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There was much about Spock's body that was a mystery to him. He came from a particularly conservative strain of Vulcan culture and silence was all the education he had ever received around such personal topics as one's anatomy and the changes it may or may not undergo. It wasn't logical to withhold potentially helpful information, Spock knew this, just as he knew that it was likely that even had someone attempted to warn him about what his body was capable of, this all still would have come with some surprise.
First, he was sure nothing in the universe could have prepared him via intellectual avenues for what it felt like to have a mating bond savagely ripped apart by a slowly growing, irradiating gaggle of Death's fingers. He'd been unaware of the bond's existence until it began to buck and shudder with its coming demise, when Lt. Darwin had mentioned a miracle and by naming it, summoned its antithesis onto the ship. But that had not prevented him from being strongly effected when the unknown bond broke apart.
Second, he did not know that a weak, tiny mating bond that was so malnourished he hadn't even noticed it under the ache of every new broken place in his brain from his links to all of the newly dead Vulcans he'd been tied to, would come back stronger if it was killed. The absolute immensity of his grief or the nearly mystical power of Khan's blood or his lack of many other healthy bonds or, perhaps, some hitherto unknown other culprit that Spock's brain had yet to turn over had somehow resurrected necrotic tissue and stitched the bond even deeper than before. There was no ignoring it or miscategorizing it now. It was stronger than the ache. The first thing in Spock's brain that seemed to be.
Third, and perhaps most immediately alarmingly, he'd had no idea that if one sensed one's bondmate was ill while oneself had plenty of vitality to share, one began to do…
This.
Eyes wide but otherwise expressionless, Spock tried not to look at his own startled face in the mirror as he stood in the bathroom of Kirk's temporary lodgings in the med wing of Starfleet Headquarters. Avoiding making eye contact with himself, he stared down at the pair of masses rising on his pectorals instead and tried not to sigh. The breast tissue around his nipples had been swelling for the last few days, Spock trying to ignore it and the trip to Doctor McCoy that he did not want to make that it represented, and now they had reached a size that was most assuredly hard to hide.
The olive nipples stung, swollen just like the rest of Spock's chest but locked tight in their little circle of dark hairs, and, as Spock pressed down on the newly heavy weight of his breasts, a pearly bead of liquid welled up out of them. Creamy, thick, and warm from the inside of his body, milk dribbled down from both of his nipples, creeping toward his uniform pants. The top, black since Spock was off-duty as Kirk recovered and the Enterprise was repaired, was folded neatly beside the sink, two large damp spots standing out obviously in its front. His typical layer of undershirt and second layer of science blues may have hid the leaks better but the thin one-layered black was less forgiving.
As he watched the milk trickle down his space-pale skin, Spock's mind began a frantic march of potential courses of action and their potential results. How was he, liberated now from his saturated shirt, going to accomplish the trek through the med wing and then across Headquarters' grounds to his temporary lodgings without revealing himself?
Both he and McCoy had brought an outfit for Kirk to wear when he woke up fully and was able to leave the med wing, neither having communicated to the other of their similar plans, so there was a redundant shirt in the cabinet of Kirk's room. Perhaps, if he was not too terribly misshapen, Spock could wear it and change into something of his own when he returned to his tempquarters.
Spock looked down at his swollen breasts.
Perhaps, he amended, if he was quite clever, he could shove himself into Kirk's extra shirt without looking too ridiculous and change into something of his own when he returned to his tempquarters.
Short of stealing a medical gown, venturing from the med wing with his puffed up chest on display, or redressing in the soaked uniform shirt, it was the only course of action he could think of. Mind made up, he took to thinking through the second, much more immediate issue. He needed to express his breasts or they would simply soak the new shirt as quickly and as thoroughly as they had the first one.
Not wishing to ruin any more of his clothing, Spock liberated himself from his pants, folding them neatly and setting them beside the damp shirt. Standing there in his Starfleet briefs and black socks, he began to angle himself over the sink, grabbing one breast and making the nipple point down into the basin. He was reminded uncomfortably of a bovine posed above a pal but nonetheless gave a testing squeeze.
Milk did issue from him, but not as quickly as he'd wanted. He'd hoped to have been spared the indignity of having to stand like this for very long. But of course his body would choose to betray him once more and it would be logical to resign himself to the idea of taking his time here, risking discovery by McCoy with every minute he spent in the doctor's domain.
