Part 9 – Paradise Found (The Reason We Keep Chasing Rainbows)
Disclaimer: Star Trek and the boys belong to Gene Roddenberry, who I am not. I am only borrowing them with the greatest respect, and promise to return them in (mostly) pristine condition.
"... The things love can drive a man to -- the ecstasies, the miseries, the broken rules, the desperate chances, the glorious failures and the glorious victories."-- McCoy (Requiem for Methuselah)
"Oh no! Frodo... Mr. Frodo, wake up... Don't leave me here alone. Don't go where I can't follow... Wake up." – Samwise Gamgee, The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King
The room was almost painfully hot; the heat so oppressive that sweat dripped into his eyes, nearly blurring his vision. But not even total blindness would have stopped him from taking in the sight of the form that was curled in the corner, skin flushed green with heat that had nothing to do with the environment, pupils blown wide, so far gone that he had yet to notice James's presence.
Spock.
Impossibly beautiful because he was real; real and his, not a young doppelganger that belonged to a younger version of himself or a ghost born from the Nexus but his. It was the sight that he'd been waiting for since forever; since he'd fallen out of time and found himself in the Nexus, since he'd wished his way back into a world not his own by following his heart. Time, such a relative quality, made to seem so much longer by his longing to see this man, even in a place where time had not existed, increased again by the fires of pon farr that made hours of separation seem like an eternity.
But now that was over; now that impossible wait was over, because he was here, and almost more importantly, because Spock was here with him, alive and so much beloved. There was a thrum of anticipation under his skin, a familiar friend that had accompanied him on all of his greatest adventures and he bathed in it now, let it simmer and grow until he could stand it no longer, until he could resist no longer.
It was a short distance across the room, no more than six steps but even that seemed an almost impossible distance as there was still a part of him that insisted that this was not real. That this was simply a fantastic fantasy concocted by the Nexus and that the first brush of his flesh against Spock's would be lifeless, that no connection would occur and it would reveal this as the terrible joke he feared it to be. But by then he was there, no more than a hairbreadths away from his t'hy'la and nothing, no fear could keep him from stretching out a single (trembling) hand and stroking the flesh of Spock's flushed cheek.
At the touch Spock seemed to rouse himself from his trance, his big brown human eyes blinking open to meet James own hazel ones, but James was too overwhelmed by the connection; the bond that had been so painfully absent in the Nexus to even notice what lay in those brown depths. Then there had been nothing; a painful absence of sound and feeling but now it was there; the maelstrom of Spock's feelings, usually so repressed and organized, now made wild by pon farr rushed at him and through him, breathing life back into the bond that had been so frayed by his absence in the Nexus. It was like being filled with light, the headiest of highs, better than anything that Bones's highly impressively liquor cabinet had ever boasted. It was like coming home and he bathed in the feeling, soaked up the sheer aura of Spock, drank it down like a man dying of thirst.
"James," Spock whispered, after a moment and James opened the eyes he wasn't even aware he had closed to meet Spock's. They were nothing but flame and completely luminous, his voice so quiet it was hardly even a breath but still conveying so much feeling and his heart simply rolled, because yeah, he'd missed being James alright.
"I found you. I knew I would. They wanted to put my katra in the ark but I refused because I knew, against all logic I'd find you. And here you are," Spock continued and for a moment he knew nothing but the pleasure of his t'hy'la's presence until Spock's words actually registered and his heart nearly shattered when he realised that the terrifying theory that he had concocted on the Enterprise had been correct. For a moment he was so choked up, so overwhelmed that he couldn't force any sound out of his throat and when he finally did his words were rough with the sheer emotion that was seeping out of his pores.
"Here we both are, t'hy'la," And then he simply bent his head down and pressed his lips to Spock's because at this moment they were both alive and they both needed this (at this point he was relatively sure he needed this to survive as much - if not more - than Spock did) and so explanations could definitely come later.
