Aug 202009
 

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, Amber, Cash, Skye, D’nila
Rating: E
Warnings: Smut. Hilarious Vulcan euphemisms.
Notes: A daring escape! Two thumbs to the swashbuckling Romulan! Oh, and some adorable Orion chick. And some boinking.


As Spock takes hold, he hits the button, waits five seconds, and then makes three double-pulses with the signal. Five seconds later, they’re coming into being in the transporter room, and D’nila’s running toward him.

"Riov!" D’nila grabs Starek by the shoulders, wild-eyed, and looks him up and down. "Are you all right? You’re … naked."

She takes a long moment to parse that, then looks over his shoulder, and notices Spock. She gasps. "And you’re Spock! Oh, this is the dreamiest! Commander, you must be so happy! And such timing! Riena and I just finished fixing the replicator. And your shower’s not broken any more."

"Thank you, D’nila." Starek rubs his nose with hers. "Can you step out for just a moment, so the zhel-lan, here, can put on some clothes, before we have to walk down the halls?"

"Modesty, of course. I always forget, because you have none, Riov." D’nila winks at Spock, as she steps into the hall.

"Orions." Starek shrugs.

Spock darts an amused look at Starek and bends to look for his clothes.

He finds his pants first. "I admit, I had not thought to bring any sort of beacon on leave with me. A lesson learned perhaps."

"What can I say? You’re not a starship pirate. It’s not the sort of thing that occurs to nice boys." Starek laughs.

"And just throw on the robe. You’re not going to be wearing clothes long enough for it to matter, if I can help it." Starek bends over and hands one of the robes to Spock, before draping the rest of the pile of cloth over his bag. He does not make any attempt to get dressed, and rather hopes he runs into Stavret, in the hall, just to see his best friend choke on his own tongue. It would be a great memory to add to a fantastically peculiar day.

"We’re headed for Deck One. Turbolift’s just down the hall a piece. It’s a fairly small ship."

As directed, Spock pulls on one of the robes — not his own. He resists the desire to hold the front of it closed with one hand as he follows Starek down the hall, as any display of modesty in the face of Starek’s apparent lack of it would appear ludicrous at best.

"Starek." Spock’s eyes are bright with desire,"Are you characteristically seen on board your vessel in such a state of undress?"

"This is by no means an unusual state of affairs. Last week, I was on the bridge wearing a towel. You never know when something idiotically urgent is going to happen, in space." Starek shrugs, hitting the button for the turbolift. "There are only eight people aboard this ship, and five of them are Orions. Of the other three, two are my best friend and I. Who am I going to offend, the Andorian? She’s a doctor.

"Stavret might choke to see us headed down the hall, right now, but that wouldn’t be because I’m not dressed. It would be because I am both undressed and in your company."

He steps into the turbolift, waiting for Spock to join him. "Deck One."

Spock does so. Even though both his upbringing and his military training dictate that he not let his gaze caress Starek’s lean, muscular body, Spock is unable to help himself.

Starek steps out into the hall, and walks the a few yards to his door. "This is my room. You’ve been in my head, so I don’t suppose it matters that you’ll see this, too, although my affairs are generally conducted in the guest quarters down on three."

He taps in his passcode without looking, and the doors slide open to reveal a room panelled in dark wood, with brass fixtures. It’s a small room, as far as officers’ quarters on modern starships go, but it has all the appropriate amenities, including recreations of an eighteenth-century Terran style table and chairs, by the replicator. A mahogany canopy bed rests against the far wall of the room, and the bathroom is accessible to the right. Through that open door, a vast marble bath can be seen occupying most of the floor-space. In fact, one must stand in the bath to use the sink.

"I’ve done the best I can, with what little I have, and I think I’ve done well. It’s my refuge — when D’nila hasn’t flooded it out. Getting that bathtub in caused some fairly memorable problems." He turns, stepping backward into the room, and spreads his arms. "Welcome to my only home."

"I believe the idiom for this situation is ‘first things first’." He takes one step closer to Starek and holds him gratefully. "Thank you for a most memorable rescue."

