About Our Lives
Title: About Our Lives
Beta: Unbetaed
Pairings: K/S
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dysfunctional relationship, miscsquick, potential OOC, smut
Word count: ~ 1900
Summary: Two years after parting their ways, Jim and Spock run into each other again.
Notes: This is a sequel of sorts to So Terribly Wrong. This one is no less strange than the first one. I still don't really have an explanation. I'd say that this probably will make no sense without reading STW first, but I'm afraid it makes no sense either way.
Gravity is utterly impotent in ballrooms, Spock thinks.
It does not have any hold on the soft sounds of music; it lends no weight to chatter; it does not anchor laughter. They float, free and aimless, like an ebb tide gone rogue, too light to make an impression. Like a cupid with a lousy aim, they bewitch momentarily and all the wrong people.
He can feel Jim’s eyes on him, scalding his skin like a brand.
Spock doesn’t look, but if someone asked, he could have pinpointed Jim’s location in the crowded room with enviable precision.
He doesn’t look.
Spock knew Jim would be here tonight. This is not a surprise. Briefly, Spock has considered not going, but that would be as pointless as running on a treadmill. A good exercise that exhausts the body and leads nowhere.
Blue champagne is too sweet. For a moment, Spock regrets that alcohol does not affect him. He goes as far as mourning the fact that the rumor of Vulcans becoming intoxicated by consuming chocolate or specific fruits is only that - a rumor. He would have given a lot right now for that slim veil of numbness and illusionary carelessness that being in an altered state of mind provides.
This is not a surprise. Doesn’t mean he is ready.
“Hello, Spock.”
Spock sets the glass aside and turns. Illogically, his first thought is that gold has never suited Jim. He looks better in black.
“Jim.”
Jim’s eyebrows arch. “Well, if you want to dispose of formalities.”
“Do you object?”
“To you calling me Jim?” He smirks. “You know me, Spock. When have I ever.”
Spock doesn’t comment.
“You, uh, you look... good,” Jim says. “Stunning, actually.”
That is a lie. Spock has lost weight he could hardly afford to lose, and there is a reason why he tries to apply universal laws of physics to philosophical abstractions on a regular basis now. He has never been ‘stunning’ to begin with, but that is not the problem.
The problem is, when Jim says things like that, looking at Spock like that, Spock believes him.
Always has, always will. Because Jim’s eyes are brilliant and alive when he says it, because he radiates confidence. Because Jim is the most wanted man in the room, any room, and he knows it, and it gives him the power to make his opinions royal decrees.
It’s worse even than that.
The simple truth is, Spock always believes Jim. All it takes is a moment of direct eye contact, and Spock is converted into whatever new religion Jim is currently preaching. Jim has always excelled in proselytism; mostly without trying.
“So,” Jim drawls, reaching for Spock’s glass and taking a sip. “Academic life been treating you well?”
“I cannot complain.”
“You wouldn’t even if you could.” Jim shrugs, seemingly disinterested. He darts a few glances around before asking off handedly, “Where’s your date?”
“My date?”
“Yeah. I left mine leaking pheromones all over the bar.”
Spock looks briefly. He can’t help it, even though he knows Jim is watching him. He can’t help it any more than a pang of jealousy he has no right to feel.
“A Deltan? That could be... unwise.”
Jim smirks. “Leaving her there or hooking up with her in the first place?”
“The former,” Spock says, staring at his glass in Jim’s hand. “I would not presume to offer an opinion on the latter.”
Jim’s smirk vanishes. “No,” he says. “Of course you wouldn’t.” He frowns, then smiles.
Watching him is like watching the capricious April sky as it can’t quite make up its mind about whether it wants to rain or shine or both.
“So where’s your date?” Jim asks again.
Spock can no more lie to him than turn his wine into water. “I have come alone.”
He can feel the way Jim’s focus solidifies around him in his bones.
“How - unwise of you,” Jim throws Spock’s own word back at him, lips carved into a merciless kind of smirk. “And not exactly humane, either.”
Spock doesn’t answer. Jim is right on both accounts, but Spock has no intention of apologizing.
