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S’chn T’Gai Spock is well aware of his ancestry.
His mother is human, of course- after all his experiences it would be rather difficult for him to forget that. But he also knows, in great detail, the history and lineage of his patriarchal line. His father’s parentage, his grandfather’s parentage, his great-grandfather's parentage, and so on, is etched carefully into his brain just like so much other information has been in his life. If so required, he could recall the full name, birth date, death date, primary residence, number and order of offspring, and a volume of other minutiae about his core patriarchal line ten generations back- as far as he had reliably been able to trace in the ShiKahr Public Library as well as his personal and family libraries. If he were human, this thoroughness would likely bring him a sense of pride, as these findings date very nearly back to the time of Surak.
He had memorized these names before getting them tattooed, because his tattoo is not intended to aid in remembering them. On the contrary, all Vulcan children memorize some quantity of their own heritage as well as all the living members of the highest-class families at a relatively young age. His family falls near the top of that list.
The imprecision of such ranking is uncharacteristic in his own mind, but it is no fault of his own- there is no official hierarchy of Vulcan families. Nonetheless, everyone knows which names they need to learn, which is also why Vulcans have no ‘last names’ as most species know them. Every Vulcan is given at least one name at birth, typically between three and seven letters; some families choose to give their children additional names, often in Golic Vulcan, intended to to convey a specific message, hope, or even emotion. A bold choice, and one which means that additional names are an incredibly private matter.
But no, Spock had not chosen to have his ancestry marked permanently into his skin as a memory device. He runs his fingertips over the spot, inspecting it in his bathroom mirror, following all ten pairs of name symbols down the length of his right bicep. The ink is smooth now, so many years after its placement. It had been done by the highest of Vulcan experts, at his coming-of-age ceremony.
He had accepted this tattoo both because it was expected, and because he had wanted to. In fact, it was the combination of the two that had driven him to take all ten generations. Spock, soon to be of-age and desperate to prove himself Vulcan enough- for whose standards, he still was not sure- had decided to mark himself with his entire paternal lineage, rather than the two-to-three generations that was expected of all new adults. He thinks about this, brushing the palm-side of his fingers thoughtfully back up the tattoo and down it once more.
It is simple in style, close to identical to the day it was inked: twenty singular name symbols, twenty individuals, set in pairs as they had partnered in life, running vertically in chronological order down the outside of his upper arm. Clean and beautiful, if one were to describe anything as such.
He has memorized these names, these generations of his Vulcan heritage, very nearly back to the time of Surak. He has memorized their birth dates, death dates, primary residences, number and order of offspring, and many, many other facts about this line, marked them permanently into his brain just as they are marked permanently into his skin.
He has no such knowledge of his mother’s line.
He exhales, and drops his hand to right his posture and meet his own eyes in the mirror. They are a deep shade of brown; loathe as he is to agree with any of the numerous bullies from his childhood, they hold a certain human quality within them. The shape of his nose, as he traces it visually, is marginally thicker and more round than that of the average Vulcan- while not outside the common range for the species as a whole, it is statistically unusual for his particular family. The skin of his neck is both creamier and softer than that of his old peers. The bare slope of his shoulders, while unremarkable for either species, is familiar, and he knows that because it is his, it is Vulcan, but it is also human.
He looks once more to the tattoo on his right arm, then blinks, turns crisply, and exits the restroom, heading instead for his personal computer and thinking of where he can find his mother’s genetic records.
- - -
When Kirk wakes on his first day back from shore leave, it’s with one arm slung over his own head, his cheek pressed into a shallow pool of drool, his nose hanging off the edge of the mattress, and his alarm beeping good-naturedly next to his forehead in a way that somehow makes him think it’s been doing that for a while. A groggy glance at the time confirms it- he’s late.
“Shit,” he mumbles, sitting up quickly enough to make his head spin. He groans and squints, bracing a hand on his pillow (which has been pushed so far over as to be entirely useless) until his equilibrium returns and he can slam the off button on his alarm.
He scrubs his hands over his eyes and through his hair, absently noting the red lines of the sheets carved into one side of his chest and, presumably, his face. He shakes his head, clears his throat, and cracks his neck, rolling his wrists as he stands. He swallows down the worst of the morning breath with a grimace as he digs for a clean undershirt while simultaneously reaching towards the replicator to get a cup of coffee- all the normal things needed to feel like a person after waking up, but on an incredibly condensed timeline. He swears under his breath again as his command gold gets stuck on its hangar, replicated coffee beginning to fill his least favorite mug.
