Fic: Esse Quam Videri, 1/1. Kirk/McCoy.
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Title: Esse Quam Videri
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: Adult
Summary: Bones gives him one hour.
Notes: Written over the course of about a week and may have a follow-up fic.
Warnings: None.
Bones gives him an hour. Just one hour to sit on the bridge, still high on the adrenaline that has thus far kept him from falling on his face.
“All right, Jim, I let you gloat. Now I want your ass in Medical Bay,” he demands, interrupting Sulu who'd been trying to relay one of the messages from Starfleet's leadership. He knows he should probably care about that, only Kirk's gotten himself strangled by two Romulans and a Vulcan, traipsed through the snow on Delta Vega, and whatever else – he needs a physical far more than he needs his ego inflated with praise from their superiors.
Kirk ignores him, issuing an order to Sulu for a return message. At least, he tries to ignore his best friend; McCoy lets him give the order before reminding him that, “the Medical Code states that after a battle the CMO of the ship has the right and power of rank to command even the Captain when it pertains to the health and well-being of a person. Would you like me to invoke that right so I can have you dragged kicking and screaming?”
“I'm fine, Bones,” Jim says, fully aware how lame it sounds as his fingers grip the armrests under his hands. His neck is growing stiff, suddenly, and he doesn't need to look up at McCoy to know the older man is watching him with both exasperation and amusement.
He sighs, accepting the inevitable as the adrenaline ebbs away and he becomes cognizant of the soreness in his ribs, his arms, his legs. “Spock, you have the conn,” Jim says, straightening his shirt as he gets to his feet and begrudgingly follows McCoy in to the lift.
Neither says anything as they make their way to Medical. They have no reason to – Jim's pissed at being all but ordered to be examined and Bones is already running through the list of injuries Kirk could possibly have besides the bruised trachea he is sure Jim's hoping to hide and the cracked ribs he's being ginger with.
The doors open to reveal a Medical Bay quiet but for a few crewmembers still recovering from the earlier attack on the Enterprise.
Bones shoves him to the same bed from the start of the mission, grabs the first tricorder within reach, and begins scanning Kirk with his brow furrowed and his lips pursed. Jim opens his mouth to make a comment but is quickly told, “Shut up. Your goddamn throat is bruised to hell – I don't know how in the name of fuck you've been talking – and unless you want to sound even worse than you already do, I suggest you say as little as possible. Goddamn Romulans nearly crushed your trachea...”
“You just want to me silent while you have your wicked way with me.”
Okay, that throws McCoy for a loop, but to his credit, he's known Jim Kirk a long time and quickly shoots back, “The only wicked way I'm going to have with you is the kind where I stab you in the neck with sedatives to keep you from damaging yourself further.”
“Damaging myself further?”
Refusing to answer, he yanks Jim's shirt up over his head (and ignores the smirk that appears on his best friend's lips) to view for himself the bruises he'd figured would be there. Large purple blotches cover his chest and sides, crawling up toward his neck where the previously reddened skin is slowly deepening and changing color.
“Pants,” he orders, then turns to face Nurse Chapel who's brought him half a dozen spray canisters and the materials to wrap Jim's chest. He waits until he hears the drop of the man's trousers before spinning back to him.
The grin on Kirk's face is infuriating; somehow he keeps from being the fourth person to wrap their hands around his neck, instead beginning to wrap the wide bandage around Kirk's torso. “Six cracked or fractured ribs. A grade I concussion. Sprained ankle. Bruised from fucking throat to crotch.”
If Jim had really been paying attention, he might have squeaked out an undignified, “crotch?” Rather, he's been hearing the growing agitation in Bones' inflection. It's making him feel... guilty? Annoyed? No, pissed off, that's what it is. He risked his life to save Pike, Enterprise, and Earth and McCoy is upset with him.
He begins to speak when Bones leans in, eyes locked on Jim's. His teeth clench and he backs away, wanting to fight but knowing that his issue is not with Kirk. He finishes his work in silence, confusing Jim to no end by the change in his demeanor, then tells him, “I'd send you to quarters, but seeing as you have none, you're going to have to sleep here.”
