FIC: Systematic Denial (The River in Egypt series, K/S)
Title: Systematic Denial
by Keelywolfe
Pairing: Spock/Kirk, Kirk/Spock Prime
NC-17
Summary: Spock's POV after 'Going Mental'.
Notes: Difficult to write a summary for this! Okay, it seems that this is going to be turning into a series that I am hereby dubbing 'The River In Egypt' series. This part isn't going to make much sense without reading the previous parts. It goes like this:
Part 1: Heat
Part 2: Going Mental
Later, when he meditated on the matter, he would consider it fortuitous that no one was in the hallway when he stumbled out into it. Despite his promotion, Kirk was still billeted in the cadet's quarters, the staggering losses to the Academy throwing it into such confusion that even the supposed hero of the event had to wait for his new appointment. There was no one to see his disarray, his struggle to compose himself as he strode quickly away from the cause of it.
Spock remembered little of the walk back to his own rooms, only his gratitude as he reached them, sealing the door behind him. The furnishings in his quarters were sparse and he paced between them, hardly aware of his own tight fists, his teeth clenched as he tried to get his breathing under control.
It was a useless endeavor; illogical to continue with the memories of the meld still fresh in his mind, with the taste of Kirk still on his tongue and unthinkingly, Spock licked his lips, thought he could still taste Kirk there or perhaps he was only remembering. Kirk's mouth sour with sleep, bitter with coffee and too much alcohol...soft with want, eager and willing. The desire to return was heavy in the back of his mind, calling to him like a homing beacon, vibrating in him.
No.
He could not, would not return, refused to give an already arrogant Kirk the satisfaction. Would not let Kirk believe there was something he had that Spock needed. Thought he needed. His brain still was not quite his own, hazy and logic was... faltering.
Memories that were not his own were still fresh in his mind, lingering there, unable to be purged as he had with Kirk, and he could feel it like it had just happened. Like he had just had Kirk on his knees, had him begging, and there was fire in his blood just thinking about it.
Fire in the blood; he'd read of the expression, never one that would be spoken aloud on Vulcan. He knew what it was though he'd never experienced it himself. Staggeringly apt for he could almost feel the burn traveling through his veins, scorching sensation pooling low in his stomach, lower, a hard aching between his legs that neither meditation nor logic could relieve.
He pulled at the collar of his uniform roughly, the fastenings parting beneath his fingers as he tugged it open. Generally, the climate in his quarters felt like an approximation of those on Vulcan but now he was perspiring, his clothing clinging to him uncomfortably. The sound of the zipper was strangely loud in the silent room, mingling with heaviness of his breathing, too-quick and sharp.
Unreasonable that he should be so affected and yet, the memory still clung, living it through someone else's eyes, the pink curl of Jim...of Kirk's tongue as he caught it between his teeth, the flicker of blue eyes closing, soft lips against his ear, murmuring, pleading.
It was not real, he reminded himself. Only shadowy leftovers from a precipitous mind meld. His visions of himself entwined with Kirk were only that, visions, of a future that no longer existed with a man who had never existed in this time line. That Kirk was not this one and he was not that Spock.
Yet his own memory was unfortunately fresh in his thoughts as well, the two blurring together, and there had been a Kirk in his arms, his Kirk, sleepy and willing, more than willing, staring up at him with smoky eyes that did not remember what Spock had seen, already the beginnings of that damnable smile curling into the corner of his mouth. The sheet had pooled low around his hips, far enough down that one could see that Kirk slept without the benefit of clothing and Spock could admit that he had looked. James Kirk was an undeniably attractive man to most humanoid species, particularly when he was sprawled back on his elbows, legs spread beneath the thin layer of a sheet and his mouth swollen from hard kisses, Spock's kisses, unintentional as they had been.
Spock could feel the tremor in his fingers as he slid them lightly down his chest, beneath the edges of his jacket and his undershirt was soft beneath them. Stimulating. Did not allow himself to consider what he was doing as he trailed them along the waistband of his trousers, untucking his shirt, pulling it aside so that he could reach bare skin. Dipping beneath the waistband and he caught his breath, heard the shudder in it as he gave in and undid the fastenings of his trousers. No more than that, the only tiny concession he was willing to make.
He pushed his hand inside to where his flesh ached, curled his hand around his erection and he had to stifle a hiss at the bright flare of pleasure, echoing the memory that was still playing out behind his eyes. His recollection, no, not his but he still recalled it, was of cooler skin, of a choked voice beneath him, but the touch of his own hand could carry him through. Spock stroked himself roughly, biting his lip against any sounds that tried to escape and he tasted the slight copper of his own blood, remembered the faint taste of crimson from too-hard kisses and bites.
He came to the thought of blue, blue eyes and incoherent whimpers, felt the hot splash of his semen over his knuckles as he choked out a cry, memories blending into a pastel smear as hot pleasure overtook him. The floor was hard beneath his knees and Spock did not recall when he fell to them, only struggling to catch his frantic breath, to rid himself of the whine edging each inhalation.
His clothing was clinging to him uncomfortably, his hand damp with his own fluids and Spock stripped off his jacket distastefully, wiping his hand on it before he placed it in the hamper. His thoughts were clearer, more focused, and it was easier to set those memories that weren't his aside, haphazardly for now and after he bathed, he would meditate on the matter and ensure that they would not trouble him further. And they would not. Of that, he was certain.
Stripping off the rest of his uniform, he sent it to follow the jacket before he stepped into the shower to clean himself, closed his eyes and did not allow any memories of blue eyes to trouble him.
