Blood is everywhere—spattered on clothes and body parts, dripping from the tips of blades. The entire landing party is covered with the stuff: lavender-blue and viscous with a tinny smell. You can hardly keep from getting it all over the place during hand-to-hand, which is exactly what’s happened planetside, because the Barilon atmosphere has ionized particulate in it that disperses even the warp-enhanced ship’s main phasers, preventing them from penetrating to the surface.
Normally Bones wouldn’t think anything about Spock coming back from a mission with alien blood smeared on his face. After all, he’s half-human. Dispassionate Vulcan analysis mingled with a capacity for tightly-channeled, savage human emotion renders him a merciless killing machine. But this… this is different.
McCoy ignores the one crewman who’s clutching his injured forearm, a thin stream of crimson trickling from the end of his fingers. He steps past him, eyes narrowing. Spock’s face bears a single stripe of blood amidst the irregular spatter of combat: straight and even, precisely the width of a fingertip, stretching from his forehead down the bridge of his nose, over its tip, and finally following the philtrum and tapering off below the soft swell of his lower lip, where the finger which made it finally ran out of bloody ink and withdrew.
McCoy doesn’t have to look for stained fingers to know who drew it. He’s seen one like it many times in his own mirror. Besides, there is only one man who would dare.
He grits his teeth and turns to Parsons. “Stop your gawping and take that damned arm to sickbay. You’re bleeding all over the floor.”
Parsons scuttles away in haste and Jim smirks. He doesn’t look the slightest bit ashamed of himself. …Of course he doesn’t. “You should’ve been there, Bones.”
McCoy doesn’t trust himself to speak. His teeth grind and his eyes narrow. Been there to watch Jim claim Spock? To watch Jim give Spock something that’s always been between himself and Leonard, something Leonard believed was theirs alone? No, thank you. He’s seen a dozen captain’s women walk in and out of Jim’s quarters. Through all that time, he’s been the one and only captain’s man.
“You’re uninjured,” he spits between clenched teeth. “I’m needed elsewhere.” Permanently, it looks like.
He gets himself the hell out of there.
Of course the mark turns up again and again. Every damned beam-down, it seems like.
Kirk makes sure McCoy sees Spock’s face each time, summoning him to the bridge on any thin pretext he can come up with. He plays nonchalant while McCoy is there, calmly signing reports and smiling broad, knife-edged charm at everyone, but with a special glitter in his eyes reserved for McCoy. There are no more marks for him, not even when he actually beams down on away missions. There’s… nothing at all.
Spock lingers at Kirk’s side time after time, his face smeared each time with the hue of a different race’s blood, the faintest sly curl ghosting over his lips when he looks at McCoy, and even when he doesn’t.
Leonard once thought what he and Jim had was special-- but no. He was being a pathetic, soft-hearted fool, just the same way he was with Jocelyn. He grinds his teeth and curls pain into rage, rolling it all over into hate.
McCoy holes up in his quarters on one of his many free evenings—he never gets called to Kirk’s quarters anymore—to lick his wounds. He wonders what the hell he ought to do. Now that Kirk’s with Spock, there’s literally no one above him on the chain of command that he could ally himself with. He commands a fair measure of respect and fear all on his own; nobody with good sense wants to piss off the man responsible for putting them back together after an away mission goes to shit or maybe after they get carved up in the endless squabble over rank and status. But being third man on the totem pole can only protect him for so long.
The way he’s got it figured, M’Benga is the main threat. He stands ready at McCoy’s elbow, dark eyes hooded, maintaining a careful facade of neutrality as he prowls silently through the sickbay, taking care of various Vulcan injuries and scoring whatever points he can with the brass. He’d like to get Leonard the fuck out of the way so he can be promoted to CMO. Leonard figures M’Benga will be the captain’s surgeon of choice the next time he fucks up and actually gets himself hurt.
Yeah. The writing is on the goddamn wall for Leonard McCoy. Mene mene tekel upharsin, for fucksake. It’s only a matter of time.
McCoy decides to call in a few favors. He needs to beef up his alliances and his private guard, but the response will be lukewarm. He knows without having to try. They see what he’s seen. They know he’s on the way down the ladder. They’ll turn on him in a heartbeat.
