anon_j_anon (anon_j_anon) wrote,

Fic: Gift of the Magi (1/2)


Captain James T. Kirk of the ISS Enterprise surveyed the scene before him.

Brig, two cells, one active force field, seven redshirts, two ensigns with faces so swollen their eyelids looked like purple lips. The captain stepped in—something cracked underfoot, a tooth—and smiled at the security guys. Ensign Ledgermar was on his knees, wheezing. Captain looked back at his First—Spock had an expression of distaste on his face. He preferred clean executions. The sight of all the fluids smeared on the ground and men’s knuckles made him uncomfortable.

Kirk grinned at that thought as he took Ledgermar’s face in his hands and forced open the fag’s eyelids. Ledgermar shuddered and struggled but otherwise couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t see Kirk’s face through his busted eyeballs, but he could imagine the captain’s cold smile. Could imagine sounds coming out of the captain’s lips. His hearing was gone. Everything felt like his head was filled with mucus and glycerol brain-water.

Captain James T. Kirk of the ISS Enterprise surveyed the scene before him, Spock at his back, ensign’s head in his hands like a punctured football. He opened his mouth to say something—

(egg-white eyes of an Andorian peering from those swollen lids and a black wave of )

he opened his mouth to say something, thumbs digging into broken pits of cheekbones

(cold hands, cold hands cradling his head and saying, commanding something, the word smashing through his mind like a black wave of )

he opened his mouth to say something. His thumbs crushed into the cheekbones, nails clawed hair, scalp. Kirk vaguely registered the dark blood oozing under his fingertips. Ledgermar cried out as he felt the captain slowly pull his head up, as if the captain was trying to pop it off his spine. He struggled to alleviate the tension by rising from his knees, but his knees were crushed. Pants were at his ankles and the captain was still pulling slowly, relentlessly

(pulling slowly, relentlessly a body towards him, excitement mixed with fear mixed with confidence mixed with gut clenching fear and there’s no resistance, only touch of lips and a black wave of )

he opened his mouth to say something but instead found himself tilting Ledgermar’s head up. Kirk leaned down and pulled again. The ensign’s neck was stiff with desperation as he tried to get up. He crashed down. Kirk kept his cold grip on Ledgermar’s head and almost broke the ensign’s neck. He leaned down and

(a black wave rising a black wave falling a black wave gripping his mind a command sinking into his memory that tells him to forget, enveloping him in forget )

he opened his mouth to say something but instead smothered Ledgermar in a perversion of a kiss, shoving his tongue in the broken man’s mouth. Kirk tasted the blood and fragments of teeth, sucked on Ledgermar’s torn gums. He felt Spock stiffen behind him. The security guys laughed. Jeered about how the fucker was getting hard, questions about how he liked it in his ass. Kirk pulled away, forced open those swollen eyes again. He stared

(egg-white eyes of an Andorian he can’t remember and the crushing feeling of desperation like a black wave of )

he opened his mouth to say something and spat into Ledgermar’s eyes. Behind him he could feel Spock going in lock-down—the Vulcan didn’t like the messy, drawn out executions that Kirk was famous for. But what’s the fun of killing someone if you can’t fuck with them first? Kirk opened his mouth to say something but instead he laughed while the security guys had a little more fun with Ledgermar, breaking the ensign’s feet while Kirk kept a firm grip on the man’s head. Spock stood behind him, black eyes unreadable, face the perfect mask of indifference. Ledgermar was begging something incomprehensible

(he hears in his raw throat incoherent screaming and the words forget, forget, forget like an echo down a black tunnel through a black wave of )

he opened his mouth to say something, thumbs digging into pits of broken cheekbones

(egg-white eyes black-hole eyes staring in through his swollen lids disappearing in a black wave of )

he opened his mouth to say something. His thumbs crushed into the cheekbones, hands moved back to support Ledgermar’s neck. Kirk opened his mouth but something inside him snapped.

He pulled. Ledgermar’s head twisted. Followed by a quiet crack that only the captain and his First could hear. The ensign’s body went limp in the captain’s hands. For a moment, something clung in the air, something that felt like intimacy. Spock stood behind him.

