FIC: NC17 - Crush - 1/3
Title: Crush 1/3
Author: sangueuk
Rating: nc-17
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy (AOS)
Wordcount: 7,000 words complete
Summary: Bones has a crush on his captain and it’s driving him crazy.He needs a plan of action to free him from this obsession.
Warnings: a heady, melodramatic mix of masturbation, angsting,a whiff of crack, and shameless romance.
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: This is my first time posting in this fandom and I’m exceptionally nervous so be gentle with me! Since it’s my first time, I have lots of thanking to do:
Many thanks to the lovely, patient thalialunacy for sterling beta work, in the face of Britishisms aplenty and punctuation crimes, she ploughed through and made this baby fit for human consumption.
Thanks to blcwriter for her response to my movie review on my livejournal which gave birth to a bunny which resulted in the final scene!
Thanks to lindmere for general inspiration and encouragement to post.
Thanks to inell for introducing me to this pairing and changing my life because I got the writing bug again. Big time after a very long fallow period.
And I also want to thank awarrington for her soothing and encouraging words and for fixing all the messy formatting with such patience!
intriguing snippet:
Bones, you’re wound pretty tight these days. Something you want to tell me?”
What could he possibly say? I love you, you blonde-haired pretty boy? I can’t sleep ‘cause you’re driving me crazy?
Also posted at: Archive of our Own and The Kirk/McCoy Archive
Crush 1/3
McCoy wasn’t quite sure when precisely he had fallen in love with his Captain.
All he knew was that now wasn’t the time to tell him.
He managed to open his eyes for a blinding moment and breathe in the sight of James T. Kirk on his knees before him, a gold-sleeved arm resting half on McCoy’s thigh, half on the sickbay bed while his left hand gently teased McCoy’s cock in and out of his delicate mouth.
Words and sensations crowded McCoy’s mind and body like lemmings on a cliff. Heat shot erratically through his thighs, his back, his neck and fuck he needed more friction. While he didn’t dare touch Jim, or move, one part of him wouldn’t lay down - his hectoring, irritable, wakeful mind.
“Harder, Jim, suck me harder, dammit!” he hissed, unable to shut up.
The captain obeyed and McCoy shuddered with relief and fear, jarring his neck as he leaned back on his hands for balance, the bed’s height and the awkward angle preventing him from humping forwards and meeting Jim halfway.
And, despite his body being in heaven, if heaven was indeed a place that offered such torment, his huge brain wouldn’t shut up, noticing the way Jim gripped his cock, ran his tongue from base to tip in long, lazy strokes, how he puffed almost imperceptible little breaths at the tip - McCoy understood this was fuck talk for ‘I’m in charge here,’ and McCoy might as well give it up.
Well, if Jim was going to pull rank at a time like this, McCoy knew to cut his losses. He was a doctor, after all, not a fucking marathon runner. So, with the quiet desperation of an animal led to sacrifice, McCoy stepped into the current of not knowing what would happen or when it would happen.
The why, he thought, because after all it was his spirit and body giving in, never his mind, was too many shades of complicated to think about here, with this hot, hot mouth on him and those assured hands driving him crazy by tickling his balls and running torturous strokes between his cheeks.
McCoy feared his wrists would snap like gantries in an earthquake; the thinking-half of his body strained for escape while the feeling-half, miraculously centered on his groin, had his thighs canting forwards and upwards to the inferno that was Jim’s miraculous, Jesus talented mouth.
Was there anything this bastard was bad at?
If only he could free his hands, he’d be able to cover his ears and block out the sounds from below him, the gentle moans and the whispered warning of “Stay still, Bones, or I’ll bite ya!”
He sure as hell didn’t want to do anything to stop these sensations gripping his cock, which, frankly, he thought had died from lack of use. This was what it must be like to be cooked, he groaned to himself, as the heat slowly, painfully, irreversibly changed him.
Shit. He wasn’t going to last long.
