What Was Done in Capernaum (Kirk/f, Kirk/McCoy; ST:XI; NC-17) 3/3
Part 2
“Lights 40 percent,” Kirk said quietly. McCoy could remember being in this bedroom only once before, when Kirk had given him a tour in their early days on board. The bed was larger than standard issue, though not so large as to suggest the ‘Fleet endorsed its regular use by more than one person. Above it hung a metal-and-glass weaving McCoy hectored him into buying on Rigel IV.
McCoy drew him into his arms, holding him tightly enough to feel the sharp edges of his shoulder blades, feeling his heart beating through two layers of fabric. Kirk rested his head on McCoy’s shoulder, and for a moment McCoy thought that it might be enough, to hold him for a while, perhaps while he slept. But he could feel Kirk’s body grow restless in his arms, and knew that words meant little to Kirk without actions, and that there was a language that Kirk understood better than any other, that McCoy, so long out of practice, could finally speak if he chose.
They drew apart, and McCoy ran his hands down Kirk’s undershirt, tugged lightly on the hem. Kirk took the hint and pulled it off, dropping it on the floor. McCoy reached for the fastener of Kirk’s pants, glancing briefly at his face to make sure it was all right. With the fly open and both his hands at Kirk’s waist there was no choice but to let his hand slip into that warmth, to feel him, hot and taut inside the constraining layer of fabric. Kirk gave a little gasp, and his eyes fluttered closed, letting McCoy squeeze him gently a few times before sliding the top of his pants down over his narrow hips. Slipping out of McCoy’s grasp, he sat down on the edge of the bed and finished shucking his boots and pants. Cocking his head, a familiar little half-smile on his face, he said, “Why don’t you take off your clothes?”
McCoy felt a flush of heat go down his body. It was some kind of alchemy, the way Kirk could eroticize something so ordinary with a few words. He pulled his shirts off slowly, not by way of performance but because his skin already felt so sensitive it would have been torture to do otherwise. Kirk’s eyes, heated and intensely blue, followed his fingers as he unfastened his trousers, letting them slip to his knees. He watched with gentle amusement as McCoy, awkward with arousal, struggled to get out of everything, briefs sliding off last, seeming to tug at every hair. Kirk looked him up and down with almost proprietary approval.
“You’re totally different with your clothes off. Shit, you’re good-looking.” He bit his lip, considering, and said after a pause, “Will you touch yourself? For me?”
McCoy could only nod slightly, mute with arousal. He had never felt comfortable naked, but now he felt clothed in Kirk’s desire. He ran his hands down his chest, over his nipples, along the flat planes of his sides and belly. He approached his cock cautiously, half afraid he would come from a single touch, but it felt good, so good, to stroke himself slowly like this, his eyes locked on Kirk’s, sensing his own arousal mirrored in Kirk’s body.
Eyes never leaving his, Kirk slid off his briefs so McCoy could see the effect he was having on him. His erection was beautiful, long and pale, curving slightly upward. He leaned back on the bed, legs spread, touchingly uncertain, as if he were in an alien place with no map to his own desires.
Here, at least, McCoy could help him navigate. The need for touch, companionship, belonging, were all things McCoy understood. He knelt down between Kirk’s legs, stroking his long thighs, massaging a little down the lean quads and then running his fingertips lightly down the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Kirk shivered and opened a little more, and McCoy leaned forward to kiss the flesh he had just touched, nipping it lightly, feeling the fine texture of it with his lips and tongue. The muscles twitched slightly, involuntarily, under his mouth, and it was easy to imagine how sensitive his cock would be by now. Not wanting to tease, and needing to prove nothing, he placed his right hand firmly around Kirk’s balls, circled his cock lightly with the left, and took the head into his mouth.
Kirk gave a startled “aaah” and arched his back, struggling not to move his hips or force his cock any deeper. McCoy squeezed the shaft a few times to ground and deepen the sensation and Kirk sagged, weight against his arms, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Kirk shifted his weight forward enough to free a hand and brushed it through McCoy’s hair, massaging his scalp in encouragement.
