FIC: In Theory 1/1 (S/Mc/K, NC-17)
In Theory
by Keelywolfe
Pairing: Spock/McCoy/Kirk
Rating NC-17
Notes: Pity me, I have a bad case of the flu and I am suffering. So hey, porn right? Porn cures all ills. ;)
Summary: He's just a doctor, okay? Scientific theory is a pain in the ass.
Correlation does not imply causation.
McCoy was perfectly aware of that. He's just a doctor, of course, but in Starfleet no one is 'just' anything. By default, he was also a scientist, a mediocre navigator, and a particularly half-assed pilot who would more than likely fly any ship into the nearest meteor shower before he could figure out where the stop button was. Add in his shitty navigation and he could probably wipe out the 'Fleet like a one man curse.
But yeah. Correlation. Causation. Eating more ice cream in July doesn't mean the ice cream man makes it hot and just because you wake up with a headache after a night of drinking with Jim Kirk, it doesn't mean that Jim causes headaches. However, there seems to be a disproportional effect that drinking with Jim does cause his dick to end up in strange places that he himself would never have personally considered. Thus, friendship with Jim Kirk has obviously made him fucking insane.
Spock would no doubt have arguments against that theory. McCoy can almost hear that prim voice pointing out, "Correlation is not equal to causation; it is only a requirement for it."
Almost hear it, but not actually and it was a damned good thing that the latest strange place for his dick to wander into under Jim's command was Spock's mouth. Made spouting off about logic and whatnot a little more difficult and a hell of a lot easier on the ears.
"Use your tongue a little more," came from across the room, Jim's voice, and McCoy managed to slit his eyes open just enough to look at where he was sprawled on the sofa across from them, chin resting on his hand as he watched. It was the eyes that did a man in, dark lashes gilding too-pretty blue and having those eyes watching this so avidly was hot enough to be a kink all of its own.
McCoy's breath stuttered as Spock obediently followed Jim's instruction, working the tip of his tongue beneath the foreskin enough to lick at the tip, a ticklish, tender little movement that made him half-reach for Spock's head to push him down, fucking tease, but he caught himself in time, put his hands back on the arms of the chair where they were supposed to be.
No touching, Bones. That had been Jim's first order.
Looking was still on the table and so he did, tipped his head down enough to look at the Vulcan who was currently sucking him like a drunk would pull on the tail end of a bottle of whiskey. Like he was enjoying this, his own dark lashes were feathered against his cheeks and McCoy watched him through narrowed eyes, watched the hollow and fill of his cheeks, the tiny flex of muscles as he did things that no human could possibly do with his tongue.
Vulcans, he thought hazily, letting his head drop back on against the chair. Correlation. Causation. Spock was a rotten, cocksucking bastard but that didn't mean all Vulcans were, didn't mean all Vulcans could take him so deeply that their nose was buried in the dark curls at the base of his cock, hot breath rustling through them.
"You can go a little faster now," Jim murmured. "He's close."
"Fuck," McCoy slurred out, hands aching from clutching the arms of his chair because Jim was right and McCoy couldn't look at him now, could hear slick sounds and panting little breaths that had to mean Jim had a hand in his own trousers, watching them and jerking off and those blue eyes would be half-closed, pupils blown with alcohol and hunger. Jim was a bastard, too; he liked to watch Spock do this to someone else, but that didn't mean he'd like watching him to it to just anyone else.
Correlation, causation, and Spock's tongue was clever even when it wasn't forming words, slippery and wonderful, and McCoy didn't bother choking back his cry, let it spill out of him loud and wild the same way he spilled into the dark, hot wetness of Spock's, god, his fucking perfect mouth, rotten bastard swallowing it down, kissing him softly before pulling away and leaving him wet and cold in the air.
He wet his lips, trying to steady his breathing as he forced his eyes open and there was a sight. Watching Spock's mouth stretch around his own dick had been plenty nice but watching him suck Jim was an all new experience; Jim's pale hands twisted into dark hair as he arched up, fucking Spock's mouth in a way that McCoy hadn't even considered and Spock rode him easily, a raft on rough waters bobbing along.
McCoy swallowed hard. Correlation. Causation. Just because Jim wanted to see Spock suck him off didn't mean Jim wanted anything from him, it didn't mean anything, until Jim's eyes flashed open, flicked over to him, too-blue, pretty as the summer sky.
"Bones," he said, the word edged with a whimper and McCoy was crawling across the floor before he'd even finished, kissing away his name, not his name, Jim's name for him and the shakiness in the hand on the back of his head wasn't caused by his kiss and neither was the moan that Jim choked out, his teeth catching McCoy's lip sharply as he shuddered. Pretty when he came, too fucking pretty and McCoy hadn't caused that, hadn't caused any of it but he could correlate that Jim wouldn't have come as hard if he hadn't kissed him. Was still kissing him, lazy sweeps of tongue and stroking fingers tangling into his hair.
Correlation. Causation. If he hadn't bought that whiskey then he wouldn't be kissing Jim now, wouldn't have Spock sliding up behind him, ducking his head to mouth too-hot kisses against the back of his neck. Wouldn't be here, wouldn't have any of this, none of Jim's garbled, frantic murmurs about want and need and fuck, Bones, please. He would be...fuck only knows what he'd been doing. If he'd be thinking this is a terrible damned idea and just because Jim wanted sex now didn't mean he'd always want it, didn't mean Spock would. Didn't, didn't, couldn't, wouldn't....fuck it all.
He's just a doctor. He can't navigate worth a damn and he's no good at flying this particular ship, either. And fuck being a scientist, too; he's staying.
