Word Count: ~2000
Warnings: rimming, lack of plot
Disclaimer: Under no circumstances am I affiliated with Star Trek or anyone who owns Star Trek. No offense or copyright infringement intended.
Summary: Spock relates his favorite fantasy from Unethically Obtained.
“Damnit, Jim! Only you could get a Korbyzian bog dweller’s stinger right up the ass! Do you have any idea the odds of that?”
“4,362,092.53 to 1, Doctor.”
“He heard you last time, Spock! And what can I say, Bones, my ass is irresistible to all species. I can hardly be blamed!”
“I saw you, Jim! Taunting that thing. And now it’s dead, and its anti-venom isn’t viable! What the hell are we supposed to do?”
“Wait, wait, wait.”
“What is it, Jim?”
“Why is Bones in your fantasy?”
“His medical expertise is needed to make the scenario plausible.”
“Can’t you just… tell me the good parts?”
‘“The good parts,’ as you say, require justification. Without reasonable explanation, the scenario loses urgency and thus the thrill is marginal in comparison to one with fully-realized plot development. Indeed, it can no longer be described as a ‘scenario’ at all.”
“You watch porn with storylines and synth beats, don’t you?”
“One must savor both the rise and release of sexual arousal for full enjoyment, Jim.”
“Are you amenable to listening to my preferred scenario or not, Jim? I am not under obligation to share it with you.”
“No, I wanna hear it. Sorry. I’m listening. No more commentary.”
“The odds of that are—”
“Just get sharing, Mr. Spock.”
“I’m sorry Doctor, but there’s been a wee bit of a mishap here with the transporters.”
“Not Scotty too!”
“I must reiterate: if you are not capable of being silent for the duration of the scenario, I will cease describing it, and you may retire for the night without having received the scenario’s culminating sex act.”
“Okay, okay. Can you at least say ‘wee bit’ again?”
“How about ‘och, aye, Captain?’”
“Mr. Scott is not further featured in the scenario, therefore I have no impetus to mimic any more of his speech patterns.”
“More Bones then?”
The Captain, the First Officer and the Chief Medical Officer have sought shelter in a convenient cave. The Captain’s condition is deteriorating such that his death is imminent: Dr. McCoy speculates with grave and admirable eyebrow dexterity that the Captain will not survive until transporter repairs are complete in approximately 4.23 hours.
“I wish you hadn’t killed that thing with your itchy trigger finger, you pointy-eared illegitimate child.”
“As it had mortally wounded the Captain when I came upon their battle, it was only logical to set the phaser to kill, Doctor.”
“How about only logical to relieve the thing of its anti-venom while it was still kicking, Spock? Did you ever consider that?”
“Since I am not omniscient, Doctor, I was not aware that the bog dweller had injected the Captain with venom, and therefore made no assumptions regarding a natural antidote.”
“No, of course you didn’t. Don’t have the sense your momma gave you, all calculations and therefore statements running through that copper river in your veins—”
“You really have to fight with him in your own fantasy about my ass?”
“I prefer to be as accurate as possible, Jim.”
“How much accuracy can there be with a made-up animal and a made-up emergency and a bunch of handy deus ex machina?”
“When you explicate your scenario about liberation from an Orion slave ship, I will be sure to point out all flaws.”
“Well, fair’s fair.”
The First Officer has been taught not to give credence to regrets. The past cannot be changed; kaadith. However, he has always been vulnerable to attacks of illogic in regards to his Captain. Valuable minutes are lost as the Doctor runs tricorder scans over the Captain, over the remains of the bog dweller, and he continually comes up with nothing, the same nothing the tricorder has been reporting for the past hour. His actions, so illogical and human, are a futile exercise in redundancy. He may not be able to admit that there is no hope for the Captain’s survival, but the First Officer is a Vulcan and a realist. The First Officer allows himself to wallow, silently and stoically at the mouth of the cave, in his regrets: that it is his fault that the Doctor was unable to procure the necessary anti-venom, that Jim will never know the true breadth of his regard, that the two of them had never touched hands, that he never tasted of Jim’s mouth and skin, that Jim will die in a cave on a distant, hostile planet, and that Spock himself will be consigned to a barren existence without companionship and acceptance until he dies in some nebulous future, burning, mad and alone.
The doctor’s insistence on scanning the Captain multiple times has begun to wear on the First Officer’s frayed nerves. Of course, he does not show it, because he is the epitome of Vulcan control.
“Cease scanning the Captain at once, Doctor. It is time to make his final hours comfortable, without the repetitious sound of that machine.”
“Hmmph! Shows what you know. While you were busy brooding, I was able to discern the effective enzyme in the bog dweller’s anti-venom pouches. It’s rendered completely useless upon death, but you’ll never guess what it is.”
“Your lack of logic could lead your conclusions almost anywhere, Doctor. I prefer not to speculate on your line of thought, therefore, it would be most expedient if you would simply inform me of your findings immediately.”
