Star Trek XI: Proteus
Title: Proteus
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy, Kirk/OMF?C
Rating: NC-17 like an NC-17 thing.
Disclaimer: Not mine. :(
Warnings: General mind-fuckery. And a teeny bit of rimming.
Summary: Kirk meets someone who specializes in giving people what they want. Jim didn't even know he wanted this.
Notes: Baby's first fic in the fandom! And also the porniest porn I have written - ever. So feedback is very welcome.
Her eyes are chlorine-green and her hair is like a sunrise and she smells like everything good in the world, smooth and spicy-sweet. Intoxicating enough to make Jim almost forget it’s his first night of his first shore leave as captain, and Bones has ditched him for a medical PADD and a tumbler of bourbon. No amount of wheedling had gotten him more than an eye-roll and a grumble that if Jim wanted his company so bad, then he should stop getting beat all to hell every other weekend and pushing his CMO to wit’s end.
Which leaves Jim planetside, short one best friend. Not to say that Jim’s having a bad night - Sulu and Riley are top-notch wingmen. They just aren’t grumpily relaxed McCoy, matching him drink for drink and keeping sharp and wicked commentary on the bar clientele.
Instead, the lieutenants leer and wink with the subtlety of a facial twitch when this neon-colored bombshell of a Krilian pushes through the crowd and smoothly twines her way around him. Later, with the clarity of hindsight, Jim has a pretty good idea of what Bones would’ve done - hauled him away by the seat of his pants. They all sat through Uhura’s Krilia briefing, after all. It’s just that Jim, Sulu and Riley - all they really took from it was hey, shapeshifter sex, sweet.
So Jim rests a loose hand on her hip, looks through his lashes and grins, “So tell me, what name do I have the honor of screaming tonight?” Been a while since he’s been drunk enough to use that one, but she laughs, high and light over the noise of the bar. She presses her smile to his ear and murmurs, “I’m whoever you want me to be.”
Jim is wondering if this is some sort of shapeshifter in-joke when six blue fingers slide around his wrist, stroking the thin skin over his veins. She’s got a keen, wicked Gaila-look in her eyes that twists his heart, and the skin at the dip of her back is warm and peach-fuzz soft.
“I know a place,” she says, and it’s so damn cliché he almost laughs except for the way she presses against him, breasts heavy and warm through her thin slip of a dress. It’s been too long, and his dick is up to any and all suggestions. So he smirks, “Lead the way,” and six fingers become five as she twines them with his.
He’s already thinking up how he’s going to tell Bones about this when she pulls him through the throng, past the tri-sex bathrooms and out the back door to the cool night air. “Where do you have in mind?” he asks, sliding an arm around her waist. He keeps his eyes sharp because he’s drunk, not stupid.
She burrows under his arm and murmurs a string of Krilian syllables in the shell of his ear. He has no idea what she’s saying, but her filthy smile and the sputtering neon signs overhead tell him all he really needs to know.
Jim’s gone and found himself a Krilian sex worker. Bones’ll have his head on a plate. Well that’s what he gets for passing Jim up for a treatise on Xanthian flesh-rot.
A warm hand slides into his back pocket and steers his steps to a blue-lit doorway. Jim’s watching the slope of her neck as she whispers to the voice-recog panel and almost doesn’t notice the dark door slide noiselessly back til she nudges him through. The hall’s heavy with the smell of sweat and sex and the Krilian’s eyes go heavy-lidded in the dim light.
“Here,” she smiles, sliding back an unmarked door and gently pushing him through. “Remove your outer garments and be seated. I will return.”
When she leaves, Jim straightens, does a quick scan of the small, windowless room and makes sure he hasn’t been locked in. The door slides open and shut with a tap of the touchpad, and he exhales, shuts his eyes, loosens his shoulders. It really has been too long, and he’s almost aching for touch. Jim’s mostly hard and buzzing as he strips to his briefs and settles back in room’s only chair.
When the Krilian returns, he’s idly palming himself through his briefs and she smiles a shark-smile. She’s beautiful, breasts pendulous and hips full, teeth gleaming in the dim light. Jim feels a damp spot leak through the thin gray fabric at his crotch as she sways across the room.
“Don’t be alarmed,” she says softly, and that’s usually a flashing red sign to be very alarmed, but Jim can only sit transfixed as she reaches long fingers to his temples. Then a flash, white weightlessness, so like the elder Spock’s cool invasive touch that his stomach jolts. But through the white-blank rush in his mind, he can feel this is different. Instead of a dizzying crush of strange tastes, smells, faces, words, he feels like a book laid bare to the Krilian’s seeking fingers. Memories swim and blur together, floating to the surface and kissing the fingertips on his temples.
And that’s about when Jim blacks out.
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Rough palms cradle his ribs, warm breath at his ear. He hears a “Jim,” so soft he almost doesn’t recognize the voice.
