His Eyes(2/3); hard R; Star Trek XI
Title: His Eyes
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: hard R (remembering sex, wanking, language)
Summary: Bones goes home, but he can't stop thinking.
Word Count: 2124
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I pretend to!
Author's Notes: This is a sequel to His Lips, and at first I intended this to be a two-part story but as I wrote this part, I realized that it would make much more sense divided into three than squished into two. So here is part two, from Bones' point of view.
"Dammit." the curse is hissed into the darkness after Bones shuts himself in his apartment, twisting the locks and taking a slight pleasure in the safe clunks as they slide into place. He leans back against the door, putting a hand to his forehead and groaning. He's still lightheaded from the booze and the whole orgasm thing, which he really doesn't want to think about. But of course, because he said he didn't want to think about it he thinks about it more. Earlier that night comes to mind, when it was Jim pressed up against the door and pulling him forward, fingers teasing at his collar and alighting his nerves in ways he was sure Jim couldn't imagine.
Bones' head fell with a clunk against the door as he let the fresh memories wash over him, letting himself feel the phantom touches of Jim's hands. He would probably never feel them again. Jim, touching his chest as he asked a question that Bones had been waiting- no, wishing- to hear. Jim, brushing his lips against his ear and saying his name and God, had that even really happened? Bones raked a hand through his hair as his eyes roamed the ceiling of his apartment, not really seeing because Jim was flashing in his mind and he was trying to decide if any of that had really happened.
And then he remembered Jim's eyes, half-lidded and peering up at him, the blue still amazingly bright even though the room was dark. Or maybe that was just his imagination. Jim's eyes, sparkling as he gasped, hips twitching and back arching as Bones stroked him. The slight confusion buried in his gaze that Bones had done his best to overlook when he had almost come in to mash their lips together. He'd gone for Jim's shoulder instead, pressing his forehead there and telling himself again, no kisses. Kisses were personal, kisses were important, kisses were filled with feelings. And he'd known Jim long enough to know that the last thing Jim wanted in sex was feelings. And of all the times Bones could see himself where he'd just been, making Jim come while chanting his name, the only way he could really see it, realistically(and even then- it wasn't really realistic) was making it so that Jim could just put it in his pile of unimportant one-night drunken fucks.
But then, Bones also suspected that if he did kiss Jim, he wouldn't have wanted to stop. Ever. That was why Bones had resigned to never letting it go that way, because it would never mean the same to both of them. Bones had always been(well, perhaps not always, but in his earlier years) a romantic, sensitive. Though he cringed to think of himself that way now, he couldn't deny that he still couldn't think of sex like Jim did. Sex was enjoyable, sure, but it meant something. Well, it was supposed to mean something. Not that he disapproved of Jim's lifestyle- well, okay, he did, but he only disapproved of the danger in it. The multitude of diseases that Jim was willingly walking into, it was enough to make Bones' skin crawl. But it was Jim's separation of feelings and sex that Bones couldn't handle.
He'd married his high school sweetheart- if that was an indication of anything, it was how amazingly stupid he used to be. She'd been the girl next door, probably one of his best friends growing up, and it was just natural for her to be his first crush, his first kiss, his first girlfriend, his first everything. And last, in more ways than one. His last kiss, he supposed now. He couldn’t see himself enjoying another kiss like that. When you’re so in love with somebody that you sort of just melt into them and your lips touch and it’s like, all is right with the world.
Those memories finally stir him from where he’d been resting against the door, finally flipping the lights on and heading for the bathroom. Memories that used to warm his heart only twist it even more now; things he thought he would always be glad for, he thought he would always enjoy reliving them, now only a reminder of why you should never let people in. Now they’re more like nightmares, making his stomach twist and lurch in pain he thought he’d forgotten. He should have forgotten it; it was nearly three years ago, now. But no, there was no way he could forget the woman that had slowly taken his heart from his chest, twisted it out of shape, drawn all warmth and goodness from it, then replaced it carefully, like none of it had really been her fault. No, the day he forgot that would be the day he died.
