Star Trek, Kirk / McCoy, NC-17
Title: Green With Envy
Pairing: Jim Kirk/Leonard McCoy
Summary: When McCoy and Kirk get blazingly drunk together, they go all out, and this time is no exception.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, PWP.
Author: blacktofade
Words: 3,012
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Based on this prompt from the Star Trek Kink Meme. This has not been beta'd, so feel free to point out mistakes/offer concrit.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with Star Trek or any of their affiliates. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
When McCoy and Kirk get blazingly drunk together, they go all out, and this time is no exception.
It starts with one shot and a casual hand on a forearm. Then it’s another shot and the hand moves to a shoulder. By the third, it’s moved to a knee, but on the fourth, the hand stays where it is, but a mouth moves in closer to an ear, where it whispers hot little words that sound good at the time, but not so much when the alcohol’s worn off enough to let shit, polished or not, just look like shit..
On the fifth, Kirk can’t really see straight, but he’s sure there’s only one McCoy; two would be a wet dream, and he knows he’s not asleep because there’s alcohol burning his tongue like a pinch a man gives himself when he thinks he’s unconscious and dreaming. Kirk thinks he’s at the point where he probably should be, but he downs the sixth because McCoy hasn’t stopped yet and his bar stool is closer than it was a few shots ago.
McCoy doesn’t ever stop complaining and whining about everything and nothing, but Kirk’s okay with that; he’ll sit and listen for as long as McCoy rambles - he doesn’t take anything in, but it’s the outward appearance of caring that counts.
On the seventh, other people in the bar start to eye them up, wondering and mistaking them for more than friends, and perhaps they are and they just haven’t noticed yet. The eighth wins a couple of people a couple of dollars in the bets they have on who would overstep the line first: the man with the outstanding parting, or the pretty boy with the even prettier mouth.
It’s the pretty boy with the even prettier mouth - and as Kirk finally releases McCoy’s lips, he decides they need the ninth for the stumble back to the federation headquarters. As if they could even make it there - McCoy ends up trying to sock Kirk for embarrassing him in the bar he frequents most often, as soon as they step out of the wooden doors. Though he misses when Kirk, who doesn’t even notice the fist flying towards his face, bends down to pick up a goddamn penny off the floor because he still believes in good luck. The whoosh of air - the sound of McCoy’s hand sailing above his head - makes Kirk look up in time to see McCoy lose his balance and topple over on top of him.
They fall to the floor in a way that would be comedic if they knew what the hell was going on. Kirk’s penny and associated good luck is forgotten about in the tumble.
McCoy grumbles about “stupid-ass boys from Iowa thinking they can do anything” and Kirk gets the wind knocked out of him so he can’t do anything but wheeze, lying on his stomach underneath the heavy weight of a drunken McCoy. Now, of all times, McCoy decides to take his sweet-ass time moving. By the time he’s moved enough to just be straddling the backs of Kirk’s thighs, Kirk has caught his breath. He elbows McCoy in the chest and says, “Get the fuck off, Bones,” while trying to get away, grappling along the dirty pavement, digging, and chipping his nails as they scratch along the gray asphalt.
McCoy finally stands, wobbling slightly and looking like a goon when he spreads his arms out to balance himself, like a fucking tightrope walker sixty feet off the ground without a net in case bad goes to worse. Kirk rights himself in a more dignified manner, or at least tries to appear so, as he brushes his clothes off and glares at McCoy. All Kirk can think of is going back into the bar and getting shot number ten because McCoy is just too much of a stubborn mule and Kirk is still too sober - he might even remember this tomorrow.
“You made me look like a fucking fool,” McCoy hisses, finally going back to the reason why he tried to punch Kirk.
Kirk grins bitterly. “You did that yourself, Bones.”
That’s enough to get McCoy to try another swing at him. Kirk ducks, definitely seeing McCoy’s fist this time, and tries to get one of his own in. It falls short - damn his inebriated state and, thus, lack of perception - and, unfortunately for him, it gets him close enough that McCoy’s next punch hits him in the jaw. Kirk exhales his pain, working his jaw side to side to make the heat ebb, but it doesn’t stop Kirk from using his shoulder to tackle McCoy, hitting him in the stomach, and knocking him backwards into the outer brick wall of the bar they had just exited.
