Ashes to Snow (NC-17) for Chibinecco
Author's name: juliench1
Written for:Chibinecco
Pairing/characters: Kirk/Spock, McCoy
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: meld!sex. Get creative, surprise me. Something that's not typically done or hasn't been done a million times before with meld!sex.
Warnings/Promises: DubCon, Alien!Peen, Hurt!Spock, UnBetad.
Disclaimer: The Great Bird of the Galaxy laid these Eggs. I just scramble 'em around a bit. They're not mine.
Medium: Fiction
Summary: Kirk is afraid of melding with his first officer. Spock takes great pains to convince him otherwise.
A/N: tried my hardest anon..NOT EASY, lol. And I apologize for it being so late.
It isn't fear precisely that keeps Jim from doing it. Fear is something Jim can't often afford to contemplate or indulge in, because there is always another Klingon horde hell bent on collecting the hefty ransom the Empire has placed on his hide, or some arrogant energy life form trying to steal his ship. And if the dangers don’t come from without they come from within, like having to tell Uhura last week that her leave had been rescheduled. The woman was fierce. Jim Kirk doesn’t have the luxury to be afraid. He has fears, all right, (because he is human and splendidly so) locked up somewhere tight where they won’t get in the way of his command. They are held in check by the weight of responsibility and the burden of command. So, to some degree, he’s become the master of his fears.
Except for one.
Jim still wakes up in the middle of ship’s night because of it, with cold sweat creeping its way between his shoulder blades and with his heart, faster than a Vulcan’s, quivering in his ribcage.
Jim remembers. He remembers all too well running into the cave on Delta Vega, confused and relieved to be free of that monster. Then he remembers hands, dry as parchment reaching shakily toward him, and the rasp of an oddly familiar deep voice.
“Let me show you”
What keeps Jim up at night, gets him moving out of his bunk and toward the mess for something Bones’ diet won’t allow, or gets him running around the saucer section until his feet are throbbing and his legs are shot through with pain - is how he lost himself in those moments. How, in touching the Vulcan’s mind he was scorched to nothingness in the conflagration of Spock’s self.
“Our minds together and one”
But there hadn’t been a together. Spock, in the meld, was absolute and implacable and there were no secrets, there was nowhere to hide. There was Spock, and nothing else, and if it’s too dark, or too quiet, Jim isn’t sure what’s out there. It’s like sitting in pitch black and trying to locate your limbs. He can’t be sure if he is actually here, or if he isn’t still there in the cave pressed flat against the ice and gasping in numbed shock at the immensity of the Vulcan’s grief, the raw power of every emotion magnified a thousand fold.
“So you do feel?”
He knows it now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the knowledge lives deep in his bones and in his mind. But what he isn’t sure about is if he’s the same man who went in. And it’s maddening that he’ll never know, and deeply frightening in a way he can’t quite articulate - and Jim can articulate anything. But this, he cannot. So he’ll sit in silence, or run, or silently ask Bones to give him a drink and sit with him as Jim tries to recover his sense of self.
"So in other words Jim, you're scared."
Jim has always loved Bones' bluntness but he doesn’t revel in it now, when they’re half a bottle deep into the Lagavulin he’d won off of Scotty, and Bones has no incentive to defer to Jim’s rank.
“The only thing I’m scared of, Bones, is that you’ll finish off the rest of the bottle before I can get another taste.”
He tossed the bottle to Jim, a lazy one handed throw that missed the ground by bare inches as Jim stretched to catch it.
“Don’t change the subject, kid. What I’m hearing, behind the infamous Kirk bravado is that you’re scared, Jim, of Spock. Is it because of the choking? Think he’ll try and do something like that again, but in your brain?”
Jim lets Bones think the wince is on account of the strength of the scotch, and not the fact that his friend has cut to the heart of the matter in his usual gruff, empathic, and incisive way.
“I know he can be a green blooded bastard, but, I think he’s ok Jim. He saved my life, my sanity. I don’t think he’d ever hurt one of us, not purposefully.”
Jim nodded pensively, suppressing a shudder at how they almost lost the Doctor to the Xeverians, and their cold-blooded psychic assault. Spock had melded with Bones and shielded him from further mental harm for 10 hours while Jim and Sulu improvised a weapon to break through their defenses. Spock had been wrecked, and Bones, Bones had taken months to recover with Jim and Spock taking turns and staying by his bedside at night to keep him from biting through the pillows as the aftershocks buffeted his mind.
It was easy, after that, to let Spock into, what McCoy liked to call, the ol’ boys club. You sort of had to when a person, a Vulcan, rather, saved your best friend’s brain and life. During his convalescence, even the doctor found a grudging affection for Spock, and Jim had noticed that their arguments had lost most of their heat, though none of their vigor. Bones had taken to educating Spock on old Terran stories and sayings while Jim and his first officer played chess at the foot of his bed.
Jim couldn’t help but be awed by the gentle way Spock had handled McCoy, finally allowing the respect and obvious fondness he had for the doctor seep through his stoic façade. And Jim had become increasingly adept at deciphering the enigmatic quirks of his dark brow, and the wry twist of his lips whenever Bones said something remotely emotional, and the way, and Jim would swear this in front of a Federation tribunal, his eyes would twinkle when something funny was said.
That time, helping Bones get over the psychic attack, it had helped in their journey, the one that started from low grade enmity, to grudging respect to, well…what? Jim didn’t know what to call it. They were three years into the mission and Spock was more than a friend, hell, even more than a brother. Bones was his brother. Bones was solidly imperturbably in the brother category. But Spock was, Spock was Spock. There was no other way to explain it. But their mounting friendship couldn’t keep the terror out of his heart.
“I know Bones, I know. Spock’s a true pacifist.” Jim answered quietly. “I know it the same way you know that we have 15 fail safes on every deck in case of a sudden hull breach. But it doesn’t stop me from feeling, yeah, ok, from being scared.”
Jim poured another finger of whiskey in his glass, and got up to pace his friend’s quarters.
“And I’m going to get on shift in - shit-, four hours, and he’s going to make his report, and I’m going to feel like an idiot , because he’ll be the same Spock that I trust with my ship, and your life and mine. But I can’t trust him with my mind Bones, I can’t. “
“Jim,” Bones got up slowly and put a warm hand on his friends tense , tense shoulder. “No one said you had to. The other Spock melded with you out of desperation. Our Spock melded with me to keep me alive. Three years on this tin can, and you don’t think he knows how to respect our boundaries? You’re touchier than a raw anti-matter pile over this Jim. There’s no need.”
Jim laughed softly to himself, shaking his head. “Maybe you’re right Bones. But I can’t help feeling, that with everything that’s happened - Nero, his mother, that T’pring woman - he’s feeling a little empty in there, and I don’t want to be the one to have to fill it.
“For Pete’s Sake Jim, are you always this egotistical?” The sting of Bones’ statement was mitigated by the rough arm slung around Jim’s shoulder. “Sorry to inform you, Captain, but you don’t control the emotional well being of your crew. I don’t even have that power even if I do serve as counselor to half of them. It’s strange to be on the other side of this conversation but live and let be Jim-bo. And pour us another drink before you bring the whole room down.”
Jim’s laugh was easy, genuine this time, and if there was a little gnaw of doubt in his gut and in the back of his mind, he ignored it to settle in a little deeper at the foot of Bones’ bunk and let the lassitude creep over his frame as both men got quiet.
“Bones?”
“What?”
“You still awake?”
“Yeah, Jim. We still got two thirds of the bottle left.”
“What was it like, for you, when Spock was, when he-“
“When he was pulling his Vulcan Voodoo in my brain?”
Jim swallowed roughly. “Yeah.”
“Not gonna lie to you kid, it was one of the weirdest experiences of my life. And I can say that even after serving with you. It was like quicksand. I thought I was going to get sucked under, but something was keeping me in place, holding on tight. I couldn’t be sure who was who, heck I didn’t know who I was half the time. But I’ll tell you this Jim. I really am thankful to that Vulcan sonofabitch.”
“Me too.” He patted McCoy’s head affectionately and took another sip of his scotch.
“What we rilly oughta be talkin’ ‘bout, said Bones after a few quiet minutes, “is how’re y’ gonna get past that pesky no fraternization rule, and tell that Vulcan ya love him.”
“Leonard…” Jim used Bones’ full name and all the command authority he could muster from his whiskey soaked gut.
“All right Jim, but you can’t avoid the topic forever.” Bones gave him a clumsy pat on the shoulder, turned on his side, and started snoring lightly.
