bakerstreet | The Star Trek Smut Meme

The Star Trek Smut Meme

eau d'pon farr, buy it now

Exposed to a Pon Farr inducing agent (either chemically created or a natural toxin) you are now forced to undergo a biological shift. You feel more aggressive, sexually unsatisfied and more than eager to take a mate. If you do not relieve the neurochemical imbalance with sex, meditation or engaging in a physical fight, you will go insane and die within eight days.

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[let it never be said that he's unobservant.

he may not be vocal about it until he has something completely figured out - at least, when it comes to anyone but their captain - but he notices. he takes mental notes and strings things together. he forms hypotheses and debates and deliberates and works his brain half to death.

except in this case, it hadn't been that difficult to figure out. even if he isn't entirely sure what had brought it on.

ever since their first officer had come aboard, despite the fact that they seemed to push each other's buttons at every turn, he'd done his homework. gathered every single bit of information on vulcan physiology that he could get his hands on, schooled himself in general knowledge until he could tell you any little thing you wanted to know. he's proud of himself, truth be told, and if he puffs up the slightest bit at any given chance to spout off his knowledge, he doesn't think anyone could blame him.

which is why, once their captain and their first officer had come back from some diplomatic bullshit on a planet they'd never been to before - go fucking figure - the moment he'd noticed the vulcan was acting differently, he'd started that close study.

let's make a list of things that are severely out of whack.

- aggressive behavior
- irritability (more than just with kirk, which is a given)
- rising level of distraction while performing his duties

there's more, but he thinks the point is moot.

he calls spock to the medbay once he knows his shift is over, standing at the ready, tricorder in hand, eyebrows slightly raised.] You got a problem, kid. You're officially off duty until I figure it out.

[not up for debate.]

[ Spock may be prepared to accuse Leonard McCoy of being a fool in every manner possible, but he would never call the man an idiot, no matter how very capable the man in question may be at failing to see the difference. His ignorance is selective.

And it was just a matter of time before someone noticed, besides himself, that something was off. Because, while he wasn't yet willing to admit it to himself, he couldn't control what was happening to him, and it was only going to get worse. His ignorance is selective.

He almost doesn't come when he's called. When he arrives, he almost instantaneously regrets it. The Vulcan's arms are tight against his back. ]

That is your prerogative.

[ It's the sort of agreement that sounds like it comes through gritted teeth, though Spock isn't there, not just yet. He eyes the tricorder like it's a leech meant to bleed him. ]

Provided you can supply the necessary records of medical evaluation.

[ Aha, there's the clencher. Good old regulation. But medical evaluation is what he is here for, this is true. The trick now will be finding something that can be used as probable cause for an enforced leave of absence. ]

Edited (tensessss) 2013-06-25 21:27 (UTC)

[this goes along the lines of never quite censoring himself when he ends up calling the other a green-blooded hobgoblin, and he might go so far as to think he really is out of his mind sometimes, but it doesn't discredit his intelligence and overall contribution to the productivity of the ship.

but damned if he's not one irritating son of a bitch.

his eyes narrow, and then his eyebrows climb nearly all the way to his hairline at the retort he gets. oh, so that's how he's gonna play it. all right. he's game. never mind that he doesn't want the vulcan to end up becoming a danger to himself or anyone on the ship - there's a part of him that it genuinely concerned. if this is what he thinks it is, he's going to need to convince spock to do something about it before it's too late for him to come back from it.

though, it seems he's caught it in the early stages. they have a bit of time if the other proves to be difficult. which is precisely what he's expecting.

his lips purse, and his gaze hardens.] Yes it's my prerogative, and the right one to have. I'll have the necessary medical evaluation once I scan you. Now c'mere.

[ Leonard McCoy is almost always "game" - it's something that is simultaneously irritating and intriguing for someone who, at heart, enjoys a good debate. Spock remains impassive at the look he gets, unconcerned for the offense he might have caused and therefor free. In his mind, a leave of absence needs to come with paperwork. He is different from them, the humans; he must hold himself above the standards of bowing to simple concern, though he secretly expects the doctor relishes the opportunity to deprive him of his duties. To a lesser extent, a formal exam will accredit Bones as a professional as well... But yes, really, this is a line of red tape he is using to barricade the inevitable conclusion: he is unfit for duty. Somehow, while Spock is willing to admit ( to himself ) something is off, he will fight against the thought that he should be even temporarily dismissed.

Convincing is absolutely necessary, then. Sorry, Bones.

