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Generally, Vulcans were no more likely to be aroused by a handshake than the average alien, Terran, Andorian, or assorted species with bibrachial and/or multirachial limbs that permitted the physical gesture. Among other species, particularly Terrans, there was a misconception that all physical hand contact was considered sexual, or unintended contact could be misconstrued as inappropriate or unprofessional. Vulcans hands were sensitive, but no more sensitive than lips or tongues. Though lips and tongues were not also psi-sensitive, as hands were to Vulcans.
Regardless of that fact, most of the crew refrained from physical contact with Spock altogether. Earlier in the mission the same applied to Captain Kirk, but Spock extended neutral overtures until Kirk was comfortable clapping him on the shoulder as any other crewmember. And yet, for four years (4.834, precisely) they had somehow never once intentionally brushed their hands. Spock was sure he would have remembered any instances where they touched in that manner. His mind was perfectly attuned to his physical self and body; and in many respects, the same applied to Kirk.
For that reason Spock had no baseline to gather from when Kirk's skin made contact with his own and pulled him up by the hand. At which point, Spock was suddenly very uncomfortably aware of three things:
1. Kirk's palms were calloused yet soft from work, and equally firm and gentle in all ways that he embodied those traits, and;
2. The wrestling area of the gym was enclosed yet simultaneously too public for Spock's immediate reaction to pull away, and he summoned the reserves of his control to instead appear unaffected while seeking the first means to detach himself, and, finally;
3. Spock was suddenly, disconcertingly, and uncomfortably aroused.
The last item was of particular concern. Mostly because the object that had stimulated such arousal was Captain Kirk, who was still holding him. Spock allowed himself to be pulled and swiftly pulled his hands behind his back the moment Kirk released him.
"I am slightly fatigued and require meditation for the remainder of the evening," Spock said, interrupting Kirk's half-formed offer for showers or chess or whatever else he intended. "I expect the match was fruitful for you, sir."
Kirk blinked at him, evidently surprised by Spock's sudden curtness. "Alright, Spock. See you on the bridge tomorrow." That was the point at which Spock would make a remark about the illogic of a statement like that, and Kirk would reply with something emotionally charged, but flattering and fond.
As it was not normal circumstances, Spock merely turned on his heel and left after nodding at his dismissal. He kept his pace fast as he retreated, but not so fast that the crew would turn their heads as he passed. Once in his quarters he sank inside the room, back pressed against the door, and slid down until he reached the floor.
A reaction of that strength would only be possible if he were bonded, where the psi-centers of his hands would be sensitive at a ten-fold after contact with his bonded. After he severed his original betrothal bond with T'Pring, he had not sought to replace it.
By all technicalities, Spock was not bonded. Or at least, not supposed to be. That fact was in direct contradiction of his experience, as the psionic pathways in his hands had most definitely reacted to the Captain's touch. For the moment he had only one data point to refer to. Unfortunately, to relate with any degree of accuracy he would need to invent or manipulate circumstances to touch hands with the Captain again to test the hypothesis. He would also need to set a control by inadvertently touching hands with the other members of the crew; it may not be the Captain at all, but instead his psi-sensitive hands that had overreacted as his mental shielding was compromised. Either case would be unpleasant to deal with, but the latter was infinitely simpler to solve than the former.
In the meantime, he was in need of meditation. Badly.
The first logical choice of control was Doctor McCoy, as he was (oftentimes to Spock's dismay) one of Spock's closest, in often imprecise Standard translation, friends. The doctor had attended him on Vulcan for his koon-ut-kalifee. Therefore, it was reasonable to assume they also had a relatively strong relationship that would serve as a basis for comparison. Additionally, McCoy would need to be informed if Spock's psionic shielding was suffering, as he was the most likely to investigate a medical solution to solve it. Perhaps not the most qualified on the matter, but M'Benga was still on leave, and Spock anticipated that Doctor McCoy would become involved one way or another.
He arranged a fifteen minute meeting on McCoy's early shift with a vague inquiry on the status of Sickbay equipment. Of course, McCoy was already in what Spock heard humans colloquially called "a pissy mood" by the time he showed up for said appointment. The doctor's visible ire startled after Spock requested a privacy lock on the door.
