FIC: Venus Ascending, 2/2 (mirrorverse)
Title: Venus Ascending 1/1 (AOS)
Author: sangueuk
characters/pairing: mirror!Kirk/mirror!McCoy, Gaila, Cupcake, Eleanor McCoy
rating:nc-17
summary: Gaila and Cupcake bring cadet Kirk a very special birthday gift in the middle of the night.
also posted on Archive of Our Own
part 2
+++
Bright, bluest eyes regard him and McCoy somehow manages to stop himself trembling with anticipation; Kirk’s charisma, his obvious arousal pins him in place.
Apart from the obvious that McCoy hadn’t intended for things to go quite like this, truth be told, once he’d realized who it was that had him at their mercy, once he’d heard the Orion’s voice cooing in his ear, even as he struggled for air with his hands scrabbling against the stranglehold - It’s your lucky day, doctor! - he’d known the fates had been listening.
About goddamned time.
McCoy’s aware he has a choice now and it’s not as simple as staying or going.
He hasn’t been able to believe his luck from the moment the two descended on him outside the restaurant while he waited for a cab. Puri had warned him not to travel alone back to the campus after curfew, how he should have stayed in the city, but if there’s one thing McCoy’s learned about himself over the years, tell him not to do something and - well, here he is.
‘Here’ being right where he’s wanted to be, planned to be, for eighteen months. Fate may have played its hand, but now it’s up to him. He’s staring right into the eyes of the wolf. No one gets this close to Jim Kirk, not now. Thanks to Pike, thanks to Kirk’s luxurious, security-enhanced rooms in the Admirals’ Block, and thanks to his free pass to maim and punish at will. McCoy just needs to play it right so he doesn’t end up the sacrificial lamb.
It’s not how he would have planned it. Fact of the matter is he hasn’t planned fuck, leaving everything in the lap of the gods. What he has done is train himself, prepare himself to want Kirk. Prepare himself for this moment.
Now he needs to make a decision.
Should he walk, and hopefully sharpen Kirk’s interest because Mr. Prodigy has been denied a quick birthday fuck? There’s no doubting Kirk’s arousal but, from what McCoy knows of his proclivities, the kid’s interested in anything with an orifice. Most likely, if he stays, goes through with it, then leaves, McCoy will be forgotten, another meaningless conquest in Kirk’s meteoric rise.
But if he stays, if he does the exact opposite of what Kirk would expect, how better to pique interest than to be unpredictable? Kirk’s pretty much confirmed to him how genius plus power often equals boredom. Then again, there’s always the chance that given a taste, Kirk won’t want to come back for seconds.
Whichever way McCoy plays it, it’s a gamble. A gamble based on his Gram’s insane notions and a reading of the kid this brutal youth used to once be.
But he doesn’t have to decide quite yet, does he?
McCoy examines the young, handsome face for a clue, sure Kirk’s hard, the boxer briefs don’t hide fuck, but that doesn’t tell McCoy anything about the depth of interest. He’s got to do the right thing, this is for Jo-Jo; he pretty much gave up on himself years ago trying to exist in the moment when he’s working, and to lose himself in the bottle when he’s not.
Truth be told, McCoy fucking detests Kirk, detests the whole lot of them and their scheming, brutal ways but he can do nothing now about his physical response to Kirk’s presence; after all, he goes to sleep jerking off to images of Jim Kirk every night, relentless, single-minded in his self-training. He’s been half hard since Gaila and the other goon left, as soon as he had an inkling as to Kirk’s intent. And he fucking saw his flask by Kirk’s bed. In a room devoid of personal touches and possessions, it pretty much glowed like radiation. It’s gone now - Kirk didn’t want him to see it, can’t know he did. It all means something, if only he can figure it out.
“…eight, seven…” Kirk’s waiting.
McCoy’s voice is low, tentative. “Yet you had me here against my will…”
“Like I said, you’re free to go. I don’t pay for it, McCoy and I certainly don’t rape.” Kirk’s response is a shock. “Well not anymore…” His eyes gleam.
McCoy swallows. “But you don’t stop your cronies.”
Kirk cants his head, looks surprised at such a question. “No. ‘Cronies’ as you call them aren’t as big on deferred gratification as the higher ups - so, you know, tossing the spoils of war their way, ” Kirk waves a hand casually, “letting them help themselves, keeps them loyal - sexual frustration and being a nobody’s quite a lethal combination you know.”
Welcome to my fucking world, McCoy thinks bitterly.
“Fucking’s about pleasure, right?” Kirk continues.
McCoy searches his memory banks. He half nods, thinking easy enough for those of you with power to say, but settles with, “For some maybe; for most of us idiots it’s part of the struggle to live, along with every other fucking interaction in this shit fest of a universe.”
McCoy’s starting to feel cold, the ache in his shoulder, the throb in his head becoming more pronounced as all his senses heighten.
“Sure - power, possession, claiming and…” Kirk actually sneers when he says this, “…closeness, you know, if you’re mentally deficient or something.” He raises his arm, taps his temple revealing a shock of hair under his arms that sends a rush of blood to McCoy’s groin. “Wanna know what I think? One thing sex fucking proves is how the opposite of close we human beings are.”
“Shit, we’re having a philosophical conversation. How touching.”
“Touching? Now there’s a good idea.” Kirk holds his gaze and without preamble shimmies out of his boxers unselfconsciously. He’s hard; long, his thick cock swaying as he moves. Fuck. McCoy feels his throat constrict reflexively even as a shock of lust fills him. Here goes nothing…
By the look on Kirk’s face, McCoy’s sure the kid knows what a picture of virility he is; skin ivory and blue in the low light, surprisingly slender though muscled. Athletic, lethal, magnificent.
Kirk’s close, as close as he can be without touching, but McCoy swears he can feel the fucking air crackle between them. He’s got to get a grip as he feels star-struck; he needs not to appear eager in any way. His Gram was right, he’s got to play it unafraid, like they’re equals, stare Kirk down, be his fucking self. McCoy takes in a shallow breath and draws his eyebrows together, clenches his hands into loose fists as Kirk continues to talk.
“Oh, and how could I forget, the little children,” Kirk muses, sarcastic now, contemptuous. “You gotta have somebody to leave all your bounty to, eh?”
His hands finally fucking move and rest easily on McCoy’s hips, and he has to resist the urge to buck into them, painfully hard now and seriously, he has no fucking idea whether it’s because he’s so shit scared or so fucking turned on.
“Yeah, you’re going to make a lovely daddy some day,” McCoy mutters.
Kirk’s eyes flash and McCoy feels his mouth go dry. He wants to break the eye contact; Kirk uses his eyes to captivate and strip bare, and McCoy can feel them unraveling layers within him. Hold, hold, he tells himself.
“I doubt it.” Kirk’s lips are tight, the bright light in his eyes appearing to dim for a moment but a blink and they’re cold, sharp blue again. McCoy feels a rush of adrenaline, sure he’s witnessed a rare, unguarded moment. Despite his injuries, his disadvantage before this rising star, for a beat McCoy feels that sense of god-like power when he holds life in his hands and he looks away, knowing now how to play this. If he’s to win Kirk’s trust, he needs to appear not to notice these moments of ‘weakness’, wasn’t that what Gram had told him all those years back?
