obstinatrix (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
obstinatrix) wrote2009-10-08 03:13 pm
obstinatrix) wrote2009-10-08 03:13 pm
Entry tags:
Untitled TOS!Kirk/Spock ficlets (2)
Here, have a couple of slightly failtastic Kirk/Spock ficlets from the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
st_tos_kinkmeme!
Um. I think this is actually the first time I have written proper old-fashioned Kirk/Spock. Ever.
This post mainly for archiving purposes.
One, PG-13-rated little piece of cliche-laden Gothicness. The prompt was: "Your cold blood cannot be worked into a fever - your veins are full of ice-water - but mine are boiling, and the sight of such chillness makes them dance." (quotation from Wuthering Heights.)
Cold-blooded, the ambassador had called Spock. Cold-blooded, because he had not found it in himself to sympathise or console; he had not thought it efficient to expend his time and energy on doing so. And the ambassador had decried him as a cold-blooded alien, his voice an incredulous rasp at the back of his throat.
How little he knew.
It is a strange term, cold-blooded, connoting aloofness, control, discipline: all the things beloved of Vulcans, redolent of Spock. He is, to human eyes cold-blooded in his unflinching devotion to emotional self-governance, his dedication to accurate science; even in the faintly green cast of his pale skin.
Strange, then, that the blood in his veins, the harbinger of that greenness, should burn like jade fire, lending Spock's skin an impossible heat. Strange, that Vulcans' blood should boil with a ferocity beyond human understanding, when the pon farr was upon them.
Strange, that Spock should be perceived as concealing this furious heat behind a white facade of coldness, when really, there is nothing cold about him at all.
His hands on Kirk's skin are deft, devoted; there is a subtle science to the way he plays his captain's body, as if it is some finely balanced instrument, but there is nothing cold in his precision; only dedication, and wonderment. His mouth on Kirk's is a slow burn, licking him into flame. The hard press of him when Kirk takes him inside is a conflagration in Kirk's body, like being burned alive and having no wish to escape it.
There is nothing cold about Spock; no ice in his heart, or in his touch. Spock is, on the contrary, a fire Kirk embraces unflinchingly, a flame that seems to cleanse his spirit as the ancient Terran martyrs felt themselves rendered pure through burning; Spock is a light so bright that Kirk cannot conceive, sometimes, of how anyone could miss it.
Cold-blooded, the ambassador called him, mindless of Spock's warm fingers, his warmer heart. How little he knew.
Kirk dismisses the man's ignorance, as he has dismissed so many others, as of no consequence to him, and sinks into his Vulcan's bloodwarm arms.
**
Two, R-rated Vulcan!porn. The prompt was: I'm not sure if this has been brought up before or not, but with those sensitive Vulcan fingers, wouldn't it technically be possible for Spock to more or less suck himself off? You know, while Kirk watches? This is a bit cracktastic.
When he first noticed it, Kirk thought he must be mistaken. He had heard stories, of course, but who hadn't? If anything, the way Spock was thumbing his lower lip, fingering the corners of his mouth as any man might do in a moment of concentration, would seem to prove the rumors false. There was nothing untoward about the way his index finger slid under his lip, over the smooth half-circle of his teeth. This was what Kirk told himself, at first.
Spock was occupied, preoccupied; frowning at a Starfleet transmission with one hand on the viewscreen, the other playing distractedly with his mouth. Kirk watched the long first finger slip from the ridge of Spock's lower teeth into the well of his mouth; watched it trace a lazy pattern down his tongue from base to tip. The tongue curled around the tip of the finger, then again, and again, s-l-o-w-l-y. It might have been any man's unconscious action. And then Spock closed his lips around his finger, let the finger slip slowly out again, slick with saliva, and the resultant jerk of his body told the Captain everything.
Spock's eyes were closed, his finger slipping in and out of the wet cavern of his mouth; another joining it, after a minute or so. There was nothing ostentatious about it, nothing that could be called, by human standards, indecent; but oh, oh, there was something unrelentingly obscene about the slackness in Spock's green-flushed face, the counterpoint tension of his body. Had he forgotten, Kirk wondered, that he was not alone in his quarters? Was Spock - really - ?
But there was no question, any more, as to what he was doing; not now, with his cheeks copper-tinged, his eyes closed, his free hand flattened and trembling on the table. Kirk knew he should look away, should go away; hell, should do anything but stand here, eyes caught between the suddenly obvious disturbance to the smooth front of his First Officer's pants, and the expression of tortured bliss upon that mobile face.