______________________________________________________________________
Somewhere between the fourth hymn of unending praise to their deity and the ritualistic dance of lust, Jim decides he hates Bones. He hates Bones, and he hates Scotty’s whiskey. He hates how bright the sun is on Traurus, he hates the way it is tap dancing against his skull, he hates how Bones seems largely immune to the after effects of any and all alcohol. But what he hates even more is how cloyingly fake the high pontiff is, and he especially hates the way zhe is draping hirself all over Spock. Who, it must be noted, Jim does not hate, and who, much to Jim’s dual joy and chagrin, is looking exceptionally handsome in his dress blues. It’s difficult not to notice how the fabric bunches around his lean biceps, or how the it hugs his chest just so as he shifts closer to the pontiff to expand on an arcane point of Federation politics. It’s difficult, more difficult than it should be for Jim, who is a grown man, and a star ship captain, to keep himself from crossing to the other side of the table and forcibly removing hir from Spock’s space.
But Jim manages it, he learned a long time ago how to put his charm on autopilot, even as his head was spinning formulas and escape plans. Unfortunately for him, he has no plans to escape his own thoughts, and he finds them half revolving around the diplomatic proceedings, and half revolving around his conversation with Bones last night. He can’t seem to stop watching Spock’s fingers, long white and strong full of elegance and potential menace.
Jim is distracted for a moment by Checkov’s hooting laughter at the end of the table. But he has a sixth sense about his first officer, so he does not fail to see when Spock winces, stammers in the middle of his statement, and raises one slender hand to his temple.
The red alert starts blaring forcefully in his mind, and he is up and out of his seat even before Spock hits the ground, shuddering and making inhuman noises low in the back of his throat. His crew -battle proven and unmatched in their reflexes - have already called Dr. McCoy to prepare for a possible medical emergency. But some maudlin and irreverent part of Jim thinks they’re going to have to invent a new code for whatever it is that is happening to his friend, because his blood is everywhere, green and thick tanging the air with copper and seeming to come from his very pores. Jim doesn’t know what to do, except press Spock closer to him and somehow try to staunch the bleeding, stop Spock’s life essence from pouring out onto the banquet table.
Uhura is flawless, simultaneously making apologies and calling for a secure beam out for her first officer and Captain. The seconds go by like eons, standing there in the suddenly chill Traurian air, and where it is not covered by field green blood, Spock’s color is too ivory white, his cool Vulcan skin is like ice, so Jim holds him tighter to himself and prays to Gods he stopped believing in at eight.
_______________________________________________________________________
It is, of all things, an allergic reaction. But Bones tells him that a glut of histamines in Vulcan physiology, which depends on a delicate balance of fluids to maintain itself, can be disastrous. It almost was disastrous in Spock’s case. Bones doesn’t say any thing else, just that Spock will recover in a month’s time, and the swelling will subside in about a week and a half. Jim doesn’t say anything when his best friend pulls him into a tight hug and whispers in his ear that it’s not too late. He just nods dumbly and shuffles his way to his quarters toward the relief of sleep.
Some would call it unprofessional, the way Jim hovers around Spock afterward. But he can’t help it. Lieutenant Tormollen is a very competent temporary science officer, and if you squint and tilt your head, just so he looks like Spock. But the jig is up as soon as he opens his mouth and his antiquated pre-Fed standard accent spills out. Jim doesn’t bolt out of his seat as soon as his shift is over. He’s the captain, to do so would be undignified. But he notices that the bridge crew always let him onto the turbo-lift first lately, and Chekov even had the temerity to order it to sick bay on his behalf.
They don’t say much to each other when Jim saunters in, struggling to control the way his heart beats or his palms itch whenever he sees Spock, regal and serene on his bio bed, politely disregarding Nurse Chapel’s love-sick ministrations. Spock blinks once, slow and thoughtful, and the barest hint of the smallest shadow of a smile quirks his lip.
“Captain,” - and that word out of Spock’s mouth almost gives the game away, because it’s all Jim can do to keep himself from blushing at the unconsciously sensual way those Vulcan lips curl around his title.
“I presume you have arrived to furnish me with your daily ‘report?’”
“As always, you presume correctly Mr. Spock.”
Jim grinned and sat at Spock’s bedside. A little too close for a Captain and First Officer, perhaps but Spock isn’t quoting regulations, and unless Jim is seeing things, Spock is leaning in a little closer, angling himself to prepare for Jim’s report.
“It would not do for the first officer of the vessel to be ignorant of its daily working. I am ready to receive your report Captain.” Spock steeples his hands contemplatively on his lap, and looks at Jim through his velvet black lashes. The look, were Spock a human, would be unforgivably flirtatious. But Spock is Vulcan, so Jim ignores the way it makes his collar itch a little and his palms sweat.
“Yes Mr. Spock, I’m glad you realize how critical it is for you to be abreast of all the happenings on the ship. I must say you’ve become a little lazy lounging around in bed here all day.”
“Yes sir.” Spock answers drily, and Jim thinks he sees the imagined warmth in Spock’s eyes deepen.
They wait for Chapel to finish calibrating his vascular regen treatment, and allow her to labor under the misapprehension that the Captain’s report consists of some very confidential, need to know basis hush- hush info. Really all it consists of is Jim gossiping like an unrepentant old Queen about everything happening in the ship. Whether or not Chekov and Scotty will ever get together, just how long it’s been since one of Sulu’s plants released a deadly spore into the ship’s systems, Rand’s Sisyphean attempts to cow Jim into doing his administrative duty without Spock to act as her back-up. These are silly things, inconsequential in the long run, but they weave the fabric of their time out here in space, and Jim knows, first hand, how useful a distraction from one’s own convalescence can be. Bones knows it too, because he never interrupts them, though the Doctor silently notes the slight increase in Spock’s heart rate and adrenaline whenever the Captain is there for one of his visits.
Jim will wile away his evening at Spock’s side, and when the two of them have run out of words, and chess, and there is nothing between them but a tether of silence and longing so deep it makes Kirk ache , he sleeps. Bones catches them at it more than once, Jim’s bright blonde pillowed in his arms at Spock’s side, his fingers curled into the Vulcan’s without his even knowing. Jim is ignorant of just how significant this is to Vulcans, he has no idea what Spock unconsciously offers, nor is he cognizant of the significant looks his two best friends trade over his sleeping head. He just knows that even in an ungainly sprawl against the side of the bed - with his neck contorted and his arms half numb - Jim has never slept better in his life. He has to disregard the very prominent erections he gets in the morning when he wakes up and sees Spock in repose, regal even in his sleep. But it’s worth it. Even if it means having to put up with Bones’ repeated attempts to get him to ‘fess up to his pointy-eared love elf.”
Which is why, when it all comes crashing down, it does so in a spectacular fashion.
They’re in their third week of this little dance, of reports and whispered intimacy, and laughs that are not from Spock, and smiles that are from Jim. It has been a particularly rugged shift, thanks to a run in with an Orion slave-cruiser, and Jim actually has something real to report. But he is tired, and Spock’s baritone is soothing, his scent faintly spicy and wholly intoxicating - Jim can’t help but start drifting into sleep right away, half on top of Spock and dead to the world.
Somewhere, on the knife edge of sleep and wakefulness, there is a sensation, like cool water over his scalp, almost inside. It is ceaseless, rhythmic and lulling him to deeper sleep, and he wants to give himself over to it completely and just drift away. But there is something . . . off about it. He can feel his brow furrowing in consternation, trying to piece it together, but those waves soothe away the worry, as though they are sentient, as though they are controlling, directing -
Jim rockets into full wakefulness, batting Spock's cool open hand away from his temple. Jim can still feel the imprint of Spock’s fingers, where they had traced soft lines of calm against his scalp. But, worse than that, he can still feel the terrifyingly familiar press and pull of Spock's immense mind.
There is silence between them, but instead of being tinged with want, it has the flavor of Jim’s terror and Spock’s earnest confusion.
"Jim, are you well?" Spock's tone is as neutral as ever, but Jim can see the want beneath the worry. He can see into the atavistic core of this Vulcan. He KNOWS it is there, tastes it in the back of his mind, and his fear is as sharp now as it ever was, a tangible thing colored with impressions of Spock’s mind against his quiescent one.
"What the hell were you doing?"
Jim's tone is glacial, and the confusion is plain enough to read on Spock’s face now, a tiny crease in his brow gives him away, and Jim has to ruthlessly suppress the urge to reach out and smooth it into its usual placidity.
"Your rest seemed unusually fitful tonight, in your rest tonight Jim. I was endeavoring to ease your tension with a cephalic massage. Is this not common among friends? I freely admit my ignorance in human friendship rituals but I-"
“Just how is invading my mind an act of friendship, Mr. Spock?”
“It was hardly an invasion, Captain. You were in need. I fulfilled it.”
Spock is up from the bio bed, approaching Kirk slowly, with his midnight colored Vulcan robes trailing softly behind him. And damn if that isn’t enough to make the want coil low in Jim’s gut, want enough to almost - almost subdue the outrage and panic creeping its way up his spine.
“When I have a need you can fulfill, Spock, I’ll let you know. Until then I’ll thank you to keep out of my head.” Jim whirls around to walk out of sickbay, struggling to keep himself from breaking out into a sweat, or outright running away from his first officer. He is almost at the door when he feels his bicep enclosed in a cool, unyielding grip.
