Bandwagon.
As Logic Stands, by reserve
Star Trek fic
Kirk/Spock, Spock/Uhura, Kirk/Spock/Uhura, Soft R
5,328 Words
Note: This was technically written in response to this post from st_xi_kink. I took some liberties, played around a little, and ended up with a much longer, much more plotty story than I had originally intended. There are, of course, spoilers for Star Trek XI, as well as a good number of tidbits from ToS. Enjoy, and do leave feedback.
As logic stands, you couldn't meet a man
who's from the future,
but logic broke as he appeared
he spoke about the future....
“All We Have is Now,” The Flaming Lips
His body is wracked with sudden nausea. He stumbles gracelessly backward, then lurches forward with startling force. His face is damp with tears. He is drowning, and yet tumbling. It is like the moments after your shuttle takes off, when your heart wraps its veins around your ankles.
He tries to take a deep breath, it comes out a desperate gasp.
“...emotional transference from the mind-meld...it will pass.”
That familiar voice-explanatory, calming-almost fatherly.
Tension builds in his body. His limbs tremble. The cold passes through his Starfleet parka. Memories jumble together; the past mingles with his paradoxical future.
He knows: an entire planet destroyed/alien worlds he’s never heard of/millions of strange faces/the constant Enterprise/Janice Lester/his own death, and Spock.
Always Spock. Frequently joyless, unmatchably stubborn, consistent, unflappable Spock. Spock shirtless, and wild, fighting him on Vulcan. Spock arguing with Bones. Spock beating him at chess. Spock with his hands on his temples, gently scrying into his mind. Spock by his side. Spock pressed against him in the endless darkness of the universe.
Spock. + + + +
Captain James T. Kirk awakens in his quarters, alone.
There are hours between now and his next shift on the bridge; the chronometer on his desk confirms this. Once again, he has dreamt of Delta Vega, and Spock Prime, and that other future. That other possibility.
He drags a damp hand through his short hair, and sighs. The Enterprise hums around him in response, her metal body cocooning him, cradling him in the warmth of his bed.
Kirk was born in space, he sleeps best there. Lately, though, he has felt a new kind of restlessness in his bones. His sleep is interrupted by dreams, by reliving moments of a life that isn’t his. Spock Prime-not his-not this timeline’s Spock, shared too much with him. Kirk rubs at his face. He can see his own body, naked and sweat-drenched, through another’s eyes. He can feel hot flesh beneath his hands. It is far too clear, it is far too much.
Kirk has never shied away from excess before. His short life has been defined by a powerful predilection for over-the-top. He is a pusher of boundaries, a rule-breaker. He takes challenges and masters them, but these memories are haunting him. He has become a stranger in his own life, lost and barraged by stories he cannot tell, battles he never fought. Spock Prime could not have known about the unexpected lasting effects of his touch. He could not have known that he was imparting desire that would leave Kirk hard and wanting. Empty, and conjuring images of his First Office and Lieutenant Uhura, their bodies curled together into a delicate curve, their limbs tangled beneath the Federation seal that graces all the Enterprise blankets.
“Computer, raise lights.”
Kirk sighs again, letting the breath catch on his teeth. For once, he has no viable solution, for surely it would be highly inappropriate of him to simply bust brashly into Spock’s room, demanding that he and Uhura make space for him in their bed.
Although...
“Funny-ha-ha, Jim,” he mutters.
On his desk, the chronometer boasts the slow passage of time, and he considers dressing. Maybe he should wander up to the rec room and get a snack, something crunchy and covered in salt. Perfection.
It was different, he muses as he pulls on his off-duty tunic, when Uhura was a bright young woman who kept shooting him down. Then it was charming, then she was another challenge. He’s figured out all too well that since Delta Vega that his frame of reference has shifted. Now he exists somewhere between jealous and desirous of Uhura, and sometimes, horribly, he thinks Spock senses the change. It’s as though those pointy ears are providing him with radar-the kind of radar the hones in on Kirk’s own unsatisfying, “illogical,” downtime fantasies. The kind of radar that puts Spock in his personal space far too frequently, skin all smelling of cinnamon and slightly cooler than a human’s would be.
At least a tentative bond exists between himself and Spock, this much he knows. It is, he nearly shudders, nothing like the bond that his other self and Spock Prime had, but it remains a bond, maybe a promise, and he can feel it strengthening on the daily, with each passing mission.
They make a good team. They’d make an even better something else...
Kirk grimaces, feels his cock twitch at the mere idea.
“Dammit!”
Fully dressed, he considers his reflection. The dim light makes him appear blurry in the glass. He looks tired, foreign. He wonders how Spock and Uhura see him.
He seems to see them constantly. Again, he has got to look into the possibility of Spock having radar, or maybe really high empathy levels, because lately it’s as though every time he gets onto a turbo-lift, Spock and Uhura are there, dutifully straightening their uniforms, a quick veneer of innocence and professionalism sliding into place.
Uhura is always the first to speak.
“Good afternoon, Captain,” she’ll say, her voice a gentle smirk.
“Captain,” Spock will nod solemnly, nearly byronic.
Kirk will smile stiffly in response, crack a joke, and try not to eat them both alive with his eyes.
It’s terrible to be gifted with the knowledge of what might have been, what maybe should have been, he thinks, as he heads out of his quarters, and into the harsh light of the Enterprise corridors. It is equally terrible to end up masturbating in a public restroom at least once a day.
+ + + +
When she presses her back against his chest, and the curve of her bottom fits flawlessly into his pelvis, Spock wonders at the universe. She sleeps soundly, her breathing slow and comfortable. He strokes down her arm, feels goosebumps rise there even in sleep. Her body is cool, and soft. Her hair smells exotic to him, and it brushes against him silkily when she shifts in her slumber.
Spock presses a kiss to the top of Uhura’s head, and inhales her scent. She reacts quietly to his touch, just the barest of movements at the contact.
This is only another instance of his sleeplessness since Vulcan was destroyed.
Perhaps a walk would be logical, but he hesitates to leave Uhura behind. He doesn’t wish for her to wake alone. Her shift begins in an hour, he has at least four before the start of his. Perhaps he could wake her now, perhaps they could bathe together....
No, she sleeps too deeply. It would not be kind to rouse her.
He brings himself closer to her back and attempts to sleep once again. They try to be in each other’s company when they can, but it has become increasingly difficult since the Enterprise’s mission began. He would regret forfeiting these final minutes with her before her duty.
Regret, he thinks, is a very un-Vulcan thing to feel. It’s an emotion about lingering.
Uhura snuffles against her pillow, and Spock raises an eyebrow. He could walk briskly around the saucer and return before she wakes. Yes, he could do that.
Taking care not to jostle her, Spock slips from beneath their blankets, and into the warm air of his chamber. He keeps the temperature here higher than in most rooms, and although Uhura hates it, he needs the extra warmth to be comfortable. Sometimes she jokes that he is part reptile, and it has taken him a longer than he would like to admit to see the humor in that.
+ + + +
Kirk hears the footsteps approach before he sees the body they belong too. The rec is mostly empty; it is, after all, the ship’s graveyard shift. There are a few polite hellos, but no one wants a serious conversation with their captain. Except for maybe Spock.
