Spock didn't often find himself staring. At anything. This was due to several factors, not least of which was his eidetic memory which enabled him to recall details of anything he'd seen even at a glance. Then there was also the fact that it was rude and unseemly to stare – even if his mother hadn't figuratively beaten it into him, Vulcans were not a race of people who entertained such uncouth actions. Awe or shock was not an emotion they showed outwardly. (Then again, there were few that they did.)

Even so, Spock – who honestly had more control (and more cause to have that control) than most of his peers – found himself unashamedly keeping his gaze fixed on the Captain's hands.

He was 82% sure that Jim hadn't noticed – they were, after all, playing chess, as they had taken to doing whenever they had free time (which was quite rare). It could be theorised that Spock was merely scrutinizing every one of the human's moves more closely than usual.

This was as far from the truth as could be possible. To his growing horror, Spock found himself growing distracted.

He had first noticed the…change in Jim's hands when he'd returned from a convention (Dr. Parsons had presented a groundbreaking paper on the 'Bazinga Effect' in astrophysics – he'd been compelled to attend not only because he was the Enterprise's Science Officer but also because he was truly interested – luckily enough that their shore leave coincided with the convention). The Captain had awaited him in the shuttle bay as was his usual illogical practice – Spock had argued ineffectually against the notion of him needing a welcoming party – and when he'd reached out to clap Spock on the shoulder (another practice Spock had had to accustom himself to), he'd caught sight of the curious patterning.

When he pointed it out, his heart had experienced a strange arrhythmia.

"Oh, this?" Kirk had spread his hands out, palms up, so Spock could fully appreciate – and appreciate is the right word, don't be shocked – the criss-crossing lines and graceful curves that covered them. "You know Anila?"

"You are referring to Dr. Philip?"

"Yeah, the ship's dentist," he'd explained, rather unnecessarily. "Her cousin got married, so since you weren't here to keep me company, I decided to take her up on her invitation. Have you ever been to an Indian wedding?" Without waiting for an answer (which would've been a yes) he'd continued, "It's really cool. Anila and a bunch of her relatives went and drew these things on my hands – it's like, tradition."

"It is called henna," Spock had said, and in retrospect his tone had been remarkably level despite his suddenly dry mouth. "And as I understand it, it is the bride who is supposed to have her hands and feet adorned with it."

Jim's face had twisted into a funny expression, then.

"Too bad shore leave's almost over, huh?"

"Captain?"

"Well, you know I have the power to marry people on my ship. No one can do that for me, unless maybe we have to ferry an admiral or something."

Spock had raised an eyebrow. "Are you wishful of marrying someone, sir?"

"It's a bit soon for that, isn't it, Mr. Spock?"

Unsure as to how to respond, the Vulcan had merely said, "Indeed." From then the conversation had shifted to ship business and the usual banter the two participated in.

But Spock's thoughts remained centralized on James T. Kirk's henna-painted hands.

It was a well known fact that the private lives of Vulcans were, uh, not well known. The truth was that they had an extremely rich culture, even if they didn't deign to share that culture with anyone else.

Now that we've established that, let's focus on one particular aspect; their culture in relation to their hands.

Vulcan touch telepathy is especially sensitive in their hands, which explained why it was bad form to be touchy-feely in their society. There were rules of propriety in public; family members were allowed to offer comfort via light hand touches (though this was not put into much practice if very young children were not involved). Between bonded Vulcans, the touching of paired fore- and middle-fingers as well as other similar embraces was allowed. It follows, then, that the touching of hands between two Vulcans who are not bonded or related to each other is quite scandalous.

Now that we've established that, let's focus on the bondmate bit.

Although I didn't say it outright, it's implied that the examples I gave were for conduct in public. What bondmates did in private was obviously nobody's business but their own. Some still practiced customs their ancestors did in the pre-Surakian days. After all, Vulcans were quite passionate, even if they no longer gave the impression of being so.

One of the more erotic practices was remarkably similar to Indian henna art. A Vulcan would use the (edible) dye made from a local desert flower to paint designs on his or her bondmate's body, starting, obviously, from the palms of the hands. Though it was not exactly tradition, this was usually carried out post-bonding, and the newly-bonded couple could display the markings should they choose – the more detailed the motif…well, you can figure out the implications of that on your own.

