Trees Against The Sky - Chapter Four
Title: Trees Against the Sky
Author: zjofierose
Wordcount: 16k
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Warnings: mentions of past violence, description of a killing.
Beta: the magnificent, the brilliant, the fantastic emmessann
For: a lovely fellow Trekkie who prefers to remain nameless, but who gave a very lovely donation for me in the help_queensland auction. *waves* hi, bb! It took forever, but it’s extra long, so I hope that helps!
Thanks to: medea_fic, as always, for hand-holding, whine-listening, and general awesomeness. Likewise lousy_science, for being her fabulous self. And also much love to ewinfic for giving it a reassuring once-over halfway through that made me feel much better. I <3 you all forever. Also piles of love for arminaa who put out this danged thing. You are amazing.
And a Final Note: this fic was originally the brainchild of the wonderful 13empress. She has kindly allowed me to take it over and write it in my own way, but I am forever grateful to her for the initial idea, and for the generous encouragement. <3
ETA A/N: so, yeah, i totally forgot about actually posting this thing to my LJ. heh. well, hope you enjoy it! original version appeared
in the Universal Constant online zine, which you can read/download here- http://uczine.livejournal.com/
Summary: When Spock is critically injured in a crash on a strange planet, who is going to save him? And what on Vulcan is a strange, abandoned human doing here?
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter 4
It had honestly never occurred to Spock to be concerned about his growing attachment to Jim Kirk. After all, Jim was almost the entirety of his social world, and had been since he awoke. The villagers tended to stay away; not out of hostility, but out of what seemed to be a native sense of propriety and self-concern. Bones came around regularly, but never stayed long. It was only natural that Spock would focus on Jim; that he would concern himself with Jim’s comings and goings, that he would try to make himself pleasing and useful to the one who was giving up so much to assist him in his recovery.
And if at some point he had realized that he actively enjoyed Jim’s company, if he grew to understand that the flush in his cheeks when Jim entered the room had less to do with sitting in the sun, and more to do with the feel of Jim’s body pressed up against his as Jim inspected his work, then what of it? Surely it was no surprise that he would begin to feel a certain regard for a person with whom he spent so much time.
Why should he think any differently?
It had taken the look on Bones’ face to trigger the first spasm of doubt in his belly; the way the shaman’s eyes had widened when Jim threw an arm around Spock’s shoulder and laughingly pressed his forehead to Spock’s temple. Spock had flushed under the steady regard, and he had felt suddenly ashamed as he had when yet a child, caught out at some silly emotional pursuit. Jim hadn’t noticed, carrying on with the story he was narrating, pushing in and out of Spock’s space as he always did, never seeing the calculating look on the lined face of the older man.
All Bones does is watch, but Spock burns with his secrets laid bare to new eyes, and he can see that Bones knows it. Every gesture, every touch, is now laden with significance, and how is it even possible that Spock had been so oblivious to the million different ways he reaches for Jim inside an hour?
When Bones is finally gone, and the food is put away, and the lamp lights put out, and Jim is snoring across from him, Spock lets himself drift in his consciousness, sending out tendrils into his own mind and seeing what they turn up.
Yes, Jim is brilliant. Spock has been working with him for weeks now, figuring out where his education had left off and pushing him to assimilate new knowledge. Jim’s brain is elastic and electric, fusing new connections in an instant, drinking in the new information as fast as Spock can give it context.
Yes, Jim is physically attractive. It would be illogical for him to deny, and impossible for him not to notice. Jim is unlike anyone else he has been around - long and lean and sun-soaked and lovely. His physical presence, his aura, is unmistakable, and Spock has gone from being hyper-aware of it pressing against his senses to actively seeking it out. He tingles when they touch, and basks in the glow.
Yes, Jim is…tactile. He touches Spock nearly constantly, and where Spock would normally shrink from contact of any kind with a stranger, it has never bothered him. No, more than that - he enjoys it. Jim’s touch is grounding, reassuring, with almost no mental bleed-through. Jim’s energy comforts him, warms him, and Spock turns to him like a flower to sun whenever he’s around.
