Spit On A Stone 2/2
Title: Spit On A Stone 2/2
Beta: rusting_roses and spikeface , thank you, ladies! All remaining mistakes (and questionable stylistic decisions) are mine.
Pairings: Spock/McCoy, with brief McCoy/OFC and McCoy/OMC; Kirk/Sulu implied.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: rough play, language, smut
Word count: 13 640
Summary: Leonard McCoy tries to wear away a stone. Spones. First-time.
Notes: The format is reminiscent of the '5 &1' stories, but this isn't one of those. Just a relationship unfolding in moments and pieces. Enjoy?
Part 1/2
It’s two weeks later that he stumbles over them. It takes McCoy a moment to realize that the black-haired man who’s got Jim bend over the console in a deserted cargo bay is not, in fact, Spock. He’s suddenly so giddy with earth-shattering relief that for a moment, he just stands there, watching without seeing, palms sweating and chest aching, until Jim’s moan brings him back to reality, and McCoy stalks out of there quickly, wishing for a brain bleach.
He suddenly feels like he’s had enough. He’s sick of uncertainty, sick of mixed signals. He’s sick of being jealous of his best friend because he can come close to Spock and McCoy can’t. He’s had enough.
He barges into Spock’s quarters like a man on a mission. Spock is theoretically off shift, but Spock is never really off shift. He’s sitting at his desk, with a stack of PADDs in front of him, working. He barely lifts his eyes at the unexpected visitor before resuming whatever he’s been doing.
“How can I help you, Doctor?”
“Have you ever slept with Jim?” McCoy asks without preamble.
Spock doesn’t even look up. “I fail to see how this is any of your business.”
“You do that very well, don’t you? ‘Fail to see.’ You’ve taken it to a goddamn art.”
Spock glances up at him patiently. “What is it you want, Doctor?”
He obviously can’t take a hint, so McCoy disposes of subtlety.
“I want you to fuck me,” he blurts out, the insolence in his tone ringing.
If anything, Spock looks bored. “Very well,” he says. “Undress.”
“What?” McCoy sputters.
Spock lays down the PADD with an air of extreme exasperation. “You have made a request of me, Doctor. I am willing to grant it in the hopes, illogical as it might be, that if I do, you will leave me to complete my work in peace.”
“You would just - you would just - just do it? Like that?”
“Do you withdraw your request?”
“Yeah,” McCoy drawls. “I got a better one. Meld with me.”
Spock flinches. “No.”
“Why not? You and Jim meld all the time!”
Spock fixes him with a steady gaze. “Jim is t’hy’la to me, my shield-brother. He is the only other being in the universe that holds my complete trust. Whereas you are-”
“What am I?” McCoy asks shakily. “What am I to you, Spock?”
Spock doesn’t look away. “You are one thing in the universe I would not entrust to anyone, not even Jim.”
It’s like a punch in the gut, and McCoy tries to hold his ground, tries to pretend this is a normal conversation.
“So... I’m a ‘thing’?” He tries to laugh, but manages only a broken chuckle.
“I do not misspeak, Doctor,” Spock tells him flatly. “Vulcan spouses are property to their husbands. Hence my using of the word ‘thing.’ If that is all, I would appreciate it if you left.”
“No fucking way,” McCoy breathes out, stunned and shaken and blushing furiously from either excitement or humiliation. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, you have just proposed to me!”
Spock winces mildly. “I did no such thing. Nor do I intend to.”
“Why not? Spock, why don’t we cut the bullshit part and get to the truth, huh? You obviously have feelings for me beneath that icy hide of yours, otherwise the High Priestess wouldn’t have said that your claim superseded Jim’s!”
“Indeed, I do,” Spock acknowledges calmly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and gets to his feet. “I have, however, no intention of - what is the term? - acting on those feelings. If that was your concern, you need not trouble yourself.”
“Oh my God, don’t you ever listen? I’m not here because of some ‘misguided sense of gratitude,’ you arrogant bastard!”
“I do listen, Doctor. Always. I regret the same cannot be said about you. I am aware that you are attracted to me” - McCoy blushes spectacularly - “and while I am, contrary to popular belief, amenable to what you humans call ‘a fling,’ I would never choose you as my partner.”
“Why not? Afraid you wouldn’t want to let me go?” McCoy taunts, stung.
Spock lifts an eyebrow. “That, I believe, effectively sums up the situation.”
