Wanting

by

Varoneeka

ou may find that having is not so satisfying a thing as wanting. It is not logical, but it is so."

The words with which he had confronted T'Pring and Stonn had become his mantra. And so, standing on the bridge, his hooded eyes gazing through the blue light of his viewer, peeping under his own left arm, he watched as strength and poetry settled into its captain's chair, and he thought the words once again. He let them fix in his mind, felt their weight, knew their truth.

And still he wanted.

The last time he had walked in his friend's mind, he had confronted himself, finally knowing the nature of his own desires. He had gone there, slipping inside the bright warmth, to ease pain, to take from him the sharp memory of a woman who had not been a woman until she felt -- and then, in feeling, in choosing, Rayna had died.

He remembered the decision he had made, crossing the small room that was his captain's quarters, leaning down to place one hand on the head resting in his locked hands.

"Forget."

One word, so simple, and in that moment, easing from his friend's mind the worst of the loss and self-hatred, Spock had found an odd flavor of thought: jealousy, possessiveness. He had wondered at it, at this feeling among all those others.

And then he had realized the thought wasn't Jim's.

"Mr. Sulu," an amused voice called out. "Are we going to get those warp engines up to speed before the end of the week?"

"I'm sorry, sir. Helm is still not responding to navigational input."

"It's not the helm's fault," Scotty groused, sprawled out under the open control panels while two somewhat hapless engineering crewmen handed him tools. "It's these damned replacement parts from Starbase 18. I dinna know what the commander there is thinking, but almost none of it is up to regs."

"Finish your report and I'll push it under Command's nose, Scotty, I swear it. Now get my warp power fixed before some Klingons buzz us."

The chief engineer muttered something everyone politically ignored.

Spock straightened. "Sir?"

The chair swiveled. Hazel eyes met his. Open respect and affection, casual greeting framed by a viewscreen of stars.

Mine, the thought came unbidden. You should be mine.

"The problem with navigational input may be aggravated by some flaws in the auxiliary override matrix. I believe I and one of Mr. Scott's able engineers should run a third-level diagnostic on the assembly in conjunction with the chief engineer's efforts."

"Mr. Scott?"

"Aye, if yer willing to help, Mr. Spock, I'll not say no."

Spock nodded and walked to the turbolift, sensing one of the red-shirted crewmen leaving his post at Scotty's toolbox to join him.

"Auxiliary Control," he told the computer as he grasped the lift control lightly.

And the doors shut between himself and what he wanted.

etween the space I am the light that is between the space I am the light that is between the space I am bright eyes and golden hair...damn!

The Terran curse in his mind like a sword, he opened his eyes to the dim light of his quarters. The Vulcan tapers danced mockingly before him, and he felt the rage rising.

How many women had been loved by him? How many had freely touched, asked, been given, taken, and then left of their own, unaccountable choice? By virtue of being nothing more than women, they had been welcomed into Jim's life.

And here he was, his friend, Jim had said his closest friend, more than his friend, and for him there was nothing.

"Ohhhh..." Alone, he could moan softly with no harm to anyone. To restrain the plea his body made now, when he was alone, was hypocrisy, not discipline.

Blood-hot, hard, aching, wanting, always wanting, a piece of flesh that responded only to what he could not have.

Would it not be more satisfying to have than to want?

Imagining, now, that smooth golden skin, eyes so expressive, so often full of pain and sorrow that he would wipe away, if he could, with kisses. He thought of the coolness of the Human's skin, the warmth that could still be felt: delicate, like Humans were, so delicate.

"Oh." His thoughts were speeding forward now, and his palms seemed to feel that delicateness as he smoothed his hands over the jutting curves behind, so full. They would be so full in his hands. He could squeeze them. Part them. Go inside...

This would not do. It was not logical to sit here and be this aroused. He needed to calm and center himself. It would not be long before he was on duty again.

In one movement, he was out of his heavy meditation robe, kneeling naked on the floor as the dark cloth pooled around him. He settled his spread knees wider and ran two hands lightly down his chest.

It would not take much to climax. It would not truly be release. For that, his consciousness needed a mind, warm and willing to receive him. No, this was a function of his body, a vaguely pleasant sensation of the hot rush of ejaculate. An embarrassment, no more, of the flesh.

And yet climax seemed to drift from him as he marshaled his thoughts. The efficient touch of his own hands on his genitals was nothing compared to his thoughts of touching another.

It would all be so much easier if only his eyes weren't so bright, his energy so high, his commitments so deep...even to the women he loved. Truly, there had been many, but he would have stayed with so many, would he not? Edith, Miramani, Rayna, even Carolyn Marcus would have been with him forever if his choice had won the day.

Why wouldn't he choose Spock? What was it Spock couldn't give him? Was it only that he wasn't female? Why did Jim treat him thus?

