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“Checkmate,” Kirk announced, leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied grin.
It was well-deserved. He had bested Spock three times in as many games.
“You are, as you would say, ‘on a roll’ tonight, Captain,” Spock replied with a slight, conciliatory nod.
Not a falsehood—though not the entire truth. Kirk was playing exceptionally well. Spock attributed the captain’s sharp strategy to a combination of his own recent absence—four days attending a scientific symposium—and the day’s successful first contact. The man was in high spirits, and when he had requested an evening of chess in his quarters, his smile had been so brilliant that Spock regretted he could not record its luminescence.
Yet it was not solely the captain’s sanguine mood that had produced such victories. No—Spock had noted an uncharacteristic distraction: his own.
While the offer of chess may have been the opening of the door, Spock had expected no proper match to occur at all. In truth, he had been hoping—anticipating, even—that Kirk would engage him in sexual congress the moment he entered the captain’s quarters.
“One more for the road?” Kirk asked, that same vexatious smile playing at his lips.
Beneath the table, Spock’s fingers curled into his palms. Surely Kirk understood. Surely he could see the stiffness in Spock’s shoulders, or the way his gaze fixed so intently upon those sumptuous, pink human lips. They were still in the early stages of reconciliation, yes—but Kirk still knew Spock more intimately than he knew himself.
Eyes fluttering shut, Spock drew a meditative breath, willing himself to accept the evening’s quiet truism: intercourse would not occur. The resulting disappointment suffused his veins like molten lead, weighing down every centimeter of living flesh. It was followed by the knife of aggravation, a serrated edge cutting through his composure as easily as butter.
Was he truly so insatiable that he could not enjoy his partner’s company without physical union?
In the four-point-five months since V’Ger, their relationship had resumed much of its pre-separation rhythm. Exploration of the universe, engaging conversation over meals, competition in the gym, or over the board—each day contained any and all of these familiar rituals. They were reassuring. Comforting in their domesticity.
Yet, when it came to matters of intimacy, there was still hesitancy. A residual insecurity that if either party pushed too hard, they would rip away the scab that had been gradually knitting together the wound of their estrangement. The quantity of intercourse remained unchanged—an average of thrice weekly—but the quality had altered. Where once there was a mixture of tender and rough, gentle and domineering, now only sentimental touch remained.
Spock found himself uncertain how to ask for more. Sexual frustration fizzed beneath his skin like a gentle acid, corroding logic until only need remained. He desired intimacy tonight, but more than that, he yearned for Kirk to take him as before—to be commanded, restrained, undone. He wanted to be forced to submit.
“Tired?” Kirk’s gentle voice floated between them. Spock’s eyes snapped open to find dazzling hazel fixed on him with terrible tenderness. “We can call it a night here, if you’d like.”
Spock shook his head, though his body whispered treason, begging him to leave and sate the urges that had plagued him all evening.
“I am amenable to another match, Jim. I will take black, as the previous loser.”
Kirk hummed a low laugh. “Black suits you.”
Spock’s hands faltered minutely as he reset the board. For what purpose did such a statement serve? Humans often spoke compliments without reason, yet Kirk was rarely insincere. Was this perfunctory—or a hidden invitation, one Spock needed only to reach out and claim?
Kirk simply watched—perfectly poised, professional even—his smile a knowing curve that made Spock want to crawl toward him like some untamed animal. He swallowed against the constriction in his throat and placed the final pawn with unnecessary force.
With the board reset, Spock made his opening move, swiftly reinforcing his mental barriers against the anticipatory tremor rising within him at the sight of those calculating eyes. Kirk leaned forward, elbows braced on the desk, chin resting atop the backs of his entwined fingers as he observed. That quiet, knowing smile lingered—flushed, human, discomposing.
Spock felt exposed, the heat of Kirk’s gaze melting through flesh, bone, and marrow to liquefy the mind beneath—a fetid stew of cognition and longing simmering in a bony cauldron. Once, he had been first officer Spock. Now he was something else entirely: a mind undone, cooked alive under the scrutiny of the man who drove him to illogic.
Kirk’s white pawn replied in kind to Spock’s black, and they exchanged several moves in silence until Kirk claimed his first piece of the match. He sat back, tapping the conical head of the bishop thoughtfully against his lips. Lips that were a gateway to his mouth. A talented mouth containing a dexterous, smooth tongue. Spock wanted to tear the piece from his hand and replace it with his fingers.
“Spock,” the sound of his name snapped Spock’s attention back to Kirk’s eyes, narrowed as if in knowing calculation. “If you’re agreeable, I’d like to propose a twist to our final game.”
Spock raised an eyebrow, striving to project mild curiosity rather than the sudden flare of interest sparking beneath his skin like flint to kindling.
“What sort of alteration do you suggest?” he asked evenly.
Kirk rose, smile taking on a familiar quality Spock recognized at once—lips twisting into an expression almost nefarious in nature. Spock’s physical controls wavered, mask of Vulcan impartiality threatening to slip and reveal the ravenous beast within. It was the look he had been craving since their reunification. One he had salivated over during evenings of shameful self-stimulation when Kirk’s gentle touch had simply not been enough.
It was the unrepentant expression of a man about to take what was his.
The captain disappeared behind the cabin’s room divider, and Spock attempted, quite uselessly, to quell the marked acceleration of his heart rate. The desire to move—to expel the accumulation of anticipatory energy festering within him—was nearly intolerable. He wondered if, were he simply to strip bare and kneel before Kirk—hands extended in supplication—the man might at last resume their former dynamic of command and submission. Perhaps that was precisely the response Kirk had been waiting for all evening.
Even after years spent in each other’s orbit, Spock could still find Kirk as abstruse as the day they met. It was one of the countless reasons he had failed to escape the captain’s gravitational pull during kolinahr, when both time and innumerable astronomical units separated them. It was why he now remained seated in deferential apprehension, awaiting the moment of impact.
When Kirk reemerged, he held a length of silk between his hands. Its deep obsidian sheen shimmered with an almost preternatural luster beneath the sterile cabin lights.
“If you’re uncomfortable at any point,” Kirk intoned, circling behind Spock’s chair, “say ceasefire.”
Spock stiffened as the jet-black silk descended to engulf his vision. The soft rasp of Kirk’s calloused fingers snagging on the weave filled his ears. The cloth—almost unbearable in its smoothness—pressed against his eyes, carrying the faint trace of Kirk’s body heat and the saline tang of human skin. Spock summoned yet another layer of mental discipline, as though that very warmth were increasing the kinetic energy of his emotional state.
“Spock?” Where before there had been easy confidence, Kirk’s voice now held a note of concern—of uncertainty. He placed a hand briefly atop Spock’s left shoulder. The heat of his palm smoldered through the fabric, Vulcan skin bubbling up to meet the calefaction of human contact.
