Fic: Nature, Structure, Variation Of [Star Trek]
So I've now seen Star Trek twice, and I'm looking to drag my dad to see it in IMAX soon, because it's just that amazing. I liked TOS mostly because it was funny to me in its over-the-topness, not to mention it was guaranteed time with my dad, but I never really got into any aspect of the franchise. This movie, though. THIS MOVIE. I loved the characters, the sets, the story -- everything about it, including the really nice way that they basically gave themselves a clean slate regarding how the rest of this franchise will develop. I'm really looking forward to seeing the directions they take their versions of the crew, and I will definitely be seeing the current film at least once more in theatres (if I can swing it) and countless times once I own the DVD. Star Trek, you have won another fan.
And now, because I am a slash fangirl and a Sometimes Writer of Fic (i.e. Porn), the logical product of me finding another shiny new fandom to latch on to, especially one with boys as pretty as Chris Pine (who I would gladly do six ways from Sunday, thank you very much):
Title: Nature, Structure, Variation Of
Fandom: Star Trek (new movie 'verse)
Pairing/Rating: Kirk/Spock, NC-17
Word Count: 1,506. Of nothing but porn. Why has this become my default? I once had standards, I swear.
Date Completed: 14 May 2009
Disclaimer: These people? Aren't mine.
Author's Notes: Originally written for st_xi_kink for the prompt of "Kirk/Spock -- Kirk straddling Spock in the Captain's chair and talking dirty," but renamed since then because, um, I like this title better? No one really knows. Not sure about my Spock characterization here, but I'm too busy to fiddle with him more. I'll make it better if I write something not straight porn, and yes, I know that's an awful attitude to have. You should note that: a) this goes on for far too long, and b) I've never written any form of dirty talk before, so this is way out there for me and may not come off the best. Also, unbeta-ed aside from self-grammar checks (like always) with gratuitous abuse of italics, description, and bottom!Kirk, who I seem to have a really huge affinity for. You have been warned.
It is only logical, Spock presumes, that Kirk’s lack of control in standard ship operations and general daily routine would extend to his sex life. It is the transitive property at its most basic: If situation a (anything tense, like near-death experiences, that the Enterprise encounters) results in the dramatic loss, b, of Kirk’s hold over himself, and situation a is comparable to situation c (sex) in that they increase Kirk’s adrenaline and endorphin levels exponentially, then, logically, a = b = c, with the end result being that Kirk loses all control in the bedroom.
What is illogical, though, is Spock’s response to Kirk like this, even if this isn’t quite a bedroom and is more or less the observation deck. Namely, Kirk’s chair on said observation deck. Namely, Kirk’s thighs pressed hot and tight around Spock’s own as Kirk straddles him in said chair on said observation deck.
It’s a tight fit. Ordinarily, the chair seems almost too-big, a broad expanse that Kirk has to sprawl in, loose-limbed and lazy and utterly unprofessional, to even remotely fill. Now, though, Spock is pressed tightly against the back, Kirk hovering over him and closing him off, and Spock wonders when the chair got to be so small. It must have been, he concludes, right about when Kirk first shoved him back and crowded over him, eyes gleaming and smirk twisting his lips. Or maybe when Kirk climbed on top of him, shins folded and tucked under himself so that he was straddling Spock, Kirk’s thighs two lines of too-warm pressure on either side of Spock’s legs. Or maybe when Kirk bent, folded himself in even more, and started kissing along Spock’s jaw-line, effectively shrinking Spock’s world to the heat of Kirk’s lips and tongue on his skin, the sting of Kirk’s nipping teeth.
Or maybe it’s now, when Kirk moves to suck his way down the line of Spock’s throat and Spock can hear him talking. And that’s what’s most illogical about this whole situation: The words spilling out of Kirk’s mouth and landing right on Spock’s skin aren’t remotely beautiful or harmonious or nice, but Spock can’t get enough of them, can feel they way they make him flush with arousal. They’re vulgarities, all God, you’re fucking sexy like this, so hard and hot under me and want to mark you, suck a bruise here and here and hereherehere so they know you’re mine and taste so fucking good, God. They’re slang on top of crass slang, linguistic destruction to a language Spock already finds mildly unappealing, but they’re still able to make him twitch, to make him move his hands up to grip Kirk’s hips and pull him (laughing, the insufferable man) closer.
Kirk leans back for just a moment and tugs off first his shirt, then Spock’s, and then he’s back. His mouth is still hot and slick as he moves to Spock’s collarbone, biting and leaving a shinywet trail of spit on Spock’s skin. He brings a hand up to rub Spock’s chest, tweak his nipple, and his words change, less ownership and mine and more want, more helpless lust. Want you to fuck me, Kirk says, and Spock’s fingers twitch against the bones of Kirk’s pelvis. Kirk laughs: I do, I really fucking do. I think about it all goddamn day, your fingers, your cock, inside my ass, hot and stretching and so fucking perfect. He reaches down and grabs one Spock’s hands, pulls it up to kiss each of Spock’s fingers.
