tell your friends i'm losing touch
Title: These matters of trust
Author: eonism
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm just here for the lulz.
Characters/Pairings: Kirk/McCoy (Star Trek XI)
Word Count: 3,178
Warnings: Bondage
Summary: Kirk doesn’t ask why. The why isn’t important, or the how or the when or the nagging details of whom he’s done this with. He just knows McCoy needs it and he wants to give it to him, and that’s enough.
“Take off your clothes,” is all McCoy says.
There’s a husky note in his voice when he speaks, something soft and warm like the half-empty glass of Tennessee whiskey sitting on the bedside table. The sound of it goes straight to Kirk’s balls like the fire of a starting gun.
Kirk does what he’s told without hurry. Kicking off his boots and slacks, slipping out of the gold uniform then the black shirt underneath, his breath just beginning to quicken until he’s left in his white briefs. McCoy doesn’t strip and it’s a little frustrating to be so exposed.
From across the room he watches Kirk, his eyes getting sharp, like they do when he’s fresh from surgery and the tension is still loaded in the muscles of his hands and arms. Kirk can see it in the tightness of his shoulders under McCoy’s uniform, like he’s being appraised, or somehow inspected, but with a gentler intent hiding in the line of his mouth and the crease of his eyebrows. It makes him swallow despite himself.
Kirk tries to remember the rules he’d been given, reciting them to memory behind his eyes. No kissing, no talking, no touching. Once the door slid shut and locked behind them, the bed and everything they did in it was McCoy’s. Kirk just had to do what he was told.
He isn’t used to this, and if he’s honest with himself, it makes him uneasy. He likes to have his thumb on things, his say, whether he’s right or not. Variables put him on edge, unknowns serving only as itching and unwanted little things that he tries to quash whenever possible. Not just for himself but for the sake of his crew, his ship.
McCoy isn’t usually one of those variables, looking at him the way he is right now, hungry and unknown. It makes things difficult.
“I want you to trust me,” McCoy had said of this three nights before, when he first asked (in his own way). Putting the question forward, a hand on his hip to steady Kirk as he avoided his gaze under the slant of heavy lids and dim bedroom light, as though the words were a gun and the look in his eyes the trigger.
It had made it a little hard to breathe all of a sudden. When he couldn’t think of anything smart or important to say to that, Kirk just nodded his head dumbly.
“Yeah,” he said, and cupped a hand on the warm skin above the collar of McCoy’s undershirt. “Yeah, I trust you.”
Kirk doesn’t ask why. The why isn’t important, or the how or the when or the nagging details of whom he’s done this with. He doesn’t need to think about Bones and Jocelyn, or some other nameless, faceless girl (or guy for that matter), sweating and moaning and saying his name with bound hands and closed eyes. He just knows McCoy needs it and he wants to give it to him, and that’s enough.
When McCoy steps close to him Kirk expects the kiss they usually share when they’re alone like this. All slow fire and the want that stayed trapped under uniforms and regulation in a dry heat from shift start to shift end. He expects it and when it doesn’t come he tries not to be disappointed. Instead McCoy gets close, close enough to feel his warmth and smell his smell, the leftovers of the aftershave he put on this morning and the clean scent of his favorite shampoo. The way he does when the doctor’s feeling sweet on him, when it’s just Come to bed, Baby and Let me make you come, and for it Kirk licks his bottom lip and waits.
With steady hands McCoy removes Kirk’s briefs, first petting softly down his ribs, then over his waist and thighs. Pushing them down his hips and legs and letting him step out of them, joining the rest of his clothes on the floor. The lack of touching is making Kirk light-headed as his fingertips itch and his chest tightens under the weight of McCoy’s eyes on him, black and lidded in this space. Between them his dick twitches of its own will, thick and filling with the blood that’s rushing from his skull, and he’s almost embarrassed to be getting so hard so fast.
The only thing that makes it tolerable is the feel of the doctor’s breath stutter against his cheek and the hungry way he’s looking at him. It makes him feel like he still has at least a little control in this situation.
