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The simple fact is that McCoy and Spock are stuck in a shuttle for the foreseeable few days.
How did they get here? McCoy has reached a point in their mission where he has given up asking. They’re here, unfortunately, and outside is a raging ion storm coupled with a blizzard, and they’re damn lucky the shuttle held during their less-than-ideal emergency landing.
It almost made him say out loud that he would have preferred the transporter. Then he’d remembered that ion storm interference with the transporter would have left them outside in the blizzard, without shelter, and he quickly found a new appreciation for shuttles.
That said – two days into their situation he barely resists the urge to kick at the shuttle’s console, from which a steady computer voice chimes outside interference, caution: please remain inside the shuttle whenever he tries to hail the Enterprise.
“I hate shuttles,” he grumbles, arms crossed as he leans back in the co-pilot’s seat.
Spock appears less than impressed.
“A pointless emotion, as the shuttle can neither hear you express such a sentiment nor will it change our circumstances.”
“I. Hate. Shuttles,” he repeats, with lots of emphasis. “Why did you make me agree to this mission? We’re stuck eating emergency rations and listening to that damn wind howling all day and all night. Not to mention I’m stuck with you. All you’re doing is meditating and ignoring me.”
“Doctor, has it occurred to you that we are in similar positions?”
He glares at Spock. He shouldn’t take his frustrations out on him, but he is, and Spock isn’t doing anything to stop him. He seems just as eager to snipe back at him, whenever he bothers to acknowledge his existence.
If Jim were here they could have spent the days having marathon sex, but no such luck. Spock probably wishes the same – it’s not ideal to share a boyfriend with a guy you barely tolerate.
A small voice in the back of his head reminds him that he more than tolerates Spock, but that’s on a good day. He’s having a bad day, currently, and so is Spock. Though he’d never admit it, of course. It’s probably logical to stay calm and wait for rescue, and keep your mood bright while you’re at it. If it weren’t for the clipped tone and occasional dark look, and the way he talks back rather than tell McCoy to relax, he’d believe Spock was unaffected.
“We should have made Jim go down with us,” he sighs, rubbing at his cheek with a palm. “He’d make the time pass faster, if nothing else.”
“It would have been against protocol to send three of the ship’s most senior officers to a planet prone to unpredictable weather, when only two were needed.”
“I’m bored, Spock. To hell with protocol!”
Spock turns, then, to face him properly. The shuttle doesn’t have beds installed, only emergency sleeping bags, and so they spend most of their time in the pilot and co-pilot’s seats for comfort. The view outside the windscreen is blocked by heavy rain pelting against it, the sound of it an ominous backdrop to the muted lighting from the emergency light strips just barely allowing them to see each other. In profile, Spock had appeared stoic. Now, his face bathed in shadows, he looks more thoughtful, considering.
“May I assume, then, that had Jim been present, you would have spent some time engaged in sexual intercourse?”
“You bet your pointed ears we would have,” McCoy grumbles back.
He stretches his legs out, letting his head rest more comfortably against the back of the chair. He shouldn’t be getting cabin fever, but something about being stuck with Spock makes him feel like his skin is crawling, and he’s not sure if it’s restless energy, anticipation, or just plain discomfort.
“I understand,” Spock says, and he probably does for once. “Had I believed you would react favorably to such a proposition, I would have suggested we pass the time similarly.”
Blinking, McCoy shakes his head as if to clear out whatever’s in his ears to make him think Spock just said that.
“Come again?” he asks, too stunned to even consider shooting back a clever remark.
Spock shifts, his knees closer to McCoy’s thigh.
“Surely I do not need to repeat myself, Doctor. We are merely stuck inside the shuttle, not impaired.”
“Oh, you think you’re so funny.” McCoy’s glare has no effect, not that he expected it. “It’s more unlikely that you will want to have sex with me than the other way around.”
“Is it?” There’s some kind of twinkle in Spock’s eyes now, and McCoy swallows, a little hot around the collar. “You are bored, Doctor, and there are no productive tasks with which we may occupy ourselves. I am not unfamiliar with boredom in Humans leading to unnecessary complications.”
Letting out a huff, McCoy tries to tell himself his mouth isn’t pulling up at the corners.
“You’re trying to tell me it’s a good idea to have sex so I won’t get up to something stupid because I’m bored? How logical, Mr. Spock. And you yourself remain completely unaffected by our situation, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Well, as insulting as that is, I don’t see why not.”
