The BLTS Archive - Da'Niikhirch (Eyes of Fire) by Animasola (sarcasm@bellsouth.net) --- Based upon the novel _Black Fire_ and a wonderful original character (Desus) created by Sonni Cooper (1983 Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster). Summary: Spock is severely injured in a terrorist attack on the Enterprise. His subsequent misadventures ultimately lead to his court-martial and conviction for treason after warning the Romulans of the terrorist threat shared by their Empire and the Federation. The action of this story takes place during Spock's imprisonment in a high-security Federation facility. Disclaimer: This is a highly derivative work o'smut, written for the amusement of myself and a bunch of folks who aren't paying me anything for it. Paramount/Viacom owns Star Trek, its characters and a large, bloody chunk of my soul. Vulcan language info pillaged from the dictionary by Prof. K.V. Zvelebil and Dr. M.J. Zvelebil. Romulan language based on that developed by Diane Duane. --- The last thing I needed was a burden. That was what this new prisoner appeared to be, at first. He was Starfleet, convicted of treason, disabled, and most alarmingly, a Vulcan. I returned from my exercise period in the prison yard to find this interesting specimen occupying the bunk directly across from my own, the two lower bunks having been claimed by a pituitary case and a weasel, respectively. I did not think he heard me enter the cell. Curious, I stopped just inside the door to examine him. He was stretched out on his back, one arm flung over his eyes to shield them from the torturous overhead illumination. Some sort of cumbersome orthopedic brace obscured his form, but only slightly. Judging from where his feet and head nearly touched the ends of the narrow bunk, he would be barely shorter than I was, had he been standing up. The fact that he had made it up into the top bunk wearing the awkward contraption spoke well of his agility, even in his injured state. I had heard about this new inmate, of course, but prison gossip is always exaggerated. The new man was called Spock. More remarkable than the fact that he was first of his planet to be incarcerated in a facility such as this, was the fact of his crime; Spock of Vulcan was convicted of treason. Lockdown; a minor commotion rumbled through the cellblock. Security fields were activated, creaky bunks settled into, commodes flushed. That's when I saw his face. A sigh moved his chest, and he impatiently dropped his arm to one side as the lights were dimmed. Even in low light, his profile was arresting. He stretched, or attempted to, given that he was locked into that contraption, and in doing so, arched his neck incrementally. It had been a long time since I had been attracted to another male. Perhaps my incarceration had affected me, but I thought not. This Vulcan would have drawn my attention male or female, imprisoned or free. Something about the full lower lip and the long, slender form. More than that, a very faint psychic resonance surrounded him like an aura. Simply put, this Spock had a certain sensual glow. I could not help but wonder what he was like under better circumstances. Next to me, the pituitary case stirred, and I could hear the guard making his way down the block. The Vulcan, I realized, was still fully awake, not even close to sleep, and was beginning to become aware of my presence in the cell. The luxury of my anonymity was waning. I had to get into bed. I recognized the nervousness that hummed lightly through my limbs as I vaulted up into the bunk opposite him, and I damned myself for it. Here we go, I told myself. This would be the first time he would see me. I was suddenly, irrationally, afraid of what his eyes would hold when I saw them for the first time. I landed awkwardly, jamming my thumb under me, painfully. What an idiot. Not reacting, I think I covered the error. It mattered not, for once I saw him looking at me, I felt no pain. The only thing that moved was his head, blue highlights glinting in his sleek black hair as he turned to behold me. At once I was transfixed, as much by his beauty as by my own inability to determine his eye color. Too black to be brown, too brown to be black. He had said something, and was waiting for a reply. Panicked, I stared at him, struck dumb. His name, he'd said his name, I realized belatedly. I had hesitated too long to answer casually. That was his voice I'd heard. More of a vibration, a whisper. He had pitched his voice for me. I was the only one in the cell who could have heard him. I sat there. Staring. While he waited. There was no reason why I should be intimidated by him. There was no reason why I should sit across from him, transfixed by the precision and balance of his elegant features. How dare he be so beautiful? If he thought I was going to simply introduce myself, roll over on my back and wait for him to stroke my belly . . . I was being absurd. I turned away from him, curled up on my side. I had other things to think about. I did not need this. One hour later and he was not sleeping, nor was I. I nearly succeeded in forgetting his face, pretending he was only a dream. I had been without a common frame of reference for so long, having never been exposed to humans for such a length of time, or in such close quarters. It was a careless mistake that had brought me to this Federation holding cell, a ridiculously small engine malfunction which had left me paralyzed with a shipment of contraband, drugs and weapons, and so led to my arrest. I tried to imagine a scenario in which a