It was not a gentle kiss; their desperation and heat made gentle an impossibility; made them unable to even desire a soft embrace. Instead it was violent and needy as teeth, tongues and lips crashed together to duel and fight and create an inferno hotter than anything he'd ever felt. It was not even tenderness, as although the feeling existed in his heart it had no place here; now was for claiming, connecting desperately after so long apart and claiming back what time and fate had taken from them as the flames screamed their satisfaction under their skin.
This was proving that they were alive, the grasp of hands on flesh so hard that bruises had no choice but to follow, but the visceral pleasure of the pain only made the experience sweeter, more real. The thrum of heart beats, alien to each other and never designed to sync, beating as one, racing with a familiar feeling, lust and love and fire tangling together to create the potent cocktail that was pon farr. The flames of pon farr raged, an endless scream, made impossibly potent by their contact raged even higher as Spock stood, his movement fluid and nearly serpentine, his hands going to James's hips with a grip that was painful as he pulled them together with a force that would have knocked the breath from his lungs if it hadn't already had been stolen by the force of Spock's kiss.
The pain of their embrace made him gasp, a sound that Spock promptly swallowed, penetrated his mouth with tongue as is to chase the sound, the gesture possessive and all consuming. And although masochism wasn't his thing (although he could see how his mission track record could mislead someone on that point) the pain made this somehow sweeter, more real, but this wasn't about pain (not that there wasn't some pain, because there was; but after all this time without feeling it couldn't help but hurt so good).
He had a theory about pon farr and about what Vulcan women never truly understood about it; why they were so reluctant and disgusted. What they didn't get (and what he'd quickly learned) was that it wasn't about sex; not even truly about dominance or claiming (although they definitely played a part), but rather that it was deeper than that, deeper even than ownership. It was belonging; not about taking but about giving; submitting yourself to someone because you trusted them enough to give them your (exquisitely fragile) heart without fear of them breaking it. And it was this; this impossible emotion (this simple feeling, a whispered remembrance so treasured, and the soft press of flesh when the world was going to end) that they could not understand and so pon farr became a time of shame and self hatred and disgust.
As Spock slammed him against the wall and pressed their lips together again, so forcefully that their teeth clinked together and that his jaw ached, James decided they were all flaming morons if they couldn't see how beautiful this was.
Then there was simply no thought, no room for thought as Spock growled, "submit, t'hy'la" into his mouth, the sound more animal than human (or half human, as the case may be), not request but a command. Submission was not in his nature; he was, no matter his title, a Starfleet Captain and as such the need to have control was nearly as deeply ingrained in him as it was in Spock. When he'd lost control people had died, a darkly efficient teacher of a terrible lesson, and so to relinquish that control to anyone was a terrifying thought. But here it was different, here floating with Spock among the inferno that the fires of pon farr created he knew his place and so he let himself go slack, let his weight fall into the arms of his mate and tilted his neck upwards, an offering and an acknowledgement of his submission.
Spock wasted no time in laying his claim, taking possession of James's exposed throat with teeth and tongue, the former biting marks of ownership into his flesh, the latter soothing the darkened skin, bringing pleasure to the sharp sting of pain, an addictive combination. Then hands moved from his hips to his back and the sound of seems rending filled the air as fabric, hundreds of years old was no match for Vulcan strength, ripping like butter under the unstoppable force of pon farr. The shirt he had worn for nearly an eternity was thrown from his body and he did not mourn it's destruction, instead rejoiced in it and reached trembling hands up to the clasp of Spock's robe, only to have them pulled away and secured above his head in an iron grasp as Spock leaned in, a predatory look on his face.
