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The first time Jim sees Spock shirtless, he gets a concussion from it. Well, not from the shirtlessness. But his First Officer's naked torso and the concussion are not far apart.
They're on the rocky, sulphur-yellow surface of Zeta IV and Jim is holding his arm to his side while barking commands into his communicator - he doesn't give a shit about the ion storm, Scotty and Kyle better work some miracles to beam the two of them out of here - and the sulphuric sand is burning in his eyes and noses and from the corner of his vision he can see a Kethelean mercenary, helbard brandished, jump forward. He hisses as he scrambles for his phaser - the same helbard has made a good slice into the meat of his arm, and it's bleeding like hell, but then a phaser goes off behind him and the mercenary sinks into the sand, his uniform singed by the power blast.
Spock is behind him, because of course he is.
"Captain," he says, with just a touch of concern in his voice. "I estimate that the rest of the faction will catch up with us in eight point seven minutes. If we get to the hilltop, the ion radiation will be weaker and Mr Scott might be able to beam us up."
Jim winces. His arm hurts, even through the rush of adrenaline, and it's bleeding all over his hand, so it's no wonder that he feels light-headed. The hill-top isn't necessarily a hill, it's a tall, jagged rock, with a few burnt plants clinging to it. No problem for a Vulcan, but for a human it'll take some scrambling. Scrambling that he can't do with a slashed muscle.
"You go," he manages. "I'll hold them back. You be a genius with that transporter and get me back."
Spock's eyebrows knit in the middle of his forehead.
"You'll get me back, Spock. I know you will."
"You are injured, Captain. I estimate the odds of your survival-"
"Don't tell me the odds, Spock, just get out of here."
His head feels dizzy, like after going for days without food. His knees wobble.He puts his phaser in his left hand. Less precise, slower, but it'll work. It has to.
"Eight point seven minutes. Go."
"Eight point two now, sir."
"Go, then. That's an or-"
He cannot finish the sentence before Spock's hand has grasped his own shirt collar and, in one fluid, desperate, quick motion, rips his shirt apart. Jim feels like he'll faint, and he's telling himself it's the blood loss, only the blood loss, not the way that Spock's skin shines in the rose-tinted light, how his surprisingly strong muscles roll under his skin, how smooth his hairless chest looks - hell, maybe he has already fainted and is hallucinating. Here lies Jim Kirk, while he was bleeding out, he fantasised about his FO stripping.
The tear of cheap replicator fabric between Spock's hands brings him back. Spock is neatly, quickly, ripping the shirt into strips, then hauls Jim up (when did he fall to his knees?) and wraps them tightly around Jim's forearm with a broken part of the helbard lance wedges vertically between them.
"I am applying a torniquet. It will suppress the blood loss, but it will hurt."
"I can take it, Spock, but there's no time for- motherfuck-"
It's hell. Spock grabs the lance bit and twists the strips tighter and tighter until Jim, delirious, feels like his arm is being wrenched off. His arm is dying, it's going to pop, he cannot move- and then Spock grabs him and yells "Captain!" as he throws them to the ground, the sand explodes and there's nothing.
When he wakes up in medbay, his head feels like it'll split. That's nothing new - Jim is not a stranger to waking up in medbay with a headache. It's also not strange that there's a hand resting on his arm. This is normal.
"Doctor," Spock says, quietly. "He is waking."
Jim blinks into the very, very bright lights of the medbay, and there is Spock, his dark head a halo against the LEDs, with green blood and bruises on his face and his hair full of yellow sand, and mercifully wearing a black thermoshirt. Okay. Maybe Jim has died and gone to Heaven.
Then he hears the faint decompressing of a hypospray next to his head and he drifts back into oblivion.
Only two weeks later, he'll learn of the picture they made when Scotty finally beamed them back out, after Spock had sheltered Jim with his denser body from the harmonic explosion the Ketheleans had triggered, how he had dragged Jim's limp body up the hill-top, only to appear on the landing platform bruised, bleeding, reeling, with the fainted captain bridalstyle in his arms, his head cradled safely into a naked, glistening, gorgeous Vulcan chest.
He's pretty sure the ladies of the Enterprise won't forget that day.
Fuck the Ketheleans, really. He so badly wanted to be concious in that moment.
And for a while, that is it. Spock stays his handsome, genius, professional, unattainable First Officer, he is dressed from his throat down to his tippy toes, and Jim is being normal about it.
Fine, he thinks about it a great deal.
Dark-flushed, smooth Vulcan chest. Rippling muscles, soft pecs, and then he wanks about it and imagines the taste of those dusky ochre nipples in his mouth, smooth, hairless skin rubbing against his cheek, smooth legs around his waist.
Look, he's not proud of it, either.
He pesters M'Benga a little, telling both of them that he needs to know more about first aid on Vulcans after Spock's quick thinking saved him from dying of blood loss. Again. M'Benga is all too happy to help, and Jim learns about all the ways Vulcans don't die of shit that would kill a human, like, two times over.
What he also learns is that Vulcans naturally don't have much body hair, except on the parts that need to be protected from the cold and the dirt - the head, eyes and, well, further south. The rest has evolved to be hairless.
"Sand," M'Benga says laconically. "And Vulcan doesn't really cool down at night, either, so no need for hear isolation. Besides, their pores are so dense, hair doesn't really have room. They don't sweat, their bodies need the water."
That doesn't help much either. So for the longest time, Jim pines, and the body, the Spock he meets and kisses and touches in his dreams, hands in his pants, is gorgeous, and smooth, and melts in little purrs under his hands and mouth.
He didn't mean to spy. Honest. He just jumps into the shower one evening, soaps dirt and sweat off himself - the away mission was peaceful, but warm, and humid, and the admittedly really hot high-queen insisted on rubbing oil into his neck and shoulders as some kind of traditional gesture of peace - and as he turns around to reach for his 5-in-1 shampoo, something clatters to the ground.
It's a razor.
For a second, Jim wonders whether he forgot that here, but the razors he uses on his chest and arm pits are grey-blue and meant for only a couple hotel room uses, but since Jim doesn't have much hair to begin with, he pretty much has them forever.
But this one is so pretty. Definitely not his. It's a pale pink, and the blades are embedded in some kind of soothing cushion, and the handle looks fucking ergonomical and expensive. For a single, stupid second, Jim thinks that some lady date of Spock's has forgotten it in the shower, but that is ridiculous.
Spock doesn't date. Spock doesn't date women. Even species without gender or sexuality can sense ten miles against the wind that Spock is a flaming homosexual. One who'd never date the captain.
Which Jim is fine with. Totally.
Case in point is: his first officer seems to shave his legs. Or chest. Apparently.
It's not for his facial hair, Jim has seen him more than once, shaving his face over their sink with something that like looks like a hybrid of a Vulcan dagger and an old-fashioned Terran shaving knife, which is exactly what it is.
He has no feelings about Spock handling that, well, razor-sharp thing with such ease and delicacy. He doesn't think about the knife gliding over his jaw, smooth, slow, leaving vulnerable, ochre skin, the way Spock's hands are wet from the water and shaving cream when he cleans it.
It's not like he has a kink. Honest! A hot man handling a dangerous object will just do things to him.
It's also not like Jim has a preference regarding hair. On both genders. He has fucked aliens, for fuck' sake, who have scales or frog skin, or exoskeletons. And Caitians. There's probably no way to have more hair on a body.
And he has spent enough time of his life as a dyke to not have any preference about hair on Terran men and women and everyone else either. In fact, he finds it a little sexy when a woman - or a man, for that matter - lets it grow. He knows he gets a little pink when a pretty woman's shirt rides up and she has a happy trail. Spock does actually have-
Okay, enough of that.
Fact is, Jim knows how much maintenance it is to keep a body hairless. Hell, in the academy he waxed his chest. Too often. He took a lot of shirtless selfies in the gym mirror (not his proudest moment, but God, did it get him laid.)
Bones' half-yearly testosterone shots have done only little for his body hair, except increasing the thickness of whatever was already there, and his chest is only adorned by an uneven, brown-gold layer of fuzz. Also, he likes running his hand over his torso and feeling the smooth, shiny skin, so he shaves. A lot.
And he walks around shirtless a lot. (Bad habit.)