However, while this explained Spock's initial interest, it didn't, in any way, shape or form justify the hunger he felt deep in his side every time his eyes caught sight of the brown designs on Jim's hands. It didn't justify at all the spike of what he now recognized as jealousy when he recalled that Dr. Philip and her family had put those marks there. It didn't justify the deep desire (that he was finding hard to control) he felt for Jim to do the same to him.

"Check."

The only reason Spock looked up was because the Captain had raised his arms above his head to stretch. The cocky grin was noticed only peripherally, because though his fists were clenched, the patterns were visible on the heels of his palms and down his forearms.

It was likely that everyone in Starfleet was aware of Kirk's reputation before being promoted Captain. Therefore, it wasn't that ironic that he could be seductive without even realising.

"It would seem so," Spock replied.

Jim narrowed his eyes, letting his palms fall flat onto the table. (Spock felt a brief stab of disappointment that was quickly quashed.) "You're not letting me win, are you?"

"Have I ever done so?" Usually Spock didn't indulge in rhetoric, but it was not a usual day.

"Well, no," he conceded. "But you're…off today. Like you're distracted."

Spock tilted his head, slightly alarmed that it was that apparent. "Have you not considered the fact that I am merely employing strategy?"

A snort. "If you are, I can't see it."

They played a few more moves in silence (in which Spock just barely managed to stay out of check) when Jim sighed loudly.

"Well, I suppose I have to admit, my mind isn't really on the game."

"Oh?" Spock had not noticed – although, another's distraction was not so apparent when you yourself were. Distracted, I mean.

"Mind if we pause this game? I'd rather we do something else." Kirk waggled his eyebrows.

The Vulcan sat back in his chair, mildly relieved and slightly apprehensive. "What activity would that be?"

Instead of answering, the Captain got up and gestured that Spock do the same. Spock's confusion did not lessen when he was forced onto the bed.

"Take off your boots," instructed Jim, disappearing into the bathroom. He had to raise his voice – well, not 'had to', considering Spock's sensitive hearing. "We'd do it on the floor, but I like being comfortable."

Had Spock been raised human, among humans, likely he would have been aware of the double meaning that could be construed from Jim's words and actions. But, he was Vulcan, and unaware – if a little mystified – as he sat cross-legged on his Captain's bed.

When Kirk returned, it was with a bowl of paste and a little bag. He carelessly threw the bag onto the bed, settled himself and then carefully placed the bowl in the middle of the mattress.

"Should the mattress be jostled, the contents will spill," warned Spock, mostly to distract himself from coming to the fairly obvious conclusion of what 'something else' was.

"Why should we jostle the bed?" Jim asked innocently, if he could be called innocent. (Which he couldn't, though his efforts were certainly impressive.)

The Vulcan gave up and asked directly, "What do you mean to do, Jim?"

He retained the too-wide blue-eyed look. "I'm going to test my mad skills."

Eyebrow.

Grin.

"I know you've been staring at my hands. Well. The henna, anyway."

Spock went very still, and for those who are ignorant of the Vulcan control of their bodies, this was very still indeed. The erstwhile planet Vulcan had had a thinner atmosphere than what was found on Earth (and Starfleet vessels), so the movement made from breathing was unnoticeable anyway. But his blinking ceased, his expression closed off (more than it usually did), his gaze fixed on one particular spot on the wall – even his thoughts came to a screaming halt.

"Spock?" Kirk's worried face swam into view and he placed one of his hands – oh, his hands – on his shoulder, shaking him gently. "You alright? I just thought you wanted it as well, I… was I wrong?"

There was silence for a long time, in which Spock was acutely conscious of the hand on his shoulder. And then there was a low, almost inaudible "No." It actually took him a second to realise that it had been uttered by him.

"Great!" All Kirk's exuberance returned so quickly that it was surprising the bowl of henna paste didn't go flying. "Gimme your hands and I'll get started."

Still not quite sure who or what was in control of his actions – because it certainly wasn't him – Spock proffered his hands, palms up, very much aware of what it was that he was actually asking for – very much aware that the only reason this was acceptable was the difference in culture.

When Jim took both his hands in his, Spock wanted to shiver. Wanted to, but didn't. Instead, he acknowledged the thrill that ran up his spine.

"Dude, your hands are hot!"

Despite the fact that he knew Jim was only referring to his (elevated when compared to humans) surface temperature, due to his many years of exposure to humans and their colloquialisms, he felt inordinately, irrationally, pleased.

"Is that any more significant than it usually is?"

