No Bounced Light
Title: No Bounced Light
Pairing: Mirror!Kirk/Spock
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~ 2800
Warnings: NON-CON; also, bloodplay and a very open ending. Also, this is unbetaed. Possibly hugely OOC.
Summary: A PWP, featuring Mirror!Kirk, nu!Spock, and a dagger.
Notes: Written for kamiyo, who won my help_haiti bid. I did promise any pairing any kink, and her prompt was some serious Mirrorverse non-con, which Spock would enjoy against his will. I apologize for cutting the prompt short, but if I didn't, it would have been wicked long, and I doubt I could have pulled that off.
Also, I never realized before how hard it is to write non-con. I apologize if this is terrible. Apparently, I suck at this.
Spock watches the blade.
It’s slender and oddly elegant by means of a peculiar combination of proportions and shape. The color is compelling, glinting dark grey, shimmering blue around the edges. Andorian silver. Sharper than diamond, swifter than wind. A knife is too crude a word for it.
It’s beautiful.
Spock’s eyes slide up of their own volition from the graceful curve of the handle to the broad, confident hand holding it. He knows that hand. Or does he?
“Pretty, isn’t it?”
Spock shivers. The voice is the same. The cocky, I-dare-you inflection is the same. Spock tugs at his restraints instinctively and to no avail. He hears laughter.
“Uh-uh, not so fast. I haven’t introduced the two of you yet.”
The dagger makes a mesmerizing motion in the air, the blade catching a stray light in the surrounding shadows. Spock swallows, eyes glued to the thin strap of refined metal. As it breaks his skin, his breath catches.
“Shh.” The voice comes surprisingly gentle. Soothing. “Gonna make it good.”
Spock tells himself he should not be watching, but he can’t help it. His will seems to have evaporated along with his emotional control, leaving him at the mercy of whatever is to come. He isn’t entirely sure if the drug he’s been given is the only thing to blame for this.
“I used to be quite adept in this.” Calm. Conversational.
Spock feels the sharp point of the dagger turn, creating a smooth line. It doesn’t hurt so much as it unnerves him. Strapped to the bed, he cannot see what is being done to him. The blade feels cool against his skin, its movements slick and fluid. The sharp odor of copper spikes the air, and Spock inhales raggedly. He’s suddenly dizzy. The blade turns, pressing a little deeper, and Spock almost welcomes the pain it brings.
“Like that, do you?”
Spock can feel it, can feel the image being slowly carved into his skin, only an inch below his solar plexus. He can feel his blood sliding down in thin, tickling streaks, pooling around his navel. It’s disgustingly warm, and the sharp contrast with the coolness of the blade cutting him is somehow alluring.
It’s wrong.
“Why are you doing this?” Spock asks quietly, eyes downcast. “Why have you brought me here?”
The dagger stills in its motions, but before Spock can regret his decision to finally break the silence, he feels the cool tip pressing under his chin, forcing him to look up. His eyes are captured immediately, trapped within a supernaturally blue stare, and Spock can’t deny the reality of what is happening anymore.
The dagger slides lower, pressing into the hollow of Spock’s throat, as a man whose identity Spock can no longer deny bends closer. His face is hovering in mere inches above Spock’s face, breath cool, dangerous against Spock’s skin.
“I brought you here to use you,” Jim Kirk whispers, worrying Spock’s eyelashes with his lips. “Just like you used me.”
Spock’s eyes flutter closed, a mixture of strange intoxication and thrill overwhelming him. It’s amazing, considering the circumstances, how reluctant he is to end this. But he must tell the truth.
“I am not... the Spock... you are talking about.”
Kirk pulls back, only just, and looks down into Spock’s eyes.
Very gently, very softly, he says, “I know.”
Two simple syllables strip Spock of any control over the situation he thought he had, and he shudders for the first time in shock and fear, because it’s not a misunderstanding that’s going to clear up. It’s happening for real. It’s happening to him.
Kirk is looking down at him, drinking in his emotions with obvious pleasure, and there’s a cruel, merciless edge to his gaze, the corner of his mouth an evil comma, the scar stretching from his forehead to his cheek flushed angry red as if it’s fresh and it’s pulsing suddenly, pulling up the too thin, too pale skin, close, so close to Spock’s face, and Spock feels nauseous and desperate, and there’s nowhere to run, and then he can’t breathe.
