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Through the (carefully) left open doors of their shared bathroom, Jim at last hears the sound of Spock entering his room.
Finally!
Jim wriggles a bit where he’s splayed out on his bed, making sure he’s still as artfully arranged as he’d been three hours ago, when Spock was supposed to be getting off shift. His dick, deflated quite a bit from boredom, begins to perk up again with excitement. He gives himself a few tugs for maximum effect. Ok. This is it.
Jim’s moment has come.
Jim waits, his heart thumping faster in his chest, as he hears Spock rustling around in his room, getting changed no doubt, (Jim licks his lips in anticipation). Then he hears Spock sit at his desk, and the click of his console being turned on. Probably checking for any outstanding requests or level 2 or above alerts, (which, after all of the frantic delegating Jim has been doing from his PADD for the past several hours there had better not be), as is his custom. At last he hears Spock enter their bathroom and Jim holds his breath and…! Jim lets his breath out in a woosh as Spock keys both doors closed without so much as poking his head around the corner of the doorframe.
From inside the bathroom, Jim hears the sounds of Spock’s nightly ablutions: the whir of the refresher and then the cheerful beep announcing the sonics are active in the shower. Damn! He bounces lightly on his bed in frustration, then irritably has to rearrange himself once more into his artful and lusty sprawl.
Just a little longer, he promises his disappointed dick.
Jim pants a little in excitement when the bathroom doors slide open again, but Spock does not appear in the doorway. From Spock’s room, he hears the creak of his desk chair as he sits at his console once more.
Oh come on.
As the minutes tick by, Jim wonders how long he’s prepared to wait. How long is Spock going to work? Surely he means to greet Jim at some point? At least before he meditates?
Jim hears the creak of Spock’s desk chair once more, and he wriggles in excitement, yes, please please please Jim time!
And then he hears the unmistakable sound of Spock rolling out his meditation mat with a 'fwap'.
Jim is two seconds away from charging in there and demanding what Spock means by entering his evening meditation before greeting his damn husband, whom he hasn’t seen all day, when a rustle of fabric draws his attention to the bathroom door.
Spock stands in the doorway, clothed in Jim’s absolute favorite robe of his. The black one, with the slits. And when Spock declines to pair it with leggings (like now, for instance) and glimpses of his pale legs with their coating of dark hair peeks through…!
Jim licks his lips.
Spock is holding a PADD, absorbed in whatever report or information he’s currently viewing. He hasn’t looked up and seen Jim yet.
Jim anxiously reviews his positioning. Nope. Still perfect. Eat your heart out Surak. His dick is heavy where it lays on the crease of his hip, and he bites his lip as he tenses, ready to arch his hips up seductively at Spock when he finally looks up from his PADD. Which he is sure to do. Any second now.
Spock’s brow creases ever so slightly. “Engineering reports they are still unable to determine the cause of the Environmental control issues on Deck 13, Captain. Temperature reversal still remains in effect.”
“Is that so, Mr. Spock,” Jim says, pitching his voice low, and throaty. His eyes greedily trace over his husband’s features. Is there any part of Spock that isn’t perfect? His elegant cheekbones, his patrician nose. The delicate curves and points of his Vulcan ears. The glint of light as it shines on his immaculately smooth hair. The deep, gentle timber of his voice as he works through a problem. Jim falls in love with him all over again.
“Indeed sir. It is troubling that the source of the malfunction has not been isolated yet. It is possible that it is not a mechanical issue at all, but a programming one. Perhaps I should authorize a code review of the environmental monitoring systems of the Enterprise.”
“Perhaps you should,” Jim says provocatively, and lets his eyes fall half closed as he tips his head back to expose his throat. He is the very picture of decadence and sexual virility. A human delight for his Vulcan better half.
“I wonder if Mr. Scott has thought to ascertain the status of the secondary cooling couplings?” Spock muses.
Jim’s gaze flicks back up to him. Spock still hasn’t looked up from the PADD. Jim narrows his eyes. He is not losing to a damn minor environmental malfunction report. He refuses.
“Spock,” he calls, his bedroom voice cranked up to max. The time for subtlety has passed. Subtlety has had its chance and failed. Subtlety is quite frankly overrated anyway if you ask Jim.
“Yes, Captain?” Spock answers absently, eyes still fixed on his PADD.
“What do you think?” Jim asks, trailing his fingers down his chest, and then playing them lightly over his cock, (which hopefully will not develop a complex over all this). He gives a lewd little sigh for Spock's benefit.
“'What do I think' about which subject, Captain?” Spock queries, and Jim looks back over to him to see that at last Spock has abandoned looking at the PADD for looking at Jim, finally. Praise whatever higher powers that may or may not be at work in the universe.
Jim gives Spock a lazy, come hither smile.
After a moment, Spock quirks an eyebrow in confusion. “I repeat my query, Captain,” Spock says. “To what were you referring when you inquired about my thoughts?”
All right, that does it.
Choking back an indignant squawk, Jim gestures emphatically to his glistening, naked body, with pointed emphasis at his poor neglected cock.
When Spock declines to respond other than to raise his quirked eyebrow more fully, Jim says tartly, “I’ll have you know that there are some who would pay good money for what’s on display here, Mister! If given a choice between this and an environmental malfunction report, they’d choose this every time!”
Spock’s eyebrow descends down and he fixes Jim with a piercing gaze. “They shall not, however,” Spock responds mildly, but with intent, “be given such an opportunity, Captain.”
Jim groans and rolls his eyes. “Well, no, fine, they won’t, but that’s not the point!”
“What is ‘the point?’”
“‘The point’ is I have lotioned and oiled and damn well anointed myself so that you could ride me to your Vulcan heart’s content!”
“Ah.”
“‘Ah,’” Jim repeats flatly. “What do you mean, ‘ah?’”
Spock begins to methodically undress, as if he’s somehow doing Jim a favor. “May I inquire as to the specific occasion?” he asks, as he slips out of his robe and meticulously folds it and places it on the shelf next to the bathroom door. Jim will not be distracted by the allure of his husband's chest hair, not when he has the moral high ground for once.
“The specific…!” Jim’s mouth opens and closes for a few seconds before he can collect himself. “It’s our anniversary!” He’s able to answer at last, sitting up in indignation.
Spock tilts his head, looking at Jim inquisitively.
“The anniversary,” Jim clarifies, taking in a deep breath for patience, “of our marriage.”
“Negative,” Spock responds easily. “Our marital anniversary is still 165.2 hours away.”
“Is not.”
Spock declines to respond, assuming an air of ‘the Vulcan husband humoring his illogical human spouse’. Jim knows he got that from Sarek’s playbook. Which, when they are not in the middle of a marital debate, he will take care to apprise Spock of. For the umpteenth time.
“Our anniversary is not next week,” Jim says, gritting his teeth in irritation, “it is today. One year ago today, we were married. I remember it specifically.”
“One year ago today using the Terran Standard year, yes,” Spock agrees as he sits to peel first once sock off, and then the other, revealing his slender ankles. Jim’s thumbs twitch, his fingers longing to wrap around them and stroke. “But still 165.2 hours away using the Federation Standard year.”
Jim throws his hands in the air. “Why would we use Federation Standard to calculate the anniversary of a human cultural event?”
Spock blinks at him, then stands and removes his underwear, stepping out of them one leg at a time. He carefully folds them, and adds them to his neat pile of clothing on the shelf. At the sight of the mound of his husband’s sheath, the dark hair that surrounds it, the tempting rainbow of the greens of its plump folds, Jim’s arms go boneless, and he flops down onto his back once more.
“This ship operates on the Federation Standard Calendar,” Spock points out, as if no one ever could hope to be more logical and reasonable than a Vulcan, generally, and Spock himself, specifically. “It is only logical to calculate our anniversary based on the Federation Standard Calendar, as it is this calendar by which our lives are organized.” He steps forward to the bed and clambers on, swinging one leg over Jim to kneel over his hips.
“And yet,” Jim responds, “the only thing it is used for is to calculate shifts and mission times.” His hands come up to stroke along the flanks of his husband’s lean thighs, causing Spock to shiver when he brushes his leg hairs up the wrong way and smooths them back down again. “Every species on this ship uses their own cultural calendars to calculate their corresponding cultural events.”
“Perhaps,” Spock allows, and reaches down to take Jim’s cock in hand. Jim bites his lip. God that feels good, he’s hard as a rock now, but since Spock’s mild ‘perhaps’ is actually Vulcan for ‘you are completely right Jim,’ Jim keeps ahold of himself so he can capitalize on that opening. He is succeeding until Spock lines Jim’s cock up with his sheath and sinks down in one long, smooth movement.
“Wait!” Jim gasps with alarm, which quickly turns into a wave of pure arousal, as his cock encounters no resistance, just heat and slick and softness. Spock is open and ready, his sheath well lubricated and relaxed from previous stimulation.
Spock settles more fully onto Jim. “All is well?” he questions.
“Yes, of course, you just surprised me, I thought you were going to hurt yourself going so fast—ah!” Jim gasps as Spock shifts his hips and Jim slips a little deeper inside.
Jim slides his hands up to Spock’s hips and traces the jut of his hip bones fondly. “You prepared yourself in the bathroom?” He asks.
“Naturally,” Spock says, with more than a hint of smugness. They both sigh as he rocks his hips gently. Inside his sheath, Jim can feel the weight of Spock’s lok begin to press against his cock. He whimpers slightly.
“Yes,” Spock croons at him, “Soon.”
“I’m confused,” Jim confesses and takes one hand off of Spock’s hip to capture Spock’s fingers in a sweet Vulcan kiss.
“What confuses you, k'hat'n'dlawa?” Spock asks as he slides his free hand up Jim’s chest, Jim’s skin drinking in the feel of his smooth fingertips. He shivers, both from the sensation and from Spock’s choice of endearment. God he loves it when Spock talks dirty for him.
“Why—ah!” Jim gasps as Spock begins tweaking a nipple with his thumb. “Why did you know to prepare yourself in the bathroom, when you never looked in here once?”
“I could smell your arousal the moment I entered my quarters,” Spock murmurs, his eyes hooded with satisfaction. Jim gazes up at him, enraptured. “I could also hear you shifting on your bed, and the sound of your hand, stroking your sexual equipment to full hardness. Obviously I concluded that the bathroom doors were left open, and that you anticipated conjugal relations.”
Jim swallows, and twines his fingers about Spock’s more provocatively, deepening their kiss.
“I also concluded there was a 96.40% chance that you intended this as an ‘anniversary surprise’, as calculated by the Terran Standard Calendar it is, in fact, our anniversary.” Spock’s eyes are dark with arousal, and they both gasp with pleasure again as his lok stirs more aggressively inside his sheath.
“Wait, so then why—” Jim loses his train of thought momentarily as Spock raises his hips up and sinks back down. “Oh sweetheart, yes,” he groans, and clenches down on Spock’s hand. Spock throws his head back and he raises and lowers himself onto Jim’s cock once more.
Sweat begins to gather at Jim’s temples, but he refuses to be deterred. He focuses back on their conversation. “Why didn’t you just come in, why the show of ignoring me and then the arguing!?” Spock rolls his hips and Jim yelps, “Fuck!” as it grinds his growing lok against Jim’s cock.
“So vulgar,” Spock chastises him. He then promptly arches his back, and leaves off teasing Jim’s nipples to bring his hand down and spread his sheath open with two fingers, giving Jim a direct view of where his cock is disappearing inside of it. Jim can just see the head of Spock’s lok as it begins to emerge, the palette of dark greens of his dripping sheath and lok contrasting beautifully with the flushed red and purple of Jim’s cock.
And then Spock’s fra’ls flop wetly out of his sheath onto Jim’s pelvis.
The sight of them, their bright, (almost poisonous), green, slender lengths ending in spade-shaped heads, plump with extra seed, never fails to excite Jim. This time is no different, he openly pants at their appearance (mouth yearning for their taste, the feel of them against his tongue), and he whines as they slither down to wrap themselves about his cock at the base.
“In answer to your previous question—” Spock starts to say and then pauses as he begins to ride Jim in earnest. Jim struggles really hard to recall what his previous question had been.
Jim plants his feet firm on the bed and begins to thrust up to meet Spock
“Ah,” Spock gasps, and removes his hand from his sheath, and brings his fingers, slick now with his own juices, to Jim’s lips. Jim flicks his tongue out, teasing, tasting, cleaning. For long minutes the only sounds are the wet squelch of Spock’s sheath as he fucks himself on Jim’s cock, the squeak of the mattress, the heavy pants of their breaths.
“I thought I would tease you, t’hy’la,” Spocks voice breaks the quiet.
Jim processes this distantly, after an indeterminate amount of time. Spock’s fingers have drawn away from Jim’s mouth to wrap around his hand where it’s clenched on Spock’s hip, their other hands still absorbed in their unbroken Vulcan kiss.
“Is it logical to tease?” Jim finally manages a response.
“It is logical to fulfill the requests and needs of one’s bondmate,” he informs Jim. Spock’s sheath begins to pulse around Jim’s cock, and they both cry out.
“You have,” Spock gasps out, “On occasion requested that I be more ‘spontaneous’ in our bedroom interactions.” ‘Bedroom interactions’, honestly. Jim let Spock get away with ‘sexual equipment’ earlier, and ‘conjugal relations’ was a surprising turn-on, but he really has to draw the line at ‘bedroom interactions’. Or he would, but then Spock’s sheath gushes out slick as his lok fully everts and flops along Jim’s stomach, tightening his sheath around Jim’s cock almost painfully.
“Oh you’re so gorgeous!” Jim cries out and throws his head back as his hips work frantically.
Only Spock’s fra’ls tightening around the base of his cock keep him from coming.
Spock continues riding Jim undeterred.
“Didn't mean it like that Spock,” Jim resumes their conversation after he’s regained some control over himself, the muscles in his core and legs straining as he thrusts up into the wet, pulsing channel of Spock’s sheath. “You’re so wet, so tight,” he moans, distracted by the unmatched feeling of being buried inside Spock’s glorious sheath, then moans again as Spock increases his pace.
“Adun,” Spock gasps, “I need you, yes,” and he fucks himself on Jim’s dick, his mouth falling open, his body desperate for it, as his back bows and he falls slightly forward over Jim.
“Just meant—if there was anything you ever wanted to try—sometimes you could just try it—you don’t always have to get—my explicit consent beforehand—that sort of thing,” Jim gets out in staccato bursts, determined to reassure Spock on Jim’s absolute satisfaction with his husband’s performance during their ‘bedroom interactions’.
Because now Jim’s awareness is narrowing down and he loses track of his quarters around him, the bed underneath him, and the thread of their conversation. There’s room only for Jim to process the sensations of Spock’s fingers linked with his and holding on tight, Spock’s lok, twisting sinuously along Jim’s belly, and Spock’s rhythmically tightening sheath, drawing Jim’s cock in deeper, deeper.
“T’hy’la,” Spock moans as his eyes fall closed in pleasure. Jim leaves off of his grip on Spock’s hip to grab his hand where his fingers have reached forward and are questing for Jim’s face, and helps place it along the familiar points, which prickle with anticipation.