“How,” he mumbles, head muddled and white spots swimming in his eyes. The air is cool - he is naked. Bones’ hands are hot on his gooseflesh skin and they smooth a warm flush down to his belly.
“You’re awake. Good,” Bones murmurs into his hair, rough and close and the damp touch of a tongue on his ear.
“What -” Jim rasps, jolts away as his heart knocks in his chest. Knocks harder when he finds he can’t move more than an inch. His arms stretch over his head, locked in smooth white electromag clasps. Fuck. What - fuck. “Bones. You’re - what the fuck is this.”
Long doctor’s fingers slide around his sternum and belly, gently tugging him back til he’s flush against the thudding heart and warm skin and - shit - leaking cock of Leonard Horatio McCoy.
“This is what you want, Jim,” Bones’ voice says, Georgia-thick and amused. “Thought that’d be obvious.”
And that’s when everything snaps into focus. Same room, chair shoved into the corner, clothes folded in a pile. His briefs crumpled near his feet. No Krilian in sight, unless you count the one nudging against his ass, wearing McCoy’s skin and using his voice. Jim’s hands spasm into fists, breath stuttering out of a suddenly tight throat. Heat floods his face and burns straight to his dick, flushing red and heavy under his dizzy eyes.
It is mouthing wetly at his neck and fuck, he’d never even thought - he’s noticed Bones, sure, he’s not blind, but this, stubble scraping his skin and Bones’ shampoo in his lungs, he’d never - but it’s - it’s fucking wrong, but he chokes on a gasp when teeth close on the tendons of his throat. Jim shudders in the thing’s grip.
“That’s right, darlin’,” Bones’ voice murmurs into his skin, hot open-mouthed kisses sliding up his neck. “Relax. Let me take care of you.”
Can’t relax. Can barely breathe through the tightness in his throat. One arm wraps across his chest like an anchor, while the other smooths down to cradle his hip. Bones sucks a kiss under his jaw and his fingers slide over the thin skin of Jim’s pelvis to trace up the side of his cock and gently smear a bead of precome over the head. Jim chokes, hips jerking forward but the touch is always just barely-there as Bones - it - makes out with his neck like it wants to devour it.
Through the rush of his pulse Jim distantly hears his own horrible, helpless choked-off sounds. His head rolls away from Bones’ dark hair, presses hard into his arm, biting to stop himself, stop the flow of saliva from his slack mouth, stop the burning in his cheeks, stop the words that want to come out like Bones and yes and pleasefuckplease.
The words fall anyway in one stumbling breath when the Krilian steps back, away, leaving Jim’s back bare and prickling.
“Oh, Jim,” not-Bones sighs, nudging with broad palms him til Jim turns and his arms twist over his head. Jim can’t look at him - it, squeezes his wet eyes shut, struggles to get his breathing under control and anchors his curling toes to the ground.
“Beautiful,” Bones murmurs, warm hand pressed over Jim’s stuttering heart, and fuck, who is Jim kidding, he’s been fucking dying for this. This softness, Bones’ hands.
The thought rockets up his spine like a shock and he suddenly feels a spike of heat in his gut that has nothing to do with lust - anger, pure uncomplicated rage that tightens his chest and clears his head. This is too fucked up on too many levels and he opens his eyes and grits “let me down” but Bones is right there naked and flushed and sweating and looking at him with such tenderness that Jim doesn’t know if he wants to throw up or let go.
A hand curls over his jaw and Bones leans close and says “never” and seals their lips, warm breath and soft tongue sliding over the damp seam that Jim never meant to part. It’s the only place they’re touching - cheek and lips and tongue - but Jim feels it all over, flushing unsteadily through his body.
“Fuck” he gets out when Bones pulls back slowly, their lips sticking a bit not wanting to part and Bones’ eyes are right there, hazel blown black. And fuck it. Fuck. It. Jim lunges far as his burning arms allow and aims for Bones’ mouth but gets his chin and Bones’ smile slides on his cheek when he pulls away.
“Finally caught up with the program, Jim?” he smirks, familiar and beautiful and awful, and Jim almost snarls with frustration and hooks an ankle round Bones’ thigh to reel him in.
And Bones lets him, pulls close til there’s miles of skin and muscle pressed down his front. And Bones, sliding against the hollow of his hip, slick and hotter than the air that Jim’s struggling to pull into his lungs.
Bones moves slowly, hips rolling in a tight circle. Jim stares at the lowered lashes, the crease between his brows, the pale freckles on his cheeks and wonders dizzily where the Krilian ends and Bones begins, which half-dreams helped build this Frankenstein of a best friend. Then Jim’s lips slide over that pointed tip of his nose and Bones kisses him and Jim just stops thinking altogether.
In fact, it’s not til his hands are fisted in sweat-damp hair and palming Bones’ scalp that he realizes the clasps have opened. By that point he’s rutting into Bones’ hip, groaning low and needy into that fucking perfect mouth, licking the soft warmth of his palate til Bones grunts and nips his tongue and sucks, lazy and rhythmic, til Jim’s cock throbs and he feels it sharp in his chest.
