Archive of Our Own

“Now this, Mr. Spock, is my kind of planet.”

Jim grinned, leaning out over the colosseum railing and taking in a deep, exaggerated breath. 

Three tiers of stands were packed with thousands of screaming fans, fervent roars of approval and disdain spit through sharp canines and blue lips. Fireworks erupted periodically overhead, the colors dazzling against a green sky, as below warriors clashed in bouts of slick skin and tightly-cinched togas on the dirt floor of the arena. Hawkers thundered through the aisles showing off skewers of still-squirming tentacles and tankards of some beverage wreathed in purple steam.

Oh, I gotta have one of those, Jim thought to himself, sneaking a glance at the Vulcan beside him. What were the odds that Spock would approve of drinking unidentified substances on the job? Not good, he finally decided, and flopped back onto the bench with a nevertheless contented sigh. There was always the banquet, and who could feel disappointed on a gorgeous, crisp winter day surrounded by alien festivities?

“I remain doubtful of the professed religious origin to this… ceremony.” 

Spock furrowed his brow, leaning away with distaste as a hawker shoved the tentacles into their faces. Jim laughed and waved the Knlarian off, handing Spock a bag of dried fruit slices he’d replicated before their early morning beam down.

“Here, we’ve got another hour, and you haven’t eaten anything all afternoon.”

Spock’s eyes softened, and Jim’s heart flipped as his offering was accepted. Lately every small reaction from Spock—a quirk of the lips, a faint dusting of green, a fond but exasperated Jim—seemed to have the power to put Jim in a good mood for the rest of the day. So, logically (as his First would put it), Jim had been making a special effort to find little ways to please Spock. A shipment of rare incense from non-Federation space. New leeway for the science team to embark on a side project for next year’s big conference. Roster changes to give Lieutenant Uhura plenty of practice time before their duet on music night. Though Spock didn’t seem aware that it was Jim pulling the strings, it was always worth it to watch the warmth dance in those fathomless brown eyes.

“I cannot trace the connection between a mythical rebirth of their species via acid rain and five days of violent martial tournament.” Spock chewed on a mango slice, looking more thoughtful than put out.

“Well, it is a winter festival. Human ones don’t make much more sense—what’s Christianity got to do with pine trees and red-nosed reindeer? Or Judaism with betting chocolate coins on dreidels?”

Spock raised a lofty eyebrow. “Fortunately, the illogic of Earth traditions does not exemplify every culture in the universe.”

Jim grinned, taking a bite from his own bag of local buttery grain (similar in texture to popcorn). He loved it when Spock—who Jim knew to be quite the dreidel aficionado from holiday parties past—dialed up his prim alien façade for the sake of petty banter.

“No? What, do Vulcans celebrate winter by buying coats?”

“The outlands of Vulcan were once sculpted by great eruptions of volcanic activity. As you are aware, temperatures plunge at night on a desert planet, rendering much of the landscape inhospitable. Nighttime temperatures reach their nadir during the deep of winter; however, this makes possible one much-celebrated Vulcan custom.”

Spock’s eyes found Jim, something twinkling within.

“Pi’muzh halan—an annual pilgrimage to the hot springs.”

Jim felt his jaw drop. “You’re messing with me.”

“I am not.”

“Vulcans? Getting into bubble baths in their bathing suits?”

“Traditionally, the bathing occurs nude.”

Jim chokes on his next handful of popped-grain, his ears burning. “Jesus, Spock, you can’t just put that image in my head.” 

He wouldn’t admit to anyone that the image in his head had less to do with a throng of expressionless conservatives baring their bits in the middle of the desert, and more to do with a sudden detailed flash of Spock, pulling off his regulation blacks. Spock, easing himself into the hot water, his chest hair pressed damp against—

Nope, nope, nope, not a good way to stay decent for the colosseum crowds. Or an appropriate way to think about his most stalwart friend. Jim shoved another handful of the damn pops into his mouth as Spock continued with a hint of satisfaction.

“Outside the depths of winter, natural hot springs on Vulcan are far too scorching to allow for casual usage. Thus it is imminently logical to make use of this narrow yearly window.”

“Right. Uh, sounds… logical. Do you just sit there? Tell stories?”

Spock’s gaze turned inward, nostalgic and almost wistful. “Stars are especially bright against the perfect black of an outlands sky. In the weeks leading up to pi’muzh halan, students learn to identify the many constellations and stellar objects visible from Vulcan.”

Jim smiled in awe. “You stargaze.”

“Indeed. A celebration of that which is stark and cold, yet also that which guards our rest until the sun rises once more. A fitting winter celebration, is it not?”

“It sounds great, Spock,” Jim answered honestly. He could picture little Spock sunk to his nose in the water, just a pair of sparkling eyes and pointy ears peering up at the magnificent expanse of space above him.

A sudden roar rose from the crowd, dwarfing all previous volume levels. Over the loudspeakers, a Knlarian voice trilled, Jim’s translation implant smoothing it into eager words.

“And now, bglera, bglora, and bibelura, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Our greatest champions, the Invulnerable Contenders!”

Out into the arena marched a group of seven Knlarians, all bare-chested and flexing insane musculature, hyping up the crowd with sweeping motions of their arms. While the Knlarians seemed to fit into most humanoid averages in terms of physiology, Jim had yet to determine the distinction between their three genders. From a human perspective, most looked rather masculine—and these seven were exemplary proof of that.

Beside Jim and Spock, a trio of Betazoids tittered to each other and blushed as the warriors passed their box, separated by only a scant meter of vertical and horizontal distance. One of the seven—whose sarong-like pants hung low on his defined hipbones—seemed to be searching for someone in the VIP area. When his eyes landed on Spock, they widened. Fangs flashing in the sunlight, the Knlarian held up a practiced ta’al and grinned, then swept a dramatic bow before jogging off to rejoin his friends.

“Someone you know?” Jim asked with an eyebrow raise of his own as the loudspeakers announced the next round.

Spock’s gaze followed the warrior with curiosity. “Negative. Prior to this mission, I had never met a Knlarian.”

“Huh.”

For some reason that answer sat uncomfortably in Jim’s chest. He tried to focus on the arena as the next events played out—displays of strength involving the splitting of hardy trees, then demonstrations of skill that pitted a ranged weapon against distant targets—but he couldn’t summon the same cheery enthusiasm. 

The warrior with the sarong-pants did exceedingly well, though there was only one category in which he outperformed everyone. Through their translation matrix, the announcer’s eager, near-salivating voice dubbed this event the cucumis fruit crush.

Spock leaned slightly forward in his seat, his eyes fixed on the arena floor where the contenders lowered themselves into seated positions. “Cucumis is the scientific name for a genus of tendril-bearing plants in the family Cucurbitaceae, which includes the cucumber and most species of melon. Ah, yes, here they are.”

Several members of the arena staff raced out onto the floor, each carrying what looked like a dense pink melon bigger than their heads. The warriors accepted this offering, and Jim’s mouth dropped when each set their feet flat to the floor in a crabwalk position, then fitted the melon between their thighs.

No, they couldn’t possibly be…

The Betazoids’ titters turned into quiet shrieks as they pushed and giggled at each other.

“Fascinating,” Spock murmured, eyes locked on the proceedings below. “I believe this to be a sporting event practiced casually in Terran circles as well?”

Jim finally remembered how to shut his mouth, feeling the burn of a flush crawling up his cheeks. The warriors’ thighs were thick as those logs they had split in half like toothpicks earlier, light blue skin straining over whip-like cords of muscle that glinted in the sunlight as they flexed into position.

“Um,” Jim managed to choke out. “Uh, I guess. The watermelon crush ranks right up there with wet t-shirt contests.”

Spock shot Jim a puzzled look, but then the announcer began to count down and the crowd roared at such volume conversation was rendered impossible.

“...four, three, two, one…!”

The warrior with the sarong pants lifted himself up into a bridge—sweat dripping, thighs straining—the suspended cucumis fruit trembling in place. The melon almost seemed to swell, the center collapsing ever so slightly inward until…

CRACK

The fruit exploded into chunks of white with a booming sound like lightning striking, sarong-man’s thighs meeting in a requisite clap of thunder. The meat of the fruit coated each of his thighs in its own juice, droplets slipping down smooth skin before matting into dense body hair at his calves.

He roared in celebration, surging to his feet with a wild grin that showed off his fangs as he punched a fist into the air. Around them, the crowd went wild.

The flush must be creeping up my neck, Jim thought with despair, clearing his throat and struggling to avoid adjusting himself in his pants. As a proud bisexual, James Tiberius Kirk was no stranger to the appeal of muscular thighs, and jesus, the things those thighs could do…

He snuck a peek at Spock, expecting the Vulcan to wear his previous look of bewilderment. He imagined the huff of complaint, the argument that such an event can hardly be religious in purpose, nor can this display of strength correlate to any useful martial technique or practice.

Spock was still leaning slightly forward in his seat. His hands were folded primly in his lap. And there was no other word for it—his eyes were fucking hungry.

