Fic: With This, Therefore Because of This (Chapter 4)
Title: With This, Therefore Because of This (Chapter 4)
Rating: NC-17 \o/
Word count: 6000
Summary: What if Jim didn't take Pike up on his challenge to enlist? Captain Spock manages to defeat Nero with the assistance of his crew, but there are heavy losses throughout Starfleet and the Federation. Then something starts to go wrong with the Enterprise and Admiral Pike's got a solution. For awarrington in inspiration and execution.
A/N: That's me outtie for two weeks. Hopefully I'll be back at the beginning of December with the completed fic ready to post. In theory.
He wakes the moment Jim rolls closer towards him on the sloping floor of the pod. They were already lying in close proximity due to the confined nature of the pod's design, but opening his eyes to take in the dull light of dawn's pale green glow, Spock is able to make out Jim's figure sprawling halfway off his sleeping pad as he throws an arm over Spock's waist and wriggles in closer.
It is an unacceptable liberty, even in sleep. Spock takes Jim's wrist between thumb and forefinger, the hum of Jim's mind fogged with the contented buzz of sleep filtering through the warm skin, and he shifts away from Jim's body, laying down Jim's hand, intending to rise to check on Doctor McCoy's status. But it seems that, even unconscious, Jim Kirk has a certain tenacity to him that will not be denied as the arm is thrown back over Spock's hip once more, Jim pressing up against him entirely, bearded chin prickling at Spock's skin as Jim nuzzles into Spock's neck and settles there with a happy grunt.
The immediate instinct that Jim's touch provokes within him is for Spock to roll, to cover Jim's body with his own and start to systematically, forcibly remove their clothing while rutting up against him in preparation for holding him down and taking it all, taking everything. Spock feels it too strongly, the primal urge simmering beneath his heating skin now as Jim's scent once more assaults him like a physical blow. He knows he should push Jim away or once again attempt to disengage himself from Jim's embrace, but the intensity of his reaction to Jim gives him pause. It is intriguing, his logical mind fascinated with how easily Jim's physical closeness provokes such a intense reaction in him where no other has done so before.
The sensations carried on his rushing blood suggest a biochemical reaction, so sure is Spock's physical self that he has found his mate, his body readying itself for copulation, his mind whirling in a dizzying loss of reason. It is Jim's pheromones, perhaps, stimulating him so and Spock's nostrils flare as he inhales deeply. Jim's scent has a sour note, the charred edges of the tear in his shirt producing a metallic, smoky tang, a bitter edge to his breath and skin without access to washing facilities. But the ever-present warmth of Jim's particular scent snakes itself around Spock's nasal cavity, the smell of sun-touched, freckled skin, the embodiment of Jim's physical dynamism combined with, Spock detects with another shudder of desire, a high level of pheromonal output. One more deep breath and the effect of Jim's scent thunders through his body as Spock presses his nose into Jim's hair and closes his eyes, the beginnings of a growl bubbling in his chest as his penis swells further in anticipation. He knows this is not the full story, as there is too much about Jim beyond the physical that unsettles and arouses him but it is at least reassuring to some degree, that Spock is beginning to identify the roots of Jim's effect on him, the powerful response of his body where Jim is concerned.
It is enough. Once more Spock lifts Jim's wrist and rolls away from him, fully erect within the confines of his uniform pants, aware that, should he have the privacy he requires, he would seek to masturbate given the depth of his arousal. But prior to placing Jim's arm on the floor beside him Spock senses a slight flutter of awareness from Jim's skin as Jim begins to wake, unsettled by the sudden absence of Spock's body against his.
“Muh? Whassah, what's . . . hmm.” Jim's round, wide-set eyes open and blink in momentary confusion as he looks around the darkened pod and up to where Spock is lying beside him, no longer holding onto his wrist.
“Good morning, Jim.”
“Spock.” It is a breathy, sleepy sound, tainted with some emotion that Spock is unable to put a name to and Jim's tongue swipes over his bottom lip as he rubs the last of sleep's fugue out of his eyes, then stares at Spock without inhibition. A heavy intake of breath, let out in a sigh that turns into a wide yawn. “Did you sleep?”
“I did.”
“Good, good. You look, uh, rested.” Jim reaches out and allows the fingers of one hand to fasten on the lapels of Spock's jacket absently as if he wishes to pull Spock closer, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the fabric.
“I am. I apologize if I have inadvertently woken you. Perhaps you will be able to return to sleep.”
“No, I'm good.”
The moment seems to hang in the air between them, Jim's eyes fixed on Spock's, their prone bodies inches from one another with the nearness of lovers. Jim's eyes widen then blink several more times as if fighting to clear his vision, then he frowns at Spock with some form of frustration. “Fuck. I'm sorry.”
“I do not understand your context. You are sorry for -?”
“This. I've tried, I have because it's a stupid idea, it is but I can't, I have to -” and Spock does not comprehend the reason behind Jim's apparent lack of coherence in the moment before Jim moves to press his lips against Spock's.
It is soft, the barest brush of a dry mouth against his. The touch of rough beard at his chin and left cheek. A rush of scent. The push of a wet tongue against his lips as he opens his mouth without thinking. Spock's mind distantly recalls his first experience at the academy of catastrophic decompression during a drill, or perhaps cold water training as he feels suddenly immersed in too much sensation, a rush of sensitivity hitting his body. He experiences it everywhere, nerves firing at the base of every hair as he shivers with the intensity of his body's response to something as simple as Jim pressing his tongue against Spock's, pushing bodily up against him, sliding a leg between Spock's own. The touch of Jim's tongue is immediately arousing, smoother and slicker than his own, licking around the inside of Spock's mouth with a muffled moan and instinct is beginning to erode Spock's control as he wraps his arms around Jim to pull him closer into the embrace. Everything, every moment that has passed between first seeing Jim on the viewscreen of the Enterprise and this moment has been leading to this, Jim's wet, mobile mouth on his, his body moving against Spock's own with increasing intent.
Spock reaches down to press his fingers into Jim's rounded buttocks causing Jim to curse into his mouth and push his hips against Spock. Spock holds him there tightly, his hands driven to grab and hold on, thrusting his groin against the prominent bulge in Jim's pants as Jim groans and sucks more deeply at Spock's tongue. It is as if Spock's ruthlessly suppressed nature shakes its head and roars as Spock fights the urge to tear at Jim's clothes, blood pounding through his system delivering a hormonal rush that tears its way through him. He feels shaken, and never has he been less himself as his hand pushes firmly between their rutting figures and fastens around the waist of Jim's pants, ready to rip them away if they impede his access a moment further. His fingers tighten, his heartbeat ringing in his ears, a low snarl escaping him as Jim pushes his way up from Spock's chest.
“Wait! Spock, wait a second, will you just - Doc? That you?”
There. A low moan of distress, a gruff cough and McCoy's voice, husked with lingering sedation. “Where in the galaxy am I and what the hell sort of butcher's been screwing around with my chest?”
Jim looks down at Spock with a regretful groan, rocking his hips against Spock's as if he is unwilling to break the contact, before trying to pull away. “Looks like our privacy's shot. Want me to go sedate him again?”
Spock stares at him uncomprehendingly, ancient impulses ruling his body, his tongue tracing his lips to discover any stray remnants of Jim's taste, his entire system insistent that he finds completion and he looks down at his hand on Jim's pants, knuckles white, quite unable to let go.
“I'm kidding. Sorta. Come on, I have to go check on the Doc.” Jim wriggles against him, an action that fails to do anything other than cause the fabric clenched within Spock's fist to begin to tear as his fist tightens further. “Uh, Spock? Lemme go.”