“I have never known you to run from anything, Captain. Indeed I have wondered if you are capable of fear. Yet, you are now exhibiting it, and toward me? ” Spock’s voice is low purr against Jim’s ears, and he can feel the Vulcan’s incredulity and the small stirrings of anger. The contact is sending Spock’s emotions crawling along his skin like ants, like an ion storm right against his flesh, and it makes him dizzy.
“You should let go of me Mr. Spock. You’re assaulting a superior officer you know.”
Jim is doing his best to be as captainly and smug as he can - something he knows Spock hates, but Spock is undeterred, gently spinning his Captain around as though he is nothing more than a child, not a grown man, and combat specialist, and second most wanted criminal in the Klingon Empire.
“You are welcome to try and put me in the brig, Jim. But I think that you will not.”
Spock is crowding him now, pushing him so that his back is toward Bones’ medicine cabinet. But Jim can’t break free, couldn’t if his life depended on it, and he’s afraid that it just might.
“Spock, get off of me, that’s an order.”
“I am not on duty. Tell me what is troubling you Jim. I wish only to help you.”
Jim’s near his breaking point, he knows. He’s either going to lash out at Spock and say or do something irreparable, or he’s going to break down and tell him everything, mind meld or no. Spock’s face is inches from Jim’s and his eyes are dark, and chocolate and filled to the brim with the compassion and concern Jim knows exists under the placid surface of his Vulcan friend.
“Spock, you can’t help me, especially not you.” Jim makes an attempt to twist away from their proximity but Spock’s arms shoot out and hold him in immobile.
“Kroykah!” Spock growls. “You call me friend, yet you run from me when I would act on that friendship. It is also difficult for me, Jim. And I find I grow weary of this ‘courtship.’ Perhaps, if you do not trust a friend, you will trust a lover.”
Spock moves with cunning Vulcan speed, and the air whuffs out of Jim in a rush. It can’t be happening, but it is. Jim is pressed so tight against the wall that breathing is an indulgence he must learn to do without. Spock’s tongue is furling into his mouth, wet hot and heavy, and it’s nothing like Jim thought it would be. It is too good, so good that Jim can only squirm and press closer, open his mouth and let Spock in.
He is suddenly, painfully aware of Spock’s hips moving in perfect little circles as the vice grip on Jim’s arms tightens. Unbidden, Jim thinks of the promise of that strength, of strong Vulcan hands and cool unrelenting Vulcan density holding him down, pinning him to the mattress and fucking him wide open. And James T. Kirk, Iowan golden boy, Captain of the Flagship, the man who outdrank Chekov, Scotty AND McCoy in one sitting - whimpers as the blood speeds down to his dick in a heady rush.
Spock pulls back, nostrils flaring, and distantly Jim wonders if he can smell the arousal coursing its way through his body. He also notes that his arms are free , but he can only hold on to Spock, grip his silk soft hair between his fingers and gasp because his waist is locked in Spock’s grip, and his first officer, friend, whatever is running his lips and tongue softly along Jim’s throat.
“You are most perplexing, to run from that which we both want. To fear that which you desire is illogical.” He punctuates this statement with a growl and bites at the side of Jim’s neck. Jim’s knees go weak and he tilts his head back to give Spock more access. His cock could cut dilithium and the shock of Spock’s mouth, hotter than any Vulcan’s mouth has a right to be, licking into his own, sucking at his bottom lip then softly nibbling wrenches a wrecked needy sound from Jim. He’s giving in to this so easily, opening to Spock like a lock to a safe-cracker.
“Jim.” Spock’s head is tilted, slightly, his focus absolute and unwavering and Jim feels like one of the innumerable experiments in his lab - except, he doesn’t think that his Science officer’s pupils melt into black at the sight of protozoan cultures. His voice doesn’t get this husky and rough when he’s expounding on theorems. And Jim’s pretty sure he’s never caught Spock rutting like this against a lab table, long rolling motions of his trim hips that have Jim grunting and trying to push his own engorged sex more firmly into his first officer’s.
“I have desired-” Spock gasps as Jim’s hips stutter into his, and Jim sucks a hot heavy bruise into the hollow of his throat. “-Just such intimacy with you for some time.”
Spock is rucking Jim’s shirt up, laving a nipple and sneaking a hand down Jim’s pants to tease at his cock with feather light touches along Jim’s hard leaking length.
“Oh, Fuck - Spock, -oh” Jim hits his head against the medicine cabinet, straining to push his dick into Spock’s wickedly talented fingers.
“Yes, Jim, I would be open to that and more if you would allow it?” Jim’s eyes flutter open and he can read the intent in his first’s eyes and in his fingers as they trace Jim’s kiss-swollen mouth and follow a path back behind Jim’s ears and down his neck.
At some point Spock had shed his robes, so his desires are broadcasting clearly from every point of contact between Jim’s torso and his.
Spock wants it all, he wants to be inside Jim, mind and body and take and claim until the pleasure obliterates them both.
It makes Jim’s blood run cold, and he can tell that Spock senses it, because his hand on Jim’s dick slows down, and his brows knit together in a frown.
“I would never take from you, that which you did not give freely.”
The disappointment flowing into him from Spock almost makes him sick with its depth and potency. Jim hates to disappoint his friend and he knows how hard it must have been for Spock to even start this, Spock who’s had so little love and affection in his life. But Jim can't he just.... in the meld with the other Spock he thought he'd die, thought he'd never be happy again one second, and the next second he was terrified his heart would explode with the secondhand joy of seeing himself through Spock’s eyes. It is too much. He does not mind Spock knowing what is in his brain but he feels like the grief and pain that follows his first officer around like a shadow will consume him too.
“Spock, I-“
“Jim, do not, explanations between us have never been necessary, they are not required now.” His eyes are chocolate brown, soft and sad and he seems thinner than before as he shrugs on his robe. Jim doesn’t stop him when Spock reaches out to straighten up Jim and press a quick Vulcan kiss to his finger tips.
Spock is shockingly efficient at putting Jim back together again. And no one would know what they’d been up to except for the obscene bulge at his crotch, and the way he can’t quite catch his breath. Spock impeccable, as always, except for the giant hickey at his throat.
“Please tell Dr. McCoy that I will continue my convalescence in my quarters.” Spock turns away to leave sickbay, but pauses before stepping into the hallway. For a moment, Jim can see the tension in his thin frame, and when Spock turns again to face him, his eyes are naked with want and frustration.
“Know, Jim, that you are welcome at any time.” Spock sweeps out of the sickbay, and Jim staggers to Bones’ office in a cloud of confusion, not sure if the nagging hurt he feels twisting in his guts, actually belongs to him.
Spock makes a full recovery, despite Bones’ attempts to harangue him into staying in sickbay. Spock is undeterred however, and returns to his customary place at the Science station, much to Tormollen’s relief and the crew’s approval.
“Mr. Spock, welcome back, you were missed.” Jim barely suppresses a wince at his own tone, too flat, not nearly as welcoming as he usually is when a member of the crew rejoins them. But he can’t summon his customary bonhomie, not when he’s this close to Spock again.
“Thank you Captain. It will be gratifying to resume my duties. I have missed my interactions with the crew.” But Spock has his eyes trained on Jim when he says this, still questioning, challenging, and Jim knows that when he says the crew, Spock really means him. Just him.
It’s been five whole days since he’s even laid eyes on the Vulcan. Five days of dreaming about his hands, and his taste as Jim rubs his aching cock almost raw against the top sheet of his bunk. Five days of having those dreams turn to ashes and his arousal melt into the ether when he contemplates what Spock really wants.
The bridge crew has the decency not to react the obvious tension between their two executive officers, and Jim has to throw a wan smile Chekov’s way to keep the kid navigator from fidgeting too much.
They’re on a milk run at the moment, Pike’s gift to the crew after hearing of Spock’s injury. Jim has never taken into account, however, just how much interaction he has with his first officer in the course of normal shift. It starts off innocuous enough.
“Captain, I thought these reading on the third planet in the Kelini system would be of interest to you.”
Spock is leaning over Jim, one hand on the back of his chair, the other holding the pad up for Jim’s inspection, and Spock’s scent hit’s Jim like a freight train, and he finds himself breathing hard as his hips shift in the chair of their own accord.
“Thank you, Spock I’ll take a look later.” The dismissal is curt, but Spock’s hand discretely tracing along the nape of Jim’s neck is slow and languorous, and Jim’s eyes flutter as a lightening bolt of pleasure hits him straight in the groin.
All bets are off after that. Spock finds excuses to be in Jim’s space, or touch him, or whisper to Jim. Ship’s business to be sure, but there was nothing business like about the brief flicker of Spock’s tongue against the sensitive shell of Jim’s ear.