Jim felt his throat grow dry. In that moment, he realized that he’d always assumed Spock was more of the asexual persuasion. Sure, the Vulcan himself was sex on legs, and there were plenty of crewmembers and diplomats who seemed to take appreciative notice, but Spock had never reacted before.

Did Spock like men? The thought struck Jim like a disrupter blast from the shadows, leaving him to blink stupidly between dark Vulcan eyes and the warrior wiping streaks of white fruit from his skin. He’d never seen Spock look at anyone like that, not even T’Pring—not even during the plak tow.

Spock cleared his throat, settling back into his chair. “Well. Perhaps the true purpose of this winter festival is to warm its participants and attendees. An imminently logical raison d’etre.”

Jim lost control of his jaw again.

***

An hour later, the tournament wrapped up for the day and sarong-man came sauntering over toward the VIP box. Jim had yet to process the confused emotions flying through his brain—Spock? Sex? Watermelons?—but it would seem the universe wasn’t done doling out the punches just yet.

Accepting a towel from arena staff, sarong-man slung the scant fabric around his neck where it did little to cover his still bare and glistening chest. Then he hopped the arena wall and loped up the staircase, smiling and waving to the fans that screamed and cheered as he passed.

Somehow, Jim wasn’t surprised when he slipped into the VIP box and made his way right to them.

“Well met, friends from the Enterprise,” sarong-man said, his deep baritone voice filled with sincere pleasure. He nodded politely at Jim first, but his eyes slid quickly to Spock and remained there. “I am Pthu, third rector of the magisterium and your guide for this diplomatic stay. You honor our planet by bearing witness to our winter tournament.”

Jim set his mouth into a pleasant grin, hoping that it wasn’t too obvious he was grinding his teeth. “Well met, Pthu. I’m Captain James Tiberius Kirk, and this is my first officer Mr. Spock. We’re happy to be here, though I have to admit I’m relieved there’s less bloodshed than I first feared when I heard the phrase ‘martial tournament’.”

Pthu’s laugh boomed through the crisp air. “Of course, Captain, there have been no deaths in this tournament since our period of enlightenment, when our martial race traded its weapons for technology and cooperation. From what I understand, the history of our people bears a remarkable resemblance to that of Vulcan. Would you not agree, Mr. Spock?”

Jim was going to lose an entire layer of enamel if Pthu kept looking at Spock like that. The Vulcan in question simply cocked his head to the side, a flash of interest crossing his features.

“You appear well versed in Vulcan matters. May I ask where you learned to perform a ta’al?”

The Knlarian sighed wistfully, putting his hands to his hips. (Probably trying to emphasize how narrow they are, Jim scoffed internally.)

“A Vulcan delegation visited Knlar two years ago on some scientific study or the other, but I must admit I was more interested in the new artstyle they brought to our athletic halls. I have not been lucky enough to view the art of suus mahna in the flesh since their departure.”

Spock straightened minutely, hands folding behind his back. “I have practiced the artform since my childhood. I am gratified by your favorable appraisal.”

Pthu clapped his hands together in glee, and Jim felt apprehension sink low in his stomach.

“How wonderful! During the second day of our tournament tomorrow, we will host a showcase of group and individual sparring matches. Would you do us the great honor of participating? In terms of strength, speed, and stamina, Knlarians outmatch most humanoid species to an unfortunate degree, making friendly diplomatic bouts unwise. But we have found an equal in you Vulcans.”

Jim released a tight laugh, clapping Spock on the shoulder. “They sure are impressive, huh? But Mr. Spock here isn’t much of a performer, I’m afraid, so he’ll have to—”

“I gladly accept the invitation,” Spock interjected smoothly, sparing a curious eyebrow for Jim. “Indeed, any opportunity to face a skilled opponent on equal and peaceful terms is not to be squandered.”

The words were a knife twisted into Jim’s guts, though he didn’t let the brittle smile drop from his lips. All this time, was Spock bored during their sparring sessions? Was he so desperate for a good partner he’d risk making a political scene?

“It’s settled!” Pthu announced, shaking his hands in an enthusiastic, foreign gesture. “Now, if you will meet me in the Grand Lobby in thirty minutes, I will be happy to begin your tour. My current appearance is a bit… inappropriate for civilized errands.”

Then—as Jim watched, gobsmacked—Pthu trailed two fingers through a trail of the sticky white fruit that had splattered across his chest, then looked up at Spock from underneath his eyelashes with an intense, burning look of mock chagrin.

Jim cleared his throat, taking a half step in front of Spock. “Right then, we’ll meet you at half past, Pthu. Thanks for your hospitality.”

“Oh, it’s my pleasure,” the Knlarian demured, raking his gaze up and down Spock’s body before giving Jim another polite nod and departing the VIP box. Around them, the crowd chattered as they gathered their things and the stadium slowly began to empty. 

Jim’s smile dimmed as he turned on Spock.

“So you’re raring for a fight, huh?”

Spock’s eyebrows furrowed. “Captain, it is only logical to adhere to any reasonable requests from our hosts, given that our mission here is largely one of relation-building.”

“Relation-building, right,” Jim murmured, trying to get a hold on the irritation that only seemed to be building in his chest. Why was this pissing him off so much? Was he truly so proud that the implied insult to human martial capability had unsettled him to this degree?

“I have read the reports from past Federation representatives to the Knlarian winter tournament. By all accounts, the sparring bouts are vigorous, but devoid of any aim to cause lasting harm.”

Jim mouthed the word ‘vigorous’ to himself before shaking his head hard.

“I see. Well, if you’re sure you’re comfortable fighting in front of everyone. Just say the word and I can get you out of it.”

The breeze tugged at Spock’s bangs, touseling habitual precision into something wilder, more carefree. As Spock cinched a scarf tighter around his neck—two splotches of green flush across his cheekbones—his lips quirked. “Of that I have no doubt.”

And there it was. The look that Jim had pursued these past months with extracurricular zeal—smokey kindle burning into embers, warmth and delight curled up like a cat at rest.

He nodded dumbly. Despite the clamor of the stands around them, Jim couldn’t help but feel like they were the only people on this planet.

***

When Pthu sauntered into the Grand Lobby at 17:30 sharp, Jim almost snapped a handle off the ancient teacup in his hand. Their Knlarian guide had certainly showered off sweat and grime, but the plunging v-neck of what looked like a sleeveless silk shirt didn’t exactly endow him with greater modesty. 

“Well met, Captain Kirk! Spock.”

As before, Pthu’s eyes lingered where his lips did, caressing each syllable of Spock’s name. The attention felt somehow more intimate indoors, the echo of his words resounding off dark rock walls that gleamed like marble. 

Though the Knlarians were a wealthy society, and the tournament complex a fine example of their intricately carved buildings, the ceilings were by design low, and the social spaces compact. Combined with the omnipresent mood lighting—originating in cylindrical floor lamps that emitted low lighting from the corners—Knlarian architecture reminded Jim of a sleek, exclusive bar. 

Or, he thought wryly as Pthu herded them past wrought metal sculptures and incense braziers, the cave-like maze could be compared to a pleasure dungeon. And Pthu certainly wasn’t doing anything to disabuse him of that notion.

Into the living quarters of the tournament contestants they went. There, Pthu stressed the historical importance of the double-wide sleeping berths arranged in a half circle around a blazing fire pit. 

“The great warriors of old insisted on sleeping in the same room, to prevent any attempts at deception. Though many records imply other benefits for those overburdened with competition-fueled adrenaline.”

Pthu stepped closer to Spock, the powder blue blush of his bulging biceps brushing up against Spock’s regulation blacks. Jim coughed, pointedly. Spock asked an intrigued follow-up question about tournament protocol.

In the training rooms, Pthu commented on the importance of massage to “prepare the physical vessel for strenuous battle.” Jim, rather loudly, reminded all present of Vulcan touch telepathy.

By the time they had finished touring the meal prep chamber (apparently, Knlarians had many fruits with effects similar to the Terran pineapple), the rooftop garden (for those that enjoyed having conversations in a more public locale), and a godsdamn porcelain bathroom containing communal showers equipped with 360 degree jets, Jim was about ready to challenge Pthu to his own single combat. The Knlarian had started to give Jim a disdainful, sharp-edged smile whenever he interrupted the tour, but every insightful question from Spock always brought good cheer back to the surface.

As they reached the last stop on their tour, taking off their shoes and stripping out of socks at Pthu’s request, Jim was starting to reach the end of his patience. Spock sat on the chair to Jim’s right, folding his socks neatly and tucking them into each shoe, as utterly unperturbed as if he had spent the day on geological survey rather than being aggressively seduced.

Jim glanced up as Pthu disappeared into the next room, getting something ready for their visit. 

“Spock,” he hissed, tugging a boot off his foot with slightly more force than necessary. “Come on. Don’t try to pretend you don’t understand innuendo.”

Lithe fingers paused in the task of lining his shoes along the wall, Spock turning back to Jim with a questioning glance.

“I have been doing nothing of the sort, Captain.”

Jim’s lips formed protests, but nothing escaped apart from an inelegant scoff. 

Spock’s eyebrow arched higher. “And how would you have me respond to the advances of an important foreign dignitary during a mission of relation-building? I am aware that your usual diplomatic repartee would call for ‘flirting back,’ but I believe I can be excused from tasks so far afield from my own area of expertise.”