McCoy stares at him, mouth agape. “Spock...”
Spock looks down for a moment. “I would be grateful if you left now.”
McCoy takes a deep breath. “No.”
“Doctor-”
“I said no, Spock.” He takes a step closer to the Vulcan. “I’ve had enough of this shit. I want you, you want me. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that.”
“Obviously, I was not clear enough while explaining-’
“Shut up. I heard your damned explanations well enough the first time. You can’t just sleep with me without making it permanent. Has it occurred to that thick skull of yours that I might go along with that?”
Spock steps away from him, and McCoy might not be as adept as Jim in reading Spock’s expressions, but he can damn well recognize impatience and annoyance when he sees them.
“You cannot be willing to ‘go along’ with something you do not have the first idea about,” Spock says, and yeah, he’s snapping. “You will be subject to me, Doctor. It is the nature of the bond.”
Spock looks at him over what small space is left between them, and his expression softens imperceptibly. “You, with your redoubtable spirit, with your fierce wish for independence, with your passions and dreams, you will be-” Spock winces and drops his eyes. His tone is full of repulsion when he continues. “You will be someone to service my needs, merely a - a body for me to use when my Time comes.” Spock closes his eyes, clearly disgusted with himself. “I could not bear to demean you so.”
“Spock,” McCoy whispers, their faces an inch away. “I don’t believe you’d ever do that to me. I don’t believe you can.”
Spock’s eyes snap open, and they’re aflame. McCoy doesn’t get a split second warning before Spock grabs his neck forcefully and claims his lips with his own. McCoy doesn’t get to do much in this kiss that is direct, hard, and unashamedly dominating, so he does the next best thing and goes pliant under Spock’s assault, accepting, asking for more.
Spock doesn’t seem to notice. He sucks bruising kisses into McCoy’s neck, groping hard, tearing at his clothes. McCoy hears the fabric rip and pulls away slightly, trying to arrange his swollen lips into a smile.
“Hey, Spock, slow down. I’m not going anywhere, no need to-”
Spock’s leg hooks around McCoy’s ankle at an impossible speed, and he drops them both to the deck, doing nothing to soften the fall.
“Ow! Spock, what the hell?!”
Spock isn’t listening, too busy pinning him down. McCoy fights back reflexively, but there’s nothing he can do against a Vulcan and a martial arts master, and Spock doesn’t even bother to pay attention to McCoy’s feeble attempts to get free. McCoy’s pants follow his shirts into a rumpled pile somewhere outside his vision, and then Spock rips his briefs deliberately, catching the head of McCoy’s half-hard cock in the process.
“Would you fucking mind what you’re doing?” McCoy hisses, enraged.
Spock slaps him - without once meeting his eyes, without any warning or a sign of playfulness. It stings like a bitch, and McCoy’s eyes water. Before he can even catch his breath, Spock’s on him, kissing him savagely, biting, and sucking, taking-taking-taking, and it should be frightening not erotic, but it makes all the bones in McCoy’s body melt with pleasure as intense as the pain has just been.
He keens and whines into Spock’s mouth, half-delirious with pleasure and lack of oxygen, wanting more-now, and Spock answers that silent call, pressing him to the cold deck harder, changing the angle and deepening an already impossibly deep kiss, and his tongue is not simply selfish, it’s vicious, evil, and McCoy can’t get enough of it. Spock doesn’t give him a moment to breathe, ravishing his mouth, and he’s heavy, so heavy on top of McCoy, a crushing weight that makes McCoy writhe beneath him, loving every second of it, craving it desperately, asking for more.
Spock tears his mouth away and rocks his hips into McCoy’s sharply when McCoy moans in protest. Spock’s hard against him, and McCoy can’t decide if he hates it or loves it that Spock’s still fully clothed on top of his naked form, but the thought is fleeting. Spock’s hands and lips crush any chance for coherency McCoy might have had, as Spock goes lower, lower, lower, until finally taking his swollen, leaking cock into his mouth.
McCoy can’t stop a whimper.
Spock either doesn’t have a gag reflex or has some crazy measure of control over it. He doesn’t have to stop to catch his breath, and his tongue is just as cunning and obscene as it had been in McCoy’s mouth.
