failing the rorschach test (canis_takahari ) wrote,
  • Mood: sleepy

and you take your time and you do your crime


Title: Fever
Author: canis_takahari
Prompt: “Anal plugs – McCoy receiving” at km_anthology
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: NC-17
Words: ~6,500
Summary: Jim has this incredibly annoying tendency to go poking around in other people’s things. Bones can’t quite bring himself to care.
Notes/Warnings: Aside from the aforementioned BUTT PLUGS (lol), this thing totally got away from me, so there is voyeurism, a dildo, fingering, and plenty of crack. Massive, massive PWP. Thanks to mackem for looking this over.

I do not own Star Trek and would never claim to! All the idiocy is my own, though.


The room is dim, throwing shadows over the lean body kneeling on the bed, but Jim is pretty much instantly aware that, a) it’s Bones, and b) he’s naked.

Undeniably, extremely, ridiculously naked.

Jim has known McCoy for, what, a year, now? Something like that, give or take a couple of months.

And considering he never sees the guy with anyone other than him (because they are best friends and Jim takes that sort of thing really seriously; he’s never actually had one before and he doesn’t think McCoy has, either), the people he works shifts with at the clinic, and some casual acquaintances from class (Jim calls them things like Can’t Hold His Liquor, Totally Wears A Hairpiece, and Eyebrows McGee, rather than their actual names, which Do Not Matter), it’s not entirely a joke that he’s begun to think of him as a born-again asexual, or just a monkish, celibate man who may as well just end the rumours and start wearing a purity ring.

On a practical level, he knows it’s silly to completely dismiss the thought of McCoy as a sexual creature, someone who has needs and desires and possesses the ability to physically be near another person without either trying to deliver some sort of gruffly-administered medical assistance or berating him or her for simply existing, because the man was married for Christ’s sake, he’s got a kid, which means he had to get it on at least once in his life.

It’s not like Jim isn’t aware that McCoy is an attractive man, either. People notice McCoy. People want to potentially copulate with him, too, but even though he gets offers, Jim has never once seen him actually accept any of them. He skilfully deflects any and all flirting with surgical precision, however incompetent the culprit, in a manner which suggests he’s not even aware he’s being propositioned.

It all adds up to complete obliviousness, on McCoy’s part, but Jim is sure he’s entirely aware of what he’s doing. McCoy doesn’t do anything without thinking it through (except for those rare, shining moments when he reluctantly allows Jim to talk him into something unforgivably dense) and Jim isn’t exactly an expert, but he recognizes when someone is protecting himself.

So, McCoy went through the emotional wringer with his ex-wife, and doesn’t seem to be looking for anyone new. It’s a lot easier to leave it at that, because Jim can’t even fathom what sort of sexual frustration that must entail. Contrary to all the acerbic complaining that tumbles out of his mouth on a regular basis, McCoy is still a young, red-blooded male, and if he’s got even half the sex-drive Jim has he must do something to take care of himself.

Jim just didn’t think it was anything like this.

Come to think of it, he probably shouldn’t be standing here just watching, because, well, McCoy would probably go into apoplexy if he knew. Jim has never fancied himself a voyeur, but this shit is mesmerizing.

When he can finally hear something other than his own breathing, loud in his ears, he gradually becomes aware of the slap of skin-on-skin, the harsh breaths panting out of McCoy, and the small, helpless noises. It takes him a second to realize that his eyes have adjusted, the darkened room suddenly moon-lit and perfectly visible, and Jim’s eyes travel the long line of McCoy’s spine, moving appreciatively over the curve of his lower back as he arches his hips and drops his head. He’s fisting his cock, jerking off quickly and efficiently, but it’s the three fingers that he’s plunging into himself that catch Jim’s attention.

McCoy moans sharply with every thrust, burying his fingers knuckle-deep and quivering bodily, his knees spread wide on the rumpled covers of the bed. He’s damp with sweat, muscles tense under that expanse of lightly tanned skin; Jim is fixated on the dimples just above his ass. His grip on his cock falters as he fingers himself, hand slick with lube, hips pivoting smoothly.

His movements slow and he pulls out, breathing raggedly in the close, dark little room. Jim doesn’t dare budge, just keeps himself perfectly still like if he doesn’t break the moment, McCoy won’t ever know he’s there. Jim is perfectly aware that this is monumentally stupid, considering all McCoy has to do is glance back over his shoulder and Jim’s life will quite likely be snuffed out by a well-placed glare and a needle to the jugular.

