I | II | III | IV | V | VI | VII | VIII | IX
Title: Abmarkan’es – IV
Fandom: ST TOS
Characters: Starek, Spock
Notes: Starek finally gets around to it. Still tired, still hung over. Shenanigans ensue.
For a time it is enough to simply luxuriate in Starek’s scent by burying his nose in the younger man’s hair. Starek purrs, wrapping his leg around Spock’s hip. Pushing Spock’s chin up, with his nose, he licks the Vulcan’s neck, slowly.
"Nel-dath t’du? Ri’kup’tor du kauk fi’shitau sai-vel." Spock teases, tapping Starek on the nose in turn. He trails finger kisses along Starek’s hairline and ear, beginning with the lobe and then working his way up with index, middle, and thumb.
"Hi ma ri’istaya na’fnau-tor du. Ma du mau na’saven-tor nash-veh." Starek is delightfully appealing in the light of this orange sun. It is pleasantly reminiscent of a desert sunset back home, although here there are leaves on the trees, making designs on the bed as the branches bend in the wind.
"Speaking of wearing clothes. I wear them just fine, when I have to. I even wear them to put ideas in your head about taking them off of me." Starek nudges Spock’s chin up, again, biting gently, just beneath it. "Just don’t tear them, this time, please? I like this shirt…"
He arches against Spock, rolling his hips. And this is when he realises that his pants are far too tight, as they are cut to fit him retracted. Starek speculates on the fine line between delicious and hideously uncomfortable, as he feels his body failing to stretch the snug leather pants. Right now, being unable to unsheathe is incredibly delicious, and as he wonders how long that will last, he pulls Spock’s hand to the front of his pants.
"Tell me what you don’t feel — no, don’t open them. I think I like this."
When the hand goes where it’s directed, it sends a delighted shiver through Spock. He can feel the swelling and the heat through the fine leather. He trails kisses there, but is very soon unable to help himself from just cupping Starek and rolling him over, pulsing with his hand as he sinks his teeth into the side of Starek’s neck.
"K’hat’n’dlawa. You inflame me."
Spock fumbles left-handed at the buttons of Starek’s shirt, unwilling to move his palm and gently rolling fingers even for a moment. He manages the fastenings eventually, and presses a hot line of human kisses along the strip of exposed skin before nipping at the smooth flesh around Starek’s navel. Then he spreads the shirt wider, helping Starek off with it, trailing a searing tongue across the planes of his shoulders and clavicle.
Disengaging only long enough to shrug off his Vulcan robe, Spock seats himself with his back against the headboard, drawing Starek closer so that his bare back is up against the fine material of Spock’s tunic — Tunor’s, actually — and Spock can let one of his hands roam across Starek’s chest, while the other is fastened to that imprisoned sweetness between his legs. At the same time he licks along Starek’s trapezius to the fleshy spot near his neck and sucks, hot and hard, with flutterings of his eager tongue.
Starek is shivering uncontrollably, by this point, twisting and writhing in Spock’s hands. His mind stutters terribly, between thoughts, and few, if any, make it out of his mouth, entire.
"Lerakhova’uh weh-wufik," he pants, the light green flush that began on his cheeks spreading and deepening down his neck and across his chest. The sounds coming from his mouth would seem to be agony, if he were not begging for more, between them. "Ha! Nash-veh t’du! Is’uh nash-veh!"
Spock groans and slips his down inside those pants so he may clamp down harder on Starek’s burning flesh. He rocks the hand now, the tight leather sending torrents of feeling through his sensitive fingers and knuckles as his palm is coated with just a trickle of Starek’s lubrication. Spock is feeling limited by his own pants now, and he shoves his hips against Starek’s to emphasize the point.
Meanwhile, Spock’s other hand is pinning one of Starek’s, stroking the metacarpals, pushing the palm into Starek’s thigh. But that is no longer enough. He wants those fingers in his mouth now, so he pushes them there, greedily consuming first one, then two.
Starek can’t even beg, any more. He’s been rendered incoherent by the force of Spock’s lust and the delectable strain of his own pleasure. Wildly desperate sounds spill from his mouth — keening, groaning, and whimpering — as he grinds his trapped flesh against Spock’s hand, feeling damp squishes as more of his essence is pressed out against Spock’s palm. He arches, body tensing, but there is no release, and with a hollow sound of frustration, he rocks back, grinding against the heat in Spock’s pants.
