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“You’re not on the list,” the bouncer says with a scowl. The way his bicep muscles spill out of his shirt is frankly obscene, Jim thinks, and likely the product of several performance enhancing drugs rather than actual hard work. Jim’s no gym rat (ha!), but he likes to keep fit, and he knows there’s no way that can be natural.

But Jim’s trying not to focus on that, and instead on the fact that apparently after sitting through hours of talks at the annual Starfleet Command Conference on Starbase 25, smiling and making nice with the brass, that he is not being allowed into the afterparty to drink himself silly at the open bar. He's not being able to reap the benefits of his so-called 'celebrity status' by getting into one of the most exclusive events in the organisation, the dream for all cadets at the academy. Instead, he's being humiliated into having to explain who he is without actually saying the dreaded words, ‘don’t you know who I am?!’ like some diva.

“Are you sure?” He says instead, “James T. Kirk. Captain of the USS Enterprise. Definitely should be on there.”

Spock stands just ahead of them at the bottom of the grand staircase that leads up to the bar, waved in without even having to give his name, lucky bastard. He’s frowning at the scene however, as much as Spock does frown. A sharper downturn of his eyebrows that indicates that he’s getting ready to defend his captain’s honor if needed. 

“Doesn’t ring a bell, kid. And you’re holding up the line.”

Jim swings to look. There are all of three people behind him, all members of Starfleet he doesn’t recognise, all doing everything in their power to not make eye-contact with him. He knew he shouldn’t have changed out of his uniform, but before the final talk of the day he’d spilled bitter coffee down his front when Spock had twisted to greet a commander from the USS Aristotle he knew from his teaching days, exposing a sliver of creamy green-tinted skin at the bottom of his shirt. 

His hand is still slightly pink from the scald. Honestly, if he’d wanted to be tormented, he would have just brought Bones.

So instead of his regular command gold, he’s in his black uniform pants and his plain white undershirt, thankfully unstained. It's why they're late too, Jim's attempts at salvaging the mess in the bathroom with wet paper towels doing more harm than good, with Spock standing outside, insisting that he'd wait. He's not exactly up to ballroom standard, but certainly not underdressed for what Pike had once called “an evening of debauchery and divine canapes.” Goddamnit, all he really wants is some shrimp tempura. 

“Excuse me,” Spock’s cool voice interjects and he walks back towards them. “What is the problem here?”

Although the bouncer has several inches and several pounds on Spock’s lithe frame, the man clearly blushes under the Vulcan’s attention, his arms curling tighter to his chest. It could have been a threatening gesture, but paired with the eyes trailing down the length of his first officer’s body, Jim is willing to bet he’s not the only one who’s feeling flustered by the Vulcan’s appearance lately. 

“Sure uh, well. His name’s not on here,” the guy waves the pad in his hands. “Which means he can’t come in. Company policy, no uninvited guests,” he ends with a smirk at Jim, clearly thinking the Vulcan will cut his losses and leave Jim behind. It’s Jim’s turn to smirk at the guy’s obliviousness to his first officer’s loyalty.

Spock’s eyes narrow imperceptibly.

“Understandable. Might I inquire as to why you did not ask me for my name? It would be logical that you confirm my identity before allowing me through. By only asking my Captain for his name, you were remiss in your duty to ‘company policy’ by not asking the same of me.”

The man sputters under the scrutiny. “Well no Vulcan’s gonna gatecrash a party y’know. And besides, I’ve dealt with lots of his type, trying to sneak in for the free booze and crab puffs, and then it’s my job to drag ‘em out later, kicking and screaming.”

At this Jim knows he has to step in. Spock’s usually calm facade is threatening to erupt at the slight, taking it way more personally than Jim is.

He claps his hands together, “Okay! Let’s not make this a big deal. Spock, you go ahead and have fun in there. You shouldn’t miss out on the free food because of me. I’ll just find somewhere else that’ll let me mooch around for a couple of hours.”

He turns to leave, stepping around the red faced ensign behind him who looks mortified at the scene. It’s kind of funny, Jim thinks. His blush matches his uniform, which clashes terribly with his bright orange hair.

