Fandom: Star Trek (2009)
Spoilers: Probably best to have seen the movie.
Disclaimer: In no way mine or anything to do with me. I own nothing.
Summary: He prods the foliage to his left, which reacts in surprise by flinging pollen everywhere, and the air is suddenly ever so slightly more yellow than before. Which he figures, in hindsight, probably wasn't the best idea.
AN: In which I wrote some sex pollen fic for the anonymous kink meme.
Jim dubs it 'Planet Yellow.'
Not officially, though he was tempted, really, really tempted. Yellow grass, yellow trees, yellow dirt, yellow-ish sky. Everything is so yellow it's actually stopped being hideous; now it just makes his eyes feel weird. Like he's trapped inside some sort of giant fruit.
Spock is taking readings of all the yellowness, and presumably finding the whole thing fascinating, while Jim strains for some sort of authority among all the yellowness. But it's hard to be the voice of authority when you have absolutely nothing to be authoritative to, or for. And when you're bored out of your mind.
He prods the foliage to his left, which reacts in surprise by flinging pollen everywhere, and the air is suddenly ever so slightly more yellow than before. Which he figures, in hindsight, probably wasn't the best idea. Because, honestly, there's more than a good chance it's going to cause a horrible allergic reaction that will make his head explode, or something. Which will prove McCoy right, in both his endlessly amusing paranoia that the universe was out to get them, and his insistence that Jim was going to die in some ridiculous way. Because he poked something.
On the bright side, his head hasn't exploded yet. In fact the pollen is drifting, and floating about, in a way that seems almost friendly. Which is a whole lot better than actively menacing. Jim's more than half aware that foliage doesn't really come in shades of friendly. Maybe shades of dizzy? Which he is now, just a little, damn. But it's a long path, and maybe here's a good place to stop for a bit.
He thinks he'll just sit here - or maybe fall. At least he ends up on the ground, he's pretty sure there was intent, but he's not sure if it became action or whether he just...landed? The floor isn't so bad though, the yellow dirt is warm, and it gives a particularly good view of the yellow sky, and Jim has to wonder if his yellow - does gold count as yellow? If his yellow Captain's shirt makes him likely to be absorbed into the ground?
It occurs to him that there's a good - passable - no, screw it, there's a damn good chance that he's been compromised. Compromised by foliage. He wants to be annoyed and he wants to be amused, but it's very hard to be both at the same time. So he settles for staring at the bright yellow mess of what looks like flowers, and vines and...fruit, maybe? Yellow things.
It's all swaying, swaying like it's laughing at him.
Or maybe it's just happy.
He gives himself a moment to laugh at that. A bright, wet sound that the strange dry, possibly yellow, wind snatches away. Spock will have something to say about his being compromised by foliage, something involving long words, and maybe percentages, and that special sort of sneering that isn't actually sneering but is as good as. And eyebrows that judge him. Oh the eyebrows are good at judging him.
Possibly also the familiar expression that suggests Spock is constantly amazed how he's managed to live this long, with all his limbs, and his brain, intact...well ok he's probably a little dubious about the brain. That, if he were a superior species, he wouldn't be on his ass in the dirt. In the yellow dirt.
That's what Spock will do. That's what he does. So Jim twists his head to one side, to receive his logical wisdom. He thinks Spock must use less words when there's a sense of urgency. This would be good to know, that Spock can be simplified when necessary, some sort of danger/Spock simplification equation that he'd probably be insulted by. Because he has this way of looking like he's insulted by everything, without actually having an expression. Sometimes he's so rigid, and complicated, that he seems insurmountable.
Damn that's a good word...insurmountable.
It sounds even better out loud.
"Captain," Spock interrupts himself - which is just weird - and though there's no tone behind the word, there's a tightness. Like maybe Spock thinks he's sitting on the ground for fun. That he's doing it just to be peevish, when obviously he's doing it because his legs don't work. It's very disappointing when your first officer doesn't recognise things like that. He's so fired - probably - no, not really.
"Insurmountable."He can't stop saying it now.
"Say it Spock," he says instead, because his brain and his mouth are, apparently, no longer on speaking terms. Even less so than usual anyway.
"I fail to see how -"
Jim reaches out and finds material, which crumples when he closes his fingers, he pulls on it.
"Say it, or I'm not getting up," he decides, declares, loudly.
He's pretty sure Vulcans aren't allowed to sigh like that. He's pretty sure that's frustration.
"Insurmountable," Spock says simply, and he really is good at all those syllables. He has a mouth for syllables. Jim says it, and it's just a word, but Spock makes it...different, good. Sort of dirty, though that could just be him.
