Similar Activities
.
...So yeah. See icon. (keywords: "logic swallows")
Title: Similar Activities
Authors: mithrigil and puella_nerdii
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Characters: Kirk and Spock
Rating: Hard R, sex.
Words: 8300
Summary: "I am aware that you may not rely on these testimonials in order to appoint me, but the Admiralty will require sufficient documentation to verify my commission."
Also, Kirk does not know where his towel is.
Similar Activities
trek reboot
mith and puel in the special hell
"I told you, you don't need those."
Kirk is grinning, openly regarding the documents that Spock has brought. He leans somewhat jauntily on the jamb of the door to his quarters. Spock considers that the Captain has grounds to be pleased with himself, and so does not think much of the expression. "I am aware that you may not rely on these testimonials in order to appoint me, but the Admiralty will require sufficient documentation to verify my commission." He extends the papers in one hand, the other stiff at his side.
At command, the doors to the Captain's quarters slide open, and Kirk briefly appraises the papers. It seems he is only ascertaining that they are in order. Spock is above indignation and so does not comment. "So who'd you use for your references, anyway?" Kirk asks.
"Admirals Pike and Oruiyan, Commissioner Greene, three of the High Council of Vulcan. I am concerned that these may be biased depictions, but I acquired them on short notice."
"I trust 'em," Kirk says. He has entered his quarters by now--the Captain's Quarters, Spock recounts with a measure of internal dissonance--and he flings the papers onto his desk. "I'll file these later."
"It would be among my duties," Spock offers. "I suppose there is a measure of irony in that." Spock remains standing in the doorframe. His left hand is tensing, not quite curling into a fist. He unfurls it when he identifies the impulse as a minor violent instinct.
That instinct is not diminished when Kirk calls from within, "You can come in. Don't need to ask permission. Well, if you want to take care of it, write yourself a really glowing evaluation, you've earned it. Mostly," he adds.
The qualifier is in accordance with Kirk's cavalier demeanor. The side of Spock's lip quirks, first up then back down. "To think, I am concerned for the depth of bias in the recommendations. If I did not know your comment to be in jest, I'd have taken it as potentially spiteful."
"Recommendations should be biased," Kirk says, and flings himself into the room's chair with much the same carelessness as the file of references. The chair is of similar make to the Captain's chair on the Bridge, of a smaller scale but with the same rotational amenities. Kirk is plainly unused to and intrigued by the construction, for he is shifting his weight from foot to foot and pivoting from side to side, but does not turn far enough to move Spock out of his line of sight.
Spock follows him with his eyes, watching (evaluating?) the swing of his knees and shoulders, and the shifts in Kirk's eyes. "I endeavor to present myself as an imperfect composite, given that you have already observed the extent to which my faculties may be compromised."
"So if someone blows up your planet again, I'll know what to look out for." Kirk stiffens noticeably. Based on that physicality, Spock considers that the emotion at fault may be sheepishness or reconsideration. "But that would mean they blew up Earth, and I'd want to nail those sons of bitches to the nearest wall, so I don't think I'd be too hard on you." Kirk rearticulates his grin, or perhaps it is a smirk, or somewhere between. Kirk smiles similarly at Uhura, and other women when he is making flirtatious overtures to them.
All it achieves on Spock is the beginning of a narrow glare, the inward press of the corners of his mouth and the points of his eyebrows. This subsides, and his shoulders unknot. "Under such circumstances, we would all of us be compromised."
Kirk sighs, and spins his chair all the way around until he is facing Spock again. "It was a joke, Spock."
"A joke with infelicitous repercussions." But that seems to be a tenet of human humor.
Spock subsequently realizes he has not come into the room yet, and the door is communicating through interface that it is directed to close. In, or out, Spock thinks. In or out.
Again Kirk shifts his shoulders and leans back in the chair. He evidently enjoys the way it moves to accommodate him. "I think the planet's been placed in enough peril for a year, don't you?"
In. "Yes." The door slides shut behind Spock, and the console beside it ripples with automatic relief. "But it is logical to assume that in a galaxy of trillions there are those who believe otherwise."
Kirk groans audibly, enjoyment so quickly dispersed, and lets himself sink deeper into the chair. "Damn the logic, I just want the Enterprise's actual first mission to go right."
"As it stands, the odds are in our favor," Spock supplies. It is difficult not to look at the way Kirk moves in his chair, particularly the set of his hips. They are as expressive as his face and voice. Spock notes that, observes that.
"See, I don't trust the odds," Kirk says, still swiveling. "Every time they're not in our favor, things go well. And when they are--actually, when's the last time the odds were in our favor?"
Spock considers. "Since the beginning of our acquaintance, they have not been until now."
"Good point. Maybe we're just lucky."
Spock elects not to expound on precisely what he thinks of the nature of luck. "Granted, our overriding mission is one that leaves much room for success and little for failure."
"Depends on how badly we break the Prime Directive."
Spock tells him truly, "I have no intention of doing so."
"Me neither," Kirk says, holding up his hands defensively.
Never mind that Spock is entirely capable of seeing through that. "I am forward to say so, but utter compliance with protocol does not seem within your character."
"I comply with the protocol that makes sense. But," Kirk adds, "aren't good Captains supposed to be able to adjust to the situation at hand?" He leans back--the chair is precarious, and if Kirk inclines any more he may dislodge it--and folds his arms over his chest, raises his eyebrows. It is even more difficult now not to watch the long line of Kirk's body, the carelessness with which he moves.
"If swift and sure situational thinking is not the making of a Captain, then I have just made a devastating mistake in consigning myself to one for whom this is the primary redeeming characteristic," Spock says, because silence seems somehow unsatisfactory.
Kirk rolls his eyes, and his hips shift in an odd parallel. "Primary redeeming characteristic?" he echoes, and though he endeavors to mimic Spock's tone of voice he fails to do so, and it remains parody. "You can't think of any others?"
"That I state is as the primary means only that it is the most evident."
"I'd have put 'devastatingly handsome' higher on the list."
"I do not feel in anyway devastated by your physical attractiveness."
"Overcome? Blown away?" Kirk is bothered for adjectives. Spock watches him think. It is strange, to watch someone think, to have visual cues associated with deliberation. Spock's mother behaved the same way, though not to so strong or dramatic an extent. "Stunned? I'd settle for stunned."
"Captivated occasionally," Spock admits, "but my regard for you is in no way debilitating or compromising."
It is also strange to watch Kirk stop thinking, and react.
He peers up at Spock, with an air of challenge about him, and perplexity, though it seems facetious. "Captivated," he repeats, in the same fashion as before.
--This sudden rush of adrenaline and subsequent fluttering of his heart is troubling. Spock has felt similarly around Uhura, and others of similar position, and near Kirk in anger. But he holds Kirk's eyes, for to back down from this challenge would be implication of his own failings. He explains, "At the moment, for example. I continue to notice components of your affectation that are not otherwise significant."
Kirk mouths those words, notice components of your affectation, as if the sounds are foreign. The translation is obvious, but Kirk is conveying so much else, so much more than mere confusion. By turns, Spock takes the changes in Kirk's body language to project flattery, distemper, known ignorance, and many other casts that dissipate too quickly for Spock to discern, let alone identify.
Then Kirk is looking Spock up and down in a way that elicits an appreciation of Spock's vulnerability, and clearing his throat. "Components of your affectation. That can mean almost anything."
Ah. Kirk is fishing for compliments. It is likely that if Spock denies them him, it will result in further goading. So Spock specifies, "Your hips. You move in very cavalier fashion that construes them as your center of operative energy." Even now, when he is doing so much with his eyes and mouth--though those are also components to be monitored.
"You like the way I move my hips. You've been watching the way I move my hips," Kirk says as if he has just translated it, and he starts to swivel them back and forth at first, seemingly unconsciously--and then, deliberately, exaggeratedly.
It is solicitous.
This is cause for defensiveness and embarrassment on Spock's part, but Spock knows he is not to give in to these impulses, and says, "I have," instead. And now that Kirk is playing to this deliberately what can Spock do but cater to the gesture openly?
Kirk stretches, arches his back and shifts his hips, and evaluates Spock evaluating him. It is similar to searching himself in a mirror, but there is appraisal and delay. "What else have you been watching?"
"At the moment, your mouth," Spock admits further, and his voice is getting softer of his own accord, so he compensates for that, "perhaps because of the extend to which you are using it." Spock feels a slow chill creeping up from his ankles, or else the room has grown warmer, or, more logically, he is becoming aroused. He gives that matter some thought, as much as can be had when Kirk is deliberately distracting him.
"I didn't think I was talking as much as I usually do," Kirk says. His fingers tent up on the arms of his chair and tap; Spock's eyes dart toward that sudden gesture, take each tap in succession as it he could imprint each fingertip's respective gesture and file them all away. But that posture again makes him aware of the sprawl of Kirk's hips and the spread of his legs, a countenance unbecoming of an officer yet nonetheless...becoming.
Spock is becoming aroused.
He is aware that this will compromise him, if not to the extent of anger--but around Kirk, anger has already had cause to manifest, and it has not. "It is perhaps best if we do not expound on this matter further," Spock says, though there is a pang high in his chest when he does.
Kirk shakes his head slowly, not quite the same way he is moving his hips but not out of time with them, either. He checks the door, over Spock's shoulder. "Why not?" His voice is thickened.
"Though perhaps it is hypocritical of me to say so, it is imprudent to engage in such debilitating activities with my commanding officer, who furthermore has yet to formally appoint me to the position for which I am vying." It sounds fast and almost hoarse to him, but then, how many rhythms can Kirk convey at once? His hips, his head, his hands--
"Spock, you've got the position," Kirk starts to say, as if it is foregone. But he silences, unfolds and rises from the chair and straightens out his hands.
"Regardless," Spock says, taking a step back and only then realizing that the door is still there, and closed, "I have no desire to turn that position into a compromising one--"
Kirk smirks, and this one is a smirk and not a grin. He reaches forward, claps Spock on the shoulder like he has done before but slower somehow, and spreads his fingers out. Spock's shoulders shift under his shirt. It is neither accommodating nor flinching away. "I'm not taking advantage of you," Kirk says. "And I'm pretty sure you're not taking advantage of me."