“Wait, Captain,” Spock replies, and steps neatly around the gaping bouncer. “I will accompany you.” He stands tall, his hands joined behind his back which accentuates the difference between his broad shoulders and trim waist, and Jim can hear the kid’s intake of breath.

It’s been a few months since he and Uhura had called it quits, an amicable split that took weeks for the rest of the crew to even find out about, the difference in their behaviour was so unobtrusive. Just friends now , Uhura had smiled, not an ounce of upset in her eyes. As we always will be, Nyota, Spock nodded back. 

So Spock was unattached and clearly people could tell. That commander from the USS Aristotle had certainly looked interested from the claws she’d placed on his bicep in her greeting at the conference. And Spock hadn’t asked her to remove it.

“You sure? I think Commander Voe said she’d be up there,” he asks, a weak attempt at being a wingman if he ever saw.

Spock just looks at him like he’s worried Jim is hemorrhaging brain cells. “I’m sure she will manage without our presence.”

Well, see if Jim tries to help him again.

“Alright then. Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” Jim says instead as they walk away, and just laughs at the Vulcan’s returned look of distaste for human pop-culture references.


Jim barely glances at the facade as he pushes open the doors to the bar. Muscle memory has taken over, identifying it as a place to get as much booze into his bloodstream as quickly as possible.

An alien sitting in the dingy corner is the only other customer, and he doesn’t even look up from his pad, a bendy straw full of a worryingly thick reddish liquid twists its way between his sharp teeth. The bartender nods from her place behind the counter, large yellow eyes focusing back on the dirty rag she drags over the taps as if the pair of them aren’t even worth a second glance.

“Now this is more my scene,” Jim grins, taking in the peeling drink coasters on the bar top, the bizarre collection of nautical themed portraits littering the walls. It’s like someone went to a kitsch micro-brewery once on Earth and tried to recreate it in the depths of space. He breathes in the smell of old beer that’s been saturated into the carpet (Carpet! Jim hasn’t walked on carpet for years), the bitter hops stinging his nose in a way that reminds him of earth and the stints he’d done as a bartender himself. The cracked leather creaks out a groan as he lowers himself down onto it, barely able to take his weight.

It’s completely gross. 

It’s completely awesome.

He orders a whiskey for himself, a water for Spock when he asks. His first officer lowers himself down far more gracefully onto the seat, casting a dubious eye on the peeling bottles of spirits placed in front of a murky mirror. The free bar would have been wasted on him anyway. 

Jim thanks the lady who just grunts in response and takes his credits. Payment upfront, no offer to start a tab. Maybe they get a lot of runners, Jim thinks, very familiar with the drink and dash routine.

They sit quietly for a moment. His drink tastes like fiery-sweet cinnamon, and he resists the urge to purse his lips up like a baby. It’s the kind of drink he would have knocked back a couple of years ago in an effort to forget about his shitty life, and now he can’t help but wonder how his body was ever able to process so much sucrose. Sometimes a sugar-crash could be worse than a hangover. He distinctly remembers after one overzealous night of knocking back shot after shot for St Patrick's day, dragging himself over to the john and throwing up a rainbow into the bowl. 

So this is growing up, he thinks, placing the glass back down.

Jim lets his first officer stew for a few moments, well-versed enough in Spock-speak to know an interrogation is coming. The soft glow of the bar makes his eyes soft, dark under the low lighting. His eyelashes are long, Jim thinks. As coal black as his hair, but curled prettily rather than arrow straight. 

“Captain, you did not seem overly surprised that the security was not going to let you through to the after-party. In fact, you accepted it easily and we left without dispute,” he finally states.

“Your point, Mr Spock?”

“You could have, how humans put it, ‘made a scene.’ There is a high probability that alongside the security detail’s clear personal biases, there was a computer error that meant your name did not appear on the guestlist. It is logical that you would be invited due to your stature within Starfleet, not to mention your heritage, not least because you were invited to the Command conference personally by Admiral Flynn. We could have sent word to her to attend the scene herself to ensure your entrance. This would have superseded the guard’s clear animosity.”

