Up Off Your Knees Now and Shatter the Average
Title: For the Federation! or, F***ing Telepaths
Fandom: STR
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Rating: NC-17
Summary: He'd clapped Spock on the shoulder, not gone all Captain Grabby Hands on his admittedly fine ass. Jim knew inappropriate -- and that wasn't it.
Warnings: For kink_bingo square: Humiliation (in public). Sex, swearing, and a brief instance of imaginary donkey dicks. I can't believe I just wrote that. XD
Notes: An epic thank you to the fabulous janice_lester for beating me mercilessly over the head with my own logic, adding some of her own and helping me take this thing from a 1600 word smutlet to a 2700 word story. The donkey dicks are my fault.
Jim stared intently at the purple sky, as if it could somehow tell him how he'd ended up on the ground.
Fucking telepaths.
A dry wind blew through the clearing, making the surrounding trees rustle in time to the buzzing in his head. Jim shook himself out of his fugue. Tried to make sense of what was playing out above him.
Spock was clutching the Guhulian leader rather tightly. By the throat. Strings of its protective slime coating oozed between Spock's knuckles, squelching like boots in swampland with every flex of fingers; Jim winced in sympathy for the poor brute, he knew the exact strength the Vulcan could exert with that particular grip. He coughed, loudly.
No reaction.
He picked himself up from the Jim-shaped dent in the grass, staining rust coloured streaks down the front of his slacks as he tried brushing them off. Another uniform ruined then - the brass were going to pitch a fit when they reviewed his requisition logs.
"Ah... Spock?" he ventured cautiously. "Killing our contact wouldn't be very logical."
Frantically waving eye stalks locked onto him. The creature's raw panic buffeted at his brain as Spock ratcheted the alien up higher yet. The deepening shade of blue, while attractively reminiscent of clear skies and lapping water, was probably not a good sign.
The rest of the delegation were fluttering their own eye stalks like a pack of flustered cadets waving hands during cram sessions. Shifting from foot to foot to foot to foot, they wore patches of spongy grey clay into the grass with their ineffectual distress.
Jim cleared his throat again before barking: "Commander Spock! Do I need to order you to put the Ambassador down?"
Spock stiffened and loosened his grip marginally while still holding the alien aloft, its four booted feet kicking helplessly as it sucked for air like it could get off on it - full of wet, eager enthusiasm. Intense brown eyes met his, and Jim was struck, again, by how human they seemed. Especially when glittering with barely suppressed emotion.
"On Vulcan," Spock offered conversationally, "the punishment for psychic assault on a psi-null was expulsion from one's clan and the dissolution of all bonds. Death would be a mercy compared to that fate."
Jim set his jaw. "Put the Ambassador down, Commander. I am fine."
Spock's nostrils flared, but he gave a tight nod and complied. He shot his Captain a look that fully communicated his intentions to review this interaction thoroughly during debrief. Oh goody.
Jim spread his hands in the universal gesture for "Look Ma - No Weapon" and held calm sincerity at the forefront of his mind. He mustered up his best approximation of a placating tone. "On behalf of Starfleet and the Federation, I offer my sincere apologies for whatever actions have offended." The Universal Translator crackled as it converted his best Captain's voice into the clicking garble that comprised the Guhulian tongue.
The Ambassador flailed its tiny fists at him, shocks of disapproval and indignation stilting its voice. "Touching-you-him. Forbidden. Very-bad-between-ranks."
Huh what? Jim had read Uhura's report. Well, skimmed it anyway. Nowhere in the damned thing had there been any mention of a taboo against touching. He'd clapped Spock on the shoulder, not gone all Captain Grabby Hands on his admittedly fine ass. Jim knew inappropriate - and that wasn't it. He said as much to the Ambassador, keeping the Ingratiating Diplomat's smile firmly in place.
"Rank-touch. Forbidden. Pride-theft. Pride-debt is owed."
"Fascinating," Spock interjected while Jim tried to parse that, engaged now instead of murderous. It was kind of endearing, actually, the way the supposedly peaceful Vulcan routinely lost his shit when Jim was threatened. Not that he was trying to read too much into that quirk. And building on it. When he was alone. At night. In bed.
"-amends?" Shit. Right, focus. Spock was working out how to fix it. He really was the best First Officer in the 'fleet.