Spock raises an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side. There’s a pause, as if both of them are hesitating. It’s rare for them to agree on things, and now they’re going to sleep with each other? Jim’ll hardly believe it when they get back.
Or maybe he will. McCoy hasn’t missed the thinly veiled invitations from him, suggesting that three’s better than two. He hadn’t really known what to think about it. Sure, he could see Jim eager to bring the three of them together, but Spock? And what about himself?
He eyes Spock now, dragging his gaze down the length of his body and back up again. There’s always been something infuriatingly attractive about Spock, something that made his hackles rise instantly the first time they had a proper conversation. And there’s the telepathy, too…
“You sure about this?” he asks, unnecessarily.
“Yes, Doctor. I offered. Does that mean you accept?”
Licking his lips, McCoy imagines what it might be like. What it might mean for them, when they return to the ship.
"So when Jim asked me to join the two of you, you were fine with it?”
“Yes.” Spock doesn’t sigh, but McCoy imagines he wants to. “That does not answer my question.”
McCoy clears his throat, licks his lips again. He settles a little further down in the chair, tugs at the collar of his science-blue shirt.
"Hmm, alright. But if it turns out bad we’ve got nowhere to avoid each other.”
“I estimate we have two point five days to practice,” Spock deadpans. “Surely that is sufficient time to correct any mistakes.”
For a moment, McCoy considers if he’d rather kick him or kiss him. The latter urge wins out, and he gets up, swings a leg over Spock’s to straddle him.
“You saying you want to take it slow?”
Spock’s hands catch on his hips, holding him steady. Like this, looking down on him, McCoy feels heat start pooling in his gut. It’s been two days with nothing but frustration, and if Spock’s willing…
“What is your preference, Doctor?”
Slowly, he slides his hands over Spock’s shoulders, arms folding around his neck. It’s usually Jim in this position, he thinks. He finds he doesn’t mind it.
“No preference, really. I guess we don’t have much in the form of supplies, though.”
“Vulcans self-lubricate.”
Well. McCoy blinks down at him. Somewhere in the back of his mind he probably knew that already, but Spock’s gaze turns intense, scorching.
“Alright, then. What’s your preference, Spock?”
He almost forgot to return the question, but Spock only hums, running his hands up and down the sides of his ribcage, not exactly squeezing, but definitely testing him out.
“I am curious to see you reach orgasm. The method is of less concern to me.”
Feeling his cheeks heat up, McCoy wonders if that’s some form of Vulcan dirty talk, or if Spock’s just being clinical.
“I think we should talk less,” McCoy decides, and leans down to kiss him.
It starts out soft, hesitant, almost. McCoy drags his lips over Spock’s, back and forth, biting gently into his lower lip. Spock’s hands find the small of his back, pulling him in closer, sneaking under his uniform shirt to find bare skin.
With Spock’s fingers tracing his spine it’s all too easy to open his mouth and let Spock deepen the kiss. His tongue is a little rough, and McCoy sucks on it like he might suck his cock – sloppy and wet and just a tad breathless. When Spock leans back it’s with a tinge of a flush over his cheeks, and he wastes no time pushing McCoy’s shirt off. He’d foregone the undershirt today, figuring it was better to switch between the few articles of clothing they’d brought with them.
“Damn,” he mutters, as Spock dives in to mouth at his bare chest, sucking a mark into a pectoral and mapping out the hairs covering it with a relocated hand. “You been thinkin’ about this?”
Spock tilts his head up just enough for their eyes to meet, something heated in there that draws a shiver out of McCoy. It’s hard to believe, or maybe it isn’t. Maybe Spock has been thinking about it as much as he has, what it would be like, with Jim between them… And now, with Jim on the ship, probably worrying over them driving each other insane.
McCoy feels a different kind of insane as Spock bites into his collarbone. He’s hard, fingers twisting in Spock’s silky hair, messing up his bangs as he arches his back on another moan.
“I wish to penetrate you,” Spock says, tongue laving at a pebbled nipple. “Are you amenable?”
“Didn’t answer my question,” he says back, lifting Spock’s head to kiss him again. “Have you thought about this before?”
Pressing their lips together, warm breath shared between them, McCoy bores his eyes into Spock’s and dares him to deny it.
“Yes,” Spock admits. “Jim enjoys asking me about it.”
That pushes a laugh out of McCoy, and he kisses along the length of Spock’s cheekbone, his jaw.
“Oh, I don’t doubt he does. He’d be seething if he knew what we were doing right now, knowing he isn’t here to watch.”