“Spock, I know it’s your time in the bathroom, but I’m on a time crunch, so I’m comin’ in, alright?” he announces, probably louder than necessary, rapping on the door with two knuckles before resuming the fight with his undershirt. The door slides open, Spock’s way of saying come on in, and his shirt finally makes it over his nose and chin as he steps inside. “Thanks, I-”
He freezes in the doorway, mouth hanging open.
“......uh. Overslept.”
Spock is leaning awkwardly against the sink to be able to see the outside of his own shoulder in the mirror, wiping traces of blood away from the fresh-looking tattoo on his left arm. It’s a list of names, in plain English, and the skin around them is flushed the yellow-green that Kirk knows comes from the already mixed quality of his blood being filtered through the pale cream of his skin. “I am aware,” he acknowledges easily. “The chiming of your alarm is audible from my own quarters.”
“Uh…”
This isn’t news- between shared walls and Vulcan hearing, Kirk doesn’t have a whole lot of privacy in his own room. Since Spock is always awake before him, it hardly matters. In fact, their whole ‘shared bathroom’ arrangement had originally been a clerical error, an issue of crew-to-quarters ratios, and upon building the Enterprise-A, Starfleet had offered to rectify the situation- both Spock and Kirk had turned them down, enjoying the closeness and convenience. That’s not why he’s hesitating.
Spock is still focused on his arm, using a green-stained wad of medical cotton to wipe carefully around the edges of the names.
“Alpha shift begins in eight-point-four-three minutes,” Spock reminds him levelly. “Perhaps you should experiment with an alternate method of rousing yourself.”
“Yeah,” Jim agrees absently. It’s not the first time it’s come up. “I- yeah, uh, probably.”
Along with the list of names in English down his left arm, there’s a matching list in what looks like Vulcan script down his right; a small, flat inking of the starfleet insignia sits on his chest and, most distracting of all, there’s some kind of intricate, elaborate pattern crawling around the bumps of his spine and branching across his shoulder blades. The ink isn’t faded, exactly, but it does have the smoothed-over and weathered look of a years- or decades-old tattoo. Very much unlike the fresh one that Spock is giving a final once-over, before tossing the cotton precisely in the trash can and beginning to wrap his bicep in old-fashioned cloth bandages.
Kirk himself is surprisingly devoid of body mods, completely bare except for some closed-up ear piercings from when a friend had confessed that she wanted to get hers done but was too scared to go alone. Somehow, he had assumed that his First Officer was in the same boat- as it turns out, he was very, very wrong.
“Captain,” Spock reminds him once again. He glances up from tucking the end of the gauze under itself. “You are late.”
“Yep, yeah, for sure-” Jim agrees, startling out of whatever reverie had grabbed him. He barely remembers to snag a teethcleaning tab as he frantically exits the bathroom- he prefers a real toothbrush, but he doesn’t have time- and crunches it between his molars as he tugs his gold shirt over his head, hops and stumbles his way into some different pants, spits the residual foam in the trash on his way out, and speedwalks it haphazardly to the turbolift at the end of the hall while trying desperately not to spill his boiling hot coffee.
Spock is already in the lift, fully dressed and looking perfectly collected. He holds the door for him with an only-slightly-patronizing raised eyebrow.
“Thanks,” Jim says breathlessly. “Hold this?”
He hands off his mug so he can straighten his shirts. He runs his fingers through his hair- he had forgotten to style it, but it’s too late now, so he’s just hoping it’s not too much messier than usual- and sets his palms to his cheeks. They’re hot. He makes a face, smoothing down his eyebrows and huffing out a sigh. Spock hands back his mug as the doors hiss open.
- - -
It’s a good thing that nothing exciting has happened on the bridge today, because Jim really can’t find it in himself to focus on work.
Spock’s station is behind the captain’s chair, but he gets up often enough to check on other stations along his wall, keeping track of multiple scientific markers and sensors and logging open space as they traverse it without issue. Each of these times serve as an excuse for Jim to watch him move. Whenever he can’t, though, he has to be content with his imagination.
He’s trying to remember where, exactly, Spock’s tattoos are, how they’re inked, the particular shade of black against the tone of his skin. He stares unseeingly at the empty space through the viewscreen and pictures the line of his First Officer’s shoulders. The curvature of his biceps. The twist of his back muscles. It is, overall, a wildly inappropriate train of thought.
Kirk has always known that Spock is attractive, even back when he had been nothing but an unreadable face and a severe set of bangs at the other end of a lecture hall, but it’s always been something he could ignore. Now, he can’t stop thinking about his ink. He swallows uncomfortably, mouth still tasting vaguely of the teethcleaning tab even after three cups of replicated coffee.
