Aug 192009
 

Prologue | I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X
Title: Zahvan T’Masu
Co-author: diane_kepler
Fandom: ST TOS
Characters: Starek, Spock, T’Nis, Cash
Rating: M
Warnings: Kissing, romance-novel style removal of clothing, voyeurism, hilarious Vulcan euphemisms.
Notes: At last, things start to get interesting. Starek begins to truly romance the Vulcan, and it’s more effective than one might imagine.


Starek stops, outside the door, face clouding briefly, as he rests a hand upon it. Somewhere down the line, he will regret this, no matter what he does, at this point. It is only a matter of which of them he will disappoint, and either is a dangerous choice. This is not the way it should have gone, and he did not know it before he began, but he knows it now. He knows it in his hands.

Quietly, he opens the door, stepping in and scanning the room. If he can figure out where the camera most likely is, he can arrange to ‘carelessly’ throw clothing on it — allowing some fairly pointed photos to be taken, but not ruining the parts he wants to keep for himself. Maybe there is a compromise. Maybe he can walk out of this without losing everything he has gained, tonight.

He wants to throw himself on the bed, to indulge in some tomfoolery, to lighten the mood, but in this case, he knows that will only make it worse. He takes a seat on the corner of the bed, drawing his knees up, to cross his legs, beneath the robe.

Without a word, because there are no more words he knows to say, he holds out a hand to Spock, this time palm up, with two fingers extended.

Spock approaches the foot of the bed. His pulse quickens. He had thought that there might, in fact, be further conversation. He is both troubled and relieved that this is not so.

Lifting his robes at the thigh, he seats himself facing Starek, mirroring his posture, except that one of his feet is still touching the floor. He looks at Starek, swallows, and covers the fingers with two of his own.

Starek slides his hand back, cautiously, stroking the pads of Spock’s fingers, rhythmically, but asymmetrically, like a dance of fingers. Sliding his fingers back toward Spock’s palm, he lets his thumb into the dance, caressing the fingernails of the hand he holds.

As he turns his hand to slide the spaces between their fingers together, curiosity gets the better of him. "Have you been kissed this way, before?"

He knows the answer is more than likely going to be affirmative, for anyone to have made it this long without a kiss, even in Vulcan society, would be fairly ludicrous. But, it pleases him to ask the question, because he thinks it may cause Spock to blush, and he likes that hint of green, high along the cheekbones.

Starek gets what he wants. Spock nods, and blushes too. He retracts his hand somewhat, returning to graze the second joints of Starek’s fingers with his thumb, and, whenever he gets a chance, the knuckles, index finger sliding in tandem beneath. No, he is not entirely inexperienced.

When Starek’s hand stills, Spock progresses to gliding his thumb across the back of Starek’s hand while he continues to massage it from below.

He is able to look at the younger man directly now and he does so without reserve, taking in the depth of his eyes and how his skin reflects the light of the still-young moon. That same light glints off the lettering on the front of Starek’s robe, reminding him of concepts he’d rather forget, at least for the moment.

"Nam-tor ri’aikum – nash-mu-yor – hi hal-tor zhalanlar ahm t’etek." It’s not an accurate statement, at all, and he knows it — in fact, in his distraction, he’s taken a line from a perfectly good Terran song, and laid it out in Vulcan. And there damn well is a moon, tonight, he’s using the light of it to see. He was going to have to watch his mouth, or he would end up proving his heritage at some wholly unfortunate point.

He let his fingertips crackle with an honest passion, as he raises both their hands to his face.

"And have you been kissed like this?" He asks, taking the tip of Spock’s finger into his mouth and sucking.

The hot mouth around his fingers leaves Spock unable to even think, let alone verbalize that no, no one had ever shown him such attention and what has even led Starek to ask such a humiliating question? He has heard of such things, certainly. There were the usual ancient passages that were passed around among adolescents, but surely no one —

But any remaining thought is lost in the sensation of Starek’s tongue, his tongue, against the sensitive pads of his fingers, moving now with a rapidity and skill that leaves him gasping into the silence of the room. And when Starek begins squeezing his lips around the fingers at the same time, Spock very nearly loses his ability to remain sitting upright. Instead, Spock squeezes his eyes shut and dips his head. His mouth is open now, and the fingers of his other hand twitch sympathetically.

