Archive of Our Own

Jim is known for his ‘never give up, never surrender’ attitude, and his views on the whole ‘no-win scenario’ are well documented. He’s proudly never quit once in his life (that he can remember). Circumstances that bring lesser men to tears he stands tall and proud in. 

But. 

That was before James T. Kirk, proud captain of the starship Enterprise, attempted to take a Vulcan camping in the gentle mountains of Cambria IV. 

Every man, at some point, must encounter his Nemesis. Nero. Khan. Spock in a tent. 

“Captain,” Spock says. “The current temperature is 279.817 degrees Kelvin.” He’s perched just inside their small old-fashioned tent, a vaguely Vulcan-shaped mound of winter layers, huddled under a heaping of blankets and the unzipped sleeping bag. Jim should find the sight completely adorable, but at this point, Spock is more akin to a green-cheeked, lumpy gargoyle brooding over all of Jim’s shortcomings than a chilly Vulcan in need of a cuddle. 

By conveying to Jim the temperature, Spock is relaying to Jim how cold he is. The use of Jim’s title during off-duty time is intended to inform Jim that Spock considers this to be Jim’s responsibility. The use of the Kelvin scale is just Spock being Vulcan bitchy about it. 

Jim hunches his shoulders but doesn't respond, merely doubles his efforts to get the fiddly old matchsticks to work. 

With each scratch and disappointed fizzle of the sulfur-tipped heads of the little matches, so too can Jim see his chances of getting laid fizzle into nothing.

It was supposed to be a romantic getaway! 

Tactically, this trip was planned down to the last detail. The remote setting with its gorgeous, rolling mountains. The last frost of winter laying upon the first green shoots of spring. Stunning waterfalls with smatterings of slender icicles still clinging to them. It was all selected for maximum effect. Natural splendor to help get that Vulcan in the logical mood.

So too, was the old-fashioned style gear from Earth years gone by and the moratorium on modern technology selected. The low temperatures, simplicity of their gear, and lack of modern implements were all chosen to ensure the use of Jim as a logical bed warmer. Jim made sure to pack only one sleeping bag (for obvious reasons). 

It was perfect. Logical, even. Spock, Jim, a tent, one cushy sleeping bag, and the most pristine natural setting known to spacefaring man. No modern distractions, no PADDs, no work, no colleagues. Just two phasers, one communicator, and a small first aid kit, in case of emergency. Spock loves the outdoors! He’s Jim’s chief science officer for fuck’s sake. 

But Spock apparently enjoys the outdoors only in short, technologically assisted bursts, for the express purpose of gathering specimens and samples to return to his one true love, the Enterprise’s science labs. 

And in two more months, they’ll be back on board the Enterprise, heading out on a five-year mission as Captain Kirk and First Officer Spock once more. Jim would like to be heading out as officially sanctioned boyfriends on top of that. There’s passion and desire and a hell of a lot of feelings for Jim locked in that Vulcan, and Jim is determined to coax them out. Their sexual attraction has been simmering just below the surface for ages, and now that the last veil has fallen, thanks to Khan (as it were), there’s no reason why they shouldn’t come together in a fantastical show of cross-species appreciation. 

God, Jim needs to be sexed up so bad. He hasn’t gotten any since just before the whole Khan incident and then of course he died and spent a year being resurrected and whatnot. He’s been throwing himself at Spock for months now but there’s always some distraction that gets in the way. Starfleet this and Enterprise repairs that. Jim is as devoted to the service and his ship as any man, but even he has his limits. 

Apparently so does Bones. Whether because it’s actually medically necessary, or because he can’t stand the sight of the long, drawn-out, smoldering looks he keeps interrupting between Spock and Jim, he issued an ultimatum. Jim gets some shore leave, or he’s not cleared for duty. 

Naturally, Spock had opinions about that, and had demanded he be included in order to ensure Jim’s health was properly monitored. Bones did only the bare minimum amount of protesting before putting his CMO stamp on their joint shore leave, with Spock slated to fill his place . 

And thus, Jim and Spock–alone at last in crystalline paradise. The gentle thawing of the winter landscape into the tender embrace of spring would be the perfect metaphor for their budding relationship, Jim thought. The graceful trees of Cambria IV’s forest, the glittering icicles of the waterfalls, the tiny purple flowers just emerging from the ground; it’s perfect. But Spock doesn’t appear to appreciate any of it.

Okay, yes, Jim knew that precipitation was in the weather forecast for the nature reserve he selected for their camping trip, but it was supposed to be a light sprinkle of enchanting snowflakes. Instead, it was a sullen downpour that soaked everything. It still would have been all right, if they’d managed to get the tent up before the rain fell. 

But they didn’t, because they were behind schedule on their hike. Because all Spock has done since he beamed down to this planet for their scheduled shore leave (which he had insisted on joining) is complain. 

Vulcanly. Christ, Jim could take human-style whining and moaning. But the unending logical bitching. 

“This camping pack weighs approximately 11.3398 kilograms, Captain.” Translation: ‘This pack is heavy and I don’t want to carry it. Why did you choose bulky last century camping gear instead of modern, lightweight options?’ Despite them both knowing for a fact that 11.whatever kilograms weighs approximately nothing to Spock.

“Captain, this hiking trail does not seem to be adequately maintained.” Translation: ‘It has rocks that I have to step over. Why didn’t you choose a trail through soft meadows?’ Even though Spock is perfectly capable of sprinting (outright sprinting) 2.4 miles over gaseous outventing and razor sharp rocks, carrying the unconscious weight of both Jim and Bones. No, instead, he has chosen to travel on Cambria IV at a pace Jim is forced to categorize as meandering. He’d probably have moved faster and easier if he had been wearing less than fifteen or so separate winter layers, but Jim knew better than to point that out. 

And so, meander their way up the side of the gentle mountain to their campsite they did. 

“There are no hygienic facilities present on this trail, Captain.” Translation: ‘There are no restroom facilities. What do you think I am? An animal?’ 

Jim made a joke out of that one, to try and charm Spock out of his bad humor. (Bad tactical decision, by the way). “When you gotta go, you gotta go,” he’d said with an eyebrow waggle and a suggestive hip movement. “We’re roughing it, remember?” Spock had given Jim a blank-faced stare and marched off into the woods to use the bathroom. For forty-five minutes. Jim had been holding the communicator, two seconds from calling for a search party when Spock had strolled back onto the trail. 

“Where were you?” Jim had practically shrieked. 