“I am . . . I cannot . . .”
“You're stuck? Okay, that's alright, take some deep breaths, think it through. Let me go, Spock, you can do it, open your hand for me, concentrate . . .”
He closes his eyes, blotting out the image above him of Jim's mouth wet and parted and panting with desire, and draws on his shattered controls to force his fingers to unfurl, his arms dropping away. Jim's lips brush at his ear sending another ripe shot of arousal throughout him, his hands making fists at his sides, the animal within raging its need as Jim's voice, threaded through with want, curls into his ear. “We're not done with this yet.”
---
“It was a field dressing, I did what I had to. Don't even try to tell me you'd let someone die rather than improvise.”
“You sucked on breathing tubes that you'd held in your filthy hands prior to stabbing them into my lungs. Have you any idea of the millions of vile bacteria that will have marched from your mouth to my delicate insides while you kept me drugged up to my eyeballs? Good God, man, I feel like I need to scrub out my ribcage with a wire brush.”
“Spock had a sterile field going and I've been giving you antibiotic shots. I think you'll survive.”
“Miracles will never cease.” The doctor squints at the tricorder, completing his examination of the fresh skin across his chest and moving to begin scanning his formerly-broken elbow before looking up to Jim and giving him a reluctant nod. “I suppose I have to admit that it was a good save, I'd have impressed the shit out of myself if I'd managed it in time. Thanks.”
Jim folds his arms, his legs stretched out in front of him where he's perched on the control console, hat tugged low over his eyes. “No thanks necessary, Doc. Your undying love and devotion are enough.”
A snort that even Spock could have predicted. “Wouldn't hold your breath. How about you, Captain? You came out of this unscathed?”
“I suffered no injuries of consequence, Doctor.”
“Which means you got hurt. What happened?”
“Mild bruising and skin abrasion, similar to that which Jim has already described to you in his own case, to a lesser degree.”
“'Jim'?” McCoy's eyebrow shoots skywards. “You two got awful cozy while I was knocked out.”
“You know how it is, Doc. Long nights across a medikit, nothing to do but worry about you and murmur sweet nothings to each other.”
Spock looks at Jim in question, the tips of his ears suddenly hot, but Jim has judged it perfectly. Perhaps it is a mark of the nature of his career, the ease with which he chooses to mislead McCoy with a fair approximation of the truth. Jim has returned to his habitual pose of easy relaxation but, now, Spock can see beneath it. The tightness of muscle, a tautness to his posture, a certain focus of attention that indicates Jim is never truly at ease, taking it all it, every last detail. It is surprising now, to Spock, that they had been fooled by Jim's cover story as it seems so clear now that he is anything but a jobbing engineer for hire. Jim's astonishing eyes slide over to look into Spock's before traveling back to the Doctor's face and even that brief contact is enough to send the hint of memory raging its way through Spock's system, a promise as much as a threat, “We're not done with this yet.”
The impassivity of his expression is growing forced, Spock knows it, unable to physically or mentally absent himself from the source of his loss of control. There was no reason present in that instant, no rationality in the face of such all-encompassing desire. As simple as that, one base bodily function in addition to the proximity of one man and everything that Spock is, everything that he had hoped he had grown to become, was lost in an instant. The need for solitude and meditation has seldom pressed harder at him, the impossibility for either at this time abundantly clear. He is as close to panic as he has ever been, concern for himself running like a dark ribbon throughout his mind. It is untenable. It is abhorrent, it is - Spock lets a breath out through his nose slowly, only half-focused on the conversation beside him. It is bearable, because it must be. Any possible alternative is unacceptable.
“So, you're saying that you're some kind of super spook?” McCoy grimaces at Jim in annoyance, drawing Spock's attention fully back to their dialog. “I knew it, I knew there was something fishy about you.”
“I wouldn't say super. Although, if you wanted to describe me that way in front of my boss once she gets here, I'm not going to complain.” A winning smile from Jim does not appear to be having the desired effect on McCoy. “It might help me out. I always get the impression she thinks I'm a little backward.”
“Can't imagine why.” McCoy relaxes back against the seats once more, tugging his shirts around him, allowing Jim to pull the thin thermal blanket up over his chest. “I need to get some more rest, if you and Spock can manage to entertain yourselves without me for a little while longer.”
Spock cannot fail to notice the light in Jim's eyes, a deep twinkle as Jim answers. “It'll be tough, Doc. Your captain's quite a handful.”
---
“To see what's at the top.”
Spock cranes his head backwards to study the distant summit of the cliff, unable to understand why Jim seems so intent on climbing a rock face without the assistance of safety equipment and for so little purpose. “We are adequately resourced at this time. We do not need to place ourselves at risk in order to explore this planet further.”
“Have you ever been to Iowa? The one on Earth.”
The non sequitur gives Spock a microsecond's pause. “I have not.”
“I grew up there. Trust me, if you'd ever been to Iowa, you'd see why I have this compulsion to climb up anything higher than a molehill.”
“Iowa is mountainous?”
“You know the Infinity Mudflats of Charrain?” Spock nods in affirmation. “Positively hilly in comparison to Iowa.” Jim tugs his gloves off, tucks them into a pocket and grabs at a handhold, testing the foot of the rock face with a booted toe. “Seems firm enough. Last one at the top's a loser.” He climbs up two holds, swinging a foot easily up to a low-hanging ledge and pushing up off it before turning his head to look at Spock over his shoulder. “Come on, this is the closest I've been to a vacation in a long time and I intend to enjoy myself a little. If I go first, you can stare at my butt all the way up.”
Perhaps that is why Spock finds it difficult to do little else as he follows Jim's efficient route up a cracked seam of jutting strata, Jim's pants drawn tight across his buttocks as he stretches and reaches this way and that, pushing ever upward with his muscular thighs. It is not a challenging or taxing climb and they settle into an easy rhythm, the green sunlight gentle on their shoulders and heads, a low wind and an occasional burst of chatter from small bird-like creatures circling above the only sounds other than Jim's steady breathing. It is a curious mix, a certain peace descending on Spock as the repetitive physical activity and serene setting steady his mind as much as Jim's low grunts and bodily exertions above heat his blood. It is not entirely disagreeable.
“Almost there. Hand the pack up, I'll swing it up out the way.”
“It is not impeding my progress.”
“Okay, up to you. Here we go.” Jim pushes himself up over the cliff's edge, his buttocks, legs then boots disappearing from Spock's view seconds before he hears Jim's soft exclamation. “Whooee, you need to get up here. The view is staggering.” The hat reappears, followed by Jim's face, smiling down at him. “Sure you don't need a hand?”
“I am.” He climbs the last few holds and looks over the cliff's edge to see Jim standing surrounded by knee-height fuchsia grasses as he gazes out over the valley below, a broad field stretching out behind him away from the cliff's edge with no other visible points of interest save a further rocky outcrop a brief distance away. Spock hefts himself up with a distinct lack of grace, kneeling at Jim's feet briefly before pushing himself up, Jim's sudden proximity disconcerting enough for Spock to take a step backwards.
“Wait, careful, don't step off the -” Jim grabs Spock's arm, attempting to alert him to the nearness of the edge. “Gave me a heart attack, be careful.”
“I was in no danger of falling.”
“Sure you were, there's a thirty meter drop a hair from your heel.”
“Thank you for your concern, but Vulcans have a superior level of spatial awareness to that of Humans. Please unhand me.”
