Work Text:
Despite his excellent grades, there is a long list of candidates that get to apply before Spock. Stations on a starship are both rare and coveted, and only the best are selected. Some officers have been waiting for years to get aboard a proper vessel. The Enterprise is almost full—the only position left Spock could take is first officer.
And that’s one of the many primary positions hand-picked by the captain. That’s the one Spock’s applying for. He’s outside Jim’s apartment, waiting in the hallway, as per regulation, ready to plead his case. He’s well aware that forty-seven other officers have applied for the position and failed; winning over Jim Kirk is, apparently, not easy.
Spock’s spent several years in the Academy with Jim. Somehow, someway, they’ve formed a sort of... friendship. He knows Jim. He didn’t need to do research. He did anyway. He knows what he has to do if he wants this position; he knows what Jim wants. He’s not sure he can do it, but... it’s what must be done. He takes a deep breath. The doors slide open, the last candidate stepping out.
Leonard McCoy is wiping the corner of his mouth off, confirming all Spock’s suspicions. His red uniform jacket is unzipped, looking ruffled. He smirks at Spock and says, “You’re looking at the Chief Medical Officer.” He jabs a finger towards his face. Spock frowns; he already knew McCoy would attain some kind of role; Jim is very... partial towards him. Spock needs to be... just as desirable.
Snickering, McCoy turns to walk down the hall, calling, “G’luck, pointy.” Spock can’t quite tell from the tone if McCoy is genuine or not. Their relationship is complicated.
The doors open again. This time it’s Jim leaning on the frame, down to jeans and a casual white t-shirt, eyeing Spock from head to toe and asking, “Spock. You’re next?”
“Captain,” Spock answers, nodding slightly.
“I’m not your captain yet,” Jim chuckles. “Think you have what it takes to be my first officer?” They both know what he’s here for. Spock may have subtly expressed interest in the position before, and Jim may have told him to get in line. Their relationship is... also complicated.
Lips tight, Spock says only, “Yes.” He’ll do what it takes.
Well, no. He’ll skillfully (or as best he can with his utter lack of experience) imply that he could do what it takes. It wouldn’t be logical to lay his cards on the table all at once; if he gives up what Jim wants, there will be no incentive to keep him around. Nervousness is a human flaw. Spock’s experiencing it.
Jim steps aside and nods to the interior of his apartment. Spock stiffly walks forward, stepping inside, acutely aware of the way those familiar blue eyes are running up and down him. They’ve done that before but never so overtly. Jim’s never had a chance like this before. Of course he’d make captain so quickly. He’s incredible.
He guides Spock over to the couch—Spock notes that the lights are only on at approximately seventy-five percent. He’s been to Jim’s apartment before, to work on assignments or share data or even discuss strategies for upcoming examinations. Now Spock’s like all those times, rigid in his grey uniform, but Jim sprawls against the couch, arms along the back. When Spock sits down beside him, Jim’s arm is essentially around his shoulders. Jim is... very handsome.
That will make this marginally easier. Spock doesn’t look around the messy apartment. He has eyes only for Jim. He turns his body a fraction so that he’s facing Jim more; this will be all in the subtleties. He has a job to do. He waits for Jim’s signal, and when one doesn’t come, Spock shifts one of his hands to Jim’s knee and asks, in the lowest, huskiest voice he can muster (research shows that humans like that,) “Jim. ...May I call you Jim?”
Something in Jim’s eyes goes off. His lips twitch up in the ghost of a smirk—he probably didn’t expect Spock to attempt this. Spock isn’t stupid. He wants that position. He lets his eyes fall closed when Jim’s hand reaches up around Spock’s shoulders, up to his hair, brushing it lightly at the back. Spock doesn’t try to repress his shiver. When he opens his eyes again, he keeps them half-lidded, and he focuses in on Jim’s pink lips. Jim says, “Today... I think ‘sir’ will do.”
“Sir,” Spock repeats, in his best imitation of a purr. He practiced, but he’s not entirely sure how good it is. Judging from Jim’s increasing smirk, it’s decent enough. “I would really appreciated it if you would consider me for the position immediately under you.” He thought out this wording. He thought out everything. One of Jim’s fingers traces the shell of his pointed ear—he never quite expected it to work. Apparently, Jim’s on board.
He has a chance.
Jim sighs, reaching his other hand out to play with the zipper at the top of Spock’s jacket. “And what exactly do you think you’ll bring to the table, Commander? Why exactly would I want you... under me?”