Almost too much and he pulls back with a wounded sound, mouths “c’mon c’mon c’mon” into Bones’ cheek, fingers twisting in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Jim has touched this spot hundreds of times, saying hello with a squeeze or reassuring with a clasp. Never like this, his nails leaving flushed lines on that pale skin.
Jim grunts out a startled breath when the backs of his knees hit the chair and he stumbles back into the seat, dick slapping against his stomach. He would laugh but he’s just struggling to breathe as Bones looms over him, tousled hair stuck to his forehead and smiling lips bruised. That terrible smile again, soft around his dark dark eyes. And Bones’ fingers in his hair, nails gently tracing his scalp.
Bones’ hips shift, and Jim can’t stop the soft noise that escapes him as that cock brushes his cheek. Musk and a wet trail of precome on his stubble. He licks his suddenly dry lips as Bones shifts again. Cock brushes Jim’s mouth and stays, damp tip to his parted lips. And still that broad hand, just curling through his hair.
Jim lets the tip of his tongue flick out, sucks a soft kiss into the head, barely breathing. Seeks out Bones’ eyes and gets a warm, heavy-lidded look in return. Bones hums in approval and shifts again, the heavy weight of his cock parting Jim’s lips. Jim’s face is flushed to the roots and he’s so hard it hurts, shaky hand curling in his lap and he groans around the weight on his tongue. Jerks himself quick and unsteady til a hand clamps on his wrist and pins it to the chair. Jim reels and sobs just as Bones thrusts, almost choking him with a sudden slide that fills the back of his throat.
Bones is fucking his mouth. Heavy weight on his tongue, the bitter-salt taste of skin and Bones. Jim curls his tongue around the ridge of a vein and feels a trail of spit down his chin. Words drift over his head like yes and god, Jim and fuck, your mouth that he almost can’t hear through his own grunts, choked from his throat with each slick slide.
“Look at me” Bones murmurs and Jim hadn’t even noticed he’d shut his eyes til they blur open to coarse hair and flushed skin. Sweat drips in his eyes as he blinks up and Bones just smiles gently, thumb circling his temple. Moves down to thumb his lower lip, stretched around the length of Bones’ cock, slows his next thrust so his dark eyes just watch it slide in. Jim can’t stop the chest-deep moan that pulls from him, feeling each inch as a hot pulse in his dick. He wants to fucking beg but can’t do much more than breathe hard through his nose, whimper and rock his hips against the chair.
Finally, the hand in his hair gently pulls back til Jim’s lips slide off with a soft pop. His cheeks are furnace-hot and he shudders where he’s slumped in the chair, breathing hard through an aching mouth. Can’t look away from Bones’ face.
“Do you want me to fuck you, Jim?” Bones says quietly, thumb still tracing his lip.
Jim’s brain short-circuits. His hole clenches involuntarily, a moan building low in his throat. He draws in a shaky breath, but freezes, has to stop. Can’t trust his voice to answer. Doesn’t even know what the fuck his answer is. He’s hard and aching and wants to map every inch of that familiar skin with his mouth and it’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s all so fucking wrong.
But he can’t stop the cool hand that curls around his erection, twists upwards, palms the leaking head. “Still need persuading?” Bones murmurs and Jim’s mouth falls open in an ‘o’ - whether to protest, beg, or moan is anyone’s guess - but sound and breath stick in his tight throat as Bones sinks to his knees and gives him a keen look. That dark head lowers and damp heat traces up the underside of his cock. Long fingers loosely encircle him and lips and teeth gently smooth and worry his damp inner thighs, the delicate skin of his balls. Sucks one into his mouth before letting it slide from his lips. Slow, wet open-mouthed kisses trail up his length and a warm tongue laps at his head, swirling in a slow circle. Jim is incoherent, head lolling back and hips jerking sharply, sobbing into the muggy air.
His knees are curled over Bones’ shoulders and his hands tangled in his hair, and when Jim dizzily raises his head and looks down, he can’t help the spasm that slides his cock half-past those full lips. He’s seen them pursed in disapproval, worrying a stylus, stretched in a reluctant grin. Only ever imagined seeing them like this, and even then only when drunk, exhausted, dying. In a way, still is only imagining it all. The thought stops his heart but can’t stop his hands from pulling, pressing, or his hips from rolling into the sucking heat.
Hands curl under his thighs and push up til Jim has to clutch the chair’s arms or slide to the floor and that wet mouth trails down to the soft flesh of his ass, biting gently. A slow breath that cools the damp trail, prickles his skin. Puffs of warm air against his puckered hole. Shockingly hot swipe of a tongue that wrings a near-scream from his throat. Then another, and another, deliberate and firm til Jim’s a shuddering incoherent mess in his hands, under his mouth.