McCoy struggles, really struggles, putting his back into it and everything, but a cleared throat at the corner of the building startles them. They break away to find themselves staring at Spock and Uhura, the former of whom had obviously not wanted to stumble across their sorry asses and doesn’t appear to be amused in the slightest. Spock doesn’t say anything, just raises his eyebrow in that horrible, condescending way of his, then keeps on walking past the alley, being lead by Uhura into the bar.
McCoy and Kirk know when they’ve been frowned down upon, but like hell if they’re going to let that get in the way of them settling their dispute. McCoy lands a cheap shot as Kirk is still looking in the direction Spock and Uhura had gone. It snaps Kirk’s head further to the side and his teeth actually clack together - he’s lucky his tongue wasn’t in the way or else Doctor McCoy would have had to make an appearance.
Kirk spins, puts a hand on McCoy’s shoulder, and shoves him back, not even caring when McCoy’s head slams back into the brick with a sickening thud. McCoy blinks as though stunned with a phaser then focuses his gaze on Kirk.
“You son-of-a-bitch, you made me see more goddamn stars than the ones above us!”
“And your cheap shot was oh so legal, was it?”
Obviously having a point, McCoy doesn’t bother to retaliate verbally. Instead, he grabs Kirk by the shirt and drags him forward, until all Kirk can see is the darkness of McCoy’s eyes - all eyelashes and brown irises and pupils - and then McCoy’s the one making Jim look like the fucking fool this time, though there’s no one around to see, because he covers Kirk’s mouth with his own rum flavored lips and tongue and teeth.
Jim is slightly stunned, then slightly annoyed that McCoy could have spared him a sore face if he’d just fucking kissed him in the first place, but then Jim forgets everything and concentrates on the way McCoy’s tongue slips into his mouth. Their kiss is like McCoy’s description of space when they first met: all disease and danger wrapped up in darkness and silence, but Kirk doesn’t want to pull his lips away to point out the irony.
Even during kissing, McCoy seems to keep fighting; keeps biting Kirk’s bottom lip like it’s Kirk’s fault he’s given in, so Kirk keeps fighting right back. He slides a hand into McCoy’s hair and tugs sharply, drawing an even harder bite from McCoy, one that he’s sure has drawn blood because there’s another taste in his mouth and it’s not McCoy.
Kirk pushes McCoy harder into the wall behind them, slipping one of his knees in between McCoy’s thighs and pressing against the arousal he finds there. When McCoy widens his stance to allow Kirk further entry, Kirk can’t believe how easy McCoy is. McCoy: the one always teasing Kirk for his habit of flaunting his sexual conquests openly; the one who’s now moaning into Kirk’s open mouth like some ten dollar whore. Kirk would be lying if he said it didn’t turn him on because it does, it does like hell, and Kirk can barely stand it. He ruts his hips forwards and the noise that tumbles out of McCoy’s mouth is almost identical to the one that accidentally falls from his own.
Without warning, McCoy gets enough leverage to spin their positions so Kirk is the one all pinned and helpless, and McCoy is the one in charge. Kirk won’t ever tell McCoy how much he gets off on being dominated, but knowing McCoy, he probably already knows, the smug bastard.
They both should know it’s a bad idea to go any further; an alleyway is too open for the likes of both of them, but if they’d cared enough about not having bad ideas, they would have stopped after the second shot. Instead, Kirk lets McCoy open the fastening on his pants and withdraw his cock, while McCoy lets Kirk suck on his neck like a damn vampire. They’re too drunk to even be thinking about such a position, but it doesn’t stop them, as McCoy hitches Kirk up so his legs can wrap about McCoy’s waist while his back against the wall keeps both of them from falling.
Pressing his weight forwards, McCoy, who you should know is a doctor, not a physicist, surprisingly uses the laws of physics to hold Kirk up, so he can slip a warm hand between them to stroke and pull at Kirk’s erection. Kirk tosses his head back at the pleasure and sees stars, possibly the same ones McCoy saw before, before his eyes as he whacks his head on the bricks behind. He turns his head to the side and blinks wildly, trying to focus on something that isn’t as close as McCoy, but all he can make out is a shadow at the end of the alleyway that he’s sure wasn’t there when they started. He shuts his eyes and turns his attention back to McCoy as the other man begins to grind his hips, pushing his cock into Kirk’s ass, and, god, Kirk’s never felt a sweeter feeling.