His stomach curdles with anger, fear, and resentment; his rage burns a little hotter every day as he imagines Spock taking his place in Jim’s bed. It’s a fury that runs all the hotter thanks to McCoy’s abandonment issues. If he could, he’d do to Jim and Spock the exact same things he did to Jocelyn and Clay when he caught them shacking up together.
McCoy smiles with bitter, vicious pleasure, a rictus grin stretching his lips. He already can’t go back to Earth. If he puts an end to Jim Kirk, he’ll have to flee the whole damn Federation. But there are always places so desperate for a doctor they’re willing to overlook a few indiscretions.
It’s time to jump ship and look for greener pastures. All he has to do is wait it out until they make port at a settlement or space station large enough to swallow him up without a trace. Then he’ll go AWOL and make himself a new life a thousand light years away, where he’ll never be found.
He’s summoned to the bridge the next day-- again-- but this time, Spock’s face is clean. It leaves McCoy nonplused; he approaches the captain’s chair with more than his usual caution.
“Reporting as ordered, captain.”
“Come to my quarters at 22:00.” The order is crisp and no-nonsense. It’s driven home by a blue-diamond stare-- pure Jim Kirk. Just the way it used to be before Spock took Jim’s mark.
“Yes, captain,” McCoy hisses between gritted teeth, and gives a resentful salute before whirling and stalking out. He should’ve known Kirk could read him like a book-- would let him stew until he was ready to break before striking. Hate and fear mingle with a flutter of hope in his belly; he shoves it away with a growl. Hope is weak and stupid; it destroys every molecule of a man’s good sense. The bastards who wrote the Bible got it all wrong. It ought to say ‘pride goeth before a fall and a hopeful spirit before destruction.’
He realizes he’s snarling. Yeoman Rand gives him a wary look and tries to make herself small against the opposite wall of the turbolift. McCoy ignores her.
There’s a decent chance he won’t live through the night. McCoy knows this, but there’s nowhere for him to run.
He’s going to have to entrust himself to Jim Kirk for one last night.
Rand cringes as he laughs. He hears the hysteria in the sound, but can’t stop it. He leaves the elevator and walks down the corridor to sickbay, still laughing.
No matter how McCoy tries to stretch out the day, time crawls forward with relentless, implacable precision. All he manages to do is make himself miserable. By the time 22:00 crawls around, he’s half-sick with anticipation and fear.
Kirk’s door opens to his palm and he steps inside. Tight, throbbing silence awaits him: Kirk is seated at his desk. Spock stands straight and tall beside the partition that separates the lounge from the sleeping area. Spock’s silent presence is unwelcome, to say the least.
McCoy stiffens, fear drowning out the remnants of his foolish hope. They’ll torture him together before they kill him. He feels himself gulp and watches Spock’s eyes track the motion of his adam’s apple, calculating his emotional response to the last nanometer.
“Bones. Glad you could join us.” Kirk smiles, reading him even more easily than Spock. His eyes dance with pleasure in McCoy’s discomfort. He leans back and puts his feet up, scattering a stack of PADDs and ignoring the disarray, attention focused like a laser.
“Sir. What can I do for you?” He’d planned to go to his knees and offer a blowjob to remind Kirk how good it could be between them. Kirk remains seated, though, so it looks like McCoy isn’t going to get the chance.
“Spock.” Kirk speaks sharply, lifting his chin, and Spock nods as if the captain’s intention is self-evident. The Vulcan comes to stand behind McCoy, a silent, looming presence. Leonard tenses, waiting for the hand on his shoulder that will incapacitate him and begin the evening’s torture. He can only pray he’ll survive.
“You will remember when we exchanged places with our counterparts from the weakling universe,” Kirk speaks, the apparent digression making McCoy blink with surprise. He nods once, affirmative. He does indeed.
“The other captain urged Mr. Spock to turn against me, to dispose of me and take command of the Enterprise-- to work to end the Empire. Mr. Spock reported the incident to me personally; he has declined to act on the weakling’s advice. I have come to regard this as proof of his loyalty.”
