Word Count: ~7,700
Warnings: possible squick
Disclaimer: Under no circumstances am I affiliated with Star Trek or anyone who owns Star Trek. No offense or copyright infringement intended.
Summary: Spock discovers a preoccupation with his captain's very normal Starfleet-issue underpants.
A/N: This was supposed to be a short PWP just to get me writing something. What plot cropped up is negligible, a flimsy excuse for the thousands of words of totally filthy, irredeemable porn contained herein.
It started with a pile of dirty laundry.
No, that was inaccurate. Amendment: it started with the captain’s well-formed backside and the snug, unforgiving Starfleet issue trousers worn by (almost) all male personnel and approximately 37% of the female personnel. The captain, of course, had nothing to forgive in the first place, backside-wise, other than his natural propensity toward putting it on display in a most distracting manner. He could often be found leaning into the science viewscreen ‘visiting’ Spock, placing said backside in Spock’s peripheral vision; or resting his elbows on a rail on one of the observation decks, hips canted and back bowed, emphasizing the pert curve of his buttocks; or on his hands and knees under a replicator, in engineering, helping an ensign recover pieces of a broken padd, digging for treasures unknown underneath his bed frame, or any number of other places where Spock would find him, bottom flexing high in the air and rendering Spock’s mouth inexplicably, illogically dry.
Spock had attempted to rationalize his preoccupation with the captain’s pleasing physique: Firstly, he had not engaged in mutually satisfying intercourse with another male in 7.3 months, since before the start of the mission. Secondly, the Captain was a dynamic, intelligent, physically attractive individual who stimulated Spock’s mind and senses both. Finally, Spock was duty-bound to spend the majority of his time with him, idle hours spent eating, playing chess and speaking on all manner of subjects with him notwithstanding. It was only logical that an attraction – not an attachment – would develop. Spock acknowledged it and set it aside, the consummate first officer. If the Captain’s various body parts occasionally featured in his masturbatory obligations (a necessary act to keep the body healthy, much like a balanced diet and challenging exercise routine), then that was just something Spock kept locked away unexamined.
Until the program codes for the automated laundry systems became corrupted.
The computing department quickly identified the long lines of gibberish suddenly embedded in the code, but used the opportunity to approach Spock regarding a total overhaul of the laundry systems to address long-standing glitching issues such as their tendency toward shrinkage and spot bleaching. A total reprogramming would take approximately three weeks, during which time the yeomen would have to wash the officers’ clothing and bedding items by hand. The resulting schedule for the yeomen’s revised duty rosters had them on duty for 1.6 shifts every day for the duration. Spock authorized the repairs after assuring the yeomen they could each have an extra two days of shore leave at the next pleasure planet.
Spock kept his soiled items neatly folded in a corner in his closet. His yeoman was scheduled to collect it while he was on alpha shift every four days. He was partaking in post-dinner conversation and a chess game in the Captain’s quarters when he spied Jim’s own laundry, a haphazard pile of clothes hastily pushed under his bed, not quite hidden from Spock’s keen view. Peeking out just beyond the confines of the bed space was a pair of black regulation briefs.
Spock immediately made two assumptions based on logical deduction:
1. Jim was wearing pajama pants already and had previously stated a preference not to wear undergarments with them. Therefore, those briefs capping his mountain of dirty laundry were most likely (98.67%) the briefs he wore just earlier that day.
2. The aforementioned briefs were saturated with Jim’s natural daily excretions: pheromones, his personal musk, a drop or two of urine from a hasty shaking off, sweat from his scrotum, his penis, the crease of his thigh, his perineum.
Spock’s lips parted and, underneath the table on which they shared their game of chess, his penis swelled helplessly within his Starfleet trousers. Inwardly horrified at both the unanticipated reaction and his inability to suppress it, he tore his gaze from the tormenting image of the briefs under the bed to Jim’s face to ascertain whether or not Jim had noticed his inappropriate tumescence. He was relieved to note that Jim seemed oblivious to his distraction, occupied as he told a story accompanied by large manual gesticulations.
“So then, this farmgirl’s shoving her tongue down Bones’s throat while we’re still trying to fight off her beefcake boyfriend and he pries her off and screams – guess. Guess what he screams.”
“I am sure I am unable to extrapolate what the good doctor may have said in such a situation.”
“He goes, ‘I’m a doctor, not a lozenge!’ I’ve got a whole notebook of what Bones isn’t, wanna see?”
Jim hopped to his feet without waiting to hear Spock’s response and bounded into his bedroom. Spock had, of course, seen this notebook already. Indeed, he had added “June bride” and “wrecking ball” to it himself. Standing at his bookshelf, Jim rifled through several volumes of notebooks before finding the right one, and once again Spock’s eyes strayed to the exposed briefs lying so prone and accessible beneath the bed. Logic lost its import, as did the scrawl of Jim’s handwriting set before Spock. He stared at the page at Jim’s insistence, the scribble utterly meaningless in the face of the throbbing in his pants.