It’s not very helpful - but then again, Kirk never really is - when Kirk starts to rock his hips to help McCoy along as it just serves to put McCoy off balance. McCoy’s sure to tell Kirks so, but as if Kirk listens, he’s too busy loving the way McCoy’s thumb runs over the head of his cock, spreading the wetness that’s gathering there, creating slickness like a tongue, and, god, he wishes it was McCoy’s tongue laving over him, but he’ll take what he’s given.
McCoy is still thrusting against Kirk, getting himself off slowly but surely, but at the rate they’re going, Kirk knows he’s going to come well before McCoy, even with the alcohol in his body putting every effort into slowing him down.
There’s a soft ghost of a breathy whimper and Kirk knows it’s neither himself nor McCoy. His eyes shift to roam over the entrance of the alley, but there’s no one there. The shadow that had caught his attention earlier has disappeared, but there’s a smell that he can’t quite recognize in its stead. What he does know is that someone’s watching them; McCoy hasn’t noticed, so Kirk decides if they want to see something, he’ll give them something to watch.
With a rather enthusiastic moan, he slides a hand behind McCoy’s head and closes in around him, like a Venus flytrap does insects. The kiss is everything but precise because being precise would go against everything Kirk and McCoy live to be. Tongues mix and slide together, making the wet kiss even wetter. McCoy’s five o’clock shadow is hell against his skin, but it doesn’t slow him down, if anything he makes it rougher, just to make sure he’ll be marked tomorrow when he wakes up. Fuck if he’s going to forget this now.
McCoy breaks their kiss, but only to bite and kiss a path down Kirk’s jaw, down his throat, down to the very edge of Kirk’s collar because that’s as far as he can go, but Kirk finds out that McCoy’s tongue can go a little bit further and his fucking toes are curling because of it.
“Bones!” Kirk groans, but the way his voice cracks isn’t even for their voyeur’s show; Kirk is used to McCoy’s tongue whipping his verbally into shape, not sliding along his collarbone, but he likes to think he could get used to the change. McCoy bites down, probably just to let Kirk know that his mouth is still as vicious as it was before and that he shouldn’t get used to the softness of his tongue and lips.
Kirk can’t take much more; McCoy’s hand is far too talented for its own good. McCoy’s wrist is twisting and flicking in the exact way Kirk likes. It’s almost as if McCoy has been there every time Kirk has jerked himself off and knows at exactly what moment to squeeze here and press - oh, god - right there.
Kirk gives himself up completely and finally lets the pleasure McCoy is causing just flow over him. Nothing could stop him now, not even the voyeur watching them.
Seconds before he comes, Kirk places where he’s smelled that earlier scent before and it makes his mouth falls open in a silent yell as he finally tips over the edge into the bliss of orgasm.
The mess between them doesn’t even get acknowledged as McCoy shifts his hips and moves his hands to Kirk’s waist, so he can finally lift Kirk into a better position to get himself off. McCoy’s rubbing is frantic, but Kirk just goes with it - as if he has a choice when his bones have turned to liquid and he’s just clinging onto McCoy for dear life. McCoy’s bones are Kirk’s bones, too, but that makes Kirk think that he could be selfish for taking the only thing McCoy was left with after his divorce. At that thought, Kirk places a hand on McCoy’s shoulder that makes him look up.
“Let me down,” Kirk says, in a way that implies that McCoy had better do it or there would be hell to pay later.
McCoy doesn’t even set him on his feet, just drops him - does McCoy ever stop fighting? Kirk’s lucky he has the wall at his back because otherwise he would have fallen over. Without even taking the time to tuck himself back into his pants, Kirk drops to his knees and quickly undoes the closure on McCoy’s slacks. Without any hesitation, Kirk pulls McCoy’s cock out and laps at the head with his tongue; it tastes a little bit like victory.
McCoy obviously doesn’t know what to do with himself because the moan that he lets out sounds almost like Jim - not Kirk, not captain, just Jim - in his most vulnerable sounding voice. It eggs Kirk on, makes him try to lick and suck his way into McCoy’s body, and it makes McCoy brace his hands on the wall, leaning his torso over Kirk’s head, because Kirk can feel the way McCoy’s knees are shaking and knows that without the extra support, McCoy would land right on top of him.