The Universal Translator didn't catch every subtle nuance of the Guhulian's response, but the neat thing about telepaths was that they could supplement the tinny Standard with some very colourful imagery. In short, between the stuttering you-touch-him-public-obscene-bad-wrong-he-touch-you and the panoramic slide show of Jim bent over, flushed red and panting as Spock speared him with his fingers before an audience of a dozen slimy blue aliens, the gist of the punishment was pretty vivid.
Kinky little bastards, weren't they?
Spock went white, elegant hands clenching into hammer fists, as that murderous rage thing that Vulcans were supposedly incapable of made a second appearance. When Jim finally managed to get his mouth to close, he was about ready to pull his phaser, stun the lot of them and tell this entire planet to suck it and die, thanks. Dilithium or no dilithium.
Then the oily smugness of the Big Cheese fingerpainted its way through his consciousness, poking holes in his resolve with greasy overconfidence. Behind that - the brief flash of a Klingon face. Two and two really did make four; the Federation had first right of refusal according to the Guhulian Trade Pact of 2212, but there were no limitations to where the slimy little shits could peddle their wares after the token offer had been denied.
Sneaky and kinky, Jim mused. It was a damned shame that asking them to prove the existence of the "No-Touchy" law would be tantamount to flipping them off and pissing on the treaty -- after lighting it on fire.
Jim considered his options. It wasn't too late for Operation Phase-the-Fuckers. Scotty was only a comm away; it would, sadly, not be the first time his Chief Engineer had to perform an emergency extraction of a landing party. Since the incidents seemed to coincide mainly with missions involving both Jim and Diplomacy, he was probably even on stand-by, presiding over the betting pool. Still, they could be back aboard the Enterprise in a quarter hour, if that.
Then the Admiralty would be reading him the riot act before they broke orbit for allowing the Klingons to secure a lucrative mining contract, possibly enough to power a new fleet and elevate them back to pre-Nero threat levels.
While the Federation was still reeling from the loss of Vulcan and the decimation of their armada.
All because Jim Kirk couldn't man up and submit to a public fingerbang from his trusted First Officer.
He'd heard of doing it for the Federation before, he just never thought it'd be so... literal.
"Here, then?" he asked, amazed at the resolute steadiness in his voice. Command training was good for something after all.
It was Spock's turn to gasp dramatically, jaw dropping. Or, rather, he raised an eyebrow and inhaled three degrees sharper than normal.
"Yes-now-amends." Emotional resonance wasn't the UT's strong point but Jim figured the synchronized swivel of eye stalks was indicative of surprise. Well, that was everyone, then. Common ground, at last.
Spock's eyebrows were calculating how quickly he'd have to move in order to take out their escort, incapacitate Jim and get them both to safety. Jim forestalled the action by walking himself to a convenient boulder, shoving his pants down to his knees and, stars help him, presenting.
The hitherto pleasant breeze began to chill as he waited, ass hanging in the air, face pressed into the rough rock. Tendrils of titillation spiked through him. Not his. Not Spock's.
Fucking telepaths.
Sudden heat against his skin made him jerk. Shit, Spock could move when it suited him. It retreated immediately, leaving behind a minute sense of shame. Jim craned his head to face his First Officer, the irony of what he was about to ask for not lost on him. In a couple of years, it might even be funny.
"Do it Spock. It's OK."
"Captain. I-"
"It's fine." He knew better than to try the fake smile on a Vulcan. He kept his voice steady and his eyes level, dropping them only when Spock took a slow step forward, hand at the small away medkit strapped across his chest.
The first strokes were tentative, barely a whisper around his rim, notable only for the incredible heat that Spock emitted naturally. Blunt fingertips slicked with the ubiquitous Lubrinol circled hesitantly. Endlessly.
Bloated satisfaction swelled out from the peanut gallery. Jim was starting to recognize the leader's particular shade of nasty. He focused his scorn like a lash and was rewarded with a mental flinch. And still Spock hesitated.
"Get on with it, man," Jim hissed.
Never let it be said that Spock didn't take orders like a champ. Jim bit his lip bloody holding back the undignified squawk at the first full thrust forcing past the tight ring of his ass. The tiny spasm of pleasure was harder to hold back, especially from Spock.
Who was also a fucking telepath.
