CONFESSIONS OF A SPOCKAHOLIC
...Whoa. That was a ridiculously long wait between chapters...sorry 'bout that.
Just to give everyone fair warning, we are about to venture into schmoop-infested waters because I am a complete and total sap with wish-fulfillment issues. Other warnings for this chapter are for the usual pervy goodness and general weirdness. Seriously. The last two chapters were my facepalm chapters...this is my WTF chapter (dun dun DUNNN!)
Please don't sue me, Paramount :S
Although Jim would have been than happy to spend the entirety of the afternoon gazing at the ocean and basking in Spock's companionship, Spock's bladder and his stomach eventually developed other ideas, and they set off to appease their respective organs. Their wanderings eventually took them to the center of the beach where they were greeted with an odd assortment of shacks and brightly colored tents from various Terran eras. After visiting the restroom and snack stand they meandered over to the beach volleyball station to watch the impromptu match between the hotel staff and guests.
They immediately spotted Droovin in all his diapered glory, sweating profusely and chirping encouragement to teammates and opponents alike. Jim watched with reluctant admiration as the man-cherub leaped to intercept an overhead pass, spiking the ball into the sand with surprising force. He couldn't decide if the almost-majestic look was enhanced or destroyed by the slight flapping of fake wings.
Sucking contentedly at his vanilla milkshake, he divided his attention between watching ham-handed cavorting of the players and listening to Spock's running commentary on why the ineptness of the guest team was directly related to their lack of kinesthetic intelligence. He wasn't sure what amused him more: the sight of naked and diapered people bumbling around in the sand or the fact that his companion was viewing it as seriously as an Acadamy instructor overseeing a Kobiyashi Maru simulation.
After the staff team had scored their fifth consecutive point against the hapless nudists, Spock turned to Jim, his brows knitted thoughtfully.
"I believe, Jim, that the overall efficiency of the guest team would increase by seven point six percent if they were to adapt their footwork to accomodate the sand."
Jim smiled wryly.
"I believe, Spock, that the other ninety-three point four percent of efficiency would happen if the men would spend more time watching the ball and less time watching the women."
Not that he could really fault them for it; it was hard not to appreciate a woman with a good...set.
"Indeed. I fail to see the logic in examining female anatomy during a sports match."
Jim sighed in mock exasperation.
"Spock my friend, I would be hard-pressed to believe that you ever see the logic in examining female anatomy." And, just because he was feeling bold, he added, "Or male anatomy."
Unfortunately.
"On the contrary, Jim."
Jim graced his friend with an indulgent smile.
Here we go...
"I find the study of anatomy—male and female—to be quite logical when it pertains to the field of medicine. I am also given to understand that familiarizing oneself with the structure of the body is useful for an artist in terms of producing more realistic-looking creations. Surely much of the success of the Terran sculptor Michelangelo is attributed to the time he spent dissecting and analyzing human corpses."
"So I guess I don't have to worry about you ogling me unless you're carrying a laser scalpel?"
"Vulcans do not 'ogle,'" Spock replied loftily.
Jim's mouth stretched into a grimace.
"So I've noticed."
A whistle blasted, signalling the end of the game. The staff team erupted into a frenzy of hooting and back slapping amid the good-natured grumblings of their opponents. With Droovin properly distracted by his fellow cherubs and not yet aware of their proximity, the two friends slipped away before they could be spotted.
After draining the last of his milkshake, Jim wandered over to a trash receptacle to dispose of the empty container. He was just beginning the mental process of trying to decide whether or not he wanted to risk offending Spock's vegetarian sensibilities by ordering a hot dog when a light tap on his shoulder pulled him from his thoughts. A young Jarillian woman in a paint-splattered Roman tunic and an elaborate network of copper braids on her head stood before them, smiling benignly. Instinctively Jim felt his lips slide into that slow, appreciative he reserved for first contact with attractive women.
"Forgive the intrusion, gentlemen, but could I interest you in participating in J'esya yi sleya? "
"Excuse me?"
"J'esya yi sleya—'The Marking of the Joined.' The body is painted in celebration of the love-bond between lifemates. Traditionally it is used in Jarillian marriage rituals, but here we've modified it into a recreational option. Many of our guests find it an intimate and enjoyable experience. I'm quite certain you would as well."
Out of the corner of his eye, Jim could see Spock drawing himself up to his full height—undoubtedly in passive, Vulcan resistance to the words "intimate" and "enjoyable." He smiled apologetically at the Jarillian.