Spock has resisted the urge to scan Jim’s thoughts entirely - he gets flashes of emotion, certainly, especially when Jim is upset or excited, pulling Spock along with him either way. He began reinforcing his shields the moment he awoke, knowing that his convalescence would require close contact, and wanting desperately not only to respect his savior, but also to maintain his own careful equilibrium.
Sometimes, though, he wishes he could peek.
And yes, whenever Spock contemplates his inevitable departure…it hurts. In that space beneath his lungs, right behind the point of his breastbone, it hurts. The thought of leaving Jim here, where, though he is well regarded, he is still an alien, is painful. The image of him growing older, alone, cuts through Spock. Jim is human, after all - he only has so much time. Surely it could be better spent? Surely he deserves more?
--
“You could accompany me.”
Jim stares at him blankly.
“What?”
Spock adjusts the tiny fitting with the tip of his thumbnail, bending the delicate piece of aluminum into place.
“When I leave. You could accompany me.” He glances up. Jim’s face is blank at first, then scuttles its way through surprise, shock, and ends up on disbelief. Spock plows on. “It will not be long before they come for me. The ship’s course was plotted. Once the rendezvous dates were missed, they will begin a systematic search of all possible sites for a landing or crash.” He turns the small beacon casing over in his hands, watching Jim’s face as unobtrusively as he can. “The communicator will speed the process, ensure that it happens as quickly as possible, but even without it, they would eventually locate me.” He looks up, his eyes caught on the swirling mix of expressions on the other’s face. “You could return with me. Jim…” He resists the urge to reach out and touch the man across from him, to press his need into Jim’s skin. “You do not belong here, this is not your home. These are not your people. Come away with me - be who you were meant to be.”
It’s the wrong tack to take, and he knows it as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Jim’s face falls closed, and he scoots back from the table.
“No, Spock. Maybe you don’t belong here, but I do. These people” he gestures in the direction of the village, “maybe they don’t look like me. Maybe they didn’t give birth to me. But they saved me, Spock, they saved me and they raised me, and as far as I can tell, that’s more than humanity ever did for me.” He’s out of his chair now, pacing and gesticulating wildly, his hands broad and strong as they cut through the air. “Just because you think you’re better than them, just because they’re a primitive society, that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe I’m not one of them, maybe…” he looks away, slowing suddenly, face turned to the wall, “…maybe I never will be. But Spock, they’re all I’ve got. How can I walk away from that?”
Spock bites his lip, the knot in his stomach hard and solid. He’s angry, suddenly, angry at the total irrationality of this frustrating and wonderful human. This man who will throw his potential away, who will sit on this backwater planet and deny the rest of the universe his gifts, his joy, his very presence out of some twisted combination of hobbling loyalty and repressed fears. It’s unfair, completely unjust, that Jim will grow old and die here in on this same small platform, light years and lost dreams from who he should have been.
“And so you will be ruled by your fear. You will turn your back on the greatest opportunity of your life because you have been hurt out there, and here you are safe. You will allow decades to pass, living out your life as the accepted but strange friend on the edge of the village. You will never be among your own kind. You will always wonder what might have been. You will always,” he locks eyes with Jim, “look at the stars with longing.”
Jim’s face is white and livid, but Spock doesn’t care. He licks his lips and continues.
“When I am gone, I will remember you. And when I do, I will think of what you could have been, if only you had not given up.”
He looks down at the crumpled diode in his hand, not lifting his head when the door curtain smacks into place behind Jim’s retreating form.
--
The rumble of thunder surging across the open plains to the west wakes him, a gradually building roar that crescendos to a BOOM which bursts over them, shaking the leaves of the tree all around. Before the last of the sound has faded, the heavens open like a sluice gate, and the noise of water pouring and pouring all around them fills his ears.
He pushes himself upright on his mats, reaching in the darkness for the crutches he knows are within reach, levering himself slowly up and moving, step by step, across the room. Jim must be up; the rolled reed curtains that create the four walls are down for the first time he’s ever seen, and if he squints he can see that there is no shape in the pile of blankets where Jim would be.