Spock wanted to ask what had changed, why this particular night had drawn such courage from Kirk’s restraint—but the inquiry could wait. This moment, long gestating in silence, had finally ruptured. The overripe nectar of dissatisfaction had split open between them, its scent cloying and sweet, and Kirk was at last going to make him drink it.
“Affirmative, Captain,” Spock replied, specifically deferring to Kirk’s rank.
The hand withdrew, and the sound of Kirk’s steps circling to Spock’s front echoed through the quiet of the quarters, only broken by the hum of dilithium-powered engines.
“Excellent.”
“Though I do not understand the logic behind requesting a fourth match only to blind your opponent,” Spock added, though the words held no real bite. They were all part of the dance—the ritual between them. Spock would resist—claw, hiss, spit—but in the end, he always yielded.
Kirk scoffed, his voice cutting the air with sharp authority. “If you hold your tongue, I’ll explain.”
Spock swallowed what protest lingered in his throat at that commanding tone—the space between them now crackling with electric promise.
“I want you to play me with no visual aid of the board. Understand?” Kirk paused—whether for dramatic effect or to await a reply, Spock did not know. He nodded all the same.
“Good. If you beat me,” Kirk continued, voice deepening into a deliberate crawl, “you’ll be rewarded.”
“Understood,” Spock replied, striving to suppress the quaver of excitement edging his voice.
Kirk hummed his approval. “Excellent. Now, I believe it was your turn. Tell me your move, and I’ll make it for you.”
Spock brought the board to mind with absolute clarity, each piece locked in memory. Though as he began to deliberate his next move, Spock found himself acutely aware of Kirk’s proximity. He had expected the captain to return to his seat on the opposite side of the table. Instead, Kirk remained planted in front of him, radiating waves of alien heat that charred his cheeks. Perhaps the captain was leaning against the desk, studying Spock’s expression for cracks in composure. Maybe standing upright less than a meter from Spock’s blindfolded face.
If concentration had eluded him before, it was now wholly beyond reach.
“Knight to low tier, C-three,” he said finally.
The gentle thump of a chess piece.
“Capture knight with pawn,” Kirk replied.
The quiet clack of the overturned knight rang in Spock’s ears with all the ominous foreboding of a funeral bell—followed by the blooming of warmth along the side of his face.
“Concentrate, Commander,” Kirk purred—so close that the incandescent fire of his breath ghosted along the delicate tip of Spock’s ear. A shiver traced up his spine, and a heat began to unfurl low in his abdomen. The arousal festering beneath his dermis now came fully to life—half-dormant serpent of lust waking and coiling in the hollow between stomach and intestines, slithering its way languidly through organs and up into his chest cavity in a continuous throbbing glide.
Already his body temperature had risen by an estimated 1.3 degrees and was still increasing, though the cabin’s atmosphere remained as chill as ever. Even the air filling his lungs felt stifling, putrefied and bereft of oxygen. His awareness of his own pulse—at the base of his throat, behind his ears, between his thighs—was becoming increasingly impossible to ignore.
“Pawn to lower—”
He started at the sudden sensation of a foreign object tracing the shell of his ear. It was small—perhaps the breadth of a thumb—and conical, tapering to a point. The object moved with deliberate slowness from the apex of his ear down along its curve toward his jaw.
“—lower tier, D-four.”
A beat of silence followed. Only the engine’s hum and the thunder of Spock's own heartbeat filled the void.
“Knight to middle tier, F-three,” Kirk replied evenly.
Spock endeavored to maintain his esemplastic vision of the board, but it wavered like a mirage in the desert as the object continued its descent along the line of his jaw—intolerably sluggish in its advance. His breath deepened involuntarily as it reached his chin and began an ascent toward his mouth.
“Bishop to lower tier, E-three.”
Again came the soft clack of pieces, though his concentration fractured when the object brushed the meat of his lower lip.
“Open,” Kirk ordered, quiet yet absolute.
Spock obeyed. Wetting his lips, he parted them just enough to admit the object into the cool moisture of his mouth. The coiled pressure in his abdomen tightened. His heart hammered unchecked against his ribs, and his hands, fisted atop his knees, were growing increasingly warm and clammy.
He had been fighting the inevitable shift of blood southward but finally failed with spectacular verve when, upon further examination with his tongue, he identified the object now penetrating his mouth as the bishop Kirk had captured earlier. Knowing it had touched the captain’s lips precisely ten-point-one minutes prior, Spock’s physical control faltered enough for his sheath to engorge in record time. Plumped, spongy, hypersensitive flesh quickly began to throb against the confines of his undergarments in rhythm with his pulse.
“Exemplary. Outstanding, Spock,” Kirk murmured. Another object—this time the unmistakable warmth of Kirk’s hand—rose to cradle Spock’s chin between thumb and forefinger. Strong, calloused fingers branded him, searing a tattoo into the very marrow of his jawbone. An involuntary whine threatened to escape before he ruthlessly suppressed it.
Then the hand was gone, and Spock’s head tilted slightly forward in its wake, pulled by the phantom thread of its heat.
“Pawn to upper tier, G-four,” Kirk said—his voice once more measured and professional, as though nothing had transpired at all. As though he were not still holding the chess piece gliding along Spock’s tongue, calculating the evenness of his teeth, coating itself with the viscosity of his bodily fluids.
“You know,” Kirk continued, drawing the piece away only to outline Spock’s lips—tracing the curve of his cupid’s bow to the corners of his mouth. The bishop left a faint sheen of saliva in its wake. Spock uncurled his bloodless fists, palms now damp with perspiration. He suspected evidence of his discomfiture would remain in the form of half-moon indentations where his nails had been digging into his abductor muscles.
“I’ve been wanting to do this again from the moment you stepped back aboard the Enterprise.” The bishop abandoned his lips, now sojourning toward his throat. “Wanting to make you surrender to me. To hear the great Commander Spock of Vulcan beg for my cock again. And yet—”
Kirk paused. Spock swallowed, the piece bobbing with the movement of his laryngeal prominence. He barely registered that his mouth had remained open, breath now spilling in shallow, ungoverned pants. When the bishop stopped at the hollow of his throat, he willed away the sudden, burning desire to press his recalcitrant body into its carved point.
“Your move, Mister Spock,” Kirk said, expectant.
Spock clenched his jaw, a wave of frustration crashing over his composure in tandem with a particularly hard throb at the lips of his sheath. Of all times to reinstate their former sexual hierarchy, Spock found himself wishing it had not followed four days of involuntary abstinence.
“Captain—” Spock began indignantly, but was cut off at the sharp press of the bishop’s tapered point into the soft pit between his decolletage. He gasped, biting his cheek to keep himself from whimpering.
“Unless your next words are a chess move, I expect silence.”