Starek’s lips slide from Spock’s fingers with a soft pop. "No objections, yet, I take it?"

He turns Spock’s hand palm up and nibbled along the base of the palm, where it met the wrist. Just enough teeth to be interesting, before he laid a light kiss on Spock’s wrist — a faint brush of lips.

"Will you let me kiss you in the human fashion?" he asked, "I ask because some find it … somewhat invasive."

Spock does more than reply. He raises his head and leans in, meeting Starek’s gaze. He stops a breath away, reversing Starek’s hand and stroking his own thumb into the very center of that smooth palm, waiting.

Starek’s breath catches in his throat. He closes his hand around Spock’s thumb, steadying himself for what he is about to do. He wonders how many more complete perversions of logic and physicality he can ease Spock through in one night. There are, after all, many more uses for a tongue than he’d known when he left the Empire.

With a low hum in the back of his throat, he closes his lips around Spock’s lower one, sucking at it, then catching it in his teeth and pulling back to scrape against the inside. As it slips back out of his mouth, he dives in, full force, lips and tongue against Spock’s lips, and finally, against his tongue, his unoccupied hand at the back of Spock’s neck, squeezing for just a moment, before he forces his fingers to release. He needs to remember to leave an escape route. He promised to be good.

Spock slants his head to accept more of Starek’s probing. The strength and the wetness of it sends an arrow of feeling straight down into his groin, where until now there had been only a pleasantly growing heat. He folds their fingers together and tries exploring Starek’s mouth in turn, shifting closer on the bed in order to have easier access. His other hand comes to rest on Starek’s knee. The touch is light, as if he is not sure his hand belongs there. As Starek feels Spock’s hand settle on his knee, he gives in to the need in his own hand — the hand he’s been holding back, just in case this went poorly.

The multiplicity of sensations that come from joining two mouths — Spock feels as if he could kiss Starek until the moon set and the sun rose after it. There is so much to enjoy in this wet sliding of lips and tongue. Suddenly, there is much about Terran film and literature that makes sense to him.

Softly, he moans into the kisses. There is no way to tell which is more attractive. Starek kissing him with his eyes closed, the lashes dark against his cheeks, or with eyes open and dark with promise. The knowledge in them, the certainty — it is enough to evoke a shiver.

The soft moan is all the confirmation Starek needs that he won’t be perceived as aggressive. He traces his fingers down the edge of Spock’s ear, slipping them around the back, and then rubbing his thumb up, from the inner ridge to the point. It’s one of those things he still loves, himself, even if it doesn’t quite melt him into goo, anymore, after that unfortunate incident on Delta VII. Hell, after that one, he’s lucky to still have a right ear.

As he remembers what it’s like to get stuck in the middle of a major diplomatic incident, an odd plan starts to take shape in his head. He needs T’Nis to get something that will shock the press, and the Ambassador. He also needs to Spock to believe he, himself, wasn’t an active participant. He can do this, but it’s going to involve some significantly indulgent kink, and some heavy-handed manoeuvering.

The fingers of one hand keep at the tip of Spock’s ear, and the others are busy with the Vulcan’s fingers, on the other side. Starek’s tongue flickers through a series of light, darting touches, before he pulls back, sucking at Spock’s lip, again, releasing. He stays there, for a long moment, nose to nose, gazing into Spock’s eyes.

This time it is Spock who puts a hand up to the back of Starek’s neck, one finger luxuriating in the short hairs there. The tactile sensations Starek is creating at his ear cause him to swallow again, and squeeze his eyes shut as he did half a lifetime ago on the sofa. But this time the eyes stay closed and his mouth opens in a kind of soft panting that could have embarrassed him had he been aware of it.

Spock leans his forehead against Starek’s for balance as much as closeness. He hadn’t anticipated that someone so young could be as skilled and wonders if Starek will find this encounter at all satisfactory. The rules of this engagement are foreign to him. If only there had been some kind of primer, something to study beforehand.