His fist hit the doorway into the bathroom, and he hadn’t really even meant to, but the sharp pain was a relief, in a way. Physical pain was easy, it was his game. He could punch a wall and scrape his knuckles or a kick a chair and break a toe; all easily mended in minutes, maybe even seconds. But this, the sharp clench of his heart when he let himself remember, there was no hypospray inoculation for this.
Ever since he could remember, Bones had wanted to be a doctor. When he was four, and his dog had been run over, and he’d watched the vet mend his leg. He could remember the warm, safe feeling of knowing that was your dream. When he was eight, and his cousin had come down with a bad fever, he had been the one to notice the rash creeping down his leg in time to knock the potentially-fatal “cure” from the town doctor’s hands. When he was thirteen, and he’d watched his mother slowly fade away from a disease that seemed too simple to be able to take anyone. Then, he had decided. He was going to be a doctor; he was going to save anyone he could from feeling the pain of watching your mother slowly fade to black.
He stripped slowly, still feeling sluggish in the effects of the shots he’d had what felt like days ago. Stepping into the shower, the hot stream beat down on his weary muscles and he groaned audibly.
His father owned a store; he had wanted his only son to learn about accounting and marketing and things like that. He’d wanted his Lenny to take the store after he was gone. And god, how he hated to see his father’s face, not angry, but sad, when he’d retold his dream of being a doctor with such fervor that it was impossible to not see the intense need behind it. He would have taken over the store, if only to make his father happy, but his father wasn’t stupid. Bones could never remember a time when he had disliked the man; he was always level-headed and reasonable, understanding to a fault. He wore his feelings on his sleeve, a trait Bones had never been good at. McCoy senior hadn’t wanted to sell the store- but he hadn’t wanted Leonard to spend his life doing something he wasn’t passionate about. Bones had always been grateful for that. If his father hadn’t pushed him to grasp at his dreams, he would never be where he was today. Well, perhaps it wasn’t his father’s deeds that made him enlist in Starfleet- but he would never be a doctor if he hadn’t received that push.
He hated this, hated thinking about all of this old news that he thought about every lonely night. His mother’s funeral when he was thirteen, his father’s when he was twenty three, his divorce when he was twenty five, and now… Bones paused. Did fucking Jim really count along with those horrible moments? No, certainly not. He was blowing this way out of proportion. But then, something surfaced. Maybe it wasn’t the fucking that was bad(no, definitely not bad), it was the best friendship he had ever known that was fucked. A shudder ran through him at that realization, the crushing heartbreak very nearly making his knees go weak. Bones stopped to catch his breath that seemed to have left him and frowned. That couldn’t be right, why did this hurt so much? Sure, Jim was his best friend. Sure, he’d been lusting after Jim for a while, but he’d resisted because he wanted to preserve the friendship between them. Then his heart gave a lurch when he realized that after promising himself to keep everybody out so that nobody else could hurt him, he’d gone and let the one person who didn’t really love anyone do just that. Why was it that he could never recognize potentially dangerous relationships until they had already gone and hurt him? This was so galactically, universally unfair and fuck, it hurt.
Jim. Jim. Fucking James Tiberius Kirk, with his thin hips and trim waist and broad shoulders and long neck and delicious lips and his goddamn, fucking eyes that were bluer than should be legal. Jim, his Jim. Sparkling blues beneath him on a bed, on Jim’s bed, asking, begging for more and fucking fuck, Bones thought he could probably come from sustained eye contact with Jim.
