Title: Tighter
Author: Yami no Kaiba
Fandom: Star Trek: XI
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Spock/McCoy
Length: 780 words

Summary: Leonard wakes with a hangover, and a memory of the night before.
Disclaimers: I do not own the characters or the concepts of Star Trek in any of its forms.

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Leonard knows it's going to be a crappy day when he wakes up with a pounding headache. The kind of headache that just amplifies every little sound into a jangled racket that makes you moan pathetically and stuff your head under the pillow in hopes that life would just LEAVE YOU BE so you could crawl into a corner and sleep it all away.

There's the crashing roar of fucking Niagra Falls off in his bathroom with its tiny shower stall-

-his hip bones are getting bruised in a hard grip, and he's making these little 'uh uh uh' noises that if he'd been in his right mind, he'd rather choke on. He tries to grip harder at the slippery clumps of hair in his fists as the skin along his shoulder blades and ass scrape in little stutter-stops along the slick plastic wall with every thrust that's made.

There's a rough dry drag along his neck, and he tugs harder, whining long and hard because it's fucking FANTASTIC, but he needs to be held down– or up, or whatever fucking orientation, he just NEEDS–

–answering grunt, hands leaving his hips to grab his wrists, twisting them away, a shift of position, and–

Yes, yes, oh, JESUS yes!

Crushed, slick cool skin to slick heated skin, weight bearing him down– against– the wall, hands pulling him further up until he's standing on the balls of his feet, pinning his wrists to the wall and squeezing– tight, tighter, tightest– to the point he can't even FLEX them.

He can't breathe– not enough, there's no room for his chest to expand into– and the muscles in his thighs and calves clench now in answer to every hard, sharp thrust in an instinctual attempt to keep him grounded.

He wants this feeling to last forever, but it can't, it won't– he can feel the tension in his gut growing as tight as the hold around his wrists–

Hungry dry lips crushing against his own, and its fucking PERFECT–

–the shower he apparently got fucked in last night, and what the HELL?

Wide awake now, Leonard shoves the pillow tighter around the back of his head, trying to shut out reality at the same time his mind gropes with sluggish protest for more details of what happened the night before.

There's nothing but vague, fuzzy memories of transporting back up from an ice-ball of a planet. Of inviting Jim and Spock to his quarters for a round-table bitch fest about bureaucratic bullshit that kept sending the Enterprise on these useless missions. Of opening one bottle too many as he bitched, and Jim bitched back, and Spock just sipped a little at his hot tea but mostly just held the ceramic mug to warm up his ice-cold hands.

Which leaves just two possibilities: either he'd gotten fucked by Spock, or he'd gotten fucked by Jim.

Fuck. He hopes to God it wasn't Jim– the randy pup had been trying to get into his pants– and everyone else's– since the early days of the Academy.

He likes Jim, he does– Leonard wouldn't go and risk his neck time and time again for just anyone– and he knows himself well enough to recognize that he could fall head over heels for the kid, but he knows he wouldn't be enough for him. Jim needs this life of risk and danger like a thalassaemia patient needs a blood transfusion.

Spock doesn't. The only reason Spock is here on this ship instead of on a nice, safe research station is because he's a fucking genius who'd get bored out of his skull if he ever had to focus on just one interesting problem at a time. And just like Leonard knows he could fall in love with Jim, he's known he's a little bit in love with Spock ever since the moment the pointy-eared bastard had called Jim out for cheating.

There are days– like yesterday, and the reminder is enough for his head to throb extra hard in the next beat, enough that he's moaning pathetically into the mattress– where Leonard would jump ship if it wasn't for the both of them, and all the rest of the crew of this ship that depend on him to patch them up when the shit hits the fan like it so often does.

If only–

Quick drag of five points of warm pressure on his naked shoulder jerks him out of his reverie, and fuck, when had the waterfall turned off?

"Doctor, we have 1.4 hours until our respective shifts to engage in acts of mutual physical pleasure."

Huh. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a crappy day after all.

--Fin.