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The weather on Hebreda Prime is sticky, humid, and Spock finds himself ill-adapted to the combination of muggy heat and unrelenting summer air, the planet rendered not unlike a blast furnace with its dual suns. He does not sweat, but his skin is cool enough relative to the ambient temperature that condensation plasters his uniform to his skin so uncomfortably that he sheds both tops as he moves through the crowds.

His skin crawls, only his thinly-worn self control preventing him from scratching, and he thinks of childhood summers in ShiKhar, when the heat would grow so intense that he would strip the robes from his back and roll in the sand like a sehlat bathing in the dust. He would return with smooth skin the same faint green as a desert beetle’s carapace, all the dry itchiness scrubbed away and his nerves humming.

Some of the passing Hebredans cast intrigued glances his way, but all states of dress, from ceremonial garb to full nudity, are equally represented among the locals. Spock moves unimpeded, spine straight, unafraid of offending. There is a low susurrus of psychic pleasure, a heady mix that his shields do not quite keep out. Their hosts are pleased with the crew’s participation in a cultural exchange as much as the celebration itself.

First Contact is an unequivocal success in this instance, a rare smooth integration; the warp-capable Hebredans are culturally compatible with the Federation’s core ideals and willing to share their summer harvest bounty with strangers from the skies.

The Universal Translator does not disguise the Hebredans’ ringing, bell-like voices, musical beneath the synthetic drone of electronically translated Standard, and the High Priestess had laughed, faint and chiming, when Jim touched her forearm. Spock had not fielded his usual objections when the High Priestess extended an invitation to the rest of the Enterprise’s senior crew, her dark, heavily lidded eyes lingering on Jim while she spoke.

The harvest festival has worn on for several hours with no evidence of ceasing before well into the night, so he mingles slowly, speaking faint, respectful pleasantries. Here and there he spots the crew, who each smile at him: Mr. Scott herded into the crook of an arm of a lavender-skinned Hebredan of indeterminate sex; Nyota delighted and dark-eyed, drinking loamy alcohol from the cup of a Hebredan woman; even Dr McCoy, deep in a heated discussion with one of the planet’s medical advisors.

All is as well as can be expected with the amount of intoxicants involved. Still, he is not troubled; the crew will keep their wits about them, even if regulations are relaxed.

Hebreda Prime’s scorching second sun slowly sets, painting the foreign sky deep umber, and Spock finds himself drawn to the largest bonfire, seeking out the dry heat around it to burn away the moisture suffocating his skin. It dwarfs the others easily, a testament to engineering that it does not burn itself out immediately. The sensation he gets from facing it, his back to the muggy night air, is not unlike looking into a forge.

He is stripped down to only his thermal layer by the time he circles around the outer perimeter of the fire, uniform pants abandoned for the moisture-wicking shell beneath. The flames crackle with an intensity that is disorienting, casting long shadows into the night where dancers writhe and stomp.

He paces before the inferno, wondering if this is how the ancient tribes of Vulcan-that-was felt, whether they danced like small gods in the firelight, casting deep shadows in the cold desert night.

Deep memory thrums in his blood, pulsing so close to the surface, like each of his careful layers of civilization are being stripped away under the stifling heat of the place and the endless, low grade telepathic resonance. He thinks of blistering sun and chill nights and endless thirst in Vulcan’s Forge, trapped in tall canyons on a ghost planet that lives only in memories, both hunter and hunted. He stalks like a le-matya, coiled and restless, focusing on the flute-like piping that fills the spaces between the warm chatter of conversation.

Spock stops in his tracks and stares.

Jim is naked, laughing, with arms outstretched as a stout Hebredan cultural minister in similar state attempts to instruct him in the steps of a traditional dance. His face is screwed up with laughter, an expression that evidently translates well across species lines, because there is a radiant joy that seems to infect every Hebredan surrounding him. He is pink all over, sweating, skin flushed from the heat of exertion and the blaze of the fire.

Spock moves closer, picking his way through a throng of warm, dancing bodies to stand with the others caught in Jim’s orbit.

He watches unabashedly, observing. Jim’s nudity is not unknown to him; life aboard a starship affords little privacy, and he has seen many of the crew in various states of undress before or after missions, or in the shower facilities.

Still, Jim stretches into a sinuous shape, laughing, head tilted back, and that thrumming, pleasant warmth overtakes his control. Curious of the nature of it, Spock lets a measure of it slip in, does not clamp down, and feels his skin flush with blood, pulse thundering. His pupils dilate, heart rate elevates, tissues sensitizing.

Arousal makes itself known and resists all effort to reign it in. He cannot dismiss it, now that it has crept in.

Vulcans do not speak commonly of the desires of the flesh, but Spock is aware of the nonspecific hunger that has always burned beneath his Vulcan thoughts, Vulcan logic, Vulcan control. He is Human, too, and there is something alchemical in his genetic makeup.

Jim spots him as Spock catalogs the sensation; his easy grin falters for the barest of moments, expression traveling through surprise, then curiosity, before it resolves into open delight. He turns and says something to the Hebredans teaching him to dance, who laugh and hum charmingly, then strides directly towards Spock, calling his name.