“Bones, I don't..”
The glare he's cast stops any further argument.
;;
He's Bones' captive until the Enterprise limps in to Spacedock and the Admiralty demand his presence. Apparently suspended Cadets who return as the captain of a ship need to be debriefed first, nevermind Bones' objection based on the fact that his trachea should have more time to mend before Kirk starts running his mouth.
When he returns to the dorms that night, there's a party already in progress. Some of the survivors enjoying drink and music to drown out the grief that permeates everything around them. The dorm should be buzzing with students preparing for their next exams and alternating dorm rooms of males and females arguing about hygiene and laundry, only it's nearly barren once he leaves the lobby for the lifts.
McCoy is already there when the lift opens to the mess that is Jim Kirk's room. He'd meant to clean before their next inspection; he and his roommate, Thomas, had sworn they'd have it so spotless the officer would finally give them an “excellent” instead of a “satisfactory”.
He sighs at that memory, of the night before the Kobayashi Maru and Nero and Vulcan and the death of more cadets than enlisted and officers combined, and he stuffs it as far down as he can. Now is not the time to think of the dead, though the look on Bones' face speaks of his own unbidden sadness.
“How's your throat?”
Jim shrugs. He may be stubborn, reckless, and, at times, stupidly arrogant, yes, but he knows when to listen – if McCoy says he needs to not talk for a while, then he's going to keep his mouth shut. Which he thinks might kill him.
“I have...” he starts, then abruptly laughs at the flash of horror that comes over Jim's face. The message is quite clear: “Come near me with a hypo and I'll call Security.”
The moment passes, the all-encompassing sadness at their missing classmates returns.
Jim looks at Thomas' closet, knowing what lay beyond the door with clean uniforms, a mended flight suit, and half-polished shoes. A fresh bottle of whiskey, stolen from Instructor Omiis' quarters during the night they'd installed the subroutine into the Maru's programming, would be nestled between a care package his mother had sent and a pair of snow boots (also sent by his mother).
He can't do it though, can't go in that closet to take something.
Bones looks at him, takes in the helpless expression, and gets to his feet. He crosses to Jim wordlessly, and sets two strong hands on either side of his face before leaning him to kiss him.
;;
Bones gives him one hour. Just one hour to shake the hands of the admiralty and Pike and savor the knowledge that he did exactly what he'd sought to do three years ago, along with something else he hadn't.
Then he grabs Jim's hand and drags him away. They're hardly missed by the myriad of people left in their wake; condolences and orders are being handed out in turn and Kirk's was simply more important given he was being promoted straight from a Lieutenant Cadet to Captain of the Federation Flagship.
They're also hardly noticed as they walk from the auditorium toward the main foyer. At least, they aren't until Jim loses the battle with his willpower and yanks Bones into the nearest alcove, causing a nearby Ensign to snicker at the back of Jim Kirk's head.
“I knew you wanted your wicked way with me...” Jim murmurs as he presses his hands against the slick metal wall behind Bones' head.
McCoy opens his mouth to respond, to point out that Jim's the one who shoved him into a crevice to molest, but Kirk takes the advantage. With Bones distracted by the curl of his tongue (bet his ex-wife couldn't do that), he takes one hand from the wall, slips it down the edge of the red overcoat, and then slowly between Bones' skin and the waist of his trousers.
“Jim...” Bones strangles out when Kirk leans back to look at his handiwork – lips puffy from kissing, check; flush on cheeks, check. Hair mussed from the hand he'd buried in it, check.
“Shut up,” he answers, with one finger reaching to pull the collar away from Bones' neck to display soft, white skin. No scars, no marks, and Jim nips at it experimentally.
“Jim,” he says more firmly. “Your quarters... Fuck... Your quarters are two buildings away.”
Kirk only admires the reddening mark that he'll never be able to hide fully under his uniform. He's bestowed a lick on the spot, when fingers wrap into his short hair and wrench him back, making him yelp at the shock of pain. “What the hell was that for?” He asks, rubbing at the spot Bones has let go of.
