Fic Deposit Post!
Mar. 22nd, 2010 01:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
obstinatrixSo, I hear from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
screamlet that it is WIP Amnesty Day!
Hrrm. Well, I have a couple of things I thought I might as well toss out. The first thing, I suppose, could be something on its own, but was intended to be the beginning of something else, and isn't very 'finished', besides. But whatever it was going to be, it isn't any longer.
Title: [the obligatory transuniversal bond ficlet]
Pairing: Spock Prime/nuKirk
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: made up in my heeeeeeeeeead
Warnings: Serious clichefest.
There are differences, any fool could see, and Spock is anything but a fool. The line of the cheekbone smoothed under his thumb was not quite like this, either in its first youth, or softened by time. The mouth, brushing silk-soft against his fingertips, is similar, but not the same. And then there are the eyes, that endless-sky blue, and their newness would have made him weep for the loss, if he were human.
If he were human.
He is Vulcan, and he loves with his mind, the tingle of it now steady, now fierce, but ever-present, like an ache burning deep behind his eyes. The whisper of Jim's thoughts spark in his nerves like lovesongs half-remembered, like memories grasped through blown-glass, and his heart swells at the feeling.
He should pull away. He knows, knows that this is not his Jim; that this is not his life to live. And yet the stump of the bond, succoring itself on Jim's breathless pleasure at his touch, tells him otherwise. The rush of his blood at this young man's presence draws him closer like a moth to a candle.
Jim.
The word is soft in his mouth, the tenderest of endearments. This is Jim, and somehow, he cannot draw away.
Jim, he thinks, you always did uproot my logic.
/Spock,/ says Jim's mind, /I think I like you better uprooted./
And he is lost.
Jim's mouth on his is a known inferno, heat and softness and the stroking of tongue against tongue. The touch of his mind is fiercer yet, a bright dynamism that sweeps him up in the maelstrom of its moods, that thunders through him in a flurry of the new and the familiar. /Jim/, sings the mind-bond, /jimjimjimjimjim/ and it does not lie, it cannot.
Vulcans do not fixate like this upon a single mate; do not adhere to and abide by the touch of one mind, far beyond the borders of reason. But he is not Vulcans; he is Spock, and this is Jim, and (jimspockspockjimjimjimjim) they belong together, however they can be so.
Jim's breath is cool against his lips, his hands firm on Spock's back. Spock says, "T'hy'la": illogical, illicit and true.
Jim's mind says nothing in return but his name, his name. Spock exhales, and throws himself into his fire.
And then there's this one. Urgh, God, I have grown to hate this fic. I have stared at it and stared at it, and it is obviously just not going to let me finish it. I can't even remember where it was going. So I am posting it, as is. Take that, evil fic!
Title: Vulcans Don't Swim (fail!working title)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Disclaimer: Yes, not mine.
Vulcans don't swim.
Kirk knew this, had known it for almost as long as he had known anything of Vulcan, its stern dry people and its stark dry sand. Vulcan was an arid place, and Vulcans more parched still - of humour, of joy, of love. This was what the books said; what they had told him, told them all, at the Academy. A rare thing, like an easy assignment from Lt. Markham, was like Vulcan rain; a beautiful girl was hot as goddamn Vulcan dirt. Vulcan was a byword for anything leeched of everything good.
Vulcan was dry as a bone, dry as dust. Kirk knew this, as he knew the names of all recognised Class M planets; as he knew the appropriate way to greet an Andorian - academically, and without any practical application. In practice, he was far less sure that dryness was so reprehensible a characteristic to exhibit.
James Tiberius Kirk.
He always wrote out all three names together like that in the flyleaves of his books, admiring the gravity of the words as they rolled, copperplated, from his pen. Kirk liked books, not simply the act of reading, but the very fact of the books themselves, the paper smell of the leaves and the solid, leathery weight of them in his hand. It was an indulgence, of course, not simply to download these things to his PADD like everyone else, but in Kirk's opinion, there were worse vices. A stack of books on legs, they had called him at the Academy.
"Another dry night?"
"Exam in the morning," he'd say.
And his dryness bought him his captaincy at thirty-two.
On the ship, there wasn't room for books. Instead, he digested textbooks and histories downloaded from the ship's central system, and craved the crisp edges of pages under his fingers. Still, the Enterprise's library - in particular, the information it housed on myriad alien cultures - had often proven useful. The Deltans, for example, Kirk might have offended gravely without its advice. Likewise, it was through his reading that Kirk first gleaned his understanding of the Klingons' attitude towards battle situations, and thus could better anticipate their movements. But, as James T. Kirk soon learned, there still remained, in the vastness of the universe, patches of shadow which even the computer system could not illuminate.
