FIC: The Ringmaster, 3/4
Title: The Ringmaster, 3/4
Rating: nc-17
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Wordcount: approx 4,500 words complete
Summary: Kirk and McCoy have unfinished business. An AU sometime in the 19C before medical hygiene and dermal regenerators, McCoy, the circus hobo clown is summoned by Ringmaster, Kirk, who needs some medical attention, UST a-plenty. In this part, it’s the last night of the run, and McCoy is all packed to leave.
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I mean no offence and court no profits, these boys belong to others more talented and deserving, I merely borrow them, play a while then return them all cleaned up and smiley.
Author’s notes:
The final installment of my 19C circus AU that got out of hand. Reading parts 1 and 2 first is pretty essential for the enjoyment of the dénouement. PART ONE
PART TWO
Thanks to the adorable abigail89 for her tireless beta work and keeping an eye on the hand-count!
Intriguing snippet: How could he tell him the dreams were all about him, all about McCoy bent over for him, folded for him, pliant and willing. Now, when he looked at him, Jim realized how ridiculous this was, the thought of this man bending physically, or mentally for that matter, for anyone was almost comical.
Awesome banner by the gorgeous avictoriangirl
The ringmaster, part 3
Jim ducked his head and stepped through the narrow doorway. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat and, in what he hoped was a nonchalant gesture, he removed his hat and tossed it towards the bed. His eyes never left the man seated at the table.
“It’s bad luck to put hats on beds,“ McCoy said without turning to face him.
“You don’t believe that, do you? As a man of science?” Jim asked. He didn’t approach McCoy. Jim waited to see whether he’d turn round or acknowledge that maybe his presence in this trailer, at this hour, was something to comment on.
Long moments crawled by as Jim took in the dark, neat surroundings. He spotted a carpetbag by the foot of the bed, McCoy’s boots by the door, a photograph of a young girl by the pot of cold cream on the table. Jim suddenly appreciated what it must be like for Missy and the rest of the cats, trapped behind bars: he and McCoy, tall and broad shouldered, in this too small, airless space, confined and constricted. He unbuttoned his jacket.
“I don’t know what kind of man I am, “McCoy finally said, “so you can’t be any damn expert.” His voice was even but Jim had already learned to detect the underlying whiff of irritation, like garlic in soup. He watched McCoy’s long, tan fingers while he cleaned his face of clown make-up.
Outside, the sounds of the rigs being dismantled, of impromptu final night parties and the rumbles from excitable cats became muffled and as he honed on closer sounds: the creak of his boots, McCoy clearing his throat, the faint tick of the clock by the bed, his world tunneled to this room, this man.
“I’m not sleeping,” Jim said. The words seemed incongruous, foolish even, but they expressed everything of how discombobulated he’d felt for the past twenty-four hours.
McCoy appeared to mull them over. He put down his facecloth.
“Are you telling me this as your doctor?” he said, gazing straight at Jim’s reflection.
“I’m simply saying I can’t sleep.” Yet, he felt alive, awake--
“Food repeating on you?”
“No,” Jim said with a chuckle. He took a step closer so he loomed over the seated figure. He saw McCoy straighten his back then shrug his shoulders.
“You need to drink more.”
Jim wanted to laugh at that.
“I drink plenty,” he said. He clenched his hands, fought the impulse to grab McCoy’s shoulders, force him to turn round and look at him, pull him to his feet, stop this stupid, fucking conversation. Stop the talking.
“Somethin’s on your mind - you don’t have to be a doctor to work that one out.”
“Yes.” He could smell McCoy, his sweat from the close confines of the audience, the greasepaint, the acrid sweet smell of cigars clinging to the wool of his pants. “And when I do sleep,” Kirk said, “I have these dreams.”
How could he tell him the dreams were all about him, all about McCoy bent over for him, folded for him, pliant and willing. Now, when he looked at him, Jim realized how ridiculous this was, the thought of this man bending physically, or mentally for that matter, for anyone was almost comical.
McCoy took another dollop of cream and slathered the area under his eyes. Jim watched in the mirror as he took a cloth and wiped, removing the shadows. He caught Jim’s eye in the mirror and pushed back from the table, the stool legs scraping on the floor. There was a long silence as McCoy stood with his back to him and seemed to consider what to do next.
“I’m not a psychiatrist,” McCoy said. He went to the washstand and poured a basin full of water, undid his shirt and, with a faint rasp of linen on skin, tossed it onto the bed. His back gleamed in the low light like amber, his muscles rippled as he moved. Jim got a grip on himself, waited to be asked, waited for a sign.
“And, so you say, you’re also not a doctor.”
McCoy bent over and blew into palmfuls of water, rinsing the cream off his face. He faced Jim and ran a towel over his forehead and cheeks, ears and neck. He looked like a Dutch painting, beautiful in his everyday movements, and Jim marveled at how erotic simple gestures could be.
“I killed my father,” McCoy said, his voice flat and he stared directly at Jim, his eyes impenetrable and his lips parted. “No, I’m not a doctor anymore.”
Somehow, Jim sensed it hadn’t been a contest; whatever had happened, both father and son had lost. And now, McCoy was here, doing the walkabout act, no longer healing people, turning his hand to whatever came his way. Jim’s thigh twitched at the memory of those long fingers caressing him, the intent look on his face as he stitched him up. Jim’s lips seemed to stick together and he glanced at the glass of deep brown liquid on the table. “And I’m way more than forty miles from home,” McCoy finished. Yeah, well, the accent was enough proof of that.
Jim tapped the carpetbag at the foot of the bed with his whip which hadn’t left his hand since he’d walked out of the ring.
“Are you going to stay?” Jim asked, his voice as neutral as he could make it. “Chekov will want to know about the trailer.“
His answer was a shrug.