But Jim, in complete disregard for his own personal safety, remains transfixed even as McCoy reaches for something on the bed that definitely looks a whole lot like a dildo.

Holy fucking shit. Holy fucking shit.

McCoy sits back on his knees, hand disappearing between his legs as he guides the long, smooth, unadorned length up inside himself. It slips in with a minimum of fuss and a long, satisfied moan.

Jim nearly lets out an answering sigh, but he shoves his hand into his mouth just in time, proving, once and for all to exactly no one, that he can fit his entire fist into his mouth. McCoy remains completely focused on rocking himself back onto the toy, frantic gasps pushing out of him with every further shift of his hips; his head is thrown back, bangs stuck to his forehead, shoulders taut with tension.

The amazing thing is that he’s not even touching his dick any more, one hand braced on the mattress, and Jim sees it in the shudder of his spine as he comes.

Jim catches his breath shakily, unbelievably aroused, and then it’s like tunnel vision, coming back to himself and finding McCoy’s eyes on him, wide and bright and unreadable in the dark.

“Uh,” says Jim, intelligently.

McCoy sits back on the heels, his eyes on Jim as he very deliberately pulls the dildo out of his ass. He looks insanely well-fucked, his hair in artful disarray, body gleaming. Jim thinks, in vague panic, that he belongs in one of those dirty calendars that feature firemen and construction workers semi-dressed while toting hoses and drills.

McCoy’s eyes don’t leave Jim’s as he reaches for a towel, wiping his hands and his dick, and then getting to his feet. He pushes a drawer shut on the bedside table, and, dropping the towel on top of the dildo, he disappears into the bathroom without a word.

Jim lets out of a deep breath and says, succinctly, “Fuck.”


“I’m sorry,” is the first thing Jim says when he sees McCoy the next day. The next thing is, “Not gonna lie, it was hot, though.”

McCoy gives him a look, like, why must you destroy my soul? or maybe dealing with you gives me hives. What he says, the tips of his ears turning slightly pink, is, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Jim.” The mention this again and I’ll gut you like a fish is merely implied, but heavily so.

Oh. So that’s how this is going to go. Jim knows exactly what he should do – pretend he never walked in on McCoy last night – which is why he instead replies, “Oh, so that wasn’t you I saw last night, nailing yourself with a sex toy?”

He mimes the action, just in case McCoy needs the visual cue to jolt his memory.

McCoy turns all-the-way red, the blush spreading from his ears, all the way down the back of his neck, past the collar of his uniform jacket. He blinks and Jim can see the anger there, simmering, the indignation and the embarrassment.

Jim claps him on the shoulder and leans into McCoy’s personal space, ignoring the fact that he flinches away in surprise as Jim nearly touches his lips to his ear. “Next time, call me,” murmurs Jim, distantly aware that he’s pushing his luck and might soon meet a rapid, hypo-induced death.

McCoy makes a startled noise, and Jim catches a brief glimpse of his unguarded, wide-eyed gaze, before the shields go up and his expression melts into a scowl, his eyes sharp as he shakes Jim off him gently.

“Fuck you, Jim,” he mutters, but it’s lacking heat, and that’s basically the end of it.

Except for the fact that Jim can’t get Bones out of his head.


Jim lets it go for exactly ten days, because that’s as long as he can take before his head is in legitimate danger of exploding. Every time he jerks off, it’s with McCoy in mind, and he’s pathetically desperate to find out what the hell else he’s keeping in that bedside drawer.

It’s only supposed to be in-and-out reconnaissance.

Jim, because he is awesome and a genius, spends a good solid afternoon when he should be doing particle physics actually planning an elaborate sort-of-heist in his head that involves dressing entirely in black and climbing in through McCoy’s window while he’s at work that night. It would help if McCoy didn’t live on the second floor, because that complicates things a bit, but Jim has totally got it handled. It is all under control.

It’s McCoy who fucks everything up, getting off shift early and coming in just as Jim is dipping his hand into the magical drawer full of secrets.

They stare at each other across the room, McCoy in his shiny blue scrubs and lab coat, and Jim in uncomfortably hot but undeniably sexy leather pants and a black shirt, a home-made balaclava pulled over his face that does nothing to hide the feature that Bones would recognize out of any police line-up in the galaxy, namely, Jim’s massive, stupidly-pretty blue eyes.

“Hey,” says Jim, offering up a smile McCoy can’t actually see.