McCoy felt as if he could float forever in this bubble of time, his friend relaxed and aroused, the evidence of his trust soft and hard under his hands and mouth. There was more than enough time to trace the contours of his cockhead with his tongue, run his hand lightly up and down the shaft, learning its shape and contours like a new country. But Kirk was an arrow, a vector; he began to shift minutely, to come awake, and McCoy mentally prepared to shift his goal.
Instead, Kirk pressed his head back gently, urging him to disengage. “That feels so, so good,” he whispered. “But I have another idea.”
He leaned over and tapped the storage compartment under the nightstand. It slid open quietly, and he reached into the dark interior and pulled out something small and square. Taking one of McCoy’s hands in his own, he pressed the small object into it, then closed his hand over it and squeezed, as if sealing a bargain. When Kirk drew his hand back to McCoy’s wrist, he saw a container with some kind of clear liquid, alien writing on the outside.
“What is it?” he asked, puzzled.
“Some lube I bought on Zaran II. The guy in the store didn’t speak Standard. It was fun trying to explain to him what I wanted.” McCoy stared at as if it were a key to an unknown door.
Kirk leaned in toward his ear and whispered, “I want you to fuck me.”
“Jim!” He stared at Kirk in astonishment as a surge of heat went through him; he thought he might even be blushing.
“You don’t want to?” Kirk looked genuinely uncertain, as if it were an offer a reasonable person might refuse. It was so exactly like Kirk to give everything he had, unasked. There was no question of trust, because he was always prepared to be hurt, only knew from intuition that these breathtaking acts of generosity were sometimes rewarded. Some other time, McCoy thought, he would consider how such impulses might have developed in a lonely boy. For now, there was only one answer. He closed his other hand over Kirk’s and said. “Of course I do, Jim. Very much.”
“Good.” Kirk smiled at him, relieved; he gave him a quick kiss on the lips and settled back crossways on the bed, drawing his knees up, leaving enough room for McCoy, who sat on the edge, one leg anchoring him to the ground as if he might fly away. He pulled a pillow under Kirk’s head, wanting him to watch, to participate.
McCoy contemplated the act before him with the seriousness of a delicate surgery. He understood anatomy, of course; was familiar with the basic mechanics from experiments, not always successful, in his married life and before. He was sure he could receive Kirk’s gift, and with any luck give him pleasure; if there were more Kirk wanted from it, he would have to trust Kirk to let him know.
Seeing him lying there, vulnerable and expectant, a bitter thought occurred to him.
“Jim, I’m sorry to bring this up, but did the Cordrians…” he couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Were any of their scenarios sexual? No.” McCoy spent a long moment rolling the implications of that over in his mind. Kirk reached out a hand and grasped his wrist, bracing and focusing him, the way he did on the bridge before they headed into action.
“I want this. I’m not aware of any fucked-up motivations, or I wouldn’t be asking for it.” He rubbed McCoy’s forearm a few times, up and down. “I’m not a martyr, or a masochist. You’re not going to hurt me, I promise.”
McCoy nodded, and reached out a hand to touch Kirk’s skin. He stroked across his chest and down his side, feeling the contours of his body, hard and flat and male. He was lean almost to the point of thinness; in his body as in his life, there was nothing superfluous to its purpose. Kirk’s eyelids drifted half-closed under the rhythmic touch, and McCoy let his fingers glide lower, over his flat abdomen and down his thighs.
When he was sure that Kirk was thoroughly relaxed, he uncapped the little alien bottle and poured some of its viscous contents into his right palm, waiting a few moments for it to warm and then dipping his fingers in it. With his right hand he circled the base of Kirk’s cock and slowly slid it up the shaft, feeling a shudder go through his body as a slit of blue appeared beneath his eyelashes. He slipped his left hand under Kirk’s thigh and traced a line from the base of his balls backward, feeling the swell of buttocks. He brushed lightly back and forth, his other doing the same to Kirk’s cock with easy, lazy, strokes. Kirk gasped with pleasure, shifting his hips fractionally, one arm thrown over his head, his face still and beautiful.
