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Jim Kirk fucks Leonard McCoy within 24 hours of having met him.
“I may throw up on you,” McCoy says, leaning in towards Jim, alcohol on his breath.
Within an hour, strictly speaking.
It’s not a record, not for him anyway, and probably not even for McCoy. Though Jim can’t say for sure, given that he’s only just met the guy.
But McCoy doesn’t seem the type to have trouble getting laid. He has that intensity about him that Jim knows girls fall over themselves for.
“I think these things are pretty safe,” he replies.
Jim once wished for that kind of concentrated dangerous passion himself. He got over that fairly quickly though. No point in wishing for something you didn’t have. Besides, he found out that he had other ways to pull.
He had sparkle. Dirty sparkle, smudged and battered, but sparkle nonetheless. He could press up against a girl in a bar, invade her personal space in a way that really ought to get him slapped and feel the heat of her ratchet up, radiate into him. Fix her with a look to melt butter, wink, sparkle. That’s all it took most of the time.
He’d made judicious use of that talent since he discovered it. And almost never got slapped. Almost.
Still, knowing the mechanics of his seduction somewhat took away the power of it when it was turned on him. Not that he let it stop him when some young eager kid pressed up against him, all hands and not enough experience. He’d still let himself get hard and let the kid get him off in the back corridor of the local bar.
There was something to be said for enthusiasm after all.
“Don’t pander to me, kid. One tiny crack in the hull and our blood boils in thirteen seconds. Solar flare might crop up, cook us in our seats. And wait’ll you’re sitting pretty with a case of Andorian Shingles -”
But it wasn’t sparkle, clean or dirty that got him instantly ready to lose it in his pants. No, what got him on the primal level, hit down and dirty and led to straight up arousal, was intensity.
“ - See if you’re still so relaxed when your eyeballs are bleeding. Space is disease and danger wrapped in darkness and silence.”
And intensity, Jim instantly realizes as he stares slightly wide-eyed at the man beside him, as he babbles on about death and destruction, is something Leonard McCoy has in spades.
Thirty seconds into meeting McCoy and Jim’s interested. Very interested.
So, naturally, he pretends he isn’t. “I hate to break this to you but Starfleet operates in space.”
“Yeah well, got nowhere else to go -” McCoy continues the diatribe as he fiddles with his seat buckle.
Jim takes advantage of the other man’s concentration being elsewhere and lets his gaze flicker down and then rake back up McCoy’s lanky form.
Yeah. Definitely interested.
“- all I got left is my bones.”
McCoy has retrieved a hip flask from inside his jacket, and Jim watches him bring it to his lips, tip it back. Jim watches avidly, noticing the fullness of McCoy’s lips as they close around the metal of the flask’s neck.
McCoy sees his interested gaze, mistakes it for an interest in the drink and offers it to him.
As far as Jim’s concerned, anyone willing to share their booze with him is a lifelong friend.
“Jim Kirk,” he states, raises the flask to his own lips. It’s whiskey, good whiskey, he notes, letting the liquid roll over his tongue before allowing it to slide with a burn down his throat.
McCoy will taste like that, he thinks. He passes back the flask as the shuttle’s thrusters roar to life beneath them.
The horizon sinks lower outside the portal windows and despite the continued drone of McCoy prophesying doom, he can tell the man’s genuinely rattled. For one, Jim notes, his fingers are gripping the flask so tight they’ve gone white, bright red crescent moons through their middles where the blood has been trapped.
The guy sitting to the other side of McCoy is clearly more worried about the guy flipping out than the shuttle crashing, and Jim smirks at the way the cadet shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
Along with wanting to fuck him, and of course being friends for life, Jim decides he also likes McCoy. It’s a promising beginning.
McCoy is starting to moan about the dangers of Telurian Plague and Jim decides to cut the guy a break. He reaches over and snaps open the metal clasp of McCoy’s seat belts.
“The hell, kid?” McCoy growls, looking down at his lap and back to Jim in confusion.
“Come on,” Jim says, flips open his own belt. He jerks his head towards the back of the shuttle. “We’re getting your seat back.”
