Neither could see the contrast, then, though it must have been the moment when it was most apparent; uncut erection sliding against Harold's own bare hardon, all desperate friction and heat and slick and coming hard against each other, falling back and clinging to one another unmindful of the shared mess.
It drove Harold insane, the spectrum, when he put his mind to them. They were painted from the same palate, Harold and Scotty; a color scheme of pale-black-dark, a metaphor that was true of more than just their bodies. In many ways alike, it made the variations on the theme sharper, fascinating, thrilling.
Now, sitting across the bar from the man he would marry, Harold Lee passed his eyes over their hands, fingers notched together. Pale and dark. He lifted the hand to kiss the back of it, thinking... a little contrast worship might be in order this evening.
The CMO had been fascinated (even horrified) by his appendix scar, that day in sickbay when Harold had been given a once-over before being allowed back amongst the crew. Harold Lee wondered now, in retrospect, why his scans hadn't come back with his circumcision as well.
Scotty had seemed so -- well, shocked was not serious enough a word -- disturbed by the absence of Harold's that he thought it must be especially uncommon in Scotty's time.
He hadn't given it much thought before. Didn't so much now, except to marvel at the contrast. The pair of them had many. Pale skin, dark skin, a few inches height, an accent, a universe, a little over a decade, a couple of centuries, and a foreskin.
It drove Harold crazy.
In the same way he still thrilled to see his own dark hands splayed out over light expanse of skin, he had a serious love affair with this man's erection. Touch, lick, suck, taste. The slide of skin under his (admittedly expert) fingers, watching it roll back and shivering for the exquisite, soft little noise Scotty made in response. Handjobs on the fly, no lube required; standing behind, he'd held Scotty's hip with one hand as they leaned over the kitchen counter. Harold's fingertips had drawn a deliberate, ghosting tease before he curled his hand around that hardon, working beneath boxers as his lover scrambled to stay standing against the counter surface.
Or another day, Harold would grin as he slid his tongue up the underside of that erection, one hand firmly across Scotty's belly, anticipating little pushes and feeling Scotty writhe and grab for Harold's hair to hold back barely-contained rocking of those gorgeous, pale hips. He'd slip the tip of his tongue underneath the skin for a slow, slick little half-circle across the bare head, and pray silently that Scotty had remembered to breathe.
Harold's name would grace his ears in a little gasp as Scotty curled around him, all taut muscle and strength, sliding over Harold's tongue once more and coming into his mouth. A rare, pure joy for Harold Lee that even now was rarely granted.
He would probably never convince Scotty of the extent of his little fetish for using his mouth, one that belonged solely to Montgomery Scott, born largely of those reactions and that contrast. ...and maybe little of the fact that the first time Harold had tried going down on him, his lover had fainted dead away.
Harold Lee wasn't the only one with a talented mouth; this was one aspect of their unlikely coupling that held no contrast at all. Scotty, very simply, could suck chrome off a ball hitch.
What had started as a head-tilted examination in the shower had grown to an expertise with Harold's dick that Mister Lee was in awe of to this day.
Scotty could manage his own handjobs on the fly, learning to work the fabric of Harold's boxers to create a delicious dry slide, or pulling a bottle of lube from a myriad of hiding places in his clothes. Harold wondered sometimes - when his headspace wasn't filled with how they were about to use it - if Scotty could start a walking lube shop for as often as the man seemed to carry it on him.
It was as though Scotty treated Harold's dick as a loving exercise in mechanics; he'd observed and experimented and mapped Harold's body and responses so intimately that he was sure Scotty could feel him coming before Harold could. He felt it, deep in his chest, a pang of pure love and gratitude that Scotty could adapt to the difference so readily and learn to get him off.
And get him off, Scotty did. Often. With talent, curiosity, skill and good lord the way he looked up at Harold with dark eyes as he sank his mouth on him. No foreskin to slip his tongue under, Scotty more than made up the difference, licking a feather touch over the opening or flicking just under the head after sucking his way up the shaft. As with anything he seemed to put his engineering head to, Scotty had quickly mastered the ability to reduce Harold to desperate gasps and scraping marks up his own sides; a defense, a reminder to save himself from shoving into the heat and skill of that mouth.
They would come together, too. Rocking hips, the slide of skin against skin, heated lube, even their sounds of lovemaking a contrast; Scotty the more quiet of the pair, Harold embarrassingly vocal, though that was changing now. Neither could see the contrast, then, though it must have been the moment when it was most apparent; uncut erection sliding against Harold's own bare hardon, all desperate friction and heat and slick and coming hard against each other, falling back and clinging to one another unmindful of the shared mess.
It drove Harold insane, the spectrum, when he put his mind to them. They were painted from the same palate, Harold and Scotty; a color scheme of pale-black-dark, a metaphor that was true of more than just their bodies. In many ways alike, it made the variations on the theme sharper, fascinating, thrilling.
Now, sitting across the bar from the man he would marry, Harold Lee passed his eyes over their hands, fingers notched together. Pale and dark. He lifted the hand to kiss the back of it, thinking... a little contrast worship might be in order this evening.