The three of them are in the turbolift when she suggests it, just a simple, “Have you tried Vulcan neuropressure?” Spock stiffens as soon as it’s out of her mouth.
Of course he hasn’t. “No, I’m not a Vulcan.”
Uhura rolls her eyes. “Spock can do it. He used to do it to me all the time when we were dating, and it really helped my sleep.”
Jim fights the urge to snicker at her choice of wording. Instead he goes with: “You weren’t recovering from death and living with the blood of a psychopath.”
Uhura gives up on him. She turns to Spock and insists, “You should help him.”
Spock doesn’t say anything, but it looks like he wants to say no, and if there were a logical way to do so, he would. That spikes Jim’s interest, and Jim squints at him. They reach the bridge and the doors open, Uhura storming out first.
Jim endures precisely one more night of tossing and turning and feeling sick to his stomach, and then he’s thinking about what Uhura said. He spends half the day glancing sideways at his first officer, strong and reliable at his side, shifting only for brief periods to check various consoles. Spock’s always by Jim’s side.
Jim asks as they approach a particularly large asteroid, “Would it help with sleep?”
Spock looks down at him, quirking an eyebrow. “The asteroid?”
“Vulcan neuropressure,” Jim laughs. Spock’s eyes quickly scan the bridge, but everyone else is preoccupied with their jobs. Sometimes, Jim feels like his job is to bother Spock.
Slowly, Spock answers, “Yes, but it takes years to master and requires the use of many advanced techniques.”
“Can’t you just administer it to me?”
“Yes, but it will not have the full effect if you do not know what to do.”
Jim shrugs. “At this point, I’ll take anything.”
“What, it isn’t logical?”
Chekov interrupts with a, “Asteroid approaching, Keptain.”
“Evasive maneuvers, Mr. Sulu.”
When Jim looks around, Spock’s over at the science station
By avoiding the issue, Spock’s making it worse. It’s become forbidden fruit, and when Spock declines their regular chess game, Jim doesn’t accept it. He grabs Spock’s wrist and physically drags Spock off the bridge, marching him down the white hall and insisting, “You’re not avoiding me just because Uhura made a stupid suggestion.”
Spock doesn’t correct the avoidance statement, probably because Vulcans, apparently, can’t lie. It’s after duty and most of the alpha shift crew is filing away, but not so many down the hall to the captain’s quarters. Jim tugs Spock through his opening doors, and when he turns to let go, he finds Spock staring at his hand.
Jim steps around Spock to punch a few numbers into the console, locking the doors. Spock glances over his shoulder but doesn’t say anything. Their 3D chessboard is already set up on the table, but when Jim sits down in one of the white chairs, he isn’t looking at it.
He’s looking straight at Spock, and he says quietly and seriously, “It’s been really hard, coming back. Losing Admiral Pike. Thinking I was dead myself, and by the way, I don’t know if I ever had time to properly thank you not just for saving me, but for being there with me when it was all going to be over. I know you’ve gone through a much greater loss than me, but... if you have something that could actually help, it would mean a lot to me if you would fill me in.”
Still standing, Spock’s hands are in loose fists and twitching slightly at his sides. He must catch Jim’s gaze, because he quickly folds them behind his back. He’s frowning. To try and make it easier, Jim fills in, “If you at least tell me what it is, I can always go to another Vulcan; we must have at least one more aboard...”
“Do not go to another Vulcan,” Spock says instantly. Then he closes his mouth again, as though he’s said too much. Jim’s eyebrows knit with confusion. Spock exhales and continues, “It is... a form of massage. Similar to Earth chiropractors or acupuncture. However... I am not fully adept in administering it; I could not... I could not guarantee my actions...”
“Uhura said you did it for her,” Jim points out.
“That was a different situation. I was in complete control of what I was doing.” When Jim raises an eyebrow—somehow, he’ll make Spock lose control?—Spock repeats tightly, “I could not guarantee my actions.”
Jim stands up. He pats down his uniform, looks up at Spock, and nods towards the bedroom. The furniture in the sitting room isn’t large enough to lie down on. As he walks, he calls, “Lights,” getting them half-set, dimmer, because massages need ambience, right. Spock doesn’t follow. Jim turns around and calls, “I accept liability. C’mon.” He trusts Spock.