He had just made peace with spending a lengthy amount of time with the sink when he felt the bond make a fuzzy glimmer in the back of his head. Several times during his healing coma, Kirk had come close to consciousness before inevitably drifting back under and this flutter felt like Kirk swimming up to almost consciousness once more.
Spock froze. When the mind on the other side of its thread was stirring, the bond, which was so new, so fresh, so wild, became completely unignorable, Spock could not resist its draw toward Kirk.
Spock opened the bathroom door, peered around the track it hissed into and, seeing that the door to the med room proper was shut, quietly asked the room's computer to set the lock on Kirk's door to the privacy level where a medical officer was to signal before their entry except in an emergency. He then crept into the room and across the tiled floor to the bed where Kirk was half-propped on a handful of starched white pillows.
He looked down at the sleeping form of the man who had sacrificed himself for the lives of everyone on their ship. He looked down at George Kirk's son and he wondered about no-win scenarios and about the needs of the many over the one. He looked down at his injured but recovering bondmate, who only just finally started to look like a person again after appearing like an irradiated corpse for far too long, and with dry eyes, he wept milk.
Kirk's own eyes shifted restlessly behind their lids. His eyelashes were splayed damply across his dewy cheek and they twitched with the motion. His fingers too began to make aborted vibrations as though attempting to lift but not quite making it.
While as far as Spock knew, Kirk had no idea about the bond or what it truly meant to be bonded, he reacted to Spock's closeness as any sick Vulcan would react to their bondmate being nearby. His restlessness quieted as a delicate expression softened his sleeping face and his mind, pulped by the warpcore and the harshness of the healing that came after it, fuzzily twisted on the edge of Spock's awareness. There wasn't much sense in Kirk's thoughts but there were shapes, shadows, instincts. They grabbed at Spock clumsily and drew him even closer.
Spock perched on the edge of Kirk's bed, the lack of space causing his waist to be pressed up against Kirk's side. His human heat washed over Spock and the immediacy of his thoughts, clarified through the contact, thrilled through Spock. He tried to push his reaction down, burying it under shellacked layers of logic and control, but he found that he was just as powerless against the bond as Kirk was.
Though Pid-kom T'Pau had wanted Spock, descendant of Surak that he was, to follow tradition and have an arranged marriage chosen for him as a child, his parents had denied her this request. There were few things that his father could prevent his mother from doing when she became obstinate about it and Spock suspected, based on the gloating way she had come into his childhood bedroom and sat on the edge of his bed — much like Spock himself was now doing to Kirk's sickbed — and told him that if he was ever to bond, it would be for love and not for logic, that his lack of bond with T'Pring, T'Pau's choice for him, was a result of his mother's meddling.
On the day that he was supposed to be undergoing the ritual of initial bonding and learning what it meant to be a Vulcan husband, what a bond did to his brain, he had instead sat on a blanket in his mother's garden with his head in his mother's lap. As her warm fingers glided rhythmically through his dark hair, her warm voice recited illogical human stories of princesses swept away by whirlwind knights. Of princess corpses arranged in glass coffins — cryotubes — awaiting resurrection wrought by the touch of a lover.
Spock watched Kirk's chest rise and fall with his breath and contemplated the ridiculousness of a healing kiss. Kirk was not wrenched out of the clammy hands of the afterlife by the brush of lips against his own but by the medical expertise of Dr. McCoy, the strangely vigorous colonizing power of Khan's augmented blood over Kirk's own sluggishly pooling dead fluid, and by the broken bond's sickness wresting Spock's control from him and forcing him to drag Khan's unconscious form back to the Enterprise like a cat with a dead rodent.
Spock's eyes wandered up to Kirk's plump lips, quiet, soft, and slightly parted. His breathing seemed a bit labored but he was breathing. He was alive. He was recovering. Spock's heart pounded against his side and his restless fingers took on the task of smoothing the sheets of Kirk's biobed until they were absolutely pristine. He stared at Kirk's mouth as he did, probing at the bond and relishing the swirls of human thought that were kicked up with Spock's passage.
