Fic: Center of Gravity, NC-17, by yeomanrand and shinychimera
Title: Center of Gravity
Authors: yeomanrand and shinychimera
Pairings: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~1800
Summary: Jim catches Leonard off-guard.
Warnings: Nothing here should be triggery, I don't think; some light bondage.
Notes: 6/15/11 a sequel, Gravity Well, is now available.
"What --?"
"Shut up."
Jim puts his hands on Leonard's shoulders, leans in, and kisses him.
It's three in the morning, the end of a brutally long day, his dorm room is dark except for the dim golden flicker of a candle on the desk, and Leonard just sat down on the end of the bed, but single-minded, selfish Jim has obviously been lying in wait for him. He rests on Leonard's thighs, and he tastes like vodka and lemons, and his tongue isn't taking no for an answer. Leonard should push him off -- for God's sake, he knows where the kid has been -- but yeah, okay, he's wanted this for a while and he's bone tired so his arms slide around Jim and he yields to the kiss.
Encouraged, Jim's hands roam, one brushing up over the nape of his neck and nudging him forward for ever-deeper kisses, the other smoothing along neck and collarbone then pressing fingers into weary shoulder muscles, spreading tingling warmth as they go. He works his way up from the point of Leonard's shoulder to his neck and Leonard can't help groaning when Jim hits a particularly tight knot, can't help leaning back into the touch.
Without asking, Jim hitches forward, and the shift in their center of gravity pushes Leonard backward onto the bed. Jim stretches out along his body, shifting and undulating; whatever drinking he did before coming to Leonard's room, it hasn't damped his libido in the slightest. There are a hundred reasons they shouldn't do this, a hundred reasons both of them will probably regret it tomorrow. Reckless Jim's the one who's all about the now so one of them has to be thinking about consequences ... but Jim's hands are everywhere, up under the buttons on Leonard's shirt, and skin on warm skin feels so good after hours of hard floors and harder fluorescent lights and blood and inescapable pain.
Being wanted feels good. Even if it's by Jim, who wants everyone. He slides his hand up Jim's spine, curls his fingers up the back of his head. The muted candlelight picks out only the thin edges of his profile, reflecting little sparks off the prickly points of his hair, off his eyelashes, off the piercing eyes focused on him.
The kisses wander from lips to cheek to ear to eyebrow, and back to lips again, while Jim's fingers tug and prod and press and peel. Somehow his shirt is up off his chest and over his head, and then it seems Jim loses track of it because the cuffs are still tangled around the wrists stretched over his head, but absent-minded Jim licks his nipples, sending little jolts up and down his torso.
"Jim," he says, low and husky, and then his breath catches in the back of his throat and takes the thought with it when Jim takes the tip of a nipple delicately in his teeth and pulls, just hard enough to wash through any last remnants of weariness and lassitude. He struggles with the shirt, yearning to touch, but Jim's made a complete mess of things. "Dammit..."
When he lifts his head to peer down over his chest, Jim is looking back up at him through the golden twilight with a knowing, wolfish smile, thick eyebrows canted as he trails his tongue down from the nipple to the edge of Leonard's ribcage. His fly is undone and Jim's hands deftly strip pants and briefs off his hips and his wet kisses wander farther south along Leonard's lowest ribs.
Jim's teeth scrape his hip where just the barest layer of skin and nerves cover the bone. His body tries to jackknife at the electric sensation, but Jim is lying heavy over his now-bare legs, and all he can really do is arch his back and moan. He feels Jim's breath against his belly, the heat radiating from Jim's neck so close to his cock that he presses upward, desperate for contact.
Jim chuckles, he goddamn chuckles at the way Leonard responds to him, and his tongue goes the wrong way, down along the front of the thigh instead of between his legs where Leonard wants him. Leonard drags his hands down in front of him, but the buttons on the cuffs are trapped inside and before he can do anything to loosen them Jim's fingers brush the inside of Leonard's leg, ghosting upwards and then vanishing, then again on the other thigh, not quite pressing the skin but whispering against the hairs from knee to groin. His balls pull up tight, he quivers in anticipation but the maddening almost-touch of fingertips and lips continues to skip from place to place, thighs to hips to stomach, brushing the creases at the edge of his groin, nudging behind his scrotum, even probing his belly button, until he's whimpering behind folded lips. He swears he's not going to beg, he's not going to give Jim the satisfaction, even though he's desperately hard.