He moves Spock’s head, tilting it this way and that to reach the other cheek, his ears, the underside of his chin. He smells good, familiar but also new.
“I am sure he will complain once we inform him.”
“Mm.” McCoy grabs one of Spock’s wandering hands, licks a stripe up the length of his palm, enjoying the shudder it elicits in Spock. “We’ll have to demonstrate. Show him what he missed.”
Spock spreads his fingertips along McCoy’s bottom lip, pressing against the teeth underneath, little indentations forming. It’s hot, hotter than it has any right to be, pleasure coursing through his veins already and Spock hasn’t even taken his shirt off. Searching Spock’s expression, he parts his lips in invitation. The middle finger slips inside first, then the pointer finger, sliding in deep before Spock pulls them out again, dragging along McCoy’s flattened tongue.
He knows from Jim’s oversharing that Spock enjoys having his fingers sucked, and he has to admit it feels pretty good for him, too. Having Spock’s entire focus on him and him alone is exhilarating, the way half-lidded eyes follow the movement as Spock’s fingers fuck his mouth at a slow pace.
It feels like a promise of what’s to come, and McCoy only lasts another minute before pulling Spock out by the wrist.
“We can do slow later,” he says, voice a little rough. “You promised me a good fuck and I suggest you get on with it.”
Raising an eyebrow, Spock is content to watch him for a moment. He’s probably a mess already, lips shiny with spit and chest flushed red. Achingly slowly, Spock runs his eyes down his chest and to the hard bulge in his uniform pants, then back up again.
“I do not believe I promised it would be good,” Spock argues.
“Stop trying to be funny.” McCoy stands, a smile on his lips despite the harsh words. “Come on, I need you naked and on top of me.”
The way Spock immediately stands up would be amusing if he wasn’t preoccupied with the way he grips McCoy’s hips and pulls him in for a heavy kiss, tongue licking at his teeth and bruises likely forming in the shape of fingerprints.
God, it’s good. McCoy clutches at Spock’s shoulders, allows him to manhandle him towards their thin emergency blankets on the floor. It won’t be the most comfortable, but he has a feeling his legs won’t hold if they try to do it standing. Spock pushes him down, gently, hovering above him for a second too long. McCoy’s scowl is ignored in favor of Spock tugging off his shirt, revealing that lean, muscled chest that McCoy has only seen in sickbay before. He’s always a little surprised by how hairy Spock is, as if the smooth lines of his well-kept hair and carefully shaved jaw canceled out the potential hairiness of the rest of him.
“I thought I said on me, not over me,” he gripes, lifting his hips until he finds friction against Spock.
Well. Until he thinks he finds friction against Spock, though he doesn’t seem hard. Still, Spock lets out a stuttering little moan, and he lowers himself until their bodies align, skin on skin and hands searching, touching, mouths eagerly connecting. It’s not that he thinks Spock should be hard, but… To be honest, he’s never had need to inspect Spock’s genitals in the medical sense. And Jim had been utterly unhelpful – he keeps talking about Spock’s dick all starry-eyed, so clearly he does possess one, if undescribed in shape and location. McCoy is, most likely, going to find out just where it’s hiding soon enough.
“Doctor,” Spock pants into his mouth, one hand cupping the curve of his ass, the other bracing his weight by McCoy’s shoulder. “May I undress you?”
“Dunno what you’re waitin’ on permission for,” he mutters back, pulling Spock’s hand around towards the fastening of his pants. “You can’t exactly fuck me with our clothes still on.”
“There is no rush,” Spock insists, yet he makes quick work of it.
Completely naked, McCoy allows Spock a moment to observe him, takes himself in hand for a lazy stroke that has Spock’s eyes narrowing.
“You gonna watch all night?” he challenges, swiping his thumb over the precum gathered at the head of his cock.
“Perhaps later,” Spock concedes, sounding far too collected again. “It is an enticing suggestion.”
“Oh, I bet it is.”
Grinning, McCoy removes his hand, stretching out as best he can. The shuttle’s floor is stiff and unyielding under his back, but he’s hoping Spock will make up for it. Licking his lips, he stares at Spock as he slowly – slow enough that McCoy wonders if he’s deliberately teasing – unfastens the magnetic clip at the front of his pants and starts lowering them. His briefs remain on, even as pants and socks and shoes are removed.
“C’mon, Spock. You’re killing me.”
“I doubt your life is in any danger, Leonard.”