“Dammit, Jim,” says McCoy, striding across the room and slamming the drawer shut on Jim’s fingers.

Ow!” shrieks Jim, waving his hand around wildly like it spontaneously burst into flame. “Fuckin’ ow! That was totally uncalled for, Bones, I need those fingers!”

“I’m sure you’ll find other ways to jerk off,” snaps McCoy, standing over him with arms crossed and eyebrows set to kill. The engage one another in a pretty epic staring contest, but then Jim tries to stick out his tongue, which is a mistake, so McCoy sighs and reaches forward to yank the ski-mask off his face.

“I’m actually ambidextrous with regards to handjobs,” states Jim calmly, rubbing his fingers.

“Would you shut up?” demands McCoy, relenting a bit and opening his medkit to remove a tricorder. He takes Jim by the wrist, scanning his reddened fingers and ignoring the shameless, puppy-eyed pout on Jim’s face. “Nothing is broken or sprained, you big baby.” McCoy then turns Jim’s hand around and uses it to slap Jim in the face. “Oh, hang on – Jim, what’s wrong? Jim, why are you hitting yourself? Jim, stop!”

“Har har,” mutters Jim, yanking his hand away and straightening his hair. “I see that despite being an only child, you’re adept at the Annoying Asshole school of mockery and teasing favoured by all older brothers everywhere.”

“I have cousins,” replies McCoy, rolling his eyes. “Care to tell me what the hell you’re doing in here dressed like some sort of demented Romulan spy? Am I under arrest?”

“I was doing research,” says Jim, pulling himself up to sit on the edge of McCoy’s bed. He’s still hoping he’ll get a chance to pull open that drawer. It should at least contain a dildo, but Jim will be disappointed if that’s all there is inside.

“Jim,” says McCoy, warningly. “I honestly thought you were going to drop this fuckery. I was actually allowing myself to get optimistic, which I now see was a mistake. Don’t be the one to crush my delicate hopes and dreams. It’s been a goddamn week.”

“Ten days,” corrects Jim. “It has been ten long, excruciating days of indulging in highly inventive fantasies to quell my burning desire for you. I’m pretty sure if we have sex, I’ll be able to regain some semblance of sanity.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” scoffs McCoy, balking. He watches as Jim shifts closer to the bedside table, keeping his gaze fixed on him. Innocent blue eyes shift up to meet his.

“Don’t deny our simmering sexual tension,” says Jim.

McCoy opens his mouth, probably about to voice some vehement protest, but apparently he hasn’t really got anything to say to that. Jim beams, smug, and then they both pause, staring, before Jim takes a sudden flying leap for the drawer. McCoy has been practicing his quick-draw, or something, because he flings an arm out, quickly followed by his entire body, and he meets Jim halfway there, bringing them both crashing to the floor.

“Bad Jim!” grunts McCoy, squirming on top of Jim and clapping a hand over his face, pushing his jaw to the side. “Didn’t anyone ever – oof – tell you it’s rude to go through people’s things?”

“Just – let me – SEE,” huffs Jim, wriggling unrelentingly under McCoy, finally latching a knee over his hip and twisting his body to turn them both over. “I’m dying here, Bones, I’ve gotta know!”

“Jim!” cries McCoy, scrabbling for a better grip on Jim’s jacket, his fingers slipping. Jim almost makes it, his fingers straining for the handle of the drawer, but McCoy dives in and hugs his shins, and Jim lands on his belly with a whump. They end up slapping at each other ineffectually, making shocked little noises as they scuffle, before McCoy pins Jim down with his knees and yells, “Victory!”

“You been practicing your hand-to-hand?” pants Jim, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths. His arms are splayed above his head, and he doesn’t seem inclined to move.

“You just bring it out in me,” scowls McCoy, blowing his bangs out of his eyes. He looks flustered and bewildered, but not angry, which Jim thinks is a definite plus.

It takes them both a few seconds to realize that McCoy is propping himself up with his hands braced either side of Jim’s head and happens to be lying on top of him in a relatively intimate way. When McCoy figures this out he starts to pull back, but Jim is just that second ahead of him; he grabs McCoy’s wrists, catching him off balance, and then they’re rolling again, across the floor, until they bump the opposite wall, and Jim lands on top. In the ensuing stillness, Jim becomes aware of McCoy’s heart beating, thumping against his own as they breathe together.

