Fic: Positive Reinforcement (Star Trek)
Title: Positive Reinforcement
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Kirk/McCoy
Warnings: Porn and angst, not necessarily in that order
Disclaimer: I own nothing worth suing me for
Summary: In hindsight, he should have realised there and then that James Kirk was completely insane.
Notes: Written for the Star Trek XI Anon Kink Meme (I am of course posting unanon, because I have no shame). The prompt was for Kirk/McCoy with sex in a shuttlecraft to help distract McCoy from his fear of flying. I'd intended to just write a PWP, but my brain (traitor that it is) was all "wait a minute, wouldn't the academy whose purpose is to train spaceship crews have views about fear of flying?". And it all went downhill from there. Stupid angst-machine brain.
Alternate Summary: Jim Kirk: solving the universe's problems with orgasms, one person at a time. (Props to enemyfrigate for that one)
~*~
When he was young, fresh out of med school and fairly certain he knew everything, he'd done his residency at a hospital just outside New York. He worked in the emergency room, treating minor injuries mainly, and for the most part he'd been happy.
It was pure coincidence that he happened to be just coming on shift when they received word that a crippled shuttlecraft was making an emergency landing a few miles away. It was pure coincidence that he was one of the lowly residents picked at random to help with triage.
The ship was partially buried nose-down in the dirt. Later, the report would show that it was struck by a stray meteorite, which had taken out most of the engine array and punched a hole in the rear compartment. The report of course was official, clinical, unemotional. It talked about anoxia and explosive decompression, cold facts and statistics.
It didn't mention the blood. It didn't talk about the young nurse who threw up when he found a tiny, limp body in a pink dress tangled up in the debris; or take the time to count how many of the medical staff on site went to each other later, hollow-eyed and pale, to ask for prescriptions for sleeping pills.
One day a few weeks later he'd been driving past the spaceport with his girlfriend (soon to be fiancee; later to be wife; eventually to be ex-wife, not that he knew it at the time) and she'd commented on the possibility of taking a vacation in the outer rings.
"No chance," he'd replied; "I'm not setting foot on one of those death traps." His hands emphatically didn't tremble as he thought of bloody shreds on the shattered glass, blue-tinged faces and empty, staring eyes.
It took her six weeks to realise he wasn't joking. In hindsight, he should have realised there and then that the relationship was going to end badly.
~*~
He'd been on shuttlecraft a few times before the accident. Afterward he managed to avoid them for years - until after the divorce, in fact. It wasn't until he'd already signed up for the Academy and was standing in a spaceport in Fucking Nowhere, Iowa that he realised what exactly he'd just let himself in for. Starfleet. As in, spaceship crews, for the training of.
It'd seemed like such a good idea at the time.
He sat down in one of the free seats, buckled himself into the (flimsy, inadequate) harness, and felt his heart rate skyrocket. That part of him that wasn't frantically trying to suppress a panic attack was noting symptoms: cold sweat, erratic pulse, rapid breathing. He never did find out exactly how long the journey to the Academy was. It felt like a lifetime.
It took him six days to realise that the cocky kid who was the only other person not in uniform had apparently decided to stick with him. In hindsight, he should have realised there and then that James Kirk was completely insane.
~*~
Four months into his time at the Academy, he hadn't forgotten that hellish trip, and he hadn't forgotten that when he graduated from the Academy he'd be doing it again. Frequently. For a living. Something he was having trouble recalling, however, was what life had been like before his main purpose became - as far as he could tell - hauling Jim's ass out of one mess or another on a regular basis.
It was an unusual thing at the Academy, their friendship. Staff and students tended to stick together within departments: the various divisions had their own dorms, their own classrooms, their own schedules. It carried over into the mess hall and recreational time as well. Under normal circumstances, a troublemaking young cadet and a recently divorced doctor would have had no reason to have anything to do with each other.
Within a year Jim's nickname for him had spread to the point where he'd even had an instructor slip up and call him 'Bones'. By that point he didn't really mind. Somehow, despite the difference in age, outlook, and personality, Jim had become his closest friend.
~*~
Jim asked him, once, why someone with a morbid fear of space travel would ever sign on with the Fleet. He didn't reply. Jim assumed he didn't want to talk about it and, with uncharacteristic tact, dropped the subject. The truth was that he didn't reply because he didn't know himself.