Avid eyes raked McCoy’s lean belly, the trail of hair mesmerizing. Jim felt his half-hard cock jump when, without thinking about it, he moved those extra few inches so he was close enough to look right into black, almond shaped eyes. He wondered what it would feel like to place the tip of his tongue on the mole on McCoy’s right cheek, and realized he’d licked his lips. McCoy’s eyes darted towards the slight movement and his own hands dropped to his sides, tapping the whip absently against the top of his boot. He saw McCoy part his lips, then press them together again. Jim wasn’t sure, but he could swear he’d swayed slightly in Jim’s direction.
“I’m not the kind of guy who can run on little sleep,” Jim said, pointing his whip at McCoy. He shrugged his jacket off and dropped it to the floor. “I need to be sharp, on top of things.”
The response was an arched eyebrow and a hissed, “So what are you doing here?” There was a hint of anger in his voice. “The only sleep I’ve got is in a bottle.”
He was so close; Jim could smell the tobacco and whiskey on his breath, the sweet smell of pan stick.
The tragic sound of Chekov’s violin from way over in the half-undressed hippodrome broke through the pounding in his head, and brought the outside world in with it, and Jim felt as if he were balanced on a sand castle with water rushing round their ankles . . . .
Not yet.
“You missed a bit,“ he said, lifting a finger under McCoy’s eye to a fleck of dark make-up, and dragging it down and outwards. The response to Jim’s touch was a near silent gasp. McCoy didn’t flinch, rather he seemed to grow taller, brighter, like he’d been lit with a match.
“I’m not one of your pets,” McCoy growled, grabbing Jim’s wrist before he could pull away. His face loomed closer so it was all Jim could do not to take those lips, “Who you can touch whenever the fancy takes you. And--” McCoy’s irritation appeared to dissolve and Jim held his breath when he recognized the same expression of calm focus Bones wore while he’d tended Jim’s wound --“I don’t like takin’ orders, not like the rest of your crew.” What McCoy did next made Jim’s knees give a little: he opened out Jim’s hand and, with cool, confident fingers, never once breaking eye-contact, guided Jim’s fingers into his mouth, all hot breath and teeth, dragging at the knuckles. Jim’s stomach flipped when he realized this was the moment he had to seize yet; he couldn’t resist spinning out the delicious agony and creating one last moment of tension.
“Are you sure?” Jim managed to say, his voice a whisper. “So, if I said ‘kiss me again’, would you tell me to go fuck myself?” He dragged the handle of his whip down McCoy’s chest and McCoy’s eyes seemed to flare with heat. He tilted Jim to him, digging blunt nails into his wrist, his expression carnivorous.
Reclaiming his hand, Jim slipped it round the back of McCoy’s neck and pulled those infuriating lips in for a ravenous kiss. But it became more of a punch, the heat of McCoy’s invading tongue throwing him back away. Jim felt a rush of lust when McCoy grabbed at his long hair, dragging him back to him, checking him like he was a horse or something.
“Kiss me, you arrogant dick,“ McCoy snarled, fingers fumbling in Jim’s hair, then at his shoulders. Naked skin leaned on starched cotton and velvet while Jim unfastened the ringmaster costume, popping open hooks and buttons with difficulty in the crush against McCoy’s body. He could only moan into McCoy’s mouth and wriggle thumbs into the back of the worn pants, spreading his palms to squeeze his ass and pull him closer while their tongues battled for who should fuck whose mouth.
McCoy unhooked Jim’s suspenders from his shoulders, releasing his teeth from Jim’s bruised lips when he tried to speak.
“I don’t take orders, you miserable --” Jim managed, but McCoy’s mouth cut him off, sucking at Jim’s tongue. A hard tug on his scalp made Jim’s cock throb, desperate to escape from where it was bound by his britches. His fingers raked McCoy’s arms, as he struggled to keep balance. McCoy ate his tongue and lips, his stubble grating Jim’s smooth shaven face, grunts, moans the only sound.
“You know,” McCoy growled when he drew breath, “I like women, but I fucking love this.“ And their lips were clamped together again.
“Fuck,” Jim protested, arching away so he could untangle the doctor’s hands from his hair and waistband. He shoved the doctor hard so he fell across the unmade bed with a grunt.
McCoy looked dark and furious, his long, lean body splayed out, up on his elbows. His hair was disheveled, and the tendons in his neck pulled taught. Wolfish eyes glaring a heady mix of invitation and threat.
“Is that an order?” he drawled, licking his lips, arching that infernal eyebrow again.
Jim didn’t answer. McCoy shifted a little while his eyes followed Jim’s movements. Jim unbuttoned his fly, un-tucked his shirt, ignoring the drag of fabric across an impossibly hard cock. He unfastened silver cufflinks, and placed them on the bedside table. In doing so, he leaned close to McCoy and felt the heat coming off him as hot as sunshine. McCoy’s eyes bored into the side of his face, daring him.
It reminded Jim of Missy’s hungry glares through the cage. There were none of the usual things that egged him on, no softness or curves; Bones was all hard lines, muscle and strength, even McCoy’s mouth, for all its softness, had a flint edge to it.
“You’re. . .” Jim began, his normally sharp thoughts fumbling through a fog of lust. Yet he knew that before he could take that final step, he needed something more. And it was as if McCoy had sensed that split second of wavering. He lifted his hips off the bed, shucked threadbare woolen pants, and then underwear, so they lay bunched around his ankles making him look more naked and vulnerable than if he’d completely removed them. His dark cock lay almost flat against his belly and bobbed to the side as he settled down against the patchwork coverlet. There was now only one thing Jim could possibly do and that was take what was being offered to him. He kneeled on the bed, swept away his discarded hat, and yanked McCoy’s pants away with one move, leaving him naked save for his socks.
“Jesus, “he said, his voice thick with unfamiliar emotions, “you’re so fucking. . . “ Jim knew what he wanted to say, but this was a man, not a woman, not a horse or a--- Fuck, why was he wasting time even thinking? Jim detected a faint tremor in McCoy’s legs as he leaned in and placed firm hands at his ankles.
“What?” McCoy demanded, “What do you want, Kirk?” His chest rose and fell in time with his own.
