So the title is from a song that… well, the song… that you probably know… um, it's quite famous, and the title… ah, that is… it's called…

*deep breath*

Itouchmyself! There, I said it!



I Want You To Love Me

(And When I Think About You, I…) – by TheProblematique

Spock is lying in his bed, and he is not asleep.

Did he wish to sleep then he could. Of course he could, the mere thought that sleep, of all things, is eluding Spock is quite ridiculous. It is a simple process that involves letting go of his conscious control over the neocortex of his brain and allows for unconscious rest when necessary. A child could do it. Spock can too, technically, therefore it is logical to conclude that the fact that it is his choice to remain awake is but obvious. Did he really, truly, verily wish to sleep then he would already be doing so, Spock knows.

Yet there is a matter that is greatly troubling him.

It is this… circumstance which prevents Spock from doing what could, perhaps, almost surely, have done a few minutes ago if he had so desired (and been able to). This matter is of grave importance and refuses to fade from his mind.

It is the matter of Spock's circulation.

Yes, Spock will, possibly after many hours of internal struggle with logical thought, admit that he is rather… concerned. The abnormal flow of his blood beings to seriously… frustrate him. With calming breaths and the exercise of his inner control Spock had been taught to control this.

Well, not this precisely, or the resulting conversation with his elders might have turned into an entirely unseemly ordeal. But he has been taught to regulate his own metabolism through meditation since birth, and that is precisely what he is finding impossible to achieve right now. Spock has tried the preferable alternative, he has; utilising every ounce of his considerable willpower and mental control he has tried to end it. But he cannot focus, he cannot meditate, he can barely think beyond-

He has not succeeded. If he had succeeded then he could be sleeping at this very moment.

Spock is lying on his bed, and he is most certainly not asleep.

He has logically concluded that only one alternative remains for him now, but Spock is so deeply, so profoundly ashamed of his complete lack of self-discipline that he can barely bring himself to… cannot imagine…

On Vulcan these things are not spoken of. It is not even mentioned that these things are not discussed because that need does not exist; an innate inability to voice issues such as this one has long been present among Surakian society. On his planet… in the Vulcan language there does not even exist a word for what Spock is about to do.

What Spock might do, unless he can successfully think his way out of doing it. Which he has insofar been utterly unable to achieve, and therefore must be forced to admit that 'stalling' has no effect on the… issue.

It is ridiculous, obscene and degrading, and Spock needs to fight the urge to walk over to his Captain and instruct him to cease his actions immediately. If the Captain objected then Spock realises darkly that he would be entirely prepared to make him stop, because such behaviour is pathetically irresponsible and unbecoming of one who claims to command the respect of his crew.

The unexpected recollection has Spock working to suppress his annoyance at this lapse in his strict control. It appears as though lack of sleep has finally affected him in a truly disconcerting manner—

Kirk is eating. And perhaps that might be the theoretical term to define what he is doing but it certainly isn't adequate. Kirk appears to be doing many things, none of which are even remotely related to ingesting nutritional foods.

Spock must try to view this use of his eidetic memory as an opportunity, to study a Human characteristic he had never before contemplated experiencing. It is undoubtedly because of his Human heritage that he is having this trouble now. Replaying a scene that has already occurred with the objective of exploring it in further detail is logical; during missions he often has to exercise this trait—

Kirk is… Kirk is licking his fingers as a fruit (Spock does not know what the fruit is and he finds the fact stupidly irrelevant) melts in his hand. Kirk is smiling brightly at the same time as he crudely laps up the juice trailing down his palm and into his wrist; lewd and shameless in his complete and utter depravity.

However, he has never before replayed a scene in his mind for the sole purpose of reliving the sensations it elicited from him at the time of its first occurrence. What makes this matter all the more unnerving is the fact that Spock is not aware of choosing to have this happen. He seems to be entirely at the mercy of his sexual desires.