But he avoided going anywhere without a huge hoodie before the surgery where Bones sliced his tits off ("I performed a perfectly normal, professional mastectomy, Jim, stop calling it that!"), so it now fills him with a sense of euphoria to walk around shirtless and get nothing but the eyeroll from his friends that says "Captain's at it again."
Spock always seem so unphased by it. Which is fine. Really. It's not like Jim wants Spock to stare at his pecs.
(Wouldn't hurt either, though).
Still. Jim twists the pretty razor between his fingers. Soap drops into his eyes. It's so dainty. It looks like a pretty thing from a ladies razor commercial, to keep long legs smooth and silky, and for a second Jim only thinks about Spock in this shower, drops of water running down his long, long, legs, that adorable, concentrated look on his face that makes Jim want to kiss his forehead.
But that doesn't make sense.
Spock is a Vulcan. M'Benga said they don't have hair. And Jim can absolutely verify that, since he saw Spock shirtless.
Unless-
Vulcans might not have body hair. But half-Vulcans?
Jim's shoulders drop with some invisible weight. "Oh, Spock."
The next time he thinks about it is when they're sharing their tiny flat in New York City. Time has passed. Backwards and forwards.
Jim thinks he has reined his crush in. Spock is his first officer, and his friend. It's okay. It's fine.
And he means it when he says he's in love with Edith. Her enthusiasm, her determination for a better future shine as piercing and immovable as a star. And Jim's heart is big, too big maybe for his own good. He can give love out. He can be a little in love with a beautiful, charming, incredible woman, who doesn't mind that he definitely wears stolen clothes and gets by as a day labourer, and still feel like crying when he comes home to their flat.
It's not a bad cry. Or maybe it is.
Coming home to Spock, who is tinkering away at a computer that might bring them home, with bags full of groceries, cooking for Spock, sharing a bowl of water to wash, sleeping next to him in the same bed - it's painfully domestic. It's everything he wants and can't have. It aches in his chest when he lies next to Spock, sees the tiny hairs at the back of his neck, how soft his face is when he sleeps. He's beautiful.
He can't even tell Bones about it. The negative space in his chest that is shaped like Spock eats away at his heart.
Sharing the same water bowl for washing also means that they see each other in various states of undress - a lot. Jim tries to offset it with jokes - flicking water at Spock when they are both washing themselves, just to see the miffed cat face he makes whenever water so much as touches him. It's cute.
Spock neatly unbuttons, discards, and folds his grey shirt and dampens a rag towel in the basin, and Jim holds his breath again.
They only have one shaving knife, a small thing that folds, and it's fair enough to shave his beard, but using it on his chest or armpits feels unhygienic, so Jim has stopped doing that. His chest hair has become a little thicker, and he feels like Edith likes the way it looks when it pokes out of the collar of his flannel.
Spock seems to have thought the same. Not that Jim's chest looks nice. He doesn't concern himself with such things. No, the shaving only one's face. Apparently, Jim was right.
As Spock turns towards the cupboard, rubbing the damp cloth over his face, neck and shoulders, Jim can clearly see the fuzz of dark, surprisingly rich hair growing on his chest, down his ribcage, his stomach, past his navel and-
Spock lowers the cloth, sees his surprised look and pulls his shirt on so quickly Jim doesn't even have time to apologise.
Sleeping next to Spock gets a lot more difficult after that.
The problem is that Spock is beautiful. In a way Jim cannot describe, in a way his brain seems to be unable to categorise. When he permits himself to think of Spock (he does have other wank material, you know!), he cannot seem to decide what he wants. Sometimes it's just that they play chess while rubbing feet under the table. That Spock checkmates him and gives him that tiny not-smile and Jim can just reach over the table and kiss him, kiss him like he always wants to when Spock gives him that smug eyebrow.
Sometimes, it's just holding Spock, letting him bask in the love and adoration he denies himself. Spock, vulnerable and warm and open in his arms, his pupils shiny and disbelieving and full of love, like an empty basin for Jim to pour his love into. Whispering to him that he is beautiful, he is perfect, there is no man like him in the galaxy, Jim is so lucky, he is so lucky, Spock doesn't have to worry about anything, Vulcan is a bitch of a planet for making him feel inadequate when he is so, so perfect, Jim will hold him and kiss the worries away.
Sometimes, especially after Spock has beaten his ass in the gym again, it's being pressed down into the mattress, hot, taut, strong Vulcan atop of him, who tells him he has wanted Jim for far too long, that he must take him now, if Jim permits him, the fringe out of place, the arms and torso naked and strong and heavy, and Jim only has it in him to nod and keen his encouragement, and have bruises bitten into his shoulders as he is taken and devoured.
Sometimes, and often, it's lying Spock down on his bed and worshipping him. Soft touch. Dense, ochre-blushing skin under him. Carefully pulling the gorgeous blue shirt off him with his teeth to kiss the hollow of his throat, his sternum, thread his hands through the hair around there, or petting smooth, shaved skin, looking up at Spock with big, doting eyes, and being looked back at, only to hear that voice turn breathy and melting. Bracing his elbows next to Spock's head, kissing the bridge of his nose and rolling his hips into Spock like waves rolling home to shore.
It cannot be helped. His love for Spock is like the sun, fixed and ever expanding.
He can never tell him.
He does tell him.
There's agony over his friend's health, there's a wife (most shocking thing of them all), there's a wedding and Vulcan and T'Pau and the realisation that Spock does have desires, deep within, and that they do not involve Jim.
There's hot, red Vulcan sand under him, and the cool kiss off a blade against his chest, and the fire burning in Spock's empty eyes that tells Jim that he'll die by the hand of the man he loves.
He accepts that.
Even from the back, Spock looks like a man who has been broken. He sways. He looks like he is going to burst into tears. And Jim's mouth, idiot that it is, decides to make a joke, of all things.
"Don't you think you should check with me first?"
It's stupid, really, but it's meaningless when Spock turns to him and grabs his shoulders and when he smiles, Jim is pretty sure the world stops spinning. It's like discovering that there is something that burns brighter than the sun.
They "go mind the store", which basically just means Jim pulling Spock into the nearest conference room, and going down on his itty bitty knee and declaring that he's loved Spock madly, most ardently, since, well, forever (excuse the man, he has just had a death-experience), and before he is even finished with "If you don't feel that way, I will of course leave you alone", Spock has hauled him up and wrapped his arms around him and hid his face in Jim's neck to let out a single, stifled sob. It breaks Jim's heart a little.
There's an ancient Vulcan word fluttering through what Jim will later learn is a mating bond. He doesn't understand it, but it makes Spock kiss him like he is drowning and Jim is the air. They make out for a good half an hour until Sulu comms to ask where the fuck they are.
So much for Spock not being interested. God, Jim is an idiot. But he's in love, so it doesn't matter.
Two months and a bunch of fraternisation paperwork later, Jim is sitting on Spock's bed, naked except for his undies and his socks.
Spock is, it turns out, old-fashioned and shy and cute. They've had a proper date at least once a week. Jim has made Spock morning pancakes (the bathroom between their rooms has basically become a throughway to whichever of their rooms they are, together, all the time). Spock has worn Jim's flannel (the one from the thirties. He kept it. Edith deserves that.) while they cuddled and watched a documentary on Andorian glacier fauna. He always stays dressed from head to toe because the ship is always too cold for his Vulcan senses, and that's okay, even if it means that Jim doesn't see him without his black thermo shirt, like, ever. Spock has a sweet tooth for mousse au chocolat, and his chess skills waver a little after the second cup of it. Jim is pretty sure his face muscles are sore from smiling so much. Most of the time, he feels like he is floating one hand's breadth over the floor.
Not so much now.
They made out on Jim's bed for a while, which is always fun, because after what Jim assumes are 35 years of celibacy (he will later learn that he is so, so wrong), Spock has a lot of pent up energy. Like. A lot. It's not easy easy tire out a professional slut like Jim, but man, does that Vulcan stamina get close.
Spock had declared early on that he'd need time to warm up to the possibility of actual sex, as much as he desires it. Time to allow the vulnerability, the shamelessness of giving his naked body to a man. Which is genuinely okay. Just kissing Spock on the cheek makes Jim feel like his heart is going to burst. Having Spock on top of him and petting his hair and having Vulcan tongue in his mouth while Spock leisurely grinds on his fully clothed thigh is incredible. He's not even sure whether it is possible to feel more happy and more intimate with someone.
