i kind of need a proper star trek icon now. and i never thought i'd type that sentence.
so, the star trek xi kink meme is awesome. and there was this awesome anon prompt: Kirk/Spock/Uhura. Kirk, fascinated by Spock and Uhura's relationship, follows them around like a puppydog and begs for a piece of the action. At first they refuse him, but he finally wears them down-- "Okay," Uhura says. "Fine. But just for one night! Don't give me that smirk, Captain."-- and hot sex ensues.
(Optional prompt addition: One night turns into two. Into three. Think Kirk as Scheherazade, only he's in it for sex instead of, uh, no death. Suddenly, ten years later, Spock and Uhura wake up in bed and realize that Kirk's still there. And he's snoring. What the fuck just happened?)
i answered it, and then decided my response was too short. so here it is again, with extra words and double plus kirk.
and this is all zachary quinto's fault. stupid sexy bowl cut.
Jim Kirk smirks. An annoying, endearing, shrewd smirk. Like a little boy that knows something you don’t know. And Nyota has to admit, she doesn’t know how to make Spock make that sound. And she wants to know, she wants to learn that trick he does with his thumb, which was the only reason she agreed to the second night. Spock had just nodded, dark eyes calm and intent, as if it were inevitable. Kirk, of course, smirked again, and she bit his smirking lips and that was that. But that second night she was distracted by Spock’s mouth between her legs and Jim’s laugh ringing so loud she thought they would hear it three systems over. So, the third night was a necessity. Logically.
It started as kind of a joke. Their last night on Earth, after the Romulan thing but before thier renewed tour, Kirk insisted on a party. Something for the crew that was not an official Starfleet occasion, nothing like any of the ceremonies celebrating their success or mourning their dead. (Gailia was on one of the seven destroyed cruisers, almost every cadet she knew was floating through debris and stars and it made her freeze up inside when she realised that they were nothing compared to what Spock had lost.) It smelt something like her older brother’s 21st birthday party, and sounded like the first campus mixer she had attended, as a fresh cadet who thought she knew something. It looked new, though. These were the faces of people she could trust, she had trusted, with her life and the lives of her loved ones and all of Earth and it was a little bit consuming how much they mattered. She was watching Spock talking to Scotty, who was using finger food to illustrate something he was clearly passionate about. She was laughing, and maybe crying just a little, when Jim sidled up, looking like he had made the world, and it was good.
“So, I can never ever call you by your first name, can I?” She doesn’t think she can talk right now without her voice cracking, so she gives him a face.
“Oh, the eyebrow!” He slaps a hand over his heart. “He’s been teaching you. Wish he’d teach me. I can’t pull it off. You can, s’good on you.” He’s waving his hands in Spock’s general direction, at her face, back to Spock. “You guys are perfect together, y’know. Really, I’m jealous.”
“Really?” she laughs, because, really, Kirk has his pick, and picks whomever he pleases. He squints, pulls his mouth across his face and nods empathetically.
“Oh, yeah. Really.” His hand rests in the crook of her elbow as he leans in close, smelling like whiskey and cologne and sweat. “I mean, who wouldn’t want a piece of that Vulcan?” Jim’s voice slides up into a valley drawl and his grin is painted wide. “He’s hot!” She’s laughing again, with no edge of tears, and Jim laughs just as hard, forehead resting on her shoulder, hand still tucked neatly into her arm. Spock is watching, she can see though her eyelashes, with one of those tiny smiles of heat and promise.
The first night back on the Enterprise she walked into the mess to see Jim and Spock, heads nearly meeting over something the captain was scribbling on a napkin. Spock looked up, said something, Jim looked up, smiling, and their faces were so close. She melted back into the hall, trying to walk with purpose. She asked, in bed, when their limbs were tangled into artistic contrasts, what had been on the napkin.
“Pick-up lines,” Spock mutters into her hair, and she can feel his lips curve. She wants to dismiss it, to laugh at the boyish man, but, “To use on me? Or you?”
“I doubt that he knows himself.” She laughs because it’s true.