He is also realizing that, somehow, he doesn’t know very much about Mr. Spock. They’ve been working together for nearly seven years, lived on the same campus for another three on top of that, and yet he has no idea whose names Spock has decided to put on his body- half of them recently- or what the significance of them might be. He doesn’t know- hell, he doesn’t know anything, apparently.
Jim sighs minutely, a measured breath in and out. He glances over his shoulder once again, then faces forward and decides, staring blankly into the void and thinking about things that seem far more important just then, that he’d like to learn. He’d like to memorize him. Memorize his favorite flower, how he takes his tea. What kind of dessert he likes to order when he’s got time after dinner, and what drives him to choose something as a tattoo. It’s- maybe he’s pushing his limits, what qualifies as ‘friendship’, but Jim has never been very good at denying himself what he wants. The only thing really restraining him is Spock’s own boundaries, so he’ll push as far as he can until he bumps up against them, like a lifeboat floating gently up against the reefs keeping it from reaching the shore.
- - -
Jim would like it to be acknowledged that, although he is a complete disaster of a pansexual, he has kept a lid on his rampant attraction to his First Officer for three whole weeks. And, that when he does finally say something, he’s totally smooth and inconspicuous about it.
They’re in Kirk’s quarters this time, since they had been in Spock’s two nights previous, and Jim has set the thermostat ten degrees higher than usual to compensate. The lights are low. Jim isn’t getting any younger, and nowadays, bright lighting after a full shift tends to give him a headache. The whiskey in his hand was a shallow pour to begin with, and Spock is seeking his eyes from between the layers of the chessboard.
“I believe it is your move, Captain.”
Kirk hums, turning his attention back to his remaining pieces. “We’re off-duty, Spock, it’s ‘Jim’.”
Spock gives one of his not-smiles to let Jim know that he was teasing, but says nothing more.
Jim takes a sip of his whiskey, squints, and lifts a rook from the second level to the third.
He’s come to enjoy their nights like this. There’s an easy familiarity that hardly begs describing, since they’ve been meeting two or three times a week for years now. They’ll leave alpha shift together, grab dinner from the mess, then carry it into their personal quarters and eat together, in silence or conversation. Then Spock breaks out the chess board, and Jim pulls out his poison of choice. Lately, Spock has been nursing some tea from a desert planet somewhat similar to Vulcan; he boils the water the old-fashioned way as they set up, then lets the leaves steep during their first round, scenting the air with something earthy and comforting.
Of course, Jim’s never been one to leave things as they are.
Tomorrow their shift is delayed by two hours, on an experimental schedule designed to give the crew some version of a weekend without leaving stations unmanned for any significant period of time, so Kirk and Spock are five games deep, Spock’s second cup of tea has long sat empty, and Kirk is just finishing his second whiskey with a drawn-out swig. He sets the glass down with a sigh, half-melted ice clinking lazily, and speaks.
“So, Mr. Spock. How’s that tattoo healing?”
Spock raises one eyebrow, the way that simply means he’s engaged in the conversation. “It is mending at an acceptable rate, with no sign of infection or other difficulties. The lines have set smoothly.”
“No touch-ups, then? Calligraphying?”
Spock inclines his head.
“That’s good,” Kirk says amiably, “that’s good.” He still doesn’t have any tattoos of his own, nor any other kind of mods, but he does know a bit about them. This is mostly thanks, unfortunately, to his taste in men. Of course, most of the men in question had also opted to use the fast-healing tools readily available, leaving their fresh ink looking perfectly healed within a day or two, but Kirk doesn’t bother asking why Spock hasn’t done that. The naturalistic methodology of Vulcan life offers an easy explanation.
Seconds of the game pass, minutes, Jim’s brow furrowing as he tries to remember the unaided healing speed of Vulcans, until Spock breaks in and asks with zero inflection whatsoever, “would you like to see for yourself?”
Kirk’s eyes snap up from the chessboard, something shooting through him that feels like panic. “-What?”
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t completely ‘smooth and inconspicuous’ about it.
“You appeared rather lost in thought,” Spock explains. “Following the last topic you spoke of, one would assume you would like to inspect the healing process for yourself.”
“I- well, yeah, I would love to, actually,” Kirk admits. He almost tries to convince himself that it’s out of concern, but he knows that’s only a part of it.
“Very well,” says Spock, before stripping his long-sleeve science blues and thermal undershirt in one smooth motion. Kirk refrains from gulping audibly. His XO proffers his arm as well as he can, nudging the chessboard aside, but Kirk stands and steps around the table instead.