One last kiss pressed to his thigh and Bones slides to his feet, Jim’s shaky legs slipping from his shoulders to the ground. Broad hands cupping his hips, lower back, pulling and nudging, til Jim’s somehow shifted to his knees, chair digging into his belly as he braces an arm against the wall. Rests his forehead against it, closes his eyes. Small mercy that he doesn’t have to see this, watch everything he can’t have.
So of course, Bones starts talking instead, murmuring words into his neck as long fingers stroke down his spine, to the dip of his back, to brush his still-sensitive pucker.
“Jim,” that voices breathes, “wanted this. Wanted you. God, Jim, look at you. Shaking apart from just a coupl’a kisses. Always thought you’d be like this.” A kiss near his ear, a press just past the tight ring of muscle. Jim tenses and gasps. Bones sighs, strokes his chest.
“Relax, darlin’. Shhh. Relax. Don’t run from this. Just let me - let me take care of you.” A kiss to his jaw, a thumb brushing his nipple. Hand cupping his chin, turning Jim’s face for a sloppy kiss to the side of his mouth, devastatingly soft. Finger sliding in to the root.
It’s all a blur after that - firm press of long, sure fingers, heat against his back, sweat mixing with spit in the crook of Jim’s arm as he sags into it and groans. Lube from somewhere, Jim thinks somewhat hysterically, doesn’t want to know where. Fissures of white-sharp pleasure when those fingers probe, stroke, linger over his prostrate. Slow twist of a wrist that has Jim’s knees sliding apart and his forehead banging into the wall.
Feels like forever by the time those fingers pull away, slide to grip his hips. Blunt, heavy heat at his entrance. A kiss at his neck. Slow, burning stretch Jim feels nowhere near prepared for, his fingers scraping the wall for purchase. But he hears yesyesyesyes falling from his mouth and Bones keeps going til Jim feels he’s going to tear in two from the heat, the stretch, the chest draped solid over his back.
Takes a while for Bones to move. Just breaths into the back of Jim’s neck, unsteadily pets his chest. Jim just shakes, tries to inhale, tries to loosen the muscles clenched around Bones like a vise. Then: “ready?” and Jim can barely nod and Bones gives a small hitching thrust, then another, then another, and fuck, it burns, but fuck, it’s - it’s -
Chair rattling under their weight and Bones’ hand clasps white-knuckled over his on the wall. Other hand pulling Jim’s hip back again and again into that full-too-full ache. He’s fucking him in earnest and gasping Jim’s name into his ear and it tears Jim’s heart right as it goes straight to his cock. Only flagged a bit before and it’s painfully hard again and swaying heavy between his thighs.
Time blurs as Bones’ hand shifts his hips, shifts the angle, and fuck, prostate, fuck, hitting that spot again - again - again - til Jim’s vision whites out and his throat is burning and he’s babbling something and Bones is grunting in his ear and that slide moving through him and a hand slipping on his hip, sliding up his cock and one sharp stroke - two - and a kiss at his neck and Jim comes with a strangled gasp so hard his ears ring and black spots swim in his eyes.
And for the second time that night, Jim blacks out.
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“Kirk to Enterprise. One to beam up.”
Jim’s voice is hoarse through the crackle of the communicator, and Scotty’s flask pauses midway to his mouth. (‘Normally I’d say no liquids in the transporter room, but shore leave, eh?’) He and McCoy exchange a look, and the doctor’s feet slide down from where they’re propped on the console.
“’Spose you were right to be waiting fer the Captain’s return, eh Doctor?” Scotty grins, fingers flying over the controls.
“’Course I’m right. I spent every break with the man. He’s like a one-man quest to discover every strain of genital warts the universe has to offer,” McCoy grumps.
Though honestly, he’s feeling a touch guilty. Been so tired from dishing out pre-leave vaccinations and getting the crew’s files in order that he’d just shut Jim down earlier. Shoulda gone with him. For a man so adept at keeping his crew out of trouble, Jim still hasn’t figured how to do the same for himself.
Scotty slides down a control and the transporter whirs to life, blue light swirling into the mussed hair, dazed eyes and rumpled clothes of Jim T. Kirk. And the man jumps - jumps - when he sees McCoy.
McCoy’s heart stops a bit, the way it always does when he’s trying to piece together whatever new malady Jim’s found for himself. “Jim?” he says worriedly, taking a step forward. Jim steps back.
“Bones,” he stammers, red spreading blotchily over his face. He looks like he’s going to be sick.
“You all right there, Cap’n?” Scotty’s worried voice comes over his shoulder but Jim doesn’t look away from McCoy’s face, blue eyes spooked. When McCoy reaches out Jim practically jumps, skirting around the seeking hand and rushing through the door, tossing “at ease gentlemen” over his shoulder in a way that says the captain is anything but.
“And wha’ in the devil was that?” Scotty says, disbelieving.
McCoy’s already half out the door. “I don’t know,” he says grimly, “but I’m going to find out.”
