Warning: explicit sexual content ahead. Not that I think you guys would mind too much.
Arc One, Part Twenty
McCoy wasn't prone to celebrating it, and so the twenty-second of August came and almost went without a murmur. It was a Wednesday, and therefore without Jo; it was a Wednesday, stapling him to his usual late-afternoon shift, and his colleagues' lack of knowledge on the matter meant that it went largely unheralded.
It was almost over when he pulled back up in the driveway at just after seven o'clock – to find a motorbike propped against the garage door.
Spock was leaning against the front door, a splatter of inky clothing against the white door and his white skin, remaining immobile but for the faint stir of equally dark eyes until McCoy's shoe creaked the boards of the steps, and then his spine rolled him off the plastic and forward into a swift kiss.
"Hey," McCoy ran his hands down the bare biceps; the leather jacket was abandoned on the boards, but the pants and boots kept him flushed to the touch, overheated in the August sunlight. "What brings you here?"
Spock nudged the bag at their feet with his boot. "You wished to try tonkatsu."
"You cookin'?"
"Apparently," Spock allowed, the lower part of his spine arching very slightly into McCoy's hand as he ran his fingers around the belt and rested his palm in the small of his back.
"Well, I ain't gonna say no to that," McCoy said, and squinted as he slotted his key in the lock. "Unless this involves any raw fish."
"It does not," Spock said evenly, hefting the bag over his shoulder easily and settling on the stairs to unzip and remove his boots. McCoy considered spreading him out and taking advantage then and there, but figured that if he did, nothing would actually get done. Except Spock. Instead, he toed off his own shoes and poked at the bag.
"I hope you brought a change of clothes," he said.
Spock looked up at him from under his eyebrows. "I did."
McCoy grinned, and removed himself from temptation, by retreating to the kitchen.
McCoy kept a clean kitchen; the window faced west, and so the early evening sun was pouring in, burning the tiles with fierce glory. It blasted that pale, even texture of Spock's skin into flawless light when he followed, bag on his shoulder again, and paused in the doorway, he looked – quite suddenly – like simultaneous brilliance and devastation. The archangel with the flaming sword; a terrible kind of beauty that would blind a man.
McCoy felt...more than just a man, looking at him.
"Thank God you brought a change of clothes," he said, and swept an arm out to indicate the kitchen. "Use whatever you need. I can't promise I got anythin' fancy."
"I am quite used to the inadequacies of the American kitchen," Spock returned, and God kept some damn sarcastic angels.
Neither McCoy nor Jocelyn had been prone to cooking; McCoy could cook, but he didn't enjoy it. From the moment that Spock found the pans, it was quite plain that if he did not enjoy it, he at least gained more pleasure from it than McCoy – and he was, with the practised hands picking out appropriate knives and the long, sweeping motions without a twitch of wasted energy, much more used to doing it.
McCoy largely left him to it; the small television set on the end of the too-large kitchen table provided a news reel that kept him occupied during the hiss and devotion of frying the...whatever he'd said he was making...and McCoy rose again to catch him by the hips and kiss whatever was available (lips, neck, shoulders, even hands once or twice) as he prepared for whatever came next.
That strange smell of foreign began to creep into the air, and something sharp snapped in his chest – home. The smell was simultaneously familiar and not, and his kitchen seemed warmer for it. The quiet that came over them – not speaking, but comfortable; not interacting much save for the odd caught kiss and the few exchanged glances of something undefinable – was...
McCoy languished in the kitchen chair, and felt happy.
When the whatever was served, McCoy didn't have a clue. He couldn't remember expressing the curiosity (fuck it, he could have been blowing hot air to try and impress Spock, because, hell, why not?) and he definitely couldn't pronounce the name of it, not when Spock spat out Japanese words and phrases like they were his mother tongue (because oh yeah, they were) but...
Whatever it was, it smelled damn good.