“Maybe it was someone’s idea of a joke,” Jim muttered, taking another swig of the amber liquid. It’s growing on him, he thinks. “It doesn’t matter Spock. It’s not the first time it’s happened, but it’s been a while. Sometimes it’s best to just go quietly and not make a fuss. Besides, I’m not going to go crying to the upper-command just because someone doesn’t like me.”

“From my previous conversations with Admiral Pike, I was under the impression that just a few years ago you would have jumped at the chance to embroil in an altercation regarding your unwanted presence in a drinking establishment. You met him after one such brawl did you not?” Spock’s tone is critical, but not in a way that comes across as disapproving. Rather, in the way that Jim is an equation that he can’t quite solve. He’s inwardly delighted that he can still frustrate the Vulcan like this.

“Well, I’m a changed man, Spock,” Jim says grandly, half bullshit, half serious. He has changed, really. Spock’s right that the Jim of backwoods Iowa wouldn’t have hesitated to swing his punches at the insinuation. Beating his fists to the tune of white trash, that he’s a nobody, nothing but trouble. Fighting that proved them right. He was trouble. He’d been told his whole life he wasn’t living up to the greatness of his father, that he was wasting what he was given. A black eye and blood on his lips the badges of his failure.

The whole Khan business, on the cusp of death and brought back from the edge, forced Jim to confront himself. He was willing to die for his crew, a sacrifice for the greater good that everyone expected him to make. But as he woke up in a hospital bed, blurry eyes tracking Bones fiddling with his IV, his commander sitting vigil by his bed, all he felt was relief. 

So, there’s always been a part of him desperate to survive. To be worth something.

Maybe Jim’s just tired of all of the expectations, positive and negative.

He takes one of the faded beer mats and spins it between his fingers. It valiantly twists two, three times, before it catches on a deep groove in the wood and skitters away to land on the floor. He doesn't pick it up.  

Along the stained surface are dozens of marks, carved in like Roman graffiti. The last remnants of a dead civilisation. Random doodles litter it: stars, diamonds, flowers, as if someone had slipped into a daydream with a knife in their hand. In between the appalling spelling of Go home, your drunk and the crude phallic drawings, Jim can also see names in blocky letters, sharp lines cut through the bark like a brand. Tom. Nicanor. Linda. Kamec. L’ahnfa’’ir. Endless voices shouting into the void.

The urge to be remembered spanning time and space.

Spock doesn’t seem to realize the swirl of thoughts going on inside Jim’s head, instead still stuck on the bouncer. “I will be submitting a complaint to the man’s superiors when we get back to the Enterprise. It is evident that by Starfleet outsourcing its staff for their important events, they have allowed prejudice to infiltrate a command conference proposed in the spirit of unity.”

Jim looks up sharply. “No, no c’mon Spock, it’s the guy’s job to weed out the trouble-makers. Can’t blame him for it, no matter how humiliating it is. Just— leave it.”

“I must insist—”

“Spock,” Jim sighs. “That’s an order.”

Spock’s glower shows how much he definitely does blame him, but he remains silent in his acquiescence to Jim’s command. His water is still untouched in front of him. 

The bartender suddenly disappears through a side door, the heavy clunk of the steel reverberating through the bartop. There’s no movement or sound from behind it, making Jim think she’s either gone to check inventory, or far more likely, is taking a smoke break. 

Now or never then.

Jim takes out from his pocket the cheap utility knife he bought at a junk stall in a bazaar on one of their first diplomatic missions as a crew. At least he thinks it was cheap, his mind not quite clear on the exchange rates at the time. There’s something written down the side of it in a swooping script, spirals weaving their way through the type like ammonite. He could ask Uhura for a translation, but he kind of likes not knowing. “Keep watch will you.”

“Captain, what are you—?”

Jim ignores him and gets to work. It would be easier with a sharper knife, but he pressed his weight into it. Goes over himself again and again. Shavings collect around the grooves and he blows them away with a harsh puff. When he lifts his hand, the thick, proud lines of KIRK stare back up at him.

