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When Jim first catches the hint of silver, he and Spock are stuck in a cave, fighting off hypothermia. With only one sleeping bag and two communicators on the fritz, there’s not much else that Jim can think about besides survival, even if that survival currently depends on both of them buck naked in that one sleeping bag, Jim curled up against Spock’s back. He’s more worried about stomping out his fear so his Vulcan first officer — a touch telepath, who he’s skin-to-skin with, for survival — isn’t flooded with unnecessary and inconvenient Human emotion. And yet…
Did he really see what he think he saw?
It was only a flash in his peripheral vision, so maybe he got it wrong. Still, he really wants to ask Spock if piercing one’s nether bits is logical. ‘Cause it sure as hell looked like Spock has more than a few hoops and barbells down south.
But, survival.
Jim stomps down his questions, and his fear, then scoots in closer to Spock.
***
Jim forgets completely about Spock’s (potential?) piercings in the fog of rescue, recovery, and the Enterprise being a magnet for every incomprehensible anomaly in the galaxy.
They’re a few months into an extended mission, and while Jim used to wonder if he and Spock could make this whole Captain/First Officer thing work, he hasn’t wondered that for a while.
So, of course, old doubts come erupting to the surface at the most inopportune of times, when Spock slams the door closed behind him, locking both of them inside some nasty basement in a governmental building on an ice planet.
“What the hell, Spock?!”
“We will be capable of deactivating the device in a more expedient manner with two people.”
“No shit. But now both of us could die.”
A noxious, bright orange gas starts seeping out of a cylinder in the corner, and, well, that pretty much makes Jim’s point for him.
“Irrelevant, Captain. I will not leave without you.”
After they deactivate the device, after Bones beams them directly from the nasty basement, and into the warmed, medicated air of separate decontamination chambers, Jim tears at his clothes and his anger takes hold.
He whips his head around to rip Spock a new one (regardless that Spock was right), and suddenly it’s not the heat of fury he’s feeling anymore.
Spock, of course, took the calm route instead of Jim’s frantic flailing, and he’s already stripped down, folding his uniform into a neat pile on a chair against the wall between their chambers. There’s no mistaking it now — Spock’s heavily pierced. Hoops, discs, these twisty things… Jim has to stop his perusal there because the back of his neck prickles, a tell-tale sign of Spock’s eyes on him. Mortified to be caught looking at his first officer’s junk, Jim’s cheeks burn.
Jim tears his gaze away, then tears at his rank, disintegrating uniform again.
Still, he has to say, “Didn’t realize Vulcan’s have a thing for heavy metal.”
“They do not.”
Interesting. Maybe even…fascinating.
All of the fight drained from him (in truth, he wouldn’t have left Spock either), Jim chuckles.
“You never cease to surprise me, Spock.”
***
It takes a few weeks (with first contacts, diplomatic missions, and super classy things like a ship-wide bout of space worms, it’s impossible to find the time), but Jim finally crowds Bones into his office and locks the door behind them.
“Just how many piercings does my first officer have, Bones?”
Bones opens up his liquor cabinet and pours them both a drink. “Is this the captain asking or you?”
“Both? Neither? I don’t know.”
“I’m entirely sure you do, Jim.”
Okay, so maybe he does.
He accepts the glass from Bones and downs the contents in one gulp instead of fessing up.
Bones smirks. “They’re not what you’d expect, huh?”
“That’s an understatement.”
“I haven’t done an official count, but…” Bones takes a sip of his drink. “…it’s gotta be somewhere between ten and fifteen total.”
“Jesus.”
“Don’t think he has anything to do with it.”
Jim rolls his eyes. “Why so many? And why there? I mean, Spock hinted that it wasn’t strictly a Vulcan thing, but it looked almost…ritualistic.”
“How much do you know about Vulcan genitalia?”
“Oh my god. We are not having this conversation. What the hell is my life? Bones.”