He let go. Ledgermar fell to the floor, swollen eyes shut, feet broken, pants around his ankles. The security guys shrugged. They wiped their knuckles on their uniforms and saluted the captain.
Kirk opened his mouth to say something but instead smiled, throat raw with the taste of blood. His eyes were malicious, careless, vacant. Spock glanced at the body, then at the security officers with an expression of distaste. He stepped out of the cell and followed the captain to the turbolift. The captain motioned wordlessly, leaving the execution of the other queer up to the redshirts. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by Spock.


The turbolift doors closed. The security guys left Ledgermar in a black pool of fluid, and moved on to the next cell.


(Baby mine, don’t you cry )

He was born on a starship, bastard son of a captain’s woman. Didn’t stay there long. Was on the run half the time from the vindictive bitch who was the captain’s actual wife.

Jim doesn’t know who his real father is—his mom never said. Just gave him the name James Tiberius Kirk and told him never to try and decode it. As soon as he made captain, he tried.

Nothing turned up.

(Baby mine, dry your eye )

He doesn’t remember his mom real well, mostly because she died when he was young and he got shuffled off to a UTE Displaced Children Center. But he remembers a lullaby she’d sing.

(Rest your head close to my heart )

Remembers the way she’d caress his hair, and kiss the top of his forehead, rocking him back and forth. Everyone says Jim Kirk’s got a black hole in place of a heart, but he’s got this memory. He thinks that counts for something.

(Never to part, baby of mine )

(Little one, when you play )

He’s been—he’s been having these weird memory blackouts. Like there’s a hole in his head and it used to be important but now it’s not there anymore, and he thinks it’s a good thing. Something’s telling him it’s a good thing. He doesn’t want the black wave to drown him again.

(Don’t you mind what they say )

In the middle of the blackouts he hears this lullaby and it’s creepy as fuck. There’s a haunted, hunted quality in that voice, like fear barely contained, like she’s singing it more for her than him.

(Let your eyes sparkle and shine )

Close to that sound is a vision of dark, intense eyes that he’s sure aren’t his mother’s. He can’t place them. Whenever he tries to focus on them they expand, the pupils open a black deeper than space and Jim’s falling without any sense of time or relative gravity into a voice. A word.

(Never a tear, baby of mine )

(If they knew all about you )

A word. A feeling, deep and intense, that surrounds him like a black wave of—a dark voice. There’s a haunted, hunted quality in that voice. Deep grief and loneliness. The sound of soldiers scared shitless and overwhelming exhaustion from constantly looking over your shoulder.

(They’d end up loving you too )

There’s eyes wide with fear, distrust. Holding breaths. Hiding in darkness and shaking, her arms holding him so tight she thought he’d shatter. And barely, just barely, the hope for better place, somewhere, somehow in this wide galaxy.

(All those same people who scold you )

Hurt and helplessness and feelings emerging, confused, because they don’t feel like his or his mother’s. It’s strong, not maternal. Harder and sharper. There’s a haunted, hunted quality in those eyes. Deep grief and loneliness, that feels like his and someone else’s. Someone that was important to him.

(What they’d give just for the right to hold you )

Lying in darkness and he’s shaking, body trembling like a fucking leaf, and his arms holding him so tight he thinks he’ll shatter. The sound of soldiers scared shitless, staring at blank eyes the consistency of egg whites, fear like swallowing mud.

(From your head, down to your toes)

Everyone says Jim Kirk’s got a black hole in place of a heart, but what did they expect? It’s the UTE and maybe he had a mother once, but he never knew her, only remembers her voice echoing in his head like the hum of the Enterprise.

(You’re not much, goodness knows )

A sudden sensation of nakedness, of exposure and exposed skin, his body lithe but under scrutiny of those black eyes, he feels his bones are thin and his skin is scarred. His blood’s too thick. Sluggish in cold, frozen in heart, heartmad in fear.

(But you’re so precious to me )

Sluggish in cold, frozen in heart, heartmad in fear, but some deep feeling that he can’t name rising like a black wave of—mixed with fear in a dark voice of—shattering strength in a desperation like—his mom’s voice haunting his head like the eyes of—someone who was precious to him somehow.

(Sweet as can be, baby of mine )

Black eyes dissolve. She’s clutching him close to her, body stiff as glass, running her fingers through his hair, singing this lullaby.

