Jim Kirk and the Test of Thirty Days (3/4)
Title : Jim Kirk and the Test of Thirty Days (3/4)
Author : the_arc5
Recipient : vain_flower
Pairing : Kirk/Spock
Rating : Overall, R to NC-17. This chapter: NC-17 for poorly written wanking. Also, the boys have dirty, dirty mouths. As in language, you perverts.
Warnings: Masturbation in this chapter.
Summary : Jim is subjected to a sadistic test. Spock is very confused. Bones keeps getting interrupted. This is what true love is all about.
Author's Notes : *shakes her pr0n pen* Please don't laugh.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Scotty peers beneath a jumbled mass of pipes and gives a low whistle.
"Cap'n," he says, kneeling down to get a better look, "y'know I respect ya. And there's not a lot I wouldn't do for you or the Enterprise. But you are a wee bit strange."
"Yes, well," Jim says from somewhere inside the maze. "I have a perfectly reasonable explanation for this."
"Do you, now?" Scotty says. Jim doesn't answer. "Right, well, I'll just be going on... Look, how did ya get in there, anyway?"
For a moment, Jim swells with pride, a difficult feat for a man twisted like a pipe cleaner around one of engineering's more creative feats of space-saving. He even cocks his head to look Scotty square in the eye.
"Mr. Scott. I am a very flexible man."
"I've heard rumors," Scotty agrees. "But I dinna know if I'm comfortable with the idea of you with my machinery. Not that you're not capable, y'understand, but a grown man havin' at it with redistribution lines doesna sound like something I'd willingly participate in. Even I don't love the Enterprise that much."
Jim deflates. "Scotty, I'm not having sex with our ship. God, does everybody think I'm like this?"
"Like what, sir?"
"A fucking...fucker!" Jim wails in despair. Scotty scratches his ear.
"I think we all agree you're very, ah, virile, sir," he says carefully. Jim thumps his head back against a pipe and immediately begins to whimper and swear in pain.
"Well...damn it, ow! I'm not! I have depth and character and shit! And I don't have sex with non-sentient things! And...fuck, I don't know. Help me out of here, will you?"
Scotty shrugs, puts down his spanner, and helps with the delicate extraction of his captain from the cluster of pipes. Jim slumps dejectedly on the floor, still rubbing at the bump on his head.
"Maybe it's not my place, but should I be worried about something?" Scotty says, flopping to the floor next to Jim.
"No," Jim says, sounding defeated. "I was just hiding from Spock. Thanks, Scotty. By the way, you might want to adjust line Alpha 4, it looks a little off."
"Aye Cap..." Scotty says, then jerks as if hit with a glass of cold water. "Did you say you were hiding from Mr. Spock?"
But Jim has hauled himself up, and walks away without answering.
*****
Mr. Chekov leaps off of Dr. McCoy's desk when Spock comes in. He looks flushed and guilty, and barely manages a salute before tripping headlong out of the office. McCoy watches him go, then leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.
"Is someone dying, Mr. Spock?" he asks in a slow, friendly drawl. Spock instantly registers danger.
"No, Doctor," he replies.
"I see. Is there some emergency at hand?"
"No, Doctor."
"I see. Then maybe you could tell me why the hell you are barging into my office without an invitation!" The sentence builds in intensity and volume until McCoy is shouting at him.
"Your advice has failed," Spock informs him. "An alternate plan of action must be conceived."
McCoy stares for a moment, then gently bangs his forehead against the surface of his desk. "I'm being punished. I've done something horrible, and now I have to pay for it. Damn it, the divorce wasn't enough?"
"Are you addressing me, Doctor?" Spock asks. "If you are, I must assure you that this is not punishment, but rather a demonstration of confidence. While I am reluctant to include you in matters of such a personal nature, there is no one else aboard this ship who understands Jim as well as you do, including myself. You possess a similar disregard for logic that seems to aid you in empathizing with him."
"Thanks, Spock," McCoy says, lifting his face from the desk. "You trust me to help you with your sex problems, even if I do have the brain of a suicidal idiot. Thanks a lot."