Vulcan would betray the Federation. Rihan were seldom, if ever, imprisoned for treason. We were simply disgraced, and mercifully killed, to preserve our own honor. He was a traitor, this one, I reminded myself. How bored I must be to obsess over him so. A beautiful traitor. The bunk shook violently. The pituitary case was up, in a rage. I'd learned early on that this hulk of a man suffered nightmares that terrified him into these nocturnal fits. And now he was turning his fear onto the Vulcan. Before Spock could react, or move, the beast latched his massive fists onto his brace and hurled him down hard onto the concrete floor, a forced fall of at least one and-a-half meters. To his credit, the Vulcan made no sound, merely struggled to gain his footing. I saw that he was unsteady. Strong as I knew he must be, he would not be able to withstand a full-fledged attack from this massive being. Still, I hesitated. I had more than acknowledged my absurd impulsive attraction for him, and feared that fighting for him would only serve heat my blood beyond the point of return. Reason is for little boys and old men, I told myself as I jumped from the bunk, taking hold of the overgrown one and dragging him with me. Losing altercations with me in the past had engendered a healthy fear in him, and he desisted after the merest of blows. He was driven backwards into Spock, who applied an ancient defensive pinch to his shoulder. The giant fell, managing to stumble into the security field, thus alerting the guards. They would be slow, I knew. Spock was faltering, off-balance on his feet in the inflexible brace. I offered him my hand. He had no choice but to accept my support, and accordingly, my thoughts. I made no attempt to shield, and he hadn't the strength to do so. Our eyes were nearly level. I appraised him openly, choosing not to examine his thoughts closely, but rather making myself available to him. To my surprise, he did not recoil. His hand was a few degrees cooler than my own, denoting poor circulation and depleted reserves. He was not healthy. Finally withdrawing from my grasp, he turned and climbed back into his bunk, but not without difficulty. Guards were dragging the unconscious whale of a man out of the cell and rebooting the confinement screen. This time, I felt myself at enough of an advantage to speak. "I am Desus." One perfectly shaped eyebrow was raised. "Romulan," he said. I couldn't help but smile. I liked the way he said it. I liked his voice. "Does the Federation not exchange Romulan prisoners?" he asked. "Not those convicted of piracy," I answered, feeling a sudden, bizarre shame, as if he would think less of me now. Despite his conviction, he still gathered an aura of respectability to him. The smile died on my lips, and I lay back down and closed my eyes. Too much for one day in this place. --- The next day, two new prisoners were assigned to our cell. Jemman was a small, delicate human, with wispy dark hair and sad, blue eyes. Mica was taller, though still shorter than either Spock or myself, with white-blonde hair and a perpetual attitude of grim amusement. Apprehended separately, both were thieves. They seemed to share a connection right away, although both denied association with the other prior to imprisonment. Neither displayed an adverse personality, and our cell now enjoyed a distinct lack of drama, for which I was grateful. At first, Spock was not capable of hard labor, but within two weeks the confining brace was removed and he was assigned to the same day-labor crew as I, in charge of tending the animals, the pigs to be slaughtered. Although it was obvious that he found this duty abhorrent, he worked silently and diligently with the rest of us, feeding the pigs and changing their straw. He had not yet regained his full range of motion, but was effective enough. This time passed quickly for me, for I was always watching him. Gradually, he was beginning to recover. Seeing him for the first time without the brace proved something of an embarrassment, as I found myself incapable of stopping my hand from grasping his shoulder. I realized, with horror, what I was doing, as I was doing it. My hand was upon him, and his eyes upon my hand, and all I could do was draw a nervous, shuddering breath and remove it, trying to laugh it off, saying, "You're out of one prison now, there's only one more left to break out of." I turned to shrug out of my jacket. He stood there, behind me, taking in my unease. "Desus . . . " he started, but left the name hanging. So awkward, this. We had been growing used to one another. Our shared distant ancestry had proven our bond in this place. We were the only two of our similar kind here, the majority of the inmates being human. Being deprived of congenial psychic contact with sympathetic beings seemed to accelerate that bond. It was a struggle, but I had attempted to put aside the initial attraction I held for him in favor of this near-friendship. Turn around, I begged him mentally, sit down, do something. He continued to stand there, eyes boring into the back of my neck. I turned swiftly and levered myself up into my bunk, all in one smooth motion. My knees passed within a centimeter of his chin, but he did not flinch. He merely raised his eyebrow and applied himself to his infernal therapeutic gyrations. The cell was narrow, the ventilation inadequate, and the prison-issue jumpsuit far too tight for the erections I invariably experienced during Spock's exercises. He practiced a form of yoga, to aid the healing of his back, he claimed, but I was certain that