“Jim,” Spock greets him, raking his gaze up and down Jim’s body, taking in the way sweat sheens on his skin, pooling and dripping in a fine line from his neck down past his navel. His chest is broad, bare, lightly freckled. Jim’s phallus is half hard, his shoulders set and unashamed, and there are smudges of soot on his skin that Spock feels a compulsion to wipe away.

“Spock.” Jim’s voice is warm and easy. Spock does not stop Jim from crowding him a little to guide them away from the press of curious alien bodies. Jim’s hair is darkened to burnished brass by perspiration, curling at the nape of his neck. He loops a companionable arm around Spock’s waist, breathing labored from exertion. “Are you enjoying the celebration?”

Spock settles against him as they walk, too close for propriety, thinking about little but the damp drape and hot, branding press of Jim’s skin. Jim is mildly intoxicated, his expression one of lazy warmth that Spock has observed over the cups of dozens of worlds, all his edges softened. He smells like heat and salt and dark alcohol, hoppy and sour-sweet.

“The celebration provides an opportunity for the Enterprise to make valuable contributions to Starfleet’s cultural database. It is uncommon to find a warp-capable civilization with similar spiritual practices,” Spock says. His voice is remarkably even, none of the fire under his skin betrayed by his tone.

Jim is looking up at him, bent close and eyes very wide, tinted violet in the firelight. He is leading them away from the noise, vaguely meandering through a copse of fruit-laden trees towards the collection of huts flanking the celebration staging area. The structures have been provided as shelter for members of the Enterprise’s crew, but they stand empty and silent away from the festivities. Spock allows him, tongue heavy and blood hot, Jim wrapped under his arm.

“I’m glad you stayed with us,” Jim says abruptly, the non sequitur commanding Spock’s attention. Spock’s ability to follow Human leaps of logic has improved since he first boarded the Enterprise as Jim’s First Officer, but occasionally he is still stumped by emotionally driven outbursts. He is uncertain, unable to know if Jim means he is glad for Spock’s participation in the festival, or if he speaks of the larger decision to stay with the Enterprise.

Spock decides, in this case, the methodology and motive leading up to the statement is less valuable to analyzing the conversation than the evident sentiment behind it. “As am I, Jim.”

Jim’s face breaks into an uninhibited expression of delight, and he turns his face against Spock’s chest — to hide it, or press closer, Spock is unsure. His heartbeat hastens in his side at the contact.

“Do you think anyone’s gone to bed yet?” Jim says, metering his tone as as they approach the huts. The structures provide some privacy, but are only semi-enclosed, insect netting the only barrier between their prospective inhabitants and the world. They let the breeze in, when one is to be found.

“It is still quite early in the evening,” Spock says absently, as they come to a halt in front of the hut Jim claimed on their arrival planet-side. It has an aesthetically pleasing shape, and an enormous, soft bed; the interior is hung with glass globes filled with a bioluminescent substance Spock has not yet had a chance to analyze. Spock takes it in, then adds, “However, I do not believe the landing party will be utilizing these lodgings, if my observations were correct.”

There is an answering hum. “They usually are. Uhura looked pretty cozy with that leggy woman.” He emphasizes with a gesture that suggests another part of the female anatomy entirely. Spock agrees with him on all counts.

Jim wears an expression of mischief when he sweeps the netting aside. The hut is extravagantly ornamented, but small, so it only takes four steps for him to reach the foot of the bed. Jim hums again, approvingly, and topples into the sheets face down.

For approximately thirty-nine seconds, Spock has full license to memorize the bare expanse of Jim’s back, the enticing swell of his buttocks, and the strong backs of his thighs. The position is utterly wanton, one leg cocked just enough that Spock can make out the tantalizing pink circle of Jim’s anus and, just below, the lazy curve of his testicles and half-hard phallus.

The visual stimulus incites a very immediate response in his own body, and he struggles to not bend and press his face into the scent of Jim and lick. He closes his eyes briefly to brace against the impulse; when Spock opens them again, Jim is on his back, propped on elbow, and has half-heartedly covered himself with the bedding.

Jim sprawls regally against the pillows, skin summer-touched from weeks of warm negotiation, shoulders brilliant and broad and strong. Sweat cuts a path between the firm flesh of his pectorals, pooling in his navel. Despite all his familiarity with Human biological functions, Jim’s luxurious waste of moisture still catches Spock unaware.

“Have you enjoyed the celebration, Jim?” Spock asks. He moves forward, letting the netting close behind him. They have no real privacy, the hut well-lit enough to provide a clear view of both of them from the outside.

Spock finds he does not care overmuch. A breath of air stirs, sending the light globes swinging. Shadows dance across Jim’s body but do nothing to mute the intensity of the moment.

He undoes the ties on his thermals, loosening them, and steps out as they fall. Jim’s pupils dilate with gratifying haste.

“I’ve enjoyed everything about this planet so far,” Jim answers, watching him in a way that is openly hungry, but also intensely fond. The warmth in his expression is palpable, and he bites his lower lip, pink skin between white teeth. “The scenery in particular has been pretty breathtaking.”