Jim snorted and threw Spock a dry look, though this was rather lost on him as thumbs were absentmindedly stroking the length of his fingers. "Well, no, since this henna mixture thing doesn't have to dry and be picked off like it used to. But if it was then you're, uh, hotness would make it dry faster, huh?"

"Indeed." Spock felt a part of himself sit up and take keen interest in this new piece of information. He quashed it ruthlessly, because it would be most inappropriate to strip his Captain so as to have exposed skin to pattern as he would – the realisation that he was not at all adverse to stripping Jim, whether sooner or later, with or without the henna, was something he would have to meditate on later.

Spock's eyes closed at the first line of cool paste being drawn along his forefinger. He felt it dry almost instantly, a most curious sensation.

"I was just about to ask you to close your eyes – are you reading my mind?" This suspicious question was emphasized with a sharp tap to the back of the wrist of the hand Jim was working on.

"You know very well that I can only sense vague emotions through such small contact."

"Hmm. You really sure you want me to do this?" he asked, even as he continued down Spock's pointer finger and across his palm in what felt like detailed swirls. "I mean, you're usually so pissy about people touching your hands."

Again, if he'd been paying total attention, he would have likely protested the use of 'pissy'. As it was, his soft reply was, "I am not wholly certain of what is happening."

Kirk made a non-committal noise, and there was blissful silence – blissful for two reasons; he had enough concentration to suppress the reactions Jim's ministrations were eliciting in him, and he retained enough of himself to keep his eyes closed and not launch himself at his helpless (ish) superior officer.

His sense of time waned. Nothing existed outside the applicator spreading the paste, their soft breathing in the room, and the seductive slide of Jim's fingertips against his over-sensitized skin. He had never before understood the seemingly human urge to bite one's lip – and now he found himself fighting the impulse to do so himself.

"I'm done."

The – loathe as he was to use the word – spell was broken. Still, Spock waited two whole heartbeats – human heartbeats, at that – before opening his eyes.

Jim's grin melted into a look of impatience. "Well? Take a look!"

Spock made sure those blue eyes were fixed firmly on his face before he allowed the littlest toe of his left foot curl. Then he lowered his own gaze – and couldn't find it within himself to care when he gasped audibly.

"What? What? It's not – it's okay, right?"

"It…it is very striking." Well, at least that was a better response than mindlessly agreeing.

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" To his shock, bold and brazen Captain Kirk sounded small and somewhat timid.

"A good thing."

The fact that it truly was a good thing, that the designs Jim had drawn were incredibly beautiful (to Spock's eyes), more than made up for the fact that the arrogance returned full force. Jim stretched his legs out and leaned on one hand, cocky smirk in place. He bumped his thigh against Spock's knee companionably.

"See? Toldja I had mad skills. Can't tell you how tempted I was to just write 'Property of James T. Kirk' on your hands, though."

Spock raised an eyebrow, the statement startling him out of the scrutiny of his hands, and stirring something…something in his side. "You believe I belong to you?" he asked, voice lower than usual.

"Well, yes."

The Vulcan had to swallow, his fingers twitching. "I see."

"Oh, damn." Jim, who'd been absentmindedly twirling the applicator between his fingers (a sight Spock would have been mesmerized with had he not now been…additionally distracted), stuffed it into its bag. Spock watched as instead of wiping the little henna that had gotten on his finger – like a normal person – Jim chose to stick that finger in his mouth.

Spock felt his jaw slacken – though he was not so uncultured to let his mouth gape open.

"That's pretty bleh tasting," commented Jim, making a face at Spock, seeming to not notice his Science Officer's…well, I won't say discomfort. Disconcertment, maybe. "Or that could be 'cause my palms tend to sweat. Hey, Vulcans don't sweat, do they?" And, without any more warning than that, Jim grabbed Spock's right hand, his dominant hand, and licked it.

Three things happened, then, in quick succession.

One; Jim's (presumably) smart-aleck reply died in his throat.

Two; the bowl of henna paste trembled, but did not tip over.

And three; Spock wrenched his hand out of Jim's grip, knocked the bag with the applicator to the floor, practically ripped off the black undershirt (practically because only a few seams snapped, and only the black undershirt because Kirk had raised the temperature and was more comfortable in less layers), placed the tips of his fingers against the top of his Captain's sternum and pushed slightly to knock him off balance, straddled Jim and pinned his henna-ed hands above his head.