some of the moves he practiced were pure Rihan Tantra, and at any rate could be of little benefit to his back. Perhaps I was imagining it. I lay on my back in my narrow upper bunk, one hand supporting my head while I chewed the nails of the other one. Tonight I would not look at him. I would not watch. This was the game. I would remain as still as possible and not turn my head to admire him as he stripped down to boxers and undershirt and began his nightly ritual. He would be, I knew, flexing his sinewy limbs, now rather thinner than was healthy due to his disdain of the meat-based prison diet. I dare not look. Every time I had tried, I would always catch him bending over, facing away from me. I could feel my eyes narrowing to mere slits. I hated him when he did this to me. Even when his bones popped and cracked, I would not indicate that I had heard. Or when a nearly inaudible grunt issued from deep inside some contorting position . . . Damn him, damn him, damn him. A chuckle. Jemman had come in for the night, and was laughing at me. He often laughed at me. I was transparent to this youngster. The fact that he and Mica were carrying on together, usually when I was trying to sleep, was of little help to me in this situation. Spock had given up in his effort to achieve a normal mode of sleep in the noisy cellblock and had fallen into the habit of inducing a light trance at night. I doubted that he was even aware of the heated romance blooming nightly right under his nose. Jemman slept in the bunk below mine, and this was where the act would take place, night after night, rocking me painfully to sleep, erection intact. The lovers had playfully invited me to join them once, but somehow I could not reconcile myself to seek relief in this way with Spock breathing deeply and evenly less than a meter away. This is how we continued, the routine varying little, until the pituitary case was released from solitary confinement. He came at us in the exercise yard. Something was different, though. Instead of rage, he displayed an odd, almost calm air of determination. Naturally, no guards were present. Spock held his ground. Even when the giant reached out a hand and slowly, very deliberately ruffled the silky black hair, ending with his hand on Spock's jaw. Spock's expression was guarded; he merely looked down. No. Too much. Not his. Not to touch. "No," was all I had to say, my blood-roughened voice sounding alien in my own head. The thing turned to look at me, seeing me clearly through the flames in my mind, and backed away. Inmates were watching us now, still no guards. What action I took now would be decisive, would lay the ground for Spock's safety here. It would, however, be impossible to protect him without laying a claim. I stepped forward and pressed my lips to Spock's, my hands grasping his face as an afterthought. It felt as though the ground below us held its breath. He resisted only for a second, and then his hands brushed my chest, lightly, once. I pulled away, shaken. Wanting to kill something. Not looking at his face, at his eyes. Not wanting to know. I took one step toward the towering hunk of flesh that had gotten me into this situation, and he lumbered away with as much alacrity as his bulk would permit. The rest of the inmates parted in front of me. Jemman and Mica flashed an obnoxious Terran signal at me, thumbs pointing upward, grinning like fools, as I headed back to the dormitory. I left Spock there. The question was settled and no one would try to touch him now because I'd made myself clear; this one was mine. Avoiding our cell, I made my way directly to the shower room. The few lingering inmates departed upon my arrival. I must seem a madman, I thought, and ran a towel over a mirror to see. There I was, Desus, Rihan, pirate. Paler than I thought I would be after this confrontation, but still tight-lipped, frowning. Would I still please a lover? Consciously, I relaxed my face, squeezing my eyes shut before opening them again. What I saw was my old, vain self, the face I used to scrub and shave and douse with rich perfumes. The lips were thick again, of neutral expression. The eyes were still clear and brown and the hair thick and black, pushed back off the forehead. The features were regular, as they had been when I had been regarded as a suitable male, back when I was still a candidate for bonding, before my conviction and exile. I was slightly bigger than Spock, broader, more muscular, as Rihan tend to be. The prison diet, based as it was on processed animal flesh, had produced no problem for me more troublesome than indigestion. Unlike Spock, I had maintained my normal weight. My skin was a deeper olive than his, I noted, having no other similar coloring to compare it to. While I was hardly painful to look at, I wished at that moment I was someone else. I yearned to be smaller, elegantly proportioned, more beautiful. . . "Fvadt!" I hissed at my reflection, hating myself for being so awkward and weak. I made the water as hot as I could stand and washed my hair and my body. After that I just stood there, unwilling to face anything on dry land. "You have my gratitude," Spock said, startling me badly. I had not heard him enter. I tried to act non-committal, tried to laugh it off. "For what?" I asked, eyes still shut under the stream of water. His tone was flawlessly formal. "For accepting me as your bitch." --- I am not entirely sure whether it was a laugh or a horrified gasp that caused my mouth to open at that point. I am positive that I inhaled a large amount of water. Bending double, I was wracked with coughs and spasms, trying to expel the offending fluid from my lungs. Spock had removed his robe prior to this attack and was lightly pounding my back. Still spluttering, I waved him off. When I glanced up at him, attempting to regain my composure, he merely raised his brows and palmed the controls to start his own shower. Whatever I said at this point would be wrong. "You are not--" I began, but there he was, nude, eyes closed, reveling in the hot water. Taking a hot shower was the only circumstance in which one of our physiology could ever truly be warm in this place. The spray was bringing up a healthy green flush in his skin. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, arms up, smoothing the hair away from his face. I blinked, breaking the spell. "You are not my . . . " I faltered, unable to say it. "You know," I finished, weakly. "Am I mistaken, Desus," he said, never opening his eyes, "or will I not be classified, after what transpired in the yard, as," he blew some water from his lips and opened his eyes, fixing mine to them, "your bitch?" His face was bathed in moisture, his lips a deeper green, the same shade as his nipples as he turned to me fully now, awaiting an answer. The water seemed to be pummeling at me from within. "It's an ugly term, Spock." I palmed my shower off. He turned back to his shower, washing his chest, damn him. I turned to go, wrapping one of the gray prison towels around my waist. "Desus," he said, stopping me, "I could not maintain well-being here long without your assistance. I offer thanks." My back was to him. I didn't know what to say. He was right. He was not as strong as a Vulcan male of his age should be, and it was obvious to the other inmates. His back injury alone, never mind borderline malnutrition, would leave him vulnerable to assault, sexual or otherwise. The Federation would no doubt deny that these age-old staples of prison life still existed, let alone flourished, on this, the "kinder, gentler" side of the Neutral Zone. Those of us who were truly on the inside of the Federation justice system knew better. I could not answer him, so I just nodded, and made my exit. --- Something broke inside me that afternoon. All I wanted to do was sleep. Spock came looking for me after I missed dinner, inquiring as to whether I was ill. I remember grunting and mumbling and rolling over to reclaim unconsciousness. It was Mica and Jemman who shook me awake later. I was in the middle of some deep, horrible dream, and was brought out of it far too abruptly. Groggy and disoriented, I leaned over the side of my bunk, not thinking, and was rewarded with the sight of Mica taking Jemman from behind, little Jemman hanging on for dear life in the narrow bunk. I heaved a deep, heavy sigh, and rolled back onto my own bunk. That is when I saw him watching me. I looked away at once, thinking he was merely in a trance and had chosen to retire on his side that night. On the count of three, I told myself, I would look back toward Spock's bunk. One . . .two . . . Two and-a-half . . . Two and three-quar--Fvadt! I anchored my eyes wide open and turned my head. Damn him. He was looking right at me. The face was exactly the same, but the expression was somehow softer. Eyes moist, glinting slightly in the limited light. Miraculously, I found the strength to hold that gaze. Below me, the sound of bodies connecting and finding pleasure. Little Jemman sounded very close, with Mica not far behind. Their lovemaking grew yet stronger, rocking the bunk, and shaking me even harder, until I had to smile and cover my eyes with my hand. It was too much, too absurd. Lying there gazing into his eyes while being violently jostled by fornicating thieves. I am certain that I saw the corner of his mouth turn up. An altercation broke out in the cell adjacent to ours, and the hall was flooded with guards just as the two below me reached their climax. Mica scrambled back into his bunk and we all closed our eyes and assumed a relaxed posture. I had every intention of opening my eyes after the melee was over, but when I woke up it was daylight and time for work detail. The Massive Being had not threatened Spock since I had made my public claim. Unfortunately, most humans, in a manner not unlike that of the Rihannsu, are apparently unable to resist a challenge. When I arrived at the stockyard I found Spock impassively going about his chores under the sardonic scrutiny of several bulky young inmates. I could not hear what was being said to him for the sound of blood rushing in my ears. I did not need to hear. The body language of the encroaching group was enough. My Vulcan was being leered at. My earlier display of ownership, intended to deter advances upon him, had apparently turned him into something of a prize. The implied threat spoke to my instincts and I stalked through the vulgar throng without hesitation. My approach was unimpeded and the offenders fell away as if in recognition of my claim. My brain seemed revert to a pathetic, primal mode of operation. I took the shovel from Spock's hands and threw it to the ground with more force than I'd intended. Cheeks burning, I avoided looking at his face, at the eyebrow that was undoubtedly climbing into his bangs. Not asking his permission, I locked onto his arm and pulled him into the shade at the side of the barn. Now shielded from insolent eyes, any claim to reason that I had previously held was necessarily forfeit. That manic strength left my limbs at the first touch of our lips. He seemed to take up my slackened momentum and I was