The Vulcan's nostrils may have flared at the command, but his expression is otherwise that of a stone wall. With stiff posture, he takes a few steps forward and stops, stubbornly, some feet from the doctor. Apparently he plans to do the examination standing, ready to turn and leave the very moment McCoy fails to categorize him.

Part of it, though, is that he is so terribly irritated right now that he may fear physically lashing out. Jim may be able to ruffle him better than anyone else, but no one makes him irritated the same way McCoy can. Jim is his friend; McCoy is... a colleague.

He says nothing at all, and directs his gaze to simply go through the doctor. Hopefully Bones will understand this is as good as it's going to get with snappish commands to drive the Vulcan. ]

[no, he is always game. call it being conditioned to their captain's games, but he always finds himself at the ready no matter what it is that comes across his desk, and the vulcan standing before him holds no exception.

there is something off about him. and he isn't going to stop until he's figured out just what it is.

bones' eyes narrow, taking in that flare of nostrils and seeing it as some sort of personal challenge, tricorder held at the ready . you want to play this game, spock? oh, you're in for it, because he isn't going to back down until he has every scrap of information needed to find out just what is wrong with you.

if you want to be examined standing? sure, go right ahead. bones steps closer and begins his scans, muttering to himself that it just figures that the first officer of the enterprise would see fit to give him a hard time, dark eyes trained on some indistinct point on the floor as he idly takes in the scans from the instrument.

it's only a moment before the information reveals to him something significant, and bones grunts to himself as though attempting to make sense of it, though he already knows just what the other man's affliction really is.

he brings his head up, gaze level and steady, still every bit as professional as it had been moments before. his voice is calm, low as it is, almost accusing.] You know what's wrong with you.

[ Spock stands still as he's approached, half beside himself with an irritable itch to sneer or even snarl at the other male presence invading his, sizing up, and half confident that he can simply will away any potential biological factors that may betray him that very moment.

Even though Bones is close and has leveled an accusation at him, Spock resolutely refuses to do anything save look straight ahead. ]

I am not a medical professional, Doctor McCoy, and I do not believe I have violated any protocol to ascertain there is anything 'wrong' with me. What do your bells and whistles say?

[ This with a high hint of Vulcan smugness, the sort of dry pretentiousness that suggests knows while McCoy might have something on the tricorder, it's nothing extreme or discernible just yet. ]

[his own eyes narrow; he isn't going to play this game, just for the simple fact that they both know what the other is suffering from. though he doesn't expect spock to tell him as much - because he knows that vulcans don't make it a point to talk about this sort of thing with off-worlders, he's going to have to say it himself.

that smugness only serves to have his gaze harden, because he's used to this sort of treatment from their captain, but excuse him for expecting a level of professionalism and tact from their first officer.

which means he ends up sneering, a corner of his mouth pulling upward.] My bells and whistles, as you so aptly say, tell me it's your damn Vulcan period.

[because he can have a bit of fun with this, too. excuse you.] You knew Pon Farr was coming up on you, Spock. Why the hell didn't you tell anybody?

[ "Vulcan period" receives only a small twitch at the edge of his lips. It's not until the words pon farr are made clear that he actually reacts, though, and his reaction is to turn his head as if struck, narrowing his eyes at something far off. The honest answer is that he had suspected this was the case, but he was not entirely certain it was true. By Vulcan standards, he was late, and honestly he had hoped his half-human heritage would have afforded him some sort of reprieve. But he's struck by the accusation, knows for sure it is true now, and hates himself all the more for it, even if it is equitable in the wake of the alternatives, that he was simply growing restless with his station. This was biological, natural even, for all that it was deplorable and shameful to him.

The flinch lasts only a second or so, before he is facing down McCoy again with dark eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. ]

If indeed your assertion is true - and I have yet to hear definite proof that it is - it was not your business nor my duty to inform you, Doctor. What evidence do you have, exactly, to levy against my productivity besides your own superfluous and overbearing instinct?

[what little he does know of vulcan practice and the like allows him to know that he's struck a nerve when he even so much as mentions the words pon farr. the way spock's head turns speaks volumes, and there is a small part of him that is pleased for wringing such a reaction from him. he's never so much as managed even a smirk from him - only jim has been capable of that, and he knows it, but it still brings him some measure of satisfaction to be able to bring it forth, himself.

that resistance - fuck you, hobgoblin - it's something that he would only expect from their captain. though it doesn't keep him from closing the distance between them, fingers pressed to a pulse-point at the side of a warm throat, his own gaze trained on the other's as though it might prove some point that he hasn't yet made apparent.] Your pulse is elevated. You've shown increasingly erratic behavior - and if you don't think you have, then I'll show you the damn video feed of you snarling at an ensign for not paying attention to their calibrations. [bones pauses, dark eyes hard and unyielding as he leans in close, practically snarling.]