“I was using the bathroom, Captain.” Jim can only suppose the translation for that involves Spock constructing a porta potty out of wood, sorghum, and Vulcan ingenuity. Naturally, whilst logically cursing Jim’s name the whole time. 

And that was before the rain. 

It really hadn’t helped Jim’s situation any that as they’d started out their Spock had warned, “Precipitation is forecast for this approximate time and location, Captain.” Translation: ‘I do not want to get wet, and if I get wet, logically, you shall be the one to suffer.’ 

Jim will be smarting for a while from the look Spock had given him when it had started raining. (Snowflakes! It was supposed to be Vulcan panty-dropping snowflakes!) His look was actually a combo of two of Jim’s least favorite Vulcan expressions: ‘I was right’ coupled with ‘I could say something, but I find it more logical to let you simmer in your wrongdoing.’

In his defense, he had told Spock they needed to pick up the pace, especially after the whole potty-break debacle, but Spock had only given him his Vulcan look of logical reproach and said with dignity, “The difficulty of the terrain demands that I place my feet with care. Vulcans are as susceptible to a turned ankle as are any other biped.” 

The ‘difficulty of the terrain’, Jim’s lonely dick. If Spock lost ten or so of those illogical layers of clothing, he’d be as sprightly as a mountain goat. Or whatever they had on Vulcan. Dying and being resurrected actually does wonders for one’s self preservation instinct, so once again, Jim kept his Kirk trap shut. 

And so came the rain when they were only halfway to their destination. And the drenching. And the use of the emergency cold-preventative hypos. And (at long last) the pitching of the tent using only last century means onto cold, rocky ground (which Jim has heard more than enough about, thank you). 

“It is fortunate the rainfall tracked to the west of us,” Spock had said before cocooning himself in their blankets, the sleeping bag, and seating himself just inside the entrance of the tent. “Otherwise, the water would have soaked into the ground, and overwhelmed the insulating abilities of this outdated tent.” That one didn’t need much translation. 

They’re supposed to be doing this the old-fashioned way! Man (and Vulcan), against nature, only their wits and the basic tools of survival! Jim and Spock against the odds with their one sleeping bag. But then it had to rain instead of sprinkle delicate snowflakes. The matches got a little wet, and their blankets got a little wet, and the Vulcan got a little wet. Now Jim is cold and henpecked, and Spock is judgmental, and he had to dry out their blankets and clothes with their phasers. 

But since he’s unsure if Spock, in his Vulcan heart of hearts, has forgiven Jim the whole Kobayashi-Maru thing, and discretion is the better part of valor, yada yada yada, he made no comment about having to cheat and use their modern implements on their old-fashioned style camping trip. 

Another strike, and another match smolders uselessly for a half-second before going out entirely. Jim can feel his soul attempting to escape from his body like the thin thread of impotent smoke from the match. 

There is a violent rustling from the tent and Jim jerks his head around to see Spock sweep out in a dramatic swirl of all the blankets and the one sleeping bag. Jim honestly doesn’t know how he can move with all of his puffy jackets and snow pants, and the other extraneous layers. All that Vulcan strength is good for something, he guesses. Spock stalks over to Jim, looking very much like he can logically take no more, and seizes the matchbox from Jim’s hands. He swiftly draws the head of a match against the side and is rewarded with a bright flare of flame on his very first try. He feeds the lit match into the kindling under Jim’s painstakingly stacked wood, and blows gently until real flames are beginning to crackle up. Then, as a last unspoken Vulcan ‘fuck-you,’ he removes several of the logs from the pile and rearranges the other four. The small campfire blazes forth. 

“You have packed only nutrigrass pouches for my dinner selection, Captain.” He then informs Jim. Translation: ‘Despite having never once before raising any objection to them, I choose now to tell you that they are gross, and I do not wish to eat them. If I starve up here, it will be your fault.’ 

Jim grinds his teeth. “There’s mushroom and vegetable broth soup packets as well,” he says. 

Spock sniffs. “But there is no plomeek, Captain.” Translation: ‘Plomeek is my illogical favorite, and the only acceptable soup. I can only assume that you have purposely chosen not to include it to add to my suffering.’

Spock is really lucky there isn’t any actual snow and also that Jim wants to sex him up so bad. Otherwise, Jim would dump a couple of good fistfuls of snow down Spock’s back and Spock would really have something to complain about. 

They make it through dinner— 

“These soup packets are not Starfleet issue.” The Starfleet-issue ones are notoriously garbage. Translation: ‘I am complaining just to complain.’

Somehow.

Then it’s time for dessert. Look, if toasting marshmallows doesn’t salvage this and get Spock in the mood then Jim will just stake himself out on the mountainside and wait for a Cambria IV goat to eat him or something. Or whatever they have on Cambria IV. 

“Captain, this fire is inadequate for the toasting of the non-nutritive meal addition.” Translation: ‘No sex for you.’

“It’s all part of the experience, Spock,” Jim says wearily. He checks his marshmallow for readiness. Burnt on one side. Still hard as a rock otherwise. 

When next he looks over at Spock, Spock is toasting his marshmallow to perfection in the beam of a phaser. 

Straw, meet camel’s back. 

“Alright,” Jim says, standing and throwing his marshmallow and stick to the ground. “That does it.” He’d made allowances for the drying of their clothes and whatnot, but he draws the line at Spock deliberately using a phaser to toast a marshmallow in front of him. 

“To what are you referring?” Spock asks provokingly, as he tests his marshmallow for appropriate meltedness with a scientific air, then resumes hitting it with the phaser’s beam.

Jim launches himself at Spock, knocking both the phaser and the marshmallow from Spock’s grasp, and in the element of complete surprise, takes him right down to the ground.

Fighting dirty is the only possible way Jim can last more than a few minutes against Spock, and fight dirty he does. Literally. He rolls Spock around in the dirt and makes sure to flail around and fling it all over Spock and into his hair. And also in the metaphorical sense, by hitting below the belt (in Vulcan parlance) by twisting inappropriately at Spock’s fingers. He even gets an extremely illegal ear hold on Spock for a glorious few seconds of revenge.

Spock endures all of this with Vulcan stoicism. Very much the last bastion of Vulcan logic holding out against the assault of an inferior species (both intellectually and physically). He counters all of Jim’s moves with exaggerated patience and the magnanimous sighs of the long-suffering.