Spock is furious. He can feel the anger like the sound of thunder so loud that it impedes his thought processes, and he can feel the craving to keep this display away from the eye of officers in the mess hall throw potent rage against the shield of his emotions. In fact, he nearly stands from his seat and marches across the room to attempt to cover Jim's actions, to shield him from other's looks with his body if necessary.

The memory is seared into his brain-circuits with a clarity that Spock cannot ignore.

Spock's hands lie on either side of his body and they are not curled into fists because of the pictures in his head. Instead his pose is perfectly tranquil, at least at first glance, this Spock is aware of also: how someone who was observant might note that the muscles of his body are taut with tension and… something else. Something unfamiliar and extremely distracting that's been living under Spock's skin ever since this morning—

Some of the sticky liquid dribbles down Jim's chin and his tongue flicks out, then he tries to wipe it with his golden sleeve. A little wince as the Captain realises his uniform is now dirtied (he should have expected that the happen, it was obvious that if he used his uniform for that purpose it would stain). And so then he… he uses his fingers, and slides them into his mouth with relish, sucking, slurping in a way that can only be described as pornographic.

Spock is disgusted. He is embarrassed and displeased and also incredibly, painfully aroused.

He lifts one hand, the left, and looks at it for a moment, contemplating his fate. His fingers are long, thin and tapered; a ghostly pale, and he sets the hand down again because the feelings his thoughts evoke are not conductive to rational reasoning.

But then he raises the other one.

It is a necessity, at this point, he must acknowledge this. He is in need of rest at this time and his attempts at meditation have been, to use a Human expletive; disastrously unsuccessful. Yes, he must accept that he has failed at exercising his Vulcan discipline, but the humiliation of that failure cannot blind him to what must be done. If he does not rest this problem will be harder—worse tomorrow. Concentration does not increase with sleep-deprivation, quite the contrary, and productivity lessens, consequently deteriorating his attention for work, and endangering the lives of the Enterprise's crew.

In conclusion, he must do this if he is to ensure the security and stability of the Starship. There is no other choice.

Still, he closes his eyes just in case.


Jim is working.

He is also quite aware of the fact that he is taking that old cliché of burying himself in paperwork to new and exciting depths of pathetic, but he doesn't really care. Actually it's more like burying himself in datapads (but not literally, that would be awkward), but the point stands. Lately he's spent every second of his spare time reading up on a shit ton of information, offering to take extra shifts at the bridge and looking up the latest science articles to read in his chair, helping out Scotty because who needs sleep anyway, sleep is stupid and mean and evil.

Jim never asked for this. He never wanted any of it, and he knows that he's probably one of the few people who can honestly say they never planned to fall in love with someone and live sappily ever after (not a typo, by the way). And obviously the happy ending is out of the question, but Jim figures he would have settled for any ending, just so long as it meant this was over and he could stop thinking about it.

At first, he didn't even see it. He really, honestly didn't understand what was unravelling right before his eyes until it was much, much too late to knit those frayed threads back together, to how they were before. Nothing was neat or ordered by the time he jolted awake and found out that he was lost, completely, utterly, impossibly lost in his own cesspool of girlie feelings and there was no going back.

As Jim tries yet again to conclusively demonstrate not how but why the transwarp beaming formula works based on the elder Spock's calculations, he can't helpt but let his mind wander.

There are thoughts… thoughts that come at night right before he wakes up and yes, he's used to those, and they are vivid and cruel and pack a hell of a punch in the mornings, but you see… then there are these other thoughts. These truly ridiculous, pink thoughts. Yeah, fucking pink, because if thoughts could have colour then that is the colour these ones would most certainly be; these ideas like… like holding hands and… and… and kissing people's foreheads. Foreheads!

Not everyone's foreheads, though… just one specific person's. Um. It would be very weird if he went around kissing everyone's foreheads. His crew might think he'd finally gone off the deep end. Bad for morale, that.