“I’ll be seeing you,” Jim promises and disappears into the crowd.
--
Spock should leave.
He should, but he can’t. Hard as it is to even imagine, he does have a social function here, and he cannot be released from it just yet.
He treats every conversation like it is his last; he’s a little too desperate when each person moves on from him, after they have exhausted what little amount of meaningless conversation one could have with a Vulcan.
There is a young scientist who looks like he wouldn’t mind lingering, but Spock regretfully makes himself dismiss him. The man is too young and way too innocent to be caught up in the hurricane that is Jim Kirk, and Spock knows Jim. An obstacle such as this would not even slow him down.
Still, the night is eroding, and Spock starts to feel traitorous hope. Perhaps he can leave without detection. Perhaps Jim has changed his mind. Perhaps Jim got drunk on his date’s pheromones as everyone else is drunk on Jim. Perhaps Spock can just slip out into the world where he can actually find his footing before he is caught.
“You didn’t really think that would work, did you?”
They are alone in the upper corridor.
Spock stands still, with his back turned, listening - waiting for the sound of footsteps. There are none, but there is a hand on his shoulder turning him around.
Jim is staring at him, eyes luminescent in the sparse light, lips pursed in a painful grimace.
“You keep doing this to me,” Jim whispers, his hand sliding to the back of Spock’s neck. “I try to, God knows I do, but you just-”
Spock can feel the smooth cold surface of the wall beneath his shoulder blades. He leans back and doesn’t fall; he can’t look away.
“What have I ever done to you, Spock?” Jim’s voice ghosts over his face. “Why can’t I just - why?”
Spock doesn’t have the answers, still doesn’t have the answers. But he needs Jim, needs him so badly, and time has done nothing to diminish it, for either of them.
Jim is right, Spock should not have come alone. He could have found someone, but he chose not to, has been choosing not to for two years, and now everything that is about to happen is as much his fault as it is Jim’s.
The first kiss is tentative, pleading. Spock exhales into it, and they share a shattered, broken breath, because there isn’t enough air for two.
Spock closes his eyes, unable to look at Jim, too weak not to. Jim presses harder against him, both hands greedy and lost in Spock’s hair, lips pliant and tongue desperate. They don’t share anymore, but fight for that single breath, sucking it off of each other’s lips jealously. Jim wins because he fights dirty, wedging his knee between Spock’s, grinding into him urgently, with no elegance or even a semblance of a rhythm, just pure savage want, while Spock sags against the wall, light-headed, wrecked, letting him.
“You, always you, damn you,” Jim breathes, sucking on Spock’s tongue like it’s the sweetest poison, lethal and addictive. “Every face I see, every body I take, every time - it’s just you, your voice, your eyes, your touch all over again, you’ve ruined me, I can’t-”
“Jim,” Spock wheezes. “Please.”
Jim shuts him up brutally, kissing him like Spock is the last thing that stands between him and damnation, like kissing him might actually save something.
Spock clings to him, palms welded to the small of Jim’s back, and he is willing to forfeit his need for oxygen for ever for this insanely stretched out moment of secluded time-space that is all heat, shame, love, life, and Jim.
“Damn you, damn you, damn you.”
Jim bites him, and when Spock gasps, he does it again. He slides down, grabs Spock’s knee and jerks it roughly up and over his hip, bringing them as close to each other as they can get with their clothes still on.
Spock moans, he can’t help it, as they rub and press and slide so close, out of sync and so, so good, and how could he have forgotten? Jim’s fingers dig into his thigh, possessive and desperate, Jim’s, and Spock feels that his skin is tight, too tight everywhere, and for a moment he panics, driven firmly and persistently out of his mind.
Jim goes completely still suddenly, doing nothing but pressing Spock against the wall, trapping him, hard and cruel, lips sealed at an odd angle, eyes locked.