Damn. The use of his name does something to him, makes arousal rush through his chest and stomach and thighs until his heart hammers against his chest.
“You know what I mean,” he says.
An infuriating eyebrow goes up, Spock’s hands falling on top of McCoy’s thighs, caressing up and down. The grip is firm, hinting at the strength hidden in those deft fingers. When McCoy has just about had enough of the anticipation, Spock removes his hands and sits back, weight balanced on his knees and the soles of his feet.
“You are impatient,” Spock comments, sounding too calm and composed, though the slight flush on his cheeks remains. “Even Jim has learned to wait.”
God. Something about Spock’s warning tone has arousal burn in his throat, and he swallows thickly. He can imagine Jim, usually bratty and loud, submitting to Spock’s thorough and methodical ministrations. The pleasure would build and build until he’s begging for it–
McCoy has to stop there. His mouth has fallen open, fingers squeezing his dick. He wants, needs, and he’s not interested in being the one told to wait.
“Then take your time with him when we get back,” he argues, licking his dry lips. “I needed you in me yesterday.”
The eyebrow remains infuriating.
“Then you should have informed me yesterday.”
Rolling his eyes, McCoy huffs out a breath. While he likes arguing with Spock, it would be better if Spock could multitask a little.
“You ever gonna practice what you preach, or do I have to take care of myself instead?”
Slowly, Spock pushes his right hand past the hem of his Starfleet issued briefs. A shudder goes through him, something darkening in his gaze. McCoy considers sitting up and simply tearing them off.
“I will prepare you.”
When the hand slips back up, it’s slick with something wet – that self-lubrication Spock spoke of. His fingers shine with it, and McCoy bites back a groan as Spock lifts one of his legs and motions for him to hold it up against his chest. If Spock thinks it’s enough of a substitute for lube he won’t argue with him.
“Come on, Spock,” he mutters, tilting his head back and closing his eyes.
A moment later he feels the tip of a finger circling his hole, barely any pressure behind it. He hums, relaxing a bit. He and Jim like to take turns, but Jim is rarely in the mood to push him down and have his way with him. He’s got a feeling Spock might be up for it. Maybe not right away, but if he was serious about practicing…
The finger slips inside, a low groan spilling from Spock’s lips. McCoy’s eyes flutter open, and he has to bite into his lower lip at the sight. Spock’s expression has softened from pleasure, his gaze trained on McCoy’s ass and the way his finger slips in and out with relative ease. Before Jim it had been a while, but Jim has a voracious appetite. No wonder he needs two boyfriends, McCoy thinks. He’d been a little skeptical at first, but that passed quickly. Spock gives things to Jim that he can’t – and it’s a bit of a relief to be able to send him Spock’s way if he’s not in the mood or busy in sickbay.
“Mm, feels nice,” he says, shifting a bit.
Spock’s finger slides in deeper, searching. He wonders how sensitive his hands really are. If fingerfucking him is just as good as pushing his dick inside.
“May I add another?”
“You don’t have to be so careful.” Giving Spock a lazy smile, McCoy pushes his hips up to meet him when two fingers pause against him. “I can take it.”
It seems Spock believes him, because a moment later those fingers push inside, insistent, deep. He stutters on an exhale, enjoying being filled, the way Spock searches his face for evidence of his pleasure. Another time he can imagine them drawing this out, just riding Spock’s fingers until he’s ready to burst. Like this, he doesn’t think his back can handle something prolonged.
“God, Spock, just fuck me already,” he complains, hooking an ankle around Spock’s back.
“I wish to be thorough.”
He glares at Spock, bucking his hips and messing up the steady rhythm Spock had started.
“You can be thorough with your cock. Unless there’s a specific reason you need to take it slow?”
Spock’s hesitation is obvious. His hand pauses, slick fingers shoved in deep. Despite the urge to needle him, McCoy keeps his mouth shut, waiting. If something’s making Spock uncomfortable he’s not going to push it.
“There is no specific need,” Spock starts, slowly pulling his hand away, leaving McCoy empty and just a tad annoyed by how much he misses the contact. “However, you may need some time to adjust to my genitals.”
McCoy blinks, raising his eyebrows.
“Is that a roundabout way of saying you’re packing somethin’ big down there?”
“I believe I am of average Human size,” Spock replies, hands now hovering over the waistband of his briefs. “The shape and function differ.”
“Yeah? Jim seems to like it, so I’m pretty sure I will, too.”
