Work Text:
Prompt: Why haven’t you kissed me yet?
Trektober2020: First Kiss
The thing about Spock's lips were how distracting they were once you noticed them.
Jim could not recall ever paying such close attention to the details of someone's face before - and he's even less certain when this current obsession first appeared. Only that, one day, he realized he was too often mesmerized by the shape of his First Officer's mouth.
Perhaps, the thing that tipped him over the edge and away from insouciance had been hearing one too many times the way he overly-enunciated the word "sensors". Maybe his immunity to indifference was worn away by too often watching them press together as he hummed in thought, wracking his brain for the answer Jim demanded when confronted with an anomaly.
Or, most likely, it was rooted in the first time Spock finally digressed and addressed him by his name, rank and decorum all but forgotten by Jim at the mere sound of it.
He very much liked the shape of Spock's mouth whenever he said 'Jim'. Often with a note of exasperation and almost always with a slight upward curl at the corners, like he couldn't quite contain his affection for his Captain.
That's how Jim imagined it, at least.
He wanted to sit and stare while he listened to Spock talk about the space between them and how best to close the distance. He wanted to kiss that mouth and for kissing to be the most commonly used language between them. He wanted to trace the shape of those lips with his tongue and learn all the noises he could draw from them. He wanted to get lost in the peaks and valley of his cupid's bow.
What would they feel like?
While sitting across from Spock over chess in his quarters, he allowed himself the freedom to stare while he waited for his turn.
They looked soft, satin-like in the warm ambient lighting of ship's evening. Though, under the harsh glare of the Bridge he recalled they appeared more like velour, and perhaps silk as he sipped his spiced tea.
The world ceased to exist, his focus tunneled, until Spock cleared his throat indicating it was time for Jim to reinstate higher brain function.
It didn't end with his lips, oh no. And Jim was very aware when his undivided attention began to spread to other parts of his First Officer. It happened the first time while sitting in the rec room with the rest of the off duty shift, watching Uhura and Spock practice their music. He had been decidedly not thinking about kissing his First Officer, and was rather impressed with the complicated fingerwork it took to play his lyre, when an errant thought struck him like a discharging phaser.
Vulcans kissed with their fingers; they were intimate with their hands.
Suddenly, there was nowhere Jim could comfortably rest his eyes, heat rising up to the collar of his shirt; he tugged at it, restless. It was obscene! And they just had their hands out in the open, for anyone to look at!
Those fingers plucked at the strings of his instrument and Jim turned his face away, but his eyes remained firmly focused on those hands. He had long fingers, and they flew over the controls of his science station on the Bridge the same way they played music. Those fingers that could shoot a phaser with deadly precision could also kiss with the same stunning force. Those hands that had more than once gripped Jim by his shoulder, his bicep, his elbow, his forearms … and only now was he noticing the heat of them. How close had their hands been to touching?
From then on it was open season on Noticing Spock. Like his shoulders, or his forearms when he very rarely pushed the sleeves of his uniform up to his elbows. Then, Jim noticed him bending over his station on the Bridge and had to excuse himself to walk down to the main Shuttle Bay and back just to get his pulse under control. And then there was the day when they both found themselves peering up into a Jefferies tube and investigating a sparking control panel. The space was tight, and Jim had been coping fine (avoiding looking at Spock's mouth, even when he bit down on his bottom him or rubbed at it with the pad of his thumb in thought) until Spock reached both hands up and Jim looked down in time to see his uniform ride up and reveal a sliver of skin that made his mouth go dry.
From there, it was nothing more than a small hop to imagining Spock's mouth on him. Spock's hands running down the plane of his abdomen. Spock's lips, open, pressed to the button of his pants-
What made matters worse was the frequency Jim began finding himself in intimate moments with Spock. Had they always occurred and he was only now noticing?
Spock's gaze was piercing and prison-like; Jim was unable to look away once his attention was captured. And Spock looked at him like he was the embodiment of the Vulcan Forge - heated and relentless and inescapable. Had his eyes always held such intensity? Their shoulders would brush in the turbolift and their elbows would knock together when they walked side-by-side. Their knees would slot together under the table when they played chess, their hands resting, nearly touching, on top of the conference room table in his Ready Room. Spock’s hands, those fingers, would curl over the back of his Command Chair on the Bridge, ghosting over the back of Jim’s neck if he leaned back all the way.
Then the words that would tumble from those lips, unbidden and previously unnoticed - surely Spock had always called him aesthetically pleasing - unironically? Or openly compliment his intellectual acuity and admire his ability to think on his feet under pressure? Hadn’t Spock always been ferociously, verbally supportive of his no-such-thing-as-a-no-win-scenario approach to all things?
Perhaps not, if McCoy’s expression was anything to go by.