Prior to Uhura, Spock had never been kissed before. At this point in his life, Spock had not yet initiated such congress and thus, though he had been kissed, he had never himself kissed. Vulcans did not typically join their mouths together and Spock had not been particularly keen on the idea of trying it when Uhura had suggested it. But he had grown to like it. In a passive sense. He had liked pleasing Uhura. He had liked smelling her closeness and knowing that each time she connected their mouths, she was claiming him as an owned thing.
He had not kissed Kirk. Likewise, Kirk had never placed his shapely mouth on Spock. If Spock was an owned thing, as the vibrancy of the bond and its depth certainly suggested, he had yet to be fully claimed. He had yet to give of himself utterly to his bondmate.
Without thinking— which was not how Spock preferred to perform actions— but held instead under the influence of the bond and of emotions Spock tried not to acknowledge, Spock leaned toward Kirk. He brushed his cold mouth on the warm human skin of Kirk's temple. The meldpoint there snarled across the dense cluster of nerves in Spock's lips and rocketed through Spock's entire telepathic system.
The brush had, like a shot of an intoxicant directly into the bloodstream, overwhelmed Spock, and he reeled slightly for a moment, feeling as though the gateway to another cosmic reality had opened within his skin and then just as quickly shut again. Lightning fizzled through him and every arc of its bolting energy lashed Spock with the taste of Kirk. The very essence of who he was.
At the touch, at the suggestion of the purified ecstasy of a meld, Spock felt Kirk's soul drip over into his mouth.
Taking a sharp breath to try and steady himself when he felt as though he was holding to sensible, controlled civilization with a thread so thin as to be nearly non-existent, Spock straightened again. His breasts were dripping copiously now, his body aware that his bondmate's mind was connected to meat that was as of yet still in need of healing and was doubly convinced of it having sampled on that mind.
Kirk was dreaming. Wild, frenetic dreams that were a blur of insensible images and feelings. He'd felt Spock, playing at the edges of him, but he hadn't recognized him. He couldn't really recognize much at all in the state he was in. He was interior and confused, but he didn't reject Spock or his probing. Merely moved alongside them in a whimsical stupor.
Spock's resolve crumbled around him. He could not be expected to be able to control the both of them. To be able to think for the both of them. To make decisions for the both of them. He could barely keep himself under control; he could not hold them both. But Kirk fell around him with a simple trust, accepting him, allowing him to do what he wished.
Proving that he was ill-equipped for the task of caring for Kirk without his own hedonism getting in the way, Spock again leaned forward and again rested his lips on Kirk's forehead. He left them there this time, taking advantage of the unconscious man, feeding on his dreams. Feeding on his mind. Feeding on his soul.
Spock kissed him and feasted quietly on him and when Kirk's fuzzy wooziness took over Spock's own mind, rather than righting them both, Spock surrendered to him. He drifted away from Kirk's temple and down to his mouth, smearing his own across Kirk's jawline and then onto his lips.
There was barely any response in the lips beneath Spock's but the mind bumping up against his began to ache elegantly. Desire flowed in Kirk's thoughts, his dreams baptizing themselves in it, and hunger blossomed like a flower under the life-giving rain.
Kirk's eyelids fluttered and his twitching fingers began to beat a steady thrum of tapping sounds against the biobed mattress. He didn't kiss Spock back, didn't have the brain capacity to understand what was happening to him or how to coordinate his body to respond to it, but he moved his lips slightly. He gave a weak kind of suck to Spock's bottom lip, making a mumbling sound deep in his throat. It wasn't words, but something primal and almost dangerous. Spock could lose himself in seeking after such noises, in making them louder and more violent.
He moved away, breathing quickly and shallowly and unsteadily, and felt Kirk's kash-tepul lingering on him, fizzling in his nerves. He tingled with it and shivered and tried to summon up great lashing ropes of shame to make him stop what he was about to do.
He tried to bring to mind his father's visage, face totally expressionless yet disappointment somehow shimmering obviously in the depths of his dark eyes nonetheless. Spock had been the recipient of such a look often enough that his eidetic memory should have been able to recall it easily. Instead, the image kept crumbling apart under the throbbing of his breasts, of the bond, of Kirk's broken body on the other end of it. He was mending, but so painstakingly slowly. Spock could quicken it, could help him, could spill fluid in a healing ritual like an ancient priestess.
Spock's eyes darted to the medroom door and then to the windows, double-checking their opacity. He quickly calculated how long ago McCoy had stopped by to check on his patient, how long ago the nurses had come in to perform Kirk's hygiene tasks, how likely they all were to adhere to the routine they'd already established, and how much time that left to Spock.