When Spock continues to hesitate, he sits up. He grabs Spock’s hips, drags his hands up and down his chest, feeling ribs and muscle and the pulse in his side. He’d call Spock nervous, but it would only start a pointless argument.
“You have shown considerably less sexual interest in alien anatomy.”
“Hang on.” He frowns, rubbing his thumbs over Spock’s hipbones. “You think I’m gonna have a problem with whatever’s going on down there? I’m a big boy, Spock, I can handle some anatomical differences.”
Spock purses his lips.
“If you cannot, I prefer you inform me immediately and we can find a different method for sexual gratification.”
Sighing, McCoy pushes Spock to the side, making him lie down on the emergency sleeping bag instead. His oh-so-superior Vulcan physiology can deal with the back pain instead.
“No other way but forwards,” he challenges, hooking his fingers over the waistband, watching Spock for permission.
When he receives a nod, he pulls the fabric down. There’s a sheath, slick with whatever natural lubrication Vulcans produce, and it doesn’t surprise him much now that he allows himself to think about it. Starfleet uniforms are pretty tight, and it’s not like McCoy has looked – well, not much – but Spock hasn’t precisely run around sporting a bulge.
"Can I touch you?"
Spock settles more comfortably, gesturing for McCoy to go ahead. He eyes the sheath curiously, the soft folds of it, then pulls the briefs all the way down and throws them to the side. If Spock’s a man of his word they won’t need them any time soon. He straddles Spock’s thighs, hard muscle underneath him, and places his right hand over Spock’s hip, fingers splayed. There’s nothing peeking out as of yet, and McCoy resists a joke about Spock being shy.
He shifts his hand closer, his other leaning on Spock’s stomach for support. Spock draws in a sharp intake of breath, not as unaffected as he pretends to be.
“Similar to what you said before, you do not need to be so careful,” Spock tells him, hands flexing by his sides.
“Shh, Spock. If it’s worrying you I’m not going to rush it.”
“I am not worried.”
Glancing up at Spock’s face, McCoy scoffs.
“Sure you aren’t.”
He supposes if Jim were here, things would be a little easier. He’d have no trouble coaxing Spock out of his shell, both figuratively and literally. But, if McCoy wants to ride that dick, he’s going to have to show Spock that he can handle it.
Spreading his fingers wider his thumb brushes along the edge of the fold, soft skin slippery underneath his touch. Spock’s thigh twitches, barely noticeable if McCoy hadn’t been sitting on top of him. He licks his lips, draws in a slow breath. He moves his hand inwards, tracing the sheath, dipping into the seam in the middle and smearing the slick around. It’s different, but no less enticing than sex usually is for him.
A little extra enticing, maybe, considering it’s Spock. He may have found Spock intriguing the first time he saw him, giving Jim such a terrible dressing-down in front of God and all his witnesses, but to imagine them ending up here, like this? That sure took some time. A bumpy road, to say the least.
Speaking of bumps – the folds part, the head of Spock’s cock just barely peeking out. He immediately presses his thumb to it, enjoying Spock’s involuntary little noise. Cute, almost. He’s just about to ask Spock what the hell he thought was so different, when something else peeks out of the sheath.
Something slim and curled, like a sprout of some kind. The more he rubs at the head of Spock’s dick, the more sprouts pop up, until there’s at least ten of them slithering up along his fingers and wrist. Like vines, only slick and slightly raspy at the ends. Not barbed, but they do sort of look designed to attach.
“This what you meant?” he asks, keeping his hand still as the vines encircle his wrist, unfurling around him and poking along skin as if inspecting him.
Spock’s breathing turns heavy, and he leans up on his elbows to watch. His cock is still mostly hidden, the stubby little ends of the sprouts starting to rub and massage McCoy, first anywhere in reach, then focusing on his knuckles and fingers.
“Yes,” Spock says, though it comes out slightly strangled.
Whatever those things are, they must be doing something for him. No doubt the rapt attention he’s giving them is brought on by pleasure, not embarrassment or worry.
“What are they?”
He lifts his free hand, tracing the length of one. It’s thin, skin-colored but blushing green, slick and warm and definitely alive.
“Fra’als.” Spock swallows, the fra’als twisting tighter around McCoy’s wrist. “They have several purposes.”
McCoy’s pointer finger slides up to one stubby end, touching the side with tiny little bumps, feeling them scrub against the sensitive pad. With enhanced Vulcan sensitivity, these things must be positively lewd to touch. Sure enough Spock groans, eyes falling closed for a moment.