That is, until Jim fists him good and well around the chenesi low on his back. Spock makes a gratifying strangled sound at that, and tosses Jim off of him, utilizing his Vulcan strength at last. Jim flies across the small clearing, lands with a thump, and rolls over a few times before he’s able to get himself oriented in a half-crouch. He grins across their camp savagely at Spock’s face, which is offended, then angry, then logically striving to conceal the same, all with his hair fantastically mussed. Spock didn’t know Jim knew about that little Vulcan bit of physiology, did he? Jim has friends in medical places, and boy is it paying off, finally. 

If Spock wasn’t so determined to be a prissy little bitch princess about this whole outing, he could have discovered Jim’s hidden knowledge in far more enjoyable circumstances. As it is, Spock is reaping what he has sown, and his crop is feeling feisty. 

“Fun down here in the dirt with us lesser species, isn’t it?” Jim taunts.

“Jim, your behavior is completely illogical,” Spock says in reply.

Oh, ‘Jim’ now, is it? Thank god for that Kirk ability to get under that Vulcan skin. 

“No male bonding trip would be complete without a good-ole human roll in the dirt,” Jim says cheerfully, and scrambles at the ground for leverage to launch himself at Spock again.

“Bonding—?” Spock starts to say, a quirk of confusion in his eyebrows, and is once full-bodied by Jim and taken to the ground, distracted by whatever it is he’s confused about.

Jim is gonna go straight for those chenesi again, but he’s gonna get a skin on skin fistful this time, really teach Spock a lesson. His fingers scrabble against Spock’s many layers, seeking the bare skin of his back.

“Jim,” Spock gasps under him, his body arching up. Spock’s arms wind around Jim’s neck. “Yes, Jim, yes,” he says and presses kisses against Jim’s forehead, his brows, his cheekbones. Jim freezes, the victim (he thinks) of sexual whiplash.

“Uh, what?” he asks, nonplussed.

“This is supposed to be a relationship vacation,” Spock says. “I did not understand.”

Jim squawks indignantly. “I could not have made it more romantically obvious!”

Spock’s lips find Jim’s and then they’re kissing, his mouth cool, yet insistent. It sets Jim on fire. Finally. God. Yes. Please and thank you.

“If there were such an illogical place as ‘the middle of nowhere’, this would be it,” Spock says, (because when does Spock let anything go, ever) during their first mandatory break for breath, as he navigates under Jim’s few layers of clothing with ease. His hands are large enough to splay over the whole breadth of Jim’s chest. Fuck that’s hot.

“There’s no one to interrupt us!” Jim defends, and checks one off of his bucket list as he takes the tip of one of Spock’s ears between his lips. 

“You brought only the absolute minimum of technology along.” Spock thrusts his thigh forward and presses it against Jim’s burgeoning erection.

Jim rocks his hips down, rutting into Spock’s offered thigh. “No work distractions, no intrusions from modern life!” 

“It rained on me,” Spock complains, outright, at last. They writhe around on the dirt some more, their mouths distracted from conversation for a good while. They even manage to shed a layer or two apiece in their frenzy. 

“It was supposed to be the famed crystal snow droplets of Cambria IV,” Jim explains when they have to surface for air again. He does feel a little guilty about the rain. “But if you hadn’t slowed us up so much, we would have had the tent up in time, and nothing would have gotten wet!” After much struggling, he manages to get his own hands under Spock’s layers of coats and shirts and onto his bare skin. Spock hisses as Jim goes straight for teasing his nipples. Fuck yes, he knew they’d be sensitive!

“I had to relieve myself in the woods,” Spock airs another grievance, and Jim knew that one was coming.

“You,” Jim accuses in between trying to discover a spot on Spock’s neck to make him illogically sigh, “are a spoiled Ambassador’s brat.”

Spock retaliates by sliding his hands around to Jim’s back and then down to his ass to knead each of his cheeks between his hands. Jim has got a fine, poppin’ ass thank you, but Spock’s hands. Each one spans an entire asscheek, fuck. 

“For what possible reason could you think that subjecting my person to this extreme cold would confer success upon your romantic endeavors?”

“So you’d have to use me to keep you warm,” Jim says smugly, finding that spot on Spock’s neck after much searching and raising of green blood to Spock’s skin. 

Spock takes an unflattering pause after his flattering sigh. “That is surprisingly logical.”

‘Damn straight it is,’ Jim starts to say, but is interrupted by Spock inserting his tongue once more into Jim’s mouth. They roll around some more, less violently this time, the wet sounds of their kisses joining with the gentle crackle of their neglected fire.

Jim waits so long to break away for breath this time, actual black spots appear in front of his eyes. God, but he really could kiss Spock until he deadass passes out. When his vision clears, Jim is distracted by the enchanting sight of Spock’s green-flushed face, the light and shadows cast by the slightly dwindling fire flickering over his features. 

Jim withdraws a hand from underneath Spock’s remaining layers, and strokes a thumb tenderly along Spock’s cheekbone. “Shall we move this to the tent, Mr. Spock?” he asks, his voice husky with desire. 

“Yes, Jim,” Spock sighs and turns his head to catch the tip of Jim’s thumb teasingly in his mouth. His eyes are dark pools, intent on Jim’s as he sucks, and applies his tongue. Jim swallows. He’s not entirely sure where that lies on the Vulcan kink-o-meter. Somewhere extremely intimate, would be his guess. 

Spock shivers slightly below Jim and snaps him out of the moment. Slowly and with every intention of exploring Spock’s mouth with his fingers later, he withdraws his thumb. They then help each other to stand, and Jim smugly swipes the dirt from Spock’s hair. 

Spock retaliates by thrusting his ass out and waving it from side to side as he bends over to retrieve their discarded pieces of clothing. Multi-layered, puffy sillouhette or not, Jim starts towards him immediately. “The blankets and sleeping bag, Jim,” Spock reminds him, satisfaction evident in his tone. 

Ugh. Point to Spock. Jim hurries around the edges of their campsite, gathering each blanket and recovering the sleeping bag. He shakes them out carefully, and throws them over his arm. Then he makes for the tent. 

He dumps his pile in front of Spock where he’s waiting inside, as proud as any pre-historic man bringing his kill back to his cave. “Found them,” he says, zips up the tent behind him, and waits for the logical praise that is his due.

Spock raises an eyebrow that clearly communicates he is more than aware of Jim’s ego, and is not inclined to feed it at this time. Jim rolls his eyes in answer to that and rubs his hands together. “There, it’s not so bad in here, is it?” he says cheerfully. It’s actually quite toasty.

