(no subject)
Story Title: Encore
Fandom/Pairing: Star Trek XI, Bones/Kirk
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Jim discovers that Bones can put on quite a show with just an acoustic guitar, a pair of old jeans, and that southern drawl of his. For this prompt at st_xi_kink. I’m nervously de-anon-ing!
A/N: For those familiar with San Francisco, you may recognize the club mentioned as Cafe du Nord.
Disclaimer: I don’t own the Star Trek characters or universe.
Jim knows he can be self-absorbed even at his best, but this is different. For the third weekend in a row, Bones has brushed off his invitation for drinks. First, the doctor was "too tired to deal with dragging your drunk, beat-up ass home, Jim, damnit." Then there was an excuse that had something to do with research for a vaccine in the developmental stage to prevent a specific brand of wasting space disease blah blah blah and then Jim tuned him out because it was Friday night, and he wanted to go knock back some drinks with his buddy Bones, not worry about a space disease that would liquefy his insides. And then finally, this week, Bones didn't even have a proper excuse. He just scowled and examined his knuckles, which was distracting, because Bones has really nice hands and Jim feels a little weird and off balance while looking at them and he's not even going to think about that anymore.
Jim thinks, maybe Bones just doesn't want to drink? But that doesn't make sense, because Leonard McCoy likes a good swig of whiskey more than anyone else. And even if Bones doesn't want to go out, Jim isn't quite mushy enough to ask Bones if he just wants to stay in and hang out and maybe Jim could try and force the replicator to make something slightly less gelatinous than usual and they could just...talk, or something.
Fuck, Jim really needs that drink.
Anyway, there's only one explanation. Bones is getting laid, and for some reason, he's not telling Jim about it. Which is unacceptable, because, yeah, Bones is a pretty private man, but Jim is his best friend and if Bones is getting some, he wants to know who the lucky lady is. Or something like that. Anyway, Jim wants to know, and he'll follow Bones to find out who it is and whether she deserves Bones or not.
It turns out, following Bones isn't that difficult. Jim puts a tracer on one of Bones' credit chips and waits. Which is kind of creepy, but it's worth it, and Jim Kirk doesn't mind cheating for what he deems the right reasons.
Next weekend, at a little past 10, Jim gets an alert on his tracer. Apparently, Bones just used the credit chip at some club that's kind of out of the way. Not even in the Presidio. This place is down Market, almost near the Castro. What the hell is Bones doing there?
Never one to waste time, Jim pulls on a jacket and ventures out into the cool San Francisco night. By the time he's reached the club -- some dinky little speak-easy place with a French name -- he's all pumped up and nervous. Jim keeps running his hand through the short hair at the nape of his neck and gnawing on his lower lip, a habit he picked up about the fourth time he split it in a bar fight. He doesn't want to embarrass Bones, but this seems like kind of a weird secret to keep.
He pays cover and enters the club almost tentatively. He doesn't see Bones but the credit chip was only used ten minutes ago, so he's probably still here. Jim scopes out a seat by the bar and orders a drink. People are milling around kind of anxiously, as if they're waiting for someone. It's nice, though. Everyone looks happy and laid back. It's kind of an odd crowd, though. A lot of the guys have beards.
Then Jim hears the guitar, the sound traveling from the far side of the room. Craning his neck, Jim can see what all the people are waiting around for. Some guy is sitting on a rickety bar stool on a stage at the back of the room, tuning an acoustic guitar. The guy's head is bowed, and he's got these dark brown bangs that are short but are falling into his face and covering it, so Jim can't really see if he's hot or not, but he's wearing a thin white tshirt that's stretched across broad shoulders and his arms are slim but strong and sinewy looking, the tendons flexing and relaxing as he turns the pegs and plucks at the strings to get the tuning he wants. As if the t-shirt wasn't fucking sinful enough, the guy is wearing jeans that are clearly worn in, hugging his thighs and creasing around his hips in a way that is undeniably sexy. And then the guy nods like he's done tuning, and raises one of those lean, tan arms to push back his bangs as he looks up to face the audience, and Jim is fucking blown away.