“There. Someone will see that in years to come and think of me,” Jim says, admiring his handiwork. He’s no artist, but he’s impressed by how clean it looks.

“This statement assumes that this establishment will remain here for that long.” Spock looks around at the empty room. “This is statistically unlikely.”

“You don’t know the tenacity of dive bars, Spock. They’ll survive the end of the universe” Jim holds out the knife to Spock and wiggles it in offering.

“C’mon. Mutually assured destruction.”

Spock looks unsure for a moment, his eyes cutting across to the still door, before that reckless human part of him wins out. He takes the knife.

His carving is much swifter, that Vulcan strength coming in handy as he cuts straight lines into the surface of the wood. No noise even, no little squeaking of metal against bark. SPOCK it reads when he’s done. It’s almost a perfect replica of his handwriting, from what little Jim has seen of it. Pointed letters of control that shelter the emotion Jim knows is simmering below the surface.

Jim takes the knife back, and his fingers brush the back of Spock’s hand, a jolt of sensation lighting up his neural impulses. Spock makes no indication that he felt it.

There’s a small gap between their names, so Jim makes up his mind. Two straight lines bisecting each other and the damage is done.


“Now everyone will remember us.” It’s a nice thought. Comforting, even. That where Jim’s name is, Spock’s will always follow soon after. 

This torch that Jim has been carrying around for his first officer will never amount to anything, he knows. He’d only recently been able to admit that there is a torch, a lingering guilt in his lingering glances, when he knows Spock doesn’t feel the same way. Spock, who Jim still manages to surprise with his spontaneity and eagerness to jump into danger. Spock, who can turn any conversation into an argument, but who Jim loves nonetheless. His first officer’s devotion to him is evident, but it feels like there’s a line between them that he just can’t ever cross. 

So, Jim will keep quiet, and for however long this bar remains here, they are joined together. 

“Do you make a habit of defacing other people’s property?” Spock asks, and his cheeks look a little flushed like a localized injection of chlorophyll.

Jim’s mind flashes back to the cherry red corvette hurtling over the side of the cliff, the exhilaration at seeing something so precious to his stepfather reduced to scraps. It was technically a destruction rather than a defacement, but there we are. So he just hums, and changes the subject.

“You didn’t have to leave with me. You could have stayed and mingled with Voe,” he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, although he actually thinks he might have cried if it had happened.

“What is your preoccupation with the Commander, Captain? Are you romantically interested in her?” Spock looks annoyed now. “You must know her species abstains from premarital coitus and mates for life. They generate offspring very quickly, and the males are tasked with the majority of the child-rearing. The USS Aristotle is stationed in the gamma quadrant for the next 4 years for her work on fuon particles, and you would not be able to command the Enterprise and be attached to her.”

“No, no she was totally into you!” Jim startles at the vehemence of Spock’s argument against his hypothetical offspring with a woman he doesn’t know. “I’m not interested.” He pauses. “And really? No sex at all? I swear that’s what she was throwing down.”

He continues, “So what, not even a little above waist action? If you’d even be into that, I mean. You probably are, I mean with Uhura. You’ve probably done— that.” Jim is floundering, trying desperately not to think about Spock and sex, in any form.

Spock finally takes a sip of his water, “You don’t want to hear about what Nyota and I have done, Jim.” A droplet clings to the corner of his mouth. Jim focuses on it, head swimming. He’s clearly lost some of his tolerance, both for alcohol and for Spock’s general—Spockness. 

“Why were you not interested in Commander Voe?” Spock asks.

Jim stares. A flash of pink tongue swipes the water away, before retreating back into the cavern of his mouth.

“Jim,” Spock says. 

“Who says I’m not interested,” Jim tries to summon up some of that trusty bravado, anything to distract himself from the arousal he can feel pooling in his stomach. “She was hot.”

Objectively it is the truth, but it doesn’t work the way it used to. Instead, Spock tilts his head like a baby bird contemplating a worm. “You are lying, Jim.”