Two seconds. Two full seconds that lasted an age each and yet passed in a blink of an eye.

"Whoa, you know how dilated your pupils are?"

With considerable effort, Spock remained exactly where he was. "It would be wise, J – Captain, to remain silent, and still."

"Aw, where's the fun in that?" He grinned easily, as if being physically accosted by his First Officer was a common occurrence.

"Captain –"

"Jim."

"Captain." Spock's voice trembled slightly. "My control is…tenuous at best…" He closed his eyes to stop himself from staring hungrily at Jim's beautiful hands, with his strong fingers and firm palms, all accentuated by brown-red designs, so, so…

"You're serious? I go through all that trouble and you've still got control?"

Spock's eyes snapped open. "What?" he rasped, too far gone to be eloquent.

Jim fluttered his fingers – deliberately – wrists still restrained. "Anila's cousin, right, she's a history specialist. While they were doing my hands –" Jim paused as Spock's chest actually rumbled audibly. "Did you just growl?" With no forthcoming answer, Jim shrugged his shoulders (despite being pinned down) and continued, "While they were doing that she let slip some really interesting things – I think it's 'cause we're famous and she knows who my First Officer is. I gotta say, Spock, it's really fascinating that Vulcans and humans have similar traditions."

The Vulcan's whole body was as stiff as a board. Uh, pun not intended. Though it kind of is.

"You knew?"

"Yeah. This was a seduction attempt. Usually, they work." Jim emphasized this last word by (intentionally) shifting his hips, and Spock was made aware of what was most likely an erection pressing against his inner thigh.

A shuddering breath, and a finger flex, and brown eyes flicked quickly over the bed before they snapped black to those blues.

"It has," Spock said, and kissed Jim.

Kirk responded enthusiastically, arching his back to increase contact with the body above him. He tried to free his hands, even as he thrust his tongue into Spock's mouth, tugging ineffectually to escape the iron grip.

Then he realised that he could skim his fingers along the backs of Spock's hands.

Spock growled again (though he would deny both that it was a growl and that it was the second time) and bit Jim's lower lip savagely. When he pulled back to survey the human, he was somewhat pleased to see how wonderfully debauched Jim looked – eyes wide and lips parted and chest heaving and skin flushed a delightfully exotic pink. But it wasn't enough.

"Do not move."

"Spock, you can't – I –"

He kissed Jim again, to shut him up, slanting his lips and tracing the curiously ribbed palate with his tongue. Kirk pulled back first this time, though Spock was gratified to note that it was with reluctance. In this instance, the ineffectiveness human respiratory and circulatory systems was definitely a disadvantage – or an advantage, as he'd achieved his goal and Jim was now, well, not silent, but not speaking. That was something.

Spock kept Jim's wrists pinned with his left hand, while he dipped his fore- and middle-fingers of his other hand into the bowl of paste. He tested the consistency, then purposely drew a spiral over Jim's chest – not particularly significant among Vulcans, but over the area the human heart was located.

If the motion had his thumb brushing against Jim's nipple, then that, the hardening of the nub and the groan that Jim let out before he bit his lip, well, those were merely coincidental side-effects.

Very stimulating side-effects, at that.

Spock re-dipped his two fingers into the paste and this time drew two parallel lines (though they were not straight per se), starting on Jim's neck, just under his left ear and ending on his right hipbone. It took a few tries to get the lines completely solid, and it was utterly fascinating how Jim's skin was cooler than the paste, almost as fascinating as the soft swearing and exhalations he produced. But then –

"Spock…let me go."

The Vulcan stopped, hand hovering just inches over his Captain's navel. "You have changed your mind?"

He snorted. "Don't be an idiot."

Spock lowered his hand and was relieved that the henna hadn't dried as he blithely drew short lines radiating from Kirk's bellybutton. "Then explain your statement."

Intriguingly, Jim had his eyes squeezed shut, head lolling back and the arch of his neck exposed. "Christ, Spock, d'you know, d'you know –" he broke off to gasp, which most likely coincided with Spock's fingers skimming across his abdomen. "Fuck."

"We will get to that, yes."

The blue eyes were filled with wonder. "This side of you is incredibly sexy, Spock."

"I am gratified." And he was. "However, you have not answered my question."

"Wasn't a question, it was a statement," Jim replied cheekily.

