(no subject)
Title: Any Given Moment 1/1
Author: Razzle
Pairing: Kirk/Spock, Spock/Uhura (non-explicit)
Rating: NC17
Summary: Spock considered carefully before responding. “I suppose I may never understand cheating.” Kirk nodded slightly, “Give it time.”
AN: Betad by pinikir. Summary is from the Star Trek audiobook.
Warnings: Angst. Seriously. Lots.
Further A/N: Accompanying music: LaRoux, Cover My Eyes.
Spock was well aware that it had not been prudent to become involved with one of his students. Logic had not even entered into it; the illogic of ignoring their mutual attraction easily balanced out any logical objection. It was never logic that had given Spock pause, only prudence and a professional appreciation for the questions of morality surrounding their relationship.
Eventually, attempts at avoidance of favouritism notwithstanding, they had succumbed to their drives and he allowed his relationship with Uhura to progress. Sensibly, appropriately and logically.
Logic is, on the other hand, everything that is contrary to James Kirk. Logically, Spock believes, he should not even like this man. He’s not even sure that he does, aside from the grudging respect that the captain has earned with his blood, his sweat and his fury. But he is drawn to the other man, with a complete lack of logic, and finds he enjoys the captain’s attention: invests in his good opinion; more so even than he had with Captain Pike, a man he had called friend for many years.
In the space of his own mind, Spock is short with himself; frustrated at the lack of sense with which he acts as regards his captain.
Spock is not himself. He is snippy and sarcastic; making unexpected jokes and finding himself tempted to smile. At one point he even makes an innuendo, so out of character it’s almost invisible, which leaves Dr McCoy gaping and Kirk nearly hyperventilating with laughter.
He knows, somehow, that he is seeking their approval. And when has he ever needed such validation? It isn’t like him.
If there is one thing that is constant, it is the reliability of this Vulcan; the knowledge that he will keep his word until the moment the world depends upon its breaking. He does not make light of faith in him. He is… faithful. He reminds himself of this, alone in his quarters at night, when he pulls his hand back and chases unwelcome images from his mind. Frames of his commanding officer’s half-imagined expressions of exertion and ecstasy fade, gently, eventually, to leave only the lingering reflection of shame.
These impure thoughts; these covetous moments; they are akin to infidelity; and that is not like him at all.
#
It is an entirely ordinary day, when it happens. The world isn’t ending. Aliens don’t have control of their bodies or their minds. They aren’t stuck on some godforsaken rock, sharing body heat to stave off impending hypothermia and neither man has been forced into recognition of their emotions by alcohol, pon farr, or the near-death of the other.
There is nothing to explain or excuse their crime; nothing but the deafening roar of blood in Spock’s ears as he stands just a little too close to James Kirk and lets the human fill up his senses.
Catching Spock’s eyes, Kirk seems to lose track of whatever point he has been trying to make and that is, essentially, that. Some terrible, unlikely lie leads the way to Kirk’s quarters. Instinct leads them to bed and then Kirk is next to him, under him, bucking and moaning, sounding nothing like he has in Spock’s dreams and so much better that he can only curse the limitations of his poor imagination.
Jim’s body is heat and argument against his own; his thighs are raw muscle clamped around Spock’s hips. He never acquiesces; at every moment they fight and resist falling completely into madness, every second until Jim arches; bright blue eyes wide and tilting out of sight. His pulse reaches a crescendo under Spock’s thumb and when nails bite the Vulcan’s bicep, he comes.
#
Spock tries not to look behind himself. Kirk is still a slowly-moving nonsense in the crater of ravaged sheets, ground zero of a catastrophe. He lies, bright and golden with sweat and the glow of ecstasy still about him. To look upon him would severely lessen the claims of ignorance that sit on Spock’s lips.
Spock sits with his back to Kirk and pulls on his shirt.
“Forgive me, Captain,” he says, flinching invisibly at the shake in his own voice. “I do not know what has caused me to behave in this fashion.” He feels, or hears, Jim shift behind him. “I would… I believe I would appreciate it if this were not to become common knowledge.” He can even hear the smacking of Kirk’s lips
“Don’t tell Uhura, got it,” Kirk supplies. “Believe it or not, I can be discreet. - It’s not my first time.”