It's Bones.
It's fucking Bones.
The guy -- Bones, what the fuck, Bones, Bones, fuck, Jim keeps thinking -- coughs kind of nervously, and shifts on the barstool as he leans into the microphone. Those jeans leave absolutely fucking nothing to the imagination. Jim's breath sticks in his throat.
"Um, hi. I'm Leonard. I guess, I'll just play -- yeah, um. okay," Bones mumbles, his voice amplified throughout the room and it's gravelly and low and the audience seems to recognize him, applause and scattered cheers sweeping across the room, and somewhere, a female voice yells, "Yeah, Len!" and Jim can't stop gawking. And then Bones starts playing and singing.
It's country music, which Jim is familiar enough with, from growing up in the Midwest, but he's never heard anything like this before. He didn't even know Bones could play the guitar. But he does, and beautifully, his surgeon's fingers sliding up and down the fretboard, the steel strings squeaking a little when he makes a quick chord change, and his strumming shows off the muscles in his upper arms and Jim is a goner before Bones even sings, and once he starts, Jim is half hard, pressing against the zipper of his pants, and fuck. Singing should never be that fucking hot.
But it is, and Bones' voice is deep and broken sounding, at turns smooth and crooning and then gravelly and growling, and fuck, there's a bit of his southern drawl in there and Jim is just swept away. Before he even knows it, Bones has finished his set and the audience is applauding and Jim has been sitting and listening, absolutely rapt, for the past hour. The cheers of the audience break Jim out of his reverie and he watches Bones wave and lope off stage left, those low-slung jeans looking practically obscene, especially from the back, and Bones has the guitar slung over one broad shoulder and fuck, why is that so sexy?
The only thing to do, of course, despite the fact that walking with an erection is never comfortable, is to rush off after Bones. He came here thinking he would intercept Bones chatting up a lady friend, and now he has to deal with this? Even if he would never admit it, Jim is feeling a little overwhelmed, if not a bit hysterical.
Jim stumbles through a door by the side of the stage, and there are some stairs and he should probably not be here, but there's no security, so who gives a damn? But he doesn't see Bones, and so he climbs the stairs and then, all of a suddenly, someone is grabbing him by the arm and pulling him into a room that's marked "Dressing #2."
"What the fu--" Jim starts, but he is cut off by a very pissed off looking Bones.
"What in the hell do you think you're doing here?" Bones practically growls. Jim can see the muscles in his neck standing out and Bones looks...embarrassed? There's a flush that creeps up his neck and disappears under his collar and Jim wonders how far down that flush goes and a very strangled laugh escapes him.
"Wow, hey Bones! I didn't know you came here! Best rum and cokes in town, right?"
"Jim. What. The. Hell." Bones punctuates each word with his hand tightening on Jim's arm and, wow, that is really not helping with the situation in Jim's pants right now. Bones is really close and Jim can feel his body heat through the thin cotton of his tshirt and resists the urge to lean into Bones, to press up against him and maybe slide a knee between those denim-clad thighs.
"Um," is all Jim can manage.
"Goddamnit, Jim. Do you have no fucking concept of privacy? Did you follow me here? I know you're a fucking asshole but what in the goddamn hell did you do that for?"
Jim knows he's caught and a lie won't work, so he keeps his mouth shut. Also, he can't trust anything to come out of his mouth now except for maybe a moan or a proclamation of lust, because Bones still hasn't let go of his arm and he smells really good, and hello, the singing and the guitar and Jim is really fucking hard now.
Then he realizes that Bones is actually nervous for some reason. He's embarrassed. His dark, green-flecked eyes keep glancing over to the guitar in the corner and he's still blushing, and Bones never blushes. Jim looks down at Bones' hand on his arm and leans back against the wall and then smirks at Bones.
"You were really good out there. It was hot," Jim says, and he's pretty sure he sounds sincere, because he's telling the honest-to-god-really-fucking-sexy truth. But Bones flinches and grimaces and pushes himself away from Jim, muttering obscenities and walks through a door to the back of the room, slamming it behind him.
