Prologue | I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X
Title: Zahvan T’Masu
Fandom: ST TOS
Characters: Starek, Spock
Warnings: Smut. Hilarious Vulcan euphemisms.
Notes: More senseless smut, now with mind-meld! Yes, folks, it’s round two. And Starek gets the surprise of a lifetime…
Spock looks up. His hair is delightfully rumpled. "Va’ashiv?" There is doubt, but also curiosity in his eyes. "Nam-tor du aushfa. Ri’nam-tor pon farr t’nash-veh, fai-tor du."
"Ha, va’ashiv. At least once. Sihau nash-veh ki’kup’es hafau lerash na’hiyet wak kup-az’ir’kh’ar k’du abi’ri’vokaya ki’tu t’ahm t’du." Starek stretches, deliciously, pointing his toes at the ceiling, on one side. "Ri’bolau nash-veh pon farr kup-tor dah ashivaya. Kuv kwitau nash-veh svi’du – dungi saul-tor du na’weht – nah-tor nash-veh."
He looks at Spock with a cocky grin, eyes alight with temptation. "Of course, it’s all up to you, k’diwa. My pleasure comes at the end, after you have had all you desire of me."
The Vulcan disengages from Starek and flops down to lie on his back among the covers, putting his hands behind his head.
Starek groans, gripping the sheets, at the sudden feeling of emptiness. Shaking his head, he gets to his knees, and situates himself between Spock’s legs. He leans forward and steals a kiss.
"Dungi nam-tor ri’hagik. I’ll try to be gentle with you," he says, slicking his fingers with what’s left inside him. "This is the last easy part."
He slips one finger into Spock, stroking, as he did before. It’s even more difficult, this time — Starek’s entire body is crackling with electric lust, and the sensation on his finger is intense, hot and still tight.
"Relax," he says, sitting back and gently stroking Spock’s inner thigh with his other hand. Both hands are engaged with heat and skin, and Starek is certain that if he hadn’t callused the tips of his fingers, working on the ship in the neutral zone, he’d be running a whole lot hotter than he is. As Spock’s hips rock against his hand, he slips in another finger, and now he’s kissing the Vulcan’s prostate with the tips of his fingers, and the thought is enough to make the room go blotchy. His jaw tightens, with a creak of teeth on teeth, as he tries to ensure that he’s not going to do any damage by accident. Starek knows that just because he has little concern for his own comfort, in these situations, doesn’t mean that anyone else can take hard and rough, with the grace that he does.
Spock wills his body into a calm, submissive state. He has had years of practise with biofeedback and meditation, but the Romulan has stirred his blood and finding any sort of control is difficult. Still, he finds that as he watches Starek — the smooth, clean lines of his arms and those graceful hands, working at him, he finds it is possible to be both aroused and relaxed at once.
He finds, suddenly, that not only are his palms twitching, but he wants something in his mouth. A thumb, therefore, is the perfect solution. He slides his tongue-tip along the outside of one, carefully, savoring the feeling. Starek’s fingers at his core cause him to hiss with pleasure and nip at the end of the digit.
Starek draws his fingers out slowly, and turns his head to press a kiss to Spock’s knee. He takes the hand Spock’s not sucking at, in his clean hand.
"This is going to hurt, but only for a few seconds. Stay calm, I promise it gets good."
Starek wonders, for a split second, what the hell he’s doing, taking some Vulcan’s virginity. Aren’t there customs? Isn’t Spock old enough to have been through pon farr at least once? This is insane, and he knows it, and he is going to do it, anyway, because he was never a man to turn down an unexpected gift.
Taking himself in the hand he’d been using, he leans in, gently pressing the tip of his lok into the beautiful Vulcan spread beneath him. He stops as soon as he manages to push the elat-fi’shaht past the ring of muscle.
"Nam-tor ovsoh rasahkos." Starek stays very still, except where he rubs the tips of Spock’s fingers between his own. "Var’uh nash-veh dvun-tor lu."
After two or three gasps, Spock finds that the pain is bearable. He bends the two fingers Starek has, and nods for him to continue.
Starek watches Spock’s face, carefully, as he sheathes himself, completely. The grip on his fingers is a little tighter, but he hasn’t seen the pained look of horror that usually precedes the, ‘fuck no, ow, get off me’. So far, so good.
He rocks his hips, grinding, more than thrusting, to start, and words spill from his lips before he can think about them at all. In fact, he’s so enraptured by the sight of Spock spread below him, that he barely perceives the fact that he’s speaking at all.