Okay yes Jim was stupid but hey, he never claimed to be in tune with his deep inner zen or whatever, so really this is, somehow, not his fault. Maybe it's Spock's fault. After all, if Spock hadn't gotten shot that time maybe Jim would still be in the quiet, comfortable dark. It was safer, not knowing. Also people should know by now that telling Jim Kirk what not to do is a Bad Idea. Yup, Jim is totally blaming this on the very vague, non-specific 'people' who thought it would be a good idea to write a rule somewhere that says: 1.4.5 You're not really supposed to fall head over Starfleet-regulation-boots for a half-Vulcan Commander who hates your guts.


"Yeah, Sulu."

"ETA for Kuvos II is seven hours, forty-two minutes."

It's not even his shift. He just really likes his chair. It's comfy. So he's working on the brigde, so what.

"That was Hikaru's subtle way of saying your next shift will start in about six hours, Captain," comes a dry voice from his right. "And you've been sitting on that chair for the past ten, at least."

"Thanks for your input, Lieutenant."

He hears Uhura cough pointedly but doesn't want to give her the satisfaction of looking up from his datapad.

"I think what they are all too afraid go ask is: when do you plan on sleeping?"

Okay, now he does look up. To scowl at her.


"You are disrupting the workplace, Captain," she says sternly. "Please remove yourself from the bridge or I will have to report you to our First Officer."

Jim leaps up immediately. "You wouln't."

She snorts. "I so would!"

Actually, she has in the past, so—"Have a heart, Lieutenant!"

Her eyes say everything they need to.

"Okay, okay, I'm going. There's no need to threaten me like that."

She smirks. "Apparently there was. Goodnight, sir."

He can tell out of the corner of his eye that everyone is staring and he will get no support from them on this issue. Still, it makes him a little worried that it took them this long to tell him he was 'disrupting' their work. Usually his crew have no qualms about letting him know when something is wrong, if it's work-related.

"Was I really bothering everyone here by sitting silently at my post?"

There's an immediate general chatter of agreement. "Absolutely, sir."

"You were being an utter nuisance."

"It was awful."

"Please leave."

"It was the worst."


They are smiling faintly, though. It's like... they look amused.

And then he gets it.

Wow, he must really be sleep-deprived if it took him this long.

He can't have been annoying them by doing nothing quietly all by himself. They are just worried about him. They want to send him to his quarters for rest.

Aw, shucks.

"Fine. I'm leaving."

Someone cheers. He doesn't catch who it was.

"Bye, sir."


Right before the doors shut behind him, he hears Chekov's awed: "You are so brave, Nyota!"

Figures. Mutinous scum the lot of them.

Man, Jim loves those idiots to death.


Spock's fingers are hot, so so so hot around his arousal, and his arousal is so hard and so hot in return and everything scorches and everything is heat and the feeling is a feedback looped in on itself that burns, burns, burns...

Kirk's mouth, swollen lips wrapped around his own fingers—oh but if only they were Spock's fingers, if only—sucking, pink skin dragging a little as they move up and down the slick length, so wet, wet with spit and the fruit's juices.

The image makes him shiver—the heat is liquid and molten, it melts his spine and makes him want to squirm, makes his legs shake, his stomach muscles clench and flutter, his head loll uncontrollably on the pillow because it's so much and he's allowing it to become so very very much inside of him.

Inside of him...

To be inside of Jim

To have Jim thrust into him—

Spock's skin feels feverish, he can't stop, his hips stutter up into a nameless pleasure he can only imagine and he is losing it, losing control and losing himself and losing every last shred of restraint he had left...


Jim stops in front of Spock's door before deciding to keep walking forward. Spock is not to blamed for his stupid confusing frilly thoughts (yes, they come with unnecessarily ruffled attachments, for example: the thought of kissing Spock... which soon becomes the thought of kissing Spock in the rain. And then kissing Spock in the rain while the crew cheers on because they are at the altar getting handfasted by a Vulcan priest—dear God).

In conclusion, going to to check on Spock isn't a wise decision. So Jim should keep walking, and he'll see Spock later when they are prepping for landing.

... He should probably start moving, then.