Spock nods, without knowing if Kirk is looking, and trying not to prickle at the implication of Kirk’s promiscuity.
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jim says, a touch of laughter lightening his voice, pricking at Spock’s ears. “Call me Jim.”
Spock pulls on his other boot and leaves without another word.
#
The world has changed and nobody seems to have noticed. The crew don’t treat them any differently. Nobody looks at them as if they know that Spock has been inside his Captain, that he knows how the fine young creature feels around him, how he sounds when he comes.
Because they don’t, of course. Captain James T Kirk is as good as his word; if he had told anybody, everybody would know by now; not even Dr McCoy shows the slightest hint of awareness, so Spock is gratefully certain that the Captain has kept his promise.
But it has changed. It is different. He’s not himself.
#
Spock has never treated Uhura poorly. He has always been attentive, involved and kind. But he has never been romantic. Romance is not something that comes naturally to him. And yet he finds himself making gestures that could easily be considered so. He applies himself with the usual vigour, researching thoroughly in order to provide himself with the widest and most extensive list of appropriate romantic gestures, referencing what he knows of the lieutenant to be confident that each offering will be well received.
He buys her gifts, when the opportunity arises, maintaining a careful balance between the gratuitous usage of credits on frivolities that are aesthetically pleasing and smaller, much less expensive items that carry a far greater implication of being particularly ‘thoughtful’.
It brings him undeniable pleasure to see her pleased with these things; to watch her coo over fabrics and jewellery (earrings are always a confident purchase) with her friends, and to reap the soft smiles and warm rewards in private.
But the gestures are not merely physical; he pays her attention, takes her out on what might be considered ‘dates’. He talks to her and he listens. In silence, in gratuities, he apologises a hundred times for a single transgression about which she has no knowledge at all.
#
One transgression becomes two, and this one at least has a little poetic justification. They are on an away mission, scheduled to last for several days. But the days on the planet are short and there’s a terrible kind of jet lag that starts to set in as they try and sleep to their hosts’ arrangements. They can’t sleep easily, and Jim, especially, is uncontrollably fidgety.
Spock wants to meditate, at least, but he can’t ignore the repeated shifting, the clicks of the stylus as Kirk reads, almost silently. Kirk barely says a word to him and they’re not the kind of things that would usually disturb a meditative trance, but it’s so innately distracting when they’re in the same room, their beds 0.673m apart. Every time Jim moves, Spock can smell the change in the air.
Kirk isn’t doing anything, then. He’s lying back in the bed (longer than any human needs, and unusually narrow to accommodate their tall, slender hosts. But he can’t sleep, so he shifts, repeatedly, turning over and moving his arms, tapping his fingers on his own chest and trying to find a comfortable position in which to stop.
Finally Spock cracks, he turns and stands, doesn’t even have time to straighten before he reaches the other bed and grips Kirk’s wrist. Kirk’s eyes widen before he smiles.
“Sorry, Spock, am I bugging you?” Spock doesn’t answer. “I wish I could go for a walk or something, tire myself out a bit,” Kirk goes on, twisting his wrist just a little, distractedly pulling to be released. Spock’s gaze is heavy upon him and his tone begins to lose confidence. “It’s the… damned planetary curfew…”
Spock’s mind is practically empty. He knows he has thoughts, but he can’t see them clearly. All he knows is the thrumming through his arteries, the pounding in his ears, electric pinpricks beneath his fingertips and he’s leaning over his Captain.
“Oh,” Kirk says, little more than whisper, and the innocent surprise in his voice would be amusing, if Spock were capable of feeling such an emotion at this time. “Spock…”
Spock just shakes his head; then his lips are on Kirk’s and the Captain isn’t moving away. Spock is a scientist; he’s all curiosity, so it’s an intellectual pleasure for him to learn how his Captain tastes; to kiss, lick and inhale his way down Jim’s body; pausing to drink in every subtle change. The more aroused he becomes, the more intriguing the captain smells. Every inch of him is a sweat-sheened sheet of tension, moving to the instruction of Spock’s fingertips, the gentle pull of his teeth and lips.
Jim tries to push them back, turn them over, but Spock’s hands are confident discouragement, holding his hips down to the bed. He finds out, too, how the warm, solid length of Kirk’s cock feels against his tongue and revels in how sweetly Jim moans, trusting him implicitly and effortlessly relinquishing control.
