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Jim could not believe it. They’d had yet another argument. They were bond mates; they were fucking soul mates, and yet they still managed to fight over the stupidest damned things. This fight had been particularly stupid. Just because Jim wanted to spend their shore leave on Risa, where the drinks were cold and the beaches were sunny, instead of on New Vulcan, where there were no drinks at all except fucking fruit juice, and the whole goddamned planet was a beach with no water, did not mean that he was “an indulgent sensualist with the emotional maturity of a ten-year-old seeing Planet Disney for the first time.” Fuck that. Jim worked hard; he played hard; and nobody fucking played on New Vulcan! To make matters worse, they’d have to stay with Spock’s father, who would be “quite logically” pissed-off if they didn’t, which meant that any sex they had would have to the kind colonial teen-agers indulged in when their parents were in the same room—quiet, boring, and fucking vanilla. No. NO way.

 

Jim was on the futon, his bed of shame whenever he and Spock got into one of their rows. And by the way, why did he have to sleep on the fucking futon? He was the captain, wasn’t he? Let Spock sleep on the fucking futon (although the futon was too short for Spock, and Jim secretly hated the idea of Spock being uncomfortable, even when he was being the galaxy’s biggest dick).

 

Dick. Oh, Hell. That sent Jim’s thoughts off in a completely wrong direction. He was a goddamned addict when it came to Spock’s dick; there was no 12-step program in existence that could get that particular monkey off his back. Jim grinned to himself in the darkness. He could just see himself standing up in front of a bunch of burn-outs and junkies, announcing, “Hi. I’m Jim K. and I’m addicted to Vulcan cock.” Actually, only one Vulcan cock, but that made matters worse, since that particular toy was now placed on a high shelf where Jim couldn’t get at it. He rolled over on the short, thin, lumpy fucking futon, and fumed some more. There had to be a way to end this fucking Romulan stand-off. Jim wasn’t a genius for nothing. Then it came to him.

 

 

 

Spock had finally fallen asleep, using his superior powers of Vulcan concentration to calm his mind and body—his body, which ached for Jim’s closeness and warmth, which longed to feel Jim’s hands, his mouth, his strong, sturdy, throbbing…Spock yanked his mind away from that train of thought. He occasionally wondered at his addiction to Jim’s organ; surely it was a sign of some kind of serious mental derangement. But he was not willing to break his addiction; it was too wonderful.

 

It was all Jim’s fault that Spock was lying here alone; Jim should know how important it was for Spock to visit New Vulcan, even though there was nothing to do but intellectual pursuits, even though the planet was too hot to be comfortable for Jim, even though the food disagreed with Jim’s digestion, even though Sarek looked at Jim like he was something a sehlat had dragged in, even though…wait. Why were they going to New Vulcan? Why was he forcing Jim to do something that Spock himself did not want to do? Spock applied his powers of concentration and relaxed. Tomorrow, he would tell Jim that he had reconsidered; it was never a good idea to let his human get too smug. In the meantime, it…was logical…to sleep…

 

 

 

Spock was having the most wonderful dream. Like most Vulcans, he seldom dreamed at all, but his human heritage occasionally invaded his subconscious, and it was certainly doing so tonight. In his dream, he and Jim were lying on the beach at Risa, one of the private beaches that were available, lying beneath the full, golden moon, the warm, sweet breezes caressing their skins. Their naked skins; both he and Jim were naked. Jim was lying on top of him, the laughing blue eyes gazing down at Spock, those luscious lips covering Spock’s face with tiny, nipping kisses, that beloved voice murmuring, “I love you t’hy’la; I love you so much.”

 

In his dream, Jim’s mouth slid lower, down Spock’s neck, teasing all of those sensitive spots that Jim had discovered. The mouth continued its migration, lovingly suckling Spock’s nipples in turn, bringing them to aching hardness and then soothing them with moist, cool caresses. The mouth moved lower and lower yet, brushing against Spock’s eagerly aroused cock, not sucking or licking yet, just pressing those same small, sweet kisses along the yearning flesh until that mouth, oh that mouth that Spock was even more in thrall to than Jim’s cock, that cool, soft human mouth slipped over the very tip of Spock’s shaft, the lips wrapping themselves around that velvet head while Jim's busy, clever tongue stroked and tickled Spock’s flaring ridges, while the strong suction of Jim’s mouth pulled sensations from Spock’s very core, while Jim licked and sucked and teased until…

 

Until Spock came with a cry, his eyes flying open as he realized it was no dream. Jim was here with him, not on Risa but in their bed, his mouth bringing Spock to an incredible climax just before Jim slid on top of him and pushing his own hardness between Spock’s thighs, rode his Vulcan to his own satisfaction.

 

Jim collapsed on top of Spock, who wrapped his arms around his love and held him close while both their breathing returned to normal. After a time, Spock decided to speak up.

 

“Does this mean you are conceding?”

 

“What, the argument?” Jim chuckled, laying his head on Spock’s shoulder and cuddling close in that way that always defeated Spock. “Of course not; I just decided that since you end every argument by sucking my brains out, I’d try it with you.”

 

“A most…intelligent…strategy.” Spock’s eyes were heavy; he could feel himself falling into sleep. But there was something he had to say first.

 

“I see no reason to pass up an opportunity to visit Risa,” he murmured. “It is a rich, diverse, culturally-valuable destination.”

 

Jim kissed his ear. “Apology accepted,” he murmured as he too drifted off to sleep.

 

 

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