“Oh.” Jim looks down at his hand on Spock's arm, the fingers detaching themselves, the hand falling away. “Sorry. Check out the view. This planet's so beautiful, shame it stinks like week-old underwear. Think that storm's coming this way?”
Spock looks out across the flat they'd viewed from a lower point on the previous day, gathering tricorder data on the storm as he does so. From the higher viewpoint the lake can be seen to stretch endlessly out onto the horizon, lightning strikes flickering down to a surface like hammered pewter from the deep green clouds that cover much of the far skies, distant rumbles of thunder bouncing around the valley. “It would be wise for us to return to lower ground and to seek shelter, the behavior of storm systems is difficult to predict in an unfamiliar environment and any rain we may encounter may pose a significant risk.”
“Do you ever take risks, Spock?” Jim's breath is warm at the back of his neck, the front of Jim's jacket brushing against the back of his own, Spock's skin sparking against the touch of his clothing with increased sensitivity.
“If the potential return is adequately worthy.”
“Potential return? Are you flirting with me?” Jim's mouth moves closer to Spock's ear, but Spock refuses to turn his head to acknowledge it, keeping his eyes trained on the tricorder. “If you are, you're not great at it.”
“Vulcans do not flirt.”
Fingers sliding across his hip beneath the bottom of his jacket. “No? But you're aware I'm coming on to you.”
“Affirmative.” Spock shifts slightly and keys a control on the tricorder, collating the storm's data, a last, flimsy attempt at distraction. “There is a seventy two point five recurrent percent likelihood that the storm will reach our current destination within the next twenty two minutes. Our position is dangerously exposed and we should return to the valley's floor.”
Jim's body leans into Spock's back, a hand flat at his waist now beneath his loose jacket, a pungent wave of Jim's scent enveloping him as a warm, wet tongue traces the back of his ear, followed by a whisper. “I told you we weren't done.”
“I do not wish to -”
“Bullshit. You wish it every bit as much as I do. Turn around.”
“No.” Closing his eyes does not assist Spock with his slipping control as it merely serves to make him more aware of the press of Jim's body, the rhythmic surges of Jim's damp breath against his skin. The fingers stroking over the flat of his pants across his stomach. He opens his eyes once more, noting a significant darkening of the skies above. “Remove yourself from my person. I intend to return to the pod and to Doctor McCoy.”
But Jim's hand dips further, reaching down to softly trace the line of Spock's erection through his pants as dark green clouds begin to boil in the sky above their heads. “Take a risk, Spock. I'll make it a worthy one.”
Jim's words are unnecessary, Spock's remaining discipline burned away by the warmth of Jim's thumb stroking across the flared crest of Spock's engorged penis and he turns on the spot, away from the caressing torture of that hand to grab at Jim's jacket, blue eyes wide with surprise as the strength of Spock's attack carries them both two steps back from the cliff's edge. Jim stumbles and Spock follows him down, the barbed pink grasses clutching at their arms as Spock pushes Jim against the dusty ground, covering Jim's body with his own. He shoves his face into Jim's neck, nose drinking in Jim's heady scent and his voice is an almost unrecognizable growl as he fights the urge to bite down hard on Jim's jaw. “You push me too far.”
A lean, muscled thigh presses between his legs to rub at his groin, a hand grabbing one palmful of Spock's buttock to pull him more heavily into Jim's body. “You're sure about that? Seems to me like I pushed just far enough.”
Thunder. First a crack followed by a tumbling roll that vibrates through Spock's being as he covers Jim's opening mouth with his own, a groan from the man beneath him as Spock pushes his tongue between Jim's lips. This drive to explore, a hunger he has only experienced with this one person, Jim thrusting his smooth tongue against Spock's much as he hikes his hips to thrust against Spock's body, all of it and Spock is lost as an incredible hormonal surge pushes every last conscious thought from his mind, the thin veneer of civilization sloughing away. All he is able to do is feel, and want, every sense magnified a hundredfold as he is filled with Jim, the sensation of the broad, delicate body shifting in need beneath his, every moan and curse echoing in Spock's ears as he reaches between them to swiftly unfasten Jim's pants. Jim's body jerks as Spock thrusts his hand inside to grab at Jim's groin.
“Hey! Gentle hands on the equipment! Oh, oh God, yeah, better. Oh fuck.”
Jim's taste as Spock licks over his jaw and down his neck is a sweet, earthy salt, echoed in Jim's scent and Spock wants full nakedness, the ability to rub himself over the body beneath his own and cover himself in Jim's essence. Another roll of thunder echoes Spock's growl as he bites down on Jim's neck and wrenches Jim's pants down, fingers already seeking their goal, pushing down over Jim's testicles to press into the lightly-haired cleft between Jim's buttocks. The sweat-damp hole contracts in on itself as his finger discovers and rubs over it, Jim shuddering with a curse as Spock breaches the small ring to push within, a dry warmth and tightness crimping around his fingertip sending Spock's senses reeling.
“Not that this isn't awesome, but we're not fucking out here. This soil is way too gritty.”
He laves at his mate's throat, his mind gorging itself on the excess of animalistic lust pouring off Jim's skin in pulses at Spock's every touch. A hand against his chest, pushing in a strange caress that he does not understand.
“Spock? Come on, I don't want a spitfuck in a sandy field.”
“I will have thee.”
“Okay, I don't speak what I'm guessing is Vulcan and you need to get your finger out of my ass.” The body beneath his tries to twist away, two hands shoving at his chest now as Spock's instincts scream at him to push in further, to take, to find completion in this hot, dry muscle clenching tightly around his knuckle. It is only his name barked anxiously once more, two hands slamming against his shoulders and two blue eyes frowning at him in unease that gives him pause momentarily, long enough for Jim to wriggle away from Spock's finger.
He looks down at his mate in confusion, unsure if he is expected to fight for dominance, everything within him so sure that he must pin Jim's fragile body and force his way inside. But the beauty of this man, every line of his delicate, breakable body, the blunted features of his face, plump lips open and gasping, those unsettling alien eyes that seem to strip Spock back to his skeletal frame . . . emotion jars uncomfortably with need, and Spock feels momentarily as if he is somehow hanging over the cliff's edge, waiting to fall into an unending void. A hand reaches up to caress his neck, fingers sliding into the short hair at his nape, and Jim rises up for a deep kiss as the fingers of his other hand begin to unfasten Spock's pants. A mutter pressed wetly against his mouth,
“Just because I don't want to fuck out here doesn't mean we're done. I want to get off, get you off.”
The thighs beneath his spread wide, hands coaxing him to lie heavily between them as Jim shoves his way into Spock's underwear to pull out his heavy erection, already soaked and slick. It provokes another curse from Jim, a low moan,
“Fuck, Spock, you're so wet. Maybe we could . . . no, sand, bad idea. Let's, wait a sec, let me - ”
The distant patter of approaching rain reaches Spock's ears, humming with a light vibration, a sudden crack of thunder overhead as Jim shifts his hips upwards to rub his own hard, curving penis against Spock's, wrapping his hand around them both. It forces a snarl from Spock's mouth as he bites at Jim's lips and tongue, beginning to thrust into Jim's hand and against his heat.
“Oh yeah, that's it, fuck my hand.” The words drive a grunt of need out of the depths of Spock's lungs, causing Jim to grin up at him, his cheeks flushed red across those wide cheekbones. “Good?”
“It is,” Spock's voice sounds raw, barely a hint of himself left. “A satisfactory alternative.”
“Hell yeah, it is. I'm not going to, ohhfuck, hold out long.”