“I won’t be able to sleep unless I -“ and Jim finished his thought by hiking McCoy’s legs up and dragged him down the bed closer, till they rested over his shoulders and he was open for him.
Jim turned to McCoy’s foot balanced near his throat, noting the darned heel of the sock, the indent of his calves, the dark hairs rubbed away at the back of his knees. Jim tugged at the sock and tossed it into the darkness; he pressed his lips against McCoy’s instep and slowly licked a trail to the back of his knees, smirking with satisfaction at the hiss this drew from him. And, in case he’d thought he was the one in control here, Jim felt a tug at his neck when McCoy used his other foot to hook him closer. Jim fell forwards and McCoy’s leg dropped to grip at his hips; long fingers dug into Jim’s temples to pull him in for a violent kiss.
Jim gasped at the expression of want on McCoy’s face, how his tongue swiped across swollen lips. He dropped his tongue to the nape of McCoy’s neck and licked the salt and the musk from him, raising a heavy arm so he could inhale from the hair kissing and sucking the soft skin.
Hypnotized by the hard planes, the angular lines, Jim ducked his head to worry at one of McCoy’s nipple, moaning while McCoy dug his nails into his buttocks through the cloth of his britches and retaliated with a pinch which had the doctor arching off the bed.
“You don’t fuckin’ own me,“ McCoy said darkly.
“I know,” he whispered into the hairs on McCoy’s chest, into the pink marks he’d made with his teeth. He grated his chin down to the dip of McCoy’s hard stomach muscles, towards the hairs he’d been looking at so hungrily a short while ago, while his hands found purchase on the small of McCoy’s back.
“Touch it!” McCoy insisted, his fingers twisting in Jim’s hair, to pull his mouth closer to his erect cock.
“Or what?” Jim looked up at McCoy, his face a mixture of wanton and belligerent. His teeth were clenched tight. Jim saw that his soft hazel eyes were blown black with passion; his breathing came in short, hot gasps, and he felt McCoy’s hips canting minutely under him.
Jim wanted to comply. He was dimly aware that he hadn’t had a moment to free his cock, yet it didn’t seem to matter. All he wanted was to follow his primal instinct to touch, feel, lick, taste, get closer-- “Or else, what?” he repeated, dragging his nails down McCoy’s belly towards the curled hairs below but still refusing to touch him there.
“Fuck…I don’t know…I need…”
Jim wanted to say he knew, but his mouth was full of hard, velvet flesh, his feet off the end of the bed, swimming in the moans above him, the pain in his scalp where McCoy tugged at his hair driving him mad so he wanted to suffocate in McCoy’s musky scent, so different from a woman’s and so familiar; he realized the bass notes would be like his own and this sent such a shot of adrenaline through him forcing him to exercise supreme control to stop himself biting down.
His eyes met McCoy’s. The man was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Jim slid both hands up his warm, heaving chest to his neck and face, bending towards him, so he could savor the feeling of desire he knew he’d finally fulfill; it was like holding a mouthful of rich wine before he swallowed. But McCoy wasn’t as patient. It didn’t seem like he was going to let go of Jim’s hair and now he wrapped it round both his wrists and pulled him in for a hot, wet, messy kiss. Jim sucked on McCoy’s tongue and pushed him back down against the large pillows,
“You need to let go of my hair. “ He grinned and McCoy gifted him a half-smile and did just that, placing his hands on Jim’s shoulders. But then he shoved him down the bed so that he was level with that gorgeous, long cock again. Licking his lips, he pulled at the foreskin with his teeth, relishing the twitches and shudders caused by each little nip or caress of his tongue.
McCoy had wrapped his legs around Jim’s neck, a little too tight, and sweat began to pool under his hair, so he used his shoulders to lever McCoy’s legs until he was almost doubled over and utterly exposed. Now Jim could do something he’d never even imagined he’d want to before - he reveled in how McCoy choked and twisted beneath him in response to long, lazy licks, past his perineum, and how he breathed out, “Jim…fuck..”
He’d not called Jim that before.
“You’re a bossy one, that’s for sure,” Jim managed to chuckle before an urgent hand had him by the scruff of the neck, back into position and he was aware, from the rocking of the bed, that McCoy was stroking himself in time with Jim’s tongue-fucking.
“Don’t…fucking…stop. Don’t!”
Like he was about to. Without breaking his rhythm, his mouth slipping and sliding as his tongue breached McCoy over and over, Jim reached for McCoy’s cock, yanking roughly on it in time with his invading tongue.
“Come on…” he murmured, taking a moment to look up and enjoy the sight of this feast laid out before him. “Let go. Fucking give - come on, Bones!” He stabbed his tongue in hard, ground his chin against skin, gently kneading McCoy’s balls.
He almost came in his pants when he heard a garbled, “Dammit!” McCoy released Jim’s hair and grappled the coverlet. He came up off the bed and stilled as Jim felt him spasm for what seemed like an age around his tongue and push into his tight grip. Jim stopped licking, he wanted to see, yet he didn’t stop stroking, his face and hand wet and slippery, loving the look on McCoy’s face as it changed from ecstatic to pained when he suffered one pull too many…
Eventually he croaked, “Jesus, Jim. Stop! Stop!”
Heart racing, Jim sat up and wiped his jaw, grinning with delight at the molten mass of panting McCoy before him, knees fallen apart, gazing at the ceiling, like he’d been felled -
“I stopped, like you said,” Jim said, finally, finally removing his shirt and using it to wipe McCoy’s belly and his hand. McCoy watched his movements through hooded eyes.
“Yeah, but we haven’t finished yet.“ McCoy swung his legs over the edge of the bed and leaned towards him, pressing the palm of his hand against Jim’s aching, neglected cock. Heat seared through Jim’s thighs and back as he cupped McCoy’s hand with his, groaning with absolutely no care for whether he could be heard through the thin walls of the trailer or not.
“There’s petroleum jelly in my medical bag,” McCoy drawled. Jim’s eyes flickered to the side of the bed to the leather case and fumbled, extracting one pot at a time until McCoy nodded to indicate he had the right one.