He makes his way to the wall, leaning his crutches against one of the supporting posts. His leg is nearly fully healed at this point - still stiff and slow, but capable of bearing his weight. He has been practicing when Jim is out of the room; walking back and forth on the wooden floor, first one step, the three, then five. He pushes aside the curtain and steps out onto the darkened platform.
At first he can’t see anything, can only hear the rushing of the water that is suddenly soaking him to the skin, the roar of it as it streams through the trees and off the thatched roof. Then there is a blinding flash of light, and in the afterimages that linger on the back of his eyelids he can see the still form leaning against the far corner of the balcony. The thunder crashes around them, and Spock covers his ears, wincing in pain at the sudden cacophony. He nearly stumbles, but catches himself as he takes the two, three, four steps across to Jim.
“Go back to bed, Spock.”
Jim’s voice is flat and tight, expressionless in the dark.
Spock steps forward again.
“Spock. Go away.”
He closes the distance between them, and desperately trying not to think about what he may be doing, he wraps his arms around the closed-off form in front of him, pulling Jim into his chest and tucking Jim’s head under his chin.
Jim makes a token effort to push him away, and then crumples against him instead, nearly throwing Spock off balance again as his leg protests beneath him. He presses his face into Spock’s shoulder, and all Spock can do is hold him closer. He can feel the desperate buzz of heightened anxiety that surges along Jim’s skin, the dark fear and pulsing fury and absolute hopelessness that are spinning through his mind. He doesn’t know how to cope with this, this is not the sort of emotion with which he is acquainted, and so he does the only thing he can think of and begins to move his hands, slowly, soothingly, up and down. Jim turns into his touch, the water cascading across them both. Spock can feel it running from his hair in rivulets, trickling down the points of his ears and catching on his eyelashes. They may as well be at the bottom of the river, because there is no part of them still dry.
Jim’s shoulders are heaving, and Spock is beyond concerned, so he brings his fingers up to Jim’s face, touching lightly, feeling the slight click as the mental connection slips into place. He only intends to send some calming, soothing thoughts, but the second that Jim feels the connection, he surges forward, his hands sliding from Spock’s waist to grasp at his head and hip, his face finding Spock’s unerringly in the dark.
Spock freezes, all thought driven from his mind at the touch of Jim’s mouth. It’s warm, damp from the rain, and utterly distracting as it moves against his own. He didn’t know he wanted this, didn’t know that the feeling of Jim’s chest thrust against him would make his knees wobble and his pulse rise, but now he knows and he is stricken with doubt. This can’t be - they’ve only known each other a short time, he’s leaving soon, he…Jim slides his tongue between Spock’s lips, and all rational thought ceases as he pulls Jim’s cool form up against him, pressing them together from knee to neck. Jim clutches at him, murmuring into his mouth, and Spock’s body is enflamed, his whole being narrowed to focus on the being in his arms.
It takes a moment before he realizes that Jim is mouthing inside, inside into his skin, his hands sliding beneath the band of Spock’s pants to trace the line of water down his back. He turns, slowly, not wanting so much as a centimeter to come between the glory of Jim’s mouth and his neck, and walks Jim backward toward the curtain. They make it through without detaching, knocking Spock’s crutches to the floor with a clatter, and Jim laughs against him which makes Spock’s hands on his back even more urgent.
They tumble onto the mats, Jim’s hands at Spock’s waistband as Spock rolls them over and positions Jim’s lips under his so he can best apply his tongue to exploring every inch of Jim’s mouth. Jim’s hands are quick, yanking his sodden pants to the floor, leaving Spock’s dick to slap against his belly. He’s never been like this, never felt like this, like he’s burning from the inside out, like he has to feel all of Jim against all of himself now, right now. Jim’s fingers are everywhere, pressing against his chest, his neck, winding into his hair. He can feel the incessant thrum of Jim’s emotions all around him now, spinning through his mind like an aphrodisiac, exultant and stunned and oh so eager.