"Look at me, Spock. I want to see your eyes." Starek is millimetres from smirking.

As the Vulcan complies, Starek asks a question he knows will probably make Spock blush to halfway down his chest, and Starek only regret is that he won’t see all of it. "Is there anything you want to try? Things you’ve only heard rumours of? Things you’ve imagined impossible, illogical, and obscene?"

Starek is going to thank D’nila, when he gets back to the ship. First for that line, and then for the skills to back it up. There are, he admits, distinct advantages to living with an Orion who likes showing off.

A thousand thoughts circle inside Spock’s mind He imagines total nudity, and postures that made him blush when he first became aware of their existence. He considers restraint, or denial, or the temporary loss of one or more senses. He even pictures Starek, above him, on some alien shore with double red suns overhead. He is probing at a most sensitive location as the waves caress them from all sides.

However, given the possibilities that Starek has already demonstrated, Spock is reluctant to betray his ignorance with some childish fantasy. They might both enjoy themselves more if he shuts up, for once.

"This is already illogical, and obscene," he whispers, clasping Starek’s hand and arching, catlike into the lone digit that is still stroking his ear. But he says it wryly.

"Yet I am confident you can show me more."

Starek leans closer, his finger and his tongue meeting in opposite directions, along the curve of Spock’s ear. He cannot control the shiver that races down his spine: This is Spock, before him — the ambassador’s son, the half-human, the paragon of Vulcan control — inviting him to further sully that lean, Vulcan body. A sudden jealous thought springs up in his head, a thought of Spock having done this before, with someone else — with any number of someone elses.

Half-human. That’s disgusting if you’re a Vulcan. You know that.

The jealous burn in his blood fades, but does not pass, as he takes the tip of Spock’s ear between his lips, sucking gently. He does not say any of the foolishly romantic things that cross his mind, not least because they all do so in Romulan.

"Anything you want," he breathes, at last. "Everything you want."

He gasps this time, and arches so far into the touch of Starek’s lips that he falls sideways, pulling Starek along. His hands divest Starek of his robe and go next to the belt at his overtunic, tugging it free and then yanking the garment halfway down Starek’s arms. His undertunic is white and thus silvery in the fading light from the west. Spock parts it at the throat kissing down along Starek’s neck with lips on one side, hand on the other.

Starek find himself pinned in the tangle of his own clothes, and finds he does not object very much to this turn of events. As his head tips back, exposing his throat, a word slips out of his mouth, barely audible, even to his own ears, and it takes him a few seconds to register that it is neither Standard nor Vulcan.

"Taluhk heh vaksurik," he covers, the words hissing out, still barely audible, from his tight throat. "Wuhinik. Goh-veh."

A gasp, a faint groan, and then the sound of his shirts tearing, as his back arches, raising his chest for further attention. Sadly, not even Vulcan clothing stands up well to Vulcanoid strength. It doesn’t matter, really.

"Ha. . . Estuhl’uh nash-veh . . . ."

He caresses Starek’s sides in long sweeping strokes. The two fingers of his dominant hand tingle from it. His other hand is cradling Starek’s head, guiding it away from him so he may suck at the thrumming pulse and feel it beat against his sensitive lips. It inflames him. He is lost.

"Va’shanosh . . ." he murmurs, nibbling at the exposed throat and finding that Starek enjoys this.

Pausing, he kneels back and takes off his own outer robe. It has grown rather cumbersome and hot.

Starek lies still, dazed and panting, for a long moment. Clearly, he has not yet betrayed himself, but that was closer than he might have liked. Just means he’ll have to put his tongue to more creative uses — ones that don’t tend to allow comprehensible words to be produced.

He holds up a hand, first, to make sure he doesn’t do something idiotic, like headbutt Spock on the way up, and, carefully, he sits back up, stripping off the damaged remains of his shirt. Starek is infinitely more comfortable, dressed like this — he wears little more on the bridge, and the coolness and freedom of movement inspire his more reckless impulses.