McCoy restrains himself from babbling. There’s no use trying to point out the evidence of his own loyalty. He has offered no rebellion, no insubordination, no disloyalty, other than his thoughts of taking vengeance before fleeing. His thoughts are still his own--
He swallows hard, suddenly aware of Spock standing close behind him. His mind will not be his own for long. That is the plan, then: to expose his mutinous thoughts, his jealousy, before disposing of him.
“As for your allegiance….” Kirk pauses with the instinct of a born Macchiavelli. “It is not in question.” His grin deepens, turning wicked. “Your forbearance during this time has been noted.”
McCoy has never been half the chessmaster Kirk is-- the man can even beat Spock seven times out of ten; he’s a phenomenon. Caught between the two of them, Leonard is a mouse in a trap. He holds very still, too cautious to believe all at once.
“I have in mind to reward you for your patience.” Kirk’s voice turns silken. “Mr. Spock.”
A hand falls on McCoy’s shoulder and it is all he can do to suppress a reflexive flinch. But Spock’s grip does not tighten; instead it slides down along his arm, soft and slow. McCoy blinks, inhaling sharply.
“Have you heard the rumors about Vulcans? I’m sure you have.” Kirk’s smile turns positively filthy. Incredibly, he winks.
“The vast majority of them are untrue,” Spock protests with mild reproach. He does not sound particularly perturbed.
McCoy stands absolutely still, eyes darting between Kirk and the Vulcan fingers that rest, now, on the soft flesh of his inner forearm. He’s heard plenty of rumors. Being a doctor who specializes in xenobiology, he’s even in a position to know some of them are bullshit. Others, though….
Spock’s hand stirs and moves back upward, dragging at his sleeve.
“Not all.” Kirk smiles, secretive. “Not the best ones.” He seems to be in a rare, playful mood, almost expansive.
McCoy gulps; his mind shifts into warp speed. At best, this could be fun. At worst, it could be rape. It looks like he’s in a position to determine which of those two paths his evening will take. And if so… well. He’s often looked at Spock with a speculative eye for what he might be like in bed. He’s wondered about those rumors. A lot.
“Tell me more.” His voice turns deep and breathy. Spock’s fingers circle lightly against the tender flesh inside his elbow.
“Vulcans mind-meld with their sexual partners. They can feel your pleasure. You can feel theirs.” Kirk’s eyes flicker to Spock. “He says all three of us can share that.”
Leonard’s stomach flips with giddy anticipation. It’s becoming hard to concentrate; Spock’s fingers are hot. They tingle on his skin. He wonders what Spock’s reading from him right now.
“Plus Vulcans have certain interesting anatomical… characteristics.” Kirk’s filthy grin deepens. “I think a practical demonstration is in order.” He stands up at last, stepping forward. “I had to make sure Spock was on the level before I took the next step. That step is an alliance between the three of us, Bones. Think of it. Bonded mates, melded in the Vulcan way… nobody will be able to stand against us. We’ll take the Empire for our own. And every night… we’ll come home to this.”
Jim lifts his chin and kisses Leonard, mouth soft and hot. Behind him, Spock steps close, his body pressing McCoy against Kirk.
Leonard shudders; his lungs won’t hold enough air all of a sudden. Jim’s thumb tips up his chin. He dives for the sweet spot under Leonard’s ear, hot mouth predatory, teeth just this side of vicious. Leonard gasps as Spock’s hot fingers tighten on his hips and he thrusts lazily against Leonard’s ass. His mouth also descends to drift along Leonard’s throat.
“He has dreamed of vengeance on us for what he perceives as unfair abandonment, but he is motivated by jealousy rather than ambition. He has no true plans other than to flee the ship in fear for his life,” Spock speaks lazily, mouthing the words against his flesh. McCoy’s eyes fly open with sudden fear, but Kirk is smiling when he draws back.
Kirk’s silence, the repeated public markings… it was all a test, he realizes suddenly. A test, to see how he would respond to his nightmare scenario: a repeat of the fiasco of Jocelyn’s infidelity.
