
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/332891.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Star_Trek_(2009)
  Relationship:
      James_T._Kirk/Spock, Spock/Others
  Character:
      James_T._Kirk, Spock, Nyota_Uhura, Sarek
  Additional Tags:
      Prostitution
  Stats:
      Published: 2010-12-01 Words: 11483
****** Searching for Everything ******
by notboldly
Summary
     Spock never expected his youthful indiscretions to affect his future.
     Fortunately, Jim is too stubborn to let that happen.
Searching for Everything
********
Spock was nine when he realized that his relationship with his father was not
as it should have been. This awareness came on a peculiarly average day in
Shi’Kahr: a temperature of approximately 55 degrees Celsius, the sky clear and
burnt orange as the sun began to fade, no activity from wildlife near the
school except for the occasional small rodent fleeing much bigger concerns, and
there was no notable shift in seismic activity or even in the progression of
his schooling. Nothing notable would have happened in Spock’s day, in fact, had
he not realized that he’d forgotten his data padd in the storage compartment of
his learning pod and returned to retrieve it. While there, Spock saw a
classmate, Scon, speaking quite emotionally with his father, and his father, in
turn, lifting a hand to his face in a familiar configuration that Spock had
nonetheless never seen personally. When the adult Vulcan pulled away, Scon was
as stoic and untroubled as he usually was, and Spock was intrigued.
He studied the occurrence rather than ask his father; as a young boy, he felt
intimidation for the man who shared one half of his genetics, and he often felt
the burden of expectations to be smarter, stronger, more controlled. After the
alteration with one of the older students just two weeks prior, Spock knew
better than to expose his weaknesses for all to see, and for that reason, he
searched the Vulcan database first.
The meld shared by Scon and his father was traditional and practical according
to all known research. Young children often had difficulties learning control
by themselves, and it was the duty of the same gendered parent or a close
relative to impress the proper techniques through a meeting of minds. Spock was
relieved, perhaps to too great an extent. He was not a tainted Vulcan; he had
merely never shared such a meld with Sarek, and the result was that his mind
struggled to grasp the concepts, having never seen them in place before.
Spock should have wondered, perhaps, why Sarek had never shared this with him;
as a logical man, his father must have known that Spock would require guidance.
However, Spock did not wonder, merely electing to ask his father to perform the
meld instead.
Sarek agreed, and Spock felt joy at the knowledge that this would make him a
true Vulcan, a joy that he was unable to contain when his father’s large hand
touched his face. He expected to see Sarek in his mind, to feel the presence of
his parent, but there was only a flicker, the tiniest sign of a mind other than
his, and then it pulled back, disappearing completely.
Spock was confused, and he knew it showed on his face.
“I am fatigued,” Sarek explained before going back to his work. “We will
attempt this at another time.”
They never did. Spock thought about it on occasion—worried, even, that his
father was ill—but he did not pressure the adult Vulcan, for he knew best.
Spock eventually learned to alter the Vulcan control techniques to suit his own
lack of experience, and emotional outbursts became fewer, and more minor. He
was able to maintain this for many years, and soon, Spock was able to push the
lack of contact with his father from his mind.
He was fifteen when his control faltered, and in his anger, he nearly destroyed
a Vulcan vehicle. He felt shame at the knowledge that taunts about his
parentage were still able to wrest such a reaction from him even though he was
no longer a child, and it was in desperation that he asked his father, pleaded
with him, to perform a meld to center him.
Sarek told him he was too old for such things and that he must take
responsibility for control of himself. Spock accepted this chastisement with
all the dignity he could muster, and he secluded himself in his room and with
his studies for the remainder of that day, expecting his father would not wish
to see him behaving in such a desperate and human manner.
It was later that evening when he emerged from his quarters, intending to find
an evening meal that would sit well with the shame that still turned his
stomach. It was merely by chance that he passed by his parents’ room and heard
them arguing.
“Sarek, he is conflicted. You must help him!”
His mother’s voice carried the lilt of agitation, and Spock paused. His first
instinct, no matter his age, had always been to protect her, and he did not
want to see her distressed.
His hand was on the door, prepared to push it open, when Sarek spoke.
“What would you have me do?”
He was calm, as Spock wished to be. Even in the face of his mother’s clear
distress, Sarek remained calm, and Spock wanted the secret to such control.
“Meld with him, like he asked you to!”
Spock caught his breath reflexively and stepped back, his hand sliding from the
smooth wood. He had not expected his mother to overhear his request with her
human ears, but apparently she had been nearer to Sarek’s office than he had
thought.
“You should not coddle the boy. I will not.”
Spock felt shame and anger war with confusion: a strange mix, and one that was
not pleasant. His father believed his mother still indulged him with her human
ways; in truth, they had not touched with affection for many years. Did his
father blame such nonexistent comforts for his behavior?
“Why not? He may be too old by Vulcan standards, but he’s just a child by human
standards. Your child.”
Sarek was silent for many minutes, and Spock’s feet refused to lead him to
their kitchen as he had originally intended.
“I cannot meld with him. His mind…it is repugnant to me.”
The words were soft, but Spock heard them clearly. By the time Sarek and Amanda
emerged from their quarters, clearly finished with their discussion as of
Sarek’s reluctant admission, Spock was safely back in his room with the door
closed and all thoughts of food forgotten.
********
Spock did not go to school the next day in accord with the terms of his
suspension, but he did not remain at home either. The house he had been raised
in was not a refuge as he had forced his younger self to believe, not a place
where he was accepted and valued, not a place where his differences were not
noticed.
Repugnant.
Spock wondered if it was because his mind was too different from a Vulcan’s to
meld successfully, if it was his human half that made his father recoil, his
emotions that burned out of control. As he walked the edge of the city, he
looked for answers in the russet-colored sand and rocks at his feet, in the
cliffs ten kilometers from his parents’ house, and he found none. On this
planet he had known all his life, he saw nothing but what he knew, and it was
not a comfort or an aid in his search for an explanation. He concluded, quite
logically, that he had to leave, and he did so.
It was easy to slip back into the dark confines of his home unnoticed. Sarek
was busy with matters of government and would be all day, first with a meeting
with the review board of the Academy and then a tele-conference with other
ambassadors from other planets; his father was a much sought after advisor for
his logical mind and calm demeanor, and it was rare that his schedule was not
full. His mother, meanwhile, was attending what Spock was certain was the first
of many meetings concerning appropriate disciplinary measures for his actions,
and she would be gone most of the day as well. No one was home to notice that
Spock darted into his room for the shuttle pass his background granted him, and
no one was nearby to notice that he began the short journey to the transport
station at a run.
He chose a shuttle according only to the ones that would accept his pass and
nothing more; when the small public transport lifted off the ground, Spock
could not have said its destination or estimated arrival time, and he spared
only a single thought to wonder what would happen if his parents returned and
found him gone. They would suspect something, suspect that he knew.