When Kirk moves a hand to slide down McCoy’s clothed thigh, he feels the muscles tense up underneath the soft fabric of the pants. He knows McCoy has about five seconds left and he’s right because just after he thinks that, McCoy lets out a whine and Kirk’s tongue is coated with come. Kirk sucks once more then moves off of McCoy’s cock to swallow.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and while McCoy catches his breath above him, he looks towards the end of the alley, hoping to catch sight of the person he knew was watching them. There’s no one there, but if Kirk breaths in deep enough, it smells like embarrassment and furtive glances around brick corners.
*
“Commander, a word, please,” Kirk says, as Spock comes into view, walking stiffly along the corridor between the bridge and the mess hall.
“Sir?”
When Spock is in front of him, he continues. “Did you have a nice time last night?”
Spock raises his eyebrow and Kirk is taken back in time to when Spock and Uhura came across he and McCoy the night before; it’s the same damn patronizing eyebrow move.
“Lieutenant Uhura and I had a pleasant night, as was to be expected.”
“Good, good. If you would like to know, McCoy and I had our own rather pleasant evening.”
“Captain, what you do in your recreational time is not for me to know.”
“Which is obviously why you were standing in the shadows watching us, huh?”
Spock’s eyes seem to want to shoot lasers into Kirk’s body and forever banish him from the world of the living, but the rest of Spock is as calm and collected as always. It irks Kirk, but to know he’s right is more delicious than McCoy’s family recipe for baked beans, so Kirk is satisfied for the time being.
“I do not know what you are talking about, captain,” says Spock, as though he’s some innocent, little, pointy-eared fairy.
“Bullshit; I know a green-blooded bastard when I see one, and I saw one being quite the voyeur last night. Tell me, did you enjoy the show? Did McCoy’s moaning set you off? Did the sight of my cock make you twitch?”
Spock turns a sickly color as a barely there blush reaches his face.
“Aw, look, Spock, you’re green with envy!”
The flush on Spock’s cheeks worsens, but this time Kirk’s almost sure it’s from anger. Spock seems to think that Kirk isn’t worthy of a reply, as he turns on his heel and heads back in the direction he’d come from. Kirk just grins, which he’s still doing when McCoy rounds the nearest corner.
Kirk turns his grin into a smirk, McCoy frowns, Spock is off in some other part of the ship being a pointy-eared bastard, and Kirk thinks that all is well in the universe.
Pairing: Jim Kirk/Leonard McCoy
Summary: When McCoy and Kirk get blazingly drunk together, they go all out, and this time is no exception.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, PWP.
Author: blacktofade
Words: 3,012
Rating: NC-17
A/N: Based on this prompt from the Star Trek Kink Meme. This has not been beta'd, so feel free to point out mistakes/offer concrit.
Disclaimer: I am not associated with Star Trek or any of their affiliates. I don't mean any harm, this is all made up.
When McCoy and Kirk get blazingly drunk together, they go all out, and this time is no exception.
It starts with one shot and a casual hand on a forearm. Then it’s another shot and the hand moves to a shoulder. By the third, it’s moved to a knee, but on the fourth, the hand stays where it is, but a mouth moves in closer to an ear, where it whispers hot little words that sound good at the time, but not so much when the alcohol’s worn off enough to let shit, polished or not, just look like shit..
On the fifth, Kirk can’t really see straight, but he’s sure there’s only one McCoy; two would be a wet dream, and he knows he’s not asleep because there’s alcohol burning his tongue like a pinch a man gives himself when he thinks he’s unconscious and dreaming. Kirk thinks he’s at the point where he probably should be, but he downs the sixth because McCoy hasn’t stopped yet and his bar stool is closer than it was a few shots ago.
McCoy doesn’t ever stop complaining and whining about everything and nothing, but Kirk’s okay with that; he’ll sit and listen for as long as McCoy rambles - he doesn’t take anything in, but it’s the outward appearance of caring that counts.
On the seventh, other people in the bar start to eye them up, wondering and mistaking them for more than friends, and perhaps they are and they just haven’t noticed yet. The eighth wins a couple of people a couple of dollars in the bets they have on who would overstep the line first: the man with the outstanding parting, or the pretty boy with the even prettier mouth.
It’s the pretty boy with the even prettier mouth - and as Kirk finally releases McCoy’s lips, he decides they need the ninth for the stumble back to the federation headquarters. As if they could even make it there - McCoy ends up trying to sock Kirk for embarrassing him in the bar he frequents most often, as soon as they step out of the wooden doors. Though he misses when Kirk, who doesn’t even notice the fist flying towards his face, bends down to pick up a goddamn penny off the floor because he still believes in good luck. The whoosh of air - the sound of McCoy’s hand sailing above his head - makes Kirk look up in time to see McCoy lose his balance and topple over on top of him.