“I’m going to take that to mean you know nothing, which…fair. I didn’t know much until I came on board, and I took a Vulcan anatomy class at the Academy.”
Jim narrows his eyes. “What does Vulcan anatomy have to do with his piercings?”
“Everything, kid.”
***
It’s his fault for asking.
There are very specific warnings about curiosity for a reason, and it’s Jim’s fault that he waves them away every time he gets a mental itch. And, oh boy, this one is way more than an itch now.
The Enterprise does its Enterprise thing and continues to get out of more trouble than it gets into, the crew performs admirably (Spock’s words), and Jim needs to stop eye-fucking his first officer (Bones’ words). So, pretty much status quo.
Except for that it isn’t at all.
Jim knows now that there are ten to fifteen piercings strategically placed under Spock’s clothes, and, theoretically, why they’re there. (Spoiler alert: Bones thinks they’re a telepathic sex thing. Jim contends that doesn’t make them any more logical, but he sees the draw.)
There’s no hint of the piercings when Spock’s on duty, despite what Jim thought was a maddeningly tight fit to the science uniform. There’s definitely no hint of them when Spock’s in his robes.
Jim can’t stand it; his curiosity is going to kill him.
“You seem preoccupied, Captain. Is there something I can assist you with?”
Since it’s probably against regulations for Jim to ask his first officer to drop trow, Jim says, “I’m good, Commander. Thanks.”
He goes back to the padd he’s hunched over in his ready room, finishing up a report that would’ve been done hours ago if he wasn’t staring off into space thinking about Spock’s Vulcan anatomy.
Spock must not find Jim’s answer suitable. He rises from the other side of the table and comes around to stand next to his captain.
“Jim...”
Christ. When Spock says his name like that, Jim melts into a puddle of goo.
“What’s up, Spock?”
He doesn’t dare look up from his padd. He’s basically eye level with Spock’s crotch.
“I have noted a marked decline in your focus recently.”
“I’m fine.”
“You have not yet completed your report.”
“It’s fine.”
“Jim. You walked into a wall when I encountered you after my workout last night.”
Yeah. So that happened.
Turns out, the uniform and robes give him nothing. The ‘Fleet issued tight, red exercise pants, on the other hand? Jim’s never going near the gym again.
“Yeop. Still fine. Don’t know what you want me to say here.”
A pause, then, “I want to see them.”
Jim does look up then — at Spock’s eyes — because he’s confused as hell. “What?”
“That is what I would desire for you to say — that you want to see my piercings.”
Jim swallows hard. “How about see them and touch them?”
“That would be acceptable.”
Jim’s curiosity is definitely going to kill him, then he’s going straight to hell.
“Your quarters. Now.”
***
The best thing about being the captain of the Enterprise is that his crew is highly intelligent, dedicated, driven, and persistent. The worst thing is that his crew is highly intelligent, dedicated, driven, persistent, and nosy as fuck.
He and Spock exit the ready room, onto the bridge, and he knows immediately that he’s in trouble.
“Hey, Bones. Can I help you with you something?”
“Nah. I was just bored. Came up to pester you, but you were locked away with Spock. Figured it was best if I didn’t interrupt.”
Jim huffs, planning to tell Bones (and, tangentially, his entire bridge crew) that there was nothing to interrupt, when Spock steps forward.
“A wise choice, Doctor. If you will excuse us now, the captain and I have…an experiment to conduct.”
That gets Bones’ eyebrow flying toward his hairline.
“Mr. Sulu,” Spock continues. “We are not to be disturbed for a minimum of two hours —”
“Two hours?!” Jim blurts.
Spock inclines a brow. “Indeed, Captain. Although three hours may be more advantageous.”
“Fucking hell, Spock. You’re gonna ruin me.”
Sulu covers a laugh with a cough. Chekhov chokes on air. Nyota smirks, shaking her head. And Bones is laughing so hard he’s wheezing.
Jim could not care less.
Scratch what he said earlier, the best thing about being the captain of the Enterprise is that he’s the captain.
