Title: Salt Cravings
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Characters: Kirk, Spock
Warnings: hand!porn liek woah.
Notes: Hey, I control the thirty-foot radius, and hand!porn is my business. Anonymouse asked for hand!porn, and I have delivered — with hilarity involving deserts, salt, Italian food, and wallpaper paste.
From this prompt:
My life needs more Kirk/Spock handporn in it. Like, hand massages? IDEK, just hands and moaning, please. The more of this, the merrier.
Spock had been popping his knuckles for days, and not in irritation, for a change. This time, it was just that his hands actually hurt. It wasn’t an excruciating pain, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was persistent and intractable. He’d been telling himself that the next time he had a day off, he’d bring it to McCoy, but he’d been in no state of mind to endure the doctor’s heckling, over the past weekend, so he was stuck with it for another week. Except that the pain was wearing at his control, and he was, as Jim had once said, after an incident involving tentacled lake-dwelling creatures, ‘crawling in his skin’.
Jim caught up with him, in the turbolift. "Hey, tall, greenish, and handsome, you doing all right? I could hear your knuckles going all day."
"It won’t be fatal." Spock was a master in the art of evasion.
"I didn’t expect you were going to die from it. I’m asking if you’re in proper working order." Jim, however, had learned how to ask the right questions, when he got answers that weren’t the ones he expected.
"…No. I am not, at this time." Spock answered after a long pause and a steady glare.
"Right, my place it is. Don’t look at me like that, you can barely hold a fork, and I know it. O’Malley, down in Tactical, just taught the replicator some significantly awesome food called ‘Pub Toast’. I’ll have it hold the bacon, for you." Kirk stepped out of the turbolift, backward, pointing at Spock with both hands. "Come on, you need to chill out a bit, have some good food, and let me get a look at what you’ve done to your hands. I know you’re not going to go see Bones, and so do you."
Spock rubbed the bridge of his nose with his wrist, a sound suspiciously like a sigh escaping him as he followed his captain down the corridor. "Yes, Captain. By your will."
Jim stopped at his own door, punching in the code. "By my will? I’m hearing an objection, here, Spock. Is it to the food, the relaxation, or the part where your hands stop hurting?"
"It is to the part at which I am tired and wish to sleep. The pain is not severe, but the swelling has, as you have gathered, prevented me from getting much more than protein shakes in place of food, these last few days. I do not require dexterity to use a straw." He followed Jim into the room, looking a good deal more disgruntled than he would ever have allowed in public.
"So I’ll fix your hands first, and then we can have dinner, and you’ll get a decent night’s sleep. This isn’t going to get any less bad until your hands work properly." Jim popped open a drawer and fished around in it for a few minutes, before dumping the whole thing onto his desk. Spock was slightly surprised to notice the sheer number of unused hyposprays it contained. "What? I ignore Bones all the time, but unlike you, I at least get a professional opinion before I decide I don’t need one."
After another minute of searching, Jim came up with one. "This is for the pain. I’m going to leave that out, in case you decide you need it. I don’t ever use the damn things because when I do, I can’t tell if I’m making it worse."
"That’s oddly logical of you." Spock sounded faintly amused.
"Come here and give me one of your hands. I want to make sure I grab the right thing, here. I’ve got like three things for swelling, but they’re all different kinds, and I want to make sure I don’t use the wrong one." Jim stuck out one hand and continued sorting the hyposprays into piles with the other.
Spock was taken wholly by surprise when the first thing Jim did was lick his palm. His hand twitched, and with a firm effort of will, he did not jerk his hand back.
"Your legs hurt too, don’t they." It wasn’t really a question, and Jim looked faintly annoyed.
"How do you know that?" Spock didn’t deny it.
"Because your hands taste like a salt-lick, and I know what you’ve touched today. Let me guess, your liquid diet has also included a metric assload of well-salted plomeek broth." Jim picked up one of the hyposprays and pressed it against Spock’s wrist. "Works a little faster local. I recognise it because of the number of times I did it to myself, in school. You don’t know how many times Bones had to slap me before I started to get the idea that potato chips and ramen were not the answer to everything."
"I am Vulcan. Plomeek broth is a traditional food, and has been for centuries. I fail to see what it has to do with anything." Spock was convinced that Jim was just taking potshots at Vulcan culture, like he did from time to time.
"Yeah, but you’re not on Vulcan. Climate and elevation differences. It would be fall on Vulcan, now, or as close as a non-temperate place gets to fall, yes? After the rains?" Bizarrely, it seemed that Jim might have a point he was getting at. While Spock was never amazed at Jim’s general intellect, he was always amazed at the sheer variety of completely random, but incredibly useful, things the captain had picked up.
"That is correct." Spock nodded as the tension in the skin of his left hand began to subside.
"Yeah, you live in a desert. After the rainy season, you crave salt. Helps keep the water in. Except you’re not in a desert, so it doesn’t work, here. Do you seriously do this to yourself every year? How have you not figured this out, yet?" Jim looked incredulous and picked up another hypospray. "Other hand."
"I … did not like the way the replicators made plomeek broth, at the Academy, and I couldn’t reprogram the replicator, there. So, no, I haven’t done this to myself every year. Most years, I just had a vile and bland parody of breakfast."
And that was when Jim started to laugh. "And here I thought all Vulcan food tasted like wallpaper paste!"