(forget )

He’s been having weird memory blackouts, and as soon as he finds any kind of evidence that it was his First, he’s going to draw and quarter that two-blooded son of a nailfucker and find a replacement.


Tarsus Academy, United Terran Empire, 2246.

(Oracle Andoran egg whites for eyes, what do you see of our minds to comprise )

They’d been standing in the rain for two hours. He knew because he counted, keeping cadence to the rain.

(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

One hour, sixty-one minutes, counting the seconds of standing in the rain, staring at the neck of the boy in front of him, who was staring at the head of the boy in front of him, who was staring at the head of the boy in front of him, lined up in squads of ten, six squads per company, thirty one companies.

(Two. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

Oracle was walking through the lines, staring into the eyes of every cadet, who was staring at the neck of the boy in front of him, who was staring at the head of the boy in front of him, who was staring at the way the drops of rain traveled down the skin of the boy in front of him.

(Three. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

Nothing but the sound of rain hitting skin and mud, the Oracle’s boots squelching and popping as he walked from one face to another. It was fucking cold.

(Four. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

Jim’s muscles had frozen in place a long time ago. He wanted to move. He couldn’t move if he wanted to. He kept counting the seconds, keeping time with the rain.

The Oracle’s boots popped and for a terrifying second Jim’s mind went blank with fear.

(One )

(One )

(One )

(Five. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

The Oracle’s boots popped and for a terrifying second Jim’s mind went blank with fear.

(One )

(One )

(One )

(One )

(Six. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

The Oracle’s boots popped and for a terrifying second Jim’s mind went blank with fear.

He was staring into egg white eyes and his mind went black with fear.

The Oracle’s boots popped and he couldn’t move if he wanted to.

He was staring without seeing the neck of the boy in front of him staring at the neck of the boy in front of him.

He lost count.

Fuck, he lost count.

He lost count.

He lost count and his mind felt like it’d been replaced by slime and placenta and ejaculate. Like every neuron that had been firing turned to grey jelly and his field of vision was filled with yolkless eyes that were enfolding the whole of his mind so he couldn’t even hear the echo of his thoughts, only felt time stuck like a broken pendulum that couldn’t swing, but fell and stopped, fell and stops, falls and stopped, falls and stops, leaving streaks of sound in the emulsified ether.

(Kai Pi Phi Ro Tsai Mu Two Se’n Pul Sro )

Something was gripping him, a distant emotion bearing down on him like sound in water, coming from all directions but somehow never reaching him. He reached for it but his hands were dissolving in the salt water, his hands were made of silica and milk and the tissue of his skin was melting away in flakes, his blood vessels popped and released fine grey aerosols instead of blood, the calcium of his bones snapped and burst into powder.

(Heart Heath Home Hurt Hearth Hell Hint Hunt Hemp help )

He—he was doing something. Something about won. He needed to know what came after won. He was counting. He needed to know what came after won. If he could find what came after won, he could swim to the top and feel the water on his face. If he could remember—they were standing in formation. He remembers standing in formation. Formation counts the minutes. Cadets count the time. Squads of ten, companies of six, thirty-one companies. He just needs to count the cadets and he’ll know what comes after won. He knows he can’t move. So he’ll have to stand. He’ll have to stand but how can he count the cadets if he can’t see them? He needs to—he needs to swim. There’s no other way, except swimming and seeing the boy in front of him with rain with fear with ejaculate running down his neck, his eyes, his throat.

(Ejac Ejic Ejim Erim Eram Erid Erot Erotij Erotaj Erotic )


It hits him like a black wave and for a second, Jim thinks he’s gone blind. He can’t see. He can’t see, but he’s counting ejac, ejaculic, erot, eroculate, elik, esiminate, eros, erolicate. Then slowly the black dissolves, like he’s been staring at the sun, and the Oracle is staring into the eyes of the boy in front of him. Jim hasn’t moved, but he panics because he doesn’t know how much time has passed. All he’s got is homo, homogenate, homid, humiliate, horid, hosiferate, homo, hissipinate.

Time resets. He tries to remember where he was before, where he was counting before. Was it pi? Or ro? Did he use ro to count? All’s he’s got is a count to eroticusp.

