This is me exploring theme...with (s)PORN!!!
Because when I come across thought-provoking paradoxes about Being, Not-being and THE Being, I...meditate on them and produce Pornlets? :DD [also, um, did this turn into pon farr drabble-porn? IDK you tell me]
It is truly remarkable that Jim Kirk has given Spock insight into Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations, in ways that this remarkable human has perhaps not previously realized. And yet, the empirical evidence cannot be denied; blood of my blood and life of my life--he is willing to share this moment with his Captain in every way imaginable, taste his skin and his heat and his love through every pore in Jim's body, lick up his lust from wherever he can reach, and still, it will never be enough--because it is enough that blood pours through their veins and hearts and minds, that life pounds through them, just underneath the heat of their skin. It is enough that he can feel it coursing under his palms, trace the rapid pulse to the core of his lover, where they may be connected in any way (every way) that Jim may want. But still, it is not enough. It cannot ever be enough until they are one forever and always--
Always and never touching, and touched.
Yes. Here Spock may find serenity, connected with this mind that writhes beneath him, whose slick skin and strong lines are part of him as surely as his own heart is. And yes, he licks into that mouth and swallows up the moan of frustration that escapes from Jim's perfect, lush lips. Spock shifts, ever so slightly, not enough to ignite the fire burning at the base of his spine but enough to gain friction in the tight, wanton heat that is Jim.
He cannot think of the rituals; it is impossible to even recall his own name at this moment. He wonders how any Vulcan could withstand the madness as he rains kisses upon Jim's cock with his palm and fingertips, how anyone could summon the ancient sayings and customs and think that somehow they could accelerate what is already perfect, the moment when he is no longer alone in his mind, when Jim arches his back and takes Spock even deeper into his body. No, it is not possible; there is only heat, a burning within him and all around him, boiling him alive while he drowns in Jim's body. It grows with every slick thrust and helpless moan that is lost in the frantic press of their bodies. He is close now, so close; he can feel his release building somewhere low in his stomach, and where Jim's want is bleeding into his skin everywhere they touch. He reaches blindly for his lover's hand and grips it tightly, almost to the point of pain. And Jim, he weathers the almost-pain, arches into the grip and lets out a stream of heated, incoherent babble.
You are precious to me, Spock thinks, infusing the thought with the pleasure Jim feels, so he may never think of Spock without remembering this, their bodies together and sticky with sweat, slick as they slide against each other in the heat of the afternoon: precious.
Jim moans again and brings their hands to his temple, where there are still faint pink shadows from the last time the fever gripped him (so long ago, and yet, logically, it could not have been less than hours).
Be with me, Jim's skin screams, and Spock has never been able to refuse his Captain, does not need to be told twice.
And it is easy, so so easy to collapse into the pool of Jim's mind, where the heat is intoxicating and addicting, where he can feel himself thrusting into Jim's body, but feel himself as Jim feels him, filling him, completing him. It is too much; Jim's mind wraps around him like a second skin and clings tightly, threads itself into a niche in Spock's mind, and--and he cannot--
"Come with me Spock," Jim breathes, ragged and utterly wrecked, even as his body spasms around Spock, and Spock does, he bites down on the juncture of Jim's neck and collar bone to keep the scream muffled and comes and comes and comes.
It is truly remarkable that Jim Kirk has given Spock insight into Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations, in ways that this remarkable human has perhaps not previously realized. And yet, the empirical evidence cannot be denied; blood of my blood and life of my life--he is willing to share this moment with his Captain in every way imaginable, taste his skin and his heat and his love through every pore in Jim's body, lick up his lust from wherever he can reach, and still, it will never be enough--because it is enough that blood pours through their veins and hearts and minds, that life pounds through them, just underneath the heat of their skin. It is enough that he can feel it coursing under his palms, trace the rapid pulse to the core of his lover, where they may be connected in any way (every way) that Jim may want. But still, it is not enough. It cannot ever be enough until they are one forever and always--
Always and never touching, and touched.
Yes. Here Spock may find serenity, connected with this mind that writhes beneath him, whose slick skin and strong lines are part of him as surely as his own heart is. And yes, he licks into that mouth and swallows up the moan of frustration that escapes from Jim's perfect, lush lips. Spock shifts, ever so slightly, not enough to ignite the fire burning at the base of his spine but enough to gain friction in the tight, wanton heat that is Jim.
He cannot think of the rituals; it is impossible to even recall his own name at this moment. He wonders how any Vulcan could withstand the madness as he rains kisses upon Jim's cock with his palm and fingertips, how anyone could summon the ancient sayings and customs and think that somehow they could accelerate what is already perfect, the moment when he is no longer alone in his mind, when Jim arches his back and takes Spock even deeper into his body. No, it is not possible; there is only heat, a burning within him and all around him, boiling him alive while he drowns in Jim's body. It grows with every slick thrust and helpless moan that is lost in the frantic press of their bodies. He is close now, so close; he can feel his release building somewhere low in his stomach, and where Jim's want is bleeding into his skin everywhere they touch. He reaches blindly for his lover's hand and grips it tightly, almost to the point of pain. And Jim, he weathers the almost-pain, arches into the grip and lets out a stream of heated, incoherent babble.
You are precious to me, Spock thinks, infusing the thought with the pleasure Jim feels, so he may never think of Spock without remembering this, their bodies together and sticky with sweat, slick as they slide against each other in the heat of the afternoon: precious.
Jim moans again and brings their hands to his temple, where there are still faint pink shadows from the last time the fever gripped him (so long ago, and yet, logically, it could not have been less than hours).
Be with me, Jim's skin screams, and Spock has never been able to refuse his Captain, does not need to be told twice.
And it is easy, so so easy to collapse into the pool of Jim's mind, where the heat is intoxicating and addicting, where he can feel himself thrusting into Jim's body, but feel himself as Jim feels him, filling him, completing him. It is too much; Jim's mind wraps around him like a second skin and clings tightly, threads itself into a niche in Spock's mind, and--and he cannot--
"Come with me Spock," Jim breathes, ragged and utterly wrecked, even as his body spasms around Spock, and Spock does, he bites down on the juncture of Jim's neck and collar bone to keep the scream muffled and comes and comes and comes.