“Fuck, Bones,” Kirk manages to murmur through a reflexive smile, even though he’s not supposed to. “You’re kinda driving me crazy here.”
“Lie down,” McCoy says, voice tight but still in check.
Without hesitation Kirk turns to the bed and crawls into it, on elbows and knees and waiting breath. He leaves himself deliberately exposed; ass raised, thighs open, and knows from experience that kind of compliance goes all over the doctor. Behind him he can hear McCoy begin to undress and is unsure of what to expect. He turns to look over his shoulder, to watch the tight movement of muscle under skin and fabric as the doctor stripped off his uniform, down to his pants, belt and boots. McCoy never takes his eyes off of him and it makes Kirk’s mouth dry and his dick throb uselessly.
“C’mere,” McCoy says once he’s undressed, kneeling on the edge of the mattress and leaning out of Kirk’s peripheral.
From the drawer of the bedside table he produces two items that Kirk hasn’t seen before: a slender blindfold and black necktie. It startles him at first, the blindfold more so than the tie, but he tries not to show it. Instead, he blinks, swallows, and looks at McCoy rather than the restraints in his hands.
“This what you want?” comes out slower and softer than he’d intended.
“We don’t have to do this,” McCoy says, and Kirk knows he means it. “If you want to stop, we stop.”
He looks a little vulnerable like this. Down to his uniform trousers, on one knee, his eyes asking permission while his mouth worries over the details. It makes Kirk want to kiss it away, and instead he takes in a breath and lowers his lashes.
“No, I do,” Kirk tells him, and means it more. “I want to. Just tell me what you need me to do.”
“You can’t touch yourself to get off, no matter how much you kick and fuss. You can’t touch me, and you’ll only come when I’m ready for you to.” McCoy looks grateful, in his own way, but doesn’t say anything of it. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” Kirk nods. “Okay.”
Turning over to sit he brings up his hands. The tie slips over his wrists easily, pulled into a knot tight enough to keep him from wriggling free. He closes his eyes and kisses McCoy as he puts on the blindfold, coaxing his way into his mouth and knowing that he’s broken the rules in doing so. The curse or protest he expects for it doesn’t come, and sucking in the sigh that McCoy lets out, Kirk takes it with him as the cloth settles over his shut eyes.
Maneuvered over onto his belly McCoy disappears, save his weight in the mattress and the hand that settles on the small of his back. It’s an uneasy feeling, this loss of control that leaves Kirk waiting on a held breath, hands empty in their binds and his neglected dick aching against the sheets. The scrape of zipper teeth and shuffle-slide of clothing keeps him grounded in the dark, focused on the sound until he feels McCoy again, the warm press of his chest against his back and his arms around him.
His skin is hot and bare against him. Cock pressed into the cleft of his ass, tilting in a slow and burning tease. It makes Kirk’s dick thrum, trapped against the sheets and he rears back into McCoy with a faltering sigh of breath, wanting some kind of friction and relief.
“Jesus.” Reflex causes his body to arch, rising, flexing, seeking out familiar plains and territories by touch and trajectory alone. “Bones, c’mon, just fucking touch me.”
“Relax,” McCoy murmurs. A hand presses against his hip to keep him in place, another weighing on his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The contents of his chest tighten and his head feels light as though it’s filled with bees. He feels as though he’s being enveloped, surrounded by the comforting weight of the doctor’s body and the wetness of his lips and teeth, mouthing pathways from his cheek and jaw to his neck and shoulder. Rocking into him, McCoy still ignores his dick, but the touch is still good, too. It gives the feeling some context and the sensation coiled in his stomach a name, by keeping the floor from falling out from underneath him, the bed from floating away. Clutching the sheets with useless fingers, Kirk licks the corner of his mouth and focuses on the feel of skin instead.
When the touching stops, he squirms uncomfortably and feels unexpectedly alone.