Trying to remember, staring the neck of the boy in front of him, who’s staring at the ears of the boy in front of him, and Jim’s suddenly hit with the smell of rotting eggs mixed with ejaculate. The stench in his mind makes him want to double over and vomit but he can’t move, they’ve been standing in the rain for more than two hours. Something grips him, a distant emotion bearing down on him like sound in water, coming from all directions but somehow never reaching him. His mind is strangely blank as he watches the boy in front of him cry out, gripping his head as the Oracle stares at the cadet convulsing in the mud, eyes egg-white.

(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

Jim can’t move. He wants to, he wants to see the cadet because how can he count the cadets if he can’t see them? He needs to know what comes after won. Instead, he’s staring at the neck of the cadet two rows ahead of him, watching the rain travel down his skin.

(Two. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

The screams hit him like a black wave and for a second, Jim thinks he’s paralyzed. He can’t move. He can’t move, but his legs are carrying his torso from the field where they stood two hours in the rain and his hands are curled into fists. Then slowly the numbness dissolves, like he’s been asleep, and every muscle of his body is screaming at him, the screams muffled in placenta water. The movement, the cadence of his breathing and the sound of his footsteps hitting mud bring back a sense of time. Jim shakes his head. The movement clears his mind.

(Three. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

He realizes—he doesn’t remember hearing the Oracle tell them they were dismissed. But they must’ve been dismissed because all the other cadets are at their bunks, changing out of their clothes and getting ready for PT. He realizes—the boy in front of him was the boy two bunks down, their company sergeant, two years older and two years from graduation.

(Four. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

What the fuck was that for?

That nut-shitting Oracle. What the fuck was that for? And what was that running in his mind? Something about eradicate and eliminate? Eat rats and inseminate? Something deep inside him freezes at the thought, recalling the word hemisexal. That doesn’t even mean anything.

(Five. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Zero. )

And it hits him that Gary is dead.

That distant emotion that was bearing down on him crashes like a fucking tsunami and James Tiberius Kirk realizes that he stood, eyes vacant, while that Andorian committed telocide in front of him. Gary’s screams are ringing in his ears like they were released on some sort of time delay and Jim, legs carrying his torso away from barracks, spews vomit down his front.

He doesn’t stop moving.

(Oracle Andoran egg whites for eyes, what do you see of our minds to comprise )


Oh fuck that feels better than a blow job. Yeah baby right there right there, stay steady hold tight—slam

Kryton the Dohlman’s gorilla is shrieking while Scotty slams another superheated dilithium crystal into his elbows. Elasian blood is a weird pink color, thicker than human blood. More like the consistency of Vulcan semen. Kryton was brag and bluster when they caught him in the engine room, saying the usual ‘never take me alive,’ ‘trained in torture resistance.’ An offense against the Enterprise, in Scotty’s domain—it was the engineer’s prerogative.

It smells ass rancid in the brig. Scotty’s brought all his best gear—mechanic stuff. Wrenches, pliers, warp coolant, copper couplings, soldering kit. Blue flame, hot blue, and Bones lent some of his universal nerve agent to see what it does to a fine specimen of Elasian health. Elaan had screamed when she’d found out they’d taken him alive. Kirk had her guards placed in individual cells—SOP.

Klingons are here.

Destruction feels better than a blow job.


“Relax, Jim.”

He can’t relax. He can’t relax. There’s something about this that makes his blood run faster and his breathing heavy and labored. Body taut like a coiled spring. He can’t relax. Jim opens his mouth.



Can’t say anything.

Something’s caught in his throat, he swears he’s gonna choke and shit oh shit what the fuck is he doing here. It feels like the same thing right before a firefight. He squeezes his eyes shut. All he can see behind his lids are those fucking egg-whites. He can’t relax.


Spock says it quietly. If it weren’t Spock, he’d say intimately.

Spock’s slipping fingers in and shit it feels good but shit something’s collapsing. It’s not panic. It’s not panic. He wants this. He wants it. It’s supposed to feel good. It does feel good. This is good. This is what he wants. This is what he wants. Fuck the Oracle. Fuck Tarsus Academy. Nothing to remember. Nothing to be afraid of.

He tries to say something, anything.

Fuck he can’t do this.