Not even his own.
Read the Sequel
by Keelywolfe
Pairing: Spock/Kirk, Kirk/Spock Prime
NC-17
Summary: Spock's POV after 'Going Mental'.
Notes: Difficult to write a summary for this! Okay, it seems that this is going to be turning into a series that I am hereby dubbing 'The River In Egypt' series. This part isn't going to make much sense without reading the previous parts. It goes like this:
Part 1: Heat
Part 2: Going Mental
Later, when he meditated on the matter, he would consider it fortuitous that no one was in the hallway when he stumbled out into it. Despite his promotion, Kirk was still billeted in the cadet's quarters, the staggering losses to the Academy throwing it into such confusion that even the supposed hero of the event had to wait for his new appointment. There was no one to see his disarray, his struggle to compose himself as he strode quickly away from the cause of it.
Spock remembered little of the walk back to his own rooms, only his gratitude as he reached them, sealing the door behind him. The furnishings in his quarters were sparse and he paced between them, hardly aware of his own tight fists, his teeth clenched as he tried to get his breathing under control.
It was a useless endeavor; illogical to continue with the memories of the meld still fresh in his mind, with the taste of Kirk still on his tongue and unthinkingly, Spock licked his lips, thought he could still taste Kirk there or perhaps he was only remembering. Kirk's mouth sour with sleep, bitter with coffee and too much alcohol...soft with want, eager and willing. The desire to return was heavy in the back of his mind, calling to him like a homing beacon, vibrating in him.
No.
He could not, would not return, refused to give an already arrogant Kirk the satisfaction. Would not let Kirk believe there was something he had that Spock needed. Thought he needed. His brain still was not quite his own, hazy and logic was... faltering.
Memories that were not his own were still fresh in his mind, lingering there, unable to be purged as he had with Kirk, and he could feel it like it had just happened. Like he had just had Kirk on his knees, had him begging, and there was fire in his blood just thinking about it.
Fire in the blood; he'd read of the expression, never one that would be spoken aloud on Vulcan. He knew what it was though he'd never experienced it himself. Staggeringly apt for he could almost feel the burn traveling through his veins, scorching sensation pooling low in his stomach, lower, a hard aching between his legs that neither meditation nor logic could relieve.
He pulled at the collar of his uniform roughly, the fastenings parting beneath his fingers as he tugged it open. Generally, the climate in his quarters felt like an approximation of those on Vulcan but now he was perspiring, his clothing clinging to him uncomfortably. The sound of the zipper was strangely loud in the silent room, mingling with heaviness of his breathing, too-quick and sharp.
Unreasonable that he should be so affected and yet, the memory still clung, living it through someone else's eyes, the pink curl of Jim...of Kirk's tongue as he caught it between his teeth, the flicker of blue eyes closing, soft lips against his ear, murmuring, pleading.
It was not real, he reminded himself. Only shadowy leftovers from a precipitous mind meld. His visions of himself entwined with Kirk were only that, visions, of a future that no longer existed with a man who had never existed in this time line. That Kirk was not this one and he was not that Spock.
Yet his own memory was unfortunately fresh in his thoughts as well, the two blurring together, and there had been a Kirk in his arms, his Kirk, sleepy and willing, more than willing, staring up at him with smoky eyes that did not remember what Spock had seen, already the beginnings of that damnable smile curling into the corner of his mouth. The sheet had pooled low around his hips, far enough down that one could see that Kirk slept without the benefit of clothing and Spock could admit that he had looked. James Kirk was an undeniably attractive man to most humanoid species, particularly when he was sprawled back on his elbows, legs spread beneath the thin layer of a sheet and his mouth swollen from hard kisses, Spock's kisses, unintentional as they had been.
Spock could feel the tremor in his fingers as he slid them lightly down his chest, beneath the edges of his jacket and his undershirt was soft beneath them. Stimulating. Did not allow himself to consider what he was doing as he trailed them along the waistband of his trousers, untucking his shirt, pulling it aside so that he could reach bare skin. Dipping beneath the waistband and he caught his breath, heard the shudder in it as he gave in and undid the fastenings of his trousers. No more than that, the only tiny concession he was willing to make.
He pushed his hand inside to where his flesh ached, curled his hand around his erection and he had to stifle a hiss at the bright flare of pleasure, echoing the memory that was still playing out behind his eyes. His recollection, no, not his but he still recalled it, was of cooler skin, of a choked voice beneath him, but the touch of his own hand could carry him through. Spock stroked himself roughly, biting his lip against any sounds that tried to escape and he tasted the slight copper of his own blood, remembered the faint taste of crimson from too-hard kisses and bites.
He came to the thought of blue, blue eyes and incoherent whimpers, felt the hot splash of his semen over his knuckles as he choked out a cry, memories blending into a pastel smear as hot pleasure overtook him. The floor was hard beneath his knees and Spock did not recall when he fell to them, only struggling to catch his frantic breath, to rid himself of the whine edging each inhalation.
His clothing was clinging to him uncomfortably, his hand damp with his own fluids and Spock stripped off his jacket distastefully, wiping his hand on it before he placed it in the hamper. His thoughts were clearer, more focused, and it was easier to set those memories that weren't his aside, haphazardly for now and after he bathed, he would meditate on the matter and ensure that they would not trouble him further. And they would not. Of that, he was certain.
Stripping off the rest of his uniform, he sent it to follow the jacket before he stepped into the shower to clean himself, closed his eyes and did not allow any memories of blue eyes to trouble him.
Not even his own.
Read the Sequel