Present for xx_azure_sky_xx
Title: Hero Worship
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Kirk/McCoy
Warnings: hurt/comfort, sort of.
Recipient: xx_azure_sky_xx
McCoy watched it happen like it was slow motion. Maybe it was just the way his brain felt, buzzed and tired and a little bit numb. If his reflexes had been better, he might have yanked Kirk out of there, but he just stood there like he was a statue as Kirk pushed the biggest fucking guy in the bar. Of course, he just had to go looking for a fight with about the only person in the place who could really fuck him up.
McCoy wasn't a fighter. He could hold his own, sure, but he preferred to verbally abuse others, and if it got hairy he knew how to knock someone out quick. But Kirk, he loved a fight. He'd been antsy all night, always getting up and sitting down and drinking, drinking, drinking.
Now that big guy was turning around, and McCoy knew that Kirk's face was not gonna be pretty once the man had finished raising his huge fucking fist and he couldn't move, and Kirk just stood there sneering--
WHAM. Kirk went down like a sack of bricks and McCoy surged forward, pushing through the bodies between him and his friend. But before he could get there the guy pulled Kirk back to his feet and punched him again. His face was bleeding. Undeterred, Kirk kneed the other guy in the stomach and hit him in the face. He was kicking him down when McCoy managed to fist the back of his jacket and yank him backwards so hard they both fell back against the bar.
“Fuck, Bones,” Kirk hissed, shoving himself upright. “Can you mind your own damn business?” He ducked when the big guy swung at him again, but wasn't quick enough to dodge his second punch. It caught him in the stomach and McCoy could hear the air huff out of him, and watched as he fell onto all fours. McCoy stepped between the two of them, hoping to god that his nose wasn't about to get broken.
“Hey, man, he's had enough,” he said, his hands up in front of him like a surrender.
“I'll tell you when he's had enough,” the other man said, pushing McCoy aside. He pulled Kirk to his feet again, and said something McCoy couldn't hear. Kirk just laughed, and then head butted the other guy, which got him dropped quickly. But Kirk's upper hand had hardly begun when the other guy hit him square in the eye, leaving him defenseless as he hit him again. Kirk spit blood.
And McCoy wasn't a coward, no way, but he knew that if he didn't end this soon he'd be regenerating half Kirk's face. So he, despite all his own good sense, he grabbed the big guy around the neck and squeezed, his vision glazing over as he was hit, until the guy dropped.
Kirk looked at him like he'd ruined something, and McCoy had no idea what the hell he meant by it, but he pulled him to his feet all the same and bolted out of there before the big guy's friends could get his hands on them.
“What the fuck,” slurred Kirk as McCoy supported him their trek across campus back to their dorm at the Academy. “What the fuck did you do that for?” McCoy was struggling under Kirk's weight. He was groggy and they were both bloody and McCoy just didn't get it.
“Why did I stop you from getting your face broken? You know, I'm asking myself the same damn question.”
“I was handling it,” Kirk told him petulantly. “If I want my face to fucking get broken, then yeah. I'll do it.”
“I'm not gonna leave you when you're getting your ass kicked, even if you deserve it.”
“Whatever,” mumbled Kirk, groaning a little as they ascended the stairs at the front of their building and made their way into the lift.
“Jim,” said McCoy, leaning against the wall. “What the hell were you doing back there, really?”
“Nothing,” Kirk mumbled. “He was in my way.”
“Dammit Jim, I'm a doctor, not an idiot. You were drinking like you wanted to drown yourself inside out.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I did. What the fuck is the difference?” McCoy reached out to shake some sense into him, but Kirk pushed him away, and stalked out of the lift when the doors opened.
“Fuck you, McCoy. You don't understand.” He keyed open their room and stepped inside.
“Explain it to me, then,” said McCoy, coming in after him. “What's so different about today? What's special that you feel the need to drink yourself stupid and pick a fight with asshole who won't hesitate to destroy you?” Kirk glared at McCoy, his hands balled into fists.
“What's so special? You really want to know? You really want all the sordid details of my fucked up past?” McCoy snorted.