Jim is slightly startled when McCoy is the one that breaks the tension between them, growling impatiently and reaching up to grasp him by the face. Big, gentle, calloused hands tug him down for a painful kiss; the bridge of McCoy’s nose hits Jim’s and their teeth click together awkwardly, but then McCoy is kissing him firmly, tongue skating over his lower lip, and Jim realizes there’s an erection pressing between his thighs that doesn’t belong to him.

It’s then that he realizes, quite suddenly, that McCoy is talking, interspersing each insistent kiss with a steady stream of complaints like “couldn’t leave it alone, could you?” and “fucking hate you, you stupid beautiful bastard.”

Jim starts to laugh, cupping the back of McCoy’s head and then kissing him full on the mouth, so the next thing he says is, “godda – mmmph.” McCoy makes an abortive gesture that might be an attempt to push Jim away, but Jim just keeps making out with him until the grumbles turn into pleased moans rather than cross, petulant, half-fond vitriol.

“Bones,” Jim murmurs, when he’s kissed the irritation right out of McCoy. “Bones, do you want to fuck me?”

He actually knows exactly what McCoy wants, but he’s Jim Kirk, and he’s testing a theory; he’s got it on entirely good authority – his own – that Bones is probably one of those people that’s absolutely fucking incapable of asking for what he really wants. It explains why he doesn’t even try to date, and instead relies on his own hand for company. If he doesn’t bother, he can’t be disappointed. If he can’t be disappointed, then he’s got nothing to complain about.

Jim fixes McCoy with an intent stare, his expression sincerely wide-eyed and expectant. He definitely wouldn’t be adverse to a good fuck from Bones. Hell, it’s not like McCoy would hate it, but that’s not the point. Getting McCoy to admit that this isn’t what he had in mind, that ever since Jim walked in on him maybe he’s been entertaining a different sort of fantasy – that is the point.

McCoy meets his gaze, panting softly, lips red and wet, and his eyes sweep over Jim’s face, focusing on his mouth before breathing, “Yeah, Jim, sure.”

And Jim knows he’s not lying; McCoy never lies. One of the things that Jim kind of totally adores about Bones (except for when it’s making him cry inside) is that he’s pretty much unable to adequately express any sort of emotion that’s not agonizingly genuine. He’s devastatingly blunt and honest and if he’s going to talk, it’s going to be the bald old truth, but Jim catches the brief hint of disappointment in his eyes that suggests that while this is a grand idea, he’d really prefer something else right now.

Jim smirks smugly in that way he does that usually makes McCoy want to deck him. “You asshole. You are a lying liar who lies!”

Oh, he’s totally pushing his luck, if that creepy glint in McCoy’s eyes is anything to go by.

“What the fuck are you playing at, Jim?” McCoy demands. He tries to squirm out from under him and that’s when Jim thrusts a knee up between McCoy’s legs, coaxing a squeak out of his throat. “Jim,” he gasps, frowning. “If you didn’t want –”

“Bones,” says Jim firmly, “What do you want?”

McCoy pauses, mouth hanging open. He searches Jim’s face again like a desperately thirsty man in a desert, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Jim?”

“While I’m quite confident you’d happily stick your dick up my ass any other day of the week, can’t you at least fucking admit you had something else in mind?” asks Jim smartly. “You can ask, Bones, you know? It wouldn’t kill you to be honest about this – you’re honest about everything else! I can tell I haven’t thrilled you.”

“As if this isn’t weird enough,” says McCoy, a slight note of embarrassed exasperation to his voice. “You watched me go to town with a sex toy and now you’re... Okay, Jim, I was clearly not in my right mind at the time, but maybe I’ve had passing thoughts about you fucking me?”

“Is that a question? Are you sure?” quips Jim.

“I have thought about you fucking me,” says McCoy through gritted teeth, practically chewing the words before spitting them out. “You’re like some sort of pervasive, highly-infectious brain fever, Jim. You completely scramble all relevant mental faculties.”

“I try,” grins Jim.

“It’s nice to see how modest young people are these days,” grumbles McCoy, disgruntled.


Sinking into McCoy is a little like what Jim imagines beating the Kobayashi Maru will feel like.

If Jim was at all a religious man, this might be a revelation, or maybe it’s the enlightenment and Jim has just achieved Zen. Either way, he’s been waiting for this moment and he’s completely relieved to find he hasn’t at all overhyped it. McCoy is warm and pliable around him, his muscles rippling with sparks of pleasure, and he mumbles snatches of curses and endearments under his breath in a way only he could ever pull off. No one is as simultaneously sweet and sharp as Bones.