"We appreciate the invitation, Miss..."
"Shindylle."
"...Miss Shindylle. It sounds beautiful, but I don't think it's quite for us."
"Are you certain? Although preferable, it's not necessary for both lifemates to undergo the Marking."
Turning to Spock, she dipped her head respectfully at him.
"I quite understand if you do not wish to participate because of cultural preferences..." To emphasize her point, she lifted her hand and sectioned her fingers into the wide V of the Vulcan ta'al, which Spock immediately reciprocated.
"But you, sir!" She whirled to face him. "Just think of the art your body could channel!" A faint blush bloomed on her cheeks.
"If you'll pardon my boldness in saying, it is truly a magnificent canvas."
She lowered her eyes demurely, but not before Jim caught the shrewd glint. He smiled tightly.
"You're very kind."
The woman shrugged modestly.
"Not at all. I'm merely an artist. When I see a source of inspiration I am naturally compelled to do what I can to bring it to fruition."
His grin widened. Nice to know he wasn't going completely unappreciated on his trip, even if it was by a practiced huckster He made a smug face at Spock, who acknowledged it with the briefest roll of the eyes.
"You wouldn't be so cruel as to deprive an artist of the opportunity to create what could be her greatest accomplishment would you?" The starburst-shaped pupils in her eyes twinkled as her lips pulled into a pout.
Damn. She's good.
He held up his hands in mock-surrender.
"Oh no, we couldn't have that."
Like he needed to be asked twice to have a beautiful woman running paintbrushes over his naked body. Especially with the inquisitive Mr. Spock watching. The former would be make for a highly amusing story to relay to Bones; the latter would make for a highly erotic memory to relay to his "right-hand man" on sleepless nights.
He grinned hopefully at Spock.
"What do you think, Spock? You don't mind if I contribute to the arts, do you?"
"Not at all, Captain. I, however, intend to return to the volleyball station."
Jim's eyebrows lifted. Spock—watching naked volleyball without the sanctioning presence of an illogical Human at his side? He had to give the Vulcan credit: when Mr. Spock went on vacation, he really went on vacation! Either that or he was simply trying to give him some privacy with Shindylle. Given his track record, it wouldn't be surprising for Spock to have come to that conclusion. He peered carefully at Spock's face, but nothing in the harsh features gave any indication of his thoughts. No surprise there.
"Oh. Alright, Spock. Sure. If that's what you want..."
"I'll come and fetch you when the painting is complete," Shindylle promised. Spock nodded polietly and turned on his heels.
"Have fun!" Jim called lamely after him.
"It is quite unlikely that I will 'have fun' but thank you for the sentiment, Captain." was Spock's sage reply.
He watched Spock's departure with slumped shoulders. Not that he really could have said anything about it, but over seventy-five percent of the appeal in being vandalized by a complete stranger was the thought of having those intelligent brown eyes riveted on his naked body.
So much for art appreciation.
Shindylle waited until Spock was out of earshot before turning to him with a broad grin on her face.
"He calls you 'Captain?' That's so sweet!"
With elaborate promises of turning his body into a "corporeal masterpiece," Shindylle led him into a canvas tent and had him stand in the centre of a large tarp. Contrary to his initial assumption (and to his slight disappointment), the J'esya ysleya involved no caresses of paintbrush tips on bare skin. Instead, standing a respectable distance away from him, the artist sprayed him with a small device resembling a phaser, outfitted with color-control knobs and an adjustable nozzle-head wheel on the muzzle. Although he couldn't begrudge Spock's decision to do something that didn't require being joined at his hip, he found himself coveting the Vulcan's presence, if only to enjoy his reaction to the painting process. Surely his natural curiosity would have been piqued by the seemingly endless combinations of paint colors and textures produced by the twisting of dials and the rotating of nozzle-heads.
"How long have you been with Mr. Spockkirk, Mr. Kirkspock?" Shindylle asked, coaxing him out of his thoughts. Jim had to chuckle at the jumble of name-related syllables.
"With all respect, Miss Shindylle, we normally go by Kirk and Spock." He smiled winningly and lowered his voice as if he were confiding a great secret.
"Actually, most of my friends call me Jim."
Shindylle stared at him thoughtfully.
"On Jaris it is customary to combine the names of lifemates. It's how we honor the joining of two lives. Failing to do so is considered a great sign of disrespect for the love-bond."
"We wouldn't take it that way. In fact, we would much rather be called by our individual names."