“I have a fucked up history too, Jim, and there's nothing there that I wouldn't tell you. So spill. What the hell has you acting like a crazy person?” Kirk was silent for a long moment, staring at the wall, until he ground out a reply.
“It's my birthday.”
“Your birthday?” McCoy repeated. “It's your birthday?” He snorted. “You've gotten another year older, and your presents to yourself are a loss of judgment and a broken nose?”
“Fuck you,” Kirk spat, getting close and quiet. “My father died the same day I was born. And I've never gotten a year older without remembering that. Without being reminded of that.”
McCoy was quiet. He wasn't the only one who'd lost his better judgment via alcohol, and he felt like the world's biggest prick. But his brain's remorse never caught up with his mouth.
“So you were planning on getting the world to remind you how worthless your family made you feel by… getting the shit kicked out of you?”
“Yeah,” said Kirk flippantly, turning away. “Maybe I am worthless.”
“Fuck, Jim, don't say that. Just don't.”
“Why the fuck not? When has anyone ever told me different? How do I know they're wrong?” There was a moment of silence there, and Kirk's shoulders crept up and McCoy could practically see the weight of Kirk's burdens. It was wrong, somehow.
McCoy knew Kirk was the hero of the piece. He wasn't sure how, but he knew that there was no one he'd rather have saving his ass, no one he'd rather have at his side when shit hit the fan than Jim Kirk. He didn't know how to say that, but he'd sure as hell try.
“They are wrong, Jim.” McCoy said at last, softly into the silence of the room. “You're amazing. You're one of the best in our class, and not just because you're smart. Jim, you're the hero--” Kirk shoved him, hard, and McCoy fell backwards onto his bed.
“I'm not looking for you to kiss my ass!” Kirk stood over him, seething. McCoy could tell he was getting angrier, but not at him. He was still beating himself up.
“I know,” he told him. “You think that you deserve the shit the world has thrown at you. You think you're just a reminder of the worst day of your Mother's life. So you go out, drink yourself stupid, and pick a fight with the only person in that bar that you couldn't take.” Kirk was silent as McCoy pushed himself upright and stood too close. “I get it now,” McCoy continued. “You were looking for someone to remind you how worthless you are. And I could do that. I could beat the crap out of you right fucking now, with my hands and with my words.” Kirk was shaking slightly, but McCoy continued, even though inside his own head he was telling himself to shut up, shut the fuck up right now, just walk away and let him cool down, even though he wasn't sure if this would work out the way he wanted it to. “I could destroy you the way you want to be, Jim. I could make you feel the way you did, the way you do, the way you think you deserve. But I'm the only one who won't. You could do whatever you want right now, and I will not fight back.”
Kirk's eyes flicked to his, and McCoy just quirked an eyebrow.
“I'm serious, Jim. You think you deserve to fight and lose, again and again. But I'd never deny you your right to win. Hit me.” Kirk looked away. “Hit me,” said McCoy again. “I want you to do it. Hit me. Come on. Hit me!” McCoy took the first punch without a flinch, and the second one too. He took each punch because he wanted to bear Kirk's burdens, he took them because he knew Kirk didn't deserve all the shit he'd been through. He didn't fight back even though his lip split open and his eye was blackened. He let Kirk throw him down onto his own bed. He didn't fight back.
After the flurry of blows, Kirk collapsed against him, shaking and sobbing. One of Kirk's hands fisted the sheets beside them, the other splayed beside McCoy's left ear. It took a moment for McCoy to realize that he was mumbling something into his chest.
“…fuck, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm not worth this, I'm not…” and Kirk dragged himself up a little higher, so their faces were pressed together at the cheek, stubble rubbing together roughly as Kirk turned. Kirk wiped at the blood on McCoy's mouth, and then kissed him, slow, soft. “You shouldn't have let me,” he mumbled against his lips. “You shoulda let that guy beat the shit out of me.” Kirk's shaky hands traveled across to push tenderly at McCoy's right eye, and were removed when McCoy hissed in pain. Kirk kept him pinned, his thighs over McCoy's, but placed a soft kiss on McCoy's eye, and another on the bruise forming on his forehead. He gave him another kiss on the lips, licking at the wound like his saliva would heal it. McCoy's eyes fluttered and he moaned a little. Kirk pushed a little harder then, his hand making its way into McCoy's hair.