“You got any to add?”
Spock blinked up at Jim, Jim’s face an open, happy, completely devastating image.
“Clotheshorse,” Spock croaked, willing his erection down. “Yesterday with the quartermaster.”
Jim snatched the notebook back laughing, scratching the latest into the page.
“Good one,” he said. Then, moving a rook, he announced, “checkmate.” He beamed in victory and got to his feet. Still disturbed, Spock could do nothing but blink at his captain.
“I gotta pee, so hold tight for a sec.”
Jim paused halfway to the head, turning a questioning look on Spock, who sat stock still at the table.
“I believe I will retire for the evening. Thank you for a most stimulating game.”
Jim smiled at him.
“Sure, Spock. Another tomorrow?”
“See you at breakfast?”
Jim nodded. “Good night then, Spock. Good game.”
“Likewise, Jim. Good night.”
Jim disappeared into the head, and what tenuous threads remained of his logic fled. With quick, efficient movements, he sprang into Jim’s bedroom, snatched up the briefs, stuffed them into his sleeve, and left the captain’s quarters. If someone were to accuse him of dashing into his own quarters like a Terran feline whose tail was on fire, he would surely deny it, but the corridors were blessedly empty, and his desperation had no witnesses.
In his own quarters, Spock engaged the locking mechanism to respond only to his command. He yanked Jim’s briefs from his sleeve and buried his entire face in the thin cotton, inhaling to total lung capacity. The scent was intoxicating: dark and musky and male, with the acrid edge of Jim’s most intimate sweat laced with dizzying pheromones. This was the scent of Jim’s loins. Blood coursed unerringly to Spock’s penis, filling and lengthening it impossibly further against the confines of his trousers. Staggering, he let out a low, unbidden groan on the exhale, sinking to his knees on the edge of his bed. He took deep, gasping breaths through the material of the unethically obtained undergarments, one hand holding the briefs to his face, the other braced on the bed, supporting his weight.
Spock got steadier on the bed, knees spread. He undid his trousers, frenzy mounting, and his cock bobbed free, smooth and tremendously full, glistening with pre-ejaculate fluid and personal lubrication. Small sounds of exertion escaped his throat as he gripped his cock, choking it with merciless abandon. Nose buried in his Captain’s used briefs, hand jerking his engorged cock with rough, desperate pumps, he wrung the spine-shattering orgasm from himself all too quickly, sagging then in boneless relief.
Coming to his senses in the hazy aftermath, Spock took in the sight of himself: trousers open, coarse black curls shining with perspiration and lubrication, sated cock lolling to one side, stripes of creamy semen cooling on the sheets. The briefs were bunched in the loose fist of his left hand. Instead of shame blooming hot within him, as he might have expected with a mind cleared of the mist of arousal, he felt only a satisfied thrill. As he got to his feet and unfurled his spine, as he wiped himself and his sheets clean and folded his clothes for his yeomen, he plotted, quite logically, how to replace these briefs in Jim’s pile and obtain another pair.
The process of surreptitious appropriation of Jim’s undergarments was more complicated than it seemed on the surface. In actuality, Spock did not often have the opportunity to make off with the desired contraband, whether because Jim could not always be trusted to put on pajama pants, or because Jim did not often leave Spock alone in his quarters, even for a moment, or even because he was not always so slovenly as to leave his laundry lying about in plain sight. The opening came five days after his first indulgence, when the low ache in his groin began to grow more insistent from watching Jim’s ass progress through its days and evenings and remembering its most pleasing scent.
Orgasm was once again swift and ruthless. Spock had managed to undress himself, but when he became aware of reality as it existed outside of himself and his own blinding pleasure once more, naked, splattered with semen, gagged by Jim’s briefs, he realized it had been a mere 4.8 minutes since he had entered his own quarters with the stolen goods. He was not given to luxuriate in his masturbatory obligations with the aid of props, nor was he in the habit of indulging in lurid fantasies with said props, with his Captain the unknowing object of his newfound perversion. He attributed his lack of erectile fortitude to this variation in his routine.
Spock understood that humans sometimes achieved pleasure from the illicit, or from the threat of being caught with one’s hands down one’s pants, as he believed the saying went. He did admit privately, never in front of the good doctor of course, that he was human, at least partially. As he dislodged Jim’s briefs from his mouth, Spock told himself that his heretofore undiscovered appetite for soiled underwear, Jim’s specifically, must be very common in human sexuality, and therefore nothing to be ashamed of, as his mother and, indeed, Jim himself, had so often reminded him. To be more accurate, they were his shepherds in other facets of the human condition, for example social cues, but he was sure their lessons in humanity extended to human sexual mores. So he would speak of this to no one, he would keep his own secret tightly guarded, but he would not be ashamed.