You should know better than this, Spock. You might be half-human, but that doesn't exclude you from this. You should have taken yourself off the duty roster days ago.

[ He is not wholly himself at the moment. He has more fortitude than this, usually; if not for Kirk the sign of irritation would be all but foreign to him. He feels provoked now, though. He feels like one of his most intimate secrets, and the secrets of his society, have just been slashed open for a vindictive doctor's victory crow. Not only is he facing the shame of it all, but McCoy is smug about the fact to hold it over his head. In truth, it is a fabrication of his heightened testosterone that says this to him, that suggests the doctor has been lying in wait for the day to catch him off guard to spring triumphant from the depths and proclaim him unfit for duty for all the arguments he's lost ( in Spock's mind ) in the past. The Vulcan's mind is warped at the moment. He sees Bones as a competitor and another male that seeks to have him submit beneath his might.

Finally, the touch to his neck is what makes him snap, shuddering apparently beneath the touch, trembling with rage that barely stays bridled before McCoy has gotten out the claim that he should have known, he should have just excused himself from duty days ago. The logic is sound, but Spock isn't quite working on logic anymore. There's another male with a hand on his throat trying to take his purpose away from him, that's all there is.

The Vulcan steps forward, a thin body but one seemingly crafted from steel. He gathers McCoy's shirt in a fist as he marches the other back to a nearby biobed, behind a partial curtain. The sickbay is thankfully lacking in staff at the moment due to a slow period or else he'd certainly have people swarming him now, as he gets right into Bones' face and hisses hot breath into his face. ]

I have performed my duties above what is considered adequate, Doctor McCoy. If my behavior seems erratic to you, it is only because I have been so frequently surrounded by incompetent company as of late, and am further imposed upon by your petty vendettas. Unless you have more substantial evidence to submit, I suggest you refrain.

[ He's more than suggesting it, more than suggesting Bones leave him the fuck alone right now. The Commander's presence is more than a little menacing, almost forcing the human to stumble and topple back onto the biobed. Spock is struck with the need to one-up the gestures imposed upon him and moves his hand up to encircle Bones' throat without thinking twice, holding but not squeezing, not just yet. Dominance. ]

Is that very clear to you?

[bones has never been particularly competitive in that respect, but if it means that he proves a point, then he will. the figure in front of him poses a threat, and whether or not he chooses to deal with it as he sees fit is a question in and of itself as the other returns the grip to his throat and he growls, own faltering just the slightest bit as he draws back, dark eyes searching.

he will never consent to submit, but the way the other looks at him has him pausing, has him gauging the level of proficiency he might allow for his duties when -

those fingers curl in his shirt and force him back and he grunts with the effort of not giving himself over to it from the very start. he will not, he cannot, because it's his job to keep the other man within his logical parameters, and if he doesn't make sure the other man can function, what has he done?

he knows that spock wants him to leave him to his own devices, but he can't, and it shows in the tightening of his fingers, the hardening of his gaze as he licks his lips, fingers curling in on the collar of his uniform.] You've just proven that you aren't fit for duty. [his words falter, breath hitching in the back of his throat as he shifts, trying to find purchase against the biobed, unwilling to admit that he doesn't have control of the situation. bones growls, voice seeking to regain some of the hardness of before.]

Back down, Spock.My petty vendettas aside, you are not the first officer that we need.

[ Just proved it, McCoy is so right, this is absolutely nothing like him, he barely recognizes himself, having surged forward to coerce the man into complying with his wishes through physical means rather than logical. But it's so good, so good to have his hand wrapped around the human's throat, to have his breath whisper out that much thinner though the opposition adamantly fights for what he believes in. Challenger is what instinct echoes, though, rattling through his mind and down his spine, heating his blood. The violence is so impromptu but cathartic. He is not the First Officer they need. It stings him, a part of him knows it is is true... but the greater part of him wants to fight.

Challenger.

