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Title: Searching for Everything
Author: notboldly50295
Beta: Lenise
Pairing(s): Kirk/Spock, mentions of Spock/Uhura and Spock/others as well as Kirk/others
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and all character rights belong to various people who are not me.
Summary: Spock never expected his youthful indiscretions to affect his future. Fortunately, Jim is too stubborn to let that happen.
Word Count: ~11700
Genre: Romance/angst

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 100 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.


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 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.


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.


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.


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 Sixteen 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 Sixteen, 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 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 retched 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?”


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.


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.”


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.


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.


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 here, 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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.”


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!”


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