He didn't regret it, though.
~*~
It was probably inevitable, but he'd been happily ignoring the situation until suddenly he couldn't. And it wasn't something the Academy could overlook when a student - however promising - took a panic attack the moment the ship left the atmosphere. When they landed again he'd been sent into his department head's office, prepared for the dressing down he was surely about to get for failing to mention this.
Dr. Bauer had cocked her head curiously and said, "What I don't understand is why you would choose to join the Academy knowing that you have issues with space travel."
"I'm a doctor, not a pilot," he said.
"True. But you are still going to have to work aboard one of the Fleet's ships, and we can't afford to have crew who may be unable to function normally in stressful situations." She looked down at his file, open on her computer screen, and sighed. "I'm going to recommend that you see a psychologist."
He wasn't going to waste his time with some pseudo-doctor's head games. "I don't-"
She cut him off: "Dr. McCoy, I don't think you realise the severity of the situation. If you can't find a way to overcome this phobia, the Academy will be forced to dismiss you."
He stared, momentarily struck dumb. She was right: he hadn't realised it was that serious. It wasn't that much of a problem surely?
After he left he made a beeline for Jim's dorm, feeling oddly...disconnected. In shock, he would have said, if he hadn't spent a panic-ridden night memorizing the real symptoms and causes of shock during his second-year finals.
Jim glanced up absently at the sound of the door opening, leaning over an open drawer with his jeans loose around his hips and his uniform abandoned on the floor. "Hey, Bones, I'm just heading out for a drink or several..." he straightened and turned, shirt in hand, and frowned as he caught sight of the expression on his best friend's face. "Are you alright? What happened?"
He started to say he was fine, but the words got lost somewhere en route to his mouth. "The flight earlier...didn't go well."
"I didn't hear-" Realisation dawned on Jim's face. "Oh. Oh." He swallowed. "Bad?"
He nodded, somehow found the will to say: "Bauer says if I can't get over this, they'll kick me out of the Academy."
In an instant Jim's expression went from concerned to filled with suppressed fury. "They can't do that!"
"They can and you know it." He rubbed the back of his neck wearily, suddenly feeling very old. "If you still want those drinks, I could do with a few dozen myself."
Jim quirked an eyebrow, grinning faintly; "There's the Bones I know and love. Let's go."
Dressed in civvies to avoid standing out, they headed into the city and made themselves at home in the nearest bar. There were shots, and then there were more shots, and Jim disappeared for a while and returned with a bottle of something that smelled like starship fuel and was probably going to make his liver implode.
They went up for the next round together, which was probably lucky as Jim got distracted by a pretty blonde murmuring in his ear.He was resigned to having to make his way home alone like on so many other occasions, and so was taken completely unawares by the feeling of pathetic gratitude that washed over him when Jim politely declined her and turned back to him with a smile.
They staggered home together, negotiating the Academy campus with as much discretion as they could manage in their inebriated state. It took Jim a few attempts to open the door of his room, and when it slid shut behind them he rubbed at his eyes in a valiant attempt to bring his brain back into focus.
"We'll sort this out y'know," he said with drunken conviction, "Not gonna watch them kick you out." In that moment, he almost believed him. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to wrap an arm around his friend's shoulders, mind dulled enough by the alcohol for it to seem like the logical next step when Jim turned into him and made it a full-blown hug.
There was a strange moment of clarity in which he was acutely aware of Jim's body against his, of Jim's arms around him, of Jim. And while part of him already knew he was going to hate himself in the morning, when Jim's head tilted and his lips parted just so, he was already leaning in to meet them.
He'd be lying if he said he'd never entertained the odd thought about this. Jim was ridiculously pretty, and one of the most overtly sexual people he'd ever known. He tasted of far too much alcohol, and he kissed just like he did everything else: a little wild, a little reckless, and with a stunning skill that seemed to come to him as easily as breathing.
He pushed Jim back against the wall by the door, pinning him with his body, thought reduced to nothing but want. And oh god Jim's hands were everywhere, moving up under his shirt and attacking his belt as though its existence offended him. Jim pushed back, taking him by surprise, and he went without a fight: the backs of his knees hit the bed and he went down. He'd lost his jacket and shoes somewhere between here and the door, and Jim - now stripped to the waist, a situation he thoroughly approved of - straddled him and pulled his shirt off.