“I am glad to hear of your satisfaction,” Spock says. He does not miss Jim’s double entendre; Jim’s meaning holds all the subtlety of a blunt object, though it pleases Spock to be the recipient of his attention.

Blue eyes flicker over him again. Jim licks his lips. Spock catches the faint scent of arousal and his nostrils flare involuntarily at the explicit provocation of his autonomic nervous system.

“Satisfying is something I’m hoping to be,” Jim says, voice pitched lower than Spock has ever heard it.

Jim Kirk is many things that are problematic, but he is always unfailingly honest with Spock, and this desire between them is honest as well. Spock puts forward, “When the invitation was initially extended to our delegation, I extrapolated you would have more interest in accepting the High Priestess’ advances.”

The smile Jim gives him is lazy and thoughtful. Spock feels he would very much like to kiss the expression off of Jim’s mouth.

“She’s pretty,” Jim agrees, leaning back and stretching, “but then, not really what I’m interested in.”

Spock tilts his head, then bends to lean over Jim, one knee on the bed. There is an odd tug low in his belly that resembles apprehension. “May I query if this is to be an experiment?”

Jim’s mouth quirks. “More a diplomatic mission. So have a seat, Mr. Spock,” Jim says with a grand gesture to the space beside him, his smile slanting and wide. The words are suffused with emotion that makes the command impossible to resist, because Spock would do much to hear his name spoken that way again.

The bed is surprisingly cool beneath his overexerted skin as he settles beside Jim. He shutters his inner eyelid completely for a moment, a gesture of open thoughtfulness that he often forgoes, as he has observed many Humans find it somewhat unsettling. Jim rolls onto one elbow and watches him with curiosity, touching his brow with one blunt fingertip.

The sensation is unfamiliar, but Spock has always found Jim’s easy acceptance of his otherness pleasing, so does not discourage the exploration.

“What is the goal of your diplomatic mission?”

The corner of Jim’s mouth tilts up rakishly. Spock reaches out, his turn to explore the alien emotiveness. Jim presses his face into the touch in response, eyes sliding closed, and Spock cups his cheek, caressing the damp, stubbled expanse of skin. His fingertips map the structure of Jim’s cheek and jaw and his psi-receptors thrum with warmth.

“I’m winging it, as usual. But I guess I want to know if I can help you enjoy yourself enough that maybe we can keep — well, maybe we can figure out something mutually agreeable,” Jim says, his voice low. When he opens his eyes again, they burn with emotion. The effect is striking.

Spock is not wholly startled when Jim rolls half on top of him, skin sticking, erection prominent. Jim Kirk has charmed his way into many beds, though before this occasion he has not solicited Spock with any purpose. Now, though, so close and subjected to the feel of so much skin, Spock can feel the caress of Jim’s fond regard and the intense buzz of his anticipatory arousal.

He lifts his hand and cups Jim’s cheek.

“Jim,” Spock says, grappling with emotional acknowledgement. The crinkled skin around Jim’s eyes, the warm regard, the bravery and loyalty and friendship he has known from this man — there is little Jim could do to turn him away, least of all in this. Spock has slowly fit himself into Jim’s life any way he is allowed, and found his own richer for it. “If this is your desire, it would gratify me to discover this with you. I would enjoy pleasing you.”

Fingertips carefully explore the expanse of Spock’s chest, Jim’s blue eyes following their path. If Spock had ever let himself indulge in the hypothetical of having Jim as a lover, it had not been as thus, this painful sweetness. It makes him ache unexpectedly, his heart race in his side.

“I never thought you would be interested,” Jim says softly, dipping his head to lip at the pointed tip of Spock’s ear. It drives a shiver through his body that Spock cannot suppress.

“Never?” Spock queries. It is not his habit to ask for restatement, but Jim is often hyperbolic. If Spock has kept his regard on a tight leash, he has also made peace with it. It would be irrational to deny his affection when confronted directly with so much evidence of it; Nyota had said as much, though Spock had not known what to do with the revelation for some time, long paralyzed by the rift between his Human and Vulcan natures.

“Didn’t think I was your type,” Jim says huskily, nosing along the outer shell of Spock’s ear. He explores the tip of it, inquisitive, solicitous. “Didn't really think Vulcans were interested in this even if I was your type.”

“We are made of flesh and bone,” Spock says, curling his fingers against the broad palm of Jim’s hand and relishing the faint psychic contact. “The addition of a sixth sense has not made the other five so vestigial that we cannot enjoy them.”

Jim makes a thoughtful noise; he is easier to read when his shifting emotions linger under Spock’s touch. “Wouldn’t pleasure for pleasure’s sake be illogical?”

“A fallacious statement. Logic does not preclude pleasure. It is simply a structured way of assessing and approaching a situation,” Spock murmurs, touching Jim’s lower lip. He is rewarded with a kiss to the pad of his thumb, and a delicate application of teeth and tongue that makes heat surge through him. “Pleasure has evolutionary and biological significance.”