Bones fell against the side of the shower, licking his lips and wondering what Jim tasted like. He could see it so clearly now, a fantasy he had never really entertained, never really realized how very much he wanted it. Jim, his crystal blues boring into Bones’ unattractive browns, pressed against him. But not hard or flustered, just the gentle touch of bodies to feel the warmth of anothers' skin so that you can be sure you’re nowhere close to being alone in this great, big universe. His hands are on Jim’s hips, big and strong; and one of Jim’s thin hands is teasing the hairs at the back of his neck, the others touching skin lightly, just slipping under his collar. Jim’s giving him that look, that soft, insanely blue look that means nothing else matters, nothing else in the entire everything could ever matter as much as Bones does right now. That look that makes Bones’ mouth go dry and he leans forward, he can only do as his Jim wishes and softly, slowly brushes their lips together. Jim lets him set the pace, at first, slow enough to remember this whole thing exactly, but building, building. He gradually presses deeper, starting to move his lips and open them slightly, feeling Jim’s fingers pressing more intently into his hair. Then- momentum is building and he opens his mouth fully, and then Jim takes over and slides his tongue languidly over Bones’ bottom lip, meeting his tongue and sliding over that, teasing Bones into fighting back, into playing the delicious fight for dominance that Jim can never really lose, no matter who ends up on top. And then his fingers are curling into Jim’s hips and Jim lets out a soft moan and his hips twitch forward and Bones groans and pushes his hips back.
He hears himself groan out loud and it stirs him from his trance, eyes blinking open slowly as he realized he was imagining it all(very vividly), and he’s hard, now. He sighs and resolves that it’s nearly four AM anyway; he’s too tired to keep thinking about this, and it’s probably a good idea to just go sleep it off and figure out whatever it is he needs to figure out in the morning.
So as his hand sneaks down his body and takes a hold of himself he lets his head drop back and he lets himself think about Jim. Jim, writhing beneath him, so tight and hot around his dick, chanting his name. Bones, Bones, Bones, Bones! Jim, staring up at him and saying his name with such an intense look that his body shudders as he comes.
Bones finishes his shower hastily after that, toweling himself off and just dropping the used towel on the floor. Usually, he likes to keep things clean and neat, but tonight he doesn’t care. He pulls on a pair of boxers and falls into bed, barely even pulling the blanket over him before he’s out.
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Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: hard R (remembering sex, wanking, language)
Summary: Bones goes home, but he can't stop thinking.
Word Count: 2124
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I pretend to!
Author's Notes: This is a sequel to His Lips, and at first I intended this to be a two-part story but as I wrote this part, I realized that it would make much more sense divided into three than squished into two. So here is part two, from Bones' point of view.
"Dammit." the curse is hissed into the darkness after Bones shuts himself in his apartment, twisting the locks and taking a slight pleasure in the safe clunks as they slide into place. He leans back against the door, putting a hand to his forehead and groaning. He's still lightheaded from the booze and the whole orgasm thing, which he really doesn't want to think about. But of course, because he said he didn't want to think about it he thinks about it more. Earlier that night comes to mind, when it was Jim pressed up against the door and pulling him forward, fingers teasing at his collar and alighting his nerves in ways he was sure Jim couldn't imagine.
Bones' head fell with a clunk against the door as he let the fresh memories wash over him, letting himself feel the phantom touches of Jim's hands. He would probably never feel them again. Jim, touching his chest as he asked a question that Bones had been waiting- no, wishing- to hear. Jim, brushing his lips against his ear and saying his name and God, had that even really happened? Bones raked a hand through his hair as his eyes roamed the ceiling of his apartment, not really seeing because Jim was flashing in his mind and he was trying to decide if any of that had really happened.
And then he remembered Jim's eyes, half-lidded and peering up at him, the blue still amazingly bright even though the room was dark. Or maybe that was just his imagination. Jim's eyes, sparkling as he gasped, hips twitching and back arching as Bones stroked him. The slight confusion buried in his gaze that Bones had done his best to overlook when he had almost come in to mash their lips together. He'd gone for Jim's shoulder instead, pressing his forehead there and telling himself again, no kisses. Kisses were personal, kisses were important, kisses were filled with feelings. And he'd known Jim long enough to know that the last thing Jim wanted in sex was feelings. And of all the times Bones could see himself where he'd just been, making Jim come while chanting his name, the only way he could really see it, realistically(and even then- it wasn't really realistic) was making it so that Jim could just put it in his pile of unimportant one-night drunken fucks.