They fall to the floor in a way that would be comedic if they knew what the hell was going on. Kirk’s penny and associated good luck is forgotten about in the tumble.
McCoy grumbles about “stupid-ass boys from Iowa thinking they can do anything” and Kirk gets the wind knocked out of him so he can’t do anything but wheeze, lying on his stomach underneath the heavy weight of a drunken McCoy. Now, of all times, McCoy decides to take his sweet-ass time moving. By the time he’s moved enough to just be straddling the backs of Kirk’s thighs, Kirk has caught his breath. He elbows McCoy in the chest and says, “Get the fuck off, Bones,” while trying to get away, grappling along the dirty pavement, digging, and chipping his nails as they scratch along the gray asphalt.
McCoy finally stands, wobbling slightly and looking like a goon when he spreads his arms out to balance himself, like a fucking tightrope walker sixty feet off the ground without a net in case bad goes to worse. Kirk rights himself in a more dignified manner, or at least tries to appear so, as he brushes his clothes off and glares at McCoy. All Kirk can think of is going back into the bar and getting shot number ten because McCoy is just too much of a stubborn mule and Kirk is still too sober - he might even remember this tomorrow.
“You made me look like a fucking fool,” McCoy hisses, finally going back to the reason why he tried to punch Kirk.
Kirk grins bitterly. “You did that yourself, Bones.”
That’s enough to get McCoy to try another swing at him. Kirk ducks, definitely seeing McCoy’s fist this time, and tries to get one of his own in. It falls short - damn his inebriated state and, thus, lack of perception - and, unfortunately for him, it gets him close enough that McCoy’s next punch hits him in the jaw. Kirk exhales his pain, working his jaw side to side to make the heat ebb, but it doesn’t stop Kirk from using his shoulder to tackle McCoy, hitting him in the stomach, and knocking him backwards into the outer brick wall of the bar they had just exited.
McCoy struggles, really struggles, putting his back into it and everything, but a cleared throat at the corner of the building startles them. They break away to find themselves staring at Spock and Uhura, the former of whom had obviously not wanted to stumble across their sorry asses and doesn’t appear to be amused in the slightest. Spock doesn’t say anything, just raises his eyebrow in that horrible, condescending way of his, then keeps on walking past the alley, being lead by Uhura into the bar.
McCoy and Kirk know when they’ve been frowned down upon, but like hell if they’re going to let that get in the way of them settling their dispute. McCoy lands a cheap shot as Kirk is still looking in the direction Spock and Uhura had gone. It snaps Kirk’s head further to the side and his teeth actually clack together - he’s lucky his tongue wasn’t in the way or else Doctor McCoy would have had to make an appearance.
Kirk spins, puts a hand on McCoy’s shoulder, and shoves him back, not even caring when McCoy’s head slams back into the brick with a sickening thud. McCoy blinks as though stunned with a phaser then focuses his gaze on Kirk.
“You son-of-a-bitch, you made me see more goddamn stars than the ones above us!”
“And your cheap shot was oh so legal, was it?”
Obviously having a point, McCoy doesn’t bother to retaliate verbally. Instead, he grabs Kirk by the shirt and drags him forward, until all Kirk can see is the darkness of McCoy’s eyes - all eyelashes and brown irises and pupils - and then McCoy’s the one making Jim look like the fucking fool this time, though there’s no one around to see, because he covers Kirk’s mouth with his own rum flavored lips and tongue and teeth.
Jim is slightly stunned, then slightly annoyed that McCoy could have spared him a sore face if he’d just fucking kissed him in the first place, but then Jim forgets everything and concentrates on the way McCoy’s tongue slips into his mouth. Their kiss is like McCoy’s description of space when they first met: all disease and danger wrapped up in darkness and silence, but Kirk doesn’t want to pull his lips away to point out the irony.
Even during kissing, McCoy seems to keep fighting; keeps biting Kirk’s bottom lip like it’s Kirk’s fault he’s given in, so Kirk keeps fighting right back. He slides a hand into McCoy’s hair and tugs sharply, drawing an even harder bite from McCoy, one that he’s sure has drawn blood because there’s another taste in his mouth and it’s not McCoy.