He vowed not to let that happen, and he was grateful when the shuttle landed
just fifty-four minutes after it had left orbit, the destination apparently
Space Station Seventeen. It was a popular tourist destination for aliens not
quite certain they would be suited to the nearest planet’s harsh environment,
and Spock deemed it acceptable for his purposes; he took only a moment to ask
the pilot about the return shuttle’s arrival time before going on his way with
even steps, his movements displaying none of the turmoil he felt inside. He
carried nothing except his pass, and as the artificial lighting began to fade
to approximate nighttime, he wondered if he wasn’t in error to carry nothing
else.
Knowing it was too late to reconsider his change of scenery, however, Spock
simply walked the even streets, walked until his sense of time told him he had
been there for hours, walked until the streets had begun to empty.
Try as he might, he found no answers; his experiment was a failure, much like
himself.
“Are you lost, honey?”
Spock turned to the only other being within sight, an Aaamazzarite male who
stood approximately three inches shorter than himself. His skin was pale yellow
as standard for his species, and combined with the golden robe he wore, he
reflected more light than seemed possible under the dim lamps.
“I am not lost. I am…searching for something.”
The Aaamazzarite blinked vibrant green eyes at him.
“Something?”
Spock answered truthfully, as he had always been raised to.
“I am not certain what I am seeking.”
The Aaamazzarite smiled faintly, the motion adding to the deep lines already on
his face. It took Spock a moment to remember that it was a characteristic of
young members of their species, not old, and he approximated the man’s age to
be equivalent to middle-aged.
“Ah. I’ll bet I can guess. Come with me? I’ll make it worth your time.”
Spock—aware that he had time a plenty before the arrival of his return
shuttle—followed reluctantly, guided by the knowledge that Aaamazzarites were
not prone to violence and this one seemed no different. They did not speak as
they walked, and the Aaamazzarite did not turn to see if he followed, but when
they reached their destination of a rundown motel, he turned to him calmly.
“If you do not wish to enter, please say so.”
Spock did not understand, and he was curious; he shook his head, mutely giving
the Aaamazzarite permission, and his guide opened the door, walking quickly to
the counter and exchanging hurried words with the Andorian stationed there.
When he returned with a key, Spock did not say anything, merely following the
Aaamazzarite down a darkened hallway and into a small bedroom that contained
only a single bed and a small dresser with a lamp on its surface.
The door was locked behind them by short, golden fingers, and he gestured to
the bed. Spock sat.
“You must understand, I had not intended to have a companion this night.
But…you are a unique find.”
Unique. It was the most complimentary word Spock had ever heard used to
describe himself, but he paid it no mind. He was Vulcan enough in appearance
that the Aaamazzarite could not have known the circumstances of his birth, and
the knowledge was oddly…freeing, even while he wondered what else he could have
meant.
When the Aaamazzarite began to remove his clothes, Spock suspected, and he felt
shame for the first time that day. This station had different rules than
Vulcan; he should have anticipated such a thing when he was seen wandering the
streets alone and after dark, but he had not. No one, to his knowledge,
expected Vulcans to engage in such an activity. Perhaps, in the back of his
mind, he had also believed that no one would want him in such a way.
Spock shook his head and pushed himself off the bed. The circumstances of this
misunderstanding were irrelevant; he could not stay.
The Aaamazzarite watched him as he continued to shuck his clothes.
“Nervous?”
Spock shook his head and pulled his simple clothes tighter around himself.
“There has been a misunderstanding.”
The Aaamazzarite’s hands froze on the fastening of his pants, and he nodded in
understanding.
“Ah, you’re a tourist. Forgive me.”
Spock was relieved that this was the end of it. He was certain he was relieved,
even though the emotion seemed to choke him, turning his next words into a mere
whisper.
“There is nothing to forgive. I must leave.”
Spock took a step towards the door, and the Aaamazzarite extended the key in
his hand. When Spock reached for it, however, his fingers closed around the
white card.
“Please don’t. I can pay you well.”
There was an edge of desperation to his voice that did not match his
expression, and Spock realized that he had never heard much about Aaamazzarites
at all. Surely their control matched a Vulcan’s in these situations? Spock
considered asking the man in front of him for a meld to see, and then he
internally admonished himself. The fact that he was even considering it spoke
volumes as to his state, and he fumbled for the only defense he had.
“I am too young.”
“You’re not.”
Spock did not argue the statement, suddenly recalling that age meant very
little in these transactions. He was uncertain what to say into the silence,
what could ease the Aaamazzarite’s desperation without sacrificing his
principles, and he met calm eyes in a lined face.
“Is the idea so repulsive to you?”
The Aaamazzarite sounded curious, but not angry. Spock swallowed, and he
considered the man’s words, and his own motives for coming to this station
tonight.
Repugnant. If his own father believed the word was an accurate description of
his mind, what right did he have to anticipate a mate in the future? T’Pring
would surely realize this before his first pon farr, and Spock doubted another
Vulcan would be so desperate as to accept him. He would die in the throes of
madness, and if he did not, he would live alone, sating his body with another
only when Vulcan logic demanded that someone must submit to preserve his life.
If he was successful in his application to the Science Academy and made a name
for himself, he would be valued, and in that case, he would live a very long
life indeed. Alone.
Was it so wrong that he was flattered to be wanted, even for something so basic
and impersonal as prostitution? Vulcan morals said “yes,” but Spock was not
entirely Vulcan. Not Vulcan enough.
“No, it is not. And…I will not go.”
It was all that needed to be said, and the Aaamazzarite nodded shortly before
he set the key next to the lamp at his side and continued removing his
clothing. Spock, uncertain, did nothing, surprised to find himself experiencing
the nerves that his companion had accused him of earlier, and in the end, the
Aaamazzarite helped him to undress. Spock appreciated the care he paid his
clothing, folding it neatly and setting it aside, and it was almost enough to
distract from his nakedness in air too chilly for bare Vulcan skin.
The actual act was very perfunctory to Spock; although he identified lust in
the man when he was taken, the mechanics did not make it seem special or
magical as his forays into samples of human romanticism claimed it would be,
and it was painful, somewhat. He suspected there was a better way to go about
being penetrated by another—women managed it without difficulty, he was
certain—but overall, the Aaamazzarite was gentle with him. He felt the
tenderness from his skin; impersonal tenderness, for his companion did not know
him, but he still had likely guessed Spock’s virginal state, and so he treated
him with care. He also felt the guilt that the Aaamazzarite felt for betraying
his wife and two children, the eagerness with which he claimed his body, and
the regret that someone so young as Spock was who he had encountered that
night. Spock absorbed it all in quiet contemplation, and he found himself
having to revise his earlier assumption when a particularly hard thrust made
him cry out; the Aaamazzarite was not so controlled as a Vulcan after all.
When the act had been completed, the Aaamazzarite dressed quickly and used the
key to let himself out. Before he left, he set it and a stack of his native
coins on the dresser, and he did not say goodbye.
Spock was unexpectedly pleased by the knowledge that he did not pretend to care
what Spock did after he was gone, that he did not pretend their coupling had
been anything but a business transaction between a grown man and an uncertain
Vulcan teenager. He did not pretend, and in the end, it made it easier for
Spock to dress and sweep the money into his pocket.