Spock's eyebrows were drawn together, and the tight little line of concentration between them was inexplicably sexy. Kirk pressed the heel of his hand against his crotch, just hard enough to hurt, to tame. He bit his lip. Spock's fingers slid in and out of his mouth with greater rapidity, now, tongue laving the pads of his fingers, curling around the tips, dipping between. Kirk couldn't bite back the sound that rose in his throat, startled out of him by the way Spock's body clenched; the way his breath stumbled out around his fingers in a gasp that approached vocalisation.
It was over as abruptly as it had begun. A final flick of Spock's tongue over his fingertips; a final thrust of them deep to the back of his throat, and he was twitching, gasping, gripped by a nameless tension that dissipated under Kirk's eyes. Kirk stared in disbelief as the distorted front of Spock's pants lost their tension, as well.
For a moment, Spock held himself still, hunched over his viewscreen. Then, the hand that had braced him throughout this halfconscious performance seemed to remember itself, returning to its task, picking through pages of scrawl for whatever it was Spock had been hoping to find. Kirk ached. Fuck, did Kirk ache, and now Spock was going back to work as if he hadn't just effectively autofellated himself not five feet away.
Hell, Kirk thought, crossing his legs furiously. Damn it to hell. If he got up now, Spock would realise he had been there all along. If he made to leave, Spock would be embarrassed beyond Vulcan endurance.
He was going to have to hold still, for at least the next half hour.
Fuck, Kirk thought, and thought very hard about icewater.
*
Across the room, Spock cast a disgruntled glance at the Captain's very visible erection, and sighed.
Obviously, next time he was just going to have to try a little harder.
****
A/N: This piece I actually wrote at work to entertain myself. The prompt was just that awesome, and I hope someone fills it properly.
st_tos_kinkmeme! Um. I think this is actually the first time I have written proper old-fashioned Kirk/Spock. Ever.
This post mainly for archiving purposes.
One, PG-13-rated little piece of cliche-laden Gothicness. The prompt was: "Your cold blood cannot be worked into a fever - your veins are full of ice-water - but mine are boiling, and the sight of such chillness makes them dance." (quotation from Wuthering Heights.)
Cold-blooded, the ambassador had called Spock. Cold-blooded, because he had not found it in himself to sympathise or console; he had not thought it efficient to expend his time and energy on doing so. And the ambassador had decried him as a cold-blooded alien, his voice an incredulous rasp at the back of his throat.
How little he knew.
It is a strange term, cold-blooded, connoting aloofness, control, discipline: all the things beloved of Vulcans, redolent of Spock. He is, to human eyes cold-blooded in his unflinching devotion to emotional self-governance, his dedication to accurate science; even in the faintly green cast of his pale skin.
Strange, then, that the blood in his veins, the harbinger of that greenness, should burn like jade fire, lending Spock's skin an impossible heat. Strange, that Vulcans' blood should boil with a ferocity beyond human understanding, when the pon farr was upon them.
Strange, that Spock should be perceived as concealing this furious heat behind a white facade of coldness, when really, there is nothing cold about him at all.
His hands on Kirk's skin are deft, devoted; there is a subtle science to the way he plays his captain's body, as if it is some finely balanced instrument, but there is nothing cold in his precision; only dedication, and wonderment. His mouth on Kirk's is a slow burn, licking him into flame. The hard press of him when Kirk takes him inside is a conflagration in Kirk's body, like being burned alive and having no wish to escape it.
There is nothing cold about Spock; no ice in his heart, or in his touch. Spock is, on the contrary, a fire Kirk embraces unflinchingly, a flame that seems to cleanse his spirit as the ancient Terran martyrs felt themselves rendered pure through burning; Spock is a light so bright that Kirk cannot conceive, sometimes, of how anyone could miss it.
Cold-blooded, the ambassador called him, mindless of Spock's warm fingers, his warmer heart. How little he knew.
Kirk dismisses the man's ignorance, as he has dismissed so many others, as of no consequence to him, and sinks into his Vulcan's bloodwarm arms.
**
Two, R-rated Vulcan!porn. The prompt was: I'm not sure if this has been brought up before or not, but with those sensitive Vulcan fingers, wouldn't it technically be possible for Spock to more or less suck himself off? You know, while Kirk watches? This is a bit cracktastic.
When he first noticed it, Kirk thought he must be mistaken. He had heard stories, of course, but who hadn't? If anything, the way Spock was thumbing his lower lip, fingering the corners of his mouth as any man might do in a moment of concentration, would seem to prove the rumors false. There was nothing untoward about the way his index finger slid under his lip, over the smooth half-circle of his teeth. This was what Kirk told himself, at first.