Jim felt a flush creeping down his chest as he haphazardly pulled off his other boot under Spock’s watchful eye. He took a moment to straighten his shoes beside his First’s, standing in unison to face the door. 

“Not that. It’s just… you could discourage him a little, that’s all.”

Jim practically felt the air around them chill.

“My apologies, Captain,” Spock said stiffly. “I was not aware that my actions amounted to ‘leading’ anyone on. I am sure there are many other Knlarians at the feast who will be less distracted and willing to interact with you in the manner to which you are accustomed.”

Jim winced. “I didn’t mean—”

But Pthu’s barefooted footsteps echoed from the other side of the doorway. Against the stone, the sound was oddly… wet.

Sure enough, when the door panel shifted from opaque to transparent, then disappeared altogether, Pthu waited on the other side with his long pants cuffed above each ankle, the ample body hair of his feet dripping with water.

A wide grin stretched across his lips. “We will finish our tour with a trip to the askleto. Your people have something similar, I am told? I believe our cultural envoy described it as a blend between a spa and a sensory deprivation chamber.”

His lips shaped the Standard words with careful unfamiliarity, his good spirits only heightened by triumphant completion of the task. “Come, come, I will show you.”

Spock and Jim exchanged a look, but stepped over the threshold with minimal trepidation.

At first the room beyond them remained hidden in pitch darkness, though a pleasant wave of humid heat enveloped their bodies. Then the door opaqued behind them, Pthu spoke a quiet command, and a soft white glow filled the entire space.

The room was a dome, about the diameter of a tennis court, the ceiling curving downwards into walls that seemed oddly blurry where they connected with the floor. With a start, Jim realized that the dome itself was glowing. Its light reflected off a shallow layer of water which covered the entire surface of the floor, excepting the small entryway of stone where they stood. Water vapor curled up from the water’s surface in lazy tendrils, accompanying an aromatic mineral smell that had Jim’s back muscles unconsciously loosening.

Pthu moved forward, stepping over the entryway lip and into the water, so shallow it didn’t even reach his ankle. Jim peered down with curiosity at the pale blue material of the dome floor, which seemed to be far softer than stone if the way it gave under Pthu’s weight like memory foam was any indication. 

“Do not be shy,” Pthu said, his voice echoing in the empty chamber as he sloshed backwards toward the room’s center. “The askleto will not harm you.”

Jim felt his irritation fade away, his heartbeat picking up with excitement. He took a careful step into the water, anticipating the painful temperature shift of a piping hot bath. But his toes slipped into scant centimeters of lukewarmth more befitting a summertime dip in the lake. He had to admit, it was a bit of a letdown after such a long stint in the wintery outdoors and drafty corridors. Spock joined him, his eyebrow lifting in similar consternation. Perhaps water on this planet boiled at much lower temperatures.

But before Jim could voice his polite appreciation, the first word stuck in his mouth. He glanced down sharply as heat enveloped his feet—warm, warmer. He loosed an involuntary groan as the water reached a perfect temperature, piping hot in the best way, the stress practically melting out of the arches of his feet.

By the sound of Spock’s own surprised huff, Jim assumed he’d experienced something similar. But wait… 

“Hey Spock, am I the only one who just got a temperature upgrade?”

Spock’s hair was starting to curl up at the edges from the humidity—combined with his alarmed expression, the Vulcan looked so adorable that Jim had to hold back a laugh. 

“I have experienced an extreme thermal shift, and would now estimate the water to reach 51 degrees Celsius, the very limit of Vulcan dermal heat resistance. Captain, are you quite well? Humans can only withstand—”

“I’d put us at a toasty 42,” Jim said with amusement. “Do you see me running hot potato out of here?”

“There are no tubers in this chamber.”

“That’s the spirit. Mr. Pthu, care to enlighten us?”

The Knlarian stepped forward, seeming to have enjoyed their lapse of diplomatic formality. “The askleto matches its temperatures to the preferences of its occupants. It is not possible to burn yourself in its waters.”

Jim splashed an experimental step closer to Spock, until their feet were all but pressed against each other. Spock tensed minutely beside him, but Jim laughed in wonder.

“Holy shit, not a degree over my threshold. That could make for quite the spa day. But why so shallow?”

Pthu knelt down to swirl his fingers in the water with a calm smile, the force of his personality gentled for the first time that day.

“While true baths can be found in other areas of the complex, humanoid bodies can only withstand substantial heat for short periods of time. Dizziness, heat exhaustion—such symptoms usually avoided by moderate usage are no concern here. The word “askleto” can be translated as “sleeping water”—note the pillows stacked at the entrance for easy access. When one lays their body in the warmth and the darkness, the outside world falls away. Meditation, simple relaxation, or even a true nap.” Pthu laughed quietly. “The askleto offers many escapes.”

As Pthu talked, the glow of the dome above them dimmed, the light retreating down the sides until it formed a single, circular band where walls met water. Jim stared up into an endless, empty void, his lips parted in astonishment. Without previous knowledge, it was impossible to judge how far away the band of light existed. The three of them could be alone in an amphitheater as big as the one they had frequented that morning. Stirred by their feet, the water lapped against its boundary line, echoing in an endless susurrus. Every so often, the ripples caught the light just so and glinted like secretive crystal. 

When Jim looked down again, Spock’s reflection stared back up at him, the Vulcan’s skin painted in the palest shades of cyan and lavender. Something hot settled in the pit of Jim’s stomach—something hot and helpless, like a newborn foal struggling to its legs for the first time.

“It is beautiful,” Spock murmured, his outline blurring and swaying with the motion of the water. His lips moved, but his eyes remained fixed on Jim’s in the shadowed depths of their reflection.

Despite the warmth, a shiver ran down Jim’s back.

Pthu hummed his agreement. “Resting in an askleto, one often forgets the time. We would be happy to offer you use of the facilities for your own meditations, should the mood strike you.”

Voice surprisingly hoarse, Jim cleared his throat before answering. “You know, I might just take you up on that.”

An idea sparked into existence in the recesses of his mind—the plan forming for him as plans always did, a hazy abstract steadily sharpening like a camera focus twisting into place.

“Our humble abode a bounty to all,” Pthu intoned, standing and lowering his head in a solemn bow. Though the set phrase must have lost nuance in translation, Jim felt touched all the same by its significance. Something about the assonance, the way the vowels lingered in the steam. Or perhaps it was simply impossible to deny meaning to any word spoken in this enigmatic twilight.

Jim dragged his feet, literally, when Pthu gestured them out for the banquet, giving the askleto one last mournful glance before returning for his shoes.

Spock tried to shake his feet dry before slipping on his socks, a disgruntled furrow to his brow. Normally Jim would find that funny—more fodder for his feline comparisons. Now, though, his throat clenched at the sight of Spock’s slender ankles, flushed green from the heat. Surely they would be hot to the touch, a velvety soft drag that would burn if he pressed his lips to—

Jim barely heard another word Pthu and Spock exchanged as they made their way to the Great Hall.

His stomach was a battlefield of contradicting impulses when, of course, Pthu insisted that the visitors from Enterprise were in too high demand to be seated together. The urgent desire to keep Pthu as far away from Spock as possible was only growing, but at the same time, Jim didn’t trust himself to sit next to the Vulcan either.

What the hell was wrong with him? The occasional horny thought here and there, sure, Jim was only human. But that feeling, when he had seen Spock’s silhouette rippling on the water’s surface…

Heart fluttering in his chest, unease a heavy cloak weighing down his shoulders, Jim ended up making small talk all night with some important Knlarian politician or another. Every few minutes he would steal a glance past the clinking cutlery and darting hands of servants, eyes locking onto the other end of the table where Pthu kept Spock entertained with what was evidently scintillating conversation. The Knlarian’s half of it seemed primarily gesture, showing off a hell of a lot of bicep. Spock sipped at his goblet of the steaming purple beverage from before, his lips coming away stained purple. Jim ground his teeth into a root vegetable—the fancy sauce tasted acrid with what he was discomfited to recognize as jealousy.

***

“Captain, would you care to join me for a game of chess tonight?”

Spock stopped outside his door in the guest wing, once all the niceties had been dispensed with and Jim had practically beat Pthu off with a broom, insisting that his First would need his beauty rest should he be participating in their merry martial hijinks tomorrow.

“Oh. Uh, I was actually thinking about turning in early tonight?”

Jim shifted his feet, trying not to look shifty. Spock’s skeptical eyebrow conveyed how believable he found this excuse from his insomniac captain at the delicate hour of 10pm. 

“Look, I really do want you to get your rest,” Jim rushed out, changing tactics. “I know the Knlarians have been happy members of the Federation for a few years now and all, but it’s easy for a bout to get out of hand.”

“I will be sure to, as you say, pull my punches.”

Spock’s eyes were sharp and upset as Jim backed toward his room, three doors down.

“Good, uh, that’s good. Yeah. Defensive fighting and all that jazz. I’ll help you get ready tomorrow, give you some pointers.”

