Another diplomatic mission, another treaty, another planet joining the Federation. Another party to celebrate.
Jim does like it; there’s music and food and dancing and the Queen’s daughter is all smiles and flirtations. Jim responds politely with smiles of his own, out of obligation really, but truth is that he can’t get his eyes off Spock.
Spock, who looks incredible, impossible, unreachable in the traditional attire of the planet, a space-black short-sleeved tunic that barely covers his upper thighs, made of a soft, sinful, silk-like material. Black is the most flattering colour on Spock, -Jim knows, Jim has dutifully stared countless times- it matches his beautiful hair and brings out the faint green tinge of his skin and the deep, warm brown of his eyes.
Jim can’t help being distracted with all that skin exposed.
Spock doesn’t usually show this much skin. He isn’t ashamed of his body, by any means, but Jim knows he prefers to cover up if he can choose.
Jim wants touch Spock everywhere. Find out if his hair is as silky as it looks, lock eyes with him openly as they make love. He feels dizzy with how much he wants and needs this stunning man, he’s breathless at the sight of those lean, thin but chiselled muscles on Spock’s arms and legs that hide superhuman strength Jim wants Spock to use on him freely.
Jim blinks out of his daydreaming and smiles when Bones hands him a glass of some kind of alien champagne. It’s lovely, bubbly and sweet and fruit-based. Spock takes a glass too and Jim is so, so pleased. He adores seeing Spock just enjoying himself and having a pleasant enough time that he looks just a little bit relaxed.
“At least we don’t gotta wear those damned dress uniforms,” Bones is saying, “this tunic feels smoother than a lady’s lips. Makes you feel all snug an’ warm.”
Jim can feel himself smile as he watches Spock’s eyebrow shoot up, anticipating Spock’s amicable but biting answer.
“I lack the experience to agree with your assessment. However, it does seem plausible, if somewhat inappropriate.”
Spock looks so concerned for Bones’ integrity that Jim barely contains a laugh.
Bones sighs dramatically.
“We’ll fix you a nice girl yet.”
“I should hope not.”
Jim laughs bodily at that and meets Spock’s gaze, warm and amused and so soft. Sometimes, Jim thinks he isn’t the only one longing for something other than friendship, but he’s too afraid that he’s misreading this. That he’s only seeing what he wants to see.
He hears the music change into a sweet, hot beat that is eerily similar to a love song from the early 21st century that has always done something to him. A hand tugs at his wrist, and he sees the Queen’s daughter looking hopefully at him.
“Please, Captain Kirk, will you dance with me?”
She pulls him towards where others are dancing to the tune, but he doesn’t follow immediately. Instead, he stays still for a moment longer, his eyes fixed on Spock’s, and Spock’s on his.
Out of nowhere, or perhaps out of his very soul, Jim tells him:
“Darling, save the last dance for me.”
He meant to say it jokingly, teasingly. He didn’t mean to make it sound half that sweet, seductive even, rough-voiced, but that’s how it comes out. Before Jim has time to panic, Spock’s eyebrows rise very, very high and Jim is being pulled off balance and is whipping around to finally follow the Princess.
Jim dances time after time, makes conversation about stars and poetry and flowers, and tries to look like he’s invested in the whole thing and not completely numb and replaying Spock’s expression over and over in his head, trying to figure out whether his surprise was tinged with appreciation or with disgust.
Jim is exhausted, more mentally than physically, but it must be late by now. The party should be about to end any minute. He plays dumb at the Princess’ blatant flirting and thinks about putting himself to bed and trying not to think that he might find Spock’s resignation letter on his desk tomorrow morning.
The last song ends on a hopeful instrumental solo and there’s a long silence. This must be it. It must be over. He meets the Queen’s daughter’s eyes, ready to say his goodbyes, and watches them shift from sweet to terrified in the space of a second.
“The Queen requested your presence.” There is severity in Spock’s voice, almost a threat.
A familiar, hot, long-fingered hand touches Jim’s shoulder decisively-- possessively? Jim can only dream. The Princess skitters off without so much as a nod. Jim whips around, and Spock is there. Close. Intimately so.