It's probably not smart, but Jim follows him. It's a bathroom, which Jim is kind of embarrassed about, because he should have realized, and he's glad Bones isn't in the middle of taking a piss or something, because that would have made this whole situation a little more awkward. But Bones is just leaning over the sink, bracing his arms against the rim and Jim should really be paying attention to something else besides how narrow his hips are in comparison to the strong stretch of his back and shoulders and damnit, Bones actually seems mad at him.
"Really, you were great. I'm being serious, Bones," Jim offers quietly, and then Bones twists and is shoving him into the wall, the tile unforgiving and cold against his back, but Jim couldn't care less right now.
"No, I'm being serious, Jim, you fucking son of a bitch. If I wanted to share this, I would have told you, goddamnit," Bones seethes, and then Jim just gives up, because he's being pushed up against a wall by Bones and Bones is wearing those jeans, and goddamnit, he just pushes up against Bones and captures his lips in a kiss that is hard and messy and not very finessed, but whatever, Jim thinks, it's definitely worth it. He grasps Bones by the hips, his fingers digging into the worn denim, and wow, fuck, Bones is hard too and if he wiggles up the tile just a little bit, then they line up, and the friction feels so good that Jim swears his vision blacks out a little at the edges. It must be pretty fucking great for Bones too, because he growls, and Jim feels it vibrating through his chest where it's pressed up against his own, and then Bones thrusts up against him and starts to kiss him back, licking into his mouth and actually making Jim go weak in the knees, and it's just not fair that Bones should be a brilliant doctor and a good friend and a guitar player with that voice and be this fucking good at making out against bathroom walls, too.
Jim needs to balance out this situation, because he thinks he's pretty good at some things too, and so he turns, pressing Bones into the wall, and drops to his knees. The tile on the floor is going to fucking hurt after a few minutes, but that's none of Jim's concern right now. Bones is gasping, his jaw clenched as Jim runs his hand up Bones' thighs. Jim looks up at his friend, and Bones' pupils are blown, the green and brown almost hidden behind the black, and Jim ghosts a hot, damp breath over Bones' crotch and Bones' hips twitch involuntarily towards him. Jim moans and can't help himself, snaking a hand down to push the heel of his palm against his own hardness, just to get some goddamn friction.
He peels down those sinful jeans and Bones isn't even wearing any goddamn underwear underneath them, his erection springing free, flushed dark and with a pearl of precum glistening at the head, and oh my god.
"You're so fucking hot. Goddamnit, Bones," Jim groans and then he's grasping Bones at the base and, fuck it, he's throwing caution and sophistication to the wind, and he tries to take in as much as possible right away. Bones thrusts forward and lets out a choked noise, which Jim distantly thinks is kind of funny, because he's choking himself now, Bones' dick nudging the back of his throat, and he has to pull off for a second to cough.
But Bones grabs his shoulder with a grip that Jim knows is going to bruise and then he pleads, in a broken voice that's an octave deeper than Bones' already deep voice, and he's saying "Please fuck goddamnit Jim don't stop, goddamn" and that's enough for Jim to dive back in again, this time using his hands to still Bones' hips against the wall so he can bob up and down, hollowing his cheeks and trying not to come in his pants at the sounds that Bones is making, the groans and the broken sounding moans.
Jim can tell it's not going to last that much longer. One of Bones' hands has made it into Jim's hair, where it's tightening and pulling a little painfully. And then Bones' breath hitches and he growls out, "Fuck, Jim," and at the sound of his name, Jim hums around Bones' cock, and he's coming into Jim's mouth.
Jim tries to swallow as much as he can, but he doesn't get it all and he's wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when Bones, still gasping, hauls him up from his knees and kisses him, lazily and messy and goddamnit, Bones can probably taste himself on Jim's tongue and that shouldn't be as hot as it is. Then Bones is grasping Jim's ass and pulling their hips together so Jim can rut against his thigh and it only takes a few thrusts before Bones lowers his head to bite against the juncture of Jim's shoulder and neck and Jim is jerking and grasping at Bones' tshirt.