McCoy’s hands are pinned firmly to the floor, but even that small measure of control isn’t coming from him. He can’t remember ever going so wild over a blowjob, though that’s hardly the word to name what Spock is doing, because it’s evil and it has no name and it might just be the death of him.
His hips buck uncontrollably, but Spock doesn’t bother to restrain him. He merely growls, without halting his actions, and McCoy hears the unspoken command, he really does, but he can’t obey it, he simply can’t - not when the sound Spock makes creates an unbearable, utterly delicious vibration that threatens to finish what little is left of McCoy’s brain. Spock growls again, and McCoy loses it, fucking his mouth with no restraint whatsoever, meeting no resistance, just there-there-there-ohh... Just another moment, and-
Spock lets him go, just drops him, paying no heed to McCoy’s desperate moans, and somewhere in the very depth of his mind, McCoy knows he should be ashamed of himself for being so needy, but he couldn’t give a damn at the moment.
Spock lifts himself up and flips McCoy to his stomach with no regard for tenderness, and McCoy cries out as his sensitive cock gets caught between his hipbone and the cold, unyielding surface of the deck. Before he can move or protest or draw in a breath, Spock hits him - slaps him hard across his buttocks, and it burns because it doesn’t feel like Spock’s restraining his superior strength one bit.
McCoy gasps, hoarsely, and tries to move away, but Spock holds him in place effortlessly as he keeps slapping him: his lower back, his ass, his thighs. It’s not a game, not a means to enhance the experience. Spock’s dead serious, and each blow hurts, badly, making McCoy see white.
“Spock...” he utters, his voice all but gone. “Spock, don’t-”
Spock descends on him then, pressing him into the deck, spreading his legs with his knees. McCoy cries out and tries to crawl away, but he can’t move an inch with Spock’s weight keeping him exactly where Spock wants him. Rough, uncaring hands expose him in one sharp brutal motion, and McCoy feels something hot, wet, and enormous pressing against his entrance.
“No!” he shouts, fighting desperately with all his might. “No, Spock, stop! Stop! What the hell are you doing?! Stop!”
Spock presses against him for one moment longer... And then he’s gone.
Overcome with relief, McCoy stays on the floor, gasping, his whole body trembling in convulsions. He doesn’t know how much time passes before he can finally move, lifting himself off the deck on shaking arms. He sits on his heels, trying to reconnect with reality. His mind is buzzing, ears still deaf with his own shouts; his throat is sore, and his body’s rapidly going rigid. He looks down himself absently and blinks in surprise. He hadn’t noticed he’d come. He never thought it was even theoretically possible, but it must have been that somewhere between the beating and the threat of a forced penetration he’s found his release. Inconceivable.
“I believe I made my point, Doctor.”
McCoy blinks and turns to look at Spock.
The Vulcan is sitting at his desk once again, looking every bit as cool and collected as when McCoy had first entered his room. His clothes are impeccable, as is his hair. His eyes are once again opaque and serene, not a trace of passion or hunger in them. If not for his slightly swollen lips, there would have been no indication that he had just been in the middle of a violent sexual encounter.
And suddenly the whole mess is making perfect sense.
“Son of a bitch,” McCoy whispers, hating his own broken voice. “This proves nothing.”
“I happen to disagree.”
“Spock, look at me.” The Vulcan stares at him blankly. “Spock. You stopped.”
“Because I am not in heat,” Spock tells him, and there’s tension in his voice again, a barely detectable and precious sign that there is a living being behind the icy exterior. “Because it is not yet my Time, Doctor. I would not have stopped then.”
McCoy swallows. “It is a biological imperative.”
“It would be rape.”
“It’s not a rape if I don’t tell you ‘no.’”
Spock’s lips twitch. “How very logical, Doctor.” His voice is drenched with sarcasm. “And is it rape if I do not give you a chance to say ‘no’?”
“Spock-”
“If you are unconscious when I take you? In Pon Farr, there would be no difference for me.”
“Spock, dammit! Stop it. You will never hurt me.”
Spock’s eyebrow arches eloquently. “Not enough to threaten your life, no. But tell me this, Doctor. You have been harboring... feelings for me, for quite some time. At least, until today’s events, am I correct?”
McCoy blushes. He’s naked, on his knees, on the floor at Spock’s feet, he’s covered in stale sweat and his own cooling come, his body’s aching with what Spock did to him, and his mind is still in shock with what he didn’t. And after all that, he still has to say this.