"I believe you have misunderstood," Spock begins, but McCoy lifts a hand to stop him.
"Please, no more. I don't think I can take any more sober. Just...what do you need?"
"Jim has not responded to your suggestions of subtlety. I have attempted to engage his attention sexually in several ways to no avail, including surreptitious touches in public places, sexually arousing poses, and even public displays of affection."
McCoy rubs his face. "Sexually arousing poses. Oh, god."
Spock's eyebrows inch closer together. "Doctor, your previous suggestions have not been successful. Do you have some alternative?"
"Have you tried talking dirty to him?"
"Talking...dirty?" Spock steeples his fingers, contemplating the suggestion.
"Yeah," McCoy says, waving his hand vaguely. "He's sexy, he turns you on, you want to take him right now, he's one fine piece of ass, et cetera, et cetera."
"This method has proven effective with reticent lovers?" Spock asks suspiciously.
"Jim loves that kind of stuff," McCoy reassures him. "Just...not on the bridge, all right? Nobody needs to hear it but him."
Spock ponders. "Perhaps I might practice this...talking dirty...with you, in order to ensure maximum effectiveness."
As he leaves medbay, Spock wonders if he might reasonably tally two scores for himself, as at his suggestion, the doctor both screamed and began to cry.
*****
Jim sits down to lunch with the look of a haunted man. Spock slides onto the bench next to him, close enough for their thighs to touch. Jim musters a weak smile and lifts his chicken sandwich, trying to ignore the warm contact against his leg.
"Please eat," Spock says his voice pitched low and soft so only Jim can hear. Jim suppresses a shudder. Usually, that voice stays in the bedroom, locked up in the drawer with the lube and the condoms and Mr. Wiggles, who has seen less and less of the light of day recently. It's like...like...like a blowjob for Jim's ears.
"Please," Spock says again, in that low, emotionless monotone that has somehow broken out of its drawer. "I want to see those cock-sucking lips touch something, pull something into your mouth. I want to imagine it's my cock rolling over your tongue, me that you're tasting. I know you love it. You can't wait to wrap those pretty lips around me and suck me down."
"S-spock!" Jim says in something that distressingly resembles a squeak. "Spock, we're at lunch! In the mess! And...and where in hell did you learn to talk like that?"
Spock blinks and takes a bite of his salad before answering in a more normal voice. "I only emulated you."
Oh, shit. Spock is using his seduction techniques on him, and everybody knows that no one can withstand them. Well. All the lucky people know, anyway. Jim swallows his sandwich in a record six bites, and throws back his coffee to try to budge the sandwich boulder in his throat.
"Had no idea Vulcans did such fantastic impressions," he laughs nervously, and almost trips in an effort to get off the bench without pinning Spock to it and fucking him then and there. "I'll see you back on the bridge!"
Spock looks at his salad with apathetic reproach. As the doctor would say, damn. He will have to exacerbate his efforts.
*****
"Mr. Chekov!" Jim barks in his best command voice, bearing down on the ensign like a hawk diving for prey. Chekov whirls from keying in his room access code and flattens himself against the wall, looking terrified. Apparently, the command voice is getting good.
"Sir, I can explain," Chekov stutters. Jim ignores him and slaps at the still-closed doors.
"I'm commandeering your quarters for the next fifteen minutes," he says. "I can't explain why, but it's for important official business. In fifteen minutes, they will be returned to you. I give my word none of your effects will be disturbed."
Chekov looks terrified with an added layer of utter confusion. "Uh, yes, yes sir, Keptin sir. As you wish, sir."
Jim harumphs and Chekov hurriedly keys in the code. The doors whoosh open.
"Thank you, Chekov."
"You're velcome, Keptin," Chekov says, bewildered, and turns toward the direction of the turbo lift. Jim steps inside of the quarters with a sigh of relief.
Sulu is always bitching about Chekov's obsessive cleanliness in their shared bathroom. Jim can see why; the tiny cubicle smells strongly of disinfectant. It's perfect. He sinks to the very clean tile, leans against the shower door, and unfastens his pants. No one will think to look for him here, and if Chekov tells anyone his quarters were invaded, everyone will think he's using Chekov's personal chess program to try a new strategy for beating Spock in their epic chess matches.