“I'm a doctor, not an exhibitionist. Especially not when the crew could walk by any second now,” he hisses. “Quarters.”
For once, Jim listens to him.
;;
They fall through the door to the dorm, silent now as it was several days ago, and then into the lift. Somehow they keep all four hands to themselves on the ride, at least until they hit Jim's dorm.
All bets are off then.
Neither one can think as Bones pushes Jim down on the bed, his eyes glittering with heat and happiness and drunk on the celebration ritual that Bones will never let him have with someone else after this. The barely-lit dorm room affords them little ability to see where they step, but that's not really important, especially when Bones grabs Jim by the shoulders and muscles him down onto the bed, mid-undressing.
They're rutting against each other like dogs in heat in the span of a moment.
Both stripped down to their underwear with Jim's boxer briefs leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, Bones presses kiss after kiss to pale skin and tries to figure out if Jim's got lube around here somewhere (and he must with the amount of sex he's had.) Of course, that thought passes as quickly as it came when he groans, Jim having suddenly decided that his left hand was put to better use wrapped around Bones' cock.
“Naked,” Jim whispers, “You need to be naked.” He reaches for the Starfleet-issued blues that are looser on Bones now than when they arrived thanks to morning drill, only to be stopped when Bones sits up and smirks.
He was only married a handful of years, not nearly enough to ever get comfortable being a husband, but he'd never heard a complaint from his ex-wife about his skill in bed. The guy he fucked the night she handed him the divorce papers hadn't complained either and he's quite proud of that.
Yanking off the garment with as much finesse as he could manage – hey, the first five pairs are given without condition, after that Starfleet expects them to pay for more – he removes Jim's a second later and with both hands flat on the bed, his arms taut, he leans over his friend to ask, “You have done this before, right?”
“I don't know. You like fucking virgins or guys with a bit of experience?” Jim's face is split with the grin before jerking his hips upwards into McCoy's, eyelids dropping at the spike of pleasure that ran through him.
His skin is flushed from hairline to toes, cock hard, and lower lip pouted forward in a manner that makes McCoy shiver at the prospect of what was to come. Still, he ignores the pound of his heart in his chest and the tightness in the small of his back, asking again, “Jim, seriously...”
With another thrust against Bones, he grinds out, “Oh, for fuck's sake – yes, I have.” He cups the back of McCoy's head, pulling him down to kissing him hard while his other hand scrabbles behind the pillow jammed up against the headboard. He knows there's a tube back there somewhere, but he can't find it and he parts from Bones to roll onto his stomach, to yank open the top drawer of his nightstand.
He's only just gotten his fingers wrapped around the tube when he feels Bones kissing his back, soft and slow. Nothing like earlier, when the frantic urge to fuck had colored every action and there had been teeth involved; now, it's on the press of lips against the bits of skin that aren't bruised from being thrown, beaten, and strangled. (He really can't get past that – three people had had their hands around his neck, three people had nearly choked the very life from him...)
“Bones,” Jim murmurs when he feels the sudden tension thrum through his friend. He doesn't want to move, not when McCoy has his mouth in the small of his back and one arm wrapped tight around Kirk's hips, but he needs enough space to hand over the lube, space Bones doesn't seem to want to give him. “Need this to fuck me.”
The noise that slips from Bones' throat is something Jim would call a growl and his balls tighten at the sound; it's low and rough and possessive and like nothing he'd ever heard from Bones before, but then, they've never quite managed to end up in this position before either. Kirk is a hedonist, don't get him wrong, but their arrangement has always found them in the same places when it came to sex: Bones on his back, Jim over him.
This is new and Jim's liking it enough to drop his hand – and the lube – back down to the bed, going to straight to his stomach when Bones pushes on his back. “Arrogant, reckless, sonofabitch,” McCoy murmurs into his ear, careful as he settles his weight over Jim which irritates the man to no end.
“I'm not going to fucking whimper over bruises, Bones,” he spits out against the pillow half under his head.