Spock knows very well what is coming and considers the options he can; for Kirk, if not for any other man, it is worse for Spock to flee than to face it, and if half of that logic is the quickening of his blood and the sweat beading on his ears and the shivering of his shoulder in Kirk's grip, then so it is. "I am doing no such thing," he says, low, eyes on Kirk's, hard and plain, "and I intend to act as befits my station."
"Good, that's settled," Kirk says, comes up on his toes, and kisses him.
Kirk's kiss is--urgent, which Spock expected, and challenging, which Spock expected but had not quite prepared himself for. Perhaps it is in reaction to that that Spock imbues his riposte to the kiss with similar force, angling down but pulling back to use his advantage in height. His back hits the door, and in reaction he parts his mouth, and steadies himself by grabbing Kirk's upper arms. Kirk grips him back; one hand is trapped between Spock's shoulder and the door and the other is on Spock's bicep. He intends to pin, to aggress, and he bites Spock's lip--
--that was unexpected also, and somewhat painful, but not in a way that incurs anger, sudden but not spiteful. Spock's body tautens instinctively, his grip and knees lock, and he hears a gasp, his own, ringing off the metal walls and in the tip of his ear, which he has perhaps insulted by shoving it into the door in reaction. Evidently Kirk hears it too, and that makes him kiss Spock harder; the force with which Kirk is engaging him is literally staggering, and Spock must spread his legs if he wishes to stand and withstand this assaulting kiss. This has the added effect of not only lowering him to the level of Kirk's mouth, but exposing his lower body to further ministrations--which are, when Kirk's already distracting hips come into contact with Spock's, eminently more distracting. It makes Spock shudder, readily, and he attempts to suppress this by putting more agency into this kiss, realigning Kirk lower, where Spock can keep an eye on him. Kirk reacts to this immediately and favorably, letting go of Spock's back and arms to grab him by the shirt and maneuver him, grind against Spock.
And that. That is dangerous, that momentarily wipes out Spock's mind, and in that gap of sense he pushes himself against that solidity with such reciprocal force as to step away from the door. Pleasure flares up and then flashes into absence as he shoves Kirk (and himself) back toward the center of the room.
"Spock." Kirk is panting. There is sweat on his brow, his hair curling slightly with the increased humidity. "Spock," he says again, startled somehow. He is still holding on to Spock's shirt, though that seems also to confuse him; he adjusts his grip so his hands are not set so close together, so his hold is more secure. "Why'd you stop?"
He is being asked a question, and has not processed it entirely. There should be a measure of shame in this inadequacy. Strangely, it is small when stacked against his experience. Spock's fists are curled, though he is not holding Kirk's arms any more.
He should answer.
"To maintain control," he says, though it is ragged and does not sound like he has retained, let alone maintained, the control he speaks of.
"To maintain control," Kirk repeats--he says things to confirm them and challenge them, Spock concludes--and after that huff of breath Kirk is smiling again, cockily, tugging up the corners of his mouth. His breath is still labored. Spock feels some pride at that. "You know you're missing the point of sex here, don't you."
"It is still possible to exhibit self-command even in a state of physical arousal," Spock says, and the words are strung too close. Kirk is also too close, or perhaps not close enough, and Spock raises his arms, frames Kirk and his distracting hips with still-curled fists.
"Still missing the point." Kirk kisses him again before Spock can protest to the contrary. He tugs Spock closer to the bed. "You're supposed to follow your instincts," he continues, pressing more kisses to the line of Spock's jaw.
Instinct is telling him to bare his throat for Kirk's tongue. It is also telling him to correct Kirk's assumption that sex is an entirely instinctual endeavor. However, the latter instinct is impossible to engage in with Kirk's tongue in Spock's mouth and the signals of demand from Spock's groin, so Spock gives in to the former.
"See?" Kirk says, with--smugness?--and sucks on Spock's throat, pulls back just enough to trace the marks with his tongue. A small-scale evaluation of the proximity of Kirk's incisors to the vital arteries in Spock's neck flashes through Spock's mind, and at some immediate point is subsumed in and strengthens the surge of adrenaline through his system. He knows this will bruise him (Uhura has, once,) and resolves to do this in kind for Kirk, to convey the physical as quintain for the emotional. Spock's teeth are gritting, on themselves and not Kirk's skin; with nothing else available he relies on his hands, digs his nails into Kirk's body.
It is successful. Kirk wrenches his head away to gasp at that. But Kirk appears to enjoy this behavior; he grips the back of Spock's neck and goads him on, teeth snapping. His body is radiating heat and Spock affirms that, pulling it against his. Kirk is aroused; Spock is as well, and the sensation of their becoming mutually aware of this is inflammatory; Spock can feel his throat swelling into Kirk's mouth and does not know if the sound's escaped or not. Kirk grinds against Spock's hip as he kisses him, moves his mouth in that same hard insistent way and smashes himself against Spock's skin. Their legs are tangling together, and Kirk is taking tiny half-steps, staggering back when Spock pushes forward, bending when Spock bears down on him--
Kirk is laughing.
That laughter should be cause for concern. It does not arouse concern in Spock. "I fail to see the humor in this," he says, and perhaps because of the broken capillaries in his throat it sounds deep and raspy to him, and the distinct white noise of anger throbs with the bruises.
It is as with his childhood tormentors. For the quarter-second it takes to bear Kirk and his captivating hips back down into his chair, Spock is not thinking clearly, if at all.
Kirk is still laughing, but without sound, only wheezing breath. He grunts a little when Spock slams him into the chair and sinks again, collapses into it, but reaches up and pulls Spock down with him, closer, close enough to kiss and touch and hold.
Twisting away from Kirk's mouth and the laughter emanating from it, Spock unclenches his hands (it is physically painful to do so) and grabs Kirk's sprawled hips with them, pinning him to the seat so that he does not move them any more. Kirk's eyes are laughing as well, when Spock glares into them. "I request that you--enlighten me on what has amused you."
"This," Kirk says indistinctly, shaking his head. He pushes against Spock's hands, but Spock does not relent. He is stronger. It shows. "Everything," Kirk does not completely clarify.
"I do not find this humorous." Spock braces himself, holds Kirk down more firmly, brings their faces closer and is reminded of his bitten lip, the blood at the same rapid pulse as his increasingly insistent sexual organs. "I certainly do not find everything humorous."
"It isn't funny," Kirk says, then amends: "In a way it is. It's just--" He--he thinks through all the feeling that has compromised him, through all of the physical chaos that is undermining his rational thought. It is empowering, paradoxically arousing, for Spock to see Kirk's human failings at a time like this--but it also reminds Spock that he is not far off. And the way Kirk is breathing and surging and shuddering and grabbing Spock's wrists does not articulate for him, but communicates. "It feels good," Kirk says.
Even Spock knows it is more than that.
"It's good, so I laugh to--to blow off steam. Kind of." Kirk parts his lips frustratedly, and implicitly asks to be kissed.
That gesture was so unexpected as to elicit a visible reaction in Spock's face, the regard of his eyes on those hands and the hips they are spread on, the evident erection they are framing. Kirk is enjoying himself, and Spock, though physically primed, is in distress. This only serves to create more distress, anger, and indignation, which he was and should be and is no longer above, and Spock is unable to restrain himself from taking these out on Kirk's body. If Kirk is pleased to have Spock behaving roughly with him, then that is how Spock shall behave.
He spins the seat half-around, pins Kirk by the groin and throat, and aligns his own erection with the cool back of the chair to subdue it.
It is effective. Kirk starts, but it is futile, with Spock pinning him down and blocking his throat. He shakes, leans into the pressure instead of away from it--it is like Kirk, to not only face but welcome danger--and grasps and closes his fists on air before his hands finally scrabble onto the arms of his chair and seize it.
"It feels good, so you laugh." Spock calms himself, arches against the back of the chair and tightens his arm around Kirk's throat, leans down with his palm on the seat between Kirk's legs so that Kirk's clothed erection is against Spock's wrist. "In my sexual experience this is not the case."
Kirk bares his teeth and pushes up off the chair as much as he can, which is not sufficient to dislodge Spock. He is throbbing, at both his throat and his groin. He still feels the need to speak even with his throat constricted, "Maybe you just don't, ah, have the same breadth of experience--"
"This is probable." Kirk is writhing again. Spock watches Kirk's hips lift and skirl with evident raw want. He is uncertain whether he is envious or covetous. "By several accounts you are unusually sexually prolific."
"Want to--test that out for yourself?"
It is a direct question. It has a highly complicated answer. Perhaps clarification is in order. "Are you asking whether I would enjoy the benefits of your sexual experience?"
"Something like that, yeah," Kirk affirms, and brings his hips forward to meet Spock's wrist again. Perhaps that is intended to clarify the question.
It will take leaning forward to continue to restrain Kirk, and so Spock says this against the shell of his small human ear. It is fascinating, the red undertones and the shape of it, the way it curls in on itself much like Spock is overlaying Kirk in this position. "If that is the case, the answer is a qualified yes."
Kirk's hips slam back into the seat. "Qualified?" he asks, sputtering.
"Affirmative," Spock says, and finds that though the chair is hard and at a lower temperature it has done nothing to diminish his arousal, or else something has increased it. "Though I would in fact benefit from your extensive experience I continue to have reservations as to the frankness of your desire."
"Frankness," Kirk repeats, and it is both dazed and incredulous. "How frank do I have to get?" It is innuendo; he is thrusting himself into Spock's wrist, implying that the evidence of his state is honest, and, well, Kirk is correct.
"I am not concerned as to whether you want my attention or not," Spock explains. Kirk's state is nearly an instructive example case of the power of emotions to diminish capacity for logic, and Spock has not yet answered for himself whether he is envious of the magnitude of Kirk's want. He holds him there, tight by the throat. "I am concerned that I may be playing a part in a chain of seemingly pleasurable events to my eventual detriment."
It feels as if Kirk's entire body is required to permit him to breathe, rising and falling to force air out and in. In. "I'll still--damn--I'll still respect you in the morning, Spock--"
"You did not when last I revealed myself to be vulnerable to emotion." He feels no immediate need to relinquish Kirk's throat, evident distress or not.
