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At first Jim thought it was a dildo, lying there in the sink. A slightly green, rather floppy dildo of unremarkable size, made of some extremely flesh-like material that started to firm up as soon as he touched it. The things they could do with technology these days—’twas an exciting age to be alive!

Only… This didn’t quite seem to add up.

Spock had a dildo?

Spock just left his sex-toys lying around in their shared bathroom for his commanding officer to find? Spock didn’t do carelessness. So what was this—a come-on? An insult? An invitation?

Idly, Jim lifted the thing to his nose and gave a tentative sniff, wondering if he could identify the material or detect whether or not it had been used.

It did smell extremely like Spock.

Not that he went around, you know, sniffing Spock or anything.

Well, not really.

Not often.

Not lately.

If he didn’t know better, he’d say the thing liked being sniffed. It was certainly doing a much more creditable job of impersonating a penis now; it was noticeably longer and thicker and harder than it had been. Oddly warm to the touch, too. Curious little ball things on the bottom, though, not really big enough to be functional testicles.

Well, not human ones.

Wait, did Vulcans make sex-toys? Did they only pretend to be above that kind of thing?

And why was the idea of Spock with a dildo so intrinsically, so inescapably hot?

Jim’s musings were interrupted by the abrupt arrival of a flushed and decidedly discomfited-looking Spock. Holding out his hand. Looking as if he’d run all the way here from the other end of the ship. Breathing audibly.

“Captain, if I might—?”

Jim stroked the thing absently, wondering what he could say to get a reaction out of Spock. Who was actually chewing on his lower lip.

“Didn’t know Vulcans went in for dildos,” he offered.

Spock frowned ever so slightly—the I-am-consulting-the-dictionary-I-keep-in-my-brain-and-index-for-fun-and-profit look. “Am I correct in understanding a ‘dildo’ to be an artificial phallus intended for pleasurable penetration of bodily orifices during solo or partnered sexual activity?”

“You are.” Its little slit even produced faux pre-come. How cool was that? Jim ran his thumb over the slickness, admiring the detail that had gone into the fake foreskin. Spock gave a soft gasp, but when Jim looked up he seemed perfectly composed.

“Then you are quite correct, Captain. Vulcans do not ‘go in’ for them.”

Jim waved the dildo. It flopped accusingly at Spock. “Care to explain this little number, then?”

Spock’s eyelids slid down for at least two seconds. “That is my penis, Captain.” His arm was still out. “I would appreciate its return. My uniform trousers appear somewhat ill-fitting without it.”

Jim laughed. Then he boggled. Then he believed. “Your penis is—like velcro’d on, or something?”

Spock performed the Vulcan equivalent of an eye-roll. Which is to say, he tilted his head just so and one eyebrow twitched. Then he lowered his pants and underwear without a trace of self-consciousness, took his thing back from an unprotesting Jim, and slotted it somehow into place. For just a second, he had an impressive hard-on. Then it wilted to a semi as if Jim was the most unexciting company imaginable. Which kinda smarted, man.

Jim tried to ask ten thousand questions, but his mouth wouldn’t work.

“I am confident Doctor McCoy could be persuaded to explain the mechanism to you.” Spock restored his clothing. It did hang better. “Now, if you will excuse me, there is a minor pandemonium afoot down in biochemistry lab one, hence my over-hasty departure this morning. I must return.”

And he took himself off, rather primly, in Jim’s opinion. But perhaps that was what Vulcan embarrassment looked like. Surely even Spock had to feel at least a little chagrined to have been in such a hurry to get someplace that he’d forgotten to take a body part with him? And what a body part. Jim smirked as he got out his own—thankfully non-detachable—penis to take a leak.



“Spock’s WHAT?”

Uhura flinched slightly at the force of his disapproval. Or possibly there might have been an unavoidable and really quite understandable fleckage-of-spittle issue there on his part to which she was reacting. Jim took a breath and tried to relax, turning his best puppy-eyed expression on her in the hope that she would magically make it all better. Somehow.

Uhura sighed and resumed trying to get her hair into the ridiculous arrangement required by law of all long-haired people on the planet below. “Spock’s making plans to return to his people, to get married. Ordinarily, he’s too young to reproduce, but apparently they’ve devised a method to get around that.” Jim stepped in to help her place a pin. “Thanks. Anyway, he’s expected to make good on the marriage his parents arranged for him as a child.”