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Fin
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy, Kirk/OMF?C
Rating: NC-17 like an NC-17 thing.
Disclaimer: Not mine. :(
Warnings: General mind-fuckery. And a teeny bit of rimming.
Summary: Kirk meets someone who specializes in giving people what they want. Jim didn't even know he wanted this.
Notes: Baby's first fic in the fandom! And also the porniest porn I have written - ever. So feedback is very welcome.
Her eyes are chlorine-green and her hair is like a sunrise and she smells like everything good in the world, smooth and spicy-sweet. Intoxicating enough to make Jim almost forget it’s his first night of his first shore leave as captain, and Bones has ditched him for a medical PADD and a tumbler of bourbon. No amount of wheedling had gotten him more than an eye-roll and a grumble that if Jim wanted his company so bad, then he should stop getting beat all to hell every other weekend and pushing his CMO to wit’s end.
Which leaves Jim planetside, short one best friend. Not to say that Jim’s having a bad night - Sulu and Riley are top-notch wingmen. They just aren’t grumpily relaxed McCoy, matching him drink for drink and keeping sharp and wicked commentary on the bar clientele.
Instead, the lieutenants leer and wink with the subtlety of a facial twitch when this neon-colored bombshell of a Krilian pushes through the crowd and smoothly twines her way around him. Later, with the clarity of hindsight, Jim has a pretty good idea of what Bones would’ve done - hauled him away by the seat of his pants. They all sat through Uhura’s Krilia briefing, after all. It’s just that Jim, Sulu and Riley - all they really took from it was hey, shapeshifter sex, sweet.
So Jim rests a loose hand on her hip, looks through his lashes and grins, “So tell me, what name do I have the honor of screaming tonight?” Been a while since he’s been drunk enough to use that one, but she laughs, high and light over the noise of the bar. She presses her smile to his ear and murmurs, “I’m whoever you want me to be.”
Jim is wondering if this is some sort of shapeshifter in-joke when six blue fingers slide around his wrist, stroking the thin skin over his veins. She’s got a keen, wicked Gaila-look in her eyes that twists his heart, and the skin at the dip of her back is warm and peach-fuzz soft.
“I know a place,” she says, and it’s so damn cliché he almost laughs except for the way she presses against him, breasts heavy and warm through her thin slip of a dress. It’s been too long, and his dick is up to any and all suggestions. So he smirks, “Lead the way,” and six fingers become five as she twines them with his.
He’s already thinking up how he’s going to tell Bones about this when she pulls him through the throng, past the tri-sex bathrooms and out the back door to the cool night air. “Where do you have in mind?” he asks, sliding an arm around her waist. He keeps his eyes sharp because he’s drunk, not stupid.
She burrows under his arm and murmurs a string of Krilian syllables in the shell of his ear. He has no idea what she’s saying, but her filthy smile and the sputtering neon signs overhead tell him all he really needs to know.
Jim’s gone and found himself a Krilian sex worker. Bones’ll have his head on a plate. Well that’s what he gets for passing Jim up for a treatise on Xanthian flesh-rot.
A warm hand slides into his back pocket and steers his steps to a blue-lit doorway. Jim’s watching the slope of her neck as she whispers to the voice-recog panel and almost doesn’t notice the dark door slide noiselessly back til she nudges him through. The hall’s heavy with the smell of sweat and sex and the Krilian’s eyes go heavy-lidded in the dim light.
“Here,” she smiles, sliding back an unmarked door and gently pushing him through. “Remove your outer garments and be seated. I will return.”
When she leaves, Jim straightens, does a quick scan of the small, windowless room and makes sure he hasn’t been locked in. The door slides open and shut with a tap of the touchpad, and he exhales, shuts his eyes, loosens his shoulders. It really has been too long, and he’s almost aching for touch. Jim’s mostly hard and buzzing as he strips to his briefs and settles back in room’s only chair.
When the Krilian returns, he’s idly palming himself through his briefs and she smiles a shark-smile. She’s beautiful, breasts pendulous and hips full, teeth gleaming in the dim light. Jim feels a damp spot leak through the thin gray fabric at his crotch as she sways across the room.
“Don’t be alarmed,” she says softly, and that’s usually a flashing red sign to be very alarmed, but Jim can only sit transfixed as she reaches long fingers to his temples. Then a flash, white weightlessness, so like the elder Spock’s cool invasive touch that his stomach jolts. But through the white-blank rush in his mind, he can feel this is different. Instead of a dizzying crush of strange tastes, smells, faces, words, he feels like a book laid bare to the Krilian’s seeking fingers. Memories swim and blur together, floating to the surface and kissing the fingertips on his temples.
And that’s about when Jim blacks out.
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Rough palms cradle his ribs, warm breath at his ear. He hears a “Jim,” so soft he almost doesn’t recognize the voice.
“How,” he mumbles, head muddled and white spots swimming in his eyes. The air is cool - he is naked. Bones’ hands are hot on his gooseflesh skin and they smooth a warm flush down to his belly.
