(no subject)
Title: Humidity.
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Rating: R/NC17
Summary: It’s too hot to fuck.
Warnings: Basically PWP. Vulcan fingerkink.
AN: Betad by pinikir
James Kirk wraps his fingers around the wooden archway a few inches above his head, leans out into the night, and breathes.
It doesn’t help.
“It’s so god damned hot,” he whispers, his weight straining on tense, broad shoulders. He doesn’t say it loudly; it is merely a statement of fact and everyone in the room already knows how hot it is.
Kirk’s room overlooks the forest. Every room does; the entire solid surface of the planet is rainforest. It’s stunning, really; thousands of miles of solid canopy in a hundred shades of green and blue.
The ground below them is a near-constant marsh and when the rain comes belting down it turns tumultuous. The planet’s natives are squid-like and apish at the same time and thrive between the branches and the morass. But the planet has been settled by a more humanoid race, too, a small encampment of refugees who live in a respectful equilibrium with the planet. The Federation had not sanctioned them to be there, but they are a peaceful people with a natural control over their population and hence, they have been found to do no harm. They are even happy to accommodate the Federation when ambassadors visit to check up on their arrangement.
Their homes are built of dead and dying trees, suspended between thick trunks some thirty or so feet above the ground, so organic and elegant they approach invisibility.
The rooms are open on three of their four sides, so that any damp breeze that may arise will sweep through the boxes and help cool the occupants down. Over the couple of generations since their arrival, the ingrates are growing ever more used to it.
James Kirk is not used to it.
He stands naked, feet wide and arms above his head, silently begging the wind to come and cool him as tiny white sparks make a minor jump to warp in his vision.
He turns from the exquisite view, in search of water. A flawlessly designed bottle sends a broad stream of ice-cold water cascading down his throat, spilling over his lips to roll down his neck and chest in wide, welcome rivulets.
Jim’s attention moves into the room as its other occupant shifts. The beds, inasmuch as they are beds, are formed of countless layers of the thick, turquoise leaves that shift constantly in the forest behind him, sharing their secrets in a language nobody speaks. The leaves are enormous, but the beds are remarkably soft and they smell fresh; of life and wild things.
Spock isn’t a wild thing, but nobody could accuse him of being tame. He looks peaceful; but Jim is so well acquainted with the nuances of his friend’s mood that he knows the difference between true contentment and a mere repression of emotion.
Spock is by no means discontent, then, as he reclines on the vivid blue-green bed, his hands resting lightly across his stomach. He has just turned partly onto his side, catching Kirk’s attention very deliberately, inviting him closer with the slightest twitch of muscles.
Vulcan was a hot planet; James knows this, although he never got closer than a few minutes above its surface followed by a swift descent. But he also knows it was a dry heat, and this muggy warmth is not a thing the Vulcan knows well.
James mounts the floor-length leafpile, one knee either side of Spock’s ankles, and drops his head onto Spock’s stomach. He breathes a whisper of fire down Spock’s abdomen.
“It’s hot,” Jim repeats, lifting his head to press a scorching kiss to the soft, near-grey skin of Spock’s stomach.
Too hot to fuck, he doesn’t say, but the implication is there and he doesn’t need the excuse. He moves so he straddles Spock’s waist, brushing the curve of his sides as he reaches out.
Spock reaches for him and Kirk takes his wrist, pulling it closer. Spock’s fingers uncurl, tracing his lips, his chin, down his neck as Kirk’s head cants back, sighing as the two fingers reach his chest and return for a second pass.
Jim catches the fingertips, this time, and pulls the very ends between his lips.
Spock gasps, his own lips parting and his brow knotting, just enough to betray how gloriously the young human knows how to exploit the particular sensitivity of his hands.
It’s already too hot and it only gets worse. The heat between his thighs and Spock’s is more than either of them can ignore. Kirk pulls the digits back out of his mouth and reaches for the bottle again, half-filing his mouth and holding his lips open; throwing the bottle down and sucking those fingers back, deep into his mouth. He swallows, his tongue rolling against the pads, teeth scraping below knuckles.
Spock’s head rolls back and the once-cool water warms up to that of the human’s blood; disappearing down Kirk’s throat and leaving nothing but the slickness of saliva between the soft mouth and Spock’s skin.
Kirk’s tongue parts the digits, as much as it can in the space of his mouth, and he draws the wet muscle back between them, a teasing path becoming determined stimulation.