"Spock," he says, wheezing, perhaps in a state of panic--it occurs to Spock that, permission or not, he is in the process of deliberately asphyxiating his commanding officer again--but Kirk is shaking and so is the chair against Spock's torso, and after one brutal thrash Kirk is gaping, thirsting, "--I really want us to fuck."
--Spock lets go of Kirk's throat. His hand stings, the knuckles are sore from protracted use, so he lifts his other hand to hold Kirk down by his groin instead. He is hot there; Spock heats in reciprocity, and the back of this chair has not felt so impersonal yet.
"Right, yeah, there--" Kirk tightens his jaw but does not close it, perhaps cannot, he is engaged in the suddenly permitted act of breathing. Kirk's head is thrown back, into Spock's chin; Spock still does not move. He is watching Kirk grind himself into his hands, watching Kirk fall so completely into the thrall of his need at Spock's ministrations, and watching this makes Spock not only aroused but--something else he can neither name nor suppress, in itself a kind of want.
"There," Spock repeats, and it is an interrogative as he holds Kirk's shaft firmly, encompassed in the starched cloth. There is something remiss about that.
Kirk licks his lips; they are visibly chapped. "There, he says, and "fuck" and it is easier, facing this direction, to push up Kirk's shirt and undo his slacks. His hips lurch fervently when the pants are open, though that is a hindrance in pushing them down, and even more a hazard with his increasingly tight underwear. But the sensation--and experience--is as increasingly pleasurable even in their perplexity, and Spock distinctly wants to see more of that motion, as he did before but pronounced, as if his own state depends on it. He stares.
Kirk clutches the chair desperately, rolls his head and his eyes back as Spock's fingers brush over the outline of his shaft through his briefs, testing and evaluating but--
"Harder."
--plainly insufficient.
Spock can feel Kirk's breath on his chin, hot, beading. He will feel the same there, in Spock's hand, and Spock consciously decides to want that, to do that. He pries the waistband of Kirk's underwear down and does, and Kirk thrusts himself forward into Spock's hand at the touch; his back lifts off the chair and his fingers throb, but not as much as his shaft does, flushed a predictable but unfamiliar dark red. He kisses Spock's chin, quick and hurried, and this is more violent, fiercer than Spock has experienced with any sexual partner. The evidence of Kirk's want is overwhelming, the desperation stunning, the motion even more captivating than before. And Spock cannot will himself to look away, to withdraw. He has no desire to.
In fact, the contrary; he wants to elicit more of this, and so he complies with explicit and implicit command, jerks his fist harder and more frequently, spreads his fingers to touch more. He has done this, and knows its effects on others, including himself--but he wishes the distinct experience of James Tiberius Kirk, and permits that want.
Kirk is skirling his hips faster, harder, bucking in the chair and swearing incoherently. He lets go of one of the chair's arms and reaches behind and grips Spock's shoulder with that hand, clenches it, and Spock shudders at the sudden touch. It derails him, but he composes himself and realigns his free hand with Kirk's throat again. His fingers find the welts already there, that strange human red and oxidized blue, but he touches them reverently. He will not apologize. He strokes them as softly as the pace of his other hand will allow, traces the nerves he could incapacitate Kirk with, and becomes aware that he is stimulating himself on the back of the chair and that this is insufficient.
The back of Kirk's head pushes against Spock's chest and shivers. He keeps canting his hips forward, breathing fragments of sentences and half-finished words into Spock's face, stroking senseless circles into Spock's shoulder--this is my commanding officer, Spock thinks, and he is ordering me, don't stop, "don't stop--"
"Understood," Spock says, and that is all breath, a sharp burst like those that Kirk is heaving. He stares, obliges, continuing the trend in increase and application and similar motion. His hips and hand are moving like Kirk's now, but without a hand to touch him in kind and Spock--wants--
"Shit, I'm almost--" Kirk chokes out, a warning, and Spock holds his shaft solidly but at that plea pulls back to see Kirk's face, upside-down and streaked with sweat--
--and now Spock considers that he should have been watching Kirk's eyes instead of his hips all this time--
Kirk looks up at him, into his eyes, wild and perhaps unseeing--no, that is incorrect, Kirk must see something because it is that sight that disconnects all else in him--and he comes, cries out hot and hoarse and raw, digging his fingers into the chair and Spock's shoulder hard enough to claw.
Spock's hand is smeared with Kirk's ejaculate and still Spock is more concerned with Kirk's eyes. They are aflare, with the same relative intensity as anger but an entirely different cast. Spock has never seen someone keep his or her eyes open during orgasm, and it is--perhaps not devastatingly handsome, but Spock is nonetheless overcome. He knows he is staring, and that his mouth is parted, his wet hand still curled tight on Kirk's shaft. Soon, Kirk's hand has slipped down to cover Spock's there. He is still staring, somehow caught.
When Kirk blinks, Spock becomes aware that he has not.
Upside-down like this, Kirk's face relaxes, and Spock watches each flinch, each fade, each drop of sweat still gathering. Spock's hips have stilled against the back of the chair but his sexual need is still prominent and unfulfilled, and his lower lip and knuckles ache. He touches Kirk's skin, lightly now, aware that something is not being addressed but certain that he should not proceed.
"That," Kirk murmurs, "yeah," and he plants his feet on the ground, somehow rotates the chair around to face Spock. He lifts an eyebrow--it is a Vulcan gesture that looks as strange on Kirk, and stranger with Kirk debauched, as Spock has never seen a Vulcan expression flushed red and framed with pale human semen--and he tells Spock, "Come here," grabbing for his wrist.
Kirk catches him easily; the instinct for Spock to flinch is just that, an instinct, and Spock takes the intended step closer, between Kirk's legs. Kirk's hips are even more distracting when they are in this disarray, and Spock evaluates that before resuming his challenge of Kirk's eyes.
The lazy indistinguishable grin or smirk has resurfaced, and Kirk runs his eyes up and down Spock, appraising him with less cursory attention than the letters of recommendation. "I'd be a pretty bad Captain if I didn't address the needs of my officers," he says, his voice rough.
"The matter of your adequacy as Captain has already been tried," Spock says, aware that he is being evaluated as well. He presses his heels into the soles of his shoes and presents himself for address.
"Not like this it hasn't," Kirk says, running his hands down Spock's hips.
"You are laughing again," Spock observes, speaking as much to divert Kirk from the shifting of his own hips under that assessing touch. "Does your prior sentiment hold true?"
"I'd say so, yeah." He slips his hands under Spock's shirt, spreads his fingers out and strokes in winding patterns, inclined gradually downward.
Spock's breath catches and fists curl, watching himself be touched like this. Even Kirk's fingertips are tinted red; on Uhura's much darker skin, the difference is less pronounced. "I assume then that it pleases you to the point of laughter to attain physical contact with me."
With one practiced motion, he undoes Spock's slacks one-handed. "You can say that."
That initial touch and the sight of it drive all controlled thoughts from Spock's mind, Kirk's knuckles under Spock's navel. Spock's body arches into that ministration of its own accord. "I do not wish to detract from your enjoyment. Please continue."
"My pleasure," Kirk says, and that last syllable is slurred as if he is intoxicated. But the gesture with which he pushes Spock's slacks down past his hips and cups him through his underwear is sudden and sharp. "Do all Vulcans wear briefs?"
Spock tenses so palpably that, though he wishes to speak, he is briefly unable to do so. "It is--" he breathes, compels the words to state quickly. "--not my place to assume for all the remaining members of my race--"
"Just a--what do you call them?" Kirk asks, stroking the outline of Spock's erection with his thumb. It feels--good, as it ought, if profoundly insufficient. "Right. Just a personal query."
Spock is unsteady and aware that he is becoming so; he leans forward to brace his arms on the chair again, over Kirk's shoulders. "It strikes me as an irrelevant query." His breath is coming short, his ears are ringing--
"See, humans--where I'm from, anyway," Kirk explains, pulls his hand up and scrapes it over Spock's erection, the backs of his nails dragging, before he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Spock's underwear and starts to peel them down. "We ask people 'boxers or briefs?' because it's supposed to tell you something about the other guy."
"And--what does that line of questioning reveal?" The attention to his need, and Kirk's jibes, are at the forefront of Spock's consciousness now, and he is almost resigned to giving himself over to this in kind.
"Personality test." Kirk holds Spock's bare hip with one hand, curls his other one around the base of Spock's shaft--oh, he is strong, it is unexpected of a human--but he does not shift or stroke, not yet. The faint redness of Kirk's fingertips and knuckles is striking against the familiar green swell of Spock's flesh but his hand feels like a Vulcan's, or a sufficient approximation therein, or merely similar enough, hot and hard. Kirk makes the slightest motion of his hand and plays Spock right into it, swirls the pad of his thumb over the black curls that trail down from Spock's navel, smirks, explains, "Men who wear briefs are supposed to be more--clean-cut."
"I--I remind you that this is a Starfleet-issue undergarment and that yours--"
"Must've slipped my mind," Kirk says, and strokes him fast and even.
There is a response to that, and Spock loses it entirely. It--it feels, and though it is not the first time, this--this bereftness is unique, Spock is entirely without the ability to articulate or supersede the sensation. All he knows is that Kirk's hand is slick and tight and hot and touching him where his need is immediate. And Kirk does not press him for an answer, anchors his grip on Spock's hip and uses that to push, drag, impel where he needs to and coax Spock to move, respond, leans forward and blows on the head of Spock's shaft, then pulls back, grinning as if he has attained something--
--and it appears that Spock has not lost his capacity for speech--he can feel his throat shudder with a scream, his body lurching forward to follow the sound. His hips cant up to follow that taunt of breath, it will overwhelm him and he craves it like air. What ration is strong enough to breach this chaos of sensation reminds Spock that he can achieve that, and he uncurls his right hand from the chair to wrap around Kirk's neck again.
