perform_admirably | (no subject)

Entry tags:

ic,
jim kirk

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So far as Spock is aware, Jim alone has yet to be over this late into the night.

In combination with Leonard McCoy, on a few occasions, for a variety of reasons, but Spock cannot recall Jim Kirk alone having spent so many hours in Spock's company, at such a late hour - and he certainly never had spent so many of them curled on Spock's sofa. Which is, perhaps unexpectedly, large, deep, and soft enough to encourage restful sleep but not so much as to be difficult to stand from once you've sat on the cushions.

It's a bad habit, but Spock does not always find his way back to the bed once he's started working on something at the sofa.

Jim has been in the small apartment for long enough that Spock eventually puts aside his stubbornness to retreat to the bathroom to change into a pair of dark, flannel pyjamas and brush his teeth.

When he returns, whatever space he had managed to find for himself on the sofa before standing has disappeared somewhere beneath Jim's legs. He nudges one of Jim's knees with the back of his hand.

"At this hour, I would be more comfortable if you would stay until the morning. Or was this simply the plan all along, and I had not yet been duly informed?"

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The blood rushing through Spock's veins feels like ice-water next to the warmth of Jim's palm, even through the fabric of his clothing, and when it closes around him, the flesh wakes as easily as if it had known that self-certain touch for ages, though they have never been this intimate with one another.

Pressing into the heat from below him with canted hips, he moves forward toward his goal despite the sensation, all but pressing Jim's face away from his own, and the thin skin of the taper of his ear, to press Jim's lips apart with his thumb, seeking entrance past white teeth with the same even determination that had been on display from the moment Jim had leaned into him on the sofa.

Spock's free hand moves, distracted, to attempt its very best at unfastening the number of buttons down the length of his shirt.

"I neither under nor over-estimate you," he says, voice, for the first time, shopworn at the edges.

With a vested interest in seeing that shirt come off himself, Jim would help, but Spock's getting hard beneath his hand, warmer as the blood rushes in, and Jim has to close his eyes around a groan. His lips feel swollen, puffy with kisses, but they wrap around Spock's finger eagerly enough, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks. Behind closed lids, it's easy to get confused, to imagine it's not Spock's thumb he's wrapped his tongue around but the steadily hardening length in his hand.

"C'mon," Jim says, eyes hot when he opens them, watching Spock's fingers at his buttons. "Get it the hell off, wanna see you."

The language is skirting the edges of crass, the rasp of Jim's tongue wet and too much against the sensitive pad of Spock's thumb, and Spock fights for a suspended moment, breath stuttering before he gives in to the urge to rub himself against the unfamiliar feel of another man's hand against the growing hardness of his groin.

It would not have mattered had Jim had his lips pressed around him there, for as overwhelming as it is to touch Jim, fingering the contour of his lips, dragging hands damp with the other man's saliva across the line of his chin and the scratch of unshaven stubble to drag his nails along the shorn hair at the base of the round of Jim's skull.

Ah, Jim is all that he manages, quiet and riding a sharp breath, Spock still distracted by the need to feel that hot mouth on him again. As obediently as if it were an order, Spock hooks a finger into the gap of his shirt to pull the rest of the way down, dragging the buttons apart, stretching the strings that attach them, but the pajama top comes off, and Spock slides one arm out of it to press it up over one white shoulder.

Edited 2012-10-07 02:02 (UTC)

He's pale, and with what rational thoughts Jim has left to him he marvels at it, that a desert creature could be so white. But Spock's been in space, and then beneath the gray skies of Darrow, cold and covered, and - Jim notes with a short intake of breath - flushing green across his chest and shoulders. Then he opens his mouth around Jim's name, and Jim flushes, too, bright and hot and too caught up to wonder how he must look, all mottled next to Spock's near marble flesh.

"Yeah?" he questions, teasing, emboldened enough to slip his hand inside Spock's smart boxer briefs and take hold of him, skin on skin. He's warm, not hot, but it isn't strange so much as fascinating, and Jim reaches with his free hand, skirting fingers along a cool ribcage to tweak a pale green nipple.

Now that he is less occupied by the feel of Jim's hot tongue curled around the pad of his thumb, he steadies his breathing again, pulls together his mind and senses enough to focus only enough to grit his teeth around a deep, growling noise of pleasure which he holds in as Jim slips into his pants and takes him against his palm, searing.

The shirt is forgotten, in favor of the pants and briefs, which Spock slides down the length of himself with snake-like efficiency before finding the nearest pieces of Jim Kirk that he can to wrap fingers around, to pull from the sensation of that hand still wrapped around him, large and rough, playing his body with the skill of musician, in a way so different from any of the lovemaking of his past - slow, caring, but lacking a certain energy that right now has Spock shutting his eyes tightly as he speaks.

"What are you going to do to me?"