Kirk grips McCoy’s hips a little tighter and repeats, “You can go. You can go anytime.”
His voice is husky, irritated, his breath a warm narcotic on McCoy’s skin. Wait McCoy tells himself.
“So why don’t you?” Kirk demands.
Ah, where to begin? Because I want something from you, like every other fuck who’ll cross your path for the rest of your short, brutal life.
“Mus’ be your conversational skills,” McCoy tries, raising an eyebrow.
Kirk bares his teeth, wraps the fingers of one hand round McCoy’s windpipe, squeezes so McCoy can feel his heart hammering in his head. Just as suddenly, Kirk loosens his grip, runs pale lengths over his throat to his jaw where he grips tight, guides his mouth close to his so he has to stop himself canting towards him, claiming those pale pink lips, prevented mercifully by Kirk dragging his thumb slowly over the divot, then resting at the dip of his throat.
“I could fucking kill you,” Kirk hisses, staring at McCoy’s mouth.
“I don’t doubt that,” McCoy manages. But Kirk hasn’t. And he's suddenly sure he won’t.
“Luckily for you, you’ve piqued my interest. I suspect you’re that rare breed, that almost extinct freak of nature, you know, Bones?” Kirk drops his hand so it’s back on his hip but he neither pulls McCoy towards him, nor lets go.
“And pray, what the fuck might that be?”
“Someone,” Kirk smirks, “who can be trusted.” The last word’s sneered out like it’s a perversion.
“Well, don’t go spreadin’ it around, Kirk, else all the other psycho cadets with delusions of grandeur will want one of their own.”
Kirk laughs.
McCoy thinks a moment and adds the cautious thought, because Kirk might be able to trust him. But whether or not he’ll be able to trust Kirk back is another matter entirely. “What about the green goddess and that cur you’ve named after baked goods?”
“'Whom I will trust as if adders fanged' - only so far as I can throw them, Bones. I can read them, I can read everyone, especially you. I know you want something from me, I might even have figured it out.” Kirk’s eyes scan his face.
“And they disgust you,” McCoy says simply. Kirk narrows his eyes at that, parses the statement. He goes on, “You want total control, power. Then when they give it to you - you despise them for it.”
Kirk’s eyes drop for a moment, thick lashes hiding what’s going on in that crazy head of his. When his gaze flickers up and their eyes catch again, he looks so fucking young for an instant that McCoy once again has to fight the urge to smother that full mouth with his. The skin around Kirk’s eyes is dark with lack of sleep, and other than the pock marks near his jaw, there’s not a line to be seen anywhere on Kirk’s face. This is in marked contrast to the multiple scars tattooing his arms and back from combat, and god knows what else. Like so many, it seems Kirk avoids medical treatment whenever possible, falling prey to hit man medics looking to advance themselves or repay debts is a serious risk.
McCoy can hear his Gram’s voice chiding him even now, You’re hopeless, Leo, a sentimental dog It’s gotta be the reason why he actually feels sorry for this kid. Last time that happened, if he recalls, he got a sock in the jaw for his trouble. Still…
He raises his hand to Kirk’s wrist and circles it. Their eyes both flicker down, then up again, then lock while he guides Kirk’s hand to the front of his pants. Kirk palms him unblinkingly, and the tip of his tongue darts out between whitest teeth, a look of satisfaction flooding his features when McCoy grinds into his touch.
“Hold your horses,” McCoy says. He feels like his voice is a step behind his mind at this stage, a little giddy with the endorphins and adrenaline buzzing his system for the past hour or so. He needs to take a moment, so he releases Kirk’s wrist and backs away, turns and takes a step towards the crumpled bed.
McCoy somehow stops his hands from trembling as he undoes the one button on his shirt that seemed to escape the tussle earlier. He can do this, he’s a fucking surgeon. He slides the fabric off his shoulders with a slight wince, balls it up and drops it to the floor.
“And the rest,” comes the husky instruction as Kirk walks to one side of him. Kirk’s watching him, lips parted, frowning, openly appraising him while he shucks off his socks and shoes, then unzips his fly. “You always dress this nice at the infirmary?” There’s a sneer in Kirk’s voice and it crosses McCoy’s mind that Kirk genuinely didn’t know he was being brought to him. And if that’s the case, how did the Orion know it’s what Kirk would have wanted? McCoy’ll have to ponder this later - if indeed he makes it out in one piece.
“Yeah, well, you gotta make an effort for your kidnappers, else they might pick someone else.”
Kirk’s lips twitch in amusement, and he makes a small circle in the air with his forefinger, indicating McCoy should turn round for the next part so his back is to Kirk. The look of intent on his face, McCoy thinks, sulphur yellow would be a fitting color for those eyes, rather than innocent blue.
McCoy turns and as he lowers his black suit pants, he remembers bitterly how his jacket ended up in the gutter outside the restaurant, along with his comm. He takes a breath and hooks his thumbs into his boxer briefs, tries to push them down as matter of factly as he can manage, as if he’s at the gym not here, under the laser gaze of Pike’s protégé. He hears a low grunt of approval and looks over his shoulder at Kirk, feeling his ears and neck heat at the incredibly arousing sight of Kirk jacking off while he takes in the show.
“Jesus, Bones,” he says.
Kirk nods to the bed and, naked, heart hammering, McCoy sits on the side, leaning back to rest on his elbows, his cock bobbing against his thigh.
When Kirk retrieves a tube of prophylactic lube from a drawer by the bed, McCoy wonders, just for a moment, if it’s not too late to run but, then the pale, wiry figure is looming over him. He parts his legs instinctively because, fuck it, he may have turned into his very own psych experiment the way he’s trained himself to want this man, but the want is very real; the prospect of those elegant hands on him, in him, of that cock in his mouth, ignites a flare deep in his belly so intense he’s fucking scared, is what he is.
Kirk drops the lube on the bed and kicks McCoy’s feet apart. “Up,” he commands and steps close. “More,” he says, and his eyes are bright with lust.
McCoy feels ridiculously self-conscious, knees to his chest, as that laser gaze tears across every part of his skin, wondering when the fuck Kirk’s going to touch him already; Kirk certainly doesn’t seem in any hurry. Instead, he sits sideways on the bed, one leg on the floor, one tucked under him, his cock, hard and leaking pre-come, swaying as he smears lube over his fingers. McCoy allows his head to fall back and brings his hands to the back of his knees.
“You done this before?” Kirk asks, dropping to contemplate McCoy’s cock and finally scraping a lube covered nail up his inner thigh sending a shiver of heat up to his balls.
“No, I’m a fucking virgin. What do you think?”
Kirk grins, presses a nail hard into the sensitive skin. “I think I want to see what that mouth of yours can do other than cuss and complain.” Kirk’s thumb’s found its way down to the sensitive spot under McCoy’s balls and he hisses when Kirk applies pressure then glowers at the look of amusement on Kirk’s face. “I want to see if you can still fucking grumble when I’ve got my cock up your ass.” He circles McCoy’s hole, biting at his lower lip, apparently watching his face for every twitch and response with hungry interest.