It is not a conscious decision for Spock to give himself over to this entirely. By the time he notices he has he is already thrusting into Kirk's hands, pushing down on Kirk's neck to urge him closer, gripping Kirk and the chair with all his weight and crying out senseless incoherencies that it is too late to stifle. This is good; this is warranted; he thinks of Kirk's face in climax and wonders if his own features will be as compelling to Kirk--he knows he is close, at the edge of retention, knows that his state is in Kirk's hands, entirely and literally. Kirk's hands are hot and so is his gaze; Spock is on display and vulnerable and in the thrall of base physical sensation, and Kirk's hands have aroused him to the state where he does not think it wrong. "This," he thinks he says with what ragged breath he has left, it does not sound like him, "please--maintain this--"
"Yeah," Kirk growls and his hand is blistering, "Don't worry, I've got you--"
There is arrogance in those eyes, and want, and all manner of emotions that Spock can identify but not comprehend. Something in Spock's temples is as swollen and tight as his skin and it overrides everything else, all impulses but touch and sight, and Spock releases into Kirk's hand, consumed by his expression. He believes he cries out, but cannot hear it if he does.
There is haze, and Spock is aware that he is sinking. When it clears, he is aware that Kirk is laughing again, but this time Spock does not press it. He tries to slow the descent, kneels instead of falls, and his hand slips down from the chair back to join the other on Kirk's neck. Spock hangs his head, leans on Kirk's thigh to stop up one ear. His mind is coming back to him. He does not think he will struggle with shame, but it is still more prudent to ease himself back into conscious thought.
Kirk leans in and kisses Spock again. It is slow this time, strange both for Kirk and because of Kirk. It is as if his lips feel as if they are melting instead of parting. That bruise on Spock's lip smarts, but Spock supposes that most things Kirk does will. He is still slack, but returns this kiss with like motion. Perhaps he will bite Kirk's lip as well, but it is inadvisable at this immediate juncture.
"I like this chair," Kirk says.
After several deep breaths, Spock agrees soberly, "It has served beyond its prescribed function."
Kirk closes his eyes for a moment. "Cleaning it's going to be awkward."
This is true. Kirk's semen is not only on him and the chair but his neck where Spock is holding it; Spock's ejaculate is cooling on them both. Neither of them is in a state to acquire cleaning materials without immediate apprehension--though Kirk seems to have forgotten his own station, and Spock regards him directly. "Forgive the implication that you are unused to these quarters, but there is an adjoining private bathroom which should, if the appropriate ensigns are fulfilling their duties, be accoutered with towels and other sufficient cleaning tools."
"--ah. Right. I knew that."
Spock finds that in uncoiling to his feet he still requires the support of Kirk and this briefly formidable chair. "I will get them, and address my own unseemly deportment as well."
"Unseemly--right." He seems to be repeating Spock even when Spock's meaning is clear. Is it incredulity? "I don't think it's unseemly."
"Whether my current disheveled state is of interest to you or not, it is unbecoming of a First Officer of Starfleet."
"Only if you walk around the bridge with your pants hanging half-off," Kirk points out. "What you do in your quarters--or mine--that's not Starfleet's business."
"Which is precisely why I do not intend to flaunt my engagement in such personal activities to the personnel." He pulls back to rise and, rather than straightening his stained slacks, strip them off entirely. His legs are slow to obey neural functions, but this has happened before after sexual activity. That does not make it any less disconcerting.
"I didn't know Vulcans had a thing for puns."
Spock drapes his trousers and underwear over his arm, and, on the way to the bathroom, peels off his shirt as well. "It would be prudent to consider that this, as several other components of my demeanor, may not necessarily be ascribed to all of my species."
"Noted," he says. Spock is aware that Kirk is watching him from behind. It is perturbing but not unwelcome. "Anything else I should consider?"
As they are still engaged in conversation, Spock does not close the bathroom door once it is open, and proceeds to clean off his clothing with the near textile purifier. "There are considerable odds that you and I will engage in similar activities at a later date. I believe that discussion of the ramifications of such an encounter, and of this encounter, would yield the most fortuitous results."
In the room, Kirk says a startled "--shit."
Spock goes on regardless. "In particular, as I do not wish to terminate my intercourse with Lieutenant Uhura, and because I respect her, she should be informed of this, perhaps not immediately, but at the earliest feasible juncture."
"No," Kirk says quickly, and clarifies precariously, "No, I don't want to get between you and Uhura, that's fine, she's a--she's a great woman and she's a valuable officer and--" He clears his throat audibly. He is hiding something. "What's the likelihood that she's going to kick me in the face?"
"You have discerned the precise reason that I do not believe we should inform her immediately." He raises his voice over the hum of the textile purifier. "If I was to inform her of this encounter while presenting sensual evidence of it, the odds of her exacting violence upon you are ninety-three percent."
"--I don't think I like those odds, Spock."
"I agree. Despite your history of disregarding and thus surmounting the odds, I think any victory you attained in this would be pyrrhic at best." The stains are out of his clothes; he shakes out the briefs, once, firmly, cleans himself, and then steps back into them. The green flush of his skin is attenuating, but there is still the faint salt scent of sex, human sex, about him. It is not unpleasant.
"You're probably right." Kirk's exhale is audible, nearly a sigh. "So when do we tell her?"
Spock pulls his shirt on before he answers, and adjusts the neck around the green-edged bruises. He cannot hide them; in fact, it exacerbates them. "Lieutenant Uhura is most accessible with regard to potentially infelicitous news in the late morning." He steps into his pants. "We may be able to open an appropriate discussion before mess."
"How late morning are we talking?"
"Ten-hundred hours." Spock has emerged from the bathroom, bringing towels and the textile purifier; for a moment, he regards Kirk, and recalls the earlier imperative to be devastated by his physical attractiveness. He is not, not devastated, but is nonetheless reminded to be. Kirk cuts an incongruously...dashing figure, sprawled in that chair, debauched. Spock brings the towels and kneels again to clean the chair, between Kirk's legs.
"Ten-hundred hours isn't horrible," Kirk says. He is watching Spock clean with diminished but not absent curiosity. "Can I have one of those?"
Spock hands a towel up without a word, and bends again to continue cleaning. "Then it is settled. I will schedule this in the context of a matter of communication." It will be his first official duty as First Officer under Kirk's Captaining. The irony is almost humorous; he is, perhaps literally, saving Kirk's life.
Kirk had been sopping up the come on his person--with the same hand, towel slumping, he reaches out and down to trace the bruises welling under Spock's collar with the tip of his finger. He murmurs, "They show up green."
"Vulcan blood is green. All associative functions of blood logically have that cast to them." Spock considers that this is perhaps why Kirk does not recognize the occasionally traitorous expressive cues that Spock often knows he is displaying.
Recognition spreads across Kirk's cheeks, which are still tinged red. He tosses the towel aside, straightens, heads to his closet and rummages around for a clean pair of slacks. "Is that why I've never seen a Vulcan blush?"
"It is likely that you have, and not understood the state for what it is." The floor and chair are clean; he gathers up these towels and brings them into the bathroom to be cleaned in kind.
"Well, if I've missed out on that, what else haven't I picked up on?" Kirk holds his hand up in the traditional Vulcan salute, grins. It is not the same grin, fatigued and framed in sweat. "Is there some kind of hidden meaning to this that I don't know about?"
Spock regards him levelly. "With the exception of certain contexts, which can add to the salutation, no."
"Certain contexts. Care to elaborate?"
"I am not of a species above passive-aggression." The towels are clean; again Spock emerges to the room. Kirk is fully undressed but otherwise nearly presentable again. The smell of sex is stronger about him, perhaps because it is somewhat new. Spock does not permit himself to be stalled by it.
"Or plain old aggression," Kirk points out, rubbing the purpling bruises on his throat.
"Affirmative. As shameful as it is to fall victim to such urges."
"I think you all define 'shameful urges' a little broadly. Feeling at all's a shameful urge, the way you talk about it. Of course you end up falling victim to them."
There is something that persists as fascinating about the way Kirk's hips move, as he pulls his clothing on; when he bends over to slide his underwear up, it is diverting. "The frequency does not alleviate the impracticality of emotion where logic is required. Whether the compromise is sporadic or perpetual, it is equally warranting of consternation."
"But that doesn't stop you from doing it," Kirk says, smirking, and again, not the same smirk. How many variations on that expression is he capable of?
Spock does not glare, or if he does, represses it. "It dissuades me."
"But it doesn't stop you."
"There are situations in which a protracted assault on my standards of behavior is capable of overwhelming them."
Kirk hitches his pants up around his hips. "I think I picked up on that one." He pauses. "Guess I'm not the only one, either."
Spock knots his brows. "Elaborate."
"It's not like I'm boldly going where--has any man ever gone there before?" Kirk is gesturing in a fashion that Spock has observed to be lewd among humans, and an expression that lends them jocularity.
Spock knows that his skin would heat. He suppresses that. "No human man."
"First time for everything," Kirk says, and claps Spock on the shoulder with one hand as he tries to do up the fly of his pants with the other.
Observing that, Spock permits himself a smirk. "Your ability to accomplish those two gestures in tandem is fascinating."
"Every good Captain knows how to multitask, right? And I'm going to be a very good Captain. ...If Uhura lets me live long enough to, anyway."
"If we have planned this adequately I am sure that you will survive." All this taken care of, Spock prepares to leave, and takes a step backward, watching and feeling Kirk's hand slip off his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. "I believe her sufficiently sensible not to commit a fatality upon her commanding officer."
"Right. She's--sensible." Kirk is speaking euphemistically, but what he truly implies is lost on Spock. "Is that why you two started up in the first place?"
Ah. Spock takes another step back, though he does not withdraw from Kirk's eyes. "One could argue that, though the inception of our liaison posed substantial risks to our professions, that she approached me is perhaps a testimony to her sensibility."
Kirk nods. Spock has grown to enjoy, watching him think. "So if we approach her, she'll be..." he prompts.
"Amenable to reasonable and respectful behavior," Spock finishes.
"Okay. I can do reasonable and respectful."
Spock raises an eyebrow.
Kirk scoffs indignantly. "What. I can."
Spock does not conceal the interrogative and disbelieving expression that has no doubt manifested on his face. "I await such a display with curiosity."
"Oh, just watch me," Kirk says, gesturing openly.
At the door, Spock says, truthfully, "I will."
-
---
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It feels very strange to write a fic without footnotes.
.