Jim grinned at him, bright and pleased, and leaned down to kiss him again, slower this time, teasing almost. He slid a hand between Jim's legs and stroked him through his jeans: Jim gave a soft, breathy moan against his mouth, fingers tightening in his hair.
He wriggled further up the bed and Jim followed him, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He let his head fall back limply against the pillow as he felt Jim's hands settling on his thighs, warm breath stirring the hairs around his navel. The low purr of his zipper going down was music to his ears. He lifted his hips to make it easier as Jim slid his pants and boxers off together. He arched into the feeling of skin on skin as Jim's hands came to rest again on his now bare thighs.
It would have been so easy to close his eyes and drift away and just enjoy the sensation, but no fucking way was he going to deny himself the sight of James Kirk, half naked and thoroughly mussed, looking at his cock the way a starving man looks at a roast dinner. And then Jim licked his lips speculatively and a moment later there was nothing but hot and wet and ohFUCKyes. The back of his head thumped against the headboard, and from a great distance he could hear himself moaning shamelessly. "Goddamnit, Jim."
He didn't need to look, or even have functioning brain cells to see the smug expression on Jim's face. He felt like he was running a fever, sweat beading on his skin and his heart hammering like he was running a marathon. Oh god that's good. But if it continued, this was going to be over way too soon.
"Jim," he said, "Jim. Stop." Jim looked up and he was briefly distracted by those wet, glistening lips and... He marshaled his few remaining brain cells long enough to form the words: "You. Naked. Now."
"Yes sir," Jim grinned. He rolled off the bed and wriggled out of his jeans, then spent a moment rummaging in a drawer. He caught the tube that flew at his head by sheer luck, and felt his brain short-circuit as he read the label. Jim was suggesting- He wanted-
Jim's smirk was replaced by a startled expression as he was grabbed and pulled down onto the bed. He landed on his back and Bones pinned him. Oh yes. Clearly his purpose in life was to be straddling an extremely naked and horny Jim Kirk: he couldn't think of a single reason why they hadn't done this before. Frequently.
"Stay," he ordered, popping the cap on the lube. Jim didn't seem inclined to argue: he gave a positively filthy grin and spread his legs. He gave a heartfelt groan as the first finger slid inside him; two had him arching up off the bed in a way that could only mean- yep, hello prostate.
Jim gave a frustrated moan, hips moving frantically: "Get on with it, Bones, I'm not going to break!"
Well he wasn't about to object to that. "Hands and knees." Jim complied instantly, and the sight of him on his knees, impatiently waiting to be fucked was enough to have him mentally reciting the names and classifications of every nasty disease he could think of to regain a little self control.
He slicked himself up and braced one hand against the headboard, the other gripping Jim's hip tightly. He rallied what little control he had left and thrust in.
Jim arched and cried out. "Fuck yes! Oh, fucking hell Bones."
It was likely a good thing they'd never done this before, because he was relatively certain that if he was sleeping with Jim on a regular basis he'd probably never leave his bed again. Oh god. Urged on by desperate moans and cries of harder, damnit, he let go: he gripped Jim's hips with both hands and thrust roughly, pounding into the lean, gorgeous body beneath him. Jim was keeping up a constant stream of semicoherent curses, demands, and profanities; pushing back to meet each thrust.
Jim came first with a harsh, almost sobbing moan. He managed to hang on long enough for Bones to finish before his arms gave out, sending them both into a sweaty, boneless, pleasantly exhausted heap on the rumpled bed.
"Wow," he said, articulate speech a little beyond him.
Jim snorted. "Wow is right. Fuck, Bones."
"Mmm." He wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not, but he's warm and drunk and floating on the afterglow, and probably about to fall asleep.
He chose to take it as a compliment.
~*~
Leonard McCoy awoke and was aware of three things. Firstly, he had a blinding headache and his teeth felt furry. Secondly, there was someone drooling gently onto his chest. And thirdly, he appeared to be naked.
