Blood is the Life

Title: Blood is the Life
Fandom: ST XI
Characters: Kirk, Spock
Rating: E
Warnings: Dub-con, bloodplay
Notes: Oh, crackmeme… what have you done to my delicate sensibilities?

From this prompt:
So, I'm realizing I have a very strange, pretty specific, possibly disgusting kink:

I love the idea one of the crew members getting off on cutting their partner on the chest or somewhere like that, or scratching their neck until they begin to bleed… and in being transfixed by the sight of dripping blood, they wipe it with their fingers and lick at it, all nice nad slow and sensual-like.

Kirk/Spock are preferred, but I'm fine eith whatever's easy for the writer.

Ungggh, I feel so gross for asking for this. Hopefully someone's kinky enough to wanna write this.

The first time it happened, Jim had carried Spock to sickbay, broken and torn. He'd been elbowing ensigns, the whole way, and kicking anything that didn't get out of his way fast enough, doors included. Finally, face to face with Bones, he'd howled, "Fix it! Make it go!" and held Spock's bloodsoaked and unconscious form out to the doctor.

McCoy had taken charge, immediately, laying Spock on one of the biobeds and surveying the extent of the damage. It was bad, but not likely fatal — looked worse than it was, because of the gushing head wound and related unconsciousness. As he slowly pieced Spock back together, Jim hovered uselessly behind him, watching and licking the lime-green blood off his own fingers. Vulcans were touchy about water, and Jim knew it. He wasn't letting the blood Spock spilled on him — for him — go to waste.

Still sticky-green and half conscious, Spock reached out to Jim. "Ashayam," he whispered, but whatever else he had intended to say vanished in a sharp gasp as Jim began to lick the blood from his hands as well.

"Don't you get him too excited, Jim. I won't have him bleeding out all over the floor in here," Bones reprimanded them, with a disgusted glance, as he took his leave. "And don't leave any more bodily fluids than strictly necessary on things."

"Thank you, doctor," Spock managed, clenching Jim's jaw, in an effort to retain focus. "I assure you, any further fluids that exit my person will not become your problem."

"Mmph," Jim concurred, unable to make words around the grip on his face.

"Don't you dare break him, Jim," Bones called back through the closing doors.

Spock pulled his fingers out of Jim's mouth and let go of his captain's face. "Why, Jim?"

"You were bleeding so much… I couldn't… Nam-tor vesht'thinoi masu t'du." Jim mangled the Vulcan language, but he got the point across.

"So, you cleaned it up. You took my water to yourself." Spock scooped up some of the blood that had pooled at his shoulder and held it out to Jim. "Masu t'nash-veh terish k't'du."

Jim lapped it from his Vulcan's fingertips, sending shivers of pleasure down Spock's spine. "Plak t'nash-veh s'ozh t'nash-veh," Spock purred, caressing Jim's tongue with his fingertips.

This went on, Spock cleaning the blood off of himself, with his fingers, and feeding it to Jim, with his fingertips growing more sensitive with every pass. It wasn't the right way — he should have been drinking his own blood, to replenish what he had lost — but in his dizzied state, the feel of Jim's tongue against his exceptionally sensitive fingers was more temptation than he could handle. The rush was an exceptional pleasure, and in that sweet, hot pleasure, he found himself swept back into unconsciousness.

When Spock woke again, he found himself nude and mostly cleaned, the few streaks revealing that the job had been done with a tongue, rather than a sponge. He found clean clothes beside the bed and dressed himself, before heading to Jim's room. It was good when he was mindlessly tired, how much better could the sharing of water become while he was awake to enjoy it?

"Did you enjoy that?" He asked, as soon as the door opened to admit him.

Jim looked up from where he sat, at his desk. "Enjoy…? I was scared to death you were going to die on me."

"You took my water like I was dying. But, here I stand." He knew Jim didn't understand, couldn't understand, but the perversion of the way of things just stuck in Spock's head. "Did you like the taste of my blood in your mouth?"

Jim stood, frozen in shock, uncertain of what to say, as Spock stripped off his shirt and advanced across the room.

"Do you want more? I would be one with your mind. Would you be one with my body?"

"Spock, I'm already one with your body. I've been inside you. I've had you in me."

"Not like this," Spock retorted, and he was absolutely correct in that. "Stop wearing clothes. At once."

Jim was fairly certain that the correct response was stark terror, but he found himself helplessly turned on by the idea that this moderately angry Vulcan — his moderately angry Vulcan — wanted him naked. Without so much as a question, he did as commanded, and stepped from behind the desk, only to be slammed against the window, his back to the cold blackness of space.

Spock picked up an antique letter opener from Jim's desk and, with a treacherous gleam in his eye, sliced open his own arm, pressing it across Jim's mouth, as he opened his trousers with the other hand.

"I will give you my water. You will know it, and in it, you will know me." He pulled one of Jim's legs around his waist, and Jim followed, lifting the other leg, balancing between Spock's hips and the window. Smoothly, too easily, Spock pushed into Jim's body, thrusting deep as Jim's tongue played across the wound in his arm, darting, teasing the sundered flesh.

Tears sprang up in Jim's eyes, and Spock was quick to lick them away as they fell. He was rougher than he had ever been with Jim, but he wanted that water that Vulcans do not produce. As Jim gave pain and took blood from his arm, he would give a different, sweeter pain, and take the tears from Jim's cheeks. Not a drop of either fluid would be wasted, nor the fluids that would come after. He writhed, grinding against Jim's body, as that wicked tongue danced across his exposed nerves, delving into his flesh, and tasting parts that were never meant to be exposed to air. Jim's lapping and suckling drew the blood from his flesh, long after it should have ceased to run, and the bruising, burning pain just made Spock rut harder, faster, more desperate for sensation.

With a yowl like a le-matya in heat, Spock emptied himself, at last, leaving yet more of his water inside his ashayam. Stepping back, he turned, forcing Jim to the ground, beneath him.

"I have given you my water. Now, stay down so it doesn't run back out." Spock peeled his arm away from where it had scabbed to Jim's lips. "Am I alive enough? Do you doubt that I still live?"

Jim gazed up, eyes blown wide, grinding against Spock's hips to the best of his ability. "My water to yours. Make me live for you."