McCoy doesn't respond, instead he finds that mark from earlier, from the alcove, and nips at it gently as he truly lets his weight bear down on the man beneath him. Lean and broad, Leonard McCoy may not be as charismatic as his lover, but where Jim can hold a person in place with pretty words and a leer, Bones could do with the power of hands.
Hands that were wrapping around Jim's slim wrists and dragging them over his head. He pushes Kirk's palms flat to the headboard, telling him, “Don't move.”
“Like I could,” he mutters in reply while the thought that even if Bones weren't laying on him, he'd still wouldn't move, bounces around his mind.
“Don't speak,” McCoy orders. He adds, “Just... let me, Jim,” with some uncertainty in his voice; Kirk releases the breath he'd been holding and relaxes, to Bones' relief and he sits up, straddling Jim's back, while he surveys the pale expanse of skin marbled purple, yellow, and green. He gives a soft sigh at it all – he'd offered Jim something to speed the healing, but he'd refused.
His hair falls forward, already dampened from the warmth and the exertion, as he runs his hands down Jim's flanks then back up and his mouth lays open-mouth kisses over neck, shoulder blades, and spine. His tongue rises and falls over the vertebrae that could so easily have broken when the Romulan had attacked Kirk, to the small of his back. Fingers trailed over ribs to the rise of Jim's ass and he contemplates, for a second, surprising the younger man, but lets it go to crawl back up the lithe body and whisper, “Roll over.”
By unspoken agreement, Jim moves his arms once he's on his back, but he makes no attempt to grab for Bones or control this as he has in the past. Not when McCoy has one nipple in his teeth and a simple tug makes the anticipation in his belly grow, makes his cock jump, and his toes curl like his body has zoned into that one point of contact. He groans when Bones releases the tight bud, wanting to say something to spur his partner on, but stops himself short when he sees the look in the man's eyes.
Somewhere between lust and affection, Bones stares down at him for a moment. His lips curve into a smile and Jim grins back, pulling his lover down with arms hooked under arms and his hips moving against Bones' own.
They share kisses while hands grip at skin; Jim's so close to coming when Bones reaches over him for the lube and Jim eagerly begins to roll onto his belly, only to be stopped with one hand. The corners of his eyes squint happily at the idea, at the implication that Bones wants to bend over Jim and watch.
Two fingers push inside him, slippery and cool, moving restlessly; Bones is as close to the edge as Kirk is, and they both know it as his skin flushes and he casts a glance at Jim before taking himself in one hand, the other holding Jim open.
Kirk pulls his legs up to wrap high around Bones' back, lets his head tilt back and to the side to show a clean stretch of throat, and breathes out as Bones presses into him. He never slows; he knows from Jim's previous bitching that stopping for him to adjust is unwanted and unneeded, and while he didn't agree, McCoy didn't argue.
Especially not as he finds himself buried in Jim.
He pushes Kirk's legs further up, his ankles settled between Bones' shoulder blades and Jim yanks him down, latching onto his mouth. He shimmies his hips when they break apart, whispering, “Please,” before latching onto Bones' earlobe with the first hard thrust.
“Fucking idiot,” McCoy whispers as he falls into a familiar rhythm. “Goddamn fucking reckless idiot.”
“Love you too, Bones,” Jim responds, grunting against the urge to come. He wants more, harder, longer, and he wants to see McCoy's face when he orgasms, sweat-slicked hair mussed and thrown forward to frame his eyes and his mouth; his brow is furrowed as he works himself in and out of Jim, a moan ripped from him when Kirk clenches around him.
“Oh god,” he cries out, eyes popping open and focusing on the blue ones that sparkled in the dim light. “I... Jim...”
One hand twists in the sheets as Jim tells him, “Do it,” and cocks his head to steal another kiss. It's barely two more thrusts; Bones face glows with the overwhelming flood of pleasure and Jim tries to memorize it, but there's a hand on his cock, pulling and rubbing and Bones thumb slips down to where they're joined.
And Jim comes with a yell.