“I have observed,” Spock leans forward slightly and Jim can't help but sway forward to meet him. “that you have not pursued a sexual encounter with another being for 5.25 standard months, despite being made no less than 4 offers, including one from the vice-steward of Gan-Ati Prime. This only leads me to conclude that your attention has been caught elsewhere. Is that correct, Jim?”

God, he feels warm. He blinks a few times to get his bearings, the inviting pull of Spock’s lips drawing him in.

The moment is broken as the bartender swings back through the door with a crash, completely unbothered by the tension curling between her two customers. Jim startles at the sound, pulling back. Was he just? No, he must be mistaken. There’s no way that Spock—

“I think I’m ready to go home,” Jim laughs awkwardly, draining his glass and setting it down. Spock moves his empty glass to sit next to Jim’s in acquiescence.


As they leave the dive a few seconds later, blood syrupy slow in his veins, Jim can see the bartender peering down wistfully at the new scratches on her bartop. 


“You smell like damp,” Bones frowns. He sniffs again. “And crappy beer. I thought this afterparty was supposed to be exclusive. Doesn’t that extend to the place smelling nice? Baskets of rose petals everywhere, pot pourri in the bathroom?”

“We didn’t end up going,” Jim mutters. The bright light of the Enterprise has somehow made his limbs warmer, like heating up sugar to make caramel. “Went to a bar instead.”

Bones studies him incredulously. “You and the hobgoblin went to a bar. Is that where you lost your shirt?”

“No that was before,” he grumbles, not wanting to get into it, and definitely not wanting to bring up the thing with the guestlist for fear of being on the receiving end of one of Bones’ sad sympathetic looks. “And calm down. He just had water. I had something that tasted like ass.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this but he had the right idea. Try to drink some when you get back to your room. There’s a hypospray on your desk for dehydration and to lower your blood sugar. I’m trusting yo u to self-administer and I’ll know if you don’t.”

Yes, Mom , Jim sighs internally.

“I’m not your mother, so don’t even start,” he huffs, the growing lines on his forehead more pronounced with his consternation. Woah.

Bones, he thinks. Bones If you can hear me, blink once.

Bones just rolls his eyes and takes off towards the medical bay. “Do it!” he shouts over his shoulder.

That bears further study, Jim muses, a hypothesis forming that makes him feel like he should be wearing blue instead of gold. Can someone form a telepathic connection with their CMO just from years of pure annoyance? He should ask Spock.

Speaking of, Jim studies him from where he is conversing with Chekov, the ensign’s mouth running a mile a minute as he describes the upgrades to the scanner he’s been working on with Scotty in his spare time. Jim doesn’t get how anyone can have that much energy, especially after coming off alpha shift. But Chekov is just built differently, he thinks, imbued with youthful passion that comes off as inspiring rather than annoying. Spock certainly doesn’t look annoyed, rather he looks vaguely impressed by the outpour from the Russian’s mouth.

As if hearing his thoughts, the Vulcan suddenly catches eyes with Jim. He blinks as he’s caught by the heated intensity in Spock’s gaze and has to look away. God. It feels like he’s dangling on the precipice of something big, something that could change them forever. Jim swallows hard. “Right,” he says, to no-one in particular. “I’m just gonna—” He practically runs out of the transporter room with his tail between his legs.

In the halls, he gets salutes and nods thrown his way, big smiles to see him back on ship. Here, everyone knows him. He’s many of them’s first captain and will hold that place in their heart for the rest of their lives. To them, he is their first Kirk, their only Kirk. The thought is an uplifting one when compared to the nihilism of the bar, the lack of recognition at the afterparty. In the halls of the Enterprise, he’ll live forever.

His bed is unmade from when he woke up. The hypospray Bones left resting on his bedside table, a pointed refusal to act like a parent although Jim knew he was dying to fix the sheets. He stabs the hypo in, way more gently than the doctor would have done. Leaving it by the side, he busies himself with stripping off his pants and runs his hands from his nose to his cheeks, blinking a few times against the weariness that has settled into him. There’s a scratchiness as his stubble pokes through.