Spock was evil, as well. There were side dishes – "Why do you need three types of rice?" – and little bowls of things that looked like meat-filled pastries, and a tall glass of clear liquid that, just for its innocence, was probably sinister and evil and Communist, or whatever system the Japanese had. And when Spock sank into the seat opposite, his bare feet sliding across the tiles to cup around McCoy's ankles, looking somehow peaceful without having changed his expression at all...
McCoy would have eaten that food if it had been poisoned, and that more than anything said just about how damn suckered he really was.
Thing was...it was damn good.
The tonky-whatsit was sat on a bed of soft rice, and McCoy layered the rest with the stickier variety between mouthfuls, obnoxiously sticking to the American knife and fork, thank you very much, while watching the delicate, skilled flex of Spock's fingers around the chopsticks and his own rice and a few of the weird pastry things. He ate almost daintily, mouthfuls barely big enough to require chewing, and McCoy found himself tracking the motions of the chopsticks idly.
"And you've been in the US how long?"
"Many years."
"And you still make it this good? Or is Chinese food..."
"Japanese."
"...actually even better and you're bettin' I won't know the difference."
Spock paused. "Must I choose an option?"
McCoy snorted. "This is good, by the way. What is it?"
"Tonkatsu."
"Tonky-what?"
"Tonkatsu."
"...Whatever. You not having it?"
"It is meat, Leonard. This," Spock indicated the pastry thing, "is vegetarian gyoza." He paused. "I concede that gyoza were originally Chinese."
"Told you," McCoy grinned. "Chinatown. Ow!"
Spock retracted his foot from the sharp blow he'd aimed for McCoy's shin.
"Son of a bitch," McCoy grumbled. "No wonder you don't weigh anythin', if that's all you eat."
Spock ignored him. "Do you like potato-based products?"
"Sure."
"Then I suggest you try korokke, at some point. There are no particularly good Japanese restaurants that are not extortionate in price, so..."
"You offerin' to cook again?" McCoy asked, stealing the last of the sticky rice. "If it's like this all the time, I ain't saying no."
"...I believe you would were I to attempt meatloaf."
"Okay, I'll handle the meatloaf," McCoy allowed, sliding his foot to stroke over the top of Spock's toes. "What is that, anyway?" he added as he pushed his emptied plate aside. "Go-what?"
"Gyoza. It is..." Spock searched thoughtfully. "I cannot think of the English word, or equivalent. These are diced and minced vegetables wrapped in dough packages and fried."
"Huh," McCoy said, reaching into the bowl and stabbing one with his fork. "Sounds kinda..." he chewed on it, and Spock watched him, still slowly working through his rice, "...eh. It's okay, I guess."
"'You guess'?"
"Hey, it's okay, just...not a whole lotta flavour," he shrugged. "That tonky, though..."
Spock popped another half-gyoza into his mouth and rose fluidly from the table, stepping around it to – kiss him, digging his fingers into McCoy's hair and pushing against his mouth until he parted his lips and had the gyoza pushed determinedly under his tongue. Spock retreated then, to pluck and nip at his lips while he chewed, and straightened only when he swallowed, suddenly dry-mouthed.
"Is that an improvement?"
McCoy pushed his chair back, slid the bowl across the table, and yanked on Spock's hip until he more or less fell onto McCoy's thighs.
"You're a scientist," he said, offering the bowl. "You gotta repeat the experiment a few times before the results are reliable."
McCoy idly stroked himself as Spock stripped and crawled up the bed over him, eventually dislodging his busy hand to drop his knees either side of McCoy's waist and straddle him, leaning down for a kiss that was surprisingly chaste given that, you know, he was naked as Adam and twice as filthy.
It was a novel position. McCoy had literally never had sex on his back, and being able to rake his fingernails down that long spine was...fascinating, especially with the freer ripple to Spock's responsive wriggle. Finally, as well, Spock's thing about digging his fingers into McCoy's hair was explained: forcing him to open up to the kisses was hard without the pillow (sheets, mattress, floor...) anchoring his head, and McCoy tugged on handfuls of that dark hair to keep him in place.
