Fic: Reasons to Not Give in to Sex with Your Best Friend (#2)
Name: Reasons to Not Give in to Sex with Your Best Friend (#2) [1/1]
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: PG-13...ish?
Summary: Written as part of a round-robin post for the McCoy-a-thon. The first reason, written by an awesome anon, is here.
Two: Because it just might break you if/when he moves on to his next catch. Captain James Tiberius Kirk is many things: brash, daring, loquacious, loud, bat-shit insane at moments (he thinks that here is where Jim would interrupt with an “okay, okay, I get it already!” if he were privy to Bones’ internal monologue), but one thing he isn’t is stupid. Far from it, in fact, judging by his scores back at the Academy. Jim is smart, and so most of the time he avoids sleeping around with the crew members aboard this ship. Sure, there’s a chance that he’ll only see past lovers (victims, Bones likes to call them) every once in a while, in passing, but even then, who knows what tension may come about? A ship is a well-oiled machine (“Damned right it is!” a voice suspiciously similar to Montgomery Scott’s interjects inside of his head), with all its crew being cogs and gears and levers and pulleys and whatever the hell else goes inside it. If one cog is rusted, or misaligned, or just pissed because the Captain isn’t sleeping with them anymore, the whole ship might not function at its highest capacity for success.
There is, on occasion, though, a crewmember who happens to trip/fall/simply get lost and find their way into Kirk’s bed. And then he starts hearing things through the channels of gossip on the ship. About how amazing it was. How fantastic. How they’d never experienced anything like it. And how they all knew it was probably a one-time thing. And Bones continues to stock supplies in a cabinet (with a bit more gusto), or tie a bandage (maybe a little tighter than the injured person had wanted), or stab a hypo (okay, just saying stab is enough to know that it had been applied a little harder than he had intended), without comment. Jim’s a free man. A smart man. A smart captain. And Bones likes to think of himself as a smart doctor. Two smart people, best friends who are smart enough to know that their sex lives will never, ever, coincide. At least, he hopes that message is clear.
Jim usually settles around to bedding off-worlders. Bones is sure that he’d have developed a wide variety of nasty space STDs and whatnot if the good ol’ CMO on the ship weren’t so dedicated. But then again, Jim is smart. He looks for signs and does research and generally knows whether or not he should stick his package in an eagerly awaiting mailbox. What Bones isn’t sure of is if Jim even really sleeps in beds anymore. He know it’s” illogical” to think like that (he curses his inner-Spock for using such a word), but to him, “Jim T. Kirk” and “hitting the hay” are synonymous with getting to hit something… just not getting to sleep, is all.
So when Bones stumbles into his quarters after a grueling shift of broken bones and space diseases and petty injuries, it’s completely understandable that he’s freaked out about James T. Kirk, bedswerver extraordinaire, lounging carelessly on his covers. Freaked out, and just a little turned on. Just a little.
Jim flashes him a trademarked grin as Bones enters the room, and gives him a lazy salute. “Finally. I’ve been waiting forever.” He’s fully dressed, of course, but that doesn’t mean he can’t look incredibly sexy. He curses Jim for being the only man in the universe to look just as inviting with clothes on as he is when they’re off.
Bones turns away a bit, shifts his glaze somewhere other than Jim sitting, laying there, almost, on his bed. He is definitely not thinking about Jim without clothes, though, Jim naked and writhing in pleasure underneath him. No way. It takes more than this to rile up Leonard McCoy. Way more than this.
“Yeah, well, some of us have actual work to do,” he mutters as he toes off one shoe, than the other. “We can’t all sit in the captain’s chair and give orders all day.” He moves toward his desk and idly begins to sort through the stray papers on it.
“Aw, now, that’s not accurate at all.” Jim falls back onto his bed and kicks his feet up, crossing them to create the image of perfect relaxation. “I do a lot of work. You know I do.” He feigns a wounded expression.
“…yeah.” Bones grudgingly acknowledges this and mutters as such. Jim’s a hard-worker, despite the almost legendary image of lackadaisical airs that he cultivates. He makes things look easy. Even when he’s getting the shit beaten out of him he makes it look easy. People think he passed his aptitude tests with all the grace of a genius slacker, but they’re only partially correct: Jim’s a genius, yes, and a slacker, at times, but no one works harder than him at what they want to achieve. Those people never saw Jim studying late into the night before exams at the Academy, working meticulously to ace his tests. Those peopledo, however, see Jim at bars, flirting and fighting and just generally behaving like an ass. Bones has never understood why someone so smart would try so hard to make it appear as if he weren’t.