Spock did not hate, but he did protest his own thoughts. Jim treated him like a brother. Such treatment was rare, beyond price, one chance in a thousand such a gift would ever be offered to him.

Oh, but with his Human and Vulcan selves, with all of him, he wanted.

His hands stilled. He could only climax if he thought of Jim, but to think of him was pain beyond suppression. To think of him and spill himself into his own hands was both a torment that repelled and pleasure which beckoned.

His door chimed.

Spock's head turned to the gray metal plating, seeing himself, sex hard, hands touching, not moving, framed by his robe.

And he almost said "Enter." He almost had his friend, his brother who was more a brother than Sybok could ever be, his captain, walk into his room and see him like this.

"A moment," he said instead, rising, draping himself within the dark material once again. He did not will his body to relax. The light was dim, the air smelled of incense, the robe was very thick. He would give himself this, as a gift long desired even if there were no deserving it. He would speak with Jim like this. There would be no harm in it.

"Enter." A single word, heavy as the air.

Bright light from his own cabin spilled in with the captain's body and equally bright gaze. An apology came immediately:

"Oh, I'm sorry to disturb you."

"You are not disturbing me." Any more than usual.

"But you're meditating."

"I have finished. What is it that you wish, Captain?"

He smiled, his soft face a torment to his eyes and balm to his soul. Spock wondered dispassionately if he would die if he were denied his daily allotment of that smile.

"Well, nothing very urgent. A little conversation, perhaps. I'm not much in the mood for chess."

"You say this only because your position at our current hiatus is disadvantageous."

"Trying to tempt me, Spock?" Kirk teased, stepping into the room and letting the connecting door close at last.

Oh, do not look at me so.

"I would never attempt to coerce you, sir."

Jim smiled easily and headed for a chair. Spock sat in the one which faced the other, crossing his legs slightly to keep the heavy material off his erection. Some part of him was shocked, horrified. To be talking to his captain like this was a violation. And a joy.

"I thought Scotty was going to explode before the shift was over. Your help with him and his repairs was invaluable, as always," the captain said smoothly.

"I am pleased you approve of my work."

Kirk frowned. "Something wrong, Spock? It's just me here."

"I am well, Jim."

"You don't look well. In fact..." The man sighed, ran a hand over the back of his neck, squeezed slightly at the muscle there. Spock's stomach contracted viscously. "Spock, can't you tell me?"

"Tell you?" His voice was too hoarse, but he could not clear his throat.

"Something's been eating you up lately. You've gone super-Vulcan on me like I haven't seen since our first few weeks together. I thought it might be a fight with McCoy, or a problem back home, or your Pon Farr come a little early, or boredom, or...I don't know, Spock! But surely you realize whatever it is, I want to know about it? You've got to tell someone, don't you? Spock?"

Spock felt shame flood him, an emotion so illogical and yet...so deserved. He had thought he was doing better than this. And yet, how could he have hoped to hide anything from this man? The heaviness between his legs increased illogically, aroused by the danger of discovery. To have this man know the need he felt...a horror, a joy even in this horror. Yes, even to say the words to him would be worth the price. To feel perhaps something from him, even just intrigue?

Ah, there was a question for his Vulcan logic: could he get Jim to fuck him out of curiosity?

"Spock, is it Pon Farr?"

"That time is still two years away."

Kirk only frowned. "But this is...sexual, isn't it, Spock? I'm sorry. I don't wish to embarrass you, but you look...frankly..."

"Frankly?"

"Well, damnit, you look like a man who needs something so bad it's going to kill him. Bones said if you were any other man he'd prescribe shoreleave on an accommodating planet."

"You have discussed this with Doctor McCoy?"

"Shouldn't we? We both care about you, Spock."

He wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to savor the words, or flagellate himself with them. To be cared for...only to be "cared for."

And again the voice came, stronger than before:

Mine. You should be mine. This need I have, you should sate it, slake the thirst of my body, on your knees, crying out, letting me in your body and your mind. Your bright thoughts await me. Your thoughts to my thoughts.

Enough. Dangerous. The end of everything.

The mockery of his control enraged him even as he became aware of the green-shot golden eyes which looked through him.

"You don't have a mate, not after T'Pring and Stonn. Is that disrupting anything? Do you need to be...Spock...help me."

Spock felt a drop of precum land on the inside of his own thigh. Much more of that voice, those eyes, and he would come, sitting here. Even his control could not hide that.

"I am well enough, Captain...Jim." He felt himself wishing for the Human luxury of a smile. That small contraction of muscles could be faked, his face arranged in a manner that would create a reassuring deception. Jim would leave, then, reassured. "You must trust that if I require help I will ask for it."