“You’re awake. Good,” Bones murmurs into his hair, rough and close and the damp touch of a tongue on his ear.
“What -” Jim rasps, jolts away as his heart knocks in his chest. Knocks harder when he finds he can’t move more than an inch. His arms stretch over his head, locked in smooth white electromag clasps. Fuck. What - fuck. “Bones. You’re - what the fuck is this.”
Long doctor’s fingers slide around his sternum and belly, gently tugging him back til he’s flush against the thudding heart and warm skin and - shit - leaking cock of Leonard Horatio McCoy.
“This is what you want, Jim,” Bones’ voice says, Georgia-thick and amused. “Thought that’d be obvious.”
And that’s when everything snaps into focus. Same room, chair shoved into the corner, clothes folded in a pile. His briefs crumpled near his feet. No Krilian in sight, unless you count the one nudging against his ass, wearing McCoy’s skin and using his voice. Jim’s hands spasm into fists, breath stuttering out of a suddenly tight throat. Heat floods his face and burns straight to his dick, flushing red and heavy under his dizzy eyes.
It is mouthing wetly at his neck and fuck, he’d never even thought - he’s noticed Bones, sure, he’s not blind, but this, stubble scraping his skin and Bones’ shampoo in his lungs, he’d never - but it’s - it’s fucking wrong, but he chokes on a gasp when teeth close on the tendons of his throat. Jim shudders in the thing’s grip.
“That’s right, darlin’,” Bones’ voice murmurs into his skin, hot open-mouthed kisses sliding up his neck. “Relax. Let me take care of you.”
Can’t relax. Can barely breathe through the tightness in his throat. One arm wraps across his chest like an anchor, while the other smooths down to cradle his hip. Bones sucks a kiss under his jaw and his fingers slide over the thin skin of Jim’s pelvis to trace up the side of his cock and gently smear a bead of precome over the head. Jim chokes, hips jerking forward but the touch is always just barely-there as Bones - it - makes out with his neck like it wants to devour it.
Through the rush of his pulse Jim distantly hears his own horrible, helpless choked-off sounds. His head rolls away from Bones’ dark hair, presses hard into his arm, biting to stop himself, stop the flow of saliva from his slack mouth, stop the burning in his cheeks, stop the words that want to come out like Bones and yes and pleasefuckplease.
The words fall anyway in one stumbling breath when the Krilian steps back, away, leaving Jim’s back bare and prickling.
“Oh, Jim,” not-Bones sighs, nudging with broad palms him til Jim turns and his arms twist over his head. Jim can’t look at him - it, squeezes his wet eyes shut, struggles to get his breathing under control and anchors his curling toes to the ground.
“Beautiful,” Bones murmurs, warm hand pressed over Jim’s stuttering heart, and fuck, who is Jim kidding, he’s been fucking dying for this. This softness, Bones’ hands.
The thought rockets up his spine like a shock and he suddenly feels a spike of heat in his gut that has nothing to do with lust - anger, pure uncomplicated rage that tightens his chest and clears his head. This is too fucked up on too many levels and he opens his eyes and grits “let me down” but Bones is right there naked and flushed and sweating and looking at him with such tenderness that Jim doesn’t know if he wants to throw up or let go.
A hand curls over his jaw and Bones leans close and says “never” and seals their lips, warm breath and soft tongue sliding over the damp seam that Jim never meant to part. It’s the only place they’re touching - cheek and lips and tongue - but Jim feels it all over, flushing unsteadily through his body.
“Fuck” he gets out when Bones pulls back slowly, their lips sticking a bit not wanting to part and Bones’ eyes are right there, hazel blown black. And fuck it. Fuck. It. Jim lunges far as his burning arms allow and aims for Bones’ mouth but gets his chin and Bones’ smile slides on his cheek when he pulls away.
“Finally caught up with the program, Jim?” he smirks, familiar and beautiful and awful, and Jim almost snarls with frustration and hooks an ankle round Bones’ thigh to reel him in.
And Bones lets him, pulls close til there’s miles of skin and muscle pressed down his front. And Bones, sliding against the hollow of his hip, slick and hotter than the air that Jim’s struggling to pull into his lungs.
Bones moves slowly, hips rolling in a tight circle. Jim stares at the lowered lashes, the crease between his brows, the pale freckles on his cheeks and wonders dizzily where the Krilian ends and Bones begins, which half-dreams helped build this Frankenstein of a best friend. Then Jim’s lips slide over that pointed tip of his nose and Bones kisses him and Jim just stops thinking altogether.
In fact, it’s not til his hands are fisted in sweat-damp hair and palming Bones’ scalp that he realizes the clasps have opened. By that point he’s rutting into Bones’ hip, groaning low and needy into that fucking perfect mouth, licking the soft warmth of his palate til Bones grunts and nips his tongue and sucks, lazy and rhythmic, til Jim’s cock throbs and he feels it sharp in his chest.