...So yeah. See icon. (keywords: "logic swallows")
Title: Similar Activities
Authors: mithrigil and puella_nerdii
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Characters: Kirk and Spock
Rating: Hard R, sex.
Words: 8300
Summary: "I am aware that you may not rely on these testimonials in order to appoint me, but the Admiralty will require sufficient documentation to verify my commission."
Also, Kirk does not know where his towel is.
Similar Activities
trek reboot
mith and puel in the special hell
"I told you, you don't need those."
Kirk is grinning, openly regarding the documents that Spock has brought. He leans somewhat jauntily on the jamb of the door to his quarters. Spock considers that the Captain has grounds to be pleased with himself, and so does not think much of the expression. "I am aware that you may not rely on these testimonials in order to appoint me, but the Admiralty will require sufficient documentation to verify my commission." He extends the papers in one hand, the other stiff at his side.
At command, the doors to the Captain's quarters slide open, and Kirk briefly appraises the papers. It seems he is only ascertaining that they are in order. Spock is above indignation and so does not comment. "So who'd you use for your references, anyway?" Kirk asks.
"Admirals Pike and Oruiyan, Commissioner Greene, three of the High Council of Vulcan. I am concerned that these may be biased depictions, but I acquired them on short notice."
"I trust 'em," Kirk says. He has entered his quarters by now--the Captain's Quarters, Spock recounts with a measure of internal dissonance--and he flings the papers onto his desk. "I'll file these later."
"It would be among my duties," Spock offers. "I suppose there is a measure of irony in that." Spock remains standing in the doorframe. His left hand is tensing, not quite curling into a fist. He unfurls it when he identifies the impulse as a minor violent instinct.
That instinct is not diminished when Kirk calls from within, "You can come in. Don't need to ask permission. Well, if you want to take care of it, write yourself a really glowing evaluation, you've earned it. Mostly," he adds.
The qualifier is in accordance with Kirk's cavalier demeanor. The side of Spock's lip quirks, first up then back down. "To think, I am concerned for the depth of bias in the recommendations. If I did not know your comment to be in jest, I'd have taken it as potentially spiteful."
"Recommendations should be biased," Kirk says, and flings himself into the room's chair with much the same carelessness as the file of references. The chair is of similar make to the Captain's chair on the Bridge, of a smaller scale but with the same rotational amenities. Kirk is plainly unused to and intrigued by the construction, for he is shifting his weight from foot to foot and pivoting from side to side, but does not turn far enough to move Spock out of his line of sight.
Spock follows him with his eyes, watching (evaluating?) the swing of his knees and shoulders, and the shifts in Kirk's eyes. "I endeavor to present myself as an imperfect composite, given that you have already observed the extent to which my faculties may be compromised."
"So if someone blows up your planet again, I'll know what to look out for." Kirk stiffens noticeably. Based on that physicality, Spock considers that the emotion at fault may be sheepishness or reconsideration. "But that would mean they blew up Earth, and I'd want to nail those sons of bitches to the nearest wall, so I don't think I'd be too hard on you." Kirk rearticulates his grin, or perhaps it is a smirk, or somewhere between. Kirk smiles similarly at Uhura, and other women when he is making flirtatious overtures to them.
All it achieves on Spock is the beginning of a narrow glare, the inward press of the corners of his mouth and the points of his eyebrows. This subsides, and his shoulders unknot. "Under such circumstances, we would all of us be compromised."
Kirk sighs, and spins his chair all the way around until he is facing Spock again. "It was a joke, Spock."
"A joke with infelicitous repercussions." But that seems to be a tenet of human humor.
Spock subsequently realizes he has not come into the room yet, and the door is communicating through interface that it is directed to close. In, or out, Spock thinks. In or out.
Again Kirk shifts his shoulders and leans back in the chair. He evidently enjoys the way it moves to accommodate him. "I think the planet's been placed in enough peril for a year, don't you?"
In. "Yes." The door slides shut behind Spock, and the console beside it ripples with automatic relief. "But it is logical to assume that in a galaxy of trillions there are those who believe otherwise."
Kirk groans audibly, enjoyment so quickly dispersed, and lets himself sink deeper into the chair. "Damn the logic, I just want the Enterprise's actual first mission to go right."
"As it stands, the odds are in our favor," Spock supplies. It is difficult not to look at the way Kirk moves in his chair, particularly the set of his hips. They are as expressive as his face and voice. Spock notes that, observes that.
"See, I don't trust the odds," Kirk says, still swiveling. "Every time they're not in our favor, things go well. And when they are--actually, when's the last time the odds were in our favor?"
Spock considers. "Since the beginning of our acquaintance, they have not been until now."
"Good point. Maybe we're just lucky."
Spock elects not to expound on precisely what he thinks of the nature of luck. "Granted, our overriding mission is one that leaves much room for success and little for failure."
"Depends on how badly we break the Prime Directive."
Spock tells him truly, "I have no intention of doing so."
"Me neither," Kirk says, holding up his hands defensively.
Never mind that Spock is entirely capable of seeing through that. "I am forward to say so, but utter compliance with protocol does not seem within your character."
"I comply with the protocol that makes sense. But," Kirk adds, "aren't good Captains supposed to be able to adjust to the situation at hand?" He leans back--the chair is precarious, and if Kirk inclines any more he may dislodge it--and folds his arms over his chest, raises his eyebrows. It is even more difficult now not to watch the long line of Kirk's body, the carelessness with which he moves.
"If swift and sure situational thinking is not the making of a Captain, then I have just made a devastating mistake in consigning myself to one for whom this is the primary redeeming characteristic," Spock says, because silence seems somehow unsatisfactory.
Kirk rolls his eyes, and his hips shift in an odd parallel. "Primary redeeming characteristic?" he echoes, and though he endeavors to mimic Spock's tone of voice he fails to do so, and it remains parody. "You can't think of any others?"
"That I state is as the primary means only that it is the most evident."
"I'd have put 'devastatingly handsome' higher on the list."
"I do not feel in anyway devastated by your physical attractiveness."
"Overcome? Blown away?" Kirk is bothered for adjectives. Spock watches him think. It is strange, to watch someone think, to have visual cues associated with deliberation. Spock's mother behaved the same way, though not to so strong or dramatic an extent. "Stunned? I'd settle for stunned."
"Captivated occasionally," Spock admits, "but my regard for you is in no way debilitating or compromising."
It is also strange to watch Kirk stop thinking, and react.
He peers up at Spock, with an air of challenge about him, and perplexity, though it seems facetious. "Captivated," he repeats, in the same fashion as before.
--This sudden rush of adrenaline and subsequent fluttering of his heart is troubling. Spock has felt similarly around Uhura, and others of similar position, and near Kirk in anger. But he holds Kirk's eyes, for to back down from this challenge would be implication of his own failings. He explains, "At the moment, for example. I continue to notice components of your affectation that are not otherwise significant."
Kirk mouths those words, notice components of your affectation, as if the sounds are foreign. The translation is obvious, but Kirk is conveying so much else, so much more than mere confusion. By turns, Spock takes the changes in Kirk's body language to project flattery, distemper, known ignorance, and many other casts that dissipate too quickly for Spock to discern, let alone identify.
Then Kirk is looking Spock up and down in a way that elicits an appreciation of Spock's vulnerability, and clearing his throat. "Components of your affectation. That can mean almost anything."
Ah. Kirk is fishing for compliments. It is likely that if Spock denies them him, it will result in further goading. So Spock specifies, "Your hips. You move in very cavalier fashion that construes them as your center of operative energy." Even now, when he is doing so much with his eyes and mouth--though those are also components to be monitored.
"You like the way I move my hips. You've been watching the way I move my hips," Kirk says as if he has just translated it, and he starts to swivel them back and forth at first, seemingly unconsciously--and then, deliberately, exaggeratedly.
It is solicitous.
This is cause for defensiveness and embarrassment on Spock's part, but Spock knows he is not to give in to these impulses, and says, "I have," instead. And now that Kirk is playing to this deliberately what can Spock do but cater to the gesture openly?
Kirk stretches, arches his back and shifts his hips, and evaluates Spock evaluating him. It is similar to searching himself in a mirror, but there is appraisal and delay. "What else have you been watching?"
"At the moment, your mouth," Spock admits further, and his voice is getting softer of his own accord, so he compensates for that, "perhaps because of the extend to which you are using it." Spock feels a slow chill creeping up from his ankles, or else the room has grown warmer, or, more logically, he is becoming aroused. He gives that matter some thought, as much as can be had when Kirk is deliberately distracting him.
"I didn't think I was talking as much as I usually do," Kirk says. His fingers tent up on the arms of his chair and tap; Spock's eyes dart toward that sudden gesture, take each tap in succession as it he could imprint each fingertip's respective gesture and file them all away. But that posture again makes him aware of the sprawl of Kirk's hips and the spread of his legs, a countenance unbecoming of an officer yet nonetheless...becoming.
Spock is becoming aroused.
He is aware that this will compromise him, if not to the extent of anger--but around Kirk, anger has already had cause to manifest, and it has not. "It is perhaps best if we do not expound on this matter further," Spock says, though there is a pang high in his chest when he does.
Kirk shakes his head slowly, not quite the same way he is moving his hips but not out of time with them, either. He checks the door, over Spock's shoulder. "Why not?" His voice is thickened.
"Though perhaps it is hypocritical of me to say so, it is imprudent to engage in such debilitating activities with my commanding officer, who furthermore has yet to formally appoint me to the position for which I am vying." It sounds fast and almost hoarse to him, but then, how many rhythms can Kirk convey at once? His hips, his head, his hands--
"Spock, you've got the position," Kirk starts to say, as if it is foregone. But he silences, unfolds and rises from the chair and straightens out his hands.
"Regardless," Spock says, taking a step back and only then realizing that the door is still there, and closed, "I have no desire to turn that position into a compromising one--"
Kirk smirks, and this one is a smirk and not a grin. He reaches forward, claps Spock on the shoulder like he has done before but slower somehow, and spreads his fingers out. Spock's shoulders shift under his shirt. It is neither accommodating nor flinching away. "I'm not taking advantage of you," Kirk says. "And I'm pretty sure you're not taking advantage of me."