Spock jerks slightly and Jim checks the motion. Smirks. Slowly, so very slowly, Jim’s teeth descend into the swollen, tender center of Spock’s lower lip, and Spock trembles. A moment goes by, sharper, more pressure everywhere, no movement still, and Spock is shaking, shaking till he can’t resist anymore, till there is nothing left in him to even think. His hips buck up once, twice, again and again, constricting frantically, motor controls non-existent, and he slams into Jim who doesn’t move a muscle, slams harder and harder, a helpless hostage within his own body.
He comes with a muffled sound that has no name, and just as his orgasm hits, Jim lets go of him, leaving him, stepping back and watching as Spock slides down to the floor, limbs convulsing and jerking violently, abruptly, and the only thing Spock can do is hold Jim’s eyes as he falls apart.
Everything is hazy and blurring, and Spock knows more than sees how Jim pulls himself out and barely strokes twice before he’s coming, too, silent and composed, all over Spock’s broken form, never looking away from his eyes once, even as he falls to his knees and shoots the last of his load straight into Spock’s face.
--
Spock is sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. His knees are pulled to his chest, and his shirt is ruined. His lips feel salty, and he doesn’t speculate. It doesn’t matter.
Footsteps.
He doesn’t look up, and doesn’t blink when a paper cup appears in front of his face. Spock drinks the water in long measured gulps as Jim settles on the floor beside him. Jim is warm.
Spock sets the empty cup at the other side of him and drops his head back, staring into space. After a while, Jim nudges him gently with his shoulder.
“Come back with me.”
For a moment, Spock thinks Jim will say, ‘Come back with me to the ship.’ His mouth is ready to dispatch a very ill-advised ‘yes,’ when Jim speaks again.
“I’ve rented a honeymoon suite. It’s nice. You should see the Jacuzzi.”
Spock is sitting, motionless, thinking that he is tired, so tired, and this circle never ends. There is no exit. Not that he would take one if there were. He’s been hoping for two years that maybe, but he knows better now.
He doesn’t reply, and Jim doesn’t ask again. They sit side by side for a while.
Finally, Spock pulls himself to his feet, steps over Jim’s legs stretched across the corridor floor, and walks slowly toward the trap door. As he passes a waste disposal unit, he throws his shirt into it without looking.
Beta: Unbetaed
Pairings: K/S
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Dysfunctional relationship, miscsquick, potential OOC, smut
Word count: ~ 1900
Summary: Two years after parting their ways, Jim and Spock run into each other again.
Notes: This is a sequel of sorts to So Terribly Wrong. This one is no less strange than the first one. I still don't really have an explanation. I'd say that this probably will make no sense without reading STW first, but I'm afraid it makes no sense either way.
Gravity is utterly impotent in ballrooms, Spock thinks.
It does not have any hold on the soft sounds of music; it lends no weight to chatter; it does not anchor laughter. They float, free and aimless, like an ebb tide gone rogue, too light to make an impression. Like a cupid with a lousy aim, they bewitch momentarily and all the wrong people.
He can feel Jim’s eyes on him, scalding his skin like a brand.
Spock doesn’t look, but if someone asked, he could have pinpointed Jim’s location in the crowded room with enviable precision.
He doesn’t look.
Spock knew Jim would be here tonight. This is not a surprise. Briefly, Spock has considered not going, but that would be as pointless as running on a treadmill. A good exercise that exhausts the body and leads nowhere.
Blue champagne is too sweet. For a moment, Spock regrets that alcohol does not affect him. He goes as far as mourning the fact that the rumor of Vulcans becoming intoxicated by consuming chocolate or specific fruits is only that - a rumor. He would have given a lot right now for that slim veil of numbness and illusionary carelessness that being in an altered state of mind provides.
This is not a surprise. Doesn’t mean he is ready.
“Hello, Spock.”
Spock sets the glass aside and turns. Illogically, his first thought is that gold has never suited Jim. He looks better in black.
“Jim.”
Jim’s eyebrows arch. “Well, if you want to dispose of formalities.”
“Do you object?”
“To you calling me Jim?” He smirks. “You know me, Spock. When have I ever.”
Spock doesn’t comment.
“You, uh, you look... good,” Jim says. “Stunning, actually.”