Spock’s already sliding two fingers up Jim’s leg before he remembers that gesture (the two fingers together, so intimate to Vulcans) is meaningless to humans. He keeps his hand configured that way anyway. He glides along Jim’s inner thigh, slow and steady, repeating to himself over and over again that it’s not inappropriate; it’s how things are done. “I am quite adept in the sciences, sir. I have also known you longer than any of the other applicants, and I believe this would make me more able to anticipate your needs.”
The pads of Jim’s fingertips are soft and warm along the back of his neck. When Spock’s fingers reach Jim’s crotch, they pull back, lightly dancing back and forth, teasing and full of promise. For Vulcans, at least, there’s something particularly sensual about the role of one’s hands. Jim’s are very skilled. Jim slowly starts to tug down his zipper, undoing his jacket only a few centimeters, and then Jim slips his hand underneath, palm ghosting over Spock’s throat, fingers wrapping around his neck. Spock tilts his head back, looking down at Jim through his lashes.
“Are you sure you’re ready for the dangers of a starship?” Jim muses. “Space isn’t nice and safe like your peaceful little Vulcan. Your life would be in my hands.” He squeezes lightly: a mere exertion of power.
Undeterred, Spock says simply, “As yours would be in mine. My Vulcan heritage is precisely why I would be better adapted to protect you, as I possess superior strength and speed.” Jim quirks an eyebrow. ‘Superior’ might’ve been a poor choice of words. But he seems to have passed this round. Jim’s hand slips back to the zipper, sliding it the rest of the way.
“It’s hard to picture you in my ship’s uniform in this thing,” Jim sighs, as though this makes perfect sense. But once the jacket’s unzipped, he pulls back, arms over the back of the couch again. When Spock doesn’t move, only determinedly strokes Jim’s thigh, Jim says, “Well?”
“Well, sir?” Spock tilts his head lightly, hopefully being coy.
A true captain, Jim orders, “Take off your jacket.”
So Spock brushes the dark material off his shoulders, revealing the black, long sleeved shirt underneath. When Jim doesn’t give him any instruction, Spock tosses the jacket on the floor. It goes against his very nature to do it, but discarding clothes so carelessly is what they did in all the videos Spock watched for research. He settles back on the couch, as relaxed as he can, trying to arch his body just right. There are a few techniques he still needs to employ. Because Jim’s taking a while to move, Spock decides to adopt one; he bites his bottom lip. Jim’s eyes instantly flicker up to it, and Spock absently chews, as though this will, in any way, shape, or form, curb his anxiety. Instead it makes him feel foolish. He does it anyway. The idea, he believes, is to make his lips look more full and wet, and he glances down at Jim’s crotch, like he wants nothing more than for something else to be weighing down his bottom lip. “Sir...” he tries, attempting that purr again, deep and breathless, “I strongly believe I could be a great asset to your entire crew. But mostly to you, of course. I am sure that given the opportunity I could prove my eagerness, once we are in orbit.”
Jim quirks another eyebrow. “Eagerness, Mr. Spock? And you want to wait all the way until we’re in orbit? Sounds like you’re more of a tease than a real asset...”
Spock only just retrains his frown. He must be a tease, so to speak, if he wants this job. Following through will do nothing to ensure his job security. Apparently, he needs to be more convincing. He lets his hand finally slip over the front of Jim’s pants, pressing right into the sizeable bulge, warm and ready for him. As Jim moans, Spock massages his cock through the fabric, insisting, “I could serve you well, sir. You need only provide me a chance, and I assure you you will not be disappointed...”
“But you’ll only serve me when you’re on my ship,” Jim repeats dryly. It’s impossible to tell from the mask that’s dropped over his features whether he’s pleased or not. Spock imagines not, and his frown leaks through. It wasn’t supposed to go like this. They’ve been friends for a long time.
And Jim was supposed to slowly realize that Spock can be more than that. Spock’s not entirely sure he has a chance at that patch of everything with Jim, but he thought he at least had a chance on the ship. And if he gets on that ship, he’ll have more time to try and move forward with Jim. He may have to give away a few extra words and touches here, but...
Jim shifts around to reach for Spock’s chin, holding it lightly and dragging it just a little closer. Spock’s still palming his covered dick. For a minute, they just look at one another.
Then Jim tries to lean in for a kiss, and Spock lightly turns his head away, so Jim’s lips land on just the corner of his closed mouth. Jim still lingers. When he pulls back, Spock’s eyes are closed. This might not... be as easy as he thought it would...
He can feel Jim shift closer to his ear, the warm breath ghosting over his shell. Jim whispers, “Take all your clothes off.”
Spock swallows. Somehow, he didn’t think it’d go that far. Jim’s licking that point that only Vulcan’s have, and Spock shudders, hand still against Jim’s crotch. He doesn’t have to do this. He can do this. If he’s on that ship, maybe they can...