moved backward until I was pressed against the barn wall. His tongue prodded against me there, forcing me to open to his kiss. I heard him inhale sharply through his nose as he ground his face against mine. His fingers, buried in the hair at the back of my head, suddenly tightened to break me away from him. He was not, after all, that weak. Panting, neither of us certain of this path, our eyes held for a fevered, unwavering moment before our bodies took over and solved the matter for us. Though I cannot remember doing it, my hands had unfastened the front of his coveralls and were caressing his chest under the tee shirt he wore. His nipples were hard. I grasped them tightly between thumbs and forefingers as I watched his eyes crush shut. He exhaled, and brought my face close to his once more. Eyes half-shut and gleaming, he stopped short and suddenly inhaled, our lips barely touching, taking the air out my lungs. He completed the kiss, his hands flat on either side of my face. Breath stolen, I sagged against the barn wall. Stars swam in front of me, between us-- "INMATE M621V. REPORT TO VISITATION CENTER." He was being summoned. The announcement quite possibly saved me from blacking out. He pulled away slightly, allowing us both to breathe normally. He leaned his forehead against mine for a moment while nimble fingers refastened his coveralls. Straightening, he drew a deep breath, seemed to center himself, and turned away. I felt, rather than saw him freeze. On the other side of the fence, near the main entranceway to the facility after the visitor check-in point, was a human. A light-haired human in Starfleet uniform. Staring directly at us. No mistaking the expression on his face. It told me that it was I who encroached upon the property of another. Without so much a last look at me, Spock bowed his head and hurried off toward the visitation center. I gave up on damning him. It was clearly I who was damned. --- Day labor was finished while Spock was still in visitation. After he did not appear in the mess for the evening meal, I knew he would avoid our cell until lockdown. One fleeting urge to tear through the library searching for him shot through me and then there was calm. The Rihan temperament has often been classified as bipolar. This is not far from the truth. The pendulum swung wide with me during this phase. I was either consumed with the wanting of him or slack with apathy in my bunk. That night I took to bed early and slept voluptuously, dreamlessly. I awakened in the middle of the night to a welcome lack of orientation. For a moment I had no idea of where I was or why, and I stretched my limbs with the indulgent luxury of forgetfulness. Of course, my blood had to start flowing again, and returning to awareness meant returning to him. I glanced over to check his bunk only to meet his eyes. He was positioned on his side, head resting on one arm, very still. He had been watching me as I slept. Nothing irritates me more than being watched as I sleep. I raised one eyebrow at him, mockingly. His gaze was steady. Then he moved over to make room on his bunk and simply waited. Exerting a degree of stealth rarely at my disposal except in life-threatening circumstances, I was down on the floor and up on his bunk before I could draw another breath. We remained silent, motionless, waiting to ascertain whether Jemman or Mica had awakened. They had no doubt already exhausted themselves and would sleep soundly, with the clarity of conscience unique to natural thieves. A wise man once said that everyone is the same height lying down. My slight physical advantage over him was gone now. Our eyes and shoulders and hips were all in perfect alignment as we faced each other uneasily. I'd gone to him. The next move was his. He used it to peel off the undershirt and sweatpants he slept in to stay warm. I followed suit, careful not to touch him. Gooseflesh was rising on our bodies. The rough, short blanket was barely sufficient covering for even one of us. It was, therefore, necessity which drew us closer in the chill prison atmosphere. More cold than aroused, we embraced, running our hands over reach other for warmth. Little by little, the brisk rubbing gave way to caressing, and as the stroking became more languorous than desperate, I remembered what I'd come to his bunk for. No longer cold, yet still shivering, I released his shoulders and allowed him to bring my face to his. The kiss he initiated was gentle and slow, but drew sufficient fire from within me to return it with the nihilistic abandon of one imprisoned for far longer than I had been. Soon, each of us grasped the head of the other and we kissed with a force that might fracture a human skull. Our movements were confined by lack of space and the need for silence. Further impediment came in the form of my own intermittent shyness. Spock intimidated me as no other man had. It seemed to me that every move I made was awkward, born of blind need and overwhelming, clumsy desire. Not that it seemed to matter to him. He moved our hips so that we were flush with each other. His thinnest skin pressed bare against my thinnest skin and the moisture seeping from each created a slick center of heat between our maddeningly slow thrusts. I falling in a flat spiral, more voltage in each muscle than I could keep under rein. My neck tensed, arching, my head thrown back. Spock covered the protrusion there with his mouth, bathing my exposed throat with his tongue, sucking on the small hardness there while reaching between us to stroke me in time. I made an involuntary sound