When he first boarded the Enterprise as her captain, Bones lent him a book which he felt might be of some use to him: An Introduction to Vulcan History and Culture. This text told Kirk a great deal about what Vulcans did, and still more about what they did not do (which seemed to be nearly everything Kirk enjoyed). Kirk thought it fairly helpful, until his First Officer began to prove it wrong, on count after hopeless count, so thoroughly that the cynical part of Kirk began to suspect systematic sabotage. On the sixth occasion that this happened, it finally occurred to Kirk that, in actuality, the fact of Spock's deviation from the true Vulcan way was not so very surprising, given his origins. Oh, it was a little frustrating, for he often behaved in ways inexplicable, both in the light of the book's information, and also when read in the context of human cultural norms. But the fact remained that Spock was the first and only human-Vulcan hybrid. He was unique, and unique behaviour, Kirk reluctantly conceded, was his right.
Ironically enough, the concession had been the only logical option. The book discussed Vulcans. Much of it did not apply to Spock. Logically, then, he could not expect Spock to be the epitome of Vulcanness - even if this was what Spock expected of himself.
Vulcans, said the textbook, do not smile. Kirk would have suspected this to be an outright untruth, in Spock's case, almost from the very beginning, had it not been for the fact that his trust in the book's veracity had not yet, at that point, been destroyed. All right: it was true that Kirk had never witnessed Spock laughing, but the upward quirks of his lips, the twisting of his mouth that spoke of a slow-burning amusement underpinning the situation, were surely smiles by any other name.
The book had also insisted that Vulcans, due to their natural telepathic abilities, shunned physical contact with other beings, except when telepathic communication was intended. In light of the fact that, while hardly a fountain of tactile affection, Spock certainly did touch his captain - his arms, should he stumble; his shoulder, as a gesture of support - Kirk was forced to reject this as applicable to Spock, as well.
In this way, the tenets had fallen, Spock inadvertently shattering them one after another. Soon, Kirk had ceased even to be surprised. But they had served together for two years, now, and most of his discoveries had been made within the first eight months or so. After that, he had come to assume that all depths had been plumbed. Vulcans don't swim, Kirk had thought, was a truth he and Spock could live by.
Tonight, in this edgeless pool on a planet with no sun, Spock had proven both of them wrong.
Transportation was, after all, an uncertain thing. Even as he materialised with the whole of his body immersed in lukewarm water, Kirk had thought grumpily that perhaps Bones was right to be cynical.
Looks perfectly safe, they had said. Breathable atmosphere. No life detected.
So, when Spock had expressed a desire to beam down to take some recordings, Kirk's offer to join him had been more for the pleasure of his company than out of any concern for his safety. Their machinery assured him that they would be unlikely to encounter any danger.
Now, as he floated in a pool which seemed to stretch to every horizon, Kirk cursed himself, their instruments, Spock's scientific assistant, the oddly warm planet, and the damn transporter to hell. The water would undoubtedly hamper Scotty's ability to beam them swiftly back, and Kirk couldn't help but wonder whether it might not have damaged his communicator, anyway. He might be stranded here in this pool for any length of time before it was discerned that something must have happened to them, the captain and his Vulcan science officer. And everyone knew that Vulcans didn't swim.
Except that, when he turned in frustration to look for Spock, he found that he was - there could be no question - swimming. Towards him, to be precise; the motions of his hands and feet more closely resembled the paddling efforts of a dog than any stroke Kirk had ever been taught, but the fact remained that this was definitely self-propulsion through water. And that - that was what swimming was.
Kirk pulled himself upright, treading water easily and unconsciously, and blinked at Spock.
"You're swimming," he remarked. For some reason, the words demanded to be said, despite the knowledge that the comment was both rather stupid and distinctly pointless.
Spock, evidently, agreed. "Obviously," he said, with a quirk of his mouth in what was possibly not a smile at all. He was a little breathless, voice halting over the word. Kirk had never heard him breathless before.
I just wanted rid of these, really. *breathes a sigh of relief*
screamlet that it is WIP Amnesty Day! Hrrm. Well, I have a couple of things I thought I might as well toss out. The first thing, I suppose, could be something on its own, but was intended to be the beginning of something else, and isn't very 'finished', besides. But whatever it was going to be, it isn't any longer.
Title: [the obligatory transuniversal bond ficlet]
Pairing: Spock Prime/nuKirk
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: made up in my heeeeeeeeeead
Warnings: Serious clichefest.