But then, Bones also suspected that if he did kiss Jim, he wouldn't have wanted to stop. Ever. That was why Bones had resigned to never letting it go that way, because it would never mean the same to both of them. Bones had always been(well, perhaps not always, but in his earlier years) a romantic, sensitive. Though he cringed to think of himself that way now, he couldn't deny that he still couldn't think of sex like Jim did. Sex was enjoyable, sure, but it meant something. Well, it was supposed to mean something. Not that he disapproved of Jim's lifestyle- well, okay, he did, but he only disapproved of the danger in it. The multitude of diseases that Jim was willingly walking into, it was enough to make Bones' skin crawl. But it was Jim's separation of feelings and sex that Bones couldn't handle.
He'd married his high school sweetheart- if that was an indication of anything, it was how amazingly stupid he used to be. She'd been the girl next door, probably one of his best friends growing up, and it was just natural for her to be his first crush, his first kiss, his first girlfriend, his first everything. And last, in more ways than one. His last kiss, he supposed now. He couldn’t see himself enjoying another kiss like that. When you’re so in love with somebody that you sort of just melt into them and your lips touch and it’s like, all is right with the world.
Those memories finally stir him from where he’d been resting against the door, finally flipping the lights on and heading for the bathroom. Memories that used to warm his heart only twist it even more now; things he thought he would always be glad for, he thought he would always enjoy reliving them, now only a reminder of why you should never let people in. Now they’re more like nightmares, making his stomach twist and lurch in pain he thought he’d forgotten. He should have forgotten it; it was nearly three years ago, now. But no, there was no way he could forget the woman that had slowly taken his heart from his chest, twisted it out of shape, drawn all warmth and goodness from it, then replaced it carefully, like none of it had really been her fault. No, the day he forgot that would be the day he died.
His fist hit the doorway into the bathroom, and he hadn’t really even meant to, but the sharp pain was a relief, in a way. Physical pain was easy, it was his game. He could punch a wall and scrape his knuckles or a kick a chair and break a toe; all easily mended in minutes, maybe even seconds. But this, the sharp clench of his heart when he let himself remember, there was no hypospray inoculation for this.
Ever since he could remember, Bones had wanted to be a doctor. When he was four, and his dog had been run over, and he’d watched the vet mend his leg. He could remember the warm, safe feeling of knowing that was your dream. When he was eight, and his cousin had come down with a bad fever, he had been the one to notice the rash creeping down his leg in time to knock the potentially-fatal “cure” from the town doctor’s hands. When he was thirteen, and he’d watched his mother slowly fade away from a disease that seemed too simple to be able to take anyone. Then, he had decided. He was going to be a doctor; he was going to save anyone he could from feeling the pain of watching your mother slowly fade to black.
He stripped slowly, still feeling sluggish in the effects of the shots he’d had what felt like days ago. Stepping into the shower, the hot stream beat down on his weary muscles and he groaned audibly.
His father owned a store; he had wanted his only son to learn about accounting and marketing and things like that. He’d wanted his Lenny to take the store after he was gone. And god, how he hated to see his father’s face, not angry, but sad, when he’d retold his dream of being a doctor with such fervor that it was impossible to not see the intense need behind it. He would have taken over the store, if only to make his father happy, but his father wasn’t stupid. Bones could never remember a time when he had disliked the man; he was always level-headed and reasonable, understanding to a fault. He wore his feelings on his sleeve, a trait Bones had never been good at. McCoy senior hadn’t wanted to sell the store- but he hadn’t wanted Leonard to spend his life doing something he wasn’t passionate about. Bones had always been grateful for that. If his father hadn’t pushed him to grasp at his dreams, he would never be where he was today. Well, perhaps it wasn’t his father’s deeds that made him enlist in Starfleet- but he would never be a doctor if he hadn’t received that push.