While he’s up, he figures the boots should go, too, and he drops his own beside the bed, before pulling off Spock’s as well, knocking the Vulcan onto his back. Starek smiles wickedly and visibly before he presses kisses down the centre of the bottom one of Spock’s feet.

Spock arches and digs his fingers into the coverlet.

"Nam-tor ish-veh wa’rom!"

Starek smirks, massaging Spock’s Achilles heel with his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger. "Ki’gish ten s’nash-veh?"

He caresses Spock’s ankle with his tongue, nipping at the thin skin, over the bone. Merciless? Oh, yes. Regularly. And with that thought, he races his tongue along the inner edge of Spock’s foot, from the top of the heel to the ball, where he swirls his tongue, before taking the first toe into his mouth.

There are vortices in the covers where Spock is now clenching his fists. He has planted his other foot and is digging the heel in, head moving from side to side.

"Nuh’mau! Nam-tor d’mallu du."

Starek sits back with a faintly offended expression on his face. He cycles through four languages, rapidly. "J’objecte! Nam-tor nash-veh ri’kastik! And certainly not omnivorous."Here he smirks. "h’Levreinnye dh’aefnumn."

And, with that, he leans in, between Spock’s legs, pushing up the Vulcan’s tunic and undertunic, and traces a curve along the top of Spock’s pants, from one hip to the other, with his tongue.

"It was," and Spock’s abdomen jerks at the contact, "a metaphor."

Uttering a long, low sound, that may just be a growl, he lifts Starek under the arms and hauls him up, so that the younger man is lying atop him, at last fisting a gentle but firm hand in Starek’s short hair. With this leverage, he opens a place to bite down, harder this time.

He withdraws, quite serious. "Now stop teasing me and . . . unnnhhh." It appears that Starek has captured his fingers again.

"I don’t want this to be over too quickly. You are the first Vulcan I have lain with, and I want to be able to enjoy the experience for as long as possible." He punctuates the sentences with squeezes of Spock’s fingertips. "I want to watch you arching and writhing for me all night, and then I want to watch you sink into satiated sleep, with the dawn light on your cheeks."

Starek turns his head, nipping at Spock’s wrist. "I want to smell you on my skin over breakfast, tomorrow. And Vulcans don’t sweat, so that’s going to take an awful lot of contact."

Spock’s eyes widen at the filthy suggestions. To intentionally draw out the act. But rather than disgust him, Starek’s words inflame him. Deep inside, his le-wuhr-ozh twitches. He grasps Starek, claiming his mouth once more. He is more adventurous this time, exploring, reveling in the clash and swirl of tongues.

"Fleita’uh nash-veh."

Starek doesn’t need to be told twice. In fact, being told once was probably more than enough. He interrupts the kiss with cloth, only slightly more gentle with Spock’s clothes than he’d been with his own. Now Spock is beneath him, shirtless and significantly less rational than Vulcan standards permit.

He lives with Orions, and somehow this is the most stunningly erotic situation he can remember being in. With a low and possessive growl, he rolls back into their previous position, pushing himself further down the bed, to open Spock’s pants with his teeth.


"Can you take up the gain on three?" T’Nis stands before the row of monitors, her hands folded atop the high back of Cash’s chair.

He touches a slider on one of the graphic interfaces. "Mmm. Don’t think we’re gonna get any better in this light."

"Then go to infrared."

Cash grimaces at the poor artistic choice. "On all of them?"

"No, just on three."

Ordinarily, Cash wouldn’t go against anything T’Nis said, but he can tell she is feeling pleased with herself. "I can amp up the contrast in post."

She juts out a lower lip, considering. "Fine then. Carry on." She heads for the door, her silk dressing gown ghosting about her ankles.

"Y’know, T’Nis, I may be here for awhile."

A fine eyebrow rises. "You may at that. Are you saying you’ll want some coffee sent up?"

He leans back in his chair, hands behind his head. "That’s exactly what I’m saying."

She glances at his lap with a broad smirk. "I’ll have it delivered."

Prologue | I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX | X