Title: everything you had and what was left after that
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Kirk/McCoy(past Kirk/Carol Marcus, Kirk/Gary Mitchell)
Prompt: Due to psychological trauma, Jim is unable to orgasm.

The hell of it is, Jim really likes sex.

He likes the press of a body against his in the dark, the helpless stuttering of hips and the greedy flex of quivering muscle under his hands. He likes the tingle in his lips when his mouth has been used, likes feeling warm and swollen like over ripe fruit. He likes the sound, too. None of those canned-moans, and theatrical hisses - the real thing, the hitching sobs and vulnerable sex-stupid noises, the high notes and low rumbling sighs that run counter-point to the wonderful obscene slap of skin on skin.

It leaves him exhausted and wanting, but he can't get enough of it.

On his back, against a wall or on his knees, Jim likes sex, and hates himself.

Carol tries.

For an entire night, she tries with gentle determination and playful patience and if Jim could have loved anyone then, he would have loved her.

In the end she cries, sobs angry frustrated tears while Jim strokes her back and lies with all of his heart that it's all right.

Gary takes it as a challenge. Informs Jim on no uncertain terms over a bottle of tequila that he's going to make Jim come, goddammit, and that's all there is to it. No awkward stilted conversation about Iowa and sexual abuse, no comforting rhetoric about coping mechanisms. Just Gary with his quicksilver eyes, and wicked smile as he solemnly swears to fuck Jim so hard he'll orgasm out of self defense.

He almost does.

Gary ties him down, and strings him up. He uses toys, foreign and domestic. Bites, sucks, and spanks, fucking Jim in the bed, in the shower, on the floor, and against the window. Jim snarls and fights against it, even as he bucks back into Gary's thrusts, hot tears squeezing out the corners of his eyes as they rock the cheap kitchen table across the floor. On and on it goes, Jim choking on a knot of his own desperation.

Jim learns fast that very few people get off on having a partner who can't.

Bones.

Bones, Bones, Bones.

Jim knows better, but he just cannot fucking help himself.

The first time they fuck, Bones doesn't call him on it.

He just looks Jim in the eye, stares right into him like he can see exactly what's broken.

He kisses Jim on the mouth and says, "Okay darlin."

It's easy.

It's *so* easy and good and Jim hates it. But he always wants more and Bones is always there, with his big open hands and crooked smiles and comforting silences where uncomfortable questions should be instead.

Bones gives Jim bruising kisses when he wants them and a necklace of bites when he needs them. Makes Jim hurt, just a little, in all the best ways. He doesn't believe in giving up a moan for nothing, refuses to make a show of desire when it's so much better to make Jim work for the real thing, and he loves it. The way Bones stills and blushes when Jim licks his lips during staff meetings, the way his plush mouth gets all hot and pushy when Jim sneak-thieves kisses in corners - the way he tugs Jim's hair when he's on his knees in the turbolift.

The way he fucks Jim across the desk in his ready room, palming him roughly and whispering in that mind-wrecking way he has, that he likes the feel of Jim hard in his hand.

The way he doesn't try to fight Jim's body to give up something it won't.

Bones gives and gives and gives and Jim can't fucking stand himself.

He wakes up one morning with Bones' mouth on him.

His hips snap into wet heat, hands fisting the bed sheets. Jim smiles and sighs, never fucking happier to be on beta shift. There's a ball of warmth humming at the base of his spine, throbbing in time to the bob of Bones' head. Jim likes this part, loves this part, really, where it's slow and good, and safe.

Jim cards his fingers through Bones' hair, enjoys the silky, slightly damp feel of it against his palms, before tugging. Bones pulls off and licks his lips, eyes dark, hair mussed, radiating early morning sex with grumpy menace.

It's a damn nice view, so Jim admires it.

There's a quiet, speculative moment, where they just look at each other. Finally, Bones carefully plants his hands on Jim's hips and bends forward to worry his nipple with his teeth.

Jim jerks and hisses at the sudden bite, body taut and ringing with greed. With Bones' large hands pinning him to the bed, Jim has to push and squirm his way to where he wants to be, slipping his legs around Bones' waist and tugging until they're groin to groin. Bones is hard, leaking hot sticky trails against Jim with every shift, and it's good.

Bones hums against the sensitive flesh of his nipple and the sound Jim makes is unexpectedly high. It earns him an answering grunt and a lazy thrust that dissolves into a slow spell of unhurried rutting while Bones does wonderful, maddening, (useless) things with his mouth.