Not fully awake yet, his mind managed to take these facts and come up with a theory: got drunk, got laid, good times had by all. Then a few sleepy strands of memory started to uncurl. He cracked open an eyelid to confirm that yes, that was Jim curled up in bed with him. Drooling on him. He shifted his shoulder in a hopeful attempt to dislodge his very hung-over and very naked friend.
"Mstfghl," Jim said articulately, and peered blearily up at him. "Hmm. Right. Last night...not a drunken hallucination, then?"
"Apparently not." He shook his head; "Urgh. I hope you're not going to make me move. I may throw up on you."
"Time's it?" Jim squinted around for the clock; "Oh god, I'm going back to sleep."
~*~
On the whole, remarkably little changed between them. For the next few days Jim bitched cheerfully about not being able to sit down comfortably, but other than that, they continued as normal.
For a while, anyway.
About a month later an announcement went out that all students in the officer training program were being sent to a conference of some sort. He didn't catch exactly what it was for, because he stopped listening the moment he realised they would be going by shuttlecraft. And as the travel arrangements were explained to his class he felt Dr. Bauer's eyes on him and knew he could not afford to fuck this up.
He went back to his room, oddly numb, and wasn't surprised to find Jim waiting for him: he let Jim kiss him and promise fiercely, uselessly, that it was going to be okay.
That night, lying in his bed awake and sober this time, he took a deep breath and told a story he'd never told anyone else. He talked about blood and shattered glass and lips turned blue from lack of air, and so many years of sleepless nights.
Jim didn't say anything, which he was grateful for. He didn't think he could have handled sympathy.
~*~
His knuckles were white on the armrest of the seat: it creaked ominously as his grip tightened further when the shuttlecraft lifted off.
"Calm down, Bones," Jim murmured.
"Calm down," he repeated flatly. If only it was that easy. Jim had the grace to look mildly embarrassed.
He closed his eyes and fought to control the rising panic. He knew it could be his last chance to stay in the Academy, that he couldn't afford to freak out, but that didn't help. It just added an extra level of fear.
Lost in his own internal struggles, he was taken aback by a hand settling on his crotch. He made a strangled sound and his eyes snapped open to glare at Jim.
"What-"
"Shh." The sound of a zipper sliding down, nearly drowned out by engine noise.
"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed.
"Distracting you," Jim replied cheerfully, giving a picture-perfect impression of innocence, save for the tiny detail that he had his hand down his best friend's pants. "Relax, Bones."
"Now is not the best time!"
"I'd say now is the perfect time," Jim purred in his ear, low and soft. "Keep quiet. Don't want to attract any attention." It was fortunate they were sitting near the back.
It was an awkward angle, but the didn't change the fact that Jim's hand was wrapped around his cock, and all the adrenaline in his system had apparently decided this was a far better way of exhausting itself...
The shuttlecraft lurched and he froze, knuckles whitening again.
"Your attention should be down here," Jim reminded him helpfully, giving a little squeeze. His hips twitched involuntarily, body not quite sure what to make of the mixed signals it was getting. "Remember that night last month?" Jim murmured, lips brushing his ear; "That was unbelievable. Didn't think you had it in you, Bones..."
Oh god, that voice should be illegal, and as for the hand... he stifled a groan, biting his lip. The shuttlecraft was momentarily forgotten.
"...I should get you drunk more often if that's the result," Jim continued, hand moving lazily in time with his words; "Wow. I mean you know me, I'm not exactly a nun, but I have never been fucked like that..."
His knuckles were whitening on the armrest again, for a different reason this time. Shuttlecraft? What shuttlecraft?
"...so I'll tell you what. You stay cool and don't kicked out of the Academy, and when we get back..." Jim licked his lips wickedly, looking absolutely diabolical. "...when we get back, I'll return the favour."
He had a sudden vision of himself pinned down on a bed or up against a wall, unable to do anything but brace himself and hang on as all that wild, reckless energy was poured into fucking him: he bit down hard on his lip and came with a whimper.
Jim smirked. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
~*~
"Dr. Bauer tell me you've been having less trouble flying," the psychologist observed, interested but neutral.
"Yes," he replied with barely concealed impatience. He drummed his fingers idly on the arm of his chair.
"Why do you think that is?"
A highly unscrupulous best friend and a lot of sex, he thought. Aloud he said solemnly; "Positive reinforcement."