McCoy reacts to every touch, arching and whimpering, clenching tight around Jim and rocking back smoothly against his every thrust. He was absolutely made to be fucked.

They’re both a little dazed afterward, and Jim is a massive cuddler, which means he ends up plastered along the length of McCoy’s long, lean body, his nose pressed to his neck. McCoy clings, too, murmuring sleepily and turning into Jim’s warmth. Jim is half-asleep when he does it. His hands have been stroking McCoy, alternately sliding down sharp hips and over the curve of his ass, and his fingers trail absently down the crease of McCoy’s ass.

McCoy’s response is to immediately nudge back against the touch, mumbling, so Jim pushes in two fingers and finds him warm and loose and slick inside. McCoy makes a soft, broken little noise and jerks back onto Jim’s fingers.

“Holy shit,” whispers Jim, into the ambient hush of the room.

“Mmm,” mumbles McCoy, spreading his legs, his eyes flickering open to reveal pale green irises. “Jim. G’on.”

Jim slides his fingers in and out inexorably slow, dragging his knuckles over McCoy’s prostate and marvelling at every little twitch of McCoy’s hips as he bucks lazily into the pressure of Jim’s touch.

“Bones,” he says in a stage whisper, “Bones, prostate exams must be total hell for you.”

A laugh bubbles out of McCoy, and then Jim, index and middle fingers buried inside him, brushes his thumb over the soft skin of his perineum, and it turns into a choked whimper. He spreads his legs further and then thrusts up, but Jim thoroughly ignores his erection in favour of continuing his relentless massage.

McCoy comes without Jim laying a hand on his dick.


He should probably avoid doing this while Bones is out cold, but Jim can’t resist. The glow of faint, creeping rays of sunlight wake him at 0543, because Jim neglected to polarize the window before they passed out and he’s so accustomed to sleeping in total darkness that the gradual lightening of the sky is as glaring as the lights set at 100 percent.

It doesn’t actually occur to him right away.

He gets up to adjust the lighting to something more like cave-darkness as opposed to cheerful blindness, and then wanders to the adjoining bathroom to take a piss. It's when he’s standing in front of the mirror, naked, scratching his ass and humming absently, that he actually remembers the drawer.

There’s a crash of melodramatic thunder in his mind.

“No,” he says aloud, in a hissed whisper, glaring himself down in the mirror. “Just let it go, Kirk. He told you to drop it.”

Approximately six seconds later, he’s belly-crawling along the ‘Fleet-issued cord carpet toward the bedside table. McCoy is snoring lightly, sprawled motionless on the mattress. For a moment, there is utter stillness in the room as Jim slithers up alongside the storage unit and then rises over the edge of the bed like a creature emerging from the black lagoon. McCoy-centric observation proceeds for the next thirty seconds as Jim watches the steady rise and fall of his chest, only the top of his head visible, and then he disappears below once more.

The drawer opens smoothly. Jim stares hard into its secret depths, cursing his night vision as his eyes adjust.

Then, shark-like, he smiles.


Weekly poker provides the perfect excuse.

They never bet for money, because neither of them is exactly swimming in credits, but they bet favours and dares and bottles of booze.

“Week of laundry,” says McCoy, pushing a datachip into the pot.

Jim has an absolutely amazing hand. It’s so perfect he could cry. Instead, he keeps his expression neutral. “I see your week of laundry, and raise you an unnamed sexual favour.”

McCoy, for his part, doesn’t immediately throw an annoyed fit. He raises an eyebrow, obviously suspicious, and drawls, “I think you must assume my mama raised a moron, kid.”

Jim just smiles. “Is that the sound of you folding?”

McCoy stares. Then he sighs. He flips his cards out and says, with satisfaction, “Flush.”

“Full house,” says Jim, spreading out his own cards with a flourish.

“I’ll be damned,” says McCoy, eyebrows inching up high, forehead creasing in bewilderment. Then his expression turns to one of mild horror, and Jim would even swear he pales a little. “Shit.”


The plug is large and ribbed, with a wide, flared base.

Actually getting McCoy to drop his pants and bend over takes a great deal of sweet-talk and patience, and Jim admits that wearing a grin the size of the Grand Canyon does nothing to help matters, but eventually the pants go down and McCoy props himself up nervously over the edge of Jim’s desk. Jim spends ten slow minutes stretching him open, one hand clutching McCoy’s tense hip as he works his fingers into the tight, slick heat of his body.