Jim slumps against Bones, but Bones holds him up, his arms still around Jim's waist, and it's surprisingly tender, and Bones smiling softly, his face looking relaxed and happy in a way that Jim doesn't see that often.
"Wow," Jim manages, before he looks down and realizes that he feels a little sticky, and goddamn, he has to make it back to the academy in these pants. When he looks back up, Bones is still smiling, and then he kisses Jim again, and even though he just fucking came in his pants, Jim still feels a jolt of desire run through his frazzled nerves when Bones nips gently at his lower lip.
"Come on," Bones says when they wetly separate, "Let's go home."
That sounds pretty damn good to Jim.
It's only a few days later, when Jim is lounging naked in bed, watching the broad expanse of Bones' chest rising and falling, his skin glistening a little from the sheen of sweat they just worked up, that Jim dares to bring up Bones' musical talent.
He rests his chin on Bones' shoulder, trying out his best Jim Kirk pout and maybe even batting his lashes for good effect. He knows Bones likes his eyes.
"Will you sing for me? Maybe play something?" he asks.
It's only because he's looking so closely at Bones' face that he catches all of the expressions as they pass in quick succession. First comes surprise, then pleasure and a hint of smugness that is quickly covered by a patented Bones "goddamnit Jim" scowl. The scowl stays in place as Bones shakes Jim off and clambers out of bed naked, providing Jim with a very nice view. But he grabs his guitar, and Jim knows that Bones is pleased, maybe even a little flattered.
He props himself up on his elbows to watch as Bones plucks a few strings and starts tuning. Then Bones pauses. He seems a little lost.
"What would you like to hear?" he asks. His voice is husky and sends a shiver down Jim's spine.
"Anything. But if you do something with a growly voice, I promise to do that thing with my tongue that made you shriek last time," Jim smirks.
"Goddamnit, Jim. I do not shriek," Bones glares, but then starts to play a tune that Jim recognizes from that night in the club as a particularly gruff and growly song.
This one will definitely deserve an encore, Jim thinks, and settles in to listen.
END
Fandom/Pairing: Star Trek XI, Bones/Kirk
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Jim discovers that Bones can put on quite a show with just an acoustic guitar, a pair of old jeans, and that southern drawl of his. For this prompt at st_xi_kink. I’m nervously de-anon-ing!
A/N: For those familiar with San Francisco, you may recognize the club mentioned as Cafe du Nord.
Disclaimer: I don’t own the Star Trek characters or universe.
Jim knows he can be self-absorbed even at his best, but this is different. For the third weekend in a row, Bones has brushed off his invitation for drinks. First, the doctor was "too tired to deal with dragging your drunk, beat-up ass home, Jim, damnit." Then there was an excuse that had something to do with research for a vaccine in the developmental stage to prevent a specific brand of wasting space disease blah blah blah and then Jim tuned him out because it was Friday night, and he wanted to go knock back some drinks with his buddy Bones, not worry about a space disease that would liquefy his insides. And then finally, this week, Bones didn't even have a proper excuse. He just scowled and examined his knuckles, which was distracting, because Bones has really nice hands and Jim feels a little weird and off balance while looking at them and he's not even going to think about that anymore.
Jim thinks, maybe Bones just doesn't want to drink? But that doesn't make sense, because Leonard McCoy likes a good swig of whiskey more than anyone else. And even if Bones doesn't want to go out, Jim isn't quite mushy enough to ask Bones if he just wants to stay in and hang out and maybe Jim could try and force the replicator to make something slightly less gelatinous than usual and they could just...talk, or something.
Fuck, Jim really needs that drink.
Anyway, there's only one explanation. Bones is getting laid, and for some reason, he's not telling Jim about it. Which is unacceptable, because, yeah, Bones is a pretty private man, but Jim is his best friend and if Bones is getting some, he wants to know who the lucky lady is. Or something like that. Anyway, Jim wants to know, and he'll follow Bones to find out who it is and whether she deserves Bones or not.
