❛ do you like that? ❜ ( bones )
a single exhale empties the vulcan's lungs - half, vulcan - fact so immeasurably apparent beneath the skillful hands of the doctor. torso made a sloped concave, crumpling in on itself as he submits his form to a rather violent shudder. if he so desired, naturally, spock could tap deeper into his subconscious, to . . . suppress the physical sensations inherent in the careful exploration made by the doctor's hands, tongue, and mouth. his curiosity, evidently, proving every bit as practiced as his hands. it could even be classed as rather clinical, the drifting of his eyes in probing study of each of spock's reactions. though there was very little that mccoy did which appreciably lacked a certain degree of . . . passion. even if it were, almost, tempting him to train himself more vehemently to resist. those clear, blue eyes are thoughtful as they stare up at him through the thicket of wiry chest hair, barely masking the obvious green flush of his skin. that which rises, even, to the tips of his upswept ears. however, the lack of said perception would undoubtedly render the purpose of this experience moot. difficult, as when certain feelings become too intense, he must inevitably stop himself from drawing from it even instinctively.
he forgets that he has not drawn another breath, until his cognizance processes the nature of the question. beginning to respire through his open mouth in great heaves of his torso. neck lifting his head as to better regard the doctor, with eyes further blackened by the dilation of his pupils remaining hidden by the lowering of his lids. spock nods, rushed. "yes, leonard." he confirms, his voice's register bottoming out. so too taking the form of a low, rough whisper. willing his jaw not to harden as lips remain parted. mccoy likely having produced his desired result. "i do, indeed." he swallows, brows lowered. and as his fluttering eyelashes bid head to meet again with the pillow below, his next exhale is rather audible. lungs filling the space between his ribs and vacating it again with each inhalation. for each touch of the doctor's hands, swept over hips, or otherwise places much more . . . intimate . . . bring with them a brand new rush of emotions, straining tantalizingly at his mind. the surge of human pride, of adoration. all directed towards him. every waking thought, every shimmer of brilliance the doctor having to offer breathing, singing, sighing - only for him. shamefully absorbing such a crystalline, cascading river that washes from the base of his chest, down to pulse alongside where the mess of him is being made - where his eyes have not the courage to consider - with an astounding greed. he welcomes them like never before. seeking them, as they never quite diminish. each bringing with it a new note to the chorus, soothing and overwhelming him all at once.
the tendons which line his hands relax as long, olive fingers of one will themselves to detach from where they clutched - near to snapping woven threads of the sheets below him. nerves endings alight while they seek to caress along the structure of the doctor's cheeks. trembling beneath the present stimulation of not only his body, but also his mind, wracking through his physical form. he even finds himself wishing - the thought almost shocking him entirely - that the doctor could sense his resounding internal replies. the tenderness, the trust. that he allows himself to feel. for him. "your mind is quite beautiful, doctor." he breathes, lowly. and it feels what he presumes to be like a release of some kind. far from what he'd like to say, but more than he'd have allowed himself, otherwise.
𝑺𝑶𝑭𝑻 𝑫𝑰𝑹𝑻𝒀 𝑻𝑨𝑳𝑲. @startold.