"A common reaction among outworlders," Shindylle remarked. "I can appreciate that our name joining might be a little disconcerting, but surely you can understand the responsibility I have to my belief system."
"Would it help if I told you that Spock and I aren't really what you would call 'lifemates?' We're actually in a very...open relationship."
The artist smiled indulgently at him as if he were a swaggering child who needed to be humored.
"But you love each other—that much is easy to see."
"You only saw us together for a couple of minutes. That's not a lot of time to determine whether two people love each other or not." He strove to keep his tone light, but his patience was rapidly dissolving.
"That's more than enough time if you know what to look for." Shindylle's lips tucked into a smirk. "You're not very subtle. Please try not to squirm, Mr. Kirkspock; you're making it very difficult to apply the bodypaint."
The conversation did not get much better from there. In fact—in a cruel trick of the universe—he almost found himself wishing he could exchange the woman's company for Droovin's. Lewd comments and knowing winks might be as annoying as hell, but they were much easier to dismiss than deep, probing questions such as:
"When did you first start to perceive your love for Mr. Spockkirk?"
or:
"How has your life changed for the better since Joining with Mr. Spockkirk?"
or:
"What is Mr. Spockkirk's most endearing personality trait?"
His irritation mounted as Shyndille continued to ply him with Spock-related questions. He wasn't quite sure what annoyed him more: the questions themselves or his own shabby responses, which were generally vague and involved liberal amounts of praise for the Vulcan's logic, work ethic and pointed ears.
Finally, when his voice grew noticeably clipped, the artist looked up from her work and offered him a sympathetic smile
"You are not used to discussing Mr. Spockkirk in this manner."
It was a statement, not a question. Jim sighed.
"I'm a starship captain, Miss Shindylle. Whatever our personal relationship may be, it isn't something I've had the luxury to dwell on, let alone discuss with others—our professional relationship has to come first. I could tell you all about my physical attraction to him, but that would hardly be an appropriate conversation to have. Spock is my second-in command and my closest friend. Beyond that, I couldn't describe his value to me any better than I could describe my own instinct to breathe."
He looked away, hoping that the bodypaint was enough to cover the heated flush that had crept up his neck.
Thank gods Spock isn't here to hear this.
No doubt the Vulcan would accuse him of speaking with "undue emotion."
Shindylle regarded him pensively for a moment before resuming her work. She did not ask any further questions. Apparently whatever she had managed to glean from his convoluted answer had been enough to satiate her curiosity and she worked in thoughtful silence for the rest of the session. Not once did the small smile depart from her lips.
Jim had not been sure what to expect when he'd agreed to let complete stranger lead him into a tent to turn him into a walking art exhibit. Whatever he'd imagined the finished product to look like, it certainly had not been the aurora of colors that flowed over his body—a chaos of iridescent jewel tones in swirling patterns. To his own untrained eye it looked more than a little strange. Shindylle, however, gazed at his body with unrestrained triumph blazing on her face and declared it one of the most "honest" works she had ever painted.
"Mr. Spockkirk is going to love it," she promised. Jim smiled archly.
"I'm sure he will."
Not a chance in hell.
The rustle of the tent flap heralded the arrival of his friend. He saluted in greeting as the shirtless Spock emerged through the entrance and stepped inside. The Vulcan's eyes swept over his body. Jim suppressed a chuckle at the involuntary head tilt.
"What do you think, Mr. Spockkirk?"
He waited for the Eyebrow of Reproach to materialize. It didn't. In fact, the Vulcan gave no indication that he'd even heard him.
"Personally I think it's a little garish. Although admittedly I'm not much of an art connoisseur."
"Indeed," Spock muttered absently. His eyes lingered on the golden corona on his solar plexus. Jim resisted the urge to squirm under the Vulcan's perusal. He decided to switch tracks.
"How was the volleyball game?"
"A fascinating, if wearisome, study of human behavior in recreational activities—an experience I do not wish to repeat.
"Am to to believe, Mr. Spock, that you played beach volleyball?" An incredulous laugh slipped out of Jim's mouth. Spock eyed him serenely.
"Although the surplus of players involved does not qualify the game to be called 'beach volleyball' in the traditional sense, you are essentially correct."
His posture straightened in response to the bafflement on Jim's face.
"I had the unfortunate experience of being accosted by Mr. Droovin during an intermission." he added by way of explanation, "He was most tenacious in persuading me to aid the guest team."
Jim's mouth dilated even further at the revelation.