Spock started on the final line emanating from Jim's navel, a snaking squiggle that bisected the trail of golden-brown hair that disappeared under the waistband of his Starfleet-issued trousers. He slipped his now-dry fingertips just under said waistband, letting the heel of his palm drag against the telltale bulge when he removed them.

Throughout it all, Kirk was back to biting his bottom lip raw, trying to press up against Spock's inhumanly hot hand, then letting his hips drop back down onto the bed when Spock pulled away.

"Why do you want me to let you go?" asked Spock, finding his voice lower-pitched and breathier than was usual.

"I need – I need to touch you, please, Spock – I swear it won't disrupt this, this, I just, need to be able to…participate."

The desperation in his tone shook Spock to the core, and he willingly relaxed his left hand, only distantly acknowledging that there would be bruises on Jim's wrists (and subsequently only distantly feeling a thrill of possessiveness at that), as Kirk reached up and buried his fingers in Spock's silky hair, pulling him down into a scorching kiss. Now, while it is not a particularly remarkable feat among Vulcans, you may be impressed by the fact that Spock, with his eyes closed and otherwise, er, occupied, managed to continue drawing along Jim's arm, fanciful swirls starting from his right shoulder and continuing down towards his elbow and forearm – and when they broke for air, Spock found himself tasting the soft skin of Jim's wrist, pressing kisses to the crook of his elbow, and gently scraping his teeth along his bicep.

Jim, meanwhile, had cupped Spock's buttock with his free hand. "Spock," he said, voice raspy. "You've got too many clothes on." He emphasized his point with a firm squeeze, encouraging Spock to thrust into him, an urge he only just managed to reign in.

The Captain was right, though. The excess clothing – in this case, all of it – meant that there was less exposed skin. Not to mention staining the fabric with the henna would be wasteful (especially for something so avoidable).

So without any further ado, Spock efficiently divested the both of them of their clothing. He wasn't quite prepared for Jim flipping their positions abruptly – just like neither of them was prepared for the full-on contact of their naked bodies.

They were unmoving for a few moments, with Jim's hands on Spock's shoulders, and his knees pressing into the bed on either side of the Vulcan's body – unmoving because every slight shift had their cocks brushing against each other, and set every nerve in their bodies alight.

After almost a year of pining after someone he'd thought of as untouchable, Jim thought that he regained (most of) his control quite quickly and slathered the tips of his fingers in the henna paste. He waggled them at Spock – and was nearly undone by the smouldering look Spock was giving him from under half-lidded eyes. His grin almost faltered.

Almost.

"My turn," he said in a sing-song voice. "Well, again."

He didn't have as much patience as his Science Officer – he went at Spock's chest with both hands and all fingers. In contrast to his work on Spock's hands, his fingers glided across the warm and green-tinged chest in bold, angular strokes. Spock's nipples were nowhere near as sensitive as his, but when he echoed the spiral pattern between his third and fourth ribs – and his nails may have come into play –, Spock's fingers dug into his thighs, strength almost – almost – unchecked, and Jim couldn't stop his moan at the exquisite pain of it.

Giving into temptation (and one he'd had for years, from when it'd been just about lust), Jim leaned down and kissed the very tip of one pointed ear. He heard Spock exhale something, something foreign, something Vulcan, and felt the tremble of the hands on his back and his thigh, and shivered at the slickness of those fingers gliding over his skin. Emboldened, Jim let his tongue flick out and trace the shell – he didn't bite, some strange sixth sense told him that it wouldn't be appreciated – and when he sucked hard on Spock's earlobe in response to firm hands on his ass, well. Spock's hip arched clean off the bed, meeting Jim's halfway, and they thrust against each other with reckless abandon. Jim breathed harshly through his nose as he tasted the curiously non-salty skin behind Spock's ear and down his neck, pleasure building up behind his eyes, fingers buried in that silky black hair, and, oh, oh –

And then the wonderful friction stopped, his hips stilled by strong hands. He pulled back indignantly, bracing his hands on the bed…though, the image of Spock beneath him all flushed and with his famous Vulcan control in tatters and with that look in his eyes, as if Jim was his and his alone…that made Jim inconceivably, impossibly, harder.

"Spooooocckkkk." He wasn't whining, thankyouverymuch.

"Jim," was the low reply, and fuck if he wasn't going to be reminded of that and be turned the fuck on whenever his First Officer spoke from now on. "Do you have lubricant? The henna will not suffice."

"You were serious?"