Jim's scent strengthens to dizzying levels and Spock's hips urge themselves forward at an ever-increasing pace, his blood racing, an almost continuous growl reverberating in the depths of his chest, mirroring the building roar of advancing rainfall and echoing rolls of thunder threatening to tear the skies above in two. Jim's thrusts grow more shallow, his rhythm stuttering as a hand clutches at Spock's chest, Jim's fingers tightening around them both. Drawn there more by automatic instinct than by design, Spock's hand leaves Jim's hip to ghost over the psi-points on Jim's face and Jim grabs at his wrist, eyes wide in arousal and shock looking deep into Spock's own as Jim grimaces with a shout and climaxes between their bodies, covering Spock's thrusting penis with a flood of hot semen. A shattered fragment of the orgasm skitters through the blurry link between their minds and hits Spock, filling his head with a mental cry of ecstatic completion that brings about his own release, too fast, too urgent. Too overwhelming.
The rain is warm when it reaches them, the drops falling so heavily that each one stings briefly against Spock's neck, at the heated tips of his ears. His fingers drop from Jim's face, trailing down across Jim's chest to cover Jim's, tracing the length of each as a whisper of satisfaction murmurs its existence via Jim's skin to his own. What is this, a rush of tenderness as Jim licks around his gasping mouth and smiles up at Spock with apparent contentment as his hand frees their softening genitals, and Spock is driven once more to nose his way beneath the peak of Jim's hat to rest his cheek against Jim's beard.
“Vulcans like to cuddle after sex? I have to say, I'm a little surprised.” Jim nuzzles back against Spock, twisting his fingers artlessly into Spock's own, seemingly unaware of the flare of sensation the act inspires deep in Spock's chest. “We're getting wet.”
“It is raining.”
A burst of laughter. “You scientists, always so observant. You know, I don't think rain usually burns like this. Right?”
Spock's hair is flattened against his head, the continuing deluge dripping from the tips down onto Jim's face, who blinks and swipes each drop away. “I concur. We must seek shelter until the storm passes.”
A ripping crack of thunder that sounds like a great stone wall collapsing breaks nearby, signaling the onset of localized lightning strikes and Jim curses, rolling out from beneath Spock and standing, tugging his pants back up. “Come on, sounds like we'd better make a run for it.” He grabs Spock as Spock stands, pressing a speedy, smiling kiss against Spock's mouth. “You, this? We're still not done. Not by a long shot.”
He watches Jim turn and begin to run off across the plain towards the rocky outcrop through the pink grasses, turning back towards Spock with a grin and a loud “Come on! What are you waiting for?” as Spock refastens his uniform pants and begins to follow, the storm chasing at his heels.
---
Jim clutches at his neck, glaring at the doctor. “Ow! What the hell sort of med school did you go to, anyway?”
“The one that has little tolerance for treating the injuries of those who spend their days skipping around in corrosive rain! Of all the addle-brained -” McCoy tosses down the hypospray and grabs Jim's jaw, tilting his reddened skin toward the dermal regenerator. “Keep still, quit fidgeting.”
“It wasn't on purpose. Look at Spock, he's just peachy.”
“Spock could shower in Perchloric acid and it would run off that green hide of his like a drop of water off a hot skillet. You're lucky your lungs escaped intact.”
“It's sweet of you to worry, Doc.”
“Shut your pie hole and let me look at your hands again.”
Humans are such strange beings. Taken at first glance, the two men beside Spock appear to be bickering, every word between them colored with a touch of spite, a terseness in McCoy's replies to Jim's purposefully provocative remarks. But there is more to it, that perpetual Human weakness for subtext as Jim teases and McCoy grouses back at him with some measure of indulgence. It is a clumsy form of interaction, one which both men seem to enjoy and one that Spock does not feel equipped to involve himself in, instead scrolling through the tricorder's storm data, noting some irregularities that must be peculiar to this environment.
But his attention is constantly drawn back to Jim. The expression in that lazy voice as it verbally pokes and prods at the doctor, the smile that never seems to be far from his lips, no matter that the lips in question are currently chapped and peeling with lingering burns. Jim's hand flexing under McCoy's attention, and the thought of the sharp, powerful climax that the same hand so recently coaxed from Spock's body. Most of all, the memory of that astonishing burst of emotion that followed, a personal affection that returns to him in a warm swell each time he looks at Jim, with each word uttered, every glance towards his person. It is as discomforting as it is - wonderful. A tentative, almost hesitant connection with another being that he has not previously experienced. Spock wonders if the manner in which Jim's eyes seem to be drawn back to his repeatedly is any indication that this connection he feels is shared, or maybe simply an instance of confirmation bias as his own eyes stray towards Jim more often than not. He catches Jim's eye once more, and feels the corner of his mouth quirk in response to Jim's small, private smile.
A small alarm chimes, Jim's attention moving from Spock to the control panel of the pod. “Fuck! Doc, I need my hands back. Looks like our ride might finally be here.” Jim moves to key at a control, fingers quickly inputting corrections as a burst of static makes both him and the doctor wince.
“Morgey? That you?”
“I have your coordinates, James, and those of your companions. Stand by for transportation. Please confirm.” A female voice, measured and precise.
“What, that's it? Oh, I get it, you're waiting till I get up there for the weeping of happy tears over the fact that I'm okay. I think we're ready to roll.”
“Goddammit, haven't you people ever heard of shuttlecraft?”
“Relax, Doc, Morgs will see us in, she's an old hand at this stuff. Go for it, we're waiting.” Nothing, silence until Jim rolls his eyes and sighs in the direction of the control panel. “Confirmed, three to beam up.”
The sting of transport is perhaps more noticable than usual, the lights a scattering of pale blue as they dance in front of Spock's eyes, the interior of the little escape pod dissolving, recoalescing into a grey transporter room, a physically striking dark-haired woman regarding Spock with impersonal interest as Jim's hand presses into the small of Spock's back, urging them both off the pad as McCoy follows.
“Morgey! You missed me, right?”
The woman looks at Jim as if he's a small child approaching her for approval. “Do you have it?”
“You know I have it.” Another pained sigh as she fails to provide even a flicker of response to Jim's innuendo, and he digs in his jacket pocket to retrieve the miniature PADD that Spock had noticed him removing from the Michaela, tossing it to her. “Here, it's all on there. Everything but Casscnite and we all know who to blame that one on. Right, Spock? Captain Spock, Doctor Leonard McCoy, this is Morgan. Morgs, this is Spock and the Doc. Hey, that rhymes.”
The doctor is staring at Morgan with an expression of slight consternation. “Morgan what?”
“Morgan is sufficient, Doctor.”
“You seem very familiar. Have we met before?”
“No.”
Morgan has already turned her back, leaving the room without further acknowledgment of those within it. Jim claps McCoy on the shoulder, earning himself a glare. “Smooth moves, Len.”
“You still flapping that jaw of yours?”
“C'mon, we're expected to report before we even get to take a piss and, I don't know about you guys, but I'm looking forward to a shower and some non-hallucinogenic foodstuffs.” Jim pauses at the door, allowing McCoy to exit in front of him as he turns towards Spock, nudging Spock's shoulder with his own, his voice low enough to avoid the doctor's attention. “I'll show you where you're bunking later. Thought I might put you next door to me.”
A visual flash of memory, of the expression that crossed Jim's face at the moment of climax, the recollection of that hot, wet splash of cum coating his penis as Jim's pulsed alongside. The sensation of Jim's anus, closed and spasming around Spock's fingertip as a faint mental plea for moreGodyesfuck surges into his body to settle deep in his testes, pushing him further to bury himself in all that tight heat. The way he looks at Jim and feels ever more drawn towards him, a pull that is almost tangible in its strength. “That would be acceptable.”
