rivers_bend

Title: Three places Kirk and Bones have sex on the Enterprise and one place they don't
Words: 1800
Rating: Adult
Summary: *points at title*
A/N: So affectingly thought there should be more McCoy/Kirk porn, and I was getting frustrated as hell with the fic I'm writing, so I thought I would do her a little comment fic. It kind of got out of hand.



One
"Jim, we're in a turbolift."

Jim removes his lips from the very sensitive patch of skin behind McCoy's ear to say, "So?"

Of course he doesn't see this as a problem. "I know you're the captain and that somewhere you managed to confuse that title with King of the Universe, but we can't just—um—do this in the, um, public areas of the ship." It's taken McCoy two years, but he's just about learned to carry on making his point while Jim is nuzzling his neck and doing that thing with his tongue. He can surely be excused the occasional "um"; it's really a very good thing, the tongue thing, especially when coupled with the hand cupping McCoy's dick.

Jim straightens up again and turns his back to do something with the lift's control panel. Lights stop flashing past, and the indicator over the door glows orange. "There," Jim says, turning back with a smirk, "Happy now? This is no longer an area to which the public have access."

McCoy really should protest again, given this is the only lift in this section of the ship, but Jim is undoing McCoy's fly and kneeling, and McCoy hasn't quite gotten to where he can talk while Jim does the really good tongue thing on his cock.

He doesn't bother teasing, just sucks McCoy down, licking and slurping until McCoy's dick is full and hard, then looking up in the way that means Fuck my mouth, tilting his head back and teasing McCoy's balls.

"I hate you," McCoy says—even though Jim has already told him he knows that means How are you so fucking hot, you bastard?—and fucks Jim's throat until he comes, an embarrassingly short time later.

"Your turn," Jim says cheerfully once he's tucked McCoy's equipment away again. "Can't turn up in engineering with come on my pants."

There's a whole argument where turbolift sex was Jim's idea in the first place and McCoy never asked to get his dick sucked, but McCoy decides it's actually easier to get on his knees than to form complete sentences at this point, so he gives in to the inevitable.


Two
McCoy is at his desk, with a pile of paperwork that needs his attention, when the communicator chimes. "Dr. McCoy, the captain has asked me to enquire if you have a moment. He needs you in conference room four if you don't have any medical emergencies at this time." Uhura's voice is professional, and if she has any suspicions that Jim is using her to arrange a booty call, she's not letting on.

She's not usually easily fooled by Kirk, so maybe the captain really needs him. "Was there a problem with the mission?"

"Not that I know of, sir. He did get a communication from Starfleet Command about twenty minutes ago, so perhaps—I don't wish to speculate. Shall I tell him you'll be there?"

Now McCoy is getting worried. "Yes. I'll go now. Doctor out."

He doesn't jog to the conference room, but he walks briskly enough that people are getting out of his way as he goes. "Captain," he says, somewhat breathlessly, when the room's door sweeps open.

"Good," Jim says, standing, "I thought you'd never get here."

Before McCoy can ask what's wrong, Jim's reaching over his shoulder to lock the door, and then stripping off his shirt.

"Let me guess," McCoy drawls, dry as toast, "Starfleet is concerned that their state-of-the-art conference tables aren't getting enough sex, and they've tasked you with single-handedly solving the problem?"

"Something like that," Jim replies, stripping out of his pants.

"I have work to do." Honestly. The paperwork involved in being Chief Medical Officer isn't even funny.

"You have me to do. That's much more fun." Jim is tugging at McCoy's clothes now, undeterred as always by protestations.

"Did you drink or eat anything unusual on the planet?" Jim has a way of finding alien aphrodisiacs on away missions.

"No. And I didn't sniff any flowers or touch any wildlife. Mission was successful, we've been ordered to head to the nearest Starbase for system updates and shore leave. We have a competent crew to get us there, so you and I are starting shore leave early."

Only James T. Kirk could stand stark bullock naked in the middle of a conference room and look totally at ease explaining to his CMO why they are about to have sex on a table. Who is Leonard McCoy to stand in the way of a man with that much chutzpah?

As soon as McCoy starts stripping, Jim grabs something from his pants, hoists himself up on the table, and with one knee up and the other leg out to the side, starts fingering himself open.

"Oh," McCoy says, because he was imagining Jim bent over the table, but this is actually way hotter. He never noticed before that the table in here, with its fancy padded chairs suitable for esteemed ambassadors' backsides, is pretty much the perfect height for fucking.

"Catch." Jim throws the lube to him, and McCoy slicks up.

Jim hooks his legs around McCoy's waist and wiggles down so his ass is at the edge of the table. "Fuck," McCoy breathes as his cock slips into the hot cleft of Jim's ass.

"That's the idea, yes." Before McCoy can line himself up, Jim reaches down and does it for him.