"...I'm starting to get a feeling this isn't about Sickbay requisitions," McCoy said with a scowl.
"No," Spock said. "I must also apologize for the intrusion, but I require you for a demonstration of a…personal nature." That was perhaps, by Spock's estimation, too blunt. Depending on McCoy's reaction, he would attune his reply accordingly.
McCoy stared at him with the kind of incredulity that Spock expected from him. "What kind of demonstration?" he demanded.
Spock held out his hand. "I will need to briefly make physical contact with your palm to conduct an experiment and collect data. There may be slight telepathic transference, but I will attempt my utmost to keep it as minimally invasive as possible." He winced internally as he considered that the request alone was not remotely enough to pique McCoy's interest and added, "I only ask this as you and I, by most accounts, would be considered amicable. And I have few others I would trust with such a request. May I have your permission?"
"Of course you've gotta ask for the weirdest possible thing before I've even had my coffee," McCoy complained. But he ceded to the request, as Spock thought he would. The temptation of Spock's nearly emotionally-charged ploy, to lean on the human weakness of McCoy's regard for him, evidently succeeded. He held his hand out warily, as though Spock's skin were coated in an explosive substance. Spock's fingers hovered over the doctor's palm before he lowered them, gently, and braced his mental shielding.
He needn't have braced himself as he felt, quite literally, nothing at first. Spock slowly relaxed his mental shields until he could only pick up the echoes of McCoy's surface emotions, which were a confusing mix as ever: annoyance, curiosity, skepticism, suspicion, and trace amounts of exasperated fondness that Spock recognized were directed at himself. With his shields lowered as much as they were, he would never have felt as such if he were to make accidental contact, at least no more than the expected amount.
Spock withdrew his hand. "Although expressing gratitude is illogical, I must thank you for your assistance, doctor."
McCoy grunted. His hand retreated to a curled position and he regarded it with similar unease, as though the limb were somehow foreign. "Yeah, whatever. Are you going to explain what in the Sam Hill that was about?"
"I have not yet reached a satisfactory conclusion regarding my hypothesis," Spock answered neutrally. "And you would not be likely to understand the intricacies of telepathic feedback."
"So, 'mind your business', basically. Great. Can I at least know if it's medically pertinent?"
"...unclear at this time," Spock replied. McCoy sighed explosively.
Predictably, McCoy attempted to persuade him into a biobed for a mandatory medical physical under "suspicions of emerging ailments" that would prompt Spock to initiate bodily contact with McCoy for reasons that Spock refused to elaborate on. Unfortunately for McCoy, Spock was not so easily dissuaded by his dislike of medical exams and escaped Sickbay before the doctor could make any serious attempts to restrain him there. From there, Spock reported to the bridge as expected, if only 20.61 minutes behind shift.
Kirk spun his chair around as the lift opened and Spock stepped out. He gave Spock a curious brow raise, which Spock ignored and dutifully reported to his station. He relieved Chekov and completed the survey scans on the pulsar they were approaching near the Golyueri sector.
After Uhura completed the hourly systems check, she approached Spock's science station with a PADD aloft. The part of his brain still engaged in unraveling his mysterious predicament suggested that he seize another opportunity to acquire new data. It was a compelling area for assessment, so he allowed his fingers to briefly cross Uhura's as she passed him the PADD. With his shields held firm, he felt nothing except for the warm press of human skin against his own.
Perhaps his experiment was lacking subtlety, as Uhura gave him a curious smile and looked him over. Her scrutiny and curiosity was not so strong as though to ask directly, and instead she redirected to his science duties. "How is our pulsar doing, Mr. Spock?"
Spock offered her an eyebrow. "As the pulsar is a spatial phenomenon, it would be quite impossible for it to belong ostensibly to anyone. Though if you are attempting to ascertain the status of our collected data, I can summarize that it is…fascinating."
"I'm sure," Uhura said. Spock had been around humans long enough to know when they were teasing and/or humoring him. With Uhura, it was generally the former. "Are you available for some lyre practice tonight?"