Apparently, Leonard’s failure to murder them means he passed. (He might not have, if he’d been surprised by catching them in flagrante delicto the same way he’d found Jocelyn and Clay.)
“Telepathy is convenient,” Kirk drawls. Leonard is struck suddenly by how much courage-- how much foolhardiness and unlikely trust-- it took for Jim to meld with Spock knowing the Vulcan could crush his mind utterly if he chose, could bewilder and bewitch him, could make him a puppet with no will of his own.
“That is why so much time elapsed before this final alliance could be formed,” Spock breathes into Leonard’s ear, voice as smooth as watered silk. “Proof of my loyalty was required prior to the captain consenting to a meld.”
Kirk is impatient now, though; Leonard can tell by the narrowing of his lips.
“Prepare him,” Jim commands, and Spock leads Leonard into the head. His heart starts to hammer as Spock strips him, brisk and efficient. The air is already warm as Spock starts the water shower and steam begins to rise-- but it doesn’t cascade from the showerhead. Instead a hose has been attached, water streaming from a nozzle at its tip. Leonard understands and steps into the shower as Spock catches the hose.
“Lean against the wall,” the velvety command comes.
Leonard obeys, heart in his throat, knowing what’s coming next.
Spock’s hard hands spread him open; fingers brush over his anus, followed by the heated tip of the nozzle.
“You will not release without permission,” Spock whispers, and Leonard nods, biting his lip. He shudders as the tip penetrates him, the water beginning to fill his body. It only takes a few moments before the fullness begins to become uncomfortable-- he spreads his legs, clenching desperately, a mewl trapped in his throat. The water flows slowly, but it’s inexorable; his elbows and knees start to shake as he braces against the wall, struggling not to let go. Spock slows the flow still further, and Leonard knows Jim is watching. He will have to release his bowels in front of them both; his face flames with sudden embarrassment.
“Control,” Spock whispers.
“Can’t,” Leonard whimpers; his belly is starting to distend. He’s never felt this full; it’s moving from discomfort to impossibility. His toes curl and he shudders. Spock stops the flow, but does not release him.
“You can take more.”
McCoy tips his head forward, panting desperately, one cheek pressed against the cool shower tiles as Spock injects perhaps another cup.
“Hold,” Spock instructs, merciless, and McCoy struggles to comply. He’s never been undone so completely, so fast, without anyone ever touching his cock. He isn’t even properly aroused-- but he’s completely full, completely occupied, absolutely filled and possessed and vulnerable, and tears leak between his closed lids. He doesn’t want to let go, not here, not like this--
“Once more.” The water flows again, stretching him taut as a drum.
McCoy thinks he might burst; he goes from whimpering to keening. “Please,” he babbles, and he can all but feel Jim’s smirk. “Please now, please, I can’t--”
Spock withdraws the nozzle and guides him to the head, helping him ease himself down. Leonard clings to his hands, still babbling, still pleading-- as much with himself as with Spock; he pleads with his body to wait, to save his dignity.
McCoy lets go, glad not to foul himself or the shower; it all goes rushing out of him, leaving him hollow and empty. He sits there, trembling.
“Again,” Spock directs, assisting Leonard back to the shower, filling him up-- so full he thinks he might burst. Holy hell, the endorphins have his mind swimming; he can hardly stagger.
He takes more the second time, but it ought to be easier since he’s nearly empty. ...It isn’t. Spock’s velvet voice soothes and guides him, using his first name, petting him with praise as he struggles to obey, then releasing him to empty himself. It happens three times in all, and by the time it’s over, McCoy is floating; he hardly knows up from down when Spock approaches him with a large syringe in his hand, full of lubricant gel.
“But you self-lubricate, don’t you?” McCoy mutters, half to himself.
“It will not suffice,” Spock says, silky soft. “You are not accustomed to penetration, and your body is quite tight.” His finger explores, verifying his claim.
McCoy gasps aloud, mustering just enough sass to mutter, “I prefer to top.”
“You will not do so tonight.” The cool syringe parts his cheeks and pushes in with a flash of pain. He feels it remotely, his mind entirely dissociated, as his body first resists, then makes way for the intrusion. Then cool gel fills him up, and he’s ready.
