Log in

No account? Create an account

Previous Entry Share Flag Next Entry
Amalgamation (7/9)
Always shall be
Title: Amalgamation
Chapter: One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Spock/Kirk
Warnings: Sexual content, language, AU, hermaphrodism, general blasphemy, etc.
Summary: As a half-Vulcan, Spock never expects to imprint. It's rare enough for a full-blooded Vulcan to imprint, so why should he have it easy? But he does imprint – on the delinquent who sabotaged his Kobayashi Maru. And everything he once knew is about to change.


He finds himself once more small in stature, falling into step behind his mother as she walks him towards the bathroom.  She is clad in casual clothing – trousers and a light blouse – and she smells of some flower that must be native to Earth.  Lavender, she had informed him earlier in the month.  It was purple.


They reach the bathroom, and she moves to activate the sonic shower as he waits beside her.  Yes, he is too short to reach the controls.  He always has been.  But he knows he will someday grow tall enough that he will no longer require her assistance.


She turns around again, her face open and young.  Expressive.  Spock stands still as she sinks to her knees, helping him disrobe.  Her fingers undo the clasps of his robes – clasps his hands are still too clumsy to open himself – and when the back of her hand brushes his shoulder, he feels the calm, effortless way she loves him.


Unconditional.  That is the word.




He is seventeen when he arrives at the academy, and by eighteen he is in what is considered to be his ‘senior year’ of classes.  It is a credit to the educational system of Vulcan that he could advance as such, though the ease makes him question at times whether coming to Starfleet was the correct decision.


His mother sends him messages every few days, and he meets with his father once while he is on Earth for business.  T’Pring has never communicated with him, and he finds himself all right with that.


Still, as important as he knows they are, his studies are primarily busywork.  He is required to write papers on subjects that could be more easily explained mathematically.  His xenobiology classes hold little he does not already know, yet he is required to attend all lectures.  Command classes consist of few individuals of any charisma, and he doubts they will improve.


Captain Pike pulls him out of a computer sciences class one afternoon, mouth quirked into a smile.


“Tell me,” he begins, handing Spock a paper cup filled with tea.  “Have you ever heard of the Kobayashi Maru?”




He observes, with a degree of objectivity, the relationship growing between Pike and his first officer. She is not particularly attractive, and her personality is caustic at best. She argues furiously and, at times, unprofessionally with the captain, though she is careful enough not to let the rest of the crew see their fights. But for all this, her decisions are made rationally, and he is more than willing to support her when she risks damaging the ship to rescue Pike on what will be their last mission together.


He watches her expression as she demands the captain be returned to them. She appears calm, yet dangerous. He can sense there is more to her words than mere suggestion; she is threatening them with not so much as a word.


And it is effective. The captain is returned to them unharmed.


Later than night, Spock is able to hear them in the quarters next door to his. The soundproofing between their rooms has always been faulty, and it is a consequence of that that allows him to hear the muffled sounds of gasps, moans, and murmured declarations.


He is good enough to act as if the invitation to their wedding two months later comes as a surprise.




The retrograde meditation helps him regain some control, but he knows it is a temporary solution. He will not be able to completely control himself again until his bond has been consummated; it is a fact of his existence. But he will not rush Jim into this, not when the man is so violently opposed to their union. He will wait.


He will wait for as long as it takes.


He functions well enough during the day, and his shifts are relatively uneventful for the next few days. His off-duty time is nearly all devoted to meditation, save for sleep, which does not come easily.


He does not fully comprehend how shattered his control has become until he runs into Jim in the hall one day. The urge to claim his mate boils up, and he feels his mind struggle against the blocks he has constructed. He cannot understand for a moment why he cannot simply take Jim now – he is his mate, after all, and if he leaves him too long, something might happen to him. They need to complete their bond, or he will surely die.


He catches himself moving forward independently of his free will, and he jerks back as Jim tenses. It takes every scrap of his control to hold himself back as Jim eyes him warily. He cannot stay long, but he cannot run, either. He swallows.