“Captain,” says Spock.
“Mr. Spock,” says Kirk.
“You, too, are sleepless, I see.”
“You know what they say, ‘No rest for the weary,’” Kirk tries one of his best grins.
“I am not familiar with that saying; is it common to Iowa?”
“It’s common... it’s common to pretty much everywhere.” Kirk shrugs. “At least I thought it was.”
“It’s a very descriptive colloquialism, considering our own apparent insomnia.”
“Insomnia, there’s nothing fun about it.” Kirk pauses, “would you like to join me?” he gestures to the single chair at his table. “I’m having tea.”
“That would be acceptable.” Spock nods, and sits. “I am always in favor of tea.”
Kirk smiles. They’ve spent time together off the bridge before, but this is the first time he has ever heard Spock mention something that he “likes.” He knows far more about what Spock Prime likes, and as far as Kirk can tell, this Spock likes his job first, Uhura second, and now he likes tea. Progress, Kirk thinks, progress.
“What finds you wandering at this lonely hour?”
“Unsatisfactory sleep. I cannot find a logical explanation for it.”
“Can’t say I can help you there.”
Kirk raises his cup to his mouth, sips.
“I’m used to passing out the moment I hit my cot. Haven’t got a clue what’s keeping me awake now.” The lie comes out glibly. There is no way on Earth, or any other planet, that he can tell Spock the true cause for his wakefulness.
“Have you tried meditation?” Spock asks.
His bark of laughter is unexpected. “Mr. Spock, do I look like the sort of man who meditates?”
The Vulcan considers this for a second.
“No, the probability of you being that sort of man is, indeed, slim.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“But meditation can be very helpful,” Spock continues. “On Vulcan it was common practice for the both the old and very young to spend an hour or so each day clearing the mind. It is especially helpful when you come from a race of empaths.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, decidedly.” Spock frowns. “What is wrong, Captain? You are suddenly distressed.”
“No, just interested.” Kirk fiddles with his tea cup. “And not at all surprised.”
“You are not surprised about meditation on Vulcan?”
“I’m not surprised,” Kirk says slowly, “to discover that Vulcans aren’t simply touch-telepaths. Tell me, Mr. Spock, how strongly telepathic are you?”
“I can sense strong emotion from humans, but through touch I can sense far more.”
“So you can read my mind? Right now, here at this table?”
For a moment, Kirk thinks that Spock’s impassive mouth is scowling at him.
“I have a sense of privacy,” he says, on the edge of indignation. “I am not meddling in your brain or anyone else’s, and I can certainly...shield myself from overhearing the desires of others, which is far more than I can say for humans, who cannot help but broadcast their feelings across the universe.”
“Have I hit a nerve?” Kirk asks innocently.
“Humans are simply incapable of hiding their emotional selves, it is a weakness of their mental faculties,” Spock says, imperviously calm once again.
“Right.”
“But with meditation there is a chance that you-that is, that humans-could learn to control more of their irrational minds.”
“Hmmm,” Kirk says thoughtfully. “Have I been broadcasting, then?”
Spock takes a deep gulp of tea.
“I wondered if perhaps you were unaware of your own thoughts. It is a common occurrence in the human brain. Your nature is avoidant.”
Kirk curls his upper lip.
“Very little about me is avoidant.
“That is in keeping with you character,” Spock says, then glances at the chronometer above the rec room entrance. Uhura will be waking soon. “I should return to my quarters.”
“Was it something I said?” Or something I thought?
“Not at all, Captain.”
“Then may I walk you there?”
“If you are heading out as well, then I do not see why I should stop you.”
They rise together, and as the rec doors slide closed behind them with a soft hydraulic hiss, Kirk wonders what it is, exactly, that he’s doing.
+ + + +
As they walk along in the corridor, Spock is the first to speak, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.
“Your emotions are strong, but I have not found them troubling.”
“What?”
“I intend only comfort; I can sense that you are worried about offending me.”
“I...I’m not sure,” Kirk falters. “You really are a meddling Vulcan, you know that?”
“It’s part of my duty to aide in the maintenance of your health. You have afforded the same attention to me.”
Kirk’s forehead knits. “I have?”
“Yes. You knew that I was unfit for duty after Vulcan was destroyed. You were looking out for both the Enterprise, and me. I am, in a way, grateful to you.”
“I suppose I did push you for your own good.” Kirk purses his lips.
“I could not see it at the time. My logic was clouded by trauma.”
Kirk looks at him.
“You were still doing better than most! Hell, I’d have probably blown Nero to smithereens if he’d destroyed my home planet. You kept it together real well for the most part, although I bet you’ve got a real problem with repressed memories.”
“Meditation,” Spock reminds him. “And Captain, I should tell you something...”
“What would that be, Mr. Spock?” Kirk feels a small burble in his stomach, apprehension rising in his chest, the very beginning of fight or flight settling in.
“I should tell you that I know you met my other self. I, too, have spoken with Spock Prime.”
“Oh,” says Kirk, dumbly.
“I mistook him for my father.” Spock raises an eyebrow. “It was, shall we say, an fascinating encounter.” Spock’s eyebrow raises further than would seem vulcanly possible.
“Oh,” Kirk says again.
They have been standing outside of Spock’s stateroom for more than a minute now.
“So you if you are curious-and I know that you are -I should tell you that I am aware of our alternate...relationship. I am very much aware of it indeed.”
“I’m not sure what to say,” Kirk mutters.
“Why not say, ‘I’ll see you on the bridge at 1500 hours.’?”
“I’ll see you on the bridge at 1500 hours,” Kirk repeats.
And then Spock is gone, the door to his room is sliding shut. Kirk stands alone, amidst the lingering smell of cinnamon, and with a warmth on his shoulder, where he has only just remembered that Spock was softly touching him, softly suggesting that Kirk not notice when he pressed the keypad by the door, or notice as he softly slipped away, and back to Uhura.
“Meddling Vulcan,” Kirk breathes, and for the first time realizes that his erection is plainly visible through the tight fabric of his trousers.
+ + + +
He dreams again:
Spock Prime’s aged, craggy hand against his face.
The sloping hills of Iowa.
Bones and Scotty, their eyes lidded, their breath strong with ale. They are laughing together in a seedy San Francisco bar. A scaly alien boy winks at Kirk from a shadowy corner.
His father, a man strikingly similar to him, sitting in his captain’s chair.
Nero’s fey, manic voice.
Space, stretching out before him. His very first taste of it. His face flush to the Enterprise’s viewscreen. The stars and galaxies spinning into elaborate shapes and colors, the daring tilt-a-whirl of warp speed swirling around him, dancing across his mind, seducing him.
Uhura’s lips against his, her tongue weaving into his mouth. He touches her hair, wraps it into his fists. She is so beautiful; she is so much smarter than he will ever be. She reminds him that at times he runs on killer instinct alone.
Then Spock, the Spock of now, pulling him out of Uhura’s embrace.
For a moment, Kirk thinks that Spock will punch him, and he steels himself against the impact. He remembers the Vulcan’s rage from their fight on the bridge.
Instead, Spock kisses him. He should have known. How could he not have known?