Kirk’s lips are on his, and the kiss is forceful, ruthless, but also strangely reverent, and Spock doesn’t know how this could be, but it is. He’s being worshiped here, just as he’s being unraveled, taken apart, destroyed. And it’s not the unyielding restraints that are crushing his resistance, it’s not the drug, it’s not the blade; it’s this odd, unnatural synergy of malicious intent and possessive tenderness that is driving Spock out of his mind, making him gasp into the kiss and moan deep in his throat, while Kirk drinks down every sound, bites down every shattered breath he permits Spock to take, and his teeth are making Spock wail and writhe helplessly, and there’s nowhere to hide from the excruciating ecstasy of it all and the taunting triumph of his tormentor.
The dagger digs into the side of his throat, and Spock bucks up in his restraints, seized by the sense of blind, unthinking panic, but Kirk only holds him tighter, pressing in with renewed vigor with both his tongue and the blade, and Spock feels every muscle in his body scream, every nerve ending going aflame and wild, as he’s torn between asphyxiation and bleeding. His heart redoubles its efforts, pushing more blood out of the wound, as his lungs whine, craving oxygen, and he’s about to black out, convulsing, when Kirk releases his mouth and pulls away.
They stare at each other, breathless, dazed, and Spock’s eyes are impossibly wide as if he’s trying to suck in the enormity of what is happening through them, trying to read his destiny in the cobalt blue gaze that reveals no secrets, intentions hidden beneath the ice like a hot spring below the frozen surface of a pond. Spock knows he’s lost himself when breaking that ice becomes more important than breaking free.
“Don’t move,” Kirk whispers.
Spock feels him shift the dagger slightly, pointedly, a reminder of just how dangerous any sharp motion is. He stills, hating his obedience, contemplating the possibility of simply shaking his head and thus ending this surreal exhibition, and he can already hear the wet, bubbling sound of blood as he’d gasp for his last breath, but then Kirk’s teeth close around his nipple, and Spock forgets what it feels like to have any rational thought.
Kirk’s mouth takes possession of the broad expanse of Spock’s chest, while his hands find Spock’s, rubbing against the sensitive fingertips just so, making Spock tense up like a pulled bow string, gasping for air. It’s too much - so much, in fact, that it’s promptly reaching the point where pleasure has mounted so unbearably high that it can only transform into pain from there, of a kind that makes one bless every second of his agony even as it’s devouring his soul.
Scarcely breathing, hot blood trickling down the back of his neck, sneaking between his shoulder blades, soaking the sheets, Spock feels too big for his own skin, his perception blown out of proportion so completely that he can’t concentrate on anything, doesn’t know anything, and will never, ever be himself again. His throat feels raw and dry as if he’s been crying for hours, and the barely tangible press of the blade - still there - is maddening.
Kirk slides lower, licking at the cut image he’s made earlier, sliding his tongue deliberately over the artistically torn skin, sucking on it slowly, and Spock thrashes wildly on the bed, unable to move away, physical pain pulling him back inside his body roughly, rudely snatching him from the unreachable heights he’s gone to.
“No running,” Kirk growls, his blunt nails scraping harshly at Spock’s inner thighs. “No letting go until I tell you to.”
Spock hisses through gritted teeth, crushed by the reality of it once again, and he doesn’t want to watch Kirk mount him, preparing himself, but his eyes refuse to shut, and Spock barely notices the dagger being removed from his neck and placed across his chest instead.
He does notice when Kirk lays his hand on top of the blade fearlessly, pressing it down, not hard enough to make it sink into Spock’s flesh, but hard enough to make a point. Their eyes lock, and Spock makes a helpless, incoherent sound at the sight of the cold, menacing pleasure boiling in Kirk’s gaze. Kirk pushes into him, unhesitant and unstoppable, holding Spock’s eyes triumphantly as he takes him, and Spock gasps involuntarily as his rebellious, swollen lips that know no reason or self-preservation form one word.
“Why?”
Of all the absurd things to ask the man who’s raping him, this one is probably the most insane, because it’s part of the torture, this not knowing why, perhaps the most painful of all. It’s more humiliating than being tied up and fucked every which way, because a reason, any reason, would make it about Kirk and not him, thus giving Spock a semblance of redemption.