Spock raised an eyebrow, and somehow that action alone was seductive beyond belief. Maybe it had something to do with the almost primal lines across his chest and shoulders. Maybe it had something to do with his not wearing any clothes. I'm putting my money on the latter.

"It is not often that I engage in levity."

Jim slid his fingers into the hairs at the nape of Spock's neck – oh, he'd never get tired of doing that – and opened his mouth to say something. But, after hesitating for a second, he closed it, smiled a little while shaking his head, and leaned forward to kiss Spock, softly and sweetly and quite thoroughly indeed.

Spock accepted the kiss, though he puzzled over it as he watched Jim stretch to rummage in the drawer. He wondered what it was his Captain had wanted to say, but he found his attention refocus when he was handed a tube. He uncapped it slowly, gaze locked with Jim's as the human repositioned himself atop him again.

Kirk smiled at him, and Spock felt that there was suddenly less oxygen in the room – which was an illogical and unempirical observation. Jim's blue eyes seemed to glow in the low light – had it been this dim when he'd arrived? – and while the mehndi was not as contrasting against his skin as it was against Spock's, it certainly contributed to his almost ethereal quality.

Then the moment was over, with Jim sucking on his upper lip while his tongue teased Jim's lower one – and his slicked fingers circling the ring of muscle, not quite penetrating, but enough to have Jim squirm above him.

"Relax," he breathed between kisses, slowly inserting one finger, quite aware that the sensation was – at this point – more stimulating for him than for Jim.

"Easy – easy for you to say," huffed Jim, his grip on Spock's shoulder tightening as the Vulcan moved his single digit out achingly slow. "H-haven't – done this. In awhile."

"How long?" asked Spock, mouthing the words against Jim's collarbone, where he was tracing the designs he'd drawn earlier with his tongue. Distraction.

"What, you want an – an exact figure?" The play of expressions across Kirk's face was simply fascinating; more so than it usually was, because of the intimacy of the moment. There was a definite thrill at being the one to drive Jim to this height of wantonness.

"An estimate would suffice." He licked delicately at a nipple to hide the shakiness of his voice. Because he'd just inserted a second finger, and the pressure against them was exquisite.

Jim gasped at the dual sensation, the pleasure and the pain warring with each other and making his head spin. He had enough presence of mind to reply, "More than a year. Def – definitely, more than a – nnggh – a year…"

Experimentally, Spock grazed his teeth on Jim's nipple. The reaction was arousing; Kirk crying out and clenching around Spock's fingers. Three now. "What is significant" – he broke off at another clench – "what is significant about that period of time?"

"I…started holding, holding out…"

For you. It hung in the air, unspoken.

Four fingers.

Jim cried out again, throwing his head back. Presumably Spock's fingers had brushed against his prostate. He would have raised an eyebrow, but he was holding on to the threads of his remaining control – and his grip was not good. He was using rhetoric, for goodness sake.

Hands on his face brought him out of his thoughts. "Spock." That was all he needed to say.

He removed his fingers – a whimper above him – and picked up the tube again. He prepared himself in the usual way he did all things; quickly and efficiently, with economy of movement. It had nothing whatsoever to do with anticipation, or the throbbing of his cock, or the man straddling him and gazing at him with blue eyes and panting softly. Of course not.

Spock's hands went to grip Jim's hips, lowering him slowly. It was an odd duality, his cock being surrounded by heat and coolness, though the explanation was simple enough. Still, even Spock had more important things to focus on than the fact that the internal temperature of humans was still lower than the surface temperature of Vulcans.

Jim let out one long exhale. Spock ran one hand up his back to stop himself from thrusting up; he concentrated instead of the bumps his fingers traced, Jim's spinous processes. He'd reached T3 when Jim tweaked his ear and said impatiently, "C'mon."

Despite the fact that the ship's gravity was set to Earth norms, it was not that difficult for Spock to lift Jim by the hips – it helped that the human was pushing against the bed as well –, to lift him almost high enough for Spock to be able to withdraw completely, and then he was pulling, as well as angling his hips and thrusting up. Kirk moaned, and Spock found himself mirroring the reaction, groaning deep and low in his throat. The grip of Jim around him was indescribable.

At his Captain's urging, Spock set a brisk pace, and all that filled the room was the slap of skin on skin, their exhalations and curses (from Jim) and moans and gasps, and the smell of sweat and henna and sex. Spock found himself captivated by the ever so slight shifts of expression on Jim's face – they were minute but spoke volumes. They told him that Jim, like him, was spiralling towards orgasm – but it still wasn't enough.