Can’t. Can’t inhale or exhale, can’t do anything because there’s fear oozing in his veins, making him sluggish. Paralysis. Rigor mortis. Freezing, blood so hot but his sweat is freezing.

Arms tense. Fingers digging into something, he doesn’t even know what. Doesn’t care. He can’t do this. He wants this. His body wants this. No it doesn’t. This is wrong. It’s wrong. It’s perverted and sick and indecent. Those fucking egg-white eyes driving memories that aren’t his own. Fuck it. Cock shitter. He’s breathing. Inhaling. Exhaling. Feet uncurling.

Kneecaps locked. He’s not gagging. This isn’t fear. He wants this. No memory. No fear. He wants this. Fuck why’s he sweating so much.


He’s so focused on trying to keep the fear from spinning out of control he can’t feel Spock kissing and touching and shit. Stop. This is wrong. They’re going to get executed for this. Spock’s going to kill him. He’s going to rip him open. Shit stop. What the fuck is he saying. What’s he thinking. This isn’t.

Pull yourself together. Pull yourself together. Pull. Fucking PULL—

Gritting his teeth. His jaw’s gonna bust under the pressure. Molars cracking. Grinding. Try to relax, try to relax. Shoulders like fused plates. Knee caps locked. Calves straining. Trying to relax, he’s got to relax. Spock can’t do all the work. His fingers are still coaxing and it feels good but this is fucking messed up shit. They’re going to flay them alive and slice off their fingers. He wants this, and it’s not panic. It’s not fear. James Kirk doesn’t fear anything. He doesn’t fear anything.

Spock’s still coaxing him, slowly coaxing him. When he gets the images of egg-whites out of his eyes, he see Spock’s eyes, dark and impenetrable. He can’t read them.

He can’t do this.

But it feels so good.

And someone’s saying—it might be Spock, he has no idea—telling him to let go. Let go and stop. Let go, stop. Stop, let go. Stop go, let. Let stop, go. Spock’s building a rhythm and he’s easing into it somehow.

Stop go, let. Let stop, go. Let go and stop.

A memory washes over him, of the last time he did this. Tried to do it. Not in Tarsus, not in sixteen million years. No the crap-fucking way. No, he tried to do this when he was a lieutenant, when Pike was captain.

There was nothing about that memory he wants to keep. Nothing. It wasn’t awkward. It was terrible. It was suffocation, like someone with asthma breathing out of a straw in a reduced oxygen atmosphere. Better to hold your breath and die than try to squeeze some air into deformed lungs when there’s no hope of survival. He wasn’t the one being prepared like this. Like whatever Spock’s doing with his fingers.

Shit that feels good.

Fuck he can’t do this.

Jaws untensing one muscle at a time. No, that one encounter with that one ensign or engineer or whoever the fuck it was, Jim thought that enough lube could make up for anything and slammed into the other guy.

The other guy, they did it in the dark without names and faces because fucking UTE. Grandmother shitcakes UTE. Jim saw outlines of darkness, of a mouth shaped opening biting on a fist shaped lump and desperate sounds made deep in the backs of throats. Deep throats. Fucking mouths.

Spock does something that makes his body feel like a current just ran through it. He’s tense again. Fists. Clenched jaws. Closed throats.

Trying to say something, anything, but swallowing any sound he could make. If he moans, he might not stop. He might start screaming, or crying, or shaking, or sobbing, because that current feels like pleasure and he’s never felt this good, but he’s running electric on fear again. This isn’t the sweet kind of fear that people like during sex. This isn’t thrill or anticipation.

It makes you sick. If he actually thought about it he’d go to the fresher and throw up. This is UTE fear. It has its own special stink and stop. Let go, stop. Stop, let go. Go stop, let. Let stop, go.

Stop, let go.

Rhythm. How the hell did Spock get so good at this. It feels so good, stop.

This is wrong, go.

Let go, this is what he wants, go.

They’re going to kill them for this. They’re going to torture them first, and slice off knuckles, and bloody wrists, and twist kneecaps. They’re going to spit and make red-brown ooze from corners of eyelids. This is wrong. This is wrong. This is perverted.

This is fear.

Shit, stop. Stop, can’t do this.

Let go, stop.

Try to say something, try to say something. He wants this, he’s never felt so good.