“Seems to me…you’re the one can’t fucking shut up…fuck!” McCoy bites out in surprise when Kirk’s thumb suddenly breaches him right up to the last knuckle. Kirk’s grin is so fucking predatory, he wants to punch him. If he wasn’t busy biting his lip so he doesn’t beg for more.
It’s odd, that even though Kirk seems to take meticulous care opening him up, experimenting with the angle, the pressure, eyes darting between McCoy’s face and the sight of his fingers disappearing and reappearing, Kirk doesn’t spare any other caress, doesn’t stroke him or lick him. Nothing. It’s like he’s being sized up as a toy - as if Kirk is working out how much fun it’s going to be stringing out his new plaything; like his prostate, which Kirk manages to find embarrassingly quickly, is a button to press for his own amusement rather than McCoy’s pleasure.
“Put your hands above your head,” Kirk says, pulling his fingers out, leaving McCoy on the fucking edge, panting harshly and furious as hell. Nevertheless, he does as he’s told, gripping the headboard and allowing his legs to drop. Kirk’s hand goes to his own cock and he strokes himself in a leisurely manner all the while watching his face.
“Well, I’m fucking pleased someone’s enjoying themselves…” McCoy mutters canting his hips up a little, feeling like he’s going to fucking howl if he doesn’t get some release soon. Truth is, watching Kirk watching him is unbelievably hot. Kirk seems to have zoned in on his mouth again, and McCoy, he hopes not too obviously, is giving Kirk a little show, allowing his lips to fall apart, biting at his bottom lip, running his tongue along his teeth, pursing them ever so slightly, falling into some kind of rhythm with Kirk’s upstroke and twist.
And if he’s honest with himself, McCoy’s fucking aching to touch, as much as to be touched himself.
Finally, heavens be praised, Kirk seems to tire of treating him like a porn holo and says, “Let me see what you can do with that pretty mouth, other than bitch.” Kirk climbs up onto the bed and straddles his chest, kneeling up so his reddened cock juts between them.
McCoy can feel Kirk’s eyes burning into his face as he guides his cock home. When he sucks Kirk down, the scent of him makes him groan with relief, and he doesn’t bother to smother it. He keeps his hands in place on the headboard, diverting all his need to explore and finally feel this man, into his tongue, memorizing the salty tang of him, the heat, the texture of the ridge and foreskin and desperately trying not to gag at the sheer size without his hands free to guide the pace.
He feels Kirk touch his head and fully expects him to grab his ears; instead Kirk idly twists the ends of his hair in his fingers, harsh breaths the only sound in the room other than the slap of his mouth on flesh as he sucks and licks. He glances up and sees Kirk’s eyes are shut tight, mouth fallen open, head inclining forward and back in time with his own as he swallows ravenously.
“That’s turning you on,” Kirk growls, a hint of surprise in the statement. “Touch yourself, I want to watch.” Yeah, because he’s not going to do any actual work.
McCoy drops his arms in relief and rearranges himself within the bracket of Kirk’s thighs, so he’s half on his side and can reach his own cock, bloodied knuckles moving gently, making each moment last. Losing all track of time, he holds himself with a finger and thumb, licks a delicate stripe along the vein running the length of Kirk’s cock, swirls his tongue on the tip. He mirrors the pressure and speed exactly with how he touches himself, so he has some notion of how this is affecting Kirk. In the half light, Kirk’s pale and pure above him, reminding him of ancient Christian art he’s glimpsed in secret collections in admirals’ palaces.
It’s the same moment that Kirk happens to look down at him. “Jesus fuck.” He says it so it’s almost a whisper. “You’re something else, doc.” Kirk pushes at his shoulders, pulls his cock away and McCoy slumps back in relief, his jaw aching, chin covered in spit and pre-come. But, before he can enjoy the moment he shudders at the maleficent expression above him. “Stay still,” Kirk hisses.
Kirk moves so he’s kneeling on the bed, knees close to his hips and lubes himself up and before McCoy can say ‘hog roast’, Kirk’s squashed him further up the bed so his neck’s shoved up against the headboard and guided his legs so his ankles are by Kirk’s ears. He’s smothered, crushed, can barely breathe.
McCoy’s loose from earlier, but Jesus, fuck, nothing prepares him for the ferocity of that first clean, brutal shove into him. He lets out a harsh gasp, echoed by Kirk as he bottoms out. It fucking hurts and he breathes through the burn, bringing his hands up to Kirk’s hips, digs his nails in hard and is repaid by a long, deep lunge which, how the fuck? seems to go deeper.
Before he can find the breath to protest, Kirk rearranges his legs, folding them back onto his chest. Kirk brings his knees closer together so he can increase the angle. An experimental thrust, and when McCoy yowls as he brushes forward then back along his prostate, Kirk begins to rock in and out dropping forward to brace his arms by McCoy’s shoulders muttering a stream of profanities into his ear. His head drops and for the first time Kirk’s lips sanctify his skin. He bites and licks and tugs the skin on McCoy’s throat and chest into peaks. “Keep fucking still,” Kirk chokes out in between assaults, pinning his hands by his side.
McCoy can’t help the noises escaping his throat, as big hands spread his hips wide, pinch at his buttocks, angle him.
“You fucking like that,” Kirk breathes into his ear, gnawing at his earlobe, squashing him onto his side so his dick’s at an uncomfortable angle.
For some minutes, Kirk can’t seem to keep his eyes off the sight of his cock appearing and disappearing. He grunts, “Fuck, fuck!” and increases the pace, maneuvering McCoy across the bed, splaying his toes for purchase. Kirk clamps down on his bicep so he can’t move at all, twisting deep and slow with no predictable rhythm, eyes locked with his, dripping sweat onto his face.
Kirk’s neck is flushed, his eyes almost black as he gets close and McCoy’s on fire, filled, unable to stop the litany of, ung, ung as he’s fucked harder then he’s ever been in his life. Still, Kirk hasn’t touched his cock and when Kirk shoves him across the bed so that his head is hanging off the side and Kirk has to brace his arm on the floor to keep them balanced, McCoy splutters in frustration. He shudders at another assault on his prostate - maybe this self-prescribed brain wash was ill-conceived after all.
He looks up at Kirk’s face twisted with passion above him and can’t help wondering if he is in fact touching Kirk at all, in the way he wants to and needs to. Kirk stalls a moment, looks down at him, wiping the sweat from his eyes.
“Hey Bones, am I boring you here?”
McCoy glances up at the bright eyes, the scowl above him, and before he can stop himself, he’s pressed a reassuring hand to Kirk’s hip and is urging him forward.
“I told you to stay still,” Kirk says, pulling out so he can drag McCoy further onto the bed.
You’re not the fucking boss of me, Kirk, McCoy thinks even as Kirk thrusts savagely into him again, making him buck and thrash. Then Kirk seems to sense something, blinks, narrows his eyes and sits back on his heels, pulling McCoy up with him so he’s sitting on Kirk’s lap, still impaled on his cock.