He really thought he could sink no lower.
“Yes.”
Spock nods quietly. He’s not smug or triumphant. “And will you still be able to feel this after I do this to you? I will completely disregard your wishes or preferences. I will simply take what I need. Will you be able to - to love me after that?”
McCoy doesn’t answer. It’s an honest question, a good one. He doesn’t know. He’s too shocked to think straight, and the very memory of Spock’s ruthlessness is making him shiver in the Vulcan’s overheated quarters. It won’t be Spock’s fault, yes. But would it be enough to forgive him?
“Leonard.”
McCoy blinks to find Spock standing next to him, extending a hand. Numbly, McCoy takes it, shuddering at the contact, and Spock pulls him gently to his feet. Spock’s eyes are liquid velvet, unguarded and vulnerable for once. It’s all McCoy can do to drown helplessly in them, until they are the only thing that keeps him upright.
Spock lifts his hand and runs his fingers tenderly from McCoy’s temple to his jaw, lingering there.
“I do not know why you chose me,” Spock all but whispers, caressing McCoy’s skin gently. “But if I have somehow ignited that spark in you, there would be no greater pain for me but to be the one who extinguishes it. To watch you turn away from me with hatred, to feel you fear me, to know it is deserved, I... I will not watch you become my prisoner. I will not bind you to a monster you will grow to detest. That is my gift to you, Leonard, your freedom. The only thing I can give you.”
Spock leans in closer and kisses him, chaste and tender and fleeting, and pulls away.
McCoy watches numbly as Spock picks up the PADD he’s been working on and walks toward the door. He pauses just shy of it.
“You may use my shower,” Spock says in his usual expressionless monotone. “However, I would appreciate it if you left before I came back. And Doctor? I do not expect us to return to this subject ever again.”
He walks out without waiting for an answer.
--
The following days become McCoy’s new personal definition of hell. He’s distracted and snappish and scaring his staff even more than usual. He skips meals and doesn’t really sleep. How can he sleep when the moment he closes his eyes he feels Spock’s hands on him, the memory almost as sharp as the real thing? He’s unnerved by that memory during daylight, but at night - at night he craves it. Thrives on it. Spock’s hands, Spock’s lips, Spock’s smell... It’s insufferable.
The image of Spock going down on him is enough to make McCoy instantly, painfully hard. The feel of Spock on top of him, holding him down, that smart weight having a consciousness of its own, pressing in all the right places...
Most nights, it’s more than enough to bring McCoy off, he doesn’t need to remember the last part. Then one night he does. He plays the scene up till the end and further, feeling like a bastard for betraying Spock like that, but doing it all the same. This time, Spock doesn’t stop, doesn’t let him go, and it kicks McCoy into a mind-blowing orgasm that goes on and on and on, until he’s whimpering helplessly, thrown by what he has unleashed.
He wakes up in the morning feeling like a complete wreck, ashamed of himself, doubly so because he’s turned Spock into something he’s never been. Spock, who always let a lady go first. Spock, who had that incredible gift of silencing crying babies just by holding them in his arms. Spock, who loved Beethoven; who cared for Sulu’s plants when the helmsman was sick; who trained a batch of newly transferred cadets in hand-to-hand combat without having a single injury.
In the depth of his troubled mind, he’s turned that Spock into something Spock could never be, ever, no matter what he said. McCoy just knows it, feels it like a physical undercurrent of truth under his skin, and somehow it’s making everything so much worse.
McCoy’s tired by the time he gets to Med Bay, and the day has only just begun. He does his morning rounds numbly, trying to figure out when his life had turned into such a mess. He’s unprepared when several hours later the doors to Med Bay burst open to admit Jim and Spock wrapped so tightly around each other that it’s impossible to say who’s holding or carrying whom, red and green blood marring their shirts in equally generous proportions.
And it’s not like it’s something unusual - landing parties often go haywire. Except, Jim is angry this time, glaring at Spock as the nurses rush them to different biobeds, and Spock - Spock doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
McCoy goes to Jim, letting M'Benga take care of Spock. He’s telling himself it’s efficiency, not cowardice, but the truth is he simply can’t stand to touch Spock right now.
“What happened?” he asks, scanning Jim quickly, relieved to discover the injuries are superficial.
“A minefield,” Jim snaps, his furious gaze still fixed on his first officer.
“I thought you had them all mapped?”
