the_deep_magic | FIC: Star Trek XI -- Come to Bed

Title: Come to Bed
Author: the_deep_magic
Fandom: ST XI

Genre: pure PWP fluff (don’t judge me)

Rating: NC to the 17

Spoilers: none

Disclaimers: Not mine, never have been, making no money (in general – not just from the fic)

A/N: Unbeta’d. I just plopped in front of the computer and banged (hurr) this out at an ungodly hour of the night.

Summary: Like The Old Man and the Sea, the title pretty much gives away the plot.

Spock cannot remember the last time he slept. No, that isn’t true. He remembers precisely when he last slept, and it was long enough ago that he is beginning to indulge in Jim’s penchant for hyperbole. He thinks this reflects rather poorly on his current mental state.

Spock enters his quarters and nearly speaks the command to raise the lights when he sees the sprawled form of his captain asleep on the bed. Several hours ago, while Spock was still sorting through the data from a shipment of medical supplies, Jim had whispered low and soft in his ear, “I’ll be in your bunk. Don’t be long or I’ll fall asleep.” It had slipped Spock’s mind. Not much slips Spock’s mind. He is exhausted.

Two missions, a load of cargo, and several days with the barest minimum of sleep have taken their toll on the entire crew. Spock has never had to test the limits of his endurance in this way, and he does not intend to do so again without a very good reason. He strips off his uniform in the dark and reaches for his pajamas. He has the bottoms on when he looks back to the bed and sees Jim sitting up against the pillows. Jim’s voice is low and a little hoarse, which should in no way account for the spark of heat that shoots down the Vulcan’s spine.

“’m too tired to sleep,” Jim rasps, and Spock finds he no longer cares much about his state of undress.

“Come to bed,” Jim says, holding out an open hand. There was a time when Spock would refuse the gesture with a polite nod, even when offered in such intimate circumstances, but now he reaches out without hesitating.

Spock is astonished by the bright pulse of desire that makes its way through the haze of exhaustion from Jim’s mind to his. The captain has been awake nearly as long as his first officer has, and in his fatigue has no shields from the intimacy of Spock’s touch. Spock’s heart rate rises just a fraction at the thought that Jim still surprises him after all this time.

The sleepy smile on Jim’s face is worth every hour of the work they’ve had to do since they were last here. As if he can hear Spock’s thoughts, Jim murmurs “Been so long” as he pulls Spock down for a deep, lazy kiss.

Just like his mind, Jim’s mouth is warm and open and welcoming. Spock crawls in beneath the covers to stretch his body out beside his captain’s. The simple relief of being off his feet and the comfort of Jim’s kiss relieve a tension in his shoulders that Spock wasn’t aware he’d been carrying. If Spock had possessed all his mental faculties, he might have been mildly ashamed at the way he was sprawled artlessly against Jim’s body, but now his mind has reached a place too calm for words or shame, a place he can just barely touch in the deepest meditation.

And when Jim’s hand finds the small of his back and nails scratch gently against the skin there, Spock’s own body surprises him in the strength of its response. Ten minutes ago he would have sworn a Vulcan oath that he was too tired to be capable of this, but the slow, inexorable tide of Jim’s desire is kindling his own. His own hand wanders down Jim’s body to his hips, and he is not surprised to note that Jim had not indulged in any such formalities as wearing pajamas in another man’s bed.

The kiss is getting sharper now, more focused, and when Jim surfaces for air he seems to realize the turn this is taking and breathes out a single syllable, a soft “oh” against Spock’s lips. Someday, Spock thinks with the unabashedness of the sleep-deprived, he will search the depths of Jim’s mind just to see how he can put more emotion and longing into a single breath than Spock could express in an eternity.

Jim wastes no time responding to Spock’s newly-found focus, gently shifting his weight so that Spock is lying fully on the bed and he, Jim, can hover over him. He crooks a mischievous smile and bends to lovingly run the tip of his tongue over the point of Spock’s ear. “How long has it been?”

It takes Spock a full two seconds to realize he’s been asked a question. “Wh-what?”

“How long has it been since we’ve done this?” Spock can hear Jim’s teasing smile in his words.

“Is that truly important at this moment?”

“No,” Jim says, lightly nipping at Spock’s earlobe, “but I know you know. And I wanna hear you say it.”

Spock knows. The number is in his head, the calculation is easy, but it is damned hard to find with Jim’s tongue tracing patterns down his neck. Spock feels light-headed and foolish, but he won’t refuse Jim’s challenge.

“In standard time—“ Spock sucks in a breath as Jim bites and then lovingly soothes the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “It has been seven days, five hours, and forty two minutes. It is of no use to calculate the number of seconds because—“

Spock is cut off by a low, primal sound that rumbles deep in Kirk’s chest. “Too damn long,” Jim moans against Spock’s shoulder, and had Spock the breath and the presence of mind, he would agree.

Jim smoothly rolls so that his weight is fully pressed down on Spock, their bodies completely flush. To a touch-telepath with a compromised ability to shield his mind, it is utterly overwhelming, and Spock isn’t sure whether the dark, desperate sound that fills the air issued from his lips or Jim’s.

