Author: cymbalism219
Title: Hand-to-Hand Combat
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Rating: R-ish. PWP fluff, if there can be such a thing.
Word count: ~1400
Warnings: Perhaps some unjustified use of italics.
Disclaimer: Oh my, not mine.

Summary: It's not the best or only reason McCoy sticks around the unruly James T. Kirk, but he does get a kick out of the kid's pluck -- even when Jim weasels him into a night on the town, drinks too much, hits on a Deltan, and ropes him into a nonsense, teenage bet.


"Dammit, Jim. Hold still," McCoy groused, propping his wobbly roommate against his hip and holding him upright with an arm around his waist. He fumbled at the keypad outside their door. He was over half in the bag himself, but knew to stop when still decent while drinking in public.

Jim had convinced him of a night on the town. McCoy preferred to do his drinking alone, but Jim had been--as always--persistent and finally won McCoy over when he promised it would be a "boys' night."

"No hitting on anything female or female-resembling," Jim held a hand to his heart in a pledge. "I promise not to get lucky with any girl."

McCoy just snorted, but began changing from his cadet uniform into a pair of jeans, thinking it would at least be entertaining to watch the kid try to keep his word on that one. "First sniff at something sexy and I'm hauling your ass home. You're not leavin' me high and dry in some damn yuppie kid bar."

Jim had crossed his heart and beamed at him. And he'd done a damn good job of keeping his ass on his bar stool at McCoy's elbow, even if he sat swiveled to face the crowd all night and his open-kneed slouch against the bar was heavily come-hither. Once Jim's veins had more alcohol than blood in them, though, his promise was fully forgotten, and McCoy made good on his own.

"I coulda made it with her," Jim whined, head lolling onto McCoy's shoulder. "She was Deltan, Bones. Bet she sensed better than me how good that coulda been, right?" He snickered.

McCoy rolled his eyes and as the door retracted and he led Jim's loose-boned body into the room. He ordered on the lights then said, "Yeah, right. Even if that vow-of-celibacy and risk-of-insanity business wasn't on the table, that only would have been good if you could get it up. And I don't need a tricorder to tell you're beyond that." He dumped Jim unceremoniously onto his bed. "'Say I'm doing you a favor." He took a seat on his own side of the room, reaching down to the heel of one boot to peel it off.

Jim wrangled himself upright in an unsteady and decidedly unsober state of offense. "Now that is just plain untrue, Bones. I might be intoxicated, but I'm not imperti– importi– " He paused to get his lips around the word. "Impotent!" he said, jabbing a finger in the air in success, the irony of the gesture clearly lost on him.

McCoy wagged his head to hide his smirk and reached for his other boot, hand missing heel on his first pass. "Don't doubt the Kirk virility, is that what you're saying?"

"That's what I'm saying. And I can prove it."

McCoy quirked an eyebrow and dropped his second boot, sure that this was going to be funny. It wasn't the best or only reason he stuck around the unruly James T. Kirk, but he did get a kick out of the kid's pluck.

"I bet you, Bones," Jim's smile was sloppy and lopsided, but for a second his too-blue eyes sparked with a disturbing lucidity. "I bet you I can get it up faster and come quicker than you can, right now."

Whoa now. There was an offer McCoy hadn't been expecting. "You mean, you and me..."

Jim was looking down at his crotch, futzing with the clasp on his pants in earnest. "You and me, right now. Hand-to-hand combat."

Jim's meaning rounded home in McCoy's slightly muddled mind and he heaved a sigh of something like relief. "A jack-off contest? Dammit, Jim, you're drunker than I thought. What kind of two-bit teenage nonsense is that?"

"It's not nonsense," Jim said seriously, without slurring. "It's about honor and, ohh--" He all but purred when he got his pants open and hand on his dick. McCoy watched with clinical dispassion and healthy skepticism. "Ohh, damn. Think about those lips, Bones. That girl's mouth was--and you know Deltans don't have--mmm." Jim bit his lip.