Title: Esse Quam Videri
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: Adult
Summary: Bones gives him one hour.
Notes: Written over the course of about a week and may have a follow-up fic.
Warnings: None.
Bones gives him an hour. Just one hour to sit on the bridge, still high on the adrenaline that has thus far kept him from falling on his face.
“All right, Jim, I let you gloat. Now I want your ass in Medical Bay,” he demands, interrupting Sulu who'd been trying to relay one of the messages from Starfleet's leadership. He knows he should probably care about that, only Kirk's gotten himself strangled by two Romulans and a Vulcan, traipsed through the snow on Delta Vega, and whatever else – he needs a physical far more than he needs his ego inflated with praise from their superiors.
Kirk ignores him, issuing an order to Sulu for a return message. At least, he tries to ignore his best friend; McCoy lets him give the order before reminding him that, “the Medical Code states that after a battle the CMO of the ship has the right and power of rank to command even the Captain when it pertains to the health and well-being of a person. Would you like me to invoke that right so I can have you dragged kicking and screaming?”
“I'm fine, Bones,” Jim says, fully aware how lame it sounds as his fingers grip the armrests under his hands. His neck is growing stiff, suddenly, and he doesn't need to look up at McCoy to know the older man is watching him with both exasperation and amusement.
He sighs, accepting the inevitable as the adrenaline ebbs away and he becomes cognizant of the soreness in his ribs, his arms, his legs. “Spock, you have the conn,” Jim says, straightening his shirt as he gets to his feet and begrudgingly follows McCoy in to the lift.
Neither says anything as they make their way to Medical. They have no reason to – Jim's pissed at being all but ordered to be examined and Bones is already running through the list of injuries Kirk could possibly have besides the bruised trachea he is sure Jim's hoping to hide and the cracked ribs he's being ginger with.
The doors open to reveal a Medical Bay quiet but for a few crewmembers still recovering from the earlier attack on the Enterprise.
Bones shoves him to the same bed from the start of the mission, grabs the first tricorder within reach, and begins scanning Kirk with his brow furrowed and his lips pursed. Jim opens his mouth to make a comment but is quickly told, “Shut up. Your goddamn throat is bruised to hell – I don't know how in the name of fuck you've been talking – and unless you want to sound even worse than you already do, I suggest you say as little as possible. Goddamn Romulans nearly crushed your trachea...”
“You just want to me silent while you have your wicked way with me.”
Okay, that throws McCoy for a loop, but to his credit, he's known Jim Kirk a long time and quickly shoots back, “The only wicked way I'm going to have with you is the kind where I stab you in the neck with sedatives to keep you from damaging yourself further.”
“Damaging myself further?”
Refusing to answer, he yanks Jim's shirt up over his head (and ignores the smirk that appears on his best friend's lips) to view for himself the bruises he'd figured would be there. Large purple blotches cover his chest and sides, crawling up toward his neck where the previously reddened skin is slowly deepening and changing color.
“Pants,” he orders, then turns to face Nurse Chapel who's brought him half a dozen spray canisters and the materials to wrap Jim's chest. He waits until he hears the drop of the man's trousers before spinning back to him.
The grin on Kirk's face is infuriating; somehow he keeps from being the fourth person to wrap their hands around his neck, instead beginning to wrap the wide bandage around Kirk's torso. “Six cracked or fractured ribs. A grade I concussion. Sprained ankle. Bruised from fucking throat to crotch.”
If Jim had really been paying attention, he might have squeaked out an undignified, “crotch?” Rather, he's been hearing the growing agitation in Bones' inflection. It's making him feel... guilty? Annoyed? No, pissed off, that's what it is. He risked his life to save Pike, Enterprise, and Earth and McCoy is upset with him.
He begins to speak when Bones leans in, eyes locked on Jim's. His teeth clench and he backs away, wanting to fight but knowing that his issue is not with Kirk. He finishes his work in silence, confusing Jim to no end by the change in his demeanor, then tells him, “I'd send you to quarters, but seeing as you have none, you're going to have to sleep here.”
“Bones, I don't..”