“But,” Jim says, and Bones looks up at him from whatever he’s been examining on his desk. (A pen, he realizes. He’s been staring at a pen and trying to distract himself from the fact that Jim-fucking-Kirk is laying across his bed.) “But,” Jim repeats, “you work harder. C’mon, man, when’s the last time you were even in here?” He gestures around the room and arches an eyebrow.
It’s been fifty-four hours and twelve minutes since he’s last been in here, but Bones isn’t about to mention that to Jim. Instead, he rolls his eyes and fixes Jim with a mocking glare. “The pot calling the kettle black,” he snaps back. (Inner-Spock resurfaces to point out that pots can’t talk, and Bones shoves him further into the deeper regions of his mind.) “You hardly ever leave the bridge. I’m not going to-“ He pauses midsentence as Jim stands and takes a step in his direction. Then another step. And another. He’s not walking. He’s stalking.He knows the look Jim is giving him, too. He remembers it from those days at the Academy, when Jim’s sights would focus on a particularly beddable man or woman…
“…I’m not going to… going to-” Bones tries to continue admonishing Jim but suddenly Jim is inches from his face, a hand on his chest, eyes locked with his own.
“You need to relax,” Jim says. “You’re running on empty. Every time I see you, you look like you’re about to pass out.”
Bones is about to pass out, but for an entirely different reason. The blood in his veins is threatening to rush somewhere else entirely, and with the little (read: no) sleep that he’s had in the past three days, he’s afraid that an erection will literally knock him out.
Somehow Jim has maneuvered it so that he’s backing Bones up now, towards the bed and towards certain doom. “Let me help you,” Jim suggests, and is that a hint of… desperation that Bones detects in his voice? “I want to help you.”
The back of his knees hit the edge of the bed and suddenly he’s flat against the sheets and Jim is kneeling over him, pressing a knee against the crotch of his quickly tightening pants. Bones gasps and immediately regrets making the sound (goddammit, he’s a doctor, not a teenage girl!), because it only makes Jim grin a feral grin and lean down to press a soft kiss at the edge of his jaw.
His eyes flutter shut and he gasps again. Damn. He’s feeling lightheaded and woozy and nothing’s even happened yet. It’s the sleep deprivation, he reasons, it’s got to be. Jim Kirk can not be making him feel so weak, so helpless to his advances. And yet, as Jim lazily leaves a trail of kisses ending at his mouth, Bones feels like he’s going to succumb to all of this. He’s going to give it all to Jim Kirk, he can feel it.
But he can’t. He pushes Jim off of him, breaking the kiss (oh, God, the kiss is incredible) with some effort. “I-I can’t,” he stutters weakly, repeating his inner monologue for Jim to hear. “I can’t.” This time he says it with more conviction.
Jim blinks once, twice, confused. “…what?”
His expression is almost comical. It screams “this shit just got real and you’re attempting cock-block yourself?” But Bones shakes his head, adamant. He can’t do it. Not if Jim will love him and then leave him and then move on to some hot guy or girl, some other hot ticket. Bones couldn’t deal with that. Having Jim, really having him, and then losing him? He would die, quite literally. Jim is one of the last things in this life that he’s really and truly close to, and if sex (as wonderfully as it would be) drives a wedge into their friendship, he might just drop dead.
Not “might”, he corrects himself. “Most definitely” is a better phrase. Jim is that important to him.
They lock gazes for a moment, and it seems like an entirety stretches between them, between their eyes. And then Jim laughs a bit to himself, shrugs, and stands up as he straightens his uniform out. He looks a bit… disappointed? No. Bones is imagining that. He has to be.
“Well,” Jim says, as he approaches the door with a conspiratorial smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “if you ever change your mind, the offer still stands.” And then he leaves.
Bones lays there for what might be a minute or an hour or even the whole day, and stares at the ceiling of his quarters. He convinces himself that what he’s just done was right. It was necessary. It was self-preservation at its finest.