Submit, he remembered as the flames in Spock's eyes grew brighter and so he forced his anticipation down and commanded his body to stay still with what was left of his much frayed (and truthfully not all that naturally bountiful) self control. Once Spock was satisfied that James was back on the same page as he was he loosened his hold and brought his hands to James's nipples, tweaking them roughly in a gesture designed to inflame and chide, making James gasp into Spock's neck. Then Spock's hands migrated down his chest, no longer as firm as it had been in his youth, but Spock appeared to have no complaints as short, broad nails nearly broke the skin as they slid over his flesh, leaving goosebumps and red marks in their wake. Then his hands reached the seam of James's regulation trousers, where they caressed the exposed flesh there for a second before they, without warning, plunged beneath them to grasp hold of the aching flesh beneath.
"Mine," Spock growled, voice low and eyes impossibly hot, and his hand pumped once from root to tip, already dripping with pre-ejaculate, then twice before he stopped, hand resting at the base of his shaft. "Mine."
It took him a moment to realize that Spock was waiting for something from him (the blood he needed to operate his brain was a bit otherwise occupied), but once he finally did, read the gleam that was in Spock's eyes he responded by thrusting his hips forward to allow for better access, and whispered into a pointed year, his voice rough from the heat and from his arousal, "Always yours; only yours."
Spock simply growled in response, pumping his cock once more before his hands moved to the seams of his pants and ripped them from his body, the dark fabric offering no more resistance than the shirt had, leaving him naked, burning under the heat of the Vulcan's eyes. His body was no longer firm, he knew; age had robbed him of that; his arms, chest, legs no longer as muscular, skin no longer smooth, hair no longer as thick and golden, but under the heat of Spock's glance he forgot those things. Those eyes saw him as t'hy'la; not only what he was now but what he had been and what he would become, those eyes saw him as perfection, and if he could have he would have lived in them, beauty that not even the Nexus had been able to recreate.
But he was not alone in his aging; time, which had been so kind to Spock before had finally caught up with him, leaving them not so disproportionate as they had once been. James, in their later years, had almost always felt extremely old beside Spock, whose biology had dictated that not only would Spock greatly outlive him, he would also appear virtually ageless in comparison to him. While his hair had greyed, Spock's had stayed stubbornly black; while his face had wrinkled, Spock's had stayed smooth; time had not weighed on his friend as it had him, and although they had never really spoken of it, he knew it had been something that had weighed on both their minds.
Now however the Nexus had evened out the playing field, a fact made even more obvious as Spock reached a hand up behind his own neck and graceful fingers tugged impatiently at the clasp hidden there. The movement made the robe, similar to that god awful terrycloth bathrobe like dress that he'd worn when they had traipsed around the past in an effort to save the whales, fall down to the floor in a single movement, leaving him gloriously bare, a feast for James's eyes. And feast he did, as Spock stood passive for a moment and allowed his eyes to devour him; took in how the greyness of his hair made him only more beautiful, the precious lines on his face that proved that he could laugh. Spock's body had always been slim, muscles not bunched like his once had been, but sleek and they were still now, although age had finally taken some of the iron from his frame; slim yes, but smoother where there had once been sharp edges. Magnificent and James couldn't help but think, without real ire at the unfairness, that although time had finally caught up with his friend, it had still been very kind to him.
Once he had looked his fill (or that Spock had let him look his fill), Spock set out to destroy him with his caresses, attacking the task with his famous Vulcan single mindedness and James could only tilt his head backwards and attempt to weather the storm that was their desire. There was no uncertainty in Spock's touch, no need to explore to find the spots that elicited the most pleasure. They had once mapped out each other's bodies with teeth and tongue and hands like they had the stars with their ship and so there was no hesitation, no mercy as Spock's hands moved to from erogenous zone to erogenous zone, blazing a trail designed to send him out of his mind.