That she sounded so un-pissed-off, un-murderous, un-depressed, and just generally Un, only went to show what an awesome communications officer she was. Or else that possibly that rumour some months back about her and Spock breaking up had actually been accurate.

That Jim was so infuriated by this news probably said something, too.

He was not happy.

He was not calm.

He was not throwing things at Spock when he came to make his request, but that owed a lot more to command training and Uhura’s forewarning than any supremely heroic effort.

“Her name is T’Pring,” Spock said stiffly. “We were betrothed at the age of seven. She disapproves of my ‘notoriety’, and I therefore do not anticipate that she will require me to remain on New Vulcan once conception has been confirmed—”

Something red-hot and angry twitched in the back of Jim’s mind as he translated that from Spockese. “You mean she hates your guts and wants to be shot of you as soon as you’ve done your duties at stud?”

Unacceptable. So. Very. Fucking. Unacceptable.

Spock looked as if he very much wanted to dispute this assessment, but couldn’t quite manage it on account of the whole Vulcans-don’t-lie bullshit. Instead he merely inclined his head and asked whether the captain were denying his request for a slight course diversion to drop him at the Vulcan colony after their present mission was complete. Apparently he was just going to go all stoic and patiently endure being bred like a pedigree pet.

Damn, damn, damn, and double-double-damn. Not a request Jim could deny without a lot of bureaucratic paperwork fucking him bureaucratically and boringly up the ass for his troubles, and, worse, a thousand times worse, a disappointed lecture from Pike.

“Fine,” he growled. “We’ll go to New Vulcan. Now go away, will you?” I need to mope for a bit, because you’re leaving me, you bastard. What kind of woman, logical or otherwise, would let you go once she’s got her grubby grabby fingers on you? “I’ve got work to do.”

“Yes, Captain.” Spock left as calmly and silently as he’d arrived.

Jim put his head in his hands and indulged in a bit of a sulk.

Then he did what came naturally and began to scheme.


Research was difficult, because the Vulcans didn’t seem to be all that big on putting pertinent information about the less logical aspects of their culture and biology out there in books and on computer networks where just anyone with high-level security clearance and an actual need to know could read it.

But Jim was able to confirm, eventually, at least that a Vulcan marriage, like a human one, wasn’t considered legitimate until it had been consummated.

He therefore—quite logically—waited until Spock was showering, then sneaked into their shared bathroom to make off with the penis that was—yep, just as he’d thought—lying in the sink immersed in warm, slightly soapy water. Jim snatched it, wrapped it in a towel, and got out in a hurry.

When Spock came chiming at his door ten minutes later, Jim pretended not to be home.



T’Pring was much as Spock remembered her: elegant, beautiful, dressed in a style neither traditional nor avant garde, possessed of a pleasingly melodic voice, and flawlessly controlled in the manner humans typically called “cold”.

“T’Pring,” he said, offering the ta’al. “It is agreeable to see you again.”

His Betrothed answered only with a smooth nod, and then gestured that she would precede him from the village square to the place of her residence. Their boots crunched softly over the sand-and-vegetation path as they walked.

He had not, perhaps, anticipated that she would become quite so tall. Her recent maternal ancestors, as he recalled—two of whom had served on staff at the embassy during his youth—had not exceeded one point six Terran metres in height. T’Pring was approximately one point eight, depending how far from the ground those boots lifted her heels. This observation was, of course, of no value whatever except as fleeting mental exercise.

Spock followed his bride dutifully across the reddish-brown grass which was native to this world. This colony had as yet no need for vehicles save for the occasional conveyance of heavy items to be distributed outwards from the transport hub, and thus formal roads had not yet been laid and the entire population travelled this embryonic city by foot.

Spock saw no mountains, even in the distance, and wondered why he should feel faintly aggrieved that the city’s founders had elected to build on the plain.

T’Pring’s residence was a pre-formed dwelling in current Vegan architectural style which was nonetheless highly reminiscent of any of the twelve thousand, four hundred and twelve cargo containers in the Enterprise’s holds. The inside differed little from what the outside had suggested. As he removed his cloak, Spock focussed a significant portion of his concentration for a moment on suppressing his satisfaction that his quarters aboard ship were by this standard luxurious. Although the comparison was just, and T’Pring logical enough to accept it as fair, such a feeling could not be welcome here.

“Please, be seated,” T’Pring breathed, indicating a gel chair not unlike the “beanbags” in recreation room six, sporting a multi-hued cover Spock suspected she had crafted herself. T’Pring’s reputation as a skilled artisan in an eclectic array of fields had been waxing full prior to the destruction of their homeworld.

“I have spoken with the elders,” Spock said as he sat, arranging his legs into the configuration generally recognised as most respectful. “I was informed that we need merely to complete the mental joining, and afterwards affirm as much to any member of the council tomorrow, and our marriage shall be deemed official under Vulcan and Federation law. It is… regrettable that a formal ceremony officiated by one of our family matriarchs is no longer a practical possibility.”

“Indeed,” said T’Pring, with much the same air as he had observed about various human ship-mates on occasions when his own remarks were perceived as cumbersome in their level of detail.

He could not fault her failure to offer traditional hospitality when there was, of course, no traditional wine extant to be offered. “Shall we begin at once, then?”

T’Pring’s response was… abrupt. Spock did not like to call it rudeness on the part of his bride on the eve of their wedding. But she—still standing—immediately stepped forward and initiated a deep meld.

Only Spock’s habit of maintaining highly resilient mental shields at all times—necessitated by his being constantly surrounded by naked-minded humans who might touch him at any time—saved him from the pain and alarm such a rapid, unsignalled intrusion might otherwise have occasioned.

His first clear awareness of the meld, after the shock-noise of the initial impact died away, was of T’Pring’s mind seeking the bond-flame in his, planted there by the Healer who joined their child-selves so long ago on a world that no longer existed—and of that spark in him retreating from her, as if of its own free will. For duty and honour, then, Spock relaxed his mind against his bride’s and began to help her in her task.

Working together, they progressed swiftly.

Spock was surprised to discover his whole body shaking as they began to twine their minds together so as to bring the two nascent bond-flames into contact.

And then visceral pleasure ripped through him, unexpected and oddly distant despite its potency. Hard on its heels was T’Pring’s anger, hobbled but improperly suppressed and too close to ignore.

“What hast thou done?” she cried in the meld, her long fingernails digging into his cheek and making him flinch, very aware of how close the upper meld-point she had chosen lay to his eye.

She had understood immediately, instinctively, while Spock, who was in possession of rather more facts, took time to process the input.

Someone was fellating his penis.

There was no mistaking the character, or the owner, of the thoughts that reached his mind through the skin of his missing genital organ.


Jim was indeed responsible for the theft of Spock’s penis yesterday morning. Jim was the reason his uniform trousers had required padding in order to mimic their usual appearance.

Despite himself, Spock permitted his mind a moment’s focus on the alien thoughts.

”…fucking awesome… wonder if it’s supposed to be this sweet… wonder if I could… Oh, yeah, bet he’d be a hair-grabber, too, if you really got him going… Gonna suck you real good, Spock… Fucking… awesome… fucking… gnaggggghhyeah sogoodyeah think I’m gonna—”

Spock hurriedly closed down, as much as he could, his awareness of his distant, geosynchronously orbiting, penis.

“It is unacceptable,” T’Pring said, drawing some way back in the meld but still able to discern his emotional state, “for you to lend your ka-ran-zhi k'ashaya to this human whore in this way. You will cease all contact with him.”

“That will be difficult,” Spock said, biting down hard on his urge to say something even stronger, “since he is my superior officer and I work with him on a daily basis.”

“You will resign your Starfleet commission. That is only appropriate for my consort and the father of my children. Clearly, I must now transport myself to that smelly human starship in order to retrieve your guvik svai so that we may conceive those children. You cause a great deal of trouble, Spock.”

She was not shielding with sufficient force to keep him from catching her thought that, had she even one Vulcan male prospect aged under sixty years available, she would promptly cast aside Spock in that individual’s favour.

Carefully, Spock pried her hand from his face, smoothly parting their minds as he did so. T’Pring’s eyes were very dark, but communicated little. For an instant, Spock was preoccupied with wondering what his mother had truly thought of T’Pring as his future mate.

“You do not wish this marriage any more than I do,” he ventured gently. He wanted to stand up, but chose not to deny her the height advantage.

“I wish it considerably less than you do, Spock. Had but Stonn lived, you would have had to fight for me.”

Spock maintained his calm with some difficulty. “In that case, I decline to proceed.”