Rating: NC-17 \o/
Word count: 6000
Summary: What if Jim didn't take Pike up on his challenge to enlist? Captain Spock manages to defeat Nero with the assistance of his crew, but there are heavy losses throughout Starfleet and the Federation. Then something starts to go wrong with the Enterprise and Admiral Pike's got a solution. For awarrington in inspiration and execution.
A/N: That's me outtie for two weeks. Hopefully I'll be back at the beginning of December with the completed fic ready to post. In theory.
He wakes the moment Jim rolls closer towards him on the sloping floor of the pod. They were already lying in close proximity due to the confined nature of the pod's design, but opening his eyes to take in the dull light of dawn's pale green glow, Spock is able to make out Jim's figure sprawling halfway off his sleeping pad as he throws an arm over Spock's waist and wriggles in closer.
It is an unacceptable liberty, even in sleep. Spock takes Jim's wrist between thumb and forefinger, the hum of Jim's mind fogged with the contented buzz of sleep filtering through the warm skin, and he shifts away from Jim's body, laying down Jim's hand, intending to rise to check on Doctor McCoy's status. But it seems that, even unconscious, Jim Kirk has a certain tenacity to him that will not be denied as the arm is thrown back over Spock's hip once more, Jim pressing up against him entirely, bearded chin prickling at Spock's skin as Jim nuzzles into Spock's neck and settles there with a happy grunt.
The immediate instinct that Jim's touch provokes within him is for Spock to roll, to cover Jim's body with his own and start to systematically, forcibly remove their clothing while rutting up against him in preparation for holding him down and taking it all, taking everything. Spock feels it too strongly, the primal urge simmering beneath his heating skin now as Jim's scent once more assaults him like a physical blow. He knows he should push Jim away or once again attempt to disengage himself from Jim's embrace, but the intensity of his reaction to Jim gives him pause. It is intriguing, his logical mind fascinated with how easily Jim's physical closeness provokes such a intense reaction in him where no other has done so before.
The sensations carried on his rushing blood suggest a biochemical reaction, so sure is Spock's physical self that he has found his mate, his body readying itself for copulation, his mind whirling in a dizzying loss of reason. It is Jim's pheromones, perhaps, stimulating him so and Spock's nostrils flare as he inhales deeply. Jim's scent has a sour note, the charred edges of the tear in his shirt producing a metallic, smoky tang, a bitter edge to his breath and skin without access to washing facilities. But the ever-present warmth of Jim's particular scent snakes itself around Spock's nasal cavity, the smell of sun-touched, freckled skin, the embodiment of Jim's physical dynamism combined with, Spock detects with another shudder of desire, a high level of pheromonal output. One more deep breath and the effect of Jim's scent thunders through his body as Spock presses his nose into Jim's hair and closes his eyes, the beginnings of a growl bubbling in his chest as his penis swells further in anticipation. He knows this is not the full story, as there is too much about Jim beyond the physical that unsettles and arouses him but it is at least reassuring to some degree, that Spock is beginning to identify the roots of Jim's effect on him, the powerful response of his body where Jim is concerned.
It is enough. Once more Spock lifts Jim's wrist and rolls away from him, fully erect within the confines of his uniform pants, aware that, should he have the privacy he requires, he would seek to masturbate given the depth of his arousal. But prior to placing Jim's arm on the floor beside him Spock senses a slight flutter of awareness from Jim's skin as Jim begins to wake, unsettled by the sudden absence of Spock's body against his.
“Muh? Whassah, what's . . . hmm.” Jim's round, wide-set eyes open and blink in momentary confusion as he looks around the darkened pod and up to where Spock is lying beside him, no longer holding onto his wrist.
“Good morning, Jim.”
“Spock.” It is a breathy, sleepy sound, tainted with some emotion that Spock is unable to put a name to and Jim's tongue swipes over his bottom lip as he rubs the last of sleep's fugue out of his eyes, then stares at Spock without inhibition. A heavy intake of breath, let out in a sigh that turns into a wide yawn. “Did you sleep?”
“I did.”
“Good, good. You look, uh, rested.” Jim reaches out and allows the fingers of one hand to fasten on the lapels of Spock's jacket absently as if he wishes to pull Spock closer, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the fabric.
“I am. I apologize if I have inadvertently woken you. Perhaps you will be able to return to sleep.”
“No, I'm good.”
The moment seems to hang in the air between them, Jim's eyes fixed on Spock's, their prone bodies inches from one another with the nearness of lovers. Jim's eyes widen then blink several more times as if fighting to clear his vision, then he frowns at Spock with some form of frustration. “Fuck. I'm sorry.”
“I do not understand your context. You are sorry for -?”
“This. I've tried, I have because it's a stupid idea, it is but I can't, I have to -” and Spock does not comprehend the reason behind Jim's apparent lack of coherence in the moment before Jim moves to press his lips against Spock's.
It is soft, the barest brush of a dry mouth against his. The touch of rough beard at his chin and left cheek. A rush of scent. The push of a wet tongue against his lips as he opens his mouth without thinking. Spock's mind distantly recalls his first experience at the academy of catastrophic decompression during a drill, or perhaps cold water training as he feels suddenly immersed in too much sensation, a rush of sensitivity hitting his body. He experiences it everywhere, nerves firing at the base of every hair as he shivers with the intensity of his body's response to something as simple as Jim pressing his tongue against Spock's, pushing bodily up against him, sliding a leg between Spock's own. The touch of Jim's tongue is immediately arousing, smoother and slicker than his own, licking around the inside of Spock's mouth with a muffled moan and instinct is beginning to erode Spock's control as he wraps his arms around Jim to pull him closer into the embrace. Everything, every moment that has passed between first seeing Jim on the viewscreen of the Enterprise and this moment has been leading to this, Jim's wet, mobile mouth on his, his body moving against Spock's own with increasing intent.
Spock reaches down to press his fingers into Jim's rounded buttocks causing Jim to curse into his mouth and push his hips against Spock. Spock holds him there tightly, his hands driven to grab and hold on, thrusting his groin against the prominent bulge in Jim's pants as Jim groans and sucks more deeply at Spock's tongue. It is as if Spock's ruthlessly suppressed nature shakes its head and roars as Spock fights the urge to tear at Jim's clothes, blood pounding through his system delivering a hormonal rush that tears its way through him. He feels shaken, and never has he been less himself as his hand pushes firmly between their rutting figures and fastens around the waist of Jim's pants, ready to rip them away if they impede his access a moment further. His fingers tighten, his heartbeat ringing in his ears, a low snarl escaping him as Jim pushes his way up from Spock's chest.
“Wait! Spock, wait a second, will you just - Doc? That you?”
There. A low moan of distress, a gruff cough and McCoy's voice, husked with lingering sedation. “Where in the galaxy am I and what the hell sort of butcher's been screwing around with my chest?”
Jim looks down at Spock with a regretful groan, rocking his hips against Spock's as if he is unwilling to break the contact, before trying to pull away. “Looks like our privacy's shot. Want me to go sedate him again?”
Spock stares at him uncomprehendingly, ancient impulses ruling his body, his tongue tracing his lips to discover any stray remnants of Jim's taste, his entire system insistent that he finds completion and he looks down at his hand on Jim's pants, knuckles white, quite unable to let go.
“I'm kidding. Sorta. Come on, I have to go check on the Doc.” Jim wriggles against him, an action that fails to do anything other than cause the fabric clenched within Spock's fist to begin to tear as his fist tightens further. “Uh, Spock? Lemme go.”