"You're teasin' me," he accused around Spock's tongue, and received a soft hum and a vague tightening of Spock's thighs around his waist. "You gonna do this or just use me as a chair all evenin', huh?"
Spock licked another kiss out of his mouth before straightening up, dignified as a horserider, and rocking his hips until McCoy's cock brushed against that God-given ass. If Spock was any lighter, the electric shock up McCoy's spine would have thrown him off.
"Perhaps I should."
"Perhaps you should get the fuck on with it," McCoy growled.
When Spock rose up onto his knees, McCoy knew he was in trouble – and when he reached back to begin preparing himself, he mentally erased the word 'trouble' and replaced it with 'Hell.'
"Oh my fucking Christ."
The ripple of muscle in those thighs as he rocked gently with his own motions, the expression torn between bliss and concentration on his face, the angry jut of his own cock just daring McCoy to put an end to this teasing crap and fuck him...
He rose up, grabbing onto those thighs and digging his fingers in as he bit down hard on Spock's lower lip, resuming those fierce, carnal kisses that had punctuated just about every sexual encounter to date – and was rudely reintroduced to the mattress, slammed back down with Spock's hands on his shoulders, his mouth dragging one last kiss from McCoy's lips before he hissed, "Behave," into his ear and sat back up.
"Behave?"
"Yes," Spock said, rising back up onto his knees, and resuming his task with a single-minded focus that would have been admirable if he wasn't delaying getting fucked.
McCoy moved. Fast.
In half a second, he reared up, hands seizing a shoulder and a hip, and twisted to slam Spock down into the mattress with a jarring thump, reversing their positions with the effortless energy of man very much used to getting what he wanted in bed – and kept them there, stealing what was left of Spock's air with a brutal kiss, one hand scrabbling for the abandoned tube of lubricant on the bedside table and the other pinning Spock's hip firmly to the bed.
"You oughta know by now," he snarled, pressing two slick fingers into Spock and biting at his jaw when he hissed, "I don't behave in bed."
"O-obviously," Spock stuttered, arching and hissing when McCoy twisted his hand and added his ring finger, then shivering and twisting again when a sharp bite momentarily compressed his jugular and cut off a full three seconds of air.
"Behave," McCoy mocked, and let go, reaching for the condom.
Spock took a precious second to regain some breath, before flying up to slam their mouths – and tongues, and teeth, and a sharp tang of blood – together in another bruising kiss, swallowing the growl and biting sharply on McCoy's lip in revenge before a broad hand slammed into his chest and pinned him back down, rising warningly to clasp loosely around his throat.
"I said behave."
Spock lifted his chin, narrowing his eyes. "I do not behave in bed," he returned.
McCoy smirked.
"Good," he said, and moved.
One hand wrapped into Spock's hair, his mouth wrapping about his earlobe and pulling in a perfect counterpoint to the sharp thrust of his hips and the sudden burn of a fast, graceless fuck. The rhythm was punishing, hard and fast and shocking in its strength, the headboard slamming against the wall ruthlessly, and Spock's senses torn between the mouth savaging his own, and the electrifying, deadly shock of pleasure slamming up his spine and shuddering down his thighs. McCoy's dominance was unquestionable, his power written in his muscles and his teeth and the rasp of stubble on Spock's jaw, reminding-reminding-reminding, and Spock heard his own growl around that fighting tongue and was bitten for the cheek. He was pinned, shaken, rattled out of a cage, a captive to this sheer, raw fire of a man – and he clawed for it, dug his fingers into skin and hair, clinging to keep it, rearing up into the heat and the allure of him, and –
He burst at the seams. Orgasm was a shock, and too soon, and went on forever, ripping the strength from his muscles and the coherence from his mind. Caught by the mattress, and paper rattling helpless in the rhythm, he gasped through mindlessness and registered nothing of the burn and the stillness until the headboard stopped sounding and a long, deep groan hammered through his ear.
"Hell almighty."