Spellbound, McCoy moved a finger carefully into position and pressed, using only the lightest pressure to slide it past the ring of muscle. The sensation of being engulfed, the sudden heat and softness, were shockingly intimate. He met Kirk’s eyes in surprise, amazed by his own boldness; Kirk gave him a shadow of his familiar grin and said, “It’s good. Don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He slid his finger deeper, his mind alternately confident in its knowledge and incredulous at his actions. Kirk made a soft, strangled noise and clutched at the bedspread.
“Holy shit,” he hissed.
“Good? Not good?”
“Very good,” Kirk said, relaxing his grip as if by will. “Any better and I may pass out.”
As he moved he watched Kirk’s face change. It was like playing a delicate instrument, a subtle and complex shift of sensation and emotion. McCoy’s focus was intent and total, his own arousal a distant hum of background noise. If he had done nothing more it would have been almost wholly satisfying, but that was not what Kirk had asked him to do, and he was determined to follow orders.
He withdrew his finger, sympathizing with Kirk’s little sigh of disappointment. He gripped his cock at the base and found it almost painfully hard, as if it had been having a parallel experience while his mind was otherwise engaged. He used it to massage the same place where his finger had just been, not seeking or demanding entrance, simply enjoying the sensation.
Kirk’s eyes were open now, and he reached out a hand to brush the hair back from McCoy’s face, stroke his cheek. With his other hand he lightly gripped below the head of McCoy’s cock and guided it, exerting pressure that McCoy could not have dared use. A moment’s impossible pressure and it went in, sensation surging from his cock up his spine, flashing him back into a memory of the first time he had penetrated anyone, the internal howl of triumph followed by the profound realization that he was inside another person.
He froze and squeezed his eyes closed, imploring himself not to come. A moment later he remembered to look at Kirk, whose face showed only deep satisfaction. His hands slid up to McCoy’s shoulders and pulled them toward him, causing McCoy to slide further in, millimeter by millimeter, as if his whole body was a mere extension of his cock. Kirk’s lips were parted, and his eyes never left McCoy’s, letting him see the minute progress of every sensation.
He was almost buried inside him now, arms shaking, the impossible tightness causing him to feel a pulse that might have been his own or Kirk’s. Kirk slid his hands up his sweat-slicked back and into his hair, pulling his head down, capturing his mouth. It was strange that a kiss could feel even more intimate, now; but he traced the inside of Kirk’s mouth with his tongue, wanting to know every part of him. He thought that it was impossible to tend a body, day in and day out, for so many years without growing to love it; that he loved Kirk’s body the way Kirk loved the Enterprise, the thing he protected and was protected by. He knew he loved his friend, and thought that he must love him back in whatever way he was able; hoped it included something at least a little greedy or selfish, something beyond loyalty and sacrifice.
He released Kirk’s mouth only so he could look at his face, and was rewarded with a pure, sweet smile that was somehow still enigmatic. There would be time, later, to sort out the implications of what they were doing and what he was getting from it. Now, Kirk’s erection, trapped between them, twitched against his belly, recalling his attention. He reached down to grasp it, felt a shock go through Kirk’s body, which tightened around him, closing the circuit and making the current flow. There was no need to move, or thrust; everything they needed, they had between them. A grip of his hand, a tilt of his hips, a shift of intention and Kirk was coming, head thrown back, crying out in pleasure as his body tightened around McCoy, the most imperative command he had ever received. As he started to come he felt Kirk jet hot across his belly, felt the pressure of hands at his hips urging him down, and it was so exactly like falling that McCoy reached out a hand to brace himself before he actually screamed, losing everything at once.
He came to with his chest flat against Kirk’s, heart hammering. Kirk clasped him a little tighter, rubbing his back, and said, “You OK?”