Kirk looks to Uhura for acceptance, and she smiles. Her teeth are so, so straight. Her eyes are glassy.
He flushes from cheeks to groin.
Spock places a hand against his face.
“Relax, Jim,” he says soothingly, his lips barely apart from Kirk’s.
+ + + +
There are voices.
”Relax, Jim,” Spock says soothingly.
He can sense a sickness growing in him. It wraps around his intestines, blossoms up into his stomach, reaches into his chest.
“What’s the matter with him?” Scotty, frantic.
“I don’t know yet. Get a hold on yourself, man!” Bones responds.
“He is ill.” Spock, again.
“I can see that, you pointy eared know-it-all.”
A hands presses against his skin, hard on his ribcage. He is suddenly nauseous, drowning, tumbling. He cannot find words. There is only darkness, he does not dream.
+ + + +
Captain James T. Kirk awakens in sickbay, he is not alone. His body feels heavy with sedatives; there is a weakness in his limbs that cannot be placed.
“Jim.”
Kirk blinks his bleary eyes.
“Spock,” he croaks out.
“You have suffered some physical damage.”
“I...I have?”
“Yes.” Bones is there now, by his bedside. “You contracted a parasite.”
“I did?”
Spock adds, “we believe that it occurred organically-that is, we know it was not meant as an attack on the Federation, or the ship’s crew.”
“Will others...” he struggles, “will others get sick?”
“No,” Bones says kindly. “It is not transmittable through physical contact, but it may have been incubating in you since Delta Vega.”
“Delta...Vega?”
Spock nods. “It was, perhaps, the cause of your insomnia.”
If Kirk were not drugged half-way to unconsciousness, then he really would believe that Spock had just smirked at him, smirked at him in a very knowing way.
“That explains a lot,” Kirk says, his brow creasing. His eyes begin to droop.
“I’ve given you another sedative,” Bones says.
“Great.” Kirk smiles lopsidedly. “That’s just....”
+ + + +
Several days pass before Kirk finds himself back on his feet and performing his regular tasks as ship’s captain. Several more days pass before he returns to Spock’s quarters with the knowledge that Uhura in on duty and his First Office is alone within.
It has taken time for him to wrap his head around the events of the last fortnight. He has never been the best at processing.
Shockingly, a bout of meditation helped. He thinks he has it figured now:
I. Delta Vega
II. Wet-dream induced insomnia
III. A strange encounter with Mr. Spock
IV. His parasite, forced into overdrive by stress
V. Sickbay
All of this has been recorded in his Captain’s Log, Stardate 2258.61. It is sound, it is logical. Spock would be proud. One thing... one this is missing though, and he’s about to figure out that last piece of the puzzle. He’s standing right outside its door.
+ + + +
Unlike most of the staterooms on the Enterprise, Spock’s has a surprising amount of character. The Vulcan elders left him certain objects to keep watch over, and so he is surrounded by tapestried walls, and several statuettes make their home on his carpet.
Spock finds it slightly cluttered, but he feels a sense of civic duty.
He considers the equations he is working on for his next presentation at the Academy. He is tracing evolutionary differences in Romulan and Vulcan dialects as affected by the month Tasmeen’s solar trajectory. The cadets will find it dry. He will not admit Uhura’s influence.
The chime announcing a visitor is not unexpected. He has been waiting for Jim Kirk for four days.
“Enter.”
Objectively, the Captain looks both awkward and determined when he walks into Spock’s quarters. His gait is steady, his eyes are bright, his hands are clasped behind his back. Spock thinks he can see beads of sweat at Kirk’s blond temples. He stands.
“As you were, Mr. Spock.”
Spock sits again.
“How goes it?” Kirk asks, another one of his imprecise human expressions.
“If by ‘it’, you mean my lecture, then it goes slowly,” Spock responds.
Humans, and especially Jim Kirk, are inclined toward small talk. Spock is not good at small talk. He is not good at the weather/and how are your offspring/and what did your supper taste like/mine tasted like fish broth and possibly kelp. He is not good at anything like that, but he tries.
“Good to hear.” Kirk smiles at him.
“I trust that you are feeling well, Captain?”
“Much better. Tippity-top.” He hunches over to look at one of Spock’s statues. “You’ve got a lot of these little guys.”
“I am, what you might call, babysitting them. For the Vulcan elders.”
“Ah, hope they’re paying you more than 10 credits an hour.”
“I don't...” Spock begins.
“Forget it,” Kirk says, and sits down on Spock’s bed. It has been meticulously straightened since Uhura left.
“Can I help you with something, Captain?”
“Call me Jim, would you? At least when we’re hanging out alone, I think you can call me Jim.”
“I suppose that may be acceptable,” Spock answers.
“Try again.”
“Can I help you with something, Jim?”
“Yes, yes indeed you can, Spock. I’ve got a question for you. Something that’s been grating on me. And you’ve got to be honest with me, you hear?”
“Vulcans do not lie,” Spock says.
“No, but Vulcans are deceptive.” Kirk looks at him slyly. “I figured that much out all on my own.”
“Deceptive?” Eyebrow raise.
“An old friend of yours forbade me from telling you we’d met. But you’ve encountered that friend recently. You told me as much last week.”
“You are speaking of Spock Prime, of my alternate self,” Spock states flatly. Where was the captain going with this?
“And so, if my mentioning him to you would have truly caused some kind of paradoxical rift in time and space, then Spock Prime would have never come to see you at all. He would have stayed as far away from you as possible...unless Vulcans are given to a kind of curiosity so insatiable that it could be considered apocalypse inducing.”
Kirk-Jim looks pleased with himself.
Spock says, measuredly, “some might argue that Vulcans do possess apocalypse-inducing curiosity.”
“Vulcans and cats, but that’s not my point.”
“What is your point?”
“It doesn’t matter! It never mattered!” Kirk practically shouts. “I could have told you about him all along, and even if you had never met Spock Prime you would have known about him eventually.”
“Because I am a capable mind-reader.”
“Exactly, and you have been inside my mind lately.”
For a moment, Spock feels bashful.
“It’s true,” he says. “The night outside my corridors, before you became terribly ill. I touched your arm. I... meddled,” he finishes lamely.
“You meddled!” Kirk points at him enthusiastically.
“I am sorry for taking the liberty, Captain.”
“Who cares if you meddled,” Kirk says breezily. “I want to know why you meddled. And I want to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“You’re the one who alerted sickbay. You sent Bones to my quarters that night.”
Spock’s feature give away nothing. He sits firmly in his desk chair. He shows none of the signs that a human under playful interrogation might.
Kirk, on the other hand, is languid, reclining. He’s practically laying on Spock’s bed.
Not quite fair.
“I knew you were sick from when I touched you earlier that hour.”
“Big lie, huuuuge lie,” Kirk sing-songs. “You would have said something then.”
How could he possibly deduce...
“May I ask you a personal question, Mr. Spock?”
Spock swallows. “I am at your disposal.”
“How’s your sex life?”
“Adequate, Captain.”
“Do you masturbate?”
“Most sentient creatures do, I believe.”
“That was not my question,” Kirk leers.
Spock can feel himself unravel slightly. A very human part of him sighs.
