Title: Participation is Not Required
Author: Yami no Kaiba
Fandom: Star Trek TOS
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Spock/McCoy
Length: 1,937 words

Summary: Strange metal artifacts are not always benign.
Disclaimers: I do not own the characters or the concepts of Star Trek in any of its forms.
Warnings: Non-con. Tentacles.

Note: I totally blame vail_kagami for egging me on to write this. If you're squicked easily, don't read.

*---*---*---*---*

The door to sickbay swishes open and he's already turning when he hears Spock's voice. "Doctor, I require your presence for discussion of a private matter."

"Sure, Spock, where you want to - Jesus Christ Almighty! What in blazes happened to you?!"

Spock's head tilts ever so slightly to the side, causing the metallic alloys seemingly embedded into his skin to catch the light and momentarily blind Leonard's vision. There's even a red little diode blinking merrily at him like a Christmas light inside the twisting miniaturized servos and slowly moving wires that seem to be digging into Spock's flesh. The metal seemed to start at the cheek and trail down the throat, disappearing under Spock's shirt collars; there's no telling where it stops or how far it goes here. "I do not understand the limitations of your query. Please specify."

"Never mind that, get over here," he growls, takes Spock by the arm - was it his imagination, or did it feel like a metal band was under that sleeve? - and forcefully pulls him into Isolation Room 1 while scooping up medical equipment on the way.

Once inside, he pushes Spock further into the room, trying not to be queasy when he notices a wire peeking out from under Spock's sleeve waving back in the direction of where Leonard's hand had rested. "Strip, and throw your clothes into the chute over there. Computer, engage medical locks. Also, note that as of this moment I am relieving both myself and Commander Spock from active duty to conduct a long-term medical evaluation, and am transferring post of Acting Chief Medical Officer to Dr. M'Benga as of this moment."

There was a metallic clamping sound and the hiss of the vacuum seal. "Medical Locks, engaged. Crew active status, changed. Notification of crew status and post transfer has been sent," the ship's computer noted.

"Your caution is unnecessary, Doctor. There is nothing wrong with me, I have merely been... improved upon," Spock said, while shoving his pants and underwear down.

"See, right there? The fact that you don't seem to care that you're walking about with metal sticking out of the side of your face gives me ample concern for the clarity of your mental state at this moment, Mr. Spock," Leonard nearly shouted, pissed and worried and thus pissed even more for being worried, as he sits down on the floor and spreads out what medical equipment he'd managed to snag. Dermal regenerator, medical scanner, gloves, a hypospray with a low grade sedative - enough to make a human limp yet still conscious, but practically useless on a Vulcan except as a good buzz -

"Do not be," Spock murmurs, right against his ear and the next thing Leonard knows he's being pinned to the cold deck by a tight grip around his upper arms, a naked – except for the writhing, squirming mass of metal and fiber optics that seems to be covering a good portion of one shoulder and the true ribs on that same side; thank God its not near Spock's heart yet - Spock straddling his waist and shoving a moist tongue down his throat.

Gripping and shoving uselessly at Spock's hips, planting his feet and pushing in an attempt to slide out from under him, Leonard wrenches his face to the side to break the kiss. "Stop it! Get off me, Spock!"

Spock leans back and lets go of Leonard’s arms. Before Leonard can think to do more than attempt to push futilely at Spock's chest, the Vulcan is lifting Leonard's shirts up, blocking his vision and forcing his arms above his head in a tangle of black and blue fabric. "Negative. I will not stop. While your participation in this act would be appreciated, it is not required."

He's cursing a brilliant blue streak, struggling to get the shirts up and off so he can attempt another go at pushing Spock off of him, when there's the prickle of cold metal against his side and the hiss of an injection.

The effects are nearly instantaneous - loss of muscle control first, so that his arms and legs jerk once in reaction, then complete loss of function of the extremities follows. His arms and legs fall as they will, and the damn shirts are still over his head and tangled about his arms, blocking out the light.

He tries to hold onto his anger, but the sedative is making that hard, fogging up his mind. The pleasant feel of light kisses along his ribs, marching up a shoulder and across his collarbone does not help in that endeavor.

There's a brush of fingers following along that path up the ribs, than veering off and circling a nipple. He wants to squirm, push into the touch, but his body won't obey him and all that leaves him with is the want.

"Yes," Spock murmurs against his skin, kissing now under Leonard's chin, forcing his head to tilt back and slowly nosing the shirts' collars up and over his jaw. "Want this, Doctor. Let your blood burn, your mind float."

"Spock," he manages to mumble, slurred, tongue fumbling where it shouldn't into the cotton that brushes against his lips with the movement. This is what he wants, what he wanted, but not how he'd wanted it. He's not sure he can reconcile that, or if he even wants to.

There's a latex-covered hand between his legs, shifting his thighs easily open. Brief touch against his cock, feeling as clinical as any doctor, than moving behind and down past his balls to press hard along his perenium.