It’s hot as hell. McCoy feels his cock twitch with renewed interest, wondering how the fra’als might feel twisted around it. Would they squeeze? Work like a cock ring, maybe? Could they do that to Spock, while McCoy or Jim fucked him?
They don’t seem to stretch out more than perhaps twenty or thirty centimeters, but they’re sturdy little things. McCoy tugs his hand teasingly away from Spock, and the things tighten and quiver while Spock lets out a downright filthy moan. Swearing, McCoy leans down. He licks over the fra’als twisting around his wrist, then moves on over the ones playing with his hand. The taste is musky, alien. Addicting.
“Leonard,” Spock gasps, bucking his hips upwards.
McCoy moves his hand, puts it above Spock’s slit and keeps it there, just putting pressure on his sheath while the fra’als slither around to adjust to the new position.
He can understand why Jim won’t shut up about it, though he could have given him a little more detail. If anything, it might have made him curious enough to try it out earlier. He works his tongue over his own hand, slipping it between his spread fingers to lap at the slick dribbling out of Spock. The folds of his sheath are soft under his tongue, the fra’als twitching in pleasure. Spock, for his part, won’t stop moaning.
“God, Spock. Just what are they doing to you?”
Head thrown back, throat bared and chest heaving, Spock looks a vision. Spock’s hands have come up to grip harshly at McCoy’s legs, digging into muscle hard enough to bruise. He’s wet enough that it’s probably staining the sleeping bag, McCoy’s hand covered in slick.
“They are – sensitive,” Spock forces out, blinking slowly at him, as if keeping his eyes open requires effort. “Telepathy… your arousal is enhancing my pleasure.”
“Oh yeah?” Giving Spock a lopsided grin, McCoy puts a little more pressure down on his sheath, biting his lips at Spock’s helpless moan. He’d expected Spock to be cool the whole time, not this writhing, needy mess that’s currently below him. “You like how hot I am for you? You gonna come in your sheath just like that?”
“That would defeat the purpose,” Spock says, voice strained.
“The purpose?”
“Of penetrating you.”
Swallowing against the thick arousal in his throat, McCoy eases up the pressure, instead brushing fingertips gently over the tip of Spock’s dick.
“I kinda like you like this, though,” he mutters.
The fra’als, as if listening to Spock, push at his hand to move it further away. They twist around his fingers instead, prodding at the webbing between them, tickling along his palm. He watches, quite eagerly, as Spock’s cock emerges from its hidden chamber.
There’s the bulbous head, and a second ridge below it. The length may be average, but that’s just as well. It’s thick, practically dripping with slick, and McCoy needs it in him.
“Penetration it is,” he grins, flexing his fingers until the fra’als let go.
They search for and find his thighs as he moves closer, and he groans when his own cock brushes over Spock’s. He’s close enough that a decent hand job would do the trick, but Spock’s hands take hold of his hips instead to lift him up, the fra’als immediately trailing over his balls and further back, kissing along his perineum before finding their goal.
Hovering over Spock, held up by Vulcan strength, McCoy bites the inside of his cheek as he feels those curious little tendrils poke and prod at him. Even though he expects it, the slow twist of two fra’als around the length of his cock has him swearing.
“Fuck, that’s handy,” he grits out, bracing himself on Spock’s stomach and gasping when the tip of a fra’al makes an attempt at diving into the slit on the plush head of his cock. “Shit, Spock, you’re gonna make me come before you even get a chance to fuck me.”
Spock doesn’t reply – instead several fra’als push inside McCoy’s ass, sliding in easy. It’s strange at first, a shudder making its way down his back. Spock shifts his grip, moves his hand to touch where the fra’als enter his body, heated gaze locked onto McCoy as he runs his fingers between and around the thin stems.
“It is tempting to bring you to orgasm simply with my fra’als,” Spock tells him, the tip of a finger slipping inside alongside them. “You are aesthetically pleasing in this position.”
“If you think I’m sexy, just say I’m sexy, Spock,” McCoy groans, a few more fra’als dipping inside him. “And if you don’t mind I’ll take that penetration you promised now.”
“But Doctor, I am already penetrating you.”
“Smartass.”
At least the finger is withdrawn, and when Spock shifts again McCoy all but holds his breath. Their eyes meet, the moment loaded. He really is just about to let Spock fuck him. He wants it. Has wanted it for a while, probably.