“Cadet Kirk,” he nods in greeting, trying to keep his voice as level as possible. Jim nods in response, brows knitting in confusion. “I assume you are well?”


Jim stares at him. “Yeah, sure,” he replies, taking a step towards him. Spock steels his reserve, holding himself completely still. “You don’t look so hot. You okay?”


Spock breathes, mentally reciting a meditation mantra as Jim draws closer still. “I am fine,” he says, wondering if his voice sounds as strained as it feels. Jim takes another step closer, placing himself right in front of Spock. “You do not need to, ah, c-concern yourself with my health.”


Jim’s eyes widen when Spock stutters, and the Vulcan nearly recoils. The other man’s expression changes, becoming a mixture of determination and trepidation. “Is this because I didn’t have sex with you that day?” he asks. Spock barely has the presence of mind to shake his head. Jim sets his jaw. “No, seriously. This has something to do with me, doesn’t it?”


Spock swallows again, feeling the same dampness growing between his legs as the last time Jim was this close. His body is seeking its mate, and the commander’s thoughts are harder and harder to navigate with each second, and he knows he cannot be here much longer. “Yes,” he whispers, not trusting himself not to shout. “But you are under no obligation to take action, Jim. I am capable of regaining control on my own.”


That much is a lie. But he is too far gone to care about whether or not he is completely honest with Jim. The other man raises an eyebrow, and Spock knows he has to leave.


“I have business to attend to,” he manages, the desire to claim his mate overwhelming. He turns on his heel, each step away from Jim physically painful. He hears the man’s voice echo down the hall after him, but he cannot turn around. If he is here even one more second, his control will be shattered.


He makes it to his quarters somehow, and once he arrives he is completely aware of how far gone he is. His phallus is straining in his briefs, and the lubrication from his female organs – his vagina, he thinks numbly – is soaking into his clothing. He stands lost, for a moment, fighting the desire to rush back to Jim and demand they consummate their bond, before a preposterous thought comes to him.


Perhaps he can use self stimulation as a temporary treatment.


There are a million reasons why this should not work, he knows. His entire being is crying out for Jim specifically; masturbation will not erase this need. However, he cannot bring himself to consider the arguments against it, even as they flit across his mind one after another.


He undoes his trousers and pushes them off and to the ground. His undergarments follow, and before he can even think about what he is doing, he has spread himself on his bed, one hand stroking his phallus and the other reaching behind and below, seeking out his labia. He strokes them, distantly surprised when they open under his fingers, and dips one fingertip in experimentally.


The sensation is neither agreeable nor painful. It is strange, to say the least, and he is uncertain whether he likes it or not. He continues stroking his phallus, even as the fingers at his entrance grow bolder, pushing in deeper and wriggling.


This time, the sensation is novel, and he is still uncertain whether it is agreeable or not. He moves his fingers again, and this time, at last, he brushes against something that finally, finally brings him pleasure. He locates the spot again, flicking his fingers against it over and over. The hand on his penis speeds up, and before he knows how he got there, his body is seizing with climax. He comes messily over his stomach even as his vagina clenches hard against his fingers.


He is completely desensitized for a few minutes after he comes, blinking in the aftermath and trying to sort through the thousands of thoughts rushing through his head. When at last he can concentrate again, he stands, unable to keep from grimacing at the mess on his abdomen.


He can think again. At least enough to know he will need to shower.




Nyota visits him again the next day, concern easily read on her face. He offers her tea, but she refuses, taking a seat on his bed and looking up at him with a degree of hesitation obvious in her expression.


“Kirk’s rejecting you, isn’t he?” she asks, although Spock doubts very much that it is a question. He nods, walking to his personal replicator to fetch a cup of tea for himself. He has the feeling this will be a long conversation, and he prepares himself for it. He even goes so far as to add a lump of sugar to his tea, knowing he will need the energy.


“He is well within his rights to refuse me,” Spock reminds her, and she raises an eyebrow in an uncanny imitation of his own family. He takes his seat at his desk and meets her eyes. “And I am willing to wait for him.”


Her lips twist, and Spock cannot be sure what the expression means. “I don’t think he’ll ever commit to you,” she confesses, threading her fingers together in an obvious display of nerves. Spock inclines his head, trusting she will pick up the subtle inquiry. She swallows noisily. “Look, Spock. I know you couldn’t control your imprint, and I know that you can’t do anything to change it. But Jim Kirk isn’t the type to make commitments. It’s just not in his make up.”


Spock takes another sip of his tea. “Would you be willing to expand on this?” he asks. She bites her lip.


“He’s a womanizer. Always has been,” she tells him, shifting her legs nervously. “Actually, it wasn’t just women. He flirts and seduces anyone who will fall for it, and he drops them at the first flash of interest anyone else shows. He gets bored with people and throws them out. I don’t want to see him do that to you.”


Spock is aware that he is gripping his mug too tightly, and the loosens his grip as she speaks. He notices a drop of sweat forming at her temple, and he wonders how he could have been so distracted. “Computer, lower temperature by five degrees; increase humidity by five percent,” he commands. Instantly, the room cools, and Nyota tenses.


“You don’t have to—”


“You are my guest,” Spock reminds her. “It is only reasonable that I defer to your comforts. I am more adaptable than you, after all.”


She looks like she wants to argue, but thankfully she does not. Instead, she draws her legs up and looks him in the eye again.


“I don’t know how to say this,” she murmurs, so quietly that even Spock’s trained ears can hardly detect it. She clears her throat, and when she speaks again her voice is clear and loud. “I don’t think Kirk deserves you. I wish you had imprinted on me instead.”


Spock is admittedly surprised by the boldness of her statement, as well as the raw honesty of it. Nyota has always impressed him with her tact, and for her to say something so blunt seems nearly out of character. He takes in a mouthful of tea to keep himself from replying right away. He does not know what she expects him to say.


Thankfully, she speaks again. “It’s stupid. Imprinting’s been around as long as Vulcans have. It’s not going to mess up now,” she says. “But it’s human nature to wish and hope. I keep thinking you’re going to wake up one morning and realize it was me you imprinted on and not him.”


Spock considers how to respond. Honesty is likely best, he thinks to himself, and he steels himself.


“It is indeed an illogical way to spend your time,” he confirms, and her shoulders drop a little. He knows she is disappointed, but there is nothing he can do about this. “However, Nyota, I would not criticize it myself. The human proclivity towards hope is powerful, and in many ways admirable. You should never be ashamed of it, nor should you seek to stop it. It will always serve you well.”


She smiles wryly at him, and he wonders how she has interpreted his words. “But,” she says pointedly, “I shouldn’t waste time wishing you had imprinted on me.”


He nods. “Precisely.”


“I’ll try,” she agrees, extending her legs again. “For now, I’ll try to concentrate on being the friend you need. I have a feeling things will only get harder from here on in.”


The relief Spock feels at her resolve is nearly overwhelming. He did not wish to lose her company, and he knows he could have lost it easily. Still, she looks a little worried.


“I hope Kirk comes around,” she informs him, swinging her legs to the side of the bed and slipping off. She stands before him, and he lifts himself from his chair to walk her the short distance to the door. She salutes him – something she has never done before, though she does it now flawlessly – and opens the door herself. She tosses him a strange look as she leaves.


“Nyota?” he asks, wondering why she is looking at him as she is. She shakes her head.


“Just try hoping, Commander,” she tells him. He blinks. “You are half human, after all. Maybe you shouldn’t seek to stop it yourself.”


And with a switch of her hip, she turns and walks back down the hall.


  • 1
That first scene nearly killed me. Spock meditating on a moment like that with his mom seems so real and so achingly wonderful and sad at the same time.

  • 1