His muscle control isn't voluntary, but that sort of touch never induces voluntary reactions. His thoughts are becoming lustful and thick, his throat making guttural sounds of pleasure while his cock stirs, blood filling and pounding in his veins, beating against his ears.

Spock's muttering something that sounds like Vulcan against his jaw, up under his ear, and Leonard can feel the scrape of cold metal against his cheek as Spock sucks the ear's lobe lightly into his warm mouth.

It reminds Leonard that there's something wrong, that he needs to do something important. "Wait, stop, I need –" time, space to think, but the shirts are being pushed up over his eyes, past his hair, and he’s blinking up into brown, hungry eyes.

Fingertips along the side of his face, familiar pattern, pressing –

– logic, algorithims, fire, need, mate, McCoy, wait, why, hurting, here, want, take, no, take, no, TAKE -

"Take," he repeats, lost in the swirl of steely sharp slivers flying about in the gritty sand storm in his mind/Spock's mind/their mind, and Spock growls, bites down on Leonard's lip and the gloved-fingers between Leonard's legs rub further back and push in.

And yes, it hurts, of course it does, there's nothing to ease the way except the lack of instinctive resistance, but that doesn't seem important next to the need-want-desire swamping his mind. Not important when latex-dampened heat pushes in-in-in and cold, rippled steel that makes his hips flinch despite the sedative follows behind, pushing and slithering up his opening inch by rippled inch like a steel snake. There's a weird sounding groan/keen in the air between them, light and breathy, but its not important because there’s cold/icy/metallic steel scratching at his thoughts wanting in-in-in and warm/hot/gritty sand right with it, scratching and scrapping and he thinks he's going to be like the ruins in a desert, warn done to nothing.

"Float," said against his forehead as little cat-like licks are delivered to his skin, his hair, and he struggles to do so. To get above it all, to just feel but it's hard with all the thoughts both warm and cold trying to pull him under, pull him back, to take him in, assimilate him in all ways and make them one.

Fingers both covered and not leave him - but the metal, it stays, taking the chance to slither deeper - and he moans, they both moan, at the loss of warmth, but Spock continues to shift above him. Spock scoots down, dragging Leonard's pants and underwear with him, and after only seconds that feel like days of cold and metal scratching and burrowing deeper and deeper, Spock's settling back down, kneeling between Leonard's parted, boney knees where he rests those gloved-and-not hands and the warm/hot/gritty sand is back with a ferocity that roars in like a storm.

"Float," is murmured once more, against his calf that's been raised and pushed up against his stomach. He tries, he tries, but there's so much pain and pleasure that he can't get far enough.

Then Spock's cock must be pushing in because he's being filled full to bursting or splitting. Moaning and curling his fingers in the fabric of his shirts, he knows he's not going to last long, there's too much pleasure and pain as the metal inside him is ground against his sensitive walls with every thrust Spock makes.

He's falling in his mind/Spock's mind/their mind, being pulled back down, but that's okay because Spock's warm thoughts of need-want-desire are rising to meet him and the cold sharp undertow is brittle and breaking like winter ice cracking before the spring thaw.

They meet, they're one, and they come together in all the ways that matter.

*---*---*

There's a dull throbbing in his head, a really nice ache throughout his body centered around the expanse between his hips, and the tingling telltale of recently healed tissue down in his rectum. But it's the warmth of skin on skin that draws him back from the love-affection-warmth he's been curling into.

"Doctor, I must insist that you wake at this time."

There's a strange reverse echo to the words, and he blinks awake, dazed. "Spock?"

"Doctor?"

"That metal graft stopped blinking," he says, blandly, and its true: the little diode on Spock's cheek is dead.

"Ah. I believe our... activities short-circuited its processor. I will be requiring your surgical expertise to remove it once we have exited this room."

There's that odd echo again, a sort of déjà vu as he knows what those lips are about to say, because he's already heard it before Spock's lips have formed around the words. The mystery is made all the more irritating by the fact that his headache is elevating itself from a dull throbbing to a splitting pain. "My head hurts."

"I... apologize. The pain is an after affect of our bonding – your human mind was unprepared for the forming of a telepathic bond, and is attempting to accommodate. The feeling should pass with time and rest."

Leonard's quite for a long time after that bombshell, taking it all in, processing as it were. The silence lasts so long that Spock actually shifts a bit where he's kneeling beside Leonard. "Spock?"

"Yes?" Quick, too quick, nipping on the heel of Leonard's own query.

"You better make an honest man out of me."

A small smile twitches at Spock's lips. "That will be a difficult endeavor, seeing as you already are one."

"Yeah, well, I still want a human wedding. With REAL peaches," he adds, because if he's already married, he damn well wants some real peaches.

They're the best fruit with cream, after all, and he can see a lot of fun uses for cream in the near future. Especially as he should be getting the chance to shove something up Spock's ass for a change, he thinks while looking around for his underwear and spotting a sparking metallic cord covered in blood instead.

It's only fair.

--Fin.