“Yes, I do masturbate.”
“And what do you think about?”
“My partner, the mysteries of the universe, tribbles?”
“Did you just make a joke?” Kirk’s jaw drops comically.
“Please reign in your tangent, Captain. I am not a mystery to be solved.”
“You were in my head. You were tapping into Spock Prime’s residual memories. You totally have a hard-on for me and that’s how you knew I was sick before I did! You must have stumbled over my illness in the midst of your slimy, perverted, Vulcan mind-reading!” Kirk crows.
“Captain, I...”
“What about Uhura?”
“I-” Spock pauses. “I may have shared the memories with her.”
“Bingo,” Kirk says.
Buggeration, thinks Spock.
“I’ve got duty now, but I’m coming back later. And,” Kirk licks his lips, “I’ll see you on the bridge shortly.”
He’s up and off of the bed, bounding happily away down the corridor before Spock can get a word in edgewise, or even consider refuting his wild, albeit distinctly true, claims.
Being slightly kinky has never been quite suited either side of his lineage, Spock thinks, and without noticing, he taps over a Vulcan fertility goddess with his boot toe.
+ + + +
Situation on bridge is normal.
Captain Kirk remains his ebullient self, although his cheeks are slightly red, and he is on the brink of incurring yet another citation from HQ over the butt-slapping "camaraderie" he is so fond of.
Spock almost feels pity for Ensign Chekov, but he leaves that out of his log. After all, his encounter with the captain is what produced this...mood.
That said: no catastrophes during this shift. The science officer is wholly underused when nothing exciting is happening.
Vulcans do not get bored, but half-human Vulcans sometimes do.
Kirk said he would return later...
Spock wonders what that visit will entail. His genitals wonder too, it seems.
+ + + +
When she returns from the rec room at 0100 hours, there is a message waiting for her on the communicator.
She’d be lying if she said she weren’t the teensiest bit drunk, but honestly, that bartender made some really strong slushes. And then there were the shots of Jack... She makes a mental note: no more late nights out with Scotty.
The comm, right....
“Lieutenant Uhura,” the Captain’s voice rings out. “Please come to First Officer Spock’s quarters as soon as you receive this message. No hour is too late. We have an urgent matter to discuss.”
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, Uhura thinks. We’re going to be court-martialed for a non-Federation sanctioned relationship... for mind-reading, for...perversion.
“Shiiiiit,” she breathes out-loud as she quickly puts her hair in place before leaving.
+ + + +
There is music playing behind Spock’s door. Spock never plays music. She’s the one who always put on music, and she only plays music if they’re about to...
“Hmmm.” She frowns before punching in the entrance code.
The door slides open... and it is not as she expected.
On second thought, perhaps it is exactly as she expected.
+ + + +
Kirk lifts his mouth from Spock’s neck and says, “you have a visitor.” He has his First Officer pinned to his bed, and Spock has to struggle slightly to look over at the entranceway.
Uhura waves at him, one slim eyebrow arched highly. “Hello, love,” she says.
Before Spock can reply, Kirk says, “Will you join us?”
“No disciplinary measures, then?” Uhura grins.
“None,” says Spock.
“Then I don’t see why not,” she says. “I’ve seen quite a bit of you two already.”
“That was not us,” Spock corrects her.
“Don’t be a spoil-sport,” Uhura says, as she pulls her dress over her head. “You’re lucky I’m an open-minded woman of the 23rd century.”
“Let me take your boots off,” Kirk says suddenly, and he leaves the bed to guide her toward it. Spock sits up to look. His cheeks are flushed, that same greenish-red tint she knows well. They have been waiting for her.
She sits on the edge of the bed, her bare back against Spock’s thighs, and Kirk kneels at her feet. “I’ve always liked you, Lieutenant,” he says, as he unzips her black boots one at a time, dragging the rough pads of his fingers down her calves as he does so.
She lets her eyes close.
“I guess I should tell you my first name,” she says.
“I’ve read your personnel file,” Kirk shrugs, as he gently parts her thighs and settles himself between them. He is partially nude, only his tented shorts remain. She moves to lean heavily against Spock, and he shifts so that her back rests against his chest, his mouth beneath her ear.
“Is this okay?” he whispers.
“Yes,” she says back, and brings his hand to her temple, so that he can sense her consent mentally.
“Okay,” he says, and instead places both his hands on her bare breasts. He sucks one of her earlobes into his mouth, and she presses her ass back against his cock, lets her head fall onto his shoulder.
“This is quite the show,” Kirk says, and then lowers his own mouth to her inner thigh.
Uhura moans.
Kirk tongues his way up her leg, and lets his mouth linger near the edge of her vagina. She can feel him inhale deeply.
“I’m Nyrota,” she says, breathlessly, as Kirk’s tongue finally reaches her clitoris. “I’m....”
“Shhh,” Spock murmurs, and turns her chin to meet his lips, then flicks gently at her left nipple. “Shhh,” he says into her mouth, his tongue meeting cool against hers.
She can barely hear the music above the blood pulsing in her ears.
+ + + +
The chronometer on Captain James T. Kirk’s desk glows glaringly bright into the dark of his quarters. Soon, the alarm will go off...it is almost 0800 hours. Duty time.
He rolls over and pulls the covers over his head.
Sometimes dreaming can make for a much better adventure.
+ + + +
Lieutenant Uhura moves languidly against Spock. She has to truly wake up soon, but Spock’s skin is so cool against her back.
Her mother’s vintage wristwatch reads 7:45.
Only fifteen more minutes before her shift begins. Only fifteen more minutes of this blissful comfort.
+ + + +
Five hours previously....
They both fall asleep soon after the third orgasm. Humans have very little stamina for more than several of those pleasurable rushes, Spock thinks, as he considers both Jim and Uhura-their bodies tangled together in his bed, their skin sticky from sex and sweat.
He could have played for far longer. Vulcans are skilled in the art of pleasure. It is logical.
And it is logical that he has discovered a purpose for his insomnia. He still has work to do tonight.
Placing a open hand on Kirk’s right temple, he enters the captain’s mind first. Desire/confusion/pleasure/wantwantwant/jealousy/guilt....Spock erases this encounter easily from Kirk’s memories. He leaves behind a lingering attraction to Uhura, and a deeper, desperate attraction to himself. He does not question his motivation. He softly nudges Kirk into semi-consciousness and sends him stumbling back to his own quarters. Any remaining memories will be interpreted as a good dream.
Spock takes his time with Uhura’s mind. He strokes against its pleasure centers and watches her hips gently rise in her sleep, as though searching for the origin of the sensation. He experiences her orgasm under Kirk’s mouth, absorbs the arousal that stirred in her as she watched him enter their captain; the arousal she felt as she nimbly grasped Kirk's erect penis.
Slowly, he begins to take her memories as well, easing the burden of knowledge. He allows her love for him to remain; he leaves her with the burgeoning respect and affection that she feels for James T. Kirk.
He is like a janitor, cleaning up a spill that will undoubtedly cause someone to fall. He is brushing away the kinds of cobwebs that will lead to instability. This is a secret way for him to show he cares.
We can do this again now, he thinks, there is plenty of time for more when time is so malleable.