There are differences, any fool could see, and Spock is anything but a fool. The line of the cheekbone smoothed under his thumb was not quite like this, either in its first youth, or softened by time. The mouth, brushing silk-soft against his fingertips, is similar, but not the same. And then there are the eyes, that endless-sky blue, and their newness would have made him weep for the loss, if he were human.
If he were human.
He is Vulcan, and he loves with his mind, the tingle of it now steady, now fierce, but ever-present, like an ache burning deep behind his eyes. The whisper of Jim's thoughts spark in his nerves like lovesongs half-remembered, like memories grasped through blown-glass, and his heart swells at the feeling.
He should pull away. He knows, knows that this is not his Jim; that this is not his life to live. And yet the stump of the bond, succoring itself on Jim's breathless pleasure at his touch, tells him otherwise. The rush of his blood at this young man's presence draws him closer like a moth to a candle.
Jim.
The word is soft in his mouth, the tenderest of endearments. This is Jim, and somehow, he cannot draw away.
Jim, he thinks, you always did uproot my logic.
/Spock,/ says Jim's mind, /I think I like you better uprooted./
And he is lost.
Jim's mouth on his is a known inferno, heat and softness and the stroking of tongue against tongue. The touch of his mind is fiercer yet, a bright dynamism that sweeps him up in the maelstrom of its moods, that thunders through him in a flurry of the new and the familiar. /Jim/, sings the mind-bond, /jimjimjimjimjim/ and it does not lie, it cannot.
Vulcans do not fixate like this upon a single mate; do not adhere to and abide by the touch of one mind, far beyond the borders of reason. But he is not Vulcans; he is Spock, and this is Jim, and (jimspockspockjimjimjimjim) they belong together, however they can be so.
Jim's breath is cool against his lips, his hands firm on Spock's back. Spock says, "T'hy'la": illogical, illicit and true.
Jim's mind says nothing in return but his name, his name. Spock exhales, and throws himself into his fire.
And then there's this one. Urgh, God, I have grown to hate this fic. I have stared at it and stared at it, and it is obviously just not going to let me finish it. I can't even remember where it was going. So I am posting it, as is. Take that, evil fic!
Title: Vulcans Don't Swim (fail!working title)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Disclaimer: Yes, not mine.
Vulcans don't swim.
Kirk knew this, had known it for almost as long as he had known anything of Vulcan, its stern dry people and its stark dry sand. Vulcan was an arid place, and Vulcans more parched still - of humour, of joy, of love. This was what the books said; what they had told him, told them all, at the Academy. A rare thing, like an easy assignment from Lt. Markham, was like Vulcan rain; a beautiful girl was hot as goddamn Vulcan dirt. Vulcan was a byword for anything leeched of everything good.
Vulcan was dry as a bone, dry as dust. Kirk knew this, as he knew the names of all recognised Class M planets; as he knew the appropriate way to greet an Andorian - academically, and without any practical application. In practice, he was far less sure that dryness was so reprehensible a characteristic to exhibit.
James Tiberius Kirk.
He always wrote out all three names together like that in the flyleaves of his books, admiring the gravity of the words as they rolled, copperplated, from his pen. Kirk liked books, not simply the act of reading, but the very fact of the books themselves, the paper smell of the leaves and the solid, leathery weight of them in his hand. It was an indulgence, of course, not simply to download these things to his PADD like everyone else, but in Kirk's opinion, there were worse vices. A stack of books on legs, they had called him at the Academy.
"Another dry night?"
"Exam in the morning," he'd say.
And his dryness bought him his captaincy at thirty-two.
On the ship, there wasn't room for books. Instead, he digested textbooks and histories downloaded from the ship's central system, and craved the crisp edges of pages under his fingers. Still, the Enterprise's library - in particular, the information it housed on myriad alien cultures - had often proven useful. The Deltans, for example, Kirk might have offended gravely without its advice. Likewise, it was through his reading that Kirk first gleaned his understanding of the Klingons' attitude towards battle situations, and thus could better anticipate their movements. But, as James T. Kirk soon learned, there still remained, in the vastness of the universe, patches of shadow which even the computer system could not illuminate.
When he first boarded the Enterprise as her captain, Bones lent him a book which he felt might be of some use to him: An Introduction to Vulcan History and Culture. This text told Kirk a great deal about what Vulcans did, and still more about what they did not do (which seemed to be nearly everything Kirk enjoyed). Kirk thought it fairly helpful, until his First Officer began to prove it wrong, on count after hopeless count, so thoroughly that the cynical part of Kirk began to suspect systematic sabotage. On the sixth occasion that this happened, it finally occurred to Kirk that, in actuality, the fact of Spock's deviation from the true Vulcan way was not so very surprising, given his origins. Oh, it was a little frustrating, for he often behaved in ways inexplicable, both in the light of the book's information, and also when read in the context of human cultural norms. But the fact remained that Spock was the first and only human-Vulcan hybrid. He was unique, and unique behaviour, Kirk reluctantly conceded, was his right.