Jim faked a boxer’s stance, throwing a few imaginary punches Spock’s way, even as he pressed a hand to his door and watched it melt away out of the corner of his eye.

“I suppose.”

“G’night, Spock. See you in the morning.”

Jim slipped inside. Then he pressed his back to the newly reformed door, thunking his head back against its solidity. Jesus, could he have been more awkward? Spock was going to think something was wrong, and what could Jim say to reassure him? No, there’s nothing wrong with me, it’s just, you looked like a mythical being drenched in moonlight back there and I haven’t been able to stop seeing your ankles whenever I close my eyes. 

Jim blew out a frustrated breath. But this wasn’t him running away—James Tiberius Kirk didn’t run. This was premeditated evasive action. After all, Jim had a new project to occupy him, and it was going to take at least a few hours.

At a quarter after, Jim tiptoed past Spock’s door, increasing his pace when he hit the main hallways.

It was fortunate that Jim had been seated by one of the science ministers during the banquet, his dinner conversation followed by an even more productive exchange of hypotheticals with the Master Chamberlain. Spock would’ve loved to join in the fun; Jim had almost felt bad keeping him in the dark. But he was already imagining those warm brown eyes widening in delighted surprise.

The near-subvocal reverberation of the 1am air cycle was still humming through the stone walls when Jim stumbled back into the guest wing, covering a jaw-splitting yawn with one hand. The thrill of success was like sympathetic resonance in his veins, adding a spring to his step despite the fuzz of sleep demanding his attention. He glanced at Spock’s door as he approached, his lips curling up at the corners. Tomorrow, maybe before the fight? No, after, definitely after, no need to get impatient—

Someone laughed, voice muffled through the door to Spock’s chambers.

Jim froze midstep, blinking stupidly at the impassive obsidian slate. Now that he strained his ears, he could hear the murmur of voices exchanged: one low as gravel, the other smooth and deliberate and unmistakably familiar. 

Before Jim could process what a bad, bad, stupid idea this was, his fingers were already leaping for the door’s visitor chime. When it thrummed one long, melodic ping, the sound sunk under Jim’s skin like the kind of acid rain that could burn a planet to its core. 

A cessation of voices. Footsteps on the stone. Then the door faded, and there stood Spock at the entrance—hair mussed, robe cinched tightly at the waist, blinking slowly into the brighter hallway lights. Jim’s eyes skittered sideways, finding Pthu sat inside at a table beside the kitchenette, fingers playing with the crown of a rook as he frowned at the chess board in front of him.

The wobbly foal in Jim’s chest cried out, the recoil of a rifle shot thundering in his ears. 

Spock cleared his throat, looking startled. “Captain. Have we contact from the ship?”

Jim was too busy to answer, trying both to tear his eyes away from Pthu and fight back the bile rising from his stomach. Physical pain tightened around his ribcage like a noose. Spock was… he and Pthu…

The Knlarian looked up at the sound of Spock’s voice, and for the first time he seemed truly glad to see Jim. 

“Captain Kirk!” he greeted warmly, standing up from the table and seeming not all embarrassed to grab his belt on the way over, threading it back through his pants. “Grand eve. Do not mind me, I will leave you to your ship’s business.” He soldiered on sheepishly, either unaware of the rigid tension that had settled between his galactic guests, or simply too focused on making an exit. “Perhaps you can salvage my poor campaign, yes? I will see you tomorrow, Spock.”

Pthu’s gaze turned back to the Vulcan, lascivious in its overly familiar appraisal. But now there was something confident there—something intimate and satisfied.

Jim’s nascent anger died out in one pathetic snuff, a candle wick in the breeze. He only managed one tight nod before Pthu strutted past him out the door, waving one last jaunty hand in their direction before disappearing down the hall.

Jim realized he was breathing hard. Spock remained silent, drawing himself up with military precision unbefitting the time of night, unbefitting the robe, unbefitting the unmade bed behind him where he had just—where Jim could still just barely smell—

“Captain?” Spock asked stiffly.

And that. That snapped him out of this terrible, mortifying stupor, because if there was one thing Jim could not abide right now it would be Spock shooting him down when Jim hadn’t even figured out yet if he wanted to…

“Sorry, Spock. That was terribly rude of me, wasn’t it?” 

Jim tried to shape his lips into a smile, but the unnatural twist of it felt sharp and feral. Spock’s brow furrowed in consternation, his shoulders loosening ever so slightly.

“If there is important news—”

“Nothing of the sort, I’m afraid.” Jim’s bitter laugh surprised them both, Spock visibly controlling a flinch. “I simply… there was something I wanted to show you, after the tournament tomorrow. But I should’ve waited for the morning to ask. I don’t know what came over me, knocking down your door past midnight with nothing urgent to say.”

“You are always welcome at my door, Jim.”

Spock stepped closer, gaze intense. Insistent. Almost accusatory. And Jim was lost, completely lost.

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “Well. Um. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Jim.”

“Yes?” He turned back, shame prickling hot at his cheeks.

“I will be happy to accompany you after the tournament tomorrow.”

“Right. That’s, er, good. G’night, Spock.”

“Good night, Jim.”

Spock looked… frustrated.

Inside his quarters, Jim fell face-first onto his bed, nose pressed into the complicated woven pattern of the bedspread. He groaned, long and guttural, banging his forehead ineffectually into the comfortable mattress. 

He didn’t want to think about how comfortable the mattress was. Or how Spock’s hair had looked after fingers had run through it. Was this a common thing for Spock—picking up hot, muscular diplomats on their relation-building trips? Had Jim really just never noticed? True, in the past he’d been pretty busy on friendly planets with his own bedmates, but ship’s gossip should have… but then Jim couldn’t imagine the crewmember who would be caught dead gossiping about their Vulcan commander, especially where the captain could hear them.

He groaned again, wondering for a crazed moment if he could burrow himself under the covers and refuse to emerge until beam out. 

Come to think of it, why hadn’t Jim been planning his own conquest this trip? There had certainly been more than a few interested parties at the banquet, and the Knlarians were a compatible, attractive race. But Jim had been busy with his big idea, with imagining how pleased Spock might react.

When was the last time Jim had picked someone up?

He thought back through the last few months frantically, heart thudding a cold death knell when he realized it had been eight whole months. Six planets where he should have had plenty of opportunity. But he was busy arranging that incense shipment the last time, and the time before that Spock had been excited about some museum and invited him along…

Fuck. Fuck. When had Spock begun to absorb so much of Jim’s time and focus? The two of them had always been close—after their initial rocky start—but not like this. When Jim pictured the last year of their mission, he could only remember it in relation to his First. The planet where Spock had gotten a major science high off some weird root formation. The delivery mission where he’d actually yelled at an ensign for dropping valuable equipment. Spock’s eyes sparkling over a dwarf nebula at Shltract IV. Spock catching that sneezing virus in the Vergara system. Spock in the gym, sliding gracefully through his katas. Spock on the observation deck, his shoulder only a whisper away from Jim’s.

The walls hummed with a new hourly air cycle, and Jim shuddered out a breath, curling into a ball. 

Did he want Spock? Or perhaps more important—was there even a sliver of a chance that Spock wanted him back? Tonight’s events didn’t exactly tip the scales in his favor. While Jim had been, apparently, pining, Spock had been doing just fine. Really fucking fine.

He was so totally, completely fucked.

***

Exactly twenty minutes before the day’s tournament was to begin, Jim made his first appearance in the training rooms. Spock rose from his stretches on the mat, Jim resolutely ignoring the hurt in his first officer’s eyes.

“Just wanted to say good luck out there,” he offered awkwardly, hands shoved in his pockets. “Oh, uh, I replicated this for you.” He fished out a stretch of black fabric, taking great care to hand off his gift with a demure five centimeter distance between their hands.

Spock blinked down, stretching the fabric out. “A headband.”

“For your ears.” Jim pointed at his own, unnecessarily. “So they don’t, uh. Get cold. … Actually, this was a stupid idea, it doesn’t exactly fit the oiled six pack aesthetic they’re going for, so you can just—”

Spock’s hand clenched around the fabric, pulling it back toward himself. If possible, he looked even more frustrated than he had last night.

“Thank you, Captain,” he answered curtly. 

“Right. Well, I’ll be in the box.” He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. What was up with the unnecessary pointing? “I guess I’ll see you after? If you’re not… I mean, whenever is good, if you’re… see you then.”

Jim turned away as quickly as possible, though he was sure his traitorous genetics were painting the back of his neck an embarrassing crimson as he marched a furious path through the complex. Gods above, he needed to get it together. This was his first officer; he was a Starfleet captain for crying out loud. He needed to be professional, not distracted by ridiculous details like the way a bead of sweat had slipped down Spock’s neck, pooling at the hollow of his collarbone right where Jim wanted to graze his teeth and taste—

Somehow, day two of sitting in the stands didn’t feel so cold and wintry as the previous. Jim’s VIP box companions, the Betazoids, had brought three pairs of binoculars today, and Jim hated himself for wishing those had made it onto his morning replicator list.