But he doesn't. It's not that he's being stubborn... more like his feet feel rooted to the spot. It's weird. Jim hasn't ever been one to freeze in the face of fear (his fight-or-flight response is highly tuned, and has an addendum tastefully called 'fuck'), but he'd imagine this is a little what that's like: a kind of general unease that locks down your muscles and prevents you from moving. And how weird is that? It's just Spock's quarters. Nothing unusual there.

He sighs. He's probably just tired. The guys were right; he needs sleep.

Jim manages to lift a foot with some difficulty—and that's when he hears it.

There's a soft, breathy groan coming from Spock's room.

He doesn't stop to consider the fact that the officer's quarters are sound proof and there's no way he could hear anything going on in there before typing in the Captain's override.


Spock is chasing something that feels imminent, something that's close, so so so close it's practically within reach; something that will bring a glorious end to his building torment, his aching agony.

Jim grinning the way he does when he's done something no one expected him to achieve, tearing Spock apart with his fingers and his mouth and his teeth and his tongue—

The feedback loop beating from his hard arousal to his spine to his heart to his hand and back crackles, static-y and fizzing with electricity, and it's almost, almost—

"Jesus fucking Christ."

Spock's eyes snap open and Jim, Jim is there, lips parted and eyes wide, cheeks flushing even as Spock opens his mouth to say something, to protest, to beg for—for—but all that comes out is a gasp and it's too late, the shock makes him jolt, pulse, spill over his hand and bare stomach and his mind blanks out, perfection and pleasure filling everything up in a brilliant red haze.

The worst thing is that it's not instantaneous; he hears dimly as Jim drops to his knees by the door but the release goes on for an endless immeasurable time and Spock can only arch and breathe harshly and his hand will not stop wringing every last pulse of completion from himself.


Jim can't turn and flee like he should; his legs have dissolved, he feels boneless and gelatinous and has no strength left anywhere in his body because holy fucking hell Spock was—is—Spock, perfectly prim and orderly and above all correct Spock was jerking off like a desperate teenager experiencing his first—

"Captain, I..." Spock pants, his stomach gleaming with white ropes and his hands and cock sticky and flushed emerald and just—god, how is Jim expected to think right now, thinking in words is difficult!

"Wha... I'm..."

He knows what he's done. How unacceptable—no, there's no way that's a strong enough word—how shit-for-brains fucked up it was that he didn't leave the instant he realize what he'd walked in on, but the fact that Spock didn't stop, that he...

"Please, allow me to explain—"

"I... explain what?"

Spock swallows thickly and covers himself with the sheets of his bed.

Jim leaps to his feet, like someone plugged him into a current. He's never gotten so hard so fast in his life but suddenly this seems like a good moment to leave. "You know what? There's nothing to explain. I'm sorry—I've been having some knee problems lately and it chose the wrong moment to give out, obviously—I mean try to think of a worst moment than this one and I betcha you can't, right?"

He's rambling and he knows it—it's (mostly) on purpose. Barrage Spock with nonsensical information and get the hell out of dodge, then press a hand to himself and come messily into his pants if he must. Later.

"That is a lie," Spock says flatly. He looks like he's maybe calming down a little, which is a lot more than Jim can say for himself. "But by all means leave if you must—I do apologize for my indecorous appearance, but I did not hear a buzzer."

"I didn't buzz. I heard—I don't know, I just thought you might be in... trouble or something, in your own quarters. For some reason. I don't... sorry. Anyway, yeah, I'm going now."

"I do apologize," Spock repeats, somewhat drily.

Jim had been mid-turn to exit the room, but something makes him turn back and frown.

Spock looks way too composed for someone just caught jerking off. Even for someone who is Spock.

"You feeling okay, dude?"

Spock raises an eyebrow, but there's absolutely zero amusement in his voice when he replies. "That question does not seem to me to be entirely appropriate coming from a superior officer, Kirk."

The use of Jim's last name is jarring and just plain bizarre. Spock must be way more rattled than he's letting on; enough that he's reverted to his blank Vulcan teachings.