"I have repeatedly assured you that this is not the case, and yet you never take my word for it, nor will you eat it, the way I like it. This is unquestionably some combination of fault between you and the Academy’s replicators." Spock’s annoyance was still perfectly clear, although the pain had significantly subsided.
"They didn’t do a great job with Italian food either. I assure you that under no circumstances is ravioli supposed to taste like that. My mother made better, and she couldn’t cook worth a shit." Jim laughed and took Spock’s hands in his own, rubbing his thumbs against the palms, as the swelling continued to subside.
"Jim…" Spock’s tone was warning, and Jim continued to work his fingers and thumbs against the spaces between the bones on both sides of Spock’s hands.
"What? I thought you liked this sort of thing." Jim looked at Spock, wide-eyed with fake innocence.
"And I thought you intended to have dinner, tonight."
The innocent look slid into a perfectly wicked grin. "Who says I can’t do both? Follow this to its logical conclusion, eat something, and then maybe I’ll have you for dessert, too. Think you’ll be awake that long?"
"Sleep is not nearly as requisite for a —" Spock stopped mid-sentence as Jim sucked the tip of one of his fingers.
"That’s what I thought," Jim muttered around the fingertip he held, gently, in his teeth.
Spock’s other hand twisted and grabbed Jim’s wrist. "I do not wish to be standing for this. If you insist upon pursuing such a course of action at this time, I will have to insist on a more comfortable arrangement."
Jim’s leer veritably dripped bad ideas, as he backed Spock toward the bed. "Oh, I’m certain I can arrange you comfortably," he said, between lusty sucks at the finger in his mouth.
Spock settled into an almost meditative trance, as he bumped against the bed and sat. His head tipped back, exposing his throat, as Jim knelt across his lap. This was an old game, one they’d played many times, with each other, and Spock was prepared to take the exquisitely enjoyable loss now, for a greater win after dinner. Shifting his hand, he slipped another finger into Jim’s mouth, gently stroking the tongue that pressed back against his fingertips.
Slipping those fingers out of Jim’s mouth, Spock directed his lover toward his other hand with a wet tap on the nose. Jim’s lips closed around Spock’s middle finger, and the other fingers of that hand slid up along his cheekbones, until the middle finger met tonsils. Spock couldn’t quite hold back a low moan, as Jim sucked hard, rolling his tongue against the sensitive underside of Spock’s finger. As Jim begand to grind his teeth across the small ridge of bone, just where Spock’s finger met the last knuckle, Spock’s thumb caught him under the jaw, shaking with restraint as it massaged the inner curve of his jawbone.
Shivering in vivid lust, Spock slipped the already wet fingers of his other hand down the back of Jim’s pants, expecting the bite and swallow against one finger as the same finger of the other hand dipped into the crack of Jim’s ass and put firm pressure against his tailbone. Jim writhed against Spock, before pulling his head back to allow two more fingers into his mouth. At the touch of tongue across the pads of three fingers, Spock’s hips tipped back as he pulled Jim tighter against him, with a low growl, deep in his throat. The growl became a gasp, then resolved into panting as Jim’s hips rocked against his body, grinding erection against erection, on one side, and bone against fingertip on the other.
Spock’s eyes rolled back in his head as Jim’s tongue darted between his fingers, caressing the tip of each separately, before the the forceful sucking and tongue-rippling began again. His thumb clutched more firmly at Jim’s jaw, and the fingers of his other hand curled under the tip of Jim’s tailbone, pulling up in that way that lit up all the nerves along Jim’s spine. Jim moaned softly, mouth still closed, letting the vibrations ripple through Spock’s fingers.
"Jim —" Spock gasped, and found his mouth filled, unexpectedly, with Jim’s fingers. He paid those fingers the same attentions he would if Jim had been wholly Vulcan, but with more force — with the need for overbearing sensation that so defined humanity, in his head.
Jim began to moan with every other breath, knowing the effect of both the vibrations and the sound on his lover, and it took what little will Spock had left to stay so perfectly still, except in his fingers and his tongue, to fuck Jim’s mouth with his hand, and to take Jim’s fingers into his own mouth with the same desperate lust. And then Jim’s hips rolled again, perfectly in time with a long, lush moan, and it was all too much, too fast. Spock came so hard and fast, he nearly dislocated Jim’s jaw, when his hands clenched. His own moans vibrated back along Jim’s fingers as he continued to suck, drifting hazily in the space between times, while the throbbing in his groin continued, in a richly pleasurable and entirely disconnected fashion.
Jim continued to grind against him, harder and faster, now, and Spock sucked his lover’s fingers in all the way he knew he loved to have his own licked, sucked, and bitten. A desperate, anticipatory sound came from Jim’s throat, and Spock’s fingers tightened slightly around his tailbone, pushing him over the edge.
Hazy and blissed, they sat, rocking against each other, mouths still full of fingers, for long minutes. In the end it was Jim who moved first, pulling back, to let Spock’s fingers slide from between his lips.
"Didn’t I say something about dinner?" he groaned, still a little vacant. "That means I have to get up, doesn’t it?"
With a non-committal smirk, Spock pulled his other hand out of Jim’s pants and cracked his knuckles.
Jim pulled his fingers out of Spock’s mouth with a sudden pop, as he stood. "You’re merciless."
"I’m merciless? You’re the one who wanted to do it again after dinner." Spock arced an eyebrow, amusedly.
"I still do. I’m just lazy, right now. You have that effect on me." Jim shivered pleasantly as he sauntered off toward the replicator.