But they played chess and made out on Jim's bed and as always, Spock surprised him. He withdrew from a kiss with a wet pop, and his lips were dark flushed and beautiful (Fuck, Jim is gone for this man) and he just cocked his head, splayed his hand on Jim's chest and nonchalantly said "We may copulate now."
Jim just blinked up at him. He's hallucinating. Surely. The concussion got him good and he's actually still in the dirt of Zeta IV and hallucinating all of this. There's not a universe where he gets to love Spock, gets to make love to him.
Spock raised an eyebrow. "If that is your wish, too, Jim."
And holy fuck, is it.
They had talked about their individual preferences before - how Jim is pretty much open for anything but has a soft spot for spoiling Spock rotten, be it with pirmah pancakes or soft kisses or his mouth on that sheath (bless you, M'Benga, for an anatomy lesson!), and Spock's desire to feel useful, desired, beautiful, all the things he feels he isn't.
It's a pretty good match, overall.
So why is he so nervous. Spock's only gone to the bathroom, whether he's powdering his nose or relieving himself, Jim has no clue, and he's on the bed and trying very hard to calm down.
He's been in there an awfully long time.
Jim swallows hard. Right. He'll go take a look, and if Spock has reconsidered, they'll cuddle. It's fine if he's not ready. It's okay if he never is (and Jim means that). Maybe he needs to tell Spock exactly that.
The bathroom door swishes open a deliberating ten seconds after Jim has knocked.
Spock is standing in front of the sink, can't look Jim in the eye, and is holding a razor.
There's a small, hairless patch on his chest. Jim draws a breath ("oh god, he is gorgeous, does he know how pretty he is, okay, Jim, focus, comfort him"), then leans against the door frame.
"You know that I like it, right?" he says after a second, gesturing at Spock's chest. "You're handsome. With or without. You don't have to shave for me."
Spock looks up with him with the one emotion Jim didn't expect: disbelief. His eyes scan Jim's face, quizzically.
"You are telling a joke."
"Nope."
Spock's gaze becomes harder, more inquisitive.
"You show a marked preference for keeping yourself neat in all respects."
That's evident - I mean, Jim has his arms folded under his smooth pecs. He shaved this morning. Spock likes resting his head there at night, and Jim doesn't want any stubble to chafe Spock's cheek.
Jim shrugs. "Yeah, I mean, on myself I like to be shaven, but on others, I really don't have a preference."
"You do not have a preference for hygiene?"
"Spock, there is nothing dirty about body hair. You're a scientist, you should know."
Spock neatly sets down the razor on the skin and swallows. His eyes are fixed on his hands. Not on Jim.
"It is less a scientific question than an- an anthropological one", he then quietly admits. Jim's not having it.
"Anthropological? Or a Vulcanpological?"
The silence is enough of an answer.
They sit back on the bed, Spock with the blanket drawn around his shoulders and Jim's hands holding his. Jim's aware that it's a sloppy Vulcan kiss. He doesn't care. His boyfriend deserves so many kisses. The sexual teasing has evaporated and settled into something like a cozy, soft-touch intimacy.
"My human genes are mostly recessive", Spock says, quietly. "Such was my parents wish. Vulcan bioengineering is advanced, but it could not guarantee for my survival. My father- he demanded that the Vulcan genes be made dominant so that I may have better chances at survival."
Jim stops nuzzling his cheek against Spock's shoulder.
"You know, the more you talk about your dad, the less I like the guy."
Just the quiver of a smile flits over that sad, handsome face.
"He wishes to do what is best for me. We do not always agree on what that is. Nevertheless, the bioengineering was a success. On almost all genes. It failed on some."
Jim doesn't like the way Spock talks about that. Like any human aspect of him was a personal failure, an inefficiency of character. He was a child, for gods sake. More like, he was a clump of cells in a lab dish.
But he just holds Spock's hands tighter and listens.
"It became only evident during puberty", Spock continues, "that the human gene controlling body hair in adult Terran males had not been sufficiently suppressed. It was - an agonising realisation. It was more and more apparent to my peers that I was an other."
"You mean you were bullied."
"I was reminded of my human heritage whenever it broke out. And it did."
Jim sits up a little straighter. As much as it is frowned upon on Terra, he knows what Spock is talking about. He's been called a dyke and a tranny and a fag more than enough.
"Reminded how, Spock?"
Spock knits his hands together. It sends another queasy feeling to Jim's stomach.
"They called me an ape."
Jim withstands the urge to jump to his feet.
"What the fuck."
For the first time, Spock raises his head. "It is not incorrect. My mother and all other homo sapiens share an ancestor with the great apes. It is not-"
"Spock, that's fucking racist."
Spock blinks. "It is?"
"Baby, if I heard anyone comparing a member of my crew to an animal, I would send them to the brig or court martial, if I didn't beat the shit out of them first."
"You would not punch a foreign diplomat over an insensitive remark, Jim."
"If they called my crew or my boyfriend an ape, I damn well might!"
Jim realises how forceful that came out. It was probably not what the situation called for. Spock's ear go all blushy and flustered about it anyways.
But he sits back down and holds Spock's hand. Tenderly. He doesn't have to punch anyone right now, he needs to convince Spock his hairyness is beautiful. Sexy, even.
Said Spock has sunken in on himself a little, taken aback by Jim's outburst. His one hand paws at the blanket, attempting to draw it tighter across his chest. Might be because he is thinking back about all the times he was mocked, for not being able to handle a lirpah with the same grace as his classmates, for the grimy stache that grew on his upper lip much, much sooner than on his peer's faces.
Jim presses a tender, two-finger kiss into his shoulder. Warmth flutters over the bond from Jim's end. Fondness, and a not well concealed urge to protect, keep and hold.
"So you started shaving?" Jim asks. "Because you were bullied?"
Spock swallows. It all sounds so silly now.
"At first, I attempted to use my mother's spare utensils. She noticed, of course. She did not - she couldn't understand the importance the matter held to me at that age. There was a foolish period where I begged my parents to take me to a dermatologist and have the hair follicles removed with laser technology."
"Baby."
Spock can't look him in the eye. Shame wells up in his throat in thick molasses.
"My father was quite right to refuse it. It was foolish vanity."
"I'm sorry you think that it's wrong", Jim says, very slowly. "I don't think it is. It just is."
"T'Pring was not of that opinion."
"Well, fuck T'Pring."
That, at last, makes Spock raise his perfect little eyebrow. Jim grins.
"Or don't. She doesn't deserve you anyway."
He swallows, hard, then adds: "Have you two never-"
"We attempted it." Spock says, matter of factly. Jim gets the queasy feeling that Spock had the same conversation with his father before. "It wasn't necessary, but we were both of the opinion that close contact would strengthen our bond. Especially since my pon farr delayed itself. In the end, we assumed it would just not overcome me. Thus we-"
He gestures mildly and Jim understands.
"You attempted."
"Yes." The tension momentarily leaves Spock's shoulders, relieved that Jim won't make him say it.
"It was a performance of duty for both of us. Yet, I wanted to ensure that it was enjoyable for her. I wished to- to please her." His brows furrow and Jim worries. His gorgeous, strong boyfriend suddenly looks very small.
"Foolish vanity again", Spock says quietly. "I wanted to be desired by her. So I started -"
"You shaved."
Spock nods, defeated. "Among other things. I thought to be desirable, I would have to become as much of a Vulcan man as possible." His voice rises into something that sounds almost like bitter amusement.
"You have seen the fruit of these efforts. They were- I was, apparently, less than satisfactory."
"Spock. Baby."
There's the slightest bit of hesitance when Jim gently takes his chin and cradles Spock's cheek to look at him. His eyes are dark, and sad, and beautiful. Jim needs a second to collect the words in his mouth.
"What happened to you is fucking awful. No one should hear such things from one's parents. Or one's fiancé. Hell, not from anyone, actually."
Bones should be doing this. Bones, for some reason, is much better at doing these things. Jim clears his throat and resists the urge to nervously card a hand through his hair.
"What I mean is - I think you're gorgeous. You are. But, I mean, my opinion only matters as much as T'Pring's, really, so. I don't know. I'd rather you like yourself than try to be something that I find attractive. It's - it's your body, Spock. I love it anyway."
The silence after that stretches for a lot longer than Jim intended.