By the end of shift, Jim is half hard in his uniform pants, driven to distraction by Spock’s guerilla seduction tactics. It’s so bad that he pulls up the regs on sexual harassment and sends them over a private channel to Spock’s console, even though he’d never report Spock, and even though he knows more than half of him wants the attention. Undaunted, the Vulcan responds by highlighting subsection 8 paragraph B, the rubric of what defines ‘consensual.’ Jim is mortified, more by the plainness - to Spock - of his desire, than by the Vulcan’s dogged persistence.
McCoy’s made it up by the end of shift, as is his custom, and Jim is actually grateful to see the doctor, despite his recent attempts to harangue Jim into opening up about what happened in sickbay. He’s up out of his seat and heading toward his friend almost before the Beta crew shuffles in, when Spock stops him with a hand on his elbow.
“Captain, it is imperative that we review the modifications to the engine proposed by Mr. Scott, as well as the changes to the duty roster.”
The protest dies on Jim’s lips at the hungry look barely concealed in Spock’s gaze, and the way his eyes are wantonly undressing Jim. He tries to croak out a refusal, and is interrupted by his Yeoman before he can.
“Oh Mr. Spock, thank you sir, I’ve been trying to get the Captain to go over those files work ages.” Rand is capable, and serious, and though she’s basically worthless in a landing party, she is a bureaucratic genius and Jim can see that she won’t be crossed in this.
“Yes, Yeoman, the Captain is fortunate that I am here to . . . take him in hand, as I were.”
Jim shudders at the implication weighting down Spock’s voice, and is shocked that his Yeoman doesn’t notice a thing.
“Shall we meet in your quarters at 2100 hours, sir?”
“Fine, Mr. Spock fine.”
He barely feels Yeoman Rand’s condescending smile and pat on the arm as he trudges toward the turbolift and toward certain doom.
______________________________________________________________________
Spock is never late.
But it’s 2100 hours, and Jim is in his blacks, gut twisted with worry because the Vulcan isn’t here yet. And really, Jim shouldn’t want him here, shouldn’t want whatever is going to happen between them tonight, good or bad. Yet, the adventurer in him, the reckless cowboy as Nogura likes to call it is curious. Jim’s never been on this side before, he’s always the pursuer, he’s used to slowly dismantling people’s defenses. It’s strange, maybe even exhilarating to see if he’s going to resist Spock this time. To see if he even still wants to resist.
After an hour of weighing the pros and cons, and trying to predict every conceivable outcome, Jim is shrugging back into his command tunic and heading to his first Officer’s quarters. He isn’t going to bother with a comm.. He’s going to face this head on, his last fear coming as it does from such a familiar place.
He does not hesitate at Spock’s door, the decision, he thinks has been made for him, since the end of shift, perhaps since Delta Vega. The door isn’t shut against him, he doesn’t need a command override, it’s obvious his bio signatures have been programmed into the sensor.
“You have come.” The voice comes out of the dark, and Jim thinks it may be to the right of the firepot, until he feels Spock standing close to him, breath barely ghosting his cheek.
“I was worried, you were late.” Jim’s voice does not quaver, he is not frightened, though he can feel Spock pressing himself a little closer, and he feels Spock’s arms encircle his waist and draw him in.
“I was late by an hour. I have waited for you for years, Jim. I think, I have waited all the years of my life.”
It’s so warm in Spock’s quarters, and they are making heat in the non-existent space between them. The incense is making Jim feel loose and drowsy, but Spock is nuzzling at Jim’s neck and face, like a big cat and that is flaming something hot and tight deep in Jim’s gut. He reaches out to return Spock’s embrace, and is shocked to find that Spock is completely nude, his skin smooth and strong beneath Kirk’s fingers.
“We should talk, Spock.”
Jim knows it’s true, there are some things they need to iron out, just as soon as he tastes Spock’s lips again, just as soon as he gets him to make that delicate purring sound deep in the back of his throat. Jim feels like he’s drowning or falling as he slides his tongue into Spock’s mouth. It’s when his back hits the bed that he realizes that Spock has maneuvered them here. He is busy exploring one pointed ear tip with his tongue as Spock unfastens his uniform slacks. Jim’s hips shift as Spock kisses his way down his torso, his tongue darting out to lap at the sweat gathering there, and as soon as Jim’s pants are off, Spock resurfaces and Jim feels his dick pulse at the taste of his own sweat on Spock’s tongue.
Spock settles on top of Jim after ripping away his command tunic with little fanfare.
“Was this the conversation you had in mind, Captain?” Spock’s tongue and teeth are wicked on Jim’s nipples, but Jim is giving his own back, tracing lightly over Spock’s fingers and making the fine form on top of him shudder in lust.
“Yeah, Yeah.” Jim is breathless and panting, wrapping his legs tight around Spock, just wanting to press them as close together as he can. He feels his dick get squeezed by something hot and slippery, and looks down to find his cock getting rhythmically squeezed by the tendrils that grow out from the root of Spock’s dick, like the stamens in a rare exotic flower.
"Is it so terrible, ashayam, to know me this way? To be together this way?” Spock's voice is harsh and labored, and the idea that Spock is almost as wrecked as he is has Jim whimpering and drawing scratches down Spock’s back.
"No Spock, it's good, so good, please"
Spock’s eyes are blown wide with lust, he’s holding himself up by one arm and looking down at Jim, keeping himself absolutely still except for the soft caress of his tendrils up and down Jim’s rigid and leaking shaft.
“Please Jim, please let me, I- cannot- I must-”
He’s never seen his first officer destroyed like this, his cheeks flushed, his lips are kiss swollen, and he’s not hiding anything from Jim, his hands are trembling, hovering over Jim’s face, and Jim can’t deny him this. He curls a hand softly around Spock’s wrist and brings it down to his face.
“Do it, God, just do it.”
Jim doesn't even know when they’ve slipped into the meld.
These are the things he knows for a fact:
Spock is his mate.
Spock is his love.
Spock lets him win at chess if he’s had a really bad day.
Spock is making him crazy with his hands and the deep purring sound he makes in his chest whenever their cocks brush.
Spock is on his back with his legs splayed open, his cock is green and wet, and his tendrils are straining toward Jim, trying to push their way inside as Jim swallows Spock down, the taste sweet and intoxicating along his tongue.
Spock’s hand hasn’t left his temple, and periodically Jim will feel something bright and hot flare in the back of his head then reverberate down his body, and he can’t suppress the moans spilling from his throat as Spock dips into Jim's mind to pull out his pleasure, play him like a Vulcan Lyre.
The way Spock says his name, chants it, like each utterance is its own language, full of meaning and declensions dedicated to pleasure, is making Jim find religion, and if he could stay like this, just like this, drinking from Spock’s sex and feeding the taste of it back to him, he’ll resign his commission move to New Vulcan and mine trillium, drink k’vass, and fuck Spock into the floor every night.
Spock is his.
He is Spock’s.
He’s not sure, exactly, when the laughter started in his head, but it is sweet and deep, full of love, and Jim wants that sound with him always.
“It is yours, Jim. It is the way you make me feel. And that you make me feel is miraculous in and of itself.”
Distantly, Jim is aware that Spock cannot have spoken these words, not when his mouth is full of Jim’s tongue, not when Jim’s fingers are slick inside of his tight little hole and twisting him open, making him loose and wet and ready.
Jim is falling, slow like a feather and Spock is the wind, pushing encouraging him, lifting him up and guiding him down until Jim is inside tight hot Vulcan heat, buried to the core inside Spock, who is writhing wanton and brimming with lust that sets Jim on fire. They burn together until they are nothing but blood, marrow and ashes so blindingly white that Jim thinks of Iowa snow.
Jim wakes up in house, at once foreign and familiar. He feels every delicious ache, the finger shaped bruises where Spock had gripped too hard, Vulcan strength forgotten in the face of passion, the throbbing of his lips kissed into submission, and the tingling drained feeling of his cock, totally spent. Carefully he makes his way down the hall, and he can tell that the house does not have many rooms, but when he looks out the window he sees a bright pulsing web of silver, glowing with points of light. He knows this place, he knows it to be Spock’s mind, and he is small in the face of it. He is dwarfed by the vitality of it. But the fear doesn’t come, because Jim realizes he is at the very center of it, and when he turns back around Spock is behind him pressing soft kisses into the nape of Jim’s neck and holding him close.
“Where are we?” Jim asks, knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it, or whatever passes for hearing in this place.
“We are home, ashayam. We are in the place where I have waited for you. Though physically-” Spock reaches out and brushes a tendril of the web “We are on the floor of my quarters, and you are still inside of me.”
Jim nods, satisfied. This is the place where the bond lives, the Vulcan heart and the Vulcan soul, he realizes, are all in the mind. And Spock has laid a foundation for them, waiting for Jim to furnish it with his love and his memories.
Jim reaches out and touches one of the points of light, letting it spill over his fingers, and Spock gasps as he sees for the first time, winter snow. Jim smiles broadly.
“I must say, I like what you’ve done with the place Mr. Spock.”