At this point, Spock has basically given up on trying to find the logic in this situation. It terrifies him a bit, how easily Kirk makes it for him to lose all logic beyond the weak postulation running through his mind now: If it feels good on both accounts, it must be okay, must be acceptable, must be right. It’s an awful conclusion, rudimentary and flawed, but even if Spock is still aware of himself enough to recognize that much, he doesn’t care enough at this point to do anything about it. Especially not when Kirk swirls his tongue, hot and slick and teasing, around the tip of Spock’s index finger.
Kirk mutters something about love your fingers, God, want to grab you sometimes during the day and just feel them, just run my hands and my tongue over them until I know every groove of every print. He sucks vigorously on two of Spock’s fingers as if to prove his point, eyes falling shut as Spock, consumed by a fit of Kirk’s trademark impatience, moves his free hand from Kirk’s hip to pull at the front of his trousers. He tugs at the button until it finally gives and Kirk’s dick springs free. Spock grabs it and squeezes, feels it hot and slick in his hand, just to watch Kirk’s face go slack with pleasure and feel his groan echo and vibrate around the fingers still shoved into his mouth.
Kirk’s hips push forward, wanton and desperate and uncontrollable. His mouth falls open and Spock’s fingers slip free, still glistening and slippery with spit. Spock moves it down Kirk’s body and changes his grip, uses the saliva to ease the slide of his fist along Kirk’s dick while his other hand tugs at his own trousers. When he finally gets them open and pulls his own cock out, he releases Kirk. Kirk moans a bit at the loss of heat around him, but quickly begins rutting against Spock. His hips move in short, fast bursts that make the chair squeak and rock just a bit, but they bring their cocks to rub against each other, and it’s enough.
Kirk’s head has fallen to rest on Spock’s shoulder again, neck bowed and sweaty where Spock places a hand on it as if to steady it. Kirk’s mouth is back on Spock’s throat, telling him how he wants your cock, God, feels so good, want it inside me, fucking my ass or my throat, whatever, just want it, and Jesus, fuck, do that again. He’s not even really saying the words at this point, just mouthing them desperately against Spock’s skin, but Spock’s a trained linguist who can accurately decipher countless alien dialects. Besides, the language of sex is easy (especially with the frantic press of Kirk’s hips and cock against him, the whimpers now coming harshly from Kirk’s mouth, the way his entire body twitches and jerks when Spock gives in and wraps his hand around them both), and Spock thinks he more than comprehends Kirk’s intended message.
Spock pumps them together, grip hot and shifting, wrist twisting a bit on the upstroke the way he’s learned Kirk likes. Kirk responds the same way as all the other times they’ve done this (logic, Spock thinks, probably a bit too triumphantly for someone who has slowly lost much of the emotional control he prides himself on). He whines and shoves down into Spock as much as his folded-up position in Spock’s lap will allow, and after a few more strokes, he bites down a cry on the junction of Spock’s shoulder and neck and comes.
Spock keeps moving his hand, its motion eased by the slickness of Kirk’s come, but Kirk has fallen silent as he normally does post-orgasm and Spock finds that for some (stupid, illogical, and there goes his earlier triumph) reason, it’s not enough anymore. He wants more than the pull of his own hand, the jerk of his wrist, but he still has enough emotional restraint that he doesn’t know how to ask.
Apparently, though, Kirk is more intuitive about these things than Spock had initially assumed because he’s sitting up now, leaning back so that Spock can see the grin spread wide and wicked over his face as he starts to run his mouth again. Come on, he says, and then want to feel you, want to see your face when you come, want to see it again when I lick your fingers clean, come on. And it’s strange, weird and vaguely disturbing, to Spock that he wants that, too, but he can’t help it, he does. His hips buck involuntarily forward and Kirk laughs again, vulgarities still flowing from his mouth like everything dirty and lustful and human, and Spock leans forward to kiss him, to shut him up as Spock jerks and comes between them.
When Spock comes down from orgasm, Kirk is nibbling slightly on his jaw-line again. The space in the chair is still cramped, now too-hot from body heat, and the metal sides are humid and sticky when Spock’s arm brushes against them. Still, Spock is sated, pleasant and comfortable in a way that’s illogical, but also paradoxically right, and the human part of Spock, the one he normally works so hard to repress, is not about to give up the warm weight of Kirk in his lap, the cocky and something indefinable smile Kirk’s flashing him now: he’s not about to give up them, however irrational it might be.