I’m not queer.

I’m not a fagging queer.

Stop, let go.

I’m a captain, I’m not a homo cockstuffer.

Stop, let go.

Can’t let go. Memories burned. Smell of burnt plastic. Stink of singed hair and frying skin. Do you know what they do to people like that? Do you know what they do?

Forget. Forget.
Do you know what they do to people like that? It’s going to happen to me. I’m not. That’s not. We’re not. This isn’t.

This isn’t.

I’m not.


This isn’t what I want. It’s not right. This is wrong. This isn’t right. I’ve never felt so good but this isn’t right. Wrong wrong wrong

I’m not. We’re not. This isn’t. I’m not.

Can’t forget. Can’t forget. Burning by egg-white eyes. Can’t forget.

Smell of plastic acrid in the air. Sounds far away and distant. This isn’t. This isn’t negotiable. I’m not. We’re not.

I’ve never felt so good.

“Breathe, Jim.”

He says it quietly, dark eyes unreadable, and Jim thinks it’s a desperate intimacy. What the fuck. Where did that. How even. What. I’m not. I’m not.

His mind is desperately running in circles as pleasure mounts, and he’s never felt so free before even as fear spikes up his arm like a pack of thick needles. He’s never felt so insecure, and sure, and free, and open and it terrifies him, terrifies that it’s a confirmation, he never wanted, this was never a choice, if he could choose he’d stop, if he could stop, he’d choose.

Let go, stop. Stop, go let.

Spock seems so sure but Jim thinks there’s a desperate intimacy, a hunger that reflects his. He gasps when Spock’s there, when Jim uncoils, he gasps and breathes in air, real air, into lungs, unconstricted. Somehow they’re here, they’re doing this, Spock’s meticulous, and precise, and everything Jim wants, and he’s never felt so good before, and his breath comes faster, lighter, anticipating, and he’s never felt so good before.

Flashes of memories, fear drilling into the sockets of his shoulders, hammering against his ribcage, and Spock’s so close, and this feels like something official, like a confirmation of something he never wanted. Stop. Let go, stop. Go let, stop. I’m not a queer. I’m not a fucked asshole. I’m not a queer. I’m not. We’re not. This isn’t.

Spock does something with his fingers, or tongue, or something, Jim doesn’t know and he inhales. Gulps in air. Like a man coming out of a tank of methane. Swallows the oxygen whole. He’s not relaxed. He’s not. This isn’t. It’s wrong. He’s never felt so good in his life.

Fear hacking into his brain like a machete. Fear hewing out his lungs. Fear squeezing his spinal cord, the muscles of his back rigid.

But Spock’s not patient anymore, and something inside Jim shatters as he’s opened up. He doesn’t know what shatters. Something. Pieces. Falling. Sounds. Burning plastic. Joints popping. Bones splintering. Memories. Things. He’s never felt so good before. Facts. Not and are and is and was.

Not. This isn’t. I’m not.

It’s torture, isn’t it. It’s torture.

Stop. Let go.


I can’t.


I can’t. I’m not. This isn’t.

Stop, let go.

Stop, let go.


Let go.

“Say my name, Jim.”

I can’t.

“Say my name.”

Stop, let go. Forget.

Throat like sandpaper. Screams stuck in his Adam’s apple. Nothing.

I can’t.

He clenches his jaw, grinds his teeth, fists the sheets, sweats cold and hot. Moves against Spock without knowing what the music sounds like or if it’s just screaming, but neither of them make a sound. The silence eats into them as heat burns in their blood and they’re tense, so tense, fear like a knot between them.

He’s never felt so good before.

I’m not. This. I feel.


It’s messy, and there’s no reprieve after the fall. Spock pulls out, gets up, goes to the fresher. Shuts the door.

Jim lies there. Chest rising and falling. Skin clammy. Cold sweat. He needs to destroy these sheets. He wants to burn the bed.

Because he’s not a queer. This bed. Evidence. Reminder. Of fucked up things. He’s never felt so good before.

He gets up. Walks to the fresher door. Touches the paneling.

Turns away, gut twisted in cold knots. Touches the paneling. Touches his lips. Touches himself.