Spock gets a hand at the ties of Jim’s loincloth, but the wet material is impossible to undo. He’s fumbling hopelessly when Jim begins to lick the rainwater from his sternum, and before he knows it, he’s ripped the cloth away with a sudden jerk. Jim gasps, then begins to laugh and laugh, the sound muffled by Spock’s skin and the pounding rain. He lets himself fall forward, bare skin to bare skin, and they’re both just wet, dripping all over the mats and blanket, their hair slinging droplets around the room at every turn. It’s intoxicating, the feel of Jim all along him, and what they’re doing is so instinctive, so inevitable, that it doesn’t matter that their knowledge has been largely theoretical. Spock couldn’t stop these motions, these impulses, this grasping of his fingers on Jim’s hip, the bite of his teeth into Jim’s shoulder, not if the world depended on it.
Jim is writhing beneath him, pressing his hips up to Spock’s, and he has somehow gotten his fingers wrapped right around Spock’s length and is pulling in a way that is making Spock see little flashes of light in his peripheral vision. He can hear himself rumbling in his chest, words of desperation, words of devotion, as he pushes himself back against Jim, rocking them back and forth, faster and faster, their groans deepening in sympathetic resonance.
He thinks it’s supposed to be different; longer, more intentional, a slow, deliberate dance of push and pull, give and take. This is hurried, sudden, and without finesse, but the rainwater between them is slick and warm from their bodies, and Jim fingers are pulling everywhere they touch, and Spock can’t imagine anything being better than this. Jim freezes beneath him, then lurches, his back arching impossibly off the mat as his mouth opens and his fingers squeeze painfully tight. Spock closes his mouth on Jim’s, licking the taste of his breath off his teeth and coming impossibly hard as Jim’s body stutters beneath him.
There is a moment where there is nothing, no breath, no movement, and then they both inhale, deep, shuddering gasps for the oxygen that seems to have gone out of the room. Spock slumps over, exhausted, his whole form limp alongside Jim. He thinks they must be steaming, the heat of their bodies turning the rain to fog. The blanket has been entirely kicked off the end, but it is more than warm enough, so he pulls Jim more firmly against him. Jim goes willingly, turning until he finds the best fit, head in Spock’s neck, knees drawn up. Their breathing slows, evens, and between one long, slow, pull and the next, Spock falls asleep.
--
When he wakes up, Jim is gone.
Chapter Five
Author: zjofierose
Wordcount: 16k
Rating: Hard R/NC-17
Warnings: mentions of past violence, description of a killing.
Beta: the magnificent, the brilliant, the fantastic emmessann
For: a lovely fellow Trekkie who prefers to remain nameless, but who gave a very lovely donation for me in the help_queensland auction. *waves* hi, bb! It took forever, but it’s extra long, so I hope that helps!
Thanks to: medea_fic, as always, for hand-holding, whine-listening, and general awesomeness. Likewise lousy_science, for being her fabulous self. And also much love to ewinfic for giving it a reassuring once-over halfway through that made me feel much better. I <3 you all forever. Also piles of love for arminaa who put out this danged thing. You are amazing.
And a Final Note: this fic was originally the brainchild of the wonderful 13empress. She has kindly allowed me to take it over and write it in my own way, but I am forever grateful to her for the initial idea, and for the generous encouragement. <3
ETA A/N: so, yeah, i totally forgot about actually posting this thing to my LJ. heh. well, hope you enjoy it! original version appeared
in the Universal Constant online zine, which you can read/download here- http://uczine.livejournal.com/
Summary: When Spock is critically injured in a crash on a strange planet, who is going to save him? And what on Vulcan is a strange, abandoned human doing here?
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter 4
It had honestly never occurred to Spock to be concerned about his growing attachment to Jim Kirk. After all, Jim was almost the entirety of his social world, and had been since he awoke. The villagers tended to stay away; not out of hostility, but out of what seemed to be a native sense of propriety and self-concern. Bones came around regularly, but never stayed long. It was only natural that Spock would focus on Jim; that he would concern himself with Jim’s comings and goings, that he would try to make himself pleasing and useful to the one who was giving up so much to assist him in his recovery.
And if at some point he had realized that he actively enjoyed Jim’s company, if he grew to understand that the flush in his cheeks when Jim entered the room had less to do with sitting in the sun, and more to do with the feel of Jim’s body pressed up against his as Jim inspected his work, then what of it? Surely it was no surprise that he would begin to feel a certain regard for a person with whom he spent so much time.
