My Favorite Damned Disease

I like your pants around your feet
And I like the dirt that’s on your knees
I like the way you still say please
While you’re looking up at me
You’re like my favorite damned disease

It should be surprising, the hot breath whispering filth against his ear, the shameless hand quickly making its way up his thigh there in the middle of the fucking bar, and from anyone else, any other godforsaken son of a bitch maybe it would be. Someone else wouldn’t do this, wouldn’t blatantly beg for his best friend to drag him to the bathroom and fuck him until he couldn’t see straight, wouldn’t break out into his most arrogant, killer grin before grabbing his hand and shoving past a line of people waiting for the lone single occupancy bathroom.

Bones should be surprised at how much he wants this, at how hard he lets Jim push him up against that bathroom door, at how quickly his own hands are searching for Jim’s bare flesh. Jim laughs against Bones’ ear when he growls in needy frustration, how bad he wants this written clearly all over his body, shaky fingers unable to unsnap, unzip and undo; laughs in that low, sexy way, breathing into his ear about how bad he must want it, asking how long it’s been, describing in vivid, lurid details the things they might do once they get these pants off or at least closer to the floor.

Jim is infuriatingly arousing, the way he’s already thrusting against Bones, the litany of filth spewing out of his mouth growing louder and all Bones wants to do is tell him to shut up, shut up and get on with it, shut up and let me fuck you already, but it’s hot and he’s delirious and drunk, or deliriously drunk and he can’t filter it. He’s grabbing Jim, shoving his tongue down his throat to shut him up before pushing him hard to the cold floor and telling him to shut the fuck up, just shut the fuck up already and put that harsh, filthy little mouth to better use.

And then Jim crawls towards him, looks up at him through those thick, dark lashes, every fiber of his being wanton, needy and indecent, from the pants around his ankles to the dirt on his knees and the way he licks those lush lips. He doesn’t shut up though, god no, Jim can’t be quiet and there he is, on his fucking knees, asking what Bones is gonna do to shut him up, sliding his hot, quick hands up and over old denim, making easy work of buttons and flies and then he’s asking Bones, begging him, please, can I, want to make you feel good, god Bones, tell me what you want, tell me you want me.

If it were anyone else he might feel bad about grabbing a tight fistful of hair, about thrusting deeply into wet heat, but this isn’t anyone else, this is Jim and Bones is thrusting, in and out, fucking his pretty little mouth shut until he’s gagging, choking, his own litany of filth and the incessant banging on the door behind him urging them on, until Bones is coming so hard his knees buckle and he slides to the sticky, unsanitary floor, out of breath and not at all surprised because this is James T. Kirk, damn it, he’s like some sort of damned disease.