"How the hell did he manage that?"
"He presented a thorough and compelling argument citing the benefits the guest team would receive in coming under the leadership of a Vulcan Starfleet officer in prime physical condition. His logic was surprisingly flawless." After a fractional pause he added, "We defeated the staff team by a seven-point lead."
A shiver of laughter rippled through Jim's body at the thought of the greatest Science Officer in Starfleet hitting a volleyball around with a bunch of nudists—persuaded to do so by a man in a diaper. A grudging respect for the Romance Concierge bloomed in him. Whether it was human arses or Vulcan egos, the man-cherub clearly had an affinity for stroking things.
Spock acknowledged his amusement with a brief softening of the eyes and returned his attention to the artwork on Jim's body. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he took in the marbled patterns. Jim smiled fondly when his friend tented his fingers and rested them against his lips—his signature gesture of contemplation. He could just picture the gears spinning in the Vulcan's mind as they attempted to apply some sort of logical filter through which he could interpret the visual data.
He waited in silence for Spock to finish his appraisal, forcing his face to remain in placid lines. Despite the fact that he had already spent a great portion of the day parading himself in front of his Science Officer, he couldn't remember feeling more vulnerable or exposed before him, even with the added coverage of the body paint. Perhaps it had something to do with the intense scrutiny on his face—so different from the clinical detachment of earlier. Although he was more than familiar with the analytical stare of his Science Officer, it was quite another thing to have it focused on his naked body. Not that his mind hadn't conjure up the scenario plenty of times, but—as his rapidly accelerating heartbeat could attest—the chasm between the imagination and the reality of the event couldn't have been any wider.
For one thing, he hadn't imagined how difficult even the simple act of breathing would become.
Finally, when he could bear the silence no longer, he released an awkward cough from the back of his throat.
"Spock."
"Yes, Captain?"
"You're ogling."
He waited for him to reiterate his assertion that "Vulcan's do not ogle." It didn't happen. Instead, a mottled green flush crept up the Vulcan's neck. He lowered his eyes.
"Forgive me," he said in a measured voice. "It was not my intention to cause you discomfort. I was merely trying to determine the aesthetic merit of the composition."
Despite his unravelling nerves, there was no way Jim Kirk could pass up an opportunity to tease his prim and proper Science Officer when it presented itself this easily. His lips curved into a sensuous smile.
"Like what you see, Mr. Spock?" he purred.
He watched in fascination as the Vulcan actually flinched.
"Well..." The rich baritone trailed off. Spock's eyes darted back to his torso.
"The composition lacks a recognizable subject, and the colors seem to have been chosen at random. However, there is a certain aesthetic appeal to the design. Perhaps it is a result of the interplay between the colors."
Moving with the uncanny grace of a marionette, Spock closed the distance between them, standing directly in front of Jim. His eyes did not stray from the painted contours of his body.
"Curious," he murmured. "Although I am at a loss to explain it fully, the juxtaposition of paint and skin suggests that the artwork was intended to be a tactile experience."
A tentative hand reached towards him.
"May I?"
What the hell?
Jim nodded his assent. Carefully Spock brushed two fingers over the curve of a shoulder then withdrew his hand quickly to inspect for paint residue. Satisfied that they came back dry, he returned them to his shoulder, touching his skin as if it could spontaneously combust at any given second.
Which wouldn't have surprised Jim in the least.
Easy there, Kirk. Keep it natural. Just breathe.
He forced himself to breathe evenly when the slender fingers traveled down the length of his arm, tracing a golden thread through the labyrinth of colors and leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He forced himself to breathe evenly when Spock's hand came to a halt on top of his own and he felt a barely perceptible shudder course through the Vulcan at the contact. He forced himself to breathe evenly when Spock reversed his course and trailed his fingertips back up his forearm, more slowly and with increased pressure.
But when Spock cupped the side of his face with his hand and dragged his thumb across his lower lip, nothing short of spontaneous combustion could have prevented the audible gasp that escaped him.
Spock's eyes flickered at the sound.
"Are you alright, Jim?"
"Just a little taken aback," he admitted, hating the way his voice faltered, "I guess I wasn't expecting you to be so, uh, demonstrative in your art appraisal. "
Spock drew his hand away and examined it as if it were a separate entity from himself. Then, as if he had no say in the matter, he reached for him with both arms, gently gripping his shoulders.
"Fascinating," he muttered to himself. Despite his knowledge of Spock's pacifism, Jim couldn't help but wonder if his friend was, in fact, trying to kill him with his weird, asexual sexiness.