Kirk’s fingers cradle his skull; guiding Spock in his worship and sending delicate sparks whispering through his hair and across the tips of sensitive ears. When Kirk comes, Spock is already shaking, closing down on climax as he drinks his captain down. He follows the pull at his neck to lift up over Jim, who half-sits, crushing their mouths together as their hands fight to be the one to bring on Spock’s own orgasm.
Blue eyes tilt down and Spock watches the look of almost innocent shock on the young man’s face as Spock’s come paints the flushed muscles of his abdomen. Kirk’s hand is still on the back of his neck; his thumb nestled behind Spock’s ear as their gazes lift to meet once more. A smile quirks Jim’s open mouth for a fraction of a second then is gone as he takes a deeper, contemplative breath. Spock stops it with another hungry kiss.
The beds are too narrow for both of them to occupy, so Spock can’t curl up beside the man and sleep in a twist of forbidden flesh. But really, that’s a good thing, because their accommodation doesn’t lock; their hosts would be likely to witness something inexplicable, come morning.
A convenient excuse, perhaps. Of course, this thing between them isn’t like that.
#
It is never spoken of. Not before, not after and most certainly not during. Never.
Kirk tries; maybe the fourth or fifth time they find themselves wrapped around each other. Kirk tries to smile, to push Spock away and make some light remark. They’re not even hidden; they’re barely out of sight, crammed behind a bulkhead on a deserted deck, Kirk crushed between the wall and his first officer. Spock assaults Kirk’s mouth, grinding harder as Jim’s fingers twist in his hair.
Until Kirk tightens his fingers and pulls Spock back, dragging their mouths apart despite obvious mutual reluctance.
“Spock,” Jim croaks out, holding the Vulcan’s head in his hands. “Spock, wait…”
But Spock won’t wait; he has no interest in Kirk’s objections, he only wants to know about the taste of Jim’s mouth today, the heat beneath his fingertips, the sparks under his lips.
“Spock,” Kirk pants, as Spock opens his mouth over his captain’s neck, wet passion in a mimicry of vampiric seduction. “I don’t want to hurt…”
Spock shoves Kirk’s leg to the side, presses against him so hard that their breath is stolen in moments of helpless need. Those are the last words spoken.
#
It’s like a furious blush, the heat creeping up his neck and across his ears; something like embarrassment, or guilt is such things were familiar to him, only more so. More… focused. To pretend it came from anywhere other than the sight before him would be illogical; the temporal correlation is too precise to be coincidence. The sight is… disquieting.
Dr McCoy has apparently been practising his subtle approach, as Spock is nearly startled when the doctor appears at his shoulder.
“You know, I have no idea how close you have to be for that telepathy doohickey of yours to work, but if you think staring at the back of her head is going to make her turn around, you might be there for a while.”
“I was not attempting to influence the lieutenant in any way,” Spock states, without a hint of affront.
“Oh, no,” Dr McCoy replies, sounding familiarly unconvinced, “No, I’m sure. But I’d wager you’d be a mite happier if she came over of her own accord, no?”
“Lieutenant Uhura seems quite content conversing with the captain,” Spock says levelly, not taking his eyes off the laughing pair on the other side of the mess hall. “I see no advantage in disturbing her.”
Dr McCoy nods sagely, “A very mature approach,” he says, and although it’s a compliment, Spock can’t help but detect the tease beneath the surface, again. They stand in silence for a moment, as Spock tries to formulate an excuse to leave.
“You know,” Bones starts again, after a moment or two, and his tone is surprisingly, genuinely delicate. “I’ve seen Jim crawl away back from a couple of asskickings, courtesy of a few disgruntled spouses. He might let the little captain pilot the whole ship a tad too often, but I've never seen him once go after someone he knew was spoken for. In case you were of a mind to worry,” he adds casually.
“Thanks you, Doctor,” Spock concludes. “I am not concerned.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Dr McCoy says, a smile pinching the corner of his mouth. “What colour do jealous Vulcans turn?”
“Excuse me, Doctor,” Spock replies, nodding sharply and walking away without the excuse. Jealousy is not in his nature. Neither, he considers, as Jim leans in to whisper something to Uhura, is anxiety.