Spock.
Jim groans as he takes himself in hand. Spock, his uptight, repressed Vulcan lover-in-the-least-romantic-attitude-possible-sort-of-way has morphed into some xenobiological sex god hellbent on getting some from one Jim Kirk. Ordinarily, such behavior would lead to a truly stupid amount of time spent testing standard issue bedsprings and experimenting with gag reflex control; right now, it's just giving him a permanent case of blue balls. Damn the fucking Mralans and their fucking true love tests. Or non-fucking love tests. Jim squeezes once and settles into a quick rhythm, Spock flitting through his imagination.
Spock keeps touching him, quick brushes of his hands, his shoulders, and once, memorably, his ass. He can't get within three feet of Spock these days without those tantalizing feather-light touches. And he knows what they mean, knows Spock is kissing him little by little throughout the day, in plain view of everyone. Spock doesn't do public, doesn't even sit next to him, always across the table, but now they're kissing with their fingers and touching legs and brushing shoulders every minute and he can't do a fucking thing about it. He jerks a little harder, gasping at the sensation, spreading his legs as far as he can still trapped inside his pants. Even when they're not touching, Spock is so very there, bending over his controls, his ass wrapped up like a fucking present, begging to be unwrapped and played with. And today! I want to imagine it's my cock rolling over your tongue...
Jim grunts and arches off of the shower door as semen shoots over his fist in almost painful spurts, his body strung as tightly as a piano wire for a brief, dazzling moment. Then he slumps back, his joints all unhinged, come all over the place. He'll clean it up in a minute; the chronometer reads only four minutes since he's been in here. It's sad in more ways than one. He hasn't been this quick since middle school, for pity's sake. Of course, it's been middle school since he's hidden somewhere to jerk off. Then, he wasn't concerned with his boyfriend smelling his jizz and knowing he'd been left out, but still.
"Spock," he says to the empty bathroom. "You're killing me."
Author : the_arc5
Recipient : vain_flower
Pairing : Kirk/Spock
Rating : Overall, R to NC-17. This chapter: NC-17 for poorly written wanking. Also, the boys have dirty, dirty mouths. As in language, you perverts.
Warnings: Masturbation in this chapter.
Summary : Jim is subjected to a sadistic test. Spock is very confused. Bones keeps getting interrupted. This is what true love is all about.
Author's Notes : *shakes her pr0n pen* Please don't laugh.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Scotty peers beneath a jumbled mass of pipes and gives a low whistle.
"Cap'n," he says, kneeling down to get a better look, "y'know I respect ya. And there's not a lot I wouldn't do for you or the Enterprise. But you are a wee bit strange."
"Yes, well," Jim says from somewhere inside the maze. "I have a perfectly reasonable explanation for this."
"Do you, now?" Scotty says. Jim doesn't answer. "Right, well, I'll just be going on... Look, how did ya get in there, anyway?"
For a moment, Jim swells with pride, a difficult feat for a man twisted like a pipe cleaner around one of engineering's more creative feats of space-saving. He even cocks his head to look Scotty square in the eye.
"Mr. Scott. I am a very flexible man."
"I've heard rumors," Scotty agrees. "But I dinna know if I'm comfortable with the idea of you with my machinery. Not that you're not capable, y'understand, but a grown man havin' at it with redistribution lines doesna sound like something I'd willingly participate in. Even I don't love the Enterprise that much."
Jim deflates. "Scotty, I'm not having sex with our ship. God, does everybody think I'm like this?"
"Like what, sir?"
"A fucking...fucker!" Jim wails in despair. Scotty scratches his ear.
"I think we all agree you're very, ah, virile, sir," he says carefully. Jim thumps his head back against a pipe and immediately begins to whimper and swear in pain.
"Well...damn it, ow! I'm not! I have depth and character and shit! And I don't have sex with non-sentient things! And...fuck, I don't know. Help me out of here, will you?"