He gestures before approaching. “May I…” he tries, not exactly sure what he’s asking for. Spock just nods, so Jim gets in close, half-sitting on the edge of the table as he tilts his head to inspect the ink. “Oh, yeah,” he finally agrees, “that did heal nice. Good. Can I- feel?”
“Yes,” Spock allows quietly. Jim runs the pad of his middle finger delicately down the left side of the list, which is all women’s names. Marianna Grayson, Eleanor Grayson, Sophia Grayson, Amelia Grayson, Sylvia Grayson, and finally, at the very end, Amanda Grayson.
“Amanda,” says Jim. “Hey, that’s your mother, right? So this is, what, your ancestry?”
“My human side, yes. On my other arm is my Vulcan line.”
Kirk weaves unthinkingly around to his other side, to inspect the flowing Vulcan script in horizontal lines. It looks like it’s abbreviated, to make it fit so neatly into the space it was given. Maybe it’s a localized version. There are ten sets, though, and he realizes that it’s been done in a way that makes both the human and Vulcan sides parallel.
“They’re beautiful, Spock,” he murmurs, the words coming out a little dreamier than he intended. He clears his throat. “Why’d you get them?”
“It is traditional,” replies Spock. “All Vulcans are expected to take a tattoo of their past generations at their coming-of-age ceremony. I simply chose… more than an average number.”
“What’s the average number?”
“Two to three,” Spock informs him dryly.
Kirk puffs a laugh, moving again to the other side. “And what about this? You didn’t get this one at your coming-of-age, this one is new.” He traces his thumb down the right column. Matthew Davis, Jack O’Brian, James Garcia, Owen Miller, Liam Grayson, and finally Sarek.
“No,” Spock agrees softly. “That was… a symbol of self-actualization. A milestone in my… self-image. And an acknowledgment of my mother, who I believe is always worthy of recognition. I acquired it during our recent shore leave. It is my first tattoo which was not done by a Vulcan artist, which is rather non-traditional, but given the nature of the tattoo itself, I decided it was in keeping and therefore perfectly acceptable.”
Jim chuckles once more. “Perfectly acceptable,” he repeats. “What about this one?”
He goes to feel the pattern on his back, making Spock shiver faintly and lean forward. It starts with some of his lowest vertebrae, climbing and crawling like something reptilian, or perhaps a trailing variety of vine fruit. The structure is built out of an odd assortment of shapes, three- and four- and five-sided, spiky things, with mock-arrows and half-squares directing it all in confusing swirls and growths, until it spreads impressively over most of the upper third of his back.
“My first tattoo,” Spock informs him, “my mark of completing the kahs-wan, my time in the forge. I was an adolescent.”
“Damn,” Jim breathes, sweeping his eyes over it again. It’s far too intricate for him to be able to pick out all the details in one sitting.
It’s an odd feeling, standing behind his First Officer, the lights low and the room quiet, Jim’s hands calloused and gentle on Spock’s bare skin. He wonders how many other people even know that Spock has tattoos- they’re always thoroughly covered by his uniform.
“There are three people aboard the ship who have seen them,” answers Spock, although he hadn’t asked aloud. “Nyota, for obvious reasons- and Doctor McCoy, thanks to various medical inspections. And now you, Jim.”
Right. Touch telepathy. Jim swallows and draws his hands back to himself.
“I also have an outdated variation of the Starfleet insignia on my chest,” Spock continues, voluntarily offering the information that Jim is too hesitant to ask for. He stands slowly and turns to show him the little black marking over where his heart would be if he were a human. It has the science symbol carved into the middle of it, and a row of numbers below it- a date. “To commemorate my graduating from the Academy.”
He’s got a healthy amount of hair down his chest and forearms, so it seems like his tattoos have been carefully placed to avoid it- this one is just high enough to be clearly visible. Jim blinks, doing his best to linger on the tattoo, instead of the rest of him.
“I have more,” Spock offers quietly, “If you would like to see.”
“If you’re comfortable,” Jim agrees. He’s trying so, so hard to be professional about this, but Spock is showing off far too much exposed skin for him to be entirely successful.
Spock bends on one knee in order to roll his pants up, but he can’t get them past his kneecap, so he rolls them right back down and stands.
“One moment,” he apologizes, “I must divest.”
“Oh,” replies Kirk. Spock unbuttons his uniform pants. “Oh! Sure, um- okay, that’s- fine-”
He shuts his mouth before he says anything else stupid. Spock slips his pants down his hips and steps out of them, perching himself on the edge of Kirk’s bunk instead. Kirk swallows thickly, the sight distracting enough that he forgets for a moment why this is happening. Spock has left his heeled boots in his own quarters hours previous, so now he’s sitting on Kirk’s bed in nothing but his Starfleet-issue boxer-briefs, and Kirk is actively blindsided by just how many of his fantasies have started this way.