He edged his britches down, taking care not to snag the dressing on his thigh, moaning with relief when he untangled his cock, circling the base with a tight grip before he lost it at the incredible sight before him. With a hiss, he pushed McCoy onto his back again, speechless with lust when he saw how readily the doctor turned onto his belly and settled on all fours.
He nudged McCoy’s thighs together and straddled the bed as best he could with his boots still on and his pants bunched around his calves. He positioned himself so he could see where he was headed while he slicked up. Jim breathed deep to control the inferno in his belly. He managed to fight the impulse to make tender assurances he’d take it slow even though Bones, leaning on his elbows, muscular ass canted towards Jim in silent invitation, seemed like his only concern was that Jim might change his mind.
With one hand on McCoy’s hip, Jim began to open McCoy up with his fingers. McCoy squirmed in discomfort, but Jim took his time. He snaked his free hand round to stroke Bones who was soon half-hard again, and twisting his face into the pillows, grumbling about how long he was taking,
“I’m not going to fucking break, you asshole.“
No, but he might, Jim thought, biting his lip as he began to press his cock home, half inch by half inch, guided by McCoy’s short, gasping breaths and the press of his ass against his groin. Jim couldn’t watch his cock disappearing into Bones - the one glance he’d allowed himself had almost sent him over the edge, and he was determined that this should last. A dark niggle in his mind told him that this would probably be the only time and he wanted to savor every moment.
They both tensed as Jim was finally in as far as he could go, their combined weights pressed into the point where they were joined. Bones panted and swore beneath him, his voice sliding further south with each inch of territory Jim had taken.
“Fuck. Jesus fuck, Kirk, you’re jus’-“
“Okay?” he whispered into McCoy’s back, “Bones? You okay?” He stroked McCoy’s cock to try and get some response from him. He felt rather than saw McCoy nod his head and the backward tilt of his hips was all the encouragement he needed. “Lie down, Bones,” Jim said and they both stretched out on the bed so that Jim’s prone body was flush to McCoy’s, chest to back, thigh to thigh, their legs splayed, Jim’s right hand gripping Bones’ shoulder, while the other locked onto his hip. Jim began a slow, shallow fuck despite his body raging to go harder and faster and despite Bones’ protestations.
“I’m not a fuckin’ kid, fuck me, dammit!”
Jim sucked and bit McCoy’s shoulders and neck, fucked him slowly and then hissed with a combination of dismay and ecstasy when he felt McCoy’s hand snake past his hip and turn to grip his ass and pull at him to fuck harder. He felt a hitch of emotion in his throat that he didn’t quite understand, closed his eyes and bent his arm back awkwardly so he could rest his hand on McCoy’s. Thank God he couldn’t see his face, he thought dimly, but he could smell him, taste him, and God help him, hear him, moaning like an animal beneath him, insistent, almost desperate as he got close, his cock driving against the mattress each time Jim slammed into him.
“Jim. Jim, god…harder…dammit…harder-“ McCoy roared.
“Bones, I-- “ Jim choked out and lost all sense of anything but heat and sensation and want, and he finally paid heed to McCoy’s protestations that he wasn’t fucking him nearly hard enough. Thrusting hard one more time, he came with a guttural moan he had never heard himself make before, unsure which sensations were his and which were McCoy’s, his hand still raking at Jim’s ass until his arm flopped uselessly at his side.
There was a long silence with neither of them seemingly wanting to move.
Bones rolled his neck side to side under him and Jim knew it probably wasn’t a good idea but he kissed his sweat soaked temple.
“You need to get your skinny ass off of me,” McCoy said into the pillow.
Jim slid out and nudged Bones over so there was room for him to lie down on his side. “Well,” he said a cloud of sadness edging through his chest.
“Well, what?” McCoy said. He had his back to Jim, and he sensed a sudden, cool distance opening between them. Jim felt his throat tense up. He tapped McCoy on the back with one finger, tried not to sound like he gave a shit. “What time’s your train out tomorrow?”
“It’s tomorrow now, “McCoy said.
Shit.
“So,” Jim said heavily, “what time today?”
“I haven’t gotten a ticket yet. I planned to get something to eat, get laid maybe, take a bath - head out the following morning.”
“I see.”
“So you fucking see, do ya?”
“Well, there are some pretty women over at Ma’s,“ Jim smirked.
“You should fuckin’ know, fucking Don Juan, fuckin’-“
Then Jim remembered the photo of the girl had still been on the table - Bones hadn’t packed it so Jim cut him short with his hand over his mouth relieved when Bones’ tongue flicked at his fingers. He took McCoy’s shoulder and pulled him round so they were face to face. The sight of Bones, face and neck flushed, eyebrows rubbed up all wrong from the pillow, faint red lines on his shoulders where Jim had dragged his nails and teeth, and lips all petulant and fuck bruised, nearly undid him; it was all he could do to not kiss the man but he had to know before he did…
“You’re an asshole, you know that?” he said, his eyes roaming over McCoy’s face.
“Sure I am. And you’re a fucking genius?” his voice thick with sarcasm.
“Genius enough to know you suck at being a clown.”
McCoy chuckled. “The fuckin’ snake knows I’m a shit clown.“
Jim looked away from McCoy’s face, lit up by a smile that went right to his exhausted groin. “There’s plenty of work here,“ Jim said. “The animals always have shit go wrong with them, people fall from the wires…“ Jim touched his hand to McCoy’s hip. “You okay with animals?”
“Sure. I can turn my hand to any kind of innards - we’re all the same, bigger, smaller, but we all got hearts, you know.” Jim knew. “What say I stick around until your leg’s healed and until Missy’s eating properly again?” Bones yawned and turned his back on Jim.
“Yeah, that would work- few days…”
“Few days…sure.”
Jim could tell McCoy was asleep. He sat up, toed his boots and pants off, and slid under the covers. Once he was sure Bones really was asleep, he melted into the curve of his back until, he too, fell into a long, deep and dreamless sleep.
On to part 4a
Let me know if you liked it!