“You expressed the wish to dance with me.” His voice is deep, rough, as though his throat is as tight as Jim feels his own. “I instructed the performers to inform me before the beginning of the last tune.” Jim is all eyes. There is no mistaking the heat, the passion in Spock’s eyes. “Do you still wish to-“
“Yes,” Jim says way too quickly. “Yes.”
The tips of Spock’s ears are green. There’s cautious amusement in his eyes.
Strong arms pull Jim close very slowly, very carefully. They wrap around him with the gentlest attention, then settle on the back of his shoulder and on the small of his back. Jim positively shudders. The music starts. Slow, sweet, loving. A steady beat. Jim could make love with Spock to a song just like this one.
They are chest to chest. Spock leans forward and rests his head on Jim’s shoulder. Jim feels him release a breath that feels like it’s been held for years. Hard nipples touch Jim’s through the ludicrously thin fabric of their tunics. Jim shivers, feels much more than his nipples harden in response. He wraps his arms around Spock, delicately as if he’s asking permission but wishing he could hold him desperately as if he’s never gonna let go ever again.
Spock’s grip tightens as he starts swaying them back and forth and around in small circles. Nothing complicated, sweet as can be, romantic. Jim exhales, lets his forehead sink against the front of Spock’s shoulder and just… breathes him in. Inhales deeply. Drinks the feel and heat of him. God, how he loves him. It’s overwhelming and it fills him with an incredulous joy as he lingers on the thought that maybe Spock feels something for him too.
Spock leans to the side, presses his head against Jim’s, ears touching. Jim’s heart is pounding. He leans in in turn. He can’t breathe.
Then, Spock does the unthinkable. In an almost not-there touch, his thin, hot, dry, perfect lips are on Jim’s neck for a long, drawn-out moment. Jim gasps. It’s a request, a plea, an offer. A ‘you may reject me now before I expose myself too much’, and Jim can’t have that. No. Spock must know how badly Jim wants this, wants him.
“I…” want you, love you, need you, have waited so long for this… His throat is tight, so tight. “Spock. Please.”
Spock breathes unevenly against his skin.
“I shall give you anything you wish, Jim,” he murmurs.
His voice is deeper than Jim has ever heard it.
Jim doesn’t stop moving in time with the music, with Spock, but he does pull back and grab him by the upper arms. Naked, hard, trembling arms. Their eyes meet.
“What do you wish?”
Again, Jim’s words come out too intense, too insistent. But Spock doesn’t seem scared. His eyes match how Jim feels: too much, not enough, in seventh Heaven, in the lowest circle of Hell.
Spock’s gaze drops to Jim’s lips. Jim can’t hear the music anymore, only the thrumming of his blood rushing feverishly in his ears. He can’t even blink. He must watch this. Please, universe, please let this happen.
Spock does close his eyes. He leans forward, and their lips touch for a miraculous moment. Dryly, blessedly. Their noses bump. They gasp as one as they both lean timidly to one side, then the other, trying to angle themselves to kiss properly and failing. Jim chuckles nervously. He feels like he’s at his first ever kiss. He can’t process anything that isn’t the here and now, that isn’t Spock’s body jerking with impatience as he grabs Jim’s chin, holding him still as he leans decisively to the left and kisses him hard, demandingly, possessively, mineminemine and yoursyoursyours while his other hand fists Jim’s tunic like it’s his only hold to reality.
Jim melts into the kiss, his legs going weak with the passion radiating in shockwaves from his supposedly frigid First Officer. He grabs Spock’s biceps as hard as he can, fingers digging into the strong flesh and tearing a little sound from Spock that makes Jim’s belly make a double flip. He plasters himself against Spock like he’s wanted to do for ages, chest to chest, hip to hip, legs entwined, and kisses back fiercely. There’s a hardness poking at his abdomen that he cannot possibly misinterpret, that makes him dizzy with want, so he rocks into Spock to show, to say I know, I know, me too, I want you too.
Spock inhales sharply and breaks the kiss only to follow up with more, briefer kisses, little hungry pecks that scream affection mixed with desire. They are no longer swaying with the music, only with the push and pull of their needy kisses, with their own tune, their own rhythm, that harmony they always have whenever they’re together, working in tandem, moving in synch. How could Jim think their bodies weren’t meant to touch in every way two humanoids can touch? That Spock didn’t feel exactly like Jim? It seems ridiculous now.