Why should he think any differently?
It had taken the look on Bones’ face to trigger the first spasm of doubt in his belly; the way the shaman’s eyes had widened when Jim threw an arm around Spock’s shoulder and laughingly pressed his forehead to Spock’s temple. Spock had flushed under the steady regard, and he had felt suddenly ashamed as he had when yet a child, caught out at some silly emotional pursuit. Jim hadn’t noticed, carrying on with the story he was narrating, pushing in and out of Spock’s space as he always did, never seeing the calculating look on the lined face of the older man.
All Bones does is watch, but Spock burns with his secrets laid bare to new eyes, and he can see that Bones knows it. Every gesture, every touch, is now laden with significance, and how is it even possible that Spock had been so oblivious to the million different ways he reaches for Jim inside an hour?
When Bones is finally gone, and the food is put away, and the lamp lights put out, and Jim is snoring across from him, Spock lets himself drift in his consciousness, sending out tendrils into his own mind and seeing what they turn up.
Yes, Jim is brilliant. Spock has been working with him for weeks now, figuring out where his education had left off and pushing him to assimilate new knowledge. Jim’s brain is elastic and electric, fusing new connections in an instant, drinking in the new information as fast as Spock can give it context.
Yes, Jim is physically attractive. It would be illogical for him to deny, and impossible for him not to notice. Jim is unlike anyone else he has been around - long and lean and sun-soaked and lovely. His physical presence, his aura, is unmistakable, and Spock has gone from being hyper-aware of it pressing against his senses to actively seeking it out. He tingles when they touch, and basks in the glow.
Yes, Jim is…tactile. He touches Spock nearly constantly, and where Spock would normally shrink from contact of any kind with a stranger, it has never bothered him. No, more than that - he enjoys it. Jim’s touch is grounding, reassuring, with almost no mental bleed-through. Jim’s energy comforts him, warms him, and Spock turns to him like a flower to sun whenever he’s around.
Spock has resisted the urge to scan Jim’s thoughts entirely - he gets flashes of emotion, certainly, especially when Jim is upset or excited, pulling Spock along with him either way. He began reinforcing his shields the moment he awoke, knowing that his convalescence would require close contact, and wanting desperately not only to respect his savior, but also to maintain his own careful equilibrium.
Sometimes, though, he wishes he could peek.
And yes, whenever Spock contemplates his inevitable departure…it hurts. In that space beneath his lungs, right behind the point of his breastbone, it hurts. The thought of leaving Jim here, where, though he is well regarded, he is still an alien, is painful. The image of him growing older, alone, cuts through Spock. Jim is human, after all - he only has so much time. Surely it could be better spent? Surely he deserves more?
--
“You could accompany me.”
Jim stares at him blankly.
“What?”
Spock adjusts the tiny fitting with the tip of his thumbnail, bending the delicate piece of aluminum into place.
“When I leave. You could accompany me.” He glances up. Jim’s face is blank at first, then scuttles its way through surprise, shock, and ends up on disbelief. Spock plows on. “It will not be long before they come for me. The ship’s course was plotted. Once the rendezvous dates were missed, they will begin a systematic search of all possible sites for a landing or crash.” He turns the small beacon casing over in his hands, watching Jim’s face as unobtrusively as he can. “The communicator will speed the process, ensure that it happens as quickly as possible, but even without it, they would eventually locate me.” He looks up, his eyes caught on the swirling mix of expressions on the other’s face. “You could return with me. Jim…” He resists the urge to reach out and touch the man across from him, to press his need into Jim’s skin. “You do not belong here, this is not your home. These are not your people. Come away with me - be who you were meant to be.”
It’s the wrong tack to take, and he knows it as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Jim’s face falls closed, and he scoots back from the table.
“No, Spock. Maybe you don’t belong here, but I do. These people” he gestures in the direction of the village, “maybe they don’t look like me. Maybe they didn’t give birth to me. But they saved me, Spock, they saved me and they raised me, and as far as I can tell, that’s more than humanity ever did for me.” He’s out of his chair now, pacing and gesticulating wildly, his hands broad and strong as they cut through the air. “Just because you think you’re better than them, just because they’re a primitive society, that doesn’t mean anything. Maybe I’m not one of them, maybe…” he looks away, slowing suddenly, face turned to the wall, “…maybe I never will be. But Spock, they’re all I’ve got. How can I walk away from that?”