Please Spock, for the love of God, do NOT use the word "fascinating" in the presence of a naked man with the hots for you!
"Correct me if I'm wrong," Jim began, infusing his voice with a levity he did not feel, "but am I safe in assuming that you find Jarillian body art to be somewhat agreeable?"
"Affirmative," Hands and eyes migrated to his chest. "The artwork is unaccountably compelling—very aesthetically pleasing."
His eyes snapped to Jim's, flooded with an inexplicable awareness.
"Captain." His voice was hardly more than a whisper. "This is...beautiful. You are beautiful."
Thermal hands began a slow descent down his torso, grazing over nipples and ribs before settling possessively on his hips. Jim's breath caught in his throat.
Oh gods. I'm naked and I'm covered in paint and Spock likes it and he's TOUCHING me...
The realization of what was happening was more than enough to send a rallying bugle call to his loins. A cold surge of panic iced though him at the all-too familiar pressure. His mind began babbling a hopeless litany.
Not now. Don't even THINK about it...I'll make it up to you later...in the shower...just not now...don't you dare...don't you fucking DARE...
...
...
...
...it dared.
Dammit.
Sensing the tension in his body, Spock removed his hands. Inquisitive eyes searched his face. Jim gritted his teeth, trying to keep his face neutral and probably failing miserably at it.
Don't look, Spock. Please, just don't look. Don'tlookdon'tlookdon'tlookdon'tlookdon'tlook...
...
...
...
...he looked.
DAMMIT!
He averted his eyes, cursing inwardly in every language he knew. His mouth twisted in a self-deprecating smile.
"Performance art, Mr. Spock." he quipped, "Highly subjective."
"Jim."
Reluctantly he dragged his gaze back to Spock's face, steeling himself for whatever he would find in the deep-set eyes—amusement, annoyance, disgust, perhapes even nothing but cool indifference.
He found none of those things.
Instead, he saw a pair of turbulent orbs that had abandoned their usual serenity and now burned into his own with a black, primal fire—a ferocity he had not seen in his friend since grappling with him on the sands of Vulcan. However, whether by his own intuition or some telepathic resonance from Spock, he knew that this was different. The heat in the Vulcan's eyes was not the ravaging brushfire of the Plak Tow. It was the tempering blaze of a blacksmith's forge—a fire that purified him of all pretense, all decorum, all secret ache hidden in spoken jest. He knew that look without knowing how he knew it.
Spock of Vulcan wanted him.
Before Jim's mind could even begin to process the information it had just received, Spock's arms were around him, sealing off the gap between their bodies. The collision of torsos and the accompanying onslaught of Vulcan body heat drew another involuntary gasp from his lips and the arms encircling him tightened in response to the tiny sound. Instinctively Jim's own arms found their way around his friend. He cupped the back of Spock's head, threading his fingers through the sleek, impossibly shiny hair that for years had tormented him in is perfection. God, how he'd wanted to muss that hair up.
"Captain." Spock's voice rumbled deliciously in his ear. "I have become...rather attached to you."
Despite the simplicity of the words, he spoke them with great difficulty, as though each syllable had been forcibly extracted from his mouth. The magnitude of such an admission was not lost on Jim. He clutched the Vulcan tighter.
"Thank you, Mr. Spock," he replied, striving to keep his voice conversational, "For what it's worth, I feel the same way about you. You're a good friend."
Warm lips nuzzled at his earlobe, sending a cascade of shivers down his back. He hissed between his teeth.
"A damn good friend."
A hot alien tongue licked a stripe down the side of his neck.
"Best friend in the...ngghh!"
His train of thought (and quite possibly half his I.Q.) was instantly obliterated the second Spock's leg wrapped around his, trapping his arousal against an answering bulge in the Vulcan's trousers.
"...you're very friendly." he blurted.
"Jim." Spock grasped his face in his hands, angling it upward. Human and Vulcan eyes locked together.
"Dearest friend. Th'y'la." He spoke the words in a hushed, almost reverent voice.
"What's a th'y'la?"
But instead of forming words of explanation, the Vulcan's lips descended on his.
And Jim was suddenly very glad that he never got around to ordering that hot dog.
...whoa. If the guy from "I Love Lucy" were reading this chapter, no doubt he would say, "Spocky, you got some a'splainin' to do!" right about now. Trust me, there's a method to my madness.
...I think.
...I hope.
Oh dear.