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The Bridge crew hunkered down for the storm—a shit storm, to put it bluntly. Jim and Spock were fighting—again. The only thing they did better than running the Enterprise was chewing each other out. Since Jim was the captain, able to tell anyone, “you’ll shut the fuck up and you’ll thank me for the privilege of doing so,” the crew would have thought he’d have the advantage in every argument. However, no power known to the galaxy could shut Spock up when he felt he had a logical point to make, and he was almost obsessively in love with the sound of his own voice. Thus, the latest argument.


Jim got out of his chair and stalked over to the science station. “Goddamnit,” he hissed, “we’re not doing this again. I’m the captain; I’m the decider, and I decide!” He was so deep in Spock’s personal space at this point that it was a wonder the two weren’t wearing the same tunic.


Spock raised one snarky eyebrow. Oh, Jesus, Jim hated those eyebrows. He frequently fantasized about sneaking into Spock’s cabin in the middle of the night with a pot of hair removal wax and applying it to Spock until his brow was as smooth as a baby’s ass. He’d have done it, too, except that Sarek was no longer on-board, which meant there was no one to keep Spock from choking Jim to death when he woke up and discovered his two greatest weapons gone.


“Captain,” Spock said in his best “Oh-sweet-Jesus-I-have-to-explain-the-facts-to-this-stupid-house-ape-again” tone, “Vocal volume is no substitute for having an actual thought. Furthermore…”


 That tore it. “With me, Commander.” Jim jerked a thumb towards the lift. Spock hesitated for a moment. “NOW, Spock, or I swear to God, I’ll fire your ass out the nearest airlock now and explain to the Vulcan High Council later.”


Spock nodded stiffly, signed off on his computer (hitting one extra button as he did so, but Jim didn’t notice), and then, with the air of a martyr walking towards the assembled Spanish Inquisition, he followed Jim to the lift and got in. The doors closed. Everyone on the Bridge breathed a sigh of relief.


“Vhat do you think the Keptin will do?” Chekov murmured to Sulu.


“I don’t know,” Sulu replied, “but Spock’s gonna have his hands full.”




“Deck 8,” Kirk told the lift, and it started moving. He turned to Spock, still in full ass-chewing mode. “All right, Commander, would you like to offer an explanation for your latest display of insubordination and general…”


The lift jerked and stopped. The lights went out. Jim felt Spock’s body slam into his, pinning him against the wall.


“Goddamnit, get off me; you weigh a metric ton.” Jim pushed, but Spock didn’t budge. “What the Hell happened to the…” his voice died away as he realized two important facts.


Spock was hard.


Jim was harder.


Oh, shit. Not this. Not here, not now. Jim had been fighting his reluctant attraction to Spock for months, and he thought he’d gotten it under control. But it was obvious that it hadn’t gone anywhere except into Jim’s subconscious, ready to rear its lovely head when the opportunity presented itself.


However, that didn’t explain why Spock’s erection was trying to drill a hole in Jim’s uniform pants.


“Um…Spock?” Jim squeaked into the cool darkness. “I….” His voice was cut off again, this time by Spock’s mouth.


Jim moaned as Spock’s mouth plundered his for the first time. Who would have guessed that those thin, clever lips were so damned good at stroking Jim’s fires? Spock’s tongue slipped between Jim’s lips, caressing the human’s tongue and sending another bolt of arousal straight to Jim’s cock, which was getting all it needed, thank you very much.


Spock’s hands slipped under Jim’s shirt, running up his washboard abs and finding his nipples with the accuracy of a GPS system. Jim moaned louder as those hot Vulcan fingers played with him. In the darkness, everything was a bit disorienting and slightly surreal, but Jim’s body didn’t give a damn. He found himself grinding against Spock, loving the feel of that huge, hot cock that was trying to escape from Spock’s pants, ready to grab Spock and throw him to the floor, tear off his clothes and…


Spock’s mouth was gone. So were his hands. For just an instant, it was as if Jim was completely alone in the lift, alone in the total darkness.


Then he felt those hot, hard hands at his waist, moving down his hips, taking Jim’s pants with them as if by magic. At the same instant, he felt Spock’s hair—Oh, God, that silky-soft black hair—brush against his freed erection, just before that furnace-hot mouth took Jim’s cock and sucked for all it was worth, Spock hands curving around him and holding onto his ass, pulling Jim’s body right into Spock’s.


“Ahhh….Oh, God, Spock…oh, please, I…” Jim was babbling, incoherent, still disoriented from the darkness and the unexpected sensation of Spock—Spock, of all people!—sucking him off as if he’d planned it, dreamed of it for years. And maybe he had.


Jim was so aroused, so stimulated, that he came far too soon for his taste, came as if he’d never come before, came until he slumped to his knees, only Spock’s arms holding him up. For a few moments, they knelt together, both breathing heavily, until Jim found the strength and presence of mind to reach out and touch someone—Spock, in this case, Jim’s trembling hands finding the Vulcan’s neglected erection and wrapping themselves around it, stroking and rubbing until Spock too moaned and came across Jim’s hands, his head slumping onto Jim’s shoulder. They knelt together, leaning against each other in the cool darkness, the scent of their satisfaction heavy in the air.


At last, Spock stood and helped Jim to his feet. Silently, totally by feel, Spock helped Jim put his clothes back into some kind of order. Just then, the lights flickered on. The two looked at each other.


“We’re a mess,” Jim observed.


“We are not completely hygienic,” Spock agreed.


Jim punched the lift controls. “Deck 5,” he said. They could both use a shower.


Jim had completely forgotten about the argument.




No one knew why the captain and Mr. Spock stopped arguing after that day. However, Mr. Scott had his suspicions. After all, Mr. Spock had arranged for Scotty to stop the lift at his pre-arranged signal and had paid for Scott’s services with the largest, oldest bottle of Scotch the Chief Engineer had ever seen. That evening, alone in his quarters, Scott poured himself a drink and offered a toast to the absent command team.


“To love, to lust, and to opportunity.”


Spock never heard the toast, but he certainly would have agreed with its logic.  



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