The room is quiet, the sweet hum of his ship his only company. It burrows into his skull like a favourite song. Jim doesn’t get much of this quiet before someone breaks it.

He doesn’t have to wait long. The door chimes as someone enters. Only Bones and Spock have the code to his quarters so he takes a guess based on Bones’ determination to mother him despite adamantly denying it. It’s also partly wishful thinking, against what he believes may be an uncomfortable conversation with his first officer about boundaries.

“I’ve already done the stupid spray so don’t even start—”

A strong hand grasps his shoulder and spins him around. Jim is dizzy with it, and that dizziness only increases as a pair of lips presses against his. He groans, hands coming to clutch at Spock’s shoulders. He’s lifted up onto his toes as Spock pulls him closer with a large hand on his waist, and he flushes hot all over with it.

Spock is firm with him, licking at the seam of his lips and when Jim opens up willingly, he takes ownership of his mouth with deep kisses. Jim had never pictured him as the aggressor in his fantasizing, but now he thinks he was dumb not to. It’s so utterly Spock to be the one who makes the first move. Nothing compares to Spock on a mission, the stubborn bastard.

They break apart to breathe into each other's mouths. Jim doesn’t think he’s ever felt so turned on from just making out before.

“You are an infuriating human,” Spock sighs. Yep, Jim thinks dazedly, can’t disagree there, although he’s not entirely sure what exactly it’s in reference to.

Long fingers scrabble at the bottom of Jim’s t-shirt and he lets it be pulled over his head, flinging it off somewhere in the corner to not be picked up later.

Spock’s face doesn’t change much from the look of restrained desire, but his nostrils flare out like a wild bull as he takes in Jim’s tanned chest. It makes Jim puff up a bit, the muscles of his abdomen flexing automatically. He doesn’t have the massive build of the stupid bouncer, but he’s trim, and clearly it’s doing something for the Vulcan. His usually neat hair is mussed from the force of their kissing, and that green tinge is back in his cheeks.

It’s so ridiculously sexy, Jim has to kiss him again. So he does, gasping into it.

This time, it’s Jim’s turn to push. He shoves Spock towards the bed, not even caring about the messy sheets. Surely Spock knows what he’s got himself into by now. It says something about the Vulcan’s level of arousal that he lets himself be maneuvered like this, lowering himself down gracefully like the stool at the bar. His hands, however, shoot out to grasp Jim by the waist again, moving him easily to straddle his hips. The mattress shifts a little with their combined weight, Jim looming over Spock on his hands and knees. He hesitates to lower himself down, his burst of bravery abandoning him as he catalogs Spock’s face for any hint that he may have changed his mind, any regrets. Spock quirks an eyebrow up at him, “I didn’t imagine that you’d be timid during coitus, Jim,” he says, and Jim’s brain short circuits at the image that presents.

“Yeah, well. Forgive a guy for being nervous. This will change things between us,” Jim says, slowly lowering himself down so his crotch is in direct contact with Spock’s. His breath hitches at the hardness he finds there, but he perseveres. “Are you sure you want to take that step with me?”

Spock watches him for a moment, intelligent eyes peering deep inside, laying him bare. He gently pulls Jim close to his chest, his mouth travelling to his captain’s neck, tracing the rounded curve of his ear with his lips. Jim lets out a small sigh which causes Spock to palm his side with a warm hand. “I’m with you, Jim,” Spock whispers into skin, unexpectedly tender.

Jim feels the pressure of the Vulcan’s finger stroking one long line down his ribs and then another line sideways to cut it in half. KIRK + SPOCK. Jim plus Spock. He wants it tattooed over his heart, knows it’s already carved inside.

“Yes,” Jim hisses as a mouth suddenly encloses his left nipple, giving it a playful nip.

So, sex with Spock is playful, Jim thinks. Sex with Spock is— consuming.

He’s still in his uniform, probably having come here straight from the transporter room. Jim spares a quick thought to Chekov for whatever excuse Spock gave to wrap up his spiel and leave. He tugs at the blue shirt, “Fuck, get this off, please.”