Why does he want Jim so badly, anyway? This is disgraceful. Jim’s body turns, bulge pressing up against Spock’s hand, leg lightly shifting over his knees, and Jim’s other hand lands on Spock’s hip. Spock does his best to lean into it. Jim repeats, just as quiet and erotic, “Take off your clothes for me, Commander.”
“Sir...” Jim’s fingers are lightly stroking his side, the middle one somehow between his pants and his shirt, slipping beneath the fabric to trace his skin. Spock squeezes Jim’s cock again, massage surging to life—perhaps he can make Jim forget about that. He kneads Jim’s cock with every trick he can think of, and he turns his body more into Jim, so he can use his other hand to travel up Jim’s chest. It’s easy to find Jim’s nipples through the thin material of his shirt. Spock pinches one and rolls it around, Jim still caressing the side of his face. This is such an odd mix of sensuality that Spock doesn’t know how to feel. It’s Jim, so it feels good, but it’s wrong, and he’s giving his body away, even if only in theory, even if this is what it takes in Starfleet to get anyway anymore...
When Jim pulls away, Spock’s sure he did something wrong. Perhaps he shouldn’t have touched Jim’s nipples—he should’ve been more submissive. He always thought they’d be equals in bed, but this isn’t his fantasy of the future; it’s Jim being a captain and Spock being nothing. He’s breathing a little too heavily and wondering if it’s possible to crush the desire to take Jim. Jim finally smiles, petting his hair fondly.
“Go to my bedroom.”
“Sir—” Spock starts, but Jim puts a finger to Spock’s lips and keeps going.
“Go to my bedroom. My Starfleet uniform is folded on the end of the bed. I want you to put it on, and then I want you to come back here, and I want you stand still like a good model and let me see what you’d look like on my bridge.”
Spock parts his lips slightly, sticking his tongue out to Jim’s finger—another move from the research. Jim smirks. Spock nods obediently, and he climbs off the couch, letting that hand fall away. Jim’s uniform will be gold, whereas Spock’s would likely be blue, but he doesn’t dare question his captain’s logic. He needs to make this about Jim. He finds Jim’s bedroom as messy and dimly lit as the living room, with clothes and PADDs all over the floor, but the uniform right where Jim said it would be.
Spock picks up the bundle of folded clothes and holds it to his face, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. As he suspected, it hasn’t been washed. It smells thickly of Jim. Spock’s cheeks turn a little hot as he remembers the time Jim happily informed Spock that he didn’t believe in the concept of ‘underwear.’ They were just beginning to know each other then, and at the time, Spock had thought it crude.
Now he’s not entirely sure what to think. He puts the clothes back down, and he pulls his own shirt over his head, folding it and neatly placing it atop the unmade bedspread. His fingers hook in the hem of his pants, and he wonders if he’s meant to be putting on Jim’s uniform... is he meant to share Jim’s lack of underwear? A disgusting part of him almost wishes a pair of underwear were in the pile for him to use.
With a sharp breath, he tells himself he can do this. He pushes down his pants and underwear all at once, folding them and placing them atop the shirt, and then he’s pulling on Jim’s pants. He’s both tempted to get it over with and draw it out to savour. Jim’s pants fit snugly around his waist, about the same size. It’s strange to not wear underwear. Spock has to pick a side, and he feels distinctly exposed. But if it’s what Jim wants, it’ll be worth it. If not... Spock will have some explaining to do.
The black, long-sleeved undershirt is the same one Spock was wearing, but he chooses to don Jim’s, anyway. It’s a few millimeters too short and too loose, but it mostly fits. The gold tunic overtop feels strange—a uniform he hasn’t earned. He turns and walks back to the living room, doing his utmost to swing his hips invitingly and not stupidly.
Jim reaches out his hands, and Spock walks up into them, their toes touching. Jim’s not wearing shoes. Jim says, “Kick yours off,” glancing down, and Spock knows what he means. Spock stiffly does as he’s told, gently nudging his black shoes aside, so his white socks brush Jim’s. Jim holds onto Spock’s hips, looking all up and down him, smirking wide. Jim pays special attention to Spock’s crotch and asks, “Are you wearing any underwear...?”
“No, sir.”
“Good boy,” Jim chuckles, patting his hip. “You know what you’re for.” Spock doesn’t wince, but if anyone else in the world said that to him, he would. Jim pushes him back lightly, and Spock walks backwards to the middle of the room, guessing what Jim wants. Jim leans back in the couch, twirling his finger and purring, “Put your hands above your head and turn for me, baby.”