Hell, it was smart.
That doesn’t make him feel any better, though.
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: PG-13...ish?
Summary: Written as part of a round-robin post for the McCoy-a-thon. The first reason, written by an awesome anon, is here.
Two: Because it just might break you if/when he moves on to his next catch. Captain James Tiberius Kirk is many things: brash, daring, loquacious, loud, bat-shit insane at moments (he thinks that here is where Jim would interrupt with an “okay, okay, I get it already!” if he were privy to Bones’ internal monologue), but one thing he isn’t is stupid. Far from it, in fact, judging by his scores back at the Academy. Jim is smart, and so most of the time he avoids sleeping around with the crew members aboard this ship. Sure, there’s a chance that he’ll only see past lovers (victims, Bones likes to call them) every once in a while, in passing, but even then, who knows what tension may come about? A ship is a well-oiled machine (“Damned right it is!” a voice suspiciously similar to Montgomery Scott’s interjects inside of his head), with all its crew being cogs and gears and levers and pulleys and whatever the hell else goes inside it. If one cog is rusted, or misaligned, or just pissed because the Captain isn’t sleeping with them anymore, the whole ship might not function at its highest capacity for success.
There is, on occasion, though, a crewmember who happens to trip/fall/simply get lost and find their way into Kirk’s bed. And then he starts hearing things through the channels of gossip on the ship. About how amazing it was. How fantastic. How they’d never experienced anything like it. And how they all knew it was probably a one-time thing. And Bones continues to stock supplies in a cabinet (with a bit more gusto), or tie a bandage (maybe a little tighter than the injured person had wanted), or stab a hypo (okay, just saying stab is enough to know that it had been applied a little harder than he had intended), without comment. Jim’s a free man. A smart man. A smart captain. And Bones likes to think of himself as a smart doctor. Two smart people, best friends who are smart enough to know that their sex lives will never, ever, coincide. At least, he hopes that message is clear.
Jim usually settles around to bedding off-worlders. Bones is sure that he’d have developed a wide variety of nasty space STDs and whatnot if the good ol’ CMO on the ship weren’t so dedicated. But then again, Jim is smart. He looks for signs and does research and generally knows whether or not he should stick his package in an eagerly awaiting mailbox. What Bones isn’t sure of is if Jim even really sleeps in beds anymore. He know it’s” illogical” to think like that (he curses his inner-Spock for using such a word), but to him, “Jim T. Kirk” and “hitting the hay” are synonymous with getting to hit something… just not getting to sleep, is all.
So when Bones stumbles into his quarters after a grueling shift of broken bones and space diseases and petty injuries, it’s completely understandable that he’s freaked out about James T. Kirk, bedswerver extraordinaire, lounging carelessly on his covers. Freaked out, and just a little turned on. Just a little.
Jim flashes him a trademarked grin as Bones enters the room, and gives him a lazy salute. “Finally. I’ve been waiting forever.” He’s fully dressed, of course, but that doesn’t mean he can’t look incredibly sexy. He curses Jim for being the only man in the universe to look just as inviting with clothes on as he is when they’re off.
Bones turns away a bit, shifts his glaze somewhere other than Jim sitting, laying there, almost, on his bed. He is definitely not thinking about Jim without clothes, though, Jim naked and writhing in pleasure underneath him. No way. It takes more than this to rile up Leonard McCoy. Way more than this.
“Yeah, well, some of us have actual work to do,” he mutters as he toes off one shoe, than the other. “We can’t all sit in the captain’s chair and give orders all day.” He moves toward his desk and idly begins to sort through the stray papers on it.
“Aw, now, that’s not accurate at all.” Jim falls back onto his bed and kicks his feet up, crossing them to create the image of perfect relaxation. “I do a lot of work. You know I do.” He feigns a wounded expression.
“…yeah.” Bones grudgingly acknowledges this and mutters as such. Jim’s a hard-worker, despite the almost legendary image of lackadaisical airs that he cultivates. He makes things look easy. Even when he’s getting the shit beaten out of him he makes it look easy. People think he passed his aptitude tests with all the grace of a genius slacker, but they’re only partially correct: Jim’s a genius, yes, and a slacker, at times, but no one works harder than him at what they want to achieve. Those people never saw Jim studying late into the night before exams at the Academy, working meticulously to ace his tests. Those peopledo, however, see Jim at bars, flirting and fighting and just generally behaving like an ass. Bones has never understood why someone so smart would try so hard to make it appear as if he weren’t.