“I am . . . I cannot . . .”
“You're stuck? Okay, that's alright, take some deep breaths, think it through. Let me go, Spock, you can do it, open your hand for me, concentrate . . .”
He closes his eyes, blotting out the image above him of Jim's mouth wet and parted and panting with desire, and draws on his shattered controls to force his fingers to unfurl, his arms dropping away. Jim's lips brush at his ear sending another ripe shot of arousal throughout him, his hands making fists at his sides, the animal within raging its need as Jim's voice, threaded through with want, curls into his ear. “We're not done with this yet.”
---
“It was a field dressing, I did what I had to. Don't even try to tell me you'd let someone die rather than improvise.”
“You sucked on breathing tubes that you'd held in your filthy hands prior to stabbing them into my lungs. Have you any idea of the millions of vile bacteria that will have marched from your mouth to my delicate insides while you kept me drugged up to my eyeballs? Good God, man, I feel like I need to scrub out my ribcage with a wire brush.”
“Spock had a sterile field going and I've been giving you antibiotic shots. I think you'll survive.”
“Miracles will never cease.” The doctor squints at the tricorder, completing his examination of the fresh skin across his chest and moving to begin scanning his formerly-broken elbow before looking up to Jim and giving him a reluctant nod. “I suppose I have to admit that it was a good save, I'd have impressed the shit out of myself if I'd managed it in time. Thanks.”
Jim folds his arms, his legs stretched out in front of him where he's perched on the control console, hat tugged low over his eyes. “No thanks necessary, Doc. Your undying love and devotion are enough.”
A snort that even Spock could have predicted. “Wouldn't hold your breath. How about you, Captain? You came out of this unscathed?”
“I suffered no injuries of consequence, Doctor.”
“Which means you got hurt. What happened?”
“Mild bruising and skin abrasion, similar to that which Jim has already described to you in his own case, to a lesser degree.”
“'Jim'?” McCoy's eyebrow shoots skywards. “You two got awful cozy while I was knocked out.”
“You know how it is, Doc. Long nights across a medikit, nothing to do but worry about you and murmur sweet nothings to each other.”
Spock looks at Jim in question, the tips of his ears suddenly hot, but Jim has judged it perfectly. Perhaps it is a mark of the nature of his career, the ease with which he chooses to mislead McCoy with a fair approximation of the truth. Jim has returned to his habitual pose of easy relaxation but, now, Spock can see beneath it. The tightness of muscle, a tautness to his posture, a certain focus of attention that indicates Jim is never truly at ease, taking it all it, every last detail. It is surprising now, to Spock, that they had been fooled by Jim's cover story as it seems so clear now that he is anything but a jobbing engineer for hire. Jim's astonishing eyes slide over to look into Spock's before traveling back to the Doctor's face and even that brief contact is enough to send the hint of memory raging its way through Spock's system, a promise as much as a threat, “We're not done with this yet.”
The impassivity of his expression is growing forced, Spock knows it, unable to physically or mentally absent himself from the source of his loss of control. There was no reason present in that instant, no rationality in the face of such all-encompassing desire. As simple as that, one base bodily function in addition to the proximity of one man and everything that Spock is, everything that he had hoped he had grown to become, was lost in an instant. The need for solitude and meditation has seldom pressed harder at him, the impossibility for either at this time abundantly clear. He is as close to panic as he has ever been, concern for himself running like a dark ribbon throughout his mind. It is untenable. It is abhorrent, it is - Spock lets a breath out through his nose slowly, only half-focused on the conversation beside him. It is bearable, because it must be. Any possible alternative is unacceptable.
“So, you're saying that you're some kind of super spook?” McCoy grimaces at Jim in annoyance, drawing Spock's attention fully back to their dialog. “I knew it, I knew there was something fishy about you.”
“I wouldn't say super. Although, if you wanted to describe me that way in front of my boss once she gets here, I'm not going to complain.” A winning smile from Jim does not appear to be having the desired effect on McCoy. “It might help me out. I always get the impression she thinks I'm a little backward.”
“Can't imagine why.” McCoy relaxes back against the seats once more, tugging his shirts around him, allowing Jim to pull the thin thermal blanket up over his chest. “I need to get some more rest, if you and Spock can manage to entertain yourselves without me for a little while longer.”
Spock cannot fail to notice the light in Jim's eyes, a deep twinkle as Jim answers. “It'll be tough, Doc. Your captain's quite a handful.”
---
“To see what's at the top.”
Spock cranes his head backwards to study the distant summit of the cliff, unable to understand why Jim seems so intent on climbing a rock face without the assistance of safety equipment and for so little purpose. “We are adequately resourced at this time. We do not need to place ourselves at risk in order to explore this planet further.”
“Have you ever been to Iowa? The one on Earth.”
The non sequitur gives Spock a microsecond's pause. “I have not.”
“I grew up there. Trust me, if you'd ever been to Iowa, you'd see why I have this compulsion to climb up anything higher than a molehill.”
“Iowa is mountainous?”
“You know the Infinity Mudflats of Charrain?” Spock nods in affirmation. “Positively hilly in comparison to Iowa.” Jim tugs his gloves off, tucks them into a pocket and grabs at a handhold, testing the foot of the rock face with a booted toe. “Seems firm enough. Last one at the top's a loser.” He climbs up two holds, swinging a foot easily up to a low-hanging ledge and pushing up off it before turning his head to look at Spock over his shoulder. “Come on, this is the closest I've been to a vacation in a long time and I intend to enjoy myself a little. If I go first, you can stare at my butt all the way up.”
Perhaps that is why Spock finds it difficult to do little else as he follows Jim's efficient route up a cracked seam of jutting strata, Jim's pants drawn tight across his buttocks as he stretches and reaches this way and that, pushing ever upward with his muscular thighs. It is not a challenging or taxing climb and they settle into an easy rhythm, the green sunlight gentle on their shoulders and heads, a low wind and an occasional burst of chatter from small bird-like creatures circling above the only sounds other than Jim's steady breathing. It is a curious mix, a certain peace descending on Spock as the repetitive physical activity and serene setting steady his mind as much as Jim's low grunts and bodily exertions above heat his blood. It is not entirely disagreeable.
“Almost there. Hand the pack up, I'll swing it up out the way.”
“It is not impeding my progress.”
“Okay, up to you. Here we go.” Jim pushes himself up over the cliff's edge, his buttocks, legs then boots disappearing from Spock's view seconds before he hears Jim's soft exclamation. “Whooee, you need to get up here. The view is staggering.” The hat reappears, followed by Jim's face, smiling down at him. “Sure you don't need a hand?”
“I am.” He climbs the last few holds and looks over the cliff's edge to see Jim standing surrounded by knee-height fuchsia grasses as he gazes out over the valley below, a broad field stretching out behind him away from the cliff's edge with no other visible points of interest save a further rocky outcrop a brief distance away. Spock hefts himself up with a distinct lack of grace, kneeling at Jim's feet briefly before pushing himself up, Jim's sudden proximity disconcerting enough for Spock to take a step backwards.
“Wait, careful, don't step off the -” Jim grabs Spock's arm, attempting to alert him to the nearness of the edge. “Gave me a heart attack, be careful.”
“I was in no danger of falling.”
“Sure you were, there's a thirty meter drop a hair from your heel.”
“Thank you for your concern, but Vulcans have a superior level of spatial awareness to that of Humans. Please unhand me.”
“Oh.” Jim looks down at his hand on Spock's arm, the fingers detaching themselves, the hand falling away. “Sorry. Check out the view. This planet's so beautiful, shame it stinks like week-old underwear. Think that storm's coming this way?”