Had Spock’s eyes been open, they might have rolled back. He was salivating excessively now, genitals heavy and constricted between closed thighs. He struggled to remain still. Finally, granted the domination he had craved for months, he was uncertain whether he would survive the night intact. The experience was akin to watching a star go nova—an exquisite annihilation, radiant and ruinous in equal measure.
The strain of the bishop’s point to his neck continued to grow, first a gentle pinch now a needle plunging into the delicate skin of his neck and punching through the protective muscular casing of his esophagus. Finally, when the pain outweighed the pleasure, Spock inclined his head in wordless submission. The pressure at his throat abated, and the bishop resumed its leisurely journey, now busied with mapping the curvature of his clavicles. A tremor shot up his spine from coccyx to brain stem, sparking his synapses in a dazzling cascade of electrical fire.
“That’s better,” Kirk purred, “Now, what was I saying?”
Could one expire from sexual frustration? Spock began to fear he was in danger of learning the answer.
“Ah, right. The truth is, I’ve been having some residual worries about us—about this.” Kirk’s tone was deliberate, measured, yet Spock could sense the restraint—the words slipping into more confession than taunt.
“But I decided that, if we were going to be together again—I really want to do it, Spock. All of it.”
The bishop swept diagonally across Spock’s chest, finding one taut, pebbled nipple and circling it with cerebral precision.
“I knew you wanted me to fuck you the moment you stepped into my quarters. I could feel your arousal through our link.” The bishop paused, point digging directly into the point of his nipple, “And honestly, I’m tired of holding back.”
Spock’s lok was now fully erect, its swollen length straining against the confines of its fleshy sheath. His fra’als writhed within their prison, seeking freedom he dared not grant. He pressed his thighs tighter together, intensifying the ache until pressure became exquisite pain.
“And to think—you were going to retreat to your cabin and relieve yourself alone.” Kirk’s voice was dripping with such eroticism that Spock was becoming concerned he would climax simply from auditory stimulation alone. Their mental link was still tenuous, not yet fully restored, but clearly Spock’s thoughts had been loud indeed.
Being in Kirk’s presence always made him a bit careless.
Without warning, Kirk’s fingers clamped around his jaw with white-hot possession, tilting his blindfolded head upward until Spock felt the searing heat of Kirk’s breath flaying the skin from his lips.
“Do you like when I touch you like this?”
A beat of silence.
“You may answer.”
“Yes,” Spock whispered in a shuddering exhale.
The fingers tightened, pain blooming sweetly beneath his skin.
“‘Yes’ what?”
“Yes, Captain.”
Kirk leaned in so close to Spock’s mouth he could taste the tang of evening coffee on his breath. His traitorous tongue slithered to the forefront of his mouth, lips parted in a pathetic display of want. His lok spasmed hard enough that he was certain he had shot a few threads of pre-ejaculate into his undergarments.
“So obedient for me,” Kirk sighed against his lips—and then withdrew, leaving only the bishop’s cool tip tracing his nipple once more.
“Now, your move.”
“Queen to middle tier, D-six,” Spock blurted, the words harsher than intended. He had scarcely calculated the consequences before speaking. Physical sensation had eclipsed all thought. The thick, tumescent pulse between his thighs beat like a klaxon within the confines of his skull.
The bishop shifted to attend his other nipple, massaging the rigid peak through the thin barrier of Spock’s uniform, the curved head tracing agonizingly slow arcs.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” the captain sighed, all mock regret. “It seems you’re far too distracted to claim your reward after all. Knight to upper tier, G-five—check.”
An acute panic tore through Spock, shoving past the remnants of his mental controls. Would Kirk honestly act in so pernicious a manner as to leave him in this state? He had been cruel before, had brought Spock to the edge of oblivion only to deny him release for hours, sometimes days—but that had been then, when certainty still existed between them. After months of waiting, could Kirk really walk away now?
Immediately—instinct overriding logic—Spock reached out blindly for the erection he was ninety-seven percent certain Kirk possessed. His assumption proved correct when his hand met resistance and scalding heat, the truth of Kirk’s lust blazing an imprint into his palm. Long fingers closed around the bulge scarcely thirty centimeters from his face, and he did not bother to conceal the self-satisfied smile as Kirk sucked in a jagged inhale. The wandering chess piece stalled, momentarily forgotten.
“I have yet to forfeit, Captain,” Spock replied smugly, palming the rigid outline. It jumped readily to his touch.
Then Kirk’s fingers curled ruthlessly around his wrist and wrenched the aberrant hand away.
“I said,” Kirk ground out, voice dipping to a hazardous growl, “no speaking unless it’s a move.”
The command did nothing to lessen the boiling hunger within Spock’s veins, steadily stewing him from the inside, as Kirk’s fevered grip guided his hand back to its place atop his knee, the fabric beneath slick with perspiration.
“Try that again,” Kirk warned, bishop resuming its movement, now traveling languidly past his solar plexus, “And you can kiss that reward goodbye. Don’t forget that I’m your captain.”
The reminder landed like a black hole between them, pulled toward the inevitable. Ownership, reassurance, and threat all at once. Spock nodded mutely, willing his concentration away from the throb in his groin, though obedience to such a command felt akin to attempting to tally individual stars while traveling at warp.
“Good. You’re so sexy when you’re obedient,” Kirk purred.
Spock exhaled a shaky breath, finally choosing his next move with closer attention than his previous. With the chess piece traveling along the less sensitive areas of his abdomen, it served as a brief reprieve from the onslaught. The precious nine-point-five seconds (by his calculation of the piece’s velocity toward more physically responsive areas) allowed Spock to focus on some haphazard attempts of mental repair.
It did not last.
“Bishop to middle tier, G-six, blo—ahh—” Spock’s voice dissolved into a feeble mewl, last word of ‘block’ evaporating beneath the magma-rich heat of Kirk’s fingers suddenly threading through his hair. The captain stroked the crown of his head softly, seeming to luxuriate in just how far he was able to push the limits of Spock’s discipline—now but a tentative, fraying rope pulled taut over a jagged spear of rock.
Lust bled through the touch as an open wound. As if Kirk had drilled a hole into Spock’s skull and proceeded to vomit unbridled, debauched thoughts into the cavity between bone and brain. They dripped and settled into the rippling crevices of gray matter, curling about his cerebellum and taking root.
Just as Spock began to debate the consequences of remaining obsequious to Kirk’s commands, the hand withdrew, leaving the crown of his head woefully frigid in its wake.
“Pawn takes bishop,” Kirk stated coolly. The faint thump of shifting pieces was nearly drowned out by the rhythmic pound of blood roaring in Spock’s ears—the rising cacophony threatening to rupture his eardrums.
“Knight to lower tier, F-four—check,” He snapped through gritted teeth.
The languorous movement of the piece faltered, now resting in the shallow depression of Spock’s umbilicus over thin fabric.
“Even like this,” Kirk exhaled raggedly—decisive tone slipping briefly into a delicious rasp—“you still manage to challenge me. Would that I could fuck that big, Vulcan brain.”
Spock could not suppress the faint quirk at the corner of his lips at the captain’s fracturing equanimity. He suspected Kirk would not stop him if he chose to end the game prematurely—but that was not their way. Each man was more stubborn than the other, and if there was one contest they both relished, it was the quiet war of will forever waged between them.
It was what drew them together: the mutual experience of falling into each other’s event horizon. Kirk desired not only to structure their intimacy for his own pleasure, but to provide Spock an outlet—to let him relinquish the iron control he maintained in every waking moment. Their push and pull, dominance and submission, was like swimming perpendicular to a rip current. There was always the danger of being dragged too far, of sinking into the depths—but trust kept them buoyant, safe.
After a moment’s breath, Kirk continued, voice restored to coolly confident, “King to middle tier, H-two.”
Then the piece was moving again, and there was only one place left for it to explore. Spock could not contain the quiet hum of impatience when it finally reached the closure of his slacks. The fabric beneath his arms was damp with perspiration—a rare physiological phenomenon for him. The fingers gripping his knees now pressed so hard that the tightly woven cotton strained beneath them. He found himself quietly grateful that he had recently trimmed his nails.
“Q—Queen to lower tier, D-two—check,” he murmured, attempting—and failing—to mask the hitch in his breath as the piece reached the fabric directly above his soaking, engorged slit. His lok throbbed in anticipation.
Kirk hummed knowingly—but beneath the sound, Spock could hear his crumbling restraint. Just as desperate as Spock. Just as wanting.
“You want your reward, don’t you? Look at you, working so very—” The piece slowed its descent to a crawl. “—very—”
Spock held his breath. He was sure he heard the crack of ribs vainly attempting to contain his frenzied, untamed heart. His thighs parted slightly despite his best efforts at control. His body now refused his commands; if he would not grant it satisfaction willingly, his physiology would see to it regardless.
“—hard,” Kirk finished, and the bishop pressed into the wet fabric clinging to Spock’s sheath.
Spock threw his head back, a loud moan tearing free from his lips. His thighs spread wider, allowing his lok and fra’als to partially emerge before being arrested by the barrier of his undergarments.
The touch was nowhere near sufficient. The piece was minuscule—its pressure against his genitals almost as maddening as the anticipation that had preceded it. Spock’s hips bucked against the bishop of their own accord, grinding into the point with wanton aggravation.
“Spock,” Kirk groaned, and Spock realized the captain was leaning close, free hand now braced against the back of the chair. His breath was hot against the silk covering Spock’s eyes. How near was he? If Spock tilted forward, would he be able to taste that intoxicating human mouth?
“Spock,” Kirk said again—his voice strained, broken. “Please fucking beat me. Please.”
He would. Spock would win the match even if it meant perpetrating the most dishonorable act a Vulcan could do—cheating. In this moment, no boundary existed that he would not cross, no taboo he would not break, no sin he would not commit.
To think he would have returned to his quarters to relieve himself when the sun was his to have. Kirk’s breath against his face flayed the skin from his bones, boiling his eyes within their sockets beneath the overheated silk. Human avarice of unchecked lust leaked steadily through the weak mental barriers Spock had once taught him, roasting his mind within the oven of his skull.
He would have Kirk. Yet—
Spock huffed in indignation. “Captain, it is your turn.”
“Shit,” Kirk muttered. The motion of the piece against the tip of Spock’s lok faltered, and he groaned in dissatisfaction. “Sorry—uh—Knight blocks, lower tier, F-three.”
Spock could have laughed. He could have sung Handel’s Messiah and dropped to his knees in praise of whatever gods that may or may not exist.
“Rook to lower tier, E-one—checkmate,” he immediately replied. The flood of relief that filled the space between them stole the breath from his lungs.
“Oh, thank god,” Kirk burst out—and instantly his lips were on Spock's. The bishop clattered to the floor unceremoniously, and a hot, human hand closed roughly around his sheath.
They moaned obscenely into the other’s mouth, air quickly turning humid between the mingling of breathless gasps. Kirk’s smooth, torrid tongue trailed a path of burning skin in its wake as he licked ravenously into Spock’s comparatively cool mouth. He continued palming the soaked fabric, and Spock closed his thighs around the hand as he ground up into the appendage. Yet still, Spock burned with vestigial dissatisfaction. It wasn’t enough. Kirk’s touch was a single drop where he needed an ocean.
Quickly, Spock’s deft fingers made short work of the closure to his uniform, all while he continued to slide his tongue through the super-heated lava of that volcanic mouth. Batting Kirk’s hand from his groin, Spock lifted his hips and slid his pants and undergarments down to his knees in one fluid motion. A guttural groan raked up his esophagus as the writhing mass of slimy organs that were his genitals were now free to emerge completely.
Kirk choked out a surprised laugh against his lips. “If I were a stronger man, I might punish you for that. Lucky for you—”
Spock jerked in violent surprise when Kirk suddenly shoved an overzealous hand into the nest with the singular purpose of locating his lok within a sea of nineteen squirming, oscillating fra’als.
“Ah, sorry, sorry,” He murmured, pulling off to kiss Spock’s cheek lightly, “Forgot you can’t see.”
At the moment, Spock could not have been more disinterested in Kirk’s apologies. Instead, he clapped a hand blindly on Kirk’s shoulder and pushed down in silent suggestion.
“More, Captain,” Spock urged, voice low and ragged. He pressed his uncomfortably engorged sheath into Kirk’s palm, fra'als sliding greedily up the hand to curl possessively around his wrist and draw him in. A perversion of a sea anemone, hungry for stimulation. “Please.”
Kirk hummed darkly, gave one last messy kiss—teeth knocking in their insistence—and then his heat was gone.
“Since you asked so nicely—” he purred, quickly prostrating himself before Spock. He hauled heavy Vulcan legs over his shoulders, threading his head into the narrow space between fabric and flesh. “How could I possibly say no?”
“Yessss,” Spock hissed, head lolling back as Kirk immediately buried his face between his thighs, human tongue already flicking against whatever organs it came into contact with, scalding the flesh with delicious flares of pleasure.
Though this was their first time since V’Ger engaging in such roleplay, its conclusion was as it had always been: Kirk was worshipful. Every command he gave was an act of devotion; every motion of his body a benediction offered through mastery, not surrender. And Spock received. He obeyed. He yielded to the rhythm of Kirk’s will until his strength failed him and he was reduced to a quagmire of boneless flesh—an obeisant ruin heaped upon a mattress.
Kirk nosed deeper into the pulsating viscera of Spock’s genitalia, searching for his erection. Unlike humans and their strange, external organs, Spock’s lok was significantly smaller than a human penis. His fra’als—an average of twenty centimeters long and two wide—each acted as an independent anchor during intercourse. If Spock were with a Vulcan, the organs would have worked to pull them closer, to entwine their bodies and minds until both parties achieved release.
As he was not with a Vulcan, the fra’als instead wormed their way into Kirk’s mouth, slapped wetly against his cheeks, and poked at his eyes in their blind search for purchase. Though still sightless, Spock perceived it all clearly through the telepathic sensitivity of the organs—a mental picture as erotic as it was grotesque.
“Jim,” Spock moaned, canting his hips forward in impetuous encouragement.
So impatient, came the wry thought through the link, warm and amused.
“You appear to be out of practice,” Spock managed between panting breaths, as Kirk’s tongue flicked and slid over the fra’als invading every millimeter of his mouth and face. “On—ahh—average, it has previously taken you five-point-nine seconds to begin fellating me."
Spock’s lok ached for long overdue touch, throbbing even harder with overzealous anticipation. He found himself rutting helplessly into Kirk’s face, instinct overriding any sense of decorum he may have once possessed.
Such a mouth on you —maybe you don’t deserve that reward after all. Kirk’s disgruntled thoughts slipped easily through Spock’s psi-sensitive fra’al tips, yet his movements didn’t cease. Finally, with a flood of mutual satisfaction converging messily in the space between them, Kirk’s mouth closed around Spock's lok. He keened toward the ceiling, the heat of Kirk’s tongue skinning him alive until only the singular imperative of release remained. He fisted a hand in the captain’s hair—strands no longer artificially lightened and loose, but dark and unruly—a chestnut mess of curls now tangled beneath his fingers.
Pressing Kirk into his groin, Spock thrust himself harder into the slick, burning mouth. Kirk flicked his tongue along the underside of Spock’s ridges as he pulled away, only to take him down to the base and suction hard—almost too hard—as he moved off again. Spock shuddered, trying to keep himself from simply ripping out Kirk’s hair in the haze.
Meanwhile, fra’als wound about Kirk’s head, leaving trails of slick in their wake as they maneuvered to lock his skull in place against the shifting mass. They tangled in the short hairs on the back of his neck, wrapped around the shell of his ears and pulled, wormed their way into his auditory canals, even prodded the entrances of his nostrils. A few managed to wriggle into space between lips and erection as Kirk sucked—exploring the inside of his mouth like geologists spelunking in a new and wondrous cavern.
Through the haze of come, come, come, Spock wondered distantly if Kirk could even breathe—but the question was swiftly answered by a bright, wordless pulse of reassurance through the link.
Let yourself go, sweetheart, Kirk commanded, the directive dripping sickly sweet and terrible with adoration.
So Spock obeyed—surrendering the last vestige of rational thought until only sensation remained. His body drew taut with inevitability, heat flooding every vessel and converging into a single unbearable point between his legs. Barely aware of any other portion of his body, he found his free hand yanking the blindfold from his eyes. The tightly woven fabric tore like tissue, falling into an instantly forgotten heap.
Vision restored, Spock beheld the seraphic deity kneeling before him. Kirk’s head—nearly mummified in undulating, muculent tentacles of pale green—bobbed in steady rhythm along his lok. Once bright eyes now hidden beneath flaxen lashes fanning across cheeks flushed with arousal.
Oh.
Spock detonated. The sound that tore from him—half cry, half gasp—echoed violently against the cabin’s bulkheads. His lok pulsed frantically, waves of release spilling down Kirk’s throat in a heavy, unstoppable flow. Kirk swallowed greedily, gagging in the onslaught of fra’als and come smacking against his soft palate. Spock’s entire genital mass contracted in rhythmic harmony, writhing in desperate reflex until the spasms ebbed and the room fell into a tenuous quiet. Only when Spock’s trembling hand came to rest upon Kirk’s hair in a silent plea for mercy did his movements gentle.
At last, Kirk eased away, disentangling himself from Spock’s body and lowering the legs to the floor. Wiping away the residual slick coating his face with the hem of his uniform, Kirk rested his cheek against Spock’s thigh with a long, shuddering exhale. His gaze ascended the length of Spock’s disheveled form until luminous hazel met deep mahogany.
“Hi,” he giggled breathlessly.
Spock could only incline his head in acknowledgment, finding himself temporarily incapable of speech. His limbs felt uncooperative; his body, boneless. It seemed his skeletal structure had liquefied within his skin and was slowly pooling across the deck.
Catching sight of the ruined silk puddled beside the chair, Kirk grinned, voice a rasp.
“My mother bought me that scarf, you know. Imported Rigelian silk isn’t cheap.”
Spock drew a steadying breath, summoning what composure he could.
“I am certain Winona would understand the necessity of its demise,” he replied softly. “As you bastardized her gift for torture, it was only logical to destroy it.”
Kirk coughed out a laugh. “For someone who just got tortured, you’re looking pretty good.”
Spock merely hummed, every inch of his skin still prickling as if he was being continually stimulated with a low-grade electrical current. He raised a hand to Kirk’s hair once more, reveling in the feel of soft strands, greasy with residual slick, sliding beneath over-sensitive finger pads.
“Why tonight, t’hy’la?” Spock finally asked.
Kirk, almost unsurprisingly, shrugged.
“How pissed would you be if I admitted to some encouragement from Bones?” He asked with a sheepish grin.
Spock responded with a raised eyebrow. “You would not possibly—”
“I didn’t!” Kirk laughed, patting Spock’s thigh before pushing to his feet, his knees popping audibly. “Jesus, I’m getting old.”
“You have made that complaint forty-two times since I re-assumed my position as first officer,” Spock said.
Kirk smirked at him. “Well, get used to it, sweetheart. You might still be a spring chicken in Vulcan years, but I’m not getting any younger.”
The warmth of his voice slipped over Spock like summer rain—gentle, familiar, steeped in quiet devotion.
“I think Bones could tell something was off,” Kirk went on, rolling his shoulders. “He said, and I quote, ‘Jim, as a two-time divorcee, I can tell when somethin’s wrong in the bedroom.’ Then added that if I didn’t quit brooding, he’d start drinking with Scotty.”
“The doctor is as irritatingly insightful as ever,” Spock grumbled.
Kirk chuckled, then exhaled, his tone softening. “Truth is… we’ve been better than I ever thought we could be again. But when it came to this—” he gestured toward the Vulcan still slumped bonelessly in the desk chair, slacks around his knees and softened genitalia partially resheathed—“I didn’t know how to ask for it again. I didn’t know if you wanted it after everything. I thought—” He paused, eyes flicking away for a moment. “I thought maybe it was one of the reasons you left.”
Spock regarded him evenly. “You were concerned that I would interpret dominance as regression.”
Kirk nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I kept thinking maybe that was part of what pushed you to kohlinar—that I made what we had too… carnal. Too human.”
Spock allowed his lips to curl into a soft, deliberate smile. “Ashaya, I left because I had to. To understand this. Us.” He hesitated, eyes dipping briefly where the outline of Kirk’s still-straining arousal pressed insistently against the fabric of his slacks. When his gaze lifted again, it was steady, hungry. “Since I returned, I have wanted… still want… for you to break me.”
The prominence at the front of Kirk’s pants twitched with obvious interest at the suggestion, though the man himself only grinned sheepishly.
“Forgot how much I missed that lack of refractory period. Already thirsty for me again?”
“My thirst never diminished,” Spock answered, voice dropping an octave. Then, with meticulous Vulcan precision, he toed off his boots and rose, stepping free of the tangle of fabric around his ankles. He removed his tunic and thermal undershirt, folding them neatly over the back of the chair before moving past Kirk with silent purpose.
The captain’s eyes widened, mouth falling open as Spock—now as bare as the day of his birth—swept the entire chess set from the desk in a single, unhurried motion. The pieces clattered to the floor, ricocheting off walls and rolling beneath furniture; the echoing clack of metal and plasticine sliced through heavy air, sharp as phaser fire. Spock leaned forward, palms braced against the frigid, polished surface—offering himself with Vulcan precision and human need.
He waited, arms extended, breath measured. When Kirk failed to move, Spock turned his head and met his gaze squarely, eyebrow raised in obvious expectation.
Kirk stared for a moment, then threw back his head, barking out a wild laugh. “You love presenting that goddamn ass for me, don’t you?”
“You love being presented this ‘goddamn ass’,” Spock replied evenly, gooseflesh rising along his arms from the chill of the table.
“Damn right I do,” Kirk answered with a Machiavellian grin—and then he was stripping out of his uniform with clumsy urgency. He nearly toppled when he tried to remove his trousers before his boots, and Spock was forced to avert his gaze before the corner of his mouth betrayed him with a smile.
Kirk disappeared behind the room divider, followed by frantic rustling—drawers opening, items shifting—and then he returned, coming around Spock’s back where naked heat radiated against his rear. Yet he did not touch him; he merely stood, taking in the sight.
Spock huffed in impatience and pushed his hips back, the bare skin of his rear brushing purposefully against the head of Kirk’s erection. Kirk gasped—a sound that dissolved into irrepressible laughter. The warmth of it spread through Spock’s chest like cotton: thick, nearly stifling, yet profoundly comforting.
“God forbid I take my time with you, good lord,” Kirk muttered. “You’re insatiable.”
“I would prefer the term ‘efficient,’” Spock replied, his tone calm despite the tremor of unsatisfied prurience still thrumming beneath his skin.
His fra’als had already begun to engorge again, sliding with restless persistence against the desk’s surface. Slick secreted along their lengths, spreading through the hair at his navel and dripping over the edge of the table as they searched in vain for entrances they would not find.
The small plastic click of a bottle cap brought Spock’s awareness back to the man behind him. Then came Kirk’s hand at the small of his back, followed by the tentative descent of lubricated fingers between his cheeks.
“Did you touch yourself while you were away?” Kirk asked as he pressed the first finger against Spock’s entrance.
His voice turned deep and velvety—thick dark chocolate, the kind of substance known to intoxicate Vulcans. It leisurely filled Spock’s ears, coating each thought until they grew heavy, indolent, and unspooled. His muscles twitched in quivering anticipation.
“…Yes,” he conceded into the table. Since reuniting with Kirk, his libido had returned with almost alarming vigor. Kirk had claimed his body was simply “making up for lost time.” During the four solar days away from the Enterprise, Spock had found himself unable to resist climax on two of them.
With a gentle push, Kirk’s finger breached the sensitive ring of muscle and began to piston in and out, methodically crooking to catch on Spock’s rim before dipping back in. Spock fisted his hands against the table, failing to still the involuntary clench that drew the digit farther inside. It was excruciating: the blistering heat of human flesh against hypersensitive nerves already primed from release, the deliberate rhythm that made him ache for acceleration, the unbearable knowledge that his body needed more—needed Kirk’s large, human-warm organ to anchor itself in him like a swollen leech, sucking every ounce of pleasure from his body until it ran dry.
“Did you think about me?”
The question was ludicrous. Asking if Spock thought about Kirk during his masturbatory sessions was akin to asking whether the Enterprise’s hull was composed of steel. (In truth, it was a compound metal, but steel constituted a large percentage.)
Spock pushed back onto the finger perfervidly. “You know the answer.” He answered impatiently. Of course, the cracking of his composure only made the finger slow and Kirk moan softly. Spock’s anger flared at the unmistakable, unctuous squelch of flesh on flesh.
“Jim,” Spock snapped, “if you intend to finish by your own hand, I have more productive tasks I could attend to during this time.”
A pause, then Kirk exhaled a scoff as his middle finger joined the index inside Spock’s body. The motion shifted from a piston to a scissor, stretching against the tight, quivering walls of Spock’s sphincter muscles.
“Careful, Commander,” Kirk warned, though the warmth of his voice betrayed any real irritation. “You already received your reward. This is just an added bonus.”
Yet, the errant second hand came to rest on the low dip of Spock’s back, rubbing slow, soothing circles of slick lubrication into his body hair. Spock grimaced at the sensation, yet the brush of fingers over the thin skin shielding his chenesi made him gasp and shudder.
“And in any case, is my stamina really that poor?” Kirk questioned with a deprecating laugh.
“Your sexual endurance is acceptable when you do not misuse time stimulating yourself before penetrating—” Spock cut himself off with a low growl of dissatisfaction he could no longer contain. Kirk was moving far too gradually, and Spock was already uncomfortably erect again, barely suppressing the urge to thrust himself against the inadequate friction of the table.
“Captain, if you do not increase your pace, I will be forced to take action.”
The press of a third finger to his rim stalled—then curled away—leaving Spock fisting his hands against the metal surface.
“You practically beg me to fuck you, only to complain I’m not doing it right,” Kirk said, his voice low and warning. “I would’ve thought you’d had enough teasing for one night. But maybe that’s my mistake—for assuming you could ever be anything other than as stubborn as the day is long.”
He pressed a thumb into Spock’s left chenesi, massaging the sensitive organ in slow circles while crooking the two fingers still inside him to stroke his prostate. Spock groaned into the table, his lok jerking against the metal with a wet plop. The touch was torturous—a woeful combination of insufficient and overstimulating.