The damp, wrinkled briefs, now riddled with indentations from his own unwitting mastication, fell through his fingers and onto the floor. They languished there for a moment, and in the pause between them landing and Spock getting up to finish some ship’s business, he obliged one more unattainable reverie. Maybe Jim, his painfully heterosexual captain, would have need of his first officer in the night and steal in to find his briefs lying there abused on Spock’s bedroom floor. Instead of anger, there would be only arousal and ardor and firm bodies colliding in mutual gratification. There was a 97.86% chance against it, and his captain so enjoyed defying the odds. But Spock got to his feet, shrugged into a robe, and put aside the impossible.
Spock was able to satisfy his curious new cravings a total of four more times before the automated laundry systems were back online, fully functional and cured of all ills. Boon to the yeomen, bane of Spock’s quiet hedonism. During the final session, when he knew the end was nigh and the yeomen were gathering their prohibited stores of spirits in preparation, Spock was so bold as to ejaculate copiously into Jim’s briefs, mixing, he imagined, their genetic material, just this single time. He was not quiet, but the bulkheads were thick, and Jim did not come running at the bellow of his name. Spock did not name the ensuing emotion disappointment, and if he was cold and unsatisfied in the aftermath, he attributed it to the forthcoming reinstatement of the officers’ laundry chutes and the resulting deprivation he would endure without Jim’s heady, aromatic underwear to press into his face and his genitals.
He had created a problem for himself, of course. He pondered how to replace the briefs in Jim’s quarters without drawing undue attention to the fact that they were pumped full of Vulcan semen. Indistinct from human semen without a microscope, yes, but Jim would know he had not left them in such a state, and he would have to suspect a lurking pervert, and the revelation of the only available culprit would not be far behind. Spock decided then that this would be his one allowance to his libido: he would keep this pair of briefs. He would send them down the laundry chute and get them back folded neatly, scrubbed of all traces of Jim, near indistinguishable from his own, and he would remember.
2.63 months after the laundry systems were repaired, 2.63 months after his masturbatory obligations began to stagnate and fail to induce satisfaction and total bodily health, Spock was standing in Jim’s bedroom as they perused the bookshelf together when his gaze alighted on a pair of briefs discarded on the floor below the laundry chute. A fallen item, separated from its brethren and simply overlooked. His physiological reaction was similar to that of an animal conditioned to give a specific response to specific stimuli: he achieved erection instantly, unable to control the flood to his groin and unable to hide the resulting abundance of hot, needy flesh in his trousers. He inhaled sharply and snapped his head back to look unseeing at the book titles, clasping his hands together in front of himself in a futile attempt at modesty, but Jim’s blue eyes were keen and the damage was done.
“You all right there, Spock?” His captain’s tone was amused, but Spock dared not meet his eyes. He dreaded being mocked, being the object of that amusement, but most of all being rejected so gently by a man who cared for him, but not enough, not the right way.
“My apologies, Captain. I have found myself… distracted, of late. I will go to my quarters.”
“Hey, no.” A hand came to rest on his shoulder, so sure of its welcome, stopping his retreat. Still Spock stared straight ahead. Little Dorrit, The Art of War and Moby Dick were propped together like chicks in a nest, and he stared through them. “You don’t have to go so early. It happens to all of us. Just a guy thing, you know.” A human huff of laughter. “We get so hard up a stiff breeze’ll do it, or hey, some old bound books. How long’s it been, for you?”
Spock hazarded a glance at Jim’s face, arching one brow. “‘It,’ Captain?”
Jim smirked, lifting one shoulder in a shrug and dropping his hand from Spock’s. “Since you got laid. And none of that ‘Captain’ shit while we’re talking about how horny we are lately.”
“It has been 10.73 months since I engaged in sexual congress with another. Jim.”
Jim’s eyes widened as he boggled. Spock would find it comical if he were not so preoccupied with suppressing a hot, full-body blush and willing down his eager erection. Jim smiling at him and touching him were not helping.
“Christ, that’s before the mission started! What do you do when women throw themselves at you on away missions? I know that hot little scribe on Dolphar’s Second Moon showed you all her charms. And Uhura!”
Spock’s erection flagged, and he straightened, safe to bring his hands behind his back.
“I… am not moved by the female form, Captain. Fleeting encounters on away missions hold no appeal for me. I bid you good night.”
Spock found himself trapped between his captain and the captain’s bed. He briefly considered going over the bed, but discarded the idea as lacking dignity when he needed it most.
“Hey, sorry. I didn’t know. Uhura, though?”
Jim seemed oblivious to Spock’s predicament and mortification, looking at him with a furrowed brow.
“I… I regret that I took advantage of the lieutenant’s feelings for me to comfort myself in a vulnerable moment. I apologized for my behavior once we returned to Earth, and the lieutenant and I were never in a romantic relationship as the crew assumed.”
Jim was staring at him. Spock, despite spending more than ten years living and working among humans, found it difficult to read the expression Jim wore.
“You were with her all the time, at the beginning.”
Spock’s gaze dropped to the floor. He fought the urge to shrug; he abhorred the human tendency toward fidgeting, but his body seemed to want to squirm under Jim’s scrutiny and the discussion of Spock’s private life.