As the son of an ambassador, all of his needs were taken care of. Curiously,
Spock had never held so much money in his hands, and the exchange rate between
Aaamazzarite currency and the standard Federation dollar assured him that at
least his customer had not lied; he had been paid well.
As Spock hurried back to the rendezvous for the return shuttle, he was also
forced to revise his earlier defense.
Apparently he was not too young after all.
********
While Spock was unfamiliar with the motives that usually propelled an
individual into the sort of service he had recently sampled, he knew that he
had his own reasons—unique to him—for revisiting that same space station the
very next night, leaving Vulcan under the cover of darkness with plans to
return early the next morning. He was uncertain what he was looking for this
night; a sense of surety, perhaps, that he had not imagined such an activity in
his lonely hours, that he had not created some random being to assign the
arduous task of wanting him. As he remained for hours in the darkness, he began
to believe that he had, in fact, imagined it, when an Andorian approached him,
the same Andorian that his memory told him ran the motel across the street.
“We don’t get many Vulcans up here selling. You lost, pointy ears?”
His antennae flickered with disdain and something else, and Spock shook his
head.
“I am not lost. I am searching for something.”
Through no conscious decision, Spock had decided that this would be his way of
confirming that he was indeed “selling.” He was aware that he seemed out of
place in his black student’s uniform, and he suspected he would be asked if he
was lost every night; by some unspoken code, those who approached him seemed to
understand his response just as easily.
“Ah. How much?”
Money meant very little to him, but Spock had taken the money he had received
as standard and translated it into a rough sum for Andorian currency.
The Andorian hissed.
“Geesh, you’re expensive. That good?”
Spock had researched the practice of prostitution the night before, and he knew
that in this instance, skills were not his selling point.
“I am new at this, and young.”
The Andorian looked intrigued.
“Virgin?”
Spock shook his head.
“Not any longer.”
They fell into silence, neither one giving an inch, and then the Andorian
sighed.
“Close enough, then, and fine. At least I don’t have to pay for a room.”
Spock wondered if it was common to include a discount for such things, and he
resolved to research it later, after he was finished with the Andorian. The
Andorian, for his part, was not gentle; it hurt significantly more than the
first time, and Spock resolved himself to obtain materials necessary to avoid
such pain in the future as he catalogued the emotions trickling through the
touch of flesh. Lust, again. Anger at the price. Enthusiasm. Satisfaction.
Desperation. When it became clear that the Andorian wanted him to make noise at
the discomfort of their joining, Spock did so, and the emotions of lust and
satisfaction increased tenfold; perhaps he was not so unskilled as he thought.
After the Andorian paid his price and before he left the station, Spock visited
a nearby hospital to ensure that the blood trickling down his thighs was not
the result of serious injury. He concluded that he did indeed need to look into
materials for this profession if his midnight ventures were to continue.
********
Although the rest of Vulcan never knew it, Spock became something of a regular
at Space Station Seventeen, and—as the occasional “colleague” he encountered
was happy to point out—something of a legend as well. Vulcan prostitutes were
extremely rare even in the barbaric regions of space, a young Orion had
explained, much less a stone’s throw from the Vulcan homeworld. Spock didn’t
comment on the obvious request for an explanation or the strange expression,
and he never told her his name; even though his hobby was somewhat questionable
by Vulcan standards, he still had plans that he would not allow misplaced
rumors to tarnish.
For four years, Spock kept his secret well, and he learned. He was surprised to
note that many of the skills and habits he learned while participating in these
clandestine activities were actually quite useful, and some of them even aided
him in his attempts to blend more cleanly with his classmates.
When other Vulcans came to the station while he was present, Spock hid, and
surrendered the possibility of a customer for that night; this taught him
stealth, and to accept failure. When he experienced his first Klingon
customer—a pirate, no doubt—he learned to control his expression to perfection
with the threat of torture hanging over his head, and he never again lost
control on the outside. When he competed with others of the same profession, he
learned treachery, and how to deal with it. And—perhaps most importantly—when
he accepted his first human and felt the complex and overwhelming array of
emotions, he learned that he was not the only one who felt such conflicts. By
the time he was nineteen, Spock had begun to understand that humans were not
bad, not less than Vulcans, not unruly animals who gave into every emotion. If
anything, they only acknowledged a few at a time, showing an interesting
display of control and surrender that made Spock almost grateful to be related
to such a species.
When the occasion came to choose between the Science Academy with all its
bigotry and Starfleet with all its possibilities, Spock found the decision much
easier than it should have been. Naturally, his father confronted him the same
night he had rejected the Science Academy, “confronted” in the way only a
Vulcan could.
“If you persist in this course of action, you will no longer receive funds from
your family.”
The warning was delivered calmly, and Spock wondered why his refusal of the
Academy was relevant; he was a disappointment to his father, and he would have
remained that way no matter his choices. In any case, the threat was
ineffective; “family” in this case meant Sarek, as his mother would have no
doubt have defied her husband if Spock was in jeopardy, but Spock did not need
funds.
After being the most expensive prostitute on Space Station Seventeen for four
years, Spock had amassed a considerable fortune of his own.
“Understood, Father.”
Sarek left, and Spock was certain the elder Vulcan interpreted the statement as
a surrender, an agreement to be all that the proper Vulcan son would have been.
Spock left his mother a note saying that he would contact her when he reached
Earth. He said nothing to Sarek even though he acknowledged that they may never
again speak to each other.
********
Starfleet was in some respects a blessing for Spock; in others, it was a
disappointment. If he had foreseen a future without discrimination, he did not
find it on Earth, and it was only due to the fact that the prejudice took a
different form than he was used to that it took him so long to recognize it. On
Vulcan, he had been considered less than his peers: less intelligent, less
controlled, less dignified. However, in a swarm of aliens and as the only
Vulcan, Spock was more than humans were in those aspects, and it made him seem
cold, unapproachable, and isolated.
He considered, very briefly, resuming his nighttime activities on Earth, but he
discarded the notion quickly. On Space Station Seventeen, he had been
relatively anonymous; if anyone suspected he may have been the son of a revered
ambassador, they did not say it, unwilling to risk making enemies if it came to
that. On Earth he had no such guarantee, and as the only Vulcan within at least
a hundred miles, he would have been recognized easily. Whatever he had gained
through his actions when he was younger—even now, he was still not certain what
it was—would have to be pushed aside, his own turmoil and confusion rejected in
the face of his new situation.
In the end, it was just as well that he concentrated on his studies rather than
his own internal conflicts. He was unparalleled at this academy, first in his
class, and he completed all the required courses in a mere three years instead
of four, advancing through the ranks just as rapidly. When he was offered the
position as a professor, he accepted it with almost-enthusiasm, launching
himself into the position of influence with a firm belief that teaching was not
so hard. His instructors in his childhood were demanding and uncompromising,
but he, Spock, would be different.