Kirk knows it, knows it too well; it’s carved in the sharp edge of his sneer, sewn into the ruthless, barbaric rhythm of his motions. He presses Spock down harder, breaking skin, his hips slamming faster and sharper, and the pleasure he draws from Spock’s question cannot be rivaled by other people’s reaction to ‘I love you.’
Spock clenches his teeth, his head falling back, as he fights the angry tears his body forces on him, protesting its abuse. He loses the fight and the tears burst out, burning his eyelids, as if trying to match the stinging burn in his body. It’s raw, and brutal, and so painful, and Spock has never, and it doesn’t matter one bit, because there’s an expression of absolute ecstasy on Kirk’s face, and there’s nothing Spock can do about it.
Kirk drives in, hard, relentless, and Spock can feel the sense of victory streaming out of the human in strangling waves. He starts to lose control, and Spock feels his ribcage strain against the pressure Kirk exerts to hold him down, as he loses himself in his own cruel pace.
Spock has never doubted his physical endurance, never thought himself a weakling, but this is too much. He’s been beaten, tied up, cut open, torn in more senses than one, and without the protection of his mental disciplines, every pang of pain seeps directly into his mind, and he’s ringing with tension and pure hurt of it all. He lets out a sob suddenly, before he can catch it, and there’s so much undisguised sorrow in it, mixed up with petulance of a child who’s convinced that nothing wrong will ever happen to him that has somehow survived inside Spock despite everything that had happened to him already.
The sound is desperate and so full of I-don’t-deserve-this-why-are-you-hurting-me that Kirk halts his movements, momentarily startled, gazing down at Spock as if seeing him for the very first time. A moment of frightening stillness passes between them, and there’s an odd, veiled expression lingering in Kirk’s eyes for a moment, like a shadow pulled inside out, revealing light that it’s supposed to conceal.
Kirk looks down at Spock’s face like it’s a revelation; like they have only just met and are asking themselves if this could lead to anything; like Kirk’s skin isn’t smeared green where Spock’s body tries to expel him; like there’s something between them besides grime and pain.
It’s as if a spell has been cast over the two of them, and Spock watches, mesmerized, as Kirk leans over slowly, cups Spock’s cheek with a gentle hand, and takes Spock’s lips in a soft, sweet kiss, and Spock inexplicably knows - just knows at that moment that Kirk, this Kirk, has never kissed anyone like that before. A hot wave of shame makes Spock tremble, but he can’t help himself, he can’t shield himself from this sudden tenderness, and his mouth opens of its own volition, and he moans in pleasure as Kirk licks into it, his tongue soothing, caressing, almost loving, and before Spock knows it, he’s kissing Kirk back.
Kirk pulls back slightly, and Spock whimpers at the loss. Kirk sighs, closing his eyes, and a tremor runs through him. He repositions himself, hands braced on either side of Spock, the dagger caught between their chests now, as he resumes both his thrusts and his kisses.
Spock loses himself in the sensations. What little coherency his mind has saved is telling him persistently that it’s all wrong, wrong, wrong, but he can’t bring himself to care. Kirk’s lips on his are a security blanket on the way to hell, and Spock clings to it, clings to them, wants to curl up inside that kiss and never leave, never again recall that it’s an illusion, smoke and mirrors, and the bitter taste of blood.
Kirk draws back, blue eyes glazed and almost black in the scarce lighting, and he’s strangely intent and vulnerable all at the same time, and for the first time, Spock sees that lonely, abused, angry child in him that is buried deep inside the other Jim, too, the Jim Spock knows so well.
“Here, let me...”
Kirk lifts himself up on his arms, changing the angle of penetration, which is slower now, more measured, he’s searching, but Spock can’t think about it, all he can see is a wet stain of scarlet on Kirk’s smooth chest, a thin line directly above his heart, smudged with deep green in the middle. He knows at that instant what image has been carved into his skin, and the realization shatters him. Spock’s jaw drops, slack and will-less, as Kirk finds what he’s been aiming for, and a sharp shot of pure pleasure is as crushing as it is unexpected.