The glare he's cast stops any further argument.
He's Bones' captive until the Enterprise limps in to Spacedock and the Admiralty demand his presence. Apparently suspended Cadets who return as the captain of a ship need to be debriefed first, nevermind Bones' objection based on the fact that his trachea should have more time to mend before Kirk starts running his mouth.
When he returns to the dorms that night, there's a party already in progress. Some of the survivors enjoying drink and music to drown out the grief that permeates everything around them. The dorm should be buzzing with students preparing for their next exams and alternating dorm rooms of males and females arguing about hygiene and laundry, only it's nearly barren once he leaves the lobby for the lifts.
McCoy is already there when the lift opens to the mess that is Jim Kirk's room. He'd meant to clean before their next inspection; he and his roommate, Thomas, had sworn they'd have it so spotless the officer would finally give them an “excellent” instead of a “satisfactory”.
He sighs at that memory, of the night before the Kobayashi Maru and Nero and Vulcan and the death of more cadets than enlisted and officers combined, and he stuffs it as far down as he can. Now is not the time to think of the dead, though the look on Bones' face speaks of his own unbidden sadness.
“How's your throat?”
Jim shrugs. He may be stubborn, reckless, and, at times, stupidly arrogant, yes, but he knows when to listen – if McCoy says he needs to not talk for a while, then he's going to keep his mouth shut. Which he thinks might kill him.
“I have...” he starts, then abruptly laughs at the flash of horror that comes over Jim's face. The message is quite clear: “Come near me with a hypo and I'll call Security.”
The moment passes, the all-encompassing sadness at their missing classmates returns.
Jim looks at Thomas' closet, knowing what lay beyond the door with clean uniforms, a mended flight suit, and half-polished shoes. A fresh bottle of whiskey, stolen from Instructor Omiis' quarters during the night they'd installed the subroutine into the Maru's programming, would be nestled between a care package his mother had sent and a pair of snow boots (also sent by his mother).
He can't do it though, can't go in that closet to take something.
Bones looks at him, takes in the helpless expression, and gets to his feet. He crosses to Jim wordlessly, and sets two strong hands on either side of his face before leaning him to kiss him.
Bones gives him one hour. Just one hour to shake the hands of the admiralty and Pike and savor the knowledge that he did exactly what he'd sought to do three years ago, along with something else he hadn't.
Then he grabs Jim's hand and drags him away. They're hardly missed by the myriad of people left in their wake; condolences and orders are being handed out in turn and Kirk's was simply more important given he was being promoted straight from a Lieutenant Cadet to Captain of the Federation Flagship.
They're also hardly noticed as they walk from the auditorium toward the main foyer. At least, they aren't until Jim loses the battle with his willpower and yanks Bones into the nearest alcove, causing a nearby Ensign to snicker at the back of Jim Kirk's head.
“I knew you wanted your wicked way with me...” Jim murmurs as he presses his hands against the slick metal wall behind Bones' head.
McCoy opens his mouth to respond, to point out that Jim's the one who shoved him into a crevice to molest, but Kirk takes the advantage. With Bones distracted by the curl of his tongue (bet his ex-wife couldn't do that), he takes one hand from the wall, slips it down the edge of the red overcoat, and then slowly between Bones' skin and the waist of his trousers.
“Jim...” Bones strangles out when Kirk leans back to look at his handiwork – lips puffy from kissing, check; flush on cheeks, check. Hair mussed from the hand he'd buried in it, check.
“Shut up,” he answers, with one finger reaching to pull the collar away from Bones' neck to display soft, white skin. No scars, no marks, and Jim nips at it experimentally.
“Jim,” he says more firmly. “Your quarters... Fuck... Your quarters are two buildings away.”
Kirk only admires the reddening mark that he'll never be able to hide fully under his uniform. He's bestowed a lick on the spot, when fingers wrap into his short hair and wrench him back, making him yelp at the shock of pain. “What the hell was that for?” He asks, rubbing at the spot Bones has let go of.