That is a lie. Spock has lost weight he could hardly afford to lose, and there is a reason why he tries to apply universal laws of physics to philosophical abstractions on a regular basis now. He has never been ‘stunning’ to begin with, but that is not the problem.
The problem is, when Jim says things like that, looking at Spock like that, Spock believes him.
Always has, always will. Because Jim’s eyes are brilliant and alive when he says it, because he radiates confidence. Because Jim is the most wanted man in the room, any room, and he knows it, and it gives him the power to make his opinions royal decrees.
It’s worse even than that.
The simple truth is, Spock always believes Jim. All it takes is a moment of direct eye contact, and Spock is converted into whatever new religion Jim is currently preaching. Jim has always excelled in proselytism; mostly without trying.
“So,” Jim drawls, reaching for Spock’s glass and taking a sip. “Academic life been treating you well?”
“I cannot complain.”
“You wouldn’t even if you could.” Jim shrugs, seemingly disinterested. He darts a few glances around before asking off handedly, “Where’s your date?”
“My date?”
“Yeah. I left mine leaking pheromones all over the bar.”
Spock looks briefly. He can’t help it, even though he knows Jim is watching him. He can’t help it any more than a pang of jealousy he has no right to feel.
“A Deltan? That could be... unwise.”
Jim smirks. “Leaving her there or hooking up with her in the first place?”
“The former,” Spock says, staring at his glass in Jim’s hand. “I would not presume to offer an opinion on the latter.”
Jim’s smirk vanishes. “No,” he says. “Of course you wouldn’t.” He frowns, then smiles.
Watching him is like watching the capricious April sky as it can’t quite make up its mind about whether it wants to rain or shine or both.
“So where’s your date?” Jim asks again.
Spock can no more lie to him than turn his wine into water. “I have come alone.”
He can feel the way Jim’s focus solidifies around him in his bones.
“How - unwise of you,” Jim throws Spock’s own word back at him, lips carved into a merciless kind of smirk. “And not exactly humane, either.”
Spock doesn’t answer. Jim is right on both accounts, but Spock has no intention of apologizing.
“I’ll be seeing you,” Jim promises and disappears into the crowd.
--
Spock should leave.
He should, but he can’t. Hard as it is to even imagine, he does have a social function here, and he cannot be released from it just yet.
He treats every conversation like it is his last; he’s a little too desperate when each person moves on from him, after they have exhausted what little amount of meaningless conversation one could have with a Vulcan.
There is a young scientist who looks like he wouldn’t mind lingering, but Spock regretfully makes himself dismiss him. The man is too young and way too innocent to be caught up in the hurricane that is Jim Kirk, and Spock knows Jim. An obstacle such as this would not even slow him down.
Still, the night is eroding, and Spock starts to feel traitorous hope. Perhaps he can leave without detection. Perhaps Jim has changed his mind. Perhaps Jim got drunk on his date’s pheromones as everyone else is drunk on Jim. Perhaps Spock can just slip out into the world where he can actually find his footing before he is caught.
“You didn’t really think that would work, did you?”
They are alone in the upper corridor.
Spock stands still, with his back turned, listening - waiting for the sound of footsteps. There are none, but there is a hand on his shoulder turning him around.
Jim is staring at him, eyes luminescent in the sparse light, lips pursed in a painful grimace.
“You keep doing this to me,” Jim whispers, his hand sliding to the back of Spock’s neck. “I try to, God knows I do, but you just-”
Spock can feel the smooth cold surface of the wall beneath his shoulder blades. He leans back and doesn’t fall; he can’t look away.
“What have I ever done to you, Spock?” Jim’s voice ghosts over his face. “Why can’t I just - why?”
Spock doesn’t have the answers, still doesn’t have the answers. But he needs Jim, needs him so badly, and time has done nothing to diminish it, for either of them.
Jim is right, Spock should not have come alone. He could have found someone, but he chose not to, has been choosing not to for two years, and now everything that is about to happen is as much his fault as it is Jim’s.
The first kiss is tentative, pleading. Spock exhales into it, and they share a shattered, broken breath, because there isn’t enough air for two.