“We had!” Jim blurts out angrily. “But someone who should really know better decided to take a walk without paying attention to his tricorder.”
McCoy glances at Spock, who’s still sitting with his head bowed, briefly, before returning his attention to Jim. He doesn’t need to prompt for more information, and Jim doesn’t offer more, just sitting there, fuming silently, as McCoy treats his injuries. M'Benga’s finished sooner, which gives McCoy a pretty good idea of who has pulled whom away at the last possible moment.
“Captain,” Spock says, approaching them, eyes still glued to the deck. “You should have my report within the hour.”
Jim huffs in disgust and doesn’t reply. Spock correctly interprets it as a dismissal and leaves, shoulders slumped and head bowed.
“Thank you, Nurse, I’ll finish here,” McCoy says, and he and Jim are left alone. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
Jim slams his fist into the biobed in frustration and groans. “I just don’t know what to do with him, Bones. He’s distracted, he doesn’t pay attention, but he refused to let me beam down alone, so I took him, and now this! He’s never made such a stupid mistake in his life! I swear to God, Spock acts like he has a death wish.”
McCoy closes his eyes for a moment. “Maybe he does. You probably don’t know this, but we had a little... well-”
“I know enough to know you have something to do with it.” Jim glares at McCoy. “Do something. Fix this.”
“Dammit, Jim, don’t you think I’ve tried? He doesn’t want to hear it!”
“Well hell, Bones,” Jim spits angrily. “Just because Spock’s treating you like a fucking girl it’s no reason to actually become one!”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“Of course I don’t! I only have this private channel to his mind, it’s no big deal!”
“Then why don’t you bond with him and get this over with? You’re fucking Vulcan soulmates or something anyway!”
“Because, you stupid, jealous idiot, he doesn’t want me! He wants you!”
The fight drains out of McCoy abruptly. He stares at his friend.
“Jim...”
“Oh, don’t even go there, Bones.” Jim waves a hand at him dismissively. “Spock and I made peace with this a long time ago. He’s fine with it, I’m fine with it, and yes, I’m always gonna be in his head and he’s in mine, but it’s - different. And for the record, I have never slept with him.”
“Not once?”
“Not once.”
“Jim-”
“Oh, give it a rest, Bones. And for the love of God, fix whatever it is you’ve broken, before we both lose him. ‘Cause I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure I’m not gonna take it well. I love him, Bones. Do you?”
McCoy takes a step back, putting away his instruments. “You’re good to go, Jim,” he says.
“Yeah.” Jim hops down from the bed. “Thanks.”
He doesn’t turn around and McCoy doesn’t watch him leave.
--
Most scientists conduct their research prior to drawing conclusions, and McCoy asks himself why the heck he spends his days trying to make sense of some obscure ancient texts that threaten to short-circuit his brain when he has already reached a decision. In fact, his choice was made long ago, probably even before he last went to Spock’s quarters, only he hadn’t realized it then.
But it’s not for himself that he’s doing this, McCoy figures. This is for Spock, the most stubborn, logical, black-or-white person McCoy has ever known. He must do this for Spock if he wants to have any chance to convince him.
When he finally goes to Spock’s quarters, they’re empty. McCoy doesn’t want to page him; he’s got fifteen hours before he’s back on duty, and he’s content to wait. He sits on Spock’s bed, nervous like he can’t ever remember being, and waits.
It’s hellishly hot in Spock’s quarters, and McCoy considers briefly adjusting the temperature. He changes his mind, instead undresses down to his briefs. He lies down on Spock’s bed and closes his eyes. He’s too nervous to fall asleep, he thinks just before he does exactly that.
“Doctor.”
McCoy’s eyes snap open. Spock, who has clearly just walked inside, is staring at him blankly.
“Hey, Spock.” McCoy smirks.
Spock lifts an eyebrow. “If this is an attempt at seduction, I must admit, it is an extremely poor one.”
McCoy chuckles and stretches on the bed, watching Spock from under his eyelashes. “Oh no,” he says. “Trying to seduce you would be - wait for it - illogical. You can turn your sex drive on and off just by throwing a switch or something. What’s the point?”
Spock sighs, quietly, but he actually sighs. “You are incorrect assuming it is not possible to affect me,” he intones evenly. “What is it you want, Doctor?”
And thus, the tables turned, McCoy sits up, leaning against the headrest, grinning. “I want to talk to you.”