and he covered my mouth with his free hand. I bit into his palm, greedy for copper and salt, wishing to goad him into losing control. His other hand faltered, tightening painfully around my erection and he lay, breathing heavily for a moment against my collarbone before resuming his unbearable rhythm upon me. I twisted until I was on my back and undulated helplessly beneath him. Loosening my teeth in his skin, I suckled at the wound I had inflicted in Spock's palm. His straining member swam in the slippery hollow of my hip and he plunged against me as he pumped at my own organ. His thumb was fed into my mouth and I sucked at the slender digit as it dipped in and out. A ragged whimper was muffled against my neck and I knew I was gaining the upper hand. I gently removed his hand from my anofv-ihl and grasped him by the hips to turn him so that his back would face me. The muscles there were long and taut, and the bones protruded painfully, but the sensation of him against me was enough to make me doubt the reality of the situation. I tightened my arms around him and prayed inwardly for courage, finally giving in to the silk of his hair and smooth heat of his skin. I writhed against him deliriously and he responded by pushing his hips backward into me with a quiet insistence. Covering his hand with my own, I set him to manipulating himself as he had done to me. He turned his head back to face me and I filled his open mouth with my tongue, sealed it with my battered-feeling lips and withdrew my hand. Reveling in the movements he made against me as he stroked himself, I parted the warm cleft that pressed low against my belly. My fingertips were slick from him as they glided across the tight portal hidden therein. I moved down slightly, limited by the shortness of the bunk, and drew my tongue down across the raised surgical scar which had not yet faded and which ran down the length of his spine. "Ainama," I breathed in the ancient language our races once shared, "beautiful." He stilled his movements, trembling, waiting for me. I slithered back up to bite gently at the back of his neck as I nestled myself between his damp cheeks. Finding my place, I pushed, not kindly, having not enough space for finesse. His breath left him and he clutched the metal railing at the head of the bunk. Not yet entirely submerged, I began my quest. The act was covert, in this place. I would have to do this without shaking the walls down, for once. I craved the full depth of him, and strove after it. Spock's breathing was labored. Perhaps this hurt his back. Perhaps I was killing him. It was not as if I could have stopped myself in either case. I stretched one arm to cover his grip on the bunk with my hand and wrapped the other firmly around the front of his hips, giving him the flesh of my forearm to rub himself against. I was rewarded with his teeth sinking into my biceps as I plunged deeper into him. I recognized, dimly, that my foundation was cracked and the fissure split wider with each thrust. It was time for us now, for us both. I took hold of him and pumped twice before his teeth broke the skin of my arm. He was lost then, with his essence flowing over my hand and his mind laid open to me. Pain seared across my spine, the scar on his back seeming to open and envelop me in his skin. Inside his ecstasy, I was his mind and his member and his memory of another. Spock gave me no chance to react, or to withdraw. He drove himself back, further impaling himself upon me, his work-torn nails lancing across my buttock. His mind bid my puzzled, intoxicated consciousness to drive deeper as well. Sinking together through layers of sadness and futility, through shame and regret, a tiny flickering point of understanding flared between us. That of a cooler hand had preceded my touch, as his body had been known by a lover who had come to him with ease and great joy, not under circumstance of imprisonment and shared duress. He drew me through the tormenting loss of this love and deep bond to a tight, warm chamber hung with shimmering lengths of satisfaction and relief. There he wrapped me in soothing skeins of desire and promise. I returned his infant pledge with the rashness and temper of my species, giving him what he asked and more. I resolved to strike against the presence of his past until he was released. I would drive this third presence from our bed and from our mind. We hammered into our body and received our thrusts with trust and glimmering hope, coming as one with a single, muffled cry, "a'Tha!" A tear slid across one temple and we were mercifully asleep before its wetness cooled. --- The following morning we worked side by side, speaking little, each of us savoring the new quality of silence between us. Even so, I was not entirely at ease. The hours passed quickly, but were punctuated by the furtive glances toward the prison entrance road that I found myself unable to control. My confidence in our connection seemed to break down in the glare of broad daylight, and could not help but scan the distance for a Starfleet uniform. "He will not be visiting me again," Spock said softly, behind me. Cheeks flushing hot, I whirled. Was I so obvious? He regarded me with gentle eyes. "I asked him not to," he explained. I felt like a child infatuated with his lesson-master. My insecurity, thrown into relief by his extreme calm, was demoralizing. "The shift is over," he said, efficiently rinsing and storing both our slop buckets. "Would you care to join me in a shower?" I couldn't repress the ridiculous grin that I felt spread across my