Spock licks his lips all of a second before he takes that extra step forward, hefting the human by a grip around his neck and the other hand wrapping itself around his groin. There is nothing erotic about the gesture to start; it simply is to flip the older man onto the biobed proper and lay him prone beneath the Vulcan, who hovers over him with fire and ice both inherent in his gaze. If McCoy fears for a moment that Spock may just kill him, he would not be incorrect, because that is partially what instinct howls. Kill the challenger and continue. No female, but this male poses a threat. Kill him and continue, do what he wants after the life has been strangled down to whispers and nothing. He feels so violent and so broiling. He's never felt more out of control, but he isn't yet in the phase to realize this is anything less than a good thing. ]

You would enjoy that.

[ It's an accusation, and McCoy's breath will be shuttered off from him due to the press of the heel of a palm. Everything about their situation screams dominance and terrible need, lust and bloodlust. The only real say of reason comes from a much baser part, the one that says need and suggests viable. T'Pring, parted and never parted from him, she is systems away and there is a pulse pounding under him now, there is a challenger now, there is a viable candidate for mating here.

Spock is all instinct and little rationality, something McCoy will figure out shortly, possibly when the Vulcan releases his throat to clamp the hand over Bones' mouth instead, lowers his head to bite hard on that exposed throat in a primitive show of dominion, bruising while that grip on Bones' crotch shifts to something with more intent, tracing the his lines with a thumb through the relatively yielding cloth. ]

[proved it dead fucking on.

there is no doubt, no doubt at all that spock is suffering from the early-onset symptoms of pon farr. the dark fire in his eyes tells more than even his actions, and his own gaze narrows as he fights against the hand wrapped around his throat, a small sound slipping free that betrays both exertion and a scant bit of intrigue.

his next breath is startled out of him ash spock reaches to flip him onto his back, hitting the biobed with enough force to make his teeth click together, biting his tongue and tasting the tint of copper. bones growls, his own grasp unrelenting, the need to keep them on somewhat level ground even though he knows full well that the other man has the upper hand - he can't let go, can't concede, because he believes he has every right to challenge the actions against him.

however irrational, chaotic they are given the vulcan's mental state.

he practically sneers up at him at his reply. yes, he would enjoy that. some sick, twisted part of him wants spock to realize the truth in his words; step down, back away and yield to him. that superior vulcan logic and rationality is lost on him in this moment, and bones knows it. and now, he will do anything to manipulate a concession out of him.] You kiddin'? I'd love that.

[it's all he's allowed before that hand clamps down over his mouth. muffles out any further attempt at goading him - and the warmth of the other man's palm is just short of burning, startling and fuck, it should not be enough to turn him on. to have a flickering, passing thought in the back of his mind of submitting, bright and hot and tempting.

the teeth at the side of his neck bring yet another startled noise from him, rougher around the edges than it has any right to be. and the pressure against his cock betrays the fact that he is enjoying this to some extent - he's half-hard, hips unconsciously pushing upward into spock's hand, and he bites at the one covering his mouth, fingers curling in a blue uniform shirt and dragging the body above him infinitesimally closer.]

[ If Spock were more in his right mind, he might wonder whether the doctor harbored a latent deathwish or truly believed Spock would not deal him any serious harm. As it stands, the only thing he's paying attention to is the immediacy of the moment, the surge of the body beneath his. It's a fight, but not a struggle. He feels the jump of arousal beneath his palm, and somehow this physical proof is enough to, impossibly, flush him anew with heat.

His hand tilts on its axis, palm and fingers enfolding around the shaft as best that can be offered through the durable dark cloth, further tracing the shape while a rumble of a growl vibrates his teeth. There's a sharp rake of them down Bones' throat, leaving bright red trails of blood flaring beneath the skin. What clamped over Bones' mouth moves up to entangle in his hair instead, gripping the roots none too gently just as Spock finds the nape of the doctor's neck and sinks his teeth in anew, squeezing him below. Bones doesn't have to submit, per se; the prime directive of Spock's instinct at the moment is making sure his claim is obvious.