Kirk pushes McCoy harder into the wall behind them, slipping one of his knees in between McCoy’s thighs and pressing against the arousal he finds there. When McCoy widens his stance to allow Kirk further entry, Kirk can’t believe how easy McCoy is. McCoy: the one always teasing Kirk for his habit of flaunting his sexual conquests openly; the one who’s now moaning into Kirk’s open mouth like some ten dollar whore. Kirk would be lying if he said it didn’t turn him on because it does, it does like hell, and Kirk can barely stand it. He ruts his hips forwards and the noise that tumbles out of McCoy’s mouth is almost identical to the one that accidentally falls from his own.
Without warning, McCoy gets enough leverage to spin their positions so Kirk is the one all pinned and helpless, and McCoy is the one in charge. Kirk won’t ever tell McCoy how much he gets off on being dominated, but knowing McCoy, he probably already knows, the smug bastard.
They both should know it’s a bad idea to go any further; an alleyway is too open for the likes of both of them, but if they’d cared enough about not having bad ideas, they would have stopped after the second shot. Instead, Kirk lets McCoy open the fastening on his pants and withdraw his cock, while McCoy lets Kirk suck on his neck like a damn vampire. They’re too drunk to even be thinking about such a position, but it doesn’t stop them, as McCoy hitches Kirk up so his legs can wrap about McCoy’s waist while his back against the wall keeps both of them from falling.
Pressing his weight forwards, McCoy, who you should know is a doctor, not a physicist, surprisingly uses the laws of physics to hold Kirk up, so he can slip a warm hand between them to stroke and pull at Kirk’s erection. Kirk tosses his head back at the pleasure and sees stars, possibly the same ones McCoy saw before, before his eyes as he whacks his head on the bricks behind. He turns his head to the side and blinks wildly, trying to focus on something that isn’t as close as McCoy, but all he can make out is a shadow at the end of the alleyway that he’s sure wasn’t there when they started. He shuts his eyes and turns his attention back to McCoy as the other man begins to grind his hips, pushing his cock into Kirk’s ass, and, god, Kirk’s never felt a sweeter feeling.
It’s not very helpful - but then again, Kirk never really is - when Kirk starts to rock his hips to help McCoy along as it just serves to put McCoy off balance. McCoy’s sure to tell Kirks so, but as if Kirk listens, he’s too busy loving the way McCoy’s thumb runs over the head of his cock, spreading the wetness that’s gathering there, creating slickness like a tongue, and, god, he wishes it was McCoy’s tongue laving over him, but he’ll take what he’s given.
McCoy is still thrusting against Kirk, getting himself off slowly but surely, but at the rate they’re going, Kirk knows he’s going to come well before McCoy, even with the alcohol in his body putting every effort into slowing him down.
There’s a soft ghost of a breathy whimper and Kirk knows it’s neither himself nor McCoy. His eyes shift to roam over the entrance of the alley, but there’s no one there. The shadow that had caught his attention earlier has disappeared, but there’s a smell that he can’t quite recognize in its stead. What he does know is that someone’s watching them; McCoy hasn’t noticed, so Kirk decides if they want to see something, he’ll give them something to watch.
With a rather enthusiastic moan, he slides a hand behind McCoy’s head and closes in around him, like a Venus flytrap does insects. The kiss is everything but precise because being precise would go against everything Kirk and McCoy live to be. Tongues mix and slide together, making the wet kiss even wetter. McCoy’s five o’clock shadow is hell against his skin, but it doesn’t slow him down, if anything he makes it rougher, just to make sure he’ll be marked tomorrow when he wakes up. Fuck if he’s going to forget this now.
McCoy breaks their kiss, but only to bite and kiss a path down Kirk’s jaw, down his throat, down to the very edge of Kirk’s collar because that’s as far as he can go, but Kirk finds out that McCoy’s tongue can go a little bit further and his fucking toes are curling because of it.
“Bones!” Kirk groans, but the way his voice cracks isn’t even for their voyeur’s show; Kirk is used to McCoy’s tongue whipping his verbally into shape, not sliding along his collarbone, but he likes to think he could get used to the change. McCoy bites down, probably just to let Kirk know that his mouth is still as vicious as it was before and that he shouldn’t get used to the softness of his tongue and lips.