He meets Kirk’s eyes as he leaves the party, not too much later, with his hand in the small of Uhura’s back. There’s something there and it’s only from a distance that he realises how familiar it has become. There’s something hollow in it; distant, like the smile gracing those full, familiar lips doesn’t quite reflect in the hypnotic blue of his eyes.
Those eyes flicker down, briefly, so briefly it would take inhuman powers of observation to note their hesitation on the fingers resting on Uhura’s hips, before lifting up to Bones for smiles and laughter that carry on without them.
But even from this distance, in profile, still walking away and letting Nyota pass through the door in front of him, Spock can tell that the glitter is gone.
#
Nyota is talking, peeling off her clothes unprovocatively, folding them and hanging them in her wardrobe as she shares with him something that’s as close to gossip as she ever gets. The crew of some ship or other has discovered a new intelligent life form and not reported it thoroughly, leaving others wondering why and what they’re still doing in orbit and whispering about the prime directive and are you even listening to me?
Spock is sitting on the end of her bed, lost in thoughts that he doesn’t dare to touch, lest he turn and show their true faces. He hasn’t undressed, though his clothes feel tight around his neck and his hands itch where he rubs them together.
He blinks, finally realising what she said, but not before a hand lands gently on his shoulder.
“Hey, are you still with me?”
“My apologies, Nyota,” he says with a sigh. “I am somewhat preoccupied.”
“I can see that,” she says kindly. “It’s not like you. What’s wrong?”
He opens his mouth and closes it again.
“Is it the captain?” she asks gently. He turns to her, and it’s as close to incredulous as he has ever looked. They don’t have rabbits on Vulcan, but many animals can be startled by the halogen lamps that guide a shuttle in the dark. Spock mimics one well.
“It still feels strange to call him that,” she admits, squeezing his shoulder. “I’m worried about him, too,” she admits. “He’s not himself. He’s fine on the job, way better than I thought he’d be, you know? And he’s still the big brash farm boy most of the time but… do you ever think a part of him has sort of been… defeated? If I didn’t know him better, I’d say he’d been brought down by a woman.”
“But you know him better,” Spock supplies. She shakes her head thoughtfully.
“There’s only room for one girl under his skin and you’re sitting in her,” she suggests. She smiles fondly at his lack of comprehension. “The Enterprise, Spock,” she spells out. “She’s wormed her way into his heart; maybe she’s the only one who can break it.”
He nods slowly. Her hand returns to his shoulder, fingers moving across his neck. Distantly, he notices that her touch is nothing more than skin against skin; he can’t currently recall if there was ever fire between her flesh and his own. He never missed it before.
“Are you going to stay?” she asks, and he’s not so cold as to miss the seductive tone.
“I… my thoughts are disjointed,” he replies. “I believe I would benefit from a period of reflection.” He turns to her. “I am sorry.”
She is a fine woman; her disappointment is evident but not reproachful.
“I got it,” she says with a sigh and a smile. “You go meditate, I’ll still be here tomorrow.”
Her kiss is warm, familiar and full of love as she sees him out.
#
In the small hours, reflection leads him to his captain. There are words on the tip of his tongue: excuses, questions and promises. But low in his belly, arousal builds, a microcosm of the cyclical madness, perpetuated by the promise of the man.
His road is paved with good intentions, but each time, the final step is a slip and he is left with nothing but the want.
Jim Kirk stands before him in the doorway, clad only in black: an understated shadow with no authority.
“No.”
Spock’s brow tightens; he’s sure he has said nothing, made no suggestion or request that could be denied. His head tilts.
“Captain, I merely wished to…”
“No.”
His eyes are dark, that Iowa-sky blue is scattered with rainclouds. His shoulders are low; his whole body a storm.
“Jim?” he reaches out, his fingers uncurling toward Jim’s face to wipe away the weather. It’s something painful that rumbles through him as his friend flinches away, jerking back before the Vulcan can touch him.
“No.”
There is nothing in Jim’s tone and no anger in his touch as he pushes the button to the left of the door and it closes in front of Spock’s eyes.
In one moment, Spock knows himself. He is the storm, the pressure and the lightning. He is the tipping point and the unpredictable element.
He is a liar, a cheat and a breaker of hearts. He is greedy and afraid and he doesn’t know what to do to stop himself.
He has no plan, no certainties, no way to calculate the odds.
And that is not like him at all.