“As always, I strive for excellence Jim.”
Written for:Chibinecco
Pairing/characters: Kirk/Spock, McCoy
Rating: NC-17
Prompt: meld!sex. Get creative, surprise me. Something that's not typically done or hasn't been done a million times before with meld!sex.
Warnings/Promises: DubCon, Alien!Peen, Hurt!Spock, UnBetad.
Disclaimer: The Great Bird of the Galaxy laid these Eggs. I just scramble 'em around a bit. They're not mine.
Medium: Fiction
Summary: Kirk is afraid of melding with his first officer. Spock takes great pains to convince him otherwise.
A/N: tried my hardest anon..NOT EASY, lol. And I apologize for it being so late.
It isn't fear precisely that keeps Jim from doing it. Fear is something Jim can't often afford to contemplate or indulge in, because there is always another Klingon horde hell bent on collecting the hefty ransom the Empire has placed on his hide, or some arrogant energy life form trying to steal his ship. And if the dangers don’t come from without they come from within, like having to tell Uhura last week that her leave had been rescheduled. The woman was fierce. Jim Kirk doesn’t have the luxury to be afraid. He has fears, all right, (because he is human and splendidly so) locked up somewhere tight where they won’t get in the way of his command. They are held in check by the weight of responsibility and the burden of command. So, to some degree, he’s become the master of his fears.
Except for one.
Jim still wakes up in the middle of ship’s night because of it, with cold sweat creeping its way between his shoulder blades and with his heart, faster than a Vulcan’s, quivering in his ribcage.
Jim remembers. He remembers all too well running into the cave on Delta Vega, confused and relieved to be free of that monster. Then he remembers hands, dry as parchment reaching shakily toward him, and the rasp of an oddly familiar deep voice.
“Let me show you”
What keeps Jim up at night, gets him moving out of his bunk and toward the mess for something Bones’ diet won’t allow, or gets him running around the saucer section until his feet are throbbing and his legs are shot through with pain - is how he lost himself in those moments. How, in touching the Vulcan’s mind he was scorched to nothingness in the conflagration of Spock’s self.
“Our minds together and one”
But there hadn’t been a together. Spock, in the meld, was absolute and implacable and there were no secrets, there was nowhere to hide. There was Spock, and nothing else, and if it’s too dark, or too quiet, Jim isn’t sure what’s out there. It’s like sitting in pitch black and trying to locate your limbs. He can’t be sure if he is actually here, or if he isn’t still there in the cave pressed flat against the ice and gasping in numbed shock at the immensity of the Vulcan’s grief, the raw power of every emotion magnified a thousand fold.
“So you do feel?”
He knows it now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the knowledge lives deep in his bones and in his mind. But what he isn’t sure about is if he’s the same man who went in. And it’s maddening that he’ll never know, and deeply frightening in a way he can’t quite articulate - and Jim can articulate anything. But this, he cannot. So he’ll sit in silence, or run, or silently ask Bones to give him a drink and sit with him as Jim tries to recover his sense of self.
"So in other words Jim, you're scared."
Jim has always loved Bones' bluntness but he doesn’t revel in it now, when they’re half a bottle deep into the Lagavulin he’d won off of Scotty, and Bones has no incentive to defer to Jim’s rank.
“The only thing I’m scared of, Bones, is that you’ll finish off the rest of the bottle before I can get another taste.”
He tossed the bottle to Jim, a lazy one handed throw that missed the ground by bare inches as Jim stretched to catch it.
“Don’t change the subject, kid. What I’m hearing, behind the infamous Kirk bravado is that you’re scared, Jim, of Spock. Is it because of the choking? Think he’ll try and do something like that again, but in your brain?”
Jim lets Bones think the wince is on account of the strength of the scotch, and not the fact that his friend has cut to the heart of the matter in his usual gruff, empathic, and incisive way.
“I know he can be a green blooded bastard, but, I think he’s ok Jim. He saved my life, my sanity. I don’t think he’d ever hurt one of us, not purposefully.”
Jim nodded pensively, suppressing a shudder at how they almost lost the Doctor to the Xeverians, and their cold-blooded psychic assault. Spock had melded with Bones and shielded him from further mental harm for 10 hours while Jim and Sulu improvised a weapon to break through their defenses. Spock had been wrecked, and Bones, Bones had taken months to recover with Jim and Spock taking turns and staying by his bedside at night to keep him from biting through the pillows as the aftershocks buffeted his mind.
It was easy, after that, to let Spock into, what McCoy liked to call, the ol’ boys club. You sort of had to when a person, a Vulcan, rather, saved your best friend’s brain and life. During his convalescence, even the doctor found a grudging affection for Spock, and Jim had noticed that their arguments had lost most of their heat, though none of their vigor. Bones had taken to educating Spock on old Terran stories and sayings while Jim and his first officer played chess at the foot of his bed.
Jim couldn’t help but be awed by the gentle way Spock had handled McCoy, finally allowing the respect and obvious fondness he had for the doctor seep through his stoic façade. And Jim had become increasingly adept at deciphering the enigmatic quirks of his dark brow, and the wry twist of his lips whenever Bones said something remotely emotional, and the way, and Jim would swear this in front of a Federation tribunal, his eyes would twinkle when something funny was said.
That time, helping Bones get over the psychic attack, it had helped in their journey, the one that started from low grade enmity, to grudging respect to, well…what? Jim didn’t know what to call it. They were three years into the mission and Spock was more than a friend, hell, even more than a brother. Bones was his brother. Bones was solidly imperturbably in the brother category. But Spock was, Spock was Spock. There was no other way to explain it. But their mounting friendship couldn’t keep the terror out of his heart.
“I know Bones, I know. Spock’s a true pacifist.” Jim answered quietly. “I know it the same way you know that we have 15 fail safes on every deck in case of a sudden hull breach. But it doesn’t stop me from feeling, yeah, ok, from being scared.”
Jim poured another finger of whiskey in his glass, and got up to pace his friend’s quarters.
“And I’m going to get on shift in - shit-, four hours, and he’s going to make his report, and I’m going to feel like an idiot , because he’ll be the same Spock that I trust with my ship, and your life and mine. But I can’t trust him with my mind Bones, I can’t. “
“Jim,” Bones got up slowly and put a warm hand on his friends tense , tense shoulder. “No one said you had to. The other Spock melded with you out of desperation. Our Spock melded with me to keep me alive. Three years on this tin can, and you don’t think he knows how to respect our boundaries? You’re touchier than a raw anti-matter pile over this Jim. There’s no need.”
Jim laughed softly to himself, shaking his head. “Maybe you’re right Bones. But I can’t help feeling, that with everything that’s happened - Nero, his mother, that T’pring woman - he’s feeling a little empty in there, and I don’t want to be the one to have to fill it.
“For Pete’s Sake Jim, are you always this egotistical?” The sting of Bones’ statement was mitigated by the rough arm slung around Jim’s shoulder. “Sorry to inform you, Captain, but you don’t control the emotional well being of your crew. I don’t even have that power even if I do serve as counselor to half of them. It’s strange to be on the other side of this conversation but live and let be Jim-bo. And pour us another drink before you bring the whole room down.”
Jim’s laugh was easy, genuine this time, and if there was a little gnaw of doubt in his gut and in the back of his mind, he ignored it to settle in a little deeper at the foot of Bones’ bunk and let the lassitude creep over his frame as both men got quiet.
“Bones?”
“What?”
“You still awake?”
“Yeah, Jim. We still got two thirds of the bottle left.”
“What was it like, for you, when Spock was, when he-“
“When he was pulling his Vulcan Voodoo in my brain?”
Jim swallowed roughly. “Yeah.”
“Not gonna lie to you kid, it was one of the weirdest experiences of my life. And I can say that even after serving with you. It was like quicksand. I thought I was going to get sucked under, but something was keeping me in place, holding on tight. I couldn’t be sure who was who, heck I didn’t know who I was half the time. But I’ll tell you this Jim. I really am thankful to that Vulcan sonofabitch.”
“Me too.” He patted McCoy’s head affectionately and took another sip of his scotch.
“What we rilly oughta be talkin’ ‘bout, said Bones after a few quiet minutes, “is how’re y’ gonna get past that pesky no fraternization rule, and tell that Vulcan ya love him.”
“Leonard…” Jim used Bones’ full name and all the command authority he could muster from his whiskey soaked gut.
“All right Jim, but you can’t avoid the topic forever.” Bones gave him a clumsy pat on the shoulder, turned on his side, and started snoring lightly.