McCoy was shaking; his biceps shivered, and he dropped onto Spock's chest too heavily, his ribs heaving. The fingers of his left hand stroked clumsily over Spock's cheek for a moment, the kiss tasting metallic, and then he was up, tying off the condom and reaching for the wet wipes.
"I don't think I'm going to get it up for a week," he slurred, kissing Spock's hip when he tried to twitch away from the cloth, his nerves too raw for it. "You look...hell. You're hell. On legs."
Spock merely reached to stroke his wrist; when the cloth was discarded, he tugged until McCoy stretched out beside him and turned his head for a long, soothing kiss. His lips hurt. He would look...battered in the morning.
"Sex on legs," McCoy corrected, beginning to manhandle him into McCoy's favoured post-coital position: spooning. "That's what I was trying to say. Sex on legs."
Spock hummed, shifting until a decent three inches separated their lower bodies, but tolerating McCoy's usual tendency to remain excessively tactile for a good twenty minutes after sex. He was, for the moment, too raw to indulge sufficiently.
"Fuck," McCoy breathed into the back of his head. "I think I'm broken."
"As am I," Spock murmured, scrunching his shoulder until McCoy kissed the developing bruise. "Sleep, Leonard."
"Way aheada ya, darlin'," came the slurred response, and his fingers twitched once on Spock's chest.
Into the dying light of the bedroom, Spock spoke three further words, just as McCoy had found the first creeping tendrils of sleep.
"Happy birthday, Leonard."
And suddenly McCoy was wide awake.
McCoy ached.
Prising himself from the bed had never been so damn hard. Not only had his brain anchored itself into a caveman mode of 'must sleep completely wrapped around victim from last night', but he ached. His thighs, hips, bi- and triceps, and back were all letting him know that while his dick, balls and general libido were thrilled with him, they weren't.
Still, like all men after a really good fuck, it didn't dampen his mood in the slightest.
His stomach was being the most vocal part of his entire body, so he walked straight into the kitchen to switch the coffee machine on and get a pan going for porridge. He'd just gotten spectacularly laid. Fat be damned; porridge was deserved.
True to form, the coffee machine had just clicked over when the bedroom door creaked.
Preoccupied with the porridge, McCoy hummed a greeting and listened to the sleepy sounds of socked feet on the tiles and the clatter of mugs with half an ear, only turning to actually look at Spock at all when he came to rinse out the drained mug again – and stopped.
"My God, man, your face!"
Spock looked, frankly, like he'd been punched in the mouth – or just beaten up, as the damage wasn't limited to his face alone. His lips were still swollen, the bottom one split in two places, and a bruise had welled up on his jaw from McCoy's bite. The rash – presumably from McCoy's stubble – covered the right side of his jaw and neck, where four more blackened patches were rising up, stark against the pale skin. There were finger-bruises in his upper left arm, a trail of deep bites over his pectorals, and a parallel trail of three long scratches down his chest. McCoy didn't doubt there would be more scratches on his back and hips if he cared to look.
McCoy laughed, and caught Spock's hips in his hands when he stepped forward for a chaste kiss, sharp with coffee and hesitant with soreness. "Mm. Bet your Neil never made you feel quite like that."
"Indeed not," Spock murmured.
"Told you I don't behave in bed," McCoy squeezed his hips and let go to remove the pan from the stove. "C'mon. Breakfast, then I'll run you home before Jim comes barging in here to have another poke at my sex life."
Spock looked as though he was going to ask, but apparently thought better of it and turned to retrieve cutlery, as casually as though he lived here, and McCoy didn't much mind the thought.
"How did you know it was my birthday yesterday?" he asked as they took their bowls to the table. They sat opposite, their socked feet intertwined on the foot, an after-effect of the life-affirming sex of the night before. He grinned to himself at Spock's stiff posture.
"Your driving license."
"...Which I keep in my wallet," McCoy said slowly.
"Yes. And I looked," Spock returned matter-of-factly.
"...Right. So when's yours?"
Spock glanced up, spoon in his mouth, and blinked innocently. "You will simply have to find out, Leonard."