The flesh of his neck was bitten, leaving a ring of bruises, a collar of possession that was soothed briefly with the softness of Spock's tongue. Then hands migrated to his nipples, squeezing them and tweaking them just how he liked it, rough and yet somehow tender, making him gasp and forget his promise of submission and raise his own arms in an attempt to return the favour. His hands were batted away however and the gesture was once again met was a steely gaze and so James's instead fisted his hands at his sides and commanded them not to move. The gesture seemed to satisfy Spock, as he resumed his movements, ignoring his weeping cock in favour of taking his testicles in his hands and rolling them, making him nearly sob at the pleasure, which increased impossibly as a hot Vulcan's mouth returned to his neck, nipping and sucking. And all the sensations were made impossibly more potent by the feeling of bare flesh on bare flesh, skin inhumanly hot pressing against his, sliding against his own sweaty skin, chest to chest, leg to leg, cock's kept apart by Vulcan hands on his biceps, half to build anticipation, half as a reminder of who was in control.
It was, he knew, what seemed like more patience than an outsider might have expected during pon farr, but James's knew better. This was not so much about prolonging the act or about his pleasure (though they were both added bonuses) but rather about marking his flesh, about carving Spock's possession of him into his body as he already was in his mind; an act that, to Vulcan's, was nearly as important as the actual act of sex. So restrained in nature, prising composure and control over all else, but in the near madness of pon farr they revelled in this ability to make their mate's (who were typically just as composed as they were) wear their marks as badges of ownership, burying control under their baser, primal instincts of possession, jealously and protectiveness that James's knew still existed, simmering under the veneer of their logic. This was writing the story of this; of Spock's possession and of their combined need, of them, in bruises and half moon crescent furrows, broken blood vessels and teeth marks onto his flesh.
However he could feel, through the bond and through Spock's movements that this phase was ending; that the madness, the need for penetration was quickly approaching and so it was no surprise to him when Spock grabbed his hips and turned him, moving his (not unsubstantial, he would admit) weight as if he was a rag doll. He found himself bourn down to the floor, positioned impatiently so that he was resting on all fours, angled so that his entrance was easily accessible. His knees protested the movement slightly, a reminder that he was not in possession of the youth he'd had the first time they had done this but he ignored it, pushed it away in order to focus on Spock and the sensations they were creating; the maddening spiral of pleasure crawling up his spine, a feeling familiar, like an old friend that had been greatly missed.
Then all thought was pretty much put on hold as Spock knelt behind him and in a single, smooth moment thrust two fingers into him and his mind was consumed by pleasure, accented by the burn as it had been a long time for him and he was tight. The fact seemed to please Spock, or perhaps it was simply the feeling of having his fingers encased in his heat (that Vulcan finger sensitivity rumour was completely true, and made for awesome fun) as Spock growled once, sound low in the back of his throat that went straight to James's cock before he started a near punishing rhythm, fucking him with his fingers; alternating between straight thrusts that nearly brushed his prostate but didn't, then scissoring motions on the withdrawal to stretch him even further.
The fingers disappeared for a second and James's couldn't help but make a sound, somewhere between a moan and a gasp in mourning, but the feeling was quickly replaced by a wave of sheer desire as he angled his head backwards and saw Spock, one hand holding a small bottle, other moving up and down his cock, slicking it in preparation. His mouth nearly watered at the sight; perfect, as it had always been, flushed with green blood and as hard as iron, pulsing before his eyes. The hand holding the (magnificent, in his opinion) cock moved quickly, no intention of putting on a show and James's felt through the bond how Spock's patience had finally run out, how the primal need for penetration had consumed his thoughts.
The other hand was clutching the little bottle as if he was likely to break it, which he supposed was quite possible as Vulcan strength was legendary and the bottle was tiny and ornate and, if the slickness on Spock's fingers was any indication, likely contained some type of Vulcan lube (he still had vivid memories at how dumbstruck he'd been the first time when Spock had pulled that out of a bedside table, and then, after seeing the look on James's face, had turned emerald green and given a three minute lecture on the logic of the product). He wasn't particularly sure where Spock had gotten it this time, although he imagined T'Para had likely left it, and he had a moment of whimsy imagining the lovely, proper Vulcan woman doing so. The thought must have travelled across their link because Spock suddenly growled his voice gravelly and fierce, "Be with me. You are mine." And his grip on James's hips became punishing, as he thrust his cock roughly into him, without warning, giving him no time to adjust as he began to pound into him with a violent desperation, the movement stealing his breath.