"Ideally?" Jim asks, catching Spock's hand in his and thinking hard and wild - Spock beneath him, panting for breath, on top of him, eyes rolling back in his head as Jim takes both their cocks in hand, on his back and stunned for the feel of Jim moving deep within him, hovering over him, Jim's own legs hanging haphazard over his shoulders.

"Everything, Spock," Jim replies, stroking him and cursing himself his own still clad boxers. "I want to do everything."

It slams into Spock as quickly and sharply as a fist to the gut, what he sees through the connection of their fingers, and he squeezes Jim's hand in his own with a tightness enough to mark the skin under his fingers with the white half-moon of his perfectly-trimmed fingernails.

He feels the length of him twitch in Jim's own grip before he loosens his grasp, running his fingers along the insides of Jim's own, up and down the valleys between them, along the lines of his palm, until Spock knows that he is as heavy and hard against Jim's palm as he will get.

Spock had not needed his eyes to be open to know the expression on Jim's face, but they slide open again as he leans forward to press permission against Jim's red, wet lips with his own.

"Please," he says, voice faltering again in its usual modulation, distracted. "But let us start with one thing."

Letting go and moving down the length of Jim's body, supple muscle and delightful, even proportions, he finds first the start of the thin scattering of hair that leads down to Jim's cock, and then the waistband of his underwear, which Spock draws down with a sharp snap of his arms, dragging sharp knuckles against Jim as he frees the man below him from the last piece of clothing between Spock and his own wandering curiosities.

Jim closes his eyes and curses, feeling cool air that's certainly real and Spock's gaze that only might be gathering at the base of his cock. "One thing," he repeats, trying to decide, but his body knows, ratcheting him up at the waist to take Spock's pale shoulders in his hands and lever him beneath.

"I want to fuck you, Spock," he says, touching his mouth to the full weight of Spock's bottom lip. "You don't have to let me. Now or ever. But I want to."

The words that Jim chooses as much as anything else, arch Spock's back off of the bed that he's been turned onto, mind surprised and body straining to regain the heat of Jim's hand to answer the warm weight still pooled at his groin.

They're impolite, they are descriptive, unashamed and knowing what they want to invoke, and what they want to achieve. It is not even that Spock has never thrown a very pointed invective into a conversation with precision, but he has only ever been with one person, he has said as much. And that woman, while not entirely unlike Jim Kirk, was not like Jim Kirk. Least of all, when they had shared a bed, on the few times that they had.

"I will endeavor," Spock says, needing a break in the sentence to pull for air wherever he can get it from between their close bodies. "To give you what you want. But I am only intellectually aware of all that that may involve."

Reaching both hands between their bodies, struck by sudden and displeasing impatience, he smooths the tips of his fingers down the length of Jim's body to follow the warm flesh, feeling rewarded by the dampness that is starting to bloom on Jim's skin. One takes Jim finally fully in hand with a sharp gasp of pleasure at the feel of it. The other feels for the hammer of Jim's strong pulse in the flesh of his thigh.

Edited 2012-10-07 04:43 (UTC)

Already nosing at Spock's jaw, Jim buries a gasp in the smooth skin of his throat, the cool of Spock's palm welcome against his aching flesh. "I know," he finds it in himself to say, gathering Spock's leg at the knee, pulling it over his elbow to test the stretch. He thrusts forward, once, and fights the urge to do more, to pull both Spock's long legs over his arms and sink into him. His body's not ready for such swift intrusion, and neither, Jim suspects, is his mind. You'll tell me, he'd told Spock. Intellectually aware isn't enough, not yet.

"It's too much for now," he says, pulling back far enough to look at him, and when Jim does, he can't help but lean down and kiss along his brow. "There's plenty we can do." Reaching between them, he circles Spock's dick, moves to gather his own in that same hand and strokes them together.

He had never imagined that he could gain so much satisfaction simply from the press of their bodies together, from letting Jim move those bodies around. grip both of them between in a damp palm and stroke.

Spock knows that this is what he wants, if in no more detail, then at least in certainty.

Slipping both legs around Jim's small waist, he grips him between them with a soft grunt of thoughtful pleasure, raising his hips to meet the motion of the hand around them both, pressure just enough that he can feel the weighty human rush of blood in Jim's cock against his own, where they're nestled so purposely together.

"This is--" he starts, never bringing the thought to a finish between the two of them. Releasing his grip on Jim's waist, he brushes the arch of his foot along the line of the muscle of the back of Jim's thigh before it drops to the bed again, Spock's hands finding purchase in the dark fabric at their sides.

Hair matted against the bed where his head rests, sticking to his forehead where Jim dropped his kisses, he doesn't bother with any of it, concentrating on the throb of Jim against him and the steady stroke of his hand. "I have never--"

"Fuck," Jim groans when Spock trails off, bracing a hand against the bed for leverage so he can thrust into his own grip, mouth close to Spock's ear to tell him earnestly, "I like you like this. Just feeling."