“But it is logical to preserve our race—”

“Indubitably. Marriage is not a necessary step towards achieving that goal. If you wish to conceive a child with me, I will assist. If not, I am certain others will volunteer. In either case, I will not marry you, and will leave the colony with my ship tomorrow.”

T’Pring’s body had visibly begun to relax, as if after a long overdue neuropressure session. “And the council?”

Spock stood, then, and shrugged back into his desert cloak. “Tell them whichever portion of the truth suits you best. That it was not logical to proceed because marriage is an extraneous feature of the proposed course of action. That we do not suit. That our bond-flames were disinclined to reunite.” He paused to resist a smile, recalling Jim’s influence on this endeavour. “That I was not… properly equipped.”

T’Pring said nothing for two point six minutes. Then she offered the ta’al and wished him long life.

Spock ventured back out into the pleasantly scorching midday sun, feeling, despite the unexpected turn events had taken, as if long unfinished business had at last been completed.

He retraced his steps to the village square, flipped open his communicator. “Enterprise, this is Spock. I’m ready to beam up.”



The captain was ensconced with contraband in his seldom-used official office when Spock went looking after changing out of his Vulcan-style attire, which made his escape impossible. Spock permitted himself, therefore, a faint smirk of triumph. The expression was short-lived, however.

“So, you got all married and everything? Is she hot, the new Mrs. Spock? When can I meet—”

“T’Pring and I have ended our association. Please return my penis.”

Captain Kirk removed his feet from the desktop and sat up straight in his chair. “I’m sorry, man. You want to talk about it?”

“I do not. Please return—”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the captain.

“You have stolen something of mine, Captain. You will return it forthwith.”

Jim continued to play with his food, some kind of twisted sugar confection, red in colour, which appeared to have considerable elasticity. “You giving me orders now, Spock? Kinky.”

The suggestion that he was acting outside his official or moral prerogative displeased Spock. “I would be quite within my rights to order an Admiral to return stolen property, Captain.”

“It’s Jim.”

A small muscle in the region of Spock’s left eyebrow began disobediently to twitch. The human notion that use of a title of respect could be disrespectful in certain contexts was most illogical. “Jim. Kindly return my penis.”

“I haven’t got it. Have you checked down your pants?” Spock believed that unusual asymmetrical facial gesture was known as a ‘wink’ when intentional, as here, and not resulting from the unwanted intrusion of some speck of foreign matter onto the eyeball’s surface.

“You pilfered it from our shared bathroom yesterday.”

“Inference. Could’ve been someone who just happened to have access to my quarters. Or yours, for that matter. Or perhaps you just put it down somewhere and forgot about it? Have you tried retracing your steps?”

“It was in your possession twenty-six minutes ago during my visit to the planet. You were performing obscene acts upon it.”

Captain Kirk coloured noticeably across both zygoma. “You can’t possibly—”

“Captain.” Spock had to pause to suppress what might have been a somewhat caustic response. “I am a touch-telepath. You were touching a part of me.”

“Oh shit.” James T. Kirk, celebrated captain of Starfleet’s magnificent flagship, hid his face in his hand a moment, then peeked up at Spock, then hid again. “Oh shit,” he repeated, muffled this time.

Spock found this reaction rather satisfying.

“I’ll bring it to you next time we’re both in our quarters, okay? I have some paperwork I need to finish up here.”

Spock found this acceptable, and went on his way.

A sheepish Jim Kirk returned the purloined penis at 1800 that night, and declined an offer to stay for chess. He did, however, remain long enough to see the penis checked for injuries and then returned to its proper place. Spock supposed the human was still understandably curious about the attachment mechanism.


It went missing again twenty-two days later, while Spock was showering prior to conducting a much-needed refresher course for junior personnel on avoiding the appearance or actuality of sexual harassment in the workplace. He was, therefore, obliged to report to the conference room without the organ in question. The lecture would have gone more smoothly without Kirk’s actions which, although out of sight, as the humans said, were not out of mind.

Spock found it considerably more difficult this time to ignore the sensations evoked by the action of Jim Kirk’s mouth and tongue upon his penis. Perhaps this was a function of the reduced distance between them, perhaps of the lesser time elapsed since the organ was last attached to his body, or perhaps it had simply been easier to block out an unanticipated intrusion of sensations and thoughts than it was on an occasion when he had half-expected such a development.

