[ 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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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. ]