Ironically enough, the concession had been the only logical option. The book discussed Vulcans. Much of it did not apply to Spock. Logically, then, he could not expect Spock to be the epitome of Vulcanness - even if this was what Spock expected of himself.
Vulcans, said the textbook, do not smile. Kirk would have suspected this to be an outright untruth, in Spock's case, almost from the very beginning, had it not been for the fact that his trust in the book's veracity had not yet, at that point, been destroyed. All right: it was true that Kirk had never witnessed Spock laughing, but the upward quirks of his lips, the twisting of his mouth that spoke of a slow-burning amusement underpinning the situation, were surely smiles by any other name.
The book had also insisted that Vulcans, due to their natural telepathic abilities, shunned physical contact with other beings, except when telepathic communication was intended. In light of the fact that, while hardly a fountain of tactile affection, Spock certainly did touch his captain - his arms, should he stumble; his shoulder, as a gesture of support - Kirk was forced to reject this as applicable to Spock, as well.
In this way, the tenets had fallen, Spock inadvertently shattering them one after another. Soon, Kirk had ceased even to be surprised. But they had served together for two years, now, and most of his discoveries had been made within the first eight months or so. After that, he had come to assume that all depths had been plumbed. Vulcans don't swim, Kirk had thought, was a truth he and Spock could live by.
Tonight, in this edgeless pool on a planet with no sun, Spock had proven both of them wrong.
Transportation was, after all, an uncertain thing. Even as he materialised with the whole of his body immersed in lukewarm water, Kirk had thought grumpily that perhaps Bones was right to be cynical.
Looks perfectly safe, they had said. Breathable atmosphere. No life detected.
So, when Spock had expressed a desire to beam down to take some recordings, Kirk's offer to join him had been more for the pleasure of his company than out of any concern for his safety. Their machinery assured him that they would be unlikely to encounter any danger.
Now, as he floated in a pool which seemed to stretch to every horizon, Kirk cursed himself, their instruments, Spock's scientific assistant, the oddly warm planet, and the damn transporter to hell. The water would undoubtedly hamper Scotty's ability to beam them swiftly back, and Kirk couldn't help but wonder whether it might not have damaged his communicator, anyway. He might be stranded here in this pool for any length of time before it was discerned that something must have happened to them, the captain and his Vulcan science officer. And everyone knew that Vulcans didn't swim.
Except that, when he turned in frustration to look for Spock, he found that he was - there could be no question - swimming. Towards him, to be precise; the motions of his hands and feet more closely resembled the paddling efforts of a dog than any stroke Kirk had ever been taught, but the fact remained that this was definitely self-propulsion through water. And that - that was what swimming was.
Kirk pulled himself upright, treading water easily and unconsciously, and blinked at Spock.
"You're swimming," he remarked. For some reason, the words demanded to be said, despite the knowledge that the comment was both rather stupid and distinctly pointless.
Spock, evidently, agreed. "Obviously," he said, with a quirk of his mouth in what was possibly not a smile at all. He was a little breathless, voice halting over the word. Kirk had never heard him breathless before.
I just wanted rid of these, really. *breathes a sigh of relief*
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-03-22 02:24 am (UTC)omg also
no subject
Date: 2010-03-22 03:04 am (UTC)i would love to know more things, Jim discover of Spock!!!
sorry this is late!
Date: 2010-04-06 09:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-22 12:43 pm (UTC)*so many happy noises*
CAN'T IMAGINE WHAT INSPIRED THAT!
...
*more happy noises*
no subject
Date: 2010-03-22 12:46 pm (UTC)Hurrah for happy noises!
no subject
Date: 2010-03-22 05:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-06 09:25 pm (UTC)Nice to hear from you! We can definitely be friends on LJ if you like. More slash is always good. :) Sorry it took me so long to reply to this! I have been a little busy, lately, but things seem to have calmed down, now. Have you worked out how to work LJ, yet?
no subject
Date: 2010-03-22 09:04 pm (UTC)omg, sorry for belated reply!
Date: 2010-04-06 09:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-03-22 10:31 pm (UTC)Spock swimming is a lovely mental image *___*
belated reply brought to you by my FAIL
Date: 2010-04-06 09:21 pm (UTC)And yes, it is, isn't it?
Re: belated reply brought to you by my FAIL
Date: 2010-04-06 09:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-04-07 03:15 pm (UTC)