Spock closes his eyes, unable to look at Jim, too weak not to. Jim presses harder against him, both hands greedy and lost in Spock’s hair, lips pliant and tongue desperate. They don’t share anymore, but fight for that single breath, sucking it off of each other’s lips jealously. Jim wins because he fights dirty, wedging his knee between Spock’s, grinding into him urgently, with no elegance or even a semblance of a rhythm, just pure savage want, while Spock sags against the wall, light-headed, wrecked, letting him.
“You, always you, damn you,” Jim breathes, sucking on Spock’s tongue like it’s the sweetest poison, lethal and addictive. “Every face I see, every body I take, every time - it’s just you, your voice, your eyes, your touch all over again, you’ve ruined me, I can’t-”
“Jim,” Spock wheezes. “Please.”
Jim shuts him up brutally, kissing him like Spock is the last thing that stands between him and damnation, like kissing him might actually save something.
Spock clings to him, palms welded to the small of Jim’s back, and he is willing to forfeit his need for oxygen for ever for this insanely stretched out moment of secluded time-space that is all heat, shame, love, life, and Jim.
“Damn you, damn you, damn you.”
Jim bites him, and when Spock gasps, he does it again. He slides down, grabs Spock’s knee and jerks it roughly up and over his hip, bringing them as close to each other as they can get with their clothes still on.
Spock moans, he can’t help it, as they rub and press and slide so close, out of sync and so, so good, and how could he have forgotten? Jim’s fingers dig into his thigh, possessive and desperate, Jim’s, and Spock feels that his skin is tight, too tight everywhere, and for a moment he panics, driven firmly and persistently out of his mind.
Jim goes completely still suddenly, doing nothing but pressing Spock against the wall, trapping him, hard and cruel, lips sealed at an odd angle, eyes locked.
Spock jerks slightly and Jim checks the motion. Smirks. Slowly, so very slowly, Jim’s teeth descend into the swollen, tender center of Spock’s lower lip, and Spock trembles. A moment goes by, sharper, more pressure everywhere, no movement still, and Spock is shaking, shaking till he can’t resist anymore, till there is nothing left in him to even think. His hips buck up once, twice, again and again, constricting frantically, motor controls non-existent, and he slams into Jim who doesn’t move a muscle, slams harder and harder, a helpless hostage within his own body.
He comes with a muffled sound that has no name, and just as his orgasm hits, Jim lets go of him, leaving him, stepping back and watching as Spock slides down to the floor, limbs convulsing and jerking violently, abruptly, and the only thing Spock can do is hold Jim’s eyes as he falls apart.
Everything is hazy and blurring, and Spock knows more than sees how Jim pulls himself out and barely strokes twice before he’s coming, too, silent and composed, all over Spock’s broken form, never looking away from his eyes once, even as he falls to his knees and shoots the last of his load straight into Spock’s face.
--
Spock is sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. His knees are pulled to his chest, and his shirt is ruined. His lips feel salty, and he doesn’t speculate. It doesn’t matter.
Footsteps.
He doesn’t look up, and doesn’t blink when a paper cup appears in front of his face. Spock drinks the water in long measured gulps as Jim settles on the floor beside him. Jim is warm.
Spock sets the empty cup at the other side of him and drops his head back, staring into space. After a while, Jim nudges him gently with his shoulder.
“Come back with me.”
For a moment, Spock thinks Jim will say, ‘Come back with me to the ship.’ His mouth is ready to dispatch a very ill-advised ‘yes,’ when Jim speaks again.
“I’ve rented a honeymoon suite. It’s nice. You should see the Jacuzzi.”
Spock is sitting, motionless, thinking that he is tired, so tired, and this circle never ends. There is no exit. Not that he would take one if there were. He’s been hoping for two years that maybe, but he knows better now.
He doesn’t reply, and Jim doesn’t ask again. They sit side by side for a while.
Finally, Spock pulls himself to his feet, steps over Jim’s legs stretched across the corridor floor, and walks slowly toward the trap door. As he passes a waste disposal unit, he throws his shirt into it without looking.