“Jim’ll definitely want a demonstration when we get back,” he mutters, releasing a slow breath to relax.
It’s a little difficult when the fra’als are still poking around inside his ass. They’re avoiding his prostate, at least for now, sliding and writhing sloppily instead. He can’t wait to watch Jim get the same treatment.
“As he is the captain, I suggest we follow his demands.”
McCoy raises an eyebrow, wondering just what the two of them are getting up to on their own.
“I might want a demonstration, too,” he says, spreading his legs a bit, sinking lower until the head of Spock’s dick bumps against him.
There must be fra’als holding it in position. Convenient, really. He huffs in irritation when Spock won’t let him sink any lower.
“Doctor, while the fra’als have several functions, one of them consists of keeping us connected until I ejaculate. I must advice you not to attempt to separate us until I deem it safe to do so.”
He stares at Spock. It doesn’t feel like they’ve hooked onto something inside him, but the doctor in him can’t help but imagine all the ways this might go disastrously wrong.
“Tell me that’s not ‘safe’ as in risk of injury,” he demands, frowning heavily at Spock until he frowns back.
“I did not mean to alarm you, Doctor. It will merely cause discomfort for you.”
“And for you?”
He can’t help but narrow his eyes at Spock when he’s silent a beat too long.
“The fra’als will detach if necessary.”
“…detach, huh?”
Maybe he doesn’t want the details, after all. He clears his throat, easing his legs open a bit further to avoid too much pressure on his knees.
“I think this is one of those times where the less I know the better I’ll feel,” he concludes, shaking his head when Spock opens his mouth. “Just fuck me, Spock. Clearly Jim hasn’t come running to me with a bunch of embarrassing, accidental wounds. I trust you.”
Spock considers him, then nods.
“It is my desire to bring you pleasure, Leonard. I believe it prudent to move on.”
Rolling his eyes, McCoy pats Spock’s stomach.
“Finally you’re talking sense.”
The fra’als still for a moment, and then Spock lowers him, keeping him steady until the blunt head of his cock pushes against his hole. The fra’als have certainly managed to lube him up, and it doesn’t take much for the first ridge to make its way inside.
The moan he lets out is embarrassingly needy, turning into a gasp when the second ridge slips inside, too. It’s already so good, his heart pounding against his ribs as Spock once again seems content to keep him in a fixed position.
“This is taking forever,” he complains, even as the fra’als start moving, pumping in and out around Spock’s dick, driving him crazy.
“Ah,” Spock moans, fingers digging into McCoy’s hips hard enough to bruise. “Yes.”
Just as McCoy wonders how he’s going to get Spock to finally move, the ends of the fra’als start battering at his prostate. The pleasure grows, and grows, until his head hangs forwards and all he can do is moan wantonly, cock hard and stiff between his legs and dripping precum onto Spock’s skin.
“Oh, fuck,” he gasps, the tiny little bumps covering the ends of the fra’als rubbing and massaging the spot, keeping him just barely on the edge of overstimulation. “Don’t stop, don’t you fucking dare stop, Spock.”
The fra’als around his own cock tighten. He’d almost managed to forget them – now they squeeze him, and another set climbs up his balls to join the fun. He’s so damn close and Spock isn’t even fully inside him.
“You’re a damn tease,” he forces out through the hazy pleasure, limbs all but trembling with the effort of staying upright rather than collapse into a whole mess.
In response, Spock shoves his hips down, slamming his cock into him with just enough force to make him see stars. He scratches down Spock’s chest, trying to hold on as Spock starts to move him, as if he weighs nothing. It’s hotter than he imagined – the sure drag of Spock’s dick inside him, the bruising grip on his hips, the fra’als pumping his cock like they’re trying to milk him.
“Oh,” he gasps, “oh, hell.”
He comes with a stuttered shout, head thrown back and arms trembling to keep him upright. Spock doesn’t stop, doesn’t even falter in his rhythm as he fucks into McCoy with determination. Eyes squeezed shut, McCoy collapses onto Spock’s chest, grimacing as his cheek lands on a wet spot but too out of it to even think about moving.
Just when it’s on the verge of becoming too much, Spock stills, releasing inside him. The fra’als keep moving, though, and it takes McCoy a long moment to realize the ones inside his ass are trying to push Spock’s come deeper inside him.
He shivers, lets out an involuntary little noise deep in his throat. God, this isn’t just fucking. It feels like he’s being claimed. Like he exists for Spock’s pleasure.