Satisfied with his fussy arrangement of the blankets and sleeping bag, Spock lays down upon them on his back, pulling Jim down and over him as he does. 

“Mmm,” Jim sighs as he stretches out luxuriously, reveling in the feel of Spock’s lithe Vulcan body under him. Or what he can feel of it through all of Spock’s damn puffy layers of clothing. The tips of his outstretched fingers touch something hard, yet warm. “What the—?” Jim sits up abruptly, blinking furiously in the low light. “You phasered a rock for heat!” He accuses, when he discovers the source of his confusion.

“If I am to expose my extremities to the elements, those elements will be at an ambient temperature not actively antagonistic to my Vulcan physiology,” Spock says testily. 

“You cheated!” Jim accuses before he can think better of it. 

On the moral high ground, and well aware of it, Spock replies, “If phaser-provided warmth is not to your liking, the fire is, of course, right outside the tent.”

The threat is clear. Sex in here with Spock and the cheat rock, or outside with no cheat rock and also no sex with Spock. Jim narrows his eyes. Spock wants to play sex chicken, does he? Jim has never lost a game of sex chicken in his life. 

“So I’m not enough to keep you warm after all?” He taunts. 

Except…probably Spock is more than capable of forgoing sex no matter how much he wants it. All that Vulcan logic and control. Doubt creeps in. Shit. Spock will probably find little difficulty banishing Jim to the fireside. Probably thinks Jim might even deserve blue balls, for the rain if nothing else. Damnit. Wait. And since when does Jim care about whether or not the rules are broken, anyway? He’s sure Spock really is cold, and since Jim brought along no modern technology, such as a collapsible tent heater, he improvised. And it’s not like he’s choosing the cheat rock over Jim for warmth. And really, Starfleet has been using phaser technology to heat rocks for warmth since its inception. It’s old-fashioned, if you think about it! Jim is just being stubborn, picking a fight out of habit. And man, does he really need to get laid tonight. 

He takes a breath to apologize and seduce his way back into Spock’s good graces, but Spock is already moving.

“Fine,” Spock snaps (even though Jim knows ‘fine’ is one of Spock’s least favorite words). He picks up the rock, unzips the side flap of the tent, and drops it just outside. “You may use your superior human heat and sexual prowess alone to keep me warm,” he says as he zips up the tent and shoves himself and Jim until Spock is lying underneath him again. There is an unspoken ‘and if you don’t—’ hanging in the air, intimating some dire threat should Jim fail.

He blinks. Apparently Spock had taken his silence for intransigence when in fact he was in the process of capitulating and apologizing. A no-win scenario has just turned into a win-win scenario. (Those are Jim’s favorites because, have you met him?)

His sex chicken record is unbroken, the cheat rock is gone, and he has an armful of willing Vulcan. It’s a little bit like embracing a body pillow at the moment with all those layers, but he can fix that. 

Spock will no doubt discover the truth at some point. Either through a Vulcan mind meld (Jim is hopeful one of those is in his future) or just because Jim caves and tells him, but until that point, the victory is Jim’s.

“I’m gonna keep you so warm, baby, I promise,” Jim says, and rolls his hips down into Spock, hissing as (body pillow or not) the sensation begins to revive his flagging cock. He peels another two layers off of Spock’s torso, then slips his hands underneath the remaining shirts and begins to map every bit of Spock’s upper body that he can access. 

“I do not enjoy the use of illogical ‘pet names’,” Spock informs him. Jim gives him a little nip just below his jawline. Spock gives a fetching little gasp. 

“What, you’re not my pumpkin?” He draws his tongue over the sharp green mark he’s made. “Not my snuggle bunny, my babe, my Vulcan bonbon?” He murmurs into Spock’s neck. 

“My name,” Spock growls, pushing Jim away from him just long enough to rip the last of Jim’s top layers off in a single move, “should be more than enough for your purposes.” Jim is momentarily dazed, but recovers quickly. 

“Spock,” he says, and peels another shirt off of Spock.

“Spock,” he says, and gets Spock’s hiking boots off, then his triple layers of socks.

“Spock,” he says, and makes short work of his own boots and single pair of socks.

“Spock, Spock, Spock, Spock,” he croons. Spock reaches up and tweaks Jim’s nipple just on the right side of too hard. Jim grunts, and then they spend another indeterminate amount of time rolling around in the blanket nest, fused together at the mouth. By the end of it, both Spock and Jim are flushed and panting, Jim’s down to his boxers, and (thanks to Jim's monumental effort) all of Spock’s top layers are gone. Jim runs his fingers through Spock’s silky chest hair as he catches his breath. 

“Warm enough for you?” he asks smugly. Spock’s skin no longer feels cool underneath his fingers. Jim is warming him right up.

Spock raises a brow (the effect somewhat ruined by his own efforts to catch his breath). “I could be warmer.”

So that’s how it’s gonna be, is it? Time to move this sexing to the next level then. If Spock is coherent enough to bitch at Jim, Jim obviously needs to up his game. 

He deftly unfastens Spock’s snow pants and begins pulling Spock’s lower layers off of him until enough have been removed that he’s able to slip his hand under the waistband of Spock’s underwear. “Did you know that Vulcan sexual equipment comes in six different configurations?” he asks innocently. 

Spock glares at him for a half second before snapping his Vulcan ‘nothing to see here, emotionally,’ look over it. 

Jim’s fingers tease over the edges of Spock’s pubic hair.

“I wonder which configuration you have?”

“I could explain it to you,” Spock says prissily, “or you could just reach down further and—” 

Jim reaches down further and circles his fingers around a smooth, hard nub only a few inches in length. Two bumps on either side of it seem to unravel, and cool little tendrils twine themselves around his fingers. Spock tosses his head back and his hands come up to clutch at Jim’s shoulders. 

“Jim!” he cries.

“Configuration number three, lok and fra’ls,” Jim says, rubbing his thumb back and forth over Spock’s tiny lok, and tugging gently on his fra’ls with his other fingers. With his free hand, he drags one of Spock’s hands away from his shoulders and takes two of Spock’s trembling fingers into his mouth. “Fucking fantastic,” he slurs around them. 

On his boxer briefs, the wet spot from his freely leaking cock has grown chilly enough to be a little uncomfortable, but not enough to be a priority. He thrusts his hips forward, dragging the tented form of his neglected cock over his own wrist, where his hand is learning how best to stimulate Vulcan Genital Configuration Number Three.  