“Was it not possible for you to talk to me while being dressed?”
“What’s the matter, Spock? Am I affecting you or something?”
Spock visibly fights to suppress another sigh. He steps back and leans against his desk, folding his arms across his chest and giving McCoy an eyebrow.
“You wished to talk to me. I am, as you would say, all ears.”
McCoy grins at the unintended pun. “Spock,” he says lightly. “Marry me.”
Spock blinks.
“Or bond with me, whatever.”
Spock regroups really fast, McCoy has to give him that. “I believe we decided not to return to this topic again, Doctor.”
“No.” McCoy jabs a finger at him. “You decided. I did no such thing.”
“I assumed that the demonstration I provided you with was enough to-”
“That is because you’re an arrogant bastard who assumes all the damn time instead of actually asking people. Screw your ‘demonstration,’ Spock. You wanted to scare me, I get it. And maybe you’re right, maybe I did need a lesson when I showed up here back then and you taught me one. That’s fair enough. But I don’t think you did your homework this time.”
“Please enlighten me as to which parts of the situation I am missing.”
“My pleasure. I’ve done some research on Vulcan bonding, Spock, and you know what I found? Yeah, it’s true, I’m gonna be your ‘property.’ A traditional term that had lost its legal meaning, oh, I don’t know, about fifteen centuries ago? And that aside, did you know that the list of your obligations to me is a mile long, while mine to you consists of two lines?”
“They are two important lines.”
“Agreed, but you would owe me so much more that I don’t think it’s in any way debatable as to who would own whom in this relationship, fancy nicknames aside.”
“You would agree to being called-”
“You know,” McCoy interrupts impatiently, “I think if someone calls me yours to my face I can actually live with it. I thought about it, and I’m sorry to break it to you, Spock, but it’s not actually a swear word. Some would call it a privilege.”
Spock doesn’t seem appeased. “This does not resolve the issue of Pon Farr.”
“No, it doesn’t,” McCoy agrees. “That’s why I swallowed some liquid courage and called Sarek.”
“What?” Spock’s eyes widen in shock. “You - you called my father?”
“Yes, you big pointy-eared infant. One of us should have.”
“I find it difficult to believe that my father would discuss such a private issue with a stranger.”
“He probably wouldn’t, but imagine my shock when the first question he asked me was if we had bonded yet.”
“That is not logical.” Spock frowns. “My father does not know-”
“Hate to disagree with you, sweetheart, but apparently he does. Looks like you let something slip in your letters to him.”
“I had never once mentioned-”
“Not directly, but your dad’s is a smart guy, Spock - much smarter than you, I might add.”
Spock looks ill. “What - what did he say?”
“A great number of things. Most importantly that he’d never had a chance to give you the birds and the bees talk because the two of you were never really that close and you were already betrothed anyway. He said that your fear regarding bonding is his fault. He actually said he was pleased that I called because he suspected you might be in trouble. Don’t say the guy doesn’t give a shit about you again, Spock, he obviously does.”
Spock doesn’t comment. If McCoy didn’t know better, he’d say Spock looks embarrassed.
“Anyway, I asked about Pon Farr, and he answered. I guess the fact that I’m a doctor helped too, he knows we really do stick to confidentiality. He said - Spock, he said he had never once experienced the plak tow since he married your mother. He was burning, sure, but he was bonded, Spock. And your mother was always there. He also said-” McCoy pauses, taking in Spock’s face.
He gets to his feet and walks over toward the silent, hardly even breathing Vulcan quickly and places his hands on Spock’s shoulders lightly.
“Spock,” McCoy says gently. “He said he could feel her love through the bond till the very last moment.”
Spock jolts, badly, and McCoy grabs him tighter and then pulls Spock, rigid and unmovable, into a close hug, digging his fingers into the thick black hair, holding him.
“I don’t know when I fell in love with you,” he whispers, brushing Spock’s ear with his lips, reveling in the shivers that run through Spock’s whole body. “But I’m pretty sure I can’t fall out of it.” He kisses the pointed tip softly. “Not even when you were being a complete asshole to me, I didn’t, you overprotective idiot. I want you, Spock, all of you. But if I’ll always have to share some part of you with Jim, fuck it. He’s family anyway. I want you. And if you’re still worried about the sex, hell, Spock, I don’t even know. I always liked it rough, and you - you drive me absolutely crazy.” He nibbles at the spot just under Spock’s ear, reveling in Spock’s sharp intake of breath. “You’re not gonna make me beg for it, are you?”