“She was my only friend, Captain.”
Jim’s hand settled on his shoulder again, and when he looked up, Jim looked decidedly soppy.
“Not anymore, huh Spock?”
“No, not anymore. Jim.”
The hand on his shoulder came round to thump him on the back.
“Well. Back to business. I think we should find someone for you to be with Spock. A brain from computing or engineering, or someone else you don’t have direct authority over. Someone… suitable. For you.”
Spock’s eyes flickered to the balled briefs by the laundry chute and then back to Jim’s face. The former made his loins stir, but the latter made something intangible and unnamable expand within his chest cavity. Affection seemed an inadequate word for something so sharp and beautiful, so tangled with lust and admiration and enjoyment, therefore Spock simply let it exist without label, filling him until he could not contain the hand that reached toward Jim. At the last moment, he reasserted control and drew his hand back. It hung lamely at his side, an awkward, thwarted thing.
“That will not be necessary, Jim. I am able to control myself.” Barely, he did not add.
“Well sure, but how fun can that be?” This was Jim’s bawdy, practiced leer. Spock knew it to be an affectation, a forced mannerism fueling and fueled by Jim’s reputation as a promiscuous cad. A reputation Spock had come to learn was wildly exaggerated, to his relief.
“I am not preoccupied with ‘fun,’ Jim.”
“Ha, don’t I know it? Come on, let’s make a list of nice, hot dudes for you.”
Jim had removed himself from the space between the bed and the bookshelf and waited with an expectant look on his face, brows raised in tandem. Once again Spock couldn’t help but glance at the underpants, but it was a mistake: Jim caught the line of his gaze and followed it to its humiliating end.
“Sorry, neat freak. It’s just underwear.” He bent to pick them up, the thin cotton of his pajama pants stretching over the curve of his backside with the movement. Spock’s breath halted in his throat as Jim threw the briefs into the laundry chute without thought. He straightened and looked back at Spock, eyebrows drawing downward and a frown touching his mouth. “Spock?”
Spock realized then that he was blushing furiously, and his trousers did little to hide his… esteem.
“I apologize, Captain. If you request that I transfer to another vessel, you are within your rights.”
“No. God, no, Spock. You’re my... it’s not a big deal. We’re both adults.”
Spock did not feel like an adult. He felt like a wild, uncontrolled thing driven by base emotions like lust and hope and disappointment. He was caught on Jim’s utterance of a possessive pronoun.
“I’m your what, Captain?”
Jim shifted, fidgeting by the laundry chute.
“My first officer. And my friend.”
Spock turned away from Jim’s buzzing body and uncomfortable expression, suddenly overcome by guilt and shame at Jim’s proclamation. He had acted not only unethically, but perversely, and his captain, his friend had been his unwitting victim.
“I have not been a good friend to you,” he said, compelled to confess his bad deeds like a schoolboy seeking absolution. He stepped out from in front of the bookshelf, 1.28 meters separating him from his captain. He stood at attention the way he would when the captain entered the bridge. “I have perpetrated heinous acts of perversion against you, secretly and willfully. I should be sent to the brig for sexual harassment and subjected to a court martial.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold up, Spock.” Jim’s hands were raised as if they could stop what had already happened, as if they could foil Spock’s misplaced passions. “No one’s going to the brig. What could you have done that was so bad, anyway? Whatever it is, I promise it’s not… it’s not a crime. It’s flattering, even.”
Spock’s mouth closed around the hideous truth of his transgressions. He did not want to lose Jim’s regard. However, he reminded himself, perhaps I did not deserve it if I would treat it with such disrespect.
He squared his shouldered and straightened his spine further. He owed it to his captain to tell him the truth, and to look him in the eye while he did it. Taking a steadying breath, he confessed.
“During the laundry system reprogramming, I conspired to appropriate your soiled undergarments for use in my masturbatory… exploits. I succeeded on a total of six occasions. On the final occasion, I did not return the item, but kept it as a memento.”
Silence pressed heavily in the space between them. Spock stood straight and still, unwilling to acquiesce to the mounting urge to run into his quarters, lock the door and fill out a transfer request just so he would never have to see this exact look on Jim’s face ever again. Confusion and alarm and disgust. Shame was like heat, Spock decided as it rose from his stomach to his head, a nauseating fire.
“I see. You’re dismissed, Commander.”
Spock nodded once, and with just three long strides, he was through the shared bathroom and into his own quarters, locking every door with a single command in his shaking voice. He paused to control his breathing, head bowed, hands in fists at his sides as he stood by his bed. His throat felt as if it were tightening enough to choke him. When he regulated his heartbeat and stopped taking gasping breaths, he set to packing up all of his personal belongings with quick, efficient movements. He had wasted enough time on his human foibles, had lost too much to their damning gravity, to indulge now in the illogical desire to mull over each item and remember how they were connected to Jim. Gag gifts he had acquired for Spock on shore leaves, the shirt he once complimented, the pre-reform book of poetry he had admired. Spock did not examine them, he simply placed them in his luggage according to the most logical packing pattern he could divine.