Jim takes that hot, soft lower lip in between his, sweetly, sensually, savouring the feeling. Spock’s whole body leans forward -he’s hard as steel, gods almighty, Jim is going to have a stroke- as he throws his head back, desperately trying to stop the motion, keep his composure.
He sounds wrecked, breathless. And Jim -Jim!- did that. Jim is going to faint.
“Would you…” he clears his throat. He sounds more overwhelmed than Spock does. Feels like he is, too. “Would you care for some… more private dancing?”
Spock swallows, hard. Jim has to look away. Let Spock say yes. Let Jim be able to latch onto that fluttering pulse point and never move his mouth from there.
“Am I to assume you are employing a common euphemism for sexual intercourse?”
“Yes. Yeah. If you want, I mean, if-“
“That would be… most agreeable.”
The music has already ended, who knows how long ago. Jim was too enthralled in the feel of Spock to notice or care. He was too wrapped up in this new world of them to remember that there are others.
They separate quickly, eagerly, but for two fingers Spock wraps around two of Jim’s, like pinkie-promising but done with your index and middle. Jim feels a warmth radiating from Spock, like tangible affection, like a loving hug or a soft kiss, and Jim remembers. Touch telepath. He squeezes down gently on those fingers and tries to convey the shivering warmth he feels at the thought that Spock wants him back.
They say their goodbyes too hurriedly, try not to meet McCoy’s appalled yet secretly approving gaze, order Scotty to beam them up too breathlessly. Jim doesn’t spare a glance for the ensign manning the transporter, instead straight up grabs Spock’s hand and makes a run for his quarters. He feels like a teenager. Spock is barely half a step behind him, radiating heat and excitement, the front of his left shoulder touching the back of Jim’s right.
They exchange smiling glances in the turbolift. Jim’s body is shaking with YES and FINALLY.
When the door to Jim’s quarters opens, he moves to pin Spock right against it. Instead, he finds himself pushed to the centre of the room with the force of the collision of Spock’s body into his, Spock’s lips on his, control forgotten, teeth clashing, tongues meeting for the first time on Jim’s gasp of surprise. Jim holds on for all he’s worth, hands in Spock’s, squeezing and releasing and massaging as their tongues dance together, as they devour each other.
Spock is rubbing himself all over Jim. He’s so hard and he feels unbelievable. Jim is leaking already just from the friction and the passionate kisses. He knew, hoped Spock would be like this. He never does anything by half. Jim is more than happy to thrust in synch against that gorgeous body he wants to unwrap like a present and to let his breath be stolen by the feel of a long, slightly rough-textured alien tongue exploring his mouth methodically and mercilessly.
Jim pulls back to breathe. No way he can manage enough brainpower to breathe through his nose. Spock is panting. He’s pressing two fingers against Jim’s and caressing insistently, up and down and between Jim’s fingers. Jim entwines them with Spock’s instead and brings that elegant hand to his mouth, kisses it on a bony knuckle. Spock gasps.
“What does this mean?” he asks, putting their fingers back in the position Spock has shown him.
Spock takes a deep breath, eyes closed. When he blinks them open, the look he gives Jim is open, almost lazy, languid. He shifts their hands into a ta’al, except their palms are touching.
“I cherish thee,” Spock says, both with great effort and with the greatest ease.
Jim’s heart is soaring. This is it. Grinning like the fool he is, he grabs Spock’s arms, then his face. Pulls him close, hard, and proceeds to kiss the breath out of his Vulcan. His. Jim is bursting with happiness. He kisses and kisses and kisses, fast and sloppy and open-mouthed.
“I love you.” Kiss. “So much.” Kiss. “God, Spock.” Kiss. “You have no idea.” He presses their foreheads together, breathes Spock’s air. “I’m hopelessly in love with you.” His eyes are wet. He’s almost tearing up with happiness. “Please, let me make love to you.”
He’s so breathless and emotional as he says it, he fears Spock will be scared with the intensity.