“But,” Jim says, and Bones looks up at him from whatever he’s been examining on his desk. (A pen, he realizes. He’s been staring at a pen and trying to distract himself from the fact that Jim-fucking-Kirk is laying across his bed.) “But,” Jim repeats, “you work harder. C’mon, man, when’s the last time you were even in here?” He gestures around the room and arches an eyebrow.
It’s been fifty-four hours and twelve minutes since he’s last been in here, but Bones isn’t about to mention that to Jim. Instead, he rolls his eyes and fixes Jim with a mocking glare. “The pot calling the kettle black,” he snaps back. (Inner-Spock resurfaces to point out that pots can’t talk, and Bones shoves him further into the deeper regions of his mind.) “You hardly ever leave the bridge. I’m not going to-“ He pauses midsentence as Jim stands and takes a step in his direction. Then another step. And another. He’s not walking. He’s stalking.He knows the look Jim is giving him, too. He remembers it from those days at the Academy, when Jim’s sights would focus on a particularly beddable man or woman…
“…I’m not going to… going to-” Bones tries to continue admonishing Jim but suddenly Jim is inches from his face, a hand on his chest, eyes locked with his own.
“You need to relax,” Jim says. “You’re running on empty. Every time I see you, you look like you’re about to pass out.”
Bones is about to pass out, but for an entirely different reason. The blood in his veins is threatening to rush somewhere else entirely, and with the little (read: no) sleep that he’s had in the past three days, he’s afraid that an erection will literally knock him out.
Somehow Jim has maneuvered it so that he’s backing Bones up now, towards the bed and towards certain doom. “Let me help you,” Jim suggests, and is that a hint of… desperation that Bones detects in his voice? “I want to help you.”
The back of his knees hit the edge of the bed and suddenly he’s flat against the sheets and Jim is kneeling over him, pressing a knee against the crotch of his quickly tightening pants. Bones gasps and immediately regrets making the sound (goddammit, he’s a doctor, not a teenage girl!), because it only makes Jim grin a feral grin and lean down to press a soft kiss at the edge of his jaw.
His eyes flutter shut and he gasps again. Damn. He’s feeling lightheaded and woozy and nothing’s even happened yet. It’s the sleep deprivation, he reasons, it’s got to be. Jim Kirk can not be making him feel so weak, so helpless to his advances. And yet, as Jim lazily leaves a trail of kisses ending at his mouth, Bones feels like he’s going to succumb to all of this. He’s going to give it all to Jim Kirk, he can feel it.
But he can’t. He pushes Jim off of him, breaking the kiss (oh, God, the kiss is incredible) with some effort. “I-I can’t,” he stutters weakly, repeating his inner monologue for Jim to hear. “I can’t.” This time he says it with more conviction.
Jim blinks once, twice, confused. “…what?”
His expression is almost comical. It screams “this shit just got real and you’re attempting cock-block yourself?” But Bones shakes his head, adamant. He can’t do it. Not if Jim will love him and then leave him and then move on to some hot guy or girl, some other hot ticket. Bones couldn’t deal with that. Having Jim, really having him, and then losing him? He would die, quite literally. Jim is one of the last things in this life that he’s really and truly close to, and if sex (as wonderfully as it would be) drives a wedge into their friendship, he might just drop dead.
Not “might”, he corrects himself. “Most definitely” is a better phrase. Jim is that important to him.
They lock gazes for a moment, and it seems like an entirety stretches between them, between their eyes. And then Jim laughs a bit to himself, shrugs, and stands up as he straightens his uniform out. He looks a bit… disappointed? No. Bones is imagining that. He has to be.
“Well,” Jim says, as he approaches the door with a conspiratorial smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “if you ever change your mind, the offer still stands.” And then he leaves.
Bones lays there for what might be a minute or an hour or even the whole day, and stares at the ceiling of his quarters. He convinces himself that what he’s just done was right. It was necessary. It was self-preservation at its finest.
Hell, it was smart.
That doesn’t make him feel any better, though.