"Fuck," Jim pants and reaches for Bones' cock. "Fuck, let me -"

Bones catches his hand, squeezes and pushes it away.

That's eight kinds of what the hell right there and Jim chokes on all of them when Bones softly, so fucking softy, traces Jim's lips with the pads of his fingers. Jim's mouth parts on instinct, and he moans when those fingers push past his lips. There's something going on here, something charged and dangerous that Jim should be paying attention to.

Bones rocks his fingers, and Jim sucks, finds a steady rhythm. Bones leans down again, and licks, tongue fluttering around his own fingers, flicking against Jim's working lips, before finally pulling them away. The kiss is a salty and soft - Jim gasps for it, restless and needy in a million (useless) ways.

Bones breaks off, slides his mouth down Jim's neck, sucking the skin until he can't possibly be tasting anything but his own spit and that's good too. So good he looses track of Bones' hands, and jerks when slick fingers trace his entrance.

"Oh fuck, Bones."

No breach, not yet, just a firm circular motion that avoids giving him the pressure he needs. Jim uncurls a leg, plants his foot and lifts his hips, wanting, even as the blank place inside of him starts going cold.

"Jim, eyes on me."

He didn't realize he had closed them and if Jim had the presence of mind he'd be goddamn resentful of how quick he is to obey, but fuck, that voice. Always gravely in the mornings, sweet and dark, slow and dirty with soft consonants and long drawls. He's just fucking wired to respond to it.

Jim opens his eyes, meets Bones' and has a very clear, very distinct moment of ohgodohshit. That nameless thing in the pit of his stomach clenches, and he feels the sharp, jittery edge of panic creeping like killer-frost.

"No, darlin'. Don't do that. Be here," punctuated by Bones' sure grip on his cock, and it works. Jim keens for it, tosses his head against the pillow and tightens his legs around Bones, trying to get closer, get more, even as he trembles on the precipice of fight or flight. Bones' fingers slip deep inside of him, nudging that treacherous sweet spot with every thrust.

Jim's heart hammers in his chest with what he refuses to call fear.

Bones draws his own shaky breaths, gives Jim another one of those I-know-you're-lying looks. "It's okay to be afraid."

Jim snarls at him, "Fuck you." His next curse is choked off when Bones withdraws his fingers and pushes in, one not nearly slow enough stroke that makes his back arch up off the bed. Bones shoves him back down, hands heavy and tight on Jim's hips. He claws Bones' back with one hand and scratches at the headboard with the other, body seizing on the tight burn that steals with breath.

"S'okay." Bones tries to kiss him again, and Jim bites him. It doesn't phase him, he just licks his bloodied lip and says, "I can wait, got all the time in the world, Jimmy-boy."

And he does keep going, like the bastard *does* have all the time in the world, slow measured thrusts inandoutinandout. He can't believe the sounds he's making now, the shit he's saying, the rational part of his mind gaping in horrified disbelief when he realizes he can't fucking stop.

Bones thumbs a crown around the straining head of his cock, and that's when Jim seriously loses it.

"Oh, god – I'm sorry," he babbles, "I'm so sorry, I fucking can't."

"You can. God, you fight so hard, aren't you tired, baby?"

Jim hates him then, for the first time in five plus years of friendship and three months of whatever the hell this is. Hates Bones for pulling him apart when he promised Jim that he wouldn't. Hates him for the rush of coiling warmth and the uncontrollable stutter of his own hips as he leaks pre-come across his abdomen, hard and twitching for something he can't bring himself to have.

"Come on, darlin'. Come on, give up."

"No." His voice cracks and he sounds so broken he can't stand himself, so Jim slaps a hand to his mouth.

Bones pries it away, fights Jim till their fingers thread, and it jars him, shakes him up hard inside. He holds Jim's hand and somehow it's more intimate than Bones buried balls deep inside him, more obscene and vulnerable than the frenzied slap of their fucking filling the room.

"S'ok, darlin'. S'ok, come on. Now. Do it."

Jim sobs, face wet, body twisting helplessly in the throes of a panic attack as Bones gasps those sweet fucking endearments. There's a wash of pink tinged light behind his eyes, something low and hot bursting or breaking inside. It punches the breath out of him and floods down his spine. He tightens all over, convulsing under Bones' working hips, and comes wordlessly, head tipped back, Bones' hand clenched tight in his.

It's a long time before Jim floats back to himself. It's very still and very quiet when he does.