(say my name)

He pushes away the panic like vomit up his throat and opens his eyes. Listens to the sonics. Imagines Spock in there. Standing. Touching himself. Dark eyes with intimate desperation.

Jim closes his eyes. Touches himself, and touches the paneling. Exhales slowly, shoulders sagging, kneecaps untwisting, heart unfolding. Touches himself, and touches the paneling. And whispers.



It feels so good.

Wetness and tongues pressing together, and it feels so good. Arms wrapped around him, back pressed into the wet field, sweaty skin and it feels so good.

(Replay )

It feels so good, right somehow. He feels his body responding to this touch, finds his blood running quicker through the arteries. Out of breath anyway, running the whole game, legs burning with lactic acid and that feels good, has always felt good, but this feels like a revelation.

(Tarsus Academy, the intramural football game )

A revelation, like the revelation that destruction is beautiful. The rush he gets launching a missile, rigging a makeshift RPG, shooting up a starship. That’s a rush. Adrenaline, flying close to the enemy and barely making it out alive. It’s a thrill. This is a thrill, these lips on his and these legs straddling. That’s a revelation. A thrill, a right, a revelation. Worlds open.

(Replay: Tarsus Academy, intramural football game, semifinal round, Echo Company vs. Oscar company, score tied 1-1 in the first half )

Worlds open, mouths open, breaths exchange, tongues meet. Spit exchanged, and touch. Hands under shirts, back pressed into the wet field. Vague awareness that teammates are watching, keeping their distance. Time has stopped for him. Because it feels so good, the tightening in his stomach, the way something audibly clicks in his mind. There’s nothing in his mind but sensation, pure feeling of kisses, grass, and rain. It’s raining. Mud smeared over bodies, under uniforms.

(The first half, Echo and Oscar were evenly matched. Oscar pulled ahead in the second half with a goal in the 50th minute, then Echo couldn’t get a goal until the 78th minute. They went into overtime. Everyone was out to see the semifinal round. It started raining during halftime, but everyone stayed )

It feels so good. He didn’t know it was possible to feel this good.

He’s just scored the winning goal and it feels so good. They’re going to the finals. It’s their game. There’s no way Oscar’s getting a goal in two minutes. He scored the winning goal, he’s the hero of the game, and they’re laughing and kissing and slapping him. Giddy with happiness, drunk on victory.

Knocked over by some punk who tackles him to the soggy grass and wraps his arms around.
Time stops. He didn’t know it was possible for things to get better.

(Cadet Kirk scored the winning goal for Echo Company, advancing them to the finals. In the celebration that followed among the teammates, it was unclear what was going on. The situation rapidly articulated itself. Everyone backed away. Backed away. It’s illegal. It’s prohibited behavior. It’s illegal )

Time stops and it feels so good.

Wetness and tongues pressing together, until he feels the warmth of a body being pulled away, shoved and forced, distant sounds and a bewildering silence. He feels himself being lifted off the field, legs underneath stumbling, uncoordinated. He’s just scored the winning goal. What’s going on?

(Referees separate the two cadets. Both will be punished, one—to be rehabilitated. The other to be eliminated. Standard procedure. There’s hope for Kirk yet )

He’s just scored the winning goal. Why’re they staring at him like that. Why’re they taking him away? Time is rushing towards him with a roaring sound but his mind’s still in a haze. Why’re they looking at him like that? What’re they saying? He felt so good—what’s the crime in feeling good?

(There’s hope for Kirk yet, to weed out this unfortunate bud. A promising cadet. Once it’s made clear to him the nature of his crime, he’ll understand. An unfortunate incident. Could be left off the record, if he completes rehab without any problems )

He feels so good, and what’s the crime in feeling good? The winning goal, and body responding to the adrenaline, action, victory, and skin. It was a revelation. It was a revelation. Good and right. It’s his right.

(Replay: Tarsus Academy, intramural football game, Cadet Kirk was kissed by a fellow cadet, said cadet having exhibited abnormal tendencies in the past, having completed rehabilitation, now scheduled for execution, Cadet Kirk scheduled for rehabilitation. Course B )

It’s his right. It’s his right.

Time stops. Staring into egg-white eyes, and the comprehension. The revulsion. Total disgust and disbelief. Denial coursing through him, fear seeping out his eyeholes.