~*fin*~
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Kirk/McCoy
Warnings: Porn and angst, not necessarily in that order
Disclaimer: I own nothing worth suing me for
Summary: In hindsight, he should have realised there and then that James Kirk was completely insane.
Notes: Written for the Star Trek XI Anon Kink Meme (I am of course posting unanon, because I have no shame). The prompt was for Kirk/McCoy with sex in a shuttlecraft to help distract McCoy from his fear of flying. I'd intended to just write a PWP, but my brain (traitor that it is) was all "wait a minute, wouldn't the academy whose purpose is to train spaceship crews have views about fear of flying?". And it all went downhill from there. Stupid angst-machine brain.
Alternate Summary: Jim Kirk: solving the universe's problems with orgasms, one person at a time. (Props to enemyfrigate for that one)
~*~
When he was young, fresh out of med school and fairly certain he knew everything, he'd done his residency at a hospital just outside New York. He worked in the emergency room, treating minor injuries mainly, and for the most part he'd been happy.
It was pure coincidence that he happened to be just coming on shift when they received word that a crippled shuttlecraft was making an emergency landing a few miles away. It was pure coincidence that he was one of the lowly residents picked at random to help with triage.
The ship was partially buried nose-down in the dirt. Later, the report would show that it was struck by a stray meteorite, which had taken out most of the engine array and punched a hole in the rear compartment. The report of course was official, clinical, unemotional. It talked about anoxia and explosive decompression, cold facts and statistics.
It didn't mention the blood. It didn't talk about the young nurse who threw up when he found a tiny, limp body in a pink dress tangled up in the debris; or take the time to count how many of the medical staff on site went to each other later, hollow-eyed and pale, to ask for prescriptions for sleeping pills.
One day a few weeks later he'd been driving past the spaceport with his girlfriend (soon to be fiancee; later to be wife; eventually to be ex-wife, not that he knew it at the time) and she'd commented on the possibility of taking a vacation in the outer rings.
"No chance," he'd replied; "I'm not setting foot on one of those death traps." His hands emphatically didn't tremble as he thought of bloody shreds on the shattered glass, blue-tinged faces and empty, staring eyes.
It took her six weeks to realise he wasn't joking. In hindsight, he should have realised there and then that the relationship was going to end badly.
~*~
He'd been on shuttlecraft a few times before the accident. Afterward he managed to avoid them for years - until after the divorce, in fact. It wasn't until he'd already signed up for the Academy and was standing in a spaceport in Fucking Nowhere, Iowa that he realised what exactly he'd just let himself in for. Starfleet. As in, spaceship crews, for the training of.
It'd seemed like such a good idea at the time.
He sat down in one of the free seats, buckled himself into the (flimsy, inadequate) harness, and felt his heart rate skyrocket. That part of him that wasn't frantically trying to suppress a panic attack was noting symptoms: cold sweat, erratic pulse, rapid breathing. He never did find out exactly how long the journey to the Academy was. It felt like a lifetime.
It took him six days to realise that the cocky kid who was the only other person not in uniform had apparently decided to stick with him. In hindsight, he should have realised there and then that James Kirk was completely insane.
~*~
Four months into his time at the Academy, he hadn't forgotten that hellish trip, and he hadn't forgotten that when he graduated from the Academy he'd be doing it again. Frequently. For a living. Something he was having trouble recalling, however, was what life had been like before his main purpose became - as far as he could tell - hauling Jim's ass out of one mess or another on a regular basis.
It was an unusual thing at the Academy, their friendship. Staff and students tended to stick together within departments: the various divisions had their own dorms, their own classrooms, their own schedules. It carried over into the mess hall and recreational time as well. Under normal circumstances, a troublemaking young cadet and a recently divorced doctor would have had no reason to have anything to do with each other.
Within a year Jim's nickname for him had spread to the point where he'd even had an instructor slip up and call him 'Bones'. By that point he didn't really mind. Somehow, despite the difference in age, outlook, and personality, Jim had become his closest friend.
~*~
Jim asked him, once, why someone with a morbid fear of space travel would ever sign on with the Fleet. He didn't reply. Jim assumed he didn't want to talk about it and, with uncharacteristic tact, dropped the subject. The truth was that he didn't reply because he didn't know himself.