"You know what I meant."

"I am well."

"You know... I mean, I have no idea how you guys handle this sort of thing, but you know there's nothing... wrong about it, right?"

Why on Earth would he say that?

Spock continues to look impassive, but his response isn't offense or disdain or even condescension. He just... doesn't react. Which is somewhat telling in and of its own.

Jim decides to wait him out.

A useless excercise, some would probably say.

Let them talk.

"... I."

Ha. Exactly.

He stays silent and sure enough, after a short pause Spock begins again.

"Jim, I am quite familiar with the concept of mastur—"

"Oh I'm sure you are. Sorry, I was just making sure that... I don't know, you didn't think I'd freak out or whatever. We all do it, right? Humans, Vulcans, Tellarites... although now that I think about it, eugh, that's something I wish I could take back."

"... To be sure."

"Great." He really wants to give Spock his privacy and space, but the same nagging suspicion that made him blurt out that ridiculous assurance in the first place won't go away.

Vulcan lifespans are so different. Technically, Spock is a sort of teenager, isn't he? Not like—not in a terrible underage way, but in a 'reproductive cycle' way, at least. His body and mind have matured but his hormones—

"You do this, then?"

Jim stares.

The question is so far out the left field he doesn't even know how to respond for a long moment.

"Huh?" is the brilliant answer he eventually comes up with.

"You do it. You said we all did, you included, I assume."

Spock is very naked under his sheet, Jim's brain chooses to remind him.


"'Course I do."

I think of you, his brain supplies. I think of your hands and your ears and your dick, your long legs and your back and your hips.

"Then will you demonstrate?"


Spock's telepathy is run riot.

It is wrong and invasive, not to mention entirely illegal by Vulcan and Federation laws. But he is hazy and not-quite-sated and something in him has snapped like a rubber band, and Jim's thoughts are rampantly explicit. A child could pick up on them.

Not to mention the outlined bulge in the front of his pants leaves little doubt as to what they concern.

He has information he should not have, because his brainwaves are soaring further than they should, further than is right. And for some indistinct, diffuse reason... he doesn't care very much about how this is a bad (a terrible, wrong wrong wrong) thing. He is too desperate. He wants. Like a wilful child or an immature Human, he simply wants.

And now he knows that Jim does, too.

"I'm sorry, what did you just say?"

Jim looks hesitantly amused. Spock is neither of those things at the moment.

He can feel himself stir already. It would be frightening if the slight dullness of his mind wasn't preventing fear from truly soaking into his consciousness. It is as if one transgression has unleashed a starving hunger hitherto unknown to him.

And the flavour of Jim's thoughts is so very, very rich. Eager.

"You did not mishear. Perhaps a demonstration would be in order, since the thing you suspect but have only dared to imply is, in fact, true."

Jim blanches. "So you'd never done this before?"

Spock meets his eyes full-on, and utters a short, sharp syllable designed to obfuscate all his vulnerability. "No."

The breath Jim releases is shaky and weak. "Christ."

Spock waits.

"And you want me to... what? Explain it to you?"

"Do not be ridiculous. I do not require any explanation, and in any case that is not the word I used."

Jim bites his lower lip and a noise makes its way out of his throat. It's high, thin and needy.

"Are you seriously asking me that?"

Spock doesn't answer, but he hopes his expression is answer enough. He hopes in a way he has never done before. He dares to wish. He would be...

Jim is... the Captain angers him in a way no one has ever angered him before, but if he was wanted, he would be...

"Spock." And then Jim gives him this rueful, delicious little smile and he is so smart, he knows, he could already deduce where Spock's sudden boldness came from—"Can't you tell?"

Spock swallows. "I can," he admits.

"Well." Jim steps forward, still slightly incredulous maybe but not for that less eager. "Here's the thing about me, Spock."

Spock finds himself shifting back in the bed, clutching the sheet a little tighter in spite of himself, because Jim looks dangerous. Every bit the bad boy he so enjoyed advertising being before he became A Good Captain.