Almost too much and he pulls back with a wounded sound, mouths “c’mon c’mon c’mon” into Bones’ cheek, fingers twisting in the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Jim has touched this spot hundreds of times, saying hello with a squeeze or reassuring with a clasp. Never like this, his nails leaving flushed lines on that pale skin.
Jim grunts out a startled breath when the backs of his knees hit the chair and he stumbles back into the seat, dick slapping against his stomach. He would laugh but he’s just struggling to breathe as Bones looms over him, tousled hair stuck to his forehead and smiling lips bruised. That terrible smile again, soft around his dark dark eyes. And Bones’ fingers in his hair, nails gently tracing his scalp.
Bones’ hips shift, and Jim can’t stop the soft noise that escapes him as that cock brushes his cheek. Musk and a wet trail of precome on his stubble. He licks his suddenly dry lips as Bones shifts again. Cock brushes Jim’s mouth and stays, damp tip to his parted lips. And still that broad hand, just curling through his hair.
Jim lets the tip of his tongue flick out, sucks a soft kiss into the head, barely breathing. Seeks out Bones’ eyes and gets a warm, heavy-lidded look in return. Bones hums in approval and shifts again, the heavy weight of his cock parting Jim’s lips. Jim’s face is flushed to the roots and he’s so hard it hurts, shaky hand curling in his lap and he groans around the weight on his tongue. Jerks himself quick and unsteady til a hand clamps on his wrist and pins it to the chair. Jim reels and sobs just as Bones thrusts, almost choking him with a sudden slide that fills the back of his throat.
Bones is fucking his mouth. Heavy weight on his tongue, the bitter-salt taste of skin and Bones. Jim curls his tongue around the ridge of a vein and feels a trail of spit down his chin. Words drift over his head like yes and god, Jim and fuck, your mouth that he almost can’t hear through his own grunts, choked from his throat with each slick slide.
“Look at me” Bones murmurs and Jim hadn’t even noticed he’d shut his eyes til they blur open to coarse hair and flushed skin. Sweat drips in his eyes as he blinks up and Bones just smiles gently, thumb circling his temple. Moves down to thumb his lower lip, stretched around the length of Bones’ cock, slows his next thrust so his dark eyes just watch it slide in. Jim can’t stop the chest-deep moan that pulls from him, feeling each inch as a hot pulse in his dick. He wants to fucking beg but can’t do much more than breathe hard through his nose, whimper and rock his hips against the chair.
Finally, the hand in his hair gently pulls back til Jim’s lips slide off with a soft pop. His cheeks are furnace-hot and he shudders where he’s slumped in the chair, breathing hard through an aching mouth. Can’t look away from Bones’ face.
“Do you want me to fuck you, Jim?” Bones says quietly, thumb still tracing his lip.
Jim’s brain short-circuits. His hole clenches involuntarily, a moan building low in his throat. He draws in a shaky breath, but freezes, has to stop. Can’t trust his voice to answer. Doesn’t even know what the fuck his answer is. He’s hard and aching and wants to map every inch of that familiar skin with his mouth and it’s wrong, it’s wrong, it’s all so fucking wrong.
But he can’t stop the cool hand that curls around his erection, twists upwards, palms the leaking head. “Still need persuading?” Bones murmurs and Jim’s mouth falls open in an ‘o’ - whether to protest, beg, or moan is anyone’s guess - but sound and breath stick in his tight throat as Bones sinks to his knees and gives him a keen look. That dark head lowers and damp heat traces up the underside of his cock. Long fingers loosely encircle him and lips and teeth gently smooth and worry his damp inner thighs, the delicate skin of his balls. Sucks one into his mouth before letting it slide from his lips. Slow, wet open-mouthed kisses trail up his length and a warm tongue laps at his head, swirling in a slow circle. Jim is incoherent, head lolling back and hips jerking sharply, sobbing into the muggy air.
His knees are curled over Bones’ shoulders and his hands tangled in his hair, and when Jim dizzily raises his head and looks down, he can’t help the spasm that slides his cock half-past those full lips. He’s seen them pursed in disapproval, worrying a stylus, stretched in a reluctant grin. Only ever imagined seeing them like this, and even then only when drunk, exhausted, dying. In a way, still is only imagining it all. The thought stops his heart but can’t stop his hands from pulling, pressing, or his hips from rolling into the sucking heat.
Hands curl under his thighs and push up til Jim has to clutch the chair’s arms or slide to the floor and that wet mouth trails down to the soft flesh of his ass, biting gently. A slow breath that cools the damp trail, prickles his skin. Puffs of warm air against his puckered hole. Shockingly hot swipe of a tongue that wrings a near-scream from his throat. Then another, and another, deliberate and firm til Jim’s a shuddering incoherent mess in his hands, under his mouth.