Spock bites his lip, the knot in his stomach hard and solid. He’s angry, suddenly, angry at the total irrationality of this frustrating and wonderful human. This man who will throw his potential away, who will sit on this backwater planet and deny the rest of the universe his gifts, his joy, his very presence out of some twisted combination of hobbling loyalty and repressed fears. It’s unfair, completely unjust, that Jim will grow old and die here in on this same small platform, light years and lost dreams from who he should have been.
“And so you will be ruled by your fear. You will turn your back on the greatest opportunity of your life because you have been hurt out there, and here you are safe. You will allow decades to pass, living out your life as the accepted but strange friend on the edge of the village. You will never be among your own kind. You will always wonder what might have been. You will always,” he locks eyes with Jim, “look at the stars with longing.”
Jim’s face is white and livid, but Spock doesn’t care. He licks his lips and continues.
“When I am gone, I will remember you. And when I do, I will think of what you could have been, if only you had not given up.”
He looks down at the crumpled diode in his hand, not lifting his head when the door curtain smacks into place behind Jim’s retreating form.
--
The rumble of thunder surging across the open plains to the west wakes him, a gradually building roar that crescendos to a BOOM which bursts over them, shaking the leaves of the tree all around. Before the last of the sound has faded, the heavens open like a sluice gate, and the noise of water pouring and pouring all around them fills his ears.
He pushes himself upright on his mats, reaching in the darkness for the crutches he knows are within reach, levering himself slowly up and moving, step by step, across the room. Jim must be up; the rolled reed curtains that create the four walls are down for the first time he’s ever seen, and if he squints he can see that there is no shape in the pile of blankets where Jim would be.
He makes his way to the wall, leaning his crutches against one of the supporting posts. His leg is nearly fully healed at this point - still stiff and slow, but capable of bearing his weight. He has been practicing when Jim is out of the room; walking back and forth on the wooden floor, first one step, the three, then five. He pushes aside the curtain and steps out onto the darkened platform.
At first he can’t see anything, can only hear the rushing of the water that is suddenly soaking him to the skin, the roar of it as it streams through the trees and off the thatched roof. Then there is a blinding flash of light, and in the afterimages that linger on the back of his eyelids he can see the still form leaning against the far corner of the balcony. The thunder crashes around them, and Spock covers his ears, wincing in pain at the sudden cacophony. He nearly stumbles, but catches himself as he takes the two, three, four steps across to Jim.
“Go back to bed, Spock.”
Jim’s voice is flat and tight, expressionless in the dark.
Spock steps forward again.
“Spock. Go away.”
He closes the distance between them, and desperately trying not to think about what he may be doing, he wraps his arms around the closed-off form in front of him, pulling Jim into his chest and tucking Jim’s head under his chin.
Jim makes a token effort to push him away, and then crumples against him instead, nearly throwing Spock off balance again as his leg protests beneath him. He presses his face into Spock’s shoulder, and all Spock can do is hold him closer. He can feel the desperate buzz of heightened anxiety that surges along Jim’s skin, the dark fear and pulsing fury and absolute hopelessness that are spinning through his mind. He doesn’t know how to cope with this, this is not the sort of emotion with which he is acquainted, and so he does the only thing he can think of and begins to move his hands, slowly, soothingly, up and down. Jim turns into his touch, the water cascading across them both. Spock can feel it running from his hair in rivulets, trickling down the points of his ears and catching on his eyelashes. They may as well be at the bottom of the river, because there is no part of them still dry.
Jim’s shoulders are heaving, and Spock is beyond concerned, so he brings his fingers up to Jim’s face, touching lightly, feeling the slight click as the mental connection slips into place. He only intends to send some calming, soothing thoughts, but the second that Jim feels the connection, he surges forward, his hands sliding from Spock’s waist to grasp at his head and hip, his face finding Spock’s unerringly in the dark.