Spock removes all of his own clothing except for his black undershorts and puts Leonard in the shower one more time, soaping him and washing him-- big competent hands thorough, yet disturbingly clinical as they clean every last crevice.
Spock finally pulls him from the shower, their skins flushed with heat, and towels him with care. Jim leans against the wall, insouciant, one hand rubbing at the front of his trousers. A sharp-eyed observer can always tell he dresses left, but today even a blind man would see the ridge straining there as he watches them together.
“Jim,” Leonard mumbles, yearning-- he’s missed him. Kirk steps up, one thumb trailing across his lower lip. Kirk grins as he opens, trying to suck it in.
“Be patient, Bones. I’ll fuck your mouth while he reams your ass.”
Jim helps arrange him across the bed-- on his hands and knees, Spock behind and Jim before. Satisfied, Spock disrobes at last, stripping off the wet black shorts. His cock has pushed its way out of his slit, and Leonard stares at it-- aware of the two of them pausing to let him panic.
Spock is formidable, frankly terrifying. His cock is narrow at the tip and thick at the base, but it’s the ridges that make McCoy swallow thickly, saliva gathering in his mouth. Thick, rough cartilaginous ridges lie glistening along the raphe at measured one-inch intervals, and there are eleven of them. McCoy estimates the thing is a couple of inches in diameter at the tip and maybe five at the base. It’s like looking at a weapon of mass destruction.
“I will teach you to take all of it,” Spock says softly. “Observe.” He reaches, cradling the damn fucking monster he’s been hiding down there, inviting Leonard’s undivided scrutiny.
McCoy obeys, his mouth dry; he’s vaguely aware of Jim shucking his clothes, but he can’t rip his eyes away as Spock’s palm cradles the shaft and his thumb and forefinger close just beneath the glans. Spock moves the skin, and suddenly another fold of jagged, skin-sheathed cartilage separates, peeling back from where it cradles the glans in its enfolding cup and curving back to arch around the shaft-- a murderous, barbed foreskin gone wrong.
“To prevent premature withdrawal,” Spock says calmly, watching his eyes pop. “The glans will expand significantly after penetration is achieved, and the guard-sheath will invert and remain thus until mating is complete. Do not attempt to pull away before I have become flaccid, or you will injure yourself.” He releases his cock and the guard-ridge springs back into place to allow penetration.
Some mad part of Leonard’s mind is analyzing Spock’s anatomy far in the distant background of his consciousness, calm and clinical; Vulcan males must have had a hell of a time ensuring patrilineal succession and fidelity to evolve an array like that-- with a glans that would expand to scoop out a rival’s semen and a special inverting guard to prevent separation before ejaculation, Jesus Christ.
“It’s gonna be a hell of a ride,” Jim purrs. “Best fuck ever. Just fucking take it, Bones. You’re gonna have to work standing up for a week.” He tips Leonard’s head up and leans down to kiss him. He makes it long, hot, sweet-- punishing, biting his lips and forcing his tongue deep.
Before McCoy realizes it, Spock moves behind him and steps between his ankles. He quivers, suddenly afraid, but Jim holds him fast, biting hard enough to draw a trickle of blood from his lip. He smiles at it, then dips his finger in the wound and touches it delicately to Bones’s face-- painting blood on him until the bite coagulates and seals itself. He leans over Bones’s shoulder, seeking Spock-- and bites him as well, marking them both with blood-claim until he is satisfied.
“Now do it,” he instructs Spock, holding Leonard’s gaze with fiery lust, his fingers brutal on Leonard’s chin.
The tip goes in easy, deceptively so. Leonard gasps, even though it doesn’t really hurt that much; he just wasn’t ready. Spock’s hands smooth along his ribs; he plucks at Leonard’s nipples, resting his palms there. Jim stands with his cock hanging heavy before Leonard’s face, content to watch-- for now. One of the ridges goes in, stretching him open, as Spock eases forward. Then another follows. Not so bad, not so bad. Not yet. Bones stiffens his elbows and waits, passive-- he feels full, but nothing like the enema; this is nowhere near as intense.