Jim’s expression is bright, soft, thoughtful. “So, is logic the reason you’re in my bed?” He bends his head and sucks Spock’s index finger into his mouth, a quick tease with his slick tongue.

Spock closes his eyes, unable to deny the tangled snarl of his own emotions, the momentarily overwhelming inundation of physical and psychic sensation that sweeps through him. Jim’s touch feels like static at the base of his skull.

He confesses, “No.”

He had become content with letting Jim forge ahead in all things between them; it is not the Vulcan way to demand an emotion be reciprocated, and so he had long settled into the most stimulating friendship he might have asked for.

But now Jim is here, with roving hands, with his lush golden skin on display and a warm eagerness that is not just the joy of flesh meeting flesh. This is not unexpected, upon reflection. Jim has always been more than Spock could ask for.

“I find logic is not a sufficient approach to you, Jim.” Indeed, Jim resists all efforts to be defined. Boldly, Spock caresses the back of Jim’s wrist, and Jim stills. “You need not stop,” Spock reassures. “The sensation is exceedingly pleasant.”

He is rewarded with a broad smile and a fingertip grazes his nipple. Spock has always thought them vestigial at best, but Jim’s touch stimulates the nerve endings in an unanticipated way. His eyelids slide halfway closed and he rumbles at the pleasure of it, a resonant sound trapped in his throat.

“I’ve really wanted to do this for a while,” Jim admits, and bends to kiss Spock, sliding a hand into his hair.

Jim’s mouth is deliciously wet, his tongue slick as he explores Spock’s mouth in turn. Spock savors the difference in sensation, the plushness of Jim’s lower lip, the drag of faint stubble that makes him shiver. His own tongue feels slightly raspy in comparison, but the application of it must be enjoyable because Jim groans beautifully when Spock licks into the warmth of him. So close to Jim’s mind, he can read a faint litany of desire, and the sensation crawls across his skin, leaving him flushed and wanting at the heady rush of secondhand lust.

He is not fully Vulcan, but he is Vulcan enough, and it is powerfully inciting; the unfamiliar, fascinatingly complex cocktail of Human emotion Jim bombards him with, alongside the deep currents and wells of his own emotions are catalytic to his mating drive. The soft sounds Jim makes hook powerful claws into a primal desire that even the most rigorous adherence to logic has never been able to scrub out of Vulcans; his Human heritage stokes the need to quench himself, and he finds he does not want to resist when Jim’s hips move so willingly.

Spock catches Jim by the nape of his neck, surging to reverse their positions and bear Jim down into the nest of blankets. Jim looks startled, just for a moment, eyes wider than the sky and so blue, open and vulnerable for Spock to take — and he can feel the taking is wanted, each contact with Jim’s skin a broadcasting point for desire, sticky and slick and powerful.

Jim curls beneath him, slinging both arms around the breadth of Spock’s shoulders to pull him closer. Muscles bunch, hard and flat and wonderful beneath Spock’s roving hands. So much smooth skin makes him feel dizzy with want, hot desire building volcanically in his belly and up his spine. Spock leans into the warm curves of Jim’s body, Jim’s limbs open to harbor him, and he licks the salt from the curve of Jim’s neck.

“You taste like the sea,” he murmurs, biting down carefully on the muscle in Jim’s shoulder. A red mark blooms beneath his mouth as he suckles tender flesh.

Jim huffs a laugh and rocks his hips up against Spock, enticingly pliant. His grin precariously slanted, heard more than seen. He noses into Spock’s hair and lips the point of one ear, voice low and desirous. “Glad you like it, because I want to feel your tongue all over me before the sun comes up.”

Spock shudders, and knows he is caught; whatever this is that has built between them has always been fiercely intense, and he is certain beyond doubt that he will find delight in Jim’s body as he has Jim’s mind and his friendship. He reaches up and drags his fingers across Jim’s psi points, a brazenly tantalizing gesture to a Vulcan, and rumbles when Jim breathes heavily and licks at his palm as it passes.

Jim bites down on the curve of Spock’s bicep and Spock is quickly lost against the smoothness of Jim’s skin, the sheets hot and damp as they slide together. Jim moves with the confidence of an expert lover, and Spock is no stranger to the body. He rolls Jim again, until Jim is straddling him, bent low to kiss, Jim’s fingers curling around the pointed tip of one ear covetously.

He bites Jim’s lower lip, samples the sodium tang of the hot skin of his philtrum, and rubs the tip of his nose against Jim’s -- then cheek, jaw, curve of his neck, hungry for the scent of him. Their bodies stick where they press together, hot air suffocating, but does nothing to mitigate the caress of Jim’s skin.

Spock runs his hands up Jim’s abdomen, up his chest, across his shoulders, marveling at the contrasting textures. He is unlike a Vulcan lover, of which Spock has had very few, and entirely unlike Nyota, who was soft in many places and smelled faintly of flowers. Jim is pink and firm and very, very strong, his muscles bunching beneath Spock’s hands as they move together, slow and powerful and unhurried.

