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[perform_admirably]

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?"

Comments

[to_boldly]

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."

[perform_admirably]

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.

[to_boldly]

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.

[perform_admirably]

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--"

[to_boldly]

"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."

[perform_admirably]

"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."

[to_boldly]

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.

[perform_admirably]

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.

[to_boldly]

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."

[perform_admirably]

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.

[to_boldly]

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.

[perform_admirably]

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."

[to_boldly]

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?"

[perform_admirably]

"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.

[to_boldly]

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."

[perform_admirably]

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?"

[to_boldly]

"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?"

[perform_admirably]

"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."

[to_boldly]

Jim gapes, but has presence enough to snatch at the robe, pulling it away, and then pulling Spock by the wrist to join him at the head of the bed.

"Well then," he says, pushing not the comb into Spock's hair but his fingers, "As an explorer with a mandate to pursue knowledge, you'll understand that I need to test this theory. Gather..." Thoughtfully, Jim lets his fingers drift down towards his own mouth, rubbing at his bottom lip. "Empirical data before I'm comfortable settling on a final conclusion. I'll call my first experiment, 'finding out if Mr. Spock's stated lack of need for sexual gratification is in fact total bullshit.' Supplemental theory to be tested in the same experimental timeframe: 'Can Jim Kirk stop mid-act of sexual congress?'"

[perform_admirably]

It is a succession of things which Spock barely has time to gather a reaction to - or a non-reaction, given. At the same time as he tells himself not to grab like a child for the robe that belongs to him that Jim has taken, Jim reaches out to tug Spock toward the top of the bed.

The fingers raking through his dark hair are a surprise, but it is hard to truly enjoy the feel of them, when Spock is busy taking in Jim's long line of words. He recognizes the tone being taken. It is the tone that usually follows, from Jim Kirk, when he believes that he has found an answer that others (even Spock) have overlooked, and which he is determined to present at dramatic opportunity.

Spock is yet unsure what to think of this particular tone.

Eyeballing the laundry basket through the open door to the small bathroom, Spock launches the ball of dirtied towels into it with a toss that would have made a basketball player proud, but even as he does, even as he tries to push the blankets below him down with his feet as the chill of the room becomes evident again, he keeps a stare on Jim's face.

One over which his brows sink very slowly lower, knitting together at the center. "Knowledge without value and discipline is meaningless," he quotes readily, one of his favored rejoinders. "I do not see what could possibly be gained from proving or disproving that I am capable of separating need from desire in the context of an act of coitus."

Except that it is a test, and not the first. One of Jim's casual Spock tests, a test of humanity. And Spock does not want to deeply contemplate what it might mean that he is already considering the effort he should go to win, lose, or throw the test altogether, should Jim implement it.

[to_boldly]

"Who says there won't be value?" Jim asks, recognizing the security blanket for what it is at once, and works his fingers steadily into Spock's hair, smoothing and scratching lightly along his scalp.

Rather as one might an agitated feline, now that he thinks about it. "I intend to treasure the results of my experiment, whatever they may be." And he will, for Jim's already decided what the results of his experiment will be, and they are absolutely in his favor.

"You cold?" he asks, abandoning Spock's hair to rub at his shoulders, expression softening when he sees his face. Spock looks so stubborn, so determined not to give an inch that Jim yields instead, leaning in to brush his mouth over the determined set of Spock's own.

[perform_admirably]

Spock's own inward determination falters slightly, twice - the first when Jim removes his fingers from their work, sifting through hair thicker than the severe cut of it suggests.

Again, when he leans in to press their lips together with a kiss that is gentler than Spock would have suspected from Jim some months ago. He returns the small affection with a brief brush of middle and fore-finger against the still swollen softness of Jim's lower lip. "Yes," he answers, with unashamed honesty. Comfort is not particularly a point of pride, even for a Vulcan. They do not tend to suffer where relief could be present ... with exceptions. And in this way, at least, Spock is very typical.

"The radiator is inefficient."

[to_boldly]

"I'll fix it," Jim murmurs, "Thing won't know what hit it," and wraps Spock up in his arms. Spock is, as ever, cool, but seems to warm where Jim can get his hands on him.

"C'mon, I'll stop hogging the covers. Everybody else to share my bed said I'm like a furnace. We can test that theory, too."

[perform_admirably]

The hug comes as a surprise - nobody that had pursued him previously had ever been the sort to show affection in quite the same way as Jim Kirk, because Spock did not seek it. Even the emotion that Nyota had showed for him had been romantic, but reserved, in contrast especially to the easy physical hold that Jim pulls him into now.

Spock does not stiffen, but he does not react much, in confusion, at first - only relaxing into it after a few breaths, arms still held at his sides, but chin resting over the comfortable slope of Jim's shoulder.

"I would appreciate that," he says, holding his thoughts to himself, not willing to put them into the space between them. He puts a great deal of trust in Jim Kirk, but he can only hope that it will not be misinterpreted, when they leave the confines of the apartment the next day, Spock coolly respectful once again of a superior officer. As he should be.

[to_boldly]

Jim grins, enjoying the admittedly limp but comfortable droop of Spock's chin over his shoulder. "All right, you ragdoll, c'mon," he says, falling back and managing, perhaps through pure stubbornness, to get them laid out on the bed together without ever letting go of him.

He drags the covers up and fits himself to Spock's back, one warm arm slung across his waist. "I don't even know how long you sleep," he confesses to Spock's shoulder. "I need about five hours. Any less and you better be waking me up with coffee or a blowjob."