The Vulcan’s skin is soon revealed to him, and Jim doesn’t hesitate to get his hands all over it. He traces the curve of his biceps, his protruding clavicles. He’s particularly enamoured with Spock’s sharp cheekbones, swiping the pad of his thumb from the tip of his pointed ear to the steep zygomatic arch, before resting it on his soft bottom lip. Spock lifts a sharp eyebrow at him and his jaw goes slack, drawing Jim’s thumb further into his mouth. His tongue rubs against the bottom, slow circles like he has all the time in the world.

“You’re— you’re something else,” Jim chokes. Arousal throbs through him. Spock was right that he’s been turning down any offers coming his way in favour of pining for a man he thought wasn’t interested. It’s probably what’s making this feel so urgent, Jim’s feelings spilling out like an uncorked bottle of champagne. As he rocks down into the cradle of Spock’s hips, into the answering erection, he knows his first officer had carried his attraction deep within him too.

The remainder of their clothes are tugged off, both now exposed to each other.

“Spock, fuck!” Jim groans as Spock takes him in hand. He pulls and strokes at the shaft, the clever fingers usually reserved for his touch screen and performing delicate experiments now rubbing at Jim’s hot flesh in a tantalising rhythm. 

“There’s no need to be so frantic,” Spock murmurs as Jim lets out a low groan. His skin feels too tight, stretched thin with his desire and his hand clutches Spock’s hip, almost hard enough to bruise.

“I want you to fuck me,” Jim admits, rolling his eyes. “I can’t help being frantic.” He pulls away from Spock’s hand with regret, and shimmies down the bed to come face to face with Spock’s erection. His tongue peeks out automatically, licks his lips as his mouth floods with saliva. “No, wait, please let me suck you first— please.” He gently kisses Spock’s hand in a display of supplication, eyes wide and pleading. It’s a part he hasn’t played for a long time but it still fits well.

“Of course, Jim. You can take as much as you want.” Spock’s hand, damp with Jim’s kiss, threads into Jim’s hair and pushes him towards his cock. His hand stays there, tight in the short strands at the back of his neck. Jim gasps. He had imagined the low rumble of Spock’s voice in his fantasies, the harder edge to hands on Jim. But he never thought he would be greedy for Jim’s touch like this, the same way he can’t get enough of Spock.

Spock’s dick slips into Jim’s now open mouth, and before he knows it, Jim is swallowing him down. He bobs his head as he settles into a rhythm, swiping his tongue over the rounded head and through the slit to collect the salty precum collecting there.

Spock suffers this with low grunts as his only sound. When Jim peeks his eyes up at him from his mouthful, water collecting on his lashes, Spock’s stare is bordering on stunned. Jim almost tries to laugh, the expression so out of place on his usually stoic first officer. He can only imagine the dirty picture he makes that has caused such an expression. Maybe he can tell what Jim’s thinking, because Spock uses his grip on Jim’s short strands to pull his head back off his cock, a string of saliva still connecting them. Spock’s now appraising look makes him feel raw, exposed, and he finds himself wishing to hide behind something. 

Something in Spock’s gaze softens, and with an even, “Come here,” he pulls Jim upwards again to kiss him. He can feel the tilt to the corners of his lips, and realises Spock is smiling.

Happiness blooms inside of him like one of Sulu’s favoured plants. They’re a feedback loop, their pleasure increasing the more they kiss.

A thumb presses at Jim’s entrance and he clenches automatically at the intrusion before relaxing to welcome Spock in. “Woah,” he breathes, pressing back so the pad breaches him slowly. “Okay, haven’t done this for a while.” The stretch burns slightly, reminiscent of hurried fumbles in his youth in quiet bedrooms and dark alleys.

The pad retreats as a concerned expression grows on Spock’s face. No that won't do. Jim grabs the hand and places it right back where it was. “Hey, hey, no,” he frowns, “that’s not a request to stop. I can’t believe you’d think that was a reason to stop .”