The End.
Author: Razzle
Pairing: Kirk/Spock, Spock/Uhura (non-explicit)
Rating: NC17
Summary: Spock considered carefully before responding. “I suppose I may never understand cheating.” Kirk nodded slightly, “Give it time.”
AN: Betad by pinikir. Summary is from the Star Trek audiobook.
Warnings: Angst. Seriously. Lots.
Further A/N: Accompanying music: LaRoux, Cover My Eyes.
Spock was well aware that it had not been prudent to become involved with one of his students. Logic had not even entered into it; the illogic of ignoring their mutual attraction easily balanced out any logical objection. It was never logic that had given Spock pause, only prudence and a professional appreciation for the questions of morality surrounding their relationship.
Eventually, attempts at avoidance of favouritism notwithstanding, they had succumbed to their drives and he allowed his relationship with Uhura to progress. Sensibly, appropriately and logically.
Logic is, on the other hand, everything that is contrary to James Kirk. Logically, Spock believes, he should not even like this man. He’s not even sure that he does, aside from the grudging respect that the captain has earned with his blood, his sweat and his fury. But he is drawn to the other man, with a complete lack of logic, and finds he enjoys the captain’s attention: invests in his good opinion; more so even than he had with Captain Pike, a man he had called friend for many years.
In the space of his own mind, Spock is short with himself; frustrated at the lack of sense with which he acts as regards his captain.
Spock is not himself. He is snippy and sarcastic; making unexpected jokes and finding himself tempted to smile. At one point he even makes an innuendo, so out of character it’s almost invisible, which leaves Dr McCoy gaping and Kirk nearly hyperventilating with laughter.
He knows, somehow, that he is seeking their approval. And when has he ever needed such validation? It isn’t like him.
If there is one thing that is constant, it is the reliability of this Vulcan; the knowledge that he will keep his word until the moment the world depends upon its breaking. He does not make light of faith in him. He is… faithful. He reminds himself of this, alone in his quarters at night, when he pulls his hand back and chases unwelcome images from his mind. Frames of his commanding officer’s half-imagined expressions of exertion and ecstasy fade, gently, eventually, to leave only the lingering reflection of shame.
These impure thoughts; these covetous moments; they are akin to infidelity; and that is not like him at all.
#
It is an entirely ordinary day, when it happens. The world isn’t ending. Aliens don’t have control of their bodies or their minds. They aren’t stuck on some godforsaken rock, sharing body heat to stave off impending hypothermia and neither man has been forced into recognition of their emotions by alcohol, pon farr, or the near-death of the other.
There is nothing to explain or excuse their crime; nothing but the deafening roar of blood in Spock’s ears as he stands just a little too close to James Kirk and lets the human fill up his senses.
Catching Spock’s eyes, Kirk seems to lose track of whatever point he has been trying to make and that is, essentially, that. Some terrible, unlikely lie leads the way to Kirk’s quarters. Instinct leads them to bed and then Kirk is next to him, under him, bucking and moaning, sounding nothing like he has in Spock’s dreams and so much better that he can only curse the limitations of his poor imagination.
Jim’s body is heat and argument against his own; his thighs are raw muscle clamped around Spock’s hips. He never acquiesces; at every moment they fight and resist falling completely into madness, every second until Jim arches; bright blue eyes wide and tilting out of sight. His pulse reaches a crescendo under Spock’s thumb and when nails bite the Vulcan’s bicep, he comes.
#
Spock tries not to look behind himself. Kirk is still a slowly-moving nonsense in the crater of ravaged sheets, ground zero of a catastrophe. He lies, bright and golden with sweat and the glow of ecstasy still about him. To look upon him would severely lessen the claims of ignorance that sit on Spock’s lips.
Spock sits with his back to Kirk and pulls on his shirt.
“Forgive me, Captain,” he says, flinching invisibly at the shake in his own voice. “I do not know what has caused me to behave in this fashion.” He feels, or hears, Jim shift behind him. “I would… I believe I would appreciate it if this were not to become common knowledge.” He can even hear the smacking of Kirk’s lips
“Don’t tell Uhura, got it,” Kirk supplies. “Believe it or not, I can be discreet. - It’s not my first time.”
Spock nods, without knowing if Kirk is looking, and trying not to prickle at the implication of Kirk’s promiscuity.