Very stiffly, Spock moves forward.
Over in the corner, Spock’s waiting. Jim’s just gotten down, having stripped out of his clothes, down to his boxers, because that’s how massages are done. He’s lying on his bed, facing the end, lying on his stomach with his head resting on his arms, because the pillows would smother him. His feet are in them. He’s kicking them absently while he watches Spock, beckoning, “C’mere. I’m ready.” Being this bare around Spock feels natural, and Jim doesn’t pay much thought to it, even though he could swear Spock’s cheeks have a bit of green to them. Jim feels a bit of pride at that but doesn’t say it.
Spock has that look on his face like he’s struggling with something, but what, Jim wouldn’t even bother to guess. Spock slowly climbs around to him, still done up in full uniform but shoes kicked off. Spock sits down on the bed and asks, “Are you sure you want to do this, Captain?”
“I’m sick of nightmares. Do it.” And Jim points at his back, because he’s assuming that’s where it goes. Spock hasn’t been at all helpful with this, so Jim’s assuming a lot of things. So far, Spock has yet to correct him, so he must have the right idea. He wonders vaguely what the difference between a regular massage and a neuropressure treatment is, but he figures he’s about to find out.
Spock sits beside him, knees touching his sides. Then Spock adjusts so they’re not touching. Jim turns his head to that side, cheek against his arm. He looks up at Spock, raising his eyebrows to indicate he’s ready. Spock can start any time. Spock’s eyes are raking over his skin, probably to find the right place to start. Maybe to find where the tension is? But he’s only on one side.
He places his hand on the shoulder blade closest to him. Then he exhales. Jim remembers hearing somewhere that Vulcan hands are particularly sensitive. Can Spock feel the tension under his skin?
Spock’s fingers steeple, pressing sharply down, and Jim grunts. It sort of stings, and Spock says, “Please be quiet, Captain.”
So Jim bites his lip on the next jab, equally as sharp. A third stab, and Spock begins to rub the area in between, kneading him with two hands. That part feels better. Much better. Spock soothes his fingers flat over it, and Jim has to resist the urge to moan; he doesn’t want to ruin this.
Despite his warnings, Spock clearly knows what he’s doing. His hands are careful, steady, and practiced, moving over Jim’s skin like a brush over paper. Everywhere he touches feels better. It hurts a bit at first, but soon Jim relaxes into it, muscles uncoiling, lungs falling into a steady rhythm. It’s a little cold in the room without his clothes on, but it’s warm wherever Spock touches. Spock’s hands are warm. And skillful. Jim can feel two fingertips rubbing in tiny circles, and it’s like heaven, crawling towards his spine.
Jim sighs contentedly. This is the best.
Jim doesn’t know how long the massage is supposed to go on for, but he’s sort of hoping forever. Or at least until he has to be on duty again. Fuck sleep. This is better than sleep. It feels like it’s been half an hour, but it could’ve been more. Spock’s switched to his other side, doing halves in turns. Probably because it’d be hard to reach farther. That’s why massage tables are small, Jim thinks: so they can be walked around.
As Spock reaches his lower back, Jim mumbles, “Can you take off your clothes?”
Spock’s hands freeze instantly, jabbing down into Jim’s spine, and Jim bucks up into them to make them move again. Spock continues rubbing, but he’s clearly distracted. “Captain...?”
“I want to turn the heat in the room up.”
There’s a pause, in which Jim takes a moment to shift against the mattress. His underwear isn’t entirely cooperating, but that’s understandable like this, isn’t it? He’s in his underwear in bed, having someone touch him very intimately, even if it’s not meant that way. If he doesn’t roll over, Spock will never know that parts of Jim are... excited.
But that might subtly be part of the reason he insists, “C’mon, don’t make me be naked alone.” He looks up at Spock, who’s frowning. “What’s the big deal? You’ve got me in my undies.”
“Vulcans are accustomed to a higher—”
“Spock, just do it.” ...Because it’s only fair.