He lifts his head, seeks the doctor's mouth with a crushing blow. The taste of blood is heady and startling, the sharp tang of it enough to make him realize he's just bitten the other man like something feral and rabid. No sooner has he started kissing ( an understatement, perhaps ) Bones is he pulling back, not pulling away but certainly leaning back enough that it's apparent he's gawping a bit. It's like waking up from a dream and realizing you've been sleepwalking. The only consolation here is the blood is in his mouth, not on his hands; no death between his fingertips. ]

[ truth be told, he isn't entirely sure what he thinks about the other man in this very moment. while in any other situation, he would never think the vulcan would seriously do him any harm - but in his current state, the fact that he is nowhere near in his right mind should give him pause.

and the fact that it doesn't should scare him.

that he is turned on by all of this should worry him.

but it doesn't.

bones gives a stuttered moan when he feels that hand flex against him, unable to keep his hips from rolling upward into the pressure despite not wanting to make it painfully obvious how much he doesn't mind that they've found themselves in this particular situation. really, it had been his mouth that had started it all - what had come out of it paired with his inability to keep it shut, which means he's been spending too much goddamn time around their captain. ( something he doesn't really need to think about right now, thank you very much. ) and the nails, the teeth at his throat have a guttural, dangerous sound cropping up at the back of his throat as he curls his fingers further in the front of spock's shirt.

come on, asshole. show me what the fuck you've got.

he snarls against the other's mouth when it crushes against his own, the taste of blood and salt and him heady and dark on the tip of his tongue as it flicks out to taste him. one hand slides up, drags its own set of nails over the back of a lightly-tinted green-flushed neck, just barely enough to leave their own shadow of marks behind. there's a growl, a scrape of teeth and then spock is pulling back, gaping down at him as though he's finally realizing just what he's done.

to which bones only narrows his eyes, mouth pulling to the side in the semblance of a smirk. ( it's not his thing, really. he usually leaves that up to jim. ) ]

Comin' to your senses? 'Cause if you start somethin' you can't finish, I swear to fuck I'll find a way to make Jim put you in the brig.

[ easy, doctor. easy. ]

[ It's a statement that shuts his mouth into a thin line, simultaneously uncertain and aroused by the implication. It's permission; more than that, it's something goading. Spock's body and mind fight one another, but in all honesty it's a losing battle when the deck is considerably stacked to one side. His dark eyes may have flashed momentarily down at the other man.

In the next, he's leaning back, reaching over his shoulder with his free hand to jerk the privacy partition shut around their biobed. Maybe they're alone now, but not all of Spock's foresight has departed from him. The rings pop at the ends, metal unwinding from the pressure to leave the curtain partially sagging at the ends, but it'll do. He's back in the doctor's space again, the combination of acquiescence and the heat of his arousal pulling him back like he's been lassoed. One hand swiftly undoes the front of the doctor's pants, sliding in hot to grip his erection again in full, long fingers crawling down, down, behind the fullness of his sac to rub against the perineum and inch along toward the entrance. He'd have taken his time if he didn't feel so damn needy for it.

His other hand grips McCoy's jaw, none too sweetly, pulling him up some so that Spock's breath washes over his face and lips. His teeth nip the lower one, deceptively casual, cold, even though his tone has dropped into somewhere much deeper. ]

I simply did not think you would be so amenable to what has been put toward you, Doctor, assuming you are more familiar with my biological imperatives beyond a simple clinical term.

[ A cock of a brow; this suspiciously sounds like a threat, in his own way. His fingertips push into that ring of muscle, toying at the initial resistance and bundled nerves. His cock throbs in his own pants, probably somewhere against the inside of Bones' knee. ]

It seems I may have been mistaken.

[ ~~how you like me now, bro?~~

he isn't sure why he'd said it in the first place. not one to typically yield to his own baser instincts to give in to goading - again, enough time around jim has desensitized him to that - it had come out of his mouth quite without his consent. though, he can't quite be sorry that he'd said it, because it has the other man looking at him with all of that calm, cold calculation, and he thinks that he might just be hitting the right buttons to yield him the right responses.

so far .. now that he's consciously aware of what's going on, he hasn't been disappointed.

spock pulls the curtain closed, and he resists the urge to tell him to watch what the fuck he's doing because excuse the fuck out of you, this is his medbay and you will treat everything in it with respect - even if those things include privacy curtains. but he keeps his mouth shut, more focused on the movement of that lean body with the movement, and if he catches himself staring for a small moment, well .. he will never admit to it, even under duress, and you can be damn sure he'll take those thoughts with him to the fucking grave.

but - oh.

the vulcan is working the front of his pants open, fingers curling behind fabric to wrap around the hard length of his cock and bones moans, open and full and not what he'd consented to giving but he doesn't quite care at the moment. his hips roll upward, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he makes a valiant attempt to keep from giving too much away, but when those fingertips find their way to that overly sensitive patch of skin beneath his balls his entire body shudders.

fuck. you.

