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The holodeck doors whispered shut behind them, sealing Kirk and Spock in perfect privacy despite the very public space now materializing around them. The bridge of the Enterprise formed itself in precise detail — every console, every chair, the viewscreen displaying a peaceful starfield.
"Computer, lock doors. Authorization Kirk-Alpha-Seven," Jim said quietly. His heart was already beating faster.
"Doors locked," the computer confirmed.
Spock stood near the turbolift, hands clasped behind his back in that familiar pose, but Jim could see the subtle tension in his shoulders. They'd talked about this — about wanting to explore the contradiction of intimacy and exposure, of being together in the space that defined their professional partnership.
"Your station, Mr. Spock," Jim said, settling into the captain's chair. The leather was perfect, exactly as he remembered.
Spock moved with characteristic grace to the science station, his fingers already poised over the controls though they wouldn't activate anything real. He glanced back at Jim, one eyebrow raised in question.
"Proceed with your analysis, Commander," Jim said, keeping his voice level, captain-like. But his eyes were warm, giving permission.
They'd agreed on the fantasy — that the rest of the bridge crew was present, going about their duties, unaware. The thrill wasn't in actual exposure, but in the imagined transgression, the delicious fiction of doing something intimate while surrounded by their crew.
Jim rose from his chair and crossed to the science station with deliberate slowness. In reality, they were completely alone. In imagination, Uhura sat at communications, Sulu at helm, Chekov at navigation. All focused on their work.
"Report, Mr. Spock," Jim said, standing close enough now that he could feel Spock's body heat.
"Sensors detect no anomalies, Captain." Spock's voice was steady, but Jim saw his pupils dilate slightly. "All systems... nominal."
Jim placed a hand on the edge of the console, leaning in as if examining the readouts. His shoulder brushed Spock's. "And what do you recommend?"
"I recommend..." Spock's voice dropped lower, meant only for Jim's ears, "that the captain continue his current course of action."
Jim's hand found Spock's at the console, their fingers intertwining where — in their shared fantasy — anyone might glance over and notice. The taboo was imaginary, the trust entirely real.
"I've always admired your dedication to duty," Jim murmured, his thumb stroking across Spock's knuckles. "The way you stand at this station, shift after shift."
"It is my purpose, Captain. To serve." The words were professional, but Spock's breathing had quickened slightly. "To be... available to you."
Jim moved closer, until he stood directly behind Spock, close enough that it would be unmistakably intimate to any observer. But there were no observers. Only the two of them, playing out this careful scene.
"The crew respects you so much," Jim said softly, pressing closer, his body aligned with Spock's back. "Do you ever wonder what they'd think if they knew?"
"Frequently." Spock turned his head slightly, and Jim could see the green flush rising along his cheekbones. "The thought is... stimulating."
Jim's hands moved to Spock's waist, then slowly upward, tracing the lines of his uniform. In their fantasy, this was happening in full view — bold, transgressive, impossible to miss.
"Tell me what you want," Jim whispered against Spock's ear.
"I want..." Spock's control was fracturing beautifully, his voice rougher. "I want you to claim me here. Where I am yours in every other way."
"Computer, reduce bridge ambient lighting by fifty percent," Jim commanded, his hands never leaving Spock's body.
The lighting dimmed, casting the bridge in the soft glow of console lights and the starfield on the viewscreen, making their corner more intimate while maintaining the illusion of their imagined audience.
Jim turned Spock to face him, pressing him back against the science console. "You're safe with me," he said, framing Spock's face with both hands. "Always. Here or anywhere."
"I know, Jim." Spock's hands found Jim's waist, gripping tight. "That is why I can be vulnerable with you in this way."
They kissed then, deep and searching, Spock's back pressed against the station where he'd stood for years. Jim poured everything into it — his love, his desire, his appreciation for Spock's trust in sharing this particular fantasy.
Jim's hands moved with purpose now, tracing the lines of Spock's uniform, finding the fastenings. Spock's breath hitched as Jim slowly, deliberately began to unfasten his tunic.
"In front of everyone," Jim murmured against Spock's lips, playing into their shared fantasy. "Letting them see that you're mine."
"Yes," Spock breathed, his usually controlled voice ragged with want. His hands clutched at Jim's shoulders. "I am yours, Jim. Here, where we command together."
Jim slid Spock's uniform tunic up the length of his chest and over his head, discarding the article over his head where it landed along the railing, his hands exploring the warm skin that lied beneath. The science console blinked its meaningless readouts behind them, the viewscreen displayed its peaceful stars, and in their minds the imagined crew maintained their posts, somehow oblivious to what was unfolding at the science station.
"So beautiful," Jim whispered, kissing Spock's jaw, his throat, the junction of his neck and shoulder. "So perfect."
Spock's head fell back slightly, his breathing uneven. "Jim... the simulation..."
"Is just us," Jim assured him, pulling back to meet Spock's eyes. "Just us, exploring what we want. Nothing we don't choose."
Spock nodded, his hand coming up to cup Jim's face with surprising tenderness given the heat of the moment. "Then I choose this. I choose you. Here, in this place that is ours."
Jim kissed him again, slower this time but no less intense. His hands mapped the planes of Spock's chest, the subtle differences in his physiology, the places that made him gasp or grip tighter.
"Against your station," Jim said, his voice low and commanding. "Where you've stood beside me through every crisis, every triumph."
"Reclaim it," Spock urged, surprising Jim with his boldness. "Make it ours in this new way."
They moved together with increasing urgency, Jim pressing Spock more firmly against the console, their bodies aligned and seeking. The boundary between fantasy and reality blurred — they were alone, completely private, but the echo of their public partnership made every touch more charged.
Jim's hands worked at Spock's pants with practiced ease while Spock did the same, both of them breathing hard, the bridge around them both stage and sanctuary.
"I love you," Jim said against Spock's skin. "Here, anywhere, always."
"T'hy'la," Spock responded, the Vulcan word carrying layers of meaning Jim had learned to treasure. "My everything."
Jim kissed him again, their pants halfway down their legs. Jim was achingly hard, his cock flushed with blood as slick dripped from Spock’s sheath. Jim slid between the folds with practiced eased ad Spock moaned out, back arching against Jim as he pushed back into the touch.
“Jim.” Spock panted, his chest heaving as his hips pushed backwards.
“Just like that, Spock.” Jim praised as he gave an experiemental thrust, “You take me so well.”
“Y-Yes, Sir.”
They came together fully then, there at the science station, surrounded by the simulacrum of their ship, their bridge, their shared command. Every touch was a claim and a gift, every kiss a promise renewed.
The fantasy added spice — the imagined transgression, the illusion of exposure — but what made it meaningful was the trust, the love, the absolute certainty that they were safe with each other.
When they finally stilled, wrapped together in the dimmed lighting of the holodeck bridge, Jim pressed his forehead to Spock's.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For trusting me with this."
"It is you who creates the space for such trust," Spock replied, his fingers finding Jim's and holding tight. "The fantasy requires no others. Only your presence makes it meaningful."
They stayed there for a long moment, neither quite ready to leave this space they'd created together — this intersection of duty and desire, command and intimacy, public and private.
"We should do this again," Jim said eventually, a smile in his voice.
"Indeed," Spock agreed, and Jim could hear the matching smile in his tone. "Though perhaps next time we should explore the engineering deck."
Jim laughed softly, warmth flooding through him. "Scotty would never forgive us."
"He will never know," Spock pointed out logically.
"True." Jim kissed him once more. "But for now, let's stay here a little longer. On our bridge."
"Our bridge," Spock echoed, and they held each other in the gentle starlight, content.
Written by a human in Ellipsus.