“I'm a doctor, not an exhibitionist. Especially not when the crew could walk by any second now,” he hisses. “Quarters.”
For once, Jim listens to him.
They fall through the door to the dorm, silent now as it was several days ago, and then into the lift. Somehow they keep all four hands to themselves on the ride, at least until they hit Jim's dorm.
All bets are off then.
Neither one can think as Bones pushes Jim down on the bed, his eyes glittering with heat and happiness and drunk on the celebration ritual that Bones will never let him have with someone else after this. The barely-lit dorm room affords them little ability to see where they step, but that's not really important, especially when Bones grabs Jim by the shoulders and muscles him down onto the bed, mid-undressing.
They're rutting against each other like dogs in heat in the span of a moment.
Both stripped down to their underwear with Jim's boxer briefs leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, Bones presses kiss after kiss to pale skin and tries to figure out if Jim's got lube around here somewhere (and he must with the amount of sex he's had.) Of course, that thought passes as quickly as it came when he groans, Jim having suddenly decided that his left hand was put to better use wrapped around Bones' cock.
“Naked,” Jim whispers, “You need to be naked.” He reaches for the Starfleet-issued blues that are looser on Bones now than when they arrived thanks to morning drill, only to be stopped when Bones sits up and smirks.
He was only married a handful of years, not nearly enough to ever get comfortable being a husband, but he'd never heard a complaint from his ex-wife about his skill in bed. The guy he fucked the night she handed him the divorce papers hadn't complained either and he's quite proud of that.
Yanking off the garment with as much finesse as he could manage – hey, the first five pairs are given without condition, after that Starfleet expects them to pay for more – he removes Jim's a second later and with both hands flat on the bed, his arms taut, he leans over his friend to ask, “You have done this before, right?”
“I don't know. You like fucking virgins or guys with a bit of experience?” Jim's face is split with the grin before jerking his hips upwards into McCoy's, eyelids dropping at the spike of pleasure that ran through him.
His skin is flushed from hairline to toes, cock hard, and lower lip pouted forward in a manner that makes McCoy shiver at the prospect of what was to come. Still, he ignores the pound of his heart in his chest and the tightness in the small of his back, asking again, “Jim, seriously...”
With another thrust against Bones, he grinds out, “Oh, for fuck's sake – yes, I have.” He cups the back of McCoy's head, pulling him down to kissing him hard while his other hand scrabbles behind the pillow jammed up against the headboard. He knows there's a tube back there somewhere, but he can't find it and he parts from Bones to roll onto his stomach, to yank open the top drawer of his nightstand.
He's only just gotten his fingers wrapped around the tube when he feels Bones kissing his back, soft and slow. Nothing like earlier, when the frantic urge to fuck had colored every action and there had been teeth involved; now, it's on the press of lips against the bits of skin that aren't bruised from being thrown, beaten, and strangled. (He really can't get past that – three people had had their hands around his neck, three people had nearly choked the very life from him...)
“Bones,” Jim murmurs when he feels the sudden tension thrum through his friend. He doesn't want to move, not when McCoy has his mouth in the small of his back and one arm wrapped tight around Kirk's hips, but he needs enough space to hand over the lube, space Bones doesn't seem to want to give him. “Need this to fuck me.”
The noise that slips from Bones' throat is something Jim would call a growl and his balls tighten at the sound; it's low and rough and possessive and like nothing he'd ever heard from Bones before, but then, they've never quite managed to end up in this position before either. Kirk is a hedonist, don't get him wrong, but their arrangement has always found them in the same places when it came to sex: Bones on his back, Jim over him.
This is new and Jim's liking it enough to drop his hand – and the lube – back down to the bed, going to straight to his stomach when Bones pushes on his back. “Arrogant, reckless, sonofabitch,” McCoy murmurs into his ear, careful as he settles his weight over Jim which irritates the man to no end.
“I'm not going to fucking whimper over bruises, Bones,” he spits out against the pillow half under his head.