“Hobgoblin. It’s EC 14.98.1. ”
The First Officer, having commendable command of his emotions, does not express the ecstatic surge of hope that rises within him. The Doctor’s own deplorable lack of emotional control has his face contorting, in turns sour and excited.
“The best way to apply your own stores of EC 14.98.1 is direct contact, otherwise we’ll run into the same problem of it being unviable when too long exposed.”
“I will endeavor to perform to the best of my ability, Doctor.”
“Now, I never want to know about this, y’hear? I’m gonna be outside whistlin’ a jaunty tune, pretendin’ this godforsaken planet’s fulla sunshine and rainbows, and I never want to know what you’ve done in here, Spock, you got that?”
“Okay then. ’long as we’re understood.” The Doctor gives a determined nod, hefts the bog dweller’s carcass onto one shoulder and his medical kit onto the other, and exits out of the mouth of the cave. The First Officer is alone with the Captain—
“—and turns him onto his stomach gently, ignoring the weak sounds of protest he emits in his delirium.”
“Oh my God, finally.”
‘“Weak sounds of protest,’ Jim.”
“Oh. Umm… oohh, ahh, hmm.”
“The First Officer knows it is morally reprehensible to lust after a sick man, and even more so to relish the act he is about to perpetrate on his Captain in the name of medicine—”
…But he is inexorably moved by the swell of his Captain’s buttocks, by the perspiration gathering at the small of his back, by the tremulous flexing of his impressive musculature as he wages a losing battle against the bog-dweller’s venom. Stroking his hands down the strong line of his Captain’s spine, the First Officer leans forward to speak in low tones into the Captain’s fascinating rounded ear.
“Do not fret, Captain. I will be your caretaker, and you will soon return to optimal health.”
Because time is a precious commodity, the First Officer spares none to explore the Captain’s exposed body as his hands and lips so desire, and without further tarrying, he parts the pleasing buttocks and insinuates his wet tongue directly into the Captain’s anus.
“You were warned.”
“Shut up and keep going.”
“A logistic impossibility, Jim. Which would you prefer?”
“Keep telling me about your ‘scenario,’ and keep eating my ass, for fuck’s sake.”
EC 14.98.1 is one of four hundred ninety-four enzymes found in Vulcanoid saliva. It evolved as a balm for abrasions common to populations whose habitats were most often desert climes. Such an enzyme is invaluable in preventing infections both topical and internal, and was the base for many healing ointments once available at pharmacies on the First Officer’s home planet. Because the bog dweller is so disparate a life form to desert-bred species such as his own, it did not occur to the First Officer earlier that they would share enough physiological characteristics that his own saliva could serve as a salve on wounds inflicted by the bog-dweller.
“Get on with it, Spock, come on, come on.”
In order to ensure that as much EC 14.98.1 coats the affected area as possible, the First Officer gathers copious amounts of saliva in his mouth and uses his tongue to apply it methodically in and around his Captain’s anus. He knows he must be thorough in order to save the Captain’s life, a life that is precious to him. He spreads his Captain’s buttocks wide for the most advantageous access possible, pressing the entirety of his face in his Captain’s perineum during the necessary application of EC 14.98.1.
One consequence of such diligent personal attention is that the Captain’s scent floods the First Officer’s senses: sweat and masculine musk and just a trace of the cloying venom killing him. It is intoxicating. Deft tongue licking forward intimately, grasped by the snug, quivering sphincter and tasting the smooth, pungent flesh inside, the First Officer is helpless but to issue a continuous moan. One hand gropes at his own rampant erection, desperate for attention, relief, release. A wild, illogical thought enters the First Officer’s mind amid the chaos and disorder of arousal: the Captain’s welcoming asshole is a portal to the First Officer’s personal nirvana. He can gain passage there as long as he persists in his task, and he sets to sucking the needful hole with renewed vigor, forcing it to relax and accept his offering.
“And then the Captain wakes up and is overjoyed to find his very sexy First Officer saving him with such a logical rimming, and begs for four hot Vulcan fingers up his ass.”
“Because the First Officer is going to ejaculate while performing said logical rimming.”
“Please allow me this, Jim. Please.”
“Yeah. Yeah, baby, go ahead, fuck, I love it, you’re so good, you’re so good, eating my ass.”
“Jim. Jim, continue speaking.”
“Just like that, just like that, Spock, you’re so fucking hot like this, want you all the fucking time, you know that? Want your tongue and your fingers and your cock up my ass like you fucking own me, baby, come on, eat that asshole, you love it, so fucking open for you, just like that Spock, Spock, yeah come on, I’m such a fucking slut for it, Spock, fuck—”
“There you go, Spock, yeah, come all over me, just like that, God, you’re so fucking gorgeous, I can’t stand it. Fuck, that’s hot.”
“C’mere. Feel good?”
“Affirmative, Jim. I will perform fellatio on you now.”
“Awesome. I have a couple questions, though.”
“Why couldn’t they just find another bog dweller and wrastle it into submission? And couldn’t Bones just tap a salivary gland and do a direct injection, all kosher and doctor like? And why were just the three of us on an away mission together anywa—ahhh!”