Spock has the quizzical look on his face, like when he is solving an equation.
"Do you desire me?" he asks then, bluntly.
Jim only blinks. "Yes." Then he adds: "So much."
"The way I look right now?" Spock adds.
"Yes."
It comes out breathlessly because Spock has grasped his hand and is feeling his way I Jim's mind. He let's all of Jim's emotions run through his fingers, all the he's so gorgeous and wonder what it feels like on my mouth and T'Pring can go to hell and no pressure and I'm not important and up to you.
Spock let's go of his hand with the slightest, tiniest lift in the corner of his mouth that only Jim knows is a teasing smile.
"It is vastly easier to think of my body as acceptable when I know that you consider it desirable", he says then.
Jim's mouth opens, but Spock cuts him off.
"You exert no pressure over me. I am free to make my own choices. But it is.... pleasant to be desired by you."
Almost sheepishly, he bows his head.
"Moreso because I never thought I could be desired, and not by you."
And then it clicks in Jim's brain. Spock wants to be romanced. Wants to be swept off his feet and worshipped and adored, because he never felt like anyone would want him the way he is, if he doesn't keep himself under tight-knit control. But to be wanted is to be worthy. If Jim loves and wants him, Spock has more reason to love and want himself.
No one has ever made him feel beautiful.
It's not perfect, but it'll do. Jim can do that.
So he gently interlaces their fingers, a sultry, very much deliberate drag up the webbing between Spock's fingers.
"To be desired is pleasant, huh?" he whispers, voice low and sultry. Spock's eyes shoot up at him. Pupils blown wide, all he projects is want. He nods and Jim leans down to mouth at his neck, where the skin meets the jaw.
"Do you know for how long I've wanted you, Mr Spock?" he whispers, and drags his lips up to that pointed ear. Spock's rsgged breath is answer enough.
"Years. For years, Spock. I stepped off that transporter padd on my first day and knew I wanted you here in my bed. And you made it so much worse, everytime you bent your ass over that scanner on the bridge."
To kiss Spock is electrifying. To reach around and squeeze his perfect, flat ass is breathtaking. Jim really has to focus while all his blood rushes southwards.
Spock shivers and Jim draws back a little.
"We can still stop, baby. Do you want this?" he asks, more out of a sense of duty, and propriety, because everything about Spock's body screams yes.
He's quivering in Jim's arms now, barely noticeable, but a constant, faint vibrating, like the taut muscles of a panther ready to pounce.
When he quietly says "yes", his hands on Jim's forearms project a wave of unbridled need that almost sweeps Jim under.
But it doesn't. No, he has a job to do. So he bring his hands up, and gently pushes the blanket off Spock's shoulders.
His boyfriend's breath hitches. Jim wastes no time to kiss him, before Spock can breathe and ground himself, and instead presses his palms flat on Spock's chest.
He's gorgeous. He's so gorgeous it sends Jim's head spinning. His lean torso, the flat, but strong muscles, and the thick patch of dark chest-hair that covers his pecs and narrows into a fuzzy trail that descends over his stomach and widens again just over the hemline of his boxers. Jim's mouth waters at the sight.
One thing after the other.
He pets over the pecs, just testing different touches - soft pets sends ripples of want for more, harder, but beneath that a soft surprise at being so gently handled - squeezing provokes a surprisingly sharp zinging of pleasure that Jim will have to come back to - rubbing his thumbs in circles over those ochre nipples sends sparkling beats of pleasure, pinching them a more urgent one, taking them between his teeth and flicking his tongue makes Spock gasp and slide into Jim's lap.
When Jim drags his hands up Spock's sides, he finds more gorgeous, jet-black, slightly coarse hair, on his forearms, his armpits- it's soft, and silky, and he wants it all, all of this man, not the version acceptable for Vulcan, but the raw and unrestrained Spock, he wants to sink his teeth into him and crush his body into his.
A thought occurs (rare, when you have your mouth leaving your hickeys on a gorgeous man's chest), and Jim pulls off with a deliberate wet pop.
"You wanted me to fuck you," he asks, hoping that a verbal remark might get through to a Spock who already looks hazy and is blinking down at Jim through dishevelled bangs. "You planned this. Why didn't you shave? In such a long time?"
Spock blushes very, very hard. The tips of his ears must be burning.
"The thought did not occur to me", he mutters then. "You are not Vulcan. Besides-" and here he uncomfortably wiggles and casts his eyes to the floor, "- my time spent showering has lately been occupied by other. Hchrm. Activities."
The embarrassment seems to worsen when Jim gives him the most dumbfounded, delighted, dirty grin.
"You touched yourself for me? About me?"
"I believe that is what I implied", Spock retorts, all back in his prissy princess self. Even his posture is rigid again.
Jim squeezes his ass slightly higher, just where he knows the chenesi sit (thank you, M'Benga). It's just an attempt.
Spock arches his back and moans.
Fuck, Jim thinks. If he's okay with this, I'll be so mean about that.
Spock's eyes widen as he picks up the thought, and suddenly his hips grind forward into Jim, sudden and urgent, pooling thoughts into Jim's brain that all sound like need you and anytime all yours make them see and please, sir, please, Captain.
Right. Spock did Not include that in their talk about their respective kinks and preferences.
Fuck, Jim thinks. The idea of Spock standing in their shower, hands sliding over himself, maybe one over his mouth, needing Jim so much that he couldn't keep up with a daily ritual he kept for years. Rivulets of water running over that lean chest, plastering this gorgeous hair to his dense, smooth skin, following the drip of hair down over his stomach, running over those fuzzy thighs, between those legs.
His hand follows it, gently petting, running his fingers through that gorgeous hair. God, he thinks, he wants to rut against that fuzzy thigh. See his own slick dampening the dark hairs, seeing the dark flush on Spock's face.
His hand slides to the waistband of Spock's regulation briefs.
Truth be told, he has no idea what to expect. M'Benga discreetly sent him some diagrams (he's a surprisingly good wingman. Bones will throw him out of the airlock if he ever finds out), but also added that Spock's make up might be entirely different. More human. Less so. Mix of both.
Jim might find out. His hands tease through the dark curls in a wordless question. When he looks up, Spock raises a brow.
"Are you going to continue?"
Jim laughs. "I was gonna ask whether it's okay. Do you want to?"
The fact that he asked, stopped and asked, makes Spock melt into his lap. His arms wrap around Jim's shoulders.
"Captain Kirk," he whispers. "I want all of you. Now."
Holy shit, Jim thinks. He wasn't aware that he had a rank kink. He wasn't aware that he had a hair kink, either, but the definite bolt of pleasure zinging straight into his throbbing clit makes him think that maybe, he doesn't have a particular kink at all. Maybe he just has a Spock kink, and everything Spock does is hot.
Like for example, slowly grinding himself on Jim while biting at his ear.
Ears are erogenous zones on Vulcans - or at least, on this particular Vulcan -, Jim knows, and Spock's sharp teeth grazing over his earlobe sent shivers down his spine.
He's straddling Jim's lap now, shyness melted away, or maybe he has forced himself through it with abandon, shoving three and a half decades of Vulcan shame aside to let Jim love his body.
Jim wraps the other arm around his waist and pulls him closer, and Spock arches into it beautifully.
Jim's fingers dip under his waistband.
"Baby-" he mutters, then catches his breath because Spock purrs at the petname, "I- holy fuck - I'm gonna take off your pants now, is that okay?"
Spock nods absentmindedly, but his mind sings.
Yes, Captain, touch me, need me, all yours.
Holy fuck. Okay. Okay. Jim thanks whatever force of nature made him trans, because he is fairly sure, if he was cis, he would have creamed his pants by now, and this show would have to be paused.
His hand comes around to reassuringly squeeze one of Spock's perfect, round cheeks. Then he crooks his fingers under the waistband, pulls it up a little, and let's it snap back into the skin, slightly below the chenesi, but enough to still hit some of the nerves there.
"Jim!"
The crack of the elastic against his skin makes Spock gasp, and he impossibly arches his back even more, as if to present his ass to Jim. When Jim looks up, Spock's eyes are dark and open, and his mouth forms the most beautiful, surprised O.
He wastes no time sliding down the briefs after that. Spock's ass is beautiful, flat and toned, slightly hairy, with some cute dips in the side of his cheeks when he lifts his hips and shimmies the briefs off. Jim has to catch his breath when he sees the string of slick extending between the inner layer of the briefs and whatever Spock is hiding in the thick patch of dark, silky hair between his legs.
