Current mood:	relaxed
Current music:	let's talk about spaceships, say hi to your mom
Entry tags:	nc-17, spock/kirk, star trek

Barely Perceptible Green
Title: Barely Perceptible Green
Author: woebetidesweets
Pairing: Spock/Kirk
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Summary: 1636 words. "When they hit the steel divide between the glass shelving, it was with a carefully calculated force: a mere 15% of what their combined mass and acceleration might produce, a percentage Spock had determined would be in no way detrimental to the structural integrity of the architecture. It was enough, however, to rattle the Bajoran ceramics on the shelves, and that was what aroused Jim."



The door hissed shut and Jim backed him against the wall of his quarters, pressing into his personal space and crowding him considerably. When they hit the steel divide between the glass shelving, it was with a carefully calculated force: a mere 15% of what their combined mass and acceleration might produce, a percentage Spock had determined would be in no way detrimental to the structural integrity of the architecture. It was enough, however, to rattle the Bajoran ceramics on the shelves, and that was what aroused Jim. That, and pinning Spock.


As time went by and his data pool widened, Spock had begun to understand how to bring humans to arousal. He had first discovered that it was an entirely unique process for each of them, requiring an entirely unique set of stimuli. Jim did not enjoy being touched inside the hip, as Nyota had. Jim did not enjoy being held. Jim enjoyed force. He enjoyed a coupling much more physically strenuous than Nyota, and he enjoyed being the aggressor. He enjoyed, in what Spock was sure was some hazy, abstract sense, the idea that he was somehow forcing the initiation of the encounter.


Spock decided it was not… offensive to allow this. Jim would push him and shove him and pull him, bunching his fists in the front of his clothing and hauling him close, all of which would be entirely impossible if Spock simply resolved to stand in place. But he allowed himself be dragged, he would even tighten his shoulders on occasion, imitating fear, because it was arousing to Jim. He’d calculated just how much resistance he would need to exert for the action to remain believable, and Jim never seemed to doubt its veracity. Jim would shove with his whole body when he fought him, slamming his hips forward, pressing his nose up the pulse line in Spock’s neck, mouth open and eyes closed, mumbling inarticulate obscenities, and occasionally, feeling Jim’s reaction, Spock would forget he had the ability to remove him at all. The dark bruises on his shoulders and back didn’t mean anything consequential. In light of that reaction.


Jim was rutting against his thigh now that he’d stilled, rolling his hips and slipping a slow hand down Spock’s abdomen. His voice was low, touch cool through clothing. The ship was quiet around them.


“Gonna get you off. Fuck, gonna make you come. Gonna make you fucking come.” The words were vulgar, mumbled in a language Spock found palatable at best, so there was no logical explanation for the slight flush rising in his cheeks. A barely perceptible green that Jim never commented on, but always smiled over in a very childish way, for reasons which Spock was not entirely certain of.


Jim’s hand made it down and fumbled, groped over Spock’s pants, and Jim let out a broken pant, nudging his face in his neck. And then Jim went uncharacteristically still for a moment. Completely quiet. The weight of his body was steady and he breathed deep in Spock’s shoulder- smelling him, Spock thought- and he didn’t move at all, simply squeezed with his hand, tracing and palming over the front of Spock’s slacks.


Spock was not certain why touching him this way was arousing to Jim. Stimulating his own body was in no way directly stimulating Jim’s, but still, there were several instances in which Jim had come to orgasm simply idly masturbating himself and watching his own hand groping Spock, watching his fingers rubbing him through three layers of fabric. He would dart his eyes up to Spock’s face and then back down again, sometimes maintaining eye contact, often not, content with kneading the heel of his hand up and down and panting harshly. There was no logic to a partner’s pleasure taking precedence over one’s own. Stimulation of a partner was certainly conducive to successful copulation, but never at the expense of the individual. It seemed to be a distinctly human tendency, and it was one Spock doubted he would ever understand.


Spock had also noted, in the tightness of Jim’s breathing and the speed at which he achieved release, that Jim most enjoyed this particular scenario when Spock wore his academy uniform. Which Spock now kept pressed and ready in his closet, despite the lack of logical necessity for such attire on board the Enterprise. If Jim had noted this, he had yet to mention it.