Remembering his hands, he growls and tries to bring them down, shirt and all, behind Jim's head, ready to pull that smirking mouth onto his cock, but Jim wriggles back out from underneath them. He takes hold of Leonard's wrists, and pushes them back up over his head, pausing to hold them down while he kisses his lips hard. Then he stands and strips ... and he's fast and efficient and definitely stripping. Leonard's mouth dries at the way Jim reveals his tanned and swaying body, edges gilded by the half-light. Jim turns his back before he tucks his fingers under the pants alongside his hips and pushes each side down a couple of inches at a time. Leonard lies still, neck muscles quivering to hold his head up so he can watch the display, mesmerized.
"Dammit, Jim." The curse comes out hoarse and too goddamned needy, and his hands are so impossibly tangled in the shirt he can't get his elbows down on the bed to push himself up for a better view, and the dark room seems to breathe around them.
Jim bends to pull his pants off his ankles, then creeps up over the end of the bed like a stalking catamount, lips parted and eyes hungry. Leonard watches, his breathing harsh and ragged in his ears, until Jim's head dips and he feels that hot tongue sliding up over his balls. His head falls back onto the bed and his eyes close and he thinks, very briefly, about trying again to free his hands. Jim's demanding tongue is everywhere, around his balls, under them, up along the creases of his legs, swiping around the base of his cock, then climbing up to the tip in a fast, wet stroke.
"Christ, Jim, please," he groans, all his promises to himself forgotten.
Jim chuckles again, only this time Leonard feels the vibration against his skin, and then the tongue licks wetly, tenderly exploring the slit and the soft skin of the glans, circling around the corona in slow arcs, sliding underneath until Leonard feels Jim's hot breath and then his lips closing around his cock. He gasps and writhes, and fuck, the boy knows what he's doing with his tongue, and it's been way too long since his dick has felt anything other than his own fingers, and it's driving him insane not to touch.
"Oh, fuck..." With Jim's tongue pressing flat along the vein on the underside of his cock there's not much he can do but end the sentence on a breathless moan.
Arrogant Jim pushes his thighs farther apart, pinning them down with his elbows all akimbo while his mouth slides up and down over Leonard's shaft. Leonard's head spins; one leg starts to tingle where Jim's weight pinches the femoral, but damned if he wants to do anything but suffer the pain, afraid to risk stopping Jim doing what he's doing. He stops noticing the discomfort when Jim takes his cock all the way to the back of his throat and his body's reactions slip beyond his control.
Leonard's hands clutch at each other, at the shirt, and the muscles in his thighs and rear clench involuntarily in an attempt to thrust upwards. But Jim pins him remorselessly, making him lie there and take it, as if it's the normal order of things for the one giving the blow job to be dominant, overpowering. Not that Leonard gives a good goddamn about who is active or passive or top or bottom or whatever the kids were calling it these days, not with those wet lips leaving sizzling trails up and down and that tongue pressing and caressing and that suction coming and going and coming again, and the slick-rough-close-hot walls of the back of Jim's throat tantalizing the head of his cock with a brush and a tickle and every now and then a swollen greedy swallow.
With no input from his brain, his body jerks and thrashes and he grunts and keens and swears, colorful and utterly profane Southern phrases tumbling over each other like music. He can goddamned feel Jim's lips curving around him, throat vibrating with stifled laughter and he doesn't know anymore if he's cussing Jim out or singing his praises but it doesn't matter because every muscle in his body cooperates to arch him UP and DEEPER and NOW and something raw and wild bellows out of his throat as Jim sucks him in, lips sealed around the base of his cock and good, god, damn, fuck, that deep wet heat clutches, grabs, absorbs; convulsive soft hard swallows milking the head, breath roaring through Jim's nostrils, and Leonard is done. Body jolting, eyes rolling back in his head, toes curling, and a thousand metaphors couldn't capture how hard the orgasm hits him, or how wonderfully loose and exhausted he feels as it ebbs.
He doesn't remember closing his eyes but they slide open again when he feels Jim shift himself up. Wanton Jim's kneeling, sitting back on his heels, watching Leonard with his broad hands resting prettily on his thighs and his head tilted to one side. The candle is burning low and the room is almost dark but dammit, even his silhouette looks smug.
A half-dozen things, from the grateful to the sarcastic flash through his mind but the one that slips out is "What the hell, Jim?"
Mysterious Jim just sits very still for a moment, watches him silently. Then leans forward and plants a kiss on Leonard's forehead, slides off the bed and shucks into his clothes as quickly as he shucked out of them. Confused, Leonard tries to sit up; by the time he's given up on the inside-out cuffs and pulled the shirt back down over his head, Jim is gone.
All he leaves behind is the guttering candle, stuck into a cupcake strewn with birthday sprinkles.