“I can always just come all over your back and leave you like this, you know?” Kirk's fingers stroked him harder, hand shifting to massage the other testicle. Spock shuddered, a thin whimper escaping him. Threads of pre-ejaculate stretched from his lok to the desk—taut, glistening, snapping as he trembled. His body screamed—aching to be filled with the magma-hot flood of Kirk’s desire, yet pleading for mercy from the coarse assault upon his most sensitive nerves.
“Ffffine,” Spock hissed, pressing his forehead down hard enough to catch the straining buckle of the alloy beneath.
Barely cognizant of himself beyond the need to be filled, Spock willed his fra’als into action. From the wriggling nest beneath his hips, they slithered up the valley of his perineum, coiling around the wrist of Kirk’s penetrating hand to urge it onward. Another particularly long tendril wormed its way into the tight space between Kirk’s fingers and his rim, plunging into Spock at a more acceptable pace.
“You fucking—” Kirk gasped, and then his fingers were gone—ripped from the fra’als’ loose grasp as he draped himself over Spock’s frame. Spock almost cried out: igneous human flesh melting the skin around his spinal column and dripping down his sides onto the cold metal that bit into his chest. Kirk’s thoughts barreled through his brain with all the grace of a blind sehlat, clumsily tripping over themselves in their insistent hunger. The fra’al Spock had been thrusting into himself fell away from his entrance with a wet slap against the side of the table, leaving him panting and woefully empty.
“—slut.” The word was murmured between Spock’s shoulder blades, thick with reverence. “Shameless. Look at you. Desperate for me. How could I have ever hoped to move on from this?”
Silence settled—brief, heavy, viscous as blood cooling on alloy. The guilt of wasted years clung between them like condensation.
“You need never consider such ideations again, k’diwa,” Spock answered softly. He reached behind himself, fingers closing around the feverish weight of Kirk’s erection. The startled gasp that escaped Kirk was reward enough as he aligned them.
“Now please—fuck me,” he whispered in a broken plea.
Kirk giggled—sharp, delighted, almost unhinged. “Like I had any real hope of restraining myself tonight.”
One hand braced at the base, the other gripping Spock’s hip hard enough to bruise, Kirk pressed forward. The first breach tore a guttural sound from them both—wet, obscene, the noise of surrender. Inch by inch, he forced himself in until their thighs met, and Kirk's entire thick length sat, pulsing, deep inside. Spock exhaled shakily, the burn searing through his abdomen like acid through metal, pleasure and pain perfectly welded.
The pulse of blood in his overfilled lok ached, its tip dripping milky rivulets onto the desk, jumping up only to fall back into its own mess of secretions with a sickening splat. Yet, he denied himself touch. Denial was part of the worship; release only allowed by the command of the god above him, within him.
Then Kirk began to move—slow, deliberate, the drag of flesh so slick it bordered on liquid. His breath broke into Spock’s neck in little bursts, hot and damp. Each thrust forced filthy, moist sounds of suction from between their bodies—sickening in their lewdness.
“Fuck, I missed you,” Kirk breathed, voice shaking. “You smell so damn good. I—ahh—I even stole your robe to jack off with yesterday.”
“You pervert my household with such obscene behavior,” Spock managed as he forced his lungs to inhale in gasping bursts. “If it retains any—mmnh—of your residue, you will be expected to replace it and—hah—explain the matter to my father.”
Kirk laughed breathlessly and drove harder, hips snapping forward with wet, brutal rhythm. The slap of skin on skin echoed around the cabin, a perverted round of applause in response to the revival of their long-missed intimate dynamics.
“I came on myself, if that’s what you’re implying,” Kirk panted. “But I was thinking about coming on that smug Vulcan face of yours.”
Spock moaned urgently, hips tilting back to meet him.
“Harder, Jim,” he begged.
Kirk obeyed. He straightened, hand pressing between Spock’s shoulder blades until his chest flattened to the table, and began to fuck him with ruthless precision. Each thrust slammed home with a wet, bone-deep crack, striking Spock's prostate so mercilessly it left him breathless, dizzy, saliva pooling under his cheek. The hand moved from his back to his head, large palm pressing Spock roughly to the table, holding him fast. The tumescent scent of sweat, iron, and their interweaving fluids congealed within the air around them—humid, animal, asphyxiating.
“You like that, Spock?” Kirk rasped. “You want me to ruin you?”
“Yes, Jim,” Spock gasped.
“Captain,” Kirk corrected, voice gone low and feral. “Right now, you call me Captain.”
“Yes, C—Captain.”
A few daring fra’als slunk behind to join the fray: two burrowed back into the scorched heat of Spock’s abused opening, thrusting deeper than Kirk’s phallus could reach; three others curled about and cradled Kirk’s testes, one even stretching far enough to press against the sensitive skin of his perineum.
“Jesus—fuck—you haven’t done that since before,” Kirk gasped, hips briefly stuttering.
“Does it feel good, ashaya?” Spock murmured, voice thick with veneration.
“So fucking good,” Kirk grunted, his hand slipping carelessly along Spock’s qui’lari, slick human fingers unintentionally sliding obscenely along his meld points.
Spock struggled against the pull of premature climax—a struggle Kirk must have sensed, because he shoved two fingers roughly past Spock’s lips. The invasion burned through every neural circuit; it was as though Kirk were thrusting directly into his brain. Anal glands and cerebellum, rim and frontal lobe—each was stroked by the same rigid, molten axis. The spongy head caught on his rim with the same grotesque suction as it did upon the ridges of his mind. Flesh and organ meat sang together in squelching harmony.
Trying to maneuver against the iron of Kirk’s grip, Spock turned his head just enough to glimpse him from the corner of his eye—flushed, gleaming, terrifyingly beautiful. Saliva pooled, overflowing to run in little rivulets down his cheek as his tongue worshiped the fingers. The scent, the heat, the sound—too human, too alive, too much—and he surrendered himself to being rammed into oblivion.
“Oh god. Touch yourself, Spock." Kirk pleaded, voice high and tight with his own impending orgasm, "I want to watch you come.”
Finally allowing his hand to slip between table and body, Spock found the slick heat of his groin and tangled his fingers within the undulating viscera of organs. They coiled instinctually around his wrist, slick lengths slipping clumsily along his skin as they guided him toward his lok.
Kirk’s thrusts grew erratic—desperate. Spock’s eyes rolled back as sensation overtook him: the weight of Kirk’s thick-fingered hand pressing his head down, the acerbic air around them, suffocating his lungs with sex and pheromones, his own touch moving in concert with Kirk’s rhythm.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Touch yourself,” Kirk groaned above him. “Let me make you feel good—let—”
The words disintegrated into a strangled whimper as his hips snapped forward violently.
“Oh fuck—Spock, I’m gonna come.”