Spock lifts himself onto his knees to get the briefs past his shins, and suddenly, Jim is face to face with Spock's groin.
He can't resist pressing a kiss on the mound there, a gentle one, just to say this is part of you and I love it with tenderness.
Spock freezes when Jim's lips meet his skin.
He looks down, suddenly embarrassed, and Jim looks up with what he knows Gaila called his "needy puppy eyes".
But he waits until Spock has swallowed and found his words.
"I might not be what you... expected", Spock says, quietly. "I am sorry I did not tidy myself before-"
"No need." He tries to put a bit of his captaincy gravitas into it. It works. It works when rescuing survivors from abandoned space stations or alien princesses out of caves.
Do not worry. I'm the captain. You're safe now, no one will hurt you, we're here to help.
With Spock, it means that some of the tension leaves his shoulders and he lets Jim press a questioning kiss to his hip bone. His other hands splays across Spock's ass (maybe slightly squeezing it. For better balance, of course), to project some thoughts.
Do not worry. You're safe. I won't hurt you.
Spock steadies himself with one hand on Jim's shoulder and splays his legs wider. He's still tense, and Jim's heart breaks a little over it. Spock is offering him his body, which for so many years he thought was impossible to desire, and he is so brave, so astonishingly brave to be this vulnerable with him.
He's absolutely not allowed to mess this up.
He gently trails two fingers through the dark hair, before settling back against the pillows to take a better look. His fingers gently brush the curls aside, and find a slick, leaking sheath, not unlike a human one.
So that's the genital sheath M'Benga informed him about, even if the diagrams made it out much less pretty than these dark flushed lips, glistening with Spock slick, pulsating hot wherever Jim touches them.
But maybe that's a Spock thing. Maybe Spock just has the prettiest bits in the universe.
Spock impatiently rolls his hips, and suddenly, something bumps into Jim's hand. An almost greenish, flared head, dribbling with slick, pushes past the tight ring of muscle at the top of the sheath.
"Holy-" Jim mutters. "That's your cock?"
Spock blushes at the vulgarity of it, but his hand grabs Jim's shoulder tighter.
"It- hmm - it is referred to as a lok. As you must know. It will- will extend further with more stimulation."
"Good. That was the plan."
Spock shivers when Jim's hot breath ghosts over the double-ridged head of his lok. "Fuck, Spock, you're so wet, can I taste you, please?"
Spock breathes a yes, digs his nails into Jim's shoulders and Jim dives in, tongue-first, hungry for Spock's taste. His tongue prods through the thick coat, then circles around the wet head of the lok.
It tastes different than he imagined. Intense. Like iron, but also like the musk that he smells when he nuzzles his nose into Spock's head or neck. But then again, he is James T. Kirk, Alienfucker Extraordinaire - unexpected, new sensations are his favourite playground.
Spock's nails dig deeper into Jim's shoulders and Jim chuckles.
Well. Less so now. Spock is his now, and Jim is more than fulfilled exploring his sensations and tastes as long as he lives.
The lok extends further, so far that Jim can see it peeking out between Spock's thighs when he draws back for air. Spock whines, hips jutting out to seek for friction, and Jim cannot hold back a bubbling laugh.
"Impatient, Mister Spock?"
His love gives him an eyebrow raise that would be devastating in literally any other circumstance. This way, it only makes Jim grin wider.
"I thought it was your desire to continue, Captain," he retorts, and this time, the rank is pointed. That's fine. They can play around.
Jim stops sucking a delicious bruise into the inside of Spock's thigh. "Five years of not letting me so much as touch your arm, and suddenly, you're insatiable?"
A hand winds into his hair and drags his mouth back down. Brat. (Spock is certain he doesn't whine at hearing that word ghost through his captain's head. He's wrong.)
"I was not - hmm- unwilling to be touched by you, Jim. I was merely - afraid I would give myself away."
Oh. Oh, that makes sense. Spock, who always keeps himself under control, because he's so scared of all the need, all the care breaking through.
Then Spock's lok nudges between Jim's lips, tasting heavy of iron and slick, and Jim decides that the therapy session can wait. Does it count as therapy to suck your boyfriend's dick so good he can't think of all the reasons he hates himself for? Maybe.
Jim moans when his lips wrap around the lok, now extended to the length of his first finger, and the vibrations make Spock gasp and slump forward to grab the headboard behind Jim.
Good, baby, Jim thinks very loudly. Brace yourself.
Spock sends back a wave of sensations, feelings, a whirlwind so different from his usual structured mind, all of it coloured with an overwhelming sense of Jim. Even better. By the end of this, Jim wants to see that gorgeous mind in tatters.
He bobs his head up and down, sucking and swirling his tongue on the way up, until Spock's lok has extended to what Jim assumes is the full length. It's a little thinner and shorter than what he knows as human average - but then again, with aliens, the "standard" measurements are pretty much skewed. Not even to mention the Klingons.
To Jim, Spock's double-ridged, flushed lok looks absolutely perfect. He can fit it into his mouth with minimal gagging to gently scrape his teeth around the base and reach around to massage the chenesi.
Spock, white-knuckling the headboard and keening so perfectly, starts shallowly thrusting his hips, as if still restraining himself, still worried he might damage Jim in some way.
He loves him. It blooms within Jim with absolute certainty. He loves this man. Like nothing else before. Spock's scent, the heat of his body, the feeling of his dense skin, his silky hair, the way his strong body is at the same time taut and pliant over him, the way his mind laps at Jim's like gentle water. Like he still has to control himself.
Jim does something with his tongue that makes Spock cry out, decidedly not in pain, and Jim can feel the first drops of something else pooling in his mouth.
He swallows - hard, his mouth is flooded with spit and precum and Spock's copious slick (God, he is so wet, it's amazing) - and pulls off to try it again.
The second his tongue gently prods at the ring of muscle around Spock's lok, Spock whines, as if in surprise.
Before Jim can ask whether he is okay, he feels one Vulcan hand in his hair, pressing him closer.
"Yes," Spock says, voice ragged. "Yes. More. Continue, please."
So Jim does, hand wrapped around Spock's cock to pump him leisurely while his tongue presses and sucks at this unfamiliar spot. The skin is wet, and gorgeous, and apparently sensitive as hell, from the way Spock removes his hand from Jim's hair to press it to his mouth, stifling gorgeous, deep, surprised moans.
Which is probably a curveball. If everything Jim read about Vulcan hands is true.
There's more give in that tight ring than Jim expected. Soon enough, his tongue is inside Spock's sheath, which apparently feels good, and the lok in his hand starts twitching. Spock breathes hard. Then his hand reaches down to pat at Jim's temples.
Jim abandons his massaging of the chenesi to reassuringly squeeze Spock's arm. Whatever Spock wants to show him with a meld, he wants to see it.
Spock's hands, shaking, find the psi points, and then Jim suddenly, and with force, feels all Spock is feeling. As if keeping his pleasure to himself was selfish. Then Jim has to stop and lean his head into Spock's thigh to gasp because it is so much.
He is being jacked off and his chenesi are sensitive and sending out shivers that pool in the dip of his back, he is held, his fingers are sucked, a sensation that goes directly to the head of his cock, he is being fucked in a way he has never been before, hasn't even attempted, he is loved, he is held, his body is electrified, quivering tension, sparks down his spine, no one has ever done it like this before, no one ever made him feel this loved, this beautiful, he never thought his body could feel this way, tight and hot and bursting apart at the seams -
It's complete overload.
It doesn't get better when Jim unceremoniously dives back in, shoves his mouth onto Spock's lok and tightens his throat around him. Spock pleads his name, tries to restrain the shuddering of his hips.
"I'm close, Jim."
Let me have you.
Spock cries out and comes in deep spurts at the back of Jim's throat. Jim swallows him up greedily. His legs shake, and his lok, soft and spent, slips out of Jim's mouth when he falls into his lap.
His arms curl around Jim's shoulders. His head is nestled safely into Jim's shoulder, where it is home, where it is safe. Through Jim's skin, he can feel the thrumming of satisfaction, excitement, adoration. He is loved.