face. It was so unlike a Vulcan to ask such a stupid question. --- Most of the other prisoners washed themselves in the morning before work detail, in order to have more time for recreation before lockdown. The few stragglers who lingered in the showers late in the day usually left upon the arrival of a non-human in the room. Adversity tended to draw those of similar physiology together in this place and nudity in front of an "alien" seemed to unsettle most of the Terran cliques. The hygienic facilities were slackly patrolled at best, and hardly ever supervised at night when the majority of the prison population was gathered in the common rooms. One bored-looking guard desultory read a news scanner at a desk far down the hall. We were alone. I was hard before I could get my boots off. Spock, with his usual efficiency, simply removed his boots and coveralls and stepped unceremoniously into the shower area. Casually, he activated two jets of spray. My heart sank. Had he literally intended that we only wash together? He tested the water temperature with his fingers, and then adjusted the nozzles so that they merged to create one huge blast of hot water and steam. Heartened, I stripped off the rest of my clothes. Spock continued to ignore me for the moment. Devoid of self-consciousness, he stepped into the spray. He sucked in a sharp breath as the water hit him, and then relaxed, reveling in the heat. Paralyzed with desire, I merely sat and stared. He pressed a button set into the tile to dispense soap and began to wash, eyes closed, moving as though he were alone, unobserved. That appealing green flush spread through his skin. Despite his emaciation, we was starkly beautiful, lithe, all angles and veins. He briskly washed his hair, behind his ears, scrubbed his face. No hint of seduction. Spock was merely cleaning himself. His hands moved to his chest, lathering the fine coat of dark hair there, and under his arms. It was when he reached his lower abdomen that I began to suspect that this new lover of mine was something of a coquette. Looking down at himself, he began elaborately soaping his most intimate areas. His motions were slow, languorous, almost fetishistic. When I could endure it no longer, I went to him. The water seared my skin, raising gooseflesh where my limbs escaped the spray. He grasped my biceps and drew me into the center of the deluge. He then touched the button for more soap and began my own ritual purification. I was allowed to see to no part of my own cleansing. He gently and thoroughly took it upon himself. My hands were placed behind my neck and his hands were everywhere. The water, the stroking of my skin, the blood rushing in my veins all converged in a hypnotic, continuous thrumming. No part of my anatomy was spared his dispassionate attentions. When he was done, and I stood rinsed clean, my hands still obediently behind my head as he'd placed them; at last I was rewarded with a kiss. He reached up and took my hands, brushing his lips across my palms before guiding my fingers into the receptive ancient position. His fingers played out the archaic fire-songs against my electrified neural connections, seeming to drag my heart down into my groin so he could press his erection against me there. Again, he kissed me, and again, I bled into his mind. His affection for me was real, as consuming as his desire. His mouth lingered over my chest, so smooth in comparison to his, marked only with faint green tracings of old battle scars. He seemed unable to pull himself away, taken with what he found there. His lips were driving me half-frantic, yet I could sense that his thoughts were not entirely with me. But I could not think about that now. Teeth clamped gently onto my nipple and his tongue flicked across the very tip. One hand worked lower, much lower. I swayed dangerously on my feet. He held me, his strength greater than I would have thought. I gave myself over to his attentions, reaching overhead to grasp a showerhead with both hands to steady myself. Spock was on his knees before me now, his mouth low on my belly. He found the flesh over my pubic bone and sank his teeth in, my anofv-ihl bobbing insistently against his jaw. He did not touch me there with his hands, did not need to. With one arm locked supportively around my waist and one hand plying sensitively at my insides, he deftly engulfed the source of all my problems with his mouth, practically inhaled me with the unblushing skill of a Rihana courtesan. Given the choice of uttering a sound or swallowing my own tongue, I allowed a groan to be wrenched from within. He was practiced at this. His mouth, his throat seemed hotter than was possible, even for a Vulcan. His tongue swirled madly upon me; his teeth lightly scraped the head, deliberately, repeatedly. His fingers thrust inside me, and I tried to hold on but he kept making resonant sounds in his throat, sounds not heard but felt. He paused, teasing me just enough with the bare, pointed tip of his tongue. I was dangling on a precipice, telling myself not to look down. I looked down. Black eyes waited for me there, fastened upon me, assessing my condition. Then he took the full length of me, closing his eyes only when he gagged slightly, and nevertheless pulled back to swallow and took me to the hilt again. I was falling. It seemed there was no oxygen, only steam and my own frenzied exhalations. In this position, it was impossible to touch his thoughts. "Neh-Jui, Neh-Jui . . . " I heard myself chanting through clenched teeth, "my angel," words barely a whisper to blend with the