Spock shivers again and pulls away slightly to meet McCoy’s eyes.
“You would not leave me alone,” he complains, sounding world-weary. “I - I’m so tired of fighting you.”
“Spock,” McCoy murmurs, eyes fixing irrevocably on Spock’s lips. “You should really kiss me now.”
Spock groans deep in his throat and does.
His kiss is gentle, borderline sweet, soft lips cradling McCoy’s tenderly, tongue ghosting over them as if in apology for the last time. McCoy pulls away slightly.
“Stop it.” He kisses Spock’s cheek, nibbles at Spock’s jaw. “Don’t hold back with me, you don’t have to - I don’t want you to. I’m not made of glass, sweetheart.”
It’s that drop of the habitual sarcasm that does it. Spock snaps, like some kind of string has been torn within him. He captures McCoy’s lips and kisses him passionately, plunging deep into McCoy’s mouth, but this time he’s not taking - giving. He gives and gives and gives and McCoy has to fight him to make him accept something in return and Spock lets him.
McCoy breaks the kiss and shoves himself away from Spock. Grinning evilly, he strips out of his briefs, and nearly chokes at the hungry look in Spock’s eyes. Spock reaches for him, and McCoy steps back, retreating to the bed, touching himself as he goes, making Spock’s eyes sizzle.
Spock follows swiftly, taking his clothes off, hardly breaking eye contact once. McCoy has to look down, though. He’s seen Spock before, but not like this, not when he’s erect and full and Jesus Christ so beautiful.
“C’mere,” McCoy breathes, laying down and reaching out for Spock. “Please, Spock. I need to touch you.”
Spock follows him down, and the first touch of so much skin on skin makes McCoy moan helplessly because it’s so much it almost hurts and yet not nearly enough.
Spock kisses him, lowering himself on top of him slowly, and McCoy thinks that he could live forever in this moment, with the pressure Spock exerts making his cock swell and pulse with want, with Spock’s lips sealing his own like neither of them needs oxygen, with Spock’s hand trailing over his body with no trace of elegance, mapping him with his fingers like a blind man would.
Spock kisses him for what feels like hours, his hips framed within McCoy’s thighs, McCoy’s hands scratching his spine, tracing the outline of the bones, relishing the smoothness of Spock’s skin. McCoy doesn’t know if Spock lets him breathe, and he doesn’t care. His whole universe is narrowed down to the feel of sharp teeth teasing his lower lip; the incredible sensation of the hot, pointy tongue writing false theorems on the roof of his mouth; to the hot-wet-more-now that is Spock at that moment, existing only to bring pleasure.
Spock thrusts shallowly against him, and McCoy moans into his mouth, bucking his hips up to meet him. They’re both sweating, and it’s slick and perfect between them, and when Spock reaches down to take them both in hand, McCoy thinks he’s hit another level of nirvana.
Spock works them hard and fast, kissing down the column of McCoy’s throat, nibbling at his collarbone, sucking a bruise into it. McCoy thrashes violently beneath him, his whole body ringing with intense arousal, one hand fisted in Spock’s hair, pulling it unconsciously, the other trapped under Spock’s palm, fingers entwined and clutching.
“Spock, please...” he groans, helpless, not knowing what he’s asking for, just needing it now.
Spock licks up his throat in one uninterrupted, long motion, and McCoy loses it, pulling at Spock’s hair, jerking his head to the side and catching Spock’s earlobe between his teeth. Spock makes an indescribable noise and his hand clenches, sending McCoy right over the edge.
His moan is swallowed by Spock, who kisses him right through his orgasm, never minding that McCoy’s utterly unable to respond, his mouth slack and will-less, as he pants helplessly, floating and drifting, and vaguely, very vaguely aware of Spock still being hard against him.
That’s when Spock reaches to part McCoy’s thighs wider, finding the entrance to his body unerringly, stroking himself with the hand still covered in his lover’s come. McCoy’s hardly coherent as Spock lines himself up and pushes inside, the body under him so lax and pliant that he meets no resistance.
“Yeah,” McCoy breathes. “Yes, Spock - oh God - want this - want you...” He trails into a groan, as Spock pushes all the way inside him and starts thrusting, giving him no time to adjust. “Fuck, yes - just like - that...”