He tries the word again, and again, just out of interest. To see if he can make it sound like that too. He's a Captain, and he should be allowed to make words sound like that if he wants to. He's a Captain, and words are important. Spock's face is...doing things now, like maybe he's finally caught on, about the whole, 'can't move my legs, can't make the words sound right,' thing. Because now there are less words, harder words, which aren't as interesting but are louder, and worried-er? Is that a word, he's fairly sure that it's not.
Jim means to pay attention, he absolutely does. He means to pay attention to the words, and the insistence.
But he's too busy noticing that Spock's hair is strangely perfect, all immaculate dark lines and points. Perfect and shiny, it's almost like it's not real, and Jim's not sure how he can pull that off. Because he has hair too, he does, and if there's one thing hair hates it's being told what to do. He can't quite work out how he's managed it.
He thinks he should touch it.
So he does.
And, if he was fairly sure about the whole 'compromised' thing before. This is how he knows, this, this because Spock's letting him push his hands into it, the soft, almost-weight of it between his fingers. Pushing it out of its perfectly ordered neatness. It's strangely hypnotising, and Jim can't stop, can't stop.
Spock looks...there's tiny crease above his nose, mouth open just a little, eyes confusing. They're joined by fractions of other movements, as his hand slides, drags hair the wrong way. Never one expression, but a collection of tiny ones, all breaking through in pieces. And Jim's aware, in the most basic and obvious of ways, that he probably shouldn't - that this is wrong in some way, some strange, jarring, compromised sort of way.
But the non-perfect hair is so much more interesting, and he can't make himself stop. Spock doesn't stop him, he just watches, and breaks in tiny pieces.
Jim presses at the faint line above his nose, as if to check that it's real, finds Spock's skin hotter than he expects, which is worrying for a long, confusing second. Until he remembers that it isn't. Until he remembers that, for Spock, that's perfectly right, and curious and interesting. He moves his hand, he likes the mess he's made of Spock's hair, all inattentive disobedience and recklessness. Unrepentant about its new disorder, where it flicks against the tips of his ears, and lays sideways where it should be flat.
Spock opens his mouth, like he's going to speak, going to protest the spontaneous touching, the reckless rearrangement of his person. Or personal space at least. But nothing comes out, nothing at all, just a creak of air that seems almost confused. Until Jim's fingers sliding down the back of his neck, a long, smooth line of too-hot skin. And he can't quite help it when his nails drag there, catch in the ends of his hair, and Spock's face does something complicated, and obvious, and there's a noise, a low surprised breathless noise, and -
Spock's head has tipped back ever so slowly, weight on his fingers, and his mouth is open, just a little, just enough.
Yes, fuck yes, Jim wants that. It crushes every other thought, every dizzy, confused contemplation of the colour yellow, and perfection and warmth, everything else is gone and he wants that.
He thinks that makes him a greedy child, but he doesn't care.
He drags Spock upwards by the bright blue of his shirt, drags him, and knows damn well there's no way he could make him if he didn't want to. But that long, narrow weight slides up, and presses down into him, heavier than he looks, all angles and sharpness and heat. Jim's brain is trailing out a litany of 'compromised' over and over.
He pulls at Spock's hair, wants his mouth, needs his mouth, and there's a long moment of damp, confused breath across his face, before he has it. Before he owns Spock's half-open mouth, hot and too soft, then just as quickly hard, and then harder. Like all Jim's pushing has finally, finally shaken his self control apart, until all that's left is heat.
He can't help but feel a sharp hot flash of pride at that. But then, it isn't him is it? Not him at all but the low, soft sway of flowers, so obscenely vibrantly yellow above them that Kirk thinks he should be offended. Probably should, at the very least, attempt to make some sort of fight of it - Jim Kirk does not go down without a fight, never, ever. Though he's not sure why he should be fighting precisely. Or what?
His brain's refusing to change tracks. Slipping from one thought to the next, none of them anything other than dirty. Long, messy litany in his head of wet, and hard, and heat.
There's nothing under material but skin, hot under his hands, and he can't stop touching - makes himself out to be a liar a second later when he drags it up, up, up and over, throwing Spock's carefully disordered hair into a new and different arrangement.
This, this is what he wants.
There's the rough, dry sound of tearing fabric, that he feels all the way through, feels it digging into his skin where long fingers pull it apart. He loses his yellow - gold? - top to the ground, finds himself crushed there, and thinks he'll have yellow dust painted all along his back, which is interesting, but he can't quite work out why, or care about it. Can't, can't because Spock is pushing his mouth open again, like he can, like Jim will let him, but it's too late already, because he already has, messy wreck of a kiss that just winds everything tighter, makes him harder. He can't ignore it now. It's a blunt push every time Spock shifts, every time Jim breathes. Until he's hot one end, and tight the other, with nothing in-between but tension and weight, and the messy, uncoordinated pull-catch of his own hands.
Everything is too warm, though he's pushing into it all the same, opening up, mouth all different shades of heat and strangeness.