Briefly, McCoy wondered if he was simply apologizing for what he'd done, but when Kirk ground his pelvis down and McCoy felt him through the layers of their clothing, he figured that there had to be more than just this guilt drawing them towards this inevitable conclusion.
“Jim,” he groaned, as Kirk's hand snaked between them to undo McCoy's jeans. “Just… fuck. Please.” His hands traveled up Kirk's back and under his shirt, pulling, scratching, wanting. He wanted it, he wanted it bad, didn't care if it came with this much pain every time, he'd take it for whatever Kirk would give. Kirk's hand closed around his cock and McCoy groaned harder.
“Sorry,” Kirk muttered as he jerked McCoy, rubbing himself hard with his other hand. “Made you all bruised, all bloody. Pretty face, all fucked up…” McCoy's breath hitched as Kirk nibbled at his bloody lip. Every spark of pleasure was wrapped up in the pain of the blows he'd received before, Kirk's weight making his bruises stand out a little more, every soft touch bringing up the memory of the painful one. He was about to come already way faster than he had since he was a teenager. Everything about the situation reminded him of the way it was being friends with Kirk. There were bruises and fights, but there were always the good times that outweighed the bad, and he couldn't really think of much bad when Kirk's hand was working him better than his own.
He was whimpering now, his ribs were screaming in pain and he could feel his eye swelling but mostly he just wanted a little more Kirk against him, wanted him to stroke a little faster and to grind a little harder. He moved his hand to join Kirk's on his cock, and began doing for Kirk what he'd been doing for him.
“Jim…” he whispered, and Kirk gasped against him, pumping his hips and pumping him until they were both coming hot, hard, into their fists in a sticky mess. Kirk collapsed forward, his
“Fuck, Bones,” said Kirk, his breath hot against his ear. “I don't deserve you…”
“No,” he said. And then, “you deserve way more.” And in that moment it felt like hero worship. McCoy felt like he was one of many who'd looked at Kirk like he was the only thing in the world, but he didn't care. He'd bask in his glow for a while, and move on when needed.
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Kirk/McCoy
Warnings: hurt/comfort, sort of.
Recipient: xx_azure_sky_xx
McCoy watched it happen like it was slow motion. Maybe it was just the way his brain felt, buzzed and tired and a little bit numb. If his reflexes had been better, he might have yanked Kirk out of there, but he just stood there like he was a statue as Kirk pushed the biggest fucking guy in the bar. Of course, he just had to go looking for a fight with about the only person in the place who could really fuck him up.
McCoy wasn't a fighter. He could hold his own, sure, but he preferred to verbally abuse others, and if it got hairy he knew how to knock someone out quick. But Kirk, he loved a fight. He'd been antsy all night, always getting up and sitting down and drinking, drinking, drinking.
Now that big guy was turning around, and McCoy knew that Kirk's face was not gonna be pretty once the man had finished raising his huge fucking fist and he couldn't move, and Kirk just stood there sneering--
WHAM. Kirk went down like a sack of bricks and McCoy surged forward, pushing through the bodies between him and his friend. But before he could get there the guy pulled Kirk back to his feet and punched him again. His face was bleeding. Undeterred, Kirk kneed the other guy in the stomach and hit him in the face. He was kicking him down when McCoy managed to fist the back of his jacket and yank him backwards so hard they both fell back against the bar.
“Fuck, Bones,” Kirk hissed, shoving himself upright. “Can you mind your own damn business?” He ducked when the big guy swung at him again, but wasn't quick enough to dodge his second punch. It caught him in the stomach and McCoy could hear the air huff out of him, and watched as he fell onto all fours. McCoy stepped between the two of them, hoping to god that his nose wasn't about to get broken.
“Hey, man, he's had enough,” he said, his hands up in front of him like a surrender.
“I'll tell you when he's had enough,” the other man said, pushing McCoy aside. He pulled Kirk to his feet again, and said something McCoy couldn't hear. Kirk just laughed, and then head butted the other guy, which got him dropped quickly. But Kirk's upper hand had hardly begun when the other guy hit him square in the eye, leaving him defenseless as he hit him again. Kirk spit blood.