A really fucking hot touch telepath who was working his fingers into Jim’s ass with clever twisting strokes that were getting really hard to ignore.
He was so screwed.
Jim armoured himself with his anger and shame and poured the mess of twisting emotion into his will.
He REFUSED to get hard from this.
He didn't give a shit that they could all hear him snarling in his head. He figured it was what they wanted out of this anyway - front row seats to his humiliation. So he kept up a steady stream of vitriol and cursed them out to the seventh generation of googly eyed blue sadists. He got creative and visualized exactly what the Grand High Mucky-Muck of the newly dubbed Planet Shitstorm would look like while it fellated a donkey, smeared shit all over its robes, beatific smile on its smug round face. He pictured the wide purple lips stretching around the gigantic donkey dick and cooing blissfully.
His grinned savagely when the flashes of disgust tugged at his brain. Oh yes, he was broadcasting loud and clear. Not bad for a psi-null, right? Fuckers.
Gotta love diplomacy.
He clenched reflexively around the fingers as they pushed in and out of his hole, sucking in air through his teeth and trying to control his reactions by elaborating on the quality and quantity of livestock their gracious host could service in one evening. But it was Spock cramming him full and sending flashes of heat exploding in his brain with every slick-knuckled push into his ass. It was Spock's ragged breaths tickling the curve of his ear, punctuating each stroke with a whispered apology. Spock's weight against his back pressing him flat against the unyielding stone.
The circumstances weren't ideal, but months of pent-up longing and lonely nights fantasizing began to take their toll on his self control.
He moaned.
Then Spock moaned.
And that was it for the ban on erections. He sprang fully hard, dizzy with the sudden blood migration. His chin sank down to touch his chest and he rested his forehead against the cool rock, lips parted in a half whine, half pant as Spock picked up the pace. The flavour of thoughts in the air shifted from righteous disgust to voyeuristic delight and he had time for one last flash of irritation before that too was subsumed by a perfect scrape of fingers against his prostate.
His live audience fading to the periphery of his awareness, Jim began grinding under the assault, desperate for friction on his straining cock. Spock's grip on his hip tightened. "No, Jim, please. You will injure yourself."
He shook his head blindly. "Spock," he grunted. "Please Spock. I... need."
Spock stilled at the words and the thread of longing Jim could no longer restrain fluttered between them. Jim whimpered at the loss of momentum and resumed writhing, fucking himself awkwardly against the fingers. He struggled against the weight pinning him in place, eager now to touch himself, find his own fractured rhythm to mimic the clumsy spasms of his hips.
"I need," he groaned again, the clamour in his mind picked up and amplified by a score of eager witnesses. He lost himself to it, only dimly aware of Spock's flinch as that urgency was hurled into him.
Jim's next shove back was met with equal force and he screamed his exultation. Spock's hand burned a path over his skin to work his cock, pumping frantically while Jim rutted into his fist and back against his fingers, dipping his hips inwards as he pushed forward in a desperate bid for more heat, more friction. More Spock. Spock milked Jim's dick harder, squeezing his fist tight over his shaft, tightening his grip in increments. A sharp crooking motion inside of Jim brought hot pressure stabbing against his prostate.
"Sp...sp...spock..." Breath hitching in his throat, he begged, hands thumping uselessly against stone.
"I have you, Jim." Reassurances spoken aloud dimmed beneath the burning torrent of want flashing between them. "I have you." A tiny murmur, nearly indistinct, followed: finally.
Jim didn't come - he geysered, roping jets of jism splattering his own stomach in hot, waxy ribbons. Spasms that started at his toes and ended at that point just past infinity waved through him, cresting and overlapping until his vision whited out and the only noises he registered were his own keening whines.
He sagged, utterly spent, supported only by Spock and the rough stone beneath him as the aftershocks rippled through him.
An eternity passed while his consciousness tried to resolve itself back into Jim instead of a disconnected series of pleasure points. The cacophony in his mind had quieted enough that he could fully appreciate the sensation of Spock's long fingers gently slipping out of his still twitching hole. His leaking cock gave a half hearted leap, acknowledging that yes, this too was good, do come again, before returning to its rest.