“Bones,” he moans into the pillow his cheek is turned to. “Where are you-”
The mattress shifts as McCoy moves away, sliding down the length of the bed and settling somewhere that Kirk can’t reach when he arches back. He feels suddenly stupid when hands firmly grasp his hips and thumbs spread his cheeks apart, McCoy’s breath hot on the flesh of his ass. The exposure leaves him tensing in the sheets, until a long, wet swipe over his exposed entrance makes him moan despite himself.
It’s warm, all breath and saliva as the tip of his tongue licks at him slowly. Unable to see Kirk bucks and moans, already on edge as the sensation circles the tight clench of muscle, working against it to gain entrance. It earns him a soft slap on the flesh of his right cheek, just firm enough to catch his attention.
“Settle down,” is all McCoy says, voice soft and slow, and licks him again.
His hands make fists in the sheets, dick leaking, trapped underneath him and out of reach. Even for it Kirk can feel himself opening up with every long probing flick, letting McCoy fuck him with his tongue, dipping in and out of him in a shallow imitation of sex. It wrings a shiver out of him despite himself and Kirk bites his bottom lip, mindful of his instructions. He finds himself rewarded, if only just, his tension eased by the lazy stroke of a careful thumb, tracing the crease between his balls and ass and making slow circles in the loose skin of his sac. It turns his thighs to rubber and makes his ribs sweat, washing over him in a wave of fever from under the blindfold’s cover.
Kirk’s dangerously close to coming when McCoy pulls away again, and he can’t help the whine that he lets out when he does.
“Christ,” he all but pants, bucking back uselessly, seeking the wetness of McCoy’s mouth or firmness of his hands. “I just- I can’t-”
“What do you need, baby?” McCoy asks, voice husky and dark, and entirely too far away. “Tell me what you need from me.”
Rolling back Kirk can feel McCoy’s hand again. It strokes down the cleft of his ass, holding him down by the hip and urging him back into the mattress. “I need you, Bones - fuck, I need to feel you, just let me touch you.”
“You want me to touch you?” McCoy murmurs, his voice heavy and hot on the back of his neck. “You want me inside of you? Make you come?”
The drawl of his accent makes the words so filthy that Kirk can’t help but shiver. “Yes,” he keens, and feels his cheeks burn in the shame of it. “I need you - c’mon, fuck me, Bones, just fuck me.”
“Will you do what I tell you?”
Kirk can hear the soft pop of a plastic lid snapping open, somewhere nearby, and for it he twists fretfully in the sweat-warmed sheets.
“Yes,” he promises, in a voice far too hungry to be his own.
A hand braces his hips, the mattress shifting with a low squeak. The splay of oiled fingers stroke his back and hipbone appreciatively, making him arch up into the touch, needy for the contact. When the fingers press him back down again Kirk finds himself being entered slowly, in a long, firm stroke. It brings their bodies together again and fills him up until he lets out a dry sob into the pillow. His head is swimming and his dick burns, untouched, against the sheets; he can hear McCoy’s breathing hitch, thinning out into a grunt when his chest connects with his back again.
“That good?” Warm lips against his cheek, a day’s stubble tickles under his jaw as McCoy rocks into him, steady and sure. “You like that, baby?”
“Yes,” Kirk lets out in a whine and twists back, trying to increase the pressure, the friction. “Fuck you feel so good.”
McCoy rides him slowly, the way he usually does if Kirk lets him, full and thorough, but not nearly enough. The rhythm is measured, deep and deliberate but lacking the angle that Kirk needs and McCoy isn’t about to indulge in. Hands hold him at his waist, holding him down, lips and tongue tracing the line of his jaw as McCoy fucks Kirk to his own release. It leaves him hanging on, moaning into the pillow and clutching the sheets with empty hands, unable to touch or tease or dictate their pleasure. It’s intense and unknown and makes his back sweat and balls tighten with every certain stroke.
Bucking back, twisting himself in the sheets, Kirk rubs himself futilely against the mattress until a hand swats at the flesh of his ass and another at his ribs steadies him.
“C’mon, settle down,” the doctor murmurs, a wet, husky sigh. “Now you have to wait.”