He turns and heads down the row, hunched slightly, stance wide to balance against unexpected turbulence, towards the bathroom cubicle. He winks at Uhura as he passes. She gives him a dirty look that clearly says ‘where do you think you’re going?’ He just grins and continues past. He ignores Cupcake and friends entirely.
Somewhat to his surprise when he turns at the cubicle door he finds that McCoy has actually followed him, the man is right behind him. Jim wants to grin, it’s his natural response to suggestive situations, but he isn’t sure it’ll work with McCoy, so he settles for a small twitch of his lips. He opens the latch of the door and slides in.
There isn’t room for two; hell, there’s barely room for one. It’s only a shuttle after all. It’s a step up from a bag of piss in your space suit, but not much. He turns and hitches himself up onto the small basin, praying that the damn unit will hold and not pull out from the wall, or more likely, that he’ll slip off on his ass.
McCoy slips in after him, sliding the door shut with a soft clack. It definitely isn’t built for two, even with Jim perching on the sink. His knees press against McCoy’s belly as he shifts past him and sits himself down on the closed toilet.
McCoy half sighs, half groans, as he closes his eyes and visibly relaxes.
“Really that bad, huh?” Jim asks.
McCoy grunts in answer, doesn’t bother to open his eyes.
Jim stays silent, letting the man get his wits again. But staying still isn’t really one of Jim’s strong suits. It only takes a minute before he starts swinging his legs back and forth. The toes of his boots hit the door at each aborted half swing.
“Good god, man, can’t you stay the hell still?” McCoy growls and opens his eyes to stare at Jim. It’s the intense stare from before, though this time the intensity is at him and not the terrors of space travel, so Jim figures that’s a positive step.
Jim grins; pissed off he knows. “Feeling better then, are we?”
McCoy almost looks like he might be thankful, though clearly loath to admit such a dependent expression. His head ducks slightly in what Jim takes to be the unspoken version of gratitude. McCoy produces his flask again, swigs and offers it to Jim once more.
“What happened to you, anyway?” McCoy asks, gesturing at the dried blood down Jim’s shirt.
“Run in with some baked goods.” Jim shrugs, shifting as the cold metal of the tap slides against the bare skin between t-shirt and jeans.
“Right,” McCoy says, but there’s a laugh rumbling in there somewhere this time.
The sound, deep and gravelly, goes straight to Jim’s cock. At least his jeans will hide his interest some.
The flask is nearly empty, but Jim’s careful to leave a mouthful still in there. There are manners when it comes to a man’s alcohol. He hands it back to McCoy, a spark as their fingers touch in the transfer.
“You could have at least wiped the blood off your face,” McCoy says with a raised eyebrow. The man is staring directly at him, studying him. It’s unnerving. And arousing. “Have you even put any thing on those cuts?”
Jim snorts, nonchalant. “No. They’re just scratches.”
“Scratches, my ass,” McCoy says, sarcasm dripping. “One miniscule bit of space dust and suddenly you’re up to your ears in Polycocyx Astris.”
Jim’s about to reply that he thinks he can handle a runny nose when McCoy stands up and slides back in front of him. Once again his knees are pressing against the soft muscle of McCoy’s belly. Before he can think he’s moved his knees outwards, hugging McCoy’s waist to accommodate them both in the small space. It strikes him that it’s a somewhat compromising position. But then, he’s nothing if not a whore, so why worry now?
McCoy hasn’t noticed though and suddenly his fingers are on Jim’s face, tilting his chin back and forth in the meager fluorescent light of the bathroom.
“What the hell are you doing?” Jim asks, slight concern edging into his voice. What with having locked himself in the bathroom with the potentially mad man.
“Relax,” McCoy monotones, “I’m a doctor. You need these looked at.” He steps closer, his waist sliding in against Jim’s denim-clad thighs. Jim resists the shudder that threatens to ripple down his spine.
McCoy manhandles his face a while, then, apparently satisfied, drops his hands to his sides. “You’ll probably live.”
“Oh good,” Jim says, and this time it’s his voice that’s full of sarcasm.