There was silence in the clearing. Jim lifted his head from the rock and took in the stunned awe of their hosts, Ambassador D-bag at the forefront of the jaw-dropped masses, and tried out a cocky smirk to level the blush creeping up his neck. He'd just had the most mund-glowing, er, mind-blowing orgasm of his not inconsiderable experience, literally at the hands of his First Officer, before a live studio audience, in the midst of a Very Important Trade Negotiation.
Pike was never going to let him live this one down.
The only saving grace was the shuffling discomfort exhibited by their hosts. Guhulian ejaculate appeared to have phosphorescent qualities, even through clothing.
Jim smirked. Good to know. And Bones said he had no interest in esoteric knowledge.
Scrupulously avoiding touching Spock, he rose gingerly, hiked up his pants and tucked himself back in. He ignored the sticky mess striping his stomach as he resettled his clothing and shot a quick glance at Spock. His XO was a poster for Starfleet decorum, save for the flush of green blooming at his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He was staring determinedly at a fixed point above Jim's shoulder and decidedly not meeting his gaze.
Yeah, debrief was going to be awesome.
"So," he ventured gamely, squaring his shoulders and striking his best Captain pose. "About that dilithium?"
***
Negotiations went surprisingly smoothly, provided Jim didn't stare too hard at the massed collection of glowing crotches. With a signed agreement in hand, he and Spock made their way back towards the beaming point, a small escort maintaining a respectful distance behind them.
The silence stretched between them awkwardly and Jim cursed. They'd been many things over the course of their acquaintance: rivals, antagonists, friends and fellows. But they'd never been boring; they'd never been awkward. It was hardly his fault that a stupid,possibly fake custom, on a stupid, definitely fucked up planet, had forced him to reveal his deeper feelings in a rather… spectacular fashion.
He turned towards Spock, determined to say something. Maybe an apology, maybe a proposition - because he knew damn well he wasn't the only one who'd gotten off back in the clearing. Or even the only biped. Whatever he'd intended, the words died unspoken as he looked down at his forearm where Spock was, quite deliberately, touching him. In front of their armed escort. With an eyebrow raised in what could only be a challenge.
There was nothing to be done for it, he mused in the moments before the collective gasp rose from the audience, while he and Spock stood connected by that warm hand on his sleeve.
The Federation was depending on them.
Hot damn, he loved diplomacy.
Fandom: STR
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Rating: NC-17
Summary: He'd clapped Spock on the shoulder, not gone all Captain Grabby Hands on his admittedly fine ass. Jim knew inappropriate -- and that wasn't it.
Warnings: For kink_bingo square: Humiliation (in public). Sex, swearing, and a brief instance of imaginary donkey dicks. I can't believe I just wrote that. XD
Notes: An epic thank you to the fabulous janice_lester for beating me mercilessly over the head with my own logic, adding some of her own and helping me take this thing from a 1600 word smutlet to a 2700 word story. The donkey dicks are my fault.
Jim stared intently at the purple sky, as if it could somehow tell him how he'd ended up on the ground.
Fucking telepaths.
A dry wind blew through the clearing, making the surrounding trees rustle in time to the buzzing in his head. Jim shook himself out of his fugue. Tried to make sense of what was playing out above him.
Spock was clutching the Guhulian leader rather tightly. By the throat. Strings of its protective slime coating oozed between Spock's knuckles, squelching like boots in swampland with every flex of fingers; Jim winced in sympathy for the poor brute, he knew the exact strength the Vulcan could exert with that particular grip. He coughed, loudly.
No reaction.
He picked himself up from the Jim-shaped dent in the grass, staining rust coloured streaks down the front of his slacks as he tried brushing them off. Another uniform ruined then - the brass were going to pitch a fit when they reviewed his requisition logs.
"Ah... Spock?" he ventured cautiously. "Killing our contact wouldn't be very logical."
Frantically waving eye stalks locked onto him. The creature's raw panic buffeted at his brain as Spock ratcheted the alien up higher yet. The deepening shade of blue, while attractively reminiscent of clear skies and lapping water, was probably not a good sign.
The rest of the delegation were fluttering their own eye stalks like a pack of flustered cadets waving hands during cram sessions. Shifting from foot to foot to foot to foot, they wore patches of spongy grey clay into the grass with their ineffectual distress.
Jim cleared his throat again before barking: "Commander Spock! Do I need to order you to put the Ambassador down?"