Spock knows very well what is coming and considers the options he can; for Kirk, if not for any other man, it is worse for Spock to flee than to face it, and if half of that logic is the quickening of his blood and the sweat beading on his ears and the shivering of his shoulder in Kirk's grip, then so it is. "I am doing no such thing," he says, low, eyes on Kirk's, hard and plain, "and I intend to act as befits my station."
"Good, that's settled," Kirk says, comes up on his toes, and kisses him.
Kirk's kiss is--urgent, which Spock expected, and challenging, which Spock expected but had not quite prepared himself for. Perhaps it is in reaction to that that Spock imbues his riposte to the kiss with similar force, angling down but pulling back to use his advantage in height. His back hits the door, and in reaction he parts his mouth, and steadies himself by grabbing Kirk's upper arms. Kirk grips him back; one hand is trapped between Spock's shoulder and the door and the other is on Spock's bicep. He intends to pin, to aggress, and he bites Spock's lip--
--that was unexpected also, and somewhat painful, but not in a way that incurs anger, sudden but not spiteful. Spock's body tautens instinctively, his grip and knees lock, and he hears a gasp, his own, ringing off the metal walls and in the tip of his ear, which he has perhaps insulted by shoving it into the door in reaction. Evidently Kirk hears it too, and that makes him kiss Spock harder; the force with which Kirk is engaging him is literally staggering, and Spock must spread his legs if he wishes to stand and withstand this assaulting kiss. This has the added effect of not only lowering him to the level of Kirk's mouth, but exposing his lower body to further ministrations--which are, when Kirk's already distracting hips come into contact with Spock's, eminently more distracting. It makes Spock shudder, readily, and he attempts to suppress this by putting more agency into this kiss, realigning Kirk lower, where Spock can keep an eye on him. Kirk reacts to this immediately and favorably, letting go of Spock's back and arms to grab him by the shirt and maneuver him, grind against Spock.
And that. That is dangerous, that momentarily wipes out Spock's mind, and in that gap of sense he pushes himself against that solidity with such reciprocal force as to step away from the door. Pleasure flares up and then flashes into absence as he shoves Kirk (and himself) back toward the center of the room.
"Spock." Kirk is panting. There is sweat on his brow, his hair curling slightly with the increased humidity. "Spock," he says again, startled somehow. He is still holding on to Spock's shirt, though that seems also to confuse him; he adjusts his grip so his hands are not set so close together, so his hold is more secure. "Why'd you stop?"
He is being asked a question, and has not processed it entirely. There should be a measure of shame in this inadequacy. Strangely, it is small when stacked against his experience. Spock's fists are curled, though he is not holding Kirk's arms any more.
He should answer.
"To maintain control," he says, though it is ragged and does not sound like he has retained, let alone maintained, the control he speaks of.
"To maintain control," Kirk repeats--he says things to confirm them and challenge them, Spock concludes--and after that huff of breath Kirk is smiling again, cockily, tugging up the corners of his mouth. His breath is still labored. Spock feels some pride at that. "You know you're missing the point of sex here, don't you."
"It is still possible to exhibit self-command even in a state of physical arousal," Spock says, and the words are strung too close. Kirk is also too close, or perhaps not close enough, and Spock raises his arms, frames Kirk and his distracting hips with still-curled fists.
"Still missing the point." Kirk kisses him again before Spock can protest to the contrary. He tugs Spock closer to the bed. "You're supposed to follow your instincts," he continues, pressing more kisses to the line of Spock's jaw.
Instinct is telling him to bare his throat for Kirk's tongue. It is also telling him to correct Kirk's assumption that sex is an entirely instinctual endeavor. However, the latter instinct is impossible to engage in with Kirk's tongue in Spock's mouth and the signals of demand from Spock's groin, so Spock gives in to the former.
"See?" Kirk says, with--smugness?--and sucks on Spock's throat, pulls back just enough to trace the marks with his tongue. A small-scale evaluation of the proximity of Kirk's incisors to the vital arteries in Spock's neck flashes through Spock's mind, and at some immediate point is subsumed in and strengthens the surge of adrenaline through his system. He knows this will bruise him (Uhura has, once,) and resolves to do this in kind for Kirk, to convey the physical as quintain for the emotional. Spock's teeth are gritting, on themselves and not Kirk's skin; with nothing else available he relies on his hands, digs his nails into Kirk's body.
It is successful. Kirk wrenches his head away to gasp at that. But Kirk appears to enjoy this behavior; he grips the back of Spock's neck and goads him on, teeth snapping. His body is radiating heat and Spock affirms that, pulling it against his. Kirk is aroused; Spock is as well, and the sensation of their becoming mutually aware of this is inflammatory; Spock can feel his throat swelling into Kirk's mouth and does not know if the sound's escaped or not. Kirk grinds against Spock's hip as he kisses him, moves his mouth in that same hard insistent way and smashes himself against Spock's skin. Their legs are tangling together, and Kirk is taking tiny half-steps, staggering back when Spock pushes forward, bending when Spock bears down on him--
Kirk is laughing.
That laughter should be cause for concern. It does not arouse concern in Spock. "I fail to see the humor in this," he says, and perhaps because of the broken capillaries in his throat it sounds deep and raspy to him, and the distinct white noise of anger throbs with the bruises.
It is as with his childhood tormentors. For the quarter-second it takes to bear Kirk and his captivating hips back down into his chair, Spock is not thinking clearly, if at all.
Kirk is still laughing, but without sound, only wheezing breath. He grunts a little when Spock slams him into the chair and sinks again, collapses into it, but reaches up and pulls Spock down with him, closer, close enough to kiss and touch and hold.
Twisting away from Kirk's mouth and the laughter emanating from it, Spock unclenches his hands (it is physically painful to do so) and grabs Kirk's sprawled hips with them, pinning him to the seat so that he does not move them any more. Kirk's eyes are laughing as well, when Spock glares into them. "I request that you--enlighten me on what has amused you."
"This," Kirk says indistinctly, shaking his head. He pushes against Spock's hands, but Spock does not relent. He is stronger. It shows. "Everything," Kirk does not completely clarify.
"I do not find this humorous." Spock braces himself, holds Kirk down more firmly, brings their faces closer and is reminded of his bitten lip, the blood at the same rapid pulse as his increasingly insistent sexual organs. "I certainly do not find everything humorous."
"It isn't funny," Kirk says, then amends: "In a way it is. It's just--" He--he thinks through all the feeling that has compromised him, through all of the physical chaos that is undermining his rational thought. It is empowering, paradoxically arousing, for Spock to see Kirk's human failings at a time like this--but it also reminds Spock that he is not far off. And the way Kirk is breathing and surging and shuddering and grabbing Spock's wrists does not articulate for him, but communicates. "It feels good," Kirk says.
Even Spock knows it is more than that.
"It's good, so I laugh to--to blow off steam. Kind of." Kirk parts his lips frustratedly, and implicitly asks to be kissed.
That gesture was so unexpected as to elicit a visible reaction in Spock's face, the regard of his eyes on those hands and the hips they are spread on, the evident erection they are framing. Kirk is enjoying himself, and Spock, though physically primed, is in distress. This only serves to create more distress, anger, and indignation, which he was and should be and is no longer above, and Spock is unable to restrain himself from taking these out on Kirk's body. If Kirk is pleased to have Spock behaving roughly with him, then that is how Spock shall behave.
He spins the seat half-around, pins Kirk by the groin and throat, and aligns his own erection with the cool back of the chair to subdue it.
It is effective. Kirk starts, but it is futile, with Spock pinning him down and blocking his throat. He shakes, leans into the pressure instead of away from it--it is like Kirk, to not only face but welcome danger--and grasps and closes his fists on air before his hands finally scrabble onto the arms of his chair and seize it.
"It feels good, so you laugh." Spock calms himself, arches against the back of the chair and tightens his arm around Kirk's throat, leans down with his palm on the seat between Kirk's legs so that Kirk's clothed erection is against Spock's wrist. "In my sexual experience this is not the case."
Kirk bares his teeth and pushes up off the chair as much as he can, which is not sufficient to dislodge Spock. He is throbbing, at both his throat and his groin. He still feels the need to speak even with his throat constricted, "Maybe you just don't, ah, have the same breadth of experience--"
"This is probable." Kirk is writhing again. Spock watches Kirk's hips lift and skirl with evident raw want. He is uncertain whether he is envious or covetous. "By several accounts you are unusually sexually prolific."
"Want to--test that out for yourself?"
It is a direct question. It has a highly complicated answer. Perhaps clarification is in order. "Are you asking whether I would enjoy the benefits of your sexual experience?"
"Something like that, yeah," Kirk affirms, and brings his hips forward to meet Spock's wrist again. Perhaps that is intended to clarify the question.
It will take leaning forward to continue to restrain Kirk, and so Spock says this against the shell of his small human ear. It is fascinating, the red undertones and the shape of it, the way it curls in on itself much like Spock is overlaying Kirk in this position. "If that is the case, the answer is a qualified yes."
Kirk's hips slam back into the seat. "Qualified?" he asks, sputtering.
"Affirmative," Spock says, and finds that though the chair is hard and at a lower temperature it has done nothing to diminish his arousal, or else something has increased it. "Though I would in fact benefit from your extensive experience I continue to have reservations as to the frankness of your desire."
"Frankness," Kirk repeats, and it is both dazed and incredulous. "How frank do I have to get?" It is innuendo; he is thrusting himself into Spock's wrist, implying that the evidence of his state is honest, and, well, Kirk is correct.
"I am not concerned as to whether you want my attention or not," Spock explains. Kirk's state is nearly an instructive example case of the power of emotions to diminish capacity for logic, and Spock has not yet answered for himself whether he is envious of the magnitude of Kirk's want. He holds him there, tight by the throat. "I am concerned that I may be playing a part in a chain of seemingly pleasurable events to my eventual detriment."
It feels as if Kirk's entire body is required to permit him to breathe, rising and falling to force air out and in. In. "I'll still--damn--I'll still respect you in the morning, Spock--"
"You did not when last I revealed myself to be vulnerable to emotion." He feels no immediate need to relinquish Kirk's throat, evident distress or not.