Catching Spock’s eye, Kirk smirks through his exertion, a slicing kind of smirk, and Spock knows he’s been wrong, there is no redemption, no hope, no mercy for either of them, and it’s not an illusion, just the basic, most profound truth about them, unique and the same, always the same in any universe. Kirk aims for the same spot stubbornly, again and again, until Spock starts thrashing beneath him, forgetting the blade, forgetting everything, an incoherent stream of desperate sounds slipping past his lips.
Things stop to matter, all things, reasonable things, like the fact that Spock shouldn’t be enjoying this, like the fact that his body is betraying him and he’s powerless to stop it, and doesn’t it mean that he’s consenting after all, and what kind of sick, perverted logic is this, and oh-he-can’t-think…
Spock feels Kirk’s body tense, feels the muscles tightening into themselves, and just as he dares to hope that there might be some kind of escape from the insanity of it yet, Kirk reaches up and digs two fingers in the still dripping cut on Spock’s neck in a warped version of a Vulcan kiss.
Spock cries out, arching up of the bed with enough force to dislodge Kirk had Spock not been restrained. Kirk twists his fingers, and Spock’s gone, coming harder than he ever had in his life, shaking violently with the sheer power of it, clutching at the sheets, and seeing white-white-white and then nothing, with a faint echo of Kirk’s orgasm chasing him into the nowhere land.
The sounds come back first, and Spock asks himself if that’s what it’s like to feel broken.
He can’t decide if he really hears Kirk’s voice or if it’s just another delusion of his weakened mind. He listens, nonetheless, to the tale of how stupid, how unimaginably careless and suicidal it was for an Imperial Fleet captain to fall in love with anyone, let alone a Vulcan. A ruthless, emotionless, cunning Vulcan, who took his ship but wouldn’t deign to take his life. The Vulcan who marooned Kirk on Delta Vega to spend the rest of his life in this snowy desert with nothing to entertain himself with but a handful of useless equipment left by a mad engineer who drank himself to death.
Spock listens, still and quiet, knowing he’s hearing the truth; knowing why he’s hearing it. He doesn’t protest. One thing too much is broken within him, one thing too much to care.
There is one more kiss left for him, and when it comes, tired and dry, Spock takes it, drinks it down to the very end, and then watches, in idle fascination, the shadow play on the surface of the perfect blade as it comes down, bringing him his freedom.
Fin
Pairing: Mirror!Kirk/Spock
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~ 2800
Warnings: NON-CON; also, bloodplay and a very open ending. Also, this is unbetaed. Possibly hugely OOC.
Summary: A PWP, featuring Mirror!Kirk, nu!Spock, and a dagger.
Notes: Written for kamiyo, who won my help_haiti bid. I did promise any pairing any kink, and her prompt was some serious Mirrorverse non-con, which Spock would enjoy against his will. I apologize for cutting the prompt short, but if I didn't, it would have been wicked long, and I doubt I could have pulled that off.
Also, I never realized before how hard it is to write non-con. I apologize if this is terrible. Apparently, I suck at this.
Spock watches the blade.
It’s slender and oddly elegant by means of a peculiar combination of proportions and shape. The color is compelling, glinting dark grey, shimmering blue around the edges. Andorian silver. Sharper than diamond, swifter than wind. A knife is too crude a word for it.
It’s beautiful.
Spock’s eyes slide up of their own volition from the graceful curve of the handle to the broad, confident hand holding it. He knows that hand. Or does he?
“Pretty, isn’t it?”
Spock shivers. The voice is the same. The cocky, I-dare-you inflection is the same. Spock tugs at his restraints instinctively and to no avail. He hears laughter.
“Uh-uh, not so fast. I haven’t introduced the two of you yet.”
The dagger makes a mesmerizing motion in the air, the blade catching a stray light in the surrounding shadows. Spock swallows, eyes glued to the thin strap of refined metal. As it breaks his skin, his breath catches.
“Shh.” The voice comes surprisingly gentle. Soothing. “Gonna make it good.”
Spock tells himself he should not be watching, but he can’t help it. His will seems to have evaporated along with his emotional control, leaving him at the mercy of whatever is to come. He isn’t entirely sure if the drug he’s been given is the only thing to blame for this.
“I used to be quite adept in this.” Calm. Conversational.