"Nuh’mau," Spock moans at the sweet torture, extricating his hand and shoving Starek lustily aside in one motion. He climbs out, drops down into kneel on the bed, tugs Starek down towards him, and then works at the fastening to the Romulan’s pants with shaking, slick fingers.
He yanks down the zipper — a good call, given the rapidity and force with which Starek finally unsheathes — and then wastes no time getting that emerald cock between his lips, right where he’s wanted it all week — among other places.He moans, almost sobbing around Starek in the intensity of his need.
As for his tunic and sav’el, Spock interrupts his eager sucking only long to yank them up over his head. Then he covers Starek, drags at those damnably tight pants for a moment, gives up, and just releases his own pounding flesh from its confines. Then he resumes.
Starek actually shouts as Spock’s mouth closes around him again. It’s so good. So much, so fast. He writhes, twisting the sheets in his hands as he struggles to retain control. The world swims in his vision, dizzying and unimportant. He howls, digging his nails into his palms, but the pain just makes everything a little brighter.
He’s so close, and fighting it so carefully — he could clamp down and turn it off, but that would ruin the whole experience. He’d have no further pleasure in the act, but what he could take from Spock. So, he claws at the blankets, at his own shoulders, at Spock’s hands. He squeezes the tip of Spock’s ear, for just a moment, before his fingers fail him, again.
"Dungi ulidau du." Spock snarls, his lips trailing wetness. "Sarlah’uh na’nash-veh. Lu sarlah du – shei’uh ahm t’nash-veh heh fai’uh du dungi sak-tor na’nash-veh – thurai. Dungi ma ek’t’du. Dungi nam-tor t’nash-veh."
Spock goes back to work, his thumbs digging into the tender skin just inside Starek’s hipbones. Their past melds have made the Vulcan an even quicker study than usual and there is no hesitation this time, and no teeth, just the strong, pistoning motion of his neck and the groans deep in his throat where he pauses, at times, to let Starek feel the full heat of him.
The first scream is wordless — Starek tears at his own skin, nails digging into his chest, leaving bright green marks behind, as he drags them across his flesh, head thrown back in excruciating rapture. Shuddering and clutching at everything he can reach, he rolls his hips, thrusting into that hot mouth.
And the rest of his words are merely the incomprehensible rattlings of a being who has just poured his brain out the end of his cock.
Satisfied for the moment, Spock tilts his head back, literally savoring the taste of his victory. Then he swallows, the ripple of his throat clearly visible, before directing his hooded gaze at Starek and passing his tongue out over his lips.
Without waiting for Starek’s reaction, he works at inching those tight leather pants down his legs. It’s something of a shame to divest him of this garment, but his lover’s smooth thighs and muscular calves more than make up for it.
Still half clothed, he drops his hips between Starek’s legs and nudges at his opening. "Pok na’nash-veh? Il dungau-dator du?"
Starek just stares, for a long moment, eyes glazed. "Nnngh." He pats his face with one hand, as if making certain it’s where he left it, before the hand presses harder, rubbing the sense back into his head. "What? Ha. Whatever. Fan-vel. Kanok-vei." He can feel his own lubrication mixed with Spock’s saliva running down his flesh, and he knows he’s lying in a puddle. But Starek does not give a left-handed fuck-dumpster’s uncle. That has absolutely no relevance to the current state of things, nor does anything else, really.
However, there was a question, and it seemed like an honest one.
Spock lowers his gaze, positions himself, and pushes in. The slickness, both running down from above and coating him, makes it easy to slide home, inch by glorious inch. However, once he’s there, a tremendous groan leaks out of him and with it, his strength. He leans into Starek, almost collapsing onto him, before pressing a light kiss, their first shared one of the afternoon, to Starek’s mouth and beginning to move.
He is in less of a hurry now, perhaps because his position is secure. Quite secure — and hot, and tight. He can feel Starek clenching and rolling his hips, rocking him with a sweet rhythm that is simultaneously familiar and new. He tries teasing, with an inward snap of the hips and a slow retreat and finds the reaction favorable.