Kirk stills, wraps his arms around him and pulls him closer. Their sweat-slicked chests are pressed together, mouths close but not touching, Kirk’s hands sweeping up his sides, settling on the back of McCoy’s neck, the other, angels of mercy, thank you, tight around his aching length, crushed between them. “Move you fucker, move,” Kirk breathes harshly.
As McCoy begins to raise and lower himself, he can smell the bourbon on Kirk’s breath, sees a faint twitch in his left eye; it always looked weaker than the right, wonders why, and he feels something tight and lethal unravel in his chest when a memory of Kirk in the field, with his wounded lip flashes in his mind’s eye.
Kirk’s breath is shallow, tentative, and yeah, it’s corny, but time seems to stand still, like when he’s in surgery, laser scalpel in hand, like he’s got Kirk’s life in his hands, his own fucking life too.
He can feel Kirk’s heart beating against him and, all he can see is what’s going to happen, and the rest of it, everything, falls away.
His field of vision’s dominated entirely by the landscape of Kirk’s lips. He senses Kirk sagging slightly, hears a sharp inhalation as he’s getting close, as he bucks up to meet his bounce and then - McCoy jumps.
He moves both his hands, cradles Kirk’s head, leans into him and smothers his lips with a tentative, closed mouth kiss pulling Kirk tight against him.
Kirk’s rhythm falters, his hips jerk and he wrestles McCoy onto his back still buried deep, filling and stretching him. McCoy’s thighs clamp hard around Kirk’s back as he presses his tongue home. He’s never done this before, never kissed and it’s amazing and he’s not stopping now even though Kirk’s mouth struggles against his, even as Kirk fucks and thrusts, so close to coming, by the sound of his feral moans.
Kirk’s mouth is soft sharpness, lips lush and wet, tongue knifing into his, making his cock jump and ache with the need to come. He can’t touch himself though, he needs to hold Kirk in place even if he is kissing back as if his life depends on it. He’s got the god damned tiger by the tail and he can’t let go, not now. He struggles to gain purchase in the short hairs at Kirk’s temples and he pulls hard as he feels Kirk’s resistance mount. He tastes of sweetness and salt and rage and McCoy’s head spins with fear and arousal as it starts to sink in what he’s done - the fucking taboo he’s broken.
A lapse in concentration, and Kirk’s jerked his mouth free, tugging and tearing at McCoy’s lips with his, biting hard, not kissing even as he can feel Kirk begin to shudder inside him.
Kirk lifts McCoy’s ass higher, folds him in half, falls across his chest so he can increase the angle, he can feel Kirk’s balls bumping against him. Hears him say, “Son of a…bitch, fuck.” Kirk comes with a choked, muffled groan, pulling his lips away from McCoy’s, but his hands have a hold of the back of his head, dragging him back, so he can feel Kirk shaking through his release, can taste the breath as he exhales, can feel the tremble of Kirk’s face against his.
He has him, McCoy knows this now, he fucking has him and it’s like the flash before an explosion, the realization, and he comes fucking his tongue into Kirk’s yielding mouth, moaning incoherently, heat eating him up inside and out, as he gives Kirk something he knows he’s never had before. McCoy takes and takes until they’re both spent, panting against each other, mouths welded together like a wound.
Even before the last after-shock, Kirk’s already pulled out, backed away, regarding the mess of come on McCoy’s belly, frowning at him, blinking lust blown eyes. Kirk has a pale smear of his blood on his jaw, and looks so achingly beautiful he has to stop himself covering his eyes with his arm.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Kirk breathes, turns away and walks to a drawer unit. He doesn’t spare McCoy another look, simply tosses a pair of sweats and a t-shirt towards the bed.
McCoy watches Kirk’s pale ass cheeks, notes with satisfaction the score lines from his nails on Kirk’s arms and neck, as Kirk walks into the bathroom and the door hisses behind him.
McCoy feels like he might as well have been air-locked by Kirk, the way he’s having trouble drawing a full breath.
He takes a second to ball up his ruined clothing, tosses it into the recycler save for his shoes, which he slips on over bare feet, and strides out into the deserted campus.
The sun’s coming up, peaking through the fog and McCoy feels exposed in the early light, hoping he doesn’t get attacked, arrested or at the very least seen crossing the quad after curfew. It’s one thing heading over here with Kirk’s crew, they’re immune, and Gaila no doubt deals with the video feed if needed, but he’ll have trouble explaining what the hell he’s doing by the admiral’s block at this time of night, morning, whatever.
McCoy stops, raises his face upwards and scans the horizon. There’s a tiny pinprick of light left in the sky, not a star but, he knows, a planet - Venus.
+++
Kirk emerges from the bathroom as soon as McCoy’s left. He hasn’t showered - instead he passes some minutes gazing at his reflection in the mirror, touching his lips, sniffing his fingers to see if there’s any trace, any evidence of what just happened.
He places his PADD on the bed and strokes his hand across the dried come on his groin. It’s hard to tell which is his, which is McCoy’s.
Kirk’s reminded of the old Chinese proverb as he follows the labyrinth to his encrypted files.
Kissing is like drinking salted water; you drink and your thirst increases.
He brings up a holo of an ancient statue in bronze, long since destroyed, and the artist executed. Two figures, a man and a woman, wrapped around each other as they kiss.
Kirk licks his thumb, drags it along the space between his lips, bumps it against his teeth, feels his cock stirring as he remembers what it was like to have McCoy’s tongue in his mouth, what it was like tasting him, breathing him in.
This weakness, he needs to gouge it out, bind the wound and free himself before he’s discovered.
He wonders idly if Bones will talk. Then he opens up the file on Joanna McCoy - stares at her dark hair and blue eyes blazing defiantly back at him. A slow smile creeps across his aching mouth.
He moves to the comm button, eases into his desk chair, the replicated leather sliding against naked skin.
He’ll be fine; McCoy won’t use this against him.
Kirk looks at the statue one last time and thinks about McCoy’s soft, pliable lips, the way his tongue wormed into his mouth, how it made Kirk feel something new he can’t name, something he’s never experienced before. He frowns, shrugs, and brings up the holo of the statue again.
“Keep no possessions, there’s nothing you need,” Kirk repeats Winona’s mantra out loud, and hits the delete button.
His mother taught him well.
Kirk presses the button on his comm. “Communication for Cadet D’Angelo,” he says, and Cupcake’s tired face appears on the screen.
“Sir?” he says, his voice thick with sleep.
“Dr Snarky’s on his way back across the quad. Make sure no one jumps him and, oh, if he sees you…I’ll finish fucking up that lip of yours. We clear, Cupcake?”
Cupcake nods, salutes and the screen goes blank.
THE END
3rd in series: Days of Saturn
Feedback is love!
A/N
+The statue, of course, is ‘The Kiss’, by Rodin:
+Kirk quotes from Hamlet, when he speaks of “adders fanged”.
+“ivory and blue” is borrowed from ‘Slaughterhouse 5” by Kurt Vonnegut
+ that really is a Chinese proverb
+ Gaila’s surname (yes I made it up!) F'r’ha Jani, from the Swahili: Furaha = happy and, Jani = green.