There was pain, not much because he had been well prepared, but the sheer force of the penetration made it impossible for it to be painless. However it was not really the pain that kept him quiet, stole his breath and silenced the gasp that had escaped him, making it nothing more than a breath of air. Rather it was the feeling of completion, of fullness, not just of the body but of the soul; coming home, he remembered thinking, a million years ago when he'd walked into this room, home and whole.
Then there was no room for thought, nothing but heat and feeling and fire as the bond rushed opened and Spock rushed into his mind, like cascading waves of lava, scorching as he moved through him, pounding into his skull as he pounded into his body. The bond more screamed than sang, feelings and thoughts colliding, a litany of mine, yes, t'hy'la, no one else, kill anyone who dared, lock you away from the rest of world, mine, tight, hot, take me, all of me, beautiful when you're gasping for me, submit, you are mine, erase all the others from your mind, t'hy'la, mine. The onslaught was overwhelming, but incomplete; pon farr required two minds, communicating until they became one. And so, although it was a near impossibility, he grasped at his thoughts, weaved them into so sort of order and pushed them, as hard as he could at Spock through the link, the message hardly more than, yes, yours, waited so long, missed you, love you, yours, please, t'hy'la, only yours.
He knew he'd gotten through when the bond roared open again, drowned them both in their feelings, the sunshine like light of love twined with the overwhelming heat of lust to create a rainbow that sang, the bond finally healthy after so long and James's couldn't help but become lost in the feeling. He let it seep into his mind, fill up all the empty spaces in his mind, the ones that had been lonely and cold for so long in the Nexus, but now hummed with warmth and life.
Somewhere, in the depth of his mind where the bond was not so overwhelmed, he was distantly aware of Spock's thrusts into his body, strong and deep, angled just so that he touched his prostate on each one. Somewhere, he was aware of his own body, rhythmic contractions of his own passage around that perfect hardness inside him, of the gasps and moans that spilled from his lips, the fragmented phrases, filthy and desperate, pleading for "more of that cock, harder, splitting me open, so deep, fuck me until I carry your brand in my very cells, come on you bastard give it to me, make me yours."
Somewhere, he was aware of the fact that Spock had lost complete control and was now pounding into him, no finesse, simply overwhelming hunger. No longer just brushing against his prostate but ramming into it with each thrust, sending sheer white shockwaves of pleasure through James's that were amplified by the bond until they were nearly blinding. Somewhere he was aware that Spock was now gasping his name and nothing more, just "Jim, Jim, James, Jim," desperately, the sound so different from his typically so carefully modulated tone.
Somewhere, he was aware that he'd tilted his body slightly, allowed Spock to sink even deeper still, until he could practically feel him in his throat. And he felt it, the pinnacle of their orgasm, like an enormous wave, crashed into them like a wall, nothing but light and t'hy'la, and love and home and finally. Felt Spock spill himself into him as he came himself, painting the floor below him, the moment so in unison that it was simply a single release, rather than two separate ones.
Then his vision whitened out, overwhelmed by the sheer rightness of the moment, and he was aware of nothing.
Pon farr was all consuming, every single one of the body's senses taxed to their limit, and so it was understandable that under such stress his memory occasionally failed him. There were always things about it that he did not remember later; things that the sheer mental force of pon farr, the sheer, insane pleasure robbed from him when he finally came to himself afterwards. However there were also things that he could never forget, things that were burned into his mind so bright that they glowed, precious jewels of memory that he treasured above all else.