Spock was irritated, then distracted, then flustered, though he was tolerably certain he managed to conceal any outward sign of these effects. But his concentration was imperfect and it seemed prudent not to linger over the finer points of appropriate crew interactions.

No one complained about this being the shortest, most cursory such lecture he had ever given.


Spock was tempted to eschew the chime mechanism in favour of manually pounding upon the door. That, however, would have been illogical, so Spock chimed and waited until the flustered-looking human appeared in the doorway.

Spock considered his raised eyebrow an eloquent enough demand for the return of his property.

But Jim flinched from him in a way that caused Spock to stop and reevaluate his mental state and body language. “Where is it?” he asked, calmly enough.

“I thought… I thought maybe I could hold onto it for a while. You know, if you weren’t using it. There are some things I want to—” He seemed oddly incapable of finishing his sentence, and merely stood there, scuffing bare toes against the carpet as his cheeks gradually reddened.

“Jim. You are not unintelligent. Surely you have not failed to comprehend that when you play with my penis I can feel it?”

Jim moved to sit down rather heavily on his bunk. “Is that, um, I mean… would that be a problem? What if I just, you know—” he made a gesture Spock could not translate “—if you aren’t doing anything important? I could just sit here, and you could sit in your quarters, and—” He shrugged and almost managed to meet Spock’s gaze.

Spock blinked. “An intriguing suggestion.”

Jim went very still. Spock could no longer hear him breathing.

“I shall expect to have the organ returned to me by 0700, and I trust that the next time you wish to borrow it you will first ask my permission.”

The captain nodded twelve times rapidly. “And can I…” He licked his lower lip, now staring resolutely at a part of the floor adjacent to Spock’s left boot.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Are you enquiring at this late date how you should treat my penis?”

Jim raised a hand to his face, then thought better of it. “Uh huh.”

“I would appreciate if you refrained from injuring it. Beyond that, perhaps you might endeavour to treat it much as you would wish your own genital apparatus treated?”

Jim made an odd choking sound, then grinned broadly. His eyes seemed to have acquired greater luminosity. “Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

If Spock adequately understood the reckoning of such things, the captain owed him a great deal more than one. But he refrained from saying so. “Good evening, Jim.”

Spock retired to his quarters, prepared swiftly for bed and lay down. He found Jim’s experiments in the next room surprisingly entertaining. And the combined lethargy resulting from two orgasms, one experienced vicariously, had a pleasantly soporific effect which negated the usual need for meditation.

Perhaps he would indulge Jim’s penchant for his penis in future. After all, for upwards of 98% of his common activities, Spock did not require his penis to be attached or even close at hand.



Permitting Jim to retain custody of his penis for longer periods had perhaps not been a plan entirely without pitfalls.

Spock was having difficulty concentrating. This was most inconvenient, as he was communicating with his father over subspace at the time, and his father was unlikely to miss even the slightest loss of control.

But the thoughts coming to him from wherever his penis was currently located constituted distraction of a form he had no experience combating. The organ was warm and comfortable, cradled against Jim’s flesh. And Jim was thinking about kissing him. Seemed, in fact, to be thinking of nothing else but a narrative fantasy in which he got up out of bed, dressed hastily in whatever was handy, came to Spock’s door, chimed for admittance, and flung himself on Spock before greetings could occur for an enthusiastic, almost violent human kiss.

The level of distraction was such that, while discussing the extension of the new Vulcan colony and the construction of a suitably cloistered environment for the Elders’ study and reflection, he slipped and used the verb shok-tor, to kiss, when meaning shom-tor, to rest. Sarek did him the courtesy of affecting not to notice. An eyebrow was raised, however, when, seconds later, Spock erroneously employed shok, the noun for kiss, when he intended shakhu, the elderly people of the colony. He caught himself once more, mouth already open to repeat shok when he intended to ask about the work’s shaht, completion, but it was a close thing.

It occurred to Spock just how many such slips were possible in the Vulcan language alone. He therefore excused himself from the conversation, permitting Sarek to draw his own conclusions as to his reason. Perhaps he would conveniently infer that Spock had developed a headache. It was not so very far from the truth.


“Um, so…” Jim looked from fellow captive to fellow captive. “No one has any bright ideas for getting out of this shit?”