For a reason Spock could not explain, he glanced sideways at the Captain. Kirk's gaze was on the view screen, his profile sharp and alert. The hesitation cost him nothing, except that Uhura's expression grew more amused. Also, he had no further need to test his hypothesis on Lieutenant Uhura, given their physical contact proved unremarkable.
"I believe I have already agreed to plans with the Captain," Spock said in an undertone. "But I would be willing to join you on another night."
Uhura was already nodding halfway through his response with inexplicable gravity. "Of course," she said. "Another night then, Mr. Spock."
In truth, Spock did not have plans with the Captain—but he was sure Kirk would be obliged if he offered, given their abrupt departure the night before. Kirk's curiosity was bright and all-consuming, like a blaze in the woods. He was certain (within a reasonable margin of error) what the Captain would accept his offer.
Spock was once more correct. After shift, he inquired of Kirk's plans for the evening, and suggested a game of chess at 2100 hours, which Kirk accepted. Though there was a brief flash of some foreign expression across the Captain's face while Spock, uncharacteristically, nearly stumbled over his words as the offer was made. (Spock was attempting to keep his gaze on Kirk's face, but Kirk was absentmindedly stroking the handle in the lift, and Spock's attention was—possibly—wandering.)
At 2054 hours, Spock made his way to the Captain's quarters and stopped outside of the door. With his precise internal chronometer he generally left mentally arrived no more than five minutes before arrangements. The extra minute buffer was utilized for re-affirming his shields. He didn't have to knock—the Captain seemed to sense his presence outside and called out, "It's open."
The door opened as he took a step towards the threshold. Kirk's cabin was dimly lit; he could not see far inside without waiting for his eyes to adjust, as though he were walking into a pit, or a monster's den. Then brushed the thought aside as foolish, as Kirk was not a specter or some beast he had to fight within. There were other metaphorical demons to wrestle with, and they were not to be found inside Kirk's quarters.
When Kirk first became Captain, Spock refused to enter his cabin. He didn't wish to see how their new captain had taken over the space, how he'd re-decorated in the absence Pike left behind. Spock had no desire to override his memories of Captain Pike's quarters. That useless exercise in loyalty (as if Pike would have ever deemed it a betrayal, and likely would have chastised Spock for treating it as such) lasted less than 2.29 months, barely out of their shakedown cruise with the new crew. The week after Mitchell was … deposed from service, Kirk offered for him to join in a game of chess in his quarters instead of the lounge, and Spock finally accepted.
It was no less jarring to open the cabin and stare upon the blank, sterile quality of Kirk's barren quarters. No wall decor. Not even curtains, which to Spock's knowledge, was something even the least inclined towards personal decoration would replicate to block out the motion at warp during rest hours. Spock generally kept his curtains half-way, sometimes choosing to admire the irregular patterns of the warp trails while practicing lyre, or completing his reports. McCoy always kept his curtains closed with a carved wooden ring—and Kirk, of course, had none.
Kirk's consistently sparse quarters were another mystery he had yet to unravel, even 2.83 years into their mission. After Sam Kirk's death, a small holoframe with Sam Kirk, his wife, and three sons from what Spock presumed was a family album made its way to Kirk's desk. There was a small oblong vase on the other side that Kirk kept from a successful first contact mission, though Spock didn't recall anything particularly unique that would inspire the Captain to hold the Argonians in higher regard than other species or missions.
At the desk was the Captain. His gaze slid over to Spock as he entered and then settled above Spock's shoulders. "Is it 2100 already?" Kirk asked, bemused.
"If you prefer to reschedule—" Spock started, but Kirk waved him off with a smile.
"Reports won't get stale," he assured. "And the more I complete, the more they seem to appear. A break would be good for me." Something cracked in his spine as he stood, stretching, and wincing. "...I think. Tea?"
Spock declined, though the gesture was appreciated. He needed whole-minded focus in his task, and any stray objects were at risk of distraction. He arranged the board while Kirk prepared a drink for himself; from the smell, it was something Kirk borrowed from the doctor's supply. Kirk did not generally keep whiskey in his quarters. Only rum and gin on occasion, if he were inclined for guests. Any whiskey surely was a gift or an item of theft by way of McCoy.