Apparently oblivious, Spock places one hand on the outside of his left calf. “This is a flower of the Vulcan cholla plant.”
Jim clears his throat and his mind. He is interested in this- as long as he can focus. He squats carefully to get a closer look. He sets his knees gingerly in the carpet and tilts his head, refusing to think about why he would normally be in a position like this.
“In life, its petals were a vibrant shade of pink.”
The flower is large, maybe six inches in diameter, with five narrow, spiky petals curving gracefully across his calf. It has no stem, which Kirk takes to be an artistic choice, but from where the sepals would usually be are a number of thin, twisting vines, almost like feelers. They spread and curl in every direction, reaching downward in a ring reminiscent of an anklet, and trailing upward to linger along the edge of his quad. It’s done in monochrome, just like the rest of Spock’s tattoos, but Kirk feels like he can somehow see how it would normally be colored. It’s been rendered with skill.
“Its roots were used medicinally, to ease mild aches and pains from various injuries, including, ironically, tattoos themselves,” Spock continues. Something in his voice sounds like the Vulcan version of rueful. “My mother’s garden contained many plants, but most were tended by the hired gardeners. There was only a small section of ones which she would not let any employee touch- cholla was among them.”
Kirk brushes a deliberate palm over the petals, then follows one vine with his fingertip down to Spock’s anklebone.
“It was not a particularly valuable plant,” Spock says softly. “As such, I have been able to find no record of off-world propagations. To my knowledge, the cholla flower went extinct with the destruction of my home. I had it inked to… commemorate. The loss.”
Jim exhales heavily. He doesn’t know what to say to that.
Spock keeps talking, anyway. He sets a hand on his right leg this time, just above his knee, drawing Kirk’s attention to the dark band marked into his thigh.
“This was a mountain range in my childhood province,” he says. “It contained the Katric Ark, the center of all Vulcan culture and knowledge.” He pauses, then continues, quieter. “This is not why I chose it. I chose it because it was where my parents worked, often, and it was visible from my balcony. The tattoo was done when I moved away, to the Academy, as a token of… home. So that I could carry it with me.”
Kirk studies the dark band, the rocky silhouette of Vulcan mountains turned delicate yet sturdy in its ink-form. He traces the outline slowly, thoughtfully, appreciating the time that went into the art and all the healing that’s been done since. There’s a little black triangle, above a small scar that looks like the kind you’d get from an active childhood. It’s a doorway, he knows; the doorway to the Katric Ark. Kirk can imagine Spock, nine years old and lonely, leaning over his bedroom balcony and staring at that little triangle, pretending or maybe just hoping that he could see his parents returning from beyond it. Waiting for someone, anyone to come and see him.
He’s offering himself, Kirk realizes. He’s offering up pieces of himself, letting Jim turn them this way and that to inspect them in the light. Showing him secrets that he’s kept hidden under his uniform, day after day. He’s letting Jim see him.
Kirk isn’t quite sure if Spock is asking something of him, or if he’s just opening up, throwing everything of himself into the wind for illogical, unpredictable chance to display, and praying. See me, see me, see me. Love me, love me, love me.
He had shifted over to see the thigh band, so it’s easy enough to nudge himself between Spock’s shins. He doesn’t go any further, not yet. Jim plants one solid, intentional kiss to the side of Spock’s knee, then sets his forehead to the skin for a moment.
He murmurs, “thank you for showing me these, Spock. They’re…” you’re, “...incredible.”
He’s still looking at the tattoos. The deep, layered gradient of the mountains, and the intricate shading of the flower. The creeping, growing reach of the vines, the distance encapsulated by the rocky peaks. He runs his hand slowly up Spock’s calf, marveling at the flawless healing. He gently squeezes the band above his knee, noting the aged way it’s set. He appreciates all the years these tattoos have gone through, how much they’ve survived, on the surface of Spock’s skin.
He looks up, intending to give the others the same treatment, only to find Spock half-hard in his briefs.
“Apologies,” the Vulcan offers breathlessly. After a delay, his legs tense as if to stand, but Jim presses another kiss into his thigh, accepting his apology and tossing it aside as unnecessary. Spock sits.
His XO is so quiet that Jim wonders if he’s holding his breath, until he walks kisses higher and higher up his bare thigh and Spock gives a shuddering gasp. Kirk takes his time, part of him astounded that this is where his night has gone while the rest of him focuses on the task; he parts his lips to leave shining dots along pale skin, closer and closer together until he reaches forgiving black fabric.