those teeth nip at his lips and he responds in kind, taking the other's lower lip between his own and biting sharply, the taste of blood strong on the tip of his tongue as he draws it into his mouth. there is a small breath out, like he simply cannot hold it in any longer, and a rumble in the very middle of his chest when those words reach his ears and go straight to the base of his spine to join the heat, the electricity building there.

even if what the vulcan says is none too flattering.

bones' thighs tense when those fingertips probe at his entrance, breath pushing out of him as though it had no reason to be there in the first place, and when he feels the heat, the hardness of the other's cock against his knee he doesn't hesitate to push against it, to draw out even a small measure of the same response the other is pulling out of him. he tries to breathe, tries to give some measure of his usual composure and it fails spectacularly.

it isn't fair, what he's doing to him. not fucking fair at all. ] There is nothin' amenable about this, and you know it. I just figure I'll take advantage of a good thing when I've got the chance.

[ because he can't admit just how much he does want this, now that it's been presented to him. all but dangled in front of his face in the form of a sharp smirk and the quirk of a brow, maddening fingers teasing in all the right places.

fuck. you. ]

[ And that sound, difficult to ignore for how little the human does to restrain it, goes right to his cock. He realizes it's not intentional, and that makes it better; makes it feel, in a way, like a small victory. ]

A good thing?

[ He's perplexed by the choice of words, and tempted to be amused for how much he suspects they're not all consciously chosen. Humans.

Spock's mouth is full of blood; whose, he can no longer tell. Beneath his skin, it feels like something is broiling, and Bones smells so damn good, feels so right. Before or while the other man is making a response, his fingers push in deeper. His expression twitches, falters, briefly before he hides it by claiming the older man's mouth again. Maddening is the right term for it all - this is a fugue state, and Bones makes it sound like it's an advantage. Spock isn't noble enough to correct him now. If he's to be corrected, it'll be soon enough.

Because Spock's free hand is sliding down McCoy's throat and down the line of his body until it's between them, just as hastily undoing his trousers as he finger-fucks the man with shallow thrusts and pivots. He'd be given more slack if he pushed further on, but he lingers where Bones' body will resist him, where the other man will feel it most sharply. Once his pants are open, he's making to flip the older man onto his stomach on the bed, all hands put to pulling away fabric and hefting hips to grant him entrance into something tight and all too tempting. He's already slick; the breach will be smooth, and seem all too much just the same. He'd offer a hand on the other's mouth but he kind of wants to hear him unbridled, and it's clear that practicality has become second fiddle to baser needs. ]

I consider any instance in which you deign to view me as a human being a good thing.

[ damn, bones. u mad bro?

every nerve-ending within him is alight with feeling - pure sensation, as his mind tends to put it, flows through him unbidden, and he can't help but to respond to every little thing. every little press of skin against skin or the sounds wrought from his own body - at this point, there is very little control over his actions, over his words and his responses, and if he were to try to deny it, it would all be in vain.

fuck you, hobgoblin is going to become a turn of phrase that he ends up abusing.

there's yet another growl in the back of his throat as those fingers push deeper, a sound that more than betrays just how much he's getting out of this - and there is no more time to respond than is given when the other shifts him onto his stomach, something low and grating and wanting as his fingers dig into the biobed.

he wants to say something in response, something that says yes, this is a good thing. this is you giving in to something uncontrollable -

motherfucker.

neither of them would have bothered with the pretense of foreplay. it's in the back of his mind, now, the thought of it as he all but pushes back against the intrusion, breathing out a deep-seated moan that betrays everything in him. gives everything over to the man looming over him, controlling what his body does and doesn't feel, and bones can't exactly say that he wishes the other had been more .. delicate about this.

given the nature of pon farr, he knows full well that there wouldn't have been any other way to go about it.

he gasps when the other pushes into him, short and sharp and fucking hell, ducking his head to rest against his forearms in an attempt to hide his face. to hide the reactions he's giving over as though they're free for the taking, though at this point he doesn't expect them to be anything else.

he's given himself over to it, and he knows it.

bones breathes out, spine arching and meeting that first inward thrust that fully seats the other inside him, giving a deep, grating sound as he turns his head and attempts to look over his shoulder. ]

Yeah, a fuckin' good thing. Take too long to explain, but .. if you don't fuckin' move, I swear to god -

[ It seems like they might both be agreed that what's happening now is more to do with the physical than anything else. There's no time like the present, and the present is full of stimuli that are all leaning toward driving him out of his Vulcan mind. Bones is tight and hot and barely yielding, absolutely perfect even with all the inconsequential snarling that's pooling out between them. The smell in the air is sweet with antiseptic, the body beneath him bowing with visceral fervor.