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Jim says, a touch of laughter lightening his voice, pricking at Spock’s ears. “Call me Jim.”
Spock pulls on his other boot and leaves without another word.
#
The world has changed and nobody seems to have noticed. The crew don’t treat them any differently. Nobody looks at them as if they know that Spock has been inside his Captain, that he knows how the fine young creature feels around him, how he sounds when he comes.
Because they don’t, of course. Captain James T Kirk is as good as his word; if he had told anybody, everybody would know by now; not even Dr McCoy shows the slightest hint of awareness, so Spock is gratefully certain that the Captain has kept his promise.
But it has changed. It is different. He’s not himself.
#
Spock has never treated Uhura poorly. He has always been attentive, involved and kind. But he has never been romantic. Romance is not something that comes naturally to him. And yet he finds himself making gestures that could easily be considered so. He applies himself with the usual vigour, researching thoroughly in order to provide himself with the widest and most extensive list of appropriate romantic gestures, referencing what he knows of the lieutenant to be confident that each offering will be well received.
He buys her gifts, when the opportunity arises, maintaining a careful balance between the gratuitous usage of credits on frivolities that are aesthetically pleasing and smaller, much less expensive items that carry a far greater implication of being particularly ‘thoughtful’.
It brings him undeniable pleasure to see her pleased with these things; to watch her coo over fabrics and jewellery (earrings are always a confident purchase) with her friends, and to reap the soft smiles and warm rewards in private.
But the gestures are not merely physical; he pays her attention, takes her out on what might be considered ‘dates’. He talks to her and he listens. In silence, in gratuities, he apologises a hundred times for a single transgression about which she has no knowledge at all.
#
One transgression becomes two, and this one at least has a little poetic justification. They are on an away mission, scheduled to last for several days. But the days on the planet are short and there’s a terrible kind of jet lag that starts to set in as they try and sleep to their hosts’ arrangements. They can’t sleep easily, and Jim, especially, is uncontrollably fidgety.
Spock wants to meditate, at least, but he can’t ignore the repeated shifting, the clicks of the stylus as Kirk reads, almost silently. Kirk barely says a word to him and they’re not the kind of things that would usually disturb a meditative trance, but it’s so innately distracting when they’re in the same room, their beds 0.673m apart. Every time Jim moves, Spock can smell the change in the air.
Kirk isn’t doing anything, then. He’s lying back in the bed (longer than any human needs, and unusually narrow to accommodate their tall, slender hosts. But he can’t sleep, so he shifts, repeatedly, turning over and moving his arms, tapping his fingers on his own chest and trying to find a comfortable position in which to stop.
Finally Spock cracks, he turns and stands, doesn’t even have time to straighten before he reaches the other bed and grips Kirk’s wrist. Kirk’s eyes widen before he smiles.
“Sorry, Spock, am I bugging you?” Spock doesn’t answer. “I wish I could go for a walk or something, tire myself out a bit,” Kirk goes on, twisting his wrist just a little, distractedly pulling to be released. Spock’s gaze is heavy upon him and his tone begins to lose confidence. “It’s the… damned planetary curfew…”
Spock’s mind is practically empty. He knows he has thoughts, but he can’t see them clearly. All he knows is the thrumming through his arteries, the pounding in his ears, electric pinpricks beneath his fingertips and he’s leaning over his Captain.
“Oh,” Kirk says, little more than whisper, and the innocent surprise in his voice would be amusing, if Spock were capable of feeling such an emotion at this time. “Spock…”
Spock just shakes his head; then his lips are on Kirk’s and the Captain isn’t moving away. Spock is a scientist; he’s all curiosity, so it’s an intellectual pleasure for him to learn how his Captain tastes; to kiss, lick and inhale his way down Jim’s body; pausing to drink in every subtle change. The more aroused he becomes, the more intriguing the captain smells. Every inch of him is a sweat-sheened sheet of tension, moving to the instruction of Spock’s fingertips, the gentle pull of his teeth and lips.
Jim tries to push them back, turn them over, but Spock’s hands are confident discouragement, holding his hips down to the bed. He finds out, too, how the warm, solid length of Kirk’s cock feels against his tongue and revels in how sweetly Jim moans, trusting him implicitly and effortlessly relinquishing control.