Drink in hand, Kirk joined him at the table. He squinted slightly which indicated he was, as Spock suspected, likely hiding a slight tension headache. The whiskey was then not the wisest choice for him, since Spock overheard him on more than one occasion complain that whiskey "gave him a headache like no other."
Spock eyed the glass. Kirk noticed, of course, and ignored Spock's eyebrow raise in favor of toasting it in Spock's direction. "I know that look, mister," Kirk murmured into the rim. "I don't need you mother-henning me too. Bones was already on my case today. It's fine."
"I would never presume to infringe the guidance of our ship's Chief Medical Officer," Spock replied. He was attempting to keep his gaze centered, but Kirk's fingers rotated the glass, and one finger slowly traced the edge of the glass in a way that was, in Spock's opinion, intentionally provocative. He filed that observation away for analysis at a later time. "As well as I do not understand the Terran desire to imbibe poisonous substances for…pleasure."
That was certainly the wrong word choice. Kirk was also certainly "messing" with him on purpose, Spock was sure. The glint in the Captain's eyes had that teasing light to them, when he was "razzing him" (McCoy's peculiar phrasing) about something.
Spock reconsidered for a moment if chess was the best course of action for his dignity. He was beginning to think it was not. The look on Kirk's face was akin to a cat regarding a small mouse or a bird in a cage, watching for signs of weakness. Perhaps this was a trap all along, and Spock foolishly wandered in. Not that he had much choice, as he had invented the opportunity to conduct discrete evaluations of himself and the Captain in private.
As the doctor would no doubt express it, through colorful metaphor: Spock had made his bed. And he had best lie in it.
If Spock were more attached to his dignity, he would create an excuse to return to his quarters and leave the whole charade for another night. Or never. As Spock was Vulcan, and therefore his dignity was transient, he turned his focus to the chessboard. "The first move is yours, Jim."
Kirk's responding sly grin was almost enough to make Spock reconsider the evident value of his dwindling dignity. Kirk moved his first piece: the knight. Almost certainly an attempt at the Cai Simeon maneuver, which was an alternate for the Ruy López opening.
As his mind was…occupied with other matters, Spock determined his best strategy was to move closely to Kirk's pieces, but remain on defense. He had to split his attention between watching Kirk, the game, and watching for an opening to test the final piece of his hypothesis.
Not long into the game, Kirk offered it; he scooped up one of Spock's pawns as Spock was removing his hand, an uncharacteristically over eager reaction for him, and Spock slowed the speed of his hands retreat so that his fingers glanced over the top of Kirk's knuckles.
A flash of something slipped through his shields. As Spock was prepared for the onset of arousal, he mitigated it. The emotion attached to it, however, was far stronger—Spock restrained his reaction, only barely. Spock's hand finished its retreat as he suppressed a shiver. On any other night, he was sure Kirk would have been too engrossed in their game to have noticed.
But it was not any other night. Kirk was already seemingly suspicious from Spock's earlier behavior deviations and was on guard. His eyes followed Spock's minutely trembling clasped hands, settled onto the table to disguise his weakness. Kirk's eyes followed to his wrist, and then to Spock's face, his eyes flickering with intrigue.
Kirk's hand had frozen between the second and third level. He withdrew his hand and completed removing Spock's fallen piece. "Check," he said. Spock glanced at the board and moved his king to safety on the lowest level. By the time his gaze returned to Kirk, the Captain was smiling.
"So," he began. "What's with the hands?"
Spock's throat was dry. "Pardon?"
"The hands," Kirk repeated gently. Firmly.
"Hands, Jim?" Sometimes, if Spock were particularly lucky, his innocence would go uncontested by his human crew, as one of those 'silly Vulcan quirks' and never brought up again.
He was not so lucky, and Kirk's curiosity was licking up his sleeves, catching fire from where they briefly touched. Kirk raised his brow. "Bones told me you woke him up this morning with a weird question," Kirk offered.
Ah.
That was…unfortunate.
In his narrow-minded focus on data, he had forgotten that Doctor McCoy was, most unfortunately, a word that he had heard from the Terran members of the crew to express dismay at personal betrayal: an unrepentant narc. He was also the Captain's most direct informant of Spock's activities, so it should not have been altogether surprising that McCoy ratted him out. Which was yet another curious Terran metaphor. Clearly, he had been spending far too much time with humans. And, particularly, far too much time with Doctor McCoy.