He leans over Spock to his bedside table and pulls out a bottle of lube, practically throwing it at Spock’s head. Not sure how he could be more clear than that, Jim huffs.

More fingers quickly join in the stretching, making space for Spock’s erection to fill him up. “I apologise Jim,” Spock murmurs. “I admit that although I am sure of you, I do not wish to injure you in any way.” He sounds so damn put out that Jim can’t help but kiss him again. He’s sure his lips must be at least twice as big as normal, swollen from the making out. Maybe Bones would just think he’d had an allergic reaction, he mused. Or not, as Jim’s sure the ‘just laid’ vibe will be practically leaking out of his pores after this.

Spock doesn’t seem in a hurry to change their position, so Jim sends a prayer to his hamstrings to hold up as he settles and lines up Spock’s dick with his hole, slicking him up with a few strokes. Slowly, so slowly, he starts to sink down. It’s— it’s—

Jim almost can’t think as Spock slides his way in. His hand goes to his cock to stroke it as he’s stuffed full, leaning back to get the best angle.

Through the fog in his mind, he can hear the Vulcan’s muttering even though his loud breaths and choked moans are filling up the room. His fingers are digging into Jim’s hips, pulling and pushing up and down in a rhythm and it's all Jim can do to hold on and ride himself on Spock’s cock. “How could he not know who you were, how could he not realise how remarkable you are,” he says, voice low and strained. He’s the most gorgeous thing Jim has seen, the irritation on his face one of Jim’s favourite expressions (particularly when it’s levelled at him).

It takes a little while for Jim to connect what Spock is saying to the events from earlier that night. Not being let into the party, the desolate bar. It all feels so detached from the current moment, all he can focus on is the slick slide of flesh inside him, nailing his prostate with brutal efficiency. 

“Guh,” is all he can say in response. He can’t help but stare at the straining muscles of Spock’s chest and abdomen, the lack of sweat doing nothing to distract from the way his body is flushed with his peculiar green tint. Jim is sweating enough for the both of them, it drips from his forehead filling the air with the smell of pure sex, the smell of them together. It’s overwhelming and incredibly arousing.

On a particularly hard thrust, Jim feels his equilibrium shift and he’s pulled down chest to chest with Spock, who doesn’t falter for a second, using their new position to push in deep. He loses the urgent thrusts in favour of long hard strokes that Jim can feel all the way to his toes. An animal rutting into its mate, pressing into Jim’s slick hole with efficiency.

“Oh God, Spock, Oh—” Jim babbles as he feels himself getting close to climax. His dick is pressed between their bodies so he can’t get a hand to it, and he doesn’t think he could release his grip on Spock if he tried. “Jim,” Spock answers, “Yes together,” and he grinds in deep, petting Jim’s sides like he’s soothing a colt.

Jim comes with a wail , a wounded sound he didn’t realise he was capable of making. Soon after, Spock’s balls draw up tight and he empties himself inside Jim.

They breathe loudly for a second, before Jim rolls over to sprawl on the bed. “Jesus Christ,” he pants, staring at the ceiling, and Spock murmurs his agreement. The hum of the ship filters back into his consciousness, and it reminds him that there’s a world outside the four walls, a ship to run. Orders to receive and orders to give, and he lays there having just had some of the best sex of his life.

But for now, they lay side-by-side, still a slight space between them despite their intimacy. Jim reaches out with a finger and softly, so softly, drags the tip over the delicate skin of the back of Spock’s hand. One line becomes two. Spock shudders, and turns to press his face into Jim’s neck, Jim’s arm coming up to hold him steady. The urge to be remembered spanning time and spac e, Jim muses, his breath making the Vulcan’s bangs flutter with each rise and fall of his chest. He’s almost falling asleep and can feel Spock going boneless as he burrows into Jim’s warmth, such a contrast to the usually rigid way he holds himself. It makes him smile, content that he is privy to this part of him, a part that Spock keeps hidden deep.

The urge to be remembered. Well, Jim thinks as he drifts off, they have to live if they want to be remembered.