He bought some tentacles to munch on, steadfastly ignoring the steaming purple drink which he’d learned last night was a type of fermented fruit alcohol. Wonder if it’s made from those melons, Jim thought despondently. Because apparently that was the type of man Spock was attracted to. The kind who could crush melons between his thighs. But surely that wasn’t outside the realm of possibility for Jim? Like Spock had said, Earth had an equally strong tradition of horny sports. After witnessing the insanity of pon farr, Jim should have guessed that Vulcans went for that shit, warrior society and all. Yes, maybe if Jim put in a few months of training…

He swallowed his last tentacle as the third act of the day—a group of Knlarians riding terrestrial bipeds that looked like giant ostriches—finished their last lap around the stadium to elated cheers. Fireworks boomed overhead as Jim put his head in his hands and sighed, glancing forlornly at the empty seat next to him. These sort of things just weren’t as fun without someone sniping about religious authenticity and reciting the taxonomy of each alien flora and fauna. 

“Bglera, bglora, and bibelura, you’ll want to finish your drinks so you can stand and cheer for this next act. All the way from the planet Vulcan, a guest competitor does us the honor of competing in the sparring tournament. Give it up for Commander Spock of Starfleet, and the Invulnerable Contenders!”

If yesterday’s audience roar had made conversation impossible, today’s had Jim’s ears ringing. He yelled along with the best of them, giving a show of gleeful support for the invisible cameras he was sure were sweeping around the box. But his stomach tied into knots when Spock walked out of the arena doors on the other side of the stadium, bowing gracefully toward the crowd as the Knlarian warriors filed out behind him. The Vulcan had opted against the shirtless oil look—he wore his long-sleeve regulation blacks up top, with the Knlarian sarong pants tied high at his waist. Their deep green color matched that of the sky, like Spock was a meteorite striking ground, the swish of fabric as he walked a blazing trail. 

He’s wearing the headband, Jim noted dumbly. The black cloth was hardly noticeable against his hair, but it pushed his bangs back into a slick, badass look. Further complementing the pants, the cold had already brought a flush to his cheeks.

His eyes instantly found Jim’s in the crowd, and Jim’s mouth ran dry. 

His dark irises were blazing—the very heart of the comet—a gauntlet thrown at Jim’s feet and a chin raised in challenge. Jim surreptitiously moved his jacket into his lap, the whole time unable to break eye contact with Spock who Just. Kept. Staring.

Finally Pthu emerged from the holding area and slapped Spock’s shoulder, breaking the spell. Jim caught his breath as the now familiar twist of jealousy ate at his insides. It should be me out there, he thought suddenly, fiercely, possessively. Him sparring with Spock, him showing the world what an incredible treasure his first officer was. 

The competitors circled up at the center of the arena as the announcer explained the rules and bracket configuration. It was simple sudden-death knockout style: three rounds, seven fights in total. Gentleman’s rules, ending on tap-out or time-out. The winner of timed-out matches would be decided by a panel of judges—and normally Jim would be fascinated by all this, he really would. But today he could only stare at Spock, who conferred with Pthu in low tones, nodding along seriously to the Knlarian’s rapid-fire explanations. 

The sinking feeling returned, Jim fidgeting through the entire first three bouts. The Knlarians clashed together with vigor, their martial art most reminiscent of wrestling or judo—lots of hip throws, arm locks, circular movements. And they were fast—holy hell, all that muscle did not slow them down. Jim watched Pthu fight open-mouthed, feeling his self esteem tumble further off a cliffside as every second ticked by. The Knlarian bobbed and weaved like a cobra, packed a punch like a monster truck. The ground nearly shook each time he took a step, yet when his opponent slipped behind him and attempted to collapse his knee, Pthu sprang off his feet like he was taking flight, leg snapping out into a revolving kick that won him the bout. He threw back his head and laughed when the bell sounded, sweat glistening in the sunlight as it artfully darkened the hair at his temples. His hand clasped around that of his opponent, pulling them to their feet, and they cleared off to make room for…

Spock, sweeping forward, no hint of hesitation to be found.

Jim shivered, tracing every lithe line of the Vulcan as he acknowledged his opponent. It was always like this—Spock could just turn it on at the drop of a hat. One moment the proper science officer, the next a tidal wave of intent that crashed down with inexorable pressure. The crowd almost seemed to hunker down in their seats, a hush falling over them like forest creatures crossing paths with a majestic stag.

Jim didn’t listen to the announcer yelling commentary as the bout began. Didn’t watch the way the crowd grabbed each other and stomped with glee. The fireworks might as well have been moths buzzing around a lamppost, the shaking of the stands underfoot a branch rustling in the wind. 

He saw Spock. Graceful, controlled, lethal—a master inking poetry across a willing canvas. Pale hands parted the winter air; his shadow flowed quicksilver over compact earth.

By the time the match timed out and the judges declared Spock winner, Jim’s throat stung with the sore inhaleexhale of frigid air. Yet his whole body felt flushed, like he needed to find the nearest bucket of ice water and wear it for a hat. Spock’s eyes met his across the crowd again when he rose from his bow to the audience, and Jim was frozen in his seat as the rest of the crowd cheered.

This broadcast is going to make me look cold-hearted, Jim worried faintly, somewhere in the back of his head where the competent captain tried desperately to wrest back control. Spock broke eye contact, stalking off to wait in the wings yet again, and Jim slumped back into his seat. Control, control, there were only three matches left, he could do this.

And he did. He maintained a bright, easy smile throughout Pthu’s semi-final match, which the bastard won, of course. He got through Spock’s semi-final by focusing only on billowing emerald fabric, though this tactic reached the end of its usefulness when his eyes trespassed too close to where those pants cinched in at the bottom, clinging to each ankle. Spock finished off this bout just before time was called, pinning his opponent with a complex wrist lock that had the Knlarian grunting and slamming a hand into the dirt. Someone in the box behind Jim threw their bag of pops into the air in the ensuing madness of celebration, so he slow-clapped to his first officer’s victory through the plink plink plink of roasted wheat precipitation.

It felt inevitable that Pthu and Spock would face each other in the final round. As the two approached to square off, Jim didn’t know what he wanted to happen. Would it be advantageous for Spock, representative of Starfleet, to show off his skill and win? Would it be an insult to their hosts, to defeat their greatest champions? Did it matter?

As Pthu launched his first attack and Spock slid just out of reach, Jim realized that he really didn’t give a fuck about politics right now. Both fighters circled each other, occasionally testing defenses, bursting into volleys of blow and block that the human eye could barely follow. Spock was practically glowing, his pupils blown wide, every iota of his focus locked onto the Knlarian across from him. Their clashes lengthened, grew more vicious, more animal than technique. The announcer sounded like they were about to have an aneurysm screaming over the crowd, and Jim at the center of it all, the only silent figure in a wave of uproar. He watched the pair dance unfolding at a distance—the power, the speed, the sheer physicality. 

I can’t do that, Jim realized with sudden, terrible clarity as the bell echoed throughout the colosseum. 

“And the winner is… Rector Pthu!”

Jim forced his hands into a numb clap as the Betazoids next to him threw themselves half over the railing, screaming with the rest of the crowd.

At center stage, Pthu clasped Spock’s forearm in his wide grip, drawing the Vulcan into a manly embrace. As Jim watched, two fingers of the Knlarian’s free hand slid under Spock’s headband, stretching it back to expose one pointed ear. His lips grazed the lobe, whispering something only for Spock’s ears.

Jim needed to not be here.

Tasting blood in his mouth, Jim pushed his way out of the box, thudding his way up the stadium bleachers and out the back exit, all while the announcer tried to get everyone to sit down for the group events.

What had he been thinking?

Jim could never be an equal partner for someone like Spock. Their sparring bouts had never looked anything like that. And that… that was what Spock wanted. What he was attracted to.

With an actual growl, Jim spun around in the hallway, turning away from the path back to the guest wing. He couldn’t sit on that fucking comfortable mattress all day, imagining a thousand different ways Pthu must have phrased his invitation for Spock to join him after the tournament. He couldn’t do paperwork at his desk, straining to hear footsteps in the hallway that would never come, or worse, two sets of footsteps overlapping on the cool, implacable stone.

The training gym was empty, just as Jim had hoped. He tried to steady his breathing as he wrapped his hands, focusing on the simple repetition of the gauze overlapping. Every so often, the faintest echo of the crowd’s cheers reached him, where otherwise he could only hear the swing of the double end bag and the squeak of his bare feet against the cushioned plastic mats. 

He was being pathetic, Jim knew. The brass were going to give him an earful for walking out on the tournament early. They were going to lecture him about optics, and diplomacy, and the strategic relevance of Knlar’s triptium mines. 

He slammed the bag back a full meter, making the elastic tying it to floor and ceiling strain before the center of mass came hurtling back for revenge. Jim dodged, resuming his assault from a new angle.

He was going to have to deal with this. So Spock didn’t want him, would never want him. That was fine. It’s not like Jim had even realized that he wanted—not until a single damn day ago.

He stilled the bag on its next return course, pressing the leathery surface to his forehead and panting into the forgiving stretch.

Except if Jim was being honest with himself.

—and today felt like a day for humiliating truths—

Then he’d have to admit that he’d wanted Spock for much longer than a day.

