James T. Kirk

The slam of their bodies together, sudden as it is, nearly knocks all air from Ephram's lungs. His spine arches as he moves, struggles to keep balance while remaining inside the Commodore. His world is nothing but sensation: heated body against and around his, vibration of ship and vocalizations, slight creeping of fatigue in the legs, sound and scent. A brief flick of the tongue on Nero's shoulder brings the clean taste of sea salt and pure male.

Then the cursing. Ephram knows very little of the Commodore's native language, but the tone tells everything. Nero's hand clutching his does more to unbalance him than the actual rocking of the ship. Gods...nohhua, if he understood the right word, god, this body with him, taking his thrusts, and...oh... He could do faster and stronger.

It's the shout that undoes him. Then the impossibly tight clench of Nero's body. Ephram barely registers the wet heat across his hand as his head snaps forward, mouth tasting salt again on Nero's neck, and does not whimper.

"...ffffuck..." escapes his clenched jaw as his universe flashes purple and white. He feels his release through his spine and up into the back of his skull, ricocheting through his flesh.