It seemed sufficient, but the calculations themselves made Spock pause. There was now a premeditation aspect to his actions. There was now a kind of logic to them, which made him culpable. Which should have, Spock thought, made him stop.
But just as the imagined sight of Sarek's utterly smooth scowl had proven ineffective at forcing Spock to cease his actions, so too did this new kind of guilt he doused himself with prove to make Spock pause for only a moment. He had leaked so much, it was clumping in his chest hair and staining the waistband of his briefs. Sighing, he stood and experimentally held his left breast.
More milk dribbled from the nipple and onto his hand at his touch. As he squeezed himself more purposefully, it spewed between his fingers, turning his skin sticky and dripping. It flowed through all the riverbeds of his palm and down his arm, wetting the hair there before pattering to the floor. He watched it dispassionately.
Vulcans were not supposed to produce so much, to be so wasteful when they lived in such a resource-poor environment. A faint touch of horror swirling in his gut, Spock was forced to acknowledge that his hybrid nature had again asserted itself. He would lactate for his bondmate in a way that only a Vulcan could, but he would do it in a decadent manner that was decidedly human.
His humanity was once again creating a mess. A literal one this time. A hard to ignore, hard to hide, hard to confront mess.
Kirk made another throaty sound in his sleep. This one was turned upwards with a light kind of distress coloring the noise. His side of the bond, woken into greater consciousness from Spock's mingling with it, now let off a warning spasm of discomfort. Despite Spock's meddling, Kirk's mind was still far below true intelligent wakefulness and in its childlike desperation, it called out piteously for Spock. Kirk wanted Spock's touch, even if he was unable to know why he did or to communicate to Spock that he wanted it.
The simplicity to the want made Spock make his own quiet sound. When he couldn't rely on language, on the endless stream of jokes that he always hid behind, when he was utterly vulnerable and pure, Kirk was irresistible. The annoyance that Spock typically felt toward him, affectionate though it may have been, had melted into a slag that was drowning Spock. He had not realized that without the annoyance there would be nothing else connecting him to Kirk other than a bottomless devotion. Seeing it in stark relief without being hidden under a slurry of frustration made Spock recognize it for what it was and almost indulge in embarrassment over its strength.
There was no point in fighting it, Spock knew. He was bonded. He was only mortal. It would take a Golian monk, it would take Surak himself, it would take the consecrated power of a god's will, it would take something so much more divine than Spock's unclean spirit to be able to resist a bondmate crying out so pathetically. His brain burned with it.
He released his breast and shuffled Kirk around on his bed. The human was no help at all, lolling in a complete deadweight even as Spock's returned nearness excited his neurons, but humans were light enough that it was no great difficulty for Spock to get onto the bed and place Kirk in his lap. He cradled the warm human face against his chest and used his free hand to gently run his fingers through Kirk's short hair. It felt wonderful against his fingertips and the relaxing of Kirk's restless eyes behind their lids made Spock aware that his fingertips felt wonderful to Kirk as well.
After the destruction of Vulcan, Spock had been convinced that he would never be bonded. If he ever went through his pon farr, which with every passing year seemed to get less and less likely, then it would kill him. He had made peace with this fact. Had made peace with its likelihood as early as leaving his homeplanet for the Academy, if he was to be thoroughly honest. He had made peace with his lack of compatibility with other Vulcans as soon as he had felt it. He was to die alone. Spock had been so sure of it.
And maybe that would have been preferable. He was not sure he could live with this new ache inside him. This need he could not control. He wanted illogical things. Senseless things. He wanted to be so close to Kirk that he was crawling into his skin. He wanted to be melded with him always, intoxicated by the wonder of their minds dissolved together. He wanted Kirk inside him.
Spock stopped caressing Kirk, fumbled with a swollen breast, and led it to Kirk's slack mouth. He gasped before he could stop himself when his nipple rubbed across Kirk's lip and it left white droplets on the pink skin that Kirk automatically lapped off, making a pleased noise.
Kirk's mouth began to move with more intention, lips unmistakably smacking even though they appeared rubbery and clumsy. His hand had been dropped curled in his lap as Spock cradled him but now it twitched and then clutched at Spock. There wasn't much strength in the grip but it didn't matter. Spock was ensnared regardless.