+ They say the Roman’s introduced kissing to Britain - in MU, I decided the honour should go to The Romulans. Let's hope it catches on! This idea gives me a buzz :D
Author: sangueuk
characters/pairing: mirror!Kirk/mirror!McCoy, Gaila, Cupcake, Eleanor McCoy
rating:nc-17
summary: Gaila and Cupcake bring cadet Kirk a very special birthday gift in the middle of the night.
also posted on Archive of Our Own
part 2
+++
Bright, bluest eyes regard him and McCoy somehow manages to stop himself trembling with anticipation; Kirk’s charisma, his obvious arousal pins him in place.
Apart from the obvious that McCoy hadn’t intended for things to go quite like this, truth be told, once he’d realized who it was that had him at their mercy, once he’d heard the Orion’s voice cooing in his ear, even as he struggled for air with his hands scrabbling against the stranglehold - It’s your lucky day, doctor! - he’d known the fates had been listening.
About goddamned time.
McCoy’s aware he has a choice now and it’s not as simple as staying or going.
He hasn’t been able to believe his luck from the moment the two descended on him outside the restaurant while he waited for a cab. Puri had warned him not to travel alone back to the campus after curfew, how he should have stayed in the city, but if there’s one thing McCoy’s learned about himself over the years, tell him not to do something and - well, here he is.
‘Here’ being right where he’s wanted to be, planned to be, for eighteen months. Fate may have played its hand, but now it’s up to him. He’s staring right into the eyes of the wolf. No one gets this close to Jim Kirk, not now. Thanks to Pike, thanks to Kirk’s luxurious, security-enhanced rooms in the Admirals’ Block, and thanks to his free pass to maim and punish at will. McCoy just needs to play it right so he doesn’t end up the sacrificial lamb.
It’s not how he would have planned it. Fact of the matter is he hasn’t planned fuck, leaving everything in the lap of the gods. What he has done is train himself, prepare himself to want Kirk. Prepare himself for this moment.
Now he needs to make a decision.
Should he walk, and hopefully sharpen Kirk’s interest because Mr. Prodigy has been denied a quick birthday fuck? There’s no doubting Kirk’s arousal but, from what McCoy knows of his proclivities, the kid’s interested in anything with an orifice. Most likely, if he stays, goes through with it, then leaves, McCoy will be forgotten, another meaningless conquest in Kirk’s meteoric rise.
But if he stays, if he does the exact opposite of what Kirk would expect, how better to pique interest than to be unpredictable? Kirk’s pretty much confirmed to him how genius plus power often equals boredom. Then again, there’s always the chance that given a taste, Kirk won’t want to come back for seconds.
Whichever way McCoy plays it, it’s a gamble. A gamble based on his Gram’s insane notions and a reading of the kid this brutal youth used to once be.
But he doesn’t have to decide quite yet, does he?
McCoy examines the young, handsome face for a clue, sure Kirk’s hard, the boxer briefs don’t hide fuck, but that doesn’t tell McCoy anything about the depth of interest. He’s got to do the right thing, this is for Jo-Jo; he pretty much gave up on himself years ago trying to exist in the moment when he’s working, and to lose himself in the bottle when he’s not.
Truth be told, McCoy fucking detests Kirk, detests the whole lot of them and their scheming, brutal ways but he can do nothing now about his physical response to Kirk’s presence; after all, he goes to sleep jerking off to images of Jim Kirk every night, relentless, single-minded in his self-training. He’s been half hard since Gaila and the other goon left, as soon as he had an inkling as to Kirk’s intent. And he fucking saw his flask by Kirk’s bed. In a room devoid of personal touches and possessions, it pretty much glowed like radiation. It’s gone now - Kirk didn’t want him to see it, can’t know he did. It all means something, if only he can figure it out.
“…eight, seven…” Kirk’s waiting.
McCoy’s voice is low, tentative. “Yet you had me here against my will…”
“Like I said, you’re free to go. I don’t pay for it, McCoy and I certainly don’t rape.” Kirk’s response is a shock. “Well not anymore…” His eyes gleam.
McCoy swallows. “But you don’t stop your cronies.”
Kirk cants his head, looks surprised at such a question. “No. ‘Cronies’ as you call them aren’t as big on deferred gratification as the higher ups - so, you know, tossing the spoils of war their way, ” Kirk waves a hand casually, “letting them help themselves, keeps them loyal - sexual frustration and being a nobody’s quite a lethal combination you know.”
Welcome to my fucking world, McCoy thinks bitterly.
“Fucking’s about pleasure, right?” Kirk continues.
McCoy searches his memory banks. He half nods, thinking easy enough for those of you with power to say, but settles with, “For some maybe; for most of us idiots it’s part of the struggle to live, along with every other fucking interaction in this shit fest of a universe.”
McCoy’s starting to feel cold, the ache in his shoulder, the throb in his head becoming more pronounced as all his senses heighten.
“Sure - power, possession, claiming and…” Kirk actually sneers when he says this, “…closeness, you know, if you’re mentally deficient or something.” He raises his arm, taps his temple revealing a shock of hair under his arms that sends a rush of blood to McCoy’s groin. “Wanna know what I think? One thing sex fucking proves is how the opposite of close we human beings are.”
“Shit, we’re having a philosophical conversation. How touching.”
“Touching? Now there’s a good idea.” Kirk holds his gaze and without preamble shimmies out of his boxers unselfconsciously. He’s hard; long, his thick cock swaying as he moves. Fuck. McCoy feels his throat constrict reflexively even as a shock of lust fills him. Here goes nothing…
By the look on Kirk’s face, McCoy’s sure the kid knows what a picture of virility he is; skin ivory and blue in the low light, surprisingly slender though muscled. Athletic, lethal, magnificent.
Kirk’s close, as close as he can be without touching, but McCoy swears he can feel the fucking air crackle between them. He’s got to get a grip as he feels star-struck; he needs not to appear eager in any way. His Gram was right, he’s got to play it unafraid, like they’re equals, stare Kirk down, be his fucking self. McCoy takes in a shallow breath and draws his eyebrows together, clenches his hands into loose fists as Kirk continues to talk.
“Oh, and how could I forget, the little children,” Kirk muses, sarcastic now, contemptuous. “You gotta have somebody to leave all your bounty to, eh?”
His hands finally fucking move and rest easily on McCoy’s hips, and he has to resist the urge to buck into them, painfully hard now and seriously, he has no fucking idea whether it’s because he’s so shit scared or so fucking turned on.
“Yeah, you’re going to make a lovely daddy some day,” McCoy mutters.
Kirk’s eyes flash and McCoy feels his mouth go dry. He wants to break the eye contact; Kirk uses his eyes to captivate and strip bare, and McCoy can feel them unraveling layers within him. Hold, hold, he tells himself.
“I doubt it.” Kirk’s lips are tight, the bright light in his eyes appearing to dim for a moment but a blink and they’re cold, sharp blue again. McCoy feels a rush of adrenaline, sure he’s witnessed a rare, unguarded moment. Despite his injuries, his disadvantage before this rising star, for a beat McCoy feels that sense of god-like power when he holds life in his hands and he looks away, knowing now how to play this. If he’s to win Kirk’s trust, he needs to appear not to notice these moments of ‘weakness’, wasn’t that what Gram had told him all those years back?