"Spock," he says, wheezing, perhaps in a state of panic--it occurs to Spock that, permission or not, he is in the process of deliberately asphyxiating his commanding officer again--but Kirk is shaking and so is the chair against Spock's torso, and after one brutal thrash Kirk is gaping, thirsting, "--I really want us to fuck."
--Spock lets go of Kirk's throat. His hand stings, the knuckles are sore from protracted use, so he lifts his other hand to hold Kirk down by his groin instead. He is hot there; Spock heats in reciprocity, and the back of this chair has not felt so impersonal yet.
"Right, yeah, there--" Kirk tightens his jaw but does not close it, perhaps cannot, he is engaged in the suddenly permitted act of breathing. Kirk's head is thrown back, into Spock's chin; Spock still does not move. He is watching Kirk grind himself into his hands, watching Kirk fall so completely into the thrall of his need at Spock's ministrations, and watching this makes Spock not only aroused but--something else he can neither name nor suppress, in itself a kind of want.
"There," Spock repeats, and it is an interrogative as he holds Kirk's shaft firmly, encompassed in the starched cloth. There is something remiss about that.
Kirk licks his lips; they are visibly chapped. "There, he says, and "fuck" and it is easier, facing this direction, to push up Kirk's shirt and undo his slacks. His hips lurch fervently when the pants are open, though that is a hindrance in pushing them down, and even more a hazard with his increasingly tight underwear. But the sensation--and experience--is as increasingly pleasurable even in their perplexity, and Spock distinctly wants to see more of that motion, as he did before but pronounced, as if his own state depends on it. He stares.
Kirk clutches the chair desperately, rolls his head and his eyes back as Spock's fingers brush over the outline of his shaft through his briefs, testing and evaluating but--
"Harder."
--plainly insufficient.
Spock can feel Kirk's breath on his chin, hot, beading. He will feel the same there, in Spock's hand, and Spock consciously decides to want that, to do that. He pries the waistband of Kirk's underwear down and does, and Kirk thrusts himself forward into Spock's hand at the touch; his back lifts off the chair and his fingers throb, but not as much as his shaft does, flushed a predictable but unfamiliar dark red. He kisses Spock's chin, quick and hurried, and this is more violent, fiercer than Spock has experienced with any sexual partner. The evidence of Kirk's want is overwhelming, the desperation stunning, the motion even more captivating than before. And Spock cannot will himself to look away, to withdraw. He has no desire to.
In fact, the contrary; he wants to elicit more of this, and so he complies with explicit and implicit command, jerks his fist harder and more frequently, spreads his fingers to touch more. He has done this, and knows its effects on others, including himself--but he wishes the distinct experience of James Tiberius Kirk, and permits that want.
Kirk is skirling his hips faster, harder, bucking in the chair and swearing incoherently. He lets go of one of the chair's arms and reaches behind and grips Spock's shoulder with that hand, clenches it, and Spock shudders at the sudden touch. It derails him, but he composes himself and realigns his free hand with Kirk's throat again. His fingers find the welts already there, that strange human red and oxidized blue, but he touches them reverently. He will not apologize. He strokes them as softly as the pace of his other hand will allow, traces the nerves he could incapacitate Kirk with, and becomes aware that he is stimulating himself on the back of the chair and that this is insufficient.
The back of Kirk's head pushes against Spock's chest and shivers. He keeps canting his hips forward, breathing fragments of sentences and half-finished words into Spock's face, stroking senseless circles into Spock's shoulder--this is my commanding officer, Spock thinks, and he is ordering me, don't stop, "don't stop--"
"Understood," Spock says, and that is all breath, a sharp burst like those that Kirk is heaving. He stares, obliges, continuing the trend in increase and application and similar motion. His hips and hand are moving like Kirk's now, but without a hand to touch him in kind and Spock--wants--
"Shit, I'm almost--" Kirk chokes out, a warning, and Spock holds his shaft solidly but at that plea pulls back to see Kirk's face, upside-down and streaked with sweat--
--and now Spock considers that he should have been watching Kirk's eyes instead of his hips all this time--
Kirk looks up at him, into his eyes, wild and perhaps unseeing--no, that is incorrect, Kirk must see something because it is that sight that disconnects all else in him--and he comes, cries out hot and hoarse and raw, digging his fingers into the chair and Spock's shoulder hard enough to claw.
Spock's hand is smeared with Kirk's ejaculate and still Spock is more concerned with Kirk's eyes. They are aflare, with the same relative intensity as anger but an entirely different cast. Spock has never seen someone keep his or her eyes open during orgasm, and it is--perhaps not devastatingly handsome, but Spock is nonetheless overcome. He knows he is staring, and that his mouth is parted, his wet hand still curled tight on Kirk's shaft. Soon, Kirk's hand has slipped down to cover Spock's there. He is still staring, somehow caught.
When Kirk blinks, Spock becomes aware that he has not.
Upside-down like this, Kirk's face relaxes, and Spock watches each flinch, each fade, each drop of sweat still gathering. Spock's hips have stilled against the back of the chair but his sexual need is still prominent and unfulfilled, and his lower lip and knuckles ache. He touches Kirk's skin, lightly now, aware that something is not being addressed but certain that he should not proceed.
"That," Kirk murmurs, "yeah," and he plants his feet on the ground, somehow rotates the chair around to face Spock. He lifts an eyebrow--it is a Vulcan gesture that looks as strange on Kirk, and stranger with Kirk debauched, as Spock has never seen a Vulcan expression flushed red and framed with pale human semen--and he tells Spock, "Come here," grabbing for his wrist.
Kirk catches him easily; the instinct for Spock to flinch is just that, an instinct, and Spock takes the intended step closer, between Kirk's legs. Kirk's hips are even more distracting when they are in this disarray, and Spock evaluates that before resuming his challenge of Kirk's eyes.
The lazy indistinguishable grin or smirk has resurfaced, and Kirk runs his eyes up and down Spock, appraising him with less cursory attention than the letters of recommendation. "I'd be a pretty bad Captain if I didn't address the needs of my officers," he says, his voice rough.
"The matter of your adequacy as Captain has already been tried," Spock says, aware that he is being evaluated as well. He presses his heels into the soles of his shoes and presents himself for address.
"Not like this it hasn't," Kirk says, running his hands down Spock's hips.
"You are laughing again," Spock observes, speaking as much to divert Kirk from the shifting of his own hips under that assessing touch. "Does your prior sentiment hold true?"
"I'd say so, yeah." He slips his hands under Spock's shirt, spreads his fingers out and strokes in winding patterns, inclined gradually downward.
Spock's breath catches and fists curl, watching himself be touched like this. Even Kirk's fingertips are tinted red; on Uhura's much darker skin, the difference is less pronounced. "I assume then that it pleases you to the point of laughter to attain physical contact with me."
With one practiced motion, he undoes Spock's slacks one-handed. "You can say that."
That initial touch and the sight of it drive all controlled thoughts from Spock's mind, Kirk's knuckles under Spock's navel. Spock's body arches into that ministration of its own accord. "I do not wish to detract from your enjoyment. Please continue."
"My pleasure," Kirk says, and that last syllable is slurred as if he is intoxicated. But the gesture with which he pushes Spock's slacks down past his hips and cups him through his underwear is sudden and sharp. "Do all Vulcans wear briefs?"
Spock tenses so palpably that, though he wishes to speak, he is briefly unable to do so. "It is--" he breathes, compels the words to state quickly. "--not my place to assume for all the remaining members of my race--"
"Just a--what do you call them?" Kirk asks, stroking the outline of Spock's erection with his thumb. It feels--good, as it ought, if profoundly insufficient. "Right. Just a personal query."
Spock is unsteady and aware that he is becoming so; he leans forward to brace his arms on the chair again, over Kirk's shoulders. "It strikes me as an irrelevant query." His breath is coming short, his ears are ringing--
"See, humans--where I'm from, anyway," Kirk explains, pulls his hand up and scrapes it over Spock's erection, the backs of his nails dragging, before he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of Spock's underwear and starts to peel them down. "We ask people 'boxers or briefs?' because it's supposed to tell you something about the other guy."
"And--what does that line of questioning reveal?" The attention to his need, and Kirk's jibes, are at the forefront of Spock's consciousness now, and he is almost resigned to giving himself over to this in kind.
"Personality test." Kirk holds Spock's bare hip with one hand, curls his other one around the base of Spock's shaft--oh, he is strong, it is unexpected of a human--but he does not shift or stroke, not yet. The faint redness of Kirk's fingertips and knuckles is striking against the familiar green swell of Spock's flesh but his hand feels like a Vulcan's, or a sufficient approximation therein, or merely similar enough, hot and hard. Kirk makes the slightest motion of his hand and plays Spock right into it, swirls the pad of his thumb over the black curls that trail down from Spock's navel, smirks, explains, "Men who wear briefs are supposed to be more--clean-cut."
"I--I remind you that this is a Starfleet-issue undergarment and that yours--"
"Must've slipped my mind," Kirk says, and strokes him fast and even.
There is a response to that, and Spock loses it entirely. It--it feels, and though it is not the first time, this--this bereftness is unique, Spock is entirely without the ability to articulate or supersede the sensation. All he knows is that Kirk's hand is slick and tight and hot and touching him where his need is immediate. And Kirk does not press him for an answer, anchors his grip on Spock's hip and uses that to push, drag, impel where he needs to and coax Spock to move, respond, leans forward and blows on the head of Spock's shaft, then pulls back, grinning as if he has attained something--
--and it appears that Spock has not lost his capacity for speech--he can feel his throat shudder with a scream, his body lurching forward to follow the sound. His hips cant up to follow that taunt of breath, it will overwhelm him and he craves it like air. What ration is strong enough to breach this chaos of sensation reminds Spock that he can achieve that, and he uncurls his right hand from the chair to wrap around Kirk's neck again.