It turns out, following Bones isn't that difficult. Jim puts a tracer on one of Bones' credit chips and waits. Which is kind of creepy, but it's worth it, and Jim Kirk doesn't mind cheating for what he deems the right reasons.
Next weekend, at a little past 10, Jim gets an alert on his tracer. Apparently, Bones just used the credit chip at some club that's kind of out of the way. Not even in the Presidio. This place is down Market, almost near the Castro. What the hell is Bones doing there?
Never one to waste time, Jim pulls on a jacket and ventures out into the cool San Francisco night. By the time he's reached the club -- some dinky little speak-easy place with a French name -- he's all pumped up and nervous. Jim keeps running his hand through the short hair at the nape of his neck and gnawing on his lower lip, a habit he picked up about the fourth time he split it in a bar fight. He doesn't want to embarrass Bones, but this seems like kind of a weird secret to keep.
He pays cover and enters the club almost tentatively. He doesn't see Bones but the credit chip was only used ten minutes ago, so he's probably still here. Jim scopes out a seat by the bar and orders a drink. People are milling around kind of anxiously, as if they're waiting for someone. It's nice, though. Everyone looks happy and laid back. It's kind of an odd crowd, though. A lot of the guys have beards.
Then Jim hears the guitar, the sound traveling from the far side of the room. Craning his neck, Jim can see what all the people are waiting around for. Some guy is sitting on a rickety bar stool on a stage at the back of the room, tuning an acoustic guitar. The guy's head is bowed, and he's got these dark brown bangs that are short but are falling into his face and covering it, so Jim can't really see if he's hot or not, but he's wearing a thin white tshirt that's stretched across broad shoulders and his arms are slim but strong and sinewy looking, the tendons flexing and relaxing as he turns the pegs and plucks at the strings to get the tuning he wants. As if the t-shirt wasn't fucking sinful enough, the guy is wearing jeans that are clearly worn in, hugging his thighs and creasing around his hips in a way that is undeniably sexy. And then the guy nods like he's done tuning, and raises one of those lean, tan arms to push back his bangs as he looks up to face the audience, and Jim is fucking blown away.
It's Bones.
It's fucking Bones.
The guy -- Bones, what the fuck, Bones, Bones, fuck, Jim keeps thinking -- coughs kind of nervously, and shifts on the barstool as he leans into the microphone. Those jeans leave absolutely fucking nothing to the imagination. Jim's breath sticks in his throat.
"Um, hi. I'm Leonard. I guess, I'll just play -- yeah, um. okay," Bones mumbles, his voice amplified throughout the room and it's gravelly and low and the audience seems to recognize him, applause and scattered cheers sweeping across the room, and somewhere, a female voice yells, "Yeah, Len!" and Jim can't stop gawking. And then Bones starts playing and singing.
It's country music, which Jim is familiar enough with, from growing up in the Midwest, but he's never heard anything like this before. He didn't even know Bones could play the guitar. But he does, and beautifully, his surgeon's fingers sliding up and down the fretboard, the steel strings squeaking a little when he makes a quick chord change, and his strumming shows off the muscles in his upper arms and Jim is a goner before Bones even sings, and once he starts, Jim is half hard, pressing against the zipper of his pants, and fuck. Singing should never be that fucking hot.
But it is, and Bones' voice is deep and broken sounding, at turns smooth and crooning and then gravelly and growling, and fuck, there's a bit of his southern drawl in there and Jim is just swept away. Before he even knows it, Bones has finished his set and the audience is applauding and Jim has been sitting and listening, absolutely rapt, for the past hour. The cheers of the audience break Jim out of his reverie and he watches Bones wave and lope off stage left, those low-slung jeans looking practically obscene, especially from the back, and Bones has the guitar slung over one broad shoulder and fuck, why is that so sexy?
The only thing to do, of course, despite the fact that walking with an erection is never comfortable, is to rush off after Bones. He came here thinking he would intercept Bones chatting up a lady friend, and now he has to deal with this? Even if he would never admit it, Jim is feeling a little overwhelmed, if not a bit hysterical.