He was three quarters of the way through his closet when he unearthed the briefs that had been his undoing. He squeezed them in a fist, his regrets a bitter force that compelled him to try, illogical though it was, to wring from the briefs a return of his self-respect and his captain’s favor. They were clutched in his hand when he heard Jim say his name from behind him.
Spock whirled around to face him, briefs fluttering to the floor. Jim had the pinched look he sometimes wore when he was unhappy but trying (and failing) not to show it.
“Captain’s override, no challenge,” he said by way of explanation. “This is the great programmer of the Kobayashi Maru?” His lips twisted as if he were trying to muster up a smile.
“I assumed you would not attempt to break into my quarters after you knew of my misdeeds, Captain.”
Jim shrugged, averting his eyes from Spock’s and casting a hand out, indicating the mess of packing.
“What is this?”
“I believe it is self-evident.”
“Look. Look. I mean, listen. Just. No.”
Spock cocked his head, taking in Jim’s heightened pink coloring and continued fidgeting. Jim began to pace, Spock helpless but to follow him with his eyes, back and forth, hands gesticulating as he ranted.
“You don’t just get to drop that on someone and then run away to pack up and… run away more. You don’t just – You! You’re always watching me and saving my life and making me laugh and looking good in fuckin’ Starfleet uniforms, least flattering clothes of all time, and you just don’t get to do this shit Spock, leave like this because of something… something so dumb, and funny, and gross and hot and I hate you, you know that? I totally hate you, Spock.” He was panting, and he looked back at Spock before grabbing the luggage laid out on Spock’s bed and overturning it, everything tumbling out in a heap. He went a step further, shoving a hand into the mess and mixing everything up. Then he stepped back, facing Spock with a challenge in his eyes, as if daring him to clean it up and put it back.
“I do not understand,” Spock said after a moment’s pause. “I committed perverse acts against you. You dismissed me.”
“Yeah, well! You’re going to have to forgive me for being surprised for a second there and reacting badly, but this? Packing and leaving and all this? Is a way worse reaction.”
Spock dropped his gaze to the mess on the bed, his clothing and personal effects.
“I do not know what else to do.”
“Look at me.”
Spock forced himself to look. Jim exhaled and took a step forward.
“I need to know,” he said. “I need to know if this is a real thing. Whether you like me because I’m here and I look good and it’s convenient, or if you really like me. Because… because you value you me as a whole person or some sappy shit like that.” Jim stopped speaking, looking at him with wariness and hope. The expression gave Spock a measure of courage he did not possess only moments before.
“You are extraordinary, Jim, in mind and body. I admire almost everything you are. How could I not? You are unlike anyone I have ever known. You have made my life less… lonely. The undergarments… I could not help myself, but my lust is a satellite symptom of the entirety of my esteem for you.”
Jim’s face was transformed by that fond smile he had, the rather watery curve that meant he was trying to respect Spock’s reserved Vulcan sensibilities and not hug him.
“Almost everything I am, Spock?”
“You display bouts of illogic that I sometimes find exasperating.”
“I’m gonna hug you, okay?”
“Jim, that may not be wise. I am… I do not believe my feelings for you are platonic.”
“Yeah,” was all Jim said in response, and then he was surrounded by cool human arms and the gentle squeeze of Jim’s embrace. The scent of him, familiar and clean and enthralling, overwhelmed Spock’s olfactory senses, and he squeezed back, breathing deeply of the warmth of Jim’s neck. When Spock’s erection attempted to make its triumphant return, Spock drew his hips back and put space between himself and his captain.
“I apologize,” he said, but Jim was laughing and shaking his head.
“You know who’s number one on that list of hot available dudes, Spock?”
“I thought it was ‘nice’ and ‘hot,’ Captain.”
“Nice and hot, then.”
Spock fully disentangled himself from Jim, stepping back even as Jim’s lower lip threatened to extend beyond the confines of its natural place on his face.
“I appreciate your apparent willingness to attempt a more personal relationship with me, Jim, but you cannot alter your natural predilections simply to appease me.”
“You are heterosexual, Jim. And rather ostentatious about it.”
Jim exhaled and stepped back himself, running a hand through his hair and casting a calculating look at Spock.
“First off, I am not ‘attempting a more personal relationship with you.’ We have a ‘more personal relationship.’ I spend more time with you than I do alone, and more time than I ever spent with Bones at the academy. You saw me swell to the size of a human blimp after I ate that Rigellian spice clam, you’ve watched me make huge cultural faux pas on first contacts, you cleaned me up and put me to bed when I drank too much after Carstairs died, you… you’ve seen me at my worst, Spock, and you still come back to my quarters after shift every day just to talk to me.”