Spock was occupied, preoccupied; frowning at a Starfleet transmission with one hand on the viewscreen, the other playing distractedly with his mouth. Kirk watched the long first finger slip from the ridge of Spock's lower teeth into the well of his mouth; watched it trace a lazy pattern down his tongue from base to tip. The tongue curled around the tip of the finger, then again, and again, s-l-o-w-l-y. It might have been any man's unconscious action. And then Spock closed his lips around his finger, let the finger slip slowly out again, slick with saliva, and the resultant jerk of his body told the Captain everything.
Spock's eyes were closed, his finger slipping in and out of the wet cavern of his mouth; another joining it, after a minute or so. There was nothing ostentatious about it, nothing that could be called, by human standards, indecent; but oh, oh, there was something unrelentingly obscene about the slackness in Spock's green-flushed face, the counterpoint tension of his body. Had he forgotten, Kirk wondered, that he was not alone in his quarters? Was Spock - really - ?
But there was no question, any more, as to what he was doing; not now, with his cheeks copper-tinged, his eyes closed, his free hand flattened and trembling on the table. Kirk knew he should look away, should go away; hell, should do anything but stand here, eyes caught between the suddenly obvious disturbance to the smooth front of his First Officer's pants, and the expression of tortured bliss upon that mobile face.
Spock's eyebrows were drawn together, and the tight little line of concentration between them was inexplicably sexy. Kirk pressed the heel of his hand against his crotch, just hard enough to hurt, to tame. He bit his lip. Spock's fingers slid in and out of his mouth with greater rapidity, now, tongue laving the pads of his fingers, curling around the tips, dipping between. Kirk couldn't bite back the sound that rose in his throat, startled out of him by the way Spock's body clenched; the way his breath stumbled out around his fingers in a gasp that approached vocalisation.
It was over as abruptly as it had begun. A final flick of Spock's tongue over his fingertips; a final thrust of them deep to the back of his throat, and he was twitching, gasping, gripped by a nameless tension that dissipated under Kirk's eyes. Kirk stared in disbelief as the distorted front of Spock's pants lost their tension, as well.
For a moment, Spock held himself still, hunched over his viewscreen. Then, the hand that had braced him throughout this halfconscious performance seemed to remember itself, returning to its task, picking through pages of scrawl for whatever it was Spock had been hoping to find. Kirk ached. Fuck, did Kirk ache, and now Spock was going back to work as if he hadn't just effectively autofellated himself not five feet away.
Hell, Kirk thought, crossing his legs furiously. Damn it to hell. If he got up now, Spock would realise he had been there all along. If he made to leave, Spock would be embarrassed beyond Vulcan endurance.
He was going to have to hold still, for at least the next half hour.
Fuck, Kirk thought, and thought very hard about icewater.
*
Across the room, Spock cast a disgruntled glance at the Captain's very visible erection, and sighed.
Obviously, next time he was just going to have to try a little harder.
****
A/N: This piece I actually wrote at work to entertain myself. The prompt was just that awesome, and I hope someone fills it properly.
no subject
Second one is hot and so sexy and funny. Obviously, next time he was just going to have to try a little harder. Obviously. Now I can't help but picture pubescent vulcans being forced to sleep with mittens XD
no subject
OHMIGOD, BRB, DYING OF THAT IDEA.
SOMEONE TOTALLY NEEDS TO WRITE THAT AS CRACKFIC.
MITTENS!! *flails*
Thank you, hon. :)
no subject
*loves*
no subject
no subject
And of course, I already read both of these, and I love them, but I am telling you again, because if you are like me and thus a comment whore, well then you will appreciate the sentiment. Also, they are that good that it needs to be said again...and again!
Also, love, I might fucking get down on my knees and beg you to write more K/S, proper, as you say, TOS era K/S. They are my weakness and I've a feeling you would do them so much justice...
no subject
I really can't be bothered with the new stuff unless
no subject
I, of course, want you to finish AWYWM first, but if you felt inclined to make good on that promise you made to
no subject
The second was Hot...Spock you little schemer!
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
These are just awesome beyond reason. Love and Lust...Oh my!
no subject
Thank you! Your icon continues to win at life. GUH.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
The second one makes me melt.
Mmmm... Spock.
*sighs*
no subject
no subject
no subject
I love you, and I think you're awesome, and I think you and Spock are the cutest couple in the Galaxy.
I also think that you are sometimes so thick you need to have things hammered through your skull with a very heavy object.
I think Spock is figuring this out.
So the next time your best friend-cum-lover is blatantly, er, "autofellating" himself in front of you?
Maybe you should help out. What do you need, an engraved invitation?
Sincerely,
A Fan
no subject
no subject