Jim lets him come down and listens to his breathing. Absentmindedly, he presses Vulcan and Terran kisses, featherlight, wherever he can reach. On the bridge of Spock's nose, for example. That's one of Jim's favourite spots.
Spock purrs like a little lawn mower, and it's the prettiest thing he's ever heard. His hair is silky and moussed up under his lips, and Jim pulls away ever so slightly to gently comb Spock's fringe back into place.
He looks messy, and gorgeous, and vulnerable like this, his face flushed, lips slightly parted, his eyes closed in an expression of bliss and wonder. His legs are still shivering. It's a sight to wake up to, every morning.
The purring intensifies when Spock catches that thought, and Jim chuckles. When he tries to move, the purr turns into a disgruntled rumbling.
He feels more and more like a cat has fallen asleep on him. But he is also increasingly aware of the - now cooling - dampness in his own pants, and he either has to mop up and change them or just leave them off.
Before he can say anything, Spock's hand winds around his neck, presses a lingering oz'hesta into his neck.
"Off," he purrs. "I want to see you."
Okay. Jim is much closer to coming than he thought he was. Spock's arms suddenly tighten around him, and a lazy, but insistent tongue swipes over his neck.
"Hah - okay, okay, princess, you'll have to let me go for a second."
That works. Spock stumbles so hard over the petname that he freezes long enough for Jim to wiggle himself free and divest of his briefs, then sit opposite to Spock again. The bruise he sucked into Spock's thigh is already darkening. How is he going to focus on the bridge, knowing that that is there, under Spock's crisp ironed uniform pants, when he bends over his scanner-
Spock's finger lifts his chin up.
"If you have depraved fantasies involving me, Captain, I'd advise you to inform me of them," he says smugly. "In detail. Preferably."
Jim licks his lips. Holy fuck. Who ever said Vulcans were repressed?!
"The full extent would take some time, Mister Spock," he says instead, teasingly. Spock blushes, just a little (hah! Got him!), but then straightens his back and rests his wrists on Jim's shoulders. His fingertips caress the slightly overgrown hair at the back of Jim's neck.
"I am very patient."
Jim kisses him. Spock's lips are soft, and gentle, and it's sweet and short. Because this is one of many kisses they will still have. A habitual kiss. Kissing as easy as smiling at each other.
Jim's heart melts a little at how impossible this seemed a year ago. How easy it seems now. Loving Spock is like breathing.
"Did you enjoy it?" he asks when he pulls away. "I didn't want to overwhelm you, but you seemed to like it, so."
Spock casts his eyes down. God, his lashes are so long. Jim, focus.
"I enjoyed it tremendously," he admits quietly. "It was a kind of stimulation I was not aware of before. Which is good. I wish to explore my... capabilities. And yours."
One of his hands slips down to Jim's hip bones, ghosting over the faint shimmer of golden hair down there. Jim, sitting with one leg up on the edge of the mattress, so brazen and unashamed in his nakedness. A beautiful man. His man.
Spock swallows hard. There is a hesitation in his brow, so Jim gently draws Spock's hand away from stroking his hip and outer thigh and kisses it.
"What is it, baby?"
Spock halts. "I-", he starts. "I wish to - reciprocate the favour. To bring you pleasure would be pleasing. However, I do not at the present moment wish to be ... inside your body. In all previous attempts, my efforts were deemed inadequate. It feels intense, and intensely shameful."
He bites his lip. "It was the way in which T'Pring preferred to copulate, and I don't wish to feel like I am still with her."
A second later, he is wrapped, once again, in Jim's arms. "Oh baby."
Jim sounds heartbroken. Because he is. He is also considering how much time it would take to have Chekov turn the ship around, fly them back to Vulcan, and smack T'Pring with a shovel.
In his arms, Spock is entirely still. He has bared himself - Jim has reacted with tenderness, but if he moves, Jim might change his mind.
But he doesn't. Instead, Jim strokes his shoulders, his neck and ears, until he gently cups Spock's face.
"We don't have to do anything, you know? Anything. Whatever you want to do. If you want to stop, we stop-"
"I do wish to continue", Spock says, confused. "Just not in this particular way. If there are other ways in which I can bring you pleasure, voice them."
A sharp intake of breath. Spock sends a wave of reassurance under Jim's skin, and Jim gasps.
"You're sure?"
"Yes, Jim."
His mate worries his lip between his teeth. Then he looks down at their entwined hands.
"It's a bit embarrassing", he chuckles. "I- I want to see you come over yourself."
Spock stiffens, and Jim immediately jolts to apologise and backtrack, before Spock lets out a moan that surprises himself.
The concerned brow is immediately replaced by another beaming, golden, shit-eating grin.
"Good idea?"
Spock only has it in him to nod. Jim imagined him. Debauched. Messy. Sticky with his own spent, in Jim's bed, Jim's arms, limp with more pleasure than he thought he was capable of. Arms above his head, mouth slack and open, his lok twitching pathetically. He wants to surrender himself to this man. In a way, he already has.
"Can you -" Jim asks hesitantly. "Can you go again, or do you need a break? We can have breaks, baby."
"No." Spock pulls closer, straddles one of Jim's muscular thighs to rub his already wettening sheath against it. "I - the refractory period of Vulcan males is significantly shorter than that of humans. In some, it is non-existent."
Jim kisses the bridge of his nose again, or he tries to, because he is smiling too hard to purse his lips.
"Why are you perfect?"
"Perfection is an arbitary category, in this case used for flatte- Jim - Jim, Captain-"
He's done it again. This time, Jim has crooked his finger under the underside of Spock's lok, gently rubbing at the muscle ring there. It makes a squelching sound. Part of the copious lubrication must come from here.
"You seemed to like that", Jim says. "What is it, your sheath? Is this okay, or will I hurt you?"
He sees the gears turning in Spock's beautiful head, sees how they slow when his finger strokes gently upwards on the underside of his lok.
"Go - hmmm - go slow, and it will not hurt", Spock manages. "The sheath is a - a pocket into which the lok retreats. It is pulled forward when the lok emerges. You might hit a dead end."
He steadies himself. Jim has stopped touching him so that Spock can finish his explanation, and everything within Spock protests against the lack of touch. Still, he scrunches his eyes shut and wills himself to clear his head.
"Mine is not meant for penetration. However, Vulcan female and male anatomy is very similar, only that the lok in female-assigned Vulcans is much smaller, and the sheath is connected to the uterus. I assume that similarity is why the stimulation is also pleasant on me."
Jim hums. "Do you want to try? We can go slow."
Spock grinds down on Jim's thigh again. His lok, still half-emerged, is stirring, and he presses a hand between his legs to keep it in place. He wants Jim to go deep.
Jim is reaching to the sidetable for the lube.
"How much do you think you can take, sweetheart?" he asks. "It's okay if you want to slow down, or stop." His voice melts around the edges when he lifts Spock's chin for a kiss. His eyes are a dark brown, warm and safe and open. "The last thing I want to do is hurt you."
Spock looks like his brain is quickly dissolving into soup. With another long, sloppy grind against Jim's thigh, he asks, "How much of what?"
"My fingers, of course."
Then Jim's mouth falls open. Of course. Vulcans and their fingers. Spock's head has fallen back the second he's said it, mouth slack and wanting. Jim is entirely sure that he knew what he was referring to. He just wanted to hear Jim say it.
Fuck. Okay. Maybe Bones is right and this Vulcan will be the death of him.
Instead of complaining, Jim sneaks one hand up to Spock's chest, circles around one of the dark-flushed ochre nipples there and pulls.
"How many?" he asks, fake-teasing, into Spock's ear. "How many of my fingers can you take, Spock?"
A whine. God, Spock sounds wrecked.
"One," he brings out. "One, for a start, please."
Jim lets him go, eases him again. "Of course, baby. I'll be gentle. Tell me if anything is wrong."
If Vulcans would roll their eyes, Spock would. He pulls himself up to fix Jim with a glare.
"The only thing that is wrong right now, Jim, is that you are still dawdling."
Fine, Jim thinks. Let's show him who the captain is.
He grabs the hair at the back of Spock's head to pull his head back slightly, and while Spock moans and keens and freezes, Jim lifts himself up to straddle Spock's thigh. Slightly awkward position, but the second he sinks down, he can grind his definitely throbbing t-dick on Spock hairy thigh while Spock is still rutting his lok on Jim's. He reaches for the lube, squirts a good amount on his hand, uses the other to steady Spock by the back of his hips, and then slips his wet finger into Spock's sheath.