Kirk grips McCoy’s hips a little tighter and repeats, “You can go. You can go anytime.”
His voice is husky, irritated, his breath a warm narcotic on McCoy’s skin. Wait McCoy tells himself.
“So why don’t you?” Kirk demands.
Ah, where to begin? Because I want something from you, like every other fuck who’ll cross your path for the rest of your short, brutal life.
“Mus’ be your conversational skills,” McCoy tries, raising an eyebrow.
Kirk bares his teeth, wraps the fingers of one hand round McCoy’s windpipe, squeezes so McCoy can feel his heart hammering in his head. Just as suddenly, Kirk loosens his grip, runs pale lengths over his throat to his jaw where he grips tight, guides his mouth close to his so he has to stop himself canting towards him, claiming those pale pink lips, prevented mercifully by Kirk dragging his thumb slowly over the divot, then resting at the dip of his throat.
“I could fucking kill you,” Kirk hisses, staring at McCoy’s mouth.
“I don’t doubt that,” McCoy manages. But Kirk hasn’t. And he's suddenly sure he won’t.
“Luckily for you, you’ve piqued my interest. I suspect you’re that rare breed, that almost extinct freak of nature, you know, Bones?” Kirk drops his hand so it’s back on his hip but he neither pulls McCoy towards him, nor lets go.
“And pray, what the fuck might that be?”
“Someone,” Kirk smirks, “who can be trusted.” The last word’s sneered out like it’s a perversion.
“Well, don’t go spreadin’ it around, Kirk, else all the other psycho cadets with delusions of grandeur will want one of their own.”
Kirk laughs.
McCoy thinks a moment and adds the cautious thought, because Kirk might be able to trust him. But whether or not he’ll be able to trust Kirk back is another matter entirely. “What about the green goddess and that cur you’ve named after baked goods?”
“'Whom I will trust as if adders fanged' - only so far as I can throw them, Bones. I can read them, I can read everyone, especially you. I know you want something from me, I might even have figured it out.” Kirk’s eyes scan his face.
“And they disgust you,” McCoy says simply. Kirk narrows his eyes at that, parses the statement. He goes on, “You want total control, power. Then when they give it to you - you despise them for it.”
Kirk’s eyes drop for a moment, thick lashes hiding what’s going on in that crazy head of his. When his gaze flickers up and their eyes catch again, he looks so fucking young for an instant that McCoy once again has to fight the urge to smother that full mouth with his. The skin around Kirk’s eyes is dark with lack of sleep, and other than the pock marks near his jaw, there’s not a line to be seen anywhere on Kirk’s face. This is in marked contrast to the multiple scars tattooing his arms and back from combat, and god knows what else. Like so many, it seems Kirk avoids medical treatment whenever possible, falling prey to hit man medics looking to advance themselves or repay debts is a serious risk.
McCoy can hear his Gram’s voice chiding him even now, You’re hopeless, Leo, a sentimental dog It’s gotta be the reason why he actually feels sorry for this kid. Last time that happened, if he recalls, he got a sock in the jaw for his trouble. Still…
He raises his hand to Kirk’s wrist and circles it. Their eyes both flicker down, then up again, then lock while he guides Kirk’s hand to the front of his pants. Kirk palms him unblinkingly, and the tip of his tongue darts out between whitest teeth, a look of satisfaction flooding his features when McCoy grinds into his touch.
“Hold your horses,” McCoy says. He feels like his voice is a step behind his mind at this stage, a little giddy with the endorphins and adrenaline buzzing his system for the past hour or so. He needs to take a moment, so he releases Kirk’s wrist and backs away, turns and takes a step towards the crumpled bed.
McCoy somehow stops his hands from trembling as he undoes the one button on his shirt that seemed to escape the tussle earlier. He can do this, he’s a fucking surgeon. He slides the fabric off his shoulders with a slight wince, balls it up and drops it to the floor.
“And the rest,” comes the husky instruction as Kirk walks to one side of him. Kirk’s watching him, lips parted, frowning, openly appraising him while he shucks off his socks and shoes, then unzips his fly. “You always dress this nice at the infirmary?” There’s a sneer in Kirk’s voice and it crosses McCoy’s mind that Kirk genuinely didn’t know he was being brought to him. And if that’s the case, how did the Orion know it’s what Kirk would have wanted? McCoy’ll have to ponder this later - if indeed he makes it out in one piece.
“Yeah, well, you gotta make an effort for your kidnappers, else they might pick someone else.”
Kirk’s lips twitch in amusement, and he makes a small circle in the air with his forefinger, indicating McCoy should turn round for the next part so his back is to Kirk. The look of intent on his face, McCoy thinks, sulphur yellow would be a fitting color for those eyes, rather than innocent blue.
McCoy turns and as he lowers his black suit pants, he remembers bitterly how his jacket ended up in the gutter outside the restaurant, along with his comm. He takes a breath and hooks his thumbs into his boxer briefs, tries to push them down as matter of factly as he can manage, as if he’s at the gym not here, under the laser gaze of Pike’s protégé. He hears a low grunt of approval and looks over his shoulder at Kirk, feeling his ears and neck heat at the incredibly arousing sight of Kirk jacking off while he takes in the show.
“Jesus, Bones,” he says.
Kirk nods to the bed and, naked, heart hammering, McCoy sits on the side, leaning back to rest on his elbows, his cock bobbing against his thigh.
When Kirk retrieves a tube of prophylactic lube from a drawer by the bed, McCoy wonders, just for a moment, if it’s not too late to run but, then the pale, wiry figure is looming over him. He parts his legs instinctively because, fuck it, he may have turned into his very own psych experiment the way he’s trained himself to want this man, but the want is very real; the prospect of those elegant hands on him, in him, of that cock in his mouth, ignites a flare deep in his belly so intense he’s fucking scared, is what he is.
Kirk drops the lube on the bed and kicks McCoy’s feet apart. “Up,” he commands and steps close. “More,” he says, and his eyes are bright with lust.
McCoy feels ridiculously self-conscious, knees to his chest, as that laser gaze tears across every part of his skin, wondering when the fuck Kirk’s going to touch him already; Kirk certainly doesn’t seem in any hurry. Instead, he sits sideways on the bed, one leg on the floor, one tucked under him, his cock, hard and leaking pre-come, swaying as he smears lube over his fingers. McCoy allows his head to fall back and brings his hands to the back of his knees.
“You done this before?” Kirk asks, dropping to contemplate McCoy’s cock and finally scraping a lube covered nail up his inner thigh sending a shiver of heat up to his balls.
“No, I’m a fucking virgin. What do you think?”
Kirk grins, presses a nail hard into the sensitive skin. “I think I want to see what that mouth of yours can do other than cuss and complain.” Kirk’s thumb’s found its way down to the sensitive spot under McCoy’s balls and he hisses when Kirk applies pressure then glowers at the look of amusement on Kirk’s face. “I want to see if you can still fucking grumble when I’ve got my cock up your ass.” He circles McCoy’s hole, biting at his lower lip, apparently watching his face for every twitch and response with hungry interest.