Scotty shrugs, puts down his spanner, and helps with the delicate extraction of his captain from the cluster of pipes. Jim slumps dejectedly on the floor, still rubbing at the bump on his head.
"Maybe it's not my place, but should I be worried about something?" Scotty says, flopping to the floor next to Jim.
"No," Jim says, sounding defeated. "I was just hiding from Spock. Thanks, Scotty. By the way, you might want to adjust line Alpha 4, it looks a little off."
"Aye Cap..." Scotty says, then jerks as if hit with a glass of cold water. "Did you say you were hiding from Mr. Spock?"
But Jim has hauled himself up, and walks away without answering.
*****
Mr. Chekov leaps off of Dr. McCoy's desk when Spock comes in. He looks flushed and guilty, and barely manages a salute before tripping headlong out of the office. McCoy watches him go, then leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.
"Is someone dying, Mr. Spock?" he asks in a slow, friendly drawl. Spock instantly registers danger.
"No, Doctor," he replies.
"I see. Is there some emergency at hand?"
"No, Doctor."
"I see. Then maybe you could tell me why the hell you are barging into my office without an invitation!" The sentence builds in intensity and volume until McCoy is shouting at him.
"Your advice has failed," Spock informs him. "An alternate plan of action must be conceived."
McCoy stares for a moment, then gently bangs his forehead against the surface of his desk. "I'm being punished. I've done something horrible, and now I have to pay for it. Damn it, the divorce wasn't enough?"
"Are you addressing me, Doctor?" Spock asks. "If you are, I must assure you that this is not punishment, but rather a demonstration of confidence. While I am reluctant to include you in matters of such a personal nature, there is no one else aboard this ship who understands Jim as well as you do, including myself. You possess a similar disregard for logic that seems to aid you in empathizing with him."
"Thanks, Spock," McCoy says, lifting his face from the desk. "You trust me to help you with your sex problems, even if I do have the brain of a suicidal idiot. Thanks a lot."
"I believe you have misunderstood," Spock begins, but McCoy lifts a hand to stop him.
"Please, no more. I don't think I can take any more sober. Just...what do you need?"
"Jim has not responded to your suggestions of subtlety. I have attempted to engage his attention sexually in several ways to no avail, including surreptitious touches in public places, sexually arousing poses, and even public displays of affection."
McCoy rubs his face. "Sexually arousing poses. Oh, god."
Spock's eyebrows inch closer together. "Doctor, your previous suggestions have not been successful. Do you have some alternative?"
"Have you tried talking dirty to him?"
"Talking...dirty?" Spock steeples his fingers, contemplating the suggestion.
"Yeah," McCoy says, waving his hand vaguely. "He's sexy, he turns you on, you want to take him right now, he's one fine piece of ass, et cetera, et cetera."
"This method has proven effective with reticent lovers?" Spock asks suspiciously.
"Jim loves that kind of stuff," McCoy reassures him. "Just...not on the bridge, all right? Nobody needs to hear it but him."
Spock ponders. "Perhaps I might practice this...talking dirty...with you, in order to ensure maximum effectiveness."
As he leaves medbay, Spock wonders if he might reasonably tally two scores for himself, as at his suggestion, the doctor both screamed and began to cry.
*****
Jim sits down to lunch with the look of a haunted man. Spock slides onto the bench next to him, close enough for their thighs to touch. Jim musters a weak smile and lifts his chicken sandwich, trying to ignore the warm contact against his leg.
"Please eat," Spock says his voice pitched low and soft so only Jim can hear. Jim suppresses a shudder. Usually, that voice stays in the bedroom, locked up in the drawer with the lube and the condoms and Mr. Wiggles, who has seen less and less of the light of day recently. It's like...like...like a blowjob for Jim's ears.
"Please," Spock says again, in that low, emotionless monotone that has somehow broken out of its drawer. "I want to see those cock-sucking lips touch something, pull something into your mouth. I want to imagine it's my cock rolling over your tongue, me that you're tasting. I know you love it. You can't wait to wrap those pretty lips around me and suck me down."