Several things happened that made Spock realize he was not very different at
all, not unique. Although he would have been considered lax by Vulcan
standards, to species that were less rigorous with their studies, he was
impossible. The dropout rate of his class was nearly double that of the academy
as a whole, and no matter the subject—tactics, languages, mathematics,
sciences—he always had at least one student scream at him, one cry, and one
give up their dreams at what must have seemed an insurmountable obstacle. When
he realized he was the one consistent element in all of his classes, Spock
attempted to change, and he began by speaking with his students as if they were
capable adults rather than merely his pupils.
The result was that, after nearly two years of this, he met Nyota.
She was a brilliant young woman; he had given her a B at first due to her
failure to master the Romulan dialects, and she responded by performing a short
piece in his office in all three after class, clearly having practiced, clearly
aware of her defect before he had been able to point it out. When she completed
his class, she had one of the top grades neatly secured, and Spock admitted,
almost sheepishly, that he admired her dedication.
He was surprised when she asked him to dinner three days after evaluations had
been posted, but he accepted; he had received a missive that day from T’Pring,
informing him of the breaking of their already fading bond that was to occur
later that week. When the bond was indeed broken two days later and he lay
shaking and sick in his quarters, Nyota came to him, informing him
that—whatever he might think of her intentions—she understood Vulcan culture
more than most.
While it seemed a comfort at the time, that fact—combined with the destruction
of his planet—was what made him end their relationship three years after it had
begun. Vulcan culture would not have accepted his youthful indiscretions any
more than Nyota would have, and he was aware of this, even thought of it long
into the night. Their connection was shallow, he told himself; she did not know
him outside of what she knew of her Vulcan professor, and her knowledge of
Vulcan culture prevented her from asking about his childhood, his hopes, his
secrets. In turn, his role as a Vulcan made it impossible for him to share
these things with her, and he knew even before their relationship ended that he
could not see himself linking to her mind, or allowing her to see his.
She accepted the separation with quiet dignity, and if it upset her enough to
break her heart, she did not show it. After all, Nyota was a professional, and
by that time they were already deep in space, sailing with Enterprise under her
intrepid captain; it would not have been practical for either of them to feel
despair, or to cause a scene.
Still, although the breakup had been his choice, Spock could not help but feel
that he had found his destiny. Alone.
********
Captain Kirk was also a blessing, but it took Spock nearly a year of loneliness
to realize this. The blond human was difficult, impulsive, persistent, and he
seemed quite convinced that friendship with Spock was all he needed to turn
every unsuccessful mission around, and to become the leader he had potential to
be.
Spock was uncertain where he had acquired this nonsensical idea—he suspected
his alternate self, truly—but he accepted many of the overtures of friendship
regardless, because without them he had nothing.
Kirk—or Jim, as he obviously preferred—seemed to understand, at least a little
bit.
“You know, when I was…eight? Nine? Yeah, when I was nine, I realized I wasn’t
like other kids.”
Spock was startled from his examination of the chess board, but he recovered
quickly.
“How so, Jim?”
“Well, they had a family, right? A father who loved them. I had…well, Frank.”
“Frank?” The name was unfamiliar to Spock, and considering how many stories Jim
had shared with him, that meant something.
Jim, however, simply shrugged, a dismissal.
“My stepfather. He was a bit of a bastard, complete with the stereotypical
drinking and yelling and whatever else. Made it all the easier to leave when
Pike finally showed up.”
Spock swallowed, and he felt a surge of gratitude towards Admiral Pike that he
wasn’t certain how to manage. They had always been on respectful terms, and
Spock admired him a great deal; he simply was not used to feeling any emotional
response towards a superior officer.
In that way, Jim was also unique.
“I see.”
Jim smirked and flicked at one of the captured white rooks near his fingertips.
“Of course, Frank was about ready to throw me out anyway. I ever tell you about
when I drove his car off a cliff?”
Ah, that stepfather; Spock remembered the story, but Jim was dramatic. As he
had informed him all too happily once, stepparents sounded significantly more
sinister when they were not named. Spock wondered when his opinion had changed.
“Yes, Jim.”
Jim didn’t quite deflate.
“Oh. Well, okay then. Your turn.”
Jim did not understand Vulcan culture, and this was the basis for the games
they played while engaged in chess. Jim told Spock a story of his childhood,
his interests, his thoughts, and in turn, Spock shared one of his own. The
exchange, despite its oddity, was quite relaxing, and Spock began only after he
had moved his bishop to intercept one of Jim’s invading pawns.
“When I was nine, I broke a child’s nose.”
He would lose both games that night, but that was fine; Spock still enjoyed
Jim’s company.
********
Spock was uncertain when “enjoying Jim’s company” became more than just that,
and he was terrified when he understood that it had become even more than what
he had with Nyota. Jim did not realize, of course; he was too preoccupied with
the next mission, the next woman, and Spock was a dear colleague, and a friend.
The knowledge of their platonic relationship would have caused him pain, in
fact, except Spock had spent nearly a decade with humans, long enough to
realize that they had much the same opinion of prostitution as Vulcans did.
Even if Jim loved him, even if he felt passion for him, Spock could never link
with him either. Unlike with Nyota, however, it was not a matter of distaste;
with Jim, he simply valued his good opinion too much.
It made life difficult, because Jim was an enthusiastic, appealing man, and an
adventurous one.
“Hey, Spock!”
Spock looked up from that evening’s chess game, taking in the half smile on
Jim’s face and the slight sheen of sweat to flushed skin. They had decided to
play in Spock’s quarters this time, something that was no doubt due to Jim’s
concern for his health after a recent illness. He was touched.
“Yes, Jim?”
“Want to fool around?”
Spock was surprised, but only for a moment. Jim was adventurous, after all, and
there were very few Vulcans left to experiment with, much less Vulcan females.
He was tempted, but he knew it would be wrong.
“That would not be wise, Jim.”
Jim nodded, still smiling.
“Then do you want to make love?”
Spock swore his heart stopped for an instant; when it restarted, each beat
hurt.
“I do not understand.”
Jim’s expression became earnest, and he reached across the table. Spock jerked
his hands away before the cool human flesh could touch him.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
It was not possible. Spock’s mind was undesirable, his body soiled from the
touches of too many men, and Jim should not have felt that way, not towards
him. Spock must have deceived him, somehow, to make Jim believe he was worth
love.
He had not had this problem with Nyota. She had not loved him nor he her, and
he had not desired such things with her. He had not wondered if he was too used
or too damaged for a sexual relationship, because the truth was that he had
never wanted one, not even as a logical step in romance.
He wanted a relationship now, but—aware of his own feelings—he knew he could
not. What if Jim found out? Spock didn’t think he could stand to have Jim’s
kind eyes begin to look at him with disgust.
“I cannot. I’m sorry.”
There was a moment when Jim looked devastated, and Spock couldn’t bear it. He
stood quickly, accepting that their chess game may never be completed, that Jim
may never want to play with him again, and he left.
Jim’s words followed him.
“Yeah, I’m sorry too.”