“You were especially brilliant today, Captain,” Spock settled into Jim’s couch and was staring at him with open intensity, drawing Jim closer to him until he, too, sat. Their knees brushed and Jim was distracted by the sensation until he looked up, eyes waylaid by the sight of Spock’s lips curled in a soft smile that he only displayed in moments when it was just the two of them.
God, he wanted to feel those lips against his own. He wanted to know how warm or cool they would be, he wanted to know their texture; he wanted to softly brush his lips against them and feel the heat of Spock’s breath on his mouth - he wanted to press against them hard, rough, and push Spock further back into his couch while he crawled into his lap. He wanted to-
“Jim,” those lips parted and came together, forming his name and it was so lovely that Jim’s breath got caught in his throat. They were so close, really, he only needed to learn a little further and he could lay claim to them like a king staking out unexplored shores for conquest.
“Jim,” Spock repeated and he forced himself to tear his gaze away and meet Spock’s eyes. “Why have you not kissed me yet?”
He froze.
“Wh-” What?!
=//\\=
The Captain had developed a certain fascination with his mouth - Spock often caught him staring intently at it, perhaps unconsciously, often when mulling over a thought and almost always when waiting for Spock to make his move when they played chess.
Curious, Spock had licked his lips like he was merely wetting them - a very human habit. Jim's eyes widened a fraction and his gaze darted to the wall over Spock's shoulder - perhaps to view the bookshelf. The colour of his cheeks darkened to a robust shade of red, not unlike the evening sun on Vulcan, that crept down the column of his neck, setting into the collar of his shirt. Spock allowed his gaze to follow the colour as it melted down and disappeared behind Jim’s uniform.
Fascinating.
From then on, he had deliberately set out to cultivate moments to bring them closer together, to draw Jim’s gaze to his lips. He craved the attention with an unvulcanlike fervor that set him to distraction with embarrassing frequency. He became addicted to it - and then to Jim’s full body reactions, which he chased like a le-matya stalked her prey.
A thrilled shiver fueled by victory ran down his spine whenever Jim’s cheeks warmed or when he gasped - so quiet only Spock’s Vulcan ears could hear it. He became more daring in his actions hoping to elicit a response. Complimenting the Captain was delightful at first, but he soon grew to treat it as normally as their arguments over landing party arrangements.
Next, he discovered his mere proximity held power over his Captain. And when he leaned over his console rather than sit in his seat, Jim would be helpless but to hold his breath until something else caught his attention or he was forced to draw air inward. So, Spock always made sure to stand closer, to invite and welcome touch, and he learned to be more open with his affections - all these produced a variety of reactions that pleased him. The first time Spock had made Jim’s palms sweat had been a momentous occasion, but he had not been able to draw out the same response again - at least that he noticed.
To what end was he working towards? He required meditation on the topic only once.
He wanted Jim to kiss him. He wanted the freedom and permission to kiss him back - whenever he wanted - in both the human and the Vulcan way. He wanted to lean into him and breathe in the scent of his hair, to pull him close and feel the warmth of his skin. He wanted to watch Jim fall asleep every night and wake with him in the morning. He wanted to taste him, to learn him, to play him like an instrument and compose an entire symphony with the sounds he made in response.
Judging by the singular focus and frequency he stared at Spock’s mouth with a distant, dream-like longing falling over his face, Spock was certain Jim wanted that too.
So why had he not leaned in the rest of the way and gave in to what they both desired?
Spock tilted his head and soaked up Jim’s expression - flushed from his ears to his collar, wide-eyed and startled like a baby sehlat caught in the pantry.
“Wh-” he snapped his mouth shut, his eyes flicking from Spock’s own, to his mouth.
“Why have you not kissed me yet?” Spock repeated the question, shifting his weight so he leaned further into Jim’s space; he allowed his own gaze to drop, transfixed when Jim’s tongue darted out to lick his lips.
“I didn’t know - do you want me to?” Jim cleared his throat, hands restless in his lap, clutching at his pants with white knuckles, like he was holding himself back from reacting the way he truly wanted.
“Jim.” His voice was pitched low, and Jim shivered.
That was the final push required to get him what he wanted.
Jim closed the distance between them; their mouths fit together like two pieces of puzzle. It should have been more chaste than it was for their first time, but it was immediately searing.
Their lips left blazing trails across every expanse of skin touched, and it seemed neither could get enough. Spock pulled Jim into his lap, and he went willingly with a breathless sound that Spock captured and swallowed like he was starving for it. Spock considered that his mouth was made to be on Jim, which such an illogical thought he nearly banished it until he bit down on the spot where Jim’s neck met his shoulder and realized he had been right.
The weight of the world that Jim carried with him melted away and all he was in that moment was breathless, head thrown back, and there was nothing more beautiful. Spock licked up the column of Jim’s throat and decided, if he had the power to do so, then it was his duty to make Jim forget every worry that ever crossed his mind.
“I should have kissed you a long time ago,” Jim said, and Spock nipped his bottom lip.
“Yes,” he whispered and set about to make Jim forget how to speak.