Spock could not reply. He no longer knew where he ended and Kirk began. They tumbled together like two streams converging into one massive river—physically, psychically. Where before there were two, there was now one pulsating, heaving, humping, convulsing homogeny of flesh and thought and need.
With a few final, frantic thrusts, Kirk buried himself as deep as their bodies allowed and spilled into him with a long, shuddering groan. The throbbing at his rim as Kirk filled him, the flood of mindless pleasure across his synapses and come into his body, the rough press of calloused fingers against his tongue—together they propelled Spock into orbit around his own body. He climaxed again, mouth open in a silent cry, his release coating hand, fra’als, and table.
For a time, there was only the hum of the ship and the slowing rhythm of their breath. Spock floated somewhere between consciousness and oblivion, every nerve alive with aftershocks of ecstasy. The weight of Kirk’s body felt distant, abstract—heat and gravity without form. His mind, so typically ordered, lay scattered in beautiful disarray, reduced to the primal pulse of satisfaction and the lingering echo of Kirk’s presence still resonating through skin and thought alike.
Slowly—like breaching the surface of a deep ocean—Spock began to return to himself. Kirk’s sweat-slick chest pressed against his back, their overheated skin clinging unpleasantly. The unmistakable odor of bodily secretions now permeated the cabin’s air and stung his nose. His genitals, softened and receding into their sheath, remained coated in the residue of his own seminal fluids, mingled with Kirk’s semen slowly seeping from around the captain’s retreating organ and trickling down his thighs.
Spock huffed in audible disgust. Kirk only giggled against his back.
“Feeling gross?” he asked warmly, wrapping thick, muscled arms around Spock’s torso and squeezing tight.
“As unclean as I invariably do post-coitus,” Spock murmured into the table’s surface.
“I’m sorry. Should’ve asked before I finished in you,” Kirk said softly, his mouth tracing lazy kisses up Spock’s spine.
Spock considered chiding him for his habitual lack of foresight, but such effort lay far beyond the torpid mass that had once been Spock of Vulcan.
“I would not have allowed you to withdraw,” he admitted at last.
Kirk tittered, delighting in the honesty, and with one last squeeze around Spock’s middle, pushed himself upright with a low groan.
“Well, you certainly made me work for it. My back’s already complaining,” Kirk said, stretching until his joints cracked in protest.
Spock rose more deliberately, surveying the devastation of the captain’s cabin. Though the desk was magnetized to the deck, they had managed to shift it several centimeters; it now nearly brushed one of the bookshelves lined with antique tomes. The bottle of lubricant had toppled long ago and lay forlornly in a corner. The chessboard and its pieces were scattered across the room—several flung to improbable distances.
“Considering the torment you inflicted upon my person during our match, I confess to feeling little remorse,” Spock observed, turning toward him.
The sight that greeted him was… sublime. Kirk’s coffee-dark hair clung damply to his forehead; his skin glowed, flushed and alive. Hazel eyes—star-rich, almost phosphorescent—regarded him with unguarded affection. The cosmos itself seemed to stir within the green-brown depths.
Without conscious thought, Spock lifted a hand and traced the clean line of Kirk’s jaw. “Exquisite,” he murmured.
Kirk closed his eyes, leaning into the touch. “Don’t think you can sweet-talk your way out of picking up the chess set,” he hummed, a sly smile curling at his lips.
“As they are your quarters, ashal-veh,” Spock replied quietly, leaning closer. “The tidying remains your duty.”
He pressed his lips to Kirk’s—soft, deliberate, the contact warm as fresh blood and as tender as newly cauterized flesh.
When he drew back, Kirk was smiling wryly. “Fine. But next time, we’re doing this in your quarters—and it won’t just be your eyes I’m tying up.”
Spock pressed his forehead to Kirk’s. His captain. His lover. His bondmate.
“I would expect nothing less of you, Jim.”
Meanwhile, some time earlier:
“Fuck. Goddamn it,” Leonard muttered, throwing aside his bunk pillow.
He already knew there was nothing beneath it but the mattress and its sterile white sheets. He’d checked three times.
“Of all the ever-lovin’ times to lose ’em.”
Another muted—but not muted enough—moan slipped through the bulkhead his bedframe was so conveniently welded to. Leonard should’ve prepared better. He should’ve made damn sure his headphones were found and accounted for long before Spock returned from that symposium.
This was his penance for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong—but hell, he was a doctor. He couldn’t ignore it when something was eating at Jim—and Spock, for that matter.
Another drawn-out groan made Leonard’s stomach lurch unpleasantly.
And could he at least sleep in sickbay tonight? No! Because nearly all the goddamn beds were full, and he sure as hell didn’t want his patients asking why the ship’s CMO was curled up on a biobed with a bottle of brandy.
Next time the Enterprise docked at Starbase One, Leonard decided, he was going to have a little chat with whoever designed this refit. Whosever bright idea it was to move his quarters from Deck Sixteen—right beside sickbay, for emergencies—to Deck Five with the rest of the officers was going to get an earful.
And now—oh, good lord—the telltale slapping of flesh on flesh. Leonard wondered if he turned his phaser to the highest setting, whether he could blow a hole clean through the hull. Right now, the vacuum of space looked more appealing than listening to that hobgoblin get the circuitry he called a brain fucked out of his ears.
“Harder, Jim,” came the voice of one pain-in-the-ass science officer through the wall.
Harder?! Oh, sweet god in heaven. Leonard resumed his search with a vigor he thought he’d aged out of decades ago—a gusto Jim should probably not be exercising in the sack when he was pushing forty.
No, no, no. Absolutely not. He slammed an iron door on that thought immediately. It wasn’t his business. If Jim wanted to have a heart attack balls-deep in that green-blooded Vulcan, Leonard damn well wasn’t going to interfere—doctor or not.
He checked under the bed—no luck.
On the refresher sink? Nothing.
Hell, in the damn air vent? Still nothing.
“You like that, Spock?”
Christ. No man should ever have to hear those words—spoken in that cadence—from his best friend and captain. Leonard started digging frantically through his pile of dirty laundry, which he really needed to ask a yeoman to collect tomorrow.
“Please. Please, in the name of all that is holy,” he whispered in prayer. And finally—
“Aha!” His hand closed around two small earbuds crammed into the pocket of a pair of slacks.
With a sigh of immense relief, Leonard shoved the headphones into his ears just as a muffled “Yes, Captain,” floated through the wall—quickly drowned out by the soothing sound of ocean waves.
Exhausted, he crawled into bed, resolving to clean the wreck of his cabin and requisition a backup pair of earbuds in the morning. As sleep claimed him, lulled by the gentle breaking of water on rock, Leonard decided that—while he’d gladly give up his ’Fleet salary (and maybe a limb or two) to never hear Jim or Spock like that again—he still preferred them happy and together rather than apart.
Some things, he supposed, were worth suffering for.