"Nam-tor du maut vaksurik – kanok buhfik zehl heh ov’din t’ak’shem sai-fam t’du. Vesht nah-tor kupi-nam-tor kunli goh glantau tu – hi fai-tor i ri’nam-tor nash-veh vita zhu-tor spes t’du. Variben’uh na’nash-veh. Var’uh na’nash-veh olaya heh zherka t’tu. Var’uh na’nash-veh aitlun t’du."
The rumble starts deep in Spock’s chest, almost at the level of his vitals before passing his lips in the form of a purr. It is in response to Starek’s motions and to the burning, slowly ebbing, becoming a succulent heat that drags at him, pulling away the veil of propriety so that deeper feelings surface.
"Maut-slor, k’tu svi’udish. Vesht ri’nah-tor kupi-nam-tor u’nash. Vesht tar-tor au riyeht-ish. Po riyeht-ish? Ha, maut. Mag-tor na’du."
A verdant flush begins to spread across Starek’s chest, lighting up a few pale scars, as he listens to the untempered words. He studies Spock, carefully, reverently, trying to memorise the whole of that lean body, every shade and line and curve.
"I’nam-tor kanok-vei yauluhk la k’nash-veh. Nam-tor du kanok-vei t’nash-veh. Nam-tor du panu t’nashveh – oekon heh panu t’nash-veh."
Starek hooks an arm under one of Spock’s legs and leans down, kissing his neck, his ear, his cheek. The change in position allows Starek to thrust, and he does, hard and slow.
"Shitau zhit t’du yon svi’khaf-spol t’nash-veh. Tan-tor du lof na’nash-veh. Dungi dvun-tor khio’ri na’sanosh t’du."
Spock gives into the need to hold Starek, to press him close. Even chest to chest and sheathed in him seems too far away. He smooths finger kisses down his shoulders and back, waist and sides, eyes closed, exploring just with his hands.
"Ri’nam-tor oekon," Spock reminds him gently. He tries thrusting back, finds it possible, and cries out his little victory against Starek’s skin. The slippery pool between their bellies is providing a sweet area in which to glide against him. "Hi abertau nash-veh mesakh oigen."
"Vesht riyeht. Nam-tor du oekon t’nash-veh, k’diwa," Starek pants, twisting his body toward Spock’s wandering fingers, winding like a serpent to keep them on his skin as long as possible.
He moves, to look down into Spock’s eyes, studying them, before he speaks again. "Estuhl’uh limuk t’nash-veh k’ozh-sfek t’du. Shok’uh kashek t’nash-veh va’ashiv. Bolau glan-tor vu k’bezhun t’nash-veh – tu’ash heh kastorilauk ne’nash-veh."
Starek stills for a moment. Spock licks his lips and stares, enthralled, at his ka-veh. He brings his hand up to trail it over the planes of Starek’s cheeks and brows before finally settling onto the meld points as gently as a falling leaf.
Starek lets himself fall in. The feedback loop is immediate and intense; he stares down into Spock’s eyes and up into his own. He is touching and touched, filling and filled, beautiful, astonished, and enraptured. It is the most real he has ever been.
He sees himself, bare and well-scarred, flushed with heat and passion, gazing down with a look he’s never seen on his own face, because it’s never in the mirror like this. For a moment, Starek wants to cover himself, in shame, to close his eyes, to hide the scars, but there’s no judgement from Spock, just pleasure, joy, and faint curiosity.
With some effort, Starek focuses his eyes again, drawing in the form and essence of Spock’s body. First, the whole image, then the components, the angles, the colours and shadows, everything he will need to put this on canvas. His fascination runs deep, and he thinks of how good the painting will look, hung beside his bed, in this room that is his alone — a memory of the brightest moment he expects to survive.
His hips move again, thrusting slow and deep, and he cannot remember any greater pleasure than this — giving and receiving the same pleasure, simultaneously. This is how it should be, he knows, and there is a flare of fear and disappointment at the knowledge that this is something that could be lost — that this may be the only time he will know it.
But, he falls in, then, and the pleasure is everything. All vision is beauty. Every sound, a welcome gasp or groan. And everywhere flesh meets flesh, the liquid heat of passion spreads through him like a climbing vine.
And Spock, with the dual nature of his new perception, barely feels as though he can contain all the pleasure, especially now that Starek has begun to move again — deftly and with slow purpose. Spock sees that his face and all the angles of his body are softer, now, as he’s rocked by Starek’s easy rhythm, than at any other time. He knows it is because he is less guarded than he has been with anyone, and perhaps even less than in moments of deepest solitude.
This deeper meld is exhilarating. There is both a nobility and compassion in Starek’s nature that was not apparent to the casual nor even to the interested eye. It is a delicious contrast to the heat and lust that are also a part of him. But rather than profane each other, the combination is stunning — like a new type of star that he has never seen before.
