if there is one thing star trek fanfiction has taught me it’s that chess is a legitimate form of foreplay.
fingertips brushing fingertips.
one piece claiming another.
jim’s sheepish pride, his genuine laughter; spock’s arched brow, his honest respect.
the place where two minds meet and explore each other’s tactics. the place where impulse and intelligence confront one another—then marry.
jim’s chin in his hand, waiting—eager—for the next move. or his forehead knit in concentration, prediction impossible but tantalizing. a glimmer of insight into spock’s play.
spock’s silent appraisal, anticipating—not eager, he is certain of that—that jim will surprise him. for jim is ever capable of surprising him.
a standing arrangement. (they look forward to it. anticipation is an element of the game.)
those few times when jim is tired to the bone, and sleeps—briefly—with his cheek tucked into the pillow of his elbow, and spock sits vigil, watching his broad shoulders as they rise and fall.
‘small talk’ that, to a vulcan, should mean nothing. but it is the sound of jim’s voice, the same shade of a distantly born star, that gives the little words their meaning.
they have been flirting for years. piece by piece.
jim flushed under the collar. (well played, mister spock.)
spock’s friction with the unpredictable. (well played, captain.)
fingertips brushing fingertips.
another piece claimed.
they both think about it in the shower.
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