And McCoy wasn't a coward, no way, but he knew that if he didn't end this soon he'd be regenerating half Kirk's face. So he, despite all his own good sense, he grabbed the big guy around the neck and squeezed, his vision glazing over as he was hit, until the guy dropped.
Kirk looked at him like he'd ruined something, and McCoy had no idea what the hell he meant by it, but he pulled him to his feet all the same and bolted out of there before the big guy's friends could get his hands on them.
“What the fuck,” slurred Kirk as McCoy supported him their trek across campus back to their dorm at the Academy. “What the fuck did you do that for?” McCoy was struggling under Kirk's weight. He was groggy and they were both bloody and McCoy just didn't get it.
“Why did I stop you from getting your face broken? You know, I'm asking myself the same damn question.”
“I was handling it,” Kirk told him petulantly. “If I want my face to fucking get broken, then yeah. I'll do it.”
“I'm not gonna leave you when you're getting your ass kicked, even if you deserve it.”
“Whatever,” mumbled Kirk, groaning a little as they ascended the stairs at the front of their building and made their way into the lift.
“Jim,” said McCoy, leaning against the wall. “What the hell were you doing back there, really?”
“Nothing,” Kirk mumbled. “He was in my way.”
“Dammit Jim, I'm a doctor, not an idiot. You were drinking like you wanted to drown yourself inside out.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I did. What the fuck is the difference?” McCoy reached out to shake some sense into him, but Kirk pushed him away, and stalked out of the lift when the doors opened.
“Fuck you, McCoy. You don't understand.” He keyed open their room and stepped inside.
“Explain it to me, then,” said McCoy, coming in after him. “What's so different about today? What's special that you feel the need to drink yourself stupid and pick a fight with asshole who won't hesitate to destroy you?” Kirk glared at McCoy, his hands balled into fists.
“What's so special? You really want to know? You really want all the sordid details of my fucked up past?” McCoy snorted.
“I have a fucked up history too, Jim, and there's nothing there that I wouldn't tell you. So spill. What the hell has you acting like a crazy person?” Kirk was silent for a long moment, staring at the wall, until he ground out a reply.
“It's my birthday.”
“Your birthday?” McCoy repeated. “It's your birthday?” He snorted. “You've gotten another year older, and your presents to yourself are a loss of judgment and a broken nose?”
“Fuck you,” Kirk spat, getting close and quiet. “My father died the same day I was born. And I've never gotten a year older without remembering that. Without being reminded of that.”
McCoy was quiet. He wasn't the only one who'd lost his better judgment via alcohol, and he felt like the world's biggest prick. But his brain's remorse never caught up with his mouth.
“So you were planning on getting the world to remind you how worthless your family made you feel by… getting the shit kicked out of you?”
“Yeah,” said Kirk flippantly, turning away. “Maybe I am worthless.”
“Fuck, Jim, don't say that. Just don't.”
“Why the fuck not? When has anyone ever told me different? How do I know they're wrong?” There was a moment of silence there, and Kirk's shoulders crept up and McCoy could practically see the weight of Kirk's burdens. It was wrong, somehow.
McCoy knew Kirk was the hero of the piece. He wasn't sure how, but he knew that there was no one he'd rather have saving his ass, no one he'd rather have at his side when shit hit the fan than Jim Kirk. He didn't know how to say that, but he'd sure as hell try.
“They are wrong, Jim.” McCoy said at last, softly into the silence of the room. “You're amazing. You're one of the best in our class, and not just because you're smart. Jim, you're the hero--” Kirk shoved him, hard, and McCoy fell backwards onto his bed.
“I'm not looking for you to kiss my ass!” Kirk stood over him, seething. McCoy could tell he was getting angrier, but not at him. He was still beating himself up.