When had it happened, Jim wondered dully, rolling his forehead back and forth across the leather. Was it pon farr? That daggered feeling in his chest at the thought that someone else was trying to stake a claim, to take Spock away from him? Or maybe it was on some lonely uninhabited planet somewhere, while Jim dozed in the alien sun and Spock pretended to take tricorder readings. Or maybe over chess, or maybe when Spock made Bones’ face turn purple with his scathing prim little commentaries. 

All Jim knew was that he hadn’t been looking for amorous company in months, because he hadn’t once felt the need. When Spock was right there beside him, the galaxy hummed in perfect harmony.

He switched to the heavy bag, and every blow of his human hands echoed dull and slow throughout the alien training room.

***

“Jim.”

Sweat slipped into his eyes, the salt of it burning—Jim spared a wrapped hand to wipe it off, but when he glanced down the gauze was stained dark with more than perspiration. His eardrums pounded, sounding more like the screams of the crowd still lingering in his head.

“Jim. How long have you been engaged in boxing practice?”

Jim jerked his head up, stumbling a step away from the heavy bag.

Spock stood at the edge of the mat, still wearing his arena outfit. His hands were folded neatly behind his back, but his body listed ever-so-slightly forward, eyes fixed on the red-stained wraps of Jim’s hands.

Jim glanced down at them too, then back to Spock. The absence of rhythmic blows and squeaking turned to static in his ears, and he could only blink stupidly.

“Is the tournament over?” Jim finally asked, his voice sounding foreign between them. Gruff, and tight.

“The events requiring my participation have concluded.”

“Good, good.” Jim nodded slowly. “You did great out there.”

“You left before the group stages.”

Spock sounded accusatory again, but his expression was carefully blank.

“Yeah, well. I was getting antsy sitting up there.”

Jim’s eyes trailed back to the bag, hands itching to start up once again.

“We had a prior engagement.”

“What?”

Spock’s nostrils flared. “You said you had something to show me.”

A sharp laugh escaped Jim’s lips. “Right. Well, it looked like you had other plans.”

“Please clarify.”

“Oh my god, Spock, really?” Jim ground out. “Are you really going to make me do this?”

Some invisible barrier between them collapsed, and Spock stalked across the mat.

“I do not know to what you refer, so yes, clarification would be preferable.”

“Look, this doesn’t have to be a big deal. God knows I’m the last person who can call you on it.”

“Indeed, Captain. Did you enjoy your midnight sojourn last evening?”

“My midnight…” Jim spluttered, a hot flash of anger climbing up his spine. “You were the one playing our chess set with the tour guide, reeking of sex!”

“You are not subtle. By my estimations you have turned in for the night before 10pm on exactly three previous occasions, all mitigated by extreme time zone shifts or consecutive nights without sleep—”

“Jesus, Spock, I wasn’t slipping out for a damn assignation.”

Jim leaned into his first officer’s personal space, jabbing a finger into his blacks. Spock’s eyes were burning now, his pupils blown, like the match hadn’t ended at all. Jim’s heart tripped over itself, but the pang of longing just made him feel worse.

“I was working on something, okay?”

“The something you wished to show me today.”

“Look, it can wait. You’ve obviously got a lot of energy to burn off, so don’t let me stand in your way.”

Jim turned back to the heavy bag, but Spock stepped between them again, his eyes livid.

“I do not know what you are implying, Captain–”

Jim’s frustration boiled over, bursting out of him like a supernova. “Holy fucking shit, you can go have crazy athletic sex with the Knlarian warrior god, okay? I’m not going to stop you! In fact, I’m happy for you! You’ve finally found someone who can keep up. I’m sure it’s been a mind-numbing hardship, having to spar with the likes of me up until now.”

Spock’s lips parted with an angry twitch. “Are you truly feeling insecure about your fighting prowess?”

“I’m not feeling insecure about anything! I get it! Pthu is ten times the fighter I’ll ever be, I can see why he caught your eye.”

“It had been eight months,” Spock hissed. His hands gripped the sweat-soaked fabric of Jim’s shoulders, each finger a branding iron. “Eight months since you last… I had begun to think, to hope…”

Jim’s heart slammed in his chest, knocking loose all the embarrassment and jealousy. Spock’s face was mere centimeters from his, so Jim had front row seats to watch the Vulcan pale, his lips tightening into a thin line. His hands fell as he quickly put a step of distance between them.

Something finally sparked in the overburdened synapses of Jim’s brain.

“Spock,” he said quietly, voice soft now, and careful. “Spock, I really wasn’t with anyone last night.”

Spock exhaled once, slow and unsteady, his shoulders losing their rigidity. Confusion and something that looked like apprehension played at the set of his mouth.

Jim took a step closer, hope blooming bright and painful in his chest.

“So you don’t have plans to meet with Pthu today?”

“Negative,” Spock answered firmly. A green flush rose to his cheekbones. “In fact, had I not been somewhat… compromised, last evening, by your early departure, I do not believe I would have invited our Knlarian guide into my chambers at all when he came to discuss the tournament.”

“Discuss the tournament,” Jim muttered derisively, even as his heartbeat began to race. “I’m sure. But I don’t understand. You’re obviously attracted to him, Spock, and don’t try to dissemble.” His finger shot up as Spock’s lips twisted in dissatisfaction. “I saw how you looked at him when you were facing off in the final bout. It was like… it was like every step that he matched you, every time he landed a point, you wanted him more. Spock, I…”

Now Jim was the one to take a step back, all the conclusions he had made before—the ones he had been trying to pummel into the leather—rushing back to him.

“I’m only human,” he choked out, studying the empty mats past Spock’s shoulder. “If you want a warrior who can match you—”

Spock actually growled, pushing Jim until his body hit the heavy bag with an oof.

“Do you know what Vulcans prize above all else when selecting a sexual partner, Jim?”

Jim’s head was rather full with thoughts like Oh and Close and He smells good, so all that left his mouth was a breathless, “Huh?”

“Intelligence,” Spock insisted, the word brushing past Jim’s lips in a puff of air that made him shiver. “Compatibility of the mind, and intelligence. The Knlarians are adept warriors, and sparring provides both physical and tactical stimulus. But there is a reason Pthu was so eager to make his exit after a single exchange of oral stimulation.”

Jim moaned helplessly, his nails digging into the leather behind him as he struggled not to surge forward, not to interrupt the ceaseless stream of hot air caressing his lips.

Spock leaned closer, intensity pouring off him.

“Because he cannot play a game of tridimensional chess worthy of the board we share. Because he cannot challenge my composure with his perceptive, imaginative wit. Because he does not constantly amaze me with leaps of insight that confound the limitations of his station, or intricate strategy worthy of the greatest Vulcan theorist. It is true that I find brawn aesthetically pleasing, Jim.”

Spock’s long, lutist’s fingers slid down the sides of Jim’s chest, rucking up under his thin t-shirt. Jim’s head began to spin from lack of oxygen. “Yeah?” he panted, forcing the word out.

Spock’s eyes flashed, and his lips grazed Jim’s ear.

“I find brawn pleasing,” he growled. “But it would be more accurate to say that I am attracted to men capable of fucking me into the ground. You, dear James, are more than capable of that.”

Jim lost it. 

Spock’s lips were cold against his, chapped from the wintery air. Jim bit into them, laving with his tongue as Spock groaned and pressed into the onslaught. One of Jim’s hands clung to the back of Spock’s neck—the other trailed up Spock’s forearm, following beneath his own t-shirt. He captured Spock’s hand from behind, crushing it against his chest, pushing the sensitive pads of Spock’s fingers through the thick layer of sweat still coating his skin. 

The Vulcan choked on an exhale, his free hand pressing into the small of Jim’s waist, forcing their hips together. 

“Spock,” Jim groaned, surging up against him as he continued to lick his way into those equally demanding lips, dragging the Vulcan’s fingers up to trace the swell of his pectorals.

“Jim,” Spock answered brokenly, panting as Jim turned his attentions to the impossibly tempting expanse of pale, regal neck.

There was so much warmth between them—expanding outward, obliterating the stale air of the austere room. Jim breathed in the scent of incense that always lingered on Spock’s skin, a maddening temptation that had kept him up many a night after sparring. He curled further into Spock, into a pocket of white-hot embers on an endless winter night. Joy, disbelief, pleasure—Jim allowed the emotions to swell inside him, imagined them pouring over.

“Jim,” Spock repeated, voice high and unfamiliar and absolutely wrecked.

“Hm?” Jim sucked at the delicate skin above his collarbone.

“I have—ah—I have not been unaware of your actions toward myself these past months.”

“What sort of actions we talking here?” Jim murmured, so giddy off touching Spock he felt high, dizzy with the rush. He pulled back to thumb at the fresh bruise on Spock’s neck—the ensuing jolt of satisfaction went straight to his dick, and Spock groaned.

“The–the incense. Approval for my experiments. Vulcan additions to the replicator. Lieutenant Uhura’s…”

Jim began to bite at the lobe of Spock’s ear, both hands coming up to cradle his face. 