Spock feels enormous inside him, and it burns a little, the nerve endings oversensitive and raw, but it’s perfect, slick only just for McCoy to really feel it, and so, so good. Spock maneuvers them until he finds the right angle, and McCoy cries out. Spock is precise, relentless, merciless as he hits the same spot at every thrust, increasing the pace till it’s almost unendurably hard.
McCoy’s throat feels sore; his whole body rocks on the bed, but his arms and legs are wrapped tightly around Spock, trying to pull him closer, encouraging him on. Spock bends down and kisses him, brief and ill-coordinated; he’s having difficulty concentrating, and the sight alone is nearly enough to set McCoy off again. He pulls Spock’s head toward his own, pressing their foreheads together; Spock moans, and just like that, they’re melded.
McCoy’s falling to pieces, overloaded with double stimulation, and he feels utterly destroyed and loves every second of it. Somehow, through his ecstatic haze, he manages to feel the unadulterated joy of joining with Spock’s mind at last, of seeing him as he is, right here, all there, and McCoy can’t help a triumphant string of, ‘Finally-here-so beautiful-never letting you go-mine.’
Spock explodes within him and inside him, sweeping McCoy along with him, cradling him carefully, not allowing his mind to shut down, but making him drink every drop of the indescribable ecstasy till the end.
“Move,” McCoy grunts when he finally emerges to the surface of coherent consciousness. “You’re heavy. And my legs - ow. Damn.”
Spock shifts, removing himself from his lover reluctantly, and lying down next to him on his side. “My apologies, I... did not wish to be without you yet.”
He starts to knead McCoy’s thighs lightly, and McCoy smiles looking at him.
“Yeah, I know, it’s just-” He stops abruptly and frowns. “Hey, I can feel it! In my head I mean that you didn’t want to... Is this - are we bonded?”
“No.” Spock smiles softly and kisses his nose. “Not yet.”
“Oh.” McCoy tries to hide his disappointment. “I thought...”
“Bonding is an intense experience,” Spock says thoughtfully, drawing circles on McCoy’s chest. “Your mind is not yet ready to withstand it.” He bends to lick around one nipple gently. “Further training is required.”
“Kind of what we just had?” McCoy’s face splits into a shit-eating grin. “Fine with me.”
Spock doesn’t answer, just nuzzles at the skin of McCoy’s shoulder as if he can’t quite get enough of it.
“Hey.” McCoy nudges him. “And you were going to deny us this forever.”
Spock props himself up on his elbow and looks at him. “Hardly forever, Leonard,” he says, and McCoy melts at the sound of his first name, which he never really did like, but Spock saying it made it special. “You are a very persistent individual, and my resistance has been at an end.”
McCoy grins and traces the outline of Spock’s ear with his fingers. “I am persistent?”
“Very,” Spock says, turning his head and pressing a soft kiss to McCoy’s palm. “You are the most impossible human being I have ever met.”
McCoy knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it. “More impossible than Jim?”
Spock smiles his timid, fleeting smile again, his eyes teasing. “I find your jealousy most - refreshing.”
“Bastard,” McCoy says, grinning.
“No one is as impossible as Jim,” Spock says. “However, there is a reason he calls you a brother, Doctor.”
“Well.” McCoy smirks. “Me apparently being second best aside, do you realize how kinky it sounds when you call me ‘doctor’ in bed?”
Spock lifts an eyebrow. “I confess I have never understood the allure of this particular fantasy. Most medical exams I had to endure were most unpleasant.”
“Well then.” McCoy knows his grin must be downright evil. “Seems you just didn’t have the right one.”
“Indeed,” Spock intones, watching him in undisguised amusement. And then he - unbelievably - lies down on his back and sends McCoy a look that is shameless provocation. “Perhaps you would care to demonstrate the correct technique?”
McCoy rolls on top of him instantly, bracing himself on his arms. He stares down at Spock, who looks back in anticipation, eyes clear and serene, giving him permission to do whatever he likes to him. It feels like ten years worth of Christmas packed into one three-days-long July.
“Oh darling,” McCoy drawls, aiming for teasing and ending up breathless. “You won’t know what hit you.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
And there’s nothing left for McCoy to do but to bend over and kiss that smug, should-be-illegal smirk off Spock’s face.