"S-spock!" Jim says in something that distressingly resembles a squeak. "Spock, we're at lunch! In the mess! And...and where in hell did you learn to talk like that?"
Spock blinks and takes a bite of his salad before answering in a more normal voice. "I only emulated you."
Oh, shit. Spock is using his seduction techniques on him, and everybody knows that no one can withstand them. Well. All the lucky people know, anyway. Jim swallows his sandwich in a record six bites, and throws back his coffee to try to budge the sandwich boulder in his throat.
"Had no idea Vulcans did such fantastic impressions," he laughs nervously, and almost trips in an effort to get off the bench without pinning Spock to it and fucking him then and there. "I'll see you back on the bridge!"
Spock looks at his salad with apathetic reproach. As the doctor would say, damn. He will have to exacerbate his efforts.
*****
"Mr. Chekov!" Jim barks in his best command voice, bearing down on the ensign like a hawk diving for prey. Chekov whirls from keying in his room access code and flattens himself against the wall, looking terrified. Apparently, the command voice is getting good.
"Sir, I can explain," Chekov stutters. Jim ignores him and slaps at the still-closed doors.
"I'm commandeering your quarters for the next fifteen minutes," he says. "I can't explain why, but it's for important official business. In fifteen minutes, they will be returned to you. I give my word none of your effects will be disturbed."
Chekov looks terrified with an added layer of utter confusion. "Uh, yes, yes sir, Keptin sir. As you wish, sir."
Jim harumphs and Chekov hurriedly keys in the code. The doors whoosh open.
"Thank you, Chekov."
"You're velcome, Keptin," Chekov says, bewildered, and turns toward the direction of the turbo lift. Jim steps inside of the quarters with a sigh of relief.
Sulu is always bitching about Chekov's obsessive cleanliness in their shared bathroom. Jim can see why; the tiny cubicle smells strongly of disinfectant. It's perfect. He sinks to the very clean tile, leans against the shower door, and unfastens his pants. No one will think to look for him here, and if Chekov tells anyone his quarters were invaded, everyone will think he's using Chekov's personal chess program to try a new strategy for beating Spock in their epic chess matches.
Spock.
Jim groans as he takes himself in hand. Spock, his uptight, repressed Vulcan lover-in-the-least-romantic-attitude-possible-sort-of-way has morphed into some xenobiological sex god hellbent on getting some from one Jim Kirk. Ordinarily, such behavior would lead to a truly stupid amount of time spent testing standard issue bedsprings and experimenting with gag reflex control; right now, it's just giving him a permanent case of blue balls. Damn the fucking Mralans and their fucking true love tests. Or non-fucking love tests. Jim squeezes once and settles into a quick rhythm, Spock flitting through his imagination.
Spock keeps touching him, quick brushes of his hands, his shoulders, and once, memorably, his ass. He can't get within three feet of Spock these days without those tantalizing feather-light touches. And he knows what they mean, knows Spock is kissing him little by little throughout the day, in plain view of everyone. Spock doesn't do public, doesn't even sit next to him, always across the table, but now they're kissing with their fingers and touching legs and brushing shoulders every minute and he can't do a fucking thing about it. He jerks a little harder, gasping at the sensation, spreading his legs as far as he can still trapped inside his pants. Even when they're not touching, Spock is so very there, bending over his controls, his ass wrapped up like a fucking present, begging to be unwrapped and played with. And today! I want to imagine it's my cock rolling over your tongue...
Jim grunts and arches off of the shower door as semen shoots over his fist in almost painful spurts, his body strung as tightly as a piano wire for a brief, dazzling moment. Then he slumps back, his joints all unhinged, come all over the place. He'll clean it up in a minute; the chronometer reads only four minutes since he's been in here. It's sad in more ways than one. He hasn't been this quick since middle school, for pity's sake. Of course, it's been middle school since he's hidden somewhere to jerk off. Then, he wasn't concerned with his boyfriend smelling his jizz and knowing he'd been left out, but still.
"Spock," he says to the empty bathroom. "You're killing me."