It’s all too much sensation, and Starek fails to process most of it, just sort of coasting on the post-orgasmic glow and the wonderful heat filling him. He’s absolutely certain that he’s making sound, but he has no idea what sounds they are, or if they’re anything like words.
It’s good, it’s warm, it’s gentle. And, yet, he’s still so tight that every motion feels like his organs are going to follow Spock out of his body. It’s almost perfect. This is what he wanted. He belongs here.
His hands still tingle, as he strokes Spock’s back, catching his elbows on his own raised knees. He hasn’t been this clumsy in years. He tips his head back and turns it, slightly, offering.
That’s the last piece. That’s the one he misses most.
"Khio’ri t’nash-veh," Spock whispers and keeps murmuring it in time with his slow but uncompromising thrusts. "Kup hafau etek ish-kro’el ek’wak ha? Kwon-sum? Goh tu heh nash-veh? Teretuhr . . . "
Starek’s cheeks and are now the targets of Spock’s finger-kisses, and his brows, so sweetly lifted at the outer corners. "Narta’uh nash-veh. Dungi nam-tor ak i."
"Nem’uh nash-veh. Ek t’nash-veh t’du. Kwon-sum heh ek’wak," Starek breathes.
He knows it’s not safe. He knows it’s completely insane. He knows he might be endangering seven other people he cares about, but this is trust. This is the single most un-Romulan action he’s ever taken. He does not believe Spock will see those things, intentionally. He does not believe he will be betrayed, even if he does sorely have it coming, after last time…
Spock stills, his lips parted with the force of his breathing and the enormity of what Starek has just asked of him. There is no ambiguity now. His lover has made it plain in both their mother tongues.
A thousand thoughts and feelings crystallize inside Spock’s mind and then shatter, spinning outwards into a maelstrom of confusion. Can they? Should they? Will it save them? Will they be doubly cursed? He stares deep into Starek’s eyes, remembering how it was to slip into his mind, to merge with that beautiful soul. To have that a part of him always — does he dare? Would it be the height of selfishness? Or would it be the beginning of a union that has waited millennia?
Yet in the end, it is none of those things that moves him. Compared to the certainty in his heart and hands, all other considerations pale — even those for his intended bride and his ubiquitous father. What Starek asks for himself and Spock is right. He knows it.
Starek registers first that Spock has stopped thrusting. He stares up in vacant horror. "Blighted verdigris. Yes, I love you. Yes, I want to spend the rest of my life with you, worla heh ek’wak estuhl heh vesht estuhl. But, blighted buggering verdigris, don’t stop!"
Spock can’t help himself. He puts his head down onto Starek and gives into silent laughter, remembering to push now and again so that the encounter stops short of dissolving into farce. The realization that they are going to do this, here on these rucked and tangled sheets, with his pants and boots still on — it is staggering. But for the beauty which suffuses and surrounds them it would be profane.
At last Spock recovers, his rhythm smooth, even, and now even slower than before. With his weight on his elbows he hooks his index and middle fingers around those on Starek’s opposite hand, bringing them in for a kiss as his other hand alights on the meld points.
Starek’s mind is so open that entering is as effortless as drawing aside a veil. The chaos is so warm and familiar, that even now, before the final steps,it is comfortable than any consciousness he has ever touched before. Uppermost are repeated urgings to go faster, but Spock refuses. Some small facet of solemnity will mark this occasion.
"Kashkau," he sends into Starek’s mind and both of them repeat the words. "Wuhkuh et teretuhr. Estuhn wi ri estuhn. K’wuhli wi ri k’wuhli."
All at once, Starek feels a third consciousness, physically removed, yet psychically very close. It is muddled, confused, and then at once as livid as anything he has ever known. He shrinks from it, towards the part that is Spock who comforts him and holds the other at bay.
"I sahris," Spock directs and again they speak together. "Ra etek tor tev-tor s’wak t’Palikaya. Nam-tor u’khaf-spol t’etek – nam-tor u’katra t’etek – nam-tor u’sha’yut."
When the formula is complete, Spock gathers himself and pushes that final distance to the core of Starek’s being. He enters, like a stream into a pool, feeding, dissolving, feeling himself and not-himself becoming less and less distinct until, at last, they are joined forever.
In the resulting splendor, the third consciousness wavers and fades.