END
Star Trek fic
Kirk/Spock, Spock/Uhura, Kirk/Spock/Uhura, Soft R
5,328 Words
Note: This was technically written in response to this post from st_xi_kink. I took some liberties, played around a little, and ended up with a much longer, much more plotty story than I had originally intended. There are, of course, spoilers for Star Trek XI, as well as a good number of tidbits from ToS. Enjoy, and do leave feedback.
As logic stands, you couldn't meet a man
who's from the future,
but logic broke as he appeared
he spoke about the future....
“All We Have is Now,” The Flaming Lips
His body is wracked with sudden nausea. He stumbles gracelessly backward, then lurches forward with startling force. His face is damp with tears. He is drowning, and yet tumbling. It is like the moments after your shuttle takes off, when your heart wraps its veins around your ankles.
He tries to take a deep breath, it comes out a desperate gasp.
“...emotional transference from the mind-meld...it will pass.”
That familiar voice-explanatory, calming-almost fatherly.
Tension builds in his body. His limbs tremble. The cold passes through his Starfleet parka. Memories jumble together; the past mingles with his paradoxical future.
He knows: an entire planet destroyed/alien worlds he’s never heard of/millions of strange faces/the constant Enterprise/Janice Lester/his own death, and Spock.
Always Spock. Frequently joyless, unmatchably stubborn, consistent, unflappable Spock. Spock shirtless, and wild, fighting him on Vulcan. Spock arguing with Bones. Spock beating him at chess. Spock with his hands on his temples, gently scrying into his mind. Spock by his side. Spock pressed against him in the endless darkness of the universe.
Spock. + + + +
Captain James T. Kirk awakens in his quarters, alone.
There are hours between now and his next shift on the bridge; the chronometer on his desk confirms this. Once again, he has dreamt of Delta Vega, and Spock Prime, and that other future. That other possibility.
He drags a damp hand through his short hair, and sighs. The Enterprise hums around him in response, her metal body cocooning him, cradling him in the warmth of his bed.
Kirk was born in space, he sleeps best there. Lately, though, he has felt a new kind of restlessness in his bones. His sleep is interrupted by dreams, by reliving moments of a life that isn’t his. Spock Prime-not his-not this timeline’s Spock, shared too much with him. Kirk rubs at his face. He can see his own body, naked and sweat-drenched, through another’s eyes. He can feel hot flesh beneath his hands. It is far too clear, it is far too much.
Kirk has never shied away from excess before. His short life has been defined by a powerful predilection for over-the-top. He is a pusher of boundaries, a rule-breaker. He takes challenges and masters them, but these memories are haunting him. He has become a stranger in his own life, lost and barraged by stories he cannot tell, battles he never fought. Spock Prime could not have known about the unexpected lasting effects of his touch. He could not have known that he was imparting desire that would leave Kirk hard and wanting. Empty, and conjuring images of his First Office and Lieutenant Uhura, their bodies curled together into a delicate curve, their limbs tangled beneath the Federation seal that graces all the Enterprise blankets.
“Computer, raise lights.”
Kirk sighs again, letting the breath catch on his teeth. For once, he has no viable solution, for surely it would be highly inappropriate of him to simply bust brashly into Spock’s room, demanding that he and Uhura make space for him in their bed.
Although...
“Funny-ha-ha, Jim,” he mutters.
On his desk, the chronometer boasts the slow passage of time, and he considers dressing. Maybe he should wander up to the rec room and get a snack, something crunchy and covered in salt. Perfection.
It was different, he muses as he pulls on his off-duty tunic, when Uhura was a bright young woman who kept shooting him down. Then it was charming, then she was another challenge. He’s figured out all too well that since Delta Vega that his frame of reference has shifted. Now he exists somewhere between jealous and desirous of Uhura, and sometimes, horribly, he thinks Spock senses the change. It’s as though those pointy ears are providing him with radar-the kind of radar the hones in on Kirk’s own unsatisfying, “illogical,” downtime fantasies. The kind of radar that puts Spock in his personal space far too frequently, skin all smelling of cinnamon and slightly cooler than a human’s would be.
At least a tentative bond exists between himself and Spock, this much he knows. It is, he nearly shudders, nothing like the bond that his other self and Spock Prime had, but it remains a bond, maybe a promise, and he can feel it strengthening on the daily, with each passing mission.
They make a good team. They’d make an even better something else...
Kirk grimaces, feels his cock twitch at the mere idea.
“Dammit!”
Fully dressed, he considers his reflection. The dim light makes him appear blurry in the glass. He looks tired, foreign. He wonders how Spock and Uhura see him.
He seems to see them constantly. Again, he has got to look into the possibility of Spock having radar, or maybe really high empathy levels, because lately it’s as though every time he gets onto a turbo-lift, Spock and Uhura are there, dutifully straightening their uniforms, a quick veneer of innocence and professionalism sliding into place.
Uhura is always the first to speak.
“Good afternoon, Captain,” she’ll say, her voice a gentle smirk.
“Captain,” Spock will nod solemnly, nearly byronic.
Kirk will smile stiffly in response, crack a joke, and try not to eat them both alive with his eyes.
It’s terrible to be gifted with the knowledge of what might have been, what maybe should have been, he thinks, as he heads out of his quarters, and into the harsh light of the Enterprise corridors. It is equally terrible to end up masturbating in a public restroom at least once a day.
+ + + +
When she presses her back against his chest, and the curve of her bottom fits flawlessly into his pelvis, Spock wonders at the universe. She sleeps soundly, her breathing slow and comfortable. He strokes down her arm, feels goosebumps rise there even in sleep. Her body is cool, and soft. Her hair smells exotic to him, and it brushes against him silkily when she shifts in her slumber.
Spock presses a kiss to the top of Uhura’s head, and inhales her scent. She reacts quietly to his touch, just the barest of movements at the contact.
This is only another instance of his sleeplessness since Vulcan was destroyed.
Perhaps a walk would be logical, but he hesitates to leave Uhura behind. He doesn’t wish for her to wake alone. Her shift begins in an hour, he has at least four before the start of his. Perhaps he could wake her now, perhaps they could bathe together....
No, she sleeps too deeply. It would not be kind to rouse her.
He brings himself closer to her back and attempts to sleep once again. They try to be in each other’s company when they can, but it has become increasingly difficult since the Enterprise’s mission began. He would regret forfeiting these final minutes with her before her duty.
Regret, he thinks, is a very un-Vulcan thing to feel. It’s an emotion about lingering.
Uhura snuffles against her pillow, and Spock raises an eyebrow. He could walk briskly around the saucer and return before she wakes. Yes, he could do that.
Taking care not to jostle her, Spock slips from beneath their blankets, and into the warm air of his chamber. He keeps the temperature here higher than in most rooms, and although Uhura hates it, he needs the extra warmth to be comfortable. Sometimes she jokes that he is part reptile, and it has taken him a longer than he would like to admit to see the humor in that.
+ + + +
Kirk hears the footsteps approach before he sees the body they belong too. The rec is mostly empty; it is, after all, the ship’s graveyard shift. There are a few polite hellos, but no one wants a serious conversation with their captain. Except for maybe Spock.