Spock’s lips twitch; it’s very nearly a smile just before his eyes slip shut and his body arches unexpectedly. His hips brush Jim’s and, although Spock has retained the decency of a pair of thin shorts, they do little to disguise the significant arousal shown by both men.
Kirk grins, though it’s no surprise; he knows this Vulcan well enough, by now, to tell the nuances of his blush and this green-grey powder-light highlight has little to do with the heat.
High above them, the trees groan as the rain gathers. It has probably been raining for some time, but the leaf layer is so thick that the water cannot penetrate it at first. It filters down, wetting each thick, shining leaf before taking the next step. Eventually, inevitably, the rain will reach unimpeded gravity.
It’s too hot to fuck, they both know this, and Kirk has no intention of scalding or scorching them both by trying to join their bodies and writhe together. Such activity never fails to leave them both sweating, swearing and reaching for water. In this environment, he can only imagine such an act would be their last.
They don’t need it, anyway. Spock reaches for Kirk, rock hard and shameless in all his glory, and takes his cock in a loose grip.
James breathes in heavily, sucking harder, making a tight cavern of his mouth and rolling his tongue as he seeks to give the Vulcan leave to lose control. He’s not faring much better himself; damn the logical bastard for retaining the ability to multitask. Spock’s stroking him firmly, methodically, smoothly and swiftly, in perfect time and with skills specific to making James Kirk fall to pieces.
But James Kirk is not easily distracted. The squeeze of long fingers rolling along the taut skin of his cock won’t dissuade him from his glorious impression of fellatio. He barely flinches when the canopy voices a loud objection and the water begins to pour in from above; sluicing down their gently -sloping roof to enclose each side of them in royal-blue waterfalls.
The Vulcan squeezes him, fingers tight beneath his swollen head and thumb reaching up to play with teasing pressure at the wet slit. Kirk moves his hand up from Spock’s wrist, noting with shame and just a hint of pride that he’s squeezed hard enough to leave a mark; albeit a mark that will rapidly fade. His fingers settle around the back of Spock’s hand, his thumb pushing into the palm just forward of his own lips.
Kirk’s eyes meet his lover’s and he smiles around his mouthful, his eye twitching in what is almost a wink. Spock forces his eyebrow to raise, but his heart’s not in it because his brow would rather be tightly knotted and then out of his control entirely when Jim bites down just hard enough. Then the Vulcan is arching again, mouth wide around a moan that is deep and sonorous and perfectly logical, his hips pressed to Jim’s as he releases his climax like the trees surrendering the rain.
Though the rain comes heavily, it catches on the frames of their room where the floor extends a foot or so past the awning, and droplet bounces off droplet and breaks into their temporary abode. It brings with it a touch of relative coolness, the slightest shift in temperature that brings them down to a simmer, a welcome contrast to the hot stone of Spock’s climactic body. His hand still holds Jim loosely, moving gently but with no real sense or direction. And while Jim Kirk takes a world of satisfaction in his partner’s pleasure, he’s not entirely selfless. So he takes Spock’s hand in his own, the heat of their skin separated by the sweet slickness of sweat, and guides their stroke together.
Spock rises to the event; never neglectful of his lover’s needs, and his arm tenses over and over, even as every other muscle glories in perfect exhaustion. Kirk watches the smooth, elegant ballet of movement in Spock’s forearm and then allows his gaze to slide to the Vulcan’s face.
And therein he sees an expression that will never cease to bring him pleasant surprise; undeniable emotions battle for precedence in these rare moments of openness. Spock looks up at him with satisfaction and affection (love, of course, when he sneaks up on the thought) and anticipation; such curious delight and wonderment. No other time allows him to see Spock so raw; so honest, so exquisite, he has no choice but to surrender, and it’s not for the fingers on his cock that he comes.
The heat that hasn’t left them and, for all that Jim is loath to leave his lover, the silver-white streaks are back. He climbs off with a faintly apologetic smile and makes for the little balcony. The rain is blue, but quite harmless, and he steps into the deluge without hesitation. He’s soon cool enough that the arms wrapping around him aren’t scorching or unwelcome and the embrace into which he turns isn’t stifling.
“It’s so hot,” James observes, as redundant a statement as ever there was, but it’s acknowledged with a firm nod before Spock meets his lips.
For moment after moment they stay there, soaking through and taking each other in as if they’ve never known one another in this state before; revelling in the moments that are theirs and theirs alone.
James Kirk has left his bravado somewhere with the Vulcan’s logic; melted in the heat and washed away.