But he doesn’t let up. He jokes and insinuates and wheedles and fucks any number of willing women and the occasional man (she is the communications officer, she does hear things) and keeps wandering back to them. Flirting not with her or him, but them both, sometimes bashful, sometimes arrogant. He was like a puppy. A clever, horny, emotional puppy in charge of a spaceship. Jim was charming, obviously, he was loyal and strong and unpredictable, but Nyota was in love with Spock. Fascinating, focussed, hot-skinned Spock, who never seemed threatened or offended by Jim’s assorted advances. So, maybe it had come up in conversation, when they were alone. One night, to get it over with, to deal with whatever Jim’s issue was and maybe get on with a sort of normal relationship. It had seemed simple, rational even, when they had decided together.
By the eighteenth night, she knew the thumb trick, but wanted Spock to learn the pinky trick. And while he was here, she may as well teach Jim the interesting hip twist that might have been specific to half-Vulcan, half-humans, but was too good not to share. That was just good karma. It wasn’t until Nyota had lost track of the number of nights that she started to worry. When the nights of crazy, creative, complicated sex started to balance out with the nights Jim fell asleep, jaw tense and eyes red, pressed against her breasts or Spock’s back, she stopped worrying.
Whenever Spock had to go visit the colony, Jim was always there. His skin wasn’t as smooth and warm, his breathing wasn’t as calm, but he made her smile, and she made him smile and it wasn’t really cheating because they were both thinking about Spock. Whenever Jim was called away, to face another court martial or get another medal, she had all of Spock’s intensity and precision and bright brilliant passion to herself. Only problem was, she was always waiting for the third hand, for Jim’s insistent tongue.
When one of them was stuck on a planet, or in sickbay, mysteriously swollen or silently sweating, there was always someone there to hold on to, to whisper that everything would be alright. And she knew exactly what went on if she was ever away. In fact, Jim took great pride in recounting every single thing that had happened in graphic and tender detail. Kissing the corner of his eye usually shut him up, but so did anal penetration.
Spock kept track of everything, as he had been trained to, so he knew it was the 4873rd night when the woman he loved turned to him and gestured to the snoring head of the man he loved.
“How the hell did that happen?” She sounds more shocked then annoyed. Her skin is glistening, still, with sweat and Jim’s freckled shoulder is warm under his hand.
“I do not know,” he admits. “I think he cheated.”
(Optional prompt addition: One night turns into two. Into three. Think Kirk as Scheherazade, only he's in it for sex instead of, uh, no death. Suddenly, ten years later, Spock and Uhura wake up in bed and realize that Kirk's still there. And he's snoring. What the fuck just happened?)
i answered it, and then decided my response was too short. so here it is again, with extra words and double plus kirk.
and this is all zachary quinto's fault. stupid sexy bowl cut.
Jim Kirk smirks. An annoying, endearing, shrewd smirk. Like a little boy that knows something you don’t know. And Nyota has to admit, she doesn’t know how to make Spock make that sound. And she wants to know, she wants to learn that trick he does with his thumb, which was the only reason she agreed to the second night. Spock had just nodded, dark eyes calm and intent, as if it were inevitable. Kirk, of course, smirked again, and she bit his smirking lips and that was that. But that second night she was distracted by Spock’s mouth between her legs and Jim’s laugh ringing so loud she thought they would hear it three systems over. So, the third night was a necessity. Logically.
It started as kind of a joke. Their last night on Earth, after the Romulan thing but before thier renewed tour, Kirk insisted on a party. Something for the crew that was not an official Starfleet occasion, nothing like any of the ceremonies celebrating their success or mourning their dead. (Gailia was on one of the seven destroyed cruisers, almost every cadet she knew was floating through debris and stars and it made her freeze up inside when she realised that they were nothing compared to what Spock had lost.) It smelt something like her older brother’s 21st birthday party, and sounded like the first campus mixer she had attended, as a fresh cadet who thought she knew something. It looked new, though. These were the faces of people she could trust, she had trusted, with her life and the lives of her loved ones and all of Earth and it was a little bit consuming how much they mattered. She was watching Spock talking to Scotty, who was using finger food to illustrate something he was clearly passionate about. She was laughing, and maybe crying just a little, when Jim sidled up, looking like he had made the world, and it was good.