“Fuck, you’re so hard. Feel that.” Jim’s groping was rude and his tongue slid up behind the sensitive skin behind Spock’s ear, and in some respects, Spock wasn’t sure if anyone could be as talented as Jim at eliciting physical arousal. Every move and sound he made seemed directly connected to a certain, undeniable sensuality; one Spock wasn’t always sure how to respond to.


But his hand was steady when Jim finally began clumsily fumbling with his own pants, brushing him aside and deftly unbuttoning the row. Jim’s hands were up and splayed in surrender as Spock worked, and then as soon as the last button was undone, one was back down to stroke himself, and the other was braced on Spock’s shoulder.


“Watch me,” Jim commanded quietly, and Spock met his eyes before he looked down. Jim’s breath rose an octave on the exhale, head falling forward. Spock could see a mark he had left behind his neck a week before. Jim's pace was unexpectedly fast, slick sound of the movement and nothing else. His spare hand was a vice on Spock's shoulder. When Jim spoke again, it was almost like he was speaking to himself, fervent: “Watch me. Watch me do it for you.”


Spock was watching.


He gripped Jim’s hand in his own when he saw the rhythm become sporadic, guided him into one tight stroke--- two--


Spock barely had time to register it was over before Jim was dropping to his knees, and there was absolutely nothing logical about how much Spock enjoyed this. More than any other form of stimulation. Jim on the ground, sliding his thighs apart and sinking down, flicking his eyes up and grinning, flushed with orgasm, taking him in his mouth and throat. Everything felt ridiculously cool on his skin, Jim swallowing and sucking and touching with his hand and his fingers. There was nothing logical about the way Spock would rock slightly like it was intercourse, the way every shift and tense of Jim’s shoulders, every breath and nudge of Jim’s nose on his abdomen would push him closer. There was nothing logical about releasing in a male, releasing in a throat, or sometimes, this time, in the corner of Jim’s lips, letting out a soft pant that Jim somehow heard, a pant that made him groan and furiously rub at himself, even though he’d already reached his climax.


There was nothing logical about Spock easily lifting a boneless Jim up from under his arms, letting him lean against him, just for a little while.




“So, I have a question.”


There was a slight pause. Jim always had a question, and if Spock was fortunate, it wouldn’t pertain to archaic Vulcan mating ritual. A thin sheen of sweat was cooling on his brow, on his back on the bed. Jim was shamelessly looking through his things, towel slung around his neck. He often "called" the shower facilities first, and "calling" was a human social exchange Spock had still not worked out the intricacies of. He belatedly realized that his quarters were beginning to smell more like Jim than himself. “I will answer it to the best of my ability-”


“Why do you let me win.”


Jim’s eyes were on him, Spock could feel it, and embarrassment, shame, guilt—whatever foreign, unexpected, cripplingly powerful emotion it was that Spock was experiencing, he did not much enjoy it. “I am not sure I understand the query.”


It was only when Jim was next to him, pressing his cheek with two fingers and grinning his child grin, that Spock realized he was flushed. He felt his nostrils flare slightly, perceiving he was being mocked, but then he watched as Jim’s grin slowly faded into a half-smile Spock would hesitantly call ‘affectionate’. His tone held no evidence of ridicule. “Is it because it gets me off?”


Spock looked to the side very briefly. Water was clinging in Jim's hair. “…It is not displeasing to me to please you.”


Jim didn’t seem to notice the uncharacteristic halt in his speech. “Fair enough.”


Once he’s sure Jim isn’t aware of it, Spock watches him as he settles in the dark, at his mouth, slightly open as he rests.


And he suddenly recalls, in a wave of memory, a conversation he had overheard in the cafeteria one afternoon at the academy, years ago. Cadet Kirk, in typical style, was discussing a topic not fit for the public arena: Hate going down on people, seriously, what a waste of time. And for a horrible moment, Spock felt a very real chill in his stomach, a human sensation he’d read of, but never experienced—that all of this was-


But then, he thinks about the way Kirk looks at him while he’s kneeling in front of him. The eager way he takes him into his mouth, sometimes too far, sometimes too fast, and even when he chokes himself, despite Spock’s restraining hand in his hair, he groans and pushes his hips in the air, looking up and grinning with his eyes in a way Spock sometimes finds overwhelming in its affection, that makes something inside of him clench up and soften at the same time.




Jim often places a hand on his chest when he thinks Spock is sleeping, seeming to forget that Spock’s heart is placed much lower in his abdomen. That his heart is not human.


Spock does not mind.