Half of Starek’s mouth pulls up into a smile, eyes glimmering in smug amusement. "I’m told I’m rather good at those, when I haven’t gotten myself in so deep to need an extraction, myself."

He catches Spock around the shoulders with one arm, pulling him into a kiss of the sort one tends to see on the covers of romance novels. It would be a more effective visual if he was wearing his usual style of clothing, but he figures he can make the best of his undress.

Both of Spock’s hands are on the back of Starek’s head, positioning it just so. In the back of his mind is the idea that there are other matters to attend to, but he is still besotted with feeling — and chocolate. He kisses deeply and with a degree of enthusiasm that lets Starek know there will be no grudge. Hard feelings, now that is another matter.

When they come up for air he growls against Starek’s ear, tracing it lightly with his tongue. "I believe, earlier, you had offered me water."

"My water is yours, k’diwa, in any and every way you want it to be." Starek steps back, and sinks to the ground, knees wide. He spits into his hands and raises them in offering, turning his gaze to the ground. "Masu t’nash-veh terish k’t’du."

He drags his fingers across Starek’s palms, scooping up the wet and bringing it to his to his own mouth.

"Look at me."

At Starek’s assent, he swallows his own index and middle fingers, drawing them out slowly, skimming them down his torso to the waistband of his pants which he unfastens and pushes down, stepping on the hems to remove them completely. The last function of the two water fingers is to ease down onto either side of his slit and push inward, allowing Spock’s semi-erect penis to extend fully.

He steps forward, a hand on Starek’s hair. "Heh t’nash-veh k’t’du."

"K’diwa…" Starek breathes, eyes glazed and glittering with astonished lust. There is only a split second, before he has taken Spock’s verdant cock into his mouth, sucking and licking, desperate for sensation as the slick skin slides across his lips.

His hands clutch desperately at Spock’s sharp hips, and he grinds his palms against them, with a heated moan — more of a hum, with his mouth so full. Starek spreads his knees farther, stretching his skin in tantalizing ways as he grinds himself down against his heels.


"Khrikha-‘t’var’eth!!!"

Amber, now dressed in athletic shoes, pants, and a t-shirt appears at the door to the control room wherein Cash and Skye are huddling, wide-eyed. Even so far away from the actual room where the screams and destruction are taking place, it they can hear everything distinctly.

"I dunno about you guys, but I think we should head." She shows them her palm, with the keys to a hovercar on a ring around her middle finger.

"Lunikkh ta’vik! Dungi tresahk-tor du, sa-fu t’Tlingansu-aylak!" There is the sound of breaking glass.

The other two don’t need to be told twice. They head down to the garage and pile into one of the vehicles, Amber and Cash in the front, Skye in the back.

Once they’re speeding into the desert night, Amber looks around at the others. "So, where to, you guys? Tommy’s?"

Skye perks up. "Yes! For pancakes!"

"Only you could think of stuffing your fat face right now," Cash snarls at her.

"Hey now," Amber jumps in, "Just because somebody ruined your cross-species skin-flick."

"Just drive, " he shoots back, arms folded.

"Sheesh. You’d think it was your years-in-the-making revenge-scheme gone wrong."

Cash forbears to comment.

Unnoticed, in the back, Skye puts up her hand to hide a smile.


After a few minutes, Starek realises that Spock isn’t so much thrusting as he is wobbling. With a faint and distorted smile, he pulls back and stands.

"Shall we take this to the bed? I don’t think Merendith would be too pleased with me if I gave you a concussion. I don’t think I’d be too pleased with me, either." Starek’s lips twitch, and one eyebrow creeps up as he sweeps aside one side of the deep green drape that conceals all but the wood of his bed, and drops it behind the hook that exists for that purpose. He has revealed a set of dark violet sheets.

"I hope the colours aren’t too dramatic for you. Apparently, my sense of aesthetics nauseates some people." He lays back across the bed in one smooth motion, setting one foot on the mattress, and raising that knee. Propping himself on one elbow, he sucks the first two fingers of his other hand, invitingly.