“Yes,” Jim grunts, “yes,” and he interrupts their Vulcan kiss to place those fingers inside Spock’s own mouth. Both hands free, he reaches down to grab handfuls of his husband’s tiny, pert little ass and pull him down onto his cock harder, faster.
Jim
Spock’s voice sounds in his mind, and then a million points of light and sensation activate as the constraints around the bond (necessary for them to go about their days and fulfill their duties) are removed. Tears form in Jim’s eyes. There is no part of Spock that does not belong to Jim, and in turn, no part of Jim’s soul where Spock does not also dwell. Their bond, eternal, unbreakable, a complete belonging. It is oneness, the perfect connection, the opposite of that great terror: loneliness. Them.
Jim flexes his grip on Spock’s ass, reaching up to massage the swollen lumps of Spock’s chenesi on his lower back as he rides up, and sliding his hands back to grip Spock’s ass as he sinks back down.
Spock moans around his fingers as his body begins to shudder, and then he detonates, a supernova inside their bond, and Jim shouts with bliss as Spock’s lok writhes on Jim’s stomach as it releases a burst of Vulcan seed. Wetness floods Jim’s cock and hips as well as Spock’s sheath convulses and spills forth more of his fluids, followed swiftly by the fra’ls releasing their own load, (Jim’s mouth waters; he longs for their sweet taste). The fra’ls loosen their hold on Jim’s cock, sated and lax, and his hips snap upward a few more times, he cries out “Spock!” and comes. Within the bond, he flies apart, atmospheric re-entry, and his cock twitches and jerks with pleasure as he ejaculates deep inside his husband, into that space neither of them are quite sure about, but contains a hope that they don’t speak of.
Jim winds his arms around Spock’s back, his husband’s body continuing to shudder, blissful groans still falling from Spock’s mouth. Spock’s hips are still flexing, his sheath still contracting around Jim’s dick, milking him for more, always. Oversensitive and pushed to his limits, Jim grunts and takes it as he pulls his husband down upon him, luxuriating in the heavy weight of Spock on top of him; this moment when every part of them is connected, bodies, minds, and soul.
“I love you,” he whispers into his one of husband's gorgeous ears, as Spock’s chest begins to rumble with the deep vibrations of his purr as he sinks into the Vulcan post-orgasmic nap.
“Vulcans do not purr, nor can the post-orgasmic trance be accurately labeled as a ‘nap’,” Spock corrects Jim sleepily.
“Yes, yes, of course,” Jim soothes and strokes up and down Spock’s back.
In a moment, Spock’s weight will have to be shifted or Jim will wind up back in Sickbay with a compressed chest. He’ll also have to get up and clean the mattress, or be forced to come up with another awkward explanation for the quartermaster when he has to put in for a new one.
He shivers all over as Spock's sheath releases a final spurt of fluid and his softened cock slips free.
But for now, Jim revels in the marvels of a well-executed anniversary.
“It is still 164.8 hours until our anniversary, Jim,” Spock reminds him, distantly, through the haze of bodily pleasure and neural satisfaction he is still undergoing.
Jim rolls his eyes. “If you want two anniversaries, you can just ask,” Jim informs him.
“That will be a satisfactory resolution to the issue,” Spock mumbles, and then the immediacy of his presence in the bond fades as he sinks into unconsciousness, and Jim’s chest informs him that no, humans are not capable of bearing the full weight of a grown Vulcan for an extended period of time.
Of course, grown Vulcans are perfectly capable of bearing the weight of humans for extended periods of time.
With a grunt, Jim rolls them and starfishes contentedly on his husband’s chest.
He thinks this time the mattress is going to have to take one for the team though. He falls into his own post-coital doze, already coming up with plans for next week’s anniversary (mmm, fra’ls in his mouth, yes), his consciousness sinking down to join Spock’s in the sacred space of the fullness of their bond.
Taluhk nash-veh k’dular, Spock greets him, and their minds twine about each other, even in sleep, touching and touched.