Eyebrows inverting into a pained expression, Spock insistently fed his puffy, leaking nipple to Kirk. After a moment, some instinct activated in Kirk and he began to latch in earnest. He was weak, luckily, which let him be gentle with his teeth as he began tugging at Spock, but there was still strength or hunger enough in him to draw the fluid out.
Spock had not felt such a sensation before. There was something sexual to it, but not overtly, not like the time that Uhura had placed her lips on his wrist, had sucked on his fingers. But there was also something innocent to it, something comforting. Spurred by that second sensation, he thought for a moment about his mother. Amanda had been ill-equipped against the strength of a Vulcan infant's esta-avon, the hunger for touch and the telepathic connection it provided, and her allowance of the demands of Spock's had led to him weaning much later than the cohorts in his age group who were being raised by Vulcan mothers. He recalled the sense of all-consuming safety and love that he felt in his mother's arms. The touch of her dynamic mind beneath his small, cold fingers and beneath his small, cold tongue.
But as Kirk, still asleep, still gently kneading at Spock's torso, applied his tongue, sloppy and uncoordinated though it was, sex washed away solace and, uncomfortable, Spock exorcised thoughts of his mother. Instead, he conjured up images of Kirk's lively face, usually so much more expressive than it was now. Spock thought of the many kinds of grins that Kirk could make, pulling the memories out of the neat categories he had organized them into. He rotated before his awareness Smile #47, the one that Kirk produced any time he made an innuendo or off-color "joke", and Smile #31, the one that Kirk produced when attempting to seduce a stranger into his bed for the evening.
The mouth shape was similar in both cases, as was the way that his eyes became heavy-lidded. But there was a slightly different shade to his glimmering eyes beneath their heavy lids and fluttering lashes between the two kinds of smiles, something a little more mischievous in #47, a grin that Kirk had often enough gifted to Spock, than in #31, a grin which he never had.
Spock merged the memories together, imagined how Kirk might look with a Smile #47/31, how he might look at Spock now if he had been fully awake and conscious. A shiver drove through Spock, bottoming out between his legs and crawling through his breasts. Kirk's tongue, soft though it was, speared Spock with thick suggestion, a violent slash over his nerves.
His mother completely forgotten, Spock thought briefly of Kirk's mother instead. A shadowy figure that Spock had never seen, that Kirk had never seemed desirous to talk about, but who must have once held him like Spock now was. She was insubstantial, a ghost left behind in dull Iowan farmland years ago, while Spock was here, skin against skin, solid, with her son.
There had been a rebirth, had there not? A soul ripped from the jaws of that Other Plane from whence katric energy originates and returns to? Life blossoming where before there had been none? There was few other labels that Spock could put on the event of several days ago other than "birth". And if Kirk's resurrection had been a birth, had Spock not been the one who had bled for it? Who had had his body beaten, bruised, torn in order to bring Kirk back? Had he not given his body for the work of Kirk's resurrection?
The doctor was the one who had inserted the elixir of augment blood into Kirk's sleeping corpse and been the one to cycle the radiation out of his cells, but Spock was the one who had made it all possible. Spock had brought him back. Spock had birthed him.
Kirk's mouth became more insistent, pulling on Spock in a way that was almost becoming painful. Milk flowed readily and spilled over Kirk's clumsy lips, dripping down his chin and down Spock's chest. More of it, however, was, luckily, going down Kirk's throat.
Having never read the literature on the subject with any depth of study, Spock was not sure what exactly made up his mammary secretions, only that the health benefits of such fluid had been many and varied. He was glad to see so much of it swallowed, assured by it that Kirk's recovery would be quick and absolute. Spock was, yet again, giving his body to Kirk. Assisting him. Mothering him. And Kirk would find his strength and rise up, back to his puissant self, because of Spock's assistance.
Delicately, as though Kirk's flesh was made of porcelain, Spock's fingers found Kirk's face. He brushed them over his cheek, tracing the bone with his thumb. Kirk's lashes danced at the contact and he sighed, a grin stretching the sucking lips. It was not one that Spock had seen before — not least of all because of the seeping nipple caught in the middle of it — but a new smile. #73. A sleepy, content, sated smile.
Spock hardened within his sheath at the sight of it.