Jim thinks having his cock in Spock's mouth would fucking burn. Wonders if he'd let him anyway, it'd be easy, he thinks, so easy to press his fingers to his mouth. Easy to pull it open, one hard, wet drag of thumb. He gets lost in that thought for a long moment, stutter-stop and rewind over and over, until his breathing is completely wrecked.
Spock drags him back to the present, with a too hard push of hips, and the dig of sharp fingers under the waist of his pants.
"Yes," Jim provides, and congratulates himself on being helpful. And he thinks, belatedly that his uniform is now in pieces, and he'll probably be reprimanded for that in some way later.
He finds he can't rip the material under his own hands half so easily, so he settles for pushing in irritation instead. He finds long legs, a shift of muscle under his hands, and he gets distracted by thighs, shock of bare skin under his fingers. He's lost, lost and greedy there for a long moment.
Then Spock presses down, all burn of bare skin, and too-tight hands, and Jim thinks his brain skips the tracks completely, and goes into free fall.
"Tell me," Spock demands roughly, urgently, a mess of words against his cheek that sounds nothing at all like his usual words. "Tell me what you want." They're new words, warm words, fall-to-pieces words that aren't like Spock at all. Words that Jim wants to keep.
He's pretty fucked when it comes to his own words, so instead of trying to form some sort of reply he catches the hand skidding across his waist, draws it to his mouth, and takes two fingers inside. There's a shudder of breath across his face, a low, stunned noise, and now Spock's watching him, watching him like he can't look away. Like he's already doing something obscene.
But he gets it then, gets that he's going to fuck him now - and Jim thinks he loves that brain of his, that pieces things together, and makes them work.
Jim pulls his legs up, finds hips that are far too narrow, but solid, holding the weight of him with no problem at all.
Wet fingers slide in, push him open in a way that's quick and graceless, and nothing at all like the usual sensible, methodical way that Spock does absolutely everything. It makes him want to reach down and press back the urgency a little, hand moving before he finishes the thought. It makes knees shift in the dirt, and Jim's not the one who's being greedy now, not the one who's pressing fingers bruise-deep into his skin, and pulling him in, tilting him, though he goes obediently, just this once, just this one time, he'll do as he's told, stay where he's put. He'll let Spock push him all the way open.
The fingers slide free, grip the muscle of his thigh, and he thinks he manages, in that long pause, something that's more demand than begging.
Whatever it is, it makes Spock lean into him, and press inside, too quick and too deep. In a way that falls over the line of pain, and back again. It fades into a steady push, all the way in, and all the breath lodges in Jim's throat, before falling free in broken pieces.
Spock stretches his arms over his head and presses his hands into the yellow dirt. Holds him there with arms that are too long, and too strong, and his hips are too sharp and it's so fucking good. Jim doesn't know why they haven't done this before. Why they haven't done this in every spare moment they can get. And then Jim can't think at all. But he's speaking, a long, low babble of words that mean nothing, breathed against the wet line of Spock's mouth, where their foreheads are pressed together. He holds him there, pinned under ragged, too-hard thrusts. That Jim is aware, distantly, are going to make him extremely uncomfortable in some far off future time.
But his body doesn't care, tries to get closer, to drag him deeper, and he's so close to the edge. He's going to come and, judging by the loose disjointed noises that Spock is making against his skin, so is he, and he wants that.
Jim buries his fingers in dark hair while his other hand slip-skids across skin, and he's making noises, or maybe words, into the curve of Spock's ear. Reckless, breathless encouragement, that makes the rhythm break, and then Spock's holding him so hard his bones ache. His hips pushing in short, broken little starts, harder than before.
It makes him take a shocked breath, that leaves him prickling and needy, after every quick stab of discomfort. Until Jim's left sliding between the two, making noises that he's probably going to deny later.
He thinks he likes that a bit too much.
All heat and want and now, coiled tight enough to snap.
So he does, one hot moment of delicious tension, and then he comes, spread out, feeling drunk and too hot, dragging in lungfuls of air, and moaning something utterly unintelligible at the hot yellow sky.
He pulls Spock over with him, and feels it, feels it all, digs his fingers into Spock's back to feel every tremor and twitch, tension sliding into helpless. His eyes are shut, mouth no longer a line, but loose and wet. Vulnerable, strange and new, and Jim can't help pulling it to him, tasting its newness. He owns it, opens it, not so much a kiss as an excuse to breathe into each other. Though he can't resist inciting a lazy wet push of tongue, smiles at the noises, the uneven hitch in every breath. He thinks he made this, he thinks - yes.
Until Jim has to breathe, tilts his head back, lets Spock's mouth drag open over his throat, faint hallucination of teeth, and then stillness.
Jim's just laying in the dust, breathing and aching and sticky, and half-crushed under weight and skin, and everything is good, everything is way better than good.