Deflection was the most suited response while he gathered his thoughts. "The doctor is prone to believing many of my questions are, in his words, 'weird'."
Kirk glanced up at him through his eyelashes; coy. Teasing. "He said you told him you wanted to hold his hand."
"I certainly did not," Spock protested, but not so strongly that Kirk would gain more suspicion.
Kirk laughed slightly. "Alright, maybe not quite that. One of you might be missing an arm if you tried. But he said you were acting a little…squirrely."
Spock raised his eyebrow at the adjective. "Another human aphorism, sir?"
"I'm starting to see his point," Kirk said, instead of answering. His voice was still warm and amused. "You are acting a little squirrely. So, the hands?"
The Captain's intent to press for answers was expected, but not ideal. Unavoidable. "I had reason to believe my telepathic shielding became compromised," Spock answered smoothly. "I sought the doctor's aid in determining if it was a fluctuation, or a symptom of a more serious diagnosis. I determined it was the former." Misdirection without lying. Though still deception on a minute scale.
"I see," Kirk said, amused, but no less interested. Spock's non-answer didn't have the intended effect to reassure him. If anything, it seemed to make him more curious. "And your hands are that sensitive, that you needed to…test it today?"
"Vulcan hands are no more or less sensitive than humans." This avenue of conversation was no longer beneficial. Another redirection was required. "I have never begun to understand the larger confusion that other species appear to hold about the significance of our hands, however." That was true; Vulcan hand sensitivity was only of note to Vulcans, and their respective bondmates. Therefore any and all other speculation was unnecessary.
Kirk's lips quirked. "Well, they do tell you in Starfleet Xenocultures 101 not to shake hands with a Vulcan."
"Curious," Spock remarked, "as that is not a correct instruction on Vulcan socio-cultural mores by any means." That was genuinely curious. And somewhat worrisome that nobody had corrected that particular instruction. Purely another Starfleet oversight in the general knowledge and cultural presence of relevant Vulcan socio-biological study.
The pawn Kirk was twirling in his hand returned to the board, seemingly re-thinking his turn. Or simply distracted by the discussion at hand. Also not ideal. "I suppose so. A shame they don't tell you that at the academy. Why, if one were to do some more reading into the subject, Vulcan hands are really not so sensitive. Generally speaking." Kirk's expression shifted and Spock caught a glimpse of that warrior fire in his eyes. The one he wore in combat. Sometimes when they sparred, or occasionally when he had Spock cornered in a masterful chess gambit. The game lay half-finished between them, and Kirk still held the advantage, but no clear victory. Spock attempted not to show his growing apprehension.
"...Generally speaking." Spock echoed, hesitant.
"So," Kirk held out his hand. "If you were to touch my hand again—" Spock barely refrained from frowning at the borderline accusation "—nothing…would happen. Correct?"
The chess game hadn't been in the Captain's aim at all. Another unfortunate but not unsurprising turn of events.
"That would be correct," Spock replied. He held Kirk's gaze as his hand crouched closer, closer to Spock's own at the edge of the table.
Jim paused centimeters from his skin. "Hypothetically—what would be implied if something did happen, Mr. Spock?"
Spock glowered at the remaining gap between their fingers. "...Something unusual," he said, mentally weighing the likelihood of his psionic shields failing on contact. The calculations were not promising. "But I assume, also very…interesting."
Kirk's gaze was sharp as he pressed forward, eagerness visible in the line of his body. "Let's find out, shall we?"
He now recognized that strange, unfamiliar expression on Jim's face. Spock was only accustomed to viewing it from afar, a side view. That expression was the one Jim wore when he was intent on the pursuit of a paramour. It was Jim's expression during a hunt; and Spock, for the first time, was seeing now that he was the Captain's intended prey.
Their skin touched. The whirls of Kirk's fingertips met his palm. Spock nearly gasped aloud at the intensity of it; even with his shields raised as high and wide as he made them were no match for the rush of sensation and emotion. Warm skin on cool skin. The rough but gentle drag of Kirk's calluses over his own. Anticipation. Concern. Arousal. Interest. Satisfaction.