The masterlist of all my fanfiction is here
Rating: nc-17
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Wordcount: approx 4,500 words complete
Summary: Kirk and McCoy have unfinished business. An AU sometime in the 19C before medical hygiene and dermal regenerators, McCoy, the circus hobo clown is summoned by Ringmaster, Kirk, who needs some medical attention, UST a-plenty. In this part, it’s the last night of the run, and McCoy is all packed to leave.
Warnings: none
Disclaimer: I mean no offence and court no profits, these boys belong to others more talented and deserving, I merely borrow them, play a while then return them all cleaned up and smiley.
Author’s notes:
The final installment of my 19C circus AU that got out of hand. Reading parts 1 and 2 first is pretty essential for the enjoyment of the dénouement. PART ONE
PART TWO
Thanks to the adorable abigail89 for her tireless beta work and keeping an eye on the hand-count!
Intriguing snippet: How could he tell him the dreams were all about him, all about McCoy bent over for him, folded for him, pliant and willing. Now, when he looked at him, Jim realized how ridiculous this was, the thought of this man bending physically, or mentally for that matter, for anyone was almost comical.
Awesome banner by the gorgeous avictoriangirl
The ringmaster, part 3
Jim ducked his head and stepped through the narrow doorway. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat and, in what he hoped was a nonchalant gesture, he removed his hat and tossed it towards the bed. His eyes never left the man seated at the table.
“It’s bad luck to put hats on beds,“ McCoy said without turning to face him.
“You don’t believe that, do you? As a man of science?” Jim asked. He didn’t approach McCoy. Jim waited to see whether he’d turn round or acknowledge that maybe his presence in this trailer, at this hour, was something to comment on.
Long moments crawled by as Jim took in the dark, neat surroundings. He spotted a carpetbag by the foot of the bed, McCoy’s boots by the door, a photograph of a young girl by the pot of cold cream on the table. Jim suddenly appreciated what it must be like for Missy and the rest of the cats, trapped behind bars: he and McCoy, tall and broad shouldered, in this too small, airless space, confined and constricted. He unbuttoned his jacket.
“I don’t know what kind of man I am, “McCoy finally said, “so you can’t be any damn expert.” His voice was even but Jim had already learned to detect the underlying whiff of irritation, like garlic in soup. He watched McCoy’s long, tan fingers while he cleaned his face of clown make-up.
Outside, the sounds of the rigs being dismantled, of impromptu final night parties and the rumbles from excitable cats became muffled and as he honed on closer sounds: the creak of his boots, McCoy clearing his throat, the faint tick of the clock by the bed, his world tunneled to this room, this man.
“I’m not sleeping,” Jim said. The words seemed incongruous, foolish even, but they expressed everything of how discombobulated he’d felt for the past twenty-four hours.
McCoy appeared to mull them over. He put down his facecloth.
“Are you telling me this as your doctor?” he said, gazing straight at Jim’s reflection.
“I’m simply saying I can’t sleep.” Yet, he felt alive, awake--
“Food repeating on you?”
“No,” Jim said with a chuckle. He took a step closer so he loomed over the seated figure. He saw McCoy straighten his back then shrug his shoulders.
“You need to drink more.”
Jim wanted to laugh at that.
“I drink plenty,” he said. He clenched his hands, fought the impulse to grab McCoy’s shoulders, force him to turn round and look at him, pull him to his feet, stop this stupid, fucking conversation. Stop the talking.
“Somethin’s on your mind - you don’t have to be a doctor to work that one out.”
“Yes.” He could smell McCoy, his sweat from the close confines of the audience, the greasepaint, the acrid sweet smell of cigars clinging to the wool of his pants. “And when I do sleep,” Kirk said, “I have these dreams.”
How could he tell him the dreams were all about him, all about McCoy bent over for him, folded for him, pliant and willing. Now, when he looked at him, Jim realized how ridiculous this was, the thought of this man bending physically, or mentally for that matter, for anyone was almost comical.
McCoy took another dollop of cream and slathered the area under his eyes. Jim watched in the mirror as he took a cloth and wiped, removing the shadows. He caught Jim’s eye in the mirror and pushed back from the table, the stool legs scraping on the floor. There was a long silence as McCoy stood with his back to him and seemed to consider what to do next.
“I’m not a psychiatrist,” McCoy said. He went to the washstand and poured a basin full of water, undid his shirt and, with a faint rasp of linen on skin, tossed it onto the bed. His back gleamed in the low light like amber, his muscles rippled as he moved. Jim got a grip on himself, waited to be asked, waited for a sign.
“And, so you say, you’re also not a doctor.”
McCoy bent over and blew into palmfuls of water, rinsing the cream off his face. He faced Jim and ran a towel over his forehead and cheeks, ears and neck. He looked like a Dutch painting, beautiful in his everyday movements, and Jim marveled at how erotic simple gestures could be.
“I killed my father,” McCoy said, his voice flat and he stared directly at Jim, his eyes impenetrable and his lips parted. “No, I’m not a doctor anymore.”
Somehow, Jim sensed it hadn’t been a contest; whatever had happened, both father and son had lost. And now, McCoy was here, doing the walkabout act, no longer healing people, turning his hand to whatever came his way. Jim’s thigh twitched at the memory of those long fingers caressing him, the intent look on his face as he stitched him up. Jim’s lips seemed to stick together and he glanced at the glass of deep brown liquid on the table. “And I’m way more than forty miles from home,” McCoy finished. Yeah, well, the accent was enough proof of that.
Jim tapped the carpetbag at the foot of the bed with his whip which hadn’t left his hand since he’d walked out of the ring.
“Are you going to stay?” Jim asked, his voice as neutral as he could make it. “Chekov will want to know about the trailer.“
His answer was a shrug.