Uhura had that deflated look you only saw once in a blue moon, because it meant that she had nothing useful to say. Bones rolled his eyes and muttered something about damn it, Jim, I’m a doctor, not an escape artist! Cupcake, still clutching his shoulder, appeared to have been completely cured of his conviction that he could effect an escape by forcing open this particular cell door. Not that he hadn’t managed the first time, it was just that there were twelve or fifteen guards right outside, and, being eight-armed Brachiaresqi guards, they had a shitload of disruptors between them.

“I think,” said Chekov, “that we must wait for rescue. Mister Spock is no doubt monitoring…” He trailed off, because they were a long way underground here and the chances of Spock’s sensors being able to find them were not high. He’d basically have to storm the place and do a room-by-room search, and with the sheer size of these catacombs and the limited man power on the Enterprise, most of which would be required to keep the ship safe from their captors’, oh, moderately ginormous attack fleet, the search could drag on considerably longer than the water supply down here would last them.

“Does he even know we’re in trouble yet?” Cupcake asked, doing a really dreadful job at sounding matter-of-fact.

“He knows,” Jim replied absently, without really thinking about it.

Bones raised an eyebrow.

Jim remembered how he knew that Spock knew. Oh. Riiiight.

“I, uh, I may have a way of contacting Spock. Is anyone really, really fucking clear on the route those bastards took to bring us here?” He ignored Chekov, whose memory was excellent but who had been unconscious during their journey down here, and looked at the others. Bones shrugged. Cupcake shrugged too and then winced when it hurt. Uhura was smiling, just slightly.

“I think I can manage to draw you a map, Captain. But how do we get it up to Spock?”

Jim gallantly overooked the comeback possibilities of get it up and went to her, trying to ignore the cold reptilian stare of a guard peering in the distorting window in the cell door. Even in this damp dark little hellhole, she still smelled like candy and sweet growing things. It was probably her shampoo, he might have to ask if he could have some for his birthday or something. “I’m going to need you to picture the route very clearly in your mind, and then I’m gonna have to ask you to stick your hand down my pants.”

Her failure to slap him shocked Jim even more than any slap could have done.

“You’re serious,” she said.

“I am.”

“You have a method for contacting Spock, and it’s in your shorts.”

“I do, and it is.” He hoped he wouldn’t have to tell the whole story, about how he just liked to keep Spock’s junk there, you know, to keep his own company. Plus, it made his bulge look even more distractingly impressive. And how, as it turned out, guys who frisked you for concealed weapons didn’t much notice or care about any concealed extra cockage a guy might be toting.

Instead of threatening him with sexual misconduct charges if he was lying, Uhura simply did as instructed. And promptly froze. “Is that what I think it is?” she hissed.

“It’s telepathic,” Jim offered helpfully, having forgotten the exact nature of her question the second he realised both penises were responding to her touch. “Sends messages back to, ahem, the mothership, if you will. Are you thinking of the way out of—”

“Shut up. Sir.” A look of supreme concentration passed over her face. She seemed to be doing a very thorough job. He had a semi—well, two semis, really—by the time she withdrew her hand with a faintly disgusted look on her face that really shouldn’t be turning him on quite so much. “I suppose there’s no way to know whether he got all that?”

“Nope. We might have to resend it periodically.”

Uhura rolled her eyes and muttered something he should probably be glad he couldn’t catch.

When, eventually, Spock came storming in leading a phalanx of Starfleet’s finest, and looked so pleased to see him that for a moment there Jim actually thought he might get hugged, he supposed the reaction had a lot to do with Spock being glad not to have lost his penis in dank dark alien catacombs forever. Or something.


It was not, Jim found out soon after their safe return to the Enterprise, that Spock had been seriously concerned about the welfare of his penis. In fact, after he had virtually strong-armed Jim (insofar as you could strong-arm without actually touching someone) into his quarters, Spock seemed a whole lot less concerned with retrieving his detachable penis than he was with determining whether or not Jim's tongue was detachable. Jim found this procedure every bit as objectionable as tits on a hot woman or a nice back-rub after a hard day. He kissed back with what Spock probably considered unseemly human enthusiasm, and, when Spock shoved him up against a wall with more force than was really required, helped himself to a handful of Vulcan ass in retaliation. And ah, yes, there was that curious two-semis-in-one’s-shorts sensation again. Awesome.