“Captain,” says Spock.
“Mr. Spock,” says Kirk.
“You, too, are sleepless, I see.”
“You know what they say, ‘No rest for the weary,’” Kirk tries one of his best grins.
“I am not familiar with that saying; is it common to Iowa?”
“It’s common... it’s common to pretty much everywhere.” Kirk shrugs. “At least I thought it was.”
“It’s a very descriptive colloquialism, considering our own apparent insomnia.”
“Insomnia, there’s nothing fun about it.” Kirk pauses, “would you like to join me?” he gestures to the single chair at his table. “I’m having tea.”
“That would be acceptable.” Spock nods, and sits. “I am always in favor of tea.”
Kirk smiles. They’ve spent time together off the bridge before, but this is the first time he has ever heard Spock mention something that he “likes.” He knows far more about what Spock Prime likes, and as far as Kirk can tell, this Spock likes his job first, Uhura second, and now he likes tea. Progress, Kirk thinks, progress.
“What finds you wandering at this lonely hour?”
“Unsatisfactory sleep. I cannot find a logical explanation for it.”
“Can’t say I can help you there.”
Kirk raises his cup to his mouth, sips.
“I’m used to passing out the moment I hit my cot. Haven’t got a clue what’s keeping me awake now.” The lie comes out glibly. There is no way on Earth, or any other planet, that he can tell Spock the true cause for his wakefulness.
“Have you tried meditation?” Spock asks.
His bark of laughter is unexpected. “Mr. Spock, do I look like the sort of man who meditates?”
The Vulcan considers this for a second.
“No, the probability of you being that sort of man is, indeed, slim.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“But meditation can be very helpful,” Spock continues. “On Vulcan it was common practice for the both the old and very young to spend an hour or so each day clearing the mind. It is especially helpful when you come from a race of empaths.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, decidedly.” Spock frowns. “What is wrong, Captain? You are suddenly distressed.”
“No, just interested.” Kirk fiddles with his tea cup. “And not at all surprised.”
“You are not surprised about meditation on Vulcan?”
“I’m not surprised,” Kirk says slowly, “to discover that Vulcans aren’t simply touch-telepaths. Tell me, Mr. Spock, how strongly telepathic are you?”
“I can sense strong emotion from humans, but through touch I can sense far more.”
“So you can read my mind? Right now, here at this table?”
For a moment, Kirk thinks that Spock’s impassive mouth is scowling at him.
“I have a sense of privacy,” he says, on the edge of indignation. “I am not meddling in your brain or anyone else’s, and I can certainly...shield myself from overhearing the desires of others, which is far more than I can say for humans, who cannot help but broadcast their feelings across the universe.”
“Have I hit a nerve?” Kirk asks innocently.
“Humans are simply incapable of hiding their emotional selves, it is a weakness of their mental faculties,” Spock says, imperviously calm once again.
“Right.”
“But with meditation there is a chance that you-that is, that humans-could learn to control more of their irrational minds.”
“Hmmm,” Kirk says thoughtfully. “Have I been broadcasting, then?”
Spock takes a deep gulp of tea.
“I wondered if perhaps you were unaware of your own thoughts. It is a common occurrence in the human brain. Your nature is avoidant.”
Kirk curls his upper lip.
“Very little about me is avoidant.
“That is in keeping with you character,” Spock says, then glances at the chronometer above the rec room entrance. Uhura will be waking soon. “I should return to my quarters.”
“Was it something I said?” Or something I thought?
“Not at all, Captain.”
“Then may I walk you there?”
“If you are heading out as well, then I do not see why I should stop you.”
They rise together, and as the rec doors slide closed behind them with a soft hydraulic hiss, Kirk wonders what it is, exactly, that he’s doing.
+ + + +
As they walk along in the corridor, Spock is the first to speak, his hands clasped loosely behind his back.
“Your emotions are strong, but I have not found them troubling.”
“What?”
“I intend only comfort; I can sense that you are worried about offending me.”
“I...I’m not sure,” Kirk falters. “You really are a meddling Vulcan, you know that?”
“It’s part of my duty to aide in the maintenance of your health. You have afforded the same attention to me.”
Kirk’s forehead knits. “I have?”
“Yes. You knew that I was unfit for duty after Vulcan was destroyed. You were looking out for both the Enterprise, and me. I am, in a way, grateful to you.”
“I suppose I did push you for your own good.” Kirk purses his lips.
“I could not see it at the time. My logic was clouded by trauma.”
Kirk looks at him.
“You were still doing better than most! Hell, I’d have probably blown Nero to smithereens if he’d destroyed my home planet. You kept it together real well for the most part, although I bet you’ve got a real problem with repressed memories.”
“Meditation,” Spock reminds him. “And Captain, I should tell you something...”
“What would that be, Mr. Spock?” Kirk feels a small burble in his stomach, apprehension rising in his chest, the very beginning of fight or flight settling in.
“I should tell you that I know you met my other self. I, too, have spoken with Spock Prime.”
“Oh,” says Kirk, dumbly.
“I mistook him for my father.” Spock raises an eyebrow. “It was, shall we say, an fascinating encounter.” Spock’s eyebrow raises further than would seem vulcanly possible.
“Oh,” Kirk says again.
They have been standing outside of Spock’s stateroom for more than a minute now.
“So you if you are curious-and I know that you are -I should tell you that I am aware of our alternate...relationship. I am very much aware of it indeed.”
“I’m not sure what to say,” Kirk mutters.
“Why not say, ‘I’ll see you on the bridge at 1500 hours.’?”
“I’ll see you on the bridge at 1500 hours,” Kirk repeats.
And then Spock is gone, the door to his room is sliding shut. Kirk stands alone, amidst the lingering smell of cinnamon, and with a warmth on his shoulder, where he has only just remembered that Spock was softly touching him, softly suggesting that Kirk not notice when he pressed the keypad by the door, or notice as he softly slipped away, and back to Uhura.
“Meddling Vulcan,” Kirk breathes, and for the first time realizes that his erection is plainly visible through the tight fabric of his trousers.
+ + + +
He dreams again:
Spock Prime’s aged, craggy hand against his face.
The sloping hills of Iowa.
Bones and Scotty, their eyes lidded, their breath strong with ale. They are laughing together in a seedy San Francisco bar. A scaly alien boy winks at Kirk from a shadowy corner.
His father, a man strikingly similar to him, sitting in his captain’s chair.
Nero’s fey, manic voice.
Space, stretching out before him. His very first taste of it. His face flush to the Enterprise’s viewscreen. The stars and galaxies spinning into elaborate shapes and colors, the daring tilt-a-whirl of warp speed swirling around him, dancing across his mind, seducing him.
Uhura’s lips against his, her tongue weaving into his mouth. He touches her hair, wraps it into his fists. She is so beautiful; she is so much smarter than he will ever be. She reminds him that at times he runs on killer instinct alone.
Then Spock, the Spock of now, pulling him out of Uhura’s embrace.
For a moment, Kirk thinks that Spock will punch him, and he steels himself against the impact. He remembers the Vulcan’s rage from their fight on the bridge.
Instead, Spock kisses him. He should have known. How could he not have known?