He raises his eyes.
“Yes,” Spock whispers vehemently, although Kirk never asked aloud.
He slides his hands up well-formed calves to gently tug his knees apart, then mouths carefully over the tip of his erection. He fits it between his parted teeth and teases, more than anything, although it’s not long before even he wants to do away with Spock’s last article of clothing. No sooner does the idea form in his head than Spock is repeating “yes,” pushing them down and letting Kirk pull them all the way off. It leaves Spock completely naked while Jim is completely clothed, so he strips his shirts as well to even the playing field.
When he settles back on his knees, Spock’s sheath wobbles in front of his face, mostly-hard and eye-level. Its tiers are flushed green, although not fully extended, and his lubricant is only beginning to leak from the seams.
Jim pauses. He looks above the insistent sex in his face, to find Spock’s eyes instead. They’re deep, and rich, pupils significantly wider than usual. “...I really do this to you?” he murmurs.
“Yes,” Spock repeats again. “Your touch, it is… inflammatory.”
Jim knows he’s not just referring to the barely-a-blowjob that he’s given so far, but he still snorts as he wraps a hand around the first two layers at Spock’s base. “How romantic,” he mocks. Then he cuts straight to the chase and swallows Spock halfway down in one smooth motion.
Spock gives a bitten-off shout, fists planted in the mattress as his hips lift. He quickly hardens the rest of the way in Kirk’s mouth, extending so rapidly it almost punches him in the back of the throat. Jim tries to remember how to roll through his gag reflex and pushes on.
It’s been a while since he’s done this- being completely gone on your thought-to-be-unavailable best friend and First Officer has a way of killing a guy’s sex life. It only makes it better now, though. Jim is fighting to take this slow, to give Spock the rapturous and curated attention he deserves instead of slurping it down like a man starved, but he’s only partially succeeding.
Spock is breathing hard, his exhales taking on a whiny pitch that Jim would be willing to bet means he’s suppressing a whole lot of other noises. “Jim…” he says between breaths, seemingly with no follow-up in mind.
Jim wonders absently what it’ll take to finally break that control and pull a real moan out of Spock- then he moans, at just the thought. His imagination is running wildly in every direction, and he sucks his sheath desperately deeper on instinct alone until his throat clicks and he can’t breathe. He revels in it for a moment, letting his brain go pleasantly fuzzy even as Spock hisses air through his teeth and twitches his hips. Tears break free from the corners of his eyes, and Kirk moans again.
“Jim,” Spock repeats. His core is shaking.
Finally, he pulls off for air, swallow turning stilted in a way that he’s missed. Spock’s hands are still clenched in the sheets at his sides, so Jim uses one of his own to gesture . “Give-,” he says, scratchy, “-gimme your hands, I wanna-”
Spock lifts one within reach, and Jim wastes no time with further speech. He drags Spock’s fingers into his mouth and sucks them idly between heavy breaths.
This is a tried and true technique, just something easy to satiate his raging oral fixation without absolutely wrecking his throat; a fun diversion that pops up surprisingly often in his hookups. It’s only when Spock releases a shuddering sigh, going tense all over, that he remembers hands are an erogenous zone for Vulcans. He mentally course-corrects with one more thoughtful suck before rolling his tongue deliberately up Spock’s pointer and middle.
He plays along the length and lavishes the pads with attention for another long minute before directing them into his hair and getting back to work. Spock gives a very quiet, grateful groan.
Jim would grin if he could; as it is he just dives enthusiastically back in under Spock’s direction, licking the gathered fluid from his ridges, tonguing along the head, pressing forward with his throat relaxed and hollowing his cheeks.
When Spock cums, he makes an effort to pull away, but Jim won’t allow it, and he spills down his throat in a sensation that shouldn’t feel as good as it does. Jim breathes harshly through his nose, then through his mouth as Spock slowly withdraws. The Vulcan is shivering intermittently even in the warm atmosphere.
As he recovers, his XO cups him by the jaw to guide him upwards, until Spock can kiss him roughly, moaning softly again at the taste of himself in Kirk’s mouth. He makes room for Jim to kneel on the mattress between his legs.
He wonders when they reached this point. When did they cross the line from ‘friendly and professional’ to ‘staining his sheets’? Was it when Spock literally took off his pants? Or before that? Were they doomed from the moment that Spock had taken off his shirts instead of rolling up his sleeves? From the moment Kirk had caught sight of his ink, bloody and twisted in their shared bathroom mirror?
Maybe it was always going to happen. The further back he looks, the more it makes sense, so Kirk stops thinking about it.