Jim laughs, maybe at nothing, maybe at everything, free and happy and musical. Spock is only accustomed to serious, dark-eyed intimacy. Holding Jim is like trying to hold sunlight in his arms. Spock is overcome, and reels with sudden emotion, but Jim clutches at him and kisses him until his heart threatens to thunder from his side. Joy and lust in equal portions flood through the palms of his hands, leaving him trembling.

Breathing shallowly, he presses his face against Jim’s chest and maps the geography of the muscles, sampling each curve and dip with his tongue.

He wraps his hand delicately around Jim’s erection and strokes, palming him firmly. Jim groans and shows Spock how to adjust his grip; he rocks his hips upwards with a low sound, the head of his sex organ leaking clear fluid over the backs of Spock’s knuckles. The scent is rich and musky and unlike anything Spock has known, a secret male tang of sex and desire.

“Wanted this,” Jim is saying, half-babbling, but the vocalizations are unlike anything Spock has heard from him before. “Want you. So fucking good, so fucking good — Spock, I could do this forever, you feel so good —”

Jim bites back a frustrated moan when Spock pulls his hand away, watching him with wide, slightly desperate eyes. There is time for a frown to crease his brow before Spock moves him again — and this is truly delightful, this vulnerable, willing facet of Jim, giving entirely of himself and squirming beneath Spock’s attention.

“What are you — oh.” Spock pushes him face down into the bed and spreads his buttocks, staring down at the pale bit of smooth muscle Jim had flashed at him before. He thinks it would be an obscenity for one’s mate to display themselves so wantonly for their lover’s benefit and not be rewarded for sharing so intimate a part of themselves.

The sound Jim makes when Spock strokes both thumbs over it is best described as a whine, and he buries his face to swallow a shout when Spock’s tongue follows close after. He is clean here, aside from the humid salt scent of sweat and the intoxicating musk of his skin. Spock sucks gently, lavishing the surface of the hole until it loosens, then dips his tongue into it judiciously.

The celebration is fortunate, in that it will likely cover Jim’s very loud noises of encouragement. He writhes wonderfully under the cool tip of Spock’s tongue, and Spock has to drape an arm over Jim’s lower back to keep him from squirming out of range while he methodically licks Jim’s flesh.

“Oh, sweet fuck, where did you learn to do that?” Jim is peering back at him over a shoulder, incredulity and rapture warring on his face. He fails to bite back a moan when Spock traces the rim of him from the inside with the tip of his tongue.

“I have had some practical application in intercourse,” Spock replies flatly, raising one unimpressed eyebrow. “If you might refrain from requiring a response until I have satisfied you, you may find your enjoyment heightened.”

With a familiar glitter of mischief and ignoring his suggestion to shut up, Jim begins, “What do you mean, practical application? You’ve eaten ass bef—oh fuck.” He collapses into the cradle of his forearms, and moans through the pillow he’s suddenly biting down on when Spock wets a finger and slides it into him without warning. His anus stretches neatly around the digit, and Spock retraces the muscle with his tongue, slicking it with saliva. Jim trembles, and then goes rigid with pleasure when Spock seeks out his prostate and strokes it.

The sharp telepathic feedback routes up his arm and down Spock’s spine, his legs going liquid with sudden pleasure.

Voice thick with arousal, Spock asks, “Do you possess a lubricating substance?” It is viscerally pleasing that his touch can disable Jim’s control over his speech centers.

Jim flings out one arm towards his travel kit, croaking, “Top pocket,” helplessly. Spock rewards the effort with a curl of his finger, and teases the bundle of nerve endings while he reaches for the small bag. He is better prepared this time, but the sensation floods his brain with a fresh wave of hormones, and he begins salivating.

Should they have time on some occasion, if Jim allows this physical liaison to continue past their assignment on this diplomatic mission, Spock is certain he would like to take Jim apart this way until his captain is a trembling mess, unable to speak or think beyond the need to couple.

It is a powerfully stimulating potential and deeper arousal flares, manifesting as a low physical heat in his belly and a crystalline hum in his psi centers. He loosens his telepathic shields and lets Jim’s presence wash over him fully. Even without a meld, they are so close, and Jim’s thoughts are close to the surface, scorching and focused.

With the addition of lubrication, Spock slides a second digit into Jim, his own tongue curling in his mouth with the very palpable psychic feedback the intimate contact affords him. Jim is consumed with a desire to be filled, and Spock lets his mental shields drop almost entirely, basking in the heady waves of physical need. He strokes Jim’s back and sides with his free hand, working each muscle until Jim is utterly relaxed beneath him.

“I am going to place a third finger into your body,” Spock warns, and eases the tip of it against Jim’s entrance. Jim does not answer verbally, but insistently broadcasts yes yes yes, begging mentally. The words ricochet through Spock’s skull, startling in their clarity.

The feel of Jim around his fingers is incredible as he works the third digit into Jim’s body. That small opening, before just a tantalizing flash of intimate skin, is slowly stretched into an accommodating, hot ring of flesh, now flushed red and over-sensitized from his attention. He dips his head and licks at Jim’s buttock, clutching at one firm cheek and spreading Jim further to better watch his handiwork.