Spock pulls his fingers from Jim’s mouth, which Jim releases with a protesting whine, but it’s only to pull Jim’s boxer briefs down just enough for his cock to spring free. Then Spock’s fingers are back in Jim’s mouth, and his other hand wraps around Jim’s wrist, so that when Jim thrusts his bared cock forward this time, it drags over the bumps and ridges of Spock’s knuckles. 

“Mmmph,” he sighs around Spock’s fingers in his mouth, leisurely thrusting his cock back and forth over Spock’s fingers and his own wrist. He bends down and kisses Spock’s lips, bringing Spock’s fingers with him. 

They kiss around them, and when Jim draws Spock’s tongue forward to stroke his own fingers along with Jim’s tongue, he releases a breathy, “Ahh! Haa!” 

Jim’s lips tingle with the vibrations of the sound. Spock presses his fingers to Jim’s jaw, slick with spit, to push Jim’s face back a little. “I assume you brought some manner of lubrication along?” he asks, his voice delightfully wrecked. 

“Yes,” Jim groans, as all of the implications of that question make his cock throb sharply, and he has to thrust a little harder down on the back of Spock’s hand to relieve the pressure. Then he gives Spock’s little lok a last tweak and pulls his hand out from Spock’s underwear. Spock reluctantly consents to release Jim’s wrist, but consoles himself the loss by running his hand up and down Jim’s flank.

Jim takes a moment to tug off the last remaining layers on Spock, a pair of heavy duty winter pants, and a couple of long underwear style pants under that. With Spock’s ‘help’ (he wriggles his hips only the bare minimum necessary) Jim is able to strip his infuriating, sexy, infuriatingly sexy, (sexily infuriating), first officer naked at last. 

He takes his time committing the image of naked Spock to memory. He keeps his hands busy roaming over Spock’s chest, his arms, his legs (gotta keep that Vulcan warm) as he absorbs the details. Spock’s lok is green, extremely green, but it’s too dim for Jim to pick out the exact shade. It juts proudly up, just under where Spock’s wiry thatch of pubic hair ends. It looks just as it had felt under his fingertips, smooth and rounded at the tip, with no ridges or flaring out to define the head. Spock’s fra’ls, the same shade of green, ripple in the air, a few inches longer than the lok which sits between them. They look like some kind of underwater stalks, and are topped with adorable little sphere-shaped heads. 

“Jim,” Spock says, a hint of protest in his voice. Jim looks at Spock's face. Spock’s cheekbones are dark with green blood, and he avoids Jim’s eyes. 

“Gorgeous. Perfect. Sexiest thing I’ve ever seen,” Jim growls at him. Spock’s eyes flick to his, then away again. He swallows, and flushes (if at all possible) a darker shade of green. 

“How about I just fuck you, Spock?” Jim smirks. “Will you believe me then? Actions are louder than words, after all.” 

Spock’s eyes snap back to his and they share a heated glance. 

“If you must,” Spock says. He was plainly trying for Vulcan bitchy once more, but he pitched his voice too low for it to be mistaken as anything other than a Vulcan come-on. 

Jim grins, then turns to where his pack is sitting to the side, then turns quickly back for a quick peck at Spock’s lips. He has to turn back for three more quick, breathless kisses before he’s able to unearth the fancy glass jar of lube from the depths of his pack. He chucks his own underwear all the way off before crawling back over Spock, and presenting the jar for his inspection. 

At Spock’s raised eyebrow he says defensively, “Don’t you dare comment on how this isn’t Starfleet issue, Spock.”

“I was merely noticing that the brand you selected is identical to the one in my own travel pack.”

Jim gapes at him. The revelation that Spock had sexy-style intentions for their joint-leave too only makes Jim (if at all possible) more smug. It’s the implied praise that’s the real kicker. 

“Of course, at the time I packed it, I was under the impression that our accommodations would be a quaint mountain chateau, and not a frozen wasteland. I simply wished to ensure my own comfort, if my preferred options were unavailable. I was under the impression that ‘roughing it’ meant the lack of a Vulcan spa at the hotel.”

And there it is. 

Jim punishes him by setting the jar down next to Spock’s hip and bending down and sucking the nub of his lok straight into Jim’s mouth. As punishments go, it doesn’t send much of a message, but it does shut Spock up. He tosses his head back with a beautiful groan that he tries to muffle, unsuccessfully.

Jim pops off long enough to say, “That’s it baby, there’s no one around to hear you, let it out.” Then he gets right back to business. 

“Argh,” Spock groans, still doing his level best not to give Jim the satisfaction of his unrestrained reactions. “Agh!”

Jim looks up through his lashes at Spock to find him glaring down at Jim, though he seems momentarily unable to articulate his indignation at Jim’s use of ‘baby.’  Jim smirks around his little mouthful, pulling forth a “Mnnngh,” from Spock, who obviously has opinions about the sight of Jim smirking around his lok. 

Spock’s fra’ls are looking a little lonely, waving out in front of Jim’s eyes, so Jim offers his fingers, which they instinctively latch onto. 

“Yes,” Spock hisses. 

Jim doubles his efforts and abuses that glorious little nub with his tongue until Spock gives up on trying to suppress his reactions, and begins to let out a series of full-throated moans, and also to thrust his hips up into Jim’s mouth. This sexy display forces Jim to thrust his own hips down onto the layers of blankets below him. His cock is so, so, so fucking hard and the slip and slide of fabric against his erection is nothing more than a tease. He groans with longing around his little mouthful. 

An idea occurs to him, and he pulls off Spock's lok to ask, (as if it isn’t obvious at this point that he already knows the answer), “Is it true that Vulcan males come three times? Once, twice, and then the final orgasm releases your semen?”

Spock glares hotly at him, all that passion, desire, and everything else Jim knew was there plainly visible. (Which Old Spock had hinted would be the case). Awesome. 

“Yes,” he growls in answer.

Jim does his best to raise an eyebrow. “Fascinating,” he drawls, and dips his head down to see to orgasm number one. 

“Jim,” Spock gasps. 

His thighs come up around Jim’s face, and Jim hears Spock begin to breathe in sharp, rapid pants. Oh, fuck yes. Jim stretches out between Spock’s legs and really goes to work, wrapping his arms around Spock’s thighs to anchor himself. 