McCoy’s about to give Jim some smart ass reply, Jim can tell, when suddenly the shuttle hits a pocket of turbulence. The bottoms drop out of their stomachs as the craft falls and steadies.
Jim laughs and is about to make a comment about carnival rides when he looks at McCoy’s face, which has gone ashen, his pupils wide and black. He reaches out a hand, curls it around McCoy’s upper arm and squeezes. “Hey, it’s alright. It’s nothing, we’re not falling out of the sky yet.”
“God damned flying,” McCoy stutters slightly. “God damned ex-wife,” he adds with a bit more vehemence and the scent of whiskey ghosts across Jim’s face.
The shuttle rattles again, and Jim worries for a second that McCoy might actually make good on that throwing up thing. As it is, he looks like he’s at least going to try and make a run for it. Run where, Jim doesn’t like to contemplate.
“Focus here,” he demands, tightening his grip on McCoy’s arm.
“Focus where?” McCoy snaps, eyes darting to the side, roof, other side. Intensity isn’t always a good thing, Jim decides. He has to do something to snap the guy out of it.
“Here,” he says firmly, sudden inspiration striking. He knows how to put people at ease. Granted, usually it’s in a somewhat different context, but hell, it’s worth a try.
He leans forward the few inches between them and slides his hand up from McCoy’s shoulder to the back of his neck, pulling the man in towards him. Their lips meet messily; Jim’s not quite got the angle he needs and it’s more a mashing of flesh than a sensuous caress.
McCoy freezes, but Jim just waits out the two seconds it takes before the other man surges forward against him. McCoy’s mouth is against his, stubble prickling against the soft flesh of lips. It’s only another second before McCoy’s mouth opens against Jim’s, tongue thrusting into his mouth demandingly.
Well, Jim thinks. So that worked.
He lets McCoy take the lead, take control. The man is sure in his movements; he knows how to take what he wants, and the knowledge is making Jim weak in the knees. It’s just as well he’s not standing.
McCoy has a hand braced against the mirror, flat against the glass above Jim’s head, the other hand firm on Jim’s thigh. Their kiss is open-mouthed and needy. This is no time or place for niceties. Jim gives in to the urge he’s had since he saw McCoy’s lips around the flask and sucks the other man’s plump lower lip into his mouth, clamping down with his teeth.
The groan that emanates from McCoy’s chest and the way his hand clutches at Jim’s thigh gets him from rock hard to impossible in a split second.
McCoy shifts and his hand slips back around to Jim’s lower back, snaking under the cotton and leather to splay against Jim’s naked skin. This time Jim does grin and their teeth clatter together. Jim laughs and in response McCoy pulls at him, forcing his hips to arch and tilt on the stainless steel lip of the sink until they’re pressed flush against McCoy’s. The tips of Jim’s boots graze the floor but he can’t quite get purchase on the linoleum.
There’s no hiding his erection now; McCoy isn’t going to miss it. Not that it matters, because Jim can feel the answering press of McCoy’s cock jutting into his hipbone.
“Fuck,” Jim manages between tongues and lips. He tries to roll his hips lasciviously against McCoy, but really, he can’t do much of anything where he is. It’s endlessly frustrating. Jim likes to be in control. Or at least be able to pretend as much.
“Stop moving, damnit,” McCoy orders, “You’re going to break something.”
Jim can’t even reply when he wants to because McCoy’s tongue is back in his mouth, swiping at his own. But then McCoy’s hands are slipping up his chest, under the collar of his leather jacket, slipping it back and off his shoulders. Hell yeah.
But McCoy doesn’t pull the jacket all the way off, letting the soft leather bunch at his elbows, restricting Jim’s movement even more. Instead the man’s hands go back down to the dirty t-shirt, lift the hem and wrench it up to his collar with one hand. McCoy’s mouth leaves Jim’s and his head dips, teeth clasping onto one of Jim’s nipples, hard.
Jim assumes that noise comes from him, but it's way too feminine in pitch to acknowledge. Luckily, it gives way to a moan, much more manly, as McCoy rolls and licks the flesh between his teeth.