Spock does exactly as he’s told. He clasps his hands above his head and turns in a slow circle, pausing slightly on his best angles and trying to arch in an appealing way. When he reaches the front again, Jim’s legs are spread, and he’s massaging his own crotch. His cheeks are a little flushed, and, Spock notes with a small sense of accomplishment, his pupils are dilated. “You look good in my clothes.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Maybe you would look good in a uniform.”
“I can assure you I will be as aesthetically pleasing as you desire, sir.” He’ll make sure of it. He just has to get on that ship. He knows it’s something Jim wouldn’t ever regret.
Jim holds out his hands again and says, “C’mere.” So Spock walks forward again, slipping right into Jim’s open arms.
Jim gets a firm grip around the back of his waist, then hikes him up, and Spock has a sharp intake of breath, knees climbing to the couch on either side of Jim’s thighs. Jim pulls Spock right into his lap, dragging them flush against one another, bodies lined up and hands holding him in, their crotches rubbing together. Spock isn’t exactly flat himself. But that’s not part of the game. He drapes his arms across Jim’s shoulders as calmly as he can, and he looks down at Jim’s face, purring, “Is there anything else I can do to convince you of my worth, sir?”
“You can rock your pretty hips,” Jim growls. His voice has taken on a change: a little darker, a little deeper. Needy. Spock rolls his hips just the way he practiced, eyelids fluttering closed as his ass brushes along the hard outline of Jim’s cock. Jim nuzzles into the side of his face, warm and too close, and Jim whispers, “You really need to stop being such a tease, Commander.”
Spock licks his lips. They should be wet, ready. Kissable. He shouldn’t kiss Jim. That’s too intimate for what this is. But he wants to, and he can feel his resolve weakening. He repeats as firmly as possible, “You may have me when I am aboard your ship, sir.”
Chuckling, Jim asks softly, “Are you that afraid I’ll leave you behind?”
Terrified. But that’s a state Vulcan’s don’t get into. This is the reasonable position—being Jim’s first officer would be a huge deal to any Starfleet officer. It makes sense to want it, even if he didn’t want something else more. Silently, Spock waits for Jim’s next order.
Jim sighs. Jim pulls back, petting Spock’s sides, and he orders simply, “Kiss me.”
Spock pecks Jim quickly on the lips, pulling back. Jim snorts. Spock remains still. Then he rocks his hips as a hopeful distraction. Moaning, Jim decides languidly, “You’ve really gotten yourself in trouble now. You’ll keeping grinding your hips like that, and you’ll let me kiss you, you naughty little Vulcan.” Spock shivers lightly at the words, but doesn’t protest.
Whatever it takes.
It’s Jim.
Jim feels as good as all his daydreams. It’s just too soon and with nothing right behind it. Spock tilts his head submissively to the side, eyelids lowered, lips parted slightly. Jim presses in, tilted the other way and brushing their noses together, moist lips sliding right up close. Jim’s are soft, so soft, and plush and full, and they line up just right. Of course they would. He’s had all the practice in the world. He snakes his tongue out against Spock’s bottom lip, prodding gently, and then he slips it inside, and Spock opens for his temporary master.
Jim Kirk is, like with so many other things, excellent at kissing. He knows exactly what to do with his tongue, and he coaxes Spock’s out and sucks on Spock’s, tracing Spock’s teeth and mapping everything. A part of Spock’s given in, but the rest wants to hold out, can’t give in when it’s not real. He lets Jim kiss him, but he doesn’t participate. He’s enjoying the sensations too much. It makes him dizzy. But he’s still as a mannequin. Jim kisses him for several minutes before pulling back, looking at Spock oddly. There’s something on Jim’s face that Spock can’t quite recognize.
Then Jim shakes it off, back to steel, and he says, “Take both shirts off.”
Spock slowly peels them over his head, traitorously hoping Jim will kiss him again. He tosses them behind himself without looking, and Jim eyes his exposed chest. Spock sucks in a breath. He wants to see Jim’s chest. Jim reaches up for his nipples, rosy like his lips, thumbing them gently, rolling them around. Spock licks his lips again and closes his eyes, letting himself concentrate. He remembers to move his hips again, grinding slowly into Jim’s cock while Jim plays with his body. Spock’s chest is entirely smooth, skin pale, sporting a dark patch of tufts disappearing beneath the hem of his pants. He wants to see the blond curls above Jim’s cock. But he shouldn’t think about that. He tries to be responsive for Jim, matching little breathy gasps and moans to the inner pleasure.
Jim grabs his chin and pulls him back down, slamming them back together, and Jim’s tongue is suddenly back in his mouth like it belongs there. Spock tries to be still, he really does.
But it’s Jim and it feels so good and Jim’s hair is so soft in his hands, lips so warm against his. Spock’s surging to life before he means to, grinding down hard and pressing into Jim’s mouth, tongue suddenly fighting Jim’s back. Jim makes a muffled noise but doesn’t pull away. Their tongues fight for dominance, mouths working against one another, Spock’s tilting to the side just as much as Jim’s, properly making out. Jim’s entirely too good at kissing.
Spock doesn’t want to stop. He’s fiercer than he means to be. Stronger. He pins Jim into the back of the couch and does everything he ever wanted, and Jim suddenly shoves his shoulders back. Spock lets himself be pushed, panting and trying hard to regain his senses. He feels like his hair’s a mess.
Jim looks at him and growls, “Bedroom. Now. Strip naked and wait on the bed for me.”
Spock opens his mouth. He wasn’t going to go that far. But he sees the heat in Jim’s eyes and something else. He closes his mouth again.
He slips off Jim’s lap, standing slowly. He sees the Enterprise in his head, all the things he’ll find out there, the time he’ll spend with Jim. He walks to the bedroom as stoically as possible, around the corner, so Jim’s not in sight any more. He expects Jim to follow him.
Jim doesn’t.
Spock takes the pants off slowly, stepping out of them, entirely exposed. He feels vulnerable and a little cold in the open air. Human apartments are never quite warm enough. He stares at the bed, keeping the door in his peripherals.
He wants to get under the covers.
But perhaps he should put himself on display for his future captain. He can remember a number of positions from his research. Perhaps he should wait on all fours, rear facing the door. Perhaps he should lie on his back and spread himself out, one leg bent to tilt his hips up. Perhaps he should kneel at the foot of the bed, hands on his knees and legs spread.
But all of those ideas make his cheeks green, and he wasn’t supposed to give that much away. Would Jim even respect him, if he did? Jim would probably toss him aside tomorrow morning, his single use already depleted. It’s the only bargaining chip he has that he thinks Jim might care about. ...He doesn’t think Jim’s ever had a Vulcan before...
He doesn’t climb under the covers. But he doesn’t position himself properly, either. He simply sits at the top of the bed, between the two white pillows, back against the cool, metal headboard. His knees are drawn up, legs slightly spread, solely to be comfortable, and his arms rest on them. He still feels vulnerable. He has to think of a way to entice Jim without this being necessary. Or perhaps he can simply draw it out until the next candidate arrives and hope they either don’t go as far or simply aren’t as desirable. Or, more likely, don’t realize that this is the only way to be of any use to a man like Captain Kirk.
Jim takes a surprisingly long amount of time to join Spock in the bedroom. Spock has no idea what he’s doing out there and can’t hear any noise to indicate anything. Not even the beeping of a PADD. But, eventually, a dozen minutes later, Jim strolls in, stopping to stand in the doorway, still fully dressed and looking... a little haggard. His hair’s tousled as though his fingers have repeatedly run through it, and he’s frowning. He looks a little confused and a little... almost brooding. Spock can’t quite pin it down. He looks at his friend, and he tilts his head, legs sliding together and turning to lie in the mattress, back sitting up straight.
Jim swears, “Fuck, you actually did it.”
Raising an eyebrow, Spock simply says, “You ordered me to.”
“You didn’t have to listen.”
“I did if I want that position aboard your ship, which I assure you, sir, I do.”
Slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Jim walks over, around the bed, sitting down on the side right next to Spock. His pants are still tented, but not as largely as before. Spock reaches for it instinctively, trying to coax it back to hardness. Jim’s eyes close, and he turns that extra centimeter towards Spock to help. He licks his handsome lips, and he asks, “Would you have been like this for anyone?”
“No, sir,” Spock answers easily, concentrating on keeping Jim’s interest alive. “There is only one ship within my range that I wish to serve on.”
Jim chuckles. His eyes open, still happy, a little less foggy. “I meant for any other captain.”
Spock frowns. Never. But he doesn’t answer, doesn’t want to say that. Revealing stronger feelings could hurt his chances if Jim doesn’t yet feel the same way. They have such a strong connection that Spock believes he might have a chance, in time, but right now, he isn’t going to jeopardize that.
Jim says more clearly, “Do you want to have sex with me?”
Frowning harder, Spock says, “I was not offering that.”
“No, you’re just being a wanton little cocktease. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I was happy to play that game for a while, but... then it started going a bit farther than you seemed comfortable with. And now I’m worried and wondering how far you actually would go past that.”
To the ends of the universe and back again. There’s nowhere Spock wouldn’t follow Jim, but their relationship isn’t yet the sort where he’d say that. So again, he doesn’t say anything. His hand slips off Jim’s lap—there are more important things to discuss, apparently.
Jim shakes his head and hisses, almost in pain, “Spock, what’s going on here? I can’t tell if you have feelings for me or not. Because if you don’t, we should’ve stopped several articles of clothes ago, and if you do... that changes everything.”
Spock’s searching Jim’s eyes. He wonders vaguely if many of the other auditions ended in this conversation, and he can’t imagine so. He also wonders where he went wrong—where he turned it from a game into something Jim couldn’t simply enjoy. So many of the others got to pleasure him and then simply pick up their transfer PADD, and Spock’s left sitting here, knowing he has to answer. He has to choose between being sent home and lying, and he’s not sure he can do either of those things. His throat’s dry, and Jim says in such a powerful, commanding voice, “As a Starfleet officer, I order you to answer me.”
Spock says, “I want that job.”
“Do you want me?”
In the absence of the ability to talk, Spock opens his mouth uselessly and nods, closing it again. Then he looks down, eyes scrunching closed. He forces himself to say, “However, I believe I can put that aside to be professional on your ship and to serve you in a rational fashion; physical intimacy need not be burdened by my—”
“You have the job,” Jim says. Spock’s head snaps up, eyes open.
“Sir?”
“You have the job,” Jim repeats. “It’s yours. It was never about that. For the record, I would’ve given it to you even if you hadn’t come in here ready to get on your knees for me, but now that I know this is all on the table, I wish I had a hell of a lot more to give you.”
Spock’s stomach feels tight. He looks right at Jim, who looks dead serious.
Placing one hand on Spock’s inner thigh, Jim asks with an out-of-place guilty sort of pleading look, “Now, do I really have to wait ‘til we get on the ship? I mean, I know this is all really inappropriate and sudden, but... you’ve spent this whole time getting me hot and bothered and I’ve spent way too long fantasizing about you to not want to take advantage.”
Jim fantasized about him. His heart’s beating very fast against his side. He thinks of all the time they spent in the Academy together and all the time they’re going to spend out there. Jim’s leaning in subtly.
Spock meets him halfway. Spock can’t hold back anymore. He pushes his tongue right into Jim’s mouth, and he swallows Jim’s moan, and he presses Jim back only to part a second later, repeating, “I have the job?”
“You have the job,” Jim snorts. “Now we’re just going because we want to.”
“You want to?”
“I want to fuck your pretty brains out of your skull and let you pound me into the wall and make this apartment reek of sweat and sex.”
Now who’s the tease? It was all easy when it was Jim, Jim he was servicing and Jim turning him on, but now it’s like oxygen. Spock slams their mouths back together and latches onto Jim’s shirt, and it’s Jim’s turn to part for a second while he pulls his shirt over his head, kissing Spock again while his fingers fiddle with his fly. Spock reaches to help, but Jim seems to have a handle on it. Jim isn’t wearing any underwear. Of course. And he called Spock naughty. As soon as his pants are past his knees, he’s kicking them off and climbing properly onto the bed, and Spock throws an arm around his waist, pulling him in tight and knocking him backwards. Jim falls on his back with a muffled cry, and Spock’s already over him, sprawled out on top, on all fours, feral and hungry. Jim’s legs are parted around Spock’s body and wrap around him. Their cocks are both out, both hard. Spock grinds them hard together, dry and rough, and then Jim shoves at his chest, pushing up a few centimeters to breathe, “I want to see what a Vulcan cock is like.”
Obeying instantly, Spock curves his body to push his crotch as forward as possible, trying to be good and on display. He even sits up, while Jim stares at him. His cock is slightly longer than Jim’s, perhaps a fraction less thick, but still very sizeable. It’s straight as a rod, hard and continually pulsing, the green veins straining with need. The tip is already wet—an ample amount of precum to provide natural lubrication. Spock notes with interest that Jim’s got his testicles on the outside, and though Spock knew that from his research videos, it’s still odd to see them up close. Jim’s dick is pinker and slightly more curved, magnificent and glorious. Spock’s throat goes a little dry just looking at it, and he reaches under to finger Jim’s balls, gently tugging at them.
Because Jim’s so uncharacteristically quiet, Spock asks while rolling Jim’s balls around in his fingers, “Is my physiology acceptable, sir?” He thinks, by now, he could probably go back to addressing Jim by his rank or name. However, Jim’s cock gives a little twitch above Spock’s hand at the petname, so Spock opts to stick with it.
“You’re fucking beautiful.” Spock’s eyes snap up, cheeks a little flushed. He was expecting an ‘acceptable.’ Perhaps hoping for more, perhaps nervous for less. He’s careful to keep himself in shape, of course, but Jim is very attractive himself and deserves only the best. “There is literally zero chance I would’ve left you on Earth.”
Crooking an eyebrow, Spock asks, “Because of my appearance?”
“Because of your everything,” Jim laughs. “Because you’re you and I think you’re destined to be my space husband and you better get down here in my arms right now.” He holds them out expectantly. Spock lies down in them without hesitation, back to kissing Jim and grinding him against the mattress, their cocks now a little slicker from the leaking head of Spock’s.
It’s a frantic mess of hands trying to touch everything and tongues trying to lick everything and hips trying to pound each other to bits, and for a moment, Spock thinks he’s going to come just from this, just from rutting into a man he’s wanted for years. Instead, he gets Jim pushing him back by the forehead and growling, “You have five seconds to put your cock up my ass, Commander, or it’s going to go the other way around.”
Spock doesn’t show any of his near-rapturous excitement on his face as he says levelly, “It will take longer than that to adequately prepare you.”
“Then I’ll fuck you, because that’s all the patience I have.”
That thought sounds amazing, but Spock’s already snarling, instincts kicking in, head driven wild with lust. He snaps his head down with Jim’s hand still on it, kissing Jim hard enough to shut Jim up, hands running down to his own cock, gathering green-tinted precum for lube. Then he’s touching Jim’s body—Jim’s gorgeous body—right past Jim’s big cock and tight balls, and he’s got a finger in the crease of Jim’s ass. He rubs his finger into it, trying not to moan too loudly, trying to be dignified. He’s touching Jim’s ass. He’s covering the tiny hole he finds with a thick coating of his own cum, and he rubs at the puckered muscles to make them loosen, coaxing them gently apart until he can pop his finger inside. He’s careful, of course. And he goes slow. He stops dominating Jim’s mouth to kiss his way to Jim’s ear, licking the round shell, so Jim will have an opportunity to say if it’s uncomfortable.
Instead, Jim moans, “More, more, harder,” and Spock tries to oblige, shoving his finger in as far as it’ll go. Jim’s ass is very tight. That gives Spock a sudden spark of happiness—it’s unlikely Jim’s ass would be like this if Dr. McCoy had used him.
Just to be sure, Spock purrs into Jim’s ear whilst adding a second finger, “Did you have anyone else earn their place on your ship in this... manner?”
Jim groans, “Fuck, don’t bring that up now.”
Spock isn’t an idiot. He knows what Jim’s like, of course. And he accepts that. They can talk about how their relationship will progress from here and if that’ll affect Jim’s behaviour another time. But a streak of jealousy is running sharp up Spock’s spine, and he can’t help but ask, “How many?”
“Five,” Jim sighs. Spock twists his fingers inside Jim, and Jim hisses, “Six, including you.”
“Did they touch you?”
“They didn’t fuck me,” Jim mumbles. He grabs Spock’s sleek hair and jerks Spock’s head over, looking right at him to say, “This is just for you.”
Spock doesn’t look away. He’s gently scissoring Jim apart. He’s still going to do this.
Jim takes a shaky breath. He licks his lips. “Two ensigns... hnn... two ensigns showed me their tits.” His eyes roll up for a second, perhaps because Spock’s adding a third finger and kneading him carefully apart. Just a view, then. That isn’t so bad.
Jim somehow manages, “Sulu... helmsmen... gave me a handjob...” Spock nods. He knows Lieutenant Sulu; he’s a talented pilot and will serve them well, and a handjob isn’t so personal, not for humans anyway. It’s unlikely that was anything Spock couldn’t beat.
“Put Chekov on navigation... you know—the cute Russian kid... had him show me his hole and tell me all his dirty fantasies... didn’t touch it; just looked... it was pretty...” Jim hisses loudly; Spock’s slipping out. He’s rubbing more precum across the shaft of his cock while he waits for Jim to reveal the final person. He thinks he knows, and he’s not sure he wants to hear it.
Jim looks down between them, feet rubbing idly across Spock’s back, still covered in socks. The way he looks at Spock’s dick makes it impossibly harder. Jim says shakily, “Bones got sickbay.” Apparently, Jim can talk more coherently without fingers up his ass. Spock closes his eyes, ready to hear it. “I made him strip out of his jacket for me and then eat an ice cream cone.”
Spock’s eyes snap open. His eyebrows knit together. He looks down at Jim and repeats, “Ice cream cone?”
“Yeah,” Jim chuckles. “What, you think I used my power to actually molest my straight best friend? Fuck, Spock, how bad do you think I am?” Spock’s still frowning, and Jim shrugs his shoulders, conceding, “I suppose I did kinda torture him a little, but opportunities like this don’t come every day.”
“You did molest the other officers,” Spock points out, though he’s immensely relieved.
“Hey, they all offered. And I still made it clear I was going on résumés and fit. I didn’t force anybody to do anything. Well. Except Bones with the ice cream. But hey, he said he really wanted the position; it’s only fair he had to work for it. ...Besides, it was payback for all the times he’s called me a slut.”
Spock’s nodding, only half-listening, because he’s gone back to dealing with his cock, which he’s trying to position at Jim’s hole. The way the tip of it looks pressed against the little furrowed ring is amazing, and Spock takes a second just to stare. Then Jim’s tugging at his shoulder, and he mercifully leans back down, pressing their foreheads together. It’s ridiculous how right this feels. Even with his eyes closed, he can feel Jim’s smile, somehow.
Jim mumbles quietly, “I won’t do any of that again. From this moment on, it’s just you.”
Spock’s glowing on the inside. He doesn’t need to reciprocate; they both know he’s always been Jim’s. He opens his eyes slowly, and Jim’s half-lidded, clear blue ones make him thrust forward. Jim’s lashes flutter against Spock’s, mouth gasping, body arching. Spock holds him down against the mattress, sliding into him. Jim’s ass is delicious. It’s so tight. It’s soft and slick around him, and it seems to squeeze at him, and he listens for signs of Jim feeling hurt, but Jim only moans in pleasure. When Spock’s all the way in, he starts to slip out. Jim doesn’t seem to want him to go.
Slow and steady would be a good pace for their first time, Spock thinks, but that’s not something he can manage. Jim’s hips start humping up into him, making him grunt and shudder. He tries to match Jim’s thrusts and work up a rhythm, the two of them together, his cock sliding in and out of Jim’s body over and over again. It’s beautiful, like music. It feels so, so good. Better than anything Spock’s ever felt. Jim kisses his lips, clawing at his hair and his shoulders, and all he can do is give in to it. He fucks Jim steady but hard, with all the force and tension of all the time they spent together, all the little stolen glances, all the subtle touches. He wants to ravish Jim senseless. So he does.
For most of it, he’s too much of a mess to even know what he’s doing. His hands go wild along Jim’s body, tracing Jim’s sides and squeezing his hips, grabbing his shoulders and playing with his hair, running along his arms and kissing every little spot on his face Spock can get at. Jim’s the same way—a shifting mess of passion. It’s careless, in a way, and at one point, Spock has to grab Jim’s hands—he just has to feel them. He splays his fingers, Jim splaying his own, not intertwining but touching, all lined up. He holds Jim’s down against the mattress, his hips going on their own. They kiss and they kiss, and just when Spock thinks he’s had enough, he wants more. Every time he turns his head, Jim’s mouth is just attaching to something else—his jaw, his throat, his ears. Spock thrusts into him over and over, and Jim moans, “Spock,” arching off the bed, head tossing back.
“Jim.”
It’s over too soon. Jim tenses. Spock wasn’t even touching his cock—it was simply trapped between them, caught up in the friction, but it comes first. Jim screams, and his release splatters both of them, hot jets trailing all the way up to the bottom of Spock’s chin, and his hips keep going. Jim’s ass is spasming wildly, beautifully around him, so, so good. He can’t take it. A few more thrusts and he’s done for, and he’s falling, spilling into Jim and hissing, holding Jim’s hands tight. Jim moans as he’s filled up, and it’s one of the hottest sounds Spock’s ever heard. He grinds his whole body into Jim’s with everything he has.
And he’s collapsing a moment later, spent and nearly trembling with the aftershock. The orgasm rattled his brain. He slips out of Jim and rolls next to Jim in the tangled sheets, panting.
“You’re fucking amazing,” Jim breathes, staring up at the ceiling.
Spock says, “Thank you, sir.”
Jim snorts.
Spock smiles. It isn’t something he does often, but Jim has a way of... pulling things out of him. He looks over at Jim, content and satiated. Jim rolls over to peck his cheek, beaming.
Then the door beeps from the other room, and Jim swears, “Shit.”
“What is it?”
“Another applicant—who I guess I have to go turn down now. Excuse me for a minute?”
“I forbid you to sleep with them.”
Jim laughs abruptly, already sitting up in bed and looking down at Spock. “Fuck, you really think I’m insatiable, don’t you?” Spock shakes his head, not exactly, but Jim rolls his eyes and says, “For the record, being my first officer doesn’t give you the power to forbid me from things.”
“Does being your boyfriend?” It came out of Spock’s mouth before he could stop it. His cheeks are a little green, he’s sure. He can’t take it back.
Jim grins and says, “Sure.” And he bends down to peck Spock on the forehead, brushing his bangs out of the way.
Then Jim’s climbing into clothes, chest still soaked with his release and ass leaking, and he promises over his shoulder as he walks out, “I’ll be right back.”
Spock nods and pulls the covers up, somehow not as cold as before.