Spock, still hard after the first mind-blowing orgasm, not even bothering to remove himself from James's body before he resumed his thrusts. Simply arranging him so that he could rest his head, still fogged, on his folded arms before he once again began to pound into him, thrusts more controlled this time, a teasing rhythm designed to drive him insane. Thrusts that alternated from shallow and teasing to deep and all consuming, teasingly brushing against his prostate until he was unable to do anything more than plead for more. Then hands, inhumanly hot, encircled his cock, slowly moved up and down his shaft, thumbs fucking teasing the head until he came, painted those fingers white. Then he took them into his own mouth, sucked them clean of his cum like he would the cock that was still moving so slowly inside of him and made Spock gasp and pound into him until he came again, filling him to the brim before slumping over James's back like a warm blanket.
Those same hot hands, strong but surprisingly gentle in his hair as he relaxed his throat and let Spock fuck his mouth, little jerks of his hips, considerate in even in his desperation. Then gasps, Vulcan worlds, half mangled as James's had taken him deep in his throat, humming and sucking, wantonly and filthily, until Spock had gotten the message that gentle wasn't the only way to go. Swallowing down his reward; the white sweetness of the half Vulcan's cum and the look in Spock's eyes, so god damn tender it was nearly reverent as fingers feathered over his cheeks and the side of his mouth where some of the whiteness still lingered, marking him as Spock's.
That lovely green cock between his fingers, cradled by his hands, an opportunity for him to finally return the pleasurable torture that Spock had inflicted on him. Gentle strokes designed to tease rather than inflame, thumb rubbing between the double ridges, the movement eliciting whimpers from so typically reserved Vulcan lips that James's drank down like fine wine. Desperate jerks of hips in an attempt to gain more stimulation until James's finally gave in, pumping Spock's shaft with more force and taking just the tip of his cock into his mouth, humming until he felt Spock begin to come. Removing his mouth so that Spock came on his hand, and then, once Spock was finally spent, rubbing one hand soothingly on hips that still jerked erratically while bringing the other one to Spock's mouth so he could suck his own seed from James's fingers.
And then finally, when the last traces of the madness had gone, laying on his back, legs wrapped around Spock's hips as Spock thrust gently into him, faces only inches apart. Gentle hands in his hair as his own feathered up and down Spock's back, gesture more soothing than anything else, far to light to leave marks. Breathe mingling, soft, sweet kisses alternated with deep, sticky ones, consuming, tongues duelling lazily, more playful than dominant. Eyes, deep brown and hazel that never broke contact, even as hot hands moved to his cock and stroked once, twice, three times until he came, the orgasm a gentle wave rather than an all consuming force. The rippling of the muscles of anus milking Spock into his own orgasm, gentle and untainted by pon farr, fingers brushing lightly against his forehead, projecting the faintest feeling of warmth, love, thank you, t'hy'la. Then Spock finally broke their eye contact, slumping over to lay his head in the crock of James's neck, a weight that he welcomed as he brought his arms up to encircle him, closing his own eyes to savour the moment.
Later, once they had separated and had wiped each other clean they finally moved to the bed in the corner of the room, lying down together, appreciating the pleasure that naked flesh on naked flesh brought. How long they stayed there, wordlessly laying in each others' arms James could not could say, but neither did he care as he could think of nothing better than laying there with his t'hy'la, without a care in the world, nothing to do but listen to the impossibly soothing sound of his lovers heartbeat. Then Spock raised his head and brought those beautiful brown eyes, finally clear of the fever to his and smiled his tiny not smile before he whispered, voice raspy but much more composed that it had been, "I do not believe that this is the contemporary idea of heaven, but I can think of no better way to spend my afterlife."
Ah. And so, ok, there was still that one little thing that he had left to do.
A/N: So finally, the reunion porn. I had originally thought that this was going to be longer and rougher, but James's and Spock had other ideas apparently, and I ended up liking where this went instead. I found that, as I wrote it my opinion of pon farr and what it could be changed a bit and so this was born. Next, our gentlemen will have their 'talking reunion' (they were a little too overwhelmed to talk before) where they both explain the score and settle all their misconceptions. That should be up next week, week after that at the latest (I could probably leave them as one part, but I figured I'd get this up now). As usual, enjoy and review.