McCoy is making a commendable, concentrated effort to avoid making any noise, but Jim feels the shudder that ripples through him when he slides the plug inside, and McCoy swallows a breath as he gets shakily to his feet. He’s already flushed and he’s fidgeting on the spot as he struggles to find a way to stand that doesn’t press the damn thing directly against his prostate.

“This is not a good idea,” says McCoy unsteadily. He pulls up his boxers and snaps the waistband against his hips, then sucks in another startled breath. “I’m going to be half-hard all day.”

Jim watches him pull on his uniform pants, bending awkwardly with a low groan. “You’ll be sitting for most of the day,” offers Jim, as if this makes things more manageable. “Just hold something over your lap if you’ve got a boner.”

McCoy grunts and wrestles his sweater on, doing an awkward little dance as he tucks it into his pants. There’s a thousand-mile stare going on in McCoy’s hazy eyes, an unfocused, absent-minded sort of look that makes Jim want to do something risky.

“Here,” says Jim, handing him his jacket. “You’ll be fine, Bones. I’m really disappointed you don’t own one that vibrates, though.”

“You’re just lucky I didn’t shove it down your throat when I realized you’d stolen the damn thing,” mutters McCoy, violently zipping up his jacket and giving Jim a flustered, half-hearted glare.

“You agreed, fair and square,” declares Jim unnecessarily, for the fifth time. “Keep your communicator on. I’ll be texting you all day for updates. Lunch?”

“Yeah,” says McCoy reluctantly, collecting his bag and swinging it over his shoulder, deliberately hitting Jim in the chest. “I’ve got to check on some cultures after forensic psych, so I’ll meet you in the mess around 1300 hours. That is, if I haven’t already died of humiliation sometime during the morning.”

“It’s meatloaf today!” cries Jim, incongruously, and slaps McCoy hard on the ass as he leaves.


James T. Kirk sent to Leonard H. McCoy
Bones. Bones. Hey Bones, hey. I wrote you a poem.

Leonard H. McCoy sent to James T. Kirk
Dear Jim. While I sometimes love and respect you as a person, there aren’t actually enough words in the English language to express how little I want to talk to you right now.

James T. Kirk sent to Leonard H. McCoy
Bones. Bones. BonesBonesBones Bones Boooooooones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bones Bo

James T. Kirk sent to Leonard H. McCoy
nes Bones Bones Bones

Leonard H. McCoy sent to James T. Kirk
Please stop. For the love of all that is good and holy, stop all this now.

James T. Kirk sent to Leonard H. McCoy
This could all be avoided if you just listened to my poem.

Leonard H. McCoy sent to James T. Kirk
I can’t listen to your poem.

James T. Kirk sent to Leonard H. McCoy
FINE get your panties in a twist over semantics if that’ll make you feel better. Allow me to restate: this could all be avoided if you just READ my poem.

Leonard H. McCoy sent to James T. Kirk
This could all be avoided if you could mind your business and stay out of other people’s shit.

James T. Kirk sent to Leonard H. McCoy
Oh come on, Bones, as IF this has been entirely a hardship for you. I don’t recall you complaining when I had my fingers in your ass. Even I can’t manage prostate-only orgasms. I felt like the Casanova of anal sex.

Leonard H. McCoy sent to James T. Kirk

James T. Kirk sent to Leonard H. McCoy
It’s a haiku. Prepare yourself.

Are you ready?

I want to make sure you’re in the right state of mind. Okay. JIM’S AWESOME HAIKU:

Oh Bones, ass so fine / Love to stick my dick in you / Don’t ever wear pants.

Leonard H. McCoy sent to James T. Kirk
It’s a wonder you’re not a published poet, Jim.

James T. Kirk sent to Leonard H. McCoy
So, that ass. That fine, aforementioned ass. Is there a distinct sensation of fullness? How’s it feeling?

Leonard H. McCoy sent to James T. Kirk

James T. Kirk sent to Leonard H. McCoy

Leonard H. McCoy sent to James T. Kirk
Jesus Jim what do you want me to say? I’ve got my bag over my lap and I can’t fucking sit still. I’m getting funny looks and my instructor has asked me, twice, if I need to take a leak.

James T. Kirk sent to Leonard H. McCoy
HE THOUGHT YOU WERE DOING THE PEE DANCE? Holy shit, you are my very favourite brave little soldier. BTW if you jerk off before I get my hands on you, I WILL KNOW.