The sound he makes can’t be coming from him. “Bones-”
When everything goes away, it’s like the world lurches. McCoy’s gone, his mouth, his voice, his cock, and it leaves Kirk’s skin suddenly cold. For a moment the bed drops out from underneath him and he’s alone, empty, shivering in the middle of the mattress. It’s a split second but it feels like hard minutes as the panic sets in, making him dizzy and sick-
Hands at his arms turn Kirk over gently, onto his back where the sheets feel cool instead of hot and damp. They open his thighs and he lets them, pulled up and arranged like slack doll limbs and he does what he’s supposed to do. He can feel McCoy again, his skin and weight and breath, enveloping him, pulling his useless hands above his head and sliding back inside of him until all Kirk can do is whimper.
“Can’t let you come for me yet.” McCoy’s words begin to slur from sex, pressed hot into the skin of his jaw. “Look s’pretty like this.”
Seeking out his mouth Kirk whines when McCoy begins fucking him again, harder this time but still slow. Greedily nosing around for the doctor’s lips he finds them, parted and saliva-damp, and just out of his reach. He lets out a reedy moan and tries to lift himself off the mattress, but the hand on his wrists keeps him down with a frustrated grunt.
Kirk hears McCoy take a breath, sucked in against his cheek. The pivot of their hips changes, bodies drawn closer together, rocking faster, harder than before. Between them his dick throbs, head wet and burning hot, and he’s so close he can’t take it, eyes wet under the blindfold and mouth open on a whine. McCoy’s murmuring things, sweet, stupid, filthy things, all Fucking beautiful and Jim and Baby, baby, baby, like liquid warmth that drips down his skin and goes straight to his groin.
He feels dizzy like he’s falling but McCoy’s body is keeping him in place, with his hands and his dick and his voice. Filling him up with every full thrust, until all Kirk can feel is McCoy’s skin and sweat and the heat of him, and all he wants to do is touch and kiss and suck every inch of him, but he can’t. And when McCoy finally comes it’s too much, feeling him shudder and buck and hearing him moan his name, and wanting to see it and knowing he can’t.
“Bones,” Kirk finds himself panting, angling for his mouth and missing in the dark, “Bones, Christ, I can’t - just touch me, please -”
Arching up against him, Kirk searches out some kind of relief as McCoy moves away, out of reach. He’s going insane, a hot mess twisting and flexing, begging for relief for the erection still burning against his belly. The brush of fingers on his face silences him, leaning up into the touch when he feels the rough pad of McCoy’s thumb press into his lip before sucking onto it greedily. Licking the length of his thumb Kirk doesn’t notice fingers plucking at his restraint until it’s untied and pulled away.
When the blindfold is removed he blinks the runny black spots from his vision, shivering when cool air hits his salt-damp cheeks. Immediately he reaches for McCoy, wrapping his arms around neck and crushing their mouths together, wet and desperate and open, panting between clacking teeth and probing tongues.
“There, baby, c’mon,” McCoy breathes into the kiss, petting his ribs soothingly, “I got you.”
Kissing Kirk soundly he drops a hand between them, taking him by the root of his dick. The touch alone is enough to make Kirk shudder and buck, whining into his mouth, “Bones Bones Bones.” He doesn’t let go, can’t bring himself to, wrapped as he is around McCoy as though he’ll unravel and float away.
“Just come for me,” McCoy says, soft and sweet like a mantra as he strokes Kirk home. “I got you baby, that’s it, just come for me. Just come.”
Closing his eyes Kirk does, as fire spreads over his skin and inside his veins. Clutching McCoy he spurts hotly over his fingers and their stomachs, letting out a cry between their lips as orgasm shakes him down to the bone. He doesn’t let go then either, and McCoy doesn’t make motion to move away. Just presses Kirk to his chest, and kisses the side of his cheek and jaw until his skin stops shivering and his heart stops pounding in his ears.
“Hey.” Brushing his fingers through sweat-warm hair, McCoy dips his tongue between Kirk’s lips and swallows the sigh that escapes him. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Kirk breathes out, “I am.”
It takes long hard minutes before Kirk can make himself let McCoy go. When he does, McCoy just holds him instead.