Kirk looks to Uhura for acceptance, and she smiles. Her teeth are so, so straight. Her eyes are glassy.
He flushes from cheeks to groin.
Spock places a hand against his face.
“Relax, Jim,” he says soothingly, his lips barely apart from Kirk’s.
+ + + +
There are voices.
”Relax, Jim,” Spock says soothingly.
He can sense a sickness growing in him. It wraps around his intestines, blossoms up into his stomach, reaches into his chest.
“What’s the matter with him?” Scotty, frantic.
“I don’t know yet. Get a hold on yourself, man!” Bones responds.
“He is ill.” Spock, again.
“I can see that, you pointy eared know-it-all.”
A hands presses against his skin, hard on his ribcage. He is suddenly nauseous, drowning, tumbling. He cannot find words. There is only darkness, he does not dream.
+ + + +
Captain James T. Kirk awakens in sickbay, he is not alone. His body feels heavy with sedatives; there is a weakness in his limbs that cannot be placed.
“Jim.”
Kirk blinks his bleary eyes.
“Spock,” he croaks out.
“You have suffered some physical damage.”
“I...I have?”
“Yes.” Bones is there now, by his bedside. “You contracted a parasite.”
“I did?”
Spock adds, “we believe that it occurred organically-that is, we know it was not meant as an attack on the Federation, or the ship’s crew.”
“Will others...” he struggles, “will others get sick?”
“No,” Bones says kindly. “It is not transmittable through physical contact, but it may have been incubating in you since Delta Vega.”
“Delta...Vega?”
Spock nods. “It was, perhaps, the cause of your insomnia.”
If Kirk were not drugged half-way to unconsciousness, then he really would believe that Spock had just smirked at him, smirked at him in a very knowing way.
“That explains a lot,” Kirk says, his brow creasing. His eyes begin to droop.
“I’ve given you another sedative,” Bones says.
“Great.” Kirk smiles lopsidedly. “That’s just....”
+ + + +
Several days pass before Kirk finds himself back on his feet and performing his regular tasks as ship’s captain. Several more days pass before he returns to Spock’s quarters with the knowledge that Uhura in on duty and his First Office is alone within.
It has taken time for him to wrap his head around the events of the last fortnight. He has never been the best at processing.
Shockingly, a bout of meditation helped. He thinks he has it figured now:
I. Delta Vega
II. Wet-dream induced insomnia
III. A strange encounter with Mr. Spock
IV. His parasite, forced into overdrive by stress
V. Sickbay
All of this has been recorded in his Captain’s Log, Stardate 2258.61. It is sound, it is logical. Spock would be proud. One thing... one this is missing though, and he’s about to figure out that last piece of the puzzle. He’s standing right outside its door.
+ + + +
Unlike most of the staterooms on the Enterprise, Spock’s has a surprising amount of character. The Vulcan elders left him certain objects to keep watch over, and so he is surrounded by tapestried walls, and several statuettes make their home on his carpet.
Spock finds it slightly cluttered, but he feels a sense of civic duty.
He considers the equations he is working on for his next presentation at the Academy. He is tracing evolutionary differences in Romulan and Vulcan dialects as affected by the month Tasmeen’s solar trajectory. The cadets will find it dry. He will not admit Uhura’s influence.
The chime announcing a visitor is not unexpected. He has been waiting for Jim Kirk for four days.
“Enter.”
Objectively, the Captain looks both awkward and determined when he walks into Spock’s quarters. His gait is steady, his eyes are bright, his hands are clasped behind his back. Spock thinks he can see beads of sweat at Kirk’s blond temples. He stands.
“As you were, Mr. Spock.”
Spock sits again.
“How goes it?” Kirk asks, another one of his imprecise human expressions.
“If by ‘it’, you mean my lecture, then it goes slowly,” Spock responds.
Humans, and especially Jim Kirk, are inclined toward small talk. Spock is not good at small talk. He is not good at the weather/and how are your offspring/and what did your supper taste like/mine tasted like fish broth and possibly kelp. He is not good at anything like that, but he tries.
“Good to hear.” Kirk smiles at him.
“I trust that you are feeling well, Captain?”
“Much better. Tippity-top.” He hunches over to look at one of Spock’s statues. “You’ve got a lot of these little guys.”
“I am, what you might call, babysitting them. For the Vulcan elders.”
“Ah, hope they’re paying you more than 10 credits an hour.”
“I don't...” Spock begins.
“Forget it,” Kirk says, and sits down on Spock’s bed. It has been meticulously straightened since Uhura left.
“Can I help you with something, Captain?”
“Call me Jim, would you? At least when we’re hanging out alone, I think you can call me Jim.”
“I suppose that may be acceptable,” Spock answers.
“Try again.”
“Can I help you with something, Jim?”
“Yes, yes indeed you can, Spock. I’ve got a question for you. Something that’s been grating on me. And you’ve got to be honest with me, you hear?”
“Vulcans do not lie,” Spock says.
“No, but Vulcans are deceptive.” Kirk looks at him slyly. “I figured that much out all on my own.”
“Deceptive?” Eyebrow raise.
“An old friend of yours forbade me from telling you we’d met. But you’ve encountered that friend recently. You told me as much last week.”
“You are speaking of Spock Prime, of my alternate self,” Spock states flatly. Where was the captain going with this?
“And so, if my mentioning him to you would have truly caused some kind of paradoxical rift in time and space, then Spock Prime would have never come to see you at all. He would have stayed as far away from you as possible...unless Vulcans are given to a kind of curiosity so insatiable that it could be considered apocalypse inducing.”
Kirk-Jim looks pleased with himself.
Spock says, measuredly, “some might argue that Vulcans do possess apocalypse-inducing curiosity.”
“Vulcans and cats, but that’s not my point.”
“What is your point?”
“It doesn’t matter! It never mattered!” Kirk practically shouts. “I could have told you about him all along, and even if you had never met Spock Prime you would have known about him eventually.”
“Because I am a capable mind-reader.”
“Exactly, and you have been inside my mind lately.”
For a moment, Spock feels bashful.
“It’s true,” he says. “The night outside my corridors, before you became terribly ill. I touched your arm. I... meddled,” he finishes lamely.
“You meddled!” Kirk points at him enthusiastically.
“I am sorry for taking the liberty, Captain.”
“Who cares if you meddled,” Kirk says breezily. “I want to know why you meddled. And I want to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“You’re the one who alerted sickbay. You sent Bones to my quarters that night.”
Spock’s feature give away nothing. He sits firmly in his desk chair. He shows none of the signs that a human under playful interrogation might.
Kirk, on the other hand, is languid, reclining. He’s practically laying on Spock’s bed.
Not quite fair.
“I knew you were sick from when I touched you earlier that hour.”
“Big lie, huuuuge lie,” Kirk sing-songs. “You would have said something then.”
How could he possibly deduce...
“May I ask you a personal question, Mr. Spock?”
Spock swallows. “I am at your disposal.”
“How’s your sex life?”
“Adequate, Captain.”
“Do you masturbate?”
“Most sentient creatures do, I believe.”
“That was not my question,” Kirk leers.
Spock can feel himself unravel slightly. A very human part of him sighs.