His plan of action-for, after all, some of this military stuff had been bound to rub off on him-was that he wouldn’t look down. He could do this - He could keep his eyes squeezed shut even if they tried to gasp open in response to a captainly nail raking at his balls-- He could do this, yes, he could focus on the ceiling, anywhere but on that face… That is, if he was going to last any length of time, and prove to Jim that he did have some control and that he was an adult, dammit, not a damp-eared pup.
McCoy was amazed that he could hear anything above the sound of the blood rushing in his head; he could make out his own uneven breaths, the distant slopping from below, and even, damn Jim, the odd chuckle.
And it didn’t escape his attention that Kirk was keeping it simple. Little variety needed, McCoy thought grimly, what with all this gratitude tipping the balance of power Kirk’s way.
God, they might get caught. That annoying, exciting, thought almost drove McCoy over the edge; all the heat in the universe threatened to…
Stop thinking, he chided and…what was that sound? Was that him? Those choking breaths…. building to a sharp rhythm… any second now.
“Jim, I…Christ, that’s good…harder…I…I need…”
He willed Jim’s mouth harder around himself with each inhalation, shifted awkwardly on the bed, needing that release, just that one extra moment to get him….
Don’t look, don’t! But the image of Jim’s half-closed eyes, charcoal eyelashes and moist, pink lips had, in a mere moment, flashed like an explosion and irrevocably seared his retinas.
The part of McCoy’s brain that hadn’t abandoned him feared he’d never be able to remove the ghost image when…oh… he needed to just concentrate, and…
“Close. Close…”
Oh…he’d peeked again, and their eyes connected for a split second and he could hear himself moaning, one hand reaching out for Jim’s face, his hair, anything…
“Fuck, Jim. Fuck.”
Damn him, how did he manage to still look like he was in charge when he was on his knees like this, sucking him hard… how?
“McCoy? Kirk here.”
“Shit!”
And it was like he’d run into a wall.
McCoy looked now and grimaced at the sight of his rapidly deflating cock in his own hand, his feet hanging pathetically off the side of the biobed.
No Jim, just him, alone and wretched.
A lump the size of an asteroid lodged in his throat so that the words he needed, which might have brought him back to the world of the rational and functioning, couldn’t elbow their way past to his mouth.
“Doctor?”
“Yes, Captain. Jim? Sir,” he managed to croak while clumsily tucking his cock back into his underpants with a wince. What was Kirk doing up at this hour? It was 3am.
And Sir? Could he have been anymore pathetic?
Dry mouthed, McCoy tucked himself in, wiped his hand, slid off the bed, adjusted his pants, and threw the tissue in the incinerator. “Computer, turn on visual.”
Cornflower eyes shone back. “Something wrong, Bones? ,” Kirk indicated his own face. “You seem a little red. Caught the sun?”
It didn’t escape McCoy’s attention that the Captain was smirking. Nor that his pupils seemed heavily dilated - Perhaps he’d been asleep, only just turned his reading light on. But McCoy wasn’t about to invade a fellow crew-member’s privacy and ask a bunch of stupid questions.
“Dropped my tricorder under the bed.” McCoy cleared his throat and forced his face into what he vaguely remembered a smile felt like. “Got a head rush.” He ran his hand across a slightly clammy forehead, unsticking a few strands of hair.
He saw that Kirk was in his quarters and in civvies. “Now, Captain,” he snarled, “do you have something to ask me? If you haven’t, permission to get on with my busy, busy day?”
****
McCoy wasn’t sure how he’d ended up in the gym. Could he blame a wrong turn and a sleep-deprived brain? A wrong turn comprised of two decks upwards and a walk along a mile of corridor?
It was half an hour till he was due on shift, but he’d found himself restless and waiting in his quarters. Seemed all he did was wait to fall asleep, wait to go to sickbay, and wait for this infatuation to leave him.
He knew it would. What he needed to do was ride it out, break its spirit.
And now, Leonard, you’re talking to yourself again.
From the upper level, McCoy scanned the half-empty gym.
And an infatuation doesn’t have a spirit. Ok?
He needed a good night’s sleep, was all. When was the last time he’d had one of those? Years of medical practice had taught McCoy to grab his rest when he could, and short, quality, comatose naps were one of the reasons he managed to stay as sharp as he did. Well, until some filthy airborne space virus had entered his brain and turned him into a schoolgirl overnight.
He’d have to do something about this. He needed to sleep - or his patients would be in danger.
Or he’d break his penis.
He rolled his eyes, feeling quite the idiot, in the middle of the gym, in his uniform.
He approached the lower-level and could make out a holovid landscape of immense flatness, wheat field after wheat field, with a slight breeze…and his chest tightened a little at the sight of his captain running on the treadmill, the incline set high, clenching his fists as he struggled through the latter stages of another very long run.
He had his back to McCoy; all the better to soak up the view of his ass and the bare legs scissoring up an imaginary hill towards an imaginary peak.
Kind of at the same angle McCoy’s cock was struggling towards.
“Computer, level 2,” he heard Jim pant. McCoy took two more long strides towards his captain, and in the few precious seconds it afforded him, he put that photographic memory of his to good use, making a mental note of each detail: each hair at Jim’s nape, the shifts in muscular tension as Jim’s shoulders dropped a little and the treadmill slowed by degrees... the exact width and curve of Jim’s right tricep as he leaned forward and grasped for the hem of the black wife-beater to pull it up to his forehead, exposing a glimpse of pale, golden hip above slouchy shorts.
And then McCoy and his teenage cock where caught out again.
He had hoped he’d be able to walk to the captain’s side and casually nod, all business-like, but he’d hesitated, not wanting to make Kirk jump, planning to wait for the walking part of the work out; if he made Jim jump, he might have caused an accident, after all, and while it was tempting to have another excuse to patch Jim up and get real close, really--despite the fact that his brain had been crowded out by the cock virus (or as he was fond of calling it, colomna erecta)--McCoy was ethical to the end.
When he wasn’t playing at being a school girl and… Shit!
No one should look like that, looking over their shoulder at a friend and fellow crew member: unshaven face flushed pink at the cheeks, eyes the color of innocence and daylight. He felt something lurch deep, deep in his belly, and he braced his legs and folded his hands across his chest to cover up the pounding heart.
“Bones!”
Was that pleasure in that tone? If only McCoy could ask Uhura; voice inflection wasn’t really his thing. He’d become an expert in being a jackass, instead.
“Everything okay?”
“You’re running too much, Jim.” His voice was gruff, ugly in this calm environment, the big skies in the holovid fading as the belt below Kirk’s feet stalled to a standstill. McCoy wondered if in someway being brought up among those vast spaces had prepared his friend for the emptiness of space.
“I..” Kirk looked at his feet. “I’ve got a lot of excess energy to work off these days.” He stepped to the floor, his eyes level with McCoy’s.
He didn’t need to explain. McCoy understood the tomcat had reined in. It was probably about focus, and being taken seriously, but it was also being fair to his crew. They loved him, any fool could tell that, and Kirk loved them right back - all equally - and with this fairness, although they hadn’t talked about it, came celibacy. It hadn’t escaped McCoy’s notice that Kirk drank less and partied not at all.
Running would help, McCoy understood that. If only he could find someway to re-direct his own annoying thoughts, McCoy wished, trying not to think about his captain jacking off in his quarters every night. “You need to give your muscles time to repair, adjust…”
Kirk furrowed his brow and chewed his bottom lip, mulling over McCoy’s comment. “But I need to stay in shape, it’s hard on this ship and,” Kirk leant forward so McCoy could feel his breath warm on his face for a split second, “Bones, I’m getting fat.”
Kirk stepped back again and, God help me, McCoy almost squeaked out when Kirk raised his wife beater just a little, revealing the pale line of hair disappearing into his shorts.
He was a doctor, he saw people naked all the time, he was detached a professional, and he positively did not have a hard on.
And, in his professional opinion, while it was true Jim wasn’t as defined as, say, Sulu, who worked out big time, his captain looked fine to him. Better whip the tricorder out, though, just to make the point more scientific. Medical rather than lascivious.
He ran the tricorder over Kirk’s belly, clenching his jaw so as to shut out the fire creeping around his body like unpredictable gunpowder, threatening to stir up his cock further if he took his eyes off the readings for even a moment.
“It’s hard staying in shape on this ship,” he stated, not sure whether it was best to confirm that according to his medical opinion, James Tiberius Kirk’s body mass index was perfect.
He could smell Kirk, a musky, post-work out sweat scent which must have been what he smelled like after sex, too. He straightened, saved the readings, and considered what it would be like to bury his face in that armpit and mark himself with the scent of his captain.
“Jim, you’re fine. You’re well within the percentile for your age and height. Go take a shower before someone hears you talking like that - you’re a captain of a starship, not a girl at a pajama party!”
Jim grinned, pulled a towel from the hand rest, and wiped his face, an action which, much to McCoy’s irritation, mussed up his hair in such a way as to make him look like he’d fallen from heaven.
Just when you thought you’d gotten it together again.
“Bones?”
Damn, Kirk’s hand was on McCoy’s arm again. It was as if he’d hotwired him in that simple gesture, a line of heat magicked from those perfect, long fingers straight to his chest.
He used to like that his friend was so tactile, a hugger, but lately it was getting to be a pain. Why couldn’t the bastard keep his hands to himself? If he’d pulled this kind of shit in Georgia, they’d’ve whooped his ass.
“Bones, you’re wound pretty tight these days. Something you want to tell me?”
What could he possibly say? I love you, you blond-haired pretty boy? I can’t sleep ‘cause you’re driving me crazy?
Somewhere, a small part of his brain still worked. “I don’t like this godforsaken ship, Captain.” He looked at Jim’s mouth, at the guileless expression, and he felt something well up in him. “I like what we do, shit, I believe in this mission. It’s just…”
Something inside him struggled to break out and he took an awkward step back from Jim, not quite sure where to stand.
Why was he there?
He’d said too much, too much for a sober man talking to another sober man in a public place, even a sober man with that expression on his face. He loved this about Jim, his natural compassion and care for his crew, for his friends. Blue eyes held him for a long moment and McCoy realized he’d zoned out, just for a second.
“You’re stir-crazy,” he heard Jim say.
For a moment, McCoy caught an imaginary glimpse of himself from above. A pathetic adolescent in a bitter, Autumnal body, a slight slouch due to being hunched over in an effort to hide a half-hard cock and, dammit, was that shortness of breath? Come on, you asshole! he goaded inwardly. Speak, dammit!
“Bones?”
McCoy had moved his gaze away from Kirk’s and now stared at the towel resting on Jim’s shoulder. He folded his arms tight just in case he found he’d leaned forward and taken it to wipe some drool from his own mouth.
Jim cocked his head. “Do I have something on my face?” He ran the towel across flushed cheeks and then his forehead-which was still glistening from the intense workout--mussing an eyebrow. Irritably, McCoy wondered what it would be like to lean over, spit on his thumb and fix it.
Kirk didn’t ask McCoy why he was in the gym; they were friends, after all. Instead, he tossed the towel at him with a grin. McCoy made no effort to hide his consternation when it hit him in the chest.
“Put that in the chute, would you?” And in the moment Jim turned his back on him, McCoy had balled the towel into his hand, and stood with his hands clasped behind his back watching the captain saunter to the turbo lift.
That night, McCoy came in agonized silence with his face buried in the towel, his lungs drawing out Jim’s scent, his lips searching the fibers for answers.
Afterwards, he kept his eyes shut, momentarily sated, temporarily calm. He wondered what it would be like to have that hard body sleeping beside him, to feel the bed move as he shifted in his sleep. He wondered if he would ever be cursed with wanting like this again.
To his disgust, he even considered keeping the towel in a sanitized bag somewhere in his room, then,-- “Dammit!” And he slung it into the laundry chute before he could change his mind.
part 2
Author: sangueuk
Rating: nc-17
Character/Pairing: Kirk/McCoy (AOS)
Wordcount: 7,000 words complete
Summary: Bones has a crush on his captain and it’s driving him crazy.He needs a plan of action to free him from this obsession.
Warnings: a heady, melodramatic mix of masturbation, angsting,a whiff of crack, and shameless romance.
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: This is my first time posting in this fandom and I’m exceptionally nervous so be gentle with me! Since it’s my first time, I have lots of thanking to do:
Many thanks to the lovely, patient thalialunacy for sterling beta work, in the face of Britishisms aplenty and punctuation crimes, she ploughed through and made this baby fit for human consumption.
Thanks to blcwriter for her response to my movie review on my livejournal which gave birth to a bunny which resulted in the final scene!
Thanks to lindmere for general inspiration and encouragement to post.
Thanks to inell for introducing me to this pairing and changing my life because I got the writing bug again. Big time after a very long fallow period.
And I also want to thank awarrington for her soothing and encouraging words and for fixing all the messy formatting with such patience!
intriguing snippet:
Bones, you’re wound pretty tight these days. Something you want to tell me?”
What could he possibly say? I love you, you blonde-haired pretty boy? I can’t sleep ‘cause you’re driving me crazy?
Also posted at: Archive of our Own and The Kirk/McCoy Archive
Crush 1/3
McCoy wasn’t quite sure when precisely he had fallen in love with his Captain.
All he knew was that now wasn’t the time to tell him.
He managed to open his eyes for a blinding moment and breathe in the sight of James T. Kirk on his knees before him, a gold-sleeved arm resting half on McCoy’s thigh, half on the sickbay bed while his left hand gently teased McCoy’s cock in and out of his delicate mouth.
Words and sensations crowded McCoy’s mind and body like lemmings on a cliff. Heat shot erratically through his thighs, his back, his neck and fuck he needed more friction. While he didn’t dare touch Jim, or move, one part of him wouldn’t lay down - his hectoring, irritable, wakeful mind.
“Harder, Jim, suck me harder, dammit!” he hissed, unable to shut up.
The captain obeyed and McCoy shuddered with relief and fear, jarring his neck as he leaned back on his hands for balance, the bed’s height and the awkward angle preventing him from humping forwards and meeting Jim halfway.
And, despite his body being in heaven, if heaven was indeed a place that offered such torment, his huge brain wouldn’t shut up, noticing the way Jim gripped his cock, ran his tongue from base to tip in long, lazy strokes, how he puffed almost imperceptible little breaths at the tip - McCoy understood this was fuck talk for ‘I’m in charge here,’ and McCoy might as well give it up.
Well, if Jim was going to pull rank at a time like this, McCoy knew to cut his losses. He was a doctor, after all, not a fucking marathon runner. So, with the quiet desperation of an animal led to sacrifice, McCoy stepped into the current of not knowing what would happen or when it would happen.
The why, he thought, because after all it was his spirit and body giving in, never his mind, was too many shades of complicated to think about here, with this hot, hot mouth on him and those assured hands driving him crazy by tickling his balls and running torturous strokes between his cheeks.
McCoy feared his wrists would snap like gantries in an earthquake; the thinking-half of his body strained for escape while the feeling-half, miraculously centered on his groin, had his thighs canting forwards and upwards to the inferno that was Jim’s miraculous, Jesus talented mouth.
Was there anything this bastard was bad at?
If only he could free his hands, he’d be able to cover his ears and block out the sounds from below him, the gentle moans and the whispered warning of “Stay still, Bones, or I’ll bite ya!”
He sure as hell didn’t want to do anything to stop these sensations gripping his cock, which, frankly, he thought had died from lack of use. This was what it must be like to be cooked, he groaned to himself, as the heat slowly, painfully, irreversibly changed him.
Shit. He wasn’t going to last long.