He didn't regret it, though.
~*~
It was probably inevitable, but he'd been happily ignoring the situation until suddenly he couldn't. And it wasn't something the Academy could overlook when a student - however promising - took a panic attack the moment the ship left the atmosphere. When they landed again he'd been sent into his department head's office, prepared for the dressing down he was surely about to get for failing to mention this.
Dr. Bauer had cocked her head curiously and said, "What I don't understand is why you would choose to join the Academy knowing that you have issues with space travel."
"I'm a doctor, not a pilot," he said.
"True. But you are still going to have to work aboard one of the Fleet's ships, and we can't afford to have crew who may be unable to function normally in stressful situations." She looked down at his file, open on her computer screen, and sighed. "I'm going to recommend that you see a psychologist."
He wasn't going to waste his time with some pseudo-doctor's head games. "I don't-"
She cut him off: "Dr. McCoy, I don't think you realise the severity of the situation. If you can't find a way to overcome this phobia, the Academy will be forced to dismiss you."
He stared, momentarily struck dumb. She was right: he hadn't realised it was that serious. It wasn't that much of a problem surely?
After he left he made a beeline for Jim's dorm, feeling oddly...disconnected. In shock, he would have said, if he hadn't spent a panic-ridden night memorizing the real symptoms and causes of shock during his second-year finals.
Jim glanced up absently at the sound of the door opening, leaning over an open drawer with his jeans loose around his hips and his uniform abandoned on the floor. "Hey, Bones, I'm just heading out for a drink or several..." he straightened and turned, shirt in hand, and frowned as he caught sight of the expression on his best friend's face. "Are you alright? What happened?"
He started to say he was fine, but the words got lost somewhere en route to his mouth. "The flight earlier...didn't go well."
"I didn't hear-" Realisation dawned on Jim's face. "Oh. Oh." He swallowed. "Bad?"
He nodded, somehow found the will to say: "Bauer says if I can't get over this, they'll kick me out of the Academy."
In an instant Jim's expression went from concerned to filled with suppressed fury. "They can't do that!"
"They can and you know it." He rubbed the back of his neck wearily, suddenly feeling very old. "If you still want those drinks, I could do with a few dozen myself."
Jim quirked an eyebrow, grinning faintly; "There's the Bones I know and love. Let's go."
Dressed in civvies to avoid standing out, they headed into the city and made themselves at home in the nearest bar. There were shots, and then there were more shots, and Jim disappeared for a while and returned with a bottle of something that smelled like starship fuel and was probably going to make his liver implode.
They went up for the next round together, which was probably lucky as Jim got distracted by a pretty blonde murmuring in his ear.He was resigned to having to make his way home alone like on so many other occasions, and so was taken completely unawares by the feeling of pathetic gratitude that washed over him when Jim politely declined her and turned back to him with a smile.
They staggered home together, negotiating the Academy campus with as much discretion as they could manage in their inebriated state. It took Jim a few attempts to open the door of his room, and when it slid shut behind them he rubbed at his eyes in a valiant attempt to bring his brain back into focus.
"We'll sort this out y'know," he said with drunken conviction, "Not gonna watch them kick you out." In that moment, he almost believed him. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to wrap an arm around his friend's shoulders, mind dulled enough by the alcohol for it to seem like the logical next step when Jim turned into him and made it a full-blown hug.
There was a strange moment of clarity in which he was acutely aware of Jim's body against his, of Jim's arms around him, of Jim. And while part of him already knew he was going to hate himself in the morning, when Jim's head tilted and his lips parted just so, he was already leaning in to meet them.
He'd be lying if he said he'd never entertained the odd thought about this. Jim was ridiculously pretty, and one of the most overtly sexual people he'd ever known. He tasted of far too much alcohol, and he kissed just like he did everything else: a little wild, a little reckless, and with a stunning skill that seemed to come to him as easily as breathing.
He pushed Jim back against the wall by the door, pinning him with his body, thought reduced to nothing but want. And oh god Jim's hands were everywhere, moving up under his shirt and attacking his belt as though its existence offended him. Jim pushed back, taking him by surprise, and he went without a fight: the backs of his knees hit the bed and he went down. He'd lost his jacket and shoes somewhere between here and the door, and Jim - now stripped to the waist, a situation he thoroughly approved of - straddled him and pulled his shirt off.