Jim stumbles through a door by the side of the stage, and there are some stairs and he should probably not be here, but there's no security, so who gives a damn? But he doesn't see Bones, and so he climbs the stairs and then, all of a suddenly, someone is grabbing him by the arm and pulling him into a room that's marked "Dressing #2."
"What the fu--" Jim starts, but he is cut off by a very pissed off looking Bones.
"What in the hell do you think you're doing here?" Bones practically growls. Jim can see the muscles in his neck standing out and Bones looks...embarrassed? There's a flush that creeps up his neck and disappears under his collar and Jim wonders how far down that flush goes and a very strangled laugh escapes him.
"Wow, hey Bones! I didn't know you came here! Best rum and cokes in town, right?"
"Jim. What. The. Hell." Bones punctuates each word with his hand tightening on Jim's arm and, wow, that is really not helping with the situation in Jim's pants right now. Bones is really close and Jim can feel his body heat through the thin cotton of his tshirt and resists the urge to lean into Bones, to press up against him and maybe slide a knee between those denim-clad thighs.
"Um," is all Jim can manage.
"Goddamnit, Jim. Do you have no fucking concept of privacy? Did you follow me here? I know you're a fucking asshole but what in the goddamn hell did you do that for?"
Jim knows he's caught and a lie won't work, so he keeps his mouth shut. Also, he can't trust anything to come out of his mouth now except for maybe a moan or a proclamation of lust, because Bones still hasn't let go of his arm and he smells really good, and hello, the singing and the guitar and Jim is really fucking hard now.
Then he realizes that Bones is actually nervous for some reason. He's embarrassed. His dark, green-flecked eyes keep glancing over to the guitar in the corner and he's still blushing, and Bones never blushes. Jim looks down at Bones' hand on his arm and leans back against the wall and then smirks at Bones.
"You were really good out there. It was hot," Jim says, and he's pretty sure he sounds sincere, because he's telling the honest-to-god-really-fucking-sexy truth. But Bones flinches and grimaces and pushes himself away from Jim, muttering obscenities and walks through a door to the back of the room, slamming it behind him.
It's probably not smart, but Jim follows him. It's a bathroom, which Jim is kind of embarrassed about, because he should have realized, and he's glad Bones isn't in the middle of taking a piss or something, because that would have made this whole situation a little more awkward. But Bones is just leaning over the sink, bracing his arms against the rim and Jim should really be paying attention to something else besides how narrow his hips are in comparison to the strong stretch of his back and shoulders and damnit, Bones actually seems mad at him.
"Really, you were great. I'm being serious, Bones," Jim offers quietly, and then Bones twists and is shoving him into the wall, the tile unforgiving and cold against his back, but Jim couldn't care less right now.
"No, I'm being serious, Jim, you fucking son of a bitch. If I wanted to share this, I would have told you, goddamnit," Bones seethes, and then Jim just gives up, because he's being pushed up against a wall by Bones and Bones is wearing those jeans, and goddamnit, he just pushes up against Bones and captures his lips in a kiss that is hard and messy and not very finessed, but whatever, Jim thinks, it's definitely worth it. He grasps Bones by the hips, his fingers digging into the worn denim, and wow, fuck, Bones is hard too and if he wiggles up the tile just a little bit, then they line up, and the friction feels so good that Jim swears his vision blacks out a little at the edges. It must be pretty fucking great for Bones too, because he growls, and Jim feels it vibrating through his chest where it's pressed up against his own, and then Bones thrusts up against him and starts to kiss him back, licking into his mouth and actually making Jim go weak in the knees, and it's just not fair that Bones should be a brilliant doctor and a good friend and a guitar player with that voice and be this fucking good at making out against bathroom walls, too.
Jim needs to balance out this situation, because he thinks he's pretty good at some things too, and so he turns, pressing Bones into the wall, and drops to his knees. The tile on the floor is going to fucking hurt after a few minutes, but that's none of Jim's concern right now. Bones is gasping, his jaw clenched as Jim runs his hand up Bones' thighs. Jim looks up at his friend, and Bones' pupils are blown, the green and brown almost hidden behind the black, and Jim ghosts a hot, damp breath over Bones' crotch and Bones' hips twitch involuntarily towards him. Jim moans and can't help himself, snaking a hand down to push the heel of his palm against his own hardness, just to get some goddamn friction.