Author: eonism
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm just here for the lulz.
Characters/Pairings: Kirk/McCoy (Star Trek XI)
Word Count: 3,178
Warnings: Bondage
Summary: Kirk doesn’t ask why. The why isn’t important, or the how or the when or the nagging details of whom he’s done this with. He just knows McCoy needs it and he wants to give it to him, and that’s enough.
“Take off your clothes,” is all McCoy says.
There’s a husky note in his voice when he speaks, something soft and warm like the half-empty glass of Tennessee whiskey sitting on the bedside table. The sound of it goes straight to Kirk’s balls like the fire of a starting gun.
Kirk does what he’s told without hurry. Kicking off his boots and slacks, slipping out of the gold uniform then the black shirt underneath, his breath just beginning to quicken until he’s left in his white briefs. McCoy doesn’t strip and it’s a little frustrating to be so exposed.
From across the room he watches Kirk, his eyes getting sharp, like they do when he’s fresh from surgery and the tension is still loaded in the muscles of his hands and arms. Kirk can see it in the tightness of his shoulders under McCoy’s uniform, like he’s being appraised, or somehow inspected, but with a gentler intent hiding in the line of his mouth and the crease of his eyebrows. It makes him swallow despite himself.
Kirk tries to remember the rules he’d been given, reciting them to memory behind his eyes. No kissing, no talking, no touching. Once the door slid shut and locked behind them, the bed and everything they did in it was McCoy’s. Kirk just had to do what he was told.
He isn’t used to this, and if he’s honest with himself, it makes him uneasy. He likes to have his thumb on things, his say, whether he’s right or not. Variables put him on edge, unknowns serving only as itching and unwanted little things that he tries to quash whenever possible. Not just for himself but for the sake of his crew, his ship.
McCoy isn’t usually one of those variables, looking at him the way he is right now, hungry and unknown. It makes things difficult.
“I want you to trust me,” McCoy had said of this three nights before, when he first asked (in his own way). Putting the question forward, a hand on his hip to steady Kirk as he avoided his gaze under the slant of heavy lids and dim bedroom light, as though the words were a gun and the look in his eyes the trigger.
It had made it a little hard to breathe all of a sudden. When he couldn’t think of anything smart or important to say to that, Kirk just nodded his head dumbly.
“Yeah,” he said, and cupped a hand on the warm skin above the collar of McCoy’s undershirt. “Yeah, I trust you.”
Kirk doesn’t ask why. The why isn’t important, or the how or the when or the nagging details of whom he’s done this with. He doesn’t need to think about Bones and Jocelyn, or some other nameless, faceless girl (or guy for that matter), sweating and moaning and saying his name with bound hands and closed eyes. He just knows McCoy needs it and he wants to give it to him, and that’s enough.
When McCoy steps close to him Kirk expects the kiss they usually share when they’re alone like this. All slow fire and the want that stayed trapped under uniforms and regulation in a dry heat from shift start to shift end. He expects it and when it doesn’t come he tries not to be disappointed. Instead McCoy gets close, close enough to feel his warmth and smell his smell, the leftovers of the aftershave he put on this morning and the clean scent of his favorite shampoo. The way he does when the doctor’s feeling sweet on him, when it’s just Come to bed, Baby and Let me make you come, and for it Kirk licks his bottom lip and waits.
With steady hands McCoy removes Kirk’s briefs, first petting softly down his ribs, then over his waist and thighs. Pushing them down his hips and legs and letting him step out of them, joining the rest of his clothes on the floor. The lack of touching is making Kirk light-headed as his fingertips itch and his chest tightens under the weight of McCoy’s eyes on him, black and lidded in this space. Between them his dick twitches of its own will, thick and filling with the blood that’s rushing from his skull, and he’s almost embarrassed to be getting so hard so fast.
The only thing that makes it tolerable is the feel of the doctor’s breath stutter against his cheek and the hungry way he’s looking at him. It makes him feel like he still has at least a little control in this situation.