“I just like to see you happy,” Jim whispered, pulling back to meet Spock’s gaze. They panted together for a long moment, eyes locked, until Jim’s chest was no longer heaving with the effort to speak.

“This isn’t…” Jim hesitated, suddenly overcome by the sight in front of him. Spock—bangs askew, lips swollen and glistening with spit, eyes dazed and unfocused. His untouchable science officer, open and vulnerable just for him.

Jim licked his lips, fingers tightening on Spock’s jawline. “This isn’t casual for me,” he rushed out. “I want… I want to keep making you happy. However you want.”

Spock’s eyes softened. “James,” he murmured, leaning in to brush his lips whisper-soft over Jim’s own. “In this, as in all things, I am with you.”

All the air escaped Jim’s lungs, and he had to fight back the burn of moisture at the corners of his eyes. “Try to remember that the next time you’re sniping at me on the bridge, you ridiculous, secret romantic,” Jim muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. Shifting backwards, the metallic clink of the bag chain startled him into dropping his hands. With a flush of chagrin, Jim looked around the still empty, but very public training gym of an interstellar diplomatic partner. 

“Come on,” Jim spoke in a rush of excitement, unspooling the gauze from his hands and dropping it to the ground. “We can’t stay here.”

“I should hope not,” Spock answered loftily, the effect ruined by his full-body shiver when Jim grabbed his hand and pulled him out of the room.

It was hard to comprehend that the tournament was still ongoing when Jim felt like a hundred hours had just passed against that boxing bag, but the hallways were blessedly empty. Jim stole frequent, mischievous glances back as he towed Spock along at a fast clip, their footsteps echoing loudly against stone. He could barely believe that this was his life: Spock, following him with a hungry expression, beneath their feet an alien world—their ship, their home, waiting above.

“This is not the guest wing,” Spock noted with distracted curiosity as Jim forced him to sit on the bench outside the askleto. However, the Vulcan’s interest narrowed when Jim dropped to his knees in front of him, pushing the band of one green pant leg up to mid-calf.

Spock sucked in a sharp breath when Jim lifted Spock’s ankle to his lips, tracing the knob of his bone with a pointed, exploratory tongue as his hands worked off the other’s shoe.

“I dreamed of doing this last night,” Jim moaned, biting lightly at exposed skin. “I’ll give it to Pthu, he certainly knows the sexiest areas of a training complex.”

Jim switched his attentions to the other foot as Spock leaned back with a harassed look. Jim grinned, kneading into the indents where the back of Spock’s foot narrowed, and the Vulcan shuddered.

“You,” Spock groaned, accusatory. “You—ah—pressed your foot against mine in the water.”

Jim blinked up at him innocently, finally stripping off his last sock. “I had to test out the temperature difference.”

Quick as a le-matya, Spock had him pinned to the cold stone ground. He wrenched off Jim’s shoes and socks with markedly less finesse, then pressed into him with his whole body and stole frantic kisses.

Jim nearly forgot about privacy and the big plan that had caused this whole incredible, perfect mess, but when Spock’s fingers scrabbled at his belt buckle, a flash of self-awareness returned to him.

“Come on,” Jim murmured, pushing up onto his elbows and struggling to his feet as Spock narrowed his eyes and glared. “You impatient Vulcan, get up here, I know you must be freezing. Also—though I’m certainly learning a lot about your preferences today, I don’t think those’ll extend to exhibitionism when the tournament lets out.”

Spock huffed but stalked after Jim as he keyed the askleto open, the two of them stepping through and watching the door solidify again. Humid heat enveloped them.

Jim ignored the burning pressure of Spock’s gaze on his back, humming to himself as he activated the privacy lock, opened system controls, and launched the subroutine he’d programmed the previous night. 

“What are you doing?” Spock asked, impatience underpinning his exasperation.

Jim turned, already grinning. “I told you. I have something to show you.”

The glow of the ceiling dome began to dim as Jim slipped his fingers under the hem of his shirt, inching it up his chest with languid nonchalance. Spock’s eyes tracked that path with all the intense calculation of a scientist observing a once-in-a-lifetime phenomenon.

Jim’s shirt thwapped into a puddle on the ground. He had a second to feel vulnerable—Spock, staring at his bare chest as the room continued to darken, the sudden comprehension of their absolute solitude settling under his skin as a prolonged shiver.

But before Jim could make some inane comment to break the tension, Spock was suddenly right there—pale fingers deftly undoing his belt, ripping the leather free with a look of disdain as he cast it aside.

“Why, Mr. Spock,” Jim said, breathless as Spock continued to divest him of clothing with single-minded focus. “I don’t believe you’ve bought me dinner yet.”

His pants hit the ground and Jim leaned up to bite at Spock’s jaw, completely naked, the thrill of being allowed in his first officer’s personal space a heady buzz better than any alcohol. “Your turn,” he whispered, unraveling the sarong-pants with a single harsh yank of the waist tie.

Spock made a low noise in the back of his throat, stripping off his blacks and kicking his pants into the corner before pressing immediately back against Jim, nearly toppling him over with the momentum.

“Ah,” Jim gasped, the sound strangled and loud in the silence as Spock licked a familiar path up his pectorals. “Y-you weren’t kidding—ah!—about the muscle fetish.”

“You smell obscene,” Spock growled, nosing into the coarse hair of his armpit. And that had never been an erogenous zone for Jim, but all his blood rushed downward and he had to muster every decimated, scattered remainder of his brain’s functionality to stay on task.

His hand fumbled behind him, grabbing one of the memory foam-y pillows that looked and felt like a sponge.

“Common, common,” Jim urged, voice strained as he pushed at Spock’s chest. “Into the water with you. You’re gonna mess up my timing.”

“Timing?” Spock asked with a quirk of his lips, eyes hooded and satisfied as he backed away, stepping over the lip and into the water without ever looking down.

Stupid, graceful Vulcans.

Jim’s dick twitched, and Spock’s smug satisfaction only deepened.

“Oh, laugh it up, mister,” Jim said as he splashed after him, grabbing Spock’s arm and pulling him to the center of the dome just as the last tint of white glow faded from the walls. Only that singular band of light was left, tracing the water’s edge in a perfect circle, illuminating human and Vulcan silhouettes with bruised, swaying light refracted from below. Like they were underwater, standing inverted beneath the ocean’s surface.

Jim dropped the pillow with a splash but made no move to follow it just yet. The water had heated to a perfect, searing temperature, lapping at the ridges of their feet and trailing steam up their calves. The soft give of the ground underfoot made it feel like standing on a beach of seamless, fused sand, cradling and firm all at once.

“What do you have to show me?” Spock murmured, eyes closed, trailing his nose up the side of Jim’s neck.

Jim tried to still the slight tremors wracking his body. If there was such a thing as core memories, this must be one of them. This moment would be inextricably seared into his mindscape for the rest of his life: the mineral smell, the warmth, the darkness—Spock.

A faint shower of light flickered into existence from above, brightening the darkness until Jim had no trouble discerning the tinge of green at Spock’s shoulders. His heartbeat picked up, his hands tightening around Spock’s biceps, anxiety squeezing his chest in a sudden vice. 

Maybe this was stupid. Maybe it was too much—showing his hand, intruding where he didn’t belong.

Spock stilled against him, probably sensing his emotional shift, but Jim just took a shaky breath and nudged Spock an arm’s length away.

“Look up,” he said softly. And Spock did.

Overhead, the night sky over Vulcan glittered in distant majesty.

Pinpricks of stars, the cold brilliance of Delta Vega, the bold contours of T’Khut guarding her sister planet. A whole galaxy of ancient guardians revealed by the shadow of revolution, a celestial reign to last until the fiery return of Nevasa, unto which the stars could fade once more.

Spock’s face went slack, his eyes fixed upwards, the bridge of his nose and the bow of his lip bathed in starlight.

Jim’s fingers stroked the bare skin at his disposal with nervous energy. “I had to make some locational guesses,” he whispered. “All I had to go on was ‘outlands near ShiKahr’, and you Vulcans don’t exactly write down the location of your hot spring pilgrimages for the average outsider to find, so—”

“Jim,” Spock whispered, his eyes still fixed on the heavens. “How?”

Water lapped against the dome, the sound distant, tidal, as if the stars above were real enough to reach across lightyears of space and time to find them. Jim’s cheeks burned, and he looked down into the hazier, gentler world of reflections, where Spock and Jim appeared to stand within a pool of stars.

He cleared his throat. “It wasn’t too hard. The dome already operated on a pixelated display, so I just had to… play with the presets.”

“Jim,” Spock murmured again, looking completely lost for words. They stood there suspended, buffeted by the water’s ripples.

He was so achingly beautiful like this, staring up into the stars of his native home—a marble statue brought to life by the celestial bodies above and enlisted to their cause. Jim wanted to cradle each stretch of his tendons, nuzzle into each miracle of breath that animated his hirsute chest.

Slowly, achingly, Spock lowered his chin, his eyes finding Jim’s in the shifting twilight glow. 

“I have never been known as you know me,” he whispered.

The thrill of his words was electricity singeing every nerve in Jim’s body, a path blazed from heavens to earth. “Spock,” he said helplessly, and they fell together again.