"Like you have in the past?" A question dryly asked, and yet there was steel now behind the words. "I'm worried about you, Spock. You're my friend. Don't push me away. I know this is serious."

Spock would have been able to control himself if Jim had not reached for him. It was not something Kirk did, touching him like that. But even as the madness rose, he knew it had been only instinct on his friend's part, a Human impulse he forgot to suppress.

But the touch was the same, meant to be made or not. And the warm weight on Spock's forearm undid him completely, for he had lowered his head to press a kiss upon that warm hand, not thinking of the relief of lost secrets, not thinking at all. For a moment, an hour, he pressed dry lips to the soft skin there, aware someplace in what was left of his mind that in a moment the hand would be withdrawn. He tasted the Human salt of his skin, smelled the warmth of him, drowned in the luxury of excess.

When the hand was not snatched away, Spock opened his lips just slightly, to taste him better, and dreamed of touching his tongue to that skin. And then he was living his dream, trailing just the tip, only a centimeter, drawing up the fantasy that was Kirk letting him kiss him.

And then, very slowly, he became aware that the hand had tightened on his arm.

Next, he felt warmth upon the back of his bent head, a slow touch trailing through his hair.

"Spock..." his name, whispered, reached him.

He knew he should look up, meet the gaze he could sense upon him. He could not stop kissing Jim's hand. A deep, sucking kiss, now. He thought he might draw a finger inside his mouth, and again he became certain he would come from the slightest increase in stimulus.

The hand in his hair moved now, and he felt fingertips so very lightly trailing the tip of his ear, a cautious exploration.

"Spock, please..."

He shuddered and thought he was lost. Do not beg me.

"Beg you?"

Spock could not breathe. To have spoken such words aloud...

"Is that what you need, Spock? Do you need me to beg you to touch me?"

Pain lanced through him. Jim, his friend. More than his friend. Jim would service him, to ease his discomfort. Jim would endure his touch, his kisses.

Spock commanded his lips to leave Jim's hand. Ridiculous. Humiliating. Unworthy. He ordered himself to leave Jim alone. He could explain it with mystic ad-lib. Dementia. Perhaps the good doctor's rattles and potions, and then I'll be fit for duty, sir. His back arched with the effort of attempting to move away as hot drops of coppery tears fell to mix the salt flavor of Jim's skin.

But then the touch left his hair and his ear, and moved to the back of his neck. Some fumbling, and then the heavy meditation robe slipped from him, cascading to his lap and then on to the floor. Feather-light touches of one free hand moved over his back, trailing taut muscles, and then to his flank, and then --

Jim's hand left his lips as Spock's body slammed back in the fragile chair. He groaned, like an animal, wild, needing, as the touch fell on the rigid flesh, swollen, wet, aching. He opened his mouth to beg for more.

And then Jim, never moving his hand from Spock's arm, moved forward, burying his head between Spock's spread thighs, and took him in his mouth. The Vulcan screamed something, perhaps a name, and lasted in that wet heat perhaps three seconds. Then the release raped him, and he knew only the dream.

Moments passed. He became aware of arms around him, holding him as he shuddered. Supporting him. Without them, he supposed he would have fallen to the floor.

Jim is holding me.

Spock groaned, feeling the fury already beginning to return. The release had been only a tease, whetting his body's appetite.

"You must go," he cried out -- though it arrived as a whisper. "Hurry."

"Go? I'm not going anywhere." The warmth of his breath carried the smell of Spock's cum.

He groaned and felt himself stir again. He spoke quickly. "You were right. The Pon Farr -- not being bonded -- no, that is a lie -- being so poorly bonded, it has disturbed the cycle. I cannot control...you must go."

"Poorly bonded? To whom?" Kirk seemed to tense up to the point of breaking. "To me? Oh, God, Spock. Say it's to me. Tell me that's what's happened."

At last, Spock struggled his eyes open, and there was Jim, kneeling before him, arms around him, face only inches from him, the trace of cum on his full lips. Words died, became nothing, as Spock moved his hands up and pulled his beloved to him, kissed him, knew nothing but him. His fingertips were almost over the man's meld points before he gained enough control to gasp, "You do not understand. This is not...you must go, or I will rape you. Don't you...you must realize --"

"It won't be rape, Spock."

He kept his lips close to the warmth he wanted, his fingertips poised. Obscene, his desire...and yet...what had he said?

"It won't be rape. Don't you understand?" And then there was amusement, obscene itself, in Jim's eyes as he grasped one of Spock's hovering hands.

Spock thought at first, Yes. He needed to remove his hands, distance himself from the siren call of that bright mind.

But then Jim's hand took his farther down, into his lap, and he felt the strained fabric, and watched, fascinated, as a look of pure lust swarmed over the beloved features.

"Yes, Spock," he whispered. "It won't be rape."