"Yeht-veh, you seem to be invoking an old Terran cliché." He approaches the bed and stops at the end of it. He is rampant. "I assure you, the color-scheme is unimportant at this time."

Catching hold of Starek’s ankle, he gives a smooth tug, sending the younger man sliding down towards the foot of the bed. Catching the knee that was bent, he folds it back towards the owner’s chest. This has the effect of opening Starek beautifully, exposing his straining razhek and the small opening that lies beneath.

He licks his lips, crouches, and then dives in to savor this new experience.

Starek’s back arches in surprise. Of all the things he’d predicted, this was not among them.

"Shok’uh nash-veh! Ha! Shok’uh nash-veh svi’nash-kro’el!" he begs, groaning. "Aitlu tu, k’diwa. Aitlu kanok-vei na’tan-tor du ma."

He is panting now, clutching at the sheets in exactly the way he generally doesn’t. Starek feels himself coming apart at the seams, and can find no rational reason for it. This is no better than he’s had before — in fact, he’s definitely had better — but his head is spinning, and he’s begging like it’s something new. The rest of his control had best not become so flimsy, he thinks, tilting his head back, as a desperate sound breaks from him.

Starek’s hul’a is now as wet as his lok. Still, Spock can’t help kissing longer, even pushing his tongue inside, as he’d felt his tal-kam do earlier. The strain of being on the giving end of this act is surprising, but he will deny his lover nothing. He keeps it up, pointing his tongue as much as possible, stretching Starek wider with his hands.

After a suitable number of groans and tender imprecations, he gathers the courage to lean over Starek and slip a wet finger inside.

The sensations of heat and tightness, rush into Spock and straight through him. He bites his lip. His cock leaps. He needs to rest, to lean his forehead against something but there is nothing available. Instead, he settles for sitting on the bed, resting one arm against Starek’s bent knee and his head on top of that.

The support is enough to allow him to move his finger — but only slightly. How anyone is able to do more without rendering themselves unconscious is a mystery.

Starek’s vision flickers for a moment, as the tongue on his flesh is swapped for a finger, and then Spock is draped across his leg, looking dizzy and overcome. He is about to say something, but Spock’s finger slides a little farther in, and he just bites his lip, instead. The slow, short motions are nothing like enough, and after a long minute of this, he reaches up and tugs at Spock’s hair, to get his attention.

"I thought you were the one who was opposed to teasing," Starek growls.

"I -" he gasps, "my hands."

Defeated for the moment, he withdraws and collapses by Starek’s side.

Starek laughs, rolling over and flipping Spock onto his back.

"Let me show you how it’s done," he offers, with a cocky smirk, praying that at least some of his self-control is where he left it.

He slicks one hand on Spock’s slippery ahn’vahr, pausing to swirl his tongue on the tip, before he ducks down, pushing Spock’s legs up, and burying his face in the exposed flesh. Starek’s tongue performs as admirably as it did back on the world, below, caressing and dipping into Spock’s warmth. He passes a few minutes, in this fashion, before slipping one slicked finger in, slowly, as he continues to lick.

It’s a rush, but his hands are used to this sort of abuse. He counts to five, before tilting his hand, changing the angle of the finger, and beginning to thrust, slowly, but as deeply as he can reach, stroking the top of the passage with his fingertip on every pass.

Spock thought he would be prepared for the sensation. He is wrong. There is discomfort, at first, but then a slow, burning pleasure, deeper than anything he has felt before. Once Starek gets into his deeper rhythm, Spock begins to come quite undone.

"Ah! Kup-olau tu, Starek, ahhhh! Ni taurauuuuk."

He fists the pillows and makes small scooping motions with his hips, pushing into Starek’s proficent hand. His fingers brushes the gland they have in common and Spock jerks, whenever it does, eyes dark, mouth open, breath hitching in his throat.

"Marom-tor tu . . ." he pants.

Starek cannot let himself think too much about what he is doing, or the evening will end swiftly and disappointingly. He’s been there. He’s done that. But, he knows what he’s seeing, and his hand slows, finger tracing slow, lazy circles on that one spot that drives Spock mad.