“I know,” he told him. “You think that you deserve the shit the world has thrown at you. You think you're just a reminder of the worst day of your Mother's life. So you go out, drink yourself stupid, and pick a fight with the only person in that bar that you couldn't take.” Kirk was silent as McCoy pushed himself upright and stood too close. “I get it now,” McCoy continued. “You were looking for someone to remind you how worthless you are. And I could do that. I could beat the crap out of you right fucking now, with my hands and with my words.” Kirk was shaking slightly, but McCoy continued, even though inside his own head he was telling himself to shut up, shut the fuck up right now, just walk away and let him cool down, even though he wasn't sure if this would work out the way he wanted it to. “I could destroy you the way you want to be, Jim. I could make you feel the way you did, the way you do, the way you think you deserve. But I'm the only one who won't. You could do whatever you want right now, and I will not fight back.”
Kirk's eyes flicked to his, and McCoy just quirked an eyebrow.
“I'm serious, Jim. You think you deserve to fight and lose, again and again. But I'd never deny you your right to win. Hit me.” Kirk looked away. “Hit me,” said McCoy again. “I want you to do it. Hit me. Come on. Hit me!” McCoy took the first punch without a flinch, and the second one too. He took each punch because he wanted to bear Kirk's burdens, he took them because he knew Kirk didn't deserve all the shit he'd been through. He didn't fight back even though his lip split open and his eye was blackened. He let Kirk throw him down onto his own bed. He didn't fight back.
After the flurry of blows, Kirk collapsed against him, shaking and sobbing. One of Kirk's hands fisted the sheets beside them, the other splayed beside McCoy's left ear. It took a moment for McCoy to realize that he was mumbling something into his chest.
“…fuck, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm not worth this, I'm not…” and Kirk dragged himself up a little higher, so their faces were pressed together at the cheek, stubble rubbing together roughly as Kirk turned. Kirk wiped at the blood on McCoy's mouth, and then kissed him, slow, soft. “You shouldn't have let me,” he mumbled against his lips. “You shoulda let that guy beat the shit out of me.” Kirk's shaky hands traveled across to push tenderly at McCoy's right eye, and were removed when McCoy hissed in pain. Kirk kept him pinned, his thighs over McCoy's, but placed a soft kiss on McCoy's eye, and another on the bruise forming on his forehead. He gave him another kiss on the lips, licking at the wound like his saliva would heal it. McCoy's eyes fluttered and he moaned a little. Kirk pushed a little harder then, his hand making its way into McCoy's hair.
Briefly, McCoy wondered if he was simply apologizing for what he'd done, but when Kirk ground his pelvis down and McCoy felt him through the layers of their clothing, he figured that there had to be more than just this guilt drawing them towards this inevitable conclusion.
“Jim,” he groaned, as Kirk's hand snaked between them to undo McCoy's jeans. “Just… fuck. Please.” His hands traveled up Kirk's back and under his shirt, pulling, scratching, wanting. He wanted it, he wanted it bad, didn't care if it came with this much pain every time, he'd take it for whatever Kirk would give. Kirk's hand closed around his cock and McCoy groaned harder.
“Sorry,” Kirk muttered as he jerked McCoy, rubbing himself hard with his other hand. “Made you all bruised, all bloody. Pretty face, all fucked up…” McCoy's breath hitched as Kirk nibbled at his bloody lip. Every spark of pleasure was wrapped up in the pain of the blows he'd received before, Kirk's weight making his bruises stand out a little more, every soft touch bringing up the memory of the painful one. He was about to come already way faster than he had since he was a teenager. Everything about the situation reminded him of the way it was being friends with Kirk. There were bruises and fights, but there were always the good times that outweighed the bad, and he couldn't really think of much bad when Kirk's hand was working him better than his own.
He was whimpering now, his ribs were screaming in pain and he could feel his eye swelling but mostly he just wanted a little more Kirk against him, wanted him to stroke a little faster and to grind a little harder. He moved his hand to join Kirk's on his cock, and began doing for Kirk what he'd been doing for him.
“Jim…” he whispered, and Kirk gasped against him, pumping his hips and pumping him until they were both coming hot, hard, into their fists in a sticky mess. Kirk collapsed forward, his
“Fuck, Bones,” said Kirk, his breath hot against his ear. “I don't deserve you…”
“No,” he said. And then, “you deserve way more.” And in that moment it felt like hero worship. McCoy felt like he was one of many who'd looked at Kirk like he was the only thing in the world, but he didn't care. He'd bask in his glow for a while, and move on when needed.