When he removes his fingers slowly, Jim pants and protests the absence, skin sweat-drenched and flushed all over. He trembles when Spock presses them back into him, marveling at the easy way Jim’s body accommodates him.

Spock’s own phallus stands painfully erect with inattention. He has been content to prepare Jim thus far, but his own need drives him to grip at it. Withdrawing his fingers from Jim, he tugs gently on Jim’s hip, until Jim rolls over and looks up at him, expression half stunned.

His anatomy is similar to Jim’s except for the slippery Vulcan foreskin, which seems to be largely vestigial in Humans. He grips himself and slides back the darker skin to expose the sensitive, slick-soft skin of his glans.

Jim props himself up on one elbow and looks at it hungrily, reaching out to touch. Spock guides his hand to clasp it gently; the exposed structure is intensely sensitive, and the circle of Jim’s fingers create a maddening friction.

Jim gives him an encouraging squeeze, working the member with relish until Spock tips his head back involuntarily. The sensation is electric. His biological responses are impossible to meter when Jim’s grip is so sure and firm. He is a shuddering mess by the time Jim props himself up with one arm and kisses a slick line down Spock’s throat.

“I’d really love for you to fuck me with this until I can't move my legs,” Jim says huskily against Spock’s left pectoral muscle.

Spock hums in assent, and rearranges Jim carefully. He moves easily, shivering in anticipation of each soothing touch, and tucks his knees obediently when Spock maneuvers him. With Jim sprawled decadently on his back, loose-limbed and pink all over, Spock can watch himself disappear into Jim, and see the effect it has on Jim’s expression. He does not have to hypothesize any longer; he can gather the data for himself.

“Are you prepared?” The question is courtesy; Jim is sufficiently loose enough to accommodate his girth with minimal discomfort, and his desire to be penetrated fills Spock’s mind with mesmerizing brightness, the cleansing heat of it laid out before him like the noon summer sun of Vulcan-that-was.

“Yeah, yeah, come on, I want this,” Jim breathes. He is trembling, eager. Spock obliges him instantly, pressing the head of himself into Jim’s body. There is some resistance, but it is not troubling, and they both move slowly together, Jim shuddering at the intrusion into his body and Spock at the grip of hot flesh surrounding him.

It feels inexorable, inevitable, as if they have been waiting to do this since Jim turned and met Spock’s eyes for the first time across a crowded Starfleet hearing room. Their boyish rage has culminated in this, this improbable slide of flesh, and Spock finally possesses that which he found intriguing even so many years ago.

The Golic disciples of Kolinahr attain absolute mastery of the self through the purgation of emotion, but Spock fits his fingers through Jim’s and his mind is swept as clean and flat as a desert after a sandstorm. The impression of emotion is so intense that his mind scrambles to understand that they have not unintentionally melded. All is Jim’s clarion desire, rich and wonderful, and there is a deep and clear peace that resonates with his katra; Jim feels like a benediction, a homecoming.

Jim moves first, needy and fitful, his position not allowing him the proper leverage to piston himself onto Spock. Spock assists him, one hand tangled with Jim’s and the other flat on Jim’s belly, drinking in the feel of his abdominal muscles clenching. He has mounted Jim, and claims him with a steady, punishing pace, thrusting harder into the body surrounding him, driving the breath from his own lungs with the force of his exertion.

The expression on Jim’s face is one of rapture, his features transformed by pleasure. It transfixes Spock, how bare they both are before each other, how bare they have always been; it is always Jim who strips him to his basest self, who undresses his obfuscations and incomplete logic until only the truth sits between them. Jim, who died out of reach, and now lives in his arms.

He remembers the agony of his palm pressed helplessly to cold glass, of regret that he had only begun to understand the thing coiling between them, could not discover it when it had just become known. Guilt, soft affection, and overwhelming loss.

Suddenly he cannot stand how little of Jim he is touching, and twists them both so that Jim is above him, straddling him with his body pressed to Spock’s from cheek to buttocks. He is blind with animal pleasure, bracing his feet and thrusting upwards into Jim’s open body, quivering as each thrust home drives pleasure through his brain to the exclusion of all else.

Jim is panting his name, fingers clawing at Spock’s shoulders, begging for more, more.

Spock only has his mind left to give, and presses his fingers to Jim’s face, finding his psi-points unerringly. “I would have your thoughts, Jim.”

There is no hesitation, they do not still, but Jim says, “Please, yes,” through kiss-swollen lips and crushes his mouth to Spock’s.

He sinks into Jim’s mind and orgasms, drawing Jim over the edge with him, cradled on the warm ocean waters of Jim’s thoughts.

Jim dreams of Spock and then wakes in a dim haze of pleasure, sunlight gentle on his face. The morning air is surprisingly cool compared to the stifling heat of the prior night, and he relishes both the cool feeling of Vulcan skin spooned up against him and the soft morning breeze.

The blankets are twisted haphazardly around their bodies, and the fabric smells unmistakably of sweat and sex. He doesn't remember ever feeling so bonelessly satisfied before. Nothing important hurts; he’s not exhausted, not running on fumes, not angry or sick or sad for once. He doesn’t worry about Klingons or Romulans or some other alien force killing them all in their sleep.