Avid eyes raked McCoy’s lean belly, the trail of hair mesmerizing. Jim felt his half-hard cock jump when, without thinking about it, he moved those extra few inches so he was close enough to look right into black, almond shaped eyes. He wondered what it would feel like to place the tip of his tongue on the mole on McCoy’s right cheek, and realized he’d licked his lips. McCoy’s eyes darted towards the slight movement and his own hands dropped to his sides, tapping the whip absently against the top of his boot. He saw McCoy part his lips, then press them together again. Jim wasn’t sure, but he could swear he’d swayed slightly in Jim’s direction.
“I’m not the kind of guy who can run on little sleep,” Jim said, pointing his whip at McCoy. He shrugged his jacket off and dropped it to the floor. “I need to be sharp, on top of things.”
The response was an arched eyebrow and a hissed, “So what are you doing here?” There was a hint of anger in his voice. “The only sleep I’ve got is in a bottle.”
He was so close; Jim could smell the tobacco and whiskey on his breath, the sweet smell of pan stick.
The tragic sound of Chekov’s violin from way over in the half-undressed hippodrome broke through the pounding in his head, and brought the outside world in with it, and Jim felt as if he were balanced on a sand castle with water rushing round their ankles . . . .
Not yet.
“You missed a bit,“ he said, lifting a finger under McCoy’s eye to a fleck of dark make-up, and dragging it down and outwards. The response to Jim’s touch was a near silent gasp. McCoy didn’t flinch, rather he seemed to grow taller, brighter, like he’d been lit with a match.
“I’m not one of your pets,” McCoy growled, grabbing Jim’s wrist before he could pull away. His face loomed closer so it was all Jim could do not to take those lips, “Who you can touch whenever the fancy takes you. And--” McCoy’s irritation appeared to dissolve and Jim held his breath when he recognized the same expression of calm focus Bones wore while he’d tended Jim’s wound --“I don’t like takin’ orders, not like the rest of your crew.” What McCoy did next made Jim’s knees give a little: he opened out Jim’s hand and, with cool, confident fingers, never once breaking eye-contact, guided Jim’s fingers into his mouth, all hot breath and teeth, dragging at the knuckles. Jim’s stomach flipped when he realized this was the moment he had to seize yet; he couldn’t resist spinning out the delicious agony and creating one last moment of tension.
“Are you sure?” Jim managed to say, his voice a whisper. “So, if I said ‘kiss me again’, would you tell me to go fuck myself?” He dragged the handle of his whip down McCoy’s chest and McCoy’s eyes seemed to flare with heat. He tilted Jim to him, digging blunt nails into his wrist, his expression carnivorous.
Reclaiming his hand, Jim slipped it round the back of McCoy’s neck and pulled those infuriating lips in for a ravenous kiss. But it became more of a punch, the heat of McCoy’s invading tongue throwing him back away. Jim felt a rush of lust when McCoy grabbed at his long hair, dragging him back to him, checking him like he was a horse or something.
“Kiss me, you arrogant dick,“ McCoy snarled, fingers fumbling in Jim’s hair, then at his shoulders. Naked skin leaned on starched cotton and velvet while Jim unfastened the ringmaster costume, popping open hooks and buttons with difficulty in the crush against McCoy’s body. He could only moan into McCoy’s mouth and wriggle thumbs into the back of the worn pants, spreading his palms to squeeze his ass and pull him closer while their tongues battled for who should fuck whose mouth.
McCoy unhooked Jim’s suspenders from his shoulders, releasing his teeth from Jim’s bruised lips when he tried to speak.
“I don’t take orders, you miserable --” Jim managed, but McCoy’s mouth cut him off, sucking at Jim’s tongue. A hard tug on his scalp made Jim’s cock throb, desperate to escape from where it was bound by his britches. His fingers raked McCoy’s arms, as he struggled to keep balance. McCoy ate his tongue and lips, his stubble grating Jim’s smooth shaven face, grunts, moans the only sound.
“You know,” McCoy growled when he drew breath, “I like women, but I fucking love this.“ And their lips were clamped together again.
“Fuck,” Jim protested, arching away so he could untangle the doctor’s hands from his hair and waistband. He shoved the doctor hard so he fell across the unmade bed with a grunt.
McCoy looked dark and furious, his long, lean body splayed out, up on his elbows. His hair was disheveled, and the tendons in his neck pulled taught. Wolfish eyes glaring a heady mix of invitation and threat.
“Is that an order?” he drawled, licking his lips, arching that infernal eyebrow again.
Jim didn’t answer. McCoy shifted a little while his eyes followed Jim’s movements. Jim unbuttoned his fly, un-tucked his shirt, ignoring the drag of fabric across an impossibly hard cock. He unfastened silver cufflinks, and placed them on the bedside table. In doing so, he leaned close to McCoy and felt the heat coming off him as hot as sunshine. McCoy’s eyes bored into the side of his face, daring him.
It reminded Jim of Missy’s hungry glares through the cage. There were none of the usual things that egged him on, no softness or curves; Bones was all hard lines, muscle and strength, even McCoy’s mouth, for all its softness, had a flint edge to it.
“You’re. . .” Jim began, his normally sharp thoughts fumbling through a fog of lust. Yet he knew that before he could take that final step, he needed something more. And it was as if McCoy had sensed that split second of wavering. He lifted his hips off the bed, shucked threadbare woolen pants, and then underwear, so they lay bunched around his ankles making him look more naked and vulnerable than if he’d completely removed them. His dark cock lay almost flat against his belly and bobbed to the side as he settled down against the patchwork coverlet. There was now only one thing Jim could possibly do and that was take what was being offered to him. He kneeled on the bed, swept away his discarded hat, and yanked McCoy’s pants away with one move, leaving him naked save for his socks.
“Jesus, “he said, his voice thick with unfamiliar emotions, “you’re so fucking. . . “ Jim knew what he wanted to say, but this was a man, not a woman, not a horse or a--- Fuck, why was he wasting time even thinking? Jim detected a faint tremor in McCoy’s legs as he leaned in and placed firm hands at his ankles.
“What?” McCoy demanded, “What do you want, Kirk?” His chest rose and fell in time with his own.