One last kiss pressed to his thigh and Bones slides to his feet, Jim’s shaky legs slipping from his shoulders to the ground. Broad hands cupping his hips, lower back, pulling and nudging, til Jim’s somehow shifted to his knees, chair digging into his belly as he braces an arm against the wall. Rests his forehead against it, closes his eyes. Small mercy that he doesn’t have to see this, watch everything he can’t have.
So of course, Bones starts talking instead, murmuring words into his neck as long fingers stroke down his spine, to the dip of his back, to brush his still-sensitive pucker.
“Jim,” that voices breathes, “wanted this. Wanted you. God, Jim, look at you. Shaking apart from just a coupl’a kisses. Always thought you’d be like this.” A kiss near his ear, a press just past the tight ring of muscle. Jim tenses and gasps. Bones sighs, strokes his chest.
“Relax, darlin’. Shhh. Relax. Don’t run from this. Just let me - let me take care of you.” A kiss to his jaw, a thumb brushing his nipple. Hand cupping his chin, turning Jim’s face for a sloppy kiss to the side of his mouth, devastatingly soft. Finger sliding in to the root.
It’s all a blur after that - firm press of long, sure fingers, heat against his back, sweat mixing with spit in the crook of Jim’s arm as he sags into it and groans. Lube from somewhere, Jim thinks somewhat hysterically, doesn’t want to know where. Fissures of white-sharp pleasure when those fingers probe, stroke, linger over his prostrate. Slow twist of a wrist that has Jim’s knees sliding apart and his forehead banging into the wall.
Feels like forever by the time those fingers pull away, slide to grip his hips. Blunt, heavy heat at his entrance. A kiss at his neck. Slow, burning stretch Jim feels nowhere near prepared for, his fingers scraping the wall for purchase. But he hears yesyesyesyes falling from his mouth and Bones keeps going til Jim feels he’s going to tear in two from the heat, the stretch, the chest draped solid over his back.
Takes a while for Bones to move. Just breaths into the back of Jim’s neck, unsteadily pets his chest. Jim just shakes, tries to inhale, tries to loosen the muscles clenched around Bones like a vise. Then: “ready?” and Jim can barely nod and Bones gives a small hitching thrust, then another, then another, and fuck, it burns, but fuck, it’s - it’s -
Chair rattling under their weight and Bones’ hand clasps white-knuckled over his on the wall. Other hand pulling Jim’s hip back again and again into that full-too-full ache. He’s fucking him in earnest and gasping Jim’s name into his ear and it tears Jim’s heart right as it goes straight to his cock. Only flagged a bit before and it’s painfully hard again and swaying heavy between his thighs.
Time blurs as Bones’ hand shifts his hips, shifts the angle, and fuck, prostate, fuck, hitting that spot again - again - again - til Jim’s vision whites out and his throat is burning and he’s babbling something and Bones is grunting in his ear and that slide moving through him and a hand slipping on his hip, sliding up his cock and one sharp stroke - two - and a kiss at his neck and Jim comes with a strangled gasp so hard his ears ring and black spots swim in his eyes.
And for the second time that night, Jim blacks out.
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“Kirk to Enterprise. One to beam up.”
Jim’s voice is hoarse through the crackle of the communicator, and Scotty’s flask pauses midway to his mouth. (‘Normally I’d say no liquids in the transporter room, but shore leave, eh?’) He and McCoy exchange a look, and the doctor’s feet slide down from where they’re propped on the console.
“’Spose you were right to be waiting fer the Captain’s return, eh Doctor?” Scotty grins, fingers flying over the controls.
“’Course I’m right. I spent every break with the man. He’s like a one-man quest to discover every strain of genital warts the universe has to offer,” McCoy grumps.
Though honestly, he’s feeling a touch guilty. Been so tired from dishing out pre-leave vaccinations and getting the crew’s files in order that he’d just shut Jim down earlier. Shoulda gone with him. For a man so adept at keeping his crew out of trouble, Jim still hasn’t figured how to do the same for himself.
Scotty slides down a control and the transporter whirs to life, blue light swirling into the mussed hair, dazed eyes and rumpled clothes of Jim T. Kirk. And the man jumps - jumps - when he sees McCoy.
McCoy’s heart stops a bit, the way it always does when he’s trying to piece together whatever new malady Jim’s found for himself. “Jim?” he says worriedly, taking a step forward. Jim steps back.
“Bones,” he stammers, red spreading blotchily over his face. He looks like he’s going to be sick.
“You all right there, Cap’n?” Scotty’s worried voice comes over his shoulder but Jim doesn’t look away from McCoy’s face, blue eyes spooked. When McCoy reaches out Jim practically jumps, skirting around the seeking hand and rushing through the door, tossing “at ease gentlemen” over his shoulder in a way that says the captain is anything but.
“And wha’ in the devil was that?” Scotty says, disbelieving.
McCoy’s already half out the door. “I don’t know,” he says grimly, “but I’m going to find out.”
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Fin