-finis-
Just to note: I poached a couple sentences on the Correlation/Causation theory from Wikipedia. Not always the best source but hey, it's usually the easiest. ;)
by Keelywolfe
Pairing: Spock/McCoy/Kirk
Rating NC-17
Notes: Pity me, I have a bad case of the flu and I am suffering. So hey, porn right? Porn cures all ills. ;)
Summary: He's just a doctor, okay? Scientific theory is a pain in the ass.
Correlation does not imply causation.
McCoy was perfectly aware of that. He's just a doctor, of course, but in Starfleet no one is 'just' anything. By default, he was also a scientist, a mediocre navigator, and a particularly half-assed pilot who would more than likely fly any ship into the nearest meteor shower before he could figure out where the stop button was. Add in his shitty navigation and he could probably wipe out the 'Fleet like a one man curse.
But yeah. Correlation. Causation. Eating more ice cream in July doesn't mean the ice cream man makes it hot and just because you wake up with a headache after a night of drinking with Jim Kirk, it doesn't mean that Jim causes headaches. However, there seems to be a disproportional effect that drinking with Jim does cause his dick to end up in strange places that he himself would never have personally considered. Thus, friendship with Jim Kirk has obviously made him fucking insane.
Spock would no doubt have arguments against that theory. McCoy can almost hear that prim voice pointing out, "Correlation is not equal to causation; it is only a requirement for it."
Almost hear it, but not actually and it was a damned good thing that the latest strange place for his dick to wander into under Jim's command was Spock's mouth. Made spouting off about logic and whatnot a little more difficult and a hell of a lot easier on the ears.
"Use your tongue a little more," came from across the room, Jim's voice, and McCoy managed to slit his eyes open just enough to look at where he was sprawled on the sofa across from them, chin resting on his hand as he watched. It was the eyes that did a man in, dark lashes gilding too-pretty blue and having those eyes watching this so avidly was hot enough to be a kink all of its own.
McCoy's breath stuttered as Spock obediently followed Jim's instruction, working the tip of his tongue beneath the foreskin enough to lick at the tip, a ticklish, tender little movement that made him half-reach for Spock's head to push him down, fucking tease, but he caught himself in time, put his hands back on the arms of the chair where they were supposed to be.
No touching, Bones. That had been Jim's first order.
Looking was still on the table and so he did, tipped his head down enough to look at the Vulcan who was currently sucking him like a drunk would pull on the tail end of a bottle of whiskey. Like he was enjoying this, his own dark lashes were feathered against his cheeks and McCoy watched him through narrowed eyes, watched the hollow and fill of his cheeks, the tiny flex of muscles as he did things that no human could possibly do with his tongue.
Vulcans, he thought hazily, letting his head drop back on against the chair. Correlation. Causation. Spock was a rotten, cocksucking bastard but that didn't mean all Vulcans were, didn't mean all Vulcans could take him so deeply that their nose was buried in the dark curls at the base of his cock, hot breath rustling through them.
"You can go a little faster now," Jim murmured. "He's close."
"Fuck," McCoy slurred out, hands aching from clutching the arms of his chair because Jim was right and McCoy couldn't look at him now, could hear slick sounds and panting little breaths that had to mean Jim had a hand in his own trousers, watching them and jerking off and those blue eyes would be half-closed, pupils blown with alcohol and hunger. Jim was a bastard, too; he liked to watch Spock do this to someone else, but that didn't mean he'd like watching him to it to just anyone else.
Correlation, causation, and Spock's tongue was clever even when it wasn't forming words, slippery and wonderful, and McCoy didn't bother choking back his cry, let it spill out of him loud and wild the same way he spilled into the dark, hot wetness of Spock's, god, his fucking perfect mouth, rotten bastard swallowing it down, kissing him softly before pulling away and leaving him wet and cold in the air.
He wet his lips, trying to steady his breathing as he forced his eyes open and there was a sight. Watching Spock's mouth stretch around his own dick had been plenty nice but watching him suck Jim was an all new experience; Jim's pale hands twisted into dark hair as he arched up, fucking Spock's mouth in a way that McCoy hadn't even considered and Spock rode him easily, a raft on rough waters bobbing along.
McCoy swallowed hard. Correlation. Causation. Just because Jim wanted to see Spock suck him off didn't mean Jim wanted anything from him, it didn't mean anything, until Jim's eyes flashed open, flicked over to him, too-blue, pretty as the summer sky.
"Bones," he said, the word edged with a whimper and McCoy was crawling across the floor before he'd even finished, kissing away his name, not his name, Jim's name for him and the shakiness in the hand on the back of his head wasn't caused by his kiss and neither was the moan that Jim choked out, his teeth catching McCoy's lip sharply as he shuddered. Pretty when he came, too fucking pretty and McCoy hadn't caused that, hadn't caused any of it but he could correlate that Jim wouldn't have come as hard if he hadn't kissed him. Was still kissing him, lazy sweeps of tongue and stroking fingers tangling into his hair.
Correlation. Causation. If he hadn't bought that whiskey then he wouldn't be kissing Jim now, wouldn't have Spock sliding up behind him, ducking his head to mouth too-hot kisses against the back of his neck. Wouldn't be here, wouldn't have any of this, none of Jim's garbled, frantic murmurs about want and need and fuck, Bones, please. He would be...fuck only knows what he'd been doing. If he'd be thinking this is a terrible damned idea and just because Jim wanted sex now didn't mean he'd always want it, didn't mean Spock would. Didn't, didn't, couldn't, wouldn't....fuck it all.
He's just a doctor. He can't navigate worth a damn and he's no good at flying this particular ship, either. And fuck being a scientist, too; he's staying.
-finis-
Just to note: I poached a couple sentences on the Correlation/Causation theory from Wikipedia. Not always the best source but hey, it's usually the easiest. ;)