“Fuck, Bones,” Kirk manages to murmur through a reflexive smile, even though he’s not supposed to. “You’re kinda driving me crazy here.”
“Lie down,” McCoy says, voice tight but still in check.
Without hesitation Kirk turns to the bed and crawls into it, on elbows and knees and waiting breath. He leaves himself deliberately exposed; ass raised, thighs open, and knows from experience that kind of compliance goes all over the doctor. Behind him he can hear McCoy begin to undress and is unsure of what to expect. He turns to look over his shoulder, to watch the tight movement of muscle under skin and fabric as the doctor stripped off his uniform, down to his pants, belt and boots. McCoy never takes his eyes off of him and it makes Kirk’s mouth dry and his dick throb uselessly.
“C’mere,” McCoy says once he’s undressed, kneeling on the edge of the mattress and leaning out of Kirk’s peripheral.
From the drawer of the bedside table he produces two items that Kirk hasn’t seen before: a slender blindfold and black necktie. It startles him at first, the blindfold more so than the tie, but he tries not to show it. Instead, he blinks, swallows, and looks at McCoy rather than the restraints in his hands.
“This what you want?” comes out slower and softer than he’d intended.
“We don’t have to do this,” McCoy says, and Kirk knows he means it. “If you want to stop, we stop.”
He looks a little vulnerable like this. Down to his uniform trousers, on one knee, his eyes asking permission while his mouth worries over the details. It makes Kirk want to kiss it away, and instead he takes in a breath and lowers his lashes.
“No, I do,” Kirk tells him, and means it more. “I want to. Just tell me what you need me to do.”
“You can’t touch yourself to get off, no matter how much you kick and fuss. You can’t touch me, and you’ll only come when I’m ready for you to.” McCoy looks grateful, in his own way, but doesn’t say anything of it. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” Kirk nods. “Okay.”
Turning over to sit he brings up his hands. The tie slips over his wrists easily, pulled into a knot tight enough to keep him from wriggling free. He closes his eyes and kisses McCoy as he puts on the blindfold, coaxing his way into his mouth and knowing that he’s broken the rules in doing so. The curse or protest he expects for it doesn’t come, and sucking in the sigh that McCoy lets out, Kirk takes it with him as the cloth settles over his shut eyes.
Maneuvered over onto his belly McCoy disappears, save his weight in the mattress and the hand that settles on the small of his back. It’s an uneasy feeling, this loss of control that leaves Kirk waiting on a held breath, hands empty in their binds and his neglected dick aching against the sheets. The scrape of zipper teeth and shuffle-slide of clothing keeps him grounded in the dark, focused on the sound until he feels McCoy again, the warm press of his chest against his back and his arms around him.
His skin is hot and bare against him. Cock pressed into the cleft of his ass, tilting in a slow and burning tease. It makes Kirk’s dick thrum, trapped against the sheets and he rears back into McCoy with a faltering sigh of breath, wanting some kind of friction and relief.
“Jesus.” Reflex causes his body to arch, rising, flexing, seeking out familiar plains and territories by touch and trajectory alone. “Bones, c’mon, just fucking touch me.”
“Relax,” McCoy murmurs. A hand presses against his hip to keep him in place, another weighing on his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere.”
The contents of his chest tighten and his head feels light as though it’s filled with bees. He feels as though he’s being enveloped, surrounded by the comforting weight of the doctor’s body and the wetness of his lips and teeth, mouthing pathways from his cheek and jaw to his neck and shoulder. Rocking into him, McCoy still ignores his dick, but the touch is still good, too. It gives the feeling some context and the sensation coiled in his stomach a name, by keeping the floor from falling out from underneath him, the bed from floating away. Clutching the sheets with useless fingers, Kirk licks the corner of his mouth and focuses on the feel of skin instead.
When the touching stops, he squirms uncomfortably and feels unexpectedly alone.
“Bones,” he moans into the pillow his cheek is turned to. “Where are you-”
The mattress shifts as McCoy moves away, sliding down the length of the bed and settling somewhere that Kirk can’t reach when he arches back. He feels suddenly stupid when hands firmly grasp his hips and thumbs spread his cheeks apart, McCoy’s breath hot on the flesh of his ass. The exposure leaves him tensing in the sheets, until a long, wet swipe over his exposed entrance makes him moan despite himself.