Kirk can’t take much more; McCoy’s hand is far too talented for its own good. McCoy’s wrist is twisting and flicking in the exact way Kirk likes. It’s almost as if McCoy has been there every time Kirk has jerked himself off and knows at exactly what moment to squeeze here and press - oh, god - right there.
Kirk gives himself up completely and finally lets the pleasure McCoy is causing just flow over him. Nothing could stop him now, not even the voyeur watching them.
Seconds before he comes, Kirk places where he’s smelled that earlier scent before and it makes his mouth falls open in a silent yell as he finally tips over the edge into the bliss of orgasm.
The mess between them doesn’t even get acknowledged as McCoy shifts his hips and moves his hands to Kirk’s waist, so he can finally lift Kirk into a better position to get himself off. McCoy’s rubbing is frantic, but Kirk just goes with it - as if he has a choice when his bones have turned to liquid and he’s just clinging onto McCoy for dear life. McCoy’s bones are Kirk’s bones, too, but that makes Kirk think that he could be selfish for taking the only thing McCoy was left with after his divorce. At that thought, Kirk places a hand on McCoy’s shoulder that makes him look up.
“Let me down,” Kirk says, in a way that implies that McCoy had better do it or there would be hell to pay later.
McCoy doesn’t even set him on his feet, just drops him - does McCoy ever stop fighting? Kirk’s lucky he has the wall at his back because otherwise he would have fallen over. Without even taking the time to tuck himself back into his pants, Kirk drops to his knees and quickly undoes the closure on McCoy’s slacks. Without any hesitation, Kirk pulls McCoy’s cock out and laps at the head with his tongue; it tastes a little bit like victory.
McCoy obviously doesn’t know what to do with himself because the moan that he lets out sounds almost like Jim - not Kirk, not captain, just Jim - in his most vulnerable sounding voice. It eggs Kirk on, makes him try to lick and suck his way into McCoy’s body, and it makes McCoy brace his hands on the wall, leaning his torso over Kirk’s head, because Kirk can feel the way McCoy’s knees are shaking and knows that without the extra support, McCoy would land right on top of him.
When Kirk moves a hand to slide down McCoy’s clothed thigh, he feels the muscles tense up underneath the soft fabric of the pants. He knows McCoy has about five seconds left and he’s right because just after he thinks that, McCoy lets out a whine and Kirk’s tongue is coated with come. Kirk sucks once more then moves off of McCoy’s cock to swallow.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and while McCoy catches his breath above him, he looks towards the end of the alley, hoping to catch sight of the person he knew was watching them. There’s no one there, but if Kirk breaths in deep enough, it smells like embarrassment and furtive glances around brick corners.
*
“Commander, a word, please,” Kirk says, as Spock comes into view, walking stiffly along the corridor between the bridge and the mess hall.
“Sir?”
When Spock is in front of him, he continues. “Did you have a nice time last night?”
Spock raises his eyebrow and Kirk is taken back in time to when Spock and Uhura came across he and McCoy the night before; it’s the same damn patronizing eyebrow move.
“Lieutenant Uhura and I had a pleasant night, as was to be expected.”
“Good, good. If you would like to know, McCoy and I had our own rather pleasant evening.”
“Captain, what you do in your recreational time is not for me to know.”
“Which is obviously why you were standing in the shadows watching us, huh?”
Spock’s eyes seem to want to shoot lasers into Kirk’s body and forever banish him from the world of the living, but the rest of Spock is as calm and collected as always. It irks Kirk, but to know he’s right is more delicious than McCoy’s family recipe for baked beans, so Kirk is satisfied for the time being.
“I do not know what you are talking about, captain,” says Spock, as though he’s some innocent, little, pointy-eared fairy.
“Bullshit; I know a green-blooded bastard when I see one, and I saw one being quite the voyeur last night. Tell me, did you enjoy the show? Did McCoy’s moaning set you off? Did the sight of my cock make you twitch?”
Spock turns a sickly color as a barely there blush reaches his face.
“Aw, look, Spock, you’re green with envy!”
The flush on Spock’s cheeks worsens, but this time Kirk’s almost sure it’s from anger. Spock seems to think that Kirk isn’t worthy of a reply, as he turns on his heel and heads back in the direction he’d come from. Kirk just grins, which he’s still doing when McCoy rounds the nearest corner.
Kirk turns his grin into a smirk, McCoy frowns, Spock is off in some other part of the ship being a pointy-eared bastard, and Kirk thinks that all is well in the universe.