Gravity Well
Authors: yeomanrand and shinychimera
Pairings: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~1800
Summary: Jim catches Leonard off-guard.
Warnings: Nothing here should be triggery, I don't think; some light bondage.
Notes: 6/15/11 a sequel, Gravity Well, is now available.
"What --?"
"Shut up."
Jim puts his hands on Leonard's shoulders, leans in, and kisses him.
It's three in the morning, the end of a brutally long day, his dorm room is dark except for the dim golden flicker of a candle on the desk, and Leonard just sat down on the end of the bed, but single-minded, selfish Jim has obviously been lying in wait for him. He rests on Leonard's thighs, and he tastes like vodka and lemons, and his tongue isn't taking no for an answer. Leonard should push him off -- for God's sake, he knows where the kid has been -- but yeah, okay, he's wanted this for a while and he's bone tired so his arms slide around Jim and he yields to the kiss.
Encouraged, Jim's hands roam, one brushing up over the nape of his neck and nudging him forward for ever-deeper kisses, the other smoothing along neck and collarbone then pressing fingers into weary shoulder muscles, spreading tingling warmth as they go. He works his way up from the point of Leonard's shoulder to his neck and Leonard can't help groaning when Jim hits a particularly tight knot, can't help leaning back into the touch.
Without asking, Jim hitches forward, and the shift in their center of gravity pushes Leonard backward onto the bed. Jim stretches out along his body, shifting and undulating; whatever drinking he did before coming to Leonard's room, it hasn't damped his libido in the slightest. There are a hundred reasons they shouldn't do this, a hundred reasons both of them will probably regret it tomorrow. Reckless Jim's the one who's all about the now so one of them has to be thinking about consequences ... but Jim's hands are everywhere, up under the buttons on Leonard's shirt, and skin on warm skin feels so good after hours of hard floors and harder fluorescent lights and blood and inescapable pain.
Being wanted feels good. Even if it's by Jim, who wants everyone. He slides his hand up Jim's spine, curls his fingers up the back of his head. The muted candlelight picks out only the thin edges of his profile, reflecting little sparks off the prickly points of his hair, off his eyelashes, off the piercing eyes focused on him.
The kisses wander from lips to cheek to ear to eyebrow, and back to lips again, while Jim's fingers tug and prod and press and peel. Somehow his shirt is up off his chest and over his head, and then it seems Jim loses track of it because the cuffs are still tangled around the wrists stretched over his head, but absent-minded Jim licks his nipples, sending little jolts up and down his torso.
"Jim," he says, low and husky, and then his breath catches in the back of his throat and takes the thought with it when Jim takes the tip of a nipple delicately in his teeth and pulls, just hard enough to wash through any last remnants of weariness and lassitude. He struggles with the shirt, yearning to touch, but Jim's made a complete mess of things. "Dammit..."
When he lifts his head to peer down over his chest, Jim is looking back up at him through the golden twilight with a knowing, wolfish smile, thick eyebrows canted as he trails his tongue down from the nipple to the edge of Leonard's ribcage. His fly is undone and Jim's hands deftly strip pants and briefs off his hips and his wet kisses wander farther south along Leonard's lowest ribs.
Jim's teeth scrape his hip where just the barest layer of skin and nerves cover the bone. His body tries to jackknife at the electric sensation, but Jim is lying heavy over his now-bare legs, and all he can really do is arch his back and moan. He feels Jim's breath against his belly, the heat radiating from Jim's neck so close to his cock that he presses upward, desperate for contact.
Jim chuckles, he goddamn chuckles at the way Leonard responds to him, and his tongue goes the wrong way, down along the front of the thigh instead of between his legs where Leonard wants him. Leonard drags his hands down in front of him, but the buttons on the cuffs are trapped inside and before he can do anything to loosen them Jim's fingers brush the inside of Leonard's leg, ghosting upwards and then vanishing, then again on the other thigh, not quite pressing the skin but whispering against the hairs from knee to groin. His balls pull up tight, he quivers in anticipation but the maddening almost-touch of fingertips and lips continues to skip from place to place, thighs to hips to stomach, brushing the creases at the edge of his groin, nudging behind his scrotum, even probing his belly button, until he's whimpering behind folded lips. He swears he's not going to beg, he's not going to give Jim the satisfaction, even though he's desperately hard.
