Characters: Spock, Kirk
Rating: PG, now. NC-17, later.
Warnings: FLUFF. *irked*
Notes: Penbrydd will now politely request not to be hung from the wall by his neck for this chapter and the ones that follow. There's a story, here, and it may not be the one you think I'm telling. Shit, I don't even know if I'm going to be able to finish this, but for you guys, I'll try.


"Should time allow us to describe our prowess
it would be quite hard to overrate,
for we are the king of the boudoir old thing and the king doesn't like to wait."
-- The Magnetic Fields, 'We Are the King of the Boudoir'

They sat on opposite sides of the captain's regulation bed, not really looking at each other. Jim dropped his boots onto exactly the tray of paints he'd been trying not to hit, and he flinched a bit at the sound of metal rattling. He was sure this was the part where he was supposed to say something cryptic, and then pass out, before this could get any weirder, but Spock had offered to sleep with him, for his birthday -- probably some logical exploration of human sexual desires. They'd done something of this sort once before -- but only once -- when they'd both lost everything they knew. That had been fast, rough, and dirty, and neither of them spoke of it, again -- especially not after Uhura took offence, and left Spock over it. That hadn't been cool, at all. He didn't mean to interfere like that.

Spock stood and set his boots beside the door. "I apologise. I neglected to wear socks, today. I am... that is, my feet..."

Jim laughed and patted the bed, examining a number of glass jars that sat on a shelf beside his bed, before finally selecting one. "I can work with that. You forget how many years I spent sleeping in my boots."

Folding himself onto the bed, sitting and self-contained, Spock looked nervous in that way that only a Vulcan can. With a cocky smile, Jim opened the jar he held, with one hand, and grabbed Spock's ankle, with the other, fluidly unfolding the Vulcan straight onto his back. Spock looked mildly alarmed, but Jim had never hurt him without an extremely good reason. His eyes got wide as Jim's fingers dipped into the jar, coming out with a strongly cinnamon-scented cream that he rubbed into Spock's foot.

"Jim, what are you doing? That's entirely unsanitary and relatively disgusting."

"Is that an actual objection?" Jim asked, his hands pausing, thumbs in a pair of pressure points. "Or are you concerned about my comfort, instead of your own?"

"Captain -- Jim, I would be remiss if I did not put your comfort first," Spock protested, unthinkingly pressing his foot against Jim's thumbs. "But if this does not trouble you, please continue. I have never -- No one has ever done this, before."

Jim's hands caressed Spock's foot, learning the small eccentricities of his anatomy. "Are you serious? No one has ever touched your feet? They're idiots. What kind of girls do you take to bed, Spock? I always start at the feet. It sets the pace."

"If this is just the beginning, I do not know if I will make it through the end. I have been awake for quite some time." Spock groaned softly, as Jim's fingers rubbed the tendons of his heel. "I want to, but I make no promises."

"Promise me nothing," Jim stated, flippantly, hands moving to massage Spock's lower leg. "My gift will be to watch you enjoy what I can do for you. And I'm not bragging. I'm already watching, and you're already enjoying."

Spock moaned wantonly, gasping as Jim's fingers lingered on what should have been the most painful parts of his legs, with delicious pressure that lit up the nerves straight up to his spine. He spoke, as Jim's hands paused, questioningly. "You're not hurting me. I don't know how, but you'd know for certain if you were. This always hurts. I never let anyone touch me like this."

"I'm good at what I do, Spock. And I've had enough practical xenobiology over the years to make quick adaptations to the unexpected." Jim lifted Spock's ankle, pressing a kiss to the bone, before he began again, with the other foot. "This is what made me famous, before I was captain."

As Jim's fingers pressed into Spock's foot and ankle, the Vulcan relaxed, nearly melting into the bed with pleasure. His eyes relaxed, as well, pupils expanding until his eyes seemed black pools. Jim merely smiled, following his fingers with his lips, laying kisses along the pressure points he stirred. He listened to Spock's breathing deepen and quicken, watching his friend's responses, to ensure he would notice if he began to cause pain.

After many lengthy and delicious moments of silence, Spock struggled to sit up, and Jim let go, immediately. Jim's mouth opened, to apologise, but Spock shook his head.

"I need a drink. Nothing about you." Spock leaned forward and claimed the glass sitting in the shelf at the foot of the bed, taking a long drink, as Jim shifted, moving behind him, to trace the lines of his back.

"You'll tell me if I hurt you?" Jim verified.

"I don't think you'll need me to tell you," Spock offered, lightly, putting the glass back on the shelf.

"Elbow to the face. Right. Got it."