Lips, flashing teeth, saliva and heat. There was finally nothing between them—no clothes, no insecurities, no doubts. Moans harmonized with the lapping of water and the splashing shift of feet. Hot human fingers dug into shoulder blades that strained under skin, tracing nascent wings. 

Then Jim locked his foot behind Spock’s—and dropped them both to the ground, hard. 

The splash echoed endlessly, searing heat a blanket enveloping them from below.

“Jim,” Spock gasped as Jim climbed atop him, biting his way up his chest only to smooth hair away from nipples with soaking hands. The desire to touch every inch of Spock was more than preference, it was imperative need, an impulse driving Jim absolutely insane. As his lips closed around one green ring of pebbled skin, a new source of wetness spread against Jim’s thigh. Spock arched upward, his groin pressing further into Jim, making frantic noises that had Jim’s head spinning.

After one last lick, Jim dragged his lips away from Spock’s nipple, pushing up onto his elbows to look down at the Vulcan beneath him.

“Oh, gods,” he breathed in awe. Spock lay in the water’s embrace, the stars reflected all around him in an indigo sea that further highlighted his green flush. Between his legs, the very tip of Spock’s cock peeked out from a sheath that leaked heavily, trailing a viscous, translucent path down his groin and dripping into the water beneath them.

“Oh, I’m not gonna last,” Jim said hoarsely, gripping Spock’s hips. “Need to taste you.”

He locked eyes with Spock, who looked wild, still hypnotized by the sky above him. “Yes,” Spock panted. “Yes, James, please—”

His plea disappeared into a near shout as Jim’s tongue began at the water line, licking up the curve of him and plunging deep into his sheath. The smell was incredible, the taste more heat than flavor, and Jim wanted to disappear into it.

“Jim, Jim, Jim,” Spock chanted, his long fingers burying in Jim’s hair, desperately urging him forward. “Yes, right there, yes, please, ah—”

Jim’s lips closed around the tip of his cock, moaning around the double ridge he had dreamed of more nights than he cared to admit, and to feel it swell, grow, sink into his mouth as Jim just took it—

“Ah! Jim! I cannot—”

Spock cut himself off with a moan, and now the fingers in his hair were pulling in the opposite direction. As his lips pulled free with a pop, Jim reached out a hand to catch Spock’s cock as it slipped completely free. The length was heavy in his hand, drenched in slick, long and slightly curved. Jim wanted to devour it. He shifted, the water at his knees a searing encouragement promising more heat, more wetness. 

But Spock’s hand slid to Jim’s chin, forcing his eyes up. His eyes blazed, determined and absolute, and Jim knew in that moment he would do whatever the Vulcan wanted.

“Tell me what you need,” Jim panted. “I’ll give it to you, Spock, I’ll give you everything.”

Spock groaned, his hips lifting and falling back into the water helplessly. “Inside me. Immediately.”

Jim could have sworn the starlight intensified for one blinding moment, painting Spock’s beautiful, writhing body in relief. For that impossibly long instant, he was the brightest point in the sky, and Jim needed to prostrate himself like the penitentiaries of old and worship.

He buried his face in Spock’s stomach for one long, endless gasp, then wrenched himself away to grab the pillow and shove it under Spock’s hips.

Immediately, Spock’s legs shot upward with a splash, wrapping around Jim’s hips in painfully erotic simulation of the way Jim’s fingers wrapped around Spock’s cock. He cursed a blue streak as he coated his fingers in Spock’s slick, dragging them up and down, then dipping them into the slit of his sheath. Spock shivered so violently the water roiled beneath them.

“You’re okay, you’re okay, so good for me,” Jim muttered inanely, panting into the humid air. “Gonna feel so perfect around me, gods.”

“Jim,” Spock groaned, fingers pressing into the soft underwater ground, just the tips of his green-flushed knuckles rising above the surface. “Need—now—”

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Jim panted. As he slipped his first finger in—immediately sucked in past the first knuckle—Jim barely held it together. Spock was utterly alien, completely ethereal beneath him. His hole twitched, the walls of muscles already so relaxed Jim might have been eating him out for hours.

“Superior. Muscle. Control,” Spock grit out between his teeth, bangs plastered to his forehead. “James, please, I am ready—”

“Almost ready,” Jim corrected with a groan as he added another finger, pressing the slick into every corner of Spock, scissoring his fingers and causing the Vulcan to buck his hips upward again. Jim’s dick jumped with such force he nearly collapsed, a stream of precum dribbling down the length.

“Fuck, fuck!” Jim swore, wrenching his fingers out to grab the base of his dick.

Spock knocked his head back into the ground with another splash, his chest heaving an enormous, overwhelmed breath.

“Jim,” he whispered, his breath hitching as Jim trailed one last hand up his slit, then spread the collected slick onto his own dick with a wanton moan.

“Jim, Jim, Jim,” he began to chant again as Jim moved into position, his elbows bracketing Spock’s shoulders, one hand angling inward to grip the back of his neck in the water.

“I’ve got you,” Jim repeated with hopeless devotion, dick nestling into the slick, fluttering opening of his hole. He locked eyes with Spock, those deep brown eyes that Jim had stared at in every circumstance imaginable—through new discoveries, old enemies, civilizations born and dying.

He pressed inward, and the world began yet again.

A groan ripped from both their lungs as Jim canted into Spock, losing control halfway through and driving in with enough force to distort the reflection of every star in the Vulcan sky.

“Spock!” he swore, a benediction and a plea. Spock’s arms wound upward, trapping Jim against him as his lips and teeth found Jim’s neck.

“Yes,” he groaned into Jim’s skin. “Yes, James, yes, you must—harder.”

Jim wasn’t physically capable of doing anything else. His groan was close to a shout as he pounded into Spock, churning the water and conducting new currents of steam, the slick slap of their bodies drowning out even the hiss of the tide. 

“Spock,” he groaned helplessly, his hips frantically working between them. His knee shifted, the angle adjusting, and suddenly Spock was lifting off the pillow, his desperate cry filling the room. 

Jim pounded the new angle mercilessly as Spock slipped into a nonsensical mixture of Vulcan and Standard and hitched cries, all panted into Jim’s ear as his fingers slipped to Jim’s meldpoints. Jim licked the water off his cheek, more turned on than he’d even been in his life, the squeeze of Spock around him—everywhere—so good he wanted to cry.

“Do it,” he moaned, and suddenly he wasn’t just fucking Spock into a pool of stars.

The emotions rushed over him: impossibly deep alien emotions, Spock’s snarling claim on his life. Mine, mine, mine—unspoken, in every breath Spock heaved into his skin, every glance he stole at the achingly familiar sky above. The feeling of someone moving inside him; weight bearing downward; overwhelming burning pressure; the heady salty smell of Jim everywhere; human ecstasy soaring so high it keened; such acute pleasure with each heaving thrust that they cannot, they cannot, they cannot…

Jim screamed his release into the base of Spock’s neck, biting down as he poured himself deep inside, rocking deeper deeper deeper with each wave. There was nothing but this surrender, disappearing inside pleasure and forgetting the shape of consciousness. Trapped between their stomachs, Spock’s abused cock jumped in unrelenting spasms, painting skin and wringing a broken moan from the Vulcan’s bruised mouth.

Heavy breaths, lapping water, echoes in the night.

Spock’s legs trembled but refused to unwind, dragging his human as close as possible. Jim collapsed gratefully into the mess between them; Spock’s fingers fell to the floor with a splash.

The outside world didn’t exist for several long moments.

Jim breathed into Spock’s neck, his tongue eventually venturing out to drag lazy paths over a crescent moon of purple indents. Long fingers smoothed through Jim’s hair, lips pressed to his temple, words murmured into his ear that Jim’s brain lacked the energy to process. Everything was heat, and damp, and glow—and the stars keeping watch above.

An eternity later, Jim pulled out of Spock, kissing the shivery groan off his lips. He rolled to the side with a languid splash, their shoulders lining up as Jim retrieved the pillow and put it to its original purpose.

The world of reflections returned as the water finally stilled, but Jim had no use for verisimilitudes anymore. He turned his head to stare at the Vulcan beside him, whose eyes were once again fixed on the stars he had been gifted.

“So,” Jim whispered into the darkness, leaning closer and trailing his fingers up Spock’s arm. “I believe I was promised a lesson in constellations.”

Spock turned, and there it was. The look Jim would go through any inconvenience, any gauntlet of best intentions and misunderstandings to protect—warm brown twinkling like warp speed, lips soft and knowing.

“Hmm.” Spock raised an eyebrow in consideration. “I myself am partial to the striking figure cut by kis-ka ashalik. Look there, to find his bared teeth, and there, for his turned back.”

Jim squinted into the sky, following Spock’s finger.

“I think I see it,” he murmured. “What does kis-ka ashalik mean?”

Spock weaved his fingers through Jim’s, pulling them upward to press a kiss against his ragged knuckles.

“The Jealous Lover,” he whispered, lips quirking upward against heated skin.

Laughter bubbled out of Jim, loud and carefree on a night that existed only for them.

“I guess I can live with that.”