Jim smirks against his arm. It sucks to have Spock’s hands fall from his back, but it’s worth it to have them pull at Spock’s shirt, tugging the bundle over his head. He slips off the mattress and turns around, stepping out of his pants, collecting and folding everything. His boxers are tighter than Jim’s, jet black, and showing off his taut ass rather nicely while he bends to put the pile on Jim’s dresser. Then he’s turned back around, crawling onto the bed, smooth chest and smooth muscles on display, and Jim mumbles past his suddenly-dry throat, “Computer, increase temperature seven degrees.” It makes that little beeping noise to signal that it’s listening.
Jim makes himself look forward. A boner isn’t a problem now, while it’s small, but if he sees too much of near-naked Spock, it’ll make itself a big problem. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.
As Spock reaches across him, Jim’s mouth betrays him. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you were straddling me? You’d have a better reach.”
He expects more protest, but his reckless head thought it’d be a good idea. He’s surprised when he doesn’t get any resistance. He feels a dip in the bed, and then a weight on his ass—Spock’s sitting down on him. Spock doesn’t weigh too much in this position, and the pressure’s sort of nice, but it’s also sort of strange. Having his first officer sitting on him. Touching him. Both of them undressed. Spock’s hands are back to his shoulder blades, kneading them tenderly.
Sighing and having far too much fun with this, Jim moans, “Glad you’re finally cooperating.”
“As you are clearly not going to see reason and you are my captain, I have decided it best to simply follow your requests.”
Jim glances up over his shoulder. It’s much harder to see Spock’s face from this angle. Spock’s concentrating. “Thanks.”
It’s been at least an hour. Maybe two. Jim’s in heaven. Spock’s hands are so good on his body, sucking out all the pain and easing in pleasure, seeping in through all the right places. The warmth in the room has his skin slightly beaded with sweat, and most of the time, he has his eyes closed. He’s smiling, because it’s impossible not to. There’s something reassuring about having Spock’s weight on him. He can feel Spock’s bare thighs and the outline of Spock’s dick through both their underwear, heavy on his ass. He’s still hard. But that only makes it better. He fluctuates between wanting sex and sleep, but mostly he just wants those hands, fuck, those hands, all over his body.
There really isn’t any tension left in Jim’s body. Well, not in his back, anyway. On a whim, as Spock’s hands move a little lower, Jim shifts his own tired arms, thumbs hooking in the brim of his underwear. Spock’s fingers slow, and Jim can tell he’s being watched. He doesn’t care. He mumbles, “Sit up.”
He glances over his shoulder to check—Spock lifts up on his knees. Jim slowly shuffles his underwear down, hooking it on his thighs, beneath his ass. Then he brings his arms back up to be pillows again, lifting his ass up and wriggling it as temptingly as possible, practically purring, “You can massage other places, if you want.”
He doesn’t mean to be tempting or purr, really. It just comes out because of the hazy, beautiful mood he’s in. And he adds the ‘if you want’ so Spock has a choice, because he isn’t a total monster. But he can’t really have been this far without trying; that’d just be silly. Spock’s shadow is looming over him, and he can hear Spock suck in a breath.
Then that shadow’s moving lower. The bed’s shifting, Spock’s knees are sliding lower down his thighs, and Spock hovers above the back of his legs. Jim spreads them to give Spock room to sit down, nudging Spock’s out of the way. Spock sits down with thighs draped over him, right beneath his ass.
Spock returns to massaging him, this time around the tailbone, lower than he did before. Jim frowns a little, because of course he was hoping it’d be lower, but he can’t force that. And the massage is good, too. And Spock’s his first officer and he shouldn’t even be thinking like that, he only is because it feels so good and it’s getting to him, and he’s been low on sleep and of course, Spock’s very, very handsome...
Spock’s fingertips are pressing into him and drawing lower. They slip down the cheeks of Jim’s ass, palms grinding down, fingers spreading, hands grabbing. Spock’s grabbing his ass. It’s Jim’s turn to suck in a breath. Is this part of Vulcan neuropressure? He knows Spock told him to be quiet, but he can’t help but moan when Spock’s thumbs run down his crack. Spock spreads Jim open, and Jim can tell that Spock’s shifting lowing in the bed to lean down.
Jim wants to look over his shoulder. But he wouldn’t be able to see properly without being obvious, and he doesn’t want to ruin this. So he leans his forehead on his forearms and tries to control his breathing. Now Spock’s fingers are running down his crack, and they feel a little slick—with what, he doesn’t know—slicker than the regular amount of sweat beading on Jim’s warm body. Spock finds his hole, and Jim gasps.