Jim opens his mouth to say something, but he’s assailed with images and graphic recollections of every touch, every feeling, everything perverted and inverted by the eyes of the Oracle. Everything painted with fear. He opens his mouth to say something but his mouth freezes, and he feels dirty, sick. It feels so good, and he’s sick with the taste of another boy’s saliva. It’s impossible. It’s illegal. It’s illegal.

(Course B, as Cadet Kirk has never exhibited perverted tendencies prior to this one incident. Youth suggests susceptibility, and to prevent it from ever manifesting again, Course B is appropriate )

It’s felt so good, but it wasn’t good, and shame fills him. He can’t stand the stares. They’re all staring at him. He’s not a fag. He’s not a fag. He’s normal, and it wasn’t his fault. He was attacked. Queers aren’t contagious, are they? He’s not a fag. Fear is swallowing him because he’s not a fag. He’s not. No one is. He’s not. He’s going to be a captain.

(Cadet Kirk completely cooperative in following our plan of action )

Egg-white eyes condemning him with blind judgment, sifting his mind and impressing in him the stench of fear, the choking shame. The smell of burning plastic. The complete awareness of his perverted tendencies, the necessity to fear, and fear and fear. Fear oneself, fear others. Fear the empire, fear the body. Treachery, and treason, and hanging, and lynching. Eyes, eyes everywhere, everywhere.

(Baby mine don’t you cry )

He’s not a queer.

(Baby mine dry your eye )

He’s not a fucking queer.

(Course B, and the other scheduled for due termination. Course B is appropriate. A good choice, the right protocol. Course B will provide the cure and a black wave of )

Hands. Hands grabbing. Dragging him away. Off the field, and all the eyes on him, wide eyes, mocking and angry and hating and malicious eyes, but the Oracle says nothing. He’s dragged away, he struggles against it but egg-white eyes condemn him with blind judgment. Fag, fag, fag. Queer, queer, queer. Burn, teach, fear.

(Rest your head close to my heart )

He can’t hear anything. Nothing but a distant roar ringing in his ears. Disconnect. He’s not a queer. Stop. Where are they going. Stop. He won’t do it again. Stop, where are they going. Stop, this wasn’t supposed to happen, it was an accident, stop. Stop, let go. Let go. Let go. It was a mistake. Stop. It won’t happen again. Let go. Let go, he’s not a queer. It’s not his fault. Stop, nothing makes sense. Let go, let go. Where are they going. He won the game. He won the game. What comes after won? What comes after won?

(Never to part )

Stop, let go. Let go, stop. Where, where, where. WHERE.

It felt so good. It was an accident. It felt so good. He’s normal. Nothing wrong. Stop—

(Baby of mine )







Tags: fanfiction, gift of the magi

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my mind is spining yet but poor Jim!!

solution: think Jim: you are not gay you are spocksexual!! and no one have to know if you don't want to and you are the captain!!!

i'm really sad for what they do to him
I was thinking of a really authoritarian, dystopian society when I wrote this-- a place where the system can potentially (and in Starfleet, does) read and influence one's thoughts. What survives in such a system, and what doesn't?

Thanks for reading!
as Jim already survive and is succesful captain, with the tantalus field as his side
i think he totes can permit himself love!
even if is dangerous, Jim loves danger like Spock do
Spock have a vulcan body guards and i really think they both can be the best team and be lovers at the same time

before Jim was captain, it was not an option! but i know they will do alright, jim has to overcome the evil mind rape he had as a child, but Spock can help his mind to be centered and heal

Healed happy Jim can become emperor if he wants to
You did it! you posted! I'm printing now, I'll read tonight, I'll be back to you soon. Thank you...
I posted... I've noticed that posting in a lot of ways feels like I'm releasing something long kept inside. This, and the Alejandro stuff, feels like drawing poison from an old and festering wound.
It was indeed getting ready to pour out... Empires, and monsters, and the need to give a shape and words to the horror. It is time to heal.
Holy shit.

Also... that Sigur Ros video, right? It kills me every time.
Yeah, Sigur Ros. Kills me too, and I feel like the way it's told there's no chance of a happy ending.
Yeah, I agree. That video and the one for "Untitled 1" make me pretty much curl up in the fetal position and sob.