And Jim would be lying if he didn't feel a rush of pride, of accomplishment bordering on possessive to know that he's the one to bring Spock here, dark head thrown back on twisted sheets, that severe line of hair finally mussed. "Next time," he promises, fastening his mouth to Spock's collar bone to breathe hot and damp, "I'm going to use my mouth to make you come."

"Next time." It is difficult not to focus on those two words out of any of the others, though the promise that Jim offers is lurid, teasing up the memory of the way it felt to have a single finger slid between Jim's yielding lips, into the heat of his mouth.

Burying his nose in the thick softness of Jim's hair, he lets go of his steadying grasp on the bed to wrap his arms around Jim's shoulders, to slide his palms slickly down the sweat of his broad back without revulsion, with satisfaction and fondness and an animal interest in the smell of Jim in this state, mineral and musk, that he has no desire to contemplate now or ever.

Dropping his head again, he feels a pressure building in his belly, a tingle along the skin between his shoulders, and he rolls his face to snap his eyes up to search out the color of Jim's, wanting to hold them with his own.

"Jim. Faster."

Edited 2012-10-07 21:43 (UTC)

There's new urgency in Spock's voice, and addled though he is, Jim does his best to commit it to memory, to save it for a lonely time to recall again and again. "You got it, babe," he pants, and, suddenly inspired, traps Spock's hand between his own and the bed, fingers twined.

Pumping them faster, he looks into Spock's eyes, huge and dark with yearning, and hopes the touch is enough, that Spock can feel everything that Jim feels, too, his pleasure winding tight and electric. The thought that it might is enough to snap Jim's hips forward, a guttural sound escaping him as his body begins to come, hot and wet over his hand to slick it, spilling between their bodies.

The hand beneath Jim's spasms as he comes over Spock, scattering strings and droplets of startling heat along Spock's belly, wetting the friction of Jim's hand still working both of them into something else, less and more at the same time. He feels the skin prickle up his arms from his wrists as the sensation of Jim's own orgasm flows out of him even as his own races forward to lift him off the bed, thrusting against Jim's moving hand, trapping them both tightly between the spreading slickness of their bodies until Spock finds his own release.

Noiseless, he shuts his eyes tightly against the current of feeling, already strangely overwhelmed and raw, with a face of pleasure bordering on a wince of pain.

It leaves him breathless, dizzy, fingers opening and closing around Jim's hand again. "Oh," he breathes, eyes fluttering to open again, wet and grasping for an anchor in the form above him, but sobering quickly.

It's an anchor Jim finds himself unable to immediately provide, mind and body wrung so thoroughly by orgasm that for a moment, all he can do is gasp into Spock's throat, lips kissing idly at the skin there, fingers spasming and wrist aching from working them both so hard.

Eventually he stirs, pressing a wet kiss to Spock's cheek before lifting his head entirely. "Hey," he murmurs, shifting carefully in the mess between them. Spock looks absolutely wrecked, etched lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth slack, and Jim finds himself strangely urgent to reassure. "We're good, Spock. We're - " He dares to look between them. "A mess, but good."

Gathering one last breath to himself, Spock presses himself off of the bedclothes, and Jim with him, before pressing their foreheads together and subsuming the confusion beneath a careful, neat observation of the situation as it stands.

He presses a quick kiss of his own to the skin in front of Jim's round ear, red from spent effort. The reassurance is strangely charming, as are most things about Jim Kirk, but despite the expression that Spock still wears, he is far from unhappy about what has transpired. "A curious thing to say. More than good, I believe that you have made us mutually satisfied, and that at this hour, you must be tired."

Must be, whether or not Jim is, because it is Spock's way of excusing himself off the bed and out from underneath the other man. He slips a leg over the side of the bed, searching for the carpet with his toes.

"Stay. We will be more comfortable if we are clean."

But he doesn't stand just yet, instead leaning forward to draw his tongue against a small, stray shine of milky wetness beneath one of Jim's sweetly pink nipples, not knowing or caring to whom it belonged minutes ago. He does not want the other man to think of him as disliking the experience, or being cold, or even finding the organic mess left on both of them intolerable.

Composure is simply a necessary ritual.

The gesture lands as hoped, and Jim, just beginning to tense with worry, relaxes on the bed, eyes tired but sharp as they track the passage of Spock's tongue back into his mouth.

"Not as nice when it cools," he says by way of agreement, shoving a hand beneath his pillow to lever his head up, where Jim watches Spock with unabashed interest. He is both suddenly and remarkably composed, his hair a dark tangle but his expression ordered, and Jim says a silent prayer of thanks to himself for etching to memory the sight of Spock still in the throes. He's still green in the cheeks, Jim is pleased to note, and in a few places where Jim's teeth found too tight a hold, but both are fading.