The last emotion was not his. Spock forced his eyes open (unaware they had ever closed) and stared. He withdrew his hand from Kirk's as though pulling away from an open flame. "How," he started.
"I had to do some investigating after last night," Kirk explained. Casual. As if any Vulcan research could be casual; Spock dreaded the imminent security briefing that was sure to be scheduled if Starfleet caught wind of Kirk hacking sealed files. Again. "It would seem this…thing…between us. It goes both ways, doesn't it?"
A hot flash of dread and shame settled at the bottom of his abdomen. Which would mean—!
"I felt you," Kirk added, still smiling, all teeth, "yesterday. In the gym. And again, just now, when you thought you were being…stealthy. Though I may have had the advantage, because I knew something you didn't."
Emotional transference with a bond—or rather the bond—that Spock suspected they shared was simply assumed. Spock somehow missed that area in his calculations.
The shame in his gut reached its boiling point. "Sir. I apologize for—"
His apology went unfinished as Kirk shook his head. The teeth slid out of his smile, offering the more gentle and amused version with his lips lightly pressed together. "You were right. It was…something unusual," he repeated with Spock's own phrasing. "And very interesting."
Something was wrong with the atmospheric controls. It was getting uncomfortably difficult and challenging for him to pull air. His voice was weak when Spock spoke again: "It is an unforgivable trespass, nonetheless."
Kirk eyed him over the board. His smile had vanished, leaving only seriousness. It was too strong. Spock could not hold his own under that look, so he averted his eyes. "I'm not sure about that, mister."
"Accidental telepathic bonds between individuals without consent is not a light matter, Jim." Spock kept his own gaze low, on the bottom pieces of what remained of his defenses. Inadequate in all manner of speaking. "I assure you, it was never my intent…for this to occur. Especially a bond of this importance."
"And what bond would that be?" Spock gave in to the temptation to watch his expression. The Captain's face was serene, even in the face of Spock's clear resignation.
"A permanent one," Spock answered stiffly, addressing the board moreso than the human before him. "The implications of a bond like this, especially when it may be unwanted by the parties involved, are nothing short of disastrous."
"Disastrous," Kirk repeated. Spock shook his head numbly. "I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself. Whatever is between us, it could never be anything but wanted, Spock," he corrected. Gently. "You're never unwanted by me. And I think, not I by you, either."
Spock's voice dipped as he tried to breathe steadily. "No," he said, his voice so low it was more of a croak. "Not unwanted."
"You can stop with the self-flagellation about it now," Kirk assured, teasing, ever so slightly. His smile had returned. "I'm sure we'll have…all the time tomorrow and countless hours in the future. To talk. I want to know everything there is, as I'm sure you do…what it is. All of our questions. Why is it there, between us? What made it happen?"
Spock opened his mouth to reply but Kirk shook his head again. "Another time," he promised. "All things for another time."
Kirk held out his hand. For a moment Spock stared at it, as though it were a foreign and strange creature, before he hesitantly held out his own. Left it hovering above Kirk's, too wary and full of uncertainty and cowardice to make contact. Kirk's hand stayed where it was, until the tips of his fingers were nearly trembling with the strain of the awkward angle he fought to keep it at.
"Spock," Kirk said, the start of a question. The last of Spock's defenses, that he hadn't even recognized himself, shuddered and fell in place. He lowered his hand and grasped Kirk's, as wholly, greedily, and desperately as Kirk held him, too.
Kirk's other hand reached for Spock's abandoned one. Spock groaned aloud at the touch, sparks skittering off his skin from where Kirk's fingers scratched and pulled and dragged him closer. The chess board nearly toppled as Spock closed in on him, disregarding the scattered pieces as they slid from their places upon the board.
Clever, strong fingers found purchase in his hair and assisted Spock's frantic scrambling to seat himself before Kirk. Spock was on his knees on the floor without much in the way of memory as to how he got there, but he wasn't complaining. One hand remained captured in Kirk's clutch as Kirk stroked over his fingers, making the rest of his arm tremble and his body shudder. The hand in his hair scratched over the base of his skull where his hair was closest to his scalp, the feeling magnified by every other one of his senses.