He doesn’t feel like Captain Kirk. He’s just Jim again, well-fucked and safe. That alone is more than he’s hoped for.

Spock rumbles warmly and presses a kiss behind Jim’s ear. The demonstrativeness of the gesture thrills him just as much as the kiss itself; he had been prepared to accept the same stillness in bed that Spock presented to the world, but the reality is far better than he had imagined.

The best part, he decides, is that it’s real at all, and not some crazed alien-liquor-inspired fever dream.

“I am told the effects of a mind meld on the psi-null can induce euphoria,” Spock says, taking the lobe of Jim’s ear between his teeth. Then, in response to Jim’s mild confusion, “You do not think quietly.”

“We’re still melded?” Jim asks, suddenly breathless and very distracted as Spock’s hand creeps around and strokes his abdomen. It feels nothing like his other experiences with telepathy, neither like the agonizingly emotional push of information from Spock’s elder counterpart, nor the unintentional and painful invasions of the species who had not known how to interact with the psi-null.

“It is very shallow. Is it your preference that I withdraw completely?” Spock asks, all motion stilling.

“Not at all,” he says, twisting to face Spock. He traces the wonderfully angular features of Spock’s face and is rewarded with another low rumble, an unequivocally pleased noise that Jim is sure isn't reproducible with Human vocal cords. Mischievously, he says, “I like having you inside me.”

The double entendre earns him a remonstrative nip, but Spock lavishes the harassed skin with his tongue immediately after. The texture of it is different enough to notice, and his cock shows a sleepy sort of interest at the feel of it. Spock’s brown eyes betray warmth, and his face is unusually expressive, mouth a relaxed line and eyes crinkled at the corners in what Jim reads as fondness and amusement. It’s riveting.

“I find I am affected by your emotions,” Spock says, and lays his fingertips on Jim’s face with a ghost-light touch. His expression flattens, serious, but the very corners of his eyes still crinkle with recognizable emotion. “I also find it significantly less challenging to assimilate them than I could extrapolate from prior data. Curious.”

“Then it seems our little experiment’s borne fruit,” Jim says. He plants a kiss on the tip of Spock’s nose, just because he’s allowed to, and watches with glee at the faint bemusement that skitters across Vulcan features.

Back to the sunrise, Jim rolls on top of Spock, straddling him in a position that makes him ache; the insides of his thighs are bruised where Spock’s hips slot between them, his body now protesting the previous night’s overeagerness. Spock flexes beneath him, impossibly strong in a way that drives heat into Jim’s belly and behind his ribs.

Thrown into shadow, Spock’s subtle expressions are impossible to read, but his roving hands betray him, trembling. He’s gorgeous, and Jim wants to know every inch of him.

He can feel the moment that Spock’s mind opens to him, the creeping heat and seductive depth of it, neat and ordered, colors vibrant, his desert sands turning to beach as Jim’s thoughts wash against it. His presence is a sweeping heat, but with promises shade and succor.

And then Jim’s own mind is a basin and Spock pours part of himself inside, his Vulcan mental presence huge and smooth, and Jim feels immensely full. He catches memories of their intimacy that are not his, too quick to grasp, and he finds himself curling into little touches at the recollection of Spock’s insatiable need and the echo of it now. There are distinct flashes of possessiveness and affection, things that thrill and stun Jim in equal turns. So much raw want and no doubts.

Helplessly, he thinks of Spock holding him down and claiming him, marking his skin, belonging.

Jim,” Spock says, the single syllable pleading.

The sound is wonderful. He wants to hear more, make Spock come undone again just to see if he can, just to watch it. Mind to mind, he’s washed in encouraging desire. Jim fists their cocks together and Spock is the one moving prematurely, like he can't wait for Jim to line them up, like he’ll take just the barest scraps of pleasure Jim’s willing to give him.

Spock reaches up and suddenly Jim is being hauled down to him, strong fingers in his hair, his mouth being devoured. He moans, rocking his hips, and is rewarded with a firm hand under his ass. Spock licks his way to Jim’s ear and rasps, “It would please me to take you again.”

A twang of sharp delight arcs through his brain. He slides both hands up the flat of Spock’s chest, marveling at the details their nighttime tumble didn’t give him a chance to explore -- soft skin, cool, flat muscle, a thick fuzz of hair on a broad chest, a faint green dapple of scars over Spock’s heart. Jim plants open-mouthed kisses over every point of interest. He traps Spock’s erection between his thighs and rocks down on it, relishing the filthy slide of skin on skin.

Jim’s sweat has cooled, but he can feel the prickle of it beginning at the nape of his neck, chasing arousal up his spine. “Just the once?” It’s half a joke, but Jim can't keep the eagerness out of his words. He wants more than once, more than twice, wants to climb inside Spock’s mind and find the source of the vague, humming brightness he can sense around the edges of understanding.

