by Farfalla
blueberrysnail @
A Kirk/Spock vignette written for the KiSCon 2004 story contest, in fulfillment of a SpirkSwap challenge by K'Chaps. Archive permission also for ASCEM, AAK/SA, and nice places that ask first.

Disclaimer: What does Paramount want Spock to do, die? Geez. :-P

Summary: Spock kisses in a different language.

"You feel so good."

I love the way your body molds exactly to mine, twist for twist at every contour, like chocolate and vanilla in a soft-serve ice cream cone. Except it would be chocolate mint, love. Your skin is flushed green and if the lights were brighter than just candlelight, I'd have to take time to admire the delicate contrast of our alien flesh together.

Your Pon Farr is long since satiated, but why should we dissolve this beauty we've finally let bloom? I wanted to do this ages ago. It's a tribute to how much I care about you that I didn't try. I didn't want to make you uncomfortable.

You don't seem uncomfortable now. Your ankles are rubbing slowly against mine, reassuring you of ever cell of my existence, and that I'm really here. Close to you like this for the first real time, I can smell you now--that intimate smell of a person that only a lover can sense, for all others are too far away and you yourself are too accustomed to notice. I breathe deeply. My Spock. My Spock.

Overwhelming emotion--something you still haven't faced entirely, my handsome Vulcan--can only really be expressed in a few ways if it is to be truly satisfied. We can cry, we can laugh till we shake, we can seek sexual relief. We can punch things, but that's not usually very constructive.

Overwhelming affection, in my opinion, finds its most satisfying fulfillment in a kiss. I feel such affection in this moment, floating in the undeclared space between friendship and romance with you. I know it can't last forever, like the island of time between the first and last strikes of midnight. We emerge from this night in a new relationship, like a hypercube expanded in dimensions we can't imagine from our original friendship. But for this moment, we are still wrapped in our chrysalis together, not speaking, only breathing. I will mark it with a kiss.

My lips gently tug at the base of your neck. I want to kiss you everywhere. Your jawbone is next. All over your face my lips brush little words, forming a sentence in an unspeakable language. Your eyelashes flutter on impulse, only slightly, but it drives me wild.

I have never kissed your lips. Your body forced an issue that should have been allowed to unfold gradually--there is no time to think of what would have or could have been without the Pon Farr. And that was not the only urgency--we both were suddenly more aware of how easily we could lose each other. You thought I was dead. You very easily could have died if left alone. We ran our seeking hands across each other's bodies, feeling and glorifying in the life forces beneath. I grasped your slender steel body and made each nerve sing.

Yet I have never kissed your lips.

I hover there now, kissing delicately near your mouth but not quite there. Once more, I don't want to make you uncomfortable.

But I feel such overwhelming joyous love that it is hard to resist. This is what I do when I love somebody like this. It's how my brain is wired.

My lips approach yours. I sense reticence, and whisper, "No?"

But we kiss anyway.

It is strange and awkward and feels like a misspelled word. My lips want to slurp at yours, draw your tongue into my mouth. Instead, our mouths are suddenly full of teeth. Your tongue darts around somewhere in there, searching and confused, sharply pointed with tensed muscle. I wonder if this is Vulcan kissing, or just your personal style.

The kiss ends.

I hold you close and run my fingers across your chest as you toy with my hair. No, my love, that lock will not stay behind my ear, but if you want to amuse yourself by placing it there repeatedly I see no reason to stop you. Oh! To have found such intimacy.

I suppose we don't need the kiss.

Days later, over chess, we talk about it. You tell me about Leila and other humans who have for one reason or another bestowed kisses on you. It seemed to you as an attack, and you formed your responses accordingly. Apparently kissing is not a Vulcan art. Vulcans demonstrate their intimate affection with a touch of the fingers, and I finally understand why you held my hand the whole time in bed.

I take your hand now, when you tell me.

You close your eyes and almost lean into the caress, just slightly. Our fingers twine around each other, like a time-lapse video of cucumber vines growing around a garden spike.

I will intimately learn your fingers, every dip of skin and smooth hill of nail, as I have known the mouths of those I have loved. And with my own, I will learn to express this new, sweet language for all my little words of love.