Spock isn’t. Spock inhales a choking breath, tries to throw his head back against Jim’s hold, eyes fluttering closed.
“Oh, Jim. Gladly.” His hand runs through Jim’s hair and Jim feels each and every one of them perk up with anticipation. Jim’s hands fall to Spock’s neck and shoulder as Spock leans back and presses Jim’s face into the crook of his neck. “My Jim, ashayam, Please.”
Spock smells like a dream. They’re both shaking. Jim breathes in, trying to get a hold of himself, then touches worshipping kisses on that long neck, a racing pulse underneath his lips, Spock keening and his head lolling back, exposing as much of himself to Jim as possible. The hand that isn’t in Jim’s hair fists Jim’s tunic, demands him closer.
Jim kisses every line of that splendid flesh, mouth open, suckling tenderly, tonguing everywhere he can reach. Spock whimpers and tugs at Jim’s hair, and Jim is going to go crazy with lust. He scrapes his teeth across a slack jaw, licks at the skin there and listens to the tiny breathless sounds that escape Spock’s lips, lets them excite him to the point of pain and smiles, beams with it. He finally allows himself to run his hand through Spock’s hair. Yes, it is soft. Silky and very heavy, though thin. Jim rests his hand there and vows never to move it.
Spock cries out when Jim places a line of tiny, light hickeys from the junction of his neck and shoulder to the obviously sensitive spot below a green-flushed ear. Jim feels light-headed. He sucks on the earlobe, takes it between his teeth -“Oh! Oh, Jim!”-, licks the shape of the shell until he can fit his lips around that gorgeous pointed tip and finally find out what the hard-soft cartilage under the skin feels like.
Spock’s cry is almost a sob, and his fingers pull at Jim’s hair until Jim is pulling away, gasping with the pleasure-pain and the unexpected wave of not-his burning, crushing need washing his whole body with boiling heat.
Stunned and ecstatic, Jim tugs a willing, eager Vulcan towards the bed, sits on the mattress only to have his eyes roll back into his skull when Spock oh-so-carefully sits on his lap, heavy and hot and perfect.
Gently, Jim pulls him close. Their eyes meet, bodies in full contact. They fit so beautifully, Jim could stay like this forever if he couldn’t feel Spock’s very soul pressed on his, touching it all over, embracing it, and he needs more. Spock needs more. A shaking hand comes to Jim’s meld points and is immediately covered with a cooler, human hand.
“Please,” he begs.
Then, he’s gone.
Jim falls. He falls for an endless length of time. Ages, seconds, it does not matter. He watches the darkness above him fade, fade into light, and he realizes he isn’t falling at all. He’s being pulled. He’s being pulled through a shapeless void that he can’t feel, can’t perceive but for the knowledge that it is there. He’s being pulled into a warmth that is like water and blankets and gentle arms and love. Warm, warm, just the right temperature. It feels like bliss. Heaven must feel just like this.
Then, yes, the arms around him are real. Embracing him from behind, catching his fall, pulling him in is Spock. More than that, it is Spock’s very being, his soul. Jim touches Spock’s arms in this not-dream not-reality, and Spock folds around him, into him, legs entwining, chest plastered to Jim’s back with care, tenderness, the touch almost not there and yet inside Jim, his face buried into Jim’s neck and hair.
‘T’hy’la,’ he whispers, and Jim knows what the word means. It is this warming-holding-floating feeling of communion, of Jim-and-Spock, of us and ours and we. It is the golden light that caresses their skin, -were they not clothed a moment, an age ago?- that closes the gaps between them until they’re open, ethereal, immaterial, fading into each other and into nothingness, into one, and they are all there is. Just as they had been when they were dancing, and no one else existed, now they are particles filling each other and existence, ghosts dancing among the stars, bodies meeting in intimacy and exploding soundlessly into life. The universe begins and ends and begins again, Jim-and-Spock are clasping hands, Jim is alive, Spock’s eyes are full of stars, and the world is real, ancient and new and Jim feels full of bright hot white light inside.