______________________________________________________________________
Somewhere between the fourth hymn of unending praise to their deity and the ritualistic dance of lust, Jim decides he hates Bones. He hates Bones, and he hates Scotty’s whiskey. He hates how bright the sun is on Traurus, he hates the way it is tap dancing against his skull, he hates how Bones seems largely immune to the after effects of any and all alcohol. But what he hates even more is how cloyingly fake the high pontiff is, and he especially hates the way zhe is draping hirself all over Spock. Who, it must be noted, Jim does not hate, and who, much to Jim’s dual joy and chagrin, is looking exceptionally handsome in his dress blues. It’s difficult not to notice how the fabric bunches around his lean biceps, or how the it hugs his chest just so as he shifts closer to the pontiff to expand on an arcane point of Federation politics. It’s difficult, more difficult than it should be for Jim, who is a grown man, and a star ship captain, to keep himself from crossing to the other side of the table and forcibly removing hir from Spock’s space.
But Jim manages it, he learned a long time ago how to put his charm on autopilot, even as his head was spinning formulas and escape plans. Unfortunately for him, he has no plans to escape his own thoughts, and he finds them half revolving around the diplomatic proceedings, and half revolving around his conversation with Bones last night. He can’t seem to stop watching Spock’s fingers, long white and strong full of elegance and potential menace.
Jim is distracted for a moment by Checkov’s hooting laughter at the end of the table. But he has a sixth sense about his first officer, so he does not fail to see when Spock winces, stammers in the middle of his statement, and raises one slender hand to his temple.
The red alert starts blaring forcefully in his mind, and he is up and out of his seat even before Spock hits the ground, shuddering and making inhuman noises low in the back of his throat. His crew -battle proven and unmatched in their reflexes - have already called Dr. McCoy to prepare for a possible medical emergency. But some maudlin and irreverent part of Jim thinks they’re going to have to invent a new code for whatever it is that is happening to his friend, because his blood is everywhere, green and thick tanging the air with copper and seeming to come from his very pores. Jim doesn’t know what to do, except press Spock closer to him and somehow try to staunch the bleeding, stop Spock’s life essence from pouring out onto the banquet table.
Uhura is flawless, simultaneously making apologies and calling for a secure beam out for her first officer and Captain. The seconds go by like eons, standing there in the suddenly chill Traurian air, and where it is not covered by field green blood, Spock’s color is too ivory white, his cool Vulcan skin is like ice, so Jim holds him tighter to himself and prays to Gods he stopped believing in at eight.
_______________________________________________________________________
It is, of all things, an allergic reaction. But Bones tells him that a glut of histamines in Vulcan physiology, which depends on a delicate balance of fluids to maintain itself, can be disastrous. It almost was disastrous in Spock’s case. Bones doesn’t say any thing else, just that Spock will recover in a month’s time, and the swelling will subside in about a week and a half. Jim doesn’t say anything when his best friend pulls him into a tight hug and whispers in his ear that it’s not too late. He just nods dumbly and shuffles his way to his quarters toward the relief of sleep.
Some would call it unprofessional, the way Jim hovers around Spock afterward. But he can’t help it. Lieutenant Tormollen is a very competent temporary science officer, and if you squint and tilt your head, just so he looks like Spock. But the jig is up as soon as he opens his mouth and his antiquated pre-Fed standard accent spills out. Jim doesn’t bolt out of his seat as soon as his shift is over. He’s the captain, to do so would be undignified. But he notices that the bridge crew always let him onto the turbo-lift first lately, and Chekov even had the temerity to order it to sick bay on his behalf.
They don’t say much to each other when Jim saunters in, struggling to control the way his heart beats or his palms itch whenever he sees Spock, regal and serene on his bio bed, politely disregarding Nurse Chapel’s love-sick ministrations. Spock blinks once, slow and thoughtful, and the barest hint of the smallest shadow of a smile quirks his lip.
“Captain,” - and that word out of Spock’s mouth almost gives the game away, because it’s all Jim can do to keep himself from blushing at the unconsciously sensual way those Vulcan lips curl around his title.
“I presume you have arrived to furnish me with your daily ‘report?’”
“As always, you presume correctly Mr. Spock.”
Jim grinned and sat at Spock’s bedside. A little too close for a Captain and First Officer, perhaps but Spock isn’t quoting regulations, and unless Jim is seeing things, Spock is leaning in a little closer, angling himself to prepare for Jim’s report.
“It would not do for the first officer of the vessel to be ignorant of its daily working. I am ready to receive your report Captain.” Spock steeples his hands contemplatively on his lap, and looks at Jim through his velvet black lashes. The look, were Spock a human, would be unforgivably flirtatious. But Spock is Vulcan, so Jim ignores the way it makes his collar itch a little and his palms sweat.
“Yes Mr. Spock, I’m glad you realize how critical it is for you to be abreast of all the happenings on the ship. I must say you’ve become a little lazy lounging around in bed here all day.”
“Yes sir.” Spock answers drily, and Jim thinks he sees the imagined warmth in Spock’s eyes deepen.
They wait for Chapel to finish calibrating his vascular regen treatment, and allow her to labor under the misapprehension that the Captain’s report consists of some very confidential, need to know basis hush- hush info. Really all it consists of is Jim gossiping like an unrepentant old Queen about everything happening in the ship. Whether or not Chekov and Scotty will ever get together, just how long it’s been since one of Sulu’s plants released a deadly spore into the ship’s systems, Rand’s Sisyphean attempts to cow Jim into doing his administrative duty without Spock to act as her back-up. These are silly things, inconsequential in the long run, but they weave the fabric of their time out here in space, and Jim knows, first hand, how useful a distraction from one’s own convalescence can be. Bones knows it too, because he never interrupts them, though the Doctor silently notes the slight increase in Spock’s heart rate and adrenaline whenever the Captain is there for one of his visits.
Jim will wile away his evening at Spock’s side, and when the two of them have run out of words, and chess, and there is nothing between them but a tether of silence and longing so deep it makes Kirk ache , he sleeps. Bones catches them at it more than once, Jim’s bright blonde pillowed in his arms at Spock’s side, his fingers curled into the Vulcan’s without his even knowing. Jim is ignorant of just how significant this is to Vulcans, he has no idea what Spock unconsciously offers, nor is he cognizant of the significant looks his two best friends trade over his sleeping head. He just knows that even in an ungainly sprawl against the side of the bed - with his neck contorted and his arms half numb - Jim has never slept better in his life. He has to disregard the very prominent erections he gets in the morning when he wakes up and sees Spock in repose, regal even in his sleep. But it’s worth it. Even if it means having to put up with Bones’ repeated attempts to get him to ‘fess up to his pointy-eared love elf.”
Which is why, when it all comes crashing down, it does so in a spectacular fashion.
They’re in their third week of this little dance, of reports and whispered intimacy, and laughs that are not from Spock, and smiles that are from Jim. It has been a particularly rugged shift, thanks to a run in with an Orion slave-cruiser, and Jim actually has something real to report. But he is tired, and Spock’s baritone is soothing, his scent faintly spicy and wholly intoxicating - Jim can’t help but start drifting into sleep right away, half on top of Spock and dead to the world.
Somewhere, on the knife edge of sleep and wakefulness, there is a sensation, like cool water over his scalp, almost inside. It is ceaseless, rhythmic and lulling him to deeper sleep, and he wants to give himself over to it completely and just drift away. But there is something . . . off about it. He can feel his brow furrowing in consternation, trying to piece it together, but those waves soothe away the worry, as though they are sentient, as though they are controlling, directing -
Jim rockets into full wakefulness, batting Spock's cool open hand away from his temple. Jim can still feel the imprint of Spock’s fingers, where they had traced soft lines of calm against his scalp. But, worse than that, he can still feel the terrifyingly familiar press and pull of Spock's immense mind.
There is silence between them, but instead of being tinged with want, it has the flavor of Jim’s terror and Spock’s earnest confusion.
"Jim, are you well?" Spock's tone is as neutral as ever, but Jim can see the want beneath the worry. He can see into the atavistic core of this Vulcan. He KNOWS it is there, tastes it in the back of his mind, and his fear is as sharp now as it ever was, a tangible thing colored with impressions of Spock’s mind against his quiescent one.
"What the hell were you doing?"
Jim's tone is glacial, and the confusion is plain enough to read on Spock’s face now, a tiny crease in his brow gives him away, and Jim has to ruthlessly suppress the urge to reach out and smooth it into its usual placidity.
"Your rest seemed unusually fitful tonight, in your rest tonight Jim. I was endeavoring to ease your tension with a cephalic massage. Is this not common among friends? I freely admit my ignorance in human friendship rituals but I-"
“Just how is invading my mind an act of friendship, Mr. Spock?”
“It was hardly an invasion, Captain. You were in need. I fulfilled it.”
Spock is up from the bio bed, approaching Kirk slowly, with his midnight colored Vulcan robes trailing softly behind him. And damn if that isn’t enough to make the want coil low in Jim’s gut, want enough to almost - almost subdue the outrage and panic creeping its way up his spine.
“When I have a need you can fulfill, Spock, I’ll let you know. Until then I’ll thank you to keep out of my head.” Jim whirls around to walk out of sickbay, struggling to keep himself from breaking out into a sweat, or outright running away from his first officer. He is almost at the door when he feels his bicep enclosed in a cool, unyielding grip.