And then a slightly weird thing happened. The spare, borrowed penis started wriggling and squirming and fucking trying to climb up out of his pants. It put him simultaneously in mind of a cute little baby bunny or something trying to return to its mommy and one of those new-fangled personal communicators that automatically flew out of your pocket when you got home and returned to their base stations for charging.

He pushed Spock back and glanced pointedly down at his bulge, which was, well, bulging. As he watched, a green-tinged glans managed to poke its way up to peer over the top of his waistband in a way that by rights ought to have been a tad creepy. Instead, it just made Jim kinda horny. Er. Hornier. “In case you were gonna ask, that isn’t a phaser in my pocket, Spock.”

That eyebrow. Oh, that eyebrow. “Indeed.” Spock reached out a hand, hesitated. “May I?”

Jim put his hands on his hips and thrust his pelvis out. Smirked at the appropriate wattage. “Be my guest.”

Spock, damn him, remained perfectly calm while he reached into Jim’s pants, caught up the (correct) penis, examined it briefly under the light, then lowered his own pants and underwear and magicked the organ back into place. Jim still couldn’t see how it was done. It was like, now you see the base-of-penis shaped hole and the penis coming together, now you see no fucking sign they were ever apart. The cock just sort of melted into place. It seemed to like being home again; it certainly perked up pretty darn quick.

Which is when, of course, the inappropriate questions started occurring to Jim. “Um, so how do you pee when you don’t have it attached?”

“In much the same manner,” Spock replied easily, “though with reduced accuracy. Vulcan micturition occurs less frequently and with less urgency than the human equivalent.”

So possibly he could have done without hearing that. “Uh, good to know. So you don’t, um, need to run off or anything, now that you’ve got it back?”

“I do not.”

This was excellent news. Jim dropped down to his knees in gratitude. Spock didn’t complain. And Jim soon found that the thing wasn’t at all loose, so he didn’t need to hold back on the superior suckage. And, man, slurping on this thang was extra fantastic with the owner attached to give feedback. None of his fantasies had quite prepared him for how Spock’s tiny little gasps of pleasure would sound, or how that sound would make Jim feel.

“Similarly,” Spock said, as if he’d heard this thought—and, fuck, he shouldn’t be able to put together four-syllable words right now, should he?— “I was unaware that my sensations were so diminished when the organ was detached.”

Jim took this as a compliment on his technique being extra-impressive, you know, in person, and preened in the now-questionable privacy of his own head.

“Perhaps you would prefer to engage in a more mutual sexual activity at this time, Jim?”

Images of he and Spock fucking each other in various combinations and positions made possible by Vulcan Velcro Peen (trademark no doubt pending) flashed through Jim’s mind, making his toes twitch and his mouth water even further around Spock’s dick. He drew back, opened up just enough to speak without letting that lovely cock off his tongue. “Uh huh,” he said, emphatically, before sucking some more.


Later, after Spock had cleaned them up fastidiously with a damp towel, Jim dozed happily until Spock climbed back into bed sans cock. Jim frowned and wriggled closer. Nope, definitely gone.

“Wha’ you do with your thing?” he asked, or tried to; there was a yawn in the middle so he might not have made all that much sense.

“I left it out to soak,” Spock said. He was a surprisingly good cuddler. “It is overdue for such attentions. Furthermore, detaching it permits me a broader array of comfortable sleeping positions.”

Jim could not think of anything remotely intelligent to say to this, so he settled for laying his head somewhere in the region of Spock’s armpit and planting a quiet kiss that might or might not be noticed. “G’night,” he managed.

“Sleep well, Jim. We will discuss the nature of our relationship in the morning.”

Fortunately, Jim was too dulled by oncoming sleep and the aftermath of spectacularly, superbly super sex to be overly paranoid about that. “‘K, Spock. Whatever you like.” After all, ‘t’wasn’t like he didn’t already love the guy, was it? And his fantastic peen of awesome. Jim sighed happily, snuggled happily against his hot Vulcan bed-mate, and drifted off to sleep.


In the shared bathroom between the Captain’s and First Officer’s quarters, in the tiny clump of neural tissue that passed for a mind of its own, Spock’s penis may or may not have congratulated itself smugly on its supreme good fortune. It may even have given itself some of the credit for recent developments between its owner and its new favourite person in the whole universe. But that would have been most illogical.



ka-ran-zhi k'ashaya -- cactus of love

guvik svai -- sexual flower