Maybe this is what Spock meant by not being able to control himself. He’s not so slow, anymore. He’s cautious and methodical, but he isn’t taking ages to ease Jim’s muscles. He’s rubbing the puckered ring of Jim’s entrance. A finger pistons lightly at it. Jim groans when it pops inside. It’s a little big and not wet enough for that. Spock pushes it further in, anyway.
“Captain?” Spock’s voice isn’t exactly steady, but it’s still better off than Jim’s.
“Yes?” He’s panting.
“Are you sure you wish for the treatment to continue?”
What treatment? From the naïve way Uhura said it, neupressure’s not supposed to end up this way. Jim doesn’t even care. He doesn’t even have to think about it. It’s not like he’s never thought about it. Or something like it. Not like he hasn’t felt the connection between them stronger than with anyone else, and it’s not like Jim’s sexually conservative, and it’s not like it doesn’t feel good to have Spock fucking him with one finger. Jim moans, “Yes.”
Spock must be leaning down over him, because suddenly there’s warm breath on his ear. Spock hisses, “Very well,” and the finger pulls out. Jim whimpers. Another, wetter finger pushes at the entrance, and when it plunges in, it doesn’t stop. Jim’s breath catches, but Spock carefully wriggles it up further and further. Jim’s ass protests, his walls squeezing tighter and tighter, but Spock keeps going, makes Jim take it, until it’s knuckle-deep. Then Spock purrs, “Please relax, Captain.”
How the hell is Jim supposed to relax with Spock’s finger tight up inside him, now slowly pulling out and gently pushing in? Just because it’s gentle and something he can take doesn’t change the fact that Spock’s finger fucking him. That thought alone is enough to make Jim want to writhe. His cock is very, very hard against the mattress, but he holds himself still, wanting to behave. Jim’s the captain. But sometimes Spock does very well with his areas of control...
Spock has two fingers in before long, opening Jim up and scissoring him apart, easier at first and wider later. Spock’s other hand lightly pets Jim’s ass, and it’s oddly soothing. Jim’s body’s left so calm from the massage. He falls into the sweet rhythm of Spock’s fingers, until a third, then the tip of a fourth finger is inside. He doesn’t protest until the fingers leave him again, replaced with a hollow, empty feeling.
Jim makes a mewling noise and lifts his ass up. Spock’s adjusting over him again, and Spock’s arms fall around Jim’s sides, stomach hovering over his back. Something blunt and moist is poking at Jim’s crack, slipping down and rubbing up and down, then a bit lower. Jim knows immediately what it is, and that’s enough to make him moan. Holy fuck, Spock’s going to fuck him... Jim can’t even remember why he needed a massage in the first place; he just knows he should’ve said this is what he wanted from the beginning—wasn’t it always?
It feels strangely right to have Spock lying down on him. It forces him a bit lower into the bed, but he doesn’t mind. Spock supports his own weight. Spock presses the side of his face against Jim’s, asking one more time, “Jim...?” Jim, not Captain.
Jim lifts his ass up against the hard cock held to him, breathing, “Take me.”
Spock plunges inside, like it’s all he’s ever wanted to do, like he’s meant to be there. His long cock parts Jim’s tight walls and surges up his hot channel, warm and thick. Jim groans at the intrusion and presses his cheek against Spock’s, reaching around to hold Spock’s head in. His fingers thread through Spock’s hair. His thumb brushes over the point of Spock’s ear, his mouth open in a languid moan. Spock’s big.
And Spock’s perfect, and a second later he’s brushing something inside that makes pleasure wash over Jim’s body. It short-circuits his head and makes it harder to breathe. It’s so good already. Then Spock’s pulling out, slow and to the head, and pushing back inside. Jim presses his ass up to meet it; it hits that spot again. Jim shivers in delight, moaning over and over. Spock goes in and out, in and out, torturously slowly, steady and still hard. Jim wants more, and he whines, “Faster.”