Jim's skin squeaks against the hardwood tabletop as they fuck, until he pulls himself up, wrapping arms around McCoy's neck to kiss him. But that means McCoy is taking almost all his weight. He fumbles behind himself for one of the chairs, and tugging at Jim's hips, drops them both onto it.

"Jesus, yes. Why didn't I think of that?" Jim asks, griping the chair back for leverage and riding McCoy's dick like he's headed for the post at the Kentucky Derby.

McCoy cuffs Jim's cock with sweat-and-lube-sticky fingers, making the man buck faster and start whispering filth into McCoy's ear. McCoy comes first, but manages somehow to keep jerking Jim until he comes all over both their chests and collapses, giggling quietly into McCoy's neck.

"I hope the starbase has leather cleaner," he says, when McCoy prods him and asks what the hell he's giggling about. Then, with a happy sigh, he snuggles closer, tangling his fingers in McCoy's hair.


Three
"Quiet tonight, I see." No one who needs attention as badly as James Kirk should be able to sneak up on anyone, but the man has skills, McCoy has to admit.

"I was quiet, until you arrived. You have a way of making quiet disappear."

"I can be very quiet, I'll have you know." There is a gleam in Jim's eye. "I think we should see if you can be as quiet as I can."

"I have staff. And Miller is still under observation. I can't just have sex in the middle of sickbay simply because you're horny."

"You're working a night shift. Our bed's all empty. Come on. Just a quick handjob and I'll be on my way."

"You do have hands of your own, you know. Two of them. Both of them very adept at handjobs."

Jim pouts prettily. Which is to say infuriatingly. "But I like your hands better."

"Of course you do." McCoy looks stern, not the least swayed by the pout. "Damn it, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a sex toy."

"I'll give you one too. It'll be good for you. Blow off some of that pent-up frustration."

"That frustration is what allows me to stay up all night being a doctor." He doesn't actually have to stay up all night, which is the advantage of being in charge, he can sleep in the on-call room, but Jim needs to learn that he can't always get his own way.

"Fine. You give me a handjob and that will help give you the frustration you need, and relax me enough to sleep in my lonely bed all alone."

McCoy fears his own argument has just been used against him. "You are a spoiled child," he says. Totally not petulantly.

"That's why you love me."

"It's really not."

Jim, clearly not in a romantic mood, doesn't wait to see if McCoy is going to break the habit of a lifetime and actually list the reasons he does love Jim, but instead pulls McCoy out of his chair, backing himself against the wall, hips canted and head tilted so he's in the perfect position for a kiss and the handjob he came down here for.

"Argh!" McCoy says in frustration, but Jim swallows the sound, licking into McCoy's mouth, pulling his hand down to cup Jim's crotch.

The man plays dirty, being all hot and hard and lithe, grinding and clinging and, true to his words, not making a sound. Which perversely just makes McCoy determined to pull a moan or a whimper out of him. He kisses back hard, taking control, jerking Jim's fly open to get a hand on the beggar's dick. Still no sound from Jim.

He jacks him hard and fast, then slow and soft, playing with his foreskin, running his thumbnail over Jim's slit, smearing the bubbles of precome that elicited over the head, and though Jim rocks his head back, shoves his hips out, he's still silent.

Determined, McCoy pushes Jim's pants further down his hips and uses his other hand to roll and caress Jim's balls, to push up behind them, pressing and rubbing while he thumbs Jim's crown, strokes his length. McCoy is silent too, not going to be outdone, biting back the words and sounds he would usually be making.

Jim's begging with his hips, with his hands fisted in the sleeves of McCoy's shirt, but his mouth stays firmly shut. McCoy kisses it open, gets a sharp breath for his efforts, but not so much as a squeak.

McCoy breaks first. "Please, Jim, please," he begs in a harsh whisper.

Jim gasps, and comes, hard, cock jerking in McCoy's fist, come spurting over McCoy's uniform. Other than the gasp, though, he stays quiet.

"Told you I wouldn't be noisy," he finally says, once he's gotten his breath back.

McCoy growls. "Fuck frustrated. Get your hands on my dick, you cocky bastard."


One place they don't
It's been a really long day. Like thirty-seven hours long. But the stranded settlers have been evacuated, treated, comforted, fed, organized, and beds have been found for every last one of them. McCoy is finally clean, mostly naked, and horizontal. It's heavenly. Jim, who has been awake just as long, is lying beside him. His head is on McCoy's shoulder, and one hand is on McCoy's stomach.

"Bones?" he says. It better not be a prelude to any kind of proposition.

"Mmm?"

"Do you ever think that sometimes just getting into bed is better than sex?" His voice is soft, slurred, but entirely earnest.

"Hell, yes," McCoy answers.

And better than sex with Jim is really damn good.