Spock feels the sharp point of the dagger turn, creating a smooth line. It doesn’t hurt so much as it unnerves him. Strapped to the bed, he cannot see what is being done to him. The blade feels cool against his skin, its movements slick and fluid. The sharp odor of copper spikes the air, and Spock inhales raggedly. He’s suddenly dizzy. The blade turns, pressing a little deeper, and Spock almost welcomes the pain it brings.
“Like that, do you?”
Spock can feel it, can feel the image being slowly carved into his skin, only an inch below his solar plexus. He can feel his blood sliding down in thin, tickling streaks, pooling around his navel. It’s disgustingly warm, and the sharp contrast with the coolness of the blade cutting him is somehow alluring.
It’s wrong.
“Why are you doing this?” Spock asks quietly, eyes downcast. “Why have you brought me here?”
The dagger stills in its motions, but before Spock can regret his decision to finally break the silence, he feels the cool tip pressing under his chin, forcing him to look up. His eyes are captured immediately, trapped within a supernaturally blue stare, and Spock can’t deny the reality of what is happening anymore.
The dagger slides lower, pressing into the hollow of Spock’s throat, as a man whose identity Spock can no longer deny bends closer. His face is hovering in mere inches above Spock’s face, breath cool, dangerous against Spock’s skin.
“I brought you here to use you,” Jim Kirk whispers, worrying Spock’s eyelashes with his lips. “Just like you used me.”
Spock’s eyes flutter closed, a mixture of strange intoxication and thrill overwhelming him. It’s amazing, considering the circumstances, how reluctant he is to end this. But he must tell the truth.
“I am not... the Spock... you are talking about.”
Kirk pulls back, only just, and looks down into Spock’s eyes.
Very gently, very softly, he says, “I know.”
Two simple syllables strip Spock of any control over the situation he thought he had, and he shudders for the first time in shock and fear, because it’s not a misunderstanding that’s going to clear up. It’s happening for real. It’s happening to him.
Kirk is looking down at him, drinking in his emotions with obvious pleasure, and there’s a cruel, merciless edge to his gaze, the corner of his mouth an evil comma, the scar stretching from his forehead to his cheek flushed angry red as if it’s fresh and it’s pulsing suddenly, pulling up the too thin, too pale skin, close, so close to Spock’s face, and Spock feels nauseous and desperate, and there’s nowhere to run, and then he can’t breathe.
Kirk’s lips are on his, and the kiss is forceful, ruthless, but also strangely reverent, and Spock doesn’t know how this could be, but it is. He’s being worshiped here, just as he’s being unraveled, taken apart, destroyed. And it’s not the unyielding restraints that are crushing his resistance, it’s not the drug, it’s not the blade; it’s this odd, unnatural synergy of malicious intent and possessive tenderness that is driving Spock out of his mind, making him gasp into the kiss and moan deep in his throat, while Kirk drinks down every sound, bites down every shattered breath he permits Spock to take, and his teeth are making Spock wail and writhe helplessly, and there’s nowhere to hide from the excruciating ecstasy of it all and the taunting triumph of his tormentor.
The dagger digs into the side of his throat, and Spock bucks up in his restraints, seized by the sense of blind, unthinking panic, but Kirk only holds him tighter, pressing in with renewed vigor with both his tongue and the blade, and Spock feels every muscle in his body scream, every nerve ending going aflame and wild, as he’s torn between asphyxiation and bleeding. His heart redoubles its efforts, pushing more blood out of the wound, as his lungs whine, craving oxygen, and he’s about to black out, convulsing, when Kirk releases his mouth and pulls away.
They stare at each other, breathless, dazed, and Spock’s eyes are impossibly wide as if he’s trying to suck in the enormity of what is happening through them, trying to read his destiny in the cobalt blue gaze that reveals no secrets, intentions hidden beneath the ice like a hot spring below the frozen surface of a pond. Spock knows he’s lost himself when breaking that ice becomes more important than breaking free.
“Don’t move,” Kirk whispers.
Spock feels him shift the dagger slightly, pointedly, a reminder of just how dangerous any sharp motion is. He stills, hating his obedience, contemplating the possibility of simply shaking his head and thus ending this surreal exhibition, and he can already hear the wet, bubbling sound of blood as he’d gasp for his last breath, but then Kirk’s teeth close around his nipple, and Spock forgets what it feels like to have any rational thought.