Spock’s fra’ls, bereft of Jim’s fingers, caress his face instead, tracing over his temples. For the first time since he was rescued by an aged Vulcan wielding a torch in an ice cave, Jim feels the press of Spock’s mind against his. Jim can feel him, hovering out of the reach of Jim’s non-existent psi-capabilities. 

Jim swirls his tongue around Spock’s smooth nub of a cock, and sucks.

“Jim!” Spock’s thighs quiver around him and he cries out again. “Oh!”

Spock thrusts his hips up aggressively and Jim moves with him easily, keeping his own body relaxed, riding this first wave of Spock’s pleasure. 

Jim doesn’t release Spock’s lok from his mouth until the shuddering of Spock’s limbs tapers off, and his heavy breathing has subsided once more to hoarse little pants. His fra’ls flutter weakly against his thighs. 

He gives the lok one last suck and pulls off with an obscene pop. He meets Spock’s eyes, his pupils blown black with desire. “One,” Jim counts deliberately. 

“Jim.” Spock lips form the word, but almost no sound escapes them. 

He sits up, settling Spock’s legs around his hips as he does, then crawls forward to kiss Spock just as deeply and filthily as he’s always felt Spock deserved.

Spock wraps his legs more firmly around Jim’s waist and urges Jim to thrust his aching cock down against whatever part of Spock he can reach. The thick line of hair trailing down his stomach. His lok, trembling slightly, but still stiff. The crease of his thigh. 

The kiss deepens, and neither of them is fussy about where it moves to, or what form it takes. Spock’s teeth at Jim’s pulse. Jim’s tongue following Spock’s jawline. Spock’s lips chastely on Jim’s eyebrows. The tip of Spock’s ear once more between Jim’s lips.

“Spock,” he mumbles nonsensically in between tastes of the shell of Spock’s ear. “So good, so beautiful.”

Spock answers that with a confident hand on Jim’s cock. Jim’s reaction is visceral and immediate. He plants his hands on Spock’s chest and arches into Spock’s hand with a drawn out “fffuck.”

Spock’s grip is dry, and slightly cool, but it’s so firm. It’s just the way Jim loves it best. It’s fucking perfect.

Spock strokes him slowly, then as Jim’s leaking pre-cum slicks the way, more rapidly. Jim is going to come so, so fast. “Humans only come the one time!” he warns Spock, unable to stop his hips from thrusting his cock to meet Spock’s grip. 

“You will have ample time for your human refractory period when you finger me to my second orgasm in preparation for anal penetration,” Spock says cooly, recovered enough from his first orgasm to give Jim Vulcan sass. 

Jim’s heart pounds in his chest and his pulse races as his breathing turns deep and heavy, rushing towards it now. His eyes are locked onto Spock’s dark gaze, trusting that Spock will bring him to completion and straight over, trusting his pleasure to Spock, as Spock had done to him.

“Jim,” Spock says. The corner of his mouth curves into that Vulcan non-smirk that’s been driving Jim wild since day one. “Baby.”

“Fuck!” Jim shouts and comes, his cock flexing exquisitely in Spock’s grasp, his balls cramping deliciously against Spock’s ribcage as his seed pulses forth. A shock of white on Spock’s dark chest hair. He grunts and shudders through it, his experience narrowing to the roaring in his ears and Spock’s hand around the length of him. 

Spock refuses to release Jim’s cock until Jim’s curled in a ball over him, whining with over-sensitivity. Only then does he have mercy and allow Jim to bask in the most satisfying afterglow he can ever remember having. Spock’s arms and legs are wrapped around him in a remarkable impression of a Vulcan octopus, and his cooler, dry skin is a balm to Jim’s; feverish and sweaty. He smells…Jim isn’t sure. He turns his head into Spock’s hairline, where it meets the back of his neck, and breaths deep. Coppery. Arid. Exotic. Slightly of dirt from their roll around outside the tent. Jim takes another breath. Yeah, that’s really good.

“Perhaps you are ready to proceed with anal fingering and my second orgasm?” Spock inquires politely. Bitchy Vulcan—! Jim hides his wide grin in Spock’s neck (probably not very well). 

He gives Spock’s hairline a last nuzzle and begins to teasingly kiss his way down Spock’s body, his hand fumbling for the jar of lube still set by Spock’s hip. “Be careful what you ask for,” he prophesies. Jim sits up, and despite Spock’s sassy Vulcan prompting, Spock relaxes his hold on Jim to allow it only reluctantly. Jim pauses only to take a quick few guzzles from the water flask secured to the outside of his pack, which, when offered, Spock refuses with a gentle shake of his head.

Dehydration averted, he turns his attention back to Spock, and nips and licks Spock's sensitive nipples until they’ve stiffened into points; erotic little Vulcan spears. Spock thrashes delightfully underneath him the entire time. Jim takes a moment to wipe away the remains of his ejaculate from Spock’s chest hair with a far corner of one of their superfluous blankets, then continues his journey down to Spock’s lok and fra’ls. The former is almost quivering, the latter seeking to and fro for some hint of Jim with renewed energy. 

He gives the fra’ls the fingers of one hand to play with while folding Spock’s knees up to his stomach, gradually exposing his Vulcan pucker. Jim makes Spock hold his own knees up so he can free his hand to twist open the lid of the jar of lube. At the sound of the cap, the wrinkled flesh of Spock’s Vulcan hole clenches and relaxes in anticipation.

Jim's cock is already trying to harden again, where it rests against his thigh. He takes a scoop of the cool gel, warms it a few seconds between his fingers, and then begins to rub it in circles around Spock’s waiting entrance.

Spock hisses. “The lube was not warmed up for the appropriate amount of time before—”

Jim slides a slick finger inside of him. Spock inhales sharply, and hitches his hips down, trying to draw Jim’s pointer finger deeper. Jim strokes around the slightly lukewarm (to his senses) velvet interior of Spock’s anus. Oh yeah. He’s gonna get his cock in there and fucking ruin Spock. But he still needs a little while before he can go again, so he takes his time, refraining from adding a second finger yet.

Jim can tell Spock has a comment he probably desperately wants to make about Jim’s pacing, but he also probably doesn’t want to give Jim an opening. Jim smirks up at Spock, where he's biting his lip slightly. He pulls his pointer finger back until just the tip is remains, and begins stretching Spock’s rim open from the inside using a circular motion. Jim knows from experience the sensation is maddening. Delicious friction against the rim, but only enough to be tantalizing instead of fulfilling. 