Spock looks out across the flat they'd viewed from a lower point on the previous day, gathering tricorder data on the storm as he does so. From the higher viewpoint the lake can be seen to stretch endlessly out onto the horizon, lightning strikes flickering down to a surface like hammered pewter from the deep green clouds that cover much of the far skies, distant rumbles of thunder bouncing around the valley. “It would be wise for us to return to lower ground and to seek shelter, the behavior of storm systems is difficult to predict in an unfamiliar environment and any rain we may encounter may pose a significant risk.”
“Do you ever take risks, Spock?” Jim's breath is warm at the back of his neck, the front of Jim's jacket brushing against the back of his own, Spock's skin sparking against the touch of his clothing with increased sensitivity.
“If the potential return is adequately worthy.”
“Potential return? Are you flirting with me?” Jim's mouth moves closer to Spock's ear, but Spock refuses to turn his head to acknowledge it, keeping his eyes trained on the tricorder. “If you are, you're not great at it.”
“Vulcans do not flirt.”
Fingers sliding across his hip beneath the bottom of his jacket. “No? But you're aware I'm coming on to you.”
“Affirmative.” Spock shifts slightly and keys a control on the tricorder, collating the storm's data, a last, flimsy attempt at distraction. “There is a seventy two point five recurrent percent likelihood that the storm will reach our current destination within the next twenty two minutes. Our position is dangerously exposed and we should return to the valley's floor.”
Jim's body leans into Spock's back, a hand flat at his waist now beneath his loose jacket, a pungent wave of Jim's scent enveloping him as a warm, wet tongue traces the back of his ear, followed by a whisper. “I told you we weren't done.”
“I do not wish to -”
“Bullshit. You wish it every bit as much as I do. Turn around.”
“No.” Closing his eyes does not assist Spock with his slipping control as it merely serves to make him more aware of the press of Jim's body, the rhythmic surges of Jim's damp breath against his skin. The fingers stroking over the flat of his pants across his stomach. He opens his eyes once more, noting a significant darkening of the skies above. “Remove yourself from my person. I intend to return to the pod and to Doctor McCoy.”
But Jim's hand dips further, reaching down to softly trace the line of Spock's erection through his pants as dark green clouds begin to boil in the sky above their heads. “Take a risk, Spock. I'll make it a worthy one.”
Jim's words are unnecessary, Spock's remaining discipline burned away by the warmth of Jim's thumb stroking across the flared crest of Spock's engorged penis and he turns on the spot, away from the caressing torture of that hand to grab at Jim's jacket, blue eyes wide with surprise as the strength of Spock's attack carries them both two steps back from the cliff's edge. Jim stumbles and Spock follows him down, the barbed pink grasses clutching at their arms as Spock pushes Jim against the dusty ground, covering Jim's body with his own. He shoves his face into Jim's neck, nose drinking in Jim's heady scent and his voice is an almost unrecognizable growl as he fights the urge to bite down hard on Jim's jaw. “You push me too far.”
A lean, muscled thigh presses between his legs to rub at his groin, a hand grabbing one palmful of Spock's buttock to pull him more heavily into Jim's body. “You're sure about that? Seems to me like I pushed just far enough.”
Thunder. First a crack followed by a tumbling roll that vibrates through Spock's being as he covers Jim's opening mouth with his own, a groan from the man beneath him as Spock pushes his tongue between Jim's lips. This drive to explore, a hunger he has only experienced with this one person, Jim thrusting his smooth tongue against Spock's much as he hikes his hips to thrust against Spock's body, all of it and Spock is lost as an incredible hormonal surge pushes every last conscious thought from his mind, the thin veneer of civilization sloughing away. All he is able to do is feel, and want, every sense magnified a hundredfold as he is filled with Jim, the sensation of the broad, delicate body shifting in need beneath his, every moan and curse echoing in Spock's ears as he reaches between them to swiftly unfasten Jim's pants. Jim's body jerks as Spock thrusts his hand inside to grab at Jim's groin.
“Hey! Gentle hands on the equipment! Oh, oh God, yeah, better. Oh fuck.”
Jim's taste as Spock licks over his jaw and down his neck is a sweet, earthy salt, echoed in Jim's scent and Spock wants full nakedness, the ability to rub himself over the body beneath his own and cover himself in Jim's essence. Another roll of thunder echoes Spock's growl as he bites down on Jim's neck and wrenches Jim's pants down, fingers already seeking their goal, pushing down over Jim's testicles to press into the lightly-haired cleft between Jim's buttocks. The sweat-damp hole contracts in on itself as his finger discovers and rubs over it, Jim shuddering with a curse as Spock breaches the small ring to push within, a dry warmth and tightness crimping around his fingertip sending Spock's senses reeling.
“Not that this isn't awesome, but we're not fucking out here. This soil is way too gritty.”
He laves at his mate's throat, his mind gorging itself on the excess of animalistic lust pouring off Jim's skin in pulses at Spock's every touch. A hand against his chest, pushing in a strange caress that he does not understand.
“Spock? Come on, I don't want a spitfuck in a sandy field.”
“I will have thee.”
“Okay, I don't speak what I'm guessing is Vulcan and you need to get your finger out of my ass.” The body beneath his tries to twist away, two hands shoving at his chest now as Spock's instincts scream at him to push in further, to take, to find completion in this hot, dry muscle clenching tightly around his knuckle. It is only his name barked anxiously once more, two hands slamming against his shoulders and two blue eyes frowning at him in unease that gives him pause momentarily, long enough for Jim to wriggle away from Spock's finger.
He looks down at his mate in confusion, unsure if he is expected to fight for dominance, everything within him so sure that he must pin Jim's fragile body and force his way inside. But the beauty of this man, every line of his delicate, breakable body, the blunted features of his face, plump lips open and gasping, those unsettling alien eyes that seem to strip Spock back to his skeletal frame . . . emotion jars uncomfortably with need, and Spock feels momentarily as if he is somehow hanging over the cliff's edge, waiting to fall into an unending void. A hand reaches up to caress his neck, fingers sliding into the short hair at his nape, and Jim rises up for a deep kiss as the fingers of his other hand begin to unfasten Spock's pants. A mutter pressed wetly against his mouth,
“Just because I don't want to fuck out here doesn't mean we're done. I want to get off, get you off.”
The thighs beneath his spread wide, hands coaxing him to lie heavily between them as Jim shoves his way into Spock's underwear to pull out his heavy erection, already soaked and slick. It provokes another curse from Jim, a low moan,
“Fuck, Spock, you're so wet. Maybe we could . . . no, sand, bad idea. Let's, wait a sec, let me - ”
The distant patter of approaching rain reaches Spock's ears, humming with a light vibration, a sudden crack of thunder overhead as Jim shifts his hips upwards to rub his own hard, curving penis against Spock's, wrapping his hand around them both. It forces a snarl from Spock's mouth as he bites at Jim's lips and tongue, beginning to thrust into Jim's hand and against his heat.
“Oh yeah, that's it, fuck my hand.” The words drive a grunt of need out of the depths of Spock's lungs, causing Jim to grin up at him, his cheeks flushed red across those wide cheekbones. “Good?”
“It is,” Spock's voice sounds raw, barely a hint of himself left. “A satisfactory alternative.”
“Hell yeah, it is. I'm not going to, ohhfuck, hold out long.”