The tip goes in surprisingly easily. The ring of muscle is apparently more of a tear-drop shape, with a pointy end tapering downwards. Wet inner walls contract around his fingertip, and Spock hisses - not in pain, he quickly reassures Jim over the bond. Just because at the novelty of the intrusion, because it feels so big, so good, so right to be breached like this.
"Fuck," Jim mutters into Spock's ear. "Like you were born for it, baby."
When Spock rolls his hips forward, seeking more, just more of Jim, his thighs drag along Jim's clit. It's good. It's so good.
Jim needs a second to remember what he is doing, when Spock's body under him feels so perfect, so warm and strong and sleek, when Spock's heaving, hairy chest is right there in front of him, when his lips can meet the slope of Spock's shoulder.
Born for it, baby. To take me. To be mine.
His other hand, the one not slowly building up a rhythm to finger Spock open, comes to rest on his chest, stroking softly up and down, down and up, weaving his hands through that thick, dark, shiny hair. So long a shameful secret Spock thought he had to get rid off. So long a block that stood between Spock and being desired. Now, Jim leans his head down and drags his tongue over Spock's sternum, bites the left side of his pectoral muscle, relishes the sight of his man like this, like this, just Spock.
The rolling of their hips has synchronised as if by their own accord, so that they rise and fall together, hips thrusting into each other at every up motion. It's like a dance, a slow, filthy Terran grinding dance, and Jim can already feel the tingling and shivering pooling in his groin.
Then he remembers that Spock can feel it through his skin.
"Meld us again?" he breathes out when Spock is digging his nails into his shoulders and stifling another explosive moan in Jim's neck. His finger is all the way in now, gently dragging in and out the tight, hot channel underneath Spock's leaking lok.
"I want to feel what you feel", Jim asks, and Spock's hands shake, but he ghosts them over Jim's lips (he has to dart his tongue out and drag it across the sensitive fingertips. He has to.) and then settles them, trembling, on Jim's temple.
One breath, then they are going under.
That Jim feels what Spock feels - a whirlwind of sensations, hot, slick, open, ready, willing - isn't even the best part. Although it's a mighty good part. Fucking amazing, actually.
No, the goal of all this is that Spock feels how Jim feels. Something to eradicate, even for a moment, the self-doubts that must gnaw at him every second of everyday. If Spock can feel desirable because Jim desires, he can have that.
Spock gasps when he feels Jim's mind mingling with his. Mindmelds are never an every-day-thing, not even when a mating bond is as firmly in place as theirs, but still, Jim's mind always manages to sweep him off his feet. It's vibrant, and so colourful Spock wants to close his eyes against it, but it's inside him now and he can't ignore it. He can't ignore how deeply, bone-achingly he is adored. No matter how much his head protests against the impossibility of the fact. It's like a star is burning in his brain.
Jim bites the top of his ear and his hand speeds up, sending building ripples of pleasure back and forth between them. It's fantastic. Spock wants to splay his legs wider, drive him deeper, have his captain right there -
It's also really embarrassing that his captain can read his mind.
"Thought so much about it", Jim sighs, breathlessly, against Spock's skin. He cannot shut up. Ever. It's good that Spock loves it.
"Whether I'd have you. When. How. How you'd want me."
His hand curls into the hair on Spock's stomach, carresses it, as if to balance the tenderness with the now hard thrusts of his finger in Spock's sheath.
"Think I wanted you since I stepped off that transporter padd. I - I think I loved you for so long, Spock. So long."
Jim's mind is a river of disjointed images, jumbled moments of surprise and fear and delight, the thrill of touching Spock, talking to Spock, playing chess with Spock.
"But I thought you'd never want me back, I tried really hard not to think of you, but you were always there."
His golden, beautiful head lolls back, either at the grind on Spock's thigh or because he feels how Spock feels when he tightens around Jim's finger.
"Always you, Spock. I thought about you all the time. What you looked like under all that prim uniform. And then I knew and - you're perfect, baby. You're so perfect. Couldn't walk onto the bridge without thinking about how long your legs are. Do you know how many times you bend over that scanner every day, Spock? I know. Everytime you do it, I have to try not to stare."
A squeeze at his ass punctuates it. Spock's mind throws a fucking fit.
Stare. All yours. I hoped you'd look. Captain, yours to look at.
"Mister Spock!" It's genuine surprise this time. Jim laughs - actually laughs, but there is no malice in it, just the joy of discovery. "You know you're pretty, then?"
Spock squirms, but only for a moment. He doesn't think of it. The impossibility of it.
Then - and it really shouldn't be possible, and they should definitely talk to a Vulcan healer about that - he sees himself through Jim's eyes. It's an odd sensation - he can feel his own finger wetly gliding in and out of a sheath, can feel his own tongue run over dense, sweatless skin, but also that same hot tongue on his neck, that same finger hitting all the sweet spots he didn't know existed inside him.
But it's his body, bathed in the all-encompassing love Jim has for it. Jim loves the sharp V of his hipbones, the way his muscles and ribs are pressing up into his skin, loves the dark, blotchy flush on his chest and neck, loves his pointy ears and silky hair, his long neck, the dip at the hollow of his throat, his big hands. Jim loves the squish of skin under his armpits, loves the patches of hair growing there, the musky smell collecting in them, loves the way that same hair extends over Spock's chest and stomach and runs down to his lok, wraps around to cover his ass and legs and arms in dark fuzz. Jim gets weak in the knees seeing a bit of it peek out under the hem of Spock's uniform shirt. Jim wants to run his tongue up the inside of those long, slender, hairy legs until burying his face in the thicket in Spock's groin. Jim wants to taste him, and smell him, and see him come over himself, painting that chest with the spurts, and then he wants to put Spock back together with kisses and caresses and wants Spock resetting his sense of time to the rhythm of Jim's heartbeat.
Spock gasps, but his captain is relentless. Or maybe he just can't control his thoughts. Everything is possible with these humans.
He burns in Jim's arms like liquid fire, like every wet dream Jim's ever had.
He sees himself - different now, how Jim imagined him. Lying in Jim's bed, except that it's a twin bed, with red, soft sheets, strewn with petals of some Terran flower. Jim feeding strawberries to him, then divesting him of his clothing with slow hands, making love to him with sure, controlled rolls of his hips, calling him princess and lover and wife.
Jim getting on his knees while Spock reads a report, until the padd clatters from Spock's hands and he abandons himself to moaning helplessly.
Spock's hands exploring Jim's body with the cold finesse and patience of a scientist while Jim is squirming impatiently.
Jim, pinned into the scared sands, his shirt torn open, breathless, whispering 'Use my body, take what you need'.
Spock himself, half-leaning, half-sitting in the captain's chair, with his legs left and right over the armrests while the Captain, in his full uniform, thrusts into him, reminds him of his place.
(That one is actually not Jim's, Spock realises when Jim's eyes go round in shock and delight. That one was Spock's. Vulcans don't say "oops", but Spock just might. He's past shame.)
Spock bent over that chair. Spock on his knees in front of it.
Jim chuckles, again. Spock decides that it's good. Humans are joyful creatures. That Jim feels like laughing during their copulation is good.
"You really like that chair, Mister", Jim laughs, then rakes his nails over Spock's spine. He acts tough, but he is close, too, Spock can feel it.
"My loyalty - mmmh -" Spock has angled his hips slightly, or maybe his lok has extended further, but Jim's finger is suddenly touching new depths, places that send shivers and sparks up to his hips, the outside of his thighs. "My loyalty is not to the chair, captain, but to the man who sits in it."
Jim stalls for a moment. Then, with a sudden ferocity, his finger crooks up and his voice whispers "Good girl."
That just about does it. Then Jim angles his finger again and Spock cannot hold himself any longer, he is shaking too hard to keep up with the rhythm.
"Jim, I'm-"
"I know, baby. It's okay. I've got you. Let go, I've got you."
Spock nods, and Jim's hand unoccupied trails down to angle his lok towards Spock's belly. His finger crooks, and slips directly to the small spot where the underside of Spock's lok attaches to his body, where tapered Vulcan cocks would not reach.
Right there.