“I would like-” Spock begins.
“Yes,” Jim replies instantly, “anything.”
Spock raises one amused eyebrow, although his cheeks are still flushed. “I could be requesting a transfer.”
Jim’s heart stops, but Spock just noses into his neck and starts kissing along his throat. “I would like to penetrate you. And no, I will not be requesting a transfer, unless you believe it to be necessary.”
“Definitely not necessary,” Jim agrees. “And yes, that sounds- yes. Please. But Spock, you should know-”
He stops, and Spock leans back to meet his eyes.
He swallows. Steels himself. Says fuck it, and takes the leap. “This… means something to me. Something that I can’t take back.”
Spock sighs slowly, gaze holding his own in a way that feels surprisingly piercing. “...I, as well, Jim. You are…”
The Vulcan opens and closes his mouth several times, then presses his lips together before finally finishing his sentence. “...You are important to me,” he says, like the words are inadequate. “It is… difficult to verbalize the true extent of this. But trust, at least, that your feelings are returned.”
Jim smiles tremulously, unexpectedly slapped in the face by the emotion of it all even though he’s the one who brought it up. “Okay,” he finally says. “Okay.”
Spock smiles in return, in that gentle, sturdy way of his that means he’s experiencing his own overwhelming waves of emotion. He sets their fingers together in an ozh’esta, their first Vulcan kiss. Jim resists the irrational urge to laugh giddily; he kisses him again with his lips to cover up his ever-growing smile.
He’s barely successful, although moreso when Spock tugs him into his lap in an easy display of Vulcan strength and slips his tongue past his front teeth. Kirk leans enthusiastically into the new support of his chest and hinges his jaw. His dick, only momentarily forgotten, is rapidly becoming interested again.
When Jim loses what little control he has and grinds forward, uneven, twitching motions that send sparks darting along his skin, Spock seems to take that as a signal to flip him on his back.
“How much do you value this particular pair of pants?” Spock asks, situated solidly between his knees.
“Not much, I guess? Why?”
Rather than replying verbally, Spock grasps at his calves, tugging quickly in a motion that tears the seams, then finding his waistband and ripping the fabric all the way off him. He puts his hands to the band of his boxers next and glances up.
“Jesus,” Kirk scoffs, laughing, although he’s far from unaffected. He shrugs and nods once, and Spock repeats the process with his underwear.
His dick twitches at the sudden exposure to open air. Spock eyes it with interest.
“Do you own supplies?” he says, still staring.
“Yeah,” replies Kirk, “in the- above the bed, that little drawer, you know the one-“
Spock reaches, and Jim is struck with a sudden gorgeous view of ink (the names, the Vulcan script) two inches from his nose so Spock can use his dominant hand.
Time begins to blur, as Spock asks permission once again before stretching him open with long, nimble fingers; Kirk is stuck in a haze of tattoos and muscles and Spock, pleasure sparking fragile and razor-sharp up his spine at unpredictable moments. He finds himself choking on a gasp, the air stuck in his throat as Spock finally pushes in; the first ridge of his sheath gets caught, and Jim knows the noise he makes is truly pathetic, but it’s good, all of it, even the things that shouldn’t be.
Spock is panting, his hands beginning to shake on Jim’s hips by the time he bottoms out. Gratifyingly, he’s making some embarrassing noises of his own, breathless moans and absent grunts and bitten-off whines.
It’s astonishingly single-minded, all of it. Kirk normally prides himself on his ability to carry a conversation while actively getting his brains fucked out, but he finds himself at a loss for words, too busy bouncing his attention between Spock’s eyes and the tattoos still visible of the outer sides of his biceps. His hips are rolling automatically, muscle memory thankfully keeping him from becoming a useless participant, but Spock doesn’t seem to care. He looks like he’s searching for words of his own, but his concentration is repeatedly shattered by the way he keeps looking over Jim’s body, his face, his cock.
The Vulcan is gradually gaining speed, steady and powerful like a goddamn locomotive, thorough and tireless in a way that has Jim’s brain lying in a puddle somewhere in the back of his skull. The longer he works, the more his touch feels like lightning. It’s almost too much, the mounting pleasure, and it's unfamiliar in a way that Jim doesn’t think he can attribute to his dry spell; it takes him far too long to realize that it’s a feedback loop, Spock’s lust bleeding into his own veins through skin contact. His shields must be breaking down.
It drives another desperate moan out of him, knowing what he does to his First Officer.
“Spock,” he breathes, startling himself out of his reverie. The pleasure punches him in the gut all over again, and he rocks halfway to sitting, trembling. “Spock,” he says again. He doesn’t have a follow-up in mind.