“Shh. Secondly, it wouldn’t just be ‘to appease you.’ What am I, Saint Jim, the martyr of the Enterprise? I’m not heterosexual, I want this. I’ve wanted this for a long time, and sometimes I thought you did too, but I knew I couldn’t exactly compete with Uhura, and some guys still get bristly when another guy… um, expresses interest, and wouldn’t being gay be illogical for Vulcans anyway, and you talk now please and save me from my own yapping—“
Spock obliged him, pressing his lips to Jim’s, hands cupping his face. It was short and soft and moist and sweet and when he pulled away, he left his hands where they were, tangling his fingers in the short bronze hair at the back of Jim’s head.
“Sexual orientation is not subject to logic, Jim. It simply is. To attempt to subjugate it to philosophical principles that emerged long after the dawn of our civilization would be akin to arresting the weather for changing with the seasons. That is the height of illogic.”
“I have never heard of you sharing yourself with another male.”
Jim hummed and stretched up a bit for another small kiss, sucking on Spock’s lower lip teasingly as he pulled back to look into Spock’s face again. He was flushed, and through his skin Spock detected excitement and giddiness.
“It doesn’t happen much, and I don’t advertise it, but I do know what I’m doing, Spock. You can quit worrying.”
“I do not worry. And if I were mildly concerned, it would be because I do not wish to force you into a relationship that makes you uncomfortable, or one where I would be unable to meet your needs due to my gender.”
Jim sighed and stepped out of Spock’s grasp, turning to lean down and set aside space to sit on the bed, where much of Spock’s belongings still languished.
“We really have to have this conversation right now? I can’t just whip you into some kind of frenzy by showing you my underwear?”
“You are not wearing any,” Spock said, sitting next to him.
“Ah. Nothing gets by you.” Jim held out his hand, and after a moment, Spock took it and held it loosely.
There was silence, and Spock basked in the low buzz of Jim’s emotions, trepidation and excitement and arousal in equal measure.
“So,” Jim began. “I guess my deal is that I’ve always liked guys, like really liked them, but I haven’t found that many that I’d really consider… suitable. For sex, or a real relationship. I’ve had sex, of course, and sometimes it goes well and sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes the guys I’ve been with have tried to use sex as a weapon or a power play, and I’m not saying women don’t, it’s just that, well, guys can be way more successful with that if that’s what they want. And, I don’t know. I like women, too. Obviously. Most of the time it’s easier to find a woman and take her out and show her a good time and have it be easy and uncomplicated. I’ve never met one that I really had intense feelings for. Feelings like I have for you, all the time. On the bridge, during chess games, on away missions, on shore leaves, I want you so much all the time, Spock.”
Spock was gripping Jim’s hand tightly by the time he stopped speaking. Jim had lain his other hand on top of Spock’s, trapping it between them, and Spock could feel all of Jim’s desire coursing through him, a throbbing counterpoint to his own low burn.
“I also have strong feelings for you, Jim. I have tried to deny them, but I cannot. I cannot.” Then they were kissing, devouring each other like ravenous men presented with a feast, humid breath and agile tongues and pliant lips.
Spock’s desires were consumptive; he wanted to possess and be possessed by Jim, to burrow deeply into his body and his mind and merge as two Vulcans would. He allowed himself the small hope that he could someday have such a union with Jim, but for now, he contented himself with sliding his hands underneath the waistband of Jim’s pajama pants and gripping, finally, ecstatically, the two firm buttocks that had so tormented him over the course of the mission. He let out a groan into Jim’s mouth, hauling him bodily into his lap so Jim straddled him, their swelling cocks grinding together. Jim tore himself from Spock’s voracious mouth to issue a needy wail. Spock set his lips to Jim’s neck, sucking a trail of red up the length of it.
“Fuck, fuck, hold on.”
Jim scrambled off him, and Spock felt bereft in the aftermath, hard and bewildered as Jim stood and stripped off his shirt and pajama pants too quickly for Spock to appreciate it, then snatched up his own stolen briefs from the floor and pulled them on, his erection an obscene column straining against the cotton. A rumble escaped Spock’s gullet at the sight, his own cock growing painful as it filled to capacity. He took himself in hand, his tight grip a balm to his excruciating arousal.
“You like this?” Jim asked, one hand splayed on his chest, the other moving downward to cup his genitals through the thin material of his briefs in an lewd display.
“Affirmative,” Spock answered, his voice deepened by arousal, his gaze riveted to Jim’s body. The line of hair on his muscled stomach, the dips of his hip bones, the lean, powerful thighs emerging from the black briefs. Breath ragged, Spock sank to his knees in front of Jim, setting his eager tongue to Jim’s navel and sucking him there.
“Oh, God, Spock,” Jim gasped, clutching the hair at the back of Spock’s head and widening his stance to steady himself. Spock hands came around to fondle Jim’s ass again, cupping and kneading it through the cotton like a precious, cherished thing. Spock’s mouth took a leisurely route southward, pausing to nuzzle at the trail of body hair along the way. When he reached the straining erection, he flicked his eyes up to glance at Jim’s face. He was panting, open-mouthed and beginning to sweat, barely able to stop himself from rocking his hips forward to force his cock down Spock’s throat. “Do it,” he said.