Spock comes with a a deep, guttural moan that is almost a cry. His lok spurts long, white stripes of come over his belly and chest. His legs shake. His hands shake. On his thigh, Jim ruts faster, then his body goes rigid and his head falls backwards with quivering tension, and his own peak sets the bond on fire.
They fall into the mattress almost immediately. Jim thankfully has the presence of mind to roll them onto their sides. While Spock is catching his breath - something must have broken in that genius Vulcan head -, Jim traces his fingers over Spock's chest. He's staring, and he knows it.
Spock looks beautiful. His skin is flushed. Jim's hands trace softly over the small, hairless patch on the side of his chest, where Spock had started shaving. Such a waste. As if Jim didn't want Spock whole. As if Spock had to earn his love when it is so freely given.
But now, Spock's body is not an unwanted creature - he is limp and relaxed, and there's beads of slightly lavenderish spent sticking to his stomach and chest.
Jim can't resist liking them off. He did that. He and Spock together. Spock is his. He is Spock's. No one made Spock think that he was allowed this, but he is, and Jim loves him. Spock's body is home to him now. His touch is home.
It makes him feel slightly possessive - that Spock is his to taste, to hold, to kiss, to have unheard conversations with. Maybe it's the Vulcan mind magic, but hell, he'd beam down to Vulcan again just to yell from the rooftops that he has claimed this man, that he's his own, that they and their weird restrictive philosophy are never getting him back.
A slender Vulcan hand presses a kiss into his palm.
"I was yours long before this," Spock murmurs. His gorgeous eyes remain closed. "T'Pring sensed it before I even knew you. I have been, and always shall be, yours."
"T'Pring sensed that you were in love with me?"
"No." Spock stretches out lazily, like a satisfied cat, and cuddles his head into the crook of Jim's armpit. "But she did sense that I had a t'hy'la."
That's another word Jim has to bring up with M'Benga. For now, he softly kisses Spock's forehead, combs his fringe back into place (this will become a habit) and thinks about how he will explain to his suddenly very cuddly Vulcan that he has to get up and get a wash cloth and some water.
Spock purrs, this time very disgruntled.
"You will not leave."
"I'm afraid I have to, love, you'll get sticky."
"Need I repeat myself?"
Jim laughs into Spock's hair. "Fine. Okay. One more minute."
Three months later, they are again in bed (Spock's, this time), and again Jim is untangling himself from long, Vulcan limbs, when the viewscreen pings.
Jim stops kissing a bruise into the back of Spock's neck. His fiancé's (they made it official) back is pressed flush to his chest, and Spock hums in disapproval. He's a needy thing, Jim has found out. Needy, needy thing who loves having fingers in his mouth-
Another ping.
"Baby, someone is giving you a call."
"Hmm." Spock's eyes flutter open and he breathes out through his nose in annoyance. "It must be important."
He slowly sits up, but raises Jim with him, apparently absolutely unwilling to be without Jim's arms wrapped around his torso.
"Computer, lights to 50 percent. Identify caller and their location."
The lights softly turn up. Spock likes to keep them low when they're at it. Chipping away at thirty-five years of bodyshaming is hard work, but they are getting there.
"Location: Vulcan", the computer voice beeps. The screen of the viewer, on the room-divider next to the bed, is still empty. "Caller ID: Semir T'kar T'Pring."
"T'Pring?!" Jim's arms tighten around Spock. It's not even been half a year. "What on earth does she want?"
Spock does the expression Vulcans do when they want to roll their eyes but can't offend Surak.
"I guess there is only one way to find out."
And before Jim can stop him, Spock lazily says "Open a channel. On screen."
"Spock, we're not -"
T'Pring's face appears. She looks smug, regal and sophisticated. Then she looks utterly horrified.
Oh, Jim loves this man.
"T'Pring", Spock says, the picture of Vulcan sobriety. Except that he almost naked, and his lap is only covered by the sheets. And there's a human in bed with him.
Spock's face is set in stone. "May I inquire about the nature of your call?"
T'Pring says nothing. She seems to be at an absolute loss for words.
"T'Pring?"
"Spock-" she manages finally. "I- are you- are you naked?"
"No. I was about to be." Jim tries to sneak his hand away from the waistband, but Spock keeps it right there with slight pressure of his elbow. "My mate and I were busy. I would prefer if you identified your cause to contact me so that we may both attend to more pleasant activities."
The only reaction that gets out of T'Pring is a slightly quivering eyebrow. Apparently, she has recovered her Vulcanness.
"Pleasure is not an emotion we Vulcans feel."
"I assume I would say the same if I was bonded to Stonn", Spock retorts without even blinking.
(Look, Jim really tries to bite his tongue and not laugh. He's trying. But the look on T'Pring's face is just priceless.)
She takes a deep breath.
"Stonn and I are not yet bonded", she says. "Which is the reason for my call. Stonn's time has come about him. As you are currently on course for Aries 12, you could divert to Vulcan within 14.6 solar days. We would welcome you to the festivities after the sacred ceremony."
She hesitates. "That is, Spock, if you have recovered until then."
Jim feels a little nudge at the bond.
Kiss my neck, k'diwa.
Oh. Ohoho. No, Jim does not have to be asked twice. Spock hums almost distracted when Jim's mouth sloppily plants itself onto the slope of Spock's neck, nips at his ear.
"I fail to ascertain your meaning, T'Pring."
"Given your state, I assumed that you are recovering from an injury that prevented you from performing some necessary tasks of self-maintenance. I wish you a full and timely recovery."
Her face is entirely unmoved. Before Jim can launch the full tirade that has been collecting at the tip of his tongue since T'Pring cast one disapproving glare at Spock's dark-haired chest, Spock turns his head and presses a soft kiss to Jim's cheek.
Let me handle this, k'diwa.
So he lets him. Spock sinks back into Jim, and something tells Jim that a part of Spock, a part deep in denial, enjoys this brazenness.
"You are mistaken," he says languidly. "As Doctor McCoy assured me, I am, as they say, the picture of health. You need not make it your concern. Captain Kirk takes excellent care of me."
Jim decides to punctuate that by running his hand slowly up Spock's happy trail, as if to savour the feel of the hair against his fingertips (he does). To a human, it's a suggestive, intimate, but ultimately tame gesture.
To Vulcans, it's straight up porn.
T'Pring looks a little green around the nose. When she breathes in to speak again, her eyes flash with indignation, and her nostrils flare.
"I might reconsider extending the invitation to you, Spock", she says icily. "If you are unable to conduct yourself appropriately at my own bonding festivities-"
"I can conduct myself perfectly adequately", Spock says (and here Jim realises that Vulcans can, in fact, lie.) "And we would gladly attend your bonding ceremony. I wish you and Stonn peace and a long, shared life. May you find the same happiness and love for each other's whole being that I have found with Kirk."
Even through the screen, Jim can feel the simmer of electricity between the two. Jesus, he thinks, who thought it would be a good idea to marry these two queens. They would have torn each other apart in less than a year.
T'Pring lifts her chin. "Those are very human wishes."
"As I am half-human, I don't assume that it's a surprise."
Spock entangles his one hand from the filthy Vulcan make-out session that was happening right over his stomach and gives T'Pring a ta'al.
"Live long and prosper, T'Pring. Computer, end transmission."
The screen has barely gone black when Jim has flipped them onto the bed and is kissing Spock breathless.
"That-" he gasps after a solid 30 seconds, "-that was the sexiest thing you've ever done."
He kisses the eyebrow that is raised immediately after this very illogical statement.
"I am so proud of you."
Spock blushes immediately at that. Now that the call is over, he is soft and almost shy under Jim again.
"It is not entirely my feat", he says sincerely after a second. "I am endlessly grateful for your love, James. It has moved much."
"I can see that."
He presses one last kiss to Spock's lips before glancing at the clock. "Alright, Mister, we're expected in conference room 3 in half an hour. How do you say we move this -" his large hands land unceremoniously on Spock's pecs - "to the shower?"
The bond is thrumming with their excitement. Spock's eyes are soft where Jim's are hazel and gold. Jim's hands gently run over Spock's human, his Vulcan sides.
"I have no objections, Captain."
They skip to the shower, giddy and unable to keep their hands to themselves, and Jim gets water in his mouth because he can't stop grinning. To Spock, he is the sun.
When Jim pins his hands to the wet tiles above his head and makes him gasp, a razor, by now unused and rusty, clatters forgotten to the ground.