Title: A Taste of His Own Medicine
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy
Word Count: 662
Warnings: rimming, felching
Summary: Comment porn for jim_and_bones

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Jim doesn't think he's ever felt so thoroughly fucked in his life.

He's face down on the bed, barely cognizant, except for the hot points where Bones' fingers press into his thighs, the wet spot on the sheets, and the deliciously used sensation of come dribbling out of his ass. Bones still doesn't seem to be done with him, though, and Jim smashes his face into the mattress, inhaling the combined scents of their sweat and arousal, and he feels Bones' fingers following the trail of his orgasm to part Jim's ass. He feels Bones' groan almost as much as he hears it, and he can imagine what his hole looks like, open and slick with lube and come.

"I want you to still be feeling this tonight," Bones growls. "The slightest shift of muscle, and you'll remember who you belong to when they're trying to get your attention."

They, Jim knows, is the press, the fans, the masses who all want a piece of Captain Kirk, the hero. He can't tell Bones, though, how Starfleet has one, then the Enterprise and his crew, but it's Bones who holds the rest, and there's nothing left of him to give to them.

The thought is quickly lost when Jim feels Bones' tongue enter him, curling and lapping up the mixed fluids, lathing the red and hypersensitive skin, and it makes Jim arch his back in a frustrating desire for both more and to get away from the onslaught on his nerves.

Bones rests his left hand on the small of Jim's back, holding him down, centering him; Bones is so often the only thing that keeps Jim from drifting away, lost, even now when he's overwhelmed with the sensation of Bones kissing and sucking at his hole. Bones' hand feels like its burning him along with the scrape of stubble along the insides of his ass cheeks, and the cool point of Bones' class ring on his little finger is a welcome relief like an oasis in a desert.

Jim can't help the whine when he feels himself getting hard again. He shifts his hips, rutting against the bed, and he feels Bones pause, pull back, and Jim wants more than anything to just roll over so Bones can suck him off until he comes, but the hand is still on his back, holding his hips in place.

"Touch yourself, darlin'. Make yourself come."

Jim keens at the command, his hand moving under his body to comply. It's difficult to jerk himself off in this position, so Jim props himself on one elbow, grinding his pelvis to thrust into his hand instead of sliding his curled fingers along his leaking dick.

It's not enough, though, and he groans in frustration, which morphs into a shout of, "Fuck, yes, Bones," when three fingers entering him, angling for his prostate. Jim's thrusting becomes about trying to get Bones' fingers in him deeper, to hit the right spot, just as much as the friction of his own hand.

Bones lets him set the pace, desperately seeking his second release in what could have been twenty minutes or twenty hours, his sense of time completely lost. He bites his own lip when Bones lowers himself back to Jim's asshole, licking and sucking around the fingers that Jim's still fucking himself onto, and his vision whites out when he comes again as Bones growls, "Mine," into his ass.

And when he shifts his stance later as the photographers and reporters call his name, vying for his attention, and the twinge has him looking around for Bones, his body missing him like a phantom limb. When their eyes meet, the bastard looks outwardly impassive, but Jim can see the smugness, knows that Bones knows what he's thinking about, and while it doesn't make the evening more tolerable in the slightest, it does make Jim looking forward to getting back home and giving Bones a taste of his own medicine.