Spock reaches forward, and Bones shifts a little, startled; he’s been so preoccupied he never noticed Spock sliding quietly into his head until he felt him lurking there-- as he brings Jim in, and Kirk’s magma-hot lust makes a definite, distinct contrast to Spock’s cool, quicksilver presence.
The fifth ridge is a bit of a burn. Kirk chuckles as Leonard squirms. “Just starting to get good. Fuck him with that much until he can take it,” he purrs-- and Spock does.
He pulls out slowly, a rippling shudder of friction making Bones groan; he leaves the tip buried inside.
The push back in is anything but gentle; the ridges drag at the tight muscle, a frantic burst of rough sensation that makes Leonard gasp and stutter. “F-fuck!”
Perfectly measured, Spock stops precisely at the same depth he had reached before, letting Leonard adjust before he withdraws and pushes in again, harder. Leonard bites his lip to strangle a wild cry.
“God.” Jim’s eyes close; through the meld Leonard feels Jim’s lust boil through him. “Just like our first time all over again, Spock.”
Leonard makes himself breathe; he’s going to need all the air he can get.
Spock pushes the sixth ridge in, slow and firm; Leonard clenches at the coverlet and pushes back, easing the burn, letting Spock in. The seventh follows without pause, and Spock stops again, one hand resting on the small of Leonard’s back.
“The glans will inflate during the next stage of intercourse,” Spock warns him, and Leonard is tempted to giggle at the flat, dull description-- but then Spock moves, fucking Leonard with measured, brutal strokes, and he feels the cock inside him swell suddenly-- punching into him in a perfectly measured tempo, filling him fuller with every carefully-executed push.
He yowls when the guard sheath inverts, a sudden tingling flip inside him; the ridges ram against his prostate in quick succession, and he tosses his head, gasping for air.
Spock pulls back and stops, leaving only the tip inside; Leonard can feel the threat of the guard-ridge pressing against the stretched muscle as Spock pulls back again, ever so slightly-- the pressure a distinct warning. “I am now fully erect,” Spock says, calm, ever-so-faintly smug. He pulls back again, stretching McCoy outward, warm pain starting to build; McCoy grits his teeth. Being separated now would fucking shred him.
He feels Jim chuckle, appreciating the flicker of Leonard’s fear. “You’re not getting away that easily.”
“Fucking hobgoblin,” Leonard spits over his shoulder, all self-preservation instinct gone along with his sanity. “Fucking shut up and fuck me, goddammit.”
Number eight makes Leonard twist and curse; Spock fucks him for a long time like that, the ridges battering his prostate, making him moan and whimper at a disgraceful volume-- rough-ridged bliss shuddering against his prostate on every push in and out, the guard ridge making him yelp every time Spock reverses to drive back in. Jim’s cock paints a swipe of sticky salt against Leonard’s cheek; he lifts himself and steadies his cock, feeding it to Bones. Leonard still has enough command over himself to suck, to try to exercise some skill as he goes down-- a fact that distinctly exasperates Spock, the first hint that the Vulcan’s control might waver.
“Give him more.” Kirk growls with lust.
“He is not ready.” Spock’s refusal feels tolerant, almost affectionate. “He is not as accustomed to penetration as you were.”
Leonard sees it then-- hell, he feels it-- Spock’s memory of riding Jim, burying every thick inch of Vulcan cock in him and listening to him whine for more, bottoming out and then fucking him fiercely until he collapses into a pleading, sated heap, then fucking his limp body again and again, forcing him to come time after time until he pleads, not knowing whether he’s begging for mercy or more savage fucking--
Jim laughs, wild. “God, yeah, fuck!”
Jim thrusts his own cock into Leonard in time with the memory-- and he’s more than ready for that. He sucks, saliva dripping off his lips, the wetness slick and shining on Jim’s cock. He twirls his tongue around Jim, doing everything he likes best. Spock’s hands are starting to slide in the sweat dripping off his ribs and flanks as he struggles to manage both his lovers inside him.
“God, Bones.” Jim’s head tips back, he pushes his hips forward with abandon. “Nobody sucks cock like you.”