“So, I can never ever call you by your first name, can I?” She doesn’t think she can talk right now without her voice cracking, so she gives him a face.
“Oh, the eyebrow!” He slaps a hand over his heart. “He’s been teaching you. Wish he’d teach me. I can’t pull it off. You can, s’good on you.” He’s waving his hands in Spock’s general direction, at her face, back to Spock. “You guys are perfect together, y’know. Really, I’m jealous.”
“Really?” she laughs, because, really, Kirk has his pick, and picks whomever he pleases. He squints, pulls his mouth across his face and nods empathetically.
“Oh, yeah. Really.” His hand rests in the crook of her elbow as he leans in close, smelling like whiskey and cologne and sweat. “I mean, who wouldn’t want a piece of that Vulcan?” Jim’s voice slides up into a valley drawl and his grin is painted wide. “He’s hot!” She’s laughing again, with no edge of tears, and Jim laughs just as hard, forehead resting on her shoulder, hand still tucked neatly into her arm. Spock is watching, she can see though her eyelashes, with one of those tiny smiles of heat and promise.
The first night back on the Enterprise she walked into the mess to see Jim and Spock, heads nearly meeting over something the captain was scribbling on a napkin. Spock looked up, said something, Jim looked up, smiling, and their faces were so close. She melted back into the hall, trying to walk with purpose. She asked, in bed, when their limbs were tangled into artistic contrasts, what had been on the napkin.
“Pick-up lines,” Spock mutters into her hair, and she can feel his lips curve. She wants to dismiss it, to laugh at the boyish man, but, “To use on me? Or you?”
“I doubt that he knows himself.” She laughs because it’s true.
But he doesn’t let up. He jokes and insinuates and wheedles and fucks any number of willing women and the occasional man (she is the communications officer, she does hear things) and keeps wandering back to them. Flirting not with her or him, but them both, sometimes bashful, sometimes arrogant. He was like a puppy. A clever, horny, emotional puppy in charge of a spaceship. Jim was charming, obviously, he was loyal and strong and unpredictable, but Nyota was in love with Spock. Fascinating, focussed, hot-skinned Spock, who never seemed threatened or offended by Jim’s assorted advances. So, maybe it had come up in conversation, when they were alone. One night, to get it over with, to deal with whatever Jim’s issue was and maybe get on with a sort of normal relationship. It had seemed simple, rational even, when they had decided together.
By the eighteenth night, she knew the thumb trick, but wanted Spock to learn the pinky trick. And while he was here, she may as well teach Jim the interesting hip twist that might have been specific to half-Vulcan, half-humans, but was too good not to share. That was just good karma. It wasn’t until Nyota had lost track of the number of nights that she started to worry. When the nights of crazy, creative, complicated sex started to balance out with the nights Jim fell asleep, jaw tense and eyes red, pressed against her breasts or Spock’s back, she stopped worrying.
Whenever Spock had to go visit the colony, Jim was always there. His skin wasn’t as smooth and warm, his breathing wasn’t as calm, but he made her smile, and she made him smile and it wasn’t really cheating because they were both thinking about Spock. Whenever Jim was called away, to face another court martial or get another medal, she had all of Spock’s intensity and precision and bright brilliant passion to herself. Only problem was, she was always waiting for the third hand, for Jim’s insistent tongue.
When one of them was stuck on a planet, or in sickbay, mysteriously swollen or silently sweating, there was always someone there to hold on to, to whisper that everything would be alright. And she knew exactly what went on if she was ever away. In fact, Jim took great pride in recounting every single thing that had happened in graphic and tender detail. Kissing the corner of his eye usually shut him up, but so did anal penetration.
Spock kept track of everything, as he had been trained to, so he knew it was the 4873rd night when the woman he loved turned to him and gestured to the snoring head of the man he loved.
“How the hell did that happen?” She sounds more shocked then annoyed. Her skin is glistening, still, with sweat and Jim’s freckled shoulder is warm under his hand.
“I do not know,” he admits. “I think he cheated.”