Spock freezes, all thought driven from his mind at the touch of Jim’s mouth. It’s warm, damp from the rain, and utterly distracting as it moves against his own. He didn’t know he wanted this, didn’t know that the feeling of Jim’s chest thrust against him would make his knees wobble and his pulse rise, but now he knows and he is stricken with doubt. This can’t be - they’ve only known each other a short time, he’s leaving soon, he…Jim slides his tongue between Spock’s lips, and all rational thought ceases as he pulls Jim’s cool form up against him, pressing them together from knee to neck. Jim clutches at him, murmuring into his mouth, and Spock’s body is enflamed, his whole being narrowed to focus on the being in his arms.
It takes a moment before he realizes that Jim is mouthing inside, inside into his skin, his hands sliding beneath the band of Spock’s pants to trace the line of water down his back. He turns, slowly, not wanting so much as a centimeter to come between the glory of Jim’s mouth and his neck, and walks Jim backward toward the curtain. They make it through without detaching, knocking Spock’s crutches to the floor with a clatter, and Jim laughs against him which makes Spock’s hands on his back even more urgent.
They tumble onto the mats, Jim’s hands at Spock’s waistband as Spock rolls them over and positions Jim’s lips under his so he can best apply his tongue to exploring every inch of Jim’s mouth. Jim’s hands are quick, yanking his sodden pants to the floor, leaving Spock’s dick to slap against his belly. He’s never been like this, never felt like this, like he’s burning from the inside out, like he has to feel all of Jim against all of himself now, right now. Jim’s fingers are everywhere, pressing against his chest, his neck, winding into his hair. He can feel the incessant thrum of Jim’s emotions all around him now, spinning through his mind like an aphrodisiac, exultant and stunned and oh so eager.
Spock gets a hand at the ties of Jim’s loincloth, but the wet material is impossible to undo. He’s fumbling hopelessly when Jim begins to lick the rainwater from his sternum, and before he knows it, he’s ripped the cloth away with a sudden jerk. Jim gasps, then begins to laugh and laugh, the sound muffled by Spock’s skin and the pounding rain. He lets himself fall forward, bare skin to bare skin, and they’re both just wet, dripping all over the mats and blanket, their hair slinging droplets around the room at every turn. It’s intoxicating, the feel of Jim all along him, and what they’re doing is so instinctive, so inevitable, that it doesn’t matter that their knowledge has been largely theoretical. Spock couldn’t stop these motions, these impulses, this grasping of his fingers on Jim’s hip, the bite of his teeth into Jim’s shoulder, not if the world depended on it.
Jim is writhing beneath him, pressing his hips up to Spock’s, and he has somehow gotten his fingers wrapped right around Spock’s length and is pulling in a way that is making Spock see little flashes of light in his peripheral vision. He can hear himself rumbling in his chest, words of desperation, words of devotion, as he pushes himself back against Jim, rocking them back and forth, faster and faster, their groans deepening in sympathetic resonance.
He thinks it’s supposed to be different; longer, more intentional, a slow, deliberate dance of push and pull, give and take. This is hurried, sudden, and without finesse, but the rainwater between them is slick and warm from their bodies, and Jim fingers are pulling everywhere they touch, and Spock can’t imagine anything being better than this. Jim freezes beneath him, then lurches, his back arching impossibly off the mat as his mouth opens and his fingers squeeze painfully tight. Spock closes his mouth on Jim’s, licking the taste of his breath off his teeth and coming impossibly hard as Jim’s body stutters beneath him.
There is a moment where there is nothing, no breath, no movement, and then they both inhale, deep, shuddering gasps for the oxygen that seems to have gone out of the room. Spock slumps over, exhausted, his whole form limp alongside Jim. He thinks they must be steaming, the heat of their bodies turning the rain to fog. The blanket has been entirely kicked off the end, but it is more than warm enough, so he pulls Jim more firmly against him. Jim goes willingly, turning until he finds the best fit, head in Spock’s neck, knees drawn up. Their breathing slows, evens, and between one long, slow, pull and the next, Spock falls asleep.
--
When he wakes up, Jim is gone.
Chapter Five