It’s warm, all breath and saliva as the tip of his tongue licks at him slowly. Unable to see Kirk bucks and moans, already on edge as the sensation circles the tight clench of muscle, working against it to gain entrance. It earns him a soft slap on the flesh of his right cheek, just firm enough to catch his attention.
“Settle down,” is all McCoy says, voice soft and slow, and licks him again.
His hands make fists in the sheets, dick leaking, trapped underneath him and out of reach. Even for it Kirk can feel himself opening up with every long probing flick, letting McCoy fuck him with his tongue, dipping in and out of him in a shallow imitation of sex. It wrings a shiver out of him despite himself and Kirk bites his bottom lip, mindful of his instructions. He finds himself rewarded, if only just, his tension eased by the lazy stroke of a careful thumb, tracing the crease between his balls and ass and making slow circles in the loose skin of his sac. It turns his thighs to rubber and makes his ribs sweat, washing over him in a wave of fever from under the blindfold’s cover.
Kirk’s dangerously close to coming when McCoy pulls away again, and he can’t help the whine that he lets out when he does.
“Christ,” he all but pants, bucking back uselessly, seeking the wetness of McCoy’s mouth or firmness of his hands. “I just- I can’t-”
“What do you need, baby?” McCoy asks, voice husky and dark, and entirely too far away. “Tell me what you need from me.”
Rolling back Kirk can feel McCoy’s hand again. It strokes down the cleft of his ass, holding him down by the hip and urging him back into the mattress. “I need you, Bones - fuck, I need to feel you, just let me touch you.”
“You want me to touch you?” McCoy murmurs, his voice heavy and hot on the back of his neck. “You want me inside of you? Make you come?”
The drawl of his accent makes the words so filthy that Kirk can’t help but shiver. “Yes,” he keens, and feels his cheeks burn in the shame of it. “I need you - c’mon, fuck me, Bones, just fuck me.”
“Will you do what I tell you?”
Kirk can hear the soft pop of a plastic lid snapping open, somewhere nearby, and for it he twists fretfully in the sweat-warmed sheets.
“Yes,” he promises, in a voice far too hungry to be his own.
A hand braces his hips, the mattress shifting with a low squeak. The splay of oiled fingers stroke his back and hipbone appreciatively, making him arch up into the touch, needy for the contact. When the fingers press him back down again Kirk finds himself being entered slowly, in a long, firm stroke. It brings their bodies together again and fills him up until he lets out a dry sob into the pillow. His head is swimming and his dick burns, untouched, against the sheets; he can hear McCoy’s breathing hitch, thinning out into a grunt when his chest connects with his back again.
“That good?” Warm lips against his cheek, a day’s stubble tickles under his jaw as McCoy rocks into him, steady and sure. “You like that, baby?”
“Yes,” Kirk lets out in a whine and twists back, trying to increase the pressure, the friction. “Fuck you feel so good.”
McCoy rides him slowly, the way he usually does if Kirk lets him, full and thorough, but not nearly enough. The rhythm is measured, deep and deliberate but lacking the angle that Kirk needs and McCoy isn’t about to indulge in. Hands hold him at his waist, holding him down, lips and tongue tracing the line of his jaw as McCoy fucks Kirk to his own release. It leaves him hanging on, moaning into the pillow and clutching the sheets with empty hands, unable to touch or tease or dictate their pleasure. It’s intense and unknown and makes his back sweat and balls tighten with every certain stroke.
Bucking back, twisting himself in the sheets, Kirk rubs himself futilely against the mattress until a hand swats at the flesh of his ass and another at his ribs steadies him.
“C’mon, settle down,” the doctor murmurs, a wet, husky sigh. “Now you have to wait.”