Spock obeys. It’s still not enough. “Faster.” Faster still. Jim keeps moaning and begging until Spock’s gruffly pounding in and out of him, and then it’s all Jim can do to keep conscious. Spock’s hips are so strong, and each time they slam him into the mattress, he thinks it might bruise, and that’s wonderful. His right hand scrambles to find Spock’s, and then he’s holding Spock’s wrist, sliding it down the sheets and trying to pry it under his body. Spock seems to get the message. It slides under, and the next minute, Jim has long fingers wrapped around his cock, squeezing him lightly and pumping him.
Heaven, heaven. If Jim thought he was there before, that was nothing. All that Vulcan strength is rearing its gorgeous head. He isn’t relaxed anymore; he’s horny and heady and his skin’s crawling with lust. There’s only one thing that could make it better, and it hasn’t happened yet, and Jim can’t fathom why, how is there anything left between them? He practically growls, “Kiss me.”
Spock’s hips don’t slow for a second. But he does shift to the side, and he grabs a chunk of Jim’s blond hair, jerking Jim’s head to the side. Jim grunts but takes it—he likes it rough—fuck, who knew Spock could be so rough? Spock smashes their mouths together, lips already opening and prying Jim’s apart. Jim’s open with a groan. Spock’s mouth is hot on his, wet and sweet, a little spicy. Spock’s tongue is wildfire, ravaging Jim’s mouth and fighting his own down. Jim’s neck is sore in no time, but he doesn’t want to stop, and they kiss and they kiss while Spock fucks him raw.
Jim doesn’t want it to end. Maybe he should’ve let Spock go slow. But he couldn’t manage: too desperate. It’s too much. Spock’s plundering his ass, pleasuring his cock, ravishing his mouth. Spock, all over him. His favourite officer. The man always at his side. He wouldn’t have anyone else.
He moans hard into Spock’s mouth, and his face scrunches up, and his fingers tense in the blankets. He bursts into Spock’s hand, and he can feel his ass working around Spock’s dick. Spock’s still going, but he parts their lips to groan loudly, grinding down and hissing, “Jiiiim...”
And then he’s following, exploding inside Jim and slamming it out, a few last, powerful thrusts, enough to nearly knock Jim senseless. Spock’s still holding Jim’s cock. Spock milks it out.
Then Spock collapses atop him, breathing heavily and sticky with sweat and heavier. Jim just grunts. His head’s officially ruined.
He doesn’t think he’ll have trouble sleeping tonight, simply because his brain can’t function enough to worry.
He might pass out.
He didn’t pass out. He’s lying on the bed, now on his back, enjoying the way it leaves his ass sore, reminding him of Spock. His back still feels great. Spock’s lying next to him, also on his back, and they’re staring at the ceiling through the dim light.
There’s sort of a silent understanding that everything’s changed, and in a way, they’ve totally ruined their friendship.
Jim wants to say sorry for making Spock administer neuropressure when Spock clearly knew this was going to happen, but Jim doesn’t say sorry, because he isn’t. It was totally worth it and he feels heady and satisfied.
He’s not quite sure how Spock feels, but he imagines good, because Spock is just as guilty as him for causing this mess. And Spock doesn’t look disgusted when Jim looks over and asks, “Will you stay with me?”
Looking contemplative instead, Spock says slowly, “I am your first officer; my place is on this ship.”
Rolling his eyes and chuckling, Jim clarifies, “I meant tonight. In my room.”
Spock’s eyebrows lift. He takes a minute. “...If you would like me to.”
“Of course I’d like you to. Would you like to?”
It looks like it’s hard for Spock to say yes, so he ends up nodding, which is just as good. Jim’s unable to stop the wide grin that slips onto his face. He says quietly, “That’ll probably be a better treatment than neuropressure.”
“I apologize for my inappropriate behaviour during that.”
“Do you regret it?”
Spock shakes his head.
“Then don’t apologize.” And Jim pushes himself up, calling, “Computer, lower the temperature five degrees.” Because that’s what blankets are for. Jim climbs up his bed to pick them up and gestures for Spock to follow. Spock does, if stiffly.
They climb under. Spock looks like he belongs, even though he doesn’t say anything.
Jim rolls over onto his side, barking, “Lights!” The room plunges into darkness.
Spock rolls up against Jim’s back, throwing two arms around him and pulling him in, tight.
That night, Jim sleeps like a baby.