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Rating: R/NC17
Summary: It’s too hot to fuck.
Warnings: Basically PWP. Vulcan fingerkink.
AN: Betad by pinikir
James Kirk wraps his fingers around the wooden archway a few inches above his head, leans out into the night, and breathes.
It doesn’t help.
“It’s so god damned hot,” he whispers, his weight straining on tense, broad shoulders. He doesn’t say it loudly; it is merely a statement of fact and everyone in the room already knows how hot it is.
Kirk’s room overlooks the forest. Every room does; the entire solid surface of the planet is rainforest. It’s stunning, really; thousands of miles of solid canopy in a hundred shades of green and blue.
The ground below them is a near-constant marsh and when the rain comes belting down it turns tumultuous. The planet’s natives are squid-like and apish at the same time and thrive between the branches and the morass. But the planet has been settled by a more humanoid race, too, a small encampment of refugees who live in a respectful equilibrium with the planet. The Federation had not sanctioned them to be there, but they are a peaceful people with a natural control over their population and hence, they have been found to do no harm. They are even happy to accommodate the Federation when ambassadors visit to check up on their arrangement.
Their homes are built of dead and dying trees, suspended between thick trunks some thirty or so feet above the ground, so organic and elegant they approach invisibility.
The rooms are open on three of their four sides, so that any damp breeze that may arise will sweep through the boxes and help cool the occupants down. Over the couple of generations since their arrival, the ingrates are growing ever more used to it.
James Kirk is not used to it.
He stands naked, feet wide and arms above his head, silently begging the wind to come and cool him as tiny white sparks make a minor jump to warp in his vision.
He turns from the exquisite view, in search of water. A flawlessly designed bottle sends a broad stream of ice-cold water cascading down his throat, spilling over his lips to roll down his neck and chest in wide, welcome rivulets.
Jim’s attention moves into the room as its other occupant shifts. The beds, inasmuch as they are beds, are formed of countless layers of the thick, turquoise leaves that shift constantly in the forest behind him, sharing their secrets in a language nobody speaks. The leaves are enormous, but the beds are remarkably soft and they smell fresh; of life and wild things.
Spock isn’t a wild thing, but nobody could accuse him of being tame. He looks peaceful; but Jim is so well acquainted with the nuances of his friend’s mood that he knows the difference between true contentment and a mere repression of emotion.
Spock is by no means discontent, then, as he reclines on the vivid blue-green bed, his hands resting lightly across his stomach. He has just turned partly onto his side, catching Kirk’s attention very deliberately, inviting him closer with the slightest twitch of muscles.
Vulcan was a hot planet; James knows this, although he never got closer than a few minutes above its surface followed by a swift descent. But he also knows it was a dry heat, and this muggy warmth is not a thing the Vulcan knows well.
James mounts the floor-length leafpile, one knee either side of Spock’s ankles, and drops his head onto Spock’s stomach. He breathes a whisper of fire down Spock’s abdomen.
“It’s hot,” Jim repeats, lifting his head to press a scorching kiss to the soft, near-grey skin of Spock’s stomach.
Too hot to fuck, he doesn’t say, but the implication is there and he doesn’t need the excuse. He moves so he straddles Spock’s waist, brushing the curve of his sides as he reaches out.
Spock reaches for him and Kirk takes his wrist, pulling it closer. Spock’s fingers uncurl, tracing his lips, his chin, down his neck as Kirk’s head cants back, sighing as the two fingers reach his chest and return for a second pass.
Jim catches the fingertips, this time, and pulls the very ends between his lips.
Spock gasps, his own lips parting and his brow knotting, just enough to betray how gloriously the young human knows how to exploit the particular sensitivity of his hands.
It’s already too hot and it only gets worse. The heat between his thighs and Spock’s is more than either of them can ignore. Kirk pulls the digits back out of his mouth and reaches for the bottle again, half-filing his mouth and holding his lips open; throwing the bottle down and sucking those fingers back, deep into his mouth. He swallows, his tongue rolling against the pads, teeth scraping below knuckles.
Spock’s head rolls back and the once-cool water warms up to that of the human’s blood; disappearing down Kirk’s throat and leaving nothing but the slickness of saliva between the soft mouth and Spock’s skin.
Kirk’s tongue parts the digits, as much as it can in the space of his mouth, and he draws the wet muscle back between them, a teasing path becoming determined stimulation.