Kirk’s fingers cradle his skull; guiding Spock in his worship and sending delicate sparks whispering through his hair and across the tips of sensitive ears. When Kirk comes, Spock is already shaking, closing down on climax as he drinks his captain down. He follows the pull at his neck to lift up over Jim, who half-sits, crushing their mouths together as their hands fight to be the one to bring on Spock’s own orgasm.
Blue eyes tilt down and Spock watches the look of almost innocent shock on the young man’s face as Spock’s come paints the flushed muscles of his abdomen. Kirk’s hand is still on the back of his neck; his thumb nestled behind Spock’s ear as their gazes lift to meet once more. A smile quirks Jim’s open mouth for a fraction of a second then is gone as he takes a deeper, contemplative breath. Spock stops it with another hungry kiss.
The beds are too narrow for both of them to occupy, so Spock can’t curl up beside the man and sleep in a twist of forbidden flesh. But really, that’s a good thing, because their accommodation doesn’t lock; their hosts would be likely to witness something inexplicable, come morning.
A convenient excuse, perhaps. Of course, this thing between them isn’t like that.
#
It is never spoken of. Not before, not after and most certainly not during. Never.
Kirk tries; maybe the fourth or fifth time they find themselves wrapped around each other. Kirk tries to smile, to push Spock away and make some light remark. They’re not even hidden; they’re barely out of sight, crammed behind a bulkhead on a deserted deck, Kirk crushed between the wall and his first officer. Spock assaults Kirk’s mouth, grinding harder as Jim’s fingers twist in his hair.
Until Kirk tightens his fingers and pulls Spock back, dragging their mouths apart despite obvious mutual reluctance.
“Spock,” Jim croaks out, holding the Vulcan’s head in his hands. “Spock, wait…”
But Spock won’t wait; he has no interest in Kirk’s objections, he only wants to know about the taste of Jim’s mouth today, the heat beneath his fingertips, the sparks under his lips.
“Spock,” Kirk pants, as Spock opens his mouth over his captain’s neck, wet passion in a mimicry of vampiric seduction. “I don’t want to hurt…”
Spock shoves Kirk’s leg to the side, presses against him so hard that their breath is stolen in moments of helpless need. Those are the last words spoken.
#
It’s like a furious blush, the heat creeping up his neck and across his ears; something like embarrassment, or guilt is such things were familiar to him, only more so. More… focused. To pretend it came from anywhere other than the sight before him would be illogical; the temporal correlation is too precise to be coincidence. The sight is… disquieting.
Dr McCoy has apparently been practising his subtle approach, as Spock is nearly startled when the doctor appears at his shoulder.
“You know, I have no idea how close you have to be for that telepathy doohickey of yours to work, but if you think staring at the back of her head is going to make her turn around, you might be there for a while.”
“I was not attempting to influence the lieutenant in any way,” Spock states, without a hint of affront.
“Oh, no,” Dr McCoy replies, sounding familiarly unconvinced, “No, I’m sure. But I’d wager you’d be a mite happier if she came over of her own accord, no?”
“Lieutenant Uhura seems quite content conversing with the captain,” Spock says levelly, not taking his eyes off the laughing pair on the other side of the mess hall. “I see no advantage in disturbing her.”
Dr McCoy nods sagely, “A very mature approach,” he says, and although it’s a compliment, Spock can’t help but detect the tease beneath the surface, again. They stand in silence for a moment, as Spock tries to formulate an excuse to leave.
“You know,” Bones starts again, after a moment or two, and his tone is surprisingly, genuinely delicate. “I’ve seen Jim crawl away back from a couple of asskickings, courtesy of a few disgruntled spouses. He might let the little captain pilot the whole ship a tad too often, but I've never seen him once go after someone he knew was spoken for. In case you were of a mind to worry,” he adds casually.
“Thanks you, Doctor,” Spock concludes. “I am not concerned.”
“Oh, that’s right,” Dr McCoy says, a smile pinching the corner of his mouth. “What colour do jealous Vulcans turn?”
“Excuse me, Doctor,” Spock replies, nodding sharply and walking away without the excuse. Jealousy is not in his nature. Neither, he considers, as Jim leans in to whisper something to Uhura, is anxiety.