“I have never known you to run from anything, Captain. Indeed I have wondered if you are capable of fear. Yet, you are now exhibiting it, and toward me? ” Spock’s voice is low purr against Jim’s ears, and he can feel the Vulcan’s incredulity and the small stirrings of anger. The contact is sending Spock’s emotions crawling along his skin like ants, like an ion storm right against his flesh, and it makes him dizzy.
“You should let go of me Mr. Spock. You’re assaulting a superior officer you know.”
Jim is doing his best to be as captainly and smug as he can - something he knows Spock hates, but Spock is undeterred, gently spinning his Captain around as though he is nothing more than a child, not a grown man, and combat specialist, and second most wanted criminal in the Klingon Empire.
“You are welcome to try and put me in the brig, Jim. But I think that you will not.”
Spock is crowding him now, pushing him so that his back is toward Bones’ medicine cabinet. But Jim can’t break free, couldn’t if his life depended on it, and he’s afraid that it just might.
“Spock, get off of me, that’s an order.”
“I am not on duty. Tell me what is troubling you Jim. I wish only to help you.”
Jim’s near his breaking point, he knows. He’s either going to lash out at Spock and say or do something irreparable, or he’s going to break down and tell him everything, mind meld or no. Spock’s face is inches from Jim’s and his eyes are dark, and chocolate and filled to the brim with the compassion and concern Jim knows exists under the placid surface of his Vulcan friend.
“Spock, you can’t help me, especially not you.” Jim makes an attempt to twist away from their proximity but Spock’s arms shoot out and hold him in immobile.
“Kroykah!” Spock growls. “You call me friend, yet you run from me when I would act on that friendship. It is also difficult for me, Jim. And I find I grow weary of this ‘courtship.’ Perhaps, if you do not trust a friend, you will trust a lover.”
Spock moves with cunning Vulcan speed, and the air whuffs out of Jim in a rush. It can’t be happening, but it is. Jim is pressed so tight against the wall that breathing is an indulgence he must learn to do without. Spock’s tongue is furling into his mouth, wet hot and heavy, and it’s nothing like Jim thought it would be. It is too good, so good that Jim can only squirm and press closer, open his mouth and let Spock in.
He is suddenly, painfully aware of Spock’s hips moving in perfect little circles as the vice grip on Jim’s arms tightens. Unbidden, Jim thinks of the promise of that strength, of strong Vulcan hands and cool unrelenting Vulcan density holding him down, pinning him to the mattress and fucking him wide open. And James T. Kirk, Iowan golden boy, Captain of the Flagship, the man who outdrank Chekov, Scotty AND McCoy in one sitting - whimpers as the blood speeds down to his dick in a heady rush.
Spock pulls back, nostrils flaring, and distantly Jim wonders if he can smell the arousal coursing its way through his body. He also notes that his arms are free , but he can only hold on to Spock, grip his silk soft hair between his fingers and gasp because his waist is locked in Spock’s grip, and his first officer, friend, whatever is running his lips and tongue softly along Jim’s throat.
“You are most perplexing, to run from that which we both want. To fear that which you desire is illogical.” He punctuates this statement with a growl and bites at the side of Jim’s neck. Jim’s knees go weak and he tilts his head back to give Spock more access. His cock could cut dilithium and the shock of Spock’s mouth, hotter than any Vulcan’s mouth has a right to be, licking into his own, sucking at his bottom lip then softly nibbling wrenches a wrecked needy sound from Jim. He’s giving in to this so easily, opening to Spock like a lock to a safe-cracker.
“Jim.” Spock’s head is tilted, slightly, his focus absolute and unwavering and Jim feels like one of the innumerable experiments in his lab - except, he doesn’t think that his Science officer’s pupils melt into black at the sight of protozoan cultures. His voice doesn’t get this husky and rough when he’s expounding on theorems. And Jim’s pretty sure he’s never caught Spock rutting like this against a lab table, long rolling motions of his trim hips that have Jim grunting and trying to push his own engorged sex more firmly into his first officer’s.
“I have desired-” Spock gasps as Jim’s hips stutter into his, and Jim sucks a hot heavy bruise into the hollow of his throat. “-Just such intimacy with you for some time.”
Spock is rucking Jim’s shirt up, laving a nipple and sneaking a hand down Jim’s pants to tease at his cock with feather light touches along Jim’s hard leaking length.
“Oh, Fuck - Spock, -oh” Jim hits his head against the medicine cabinet, straining to push his dick into Spock’s wickedly talented fingers.
“Yes, Jim, I would be open to that and more if you would allow it?” Jim’s eyes flutter open and he can read the intent in his first’s eyes and in his fingers as they trace Jim’s kiss-swollen mouth and follow a path back behind Jim’s ears and down his neck.
At some point Spock had shed his robes, so his desires are broadcasting clearly from every point of contact between Jim’s torso and his.
Spock wants it all, he wants to be inside Jim, mind and body and take and claim until the pleasure obliterates them both.
It makes Jim’s blood run cold, and he can tell that Spock senses it, because his hand on Jim’s dick slows down, and his brows knit together in a frown.
“I would never take from you, that which you did not give freely.”
The disappointment flowing into him from Spock almost makes him sick with its depth and potency. Jim hates to disappoint his friend and he knows how hard it must have been for Spock to even start this, Spock who’s had so little love and affection in his life. But Jim can't he just.... in the meld with the other Spock he thought he'd die, thought he'd never be happy again one second, and the next second he was terrified his heart would explode with the secondhand joy of seeing himself through Spock’s eyes. It is too much. He does not mind Spock knowing what is in his brain but he feels like the grief and pain that follows his first officer around like a shadow will consume him too.
“Spock, I-“
“Jim, do not, explanations between us have never been necessary, they are not required now.” His eyes are chocolate brown, soft and sad and he seems thinner than before as he shrugs on his robe. Jim doesn’t stop him when Spock reaches out to straighten up Jim and press a quick Vulcan kiss to his finger tips.
Spock is shockingly efficient at putting Jim back together again. And no one would know what they’d been up to except for the obscene bulge at his crotch, and the way he can’t quite catch his breath. Spock impeccable, as always, except for the giant hickey at his throat.
“Please tell Dr. McCoy that I will continue my convalescence in my quarters.” Spock turns away to leave sickbay, but pauses before stepping into the hallway. For a moment, Jim can see the tension in his thin frame, and when Spock turns again to face him, his eyes are naked with want and frustration.
“Know, Jim, that you are welcome at any time.” Spock sweeps out of the sickbay, and Jim staggers to Bones’ office in a cloud of confusion, not sure if the nagging hurt he feels twisting in his guts, actually belongs to him.
Spock makes a full recovery, despite Bones’ attempts to harangue him into staying in sickbay. Spock is undeterred however, and returns to his customary place at the Science station, much to Tormollen’s relief and the crew’s approval.
“Mr. Spock, welcome back, you were missed.” Jim barely suppresses a wince at his own tone, too flat, not nearly as welcoming as he usually is when a member of the crew rejoins them. But he can’t summon his customary bonhomie, not when he’s this close to Spock again.
“Thank you Captain. It will be gratifying to resume my duties. I have missed my interactions with the crew.” But Spock has his eyes trained on Jim when he says this, still questioning, challenging, and Jim knows that when he says the crew, Spock really means him. Just him.
It’s been five whole days since he’s even laid eyes on the Vulcan. Five days of dreaming about his hands, and his taste as Jim rubs his aching cock almost raw against the top sheet of his bunk. Five days of having those dreams turn to ashes and his arousal melt into the ether when he contemplates what Spock really wants.
The bridge crew has the decency not to react the obvious tension between their two executive officers, and Jim has to throw a wan smile Chekov’s way to keep the kid navigator from fidgeting too much.
They’re on a milk run at the moment, Pike’s gift to the crew after hearing of Spock’s injury. Jim has never taken into account, however, just how much interaction he has with his first officer in the course of normal shift. It starts off innocuous enough.
“Captain, I thought these reading on the third planet in the Kelini system would be of interest to you.”
Spock is leaning over Jim, one hand on the back of his chair, the other holding the pad up for Jim’s inspection, and Spock’s scent hit’s Jim like a freight train, and he finds himself breathing hard as his hips shift in the chair of their own accord.
“Thank you, Spock I’ll take a look later.” The dismissal is curt, but Spock’s hand discretely tracing along the nape of Jim’s neck is slow and languorous, and Jim’s eyes flutter as a lightening bolt of pleasure hits him straight in the groin.
All bets are off after that. Spock finds excuses to be in Jim’s space, or touch him, or whisper to Jim. Ship’s business to be sure, but there was nothing business like about the brief flicker of Spock’s tongue against the sensitive shell of Jim’s ear.