“What he said.” Jim nudges his about-to-be-ravished first officer toward the turbolift. “Three hours, and that’s an order.”
Good thing the Enterprise is the Enterprise. Jim won’t need to fake anything for his daily log, and Pike won’t even blink at the inclusion of some sanitized version of this in reports. He’ll only care that his shiny flagship hasn’t been nearly crushed by the green hand of a deposed god — again.
Bones catches Jim’s eyes as Jim enters the turbolift behind Spock. “Have fun with your experiment, Jim.”
***
The turbolift doors close and they’re alone.
“To be clear,” Jim says. “Are you doing this to improve ship’s efficiency by getting your severely unfocused captain back on track, or…something else?”
“By ’something else’ do you mean if I have personal interest in initiating sexual congress with you?”
“Yeah.”
“Something else, Jim.”
“Thank fuck,” Jim says.
Then proceeds to kiss Spock until neither of them can breathe.
***
Jim has no doubt that Spock would tease, torment, and torture him with a slow reveal if Jim asked for it. There’s no way Jim’s asking.
He’s stripping off his own shirt before Spock’s door has even swished shut.
“Suddenly three hours doesn’t seem like enough time. C’mon, Spock. Naked. Now.”
Spock’s lips twitch. “Very well.”
Jim shucks his pants and underwear off with one very unsexy (but effective) shove. He kicks them away, then tosses his shoes and socks who-the-fuck-cares where. He sits on the edge of the bed and motions for Spock with grabby hands.
“Patience, Jim.”
“Yeah, that’s not happening.”
Spock’s fully naked now, unabashedly so, and Jim widens his legs so Spock can step up to him. He tugs Spock in closer by his hips, and, fuck, okay, that’s still not close enough.
He doesn’t even know what he’s looking at, but he wants to bury his face in it and never come up for air.
Spock’s grips Jim’s hair and forces Jim to look up at him. (A mighty zing streaks through Jim’s groin. He may like being manhandled, just a bit.)
“Would you like me to explain?” Spock asks.
Spock’s voice is way too even; Jim feels like he’s flying apart. Somehow, he manages a nod.
“The Vulcan reproductive anatomy significantly differs from yours.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that.”
“As we are a desert-dwelling people, there were evolutionary adjustments that ensured the survival of our species in harsh climes.”
“Uh-huh.”
Spock tugs on his hair. “My eyes are up here.”
Jim bites back a smile and lets his gaze slowly peruse its way up Spock’s torso, over his neck and ears, then, finally to his eyes. “Better?”
“If you wish for me to pull your hair, all you need is to ask.”
“Definitely don’t drop that one from the repertoire, but when are you gonna let me get my hands on you?”
“You are a visual learner.”
“And tactile, yeah. Best way for me to learn is to just dive in.” Jim shrugs. “It’s science.”
“You may proceed.”
Spock slides his hand to the back of Jim’s neck, and Jim feels a bit lightheaded, a lot giddy. He loves discovering new things.
He’s been with his share of non-Humans, but he’s never seen anything quite like this. There’s no hair, just soft, pale skin that begs to be nipped at, then a five-ish inch seam that looks like it leads somewhere warm, wet, and inviting. A sheath, maybe? But, the thing is, it’s not simply smooth skin on either side. It’s almost like thick tendrils of skin woven over each other (laced together?) from top to bottom, then disappearing inside the seam.
And the piercings? There’s a corkscrew shaped barbell at the top of the seam, and one at the bottom, then tiny hoops that connect each of the tendrils at their base, and raised, rounded discs pierced through half of the tendrils, placed at what looks like random intervals. They’re all a gleaming silver-ish metal. Jim counts fourteen piercings in total. (Bones isn’t going to want to hear one word about this, but Jim’s still going to tell him that his estimate was spot on.)
Jim resists the urge to lick first and ask questions later. He uses his hands instead.