“No.” He shifted a little, trying to gather his scattered wits, thinking he should withdraw.
“Don’t just yet,” Kirk said, placing a staying hand on his hip.
McCoy relaxed a little, trying to shift some of his weight to his arms. “What about you?”
“I’m great. Just great.” He continued the light stroking. McCoy felt himself soften, his body in retreat. After a few minutes he gave Kirk an apologetic kiss and began to withdraw regretfully.
He slid off Kirk just to his side, placing a hand on his belly, the intimacy already so familiar it needed no thought. “How are you really? If you’re sore, I’ve got a dermal regenerator.”
“You brought a dermal regenerator?” Kirk’s voice was soft and teasing, surprisingly normal. “What did you think we’d be doing?”
“I always have a dermal regenerator. I thought we’d be talking.”
“Oh, talking.” He gave McCoy a little pinch in the soft flesh at his waist. “I can feel it, but in a good way. It’ll give me something to think about at breakfast tomorrow besides triticale futures.”
McCoy rubbed a hand over his face, trying to compose himself. “Breakfast. Do you need me to leave? What time is it?”
“Why would I want you to leave?” Kirk pulled him tighter against his chest.
“I don’t know. It might be awkward if-“
“You think Spock brings me milk and cookies or something? What we’re doing isn’t against regs, and beyond that I don’t care. I grew up in a gossipy small town and I’ll be damned if I let my ship turn into one.” McCoy nodded, letting his head fall to Kirk’s shoulder. He was starting the slide into sleep when Kirk shifted a little against him, and he felt a rapidly cooling slickness.
“That, on the other hand, could be seriously distracting if either of us has to bolt out of here in the middle of the night.” Kirk rolled off the bed and ambled into the bathroom, returning a minute later with a damp cloth, which he used to clean up McCoy with a matter-of-factness McCoy, in his pliant state, found touching. “Do you need anything? Glass of water? Clean underwear?”
“I need to know that you’re feeling better,” McCoy said. “That this wasn’t all for my benefit.”
Kirk’s expression softened. “I am. I’m sorry, I thought that was obvious.”
“Sometimes it’s hard to tell with you.”
Kirk tossed the cloth on the floor, scrambled back onto the bed, and thumped down on his back, looking at the ceiling. “I don’t know what kind of boyfriend I’d be,” he said. “A pig, probably.”
“I very much doubt it. But I’m not asking you for that anyway.”
“You shouldn’t have to ask.” Kirk’s brow creased. “I think I’m probably best in small doses, like arsenic.” He shifted enough to pull the bedspread off his side of the bed, gesturing to McCoy to do the same.
“Is this the ‘you deserve someone better than me’ speech?” McCoy asked gruffly. “Save it for someone who hasn’t been with you every day for four years.”
“There was that week you spent in Singapore at that conference.” Kirk pulled the covers down, choosing a pillow and pushing the other toward McCoy.
“Dullest week of my life.” That got a smile out of Kirk, which made McCoy smile, too. “Jim, I don’t want to be another thing you have to manage. If something’s going to come out of this, then it will. It should be easy. If it isn’t, we’re doing it wrong.”
“Ah,” Kirk said pensively, “then sticking your dick up my ass was a metaphor of some kind.” McCoy rolled his eyes, too lazy to pick up the pillow and hit him.
“Being sarcastic in bed is just one of my bad habits. When I can’t sleep, I listen to the low-priority subspace channel, and when I really can’t sleep, I have late-night card-games and I let the engineers smoke cigars. I average five hours of sleep a night if I’m lucky, and in any of those hours I’m likely to be called to the bridge. I mumble stellar coordinates in my sleep. Or so I’ve been told.”
“In other words,” McCoy said, pushing his legs down into the cool recesses of the bed, “you’re a starship captain.”
“Yes,” Kirk said, pulling the covers over them both. “That’s what I am.”
Sequel: A Prophet in His Own Country >>