By the end of shift, Jim is half hard in his uniform pants, driven to distraction by Spock’s guerilla seduction tactics. It’s so bad that he pulls up the regs on sexual harassment and sends them over a private channel to Spock’s console, even though he’d never report Spock, and even though he knows more than half of him wants the attention. Undaunted, the Vulcan responds by highlighting subsection 8 paragraph B, the rubric of what defines ‘consensual.’ Jim is mortified, more by the plainness - to Spock - of his desire, than by the Vulcan’s dogged persistence.
McCoy’s made it up by the end of shift, as is his custom, and Jim is actually grateful to see the doctor, despite his recent attempts to harangue Jim into opening up about what happened in sickbay. He’s up out of his seat and heading toward his friend almost before the Beta crew shuffles in, when Spock stops him with a hand on his elbow.
“Captain, it is imperative that we review the modifications to the engine proposed by Mr. Scott, as well as the changes to the duty roster.”
The protest dies on Jim’s lips at the hungry look barely concealed in Spock’s gaze, and the way his eyes are wantonly undressing Jim. He tries to croak out a refusal, and is interrupted by his Yeoman before he can.
“Oh Mr. Spock, thank you sir, I’ve been trying to get the Captain to go over those files work ages.” Rand is capable, and serious, and though she’s basically worthless in a landing party, she is a bureaucratic genius and Jim can see that she won’t be crossed in this.
“Yes, Yeoman, the Captain is fortunate that I am here to . . . take him in hand, as I were.”
Jim shudders at the implication weighting down Spock’s voice, and is shocked that his Yeoman doesn’t notice a thing.
“Shall we meet in your quarters at 2100 hours, sir?”
“Fine, Mr. Spock fine.”
He barely feels Yeoman Rand’s condescending smile and pat on the arm as he trudges toward the turbolift and toward certain doom.
______________________________________________________________________
Spock is never late.
But it’s 2100 hours, and Jim is in his blacks, gut twisted with worry because the Vulcan isn’t here yet. And really, Jim shouldn’t want him here, shouldn’t want whatever is going to happen between them tonight, good or bad. Yet, the adventurer in him, the reckless cowboy as Nogura likes to call it is curious. Jim’s never been on this side before, he’s always the pursuer, he’s used to slowly dismantling people’s defenses. It’s strange, maybe even exhilarating to see if he’s going to resist Spock this time. To see if he even still wants to resist.
After an hour of weighing the pros and cons, and trying to predict every conceivable outcome, Jim is shrugging back into his command tunic and heading to his first Officer’s quarters. He isn’t going to bother with a comm.. He’s going to face this head on, his last fear coming as it does from such a familiar place.
He does not hesitate at Spock’s door, the decision, he thinks has been made for him, since the end of shift, perhaps since Delta Vega. The door isn’t shut against him, he doesn’t need a command override, it’s obvious his bio signatures have been programmed into the sensor.
“You have come.” The voice comes out of the dark, and Jim thinks it may be to the right of the firepot, until he feels Spock standing close to him, breath barely ghosting his cheek.
“I was worried, you were late.” Jim’s voice does not quaver, he is not frightened, though he can feel Spock pressing himself a little closer, and he feels Spock’s arms encircle his waist and draw him in.
“I was late by an hour. I have waited for you for years, Jim. I think, I have waited all the years of my life.”
It’s so warm in Spock’s quarters, and they are making heat in the non-existent space between them. The incense is making Jim feel loose and drowsy, but Spock is nuzzling at Jim’s neck and face, like a big cat and that is flaming something hot and tight deep in Jim’s gut. He reaches out to return Spock’s embrace, and is shocked to find that Spock is completely nude, his skin smooth and strong beneath Kirk’s fingers.
“We should talk, Spock.”
Jim knows it’s true, there are some things they need to iron out, just as soon as he tastes Spock’s lips again, just as soon as he gets him to make that delicate purring sound deep in the back of his throat. Jim feels like he’s drowning or falling as he slides his tongue into Spock’s mouth. It’s when his back hits the bed that he realizes that Spock has maneuvered them here. He is busy exploring one pointed ear tip with his tongue as Spock unfastens his uniform slacks. Jim’s hips shift as Spock kisses his way down his torso, his tongue darting out to lap at the sweat gathering there, and as soon as Jim’s pants are off, Spock resurfaces and Jim feels his dick pulse at the taste of his own sweat on Spock’s tongue.
Spock settles on top of Jim after ripping away his command tunic with little fanfare.
“Was this the conversation you had in mind, Captain?” Spock’s tongue and teeth are wicked on Jim’s nipples, but Jim is giving his own back, tracing lightly over Spock’s fingers and making the fine form on top of him shudder in lust.
“Yeah, Yeah.” Jim is breathless and panting, wrapping his legs tight around Spock, just wanting to press them as close together as he can. He feels his dick get squeezed by something hot and slippery, and looks down to find his cock getting rhythmically squeezed by the tendrils that grow out from the root of Spock’s dick, like the stamens in a rare exotic flower.
"Is it so terrible, ashayam, to know me this way? To be together this way?” Spock's voice is harsh and labored, and the idea that Spock is almost as wrecked as he is has Jim whimpering and drawing scratches down Spock’s back.
"No Spock, it's good, so good, please"
Spock’s eyes are blown wide with lust, he’s holding himself up by one arm and looking down at Jim, keeping himself absolutely still except for the soft caress of his tendrils up and down Jim’s rigid and leaking shaft.
“Please Jim, please let me, I- cannot- I must-”
He’s never seen his first officer destroyed like this, his cheeks flushed, his lips are kiss swollen, and he’s not hiding anything from Jim, his hands are trembling, hovering over Jim’s face, and Jim can’t deny him this. He curls a hand softly around Spock’s wrist and brings it down to his face.
“Do it, God, just do it.”
Jim doesn't even know when they’ve slipped into the meld.
These are the things he knows for a fact:
Spock is his mate.
Spock is his love.
Spock lets him win at chess if he’s had a really bad day.
Spock is making him crazy with his hands and the deep purring sound he makes in his chest whenever their cocks brush.
Spock is on his back with his legs splayed open, his cock is green and wet, and his tendrils are straining toward Jim, trying to push their way inside as Jim swallows Spock down, the taste sweet and intoxicating along his tongue.
Spock’s hand hasn’t left his temple, and periodically Jim will feel something bright and hot flare in the back of his head then reverberate down his body, and he can’t suppress the moans spilling from his throat as Spock dips into Jim's mind to pull out his pleasure, play him like a Vulcan Lyre.
The way Spock says his name, chants it, like each utterance is its own language, full of meaning and declensions dedicated to pleasure, is making Jim find religion, and if he could stay like this, just like this, drinking from Spock’s sex and feeding the taste of it back to him, he’ll resign his commission move to New Vulcan and mine trillium, drink k’vass, and fuck Spock into the floor every night.
Spock is his.
He is Spock’s.
He’s not sure, exactly, when the laughter started in his head, but it is sweet and deep, full of love, and Jim wants that sound with him always.
“It is yours, Jim. It is the way you make me feel. And that you make me feel is miraculous in and of itself.”
Distantly, Jim is aware that Spock cannot have spoken these words, not when his mouth is full of Jim’s tongue, not when Jim’s fingers are slick inside of his tight little hole and twisting him open, making him loose and wet and ready.
Jim is falling, slow like a feather and Spock is the wind, pushing encouraging him, lifting him up and guiding him down until Jim is inside tight hot Vulcan heat, buried to the core inside Spock, who is writhing wanton and brimming with lust that sets Jim on fire. They burn together until they are nothing but blood, marrow and ashes so blindingly white that Jim thinks of Iowa snow.
Jim wakes up in house, at once foreign and familiar. He feels every delicious ache, the finger shaped bruises where Spock had gripped too hard, Vulcan strength forgotten in the face of passion, the throbbing of his lips kissed into submission, and the tingling drained feeling of his cock, totally spent. Carefully he makes his way down the hall, and he can tell that the house does not have many rooms, but when he looks out the window he sees a bright pulsing web of silver, glowing with points of light. He knows this place, he knows it to be Spock’s mind, and he is small in the face of it. He is dwarfed by the vitality of it. But the fear doesn’t come, because Jim realizes he is at the very center of it, and when he turns back around Spock is behind him pressing soft kisses into the nape of Jim’s neck and holding him close.
“Where are we?” Jim asks, knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it, or whatever passes for hearing in this place.
“We are home, ashayam. We are in the place where I have waited for you. Though physically-” Spock reaches out and brushes a tendril of the web “We are on the floor of my quarters, and you are still inside of me.”
Jim nods, satisfied. This is the place where the bond lives, the Vulcan heart and the Vulcan soul, he realizes, are all in the mind. And Spock has laid a foundation for them, waiting for Jim to furnish it with his love and his memories.
Jim reaches out and touches one of the points of light, letting it spill over his fingers, and Spock gasps as he sees for the first time, winter snow. Jim smiles broadly.
“I must say, I like what you’ve done with the place Mr. Spock.”
“As always, I strive for excellence Jim.”