PART SIX [CLOSED]
PART ONE PART TWO
PART THREE PART FOUR HERE
PART FIVE HERE
PART SEVEN HERE
PART EIGHT
PART NINE
PART TEN
PART ELEVEN HERE
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He snakes a hand under the blanket to find her own, and when she grips his fingers in return, he tamps down the panic.
He's not good at this; at being a friend, at being there for someone else. He's not built the way he thinks he should be, body used to taking a hit and letting it show, not. Not this. Not absorbing something that's not his own doing. He grips her hand as tight as he can, and hopes that's enough.
She sits there for awhile, letting him do that, face blank instead of miserable and that's something, right?
It's not. It's really not. She still looks small and half dead and he can't stand it so he pulls at that hand until a wrist is free of the blanket, so he can see the length of an arm, the curve of her shoulder; so he can see more of Bones than her lank brown hair and sallow eyes. She's in a threadbare tank and boy shorts and no bra, so he can see the dark of areola, her nipples.
She lets him stare.
Pulling at his hand so it rests over her still exposed knee, she turns his palm down onto the skin there, and then drags the hand up until it's just under the boy shorts and brushing the spot of skin where her thigh meets pubic bone.
So he guesses this is his cue.
He presses his mouth to her shoulder first, then along her neck, the hollow of her throat, the skin between her breasts. He worries a nipple through her shirt, gets them wet and cold and sharp; gets her panting.
His hand gets to work at her, the tips of his fingers along the slit, the knuckle of his thumb against her clit and the sounds she's making, little wet puffs of "fuck" and "yes" makes him want to pull up over her and roll down her panties down and fuck her her hard enough to hurt.
She's got her fingers in his hair, pulling so she can lift his face look at him, like she wants him to think about this, think this through. She wants him to consider the consequences which just makes him want to laugh because really, look who's about to go down on her. Come on.
He grins, teeth out, and then forcibly bends back down, so that his scalp burns because his hair is still in her grip. Pressing his mouth to the skin under her left breast, then the right, then the slight curve of her belly, her hip, her pussy. He leaves a long stretch of wet along everywhere he goes, and when he finally gets his tongue on her, in her she moans in a way that it runs all the way through her, vibrating against him where their skin touches, points of contact at: the length of his forearm up her stomach, between her breasts, fingers at her throat, at his mouth in the folds of her cunt.
He's bad at some things, yeah, but not at this.
McCoy comes against his mouth panting and cursing and then pulls him up and over her so she can get at his mouth, get her tongue inside and lap at the taste of herself coating everything. His own dick is hard and wanting against the fabric of his jeans and the feel of her, her mouth and her hands in his hair and her shaking, it's enough to make him spill with little more that the feel of her stomach fluttering, still, from the orgasm he gave her.
The flutter in her stomach turns into laughter and then she's giggling against his neck and saying, "Oh god Jim, are you twelve?"
"Shut up." He groans into her shoulder.
"I'm just saying--"
"I know where you keep the good stuff."
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