Spock stiffened and loosened his grip marginally while still holding the alien aloft, its four booted feet kicking helplessly as it sucked for air like it could get off on it - full of wet, eager enthusiasm. Intense brown eyes met his, and Jim was struck, again, by how human they seemed. Especially when glittering with barely suppressed emotion.
"On Vulcan," Spock offered conversationally, "the punishment for psychic assault on a psi-null was expulsion from one's clan and the dissolution of all bonds. Death would be a mercy compared to that fate."
Jim set his jaw. "Put the Ambassador down, Commander. I am fine."
Spock's nostrils flared, but he gave a tight nod and complied. He shot his Captain a look that fully communicated his intentions to review this interaction thoroughly during debrief. Oh goody.
Jim spread his hands in the universal gesture for "Look Ma - No Weapon" and held calm sincerity at the forefront of his mind. He mustered up his best approximation of a placating tone. "On behalf of Starfleet and the Federation, I offer my sincere apologies for whatever actions have offended." The Universal Translator crackled as it converted his best Captain's voice into the clicking garble that comprised the Guhulian tongue.
The Ambassador flailed its tiny fists at him, shocks of disapproval and indignation stilting its voice. "Touching-you-him. Forbidden. Very-bad-between-ranks."
Huh what? Jim had read Uhura's report. Well, skimmed it anyway. Nowhere in the damned thing had there been any mention of a taboo against touching. He'd clapped Spock on the shoulder, not gone all Captain Grabby Hands on his admittedly fine ass. Jim knew inappropriate - and that wasn't it. He said as much to the Ambassador, keeping the Ingratiating Diplomat's smile firmly in place.
"Rank-touch. Forbidden. Pride-theft. Pride-debt is owed."
"Fascinating," Spock interjected while Jim tried to parse that, engaged now instead of murderous. It was kind of endearing, actually, the way the supposedly peaceful Vulcan routinely lost his shit when Jim was threatened. Not that he was trying to read too much into that quirk. And building on it. When he was alone. At night. In bed.
"-amends?" Shit. Right, focus. Spock was working out how to fix it. He really was the best First Officer in the 'fleet.
The Universal Translator didn't catch every subtle nuance of the Guhulian's response, but the neat thing about telepaths was that they could supplement the tinny Standard with some very colourful imagery. In short, between the stuttering you-touch-him-public-obscene-bad-wrong-he-touch-you and the panoramic slide show of Jim bent over, flushed red and panting as Spock speared him with his fingers before an audience of a dozen slimy blue aliens, the gist of the punishment was pretty vivid.
Kinky little bastards, weren't they?
Spock went white, elegant hands clenching into hammer fists, as that murderous rage thing that Vulcans were supposedly incapable of made a second appearance. When Jim finally managed to get his mouth to close, he was about ready to pull his phaser, stun the lot of them and tell this entire planet to suck it and die, thanks. Dilithium or no dilithium.
Then the oily smugness of the Big Cheese fingerpainted its way through his consciousness, poking holes in his resolve with greasy overconfidence. Behind that - the brief flash of a Klingon face. Two and two really did make four; the Federation had first right of refusal according to the Guhulian Trade Pact of 2212, but there were no limitations to where the slimy little shits could peddle their wares after the token offer had been denied.
Sneaky and kinky, Jim mused. It was a damned shame that asking them to prove the existence of the "No-Touchy" law would be tantamount to flipping them off and pissing on the treaty -- after lighting it on fire.
Jim considered his options. It wasn't too late for Operation Phase-the-Fuckers. Scotty was only a comm away; it would, sadly, not be the first time his Chief Engineer had to perform an emergency extraction of a landing party. Since the incidents seemed to coincide mainly with missions involving both Jim and Diplomacy, he was probably even on stand-by, presiding over the betting pool. Still, they could be back aboard the Enterprise in a quarter hour, if that.
Then the Admiralty would be reading him the riot act before they broke orbit for allowing the Klingons to secure a lucrative mining contract, possibly enough to power a new fleet and elevate them back to pre-Nero threat levels.
While the Federation was still reeling from the loss of Vulcan and the decimation of their armada.
All because Jim Kirk couldn't man up and submit to a public fingerbang from his trusted First Officer.
He'd heard of doing it for the Federation before, he just never thought it'd be so... literal.