Jim grinned at him, bright and pleased, and leaned down to kiss him again, slower this time, teasing almost. He slid a hand between Jim's legs and stroked him through his jeans: Jim gave a soft, breathy moan against his mouth, fingers tightening in his hair.
He wriggled further up the bed and Jim followed him, a predatory gleam in his eyes. He let his head fall back limply against the pillow as he felt Jim's hands settling on his thighs, warm breath stirring the hairs around his navel. The low purr of his zipper going down was music to his ears. He lifted his hips to make it easier as Jim slid his pants and boxers off together. He arched into the feeling of skin on skin as Jim's hands came to rest again on his now bare thighs.
It would have been so easy to close his eyes and drift away and just enjoy the sensation, but no fucking way was he going to deny himself the sight of James Kirk, half naked and thoroughly mussed, looking at his cock the way a starving man looks at a roast dinner. And then Jim licked his lips speculatively and a moment later there was nothing but hot and wet and ohFUCKyes. The back of his head thumped against the headboard, and from a great distance he could hear himself moaning shamelessly. "Goddamnit, Jim."
He didn't need to look, or even have functioning brain cells to see the smug expression on Jim's face. He felt like he was running a fever, sweat beading on his skin and his heart hammering like he was running a marathon. Oh god that's good. But if it continued, this was going to be over way too soon.
"Jim," he said, "Jim. Stop." Jim looked up and he was briefly distracted by those wet, glistening lips and... He marshaled his few remaining brain cells long enough to form the words: "You. Naked. Now."
"Yes sir," Jim grinned. He rolled off the bed and wriggled out of his jeans, then spent a moment rummaging in a drawer. He caught the tube that flew at his head by sheer luck, and felt his brain short-circuit as he read the label. Jim was suggesting- He wanted-
Jim's smirk was replaced by a startled expression as he was grabbed and pulled down onto the bed. He landed on his back and Bones pinned him. Oh yes. Clearly his purpose in life was to be straddling an extremely naked and horny Jim Kirk: he couldn't think of a single reason why they hadn't done this before. Frequently.
"Stay," he ordered, popping the cap on the lube. Jim didn't seem inclined to argue: he gave a positively filthy grin and spread his legs. He gave a heartfelt groan as the first finger slid inside him; two had him arching up off the bed in a way that could only mean- yep, hello prostate.
Jim gave a frustrated moan, hips moving frantically: "Get on with it, Bones, I'm not going to break!"
Well he wasn't about to object to that. "Hands and knees." Jim complied instantly, and the sight of him on his knees, impatiently waiting to be fucked was enough to have him mentally reciting the names and classifications of every nasty disease he could think of to regain a little self control.
He slicked himself up and braced one hand against the headboard, the other gripping Jim's hip tightly. He rallied what little control he had left and thrust in.
Jim arched and cried out. "Fuck yes! Oh, fucking hell Bones."
It was likely a good thing they'd never done this before, because he was relatively certain that if he was sleeping with Jim on a regular basis he'd probably never leave his bed again. Oh god. Urged on by desperate moans and cries of harder, damnit, he let go: he gripped Jim's hips with both hands and thrust roughly, pounding into the lean, gorgeous body beneath him. Jim was keeping up a constant stream of semicoherent curses, demands, and profanities; pushing back to meet each thrust.
Jim came first with a harsh, almost sobbing moan. He managed to hang on long enough for Bones to finish before his arms gave out, sending them both into a sweaty, boneless, pleasantly exhausted heap on the rumpled bed.
"Wow," he said, articulate speech a little beyond him.
Jim snorted. "Wow is right. Fuck, Bones."
"Mmm." He wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not, but he's warm and drunk and floating on the afterglow, and probably about to fall asleep.
He chose to take it as a compliment.
~*~
Leonard McCoy awoke and was aware of three things. Firstly, he had a blinding headache and his teeth felt furry. Secondly, there was someone drooling gently onto his chest. And thirdly, he appeared to be naked.
