Thanks to an unknown fan who made a pic that said she'd hit Spock with the force of a thousand exploding suns. I played a game to work in that great phrase.
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How can he wear those boots so indifferently?
They are magnets, the way they hint at strength strapped in and contained. The way they make him stand, casually rugged. I have seen him wait in that stance to beam away, his legs black in his uniform pants, their hems high enough to leave nothing about those boots to the imagination. With his head tilted down as he stands and waits, he seems to be almost considering them himself. They are heavy, masculine. Their density makes him walk like a force of nature. When he moves he wields their heaviness with grace. At rest, they become solid.
They are the wellspring of fantasy.
When I deliver reports, I slur my step imperceptibly, rub a ball of one foot into the carpet near him. Anything to share an indirect touch. I imagine our boots squeaking against one another as we lie together.
His boots have stirred alien sands, savagely kicked away danger, walked right here where I'm walking on this matted bridge carpet. They are filthy with adventure. No matter. If he wanted me to, I would lick them. Slowly from the toes up the calves, looking up at him with hungry eyes while my tongue marked a wet path. If he asked me to, I would do anything to get close to those calves. What I want is to run a finger inside the place where his boot meets his skin. I dream that he sighs and sinks, defenseless, into the command chair. That he closes his eyes, reveling in the swirl of finger along boot edge.
Starting there, I would bite. I dream of playfully and lasciviously working on him with my teeth. I'd grind a comprehensive trail up his long inner leg, leaving saliva on the seams and fabric. When I reached the top of those inseams, I'd gently press his cock with my teeth and he would groan. A tender bite, but I would do it again, harder, again, harder, until my teeth were digging into his pants and he'd respond like a beast, standing, lifting me, throwing me into the chair. Towering, he would yank down his pants and push into my mouth. I would swoon, die.
Never mind that in this unlikely fantasy there is no one else on the bridge. His pants would fall down his thighs, pooling around his boots. I would grab the backs of those thighs in handfuls. I'd lean forward so he could push into me, and I would open my mouth for him and take him until my lips tingled, a sensation of tiny stars. He would come with the force of a thousand exploding suns.
I'd watch his boots walk away.
I drag myself back to reality, and he's taken over from the captain, is now sitting in the big chair waiting for me to deliver whatever paperwork I have. I realize he has seen me staring, perhaps salivating. He plants his boots closer to his chair, so his knees bend higher and his thighs open. He raises one eyebrow. I back away, blushing.
He must polish his boots at night. He must use his luminous hands to rub them, over and over in thorough circles. I want to be that cloth, caught between his long fingers and dark, soft leather.
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