I am Spock of Vulcan, and I belong to James Kirk.
Jim does not subscribe to this interpretation of our relationship, but he understands my need for it. I have spent my life carefully bound in rules and rituals; Vulcan's rigidity was forced on me by the disapproval of my father and my peers. By the time I left my home planet to join Starfleet, the chains had become a part of my body more integral than my very bones.
But they were not enough. Love, that profound feeling that my life was richer for belonging to another, came to me. I longed to receive it, but my chains were bound too tightly to reach out. I was forced to abandon them, or did they abandon me?--breaking away into rusted powder as Jim's essence pulled me closer.
Unbound and terrified, I gave myself to him entirely. It was not his deliberate doing; there was no need for him to force me into a submission I had no choice but to give willingly. Indeed, he looks upon me as a free man, his in companionship alone, the possessive only a descriptor. He has no need within himself to make me kneel before him. It is my choice, as if it were a choice at all.
That which formerly belonged to Vulcan now passes to James T. Kirk.
I know he is that much more deserving of my entire soul when he permits me to align my world thus. If he had been repulsed by my self-made slavery, as I fear many on his world would have reacted, my affection would have imploded slightly. For if he surely owns me, how could I allow myself to feel so openly something of which he disapproved?
No, he understands, and is the worthy center of my universe. It is with his being in my mind, his firm presence and welcoming smile and commanding personality, that I stand here now. In my hand I hold a steel needle. The light glinting from its surface reminds me of his brilliant glow.
I bask in both their light.
It is with Jim's permission that I perform this act. I could never permanently modify this body of mine without his consent, for it is his as truly as my soul will always be. I went to him and informed him that I wished to mark it in this manner, to brand myself visibly, openly, in service to him. He does not wish me to be disfigured, however, and we agreed on a milder form of what I had been planning.
I touch my nipple gently, testing it.
I am distantly aware of the contact, but the analgesic has taken effect. I have partially numbed the tender skin so that the pain of what I am about to perform will not unsteady my hands--too jarring a sensation might cause me to wince and therefore damage myself beyond my intentions. However, I have not banished all sensation; I do wish to feel the tearing pain as the needle leaves its mark across my breast--as he most definitely has. The sweet pain of love is real.
Between my fingers, the soft green spot gives way as I pinch harder. It squeezes easily, and I ready the needle in my other hand.
It is hard to puncture one's own skin, but I am Vulcan, and I am steeped in self-control. What's more, I have determination--and I want this feeling. It is what I wish--to feel him pierce through me, letting me flow out from the wound like my own blood, free...
It burns as it enters my skin. A drop of blood wells from its tip, a dark green warning flag, as I was raised to believe instinctively--but for me, it is a welcome sight. It arouses me. Jim is doing this to me, even if indirectly.
The needle passes deeper into my nipple, with a fire that brands me as I sought to be branded. When it emerges from the other side I feel an equal burning in my trousers, as a familiar throb threatens to interfere with my control.
Only threatens. I am a Vulcan.
The needle is completely through me now. I am impaled. I offer myself.
The nature of the pain changes as I slowly remove the needle. The empty wound cries out for the blade that so acutely created it, seeping green tears that stain the hairs of my chest.
It will not be empty long. I will never be empty again.
The ring is small and made of a gold alloy, as gold alone would bend and makes unsuitable jewelry. I slide it through the wound in my nipple, blood smearing across my fingers. Once the ring has passed through entirely, I close it, and wipe my fingers on a disinfecting cloth. This tiny token, shining and golden, holds me captive, and marks me as the property of one who is also shining and golden. I long for him to touch me now, to ease the aching between my legs.
He is, however, on the bridge, where I am expected shortly. Cleaning up the miniscule drops of blood that cling to my chest hairs, I push my body's processes back to normal. The light blue tunic covers my declaration, hiding it from all who are uninvolved in the exquisiteness that we are together. The pain beats in slow, dull throbs, but it will heal soon. Love is not always a source of pain. Not when it is mutual.
On the bridge, I take my place as science officer, and monitor my computers with my usual commendable efficiency. Nobody but Jim knows what I have done, but he is all that matters. I am marked. I feel it, a subtle but constant reminder of my devotion.
I am Commander Spock of Starfleet, and I belong to James Kirk.
Farfalla's Kirk/Spock happyplace