It was stupid, but most things about sex are, and McCoy felt himself getting hard. He worked open his belt, grumbling over Jim's goddamn ridiculousness. But all the same, minutes later he was still seated at the edge of his bed, now with pants undone, shoulders hunched forward in concentration, and trying not to feel like an old lech while he thought about that pretty Deltan's smooth skin and full lips.

Alcohol consumption notwithstanding, Jim had youth on his side and McCoy's imagination and reflexes just weren't what they used to be. He had a feeling this was a losing battle and, for quick confirmation of the fact, glanced up at Jim.

Jim who was sprawled on his back, one leg dangling off the edge of the bed, cock in hand, mouth open and eyes shut in soundless pleasure.

Jim whose hips were rolling against the mattress, lifting occasionally, like the Deltan girl was straddling his saddle and riding him good.

Whip-crack fast and with the same kind of stinging burn McCoy was hit with the image of Jim riding him--hard young body primed over him then grinding down eagerly, his hands controlling those nimble hips. At this point in their acquaintance, McCoy had probably seen Jim naked more times than any of Jim's one-night stands. He could picture how it would be clearly, right down to the deep breaths that would heave through Jim's trim chest and the thin trail of hair leading from Jim's navel to where he'd be touching himself.

Heat roiled through McCoy's veins as he swelled at the thought. His strokes became smoother and slower--slower and firmer, drawing out the sensation and, he realized as he watched, in rhythm with Jim's. He rolled his head back, panting, shoulders loosening even as his free hand's grip on the mattress tightened.

Across from him, Jim moaned. McCoy squeezed his eyes closed, but couldn't escape either image--the reality of Jim on his back jerking off, just feet away, or of Jim upright and straddling him, taking in McCoy even as he pleaded for more.

McCoy bit his lip and stroked himself faster.

And then--

Jim gasped. "Oh, God." McCoy snapped his head up just in time to see Jim's thighs tighten, see his hips lift, and hear him say, "God. Oh, Bones." Jim's voice was raspy, needy. "Bones. Sonofabitch. Bones, I'm coming. Oh, I'm gonna come now."

And fuck if that didn't beat all.

It took less than a second for McCoy to launch himself across the room. He dipped first to Jim's heavy, ready cock, batting his friend's hand away and dragging his tongue along it from base to tip, salty musk filling his senses. McCoy commandeered the hand job, working him soundly as he moved up and planted his mouth on Jim's, his own erection rutting into the exposed skin of Jim's groin. Jim's hands had landed above his head, leaving his body--though still clothed--lustily open, and after a few strong pulls of McCoy's hand, he did as he'd promised: Jim tensed and moaned and came.

The slick of Jim's orgasm and his continued moans into McCoy's mouth had McCoy teetering on the edge of climax himself, but what pushed him off were Jim's hands coming down and clutching McCoy's ass, simultaneously pulling and pressing McCoy against him, roughly. The friction between their bodies sent McCoy into a dizzying, pulsating fall. A fall so intense he couldn't stop--and didn't have a mind to be embarrassed of--the deep sounds of satisfied release he made all the way down.

When he came to, he pushed up just enough to make out Jim's shit-eating grin. McCoy scowled. "What?"

Jim's hands dragged pleasantly along McCoy's sides, no doubt a placating action, and his gaze was distinctly clear-eyed. "You doubted me, Bones," he said, voice still husky. "But we had our boys' night, as promised, and--" he paused to bat those pretty eyelashes at McCoy, "I won the bet."

McCoy deepened his glare as he set about peeling himself off his sticky friend, shimmying back into his briefs, and heading for the wash station. "Next time, Jim, I swear--"

"Wait," Jim propped himself onto his elbows, eyes bright and all other traces of alcohol gone from his speech. "There's gonna be a next time?"

McCoy glowered, chucked his wadded-up pants at Jim's head, and growled, "Not even you could get that lucky."

-end-


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