Leonard H. McCoy sent to James T. Kirk
You are an appalling human being. I just asked Chapel what hell she was looking at. Her response: “Your face. I’ve never seen anyone turn that shade of red before.” She thinks I’m running a fever.

James T. Kirk sent to Leonard H. McCoy
You should tell her it’s a FEVER OF THE BLOOD

Leonard H. McCoy sent to James T. Kirk
There is an object that feels roughly the size and shape of a bowling ball up my ass, Jim. I keep making surprised noises when I move, and I’m hiding a raging hard-on. If you think I’m broadcasting these facts to the people I’m sitting with, then you’ve completely lost your mind and I'm having you committed.

James T. Kirk sent to Leonard H. McCoy
...Do you think the Academy monitors the text-only comm feeds?

Christopher Pike sent to James T. Kirk and Leonard H. McCoy
Yes, Kirk, it does. For the record, I hate you both.

Leonard H. McCoy sent to James T. Kirk
oh my fucking god ffffffuuuuucjkjfgll jim you have exactly one hour to get your sorry ass off-planet before I come find you and put my boot through your pelvis


When McCoy stomps into the mess hall just before 1300 hours, Jim manfully restrains himself from throwing his body under the table and assuming the crash position. McCoy stops in the middle of the room, looking around for Jim, and every single person that would’ve otherwise shouted “You’re in the way, dickbag!” takes one look at the expression of malevolent rage on his face and decides that today is not the day to die.

It could be argued that Jim doesn’t actually have a self-preservation instinct, because he sits up in his seat, waves, and bellows, “BONES, OVER HERE,” but really, McCoy was looking for him anyway, and when McCoy is looking for Jim, he always finds him, sooner or later. There’s no point in delaying the inevitable. Jim likes to meet things head-on, even if those things are actually just one thing which is now stalking toward him with a definite limp and a distinct miasma of lingering hatred.

McCoy flops down hard into his seat, which is a mistake.

“Oh my fuck,” he groans, his hips bucking off the chair. His face reddens into that impossible shade Chapel so astutely observed, and Jim can’t actually help the grin that obnoxiously forces its way across his face.

Improbably, McCoy face darkens even further. He looks delectably dishevelled, and he is definitely doing some highly-sexual variant of the school-age I-need-to-pee dance in his chair.

“Jim,” he says hoarsely, and then swallows, his throat bobbing. Jim watches in eager fascination, and leans in. “Please,” adds McCoy, his face spasming as his emotions clash violently with his words. “I can’t take this all afternoon. I can’t actually take this one more second.”

Jim’s grin slides just that fraction of an inch wider. “I believe we discussed terms.”

“No,” growls McCoy, his fractured remnants of composure slipping badly. “No, you requested an ‘unnamed sexual favour’ and I thought you wanted a blowjob, or something, Jim, I didn’t expect –”

“How hard are you?” interrupts Jim.

“Jim,” says McCoy tightly, his hands clenched into fists on the table. His eyes are dark, glassy and dazed, and his pupils are completely invisible. He just sits rigidly, glowering, so Jim has no other choice; he shoves his hand into McCoy’s lap and gropes him through his pants.

McCoy’s hips thrust up and he very quickly bites off a startled, desperate little noise that sounds like a plea. “Jim,” he repeats, frantically. He’s very, very hard. His erection is hot through the artificial fabric of his uniform trousers, and he spreads his legs instinctively.

“I’m surprised you’re getting enough blood flow to your head to even blush that much,” says Jim, in awe.

“We are going back to your room,” states McCoy, in a paper-thin voice.

“Not yours?” teases Jim. “You’re the one with the sex-drawer, Bones.”

“Yours is closer,” snaps McCoy. “And if you want any sort of sex at all, we need to get there before I come in my fucking pants and be done with this whole fiasco.”

“I see your point,” admits Jim, already on his feet.

McCoy is suddenly halfway across the room. “Hurry the fuck up, Jim, or I’m starting without you!” he calls over his shoulder.

Jim waves to the rubberneckers as he bolts after McCoy. “Yeah, it’s probably exactly what you’re thinking. Bon appétit, assholes!”


They make it two steps into the room, and then Jim slings an arm around McCoy’s waist as they neck eagerly, shoves all his weight into his body, and brings them both to the floor.

“Pants,” gasps McCoy, wriggling under Jim like a panicked fish. “Jim, get your elbow out of my face.”