"Here, then?" he asked, amazed at the resolute steadiness in his voice. Command training was good for something after all.
It was Spock's turn to gasp dramatically, jaw dropping. Or, rather, he raised an eyebrow and inhaled three degrees sharper than normal.
"Yes-now-amends." Emotional resonance wasn't the UT's strong point but Jim figured the synchronized swivel of eye stalks was indicative of surprise. Well, that was everyone, then. Common ground, at last.
Spock's eyebrows were calculating how quickly he'd have to move in order to take out their escort, incapacitate Jim and get them both to safety. Jim forestalled the action by walking himself to a convenient boulder, shoving his pants down to his knees and, stars help him, presenting.
The hitherto pleasant breeze began to chill as he waited, ass hanging in the air, face pressed into the rough rock. Tendrils of titillation spiked through him. Not his. Not Spock's.
Fucking telepaths.
Sudden heat against his skin made him jerk. Shit, Spock could move when it suited him. It retreated immediately, leaving behind a minute sense of shame. Jim craned his head to face his First Officer, the irony of what he was about to ask for not lost on him. In a couple of years, it might even be funny.
"Do it Spock. It's OK."
"Captain. I-"
"It's fine." He knew better than to try the fake smile on a Vulcan. He kept his voice steady and his eyes level, dropping them only when Spock took a slow step forward, hand at the small away medkit strapped across his chest.
The first strokes were tentative, barely a whisper around his rim, notable only for the incredible heat that Spock emitted naturally. Blunt fingertips slicked with the ubiquitous Lubrinol circled hesitantly. Endlessly.
Bloated satisfaction swelled out from the peanut gallery. Jim was starting to recognize the leader's particular shade of nasty. He focused his scorn like a lash and was rewarded with a mental flinch. And still Spock hesitated.
"Get on with it, man," Jim hissed.
Never let it be said that Spock didn't take orders like a champ. Jim bit his lip bloody holding back the undignified squawk at the first full thrust forcing past the tight ring of his ass. The tiny spasm of pleasure was harder to hold back, especially from Spock.
Who was also a fucking telepath.
A really fucking hot touch telepath who was working his fingers into Jim’s ass with clever twisting strokes that were getting really hard to ignore.
He was so screwed.
Jim armoured himself with his anger and shame and poured the mess of twisting emotion into his will.
He REFUSED to get hard from this.
He didn't give a shit that they could all hear him snarling in his head. He figured it was what they wanted out of this anyway - front row seats to his humiliation. So he kept up a steady stream of vitriol and cursed them out to the seventh generation of googly eyed blue sadists. He got creative and visualized exactly what the Grand High Mucky-Muck of the newly dubbed Planet Shitstorm would look like while it fellated a donkey, smeared shit all over its robes, beatific smile on its smug round face. He pictured the wide purple lips stretching around the gigantic donkey dick and cooing blissfully.
His grinned savagely when the flashes of disgust tugged at his brain. Oh yes, he was broadcasting loud and clear. Not bad for a psi-null, right? Fuckers.
Gotta love diplomacy.
He clenched reflexively around the fingers as they pushed in and out of his hole, sucking in air through his teeth and trying to control his reactions by elaborating on the quality and quantity of livestock their gracious host could service in one evening. But it was Spock cramming him full and sending flashes of heat exploding in his brain with every slick-knuckled push into his ass. It was Spock's ragged breaths tickling the curve of his ear, punctuating each stroke with a whispered apology. Spock's weight against his back pressing him flat against the unyielding stone.
The circumstances weren't ideal, but months of pent-up longing and lonely nights fantasizing began to take their toll on his self control.
He moaned.
Then Spock moaned.
And that was it for the ban on erections. He sprang fully hard, dizzy with the sudden blood migration. His chin sank down to touch his chest and he rested his forehead against the cool rock, lips parted in a half whine, half pant as Spock picked up the pace. The flavour of thoughts in the air shifted from righteous disgust to voyeuristic delight and he had time for one last flash of irritation before that too was subsumed by a perfect scrape of fingers against his prostate.
His live audience fading to the periphery of his awareness, Jim began grinding under the assault, desperate for friction on his straining cock. Spock's grip on his hip tightened. "No, Jim, please. You will injure yourself."
He shook his head blindly. "Spock," he grunted. "Please Spock. I... need."