Spock isn't really listening anymore, rational calculation all but quashed beneath the aforementioned imperative. Happily for Bones, this translates into a hard push further into the human, enough to lift Bones onto his toes with it and earn a guttural groan from the Vulcan. He lowers his head into the crook of the CMO's neck, panting hard against the man's skin as he gives another rough-smooth grind deep within the other man. It's a relief, for all the consequences that may be bound to come with it. He moans quietly against the doctor's skin like a feverish patient given that first, gorgeous sip of water, gracious and greedy.

One hand slides beneath the other's shirt, crossing over his chest to clutch his shoulder and hold firm as Spock begins to thrust into that tight passage, delved deep but shallow enough than the sound of his pelvis slapping the bare skin of the other's rump is almost ignorable in the wake of how his teeth sink into the back of McCoy's neck, sucking hard against the vertebrae there. ]

[ his acquiescence has everything to do with the body above him, taking and taking without any thought for the one beneath him, and honestly? he's never been in this position before, the role of the submissive and the silent, though he doesn't think he can particularly acquiesce to that particular role at the moment.

he'll never be the type to stay quiet and pliant for very long, and the hobgoblin should know that by now. more than anyone else.

spock pushes inward and it's such a devastatingly good feeling that he can't help but to give himself over to it, pure sensation and need thrumming through him in waves, ebbing and flowing and rendering him positively useless as far as giving commentary goes - though he can't think to even try at the moment, and good on you, spock, for rendering him incapable of speech when it seemingly would have clearly been the other way 'round.

he doesn't even have to say it. doesn't have to let you in on that little secret - because it's more than apparent in every sound he makes, every little thing he gives over.

and actions do speak louder than words, as they say.

the bite to the back of his neck is one that brings a high-pitched, breathless sound, rolling from the tip of his tongue and left lingering in the air amongst them. he hadn't been expecting it, though he isn't sure why - in the other's volatile position, anything should seem possible, and even as he's giving his own growling moan in response, it seems .. just short of redundant.

his fingers curl in on themselves, around the surface beneath him as he all but pushes back against the forward motion of the other's hips, seeking the pleasure that comes from the bundle of nerves there. shutting down that scientific, analytical mind, he gives himself over to pure sensation, not allowing himself to think of how if the vulcan shifted just there, he would grind against it just so -

one hand reaches back to curl over the nape of spock's neck, effectively holding him in place as his hips push back, up, seeking that pleasure he so desperately needs - wants - with a low growl that resonates in the medbay, low and grating and wholly belonging to the man above him.

not that he would ever say as much. ]

[ Bones is doing a damn good job of assuring the Vulcan that this is not some sacrificial tryst, that it's something he's enjoying by the way he tries to shift with Spock's thrusts, the way he growls with pleasure rather that his typical melodramatic grit. It's novel, and Spock needs it, needs it to feel next to normal in the wake of his frankly humiliating drive to mate mate mate.

The hand wrapping over his nape loosens the tightness of his teeth with something almost soft. He turns his head to kiss the inside of McCoy's wrist instead, thoughtless, nuzzling the high arch of his cheekbone against the thin skin even as his hips buck with some additional fervor into the other man. Oh, he feels a bit overwhelmed and listless with the pleasure, purring as he licks and nips the inside of Bones' elbow.

His free hand, the one not holding the other man in place, makes to slide up the other man's throat and tilt his jaw at just the right angle for Spock to kiss him, not terribly long for how out of breath he suddenly feels, but surprisingly passionate and deep. That hand quickly reaches for the pillow above shortly after, yanking it down to just beneath Bones' face with a silent suggestion before it drops to take the man's erection in hand, jerking him in time with his thrusts. Again, Spock doesn't want him to submit, appreciates the resistance, even - he just wants to own the other man in every possible way.

