#spirk ficlet

[flippyspoon]

NOTE: Lil SNW Spirk drabble.

Spock was just about to dig into a steaming bowl of plomeek soup when Lieutenant Kirk of the Farragut sat down across from him, grinning in his friendly manner.

Spock blinked at him and said, "May I help you, Lieutenant?"

"Don't let me interrupt your dinner-"

"Thank-"

"Only I was wondering if you could give me the basics on how that ion storm disrupted our ops systems? I'm sure it's something I'm going to see again."

Spock started to speak, frowned, and said, "Have you never encountered an ion storm?"

"Well, yes. But I could use a better understanding of how they work."

Spock forgot about his dinner and fixed Jim Kirk with a wary gaze.

"Lieutenant, this is the sixth question you've asked me today concerning a subject about which I'm sure you are already knowledgable. You have already asked me about diplomatic relations with Andoria-"

"Your thoughts on it were invaluable!"

"And about experiments in the use of neutronium-"

"Well, yes, I've read about that. But I thought a science officer like yourself might have new insights."

"Lieutenant, is there a reason you continually ask me questions to which you already possess answers? Are you testing my knowledge?"

"Not at all, Mr. Spock! I ...suppose I just enjoy listening to Vulcans explain things to me."

Spock raised an eyebrow, perking up slightly. "Do you know many Vulcans?"

"No," Kirk said, resting his chin on his hands. "You're the only one."

"I...do not understand."

"I'm sure you'll figure it out," Kirk said. "You're the best mind in the fleet after all."

[nhasablogg]

would you make my year and write a fic with Captain Kirk tickling Mr. Spock? I love their ship and seeing Spock flustered :3

800 words for you :)

Jim didn’t understand it at first because Spock never once broke eye contact. In retrospect maybe that was the first clue; a persistent burning gaze so unlike the collective human reaction to something so delicate. But Spock wasn’t fully human, and so Jim didn’t immediately decipher the meaning behind it. Didn’t understand what value it carried.

“Do you want me to stop?” He aimed to tease but felt uncertain, and so the words came out as a genuine question.

Spock didn’t respond, merely blinked, the first time any of his features really moved. It hadn’t surprised him that he remained entirely still beneath him, as if calculating the situation, wondering if Jim would actually take it as far as he said.

“I-” Jim sat up straighter when Spock’s voice broke, knees on either side of his hips, a weak attempt at keeping him in place even though he knew Spock could throw him off easily if he wanted. The fact that he didn’t was probably the second clue, had Jim been counting.

He tilted his head, moved his hands off of Spock’s chest. “Spock?”

“I do not,” he said, voice steady as if there had never been any hesitation and Jim had imagined it. His eyes still on Jim, keeping their gazes glued together. He felt himself flush, always so human in his own emotions. Always