He peels down those sinful jeans and Bones isn't even wearing any goddamn underwear underneath them, his erection springing free, flushed dark and with a pearl of precum glistening at the head, and oh my god.
"You're so fucking hot. Goddamnit, Bones," Jim groans and then he's grasping Bones at the base and, fuck it, he's throwing caution and sophistication to the wind, and he tries to take in as much as possible right away. Bones thrusts forward and lets out a choked noise, which Jim distantly thinks is kind of funny, because he's choking himself now, Bones' dick nudging the back of his throat, and he has to pull off for a second to cough.
But Bones grabs his shoulder with a grip that Jim knows is going to bruise and then he pleads, in a broken voice that's an octave deeper than Bones' already deep voice, and he's saying "Please fuck goddamnit Jim don't stop, goddamn" and that's enough for Jim to dive back in again, this time using his hands to still Bones' hips against the wall so he can bob up and down, hollowing his cheeks and trying not to come in his pants at the sounds that Bones is making, the groans and the broken sounding moans.
Jim can tell it's not going to last that much longer. One of Bones' hands has made it into Jim's hair, where it's tightening and pulling a little painfully. And then Bones' breath hitches and he growls out, "Fuck, Jim," and at the sound of his name, Jim hums around Bones' cock, and he's coming into Jim's mouth.
Jim tries to swallow as much as he can, but he doesn't get it all and he's wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when Bones, still gasping, hauls him up from his knees and kisses him, lazily and messy and goddamnit, Bones can probably taste himself on Jim's tongue and that shouldn't be as hot as it is. Then Bones is grasping Jim's ass and pulling their hips together so Jim can rut against his thigh and it only takes a few thrusts before Bones lowers his head to bite against the juncture of Jim's shoulder and neck and Jim is jerking and grasping at Bones' tshirt.
Jim slumps against Bones, but Bones holds him up, his arms still around Jim's waist, and it's surprisingly tender, and Bones smiling softly, his face looking relaxed and happy in a way that Jim doesn't see that often.
"Wow," Jim manages, before he looks down and realizes that he feels a little sticky, and goddamn, he has to make it back to the academy in these pants. When he looks back up, Bones is still smiling, and then he kisses Jim again, and even though he just fucking came in his pants, Jim still feels a jolt of desire run through his frazzled nerves when Bones nips gently at his lower lip.
"Come on," Bones says when they wetly separate, "Let's go home."
That sounds pretty damn good to Jim.
It's only a few days later, when Jim is lounging naked in bed, watching the broad expanse of Bones' chest rising and falling, his skin glistening a little from the sheen of sweat they just worked up, that Jim dares to bring up Bones' musical talent.
He rests his chin on Bones' shoulder, trying out his best Jim Kirk pout and maybe even batting his lashes for good effect. He knows Bones likes his eyes.
"Will you sing for me? Maybe play something?" he asks.
It's only because he's looking so closely at Bones' face that he catches all of the expressions as they pass in quick succession. First comes surprise, then pleasure and a hint of smugness that is quickly covered by a patented Bones "goddamnit Jim" scowl. The scowl stays in place as Bones shakes Jim off and clambers out of bed naked, providing Jim with a very nice view. But he grabs his guitar, and Jim knows that Bones is pleased, maybe even a little flattered.
He props himself up on his elbows to watch as Bones plucks a few strings and starts tuning. Then Bones pauses. He seems a little lost.
"What would you like to hear?" he asks. His voice is husky and sends a shiver down Jim's spine.
"Anything. But if you do something with a growly voice, I promise to do that thing with my tongue that made you shriek last time," Jim smirks.
"Goddamnit, Jim. I do not shriek," Bones glares, but then starts to play a tune that Jim recognizes from that night in the club as a particularly gruff and growly song.
This one will definitely deserve an encore, Jim thinks, and settles in to listen.
END