“Seems to me…you’re the one can’t fucking shut up…fuck!” McCoy bites out in surprise when Kirk’s thumb suddenly breaches him right up to the last knuckle. Kirk’s grin is so fucking predatory, he wants to punch him. If he wasn’t busy biting his lip so he doesn’t beg for more.
It’s odd, that even though Kirk seems to take meticulous care opening him up, experimenting with the angle, the pressure, eyes darting between McCoy’s face and the sight of his fingers disappearing and reappearing, Kirk doesn’t spare any other caress, doesn’t stroke him or lick him. Nothing. It’s like he’s being sized up as a toy - as if Kirk is working out how much fun it’s going to be stringing out his new plaything; like his prostate, which Kirk manages to find embarrassingly quickly, is a button to press for his own amusement rather than McCoy’s pleasure.
“Put your hands above your head,” Kirk says, pulling his fingers out, leaving McCoy on the fucking edge, panting harshly and furious as hell. Nevertheless, he does as he’s told, gripping the headboard and allowing his legs to drop. Kirk’s hand goes to his own cock and he strokes himself in a leisurely manner all the while watching his face.
“Well, I’m fucking pleased someone’s enjoying themselves…” McCoy mutters canting his hips up a little, feeling like he’s going to fucking howl if he doesn’t get some release soon. Truth is, watching Kirk watching him is unbelievably hot. Kirk seems to have zoned in on his mouth again, and McCoy, he hopes not too obviously, is giving Kirk a little show, allowing his lips to fall apart, biting at his bottom lip, running his tongue along his teeth, pursing them ever so slightly, falling into some kind of rhythm with Kirk’s upstroke and twist.
And if he’s honest with himself, McCoy’s fucking aching to touch, as much as to be touched himself.
Finally, heavens be praised, Kirk seems to tire of treating him like a porn holo and says, “Let me see what you can do with that pretty mouth, other than bitch.” Kirk climbs up onto the bed and straddles his chest, kneeling up so his reddened cock juts between them.
McCoy can feel Kirk’s eyes burning into his face as he guides his cock home. When he sucks Kirk down, the scent of him makes him groan with relief, and he doesn’t bother to smother it. He keeps his hands in place on the headboard, diverting all his need to explore and finally feel this man, into his tongue, memorizing the salty tang of him, the heat, the texture of the ridge and foreskin and desperately trying not to gag at the sheer size without his hands free to guide the pace.
He feels Kirk touch his head and fully expects him to grab his ears; instead Kirk idly twists the ends of his hair in his fingers, harsh breaths the only sound in the room other than the slap of his mouth on flesh as he sucks and licks. He glances up and sees Kirk’s eyes are shut tight, mouth fallen open, head inclining forward and back in time with his own as he swallows ravenously.
“That’s turning you on,” Kirk growls, a hint of surprise in the statement. “Touch yourself, I want to watch.” Yeah, because he’s not going to do any actual work.
McCoy drops his arms in relief and rearranges himself within the bracket of Kirk’s thighs, so he’s half on his side and can reach his own cock, bloodied knuckles moving gently, making each moment last. Losing all track of time, he holds himself with a finger and thumb, licks a delicate stripe along the vein running the length of Kirk’s cock, swirls his tongue on the tip. He mirrors the pressure and speed exactly with how he touches himself, so he has some notion of how this is affecting Kirk. In the half light, Kirk’s pale and pure above him, reminding him of ancient Christian art he’s glimpsed in secret collections in admirals’ palaces.
It’s the same moment that Kirk happens to look down at him. “Jesus fuck.” He says it so it’s almost a whisper. “You’re something else, doc.” Kirk pushes at his shoulders, pulls his cock away and McCoy slumps back in relief, his jaw aching, chin covered in spit and pre-come. But, before he can enjoy the moment he shudders at the maleficent expression above him. “Stay still,” Kirk hisses.
Kirk moves so he’s kneeling on the bed, knees close to his hips and lubes himself up and before McCoy can say ‘hog roast’, Kirk’s squashed him further up the bed so his neck’s shoved up against the headboard and guided his legs so his ankles are by Kirk’s ears. He’s smothered, crushed, can barely breathe.
McCoy’s loose from earlier, but Jesus, fuck, nothing prepares him for the ferocity of that first clean, brutal shove into him. He lets out a harsh gasp, echoed by Kirk as he bottoms out. It fucking hurts and he breathes through the burn, bringing his hands up to Kirk’s hips, digs his nails in hard and is repaid by a long, deep lunge which, how the fuck? seems to go deeper.
Before he can find the breath to protest, Kirk rearranges his legs, folding them back onto his chest. Kirk brings his knees closer together so he can increase the angle. An experimental thrust, and when McCoy yowls as he brushes forward then back along his prostate, Kirk begins to rock in and out dropping forward to brace his arms by McCoy’s shoulders muttering a stream of profanities into his ear. His head drops and for the first time Kirk’s lips sanctify his skin. He bites and licks and tugs the skin on McCoy’s throat and chest into peaks. “Keep fucking still,” Kirk chokes out in between assaults, pinning his hands by his side.
McCoy can’t help the noises escaping his throat, as big hands spread his hips wide, pinch at his buttocks, angle him.
“You fucking like that,” Kirk breathes into his ear, gnawing at his earlobe, squashing him onto his side so his dick’s at an uncomfortable angle.
For some minutes, Kirk can’t seem to keep his eyes off the sight of his cock appearing and disappearing. He grunts, “Fuck, fuck!” and increases the pace, maneuvering McCoy across the bed, splaying his toes for purchase. Kirk clamps down on his bicep so he can’t move at all, twisting deep and slow with no predictable rhythm, eyes locked with his, dripping sweat onto his face.
Kirk’s neck is flushed, his eyes almost black as he gets close and McCoy’s on fire, filled, unable to stop the litany of, ung, ung as he’s fucked harder then he’s ever been in his life. Still, Kirk hasn’t touched his cock and when Kirk shoves him across the bed so that his head is hanging off the side and Kirk has to brace his arm on the floor to keep them balanced, McCoy splutters in frustration. He shudders at another assault on his prostate - maybe this self-prescribed brain wash was ill-conceived after all.
He looks up at Kirk’s face twisted with passion above him and can’t help wondering if he is in fact touching Kirk at all, in the way he wants to and needs to. Kirk stalls a moment, looks down at him, wiping the sweat from his eyes.
“Hey Bones, am I boring you here?”
McCoy glances up at the bright eyes, the scowl above him, and before he can stop himself, he’s pressed a reassuring hand to Kirk’s hip and is urging him forward.
“I told you to stay still,” Kirk says, pulling out so he can drag McCoy further onto the bed.
You’re not the fucking boss of me, Kirk, McCoy thinks even as Kirk thrusts savagely into him again, making him buck and thrash. Then Kirk seems to sense something, blinks, narrows his eyes and sits back on his heels, pulling McCoy up with him so he’s sitting on Kirk’s lap, still impaled on his cock.
Kirk stills, wraps his arms around him and pulls him closer. Their sweat-slicked chests are pressed together, mouths close but not touching, Kirk’s hands sweeping up his sides, settling on the back of McCoy’s neck, the other, angels of mercy, thank you, tight around his aching length, crushed between them. “Move you fucker, move,” Kirk breathes harshly.