********
The next shift they had together was thankfully not awkward, but Spock almost
wished it was; he wished for anything except the circles under Jim’s clear blue
eyes. However, despite their ending two days before, they still worked together
as efficiently as they always had, knowing each other’s thoughts even when they
were painfully apart. After hours of this, Spock even dared hope that their
troubles were over. His love had not faded, of course, but Jim was young,
undamaged, and good; surely he could find another to give his heart to?
When their shift ended and Jim stepped into the turbolift, Spock followed him
without hesitation. Despite the stiffening of Jim’s shoulders that told him
there were still residual feelings, he pressed on, unwilling to give up so
easily.
“Jim, would you like to play chess with me this evening?”
Jim’s exhaled breath was loud in the silence, and Spock awaited his answer.
“I’m…not today, Spock. I don’t think I can.”
Spock nodded and said nothing. When Jim looked at him, however, his eyes were
caring, if sad.
“Maybe in a few days? How about Thursday, after Beta shift?”
Spock felt his chest unclench, just barely. Through some miracle, Jim still
wanted his company; he just needed time.
“That is acceptable, Jim.”
Jim smiled at him as the turbolift doors opened.
“Okay then. It’s a da—a plan. Goodnight, Spock.”
Spock swallowed, and he wondered if Jim would ever be able to talk to him again
without his words being choked with things he felt he couldn’t say anymore.
“Goodnight, Jim.”
There was no response, and as the turbolift continued to the science labs,
Spock couldn’t help but think that his younger self had miscalculated when he
assumed he had nothing to lose.
********
When their chess games resumed, it was with stilted regularity, and they were
not pleasant. Although they conversed almost as much as they always had, there
were a few crucial changes between them. For one, Jim had stopped sharing his
stories; whether this was intentional or not did not matter, but the way he had
mockingly told of his own past had been familiar and comforting, and now they
discussed work, the crew, the ship. Spock no longer heard about when Jim had
egged his neighbor’s house and hid inside a septic tank, and he no longer heard
about the trials he’d faced being the smartest person in his small Iowa school.
It was lonelier than Spock could have anticipated, but he could have managed,
if not for one thing.
When he saw Jim now, he always smelled of sex with another. Spock was certain
it was unintentional—Jim could not have known it would cause him distress—and
he likely wasn’t aware that Vulcan senses were so acute; still, Spock could
smell it, and well enough that he was even able to identify who Jim’s partner
had been on rare occasions. He was thankful of the fact that the smells varied
with regularity even if his own selfishness shocked him and he knew he had no
right to hold Jim to him, but he justified it with the concern of a friend. At
least, in Spock’s mind, Jim was getting what he needed, if not from him.
They had been playing chess every night for six weeks when the smells became
only one, that of an engineering lieutenant named Alice Peters. Spock had known
she admired the Captain, even loved him with hero worship in her eyes, and he
should have been happy that Jim was moving on. He was not, and that evening,
Spock couldn’t even sit still long enough to say so. Not with that smell
floating around his quarters.
Jim paused in his attempts to set up the chess board when Spock pushed himself
out of his seat and moved far away before facing the nearest bulkhead.
“Spock? Is something wrong?”
Yes, everything. But Spock could not explain that his heart was breaking, that
he wanted to cry with eyes that did not have tear ducts.
“I wish you would shower before coming here.”
“Huh? I stink?”
Jim sounded puzzled, and Spock turned back towards him, not to look at him, but
to hide his clenching hands.
“You still smell like the Lieutenant.”
Jim winced, rubbing one hand sheepishly across the back of his neck before he
resumed setting up the chess pieces.
“Well shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. I’ll remember that in the future.”
That should have been the end of it; a friend would have let it go, surely, but
Spock was not as controlled as he should have been and it was difficult to
pretend. He could not stop himself from speaking.
“Why do you wish to be with her?”
Jim shrugged like it was nothing. Spock knew that it couldn’t have been, since
Jim had never dallied with his crew before these past six weeks.
“It’s just sex.”
Just sex. Spock had experienced “just sex;” he knew it wasn’t possible for
humans to have a relationship without at least some affection, at least some
tenderness, no matter how casual.
He swallowed, and it hurt.
“Of course. My apologies.”
Jim stood, and Spock remained perfectly still as the human approached him.
“Spock, you sound upset. Tell me why?”
A careful hand came to rest on his blue-clothed shoulder. Spock was nearly
undone.
“I cannot.”
The words were whispered, and Jim’s hand squeezed once before he released him
with a sigh. Spock did not imagine the reluctance in the gesture, because he
felt it too.
“You said that before, and you didn’t explain then either.”
Jim sounded annoyed but resigned, and Spock felt him distancing himself even if
he did not move.
“I have no right to feel this way,” Spock admitted, honest, ashamed. He knew
instantly that he had given himself away by the surprise on Jim’s face.
“Spock, are you…jealous?”
Spock did not reply. It would have been better if Jim had believed he simply
felt differently or not at all, but he had already ruined any chance of that.
He was certain that any further explanation would only condemn him further.
“But, I thought...” Jim swallowed loudly and pushed a hand through his light
hair, studying the floor for a moment before looking up again. “It’s not
because you don’t want me?” His words were hesitant, nervous.
Spock shook his head mutely.
“Then why?” When Spock didn’t reply, Jim sighed again, the sound exasperated.
“Spock.”
Spock looked into his eyes, and he saw his friend clearly. Jim thought he loved
him, thought that he was worth a relationship, that he was worth so much. But
Jim didn’t know him either, didn’t understand him any more than anyone else,
didn’t realize that his mind was so wretched and unwanted. If Jim knew…but he
didn’t, he never could. If Jim knew, he would leave or send Spock away, or at
least never look at him with that soft, gentle gaze again. Spock kept his
secrets because he wanted that look, even if he didn’t deserve it.
Jim looked away, but not before Spock saw his eyes dim with sadness. The
distance between them grew and his breath caught, because he knew. Jim might
not have known about Spock’s past, but he knew that he was keeping secrets.
Over time, the knowledge would crack their friendship, destroy it, as surely as
honesty would have.
Spock breathed deeply, and the simple motion burned. It was clear that
regardless of his actions, Jim was already lost to him.
 “When I was younger, I participated in activities of…questionable morality.”
The words were soft, hardly audible, but still Spock could barely refrain from
stumbling when they left him. He realized, then, that he had never said it
aloud, not even to himself.
Jim looked interested, but not disgusted. He didn’t understand.
“What kind of activities?”
“Prostitution.”
There was a moment where Jim looked surprised, and Spock waited.
“Huh. I never thought a guy like you would need to hire a prostitute.”
Jim still didn’t understand, clearly.
“That is not the sort of participation I speak of.”
Spock held his breath while Jim absorbed this new information. He must find it
appalling, Spock decided, too disgusting to speak of. He was shaking, he knew
he was, and he wondered if this was it, if this was the moment where Jim
commanded him from his life.
As always, Jim surprised him.
“Why?”
He didn’t sound condemning or horrified, appalled or disgusted. He just sounded
curious, and Spock blinked at him. Impossible.