“I won’t be able to sleep unless I -“ and Jim finished his thought by hiking McCoy’s legs up and dragged him down the bed closer, till they rested over his shoulders and he was open for him.
Jim turned to McCoy’s foot balanced near his throat, noting the darned heel of the sock, the indent of his calves, the dark hairs rubbed away at the back of his knees. Jim tugged at the sock and tossed it into the darkness; he pressed his lips against McCoy’s instep and slowly licked a trail to the back of his knees, smirking with satisfaction at the hiss this drew from him. And, in case he’d thought he was the one in control here, Jim felt a tug at his neck when McCoy used his other foot to hook him closer. Jim fell forwards and McCoy’s leg dropped to grip at his hips; long fingers dug into Jim’s temples to pull him in for a violent kiss.
Jim gasped at the expression of want on McCoy’s face, how his tongue swiped across swollen lips. He dropped his tongue to the nape of McCoy’s neck and licked the salt and the musk from him, raising a heavy arm so he could inhale from the hair kissing and sucking the soft skin.
Hypnotized by the hard planes, the angular lines, Jim ducked his head to worry at one of McCoy’s nipple, moaning while McCoy dug his nails into his buttocks through the cloth of his britches and retaliated with a pinch which had the doctor arching off the bed.
“You don’t fuckin’ own me,“ McCoy said darkly.
“I know,” he whispered into the hairs on McCoy’s chest, into the pink marks he’d made with his teeth. He grated his chin down to the dip of McCoy’s hard stomach muscles, towards the hairs he’d been looking at so hungrily a short while ago, while his hands found purchase on the small of McCoy’s back.
“Touch it!” McCoy insisted, his fingers twisting in Jim’s hair, to pull his mouth closer to his erect cock.
“Or what?” Jim looked up at McCoy, his face a mixture of wanton and belligerent. His teeth were clenched tight. Jim saw that his soft hazel eyes were blown black with passion; his breathing came in short, hot gasps, and he felt McCoy’s hips canting minutely under him.
Jim wanted to comply. He was dimly aware that he hadn’t had a moment to free his cock, yet it didn’t seem to matter. All he wanted was to follow his primal instinct to touch, feel, lick, taste, get closer-- “Or else, what?” he repeated, dragging his nails down McCoy’s belly towards the curled hairs below but still refusing to touch him there.
“Fuck…I don’t know…I need…”
Jim wanted to say he knew, but his mouth was full of hard, velvet flesh, his feet off the end of the bed, swimming in the moans above him, the pain in his scalp where McCoy tugged at his hair driving him mad so he wanted to suffocate in McCoy’s musky scent, so different from a woman’s and so familiar; he realized the bass notes would be like his own and this sent such a shot of adrenaline through him forcing him to exercise supreme control to stop himself biting down.
His eyes met McCoy’s. The man was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. Jim slid both hands up his warm, heaving chest to his neck and face, bending towards him, so he could savor the feeling of desire he knew he’d finally fulfill; it was like holding a mouthful of rich wine before he swallowed. But McCoy wasn’t as patient. It didn’t seem like he was going to let go of Jim’s hair and now he wrapped it round both his wrists and pulled him in for a hot, wet, messy kiss. Jim sucked on McCoy’s tongue and pushed him back down against the large pillows,
“You need to let go of my hair. “ He grinned and McCoy gifted him a half-smile and did just that, placing his hands on Jim’s shoulders. But then he shoved him down the bed so that he was level with that gorgeous, long cock again. Licking his lips, he pulled at the foreskin with his teeth, relishing the twitches and shudders caused by each little nip or caress of his tongue.
McCoy had wrapped his legs around Jim’s neck, a little too tight, and sweat began to pool under his hair, so he used his shoulders to lever McCoy’s legs until he was almost doubled over and utterly exposed. Now Jim could do something he’d never even imagined he’d want to before - he reveled in how McCoy choked and twisted beneath him in response to long, lazy licks, past his perineum, and how he breathed out, “Jim…fuck..”
He’d not called Jim that before.
“You’re a bossy one, that’s for sure,” Jim managed to chuckle before an urgent hand had him by the scruff of the neck, back into position and he was aware, from the rocking of the bed, that McCoy was stroking himself in time with Jim’s tongue-fucking.
“Don’t…fucking…stop. Don’t!”
Like he was about to. Without breaking his rhythm, his mouth slipping and sliding as his tongue breached McCoy over and over, Jim reached for McCoy’s cock, yanking roughly on it in time with his invading tongue.
“Come on…” he murmured, taking a moment to look up and enjoy the sight of this feast laid out before him. “Let go. Fucking give - come on, Bones!” He stabbed his tongue in hard, ground his chin against skin, gently kneading McCoy’s balls.
He almost came in his pants when he heard a garbled, “Dammit!” McCoy released Jim’s hair and grappled the coverlet. He came up off the bed and stilled as Jim felt him spasm for what seemed like an age around his tongue and push into his tight grip. Jim stopped licking, he wanted to see, yet he didn’t stop stroking, his face and hand wet and slippery, loving the look on McCoy’s face as it changed from ecstatic to pained when he suffered one pull too many…
Eventually he croaked, “Jesus, Jim. Stop! Stop!”
Heart racing, Jim sat up and wiped his jaw, grinning with delight at the molten mass of panting McCoy before him, knees fallen apart, gazing at the ceiling, like he’d been felled -
“I stopped, like you said,” Jim said, finally, finally removing his shirt and using it to wipe McCoy’s belly and his hand. McCoy watched his movements through hooded eyes.
“Yeah, but we haven’t finished yet.“ McCoy swung his legs over the edge of the bed and leaned towards him, pressing the palm of his hand against Jim’s aching, neglected cock. Heat seared through Jim’s thighs and back as he cupped McCoy’s hand with his, groaning with absolutely no care for whether he could be heard through the thin walls of the trailer or not.
“There’s petroleum jelly in my medical bag,” McCoy drawled. Jim’s eyes flickered to the side of the bed to the leather case and fumbled, extracting one pot at a time until McCoy nodded to indicate he had the right one.