The silence turns into a ringing noise, into heavy breathing just beginning to calm down. Spock is underneath Jim, eyes bright, breathless still, sweated and flushed, lips swollen and hair askew. He’s naked, as is Jim. Hickeys and love bites dot his skin in varying, enticing shades of green. One of his hands clasps Jim’s, the other is trembling, wet and grasping Jim’s hip. Jim’s free hand is much the same, on Spock’s thigh that’s loosely wrapped around Jim’s. They’re trembling softening against each other between little twitches of their hips, wet with an inordinate amount of semen that has to be mostly Spock’s. Jim’s knees are jelly, and he lets himself sag into Spock. Everywhere inside him is warmth-light-bliss, and when Spock holds him so, so tenderly Jim can feel their one soul wrap around itself in a strange, perfect embrace.
“Spock,” he croaks brokenly into heated Vulcan skin.
“I am here, my Jim, and I shall always be.”
Large, shaking hands caress Jim’s back, making him shiver. Spock’s voice is rumbling but so, so sweet.
Jim moves to settle more comfortably, head pillowed on the front of Spock’s shoulder, right arm and leg draped over Spock’s body. Spock hums in approval, tilting his head to nose Jim’s hair and meet his eyes.
If anyone had told Jim just hours before -how long has it been since the party?- that Spock would one day look at him like he had his every need satisfied, loved out of him, looking thoroughly ravished and like he wanted to remain in Jim’s bed forever, Jim would not have let himself believe it.
He can hardly string two thoughts together, has so many questions yet feels as though he needs no answers, so he settles for voicing the irritation that is creeping up inside him through this perfect haze of them.
“I don’t remember making love with you.”
Spock laughs without a sound, but his chest shakes with it.
“The strength of our connection is such that it overwhelmed our senses, making it nearly impossible to perceive the… more physical aspects of our joining.”
Anxiety twists in Jim’s gut, and Jim can find no reason for the feeling until he realizes it’s not his at all.
“What we did... I felt- I still feel-“
“We are bonded, Jim,” Spock says softly, apprehension written all over his face.
Bonded. Jim has to breathe deeply, slowly. Take it all in.
“Bonded as in... married?” he murmurs.
Jim thought it impossible for Spock to blush more, but he does so, almost bashfully.
Jim's smile slowly breaks into a grin. He’s grinning ear to ear and it stratches and stretches until his cheeks hurt and his eyes are wet.
“I'm glad. Spock, you make me the happiest man alive.” Both of Spock’s eyebrows rise up high, and his eyes lock in on Jim’s. Jim kisses his lips softly. “I love you. That was... I felt like you were making love to my soul.”
Spock wraps his arm tighter around Jim while his other hand finds Jim’s between their bodies, entwining their fingers. Affection sparks from the contact. It’s a warm, fuzzy feeling, striped with delight. Jim just has to bring their joined hands to his mouth and kiss Spock’s knuckles one by one, mesmerized by the heated attention in Spock’s eyes as he follows the movement. Feeling bold, Jim licks a stripe along Spock’s finger, kissing away some of the come. Spock’s eyes go wide with want as he shivers.
“I don't remember how I got you from kissing to... this.”
Spock’s come is barely sweet, makes Jim’s head spin. A lust that isn’t his plummets through him, clouding everything else.
“I… I am positive that you will find it no hardship to… retrace your steps.”
Jim pulls himself back on top of Spock, kisses his chin and breathes hotly against his pulse.
Spock swallows and Jim feels it in his own throat. Gods, the things he wants to do to Spock… the things he wants to remember doing to Spock. His mind supplies helpfully scenario after scenario of sweet-gentle-intense-heated love-making.
Spock squirms, his arms wrapping around Jim.
Jim mouths against the marks he doesn’t remember leaving, following them up to Spock’s ear. “I want to remember.”
“You will. Our meld was deep and our bond is fierce, but I am confident that with practice it will not be as overwhelming.”
Slowly, experimentally, Spock’s hand caresses lightly down Jim’s back, barely squeezes a buttock, making Jim gasp.
Jim chuckles, high on life. “Mister Spock, you devious Vulcan--“
Then he’s on his back. Spock raises an eyebrow down at him and Jim thinks he’ll never be able to see it again without thinking of this moment. Fingertips touch Jim’s temples and Spock might be smiling before Jim falls again into the light.