McCoy doesn't respond, instead he finds that mark from earlier, from the alcove, and nips at it gently as he truly lets his weight bear down on the man beneath him. Lean and broad, Leonard McCoy may not be as charismatic as his lover, but where Jim can hold a person in place with pretty words and a leer, Bones could do with the power of hands.
Hands that were wrapping around Jim's slim wrists and dragging them over his head. He pushes Kirk's palms flat to the headboard, telling him, “Don't move.”
“Like I could,” he mutters in reply while the thought that even if Bones weren't laying on him, he'd still wouldn't move, bounces around his mind.
“Don't speak,” McCoy orders. He adds, “Just... let me, Jim,” with some uncertainty in his voice; Kirk releases the breath he'd been holding and relaxes, to Bones' relief and he sits up, straddling Jim's back, while he surveys the pale expanse of skin marbled purple, yellow, and green. He gives a soft sigh at it all – he'd offered Jim something to speed the healing, but he'd refused.
His hair falls forward, already dampened from the warmth and the exertion, as he runs his hands down Jim's flanks then back up and his mouth lays open-mouth kisses over neck, shoulder blades, and spine. His tongue rises and falls over the vertebrae that could so easily have broken when the Romulan had attacked Kirk, to the small of his back. Fingers trailed over ribs to the rise of Jim's ass and he contemplates, for a second, surprising the younger man, but lets it go to crawl back up the lithe body and whisper, “Roll over.”
By unspoken agreement, Jim moves his arms once he's on his back, but he makes no attempt to grab for Bones or control this as he has in the past. Not when McCoy has one nipple in his teeth and a simple tug makes the anticipation in his belly grow, makes his cock jump, and his toes curl like his body has zoned into that one point of contact. He groans when Bones releases the tight bud, wanting to say something to spur his partner on, but stops himself short when he sees the look in the man's eyes.
Somewhere between lust and affection, Bones stares down at him for a moment. His lips curve into a smile and Jim grins back, pulling his lover down with arms hooked under arms and his hips moving against Bones' own.
They share kisses while hands grip at skin; Jim's so close to coming when Bones reaches over him for the lube and Jim eagerly begins to roll onto his belly, only to be stopped with one hand. The corners of his eyes squint happily at the idea, at the implication that Bones wants to bend over Jim and watch.
Two fingers push inside him, slippery and cool, moving restlessly; Bones is as close to the edge as Kirk is, and they both know it as his skin flushes and he casts a glance at Jim before taking himself in one hand, the other holding Jim open.
Kirk pulls his legs up to wrap high around Bones' back, lets his head tilt back and to the side to show a clean stretch of throat, and breathes out as Bones presses into him. He never slows; he knows from Jim's previous bitching that stopping for him to adjust is unwanted and unneeded, and while he didn't agree, McCoy didn't argue.
Especially not as he finds himself buried in Jim.
He pushes Kirk's legs further up, his ankles settled between Bones' shoulder blades and Jim yanks him down, latching onto his mouth. He shimmies his hips when they break apart, whispering, “Please,” before latching onto Bones' earlobe with the first hard thrust.
“Fucking idiot,” McCoy whispers as he falls into a familiar rhythm. “Goddamn fucking reckless idiot.”
“Love you too, Bones,” Jim responds, grunting against the urge to come. He wants more, harder, longer, and he wants to see McCoy's face when he orgasms, sweat-slicked hair mussed and thrown forward to frame his eyes and his mouth; his brow is furrowed as he works himself in and out of Jim, a moan ripped from him when Kirk clenches around him.
“Oh god,” he cries out, eyes popping open and focusing on the blue ones that sparkled in the dim light. “I... Jim...”
One hand twists in the sheets as Jim tells him, “Do it,” and cocks his head to steal another kiss. It's barely two more thrusts; Bones face glows with the overwhelming flood of pleasure and Jim tries to memorize it, but there's a hand on his cock, pulling and rubbing and Bones thumb slips down to where they're joined.
And Jim comes with a yell.
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Date: 2009-05-25 12:00 am (UTC):D
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Date: 2009-05-25 10:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-25 09:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-05-25 10:09 pm (UTC)