Remembering his hands, he growls and tries to bring them down, shirt and all, behind Jim's head, ready to pull that smirking mouth onto his cock, but Jim wriggles back out from underneath them. He takes hold of Leonard's wrists, and pushes them back up over his head, pausing to hold them down while he kisses his lips hard. Then he stands and strips ... and he's fast and efficient and definitely stripping. Leonard's mouth dries at the way Jim reveals his tanned and swaying body, edges gilded by the half-light. Jim turns his back before he tucks his fingers under the pants alongside his hips and pushes each side down a couple of inches at a time. Leonard lies still, neck muscles quivering to hold his head up so he can watch the display, mesmerized.
"Dammit, Jim." The curse comes out hoarse and too goddamned needy, and his hands are so impossibly tangled in the shirt he can't get his elbows down on the bed to push himself up for a better view, and the dark room seems to breathe around them.
Jim bends to pull his pants off his ankles, then creeps up over the end of the bed like a stalking catamount, lips parted and eyes hungry. Leonard watches, his breathing harsh and ragged in his ears, until Jim's head dips and he feels that hot tongue sliding up over his balls. His head falls back onto the bed and his eyes close and he thinks, very briefly, about trying again to free his hands. Jim's demanding tongue is everywhere, around his balls, under them, up along the creases of his legs, swiping around the base of his cock, then climbing up to the tip in a fast, wet stroke.
"Christ, Jim, please," he groans, all his promises to himself forgotten.
Jim chuckles again, only this time Leonard feels the vibration against his skin, and then the tongue licks wetly, tenderly exploring the slit and the soft skin of the glans, circling around the corona in slow arcs, sliding underneath until Leonard feels Jim's hot breath and then his lips closing around his cock. He gasps and writhes, and fuck, the boy knows what he's doing with his tongue, and it's been way too long since his dick has felt anything other than his own fingers, and it's driving him insane not to touch.
"Oh, fuck..." With Jim's tongue pressing flat along the vein on the underside of his cock there's not much he can do but end the sentence on a breathless moan.
Arrogant Jim pushes his thighs farther apart, pinning them down with his elbows all akimbo while his mouth slides up and down over Leonard's shaft. Leonard's head spins; one leg starts to tingle where Jim's weight pinches the femoral, but damned if he wants to do anything but suffer the pain, afraid to risk stopping Jim doing what he's doing. He stops noticing the discomfort when Jim takes his cock all the way to the back of his throat and his body's reactions slip beyond his control.
Leonard's hands clutch at each other, at the shirt, and the muscles in his thighs and rear clench involuntarily in an attempt to thrust upwards. But Jim pins him remorselessly, making him lie there and take it, as if it's the normal order of things for the one giving the blow job to be dominant, overpowering. Not that Leonard gives a good goddamn about who is active or passive or top or bottom or whatever the kids were calling it these days, not with those wet lips leaving sizzling trails up and down and that tongue pressing and caressing and that suction coming and going and coming again, and the slick-rough-close-hot walls of the back of Jim's throat tantalizing the head of his cock with a brush and a tickle and every now and then a swollen greedy swallow.
With no input from his brain, his body jerks and thrashes and he grunts and keens and swears, colorful and utterly profane Southern phrases tumbling over each other like music. He can goddamned feel Jim's lips curving around him, throat vibrating with stifled laughter and he doesn't know anymore if he's cussing Jim out or singing his praises but it doesn't matter because every muscle in his body cooperates to arch him UP and DEEPER and NOW and something raw and wild bellows out of his throat as Jim sucks him in, lips sealed around the base of his cock and good, god, damn, fuck, that deep wet heat clutches, grabs, absorbs; convulsive soft hard swallows milking the head, breath roaring through Jim's nostrils, and Leonard is done. Body jolting, eyes rolling back in his head, toes curling, and a thousand metaphors couldn't capture how hard the orgasm hits him, or how wonderfully loose and exhausted he feels as it ebbs.
He doesn't remember closing his eyes but they slide open again when he feels Jim shift himself up. Wanton Jim's kneeling, sitting back on his heels, watching Leonard with his broad hands resting prettily on his thighs and his head tilted to one side. The candle is burning low and the room is almost dark but dammit, even his silhouette looks smug.
A half-dozen things, from the grateful to the sarcastic flash through his mind but the one that slips out is "What the hell, Jim?"
Mysterious Jim just sits very still for a moment, watches him silently. Then leans forward and plants a kiss on Leonard's forehead, slides off the bed and shucks into his clothes as quickly as he shucked out of them. Confused, Leonard tries to sit up; by the time he's given up on the inside-out cuffs and pulled the shirt back down over his head, Jim is gone.
All he leaves behind is the guttering candle, stuck into a cupcake strewn with birthday sprinkles.
Gravity Well