The next thrust is hard, deep, and Spock muffles his cry of ecstasy against the other's back as he begins to really pound into the body beneath him, committed to his own pleasure but searching for just the right angle to make the human tighten all the more for him. ]

[ assurance is about the furthest thing from his mind right now - though he isn't conscious of it, he's more than willingly giving himself over to the man behind him. above him, taking everything he could think to want from that tense body and leaving nothing behind but the utmost pleasure.

he can't think to want anything more.

the attention given to his wrist, the nuzzling and the press of lips gives him pause, makes him think that this is more than what it is, though he won't deign to think about it right in that very moment. right now, this is something that he can feel down to this bones, and that is most certainly not a play on words.

fuck you.

bones gives a breathy noise - something that he would later deny if confronted, but in this very moment cannot deny as he pushes back against the other's forward movements, those teeth and lips at work where nothing else has been, driving him to the very edge of his sanity and bringing him back again, arching beneath the pressure of those hips, giving himself over to it as though he could do absolutely nothing else.

he kisses him - slow and with the slick slide of his tongue against the barrier of too-white teeth, something that he commits himself to fully, given the fact that he can't do much else beneath the press of the body above him.

the hand that wraps around his cock brings a sharp noise, keening and wanting as his hips roll, something that presses his body against that of the one behind him as well as into the heat of the hand around him. it's something that holds his immediate attention, as it stands, something that has him wholly focused on that of the other's body and what it offers him, since he seems to have every single bit of control over the current situation.

bones muffles his own growls of need against his forearm, muffled and sharp as his fingers curl tighter around the back of spock's neck, fingernails biting deep and wanting as he tilts their kiss, deepening it witht he sting of teeth to his bottom lip, dark eyes concentrating on that unfathomable expression. ]

[ This is physical - anything suggested beyond that is simply an illusion. Granted, the physical aspect is magnificent, this push and shove, give and give and take. Spock is pounding into him by now, breath stretched thin by the exertion and the pleasure, but Bones' mouth swiftly becomes something he needs to dwell within.

His blunt nails scrape down the other's side and outer thigh, taking a musing handful of that ass even as he slams into it with enough force to make the sound rather lewd to behold, hardly mistakable by anyone that might come in. At this point, the Vulcan would strike down anyone that would dare to interfere. His mind is a mantra of mine mine mine as he marks the doctor on an epidermal level, leaves tracks that will leave bruises for days.

Finally, his fingers entangle in Bones' hair, and Spock pushes his tongue into the snarling mouth of a very sour man, dueling and coaxing at the native appendage all the same. It's intimate, deep and resonating with the growls and hums of the Vulcan in the grips of his rut. Praise and need, gratuity and selfishness. Spock turns him more onto his side, pushing himself in at a new angle and making access to the other's erection all the easier, the angle between their mouths that much more accessible. The biobed rocks and whines at this point with the force, pretty much in time with the sound the other man makes. He feels sogood. In this moment, Spock wouldn't give the cantankerous bastard up for anything. ]

Edited 2013-07-20 22:21 (UTC)

[ whenever possible, he leaves his emotions out of it. there's no sense in getting attached, or letting feelings get in the way, where they don't belong. whatever this is between the two of them, it's nothing more than physical, the proverbial scratching of an itch that will end up being mutually beneficial.

which is something that bones is finding out firsthand, with every push and grind of those hips against his own, body surging forward with every inward movement that buries the other's cock so deeply inside him that his toes are just short of curling within his boots.

the bruises, he knows, are forming. over ribs and hips and the outside of his thighs, one that will paint the surface of his skin in shades of purple and muted blue, dark and beautiful and making him as belonging to the other man for this short time - because who else could own up to those finger-shaped indents, the shadows left behind? he won't deny it, is far from it, in fact .. and if he's honest with himself he may just end up regarding himself in the mirror later, pleased with the results.

not that he would ever deign to tell the vulcan that. fucker might go right ahead and get smug.

bones growls, nipping at the tongue that pushes into his mouth with a soft noise that belies how much he wants it. it's not secret, and it will remain as such, both of them lost in the sensations wrought from a biological affliction. he doesn't care, and he's pretty sure that at this point, spock doesn't either - so he might as well give himself over to it as fully as he can, wring every single moan and shiver and snarl from that slender body while he can.

when the other turns him, he goes willingly. pushes back against the next forward thrust of those hips against his own, a sharp, wanting noise cropping up from the back of his throat as spock grinds against his prostate. beautiful and sinful and don't you dare stop, you fucker. he moans into that mouth, open and raw, needful even as he bucks into the pressure of the hand around his cock, heat pooling at the base of his spine and making him hyper-aware of the fact that this is too fucking good for him to last very much longer. ]

i was logged into his account so you get him first.

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we all about the back up in hurr.

bones u got da booty tho

he doooooo

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