Spock was too distracted to complain when the hand disappeared. It quickly returned to sneak under where his fingers were bent around the edge of the table for stability, and pulled each finger off, one at a time.
Spock groaned as Kirk squeezed his fingers, lifting his arm higher until Spock was forced to lean on him for balance. "I have a pretty good hypothesis what might happen if I," Kirk said, though the sentence remained unfinished and vague. His breath was warm against Spock's palm. "But I think we should investigate. Do you concur, science officer?"
Deliriously, Spock whined aloud as Kirk lifted that hand to his mouth without waiting for an answer. His warm breath sent a flush through his body that he couldn't contain. That whine turned into an agonized groan as the tip of Spock's fingers were poised at Kirk's smiling lips, teasing, and Spock wondered if he would survive this—the force of Jim Kirk—or if he would succumb to the wild rush of feelings.
It was not the way Spock imagined his death, but for Jim, that was acceptable. It would be a death for good cause.
There were too many sensations at once for him to track. He caught them in flashes, one by one, while his mind struggled to catch up with the whole scene. The rough timbre of Kirk's voice as praise fell from his lips. The desperate clutch of his throat as he sucked and gasped around Kirk's length. Each time Kirk teased the tip of his fingertips on the ridge of his teeth Spock would choke and wheeze and Kirk would withdraw, laughing, and then when Spock grew comfortable again, he would repeat the action.
Spock's face was flushed. He felt the blood and heat in his cheeks, and based on how firmly Kirk gripped his hair, he knew his hair was in a similar state of dishevelment. If one of the crew were to walk into the Captain's quarters they would be treated to quite the sight: their cool first officer on his knees, groaning and clutching at the Captain's thighs, with Kirk's warm hand on his jaw as he guided himself to completion.
The breathy quality of Kirk's voice increased as he grew closer to finishing. Spock let out the loudest sound he had that evening as Kirk pulled out and released over him. His own orgasm took him by surprise, wiping aside whatever remained of his tattered shields and leaving him blinking dumbly at the open v-shape of Kirk's legs and his spent cock. And the mess that Spock had left behind.
As Kirk panted, he clawed at Spock's shoulders. "Did you—? Do you need me to—?"
Spock managed a weak head shake. There was also a rather explosive mess to be cleaned in his own undergarments, and it would grow beyond his comfort within eight minutes. Or so. He would need to reconfigure his internal chronometer in meditation. Later.
Kirk good naturedly leaned down to swipe some of the mess of his release and drool off Spock's chin and cheeks. "I think you're going to need a shower," he said, his voice dripping with affection.
Spock knelt forward and relaxed into the warmth of Kirk's thighs. He hadn't paid nearly enough attention to those thighs before. Foresight was a rare gift that few Vulcans possessed, which Spock did not have for certainty, but he was very certain he would worship those thighs in his future. The very near future, he hoped.
"You're talkative," Kirk teased. "Anybody home in there?"
"Mm," Spock replied. His mind tingled against the hovering, but slowly fading aura of Kirk's pleasure, though the air still held an echo of it that Spock's psionic senses soaked up like a sponge receiving rain in the desert.
"Mhm," Kirk imitated. Spock lifted his head slightly to peer up at him. "Up—up, Mr. Spock. I need you at full attention for shower duty."
Kirk grinned as Spock grumbled and slowly picked himself up. At eye-level, Kirk caught him by the jaw, and leaned in to press an affectionate, human kiss, just missing his lips on the left. "I'm very tempted to continue things out here," he said conversationally, "but I think a warm shower is a much better option."
Spock perked up. "I concur with your assessment." His voice sounded raw, but from the spark of hunger he caught off Kirk's skin, that was not to his disadvantage. "Sir."
Kirk chuckled and swatted him. "Don't you start with that. Get that shower going on the double, Mr. Spock. And make it water. I'm not messing around with those sonics if we're continuing where we left off in there."
"Yes, sir," Spock replied, because he knew it would make Kirk smile; and he was again, pleasantly gratified to be proven correct.