It was… unseemly to become aroused by an unconscious man. Doubly so if one was caring for that unconscious man. Spock had let this go on for much longer than he should have and if he had any sense of propriety, any understanding of morality, he would stop it. He would pull Kirk off of himself, place him back in his bed, return to expressing his overly-full breasts into the sink, change into Kirk's clothes, and then move to his temporary quarters as quickly as he could without arousing suspicion.
Thoroughly chastised but not any less stimulated, Spock got as far as guiding Kirk off of himself. But as the freed nipple continued to spew and washed messily over Kirk's face, Spock found himself cradling the head in his other arm and giving Kirk the other dripping breast rather than releasing him. Kirk's sticky mouth latched to the second nipple with even less coaxing than he had with the first one and he immediately began to tongue at it, gulping down the fluid that it offered him in response.
Spock sucked in a breath, swallowing the moan that had wanted to rise from his throat, but was not any less loud for his efforts. In their new position, Kirk's buttocks, partially exposed under the thin medbay gown, had become more aligned with the crotch of Spock's briefs. As Kirk fussed and pawed at Spock's chest, the heat of his ass repeatedly brushed against the emerging erection as it pressed against the fabric it was trapped beneath.
Kirk was clueless to what he was doing to Spock. He was completely senseless. Every time that Spock sampled the bond, the thoughts from the other side were just as jumbled as they had been the last time. Kirk was more awake now, and Spock sensed that easily enough, but he was not any more truly conscious. He was dreaming on the other side of the bond, but the dreams were little more than a syrupy morass of feelings.
He felt much as Spock did: warm, held, safe, cherished. With an undercurrent of inappropriate ruttishness. For Kirk, such lustfulness was practically baseline but Spock was certainly agitating it to greater heights with his own. Kirk's penis, human and vulnerable and exposed, was not entirely flaccid as it rested against Spock, but his sickness or his lack of true wakefulness kept it from inflating all the way. Spock had no similar deterrents and could not be sufficiently reigned in by his shame or by his control, so his own cock continued to grow, pressing out of his sheath and into his underwear.
Kirk ground against it unwittingly as he shifted in Spock's lap, his vigor returning slightly and manifesting as eagerness. Kirk pulled at Spock's nipple with hungry zeal, accompanied now with a brush of teeth and a brush of tongue. He gulped and swallowed and drank Spock down like he was ambrosial nectar and his hand, rather than more or less impotently and mindlessly kneading at him, now gripped Spock almost savagely.
Milk slopped in the corners of Kirk's mouth and dribbled down his chin. It was everywhere now: all over Kirk's face, clotted even in his thick eyebrows, and had wetted Kirk's thin gown so much that it clung to his shape. His nipples, nowhere near as swollen and prominent as Spock's, nonetheless puckered under the soaked gown. Spock could see them beneath the adhering cloth with little trouble and there was something in seeing them that way, even when Spock had seen them completely bare before, that was more suggestive than mere nakedness.
As Kirk yanked on Spock's breast, chugging down the liquid he caused to spill, his eyelids began to flutter in earnest and then they parted minutely. He looked up at Spock, though barely open-lidded and the blue depths cloudy. He did not seem to quite fully recognize him but stared up with a vacant and sweet smile softly twisting his busy lips, sighed contentedly, and then closed his eyes once more.
Spock trilled against the bond, trying to settle himself down by reminding himself that Kirk's brain was drugged and stupefied. But Kirk's mind was beginning to ignite, dampened still by the radiation and all that Dr. McCoy had given him to counteract it, and his dreams had begun to thicken with actual substance.
He was already, so quickly, becoming bolstered by Spock's life-giving fluid.
Spock moaned, closer to ejaculation than he should have been with only Kirk's bare buttocks rubbing slowly over a layer of clothing as stimulus to his cock. His nipples stung and spurted and his body, reminded by it, wished to seek after more of the ecstatic sensation of expelling fluid.
He himself wanted it, wished it, could think of nothing else but it. There was a bond in his head, new and alive and repaired, and his bondmate's flesh against his own. His nipples and cock and every great bundle of nerves in his body, so full of Kirk's touch, felt like great open wounds that would gush forth exultant blood. Spock would bleed out for Kirk, would offer everything for Kirk, to Kirk, liquefy himself into a streaming libation.