A cool hand braces his lower back and he is being pushed down into the sheets again before the words are fully out of his mouth. He laughs breathlessly until Spock says, voice full of morning gravel, “I would take you every opportunity that decency permits.”

With Spock’s mind pressed against his, Jim knows it's true, and heat spills into his belly, spreading outwards until his whole body’s flushed with arousal. The meld’s intensity increases fractionally, and he feels Spock’s hands and mouth travel across him, chased by phantom sensations of want.

If Jim concentrates, the desert stretches out behind his eyelids. Spock’s mind is arid and still, full of a brutal, objective heat that is maddeningly countered by his cool fingertips and soft, dry lips.

Jim has never felt so wanted in his entire life as when Spock pushes a palm flat to Jim’s chest and fucks between his clamped thighs, the head of his cock dragging smooth and damp across Jim’s balls.

Emotion washes over him; affection, lust, frustration, loneliness. Things Spock struggles to name and Jim struggles beneath the weight of, and he groans when Spock pushes into him again. He’s too long gone for it to be easy, but the telepathic bleedthrough makes it so good, maybe better than anything. Spock has those long fingers around his cock, eyes dark and face naked with pleasure. Before he can protest that it'll be over too fast, Jim has come striping his chest in an embarrassingly short amount of time.

Spock doesn't stop, doesn't orgasm with Jim this time, just presses further into him, harder, and Jim tangles his fingers through Spock’s come-covered hand, thoroughly fucked out and blissful at the waves of psychic feedback that batter at his senses. All Spock’s composure, all his fluid Vulcan grace and reservation is something different now, something Jim recognizes but can't name, a predatory power that makes him want to writhe.

Thrusting deep into him, Spock turns Jim’s face to the side, mouth just below his ear. Spock’s voice trembles, a low baritone hum, “It is the Vulcan way to claim a mate mind to mind. I can taste how much you want to be mine, to be taken and filled.”

Yes,” Jim gasps, grasping blindly at Spock. He meets a solid wall of muscle and cool skin with his fingertips and drags them down the length of Spock’s torso. “I want you. Wanted you for so long.”

Spock answers him with a resonant, “I am yours, Jim.”

It's enough. He knows Spock’s orgasm is close, and drinks in the vibrancy of the feeling. The looping feedback and pressing euphoria of the meld holds him captive, and he orgasms again, untouched and cock still soft on his belly. The sensation washes through his bones, deep and paralyzingly intense, every muscle rigid with the sensory overload.

The meld breaks, and Jim is adrift in his own mind again, disoriented. When the sensation fades, Spock is draped across him languorously, heavy but cool, breathing slow and deep like he’s just fallen asleep instead of fucking Jim into the bed. Jim blinks several times, and holds up an arm, admiring a few smudged bruises while he struggles to catch his breath.

“Well,” Jim says, dragging his clean hand through his hair. Bones is going to find trace amounts of Vulcan genetic material Jim never thought he’d have to worry about. “This is going to be fun trying to explain in the decontam physical.”

Spock’s answer is a decidedly ungraceful grunt. Jim bites his lip, stifling a smile. The nape of Spock’s neck is soft beneath Jim’s wandering fingers.

After a time, Spock says, “I am not emotionally distressed by Dr. McCoy discovering our liaison. However, I hypothesize the same may not be said about the doctor himself.”

Jim is still laughing when his communicator chirps from beneath the bedding. No rest for the wicked. He scrambles for it, fishing in the tangle of blankets. Spock bears the jostling with good grace, brown eyes warm and expression mild. “Kirk here.”

Uhura’s disembodied voice crackles over the comm line. “Morning sunshine. Nice to see you two are finally awake.”

Spock raises one eyebrow. “Good morning, Nyota,” he rumbles, ruining any shred of plausible deniability Jim could possibly cling to.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Jim surrenders, feeling far too sticky to be authoritative.

“Captain, I just wanted to let you know that Dr. McCoy is currently very occupied in sickbay with Scotty. It seems he started experiencing the sudden onset of a hangover immediately after programming in the coordinates for yourself and Commander Spock,” Uhura says, and there's no mistaking the unadulterated cheer in her voice.

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Jim says, staring down at the bulk of thoughtful Vulcan sprawled on his chest like a cat. “His commitment to his duty is appreciated.”

A silence from the communicator, then, “I have two clean uniforms and instructions for security to keep the Alpha shift techs out of the transporter room for the next fifteen minutes.”

Jim smirks down at Spock. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Spock places a hand over the communicator, then presses his lips to Jim’s sternum before rising, sweeping his discarded Fleet undergarments off the ground. He steps into them just as gracefully as he had stepped out. “It would be imprudent to waste this strategic opportunity, Captain.”

Jim’s grin is so wide it hurts. “We can debrief in my quarters after we beam up.” Spock gives him an even look that is way more scathing than is strictly necessary, an eye roll and a sigh rolled into the pinched line of his brow.

“Your attempts at provoking an emotional response are more successful when your mouth is otherwise occupied,” Spock says airily. He retrieves the communicator from Jim and says, “Two to beam up, Lieutenant,” and Jim is still laughing when they dematerialize.