His plan of action-for, after all, some of this military stuff had been bound to rub off on him-was that he wouldn’t look down. He could do this - He could keep his eyes squeezed shut even if they tried to gasp open in response to a captainly nail raking at his balls-- He could do this, yes, he could focus on the ceiling, anywhere but on that face… That is, if he was going to last any length of time, and prove to Jim that he did have some control and that he was an adult, dammit, not a damp-eared pup.
McCoy was amazed that he could hear anything above the sound of the blood rushing in his head; he could make out his own uneven breaths, the distant slopping from below, and even, damn Jim, the odd chuckle.
And it didn’t escape his attention that Kirk was keeping it simple. Little variety needed, McCoy thought grimly, what with all this gratitude tipping the balance of power Kirk’s way.
God, they might get caught. That annoying, exciting, thought almost drove McCoy over the edge; all the heat in the universe threatened to…
Stop thinking, he chided and…what was that sound? Was that him? Those choking breaths…. building to a sharp rhythm… any second now.
“Jim, I…Christ, that’s good…harder…I…I need…”
He willed Jim’s mouth harder around himself with each inhalation, shifted awkwardly on the bed, needing that release, just that one extra moment to get him….
Don’t look, don’t! But the image of Jim’s half-closed eyes, charcoal eyelashes and moist, pink lips had, in a mere moment, flashed like an explosion and irrevocably seared his retinas.
The part of McCoy’s brain that hadn’t abandoned him feared he’d never be able to remove the ghost image when…oh… he needed to just concentrate, and…
“Close. Close…”
Oh…he’d peeked again, and their eyes connected for a split second and he could hear himself moaning, one hand reaching out for Jim’s face, his hair, anything…
“Fuck, Jim. Fuck.”
Damn him, how did he manage to still look like he was in charge when he was on his knees like this, sucking him hard… how?
“McCoy? Kirk here.”
“Shit!”
And it was like he’d run into a wall.
McCoy looked now and grimaced at the sight of his rapidly deflating cock in his own hand, his feet hanging pathetically off the side of the biobed.
No Jim, just him, alone and wretched.
A lump the size of an asteroid lodged in his throat so that the words he needed, which might have brought him back to the world of the rational and functioning, couldn’t elbow their way past to his mouth.
“Doctor?”
“Yes, Captain. Jim? Sir,” he managed to croak while clumsily tucking his cock back into his underpants with a wince. What was Kirk doing up at this hour? It was 3am.
And Sir? Could he have been anymore pathetic?
Dry mouthed, McCoy tucked himself in, wiped his hand, slid off the bed, adjusted his pants, and threw the tissue in the incinerator. “Computer, turn on visual.”
Cornflower eyes shone back. “Something wrong, Bones? ,” Kirk indicated his own face. “You seem a little red. Caught the sun?”
It didn’t escape McCoy’s attention that the Captain was smirking. Nor that his pupils seemed heavily dilated - Perhaps he’d been asleep, only just turned his reading light on. But McCoy wasn’t about to invade a fellow crew-member’s privacy and ask a bunch of stupid questions.
“Dropped my tricorder under the bed.” McCoy cleared his throat and forced his face into what he vaguely remembered a smile felt like. “Got a head rush.” He ran his hand across a slightly clammy forehead, unsticking a few strands of hair.
He saw that Kirk was in his quarters and in civvies. “Now, Captain,” he snarled, “do you have something to ask me? If you haven’t, permission to get on with my busy, busy day?”
****
McCoy wasn’t sure how he’d ended up in the gym. Could he blame a wrong turn and a sleep-deprived brain? A wrong turn comprised of two decks upwards and a walk along a mile of corridor?
It was half an hour till he was due on shift, but he’d found himself restless and waiting in his quarters. Seemed all he did was wait to fall asleep, wait to go to sickbay, and wait for this infatuation to leave him.
He knew it would. What he needed to do was ride it out, break its spirit.
And now, Leonard, you’re talking to yourself again.
From the upper level, McCoy scanned the half-empty gym.
And an infatuation doesn’t have a spirit. Ok?