With another moan, this one longer and darker, Spock came.
He had barely exited his sheath so while it soaked into his briefs as well, his expulsion mostly slopped over his labia and puddled in the opening of his sheath. But as Kirk continued to move, he continued to rub himself against Spock, jostling the cum and smearing it all over Spock's trapped cock.
Spock's orgasm careened through the bond, ricocheting as wild tendrils of light through Kirk's consciousness. In his stupor he didn't quite understand Spock's pleasure but he didn't seem to mind and reveled in it as though it was his own. He pulled it into himself and began to shiver and shake with it, finally extricating himself from Spock's nipple. He spat it out, the stream of milk now a lackluster trickle, and breathed heavily, mouth open, against the skin of Spock's breast. His human heat sank into Spock, turning him molten. He'd been jellified by his orgasm and left as nothing but a wad of magma.
He was barely able to keep himself upright and leaned heavily against the backboard of Kirk's biobed. Kirk sank forward with him, weighing him down that much more, nuzzling his milk-stained face in Spock's chest hair.
Spock closed his eyes and breathed meditatively, grasping for the steadying force of logic even as he knew such an aim would turn out to be fruitless. He was too far gone for it. He had, as he'd always had a habit towards, tipped over the boundary into emotion. He'd been conquered by it. He would not recover, not fully, until he got some space between himself and the source of the stimulus.
The source of the stimulus looked up toward Spock, blue eyes cracking open slightly again and slowly grinned Smile #73. Spock stared back, unable to wrench his gaze away from the cherubic face beneath it, and before too long #73 drooped into Smile #74, an even sleepier, even more sated smirk. With a few heavy blinks, Kirk's eyes closed again, his smile softening even more but not fading completely.
Spock couldn't look at him, couldn't stand facing the glow about him that rendered him into the most beautiful creature that Spock had ever beheld, but he couldn't manage to make himself look away either. He watched as Kirk drifted back into the deeper sleep that more commonly characterized his coma and only then was able to force his own eyes closed.
Contemplating the darkness behind their lids may have been worse, however. Now there was nothing to focus on but the sparking vibrancy of the bond singing in Spock's head. It had retreated as Kirk slipped back beneath layers of consciousness but it was so unmistakably alive and full that, even so, it struck Spock as the embodiment of ultimate rapture. Such a vibrant spiritual euphoria pulsating in his mind was difficult to ignore, weakened somewhat though it was.
There was a slight fear in Spock that he had spent much too long on his activities and a nurse was sure to barge in at any second and discover the mess that Spock had made. But despite that faint terror, he sat, cradling Kirk and half-dozing for a few long, luxuriating moments.
A few moments was all the further liberties that Spock could spare after he had so thoroughly allowed himself to be manumitted out of the proper bounds of morality by his instincts and by the perversions of his bond. Before he completely surrendered, he forced himself up and wrestled Kirk into one of the new gowns that Spock found folded up next to his extra outfits in the antiseptic-looking cabinet that housed a few of Kirk's belongings and a few medical tools. He then dressed himself in the t-shirt and jeans folded up in the same cabinet and though they fit him poorly, they smelled like Kirk enough that Spock did not mind. He manipulated a strange, Earth contraption that zipped two sets of metal teeth together until Kirk's soft, leather jacket closed around him and hid Spock's breasts under it.
He was ready to leave. He should leave. He needed to go home as quickly as possible.
Instead, he lingered. He kept finding his fingers dancing over Kirk's head, twiddling around his meldpoints and then caressing his cheek. Spock did not want to stop touching him. But he had to.
Spock took another long caress over Kirk's face and turned away from him. He could hear someone approaching down the hall, quick and bouncing footfalls that certainly belonged to Dr. McCoy, and he did not want to be seen in Kirk's jacket by the doctor. He would no doubt misread it as Spock needing the emotional comfort of closeness with one of Kirk's belongings in lieu of closeness with Kirk himself. He would not understand.
Spock pulled himself away from Kirk and refused to weep at the seperation, even as it burned in his eyes. Instead, he felt the corners of his lips moving, the fullness of the bond-delight in him so absolute it spilled out through his lips like a special kind of drool.
He smiled, perhaps his own Smile #1, and if he had had a mirror to look at it with, he would have recognized it as remarkably similar to Amanda's.
A mother's smile.