It is not a conscious decision for Spock to give himself over to this entirely. By the time he notices he has he is already thrusting into Kirk's hands, pushing down on Kirk's neck to urge him closer, gripping Kirk and the chair with all his weight and crying out senseless incoherencies that it is too late to stifle. This is good; this is warranted; he thinks of Kirk's face in climax and wonders if his own features will be as compelling to Kirk--he knows he is close, at the edge of retention, knows that his state is in Kirk's hands, entirely and literally. Kirk's hands are hot and so is his gaze; Spock is on display and vulnerable and in the thrall of base physical sensation, and Kirk's hands have aroused him to the state where he does not think it wrong. "This," he thinks he says with what ragged breath he has left, it does not sound like him, "please--maintain this--"
"Yeah," Kirk growls and his hand is blistering, "Don't worry, I've got you--"
There is arrogance in those eyes, and want, and all manner of emotions that Spock can identify but not comprehend. Something in Spock's temples is as swollen and tight as his skin and it overrides everything else, all impulses but touch and sight, and Spock releases into Kirk's hand, consumed by his expression. He believes he cries out, but cannot hear it if he does.
There is haze, and Spock is aware that he is sinking. When it clears, he is aware that Kirk is laughing again, but this time Spock does not press it. He tries to slow the descent, kneels instead of falls, and his hand slips down from the chair back to join the other on Kirk's neck. Spock hangs his head, leans on Kirk's thigh to stop up one ear. His mind is coming back to him. He does not think he will struggle with shame, but it is still more prudent to ease himself back into conscious thought.
Kirk leans in and kisses Spock again. It is slow this time, strange both for Kirk and because of Kirk. It is as if his lips feel as if they are melting instead of parting. That bruise on Spock's lip smarts, but Spock supposes that most things Kirk does will. He is still slack, but returns this kiss with like motion. Perhaps he will bite Kirk's lip as well, but it is inadvisable at this immediate juncture.
"I like this chair," Kirk says.
After several deep breaths, Spock agrees soberly, "It has served beyond its prescribed function."
Kirk closes his eyes for a moment. "Cleaning it's going to be awkward."
This is true. Kirk's semen is not only on him and the chair but his neck where Spock is holding it; Spock's ejaculate is cooling on them both. Neither of them is in a state to acquire cleaning materials without immediate apprehension--though Kirk seems to have forgotten his own station, and Spock regards him directly. "Forgive the implication that you are unused to these quarters, but there is an adjoining private bathroom which should, if the appropriate ensigns are fulfilling their duties, be accoutered with towels and other sufficient cleaning tools."
"--ah. Right. I knew that."
Spock finds that in uncoiling to his feet he still requires the support of Kirk and this briefly formidable chair. "I will get them, and address my own unseemly deportment as well."
"Unseemly--right." He seems to be repeating Spock even when Spock's meaning is clear. Is it incredulity? "I don't think it's unseemly."
"Whether my current disheveled state is of interest to you or not, it is unbecoming of a First Officer of Starfleet."
"Only if you walk around the bridge with your pants hanging half-off," Kirk points out. "What you do in your quarters--or mine--that's not Starfleet's business."
"Which is precisely why I do not intend to flaunt my engagement in such personal activities to the personnel." He pulls back to rise and, rather than straightening his stained slacks, strip them off entirely. His legs are slow to obey neural functions, but this has happened before after sexual activity. That does not make it any less disconcerting.
"I didn't know Vulcans had a thing for puns."
Spock drapes his trousers and underwear over his arm, and, on the way to the bathroom, peels off his shirt as well. "It would be prudent to consider that this, as several other components of my demeanor, may not necessarily be ascribed to all of my species."
"Noted," he says. Spock is aware that Kirk is watching him from behind. It is perturbing but not unwelcome. "Anything else I should consider?"
As they are still engaged in conversation, Spock does not close the bathroom door once it is open, and proceeds to clean off his clothing with the near textile purifier. "There are considerable odds that you and I will engage in similar activities at a later date. I believe that discussion of the ramifications of such an encounter, and of this encounter, would yield the most fortuitous results."
In the room, Kirk says a startled "--shit."
Spock goes on regardless. "In particular, as I do not wish to terminate my intercourse with Lieutenant Uhura, and because I respect her, she should be informed of this, perhaps not immediately, but at the earliest feasible juncture."
"No," Kirk says quickly, and clarifies precariously, "No, I don't want to get between you and Uhura, that's fine, she's a--she's a great woman and she's a valuable officer and--" He clears his throat audibly. He is hiding something. "What's the likelihood that she's going to kick me in the face?"
"You have discerned the precise reason that I do not believe we should inform her immediately." He raises his voice over the hum of the textile purifier. "If I was to inform her of this encounter while presenting sensual evidence of it, the odds of her exacting violence upon you are ninety-three percent."
"--I don't think I like those odds, Spock."
"I agree. Despite your history of disregarding and thus surmounting the odds, I think any victory you attained in this would be pyrrhic at best." The stains are out of his clothes; he shakes out the briefs, once, firmly, cleans himself, and then steps back into them. The green flush of his skin is attenuating, but there is still the faint salt scent of sex, human sex, about him. It is not unpleasant.
"You're probably right." Kirk's exhale is audible, nearly a sigh. "So when do we tell her?"
Spock pulls his shirt on before he answers, and adjusts the neck around the green-edged bruises. He cannot hide them; in fact, it exacerbates them. "Lieutenant Uhura is most accessible with regard to potentially infelicitous news in the late morning." He steps into his pants. "We may be able to open an appropriate discussion before mess."
"How late morning are we talking?"
"Ten-hundred hours." Spock has emerged from the bathroom, bringing towels and the textile purifier; for a moment, he regards Kirk, and recalls the earlier imperative to be devastated by his physical attractiveness. He is not, not devastated, but is nonetheless reminded to be. Kirk cuts an incongruously...dashing figure, sprawled in that chair, debauched. Spock brings the towels and kneels again to clean the chair, between Kirk's legs.
"Ten-hundred hours isn't horrible," Kirk says. He is watching Spock clean with diminished but not absent curiosity. "Can I have one of those?"
Spock hands a towel up without a word, and bends again to continue cleaning. "Then it is settled. I will schedule this in the context of a matter of communication." It will be his first official duty as First Officer under Kirk's Captaining. The irony is almost humorous; he is, perhaps literally, saving Kirk's life.
Kirk had been sopping up the come on his person--with the same hand, towel slumping, he reaches out and down to trace the bruises welling under Spock's collar with the tip of his finger. He murmurs, "They show up green."
"Vulcan blood is green. All associative functions of blood logically have that cast to them." Spock considers that this is perhaps why Kirk does not recognize the occasionally traitorous expressive cues that Spock often knows he is displaying.
Recognition spreads across Kirk's cheeks, which are still tinged red. He tosses the towel aside, straightens, heads to his closet and rummages around for a clean pair of slacks. "Is that why I've never seen a Vulcan blush?"
"It is likely that you have, and not understood the state for what it is." The floor and chair are clean; he gathers up these towels and brings them into the bathroom to be cleaned in kind.
"Well, if I've missed out on that, what else haven't I picked up on?" Kirk holds his hand up in the traditional Vulcan salute, grins. It is not the same grin, fatigued and framed in sweat. "Is there some kind of hidden meaning to this that I don't know about?"
Spock regards him levelly. "With the exception of certain contexts, which can add to the salutation, no."
"Certain contexts. Care to elaborate?"
"I am not of a species above passive-aggression." The towels are clean; again Spock emerges to the room. Kirk is fully undressed but otherwise nearly presentable again. The smell of sex is stronger about him, perhaps because it is somewhat new. Spock does not permit himself to be stalled by it.
"Or plain old aggression," Kirk points out, rubbing the purpling bruises on his throat.
"Affirmative. As shameful as it is to fall victim to such urges."
"I think you all define 'shameful urges' a little broadly. Feeling at all's a shameful urge, the way you talk about it. Of course you end up falling victim to them."
There is something that persists as fascinating about the way Kirk's hips move, as he pulls his clothing on; when he bends over to slide his underwear up, it is diverting. "The frequency does not alleviate the impracticality of emotion where logic is required. Whether the compromise is sporadic or perpetual, it is equally warranting of consternation."
"But that doesn't stop you from doing it," Kirk says, smirking, and again, not the same smirk. How many variations on that expression is he capable of?
Spock does not glare, or if he does, represses it. "It dissuades me."
"But it doesn't stop you."
"There are situations in which a protracted assault on my standards of behavior is capable of overwhelming them."
Kirk hitches his pants up around his hips. "I think I picked up on that one." He pauses. "Guess I'm not the only one, either."
Spock knots his brows. "Elaborate."
"It's not like I'm boldly going where--has any man ever gone there before?" Kirk is gesturing in a fashion that Spock has observed to be lewd among humans, and an expression that lends them jocularity.
Spock knows that his skin would heat. He suppresses that. "No human man."
"First time for everything," Kirk says, and claps Spock on the shoulder with one hand as he tries to do up the fly of his pants with the other.
Observing that, Spock permits himself a smirk. "Your ability to accomplish those two gestures in tandem is fascinating."
"Every good Captain knows how to multitask, right? And I'm going to be a very good Captain. ...If Uhura lets me live long enough to, anyway."
"If we have planned this adequately I am sure that you will survive." All this taken care of, Spock prepares to leave, and takes a step backward, watching and feeling Kirk's hand slip off his shoulder through the fabric of his shirt. "I believe her sufficiently sensible not to commit a fatality upon her commanding officer."
"Right. She's--sensible." Kirk is speaking euphemistically, but what he truly implies is lost on Spock. "Is that why you two started up in the first place?"
Ah. Spock takes another step back, though he does not withdraw from Kirk's eyes. "One could argue that, though the inception of our liaison posed substantial risks to our professions, that she approached me is perhaps a testimony to her sensibility."
Kirk nods. Spock has grown to enjoy, watching him think. "So if we approach her, she'll be..." he prompts.
"Amenable to reasonable and respectful behavior," Spock finishes.
"Okay. I can do reasonable and respectful."
Spock raises an eyebrow.
Kirk scoffs indignantly. "What. I can."
Spock does not conceal the interrogative and disbelieving expression that has no doubt manifested on his face. "I await such a display with curiosity."
"Oh, just watch me," Kirk says, gesturing openly.
At the door, Spock says, truthfully, "I will."
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It feels very strange to write a fic without footnotes.
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