Jim flails a bit and stumbles backward, tripping over his own boots, until he can push McCoy’s legs apart, crouching between them as his fingers dive for the fly of his pants. McCoy is sprawled on his back, already looking impressively debauched, as Jim tugs his pants down and then off, scooting right up until his hips are flush with McCoy’s ass.

“Half-dressed floor-sex,” comments McCoy, looking up at Jim through muddy, half-lidded eyes. “You sure know how to woo a guy.”

“Woo?” asks Jim incredulously. He shoves his own pants down to his thighs, grabs McCoy by the ankles, and pulls his legs over his shoulder. “Are you actually from the past? Bones. If you wanted flowers and dinner-and-a-movie and awkward kiss good night, you should’ve asked. Remember when we talked about asking for what you want?”

“Why get romantic when anal sex exists?” grumps McCoy, hooking his ankles together behind Jim’s head and tugging him down closer. “I wouldn’t object to getting a nice dinner out of this, though.”

“How do you feel about omelettes?” asks Jim, fumbling with the lube. He gets a massive spot of it on his crumpled pants, and curses creatively. “I make a mean –”

“Jim,” snaps McCoy, warningly. He sits up on his elbows, his thigh-muscles tense, which brings his erection up close enough to bump into Jim’s stomach. Jim pauses, mouth hanging open, enthralled, and into the suddenly quiet room comes the sound of lubricant farting noisily out of the tube into Jim’s hand.

McCoy groans in horror and lets himself collapse back, head thumping against the floor. He’s about to threaten Jim with chemical castration when Jim’s fingers, cold and slick, brush against the throbbing, sensitive flesh of his ass. He jerks and whines when Jim twists the base of the plug, angling it deeper before sliding it out of his body entirely and then inching it back in with slow, patient precision.

“Oh fuck,” whispers McCoy, swallowing hard and thrusting weakly.

“Easy,” croons Jim, pinning McCoy’s hips with his other hand, fingers slippery with lube.

McCoy sighs a little, when Jim finally slips the plug free, but then Jim slicks himself up with wet, obscene noises, readjusts their bodies, and, with a long shared breath, fills McCoy completely. There’s a perfect, satisfied moment of tranquillity, and then Jim leans over McCoy, hands braced on the floor on either side of his head, and rocks into him so hard McCoy cries out, back arching into the thrust.

“Like I was saying,” says Jim tightly, chewing on his lower lip. He calmly observes McCoy, how he squirms against him, ass nudging the cradle of his hips, and ducks his head into the juncture between shoulder and neck.

McCoy’s hands come up, one burying aimlessly in Jim’s hair, the other settling at the nape of his neck protectively. “Like you were saying?” prompts McCoy, grunting, his cock jutting up hot and aching between them.

“Omelettes,” prompts Jim.

“Right,” mutters McCoy. “You make a mean one.”

“Which leads me to my next thought,” explains Jim, balancing the weight of his body on one arm. He uses his free hand to wrap around McCoy’s dick.

“Which is?” gasps McCoy, flushing hot as he grinds up.

“I can’t do dinner,” says Jim, using the tip of a finger to tease the slit of McCoy’s erection. “But I can sure as fuck do breakfast.”

The unspoken you should stay the night hangs in the air between them awkwardly, accusingly fragile.

“If you think I’m doing a walk of shame in this uniform today, you’re sorely mistaken,” grumbles McCoy, shutting his eyes as he writhes and clutches at Jim’s wrinkled shirt. Jim rolls his hips, once, twice, and McCoy clenches around him, shudders, and comes with a sob. Jim comes on the upswing, snapping his hips into the heat of McCoy’s willing body.

“Then you’ll stay for breakfast?” asks Jim breathlessly, still inside McCoy, pinning him possessively.

“It’s still only the middle of the afternoon,” whines McCoy, covering his face with his hands.

“I fail to see why that matters,” says Jim, his body immovable.

“You would. Yes, Jim, Jesus H. Christ, I’ll fucking stay,” slurs McCoy, letting his legs unlock and wrap more loosely around Jim’s waist. He pats Jim’s hip vaguely. “But if you don’t get off me, my spine is going to snap like a goddamn stalk of asparagus.”

“Shower?” says Jim, brightly.

McCoy groans.

Tags: fandom: bones and jim are space married, fanfic: star trek, fanfiction: all fic, film: star trek, genre: slash, pairing: kirk/mccoy, rating: nc-17, setting: st aos
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