He edged his britches down, taking care not to snag the dressing on his thigh, moaning with relief when he untangled his cock, circling the base with a tight grip before he lost it at the incredible sight before him. With a hiss, he pushed McCoy onto his back again, speechless with lust when he saw how readily the doctor turned onto his belly and settled on all fours.
He nudged McCoy’s thighs together and straddled the bed as best he could with his boots still on and his pants bunched around his calves. He positioned himself so he could see where he was headed while he slicked up. Jim breathed deep to control the inferno in his belly. He managed to fight the impulse to make tender assurances he’d take it slow even though Bones, leaning on his elbows, muscular ass canted towards Jim in silent invitation, seemed like his only concern was that Jim might change his mind.
With one hand on McCoy’s hip, Jim began to open McCoy up with his fingers. McCoy squirmed in discomfort, but Jim took his time. He snaked his free hand round to stroke Bones who was soon half-hard again, and twisting his face into the pillows, grumbling about how long he was taking,
“I’m not going to fucking break, you asshole.“
No, but he might, Jim thought, biting his lip as he began to press his cock home, half inch by half inch, guided by McCoy’s short, gasping breaths and the press of his ass against his groin. Jim couldn’t watch his cock disappearing into Bones - the one glance he’d allowed himself had almost sent him over the edge, and he was determined that this should last. A dark niggle in his mind told him that this would probably be the only time and he wanted to savor every moment.
They both tensed as Jim was finally in as far as he could go, their combined weights pressed into the point where they were joined. Bones panted and swore beneath him, his voice sliding further south with each inch of territory Jim had taken.
“Fuck. Jesus fuck, Kirk, you’re jus’-“
“Okay?” he whispered into McCoy’s back, “Bones? You okay?” He stroked McCoy’s cock to try and get some response from him. He felt rather than saw McCoy nod his head and the backward tilt of his hips was all the encouragement he needed. “Lie down, Bones,” Jim said and they both stretched out on the bed so that Jim’s prone body was flush to McCoy’s, chest to back, thigh to thigh, their legs splayed, Jim’s right hand gripping Bones’ shoulder, while the other locked onto his hip. Jim began a slow, shallow fuck despite his body raging to go harder and faster and despite Bones’ protestations.
“I’m not a fuckin’ kid, fuck me, dammit!”
Jim sucked and bit McCoy’s shoulders and neck, fucked him slowly and then hissed with a combination of dismay and ecstasy when he felt McCoy’s hand snake past his hip and turn to grip his ass and pull at him to fuck harder. He felt a hitch of emotion in his throat that he didn’t quite understand, closed his eyes and bent his arm back awkwardly so he could rest his hand on McCoy’s. Thank God he couldn’t see his face, he thought dimly, but he could smell him, taste him, and God help him, hear him, moaning like an animal beneath him, insistent, almost desperate as he got close, his cock driving against the mattress each time Jim slammed into him.
“Jim. Jim, god…harder…dammit…harder-“ McCoy roared.
“Bones, I-- “ Jim choked out and lost all sense of anything but heat and sensation and want, and he finally paid heed to McCoy’s protestations that he wasn’t fucking him nearly hard enough. Thrusting hard one more time, he came with a guttural moan he had never heard himself make before, unsure which sensations were his and which were McCoy’s, his hand still raking at Jim’s ass until his arm flopped uselessly at his side.
There was a long silence with neither of them seemingly wanting to move.
Bones rolled his neck side to side under him and Jim knew it probably wasn’t a good idea but he kissed his sweat soaked temple.
“You need to get your skinny ass off of me,” McCoy said into the pillow.
Jim slid out and nudged Bones over so there was room for him to lie down on his side. “Well,” he said a cloud of sadness edging through his chest.
“Well, what?” McCoy said. He had his back to Jim, and he sensed a sudden, cool distance opening between them. Jim felt his throat tense up. He tapped McCoy on the back with one finger, tried not to sound like he gave a shit. “What time’s your train out tomorrow?”
“It’s tomorrow now, “McCoy said.
Shit.
“So,” Jim said heavily, “what time today?”
“I haven’t gotten a ticket yet. I planned to get something to eat, get laid maybe, take a bath - head out the following morning.”
“I see.”
“So you fucking see, do ya?”
“Well, there are some pretty women over at Ma’s,“ Jim smirked.
“You should fuckin’ know, fucking Don Juan, fuckin’-“
Then Jim remembered the photo of the girl had still been on the table - Bones hadn’t packed it so Jim cut him short with his hand over his mouth relieved when Bones’ tongue flicked at his fingers. He took McCoy’s shoulder and pulled him round so they were face to face. The sight of Bones, face and neck flushed, eyebrows rubbed up all wrong from the pillow, faint red lines on his shoulders where Jim had dragged his nails and teeth, and lips all petulant and fuck bruised, nearly undid him; it was all he could do to not kiss the man but he had to know before he did…
“You’re an asshole, you know that?” he said, his eyes roaming over McCoy’s face.
“Sure I am. And you’re a fucking genius?” his voice thick with sarcasm.
“Genius enough to know you suck at being a clown.”
McCoy chuckled. “The fuckin’ snake knows I’m a shit clown.“
Jim looked away from McCoy’s face, lit up by a smile that went right to his exhausted groin. “There’s plenty of work here,“ Jim said. “The animals always have shit go wrong with them, people fall from the wires…“ Jim touched his hand to McCoy’s hip. “You okay with animals?”
“Sure. I can turn my hand to any kind of innards - we’re all the same, bigger, smaller, but we all got hearts, you know.” Jim knew. “What say I stick around until your leg’s healed and until Missy’s eating properly again?” Bones yawned and turned his back on Jim.
“Yeah, that would work- few days…”
“Few days…sure.”
Jim could tell McCoy was asleep. He sat up, toed his boots and pants off, and slid under the covers. Once he was sure Bones really was asleep, he melted into the curve of his back until, he too, fell into a long, deep and dreamless sleep.
On to part 4a
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