Spock exhales heavily as Jim runs his fingertips over the tendrils, then down the seam. Spock’s skin is cooler there, rougher, and it shifts with the movement of Jim’s fingers like it’s pushing back. Positive that that’s exactly what’s happening, Jim runs his thumbs down the center and presses harder. The tendrils loosen, the seam begins to open.
“How much control do you have over them?”
Spock’s fingers tighten at the back of his neck. “Complete.”
“Then open up, Spock.” He goes off instinct and rubs a slow circle below the top corkscrew piercing and above the bottom. Spock gasps; Jim’s all smug satisfaction. “Show me what you’re hiding in there.”
The tendrils shift, half sliding down and apart, the others up and apart, the seam widening. Jim watches, transfixed, as what’s gotta be Spock’s penis slowly emerges. It’s thick, dripping wet, and that’s already got Jim’s mouth watering, then the scent hits him, and Jim is desperate.
There’s no Human equivalent for the sweetness, the spice, the heady, lush fragrance that fills Jim’s lungs on a deep inhale.
“You are pleased,” Spock rasps.
“Hell yeah.”
The tendrils ripple, then they’re sliding along Jim’s fingers in a filthy kiss, then coiling around Spock’s dick, thickening it to an obscene size, and Jim forgets how to breathe.
Finally at full mast, the way the tendrils wrap around Spock’s slick cock aligns the pierced discs in a swirling pattern that’s gotta be pleasurable as fuck for Spock and his partner of choice.
“Holy fuck,” Jim breathes out.
He’s pretty sure he blacks out for a beat…then he dives in, face first.
***
“The piercings are a pre-Reform practice,” Spock says. “One I found particularly…compelling.”
“Believe me. I get it.”
Jim’s wrecked.
His jaw aches, his tongue has gone numb, his throat is raw, and his ass feels like it was pounded by a steel rod — which, to be fair, it kind of was. Although…
“What kind of metal is this anyway?”
Spock’s lying on his back, Jim’s head on his chest, their legs tangled together. Through absolutely no fault of his own, Jim’s fingers keep finding their way back to the piercings that gleam in the flickering light of Spock’s fire pot.
“There is no name. It was a metal found solely beneath the caves of Gol, utilized for its properties of telepathic enhancement.”
Definitely a telepathic sex thing, then. Good to know.
Jim props his chin on Spock’s chest so he can look at him. “You’re not doing much to beat the ‘Vulcans are secretly sex freaks’ allegations.”
One corner of Spock’s lips curves with amusement. “No. I am not.”
Jim caresses a tendril and it lazily wraps itself around Jim’s finger. Or, well, it’s Spock who does that, he supposes. “And what are these called?”
“D’mallu. It is unclear from historical texts which carried the name first — our anatomy or an omnivorous vine that lived in the desert and would pull unsuspecting prey into its mouth.”
“Really not beating the allegations now, Spock.”
“Kaiidth.”
Their three hour deadline passed a long time ago, but since no one has comm’ed him or Spock, the ship’s probably not on fire — again. Whatever. Even if it was, he and Spock have a highly intelligent, dedicated, driven, and persistent crew who could figure it out on their own.
“I think I get the evolutionary part of d’mallu. They’re basically a shield against the elements and heat, right?”
“Correct. However…”
“But?”
“There is another purpose they serve.”
“You’re killing me here, Spock.”
“As they are under my complete control, and can move either in sync or independently of each other, they allow me to give pleasure while utilizing my hands for telepathic purposes.”
Whoa.
Wait.
Hold up.
“Holy shit. Are you saying that your d’mallu could give me a handjob while you melded with me?”
“That, and more.” Spock’s eyes gleam in the light of the fire pot. “If that is what you desired.”
Jim unceremoniously rolls on top of Spock, grinning. “I think it’s time for another experiment.”
Spock brushes away a lock of hair on Jim’s forehead.
His fingertips linger near Jim’s psi-points and the d’mallu slide along Jim’s thickening length.
“As you wish, Jim.”