Spock should crack any second now. “I will never reach second orgasm if you continue in this manner,” he says. “You must penetrate deeper in order to stimulate my chenesi.”  His words are meant to be logical, but his tone is waspish. Jim smirks at him. Predictable Vulcan bitchiness. 

“How interesting,” he responds. 

Spock takes that bait as well, and opens his mouth to let Jim logically have it. 

Jim smoothly inserts a second finger, pushing in deep. The breath punches out of Spock in a rush. Jim rotates his wrist as his fingers search for the right angle. They’re in there somewhere, classified medical textbooks don’t lie. 

“There—!” Spock tries to cut his shout off, but not soon enough. He flushes as Jim gives him a cheshire grin. Spock looks both extremely aroused, and extremely irritated about it, which is so endearing, it should come with a warning. 

“Found them,” Jim says innocently. “Baby.”

Spock’s jaw clenches. Jim hopes it’s because he’s illogically grinding his Vulcan teeth. 

He takes this opportunity to add a third finger, and more lube. Spock’s ass begins to squelch as Jim pumps his fingers in and out. His cock is half-hard again, and he begins to finger Spock with a bit more purpose. 

“More, please!” Spock asks, and Jim snaps his avid gaze from where he’s stretching Spock’s hole open just in time to catch the mortified look on Spock’s face before he wipes it away. 

“If my Vulcan sweetiepie asks for more so politely,” Jim says wickedly, “then he gets more.” With each thrust of his fingers now, he makes sure to press them harder for a few extra seconds against those two rounded protrusions along Spock’s inner walls. 

It’s hard to say what has offended Spock more, the sappy pet name, or rewarding Spock for behavior he had no intention of gracing Jim with. Or maybe it’s the fact that Spock is enjoying his reward so very much. His little lok begins to flex, and the muscles on his stomach begin to quiver. He reaches down and clutches at Jim’s hair, tugging ruthlessly. Jim’s hips thrust forward a few times, his cock bobbing fruitlessly in the air at that. 

He groans, “Fuck, Spock! Yes!”

Jim estimates that by the time Spock comes down from his second orgasm, Jim’s cock will be more than ready to go again, so he leans forward and opens his mouth near one of Spock’s wildly flailing fra’ls. As he expects, as soon as it accidentally smacks into his outstretched tongue, it slithers forward, madly seeking the hot, wet sensation of Jim’s mouth. He pulls it inside and wraps it in his tongue, savoring the slight copper tang of Spock’s flesh, and the mouthfeel of the round bulb of its head. 

Spock wordlessly keens, high in his throat as his thighs once more clench around Jim’s head. The pressure of his mind is again perceivable to Jim’s, closer than it was before, he thinks.

Jim finger fucks Spock open until Spock’s thighs begin to shake, then leans forward the little bit necessary to fit Spock’s lok inside his mouth alongside the fra’l. The smooth nub spasms immediately as Jim’s lips seal closed around it, Spock’s whole body tenses, and his ass tightens down on Jim’s fingers as he reaches his second orgasm. Oh, fuck him, that’s gonna feel so good when Spock does that around his cock. 

Spock’s second orgasm doesn’t last as long as the first, but it's definitely sharper, more intense. Jim has never heard Spock have to catch his breath like that before. His thighs shift restlessly around, and his fingers thread through Jim’s hair almost absently, as if he’s seeking stimulation without necessarily paying attention to what the stimulation is. 

Jim releases Spock’s lok and slightly wilted fra’l from his mouth and waits until Spock’s gaze returns more to the present moment, and his eyes are fixed on Jim’s face. Then he withdraws his fingers from Spock’s ass, leaving a respectably gaping hole behind. Spock gives a tiny gasp, and Jim counts, with feeling, “Two.”

It looks like Spock would very much like to have the mental capacity to retaliate in some way (which Jim is willing to admit he may deserve), but isn’t quite able to muster his mental forces yet.

“Warm enough, yet, Mr. Spock?” Jim taunts.

“I think you will find I could be made warmer.” Spock’s voice sounds rough, wrecked, but still with the Vulcan sass. He’s mustered those mental forces fast, clever Vulcan. 

And also, challenging Jim to do better is he? Good luck to him, because god, does Jim love a challenge.

“Just remember, you asked for it,” He warns, as with a groan, he begins to slick his cock up. 

“I have asked for it,” Spock says, rising up to his peak Vulcan bitchiness setting, “but have not yet received it.”

Jim takes his cock in hand and scoots forward on the blankets, and Spock’s legs wrap themselves around his hips again, with no urging. He rubs his cock head back and forth over Spock’s hole, letting it catch on the rim and then pop free. 

He keeps at that for a minute or so, until Spock takes a breath in, and Jim looks up at him expectantly. Stubbornly, Spock keeps his mouth shut. 

Jim grins. “I’d like your input, Spock. Do you think you’re ready to be fucked yet?”

Spock reaches down behind Jim, takes an asscheek in each hand again and pulls Jim into him just as Jim begins to tease Spock’s hole with the tip of his cockhead. He slides right inside, completely unable to resist Spock’s superior Vulcan strength. 

Jim lets out a sound halfway between a well-fucked groan and a delighted laugh, and starts to pump his cock in and out of Spock smoothly, almost without missing a beat. He can feel it when his cock slides right up against those Vulcan chenesi, and if Spock’s little groans and gasps are any indication, so can he. 

“Oh, those feel good,” he laughs, and begins to fuck Spock with abandon, eyes riveted to the sight of Spock’s little lok flicking back and forth with Jim’s movement. 

“Oh my god,” he says, processing a strange, new, erotic sensation. “Your fra’ls ohmygod!” Spock’s fra’ls have ventured forth to fondle Jim’s balls. 

“Suck my fingers,” he begs, and Spock parts his mouth immediately to accept Jim’s offered fingers with a moan. “Now you,” he urges as Spock flicks his tongue around Jim’s fingertips. Jim’s eyes roll back into his head as Spock feeds him three of his fingers. In his defense, he’s never denied his oral fixation. 

Sensations vie for attention all over his body. His need for breath, the suck and pull of Spock’s slick and silky ass, his balls being caressed lovingly by alien tentacles, Spock’s tongue, fellating his fingers, his tongue, fellating Spock’s fingers, Spock’s mind, once more hovering tantalizingly just beyond Jim’s ability to reach. It’s overwhelming, and greedily, Jim only wants more. 