Spock adjusted his grip and flipped their positions again, without pulling out of Jim. The angle now was better, he could thrust in deeper – something Kirk approved of, if the renewed cries and the locking of his ankles at the small of Spock's back were any indication. Spock's thrusts were now faster, harder. He felt Jim's blunt nails scrape down his back, not quite hard enough to break the skin, but enough to draw a hiss. When he leaned down for a kiss, it was clumsy and sloppy, and their noses bumped against each other, and their teeth clacked uncomfortably. He was sure that there would be bruises on Jim's hips that would match perfectly with his fingertips, just as he was sure that at least a few strands of his hair would be ripped off as a result of Kirk's tight grip. The sweat on the human's thighs was transferring to his waist, and Jim's already abused lips were not being spared any more 'torment'. Jim had latched onto one of his ears in his effort to press closer, probably too far gone to notice that the grip was painful. On the other hand, Spock was too far gone to distinguish the pain from the barrage of other sensations.

It was perfection.

(Of course, neither of them had noticed that their change in arrangement had the bowl of henna tumble off the bed and clatter onto the floor, but seeing as they were quite engaged and had their minds on other things, we may forgive them this transgression. Luckily enough that there was hardly any paste to splatter on the floor.)

Knowing that neither of them was going to last long, Spock reached between them and took Jim's cock in hand, thumbing the slit and spreading precome along its length. His strokes were hardly in time with the thrust of his hips, were hardly in any vague rhythm, but it was enough for Jim to arch his back, the noises coming out of his mouth totally and utterly obscene.

"Ashayam," Spock murmured against Jim's collarbone, the second time that night. To him, the henna did not carry any particularly unpleasant taste…or perhaps he was merely too preoccupied with the tang of Jim's skin.

"S-Spock," stuttered his beautiful, beloved Captain. "I'm –"

He placed a sucking kiss on the freckle on Jim's chest. This time, it was enough.

The Vulcan felt the spurts of ejaculate cover his hand and his stomach as Jim's orgasm hit, and he let out a high-pitched keening noise. It was this, and the expression on his face, and the unrestrained tightening of the muscles around his cock were enough to drive him over the edge, too, with something that sounded suspiciously like a sob in his throat. His thrusts became erratic, unrestrained, riding out his climax.

If he had thought to have reached perfection earlier, what was this?

When the world ceased being fuzzy and soundless and utterly mind-blowing, Spock had enough composure to pull out of Jim and collapse beside him. He was rewarded with a playful kiss to his lips, chaste and sweet, and opened his eyes to watch Jim wipe him off with the sheet. He would have protested this, except that he could see (despite their being careful) that there were streaks of henna on the white cloth – and also…he didn't want to protest.

After Kirk had cleaned the both of them off (and shoved the sheet off the bed into a heap on the floor), Spock pulled him close and dropped a possessive arm around his waist.

"Whoa."

"Indeed," said Spock, and nosed Jim's hair distractedly.

Kirk traced the lines he'd drawn on Spock's chest. "It's not fair. You got to draw more on me than I did you."

"There are still two more days of shore leave."

He felt Jim press a smile into his chest. "Never thought you'd give up a chance for research, Spock."

"I am merely exploring a new field of study."

"What, me?"

A kiss to his forehead. "Yes, ashayam. However, tell me, how long will the henna stain our skin?"

"Few weeks. Why?"

He trailed two fingers down the line under Jim's ear. "Your uniform will not hide this. Combined with the fact that both of us have similar patterns on our palms, it will not take much for the crew to discover the change in our relationship."

"Who wants to hide it?" Jim smiled when Spock's arm tightened around him briefly, his only reaction. "So…wanna get married?"

Spock looked down at Jim, who was gazing back at him seriously. But his eyes…"It is a bit soon for that is it not, Captain?"

Jim kissed him.

OoOoOoOoOo

Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek or its affiliates.

Wow, there's actually only one scene. Go figure.

I meant to have this only from Spock's POV, but you'll notice a few bits with Jim's. I dunno, I couldn't write it any other way. This is also my first serious attempt at smut, and although I've gotten some positive feedback on it, kindly tell me how I did.

Yes, that's my subtle way of asking for a review. Oblige me?

Anila.