Kirk’s mouth takes possession of the broad expanse of Spock’s chest, while his hands find Spock’s, rubbing against the sensitive fingertips just so, making Spock tense up like a pulled bow string, gasping for air. It’s too much - so much, in fact, that it’s promptly reaching the point where pleasure has mounted so unbearably high that it can only transform into pain from there, of a kind that makes one bless every second of his agony even as it’s devouring his soul.
Scarcely breathing, hot blood trickling down the back of his neck, sneaking between his shoulder blades, soaking the sheets, Spock feels too big for his own skin, his perception blown out of proportion so completely that he can’t concentrate on anything, doesn’t know anything, and will never, ever be himself again. His throat feels raw and dry as if he’s been crying for hours, and the barely tangible press of the blade - still there - is maddening.
Kirk slides lower, licking at the cut image he’s made earlier, sliding his tongue deliberately over the artistically torn skin, sucking on it slowly, and Spock thrashes wildly on the bed, unable to move away, physical pain pulling him back inside his body roughly, rudely snatching him from the unreachable heights he’s gone to.
“No running,” Kirk growls, his blunt nails scraping harshly at Spock’s inner thighs. “No letting go until I tell you to.”
Spock hisses through gritted teeth, crushed by the reality of it once again, and he doesn’t want to watch Kirk mount him, preparing himself, but his eyes refuse to shut, and Spock barely notices the dagger being removed from his neck and placed across his chest instead.
He does notice when Kirk lays his hand on top of the blade fearlessly, pressing it down, not hard enough to make it sink into Spock’s flesh, but hard enough to make a point. Their eyes lock, and Spock makes a helpless, incoherent sound at the sight of the cold, menacing pleasure boiling in Kirk’s gaze. Kirk pushes into him, unhesitant and unstoppable, holding Spock’s eyes triumphantly as he takes him, and Spock gasps involuntarily as his rebellious, swollen lips that know no reason or self-preservation form one word.
“Why?”
Of all the absurd things to ask the man who’s raping him, this one is probably the most insane, because it’s part of the torture, this not knowing why, perhaps the most painful of all. It’s more humiliating than being tied up and fucked every which way, because a reason, any reason, would make it about Kirk and not him, thus giving Spock a semblance of redemption.
Kirk knows it, knows it too well; it’s carved in the sharp edge of his sneer, sewn into the ruthless, barbaric rhythm of his motions. He presses Spock down harder, breaking skin, his hips slamming faster and sharper, and the pleasure he draws from Spock’s question cannot be rivaled by other people’s reaction to ‘I love you.’
Spock clenches his teeth, his head falling back, as he fights the angry tears his body forces on him, protesting its abuse. He loses the fight and the tears burst out, burning his eyelids, as if trying to match the stinging burn in his body. It’s raw, and brutal, and so painful, and Spock has never, and it doesn’t matter one bit, because there’s an expression of absolute ecstasy on Kirk’s face, and there’s nothing Spock can do about it.
Kirk drives in, hard, relentless, and Spock can feel the sense of victory streaming out of the human in strangling waves. He starts to lose control, and Spock feels his ribcage strain against the pressure Kirk exerts to hold him down, as he loses himself in his own cruel pace.
Spock has never doubted his physical endurance, never thought himself a weakling, but this is too much. He’s been beaten, tied up, cut open, torn in more senses than one, and without the protection of his mental disciplines, every pang of pain seeps directly into his mind, and he’s ringing with tension and pure hurt of it all. He lets out a sob suddenly, before he can catch it, and there’s so much undisguised sorrow in it, mixed up with petulance of a child who’s convinced that nothing wrong will ever happen to him that has somehow survived inside Spock despite everything that had happened to him already.
The sound is desperate and so full of I-don’t-deserve-this-why-are-you-hurting-me that Kirk halts his movements, momentarily startled, gazing down at Spock as if seeing him for the very first time. A moment of frightening stillness passes between them, and there’s an odd, veiled expression lingering in Kirk’s eyes for a moment, like a shadow pulled inside out, revealing light that it’s supposed to conceal.
Kirk looks down at Spock’s face like it’s a revelation; like they have only just met and are asking themselves if this could lead to anything; like Kirk’s skin isn’t smeared green where Spock’s body tries to expel him; like there’s something between them besides grime and pain.