As if in response, something brushes his mind, a lingering caress from something familiar and new at once.
“Oh, god,” he says, although he’s never been a religious man. Somehow, this feels like a moment worthy of rapture. “Spock, is this- is this you?”
Spock slows dramatically, as if only noticing. The look on his face says that if he were a lesser man he’d be swearing a blue streak, but as it is he only grinds to a halt. “I- apologize. I will work to regain- control of my faculties. Immediately.”
“So it is you, then,” replies Jim. “That’s your mind- psychic contact?”
Spock only ducks his chin, looking intently at the sheets while catching his breath.
“Spock, that’s-” Kirk laughs. “It’s- you don’t need to apologize. It’s-”
‘Hot’ is the only descriptor that comes to his overburdened synapses, so rather than finish the sentence, he sets his lips with determination and thrusts forward as well as he can with his own mind, the whole of it all at once, in what is surely the psychic equivalent of a clumsy, full-body slam.
It’s a success, the reaching vines of his consciousness colliding and threading through the shimmery, golden-bright liquid of Spock’s own with enough force that Spock shudders, his hands clenching around Jim’s hips.
He can’t tell if those are Spock’s shields or if he’s bypassed them entirely, but Spock is breathing hard again, and suddenly he’s crowding him into the pillows. His forehead presses into Jim’s shoulder, exhales landing humid and scorching on his skin. His touch is sending zinging jolts through every point of contact, his mind reacting and responding.
“Jim,” is all Spock has to say. “May I…”
“Yes,” says Kirk without hesitation. Whatever the question, his answer is yes.
Slowly, tentatively, Spock’s mind opens up within the cocoon Jim’s made of his own, and out rushes his feelings, the oh-so-coveted things which he keeps under lock and key. Jim knows wisps of his own consciousness are slipping through the gate Spock has created, but since bits of Spock’s mind are mixing their way through his as well, he figures it’s fine. He’s more focused on the lust, the desire and care, the nerves, the anxiety, the sheer, overpowering obsession; every little feeling that’s running through Spock’s head, every emotion he can identify and some he can’t, all carried on an enormous wave of love. Pure, unfiltered love, for the crew, the Enterprise, for Vulcan and his family and every living creature they’ve met in the vastness of space, and for Jim, for Jim, for Jim. So much love. To Spock, fucking Jim is a way of channeling all the love he holds for everyone, everywhere- Jim himself among them, predominantly so, but far from isolated. Jim would probably find that weird if he wasn’t experiencing something astonishingly similar.
“Spock,” he whispers.
He knows that Spock probably already knows everything he’s feeling, what with his distinct lack of shields and the unhesitating way he had carried his entire consciousness into him, but he still takes a moment to offer up his own love, in a motion not dissimilar from offering his own heart on a silver platter. The viscera is a mess they will share.
Clean it up like any other tattoo, he thinks.
Spock sighs, lifting his chin to trace a syrupy kiss followed by his tongue up the length of Jim’s throat. Jim’s breath catches under his lips, and Spock, assured of his welcome, resumes the movement of his hips; slow at first, but quickly working back up.
“Spock,” he says again, all other words failing him. The pleasure jackknifes its way up his spine, pulling him into an arch, and the sparks that Spock drives into him live twice their normal lifespan in the cloud of their combined minds.
Spock groans. His knuckles are clenched white around the vertices of Jim’s pelvis, and the angle strikes something which feels all-encompassing, nearly whiting out his perception of his own body.
“Oh, oh-” says Kirk, past the point of shame. His vision is swimming, his head full of Spock and ink and Spock, love and the universe and his First Officer, tattoos and love and-
“-Spock!” he finally shouts as he cums, the orgasm washing over his brain, as disorienting as a proper tsunami. He distantly recognizes the shuddering thrusts of Spock’s own peak, and the residual telepathy of the sensation doubling over his aftershocks and making him squirm.
He breathes, coming down. Shivers work their way through his limbs. The tsunami recedes, and the lifeboat of his mind has finally navigated its way past the reef of Spock’s reservations, allowing him to finally, finally come in to shore.
Well.
Tea preference, check. Favorite flower, check. Tattoo origins- big fat check. As Spock sighs warmly and pulls out, collapsing with most of his body cradling Jim’s, Kirk begins thinking of which restaurants he knows have the longest dessert menus.
Meanwhile, Spock is focused on the warmth of Jim’s palm on the right side of his ribcage, the way the beat of his heart flutters vibrations through his own tissues and melts into Jim’s open hands. He immortalizes the sensation in his memory, and begins thinking of which artist would best capture the feeling in ink.