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Leonard was putting the final corrections on a report to Starfleet Command, when shock filtered through his bond with Spock.

He looked up. Spock had stiffened, staring down at their chess game.

“What?” Leonard asked, alarmed.

Spock made a strangled noise. “You have achieved…checkmate.”

“I did what?” Leonard examined the board closely for a long moment, then tipped a wide grin at Spock’s stunned face. “Well, hell. Looks like I have.” The victory would’ve been sweeter had he actually been paying attention or even trying, instead of just moving pieces absentmindedly at random or out of the way, but hell, Leonard took his victories over Spock where he could and didn’t quibble about the whys or wherefores.

“Impossible.” Spock blinked hard, as if to clear his vision. “Wait. Let me—”

“Hey now,” Leonard protested, smacking Spock’s hand away from the board. “How many times’ve you told me there’re no do-overs?”

Spock peered—no, that was a glare, Leonard corrected himself—up at him through his lashes, strain showing in the green pulse of a vein in his forehead. “But—”

“Don’t pout at me,” Leonard shook his padd at him, making sure Spock caught every nuance of smug satisfaction in his tone. “You’re just mad I won.” For the first time ever, too. Damn, that felt good. Jim could hold his own against Spock, but Leonard only played because Spock had made a pet project of improving Leonard’s admittedly dismal chess skills and made him play.

Spock’s finely sculpted nostrils flared, his eyebrows lowering. “I do not ‘pout.’”

Leonard caught his breath at the danger in Spock’s eyes, heavy heat blooming deep in his gut even as he kept the smirk pasted on his face. “Whatever, you sore loser,” he said in a low drawl. Spock’s eyes snapped up to his, eyes widening as he caught the undertone to the insult, thick with promise and sex.

Leonard arched an eyebrow at him, challengingly. Checkmate again. He could get used to this.

He had just enough time to save the work on his padd before Spock got over his surprise. Long-boned hands clenched in the front of his uniform shirt then, dragging him forward into a bruising kiss as waves of frustration and arousal pounded at Leonard through their bond.

You’re easier to emotionally compromise than I thought, he thought at Spock, layering the observation with humor and affection. A growled response, then he was shoved backwards, his chair tipping over, chess pieces falling around him like rain.

Seams gave with a burring tear as those strong hands, still fisted into his uniform, jerked him up, but he hit the floor anyway with enough force to drive the wind out of his lungs. He mouthed a curse before Spock pressed him into the floor and silenced him with two fingers against his lips, a hot, dry touch that shushed Leonard as effectively as kissing him.

The other hand finished what the fall had started, tearing Leonard’s uniform off him as easily as tissue paper in violent, graceless yanks. Anger over his uniform was impossible as Spock’s mind slid white-hot against his, Leonard’s bemused disbelief that he’d won overlaid against Spock’s indignant disbelief that he’d lost, Leonard instantly overwhelmed by the tide of searing lust mingled with thoughts of chess and impossibilities broadcast at him by Spock.

Leonard laughed breathlessly, high on endorphins—only Spock would associate chess and calculations with sex—arching up into merciless, kneading hands and sucking kisses, then he reached down and palmed over the hard bulge trapped against his thigh. Spock gasped against where he’d been mouthing wet and messy against the stubble of Leonard’s throat, and his thumbs dug suddenly into the soft flesh of Leonard’s belly.

Get your goddamned pants off, one or the other of them said unsteadily, and the other chuckled, pleasure lying in sun-yellow stripes along the grooves of their minds, echoed and magnified between their two halves.

Spock’s hands combed restlessly through Leonard’s hair, rubbed along his shoulders, as Leonard slicked and spread him, his normally ascetic mouth soft and moist. Damn if Leonard knew how Spock had ended up on his back, but it was a trivial detail with Spock beautiful beneath Leonard’s hands, pale skin against the gray synthetic carpet, all lean lines and angled planes, eyes and eyebrows a dark smear above a green flush burning across sweat-sheened cheekbones.

He was tight and hot around Leonard, writhing up into every thrust with minute, barely-controlled movements, his rapid breath puffing moist against Leonard’s cheek as he leaned in to kiss him. Leonard couldn’t seem to catch his breath, driving in and out of that welcome heat, feeling the hummingbird flutter of Spock’s pulse under his skin, their minds blinkering together in perfect synch as Spock scrubbed his hand up Leonard’s cheek and brushed the meld-points with trembling fingertips.

“Leonard,” Spock breathed like a prayer as Leonard reached down and stroked him, his cock like a brand in Leonard’s hand. His name on Spock’s lips, the undone look on Spock’s face, the Vulcan calm completely shattered, yanked Leonard’s orgasm out of him, white-hot and ecstatic. The breaking wave of Spock’s answering climax flared over their bond, a powerful, secondary echo, and Leonard groaned and closed his eyes.

“I should beat you at chess more often,” He mumbled some minutes later, fighting the syrupy languor and sheer mental exhaustion that came with melded sex. The uncomfortable lumps of chess pieces under his side helped.

“The likelihood of your accidentally defeating me again is less than 1.565%,” Spock said primly. “With proper vigilance on my part, that probability will be further diminished.”

“Uh huh,” Leonard said, rolling his eyes, and slid his thumb down into the slick wetness between Spock’s legs and probed the swollen hole there. Spock’s sentence cracked in half. “You were saying?”

“I—This is unworthy of you.”

“Sore loser.” He crooked his finger just a little.

“Per—ah—perhaps I could let you win. Sometimes.”

Leonard hummed in satisfaction. “Now you’re learning.”