"Mutually satisfied," Jim repeats to himself, and grins.

Sneaking away to the apartment's bathroom with a short look over his shoulder at the way that Jim spreads himself out over the top of the bed and the wrinkled blankets, he disappears, still uncaring of his own nudity, to return with a clean front, three towels, two wet and one dry, and a fine-toothed comb, all of which he deposits on the edge of the bed before dropping himself down beside Jim, setting quickly to work.

With a little sigh slipping out under his breath, he goes to work on Jim's stomach first, towel damp with warm water, scrubbing gently with lidded eyes. The same expression he might give a panel of instruments at his station on the bridge of Jim Kirk's ship.

Thoughtful, and at ease with the work.

"I would like to note, for the record," he offers, taking in the expression on Jim's face, the grin of self-assured pleasure. "That you have now witnessed a Vulcan o-face, and no longer possess an excuse to believe that they are mythology."

Jim barks a laugh, shivering in the next moment when the towel finds skin still tingling and sensitive, but is otherwise content to be cared for. Spock must have been a child to neatly put away his toys at the end of every day (had he had toys at all), and Jim watches with amusement as he is thoroughly rubbed down.

"Wasn't sure you knew what I meant by that," he confesses, eyes dropping with some trepidation to the rest of Spock's supplies. The towels, of course, are self explanatory, but the comb...Jim looks down at the dark thatch of hair at Spock's core, neatly trimmed but not straight and severe as the hair on his head. Then he looks down at his own, dark gold hair trimmed but curling.

"That's for your hair, right? On your head?"

"I attended the same Starfleet main campus as you did. And I have very good ears." Moreover, Jim has become increasingly clever at figuring out when Spock is legitimately confused, versus when Spock is playing up the dumb tourist for a Vulcan level of giggles - such that he strongly raises one brow, though he is not interrupted in his diligent work by the conversation.

"It is very interesting to me that up until now you have displayed a curious habit of believing me to be somehow different from you with regard to the sexual aspect of personal relationship-maintenance. Despite the fact that you had been made blatantly aware that I was currently in a relationship of such nature, at the time of our introduction, with Lieutenant Uhura. And the comb is for my hair."

He lifts his face to take in Jim's, brow still raised, for only a beat before setting aside the first dirty towel and moving to the second one before starting the same work between Jim's legs, moving gently from the cradle of his hips until he finds he needs to lift Jim's thigh to move further.

It is not a terrible job to have - Spock does not often pay a compliment, but Jim is as well-shaped below the waist as he is above, and surely there is nothing wrong with admiration of beauty where it naturally occurs, within reason.

Jim meets that arched brow with a grin, but Spock looks down again, his eyes sharp and focused as he shifts Jim's leg to suit him, as he washes him and looks. Jim has seen this look of focus before, has even been the subject of it before, and is astonished to feel himself blush, a sudden tingle that starts pink in his cheeks and soaks down, painting his chest.

"I was being cautious for once," he says, stretching to regain his composure. "I didn't know what you kids got up to, and before we served together, I wasn't sure either of you needed exercise beyond the intellectual." He lifts his hands as if to say, I don't want to know, reaching for the comb after. "I like your hair like this."

When he catches sight of the blush strewn across Jim's broad chest, the brow drops, becoming an expression that is as pleased as it is inquisitive - certainly, it's a strange time to become bashful. They've been divested of their clothing and in the nude in present company for some time.

He wonders, as he often does, what is passing through Jim's thoughts.

When Jim takes the comb away, Spock gives a patient shrug and folds both of the wet towels into the dry one for disposal, letting Jim's skin dry in the air of Spock's apartment as a quiet punishment. "You choose strange times to be cautious. That aside, I have never seen such a thing as something which is a matter of need. Unlike some individuals, I am in complete control of my hind-brain. I am here with you because I decided to be. Are you going to give that back?"

"You are the biggest liar," Jim exhales, holding the comb out of reach as he stares, plainly impressed by the scope of Spock's audaciousness. "A lying Vulcan liar who lies, I saw your face before it became an O. You needed me to keep going, or are you going to sit there and tell me you'd have been fine with it if I stopped?"

"A Vulcan is not a liar," comes the response, practically habituated, though there is a tiny, bright flash of realization in Spock's expression before it's mastered again that suggests that Spock realizes, only too late, that perhaps he should not be engaging Jim in precisely this argument.

For myriad of reasons.

Reaching a long arm over the edge of the bed for a heavy, dark gray wool robe on a hook on the wall, Spock pulls it to himself, discontent to sit naked in the cool air of the room if there is no longer a reason to.

"And I fail to see the point in this particular hypothetical, because there is no reason for me to believe you would have stopped."