“I am not certain. It was not rational, but I felt rejected by my father and my
peers. I wished for acceptance.”
This was the reasoning he had decided on after over a decade of thought; it was
still not, to his knowledge, completely accurate.
Jim smiled at him. Smiled at him.
“More than that, sounds like.” He looked happy, understanding, kind. He should
have been recoiling, but instead he was moving closer.
Jim touched his face, and his gaze was gentle again.
“You must have been so lost, Spock.”
It sounded different when Jim said it, like a certain truth rather than a
question, and Spock hesitated before answering.
“I was searching for something.”
“What?”
Spock opened his mouth to reply with “acceptance” a second time, but he paused.
It wasn’t just acceptance, it was everything else as well. Affection.
Connection. Answers. The sense of being valued. The complexity of another, the
knowledge that he wasn’t alone. The belief that someone found him desirable,
despite what he was. Understanding.
Spock looked at Jim in something like amazement.
“I was looking for you.”
At Spock’s admittance, Jim finally looked shocked, but he did not pull away.
After several moments of breathing deeply, he actually smiled again.
“Oh, Spock.” The brief touch became a caress, full of affection. “Did you think
I would think less of you? A lot of the rumors about me aren’t true, you know,
but a lot of them are. Everybody does things they’re not proud of.”
That was all he said, his only reaction. Spock couldn’t believe that it was
that simple, that Jim would offer him such endless acceptance. He wondered if
Jim still just didn’t understand.
“I do not deserve…”
Jim’s hand covered his mouth briefly before sliding to cup his cheek.
“Now who told you that?” His voice was amused.
“No one.” He had inferred it, of course, with what he knew of the societies he
was a part of and what he had mistakenly heard so long ago, but it was
difficult to say that in the face of Jim’s apparent disbelief that he could
ever be unwanted.
Jim just continued to smile, and Spock had felt only the barest trickling of
lust when he pulled away, holding him at arms’ length.
“I do love you, you know.”
Spock raised his hand to hover uncertainly near Jim’s face.
“If you will permit me…?” He had to know, had to see, and Jim had to know as
well. He claimed love, despite everything, but Jim still didn’t realize.
Jim nodded, and Spock pressed his hand to the meld points on his face. Their
surroundings vanished abruptly, swallowed by darkness, and although Spock still
felt himself standing, he was aware of looking into the black for something.
A small golden light waited for him, and Spock knew without looking that it was
Jim.
Spock!
The light burst, brightening, and Spock reached out. He too was a light, here,
but as he had instinctively recognized the other, Jim recognized him.
When they touched, there was no hesitation, each wrapping around the other.
Whatever it was in Spock’s mind that he had believed was so abhorrent, Jim must
not have seen it, even so close.
Silly Spock. How could anyone not love you?
Spock tried to show him his memories and thoughts. As he was new at attempting
to meld with a living being, he was unsure how successful he was, but even as
he tried to wrap the light with images, he felt Jim’s amusement, and the belief
that nothing could ever make him feel differently. Spock, curious, touched
Jim’s mind with more familiarity, and he saw, without a doubt, what Jim felt
for him.
Jim knew he was not perfect. He knew that Spock was susceptible to arrogance,
jealousy, anger, but he accepted this, found it endearing and understandable,
even. He believed Spock to be inherently good, better than most, and he knew
Spock to be beautiful, inside and out.
When the meld ended and Spock regained awareness in his body, his lungs were
constricted. He might never agree with his human’s perception of him, but he
was grateful for whatever miracle it was that made Jim unable to see the truth.
He was thankful for his love, and for the first time, Spock believed that it
was exactly as Jim claimed.
They were wrapped around each other in the physical world as well, their arms
wrapped tight so they could balance. When they pulled away, Jim was breathing
quickly with the stress of the meld, but he was still smiling, as if he known
what it would reveal all along.
“So…chess?”
Spock frowned minutely.
“You do not wish to be intimate?”
In his—albeit limited—experience with relationships, sex was what normally
followed a confession of love. He could not say that he was particularly
enthused about the idea, something he was certain Jim had heard in his voice
when he spoke.
“We don’t have to have sex, you know. I didn’t know why you felt you couldn’t
before, but…forever, Spock. I could wait forever for you, as long as I knew you
loved me too.”
Spock considered it. With Jim it would not be unpleasant or uninteresting, and
it would bring the man he loved satisfaction. Spock had never wanted to satisfy
anyone as much as he did Jim.
“Forever is not necessary; a day will suffice.”
Jim looked surprised, and uneasy.
“Isn’t that moving quickly?”
Dear, sweet Jim…Spock wanted to say that he would be pleased to never
participate in sex again but he knew it would be cruel. Besides, he trusted Jim
to make it tolerable, if nothing else.
“I would be willing to join with you tonight, but I am not prepared. It has
been…some time.” Over ten years, to be more accurate, but Spock knew Jim; if he
stated that, it would only delay the inevitable.
Jim only looked relieved, as if he had expected Spock to reveal some horrible
tale of woe about his first time, or about a customer who was too rough. Spock
was just grateful that the matter was dismissed, and he wished Jim would kiss
him.
Instead, Jim moved back to the chess board and resumed setting up the pieces,
changing the topic rather abruptly to how the new upgrades in engineering were
fairing.
********
The next day, Spock worked almost entirely in the science labs; this was
partially because he had duties there, partially because he did not trust many
of the newer officers to be consistently competent without his guidance, and
partially so that when he slipped out of their company with the intention of
heading to sickbay, he had a reasonable excuse.
Doctor McCoy was busy when he entered; with what, he wasn’t certain.
“Doctor, I require lubricant.”
His response was a curse as McCoy immediately dropped whatever he was holding
with a clatter, his eyes darting quickly around sickbay for over-eager
listeners before whirring on Spock.
“Dammit, man! You can’t just spring that on somebody! And why the hell can’t
you go to the provision’s office for it?”
“Your tone, Doctor.” Spock had never understood why McCoy was allowed to use
such a disrespectful tone in front of the captain—he could admit that he had
been jealous of their closeness, once—but he in no way condoned it around
himself. The doctor was aware of this, but strangely, he either forgot often or
didn’t seem to care.
This time, like every other time Spock had reprimanded him, he just snorted and
went about his business.
“I did not wish it to be common knowledge that I am engaging in sexual
relations with another person on this vessel.”
McCoy snorted again.
“Permission to speak freely, Commander?”
In Spock’s experience with the doctor, this was usually a bad idea, but he
allowed it anyway with a nod.
“I don’t ever want to know who you’re sticking it to, man or woman, and if this
ever comes up again, I will throw myself out the nearest airlock.”
Spock raised an eyebrow at the comment.
“You are overreacting.”
“Tell that to my brain.”
“I believe I just—”
McCoy made a cut-off motion with one and Spock abruptly closed his mouth,
waiting while the doctor reached into a nearby drawer.
“Never mind, and here.”
Spock caught the small container thrown at him, and McCoy went back to his work
again, deliberately turning his back. Curiously, his ears were pink.
