Hero of the HourAuthor: i_msoashamed Rating:
There will be porn eventually, but this cliffhanger is PG-13.Summary:
McCoy is sexually frustrated. Pairing:
No one...yet.Word count
: Spoilers? There's going to be more references in this to all three seasons of TOS and trek_crack
than I have the energy to count. Do not operate heavy machinery while thinking about Chekov's ass.Disclaimer
: Paramount is watching us masturbate.
McCoy needed a drink.
Chapel would say that that was his natural state, but he could easily counter that a mission on the Enterprise forced a man to it. Between alien spores that made Sulu take his clothes off, bizarre Vulcan hormone cycles that made the First Officer ready to hump anything that moved, and the sight of Chekov's tight little butt as he ran down the corridor to the transporter room, it was almost more than he could take--and McCoy had never been very good at controlling his urges.
But lately he had been getting worse. Even Jim had commented that it was getting easier to set him off. And he'd had the absolute gall to say it with his blonde lashes lowered over those baby blue eyes of his. Hell, some days it seemed everything
set him off, from the smiles and knowing looks Sulu and Chekov exchanged over the console to the time he was standing next to Spock in the turbolift and realized he could feel the heat radiating from his body. That had also been the day he'd shouted at Nurse Chapel for leaving a few (clean) slides out on his workstation. "Are you in Pon Farr?" she'd asked him dryly. If you asked him, she and that goddamn alien deserved
But Chapel wasn’t that far off the mark, he reflected as he opened every cabinet in sickbay looking for some alcohol. He'd heard of it happening, even to men like himself who'd peeked down more than his fair share of ensign's uniforms. It wasn't even entirely without precedent. Ten years ago he’d been bumping and grinding onstage for men the same age he was now, and some of them had had rings on their fingers. And then there'd been that puppy-eyed boy, who'd come night after night and always sat in the front row...
Of course, musing on past sluttiness didn't make the current frustration one whit easier to bear. McCoy pressed the glass of the tumbler against his forehead as if it'd help to cool off his thoughts of tight blue uniforms. You'd think after being locked up for three years on the same boat with the same people you'd get sick of them, but over the last few months McCoy had found himself as randy as a teenager, wincing when Kirk crossed his legs in the command chair and blushing every time Spock gave him the eyebrow. It didn't help that, simply by virtue of being ship's doctor, he was in the enviable position of knowing exactly what Spock's penis looked like, and thus could spin out incredibly detailed ...fantasies... that were anatomically correct down to the swirl of the hair across his pectorals. The bimonthly ship's physical also allowed him in on such details such as the dimples on in Jim Kirk's ass--he was sure there were people who had fucked Kirk and didn't know he had dimples on his ass.
It was just his luck, he thought as he poured himself another glass of the truly horrible whiskey he'd found, that'd he'd been stuck on a starship with so many goddamn sexy people and all of them had absolutely no interest in him. It was the story of his life, all looking but not touching, all wanting but not having, without any solution until either the five years were up or they met up with an alien species that would make every halfway decent-looking crew member simply disappear.
And then, just to prove the universe has it in for you when your name is Leonard McCoy, his wish had been granted...in the worst fucking way possible.