He tries to scrabble, to get purchase, but his arms are effectively immobilized by his jacket and his feet aren't flat enough on the floor.
“Fuck.” All he can do is swear. So he does.
McCoy straightens, lets Jim’s t-shirt drop back into place and stares directly at him, dark eyes radiating heat and wicked humour. And then suddenly McCoy disappears, dropping to his knees in the cubicle.
God, yes, is all Jim has time to think before McCoy’s hands are at his waist, nimble surgeon’s fingers making short work of button and zip. Warm fingers pull at the opening to his jeans, slipping under his underwear and pulling them out and down. There’s not much room, given Jim’s clothes are almost completely on, but it’s enough, and McCoy’s calloused fingers are freeing Jim’s cock, wrapping around it as if testing for weight and girth.
The last thing he sees, before Jim’s head falls back against the mirror with a thwack is McCoy’s pink tongue darting forward to tease at the slit of Jim’s cock. McCoy’s dark eyelashes closed against paler skin, as if sight is not conducive to such savouring.
McCoy’s mouth is hot and wet, and his hand wraps around the base of Jim to add to the feel of it all. McCoy’s sucking and tonguing and Jim lets himself fall into the sensation of it, eyes closed tight. He’s pretty sure he’s emitting something close to breathy mewling if he’s to be honest with himself.
He can feel his muscles begin to twitch, mere minutes in to McCoy’s ministrations. McCoy just ‘mmmmm’s in permission, the purr vibrating around Jim’s cock and he knows it’s over.
One of his feet finally finds purchase, against the bathroom door, and he pushes against it, hips arching erratically as he comes, spills into McCoy’s mouth, moaning at the deliciousness of McCoy’s continued coaxing and suction.
Spent, Jim collapses back against the sink, legs useless and draped around McCoy’s kneeling figure.
“You said you had an ex-wife?” Jim manages weakly, eyes still closed, head leaning against the mirror. “What the hell was she thinking, man?”
McCoy chuckles, genuinely amused, before swiping at Jim’s cock one last time and tucking him back into his jeans, zipping them up. McCoy’s knees audibly pop when he straightens up and Jim opens his eyes just in time to see the annoyed grimace cross the man’s face.
“I’m getting too old for this shit,” McCoy mutters, hands rubbing over his face.
Jim smiles, cocky but slightly uncertain, “Oh I hope not. It’d be rude not to return the favour.”
McCoy shakes his head and laughs. “You’re a piece of work, Kirk.”
“You don’t even know the half of it, Bones,” Jim replies, enjoying the epithet he constructs from McCoy’s earlier words.
McCoy tilts his head at hearing it, and then nods. It fits. It’s acceptable. McCoy leans in and Jim pushes up from his slump to meet his mouth. McCoy tastes like him, and Jim’s always liked the depravity of tasting himself in another man’s mouth.
There’s an angry knock at the door. And an angry voice to accompany it. It’s the flight officer from earlier, and she’s not amused. “We are about to land! Would you please return to your seats!”
Jim grins at McCoy, full wattage. “Later, then?”
McCoy rolls his eyes, but nods. It’s almost imperceptible; if one wasn’t paying attention they’d miss it. But Jim is paying attention. Later.
McCoy slides open the door and strolls out of the bathroom and down the aisle. Jim follows, grinning widely at the angry woman outside the door. She wishes she’d been in there.
McCoy is already strapping himself in, turned towards the cadet from earlier who looks disgruntled to have his seat-mate back. Jim can hear McCoy telling the cadet about the dangers of touching down and air pressure in the cabin.
Jim laughs; this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Oh yes.
He sits down in his seat with a satisfied flop and begins doing up the infernal belts. The recruit next to him gives him a curious glance. He’s pretty sure the grin he returns identifies him as nothing but the cat that got the cream. He’s pretty much fine with that.
The shuttle begins its descent. The Academy looms large through the windows and the recruits are peering out, trying to get a glimpse at their future.
Jim doesn’t bother.
Jim fucks Leonard McCoy within an hour of having met him, or, to be entirely accurate, McCoy fucks Jim. It’s not a record, but it has potential.