Spock closed his mouth on Jim’s cock through the cotton and wetted it with saliva, groaning as he applied suction. Jim bellowed, hands convulsing in Spock’s hair, leg muscles constricting with effort. Spock took one hand off Jim’s ass to free his own rampant erection and grip it at the base.
“Fuck, you look good like this, Spock. Made to suck my cock, just like that,” Jim babbled, thrusting forward. Spock eased Jim’s cock out of the slit and began sucking him in earnest, relishing the thick, weeping column of flesh filling his mouth. It was a familiar, earthy flavor that his escapades in masturbation with smuggled goods had only hinted at; now he was happily engulfed in the full Jim Kirk experience. His universe narrowed to the flex and groan of their two ardent bodies exercising their lusts on each other.
With some reluctance, Spock pulled away from Jim’s penis, pushed all of his possessions off his bed, and dragged Jim forward by the waistband and shoved him onto the mattress face first. Jim laughed, muffled by the pillows, arching his back to raise his cotton-clad ass in invitation.
“Whatever you want, Spock,” he said, undulating his hips. Spock disrobed quickly and gracelessly, then insinuated his knees next to Jim’s, forcing his legs apart as he settled above him.
“I would taste you, Jim,” he said, caressing Jim’s sinuous back with long, appreciative strokes.
“Huh? Oh, I didn’t shower tonight.” Jim made the effort to get on his elbows, but Spock stopped his progress with a hot hand in the middle of his back.
“No matter, Jim. I have desired exactly this.” He leaned forward to lick a hot stripe down Jim’s spine. Jim gave a shout at the contact, squirming as teeth and tongue snaked down his back.
“Fuck, anything you want, anything you want,” Jim chanted, humping the bed as he tried to grind backwards into Spock’s rigid cock.
Spock reached Jim’s compact, sweetly curved ass and stroked it reverently. Anticipation spiked within him, causing his cock to jump, and he squashed his face into Jim’s cotton-covered crack and took deep breaths. The briefs smelled clean and unused, but just there beneath the waft of fresh-Earth-air detergent was the deep, hot odor of Jim’s perineum, his full day’s sweat and his hidden asshole. Spock growled and tried to get closer, holding Jim’s hips still as he shoved his face into Jim’s ass and savored the scent he found there. He slipped two fingers past the elastic of the leg holes and rubbed at the outer rim of Jim’s anus, the muscle constricting against his fingertips.
Jim was babbling a string of obscenities peppered with occasional utterances of Spock’s name. Spock took mercy on his lover and himself when he yanked the waistband down just to the crease of his thighs. He hauled Jim’s hips up and used his hands to spread his buttocks wide, exposing the tangle of bronze hair concealing the winking anus.
“Perfect,” he declared, unbiased, and with that he set his nose to the tuft of hair at the top of Jim’s crack and the tip of his tongue to Jim’s quivering anus. He teased around the rim before delving inward for the sharper flavor there.
“Oh fuck, oh God, Spock, fuck, do it just like that, oh fuck, you’re so—” Jim’s words came in choking, halting gasps, devolving into meaningless syllables and guttural moans.
Spock worked his tongue into Jim’s ass with relentless fervor, sucking around the edges, tireless in his dedication. Saliva ran down Jim’s crack, into his asshole and down into the briefs. Jim was keening and wailing, one hand clawing at the pillows his face was buried in, the other jerking roughly at his own cock in pursuit of relief.
“I have thought about this,” Spock murmured into Jim’s perineum, as if to Jim’s ass itself. “I have thought about this and brought myself to orgasm with your undergarments covering my face.”
“Oh fuck, tell me more, Jesus fuck, Spock, more, more.”
Spock lifted up and rested his head on the small of Jim’s back, stroking a hand down the downy expanse of one cheek before sliding a finger into Jim’s anus, the sphincter giving way to him without protest, then grasping around it like a smooth fist. Jim wailed as Spock worked the finger around, gently coaxing the walls of his rectum to relaxation.
Spock sighed, content and aroused and reveling in the sensation of Jim’s body contracting around his sensitized finger.
“I visualized many scenarios in which I would be invited to perform analingus on your person. In my preferred scenario, I imagined a disastrous away mission, a foreign contaminant, the only cure a judicious application of Vulcan saliva to the affected body part: your anus.”
Spock leaned over and rummaged in his bedside table with his free hand for a bottle of lubricant, ill-used and steadily emptying in recent weeks as he increased the number of his masturbation sessions in an effort to slake his near-constant state of arousal. He uncapped it with his teeth and poured the liquid liberally down Jim’s crack. He pressed another finger in, the squeeze tighter and sweeter, forcing twin groans from his throat and Jim’s.
“Did you know that Vulcans kiss with our hands, Jim? I am kissing your rectum right now.”