He needed a good night’s sleep, was all. When was the last time he’d had one of those? Years of medical practice had taught McCoy to grab his rest when he could, and short, quality, comatose naps were one of the reasons he managed to stay as sharp as he did. Well, until some filthy airborne space virus had entered his brain and turned him into a schoolgirl overnight.
He’d have to do something about this. He needed to sleep - or his patients would be in danger.
Or he’d break his penis.
He rolled his eyes, feeling quite the idiot, in the middle of the gym, in his uniform.
He approached the lower-level and could make out a holovid landscape of immense flatness, wheat field after wheat field, with a slight breeze…and his chest tightened a little at the sight of his captain running on the treadmill, the incline set high, clenching his fists as he struggled through the latter stages of another very long run.
He had his back to McCoy; all the better to soak up the view of his ass and the bare legs scissoring up an imaginary hill towards an imaginary peak.
Kind of at the same angle McCoy’s cock was struggling towards.
“Computer, level 2,” he heard Jim pant. McCoy took two more long strides towards his captain, and in the few precious seconds it afforded him, he put that photographic memory of his to good use, making a mental note of each detail: each hair at Jim’s nape, the shifts in muscular tension as Jim’s shoulders dropped a little and the treadmill slowed by degrees... the exact width and curve of Jim’s right tricep as he leaned forward and grasped for the hem of the black wife-beater to pull it up to his forehead, exposing a glimpse of pale, golden hip above slouchy shorts.
And then McCoy and his teenage cock where caught out again.
He had hoped he’d be able to walk to the captain’s side and casually nod, all business-like, but he’d hesitated, not wanting to make Kirk jump, planning to wait for the walking part of the work out; if he made Jim jump, he might have caused an accident, after all, and while it was tempting to have another excuse to patch Jim up and get real close, really--despite the fact that his brain had been crowded out by the cock virus (or as he was fond of calling it, colomna erecta)--McCoy was ethical to the end.
When he wasn’t playing at being a school girl and… Shit!
No one should look like that, looking over their shoulder at a friend and fellow crew member: unshaven face flushed pink at the cheeks, eyes the color of innocence and daylight. He felt something lurch deep, deep in his belly, and he braced his legs and folded his hands across his chest to cover up the pounding heart.
“Bones!”
Was that pleasure in that tone? If only McCoy could ask Uhura; voice inflection wasn’t really his thing. He’d become an expert in being a jackass, instead.
“Everything okay?”
“You’re running too much, Jim.” His voice was gruff, ugly in this calm environment, the big skies in the holovid fading as the belt below Kirk’s feet stalled to a standstill. McCoy wondered if in someway being brought up among those vast spaces had prepared his friend for the emptiness of space.
“I..” Kirk looked at his feet. “I’ve got a lot of excess energy to work off these days.” He stepped to the floor, his eyes level with McCoy’s.
He didn’t need to explain. McCoy understood the tomcat had reined in. It was probably about focus, and being taken seriously, but it was also being fair to his crew. They loved him, any fool could tell that, and Kirk loved them right back - all equally - and with this fairness, although they hadn’t talked about it, came celibacy. It hadn’t escaped McCoy’s notice that Kirk drank less and partied not at all.
Running would help, McCoy understood that. If only he could find someway to re-direct his own annoying thoughts, McCoy wished, trying not to think about his captain jacking off in his quarters every night. “You need to give your muscles time to repair, adjust…”
Kirk furrowed his brow and chewed his bottom lip, mulling over McCoy’s comment. “But I need to stay in shape, it’s hard on this ship and,” Kirk leant forward so McCoy could feel his breath warm on his face for a split second, “Bones, I’m getting fat.”
Kirk stepped back again and, God help me, McCoy almost squeaked out when Kirk raised his wife beater just a little, revealing the pale line of hair disappearing into his shorts.
He was a doctor, he saw people naked all the time, he was detached a professional, and he positively did not have a hard on.
And, in his professional opinion, while it was true Jim wasn’t as defined as, say, Sulu, who worked out big time, his captain looked fine to him. Better whip the tricorder out, though, just to make the point more scientific. Medical rather than lascivious.