Starek can feel the crackle of lust in his fingertips, and the swirl of heat between his hips — at least, he thinks those are his hips; they might be Spock’s. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t matter, any more. He’s never wanted to be this close to anyone in his life, and he’s gotten naked with an awful lot of people, over the years. The tips of his ears tinge an even darker green, as he shoves that thought aside, certain that the breadth of his exploits are not a suitable thing to reference, at this time. The important thing is that he wants this — the syrupy duality that opens new layers of truth and pleasure to his perception.
Somewhere in all of it, Starek can feel his hips moving faster, in a pattern he’s always loved to use to tease — four quick, shallow thrusts and one more, deep and forceful.
"Yes! Please! Fuck me!" The words are Starek’s — he can feel them fall out of his mouth, in thick, Romulan-accented Standard, but the sensations that sparked them are Spock’s. Starek can no longer quite tell if he’s fucking or fucked, and he’s sure it doesn’t matter, because he can still feel his body and Spock’s moving in rhythms that come from the sense of timing only perfect unity can give.
Everything is moving faster now, and part of Spock feels as if he’s just hanging onto something hot and powerful, something that’s running along a cliff. Just a glance over the edge and there is vertigo. But the height is thrilling. With one of them sheathed in a tight passage, and the other one seized in a fist, they are at a fever pitch. And inside, the need to take, to utterly possess utterly, pours through both of them. The source is immaterial. As soon as it is conceived there is only the shared, jealous fire. I claim this! Mine!
The feeling builds until he bites and feels the teeth sink into his shoulder. Until he strokes and jerks in his hand. Until every entreaty in every language either of them know are exploding around them like fireworks.
The world is white. Starek isn’t certain about the sounds — they might be his; they might be Spock’s — it doesn’t matter. He can feel the pulse in his groin and in his fingertips — a thick hot spill inside him, on his hand, rushing from him. Too many parts for one person, and not enough for all the sensation.
He thinks he might’ve blacked out for a few seconds.
"K’diwa…" A single drop of water falls from the bridge of his nose, splashing against Spock’s cheek. Starek’s hands are trembling. "Haf’uh k’nash-veh."
Spock brings Starek completely down onto him, fitting his chin against Starek’s head and holds him, shielding him from all sides, from all things.
"Kwon-sum," he whispers with a voice that is oddly thick and tight.
Starek reaches out, dragging an edge of the rumpled blanket over them, to hold out what he intellectually knows to be an imaginary chill. It’s never cold in his room.
"Ri’tvai tevan-tor svi’ashaya k’tu – hi nah-tor ki’than ish-veh." He laughs, mostly at himself. "I apologise. It isn’t something I do, generally —" his fingers clench, one hand on the blanket, and the other on Spock’s shoulder. "— Pekh, it isn’t something I’ve done, you know, ever. But, ah, I’ve never had anyone so far inside my head, before, either. Kuv tar-tor ri’tar-tor – riyeht-tar-tor nash-veh. It’s still weird. I’m … in love."
He laughs, again, then untangles his arm from Spock’s leg and snuggles closer, if such a thing is possible, putting as much skin against skin as he can.
"Your mind is an exquisite place. I wish to be there again." Spock pauses, ruminates. "To stay there."
He too cuddles closer and whispers into Starek’s ear. "Never parted."
They lie together for long moments, savoring their feelings of completeness. Although reality is beginning to nibble at the edges of Spock’s mind, he pushes those thoughts away. He wants to embrace Starek for a little longer, to lie here in this cocoon, in this sanctuary of their love.
"Ri’stariben’uh duh’es. Dungi shau khaf-spol t’nash-veh fayei nam-tor bolayatik. Fai-tor nash-veh ish-veh." Starek shrugs against Spock’s chest. "But, if there comes a time that you wish to come back to me, know that I will never turn you away. Worla."
Turning his head, Starek presses a kiss to Spock’s neck, before he props himself on one elbow, to gaze down in fascinated amusement.
"How long are you on leave? I’m sure I can keep you entertained for another day or two…" He lazily traces a finger along Spock’s lip. "Also, I know that neither of us are going to want to be in shouting distance of this planet at daybreak. I foresee some bad things coming our way — really and truly, our way — not just for you — and I’d like to be clear of this place before, as the Terrans say, the shit hits the fan, and I think you should do the same. We’re clear to take you wherever you need to go for whatever you’ve got to do, next."
He kisses Spock’s forehead, with his lips. "But, for now, I think the most important questions are whether you’re going to stay the night in my bed, and how we’re going to get the rest of your luggage off the planet."