Jim, thwarted by the briefs around his thighs, made a frustrated sound and thrust backward into Spock’s hand with inelegant, uncaring force.
“Oh fuck, Spock, you gotta fuck me now. Fuck me, fuck me, I need your big hard cock in me now, now, please, please, please.”
“I must prepare you more thoroughly.”
“I’m not gonna last.”
“Then I shall endeavor to be expeditious.”
Spock was capable of great care even while making haste; it was a classically Vulcan trait for which he was frequently grateful. He murmured filthy fantasies and unbridled praise into Jim’s ears as he worked four fingers into his asshole, stretching and readying him for his own fervid cock.
Finally, he pushed Jim’s hips down and placed the head of his cock against the loosened ring of Jim’s anus. Jim took a breath and Spock pushed forward slowly, eyes closing and mouth parting as the cool sleeve contracted around his cock. Jim hissed as Spock sank in to the hilt, his testicles resting against the bunched cotton briefs. He paused there, stroked up and down Jim’s sides.
“You are far finer a reality than fantasy, Jim,” Spock said, stroking across his shoulders.
“Nnngh, God, Spock. You’re amazing, fucking amazing, you know that?”
“I had hoped.”
Spock obliged him, rolling his hips forward. Jim whimpered but responded by rocking backwards, then reached a hand back to grab at one of Spock’s.
“Kiss me your way,” he said, linking their fingers, “while you fuck me.”
Spock shuddered and gasped, squeezing Jim’s fingers as he held Jim’s hips cradled in his own. He set a strenuous pace that threatened to dislodge his cock from the grip of Jim’s ass, but he did not falter. Despite the awkward restraint of the briefs lashed around his thighs, Jim rose and pressed his back to Spock’s chest, trapping Spock’s hand above his heart, matching Spock’s rhythm and howling every time Spock’s hot, thick cock bumped his prostate. Spock brought his free hand around Jim’s hip to join him in jerking his penis. Jim’s cries grew louder, his cursing more indistinct, and finally he let Spock jack him off alone while he put his hand around to Spock’s hip, encouraging deep, hard thrusts.
“Fuck, Spock, I’m coming, fuck me just like that, I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m—” He gave a final, agonized yowl and spurted all over Spock’s hand, jerking and trembling in the aftermath. Spock held him locked in his embrace, head nestled between Jim’s neck and shoulder as Jim’s entire body twitched through the final shocks of orgasm, rectum spasming around Spock’s hot erection. Jim slumped forward, sated, fingers limp and slipping from Spock’s. Spock nudged him to lean back, and he kissed Jim the human way, tongues languid and exploratory. Jim hummed his approval.
Spock repositioned them so Jim was lying with his legs outstretched instead of bent underneath him. As he sunk once more into Jim’s pliant ass, the sweet globes of his buttocks pressed fully into the frame of Spock’s hips. Electricity flashed up and down Spock’s spine.
“Jim,” he groaned. “Jim, you are exceptional, an exceptional man.” His urgency mounted as he watched the wet red ring of Jim’s anus stretch taut around his own thick cock. Jim’s body accommodated the penetration like he was designed for it, and Spock increased the speed of his thrusts, leaning forward to lick away Jim’s cooling perspiration. Jim’s hand came up, tangling in his hair and holding him there against his shoulder.
“You gonna come in me, Spock? I want you to come in me. Wanna feel your come dripping out of me all night. Come on, fuck my ass harder, feel how tight I am for you? Come on, Spock, come in my ass, I want it.”
Spock lost his rhythm as orgasm approached, jerking without any semblance of grace toward climax. With a final shout of Jim’s name, Spock emptied himself into Jim’s willing ass. He sagged on top of Jim as the final tendrils of the orgasm rippled through him, and he became aware of time passing again when Jim wriggled out from beneath him and shucked off the restrictive briefs.
“Fuck, Spock, that was good.” Jim lay on his back, head turned to look at the half of Spock’s face not obscured in the pillows. Spock cracked an eye. Jim grinned at him and slung the briefs into his face, laughing when Spock grunted but didn’t make a move to remove them. “I gotta clean up a bit,” he said, pressing a kiss to Spock’s crown before levering himself up and walking to the bathroom with just a trace of stiffness in his gait.
Jim came back 6.3 minutes later and wiped at the semen congealing on the sheets before settling back down. Spock shifted so he could lie on his side facing Jim, and he drew the briefs down so he could see, but stopped there and held them to his nose. Jim laughed again.
“Apparently watching you perv over my underwear is a turn on. Who knew?”
“Such was my plan all along: to seduce you with my unnatural fetishes,” Spock mumbled into the briefs, eyelids drifting downward. Jim’s hands came around his abdomen as he tucked his head under Spock’s chin. Spock’s arm came to rest around Jim’s shoulders, his hand tracing lazy circles on Jim’s back.
“Not unnatural, Spock. You gotta worry less.”
“I do not worry, Jim.”
“Of course not, Spock.”
Link to a short companion piece: A Plausible Scenario