hiss of the spray but nearly a scream in my mind. Twisting, crying out, I found release. He drank of me then and withdrew, pumping me with his hand, allowing my essence to spurt upon his chest and throat. His eyes held a dangerous, unfamiliar glint. I let go of the showerhead, leaving faint indentations in the pipe, and dropped down to take his mouth with my own. The water I had blocked with my body streamed over us now, as we kissed fiercely. His tongue painted mine with my own fluid and I pressed deeper against his lips, now raw and engorged with blood. I took hold of him. He was hard and slick, but he broke from the kiss and removed my hand. "Turn around," he choked out, his voice like jagged black stones crushed underfoot. Our eyes locked. It was a command. How many years since I had allowed this of any man? The blood pounding in my temples was suddenly not an entirely pleasurable sensation. Nevertheless, I turned and gripped the safety railing, muscles tensing. Spock remained behind me, kneeling on the tile. Strong fingers stroked down my lower back, pressing into tight knots, loosening them. He caressed me through the water, inquisitively fondling my thighs and calves, moving up and around to stroke my stomach. I felt his face rub against one buttock as he embraced me tightly from behind. His soft kisses on the inside of my upper thigh caused me to adopt a wider stance, independent of my will. He would use no force to claim this. Though my body would comply, I admit that my mind witnessed this seduction uncomfortably. The dominant Rihan conditioning was a difficult thing to set aside in a male of my age and experience. Boys allowed themselves to be taken, and whores. Hands were parting me. A final surge of panic moved me reflexively away from this intrusion. The penetration of his searing tongue held me in place. This was not the organ I had expected, and the sensation of it strobing toward my prostate silenced any objections my mind could possibly broach. Before I knew what was happening I was bending to grant him deeper access and moaning his name repeatedly. More, I needed more. "H'ta hrrau," I begged him insensibly. Now, in me, now. His tongue flicked a path up my streaming back. My shoulders and neck were bitten, and he pressed against me, covering my white-knuckled grip on the rail with his hands. He murmured words I did not understand. "Kah-hir," he called me, and he nibbled around the edge of my ear, tonguing the tip until I squirmed like a ticklish child. I leaned back against him and he took hold of my jaw, kissing me deeply. "Now," I pleaded with him. "Now!" "Yes," he answered, stroking my face and pressing against me. Our minds flared brightly together. He hesitated, and suddenly I understood. He had never been inside another man before, or if he had, it was long ago. What he dared not demand of his free lover he would have of me. A pinpoint of anger bored through our embrace. It threw his balance off. I saw all with painful clarity. Knowledge of me in this way held knowledge of himself through the eyes of his other lover. I started to turn, nearly seething, but he mollified me with a kiss, and cleared the link to allow me to enter fully. There I saw the other, but I also saw myself, and tasted of the pleasures that the other could not give. I was no fragile alien beauty, to be sheltered and treated with care. My touch drew fire kindred to his, our blood burning as one with the ancient lust of our ancestors. To my strength, equal to his, would be trusted his passion, with its unfettered release. He trusted me also with his fair Terran lover. I saw the betrayal on the human's face after seeing me with Spock that day. I felt the shame of Spock's admission of his attraction to me. I saw that Spock could not have denied himself of me, the balance to his Vulcan half, any more than he could have refused the human balance the fair one offered. We three suffered for this union, here, in this place, but I was with Spock, and the other was somewhere else. The odds were quite acceptable, at that moment. I opened myself to him willingly, and he drove at me with the strangled intensity of a male at first bonding. Inside my body, my mind, my soul, he tore at me as though to break out again from within. The physical onslaught required the sum of my strength to withstand. We were one as he sought to meld himself with my body, shuddering at the crisis as though his skeleton might shake apart. When it was done, I collapsed onto my knees with my face pressed against the cool tile, what was left of the railing clutched mangled in my limp grasp. A thin swirl of green flowed in circles over the drain. Spock bathed me with badly trembling yet infinitely gentle hands, examining a tiny tear in my tissue that he judged superficial, surely quick to heal. He tenderly dried me while I stood as though drugged. Indeed, I felt as though I had ingested some fantastic anodyne. It was glorious to feel the tattoo of his grasp all over my body, to feel so furiously *had* by him. His hand was on my face, his gaze concerned. I smiled weakly. I wanted to tell him of the path I would pave for us. I was merely too spent to express myself properly. He caressed my mind through the filament of our bond. I could not discern whose eyes I gazed into, his or mine. Suddenly I knew it was time to leave this prison. A new spark blazed into being. My weary body was fired with its purpose. "Da'Niikhirch," observed his mind-voice as he beheld me. "Eyes of fire." We were careful not to wake the guard on the way out. --- The End (for now).