“Yes, I do masturbate.”
“And what do you think about?”
“My partner, the mysteries of the universe, tribbles?”
“Did you just make a joke?” Kirk’s jaw drops comically.
“Please reign in your tangent, Captain. I am not a mystery to be solved.”
“You were in my head. You were tapping into Spock Prime’s residual memories. You totally have a hard-on for me and that’s how you knew I was sick before I did! You must have stumbled over my illness in the midst of your slimy, perverted, Vulcan mind-reading!” Kirk crows.
“Captain, I...”
“What about Uhura?”
“I-” Spock pauses. “I may have shared the memories with her.”
“Bingo,” Kirk says.
Buggeration, thinks Spock.
“I’ve got duty now, but I’m coming back later. And,” Kirk licks his lips, “I’ll see you on the bridge shortly.”
He’s up and off of the bed, bounding happily away down the corridor before Spock can get a word in edgewise, or even consider refuting his wild, albeit distinctly true, claims.
Being slightly kinky has never been quite suited either side of his lineage, Spock thinks, and without noticing, he taps over a Vulcan fertility goddess with his boot toe.
+ + + +
Situation on bridge is normal.
Captain Kirk remains his ebullient self, although his cheeks are slightly red, and he is on the brink of incurring yet another citation from HQ over the butt-slapping "camaraderie" he is so fond of.
Spock almost feels pity for Ensign Chekov, but he leaves that out of his log. After all, his encounter with the captain is what produced this...mood.
That said: no catastrophes during this shift. The science officer is wholly underused when nothing exciting is happening.
Vulcans do not get bored, but half-human Vulcans sometimes do.
Kirk said he would return later...
Spock wonders what that visit will entail. His genitals wonder too, it seems.
+ + + +
When she returns from the rec room at 0100 hours, there is a message waiting for her on the communicator.
She’d be lying if she said she weren’t the teensiest bit drunk, but honestly, that bartender made some really strong slushes. And then there were the shots of Jack... She makes a mental note: no more late nights out with Scotty.
The comm, right....
“Lieutenant Uhura,” the Captain’s voice rings out. “Please come to First Officer Spock’s quarters as soon as you receive this message. No hour is too late. We have an urgent matter to discuss.”
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, Uhura thinks. We’re going to be court-martialed for a non-Federation sanctioned relationship... for mind-reading, for...perversion.
“Shiiiiit,” she breathes out-loud as she quickly puts her hair in place before leaving.
+ + + +
There is music playing behind Spock’s door. Spock never plays music. She’s the one who always put on music, and she only plays music if they’re about to...
“Hmmm.” She frowns before punching in the entrance code.
The door slides open... and it is not as she expected.
On second thought, perhaps it is exactly as she expected.
+ + + +
Kirk lifts his mouth from Spock’s neck and says, “you have a visitor.” He has his First Officer pinned to his bed, and Spock has to struggle slightly to look over at the entranceway.
Uhura waves at him, one slim eyebrow arched highly. “Hello, love,” she says.
Before Spock can reply, Kirk says, “Will you join us?”
“No disciplinary measures, then?” Uhura grins.
“None,” says Spock.
“Then I don’t see why not,” she says. “I’ve seen quite a bit of you two already.”
“That was not us,” Spock corrects her.
“Don’t be a spoil-sport,” Uhura says, as she pulls her dress over her head. “You’re lucky I’m an open-minded woman of the 23rd century.”
“Let me take your boots off,” Kirk says suddenly, and he leaves the bed to guide her toward it. Spock sits up to look. His cheeks are flushed, that same greenish-red tint she knows well. They have been waiting for her.
She sits on the edge of the bed, her bare back against Spock’s thighs, and Kirk kneels at her feet. “I’ve always liked you, Lieutenant,” he says, as he unzips her black boots one at a time, dragging the rough pads of his fingers down her calves as he does so.
She lets her eyes close.
“I guess I should tell you my first name,” she says.
“I’ve read your personnel file,” Kirk shrugs, as he gently parts her thighs and settles himself between them. He is partially nude, only his tented shorts remain. She moves to lean heavily against Spock, and he shifts so that her back rests against his chest, his mouth beneath her ear.
“Is this okay?” he whispers.
“Yes,” she says back, and brings his hand to her temple, so that he can sense her consent mentally.
“Okay,” he says, and instead places both his hands on her bare breasts. He sucks one of her earlobes into his mouth, and she presses her ass back against his cock, lets her head fall onto his shoulder.
“This is quite the show,” Kirk says, and then lowers his own mouth to her inner thigh.
Uhura moans.
Kirk tongues his way up her leg, and lets his mouth linger near the edge of her vagina. She can feel him inhale deeply.
“I’m Nyrota,” she says, breathlessly, as Kirk’s tongue finally reaches her clitoris. “I’m....”
“Shhh,” Spock murmurs, and turns her chin to meet his lips, then flicks gently at her left nipple. “Shhh,” he says into her mouth, his tongue meeting cool against hers.
She can barely hear the music above the blood pulsing in her ears.
+ + + +
The chronometer on Captain James T. Kirk’s desk glows glaringly bright into the dark of his quarters. Soon, the alarm will go off...it is almost 0800 hours. Duty time.
He rolls over and pulls the covers over his head.
Sometimes dreaming can make for a much better adventure.
+ + + +
Lieutenant Uhura moves languidly against Spock. She has to truly wake up soon, but Spock’s skin is so cool against her back.
Her mother’s vintage wristwatch reads 7:45.
Only fifteen more minutes before her shift begins. Only fifteen more minutes of this blissful comfort.
+ + + +
Five hours previously....
They both fall asleep soon after the third orgasm. Humans have very little stamina for more than several of those pleasurable rushes, Spock thinks, as he considers both Jim and Uhura-their bodies tangled together in his bed, their skin sticky from sex and sweat.
He could have played for far longer. Vulcans are skilled in the art of pleasure. It is logical.
And it is logical that he has discovered a purpose for his insomnia. He still has work to do tonight.
Placing a open hand on Kirk’s right temple, he enters the captain’s mind first. Desire/confusion/pleasure/wantwantwant/jealousy/guilt....Spock erases this encounter easily from Kirk’s memories. He leaves behind a lingering attraction to Uhura, and a deeper, desperate attraction to himself. He does not question his motivation. He softly nudges Kirk into semi-consciousness and sends him stumbling back to his own quarters. Any remaining memories will be interpreted as a good dream.
Spock takes his time with Uhura’s mind. He strokes against its pleasure centers and watches her hips gently rise in her sleep, as though searching for the origin of the sensation. He experiences her orgasm under Kirk’s mouth, absorbs the arousal that stirred in her as she watched him enter their captain; the arousal she felt as she nimbly grasped Kirk's erect penis.
Slowly, he begins to take her memories as well, easing the burden of knowledge. He allows her love for him to remain; he leaves her with the burgeoning respect and affection that she feels for James T. Kirk.
He is like a janitor, cleaning up a spill that will undoubtedly cause someone to fall. He is brushing away the kinds of cobwebs that will lead to instability. This is a secret way for him to show he cares.
We can do this again now, he thinks, there is plenty of time for more when time is so malleable.
END