[ he does very much like deeply frustrating and stubborn bastard. he'd married the most frustrating, stubborn bastard in the galaxy, and as it turns out, he's always going to be weak for him.
and everything about this is surreal. jim is in his fifties now. he's still in great shape, but he's softer around the middle, the crow's feet around his eyes are deeper than ever. he's tired and knows he looks it. he's a widower and a workaholic and a grieving mess, even more than a year since losing his husband. by all rights, nothing about him should be that appealing to a younger spock with his entire life and career ahead of him.
and that's not all, is it? the way he touches jim, the way he looks at him, it's all like his own spock is right here. it's like double-vision, almost, and kissing him--? god, it's like every kiss he's ever shared with his husband, it feels just like him.. though the eager way this spock pushes forward, fervent, almost desperate, is.. new. different.
jim manages a shaky little laugh as he's all but pushed back into the couch cushion, making his hand cupping spock's neck and jaw a steadying touch, an anchor. he smiles, unsteady, as the younger man's brow rests lightly against his own, lips still brushing, so close. god, he can feel the heat of him even through the layers of their clothing, the hungry way he holds him startling and an unexpected balm to his ego.
then he speaks, and the older man has to blink away more tears threatening. yes. yes, he's here. he's alive and real, and if he wants jim even a fraction as badly as jim wants him, then james kirk is a very lucky man indeed.
he kisses him again because he can, because he needs him, will always need him, even if it's selfish. ] Spock, [ he murmurs as they break apart again, just for the pleasure of saying his name, and lifts their twined fingers so he can duck his head and kiss the pads of spock's, sucking the tip between his lips and grazing it with his teeth. ]
[ see? spock is extremely right, as always. he is also, as noted previously, in over his head. not emotionally, he knows where he's at with that. they're in similar places there despite the different reasons; a selfish little part of spock feels a coil of satisfaction, gratification, to feel genuinely needed, to be touched with desire and want with no social bear trap for him to step directly into. he doesn't think of it in that metaphor, that isn't how he's built, but that's what it is. was, rather.
what it is now is exactly what he's wanted for months now. jim's touch, the transference of affection and heat buzzing lightly at the edges of his thoughts, his emotional balance.
spock remains where he is for that moment of steadying, brushes a kiss at the corner of jim's mouth, stays close, watches him, and decides, abruptly, that he would very much prefer to never let go. illogical nonsense, and yet.
this time he melts into the kiss rather than surges into it, but not because he's any less eager. it's because a line of tension has been drawn out of him, the realization that he does, in fact, get to have this. that he does matter, that he is enough, that jim can breathe his name out like that and—
—every single thought derails all at once because when they draw back, because jim is—
well—
it's not something that happens, really, to people like spock, for many reasons not just that even the brush of fingers against one another is barely appropriate for public sight. and the soft press of lips is overwhelming enough, but that brief flicker from before of 'that sound i made would be deeply embarrassing anywhere else' falls right out a twelve-story window because it's nothing compared to the way spock's breath hiccups despite every attempt to stop it when he feels the blunt edges of jim's teeth graze his fingertip, the slight, slight suction to get it near enough to them so he can do so.
spock is, to put it colloquially, completely fucked.
his eyes have gone wide, the pupils narrowing to slits before blowing out again, he blinks one set of eyelids and then the other, then he opens his mouth and nothing comes out—
—his fingers twitch slightly, one of the free ones brushing lightly across jim's lower lip, his gaze now unblinking because he can't look away. he thinks he says jim's name but it sounds a little thready so maybe he didn't. he swallows, shifting slightly where he sits, and he should be embarrassed by how he briefly presses his thighs together, but he's too busy moving just afterward, turning, swinging a leg fully over the admiral's lap to sit astride him, fingers of his free hand trailing through his hair, the tips grazing his temple with the helpless transfer of blind heat and want.
he should be more composed. more well-regulated. better able to control himself. he is, in fact, none of those things at the moment.
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no subject
and everything about this is surreal. jim is in his fifties now. he's still in great shape, but he's softer around the middle, the crow's feet around his eyes are deeper than ever. he's tired and knows he looks it. he's a widower and a workaholic and a grieving mess, even more than a year since losing his husband. by all rights, nothing about him should be that appealing to a younger spock with his entire life and career ahead of him.
and that's not all, is it? the way he touches jim, the way he looks at him, it's all like his own spock is right here. it's like double-vision, almost, and kissing him--? god, it's like every kiss he's ever shared with his husband, it feels just like him.. though the eager way this spock pushes forward, fervent, almost desperate, is.. new. different.
jim manages a shaky little laugh as he's all but pushed back into the couch cushion, making his hand cupping spock's neck and jaw a steadying touch, an anchor. he smiles, unsteady, as the younger man's brow rests lightly against his own, lips still brushing, so close. god, he can feel the heat of him even through the layers of their clothing, the hungry way he holds him startling and an unexpected balm to his ego.
then he speaks, and the older man has to blink away more tears threatening. yes. yes, he's here. he's alive and real, and if he wants jim even a fraction as badly as jim wants him, then james kirk is a very lucky man indeed.
he kisses him again because he can, because he needs him, will always need him, even if it's selfish. ] Spock, [ he murmurs as they break apart again, just for the pleasure of saying his name, and lifts their twined fingers so he can duck his head and kiss the pads of spock's, sucking the tip between his lips and grazing it with his teeth. ]
no subject
what it is now is exactly what he's wanted for months now. jim's touch, the transference of affection and heat buzzing lightly at the edges of his thoughts, his emotional balance.
spock remains where he is for that moment of steadying, brushes a kiss at the corner of jim's mouth, stays close, watches him, and decides, abruptly, that he would very much prefer to never let go. illogical nonsense, and yet.
this time he melts into the kiss rather than surges into it, but not because he's any less eager. it's because a line of tension has been drawn out of him, the realization that he does, in fact, get to have this. that he does matter, that he is enough, that jim can breathe his name out like that and—
—every single thought derails all at once because when they draw back, because jim is—
well—
it's not something that happens, really, to people like spock, for many reasons not just that even the brush of fingers against one another is barely appropriate for public sight. and the soft press of lips is overwhelming enough, but that brief flicker from before of 'that sound i made would be deeply embarrassing anywhere else' falls right out a twelve-story window because it's nothing compared to the way spock's breath hiccups despite every attempt to stop it when he feels the blunt edges of jim's teeth graze his fingertip, the slight, slight suction to get it near enough to them so he can do so.
spock is, to put it colloquially, completely fucked.
his eyes have gone wide, the pupils narrowing to slits before blowing out again, he blinks one set of eyelids and then the other, then he opens his mouth and nothing comes out—
—his fingers twitch slightly, one of the free ones brushing lightly across jim's lower lip, his gaze now unblinking because he can't look away. he thinks he says jim's name but it sounds a little thready so maybe he didn't. he swallows, shifting slightly where he sits, and he should be embarrassed by how he briefly presses his thighs together, but he's too busy moving just afterward, turning, swinging a leg fully over the admiral's lap to sit astride him, fingers of his free hand trailing through his hair, the tips grazing his temple with the helpless transfer of blind heat and want.
he should be more composed. more well-regulated. better able to control himself. he is, in fact, none of those things at the moment.
enjoy your activated cat, admiral kirk. ]