He meets Kirk’s eyes as he leaves the party, not too much later, with his hand in the small of Uhura’s back. There’s something there and it’s only from a distance that he realises how familiar it has become. There’s something hollow in it; distant, like the smile gracing those full, familiar lips doesn’t quite reflect in the hypnotic blue of his eyes.
Those eyes flicker down, briefly, so briefly it would take inhuman powers of observation to note their hesitation on the fingers resting on Uhura’s hips, before lifting up to Bones for smiles and laughter that carry on without them.
But even from this distance, in profile, still walking away and letting Nyota pass through the door in front of him, Spock can tell that the glitter is gone.
#
Nyota is talking, peeling off her clothes unprovocatively, folding them and hanging them in her wardrobe as she shares with him something that’s as close to gossip as she ever gets. The crew of some ship or other has discovered a new intelligent life form and not reported it thoroughly, leaving others wondering why and what they’re still doing in orbit and whispering about the prime directive and are you even listening to me?
Spock is sitting on the end of her bed, lost in thoughts that he doesn’t dare to touch, lest he turn and show their true faces. He hasn’t undressed, though his clothes feel tight around his neck and his hands itch where he rubs them together.
He blinks, finally realising what she said, but not before a hand lands gently on his shoulder.
“Hey, are you still with me?”
“My apologies, Nyota,” he says with a sigh. “I am somewhat preoccupied.”
“I can see that,” she says kindly. “It’s not like you. What’s wrong?”
He opens his mouth and closes it again.
“Is it the captain?” she asks gently. He turns to her, and it’s as close to incredulous as he has ever looked. They don’t have rabbits on Vulcan, but many animals can be startled by the halogen lamps that guide a shuttle in the dark. Spock mimics one well.
“It still feels strange to call him that,” she admits, squeezing his shoulder. “I’m worried about him, too,” she admits. “He’s not himself. He’s fine on the job, way better than I thought he’d be, you know? And he’s still the big brash farm boy most of the time but… do you ever think a part of him has sort of been… defeated? If I didn’t know him better, I’d say he’d been brought down by a woman.”
“But you know him better,” Spock supplies. She shakes her head thoughtfully.
“There’s only room for one girl under his skin and you’re sitting in her,” she suggests. She smiles fondly at his lack of comprehension. “The Enterprise, Spock,” she spells out. “She’s wormed her way into his heart; maybe she’s the only one who can break it.”
He nods slowly. Her hand returns to his shoulder, fingers moving across his neck. Distantly, he notices that her touch is nothing more than skin against skin; he can’t currently recall if there was ever fire between her flesh and his own. He never missed it before.
“Are you going to stay?” she asks, and he’s not so cold as to miss the seductive tone.
“I… my thoughts are disjointed,” he replies. “I believe I would benefit from a period of reflection.” He turns to her. “I am sorry.”
She is a fine woman; her disappointment is evident but not reproachful.
“I got it,” she says with a sigh and a smile. “You go meditate, I’ll still be here tomorrow.”
Her kiss is warm, familiar and full of love as she sees him out.
#
In the small hours, reflection leads him to his captain. There are words on the tip of his tongue: excuses, questions and promises. But low in his belly, arousal builds, a microcosm of the cyclical madness, perpetuated by the promise of the man.
His road is paved with good intentions, but each time, the final step is a slip and he is left with nothing but the want.
Jim Kirk stands before him in the doorway, clad only in black: an understated shadow with no authority.
“No.”
Spock’s brow tightens; he’s sure he has said nothing, made no suggestion or request that could be denied. His head tilts.
“Captain, I merely wished to…”
“No.”
His eyes are dark, that Iowa-sky blue is scattered with rainclouds. His shoulders are low; his whole body a storm.
“Jim?” he reaches out, his fingers uncurling toward Jim’s face to wipe away the weather. It’s something painful that rumbles through him as his friend flinches away, jerking back before the Vulcan can touch him.
“No.”
There is nothing in Jim’s tone and no anger in his touch as he pushes the button to the left of the door and it closes in front of Spock’s eyes.
In one moment, Spock knows himself. He is the storm, the pressure and the lightning. He is the tipping point and the unpredictable element.
He is a liar, a cheat and a breaker of hearts. He is greedy and afraid and he doesn’t know what to do to stop himself.
He has no plan, no certainties, no way to calculate the odds.
And that is not like him at all.
The End.