"Now," the madness insisted, no thought to savor this, only..."It will have to be now."

"Wait, just a moment..." And Kirk was gone. Nothing took the place of where he had been, not even time, and then he returned, pressing a cool tube of something in his hand. Spock looked only at the power and beauty moving a step from him, before the uniform was removed -- gold tunic, black undershirt, boots, socks, pants, briefs. He wanted to ask the man to undress more slowly, to consecrate the moment with poetry. He should call for music.

Ridiculous. There was only this. Only Jim Kirk's naked body standing before him. And then, obscene dream of perfection, he knelt without shame, smiling slightly, breaths moving his lips even more slightly, and got into the position which had been the focus of every erotic thought Spock could ever remember having.

He grasped the tube of lubricant, thought of what it meant, looked at the curves of warm, golden flesh, and was consumed by the need, unpleasantly. It was too much. Now, given what he wanted, it was too much.

"Spock?" He had turned his head, his eyes were a question, falling on the softening flesh between Spock's thighs.

Spock knew if he could only feel less sorrow he would cry. "I want you too much."

But Jim only moved towards him now, taking the tube from his protesting grasp, and leaned to his ear, the same one he had touched, to whisper, "It's all right."

Spock wanted to argue, to scream that it was very far from all right, when he felt Jim's hands at his hips, pulling him forward in the chair. The unyielding duraplast supported him even as his trembling legs took on more of his weight. His eyes accepted what they saw without comprehension, watching as Jim got some lube on his fingers and worked them to warm it. The hazel eyes looked up at him now, and smiled.

"Ohhhh," he moaned, as a man might when given water after three days in the desert. He knew it would be all right then, and spread his legs, not caring whether his organ hardened again, not caring that the order of his fulfilled fantasies would change. He cared only that soon, very soon, Jim would fuck him.

Helplessly, he watched the very hand he had kissed move over the cock he wanted to surround, over and over, with every part of him, as often as the Human's body could withstand, as often as could be done. He knew, then, that he must speak.

"Jim. Jim, please."

Bright concern in his eyes as he smiled again, reaching for Spock's rock-hard member, trailing a touch along it, moving towards the tight opening beyond. "I'm going to be there, T'hy'la. Hold on."

How does he know the word? Has he dreamed of this as well? "Jim, it must be...more than this. I must know...I cannot stop."

"I'm not going to stop."

"I mean...you must understand." Jim's slick fingers reached his anus now, lightly stroking, and the madness beckoned again. He thought, for the first time in his life, that he could embrace the mad pleasure and survive. "I must have you again and again. If you make me yours you must keep me. If you cause me to want only you --"

"Hush, Spock. Quiet. You're going to make me come before I'm inside you. I thought you realized I love you."

The words were spice, fire, pure plasma in his veins. "Tell me, then, how often you will enjoy me."

"Enjoy...Oh, God." Kirk's fingers were almost rough now, opening him up, stretching him. He began to squirm with the touch, knew soon he would be begging for more. The position was somewhat awkward, but neither thought of the bed. "I'm going to fuck you every chance I get."

"Yes."

"Over and over, when you're not fucking me."

"Yes. Good." But then he groaned as the fingers left him.

Roughly, the hands again at his hips pulled him from the chair, and he was straddling Jim's lap, being maneuvered expertly into position and then --

With a rough howl, hoarse with need and longing and the madness again, he slid down over Jim and took him inside. Flesh tore, but there was no pain, nothing but being filled.

"Spock! are you...oh, God."

There was no time to adjust, no time to savor this. His legs worked him up and down, pounding his own body on the steel inside him, desperate for release. And Jim was there with him, moving with him, gasping and calling his name.

And then, even as they wrestled, Jim whispered, "The meld, Spock? Can we..?"

The madness celebrated, but logic whispered that mutual consent made the madness passion, and he gripped the golden head of his lover, his friend, his fantasy, between his fingertips, trying to control the rushing in of his thoughts until sunlight basked him, and he was swimming in the warmth, dazzled, and now in a burst of all he was coming inside his mind as Jim came inside his body. Both of them were screaming now, as pleasure took them, and the madness could not answer the challenge of the love Spock found in Jim Kirk's mind.

Much later, they were on the bed. Kirk lay sprawled on his stomach, his eyes closed in rapture as Spock moved within him. The calm sea of his first officer's thoughts raged in a somehow ordered chaos, aesthetic, delicious, while the Vulcan's strong cock gently stroked him inside.

Spock swam in the sunlight and felt the gold surround him. He knew his logic had not truly accepted this. He knew in time he would be able to touch Jim and only become slightly insane. But he also knew, absolutely, that he had been wrong.

As long as he could have this, having was better than wanting, much better than wanting could ever dream.

THE END

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