Rising up on his elbows, Jim rains kisses down Spock’s chest as he reaches for the tie of his pajama bottoms. Once loosened, the pants are easily shoved away and Jim greedily takes Spock in his hand. Spock suddenly finds himself at loss for air as Jim’s clever, nimble fingers stroke him once, slowly and firmly, from root to tip. Even in the dark, Spock can see the shine in his captain’s eyes as Jim looks tenderly at his face. “So beautiful,” Jim whispers as he claims Spock’s lips in a searing kiss while smoothly fisting his cock.

It’s too much stimulation at once, and Spock fears he will burst from his skin, unable to hold in the surge of pleasure created by Jim’s lips, Jim’s hands, Jim’s body. Whatever part of Spock that can still engage in linear thought glories in the push of Jim’s hips against his thigh. Spock’s hand goes to Jim’s hip, seeking to give the younger man the same relentless torture Spock is receiving, but Jim pushes his hand away.

“No,” Jim gasps, his breathing ragged. “Just… let me, yeah?”

Spock nods without being entirely sure what he’s agreeing to. With the Vulcan’s permission, Jim reaches up, digs under a pillow and comes back holding a small, well-used tube. He tosses the covers back, and the sudden rush of cold air against Spock’s skin makes him gasp.

“Sorry,” Jim says, not sounding contrite at all, and presses himself once again against the body beneath him. Jim pushes his knees between Spock’s legs and slowly leverages himself up, sucking intently on Spock’s lower lip the whole time.

Jim pulls back to kneel between Spock’s spread legs. One at a time, he hooks Spock’s legs beneath the knee and lifts them so the Vulcan’s feet are flat on the bed. Jim kisses each knee before turning to Spock, looking much younger than his age and strangely vulnerable in the dim light.

“S’okay?” Jim asks, running his hands down Spock’s thighs. Spock breathes a “yes” before Jim can finish the question. They haven’t done things this way very often. Though Spock wishes to give Jim pleasure, he can’t hide his discomfort at being penetrated. Jim understands, and the deep, piercing ecstasy Jim feels as Spock pushes into him is perhaps the most shamelessly honest thing Spock has ever felt in another being.

But tonight is different. Tonight, Spock is bone-weary and glad to have Jim taking the reins. Jim works slowly, warming the lube on his hands before touching Spock’s overheated skin. Despite how long it’s been, Jim takes his time, slipping just the tip of his finger in, scouring Spock’s face for any sign of discomfort.

Their bond heightens during intimacy, and Jim’s voice is so clear in his head, a soft litany of trust me please love you want to give you this and Spock couldn’t deny him if he wanted to. While Spock has been focusing on Jim’s thoughts, Jim has worked a finger deep into Spock’s core. After a long minute, a second finger joins the first, and Spock feels the distinctly odd but not unpleasant sensation of searching need to find, both in Jim’s mind and his fingertips

When Jim’s fingers find his prostate, Spock’s tired nerves leap to attention. Jim is grinning impishly and methodically working Spock open. When he can take no more, Spock finds just enough will to gasp “Now” and Kirk surges up to kiss him. Jim’s fingers are replaced with slow, blunt pressure and Spock feels a momentary spike of fear at having his body opened like this.

But the blinding flash of pleasure blooming in Jim’s mind blocks out the fear, the unfamiliar burn with oh god can’t do this too much too good too fast and despite himself, Spock pushes his hips up to let Jim sink into him. He sees the sweat beading on Jim’s forehead, the crinkles around his shut eyes, the punishing grip his teeth have on his lower lip, and Spock brings his hand up to cup Jim’s face.

“Breathe,” Spock says, a reminder to both of them, and when Jim’s expression breaks, mouth opening wide to fill his lungs, Spock sees the sparkle of tears in his friend’s eyes. When Spock spreads his fingers to take their familiar place, Jim breaks into a grin and something like a sob falls from his lips.

Just before Spock’s mind dissolves into the meld, he marvels anew at how unguarded Jim is, how open and giving. The fact that no one else sees this, this flood of color and joy, creates a tightening in Spock’s chest that Jim might call pride. But there’s no Jim right now, no Spock. There’s only the combined pleasure of two bodies fitting together, dwarfed by the deep, unspoken love between them. It lasts forever and no time at all.

A meld is something that can’t be properly remembered. When Spock looks back on this night, he will feel echoes of the unfamiliar but welcome sensation of no longer being alone in his own body. He will recall Jim’s hand strong and sure on his cock, Jim’s breath on his lips when he whispers now let go I’ve got you don’t be afraid let go, Jim’s breathless laugh as Spock groans Jim’s name when he comes. He’ll remember collapsing together, pulling the covers back up over them, and waking the next morning in the same position in which he fell asleep.

But right now there’s restfulness, a breathless calm after a whirlwind, and when thoughts like yours, always, anything echo through this space-that-has-no-space, it doesn’t matter who says them and who hears them. It only matters that they’re said.

Current Mood: geeky
Current Music: "Love You Madly" ~Cake