Spock’s lips twitch; it’s very nearly a smile just before his eyes slip shut and his body arches unexpectedly. His hips brush Jim’s and, although Spock has retained the decency of a pair of thin shorts, they do little to disguise the significant arousal shown by both men.
Kirk grins, though it’s no surprise; he knows this Vulcan well enough, by now, to tell the nuances of his blush and this green-grey powder-light highlight has little to do with the heat.
High above them, the trees groan as the rain gathers. It has probably been raining for some time, but the leaf layer is so thick that the water cannot penetrate it at first. It filters down, wetting each thick, shining leaf before taking the next step. Eventually, inevitably, the rain will reach unimpeded gravity.
It’s too hot to fuck, they both know this, and Kirk has no intention of scalding or scorching them both by trying to join their bodies and writhe together. Such activity never fails to leave them both sweating, swearing and reaching for water. In this environment, he can only imagine such an act would be their last.
They don’t need it, anyway. Spock reaches for Kirk, rock hard and shameless in all his glory, and takes his cock in a loose grip.
James breathes in heavily, sucking harder, making a tight cavern of his mouth and rolling his tongue as he seeks to give the Vulcan leave to lose control. He’s not faring much better himself; damn the logical bastard for retaining the ability to multitask. Spock’s stroking him firmly, methodically, smoothly and swiftly, in perfect time and with skills specific to making James Kirk fall to pieces.
But James Kirk is not easily distracted. The squeeze of long fingers rolling along the taut skin of his cock won’t dissuade him from his glorious impression of fellatio. He barely flinches when the canopy voices a loud objection and the water begins to pour in from above; sluicing down their gently -sloping roof to enclose each side of them in royal-blue waterfalls.
The Vulcan squeezes him, fingers tight beneath his swollen head and thumb reaching up to play with teasing pressure at the wet slit. Kirk moves his hand up from Spock’s wrist, noting with shame and just a hint of pride that he’s squeezed hard enough to leave a mark; albeit a mark that will rapidly fade. His fingers settle around the back of Spock’s hand, his thumb pushing into the palm just forward of his own lips.
Kirk’s eyes meet his lover’s and he smiles around his mouthful, his eye twitching in what is almost a wink. Spock forces his eyebrow to raise, but his heart’s not in it because his brow would rather be tightly knotted and then out of his control entirely when Jim bites down just hard enough. Then the Vulcan is arching again, mouth wide around a moan that is deep and sonorous and perfectly logical, his hips pressed to Jim’s as he releases his climax like the trees surrendering the rain.
Though the rain comes heavily, it catches on the frames of their room where the floor extends a foot or so past the awning, and droplet bounces off droplet and breaks into their temporary abode. It brings with it a touch of relative coolness, the slightest shift in temperature that brings them down to a simmer, a welcome contrast to the hot stone of Spock’s climactic body. His hand still holds Jim loosely, moving gently but with no real sense or direction. And while Jim Kirk takes a world of satisfaction in his partner’s pleasure, he’s not entirely selfless. So he takes Spock’s hand in his own, the heat of their skin separated by the sweet slickness of sweat, and guides their stroke together.
Spock rises to the event; never neglectful of his lover’s needs, and his arm tenses over and over, even as every other muscle glories in perfect exhaustion. Kirk watches the smooth, elegant ballet of movement in Spock’s forearm and then allows his gaze to slide to the Vulcan’s face.
And therein he sees an expression that will never cease to bring him pleasant surprise; undeniable emotions battle for precedence in these rare moments of openness. Spock looks up at him with satisfaction and affection (love, of course, when he sneaks up on the thought) and anticipation; such curious delight and wonderment. No other time allows him to see Spock so raw; so honest, so exquisite, he has no choice but to surrender, and it’s not for the fingers on his cock that he comes.
The heat that hasn’t left them and, for all that Jim is loath to leave his lover, the silver-white streaks are back. He climbs off with a faintly apologetic smile and makes for the little balcony. The rain is blue, but quite harmless, and he steps into the deluge without hesitation. He’s soon cool enough that the arms wrapping around him aren’t scorching or unwelcome and the embrace into which he turns isn’t stifling.
“It’s so hot,” James observes, as redundant a statement as ever there was, but it’s acknowledged with a firm nod before Spock meets his lips.
For moment after moment they stay there, soaking through and taking each other in as if they’ve never known one another in this state before; revelling in the moments that are theirs and theirs alone.
James Kirk has left his bravado somewhere with the Vulcan’s logic; melted in the heat and washed away.