He hated this, hated thinking about all of this old news that he thought about every lonely night. His mother’s funeral when he was thirteen, his father’s when he was twenty three, his divorce when he was twenty five, and now… Bones paused. Did fucking Jim really count along with those horrible moments? No, certainly not. He was blowing this way out of proportion. But then, something surfaced. Maybe it wasn’t the fucking that was bad(no, definitely not bad), it was the best friendship he had ever known that was fucked. A shudder ran through him at that realization, the crushing heartbreak very nearly making his knees go weak. Bones stopped to catch his breath that seemed to have left him and frowned. That couldn’t be right, why did this hurt so much? Sure, Jim was his best friend. Sure, he’d been lusting after Jim for a while, but he’d resisted because he wanted to preserve the friendship between them. Then his heart gave a lurch when he realized that after promising himself to keep everybody out so that nobody else could hurt him, he’d gone and let the one person who didn’t really love anyone do just that. Why was it that he could never recognize potentially dangerous relationships until they had already gone and hurt him? This was so galactically, universally unfair and fuck, it hurt.
Jim. Jim. Fucking James Tiberius Kirk, with his thin hips and trim waist and broad shoulders and long neck and delicious lips and his goddamn, fucking eyes that were bluer than should be legal. Jim, his Jim. Sparkling blues beneath him on a bed, on Jim’s bed, asking, begging for more and fucking fuck, Bones thought he could probably come from sustained eye contact with Jim.
Bones fell against the side of the shower, licking his lips and wondering what Jim tasted like. He could see it so clearly now, a fantasy he had never really entertained, never really realized how very much he wanted it. Jim, his crystal blues boring into Bones’ unattractive browns, pressed against him. But not hard or flustered, just the gentle touch of bodies to feel the warmth of anothers' skin so that you can be sure you’re nowhere close to being alone in this great, big universe. His hands are on Jim’s hips, big and strong; and one of Jim’s thin hands is teasing the hairs at the back of his neck, the others touching skin lightly, just slipping under his collar. Jim’s giving him that look, that soft, insanely blue look that means nothing else matters, nothing else in the entire everything could ever matter as much as Bones does right now. That look that makes Bones’ mouth go dry and he leans forward, he can only do as his Jim wishes and softly, slowly brushes their lips together. Jim lets him set the pace, at first, slow enough to remember this whole thing exactly, but building, building. He gradually presses deeper, starting to move his lips and open them slightly, feeling Jim’s fingers pressing more intently into his hair. Then- momentum is building and he opens his mouth fully, and then Jim takes over and slides his tongue languidly over Bones’ bottom lip, meeting his tongue and sliding over that, teasing Bones into fighting back, into playing the delicious fight for dominance that Jim can never really lose, no matter who ends up on top. And then his fingers are curling into Jim’s hips and Jim lets out a soft moan and his hips twitch forward and Bones groans and pushes his hips back.
He hears himself groan out loud and it stirs him from his trance, eyes blinking open slowly as he realized he was imagining it all(very vividly), and he’s hard, now. He sighs and resolves that it’s nearly four AM anyway; he’s too tired to keep thinking about this, and it’s probably a good idea to just go sleep it off and figure out whatever it is he needs to figure out in the morning.
So as his hand sneaks down his body and takes a hold of himself he lets his head drop back and he lets himself think about Jim. Jim, writhing beneath him, so tight and hot around his dick, chanting his name. Bones, Bones, Bones, Bones! Jim, staring up at him and saying his name with such an intense look that his body shudders as he comes.
Bones finishes his shower hastily after that, toweling himself off and just dropping the used towel on the floor. Usually, he likes to keep things clean and neat, but tonight he doesn’t care. He pulls on a pair of boxers and falls into bed, barely even pulling the blanket over him before he’s out.
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