"Var’uh nash-veh kuv nash sanoi." Starek sits up and offers a wicked half-smile, stroking one long finger down Spock’s length. "Dungi kal-tor kwitau du nash svi’nash-veh heh kwit-tor abi’ovsoh, kuv kal-tor nash-veh than abomesauk, thurai."

With a supreme effort of will, Spock meets Starek’s wicked gaze and matches it.

"Kuv du ki’kup’es. Uf aitlu du than ish-veh?"

Starek leans in, close, nipping at Spock’s collarbone, before he rolls them both over, pulling Spock onto him. With a bit of quick and slightly awkward rearranging, he gets his legs spread, with Spock between them.

"Nar-tor vet t’du kal’i-kahk." Starek pulls one of his knees up, to touch his shoulder. "Nam-tor mnu t’du, svi’nash-kro’el."

He looks up, catching Spock’s eye, and switches to Standard, because he speaks it a little better than Vulcan, and this part’s actually important. "Don’t worry about hurting me, I’ve had worse. I can promise you that. Hell, I can show you, later, if you really want to know what the worst of the worst looks like."

Spock takes hold of himself and gives Starek a few easy rubs to slick him up. Then he positions himself, takes a breath, and pushes slowly in, watching and feeling his lover open for him at once.

At a few inches he stops and hangs his head, too deep in the sensations to accept any more visual stimulus. The feeling of being inside Starek while seeing the Romulan so wantonly spread for him is too much for a moment.

But he’s quick to recover. Spock experiments with movement, feeling Starek’s hot channel easing open, allowing him ever more access until he’s fully sheathed and has nothing left to give. Oh, except sensation, yes, he can do that. He can buck and thrust and even swing his hips with his hot gaze riveted to Starek’s face.

Starek, in turn, is quick to cross his ankles behind Spock’s hips, to stretch his arms up, cross his wrists near the headboard, and grab onto the decorative carvings, there. He tilts his hips, to let Spock go deeper, and then rolls them in ways he never would have learned without Orions on board. Something to be said for bellydancing, he notes, and a thin smile spreads across his lips.

Spock is hammering into him, and it’s not great, but it’s sure as hell nothing like bad. Some people’s instincts are better than others, he reflects, tightening down for one motion, almost pulling. He licks his lips, teeth settling into the edge of the lower one, as he gazes hazily and sultrily up at Spock.

"Nash-veh t’du, Spock. All yours," Starek breathes. "Yours to fuck as you please."

"Rislauk ru’lut," Spock growls, as he thrusts with vigor. "Weh-tar’uh ni lau-shahtau nash-veh."

The room spins gently around Starek’s head, at that suggestion, and he grins dizzily.

"Tizh-tor du kitork-ru’lut t’nash-veh ha?" Starek pauses, letting a long moment hang silently between them. "Az’ir’kh’ar’uh k’nash-veh! Az’ir’kh’ar’uh k’nash-veh k’weht-nekwitaya! Weht-sahris! Weht-nekwitya!"

He follows this with a long drawn out groan, arching his back and angling his hips down, making for a tighter and shorter thrust, until he settles. Licking his lips, he gazes teasingly up at Spock. "Tizh-tor du ves t’nash-vel ha?"

"Ah," Spock responds, "Ah. Maut be . . .ni be."

And he does pick up the pace, his thrusts irregular and shallow, no control left at all; the teasing has erased it.

"Tra!"

And he jerks with the almost-painful force of it, finally collapsing against Starek, head held tightly against the other’s chest.

Starek purrs, softly, nuzzling the top of Spock’s head. "Ma etek mihrsh wi ha?" he teases.

His hands ghost along the lines of Spock’s body, gentle fingertip-kisses everywhere he can reach to put them, and his hips still rock slowly and easily, rubbing his ahn’vahr against Spock’s belly, tightening and releasing around the Vulcan’s elat, still buried within him.

"Shom’uh ein lirt’k. Yi dungi than nash-veh ish-torek sanosh-bosh fi’du." Starek squeezes the tip of one of Spock’s ears. "Sihau ki’kup’es aisha khrasau du va’ashiv."

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