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Spock, Kirk’s hips whisper, bone rolling slowly underneath the skin with every step Kirk takes. Look at me, say his thighs, firm muscle flexing and even though the motions are minute Spock knows the ripple of hard-earned tissue, has seen it encompassing his own thighs, Kirk’s head thrown back, hair glittering like a slow burning flame.
Touch me, Kirk’s hands plead, fingers wrapping around the arm rest of Spock’s chair. Spock knows those fingers, knows the lies they spread through calluses, the scripture nails have carved in his skin. They are harbingers of temptation, as effortless in seduction as every letter in James T. Kirk’s name.
Kirk drops his hips, lowers his head into Spock’s personal space. “Spock,” he murmurs, “I want you.”
The plush movement of Kirk’s lips as he speaks release fire into the air, sweltering pressure that dampens Spock’s skin. “I cannot,” he tells the screen of his PADD.
Spock, purrs the sensual roll of Kirk’s shoulders, and then, “Spock, I want you,” but breathier than before.
“Your priorities when it comes to matters of professionalism are remarkable.” Spock pretends that the words on his screen are a long and detailed account of the most recent successful conclusion to an experiment within the Science labs, not the shape of Kirk’s diaphragm or the highway of veins in his forearm.
With the fluidity of water, Kirk fits his body atop Spock’s lap. It is a gradual, dragging process: Kirk’s pants bunch around his thighs as first one, then the other finds its home along Spock’s body. His back curves, elegant; his neck stretches in front of Spock’s face, an offering, as he presses his lips to Spock’s temple.
Kirk’s hands are moving, playing a symphony of desire to Spock through released buttons and zippers giving way to unbearable heat. Fingers peel boxers and pants alike down the wide gate of Kirk’s hips, skin coarsened with the ringing humidity between them, golden pubic hairs matted with sweat, reaching out with tangling fingers in supplication.
Have me, says Kirk’s body, long and graceful and undeniable.
The swollen head of Kirk’s dick slides through his curled fist as he pulls himself forward from beneath the waistband of his boxers. He is hard, raging heat flirting through his knuckles, brushing against Spock’s skin through layers of material and structure. Tongue swiping out to lave the skin of his bottom lip, Kirk’s eyes secure Spock from under half-lowered lids. Moisture makes the strands of Kirk’s hair shine, even in the dimness of Spock’s quarters.
Kirk is arched above him, Let me touch you written in the intertwined glide of their bodies. Sweat beads along the top of Spock’s lip, in the concave of his pelvic bone; Kirk is heady, and Spock is enkindling.
Noiseless ah, ah’s spill from Kirk’s lips and splash onto Spock’s lap. His hips are an incessant grind, futile attempts at fucking his fist in the compact company on Spock’s chair. Spock’s fingers tighten dangerously on the edges of his PADD, but he will not release, will not succumb to the incubus of Kirk’s undulating body.
Kirk raises his free hand, skirts fingertips over the soft tissue of Spock’s mouth and--pushes them forward. “Lick,” he breathes.
Spock does.
He twirls his tongue in-between the two fingers, flicks over the web of skin, feels the desperate swivel of hips cradling his lap; Spock growls and drags his teeth over the pads of Kirk’s fingers. The startled, “Oh, God,” Kirk pants above him is worth sinking teeth into the flesh of both fingers and sucking.
Spock tongues the knuckle of Kirk’s middle finger when Kirk’s hips jerk and there, against the joints of Spock’s own fingers, Kirk’s clammy pubic bone nestles.
Kirk whines; he pulls his wet hand out of Spock’s mouth, wraps it around his dick at the same time that he extricates his other one. Fingers slide up the side of Spock’s face, rub over his ears (Spock’s breath hitches, crawling out of his chest along with his resolve) and climb into his hair. Kirk’s hand smells of musk and raw arousal; Spock turns his face into Kirk’s wrist, noses at the skin and inhales.
The bow of Kirk’s back sings Spock, Spock, Spock in unrepentant harmony.
The sudden cry from Kirk’s lips vibrates in Spock’s bones. Kirk gasps, “Fuck, Spock, now,” and Spock tears his right hand off the PADD and shoves Kirk’s shirts up to his armpits. The motion of Kirk’s hips stutters to a single, sensuous roll as he comes all over his stomach.
Kirk’s hand trembles, come still tattooed through his fingers, but the path down Spock’s button and zipper is precise. He’s panting while he pulls Spock’s cock out, says, “I- Just,” and shifts off Spock’s lap. Kirk slides between Spock’s legs, fans his fingers over the muscle of Spock’s thighs, spreads them, and presses his face into the shadow of Spock’s hip bone.
“Let me just,” asks Kirk, and sucks Spock’s cock into his mouth. Pink lips stretch and accentuate the green of Spock’s dick, black eyelashes dark along Kirk’s eyes; Spock sways his hips forward and Kirk takes, takes, takes.
Spock watches his dick slide between Kirk’s lips once, twice, three times before he shoves his hand into Kirk’s hair and guides his mouth. His grip is tight, knotting the short strands of Kirk’s hair between his fingers when he tugs; Kirk pulls off and moans, alighting Spock’s nerves with hellfire.
Kirk takes him back too far, the head of Spock’s cock teasing his throat and when Kirk pulls away Spock leads him back. His cock flirts with Kirk’s gag reflex on each thrust, Kirk digging fingers tighter and tighter into Spock’s thigh, his throat twitching, his eyes closing and Spock will not let him up, traces Kirk’s cheekbone with a thumb.
Dull nails scratch helplessly down Spock’s thighs and Spock drops the PADD, not caring in the least. Kirk is unable to keep his saliva at bay and it slicks Spock’s dick, makes Kirk’s lips glint and profess their swollen colour to Spock’s eyes. Aristocratic fingers adhere to the shape of Kirk’s face and cup his chin.
Ardor crescendos a red sea across Kirk’s cheeks, falls into Spock’s bones. Spock holds Kirk’s head in place while he comes, watches the come drip down the veins of his cock because Kirk cannot hold it in his mouth. Breathlessly, Kirk slurps off Spock’s dick, lapping up the come as he goes and then cleaning his stained lips, too. He licks Spock’s fingertips, pushes his face into the contours of Spock’s palm.
They breathe together, Spock a force of gravity against Kirk’s shaking body.
Kirk’s eyes open, and the blue is cool upon Spock’s skin.