Chapter Text
Jim doesn’t tease. He doesn’t even smirk. He fights the urge to smile, to show any signs of laughter; he knows how hard it must’ve been for Spock to admit to any sort of fetish at all, and Jim guards that knowledge with trust. He doesn’t want to make Spock feel ashamed, regret sharing, feel anything but safe sharing everything with Jim. Lord knows Jim’s had his fair share of kinks fulfilled. When Spock finally answers the question—what do you want, Mr. Spock?—Jim listens unconditionally.
He sits on the edge of the bed, their bed. His legs are crossed, posture tight, even though when Spock approaches, he automatically leans forward. He’s still in his uniform; they both are. But they’re in closed quarters. Wherever they are, Jim’s always drawn to Spock. His eyes flicker up, and he promises with them: this is okay, this is safe. He loves Spock too much for it to be anything but.
Spock comes close enough to touch. His hand lifts to Jim’s cheek, and Jim leans into it, eyes flickering closed as long fingers brush back into his hair. There’s something about Spock’s warm hands that always gets to him, makes him tremble and want for more. Spock is good to him. Spock thumbs his cheek and pets his face, slipping back with a fire in his eyes that betrays the otherwise neutrality.
When Spock’s other hand appears, Jim isn’t quite expecting it. The idea was divulged, not the details. Spock lifts one eyebrow—Jim can back out. Jim wouldn’t. Spock isn’t smiling, but he rarely is, and Jim would move mountains for the chance that he might.
Jim lets Spock’s thumb weigh down his bottom lip. His mouth opens lightly, and he resists the strong urge to reach out his tongue and lap at Spock’s fingers, worship Spock’s hand like he knows Spock loves, no matter how dirty and forbidden it is for a Vulcan. He keeps his tongue in his mouth like a good boy, opens his eyes again and keeps them focused up on his t’hy’la’s face, just as serious as Spock is.
Spock uncaps the tube in his hand. His other fingers slip below Jim’s chin, tilting it up, and Jim goes where he’s held. The bright red lipstick presses against the corner of his lip, cool and foreign. Spock’s thumb gently strokes his jaw. He holds still.
Jim’s never worn lipstick before. He’s not even used to chapstick. For Spock, he’d wear anything. He’s still as the slanted, flat surface runs over his upper lip, not exactly hard but hard enough to make his plush lip mold against it. He thinks Spock’s supposed to do the bottom first, but he doesn’t know, and Spock doesn’t stop. Spock traces the outline of his upper lip, then comes back to press along the bottom, digging in, leaving a thick, odd trail behind it that Jim can faintly taste. It smudges at the corner of his lips, but he lets it stay. Spock tries to wipe one corner clean with his thumb. Jim feels vaguely like some sort of old-fashioned doll.
He tilts his head higher when Spock’s fingers leave him. His eyes lower halfway, already there, cheeks maybe a little warm. He wouldn’t let anyone else see him like this. Spock doesn’t say a word.
Spock leans down to press a gentle kiss against his lips. Jim follows Spock’s lead, gentle back, holding away his tongue and the urge to devour Spock whole. When Spock pulls away, his bow lips are smeared rosy red. He tries to straighten.
Jim grabs his collar. Jim kisses his cheek, firm and shapely, pulling back to see the imprint of his lips. Spock has a sharp intake of breath, and his pupils are a little dilated, the tips of his ears perhaps a smidgen more green than usual.
Spock breathes, “Jim,” and shivers.
Jim leaves lipstick on Spock’s collar: Spock’s own personal mistress.