Not fully awake yet, his mind managed to take these facts and come up with a theory: got drunk, got laid, good times had by all. Then a few sleepy strands of memory started to uncurl. He cracked open an eyelid to confirm that yes, that was Jim curled up in bed with him. Drooling on him. He shifted his shoulder in a hopeful attempt to dislodge his very hung-over and very naked friend.
"Mstfghl," Jim said articulately, and peered blearily up at him. "Hmm. Right. Last night...not a drunken hallucination, then?"
"Apparently not." He shook his head; "Urgh. I hope you're not going to make me move. I may throw up on you."
"Time's it?" Jim squinted around for the clock; "Oh god, I'm going back to sleep."
~*~
On the whole, remarkably little changed between them. For the next few days Jim bitched cheerfully about not being able to sit down comfortably, but other than that, they continued as normal.
For a while, anyway.
About a month later an announcement went out that all students in the officer training program were being sent to a conference of some sort. He didn't catch exactly what it was for, because he stopped listening the moment he realised they would be going by shuttlecraft. And as the travel arrangements were explained to his class he felt Dr. Bauer's eyes on him and knew he could not afford to fuck this up.
He went back to his room, oddly numb, and wasn't surprised to find Jim waiting for him: he let Jim kiss him and promise fiercely, uselessly, that it was going to be okay.
That night, lying in his bed awake and sober this time, he took a deep breath and told a story he'd never told anyone else. He talked about blood and shattered glass and lips turned blue from lack of air, and so many years of sleepless nights.
Jim didn't say anything, which he was grateful for. He didn't think he could have handled sympathy.
~*~
His knuckles were white on the armrest of the seat: it creaked ominously as his grip tightened further when the shuttlecraft lifted off.
"Calm down, Bones," Jim murmured.
"Calm down," he repeated flatly. If only it was that easy. Jim had the grace to look mildly embarrassed.
He closed his eyes and fought to control the rising panic. He knew it could be his last chance to stay in the Academy, that he couldn't afford to freak out, but that didn't help. It just added an extra level of fear.
Lost in his own internal struggles, he was taken aback by a hand settling on his crotch. He made a strangled sound and his eyes snapped open to glare at Jim.
"What-"
"Shh." The sound of a zipper sliding down, nearly drowned out by engine noise.
"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed.
"Distracting you," Jim replied cheerfully, giving a picture-perfect impression of innocence, save for the tiny detail that he had his hand down his best friend's pants. "Relax, Bones."
"Now is not the best time!"
"I'd say now is the perfect time," Jim purred in his ear, low and soft. "Keep quiet. Don't want to attract any attention." It was fortunate they were sitting near the back.
It was an awkward angle, but the didn't change the fact that Jim's hand was wrapped around his cock, and all the adrenaline in his system had apparently decided this was a far better way of exhausting itself...
The shuttlecraft lurched and he froze, knuckles whitening again.
"Your attention should be down here," Jim reminded him helpfully, giving a little squeeze. His hips twitched involuntarily, body not quite sure what to make of the mixed signals it was getting. "Remember that night last month?" Jim murmured, lips brushing his ear; "That was unbelievable. Didn't think you had it in you, Bones..."
Oh god, that voice should be illegal, and as for the hand... he stifled a groan, biting his lip. The shuttlecraft was momentarily forgotten.
"...I should get you drunk more often if that's the result," Jim continued, hand moving lazily in time with his words; "Wow. I mean you know me, I'm not exactly a nun, but I have never been fucked like that..."
His knuckles were whitening on the armrest again, for a different reason this time. Shuttlecraft? What shuttlecraft?
"...so I'll tell you what. You stay cool and don't kicked out of the Academy, and when we get back..." Jim licked his lips wickedly, looking absolutely diabolical. "...when we get back, I'll return the favour."
He had a sudden vision of himself pinned down on a bed or up against a wall, unable to do anything but brace himself and hang on as all that wild, reckless energy was poured into fucking him: he bit down hard on his lip and came with a whimper.
Jim smirked. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
~*~
"Dr. Bauer tell me you've been having less trouble flying," the psychologist observed, interested but neutral.
"Yes," he replied with barely concealed impatience. He drummed his fingers idly on the arm of his chair.
"Why do you think that is?"
A highly unscrupulous best friend and a lot of sex, he thought. Aloud he said solemnly; "Positive reinforcement."
~*fin*~