Spock just makes a pre-verbal noise, his fingers printing bruises onto Leonard’s hipbones as he speeds his pace again, and Jim feels it and echoes it. They batter Bones between him; his brain fumbles to comprehend and presents him with a wild, improbable image of them reaming right through him, cocks touching in the center. They see it just as he does. Jim groans and Spock purrs, and together they fuck him even harder.
Leonard loses all ability to respond, all sense-- all he can do is accept the cocks forcing his mouth and his ass open. All he can do is struggle to breathe and fucking take it-- fucking feel Spock start to shiver apart, those even, measured strokes turning ragged and that’s number nine shoving its way inside, stretching him to the point of perfect, ecstatic agony. Leonard utters a throttled scream with the last breath left in him, screams and comes with Jim filling his mouth, Jim’s come dribbling over his lips and going up his fucking nose for fucksake, making him choke, and Spock’s come gushing into him and his own filling Spock’s hand in pulses so frantic he can’t separate pain and pleasure, can’t tell them apart--
Jim pulls out and collapses into a chair, barely managing to land on the seat instead of the floor. Spock’s thighs quiver; he’s still pumping come into Leonard’s body. Leonard feels the flood of sharp-scented fluid forcing its way out of him, slicking down his thighs in a viscous trickle.
Spock brings his hand to Leonard’s lips and he licks at the bitter taste of his own come, feels Spock’s lust burn, unabated, at the caress-- and cleans Spock’s hand with renewed determination, sucking those long fingers into his mouth, twining his tongue around and between them. Spock is not sated, though-- he bites at Leonard’s throat, sucking blood to the surface of his skin and worrying at the mark, then starts to move again, making him whimper thickly. Jim watches them through heavy-lidded eyes, his mind still burning with theirs even though his cock is slowly shrinking against his thigh.
“Fuck yeah,” Jim groans, licking his lips. “Give it to him again, oh fuck.”
Leonard writhes, gasping desperately for air, and takes it again-- and again-- his abused, battered body whining with strain as Spock’s orgasms push through all their minds, driving them beyond human tolerance, beyond Vulcan capacity for rational thought. Finally Spock can’t give him anymore and collapses on top of him, heavy and satisfied, his cock finally deflating enough to slip out without tearing Leonard apart-- not like he isn’t flayed wide open anyway, with both of them nestling inside his brain, sated and muzzy and heavy with the aftermath of pleasure, blurred with the onset of sleep.
Spock slides two fingers inside Leonard’s mouth and leaves them there, unwilling to abandon the conquest of his body; Jim picks up his arm and curls underneath it, drawing them both awkwardly close. After a moment, Kirk reaches around and presses two fingers into Spock. Then he subsides, the circle of minds and bodies fulfilled, complete.
Lying there melded to his lovers, Leonard drifts for a long time on the edge of sleep, lulled by the heat of Spock’s body covering his, riding lazily along the currents of Jim’s mind.
The captain means to claim them both publicly, of course-- nothing less will suffice.
“Wear the midi uniform tomorrow,” Kirk commands them, his voice rich and lazy-- and Leonard shivers with anticipation. He has seen this before-- hell, he’s done it before. Spock mouths at his throat, stimulating the bruise left by his teeth, and they watch drowsily as Kirk plans the scene of his conquest.
He will summon them both to his side, sliding his hands between their bare thighs as they stand at attention beside the chair; he will push his fingers into them both and fuck them with his hands until they quiver and come at his command, staining their uniforms. After they come he will order them to kiss, and they will-- sloppy and wet and eager, tongues making slick, obscene sounds that echo eerily in the quiet of the spellbound bridge.
When they draw back, he will push them to their knees and they will please him with their mouths, kneeling together between his legs. He will paint both their faces with his semen; they will go about their day stained with their own come and with his-- claimed, owned, the three of them made one.
Spock’s teeth scrape McCoy’s throat and he shudders with pleasure, with anticipation and lust; he would rise and go to the bridge; he would do it right now.
Kirk chuckles, dark and rich. “Wait for Alpha.” His hand stirs over Leonard’s ass, savoring its sticky curve. “All in good time.”