As McCoy begins to raise and lower himself, he can smell the bourbon on Kirk’s breath, sees a faint twitch in his left eye; it always looked weaker than the right, wonders why, and he feels something tight and lethal unravel in his chest when a memory of Kirk in the field, with his wounded lip flashes in his mind’s eye.
Kirk’s breath is shallow, tentative, and yeah, it’s corny, but time seems to stand still, like when he’s in surgery, laser scalpel in hand, like he’s got Kirk’s life in his hands, his own fucking life too.
He can feel Kirk’s heart beating against him and, all he can see is what’s going to happen, and the rest of it, everything, falls away.
His field of vision’s dominated entirely by the landscape of Kirk’s lips. He senses Kirk sagging slightly, hears a sharp inhalation as he’s getting close, as he bucks up to meet his bounce and then - McCoy jumps.
He moves both his hands, cradles Kirk’s head, leans into him and smothers his lips with a tentative, closed mouth kiss pulling Kirk tight against him.
Kirk’s rhythm falters, his hips jerk and he wrestles McCoy onto his back still buried deep, filling and stretching him. McCoy’s thighs clamp hard around Kirk’s back as he presses his tongue home. He’s never done this before, never kissed and it’s amazing and he’s not stopping now even though Kirk’s mouth struggles against his, even as Kirk fucks and thrusts, so close to coming, by the sound of his feral moans.
Kirk’s mouth is soft sharpness, lips lush and wet, tongue knifing into his, making his cock jump and ache with the need to come. He can’t touch himself though, he needs to hold Kirk in place even if he is kissing back as if his life depends on it. He’s got the god damned tiger by the tail and he can’t let go, not now. He struggles to gain purchase in the short hairs at Kirk’s temples and he pulls hard as he feels Kirk’s resistance mount. He tastes of sweetness and salt and rage and McCoy’s head spins with fear and arousal as it starts to sink in what he’s done - the fucking taboo he’s broken.
A lapse in concentration, and Kirk’s jerked his mouth free, tugging and tearing at McCoy’s lips with his, biting hard, not kissing even as he can feel Kirk begin to shudder inside him.
Kirk lifts McCoy’s ass higher, folds him in half, falls across his chest so he can increase the angle, he can feel Kirk’s balls bumping against him. Hears him say, “Son of a…bitch, fuck.” Kirk comes with a choked, muffled groan, pulling his lips away from McCoy’s, but his hands have a hold of the back of his head, dragging him back, so he can feel Kirk shaking through his release, can taste the breath as he exhales, can feel the tremble of Kirk’s face against his.
He has him, McCoy knows this now, he fucking has him and it’s like the flash before an explosion, the realization, and he comes fucking his tongue into Kirk’s yielding mouth, moaning incoherently, heat eating him up inside and out, as he gives Kirk something he knows he’s never had before. McCoy takes and takes until they’re both spent, panting against each other, mouths welded together like a wound.
Even before the last after-shock, Kirk’s already pulled out, backed away, regarding the mess of come on McCoy’s belly, frowning at him, blinking lust blown eyes. Kirk has a pale smear of his blood on his jaw, and looks so achingly beautiful he has to stop himself covering his eyes with his arm.
“Get the fuck out of here,” Kirk breathes, turns away and walks to a drawer unit. He doesn’t spare McCoy another look, simply tosses a pair of sweats and a t-shirt towards the bed.
McCoy watches Kirk’s pale ass cheeks, notes with satisfaction the score lines from his nails on Kirk’s arms and neck, as Kirk walks into the bathroom and the door hisses behind him.
McCoy feels like he might as well have been air-locked by Kirk, the way he’s having trouble drawing a full breath.
He takes a second to ball up his ruined clothing, tosses it into the recycler save for his shoes, which he slips on over bare feet, and strides out into the deserted campus.
The sun’s coming up, peaking through the fog and McCoy feels exposed in the early light, hoping he doesn’t get attacked, arrested or at the very least seen crossing the quad after curfew. It’s one thing heading over here with Kirk’s crew, they’re immune, and Gaila no doubt deals with the video feed if needed, but he’ll have trouble explaining what the hell he’s doing by the admiral’s block at this time of night, morning, whatever.
McCoy stops, raises his face upwards and scans the horizon. There’s a tiny pinprick of light left in the sky, not a star but, he knows, a planet - Venus.
+++
Kirk emerges from the bathroom as soon as McCoy’s left. He hasn’t showered - instead he passes some minutes gazing at his reflection in the mirror, touching his lips, sniffing his fingers to see if there’s any trace, any evidence of what just happened.
He places his PADD on the bed and strokes his hand across the dried come on his groin. It’s hard to tell which is his, which is McCoy’s.
Kirk’s reminded of the old Chinese proverb as he follows the labyrinth to his encrypted files.
Kissing is like drinking salted water; you drink and your thirst increases.
He brings up a holo of an ancient statue in bronze, long since destroyed, and the artist executed. Two figures, a man and a woman, wrapped around each other as they kiss.
Kirk licks his thumb, drags it along the space between his lips, bumps it against his teeth, feels his cock stirring as he remembers what it was like to have McCoy’s tongue in his mouth, what it was like tasting him, breathing him in.
This weakness, he needs to gouge it out, bind the wound and free himself before he’s discovered.
He wonders idly if Bones will talk. Then he opens up the file on Joanna McCoy - stares at her dark hair and blue eyes blazing defiantly back at him. A slow smile creeps across his aching mouth.
He moves to the comm button, eases into his desk chair, the replicated leather sliding against naked skin.
He’ll be fine; McCoy won’t use this against him.
Kirk looks at the statue one last time and thinks about McCoy’s soft, pliable lips, the way his tongue wormed into his mouth, how it made Kirk feel something new he can’t name, something he’s never experienced before. He frowns, shrugs, and brings up the holo of the statue again.
“Keep no possessions, there’s nothing you need,” Kirk repeats Winona’s mantra out loud, and hits the delete button.
His mother taught him well.
Kirk presses the button on his comm. “Communication for Cadet D’Angelo,” he says, and Cupcake’s tired face appears on the screen.
“Sir?” he says, his voice thick with sleep.
“Dr Snarky’s on his way back across the quad. Make sure no one jumps him and, oh, if he sees you…I’ll finish fucking up that lip of yours. We clear, Cupcake?”
Cupcake nods, salutes and the screen goes blank.
THE END
3rd in series: Days of Saturn
Feedback is love!
A/N
+The statue, of course, is ‘The Kiss’, by Rodin:
+Kirk quotes from Hamlet, when he speaks of “adders fanged”.
+“ivory and blue” is borrowed from ‘Slaughterhouse 5” by Kurt Vonnegut
+ that really is a Chinese proverb
+ Gaila’s surname (yes I made it up!) F'r’ha Jani, from the Swahili: Furaha = happy and, Jani = green.
+ They say the Roman’s introduced kissing to Britain - in MU, I decided the honour should go to The Romulans. Let's hope it catches on! This idea gives me a buzz :D