Spock stilled at the words and the thread of longing Jim could no longer restrain fluttered between them. Jim whimpered at the loss of momentum and resumed writhing, fucking himself awkwardly against the fingers. He struggled against the weight pinning him in place, eager now to touch himself, find his own fractured rhythm to mimic the clumsy spasms of his hips.
"I need," he groaned again, the clamour in his mind picked up and amplified by a score of eager witnesses. He lost himself to it, only dimly aware of Spock's flinch as that urgency was hurled into him.
Jim's next shove back was met with equal force and he screamed his exultation. Spock's hand burned a path over his skin to work his cock, pumping frantically while Jim rutted into his fist and back against his fingers, dipping his hips inwards as he pushed forward in a desperate bid for more heat, more friction. More Spock. Spock milked Jim's dick harder, squeezing his fist tight over his shaft, tightening his grip in increments. A sharp crooking motion inside of Jim brought hot pressure stabbing against his prostate.
"Sp...sp...spock..." Breath hitching in his throat, he begged, hands thumping uselessly against stone.
"I have you, Jim." Reassurances spoken aloud dimmed beneath the burning torrent of want flashing between them. "I have you." A tiny murmur, nearly indistinct, followed: finally.
Jim didn't come - he geysered, roping jets of jism splattering his own stomach in hot, waxy ribbons. Spasms that started at his toes and ended at that point just past infinity waved through him, cresting and overlapping until his vision whited out and the only noises he registered were his own keening whines.
He sagged, utterly spent, supported only by Spock and the rough stone beneath him as the aftershocks rippled through him.
An eternity passed while his consciousness tried to resolve itself back into Jim instead of a disconnected series of pleasure points. The cacophony in his mind had quieted enough that he could fully appreciate the sensation of Spock's long fingers gently slipping out of his still twitching hole. His leaking cock gave a half hearted leap, acknowledging that yes, this too was good, do come again, before returning to its rest.
There was silence in the clearing. Jim lifted his head from the rock and took in the stunned awe of their hosts, Ambassador D-bag at the forefront of the jaw-dropped masses, and tried out a cocky smirk to level the blush creeping up his neck. He'd just had the most mund-glowing, er, mind-blowing orgasm of his not inconsiderable experience, literally at the hands of his First Officer, before a live studio audience, in the midst of a Very Important Trade Negotiation.
Pike was never going to let him live this one down.
The only saving grace was the shuffling discomfort exhibited by their hosts. Guhulian ejaculate appeared to have phosphorescent qualities, even through clothing.
Jim smirked. Good to know. And Bones said he had no interest in esoteric knowledge.
Scrupulously avoiding touching Spock, he rose gingerly, hiked up his pants and tucked himself back in. He ignored the sticky mess striping his stomach as he resettled his clothing and shot a quick glance at Spock. His XO was a poster for Starfleet decorum, save for the flush of green blooming at his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He was staring determinedly at a fixed point above Jim's shoulder and decidedly not meeting his gaze.
Yeah, debrief was going to be awesome.
"So," he ventured gamely, squaring his shoulders and striking his best Captain pose. "About that dilithium?"
***
Negotiations went surprisingly smoothly, provided Jim didn't stare too hard at the massed collection of glowing crotches. With a signed agreement in hand, he and Spock made their way back towards the beaming point, a small escort maintaining a respectful distance behind them.
The silence stretched between them awkwardly and Jim cursed. They'd been many things over the course of their acquaintance: rivals, antagonists, friends and fellows. But they'd never been boring; they'd never been awkward. It was hardly his fault that a stupid,possibly fake custom, on a stupid, definitely fucked up planet, had forced him to reveal his deeper feelings in a rather… spectacular fashion.
He turned towards Spock, determined to say something. Maybe an apology, maybe a proposition - because he knew damn well he wasn't the only one who'd gotten off back in the clearing. Or even the only biped. Whatever he'd intended, the words died unspoken as he looked down at his forearm where Spock was, quite deliberately, touching him. In front of their armed escort. With an eyebrow raised in what could only be a challenge.
There was nothing to be done for it, he mused in the moments before the collective gasp rose from the audience, while he and Spock stood connected by that warm hand on his sleeve.
The Federation was depending on them.
Hot damn, he loved diplomacy.