Jim's scent strengthens to dizzying levels and Spock's hips urge themselves forward at an ever-increasing pace, his blood racing, an almost continuous growl reverberating in the depths of his chest, mirroring the building roar of advancing rainfall and echoing rolls of thunder threatening to tear the skies above in two. Jim's thrusts grow more shallow, his rhythm stuttering as a hand clutches at Spock's chest, Jim's fingers tightening around them both. Drawn there more by automatic instinct than by design, Spock's hand leaves Jim's hip to ghost over the psi-points on Jim's face and Jim grabs at his wrist, eyes wide in arousal and shock looking deep into Spock's own as Jim grimaces with a shout and climaxes between their bodies, covering Spock's thrusting penis with a flood of hot semen. A shattered fragment of the orgasm skitters through the blurry link between their minds and hits Spock, filling his head with a mental cry of ecstatic completion that brings about his own release, too fast, too urgent. Too overwhelming.
The rain is warm when it reaches them, the drops falling so heavily that each one stings briefly against Spock's neck, at the heated tips of his ears. His fingers drop from Jim's face, trailing down across Jim's chest to cover Jim's, tracing the length of each as a whisper of satisfaction murmurs its existence via Jim's skin to his own. What is this, a rush of tenderness as Jim licks around his gasping mouth and smiles up at Spock with apparent contentment as his hand frees their softening genitals, and Spock is driven once more to nose his way beneath the peak of Jim's hat to rest his cheek against Jim's beard.
“Vulcans like to cuddle after sex? I have to say, I'm a little surprised.” Jim nuzzles back against Spock, twisting his fingers artlessly into Spock's own, seemingly unaware of the flare of sensation the act inspires deep in Spock's chest. “We're getting wet.”
“It is raining.”
A burst of laughter. “You scientists, always so observant. You know, I don't think rain usually burns like this. Right?”
Spock's hair is flattened against his head, the continuing deluge dripping from the tips down onto Jim's face, who blinks and swipes each drop away. “I concur. We must seek shelter until the storm passes.”
A ripping crack of thunder that sounds like a great stone wall collapsing breaks nearby, signaling the onset of localized lightning strikes and Jim curses, rolling out from beneath Spock and standing, tugging his pants back up. “Come on, sounds like we'd better make a run for it.” He grabs Spock as Spock stands, pressing a speedy, smiling kiss against Spock's mouth. “You, this? We're still not done. Not by a long shot.”
He watches Jim turn and begin to run off across the plain towards the rocky outcrop through the pink grasses, turning back towards Spock with a grin and a loud “Come on! What are you waiting for?” as Spock refastens his uniform pants and begins to follow, the storm chasing at his heels.
---
Jim clutches at his neck, glaring at the doctor. “Ow! What the hell sort of med school did you go to, anyway?”
“The one that has little tolerance for treating the injuries of those who spend their days skipping around in corrosive rain! Of all the addle-brained -” McCoy tosses down the hypospray and grabs Jim's jaw, tilting his reddened skin toward the dermal regenerator. “Keep still, quit fidgeting.”
“It wasn't on purpose. Look at Spock, he's just peachy.”
“Spock could shower in Perchloric acid and it would run off that green hide of his like a drop of water off a hot skillet. You're lucky your lungs escaped intact.”
“It's sweet of you to worry, Doc.”
“Shut your pie hole and let me look at your hands again.”
Humans are such strange beings. Taken at first glance, the two men beside Spock appear to be bickering, every word between them colored with a touch of spite, a terseness in McCoy's replies to Jim's purposefully provocative remarks. But there is more to it, that perpetual Human weakness for subtext as Jim teases and McCoy grouses back at him with some measure of indulgence. It is a clumsy form of interaction, one which both men seem to enjoy and one that Spock does not feel equipped to involve himself in, instead scrolling through the tricorder's storm data, noting some irregularities that must be peculiar to this environment.
But his attention is constantly drawn back to Jim. The expression in that lazy voice as it verbally pokes and prods at the doctor, the smile that never seems to be far from his lips, no matter that the lips in question are currently chapped and peeling with lingering burns. Jim's hand flexing under McCoy's attention, and the thought of the sharp, powerful climax that the same hand so recently coaxed from Spock's body. Most of all, the memory of that astonishing burst of emotion that followed, a personal affection that returns to him in a warm swell each time he looks at Jim, with each word uttered, every glance towards his person. It is as discomforting as it is - wonderful. A tentative, almost hesitant connection with another being that he has not previously experienced. Spock wonders if the manner in which Jim's eyes seem to be drawn back to his repeatedly is any indication that this connection he feels is shared, or maybe simply an instance of confirmation bias as his own eyes stray towards Jim more often than not. He catches Jim's eye once more, and feels the corner of his mouth quirk in response to Jim's small, private smile.
A small alarm chimes, Jim's attention moving from Spock to the control panel of the pod. “Fuck! Doc, I need my hands back. Looks like our ride might finally be here.” Jim moves to key at a control, fingers quickly inputting corrections as a burst of static makes both him and the doctor wince.
“Morgey? That you?”
“I have your coordinates, James, and those of your companions. Stand by for transportation. Please confirm.” A female voice, measured and precise.
“What, that's it? Oh, I get it, you're waiting till I get up there for the weeping of happy tears over the fact that I'm okay. I think we're ready to roll.”
“Goddammit, haven't you people ever heard of shuttlecraft?”
“Relax, Doc, Morgs will see us in, she's an old hand at this stuff. Go for it, we're waiting.” Nothing, silence until Jim rolls his eyes and sighs in the direction of the control panel. “Confirmed, three to beam up.”
The sting of transport is perhaps more noticable than usual, the lights a scattering of pale blue as they dance in front of Spock's eyes, the interior of the little escape pod dissolving, recoalescing into a grey transporter room, a physically striking dark-haired woman regarding Spock with impersonal interest as Jim's hand presses into the small of Spock's back, urging them both off the pad as McCoy follows.
“Morgey! You missed me, right?”
The woman looks at Jim as if he's a small child approaching her for approval. “Do you have it?”
“You know I have it.” Another pained sigh as she fails to provide even a flicker of response to Jim's innuendo, and he digs in his jacket pocket to retrieve the miniature PADD that Spock had noticed him removing from the Michaela, tossing it to her. “Here, it's all on there. Everything but Casscnite and we all know who to blame that one on. Right, Spock? Captain Spock, Doctor Leonard McCoy, this is Morgan. Morgs, this is Spock and the Doc. Hey, that rhymes.”
The doctor is staring at Morgan with an expression of slight consternation. “Morgan what?”
“Morgan is sufficient, Doctor.”
“You seem very familiar. Have we met before?”
“No.”
Morgan has already turned her back, leaving the room without further acknowledgment of those within it. Jim claps McCoy on the shoulder, earning himself a glare. “Smooth moves, Len.”
“You still flapping that jaw of yours?”
“C'mon, we're expected to report before we even get to take a piss and, I don't know about you guys, but I'm looking forward to a shower and some non-hallucinogenic foodstuffs.” Jim pauses at the door, allowing McCoy to exit in front of him as he turns towards Spock, nudging Spock's shoulder with his own, his voice low enough to avoid the doctor's attention. “I'll show you where you're bunking later. Thought I might put you next door to me.”
A visual flash of memory, of the expression that crossed Jim's face at the moment of climax, the recollection of that hot, wet splash of cum coating his penis as Jim's pulsed alongside. The sensation of Jim's anus, closed and spasming around Spock's fingertip as a faint mental plea for moreGodyesfuck surges into his body to settle deep in his testes, pushing him further to bury himself in all that tight heat. The way he looks at Jim and feels ever more drawn towards him, a pull that is almost tangible in its strength. “That would be acceptable.”