“If you ever need more, there’s instructions on the back; just replicate the
blasted stuff.”
Spock nodded although McCoy could not see it.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
McCoy responded with a grumble, and Spock decided to take that as a polite
“you’re welcome” rather than the curse it probably was. Before heading back to
his own work, he carefully tucked the small container into his pocket.
********
Spock went to Jim’s quarters that evening as they’d tentatively planned, and
also as planned, he was wearing one of his very rarely donned formal outfits.
He was uncertain why Jim had requested it and the puzzled looks of the
crewmembers he passed confirmed that they had no explanation either, but when
he chimed for entry and the door immediately opened, he knew.
Somehow Jim had managed to set up a formal dinner, complete with non-replicated
dishes and soft lighting. A glance at Jim showed that he too was wearing his
formal clothing, the green wrapped shirt curiously pleasing when combined with
his blue eyes and broad smile. Spock did not question why his heart was
suddenly pounding.
“I was unaware that this meeting was intended to be so ceremonial.”
“It isn’t. I just think you look stunning in your formal wear.”
Spock cleared his throat and tried to pretend that his body wasn’t suddenly
humming with the compliment.
“I am pleased that you find my appearance gratifying.”
Jim smiled and gestured to the seat across from him.
“You’re welcome. Hungry?”
Spock was surprised to realize that he was, and he nodded as he sat. Jim
reached across the table and removed the lids of several dishes, revealing
foods that were all vegetarian and all cuisine that Spock favored. He was oddly
touched, both by the fact that Jim had noticed his preferred foods—he never
recalled informing anyone that he enjoyed Andorian spiced vegetables—and by his
own knowledge of the man across from him. It was very rare that he saw Jim eat
anything that wasn’t meat, but to see the way he eagerly loaded his plate with
a variety of the laid-out dishes, he would never have suspected.
Spock was prepared for their conversation over dinner to focus on the reason he
was hear, the love that Jim felt for him and the obligations it brought, but he
found that the subject was never mentioned, buried in talk of work and
anecdotes of Jim’s past. Their talk was pleasant and friendly, and Spock would
have forgotten the goal of the evening if not for the way Jim’s eyes
occasionally darkened and the weight of the lubricant in his pocket.
When Jim stood to collect their dishes and set them neatly out of the way,
Spock caught his breath; despite his leisurely attitude, Jim was aroused.
“Something wrong?”
Spock shook his head mutely and crossed his legs as he felt a surge of lust
move through him; although he recognized the feeling from previous encounters,
he had never felt it himself. It was a strange experience.
“No.” 
Jim pulled his chair alongside Spock and sat, looking at him intently.
“Are you sure?”
Spock swallowed and turned his head, gladly meeting the gaze so close to his.
Jim no longer smelled like others; he smelled like spices and soap, and the
combination made Spock shudder slightly.
Jim’s eyes darkened noticeably, and Spock knew it wasn’t just an affect of the
light.
“Yes.”
Jim licked his lips, and he leaned forward, brushing Spock’s lips with his own.
His breath tasted like cinnamon and sage, and the faint pulse of lust under his
skin—rather than repel—caused Spock’s own feelings to surge. Spock had often
enjoyed kissing as he associated it with the innocence of romance and with his
easy affection for Nyota, but this kiss was entirely different. It had
affection, and it had lust, but it also had the undeniable feel of love as
well; if that was all it was, Spock would have gladly accepted it, but it was
even more than that. The kiss was deep and overpowering, and when Jim pulled
back to suck in a breath, Spock gladly followed him.
He believed he understood now why Jim had not kissed him before; if they had
touched like this the night before, it would not have mattered where they were
or whether they were prepared or not. However, this night Spock could think of
nothing he would prefer except to be in Jim’s arms, feeling the gentle
smoothing of palms down his back as they shared a series of kisses that ranged
from tender to hungry.
When Jim pulled away again, he was unable to complete the motion, because
Spock’s arms held him firmly in place. He grinned.
“Bedroom?”
Spock nodded quickly and released him, all but stumbling as they moved past the
screen towards the standard issue bed. Spock had hoped they would resume their
activities immediately, falling onto the covers and staying locked at the lips
until the time came to complete the sex act, but this did not happen. Instead,
Jim darted back into his living quarters, giving the command to dim the lights
even further and informing the bridge crew that he was not to be disturbed
unless there was an emergency.
As Spock had expected, his arousal began to fade with the delay, and he sighed
as he shucked his clothes, carefully setting the vial of lubricant on the
bedside table.
When Jim entered the bedroom, Spock was completely nude and folding his clothes
neatly. Jim eyed his naked form, and Spock thought he looked disappointed.
“Huh. I kind of wanted to do that, but I’m not complaining.”
Spock was relieved, but his shoulders were tense as he turned to face him.
“Now you, Jim.”
Jim looked at him, his eyes lingering on Spock’s now nearly-flaccid member.
“Are you in a hurry?”
Spock shook his head, surprised by the question but not by Jim’s reaction.
Others might not have cared if Spock enjoyed their actions, but Jim certainly
did; it made the situation difficult, since Spock doubted he would be able to
become aroused again.
“Negative.”
Jim gave the answer undue thought, and then he abruptly turned and continued to
the bathroom. When he returned, it was with Spock’s black terrycloth robe.
“Here.” Jim tossed it to him, waiting while he shrugged it on and tied it
neatly. Spock was confused, and he knew it must have shown on his face even in
such poor lighting.
Jim gestured to the single bed, and Spock sat. Jim seemed to consider the
position, and then he gestured again. Spock interpreted it to mean he wished
him to lie down, and, curious, he relaxed back into the blue coverlet with his
head pressed into the single pillow. Jim moved closer until he stood directly
above him, and then he too settled on the bed, straddling Spock’s hips
suddenly. He was uncertain how to interpret the action when there were still
two layers of cloth between them, but Jim only grinned and leaned forward,
kissing him lightly on the lips. Then, he waited.
Spock made a soft humming noise and pulled him back down, and Jim braced an arm
on either side of his head as they softly kissed. It was pleasant, and Spock
wished it could continue indefinitely, that he could forget what was to come,
but he felt Jim’s hardness against him and couldn’t.
Still, when Jim pulled back, panting, Spock knew he had delayed long enough. He
shifted carefully to hide the fact that he wasn’t aroused as he pushed Jim to
the side.
“Your clothes, Jim.”
Jim stood and discarded his clothes with jerky movements, but for all his
urgency, he too folded his discarded garments before placing them neatly on the
chair. When Spock reached for the lubricant, however, Jim stopped him, wiggling
his fingers for the vial.
Spock looked at him, exasperated.
“I have done this before, Jim.”
Jim shook his head.
“Not with me, you haven’t. Give it.”
Spock obliged, and he was surprised when Jim neither touched himself nor
attempted to remove Spock’s robe. Instead he straddled him again, their bare
flesh separated by only a thin layer of terrycloth, and when Spock shifted,
impatient, Jim smacked him lightly on his chest.
“Bend one leg.”