Spock’s fingers slide from Jim’s mouth to draw wet lines along his temple and cheeks, then dip back inside again. As if Spock is trying and failing to restrain his desire for a meld with Jim. His mind is right. There. Jim can almost—

“Meld with me,” Jim says, when Spock’s fingers slip from his mouth again. He urges Spock when he tries to ignore him with, “Come on!” He settles his hips into his ‘I could fuck all night’ rhythm, and removes his fingers from Spock’s mouth to torture his sensitive nipples once more with flicks, and hard passes of his thumbs back and forth.

“It would be irresponsible—” Spock begins, but has to break off when Jim adds a snap of his hips into his rhythm in a way that has his cock driving itself against Spock’s chenesi. “—to meld with you for the first time during copulation,” he manages to finish, stubbornly. 

“Just a light one then,” Jim coaxes, groaning as the swelling of Spock’s chenesi presses against his dick, tightening the space he’s fucking into. He reaches down to cup his balls, petting the fra’ls which are fluttering against him. 

“You are so—” Spock stops himself from finishing his sentence with visible effort.

Jim fucks Spock harder, reaching down to grip him hard enough around the hips to bruise. He teases him in between his own grunts of pleasure and effort. “Sexy? Amazing? Alluring? Perfect?”

“Irritating,” Spock says, goaded beyond all logical bearing, apparently. 

Jim slows his pace to sit back on his heels and grind his cock deep within Spock. “I thought Vulcans couldn’t be irritated,” Jim says smugly. Checkmate. 

And then Spock’s fingers are on Jim’s face and he initiates the meld. 

Jim’s first sensations are physical ones. He’s being fucked by a phantom cock, obscenely large, but he’s been so obscenely stretched to take it. Ghost appendages twine about alien sexual equipment. Foreign, slick skin slides wraithlike against his own, deliciously hot, yet not there. Almost as soon as he’s able to grasp the sensations, they fade. 

The next thing he feels are emotions. Passion, desire, irritation, longing, and more, a white hot ball, all centered on Jim. Jim is the locus. Jim is somehow the sun rising on the horizon of that blinding sphere. Jim is the friend, the brother, the lover.

“Spock!” he thinks he shouts. Tears squeeze from his eyes. Jim reaches for his own emotions, seeking an anchor against the blazing pull. They seem cold, slender, inadequate threads to offer in the face of that heat and light, but they’re all he has, even if they seem completely unworthy. 

Instead of disdaining them, as Jim was certain Spock’s dense ball of feeling must, he gives Jim the strangest sense of crooning over them. He draws out the thread of each of Jim’s emotions and inspects it, finding it so different from his own, but endlessly compelling. Jim also gets the sense that Spock, and his white hot emotional ball, want to be cocooned in the threads of Jim’s emotions to sup and grow, and emerge a different being altogether. Jim finds himself drawn forward, attracted beyond all reason to that compelling idea. 

Abruptly, the meld ends as Spock drops his fingers from Jim’s face. He’s back to being in his own body (though he’s unsure when it was exactly that he left it), with the slap of his flesh meeting Spock’s filling the tiny tent. 

“You liked my mind a lot,” Jim gasps smugly, far closer to coming than he was before Spock had melded them. 

“‘Liked’ is such a variable qualifier,” Spock answers in gasps of his own, Vulcan to the last, even though Jim can tell his body is hovering right on the brink of his third orgasm. 

Jim braces himself on one forearm next to Spock’s head and brings his lips to Spock’s ear. Spock moves his hips in tandem with Jim’s thrusts, bringing his chenesi in contact with Jim’s cock over and over again. Jim can’t even begin to imagine what that must feel like, but Spock obviously cannot get enough of it (neither can he, to be fair). Jim snakes his free hand between them, and encloses Spock’s rock-hard little lok entirely in his fist. 

“Three,” he breathes into Spock’s ear, in the absolute lowest register his voice possesses. 

“Jim!” Spock cries, and climaxes. Short but powerful jets of Vulcan come hit Jim’s fingers, barely more than lukewarm. The seed has nowhere to go, and so it dribbles down around the lok, slicking Jim’s grip and causing Spock to thrust his hips powerfully up into Jim’s fist, and then just as desperately back down onto Jim’s cock. Spock’s fra’ls empty even more seed over Jim’s balls, where it drips down to his taint and adds a new layer of sensation when his balls smack against Spock’s ass. Spock’s body thrashes in his pleasure, and Jim wonders what Spock’s mind looks like as it convulses in orgasm, as well as his body. And then, if he could feel what Spock feels—!

Spock’s ass tightens around Jim’s cock, like he’d been praying it would, and he comes in a supernova of pleasure, emptying himself deep inside of Spock, his cock pulsing to the time of Spock groaning his name over and over.

“Jim, Jim, Jim.”

“Spock,” he answers each time. “Spock, Spock!”

It’s better than anything Jim had imagined, and holy fuck, he imagined quite a bit. 

They come down together, clinging and kissing, and whispers of ‘Spock’ and ‘Jim’ fill the air whenever they break for breath. When coherent thought returns, Jim flings the blanket their semen leaked onto to the far side of the tent, wraps them up in the sleeping bag, and zippers them in. He had only one goal, really, for this trip, and that was to spend this night zippered in this sleeping bag with Spock. Man, is he hot Starfleet Captain stuff. Spock huffs, like he can tell what Jim’s thinking. 

Or feel his smugness and extrapolate pretty easily from there.

“Are you warm now?” Jim asks, just to have something else to be smug about. 

Spock tenses, like he still has some Vulcan fight left in him, then relaxes. “Yes,” he sighs, though it’s a little petulant-sounding. As if Jim could always put in more effort, and make Spock even warmer. Which, that’s easy to do, because Jim has no intention of bringing Spock camping ever again. Mind-blowing, worth dying and being resurrected for sex aside, he has learned his lesson. 

He bets Spock is going to make Jim dress him in the morning, layer by layer, and do nothing but offer pointed Vulcan comments about how Jim isn’t doing it right. 

“Straight to the mountain chateau for you in the morning,” Jim yawns as he tucks Spock’s head into his neck to keep his nose warm. 

“One with Vulcan Spa options,” Spock reminds him, so close, Jim feels Spock’s lips moving against his neck.

Seriously, Spock in a tent. Never again. But he bets he could trick Bones into it, somehow. Now there’s an idea…

Jim falls asleep to the less than logical imaginings of Spock tormenting Bones on a camping trip, then returning to Jim at their posh hotel to reward him with Vulcan mind melds and sex.

And it will be somewhere tropical, too. 

No layers required.