It’s as if a spell has been cast over the two of them, and Spock watches, mesmerized, as Kirk leans over slowly, cups Spock’s cheek with a gentle hand, and takes Spock’s lips in a soft, sweet kiss, and Spock inexplicably knows - just knows at that moment that Kirk, this Kirk, has never kissed anyone like that before. A hot wave of shame makes Spock tremble, but he can’t help himself, he can’t shield himself from this sudden tenderness, and his mouth opens of its own volition, and he moans in pleasure as Kirk licks into it, his tongue soothing, caressing, almost loving, and before Spock knows it, he’s kissing Kirk back.
Kirk pulls back slightly, and Spock whimpers at the loss. Kirk sighs, closing his eyes, and a tremor runs through him. He repositions himself, hands braced on either side of Spock, the dagger caught between their chests now, as he resumes both his thrusts and his kisses.
Spock loses himself in the sensations. What little coherency his mind has saved is telling him persistently that it’s all wrong, wrong, wrong, but he can’t bring himself to care. Kirk’s lips on his are a security blanket on the way to hell, and Spock clings to it, clings to them, wants to curl up inside that kiss and never leave, never again recall that it’s an illusion, smoke and mirrors, and the bitter taste of blood.
Kirk draws back, blue eyes glazed and almost black in the scarce lighting, and he’s strangely intent and vulnerable all at the same time, and for the first time, Spock sees that lonely, abused, angry child in him that is buried deep inside the other Jim, too, the Jim Spock knows so well.
“Here, let me...”
Kirk lifts himself up on his arms, changing the angle of penetration, which is slower now, more measured, he’s searching, but Spock can’t think about it, all he can see is a wet stain of scarlet on Kirk’s smooth chest, a thin line directly above his heart, smudged with deep green in the middle. He knows at that instant what image has been carved into his skin, and the realization shatters him. Spock’s jaw drops, slack and will-less, as Kirk finds what he’s been aiming for, and a sharp shot of pure pleasure is as crushing as it is unexpected.
Catching Spock’s eye, Kirk smirks through his exertion, a slicing kind of smirk, and Spock knows he’s been wrong, there is no redemption, no hope, no mercy for either of them, and it’s not an illusion, just the basic, most profound truth about them, unique and the same, always the same in any universe. Kirk aims for the same spot stubbornly, again and again, until Spock starts thrashing beneath him, forgetting the blade, forgetting everything, an incoherent stream of desperate sounds slipping past his lips.
Things stop to matter, all things, reasonable things, like the fact that Spock shouldn’t be enjoying this, like the fact that his body is betraying him and he’s powerless to stop it, and doesn’t it mean that he’s consenting after all, and what kind of sick, perverted logic is this, and oh-he-can’t-think…
Spock feels Kirk’s body tense, feels the muscles tightening into themselves, and just as he dares to hope that there might be some kind of escape from the insanity of it yet, Kirk reaches up and digs two fingers in the still dripping cut on Spock’s neck in a warped version of a Vulcan kiss.
Spock cries out, arching up of the bed with enough force to dislodge Kirk had Spock not been restrained. Kirk twists his fingers, and Spock’s gone, coming harder than he ever had in his life, shaking violently with the sheer power of it, clutching at the sheets, and seeing white-white-white and then nothing, with a faint echo of Kirk’s orgasm chasing him into the nowhere land.
The sounds come back first, and Spock asks himself if that’s what it’s like to feel broken.
He can’t decide if he really hears Kirk’s voice or if it’s just another delusion of his weakened mind. He listens, nonetheless, to the tale of how stupid, how unimaginably careless and suicidal it was for an Imperial Fleet captain to fall in love with anyone, let alone a Vulcan. A ruthless, emotionless, cunning Vulcan, who took his ship but wouldn’t deign to take his life. The Vulcan who marooned Kirk on Delta Vega to spend the rest of his life in this snowy desert with nothing to entertain himself with but a handful of useless equipment left by a mad engineer who drank himself to death.
Spock listens, still and quiet, knowing he’s hearing the truth; knowing why he’s hearing it. He doesn’t protest. One thing too much is broken within him, one thing too much to care.
There is one more kiss left for him, and when it comes, tired and dry, Spock takes it, drinks it down to the very end, and then watches, in idle fascination, the shadow play on the surface of the perfect blade as it comes down, bringing him his freedom.
Fin