Jim shifted off him to allow him to do just that, and the robe parted. He was
baffled when Jim chose to lock his thighs on either side of his still-covered
leg, completely ignoring the newly exposed flesh and the revealing position
Spock had assumed.
When Jim just laughed at the look on his face and darted forward to kiss his
nose, the confusion increased.
“I will never hurt you, Spock.”
Spock opened his mouth to reply that he knew this, of course, but Jim kissed
his mouth closed.
“I will never make you do anything you don’t want to do.”
Spock didn’t try to reply that time since Jim seemed to be attempting to make a
point, and he was rewarded by a kiss on the tip of each ear.
“And—” Jim kissed his chin and grinned before continuing “—I will never try to
have sex with you unless you want it too.”
Jim looked at him knowingly, and Spock swallowed against the emotion that
clogged his throat. Jim continued almost thoughtfully.
“However, since you seem so determined, we’re going to at least give this a
shot before we call it quits and go play chess.”
Spock wasn’t certain what Jim meant until he uncapped the vial in his hand. It
was a sign of how much Spock trusted him that he didn’t tense up when slick
fingers touched his bared thigh.
Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t for Jim’s touch to move gently across his
penis, affectionately stroking and exploring the soft length. He seemed more
curious than lustful, and Spock didn’t feel ashamed of his lack of reaction
when Jim’s own arousal began to fade during the study. Apparently, to humans
there was such a thing as innocent touches, even in such a private place.
It was…pleasant.
“Vulcans don’t have testicles?”
The question was gentle, and Spock shook his head.
“Ours are internal.”
Jim trailed a finger softly across the tip of his penis, and the touch almost
tickled.
“Where?”
Spock pointed to the two dark green spots just below his bellybutton, and Jim
touched them as well with only the lightest of pressure.
Spock jerked reflexively, and Jim pulled his fingers back.
“Did that hurt?”
Spock shook his head again; whatever the sensation was, it was not pain.
“No.”
Jim touched them again, this time with a firmer hand; Spock felt a prickle move
across his spine, and his stomach felt oddly full. Spock wanted to tell him to
stop, that he was not certain of the consequences or of his body’s reaction,
but before he could, Jim’s hand moved to his now-hard penis.
Spock was confused, and Jim radiated amusement.
“I guess that was your “go” button?”
Spock couldn’t help but feel a little bit amused as well, even as his breath
caught with each gentle stroke of Jim’s hand. Something was building, something
urgent, but Spock couldn’t define it and he enjoyed Jim’s touch too much to
try.
“So it would seem.”
Jim just pulled at the flesh under his hands, his touch revealing affection and
the barest edge of eagerness now as well.
“You know, I can ride you, if you want.”
The statement seemed unusual to Spock, but Jim must have concluded that on his
own, because his head suddenly filled with an image of what exactly riding
Spock meant.
“You mean…?” Spock had never expected Jim to want penetration from him.
“Sure,” Jim replied easily. “I’ve done it before. The key, though, is
preparation.”
Spock was intrigued.
“How so?”
Jim pressed Spock’s penis to his stomach and rocked his own hardness gently
against the cloth-covered thigh under him. It was amazing that he was able to
focus clearly on what Spock was saying; obviously, he had underestimated Jim’s
focus.
“If you just slather on some lube, it’ll still hurt. Stretching, though…”
“Stretching,” Spock repeated, considering it. The idea had some practical
basis, but he had never applied it, or rather, no one had ever applied it to
him.
“Yep. It has its own benefits, too. Can I show you?”
Their conversation had alleviated Spock’s nerves, and his reservations, at
least for the moment. He was surprised at how quickly his body seemed willing
to forget.
He swallowed, and Jim watched the motion of his throat, waiting.
“You may.”
Jim nodded, and he poured lubricant over his spare hand before setting the vial
on the floor. He rubbed his palms together to warm the liquid, and then he
tickled his fingers through the dark hair on Spock’s thighs, hesitating only
briefly before pushing the tip of one finger past the tiny opening.
Spock expected pain or discomfort; the sensation was strange at worst, but
what’s more, when Jim wriggled his finger, his body relaxed and even the full
feeling lessened somewhat.
“Interesting.”
Jim snorted.
“Let’s see if we can get a ‘fascinating’ at least.”
He pushed his finger in deeper, past the second knuckle, and the motion was
smooth, tolerable. He would have said that the sensation was nothing more, in
fact, except Jim twisted his finger against a spot of especially tender flesh
inside his body, and he jerked. When Jim repeatedly the motion, the muscles of
Spock’s thighs began to twitch and his breathing quickened.
“What was that? I thought Vulcans didn’t have prostates.”
Spock was too amazed at the knowledge that his body had reacted pleasurably to
something he had used to consider only worth the emotions he absorbed to
explain very coherently.
“We do not. Vulcans have something similar, but I have never…” He trailed off.
The truth was that Spock had thought his anatomy was incomplete, that there was
reason he had been unable to enjoy stimulation where logic said nerves existed.
He was pleasantly surprised to find that the only thing that had been missing
was Jim.
Jim must have realized what he meant, because his finger began to piston in and
out of his body rapidly. The slight stimulation of before had been enjoyable,
but the result this time was much more intense, as if his body longed for the
violent motions he was denied by Jim’s gentle touch. Thankfully, he was not
gentle now; despite the fact that Spock was unable to spread his legs
completely, Jim managed to slide his finger fully into his body, deep enough
that he trembled.
When Jim’s other hand continued to stroke across the length of his shaft, Spock
grunted, unable to stop himself from clenching around the sensation.
Almost immediately, Jim froze and let out a hitched breath. Spock waited, and
eventually Jim sighed, the sound disappointed.
“Well, at least we learned something today.”
Jim removed his finger and wiped the excess lubricant on his bedspread. Spock
was confused by the lack of further stimulation, and he looked at Jim for an
explanation. Jim just gestured sheepishly to his genitals and the white fluid
splattered on the dark fabric of Spock’s robe.
“Sorry, I should have slowed down. I just didn’t think it would be quite that
hot.”
“Hot?”
Jim smiled.
“Watching you enjoy yourself.”
If Spock had been any less Vulcan, he would have blushed. As it was, he was
unable to deny the fact that his skin felt suddenly hotter than it had before.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t forget about you.”
Jim shifted, climbing off the side of the bed, and Spock missed him
immediately. However, Jim just crouched on the floor, close enough that Spock
could feel his breath tickle across his body hair.
He let out a choked cry when Jim leaned forward and placed his mouth over the
head of his shaft, the wet suction unexpected and never even imagined. The
sensation was as intense as any he had experienced that night, and when
combined with the return of Jim’s finger moving inside his body, he was unable
to stop his climax.
For many minutes afterwards, they both lay their panting into the silence.
There were many things that Spock wanted to say in the aftermath. Thank you. I
love you. Again. However, the romance of the moment was lost when Jim began to
quietly laugh as he drew circles in the semen on Spock’s stomach.
“I can’t believe it. It’s green too!”
********
End
 
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