He ran the tricorder over Kirk’s belly, clenching his jaw so as to shut out the fire creeping around his body like unpredictable gunpowder, threatening to stir up his cock further if he took his eyes off the readings for even a moment.
“It’s hard staying in shape on this ship,” he stated, not sure whether it was best to confirm that according to his medical opinion, James Tiberius Kirk’s body mass index was perfect.
He could smell Kirk, a musky, post-work out sweat scent which must have been what he smelled like after sex, too. He straightened, saved the readings, and considered what it would be like to bury his face in that armpit and mark himself with the scent of his captain.
“Jim, you’re fine. You’re well within the percentile for your age and height. Go take a shower before someone hears you talking like that - you’re a captain of a starship, not a girl at a pajama party!”
Jim grinned, pulled a towel from the hand rest, and wiped his face, an action which, much to McCoy’s irritation, mussed up his hair in such a way as to make him look like he’d fallen from heaven.
Just when you thought you’d gotten it together again.
“Bones?”
Damn, Kirk’s hand was on McCoy’s arm again. It was as if he’d hotwired him in that simple gesture, a line of heat magicked from those perfect, long fingers straight to his chest.
He used to like that his friend was so tactile, a hugger, but lately it was getting to be a pain. Why couldn’t the bastard keep his hands to himself? If he’d pulled this kind of shit in Georgia, they’d’ve whooped his ass.
“Bones, you’re wound pretty tight these days. Something you want to tell me?”
What could he possibly say? I love you, you blond-haired pretty boy? I can’t sleep ‘cause you’re driving me crazy?
Somewhere, a small part of his brain still worked. “I don’t like this godforsaken ship, Captain.” He looked at Jim’s mouth, at the guileless expression, and he felt something well up in him. “I like what we do, shit, I believe in this mission. It’s just…”
Something inside him struggled to break out and he took an awkward step back from Jim, not quite sure where to stand.
Why was he there?
He’d said too much, too much for a sober man talking to another sober man in a public place, even a sober man with that expression on his face. He loved this about Jim, his natural compassion and care for his crew, for his friends. Blue eyes held him for a long moment and McCoy realized he’d zoned out, just for a second.
“You’re stir-crazy,” he heard Jim say.
For a moment, McCoy caught an imaginary glimpse of himself from above. A pathetic adolescent in a bitter, Autumnal body, a slight slouch due to being hunched over in an effort to hide a half-hard cock and, dammit, was that shortness of breath? Come on, you asshole! he goaded inwardly. Speak, dammit!
“Bones?”
McCoy had moved his gaze away from Kirk’s and now stared at the towel resting on Jim’s shoulder. He folded his arms tight just in case he found he’d leaned forward and taken it to wipe some drool from his own mouth.
Jim cocked his head. “Do I have something on my face?” He ran the towel across flushed cheeks and then his forehead-which was still glistening from the intense workout--mussing an eyebrow. Irritably, McCoy wondered what it would be like to lean over, spit on his thumb and fix it.
Kirk didn’t ask McCoy why he was in the gym; they were friends, after all. Instead, he tossed the towel at him with a grin. McCoy made no effort to hide his consternation when it hit him in the chest.
“Put that in the chute, would you?” And in the moment Jim turned his back on him, McCoy had balled the towel into his hand, and stood with his hands clasped behind his back watching the captain saunter to the turbo lift.
That night, McCoy came in agonized silence with his face buried in the towel, his lungs drawing out Jim’s scent, his lips searching the fibers for answers.
Afterwards, he kept his eyes shut, momentarily sated, temporarily calm. He wondered what it would be like to have that hard body sleeping beside him, to feel the bed move as he shifted in his sleep. He wondered if he would ever be cursed with wanting like this again.
To his disgust, he even considered keeping the towel in a sanitized bag somewhere in his room, then,-- “Dammit!” And he slung it into the laundry chute before he could change his mind.
part 2