"I'm a hands-on kinda guy." He grins because they both know how terrible that pun was and suddenly Spock is much more at ease. He feels the brief impulse to smile back. Of course that wouldn't do, but the fact that the idea is there at all pleases him.

"So here's your demonstration, if you still want it."

He crouches down, leaning his hands on the bed and then dropping until his knees hit the floor.

Spock lets him swish the sheet aside.


He keeps telling Spock how good he's being. He can't help it. It starts out with Spock making that face that tells Jim he's seconds away from rolling his eyes and ends up with Spock fisting his hands in the sheets and struggling for breath.

Jim is fascinated.

And then...

"What were you thinking about?" he mutters, tightening his grip and slowing down. Spock makes a soft noise of protest and doesn't answer.

"Tell me. What were you thinking about while you did it?"

Spock's eyes lock with his, glassy and slightly unfocused.

"What..." he whispers. "...what else but you?"

And that's when Jim comes.

It hits him out of nowhere and all the friction he has is his own underwear and the slight rocking motion of his hips against one of Spock's thighs, but wow. Wow.

"Jesus... fuck!" he pants.

Spock lunges forward and kisses him, right before following.


It's different this time. Aside from the obvious, the act itself is... it's different.

He feels more... complete. More content, after. There is a strange... cohesiveness about everything now. Within himself, even.

"You realize this happened because of an orange, right?" Jim murmurs, clearly entertained by the fact.

"I think there is a slight... inevitability that renders the entire point of the orange moot."

A low pull at his gut still sends lazy hot sparks up his spine at the memory. It is odd, that he is ready for more only a few minutes after.


'A few' is a vague, impractical term.

He must be coming down with something. It is possible he contracted some sort of viral disease from their last issue with the temperature controls. He should warn Jim. He wouldn't want his Captain to become ill, too.

"Shh. Sleep, dude. Things will... I mean, I hope things make more sense tomorrow."

Tomorrow... what if he's sicker tomorrow?


"Shh. Just sleep. It'll be all right."


A lot happens before the messed up thread of their intersecting stories is unravelled, but you know what?

In the end, it's more than all right.

I know none of you is dumb, but just in case my writing was too subtle (ha. hahaha. HAHAHAHA THAT WAS A JOKE) I will state the obvious: PON FARR!

That said, this is not the longer PonFarr!fic I had hinted at in Author's Notes before. That is still in the making, and will be, as mentioned, LONG. But! Despite the fact that this is basically porn (and mostly plotless porn at that), it felt really good to write the boys again. I'd had the beggining of this fic rolling around unfinished in my computer for EVER, so yaye! I'M SO SORRY IT'S BEEN SO LONG, MY MUSE WAS HIJACKED FIRST BY SUPERNATURAL AND THEN BY TEEN WOLF IT'S SO NOT MY-okay it's a little my fault ;)

More information in case anyone wants it!

1) People keep asking: you guys, I am NEVER going to stop writing K/S. EVER. They are my forever!OTP, my perfect perfect boys, and I love them to death. It's just been a long four years of waiting and I was *exhausted* after Veritas! But omg hopefully we're getting a trailer really soon! :D And I can already taste the inspiration and delightful tidbits the new movie will bring *drooling already*

2) I have tumblr! In case anyone wants to squee with me, I am defenestratocaster dot tumblr dot com! Please send me a note so I can follow you guys! (although fyi I post about SPN and TW too, hope no one minds the occasional hot brothers/gay werewolves post *grin*)

3) This fic (and all of my other fic... in time) is (SLOWLY) being moved to the AO3, since ffnet is being kind of dumbs lately, or so I've been told. Juuust in case. If you wanted to read it on the AO3, or download some of my other stuffs, I am theproblematique there as well, and also all the links are at my LJ (and the link to my LJ is in my profile XD).

4) Wow, this list is LONG. Okay, I'm done now! Just wanted to say that I miss you guys, LOVE YOU TO DEATH (AND BEYOND), and hope to write more soon! :D