“Doctor,” Spock mumbles against the top of his head, hands slowly releasing their firm grip to caress up McCoy’s sides, one hand continuing up to his head to take a gentle hold of his hair.
He tips McCoy’s head up, leaning in for a sloppy kiss. It’s all tongue and no finesse, and those fra’als are still working him, sliding back and forth around Spock’s dick to make sure not a single drop escapes.
McCoy feels high on it. His whole body is one big erogenous zone, clenching and unclenching with the memory of his explosive orgasm. He should have listened to Jim.
He dozes and Spock touches him, kisses him, drawing out the pleasure until he feels like a puddle of goo. A thoroughly satisfied puddle of goo. It’s probably just a few minutes later that Spock’s fra’als retract, circling his hole and slobbering slick over his ass and the back of his thighs. Time has kind of lost meaning, though, and he almost whines in protest when Spock eases out of him.
“Rest, Doctor,” Spock suggests, sounding just a tad out of breath.
Something tells him this was just a warm-up, and he bites back another moan at the thought of spending several days just fucking. Jim’s going to be so jealous it’ll take them days to make up for it. He grins at the thought.
“What’s the Vulcan refractory period?” he asks, shifting into a more comfortable position.
He feels wet all over, and it’s starting to cool his skin where Spock isn’t touching him.
“Shorter than yours,” is Spock’s prim answer.
“Mm. I could watch you get yourself off.”
Spock lifts his head and kisses him again.
☆☆☆
Jim greets them in the hangar, worried eyes calming once they exit the shuttle and he’s grabbed them both, making sure they’re physically there.
“Good to see you two haven’t killed each other,” he jokes, steering them towards the hangar exit and into the corridor.
“It was a close call,” McCoy says, letting the corner of his mouth lift as he sends Spock a challenging look.
“The doctor was quite irate at first,” Spock agrees.
“Yeah, I can imagine.”
Jim leads them to his own quarters, even though McCoy desperately needs a real shower and a change of clothes. Once inside, he pushes them to sit on the couch, and goes to replicate drinks for them.
“Not to be ungrateful or anythin’, Jim, but I could really use a shower and a hot meal before we give you the report.
“Oh, I’m not expecting a report, Bones. Can’t I just want to see my boyfriends? You were gone almost a week!”
First the storm, then the mission. McCoy sighs, stretching his legs out as he sinks deeper into the couch. He’s aching in interesting places, and both he and Spock are full of incriminating bruises and scratch marks. Things had gotten a little… experimental, at times, and when he glances at Spock he finds him glancing back.
“Should we tell him?” he asks Spock, not bothering to lower his voice.
“Tell me what?”
Jim returns with three glasses, and McCoy isn’t surprised to see there’s synthehol for both him and Jim.
“Trying to get me drunk?” He takes a sip, grimacing at the sweet taste. “Don’t you think I deserve something non-replicated after surviving a whole week with just Spock for company.”
“You ceased complaining after the first orgasm,” Spock comments, making Jim choke on his drink.
“Really?” Jim asks, eyes wide as his gaze flickers between them. “If I’d known all it took was to shut you inside a small space together…”
“It was a logical use of our time,” Spock says without so much as twitching.
“Logical,” McCoy snorts. “I’ve got bruises all over.”
“Damn,” Jim says, eyes turning a little glossy, most likely imagining things.
He sets his glass down, licking his lips as his gaze focuses first on Spock, then McCoy. He leans back in his armchair, knitting his brows in contemplation. He’s definitely half hard already, and McCoy rolls his eyes.
“I need a shower,” he says.
“What for?” Jim asks innocently. “You’re just going to get messy again.”
“I could shower with Spock,” he suggests, knowing exactly how things are going to end up. “You can watch.”
Jim grins, hopping out of his seat and offering McCoy a hand.
“You got it, Bones.” He brings him in for a kiss, and McCoy had missed this, missed him. “After that, I’m expecting a step-by-step demonstration.”
McCoy gives Spock an amused look.
“Told you he’d ask for it.”
Jim’s mouth latches onto his neck, and so it’s up to McCoy to reach for Spock, biting into his bottom lip as Jim’s wandering hands find each bruise on his chest and stomach and insists on poking at them.
“I am amenable to a demonstration,” Spock says, sounding perfectly Vulcan and controlled.
“Sure you are,” McCoy laughs, breath hitching as Jim twists a nipple. “Now get over here before we start without you.”
Spock, logically, joins them.