The sound he makes can’t be coming from him. “Bones-”
When everything goes away, it’s like the world lurches. McCoy’s gone, his mouth, his voice, his cock, and it leaves Kirk’s skin suddenly cold. For a moment the bed drops out from underneath him and he’s alone, empty, shivering in the middle of the mattress. It’s a split second but it feels like hard minutes as the panic sets in, making him dizzy and sick-
Hands at his arms turn Kirk over gently, onto his back where the sheets feel cool instead of hot and damp. They open his thighs and he lets them, pulled up and arranged like slack doll limbs and he does what he’s supposed to do. He can feel McCoy again, his skin and weight and breath, enveloping him, pulling his useless hands above his head and sliding back inside of him until all Kirk can do is whimper.
“Can’t let you come for me yet.” McCoy’s words begin to slur from sex, pressed hot into the skin of his jaw. “Look s’pretty like this.”
Seeking out his mouth Kirk whines when McCoy begins fucking him again, harder this time but still slow. Greedily nosing around for the doctor’s lips he finds them, parted and saliva-damp, and just out of his reach. He lets out a reedy moan and tries to lift himself off the mattress, but the hand on his wrists keeps him down with a frustrated grunt.
Kirk hears McCoy take a breath, sucked in against his cheek. The pivot of their hips changes, bodies drawn closer together, rocking faster, harder than before. Between them his dick throbs, head wet and burning hot, and he’s so close he can’t take it, eyes wet under the blindfold and mouth open on a whine. McCoy’s murmuring things, sweet, stupid, filthy things, all Fucking beautiful and Jim and Baby, baby, baby, like liquid warmth that drips down his skin and goes straight to his groin.
He feels dizzy like he’s falling but McCoy’s body is keeping him in place, with his hands and his dick and his voice. Filling him up with every full thrust, until all Kirk can feel is McCoy’s skin and sweat and the heat of him, and all he wants to do is touch and kiss and suck every inch of him, but he can’t. And when McCoy finally comes it’s too much, feeling him shudder and buck and hearing him moan his name, and wanting to see it and knowing he can’t.
“Bones,” Kirk finds himself panting, angling for his mouth and missing in the dark, “Bones, Christ, I can’t - just touch me, please -”
Arching up against him, Kirk searches out some kind of relief as McCoy moves away, out of reach. He’s going insane, a hot mess twisting and flexing, begging for relief for the erection still burning against his belly. The brush of fingers on his face silences him, leaning up into the touch when he feels the rough pad of McCoy’s thumb press into his lip before sucking onto it greedily. Licking the length of his thumb Kirk doesn’t notice fingers plucking at his restraint until it’s untied and pulled away.
When the blindfold is removed he blinks the runny black spots from his vision, shivering when cool air hits his salt-damp cheeks. Immediately he reaches for McCoy, wrapping his arms around neck and crushing their mouths together, wet and desperate and open, panting between clacking teeth and probing tongues.
“There, baby, c’mon,” McCoy breathes into the kiss, petting his ribs soothingly, “I got you.”
Kissing Kirk soundly he drops a hand between them, taking him by the root of his dick. The touch alone is enough to make Kirk shudder and buck, whining into his mouth, “Bones Bones Bones.” He doesn’t let go, can’t bring himself to, wrapped as he is around McCoy as though he’ll unravel and float away.
“Just come for me,” McCoy says, soft and sweet like a mantra as he strokes Kirk home. “I got you baby, that’s it, just come for me. Just come.”
Closing his eyes Kirk does, as fire spreads over his skin and inside his veins. Clutching McCoy he spurts hotly over his fingers and their stomachs, letting out a cry between their lips as orgasm shakes him down to the bone. He doesn’t let go then either, and McCoy doesn’t make motion to move away. Just presses Kirk to his chest, and kisses the side of his cheek and jaw until his skin stops shivering and his heart stops pounding in his ears.
“Hey.” Brushing his fingers through sweat-warm hair, McCoy dips his tongue between Kirk’s lips and swallows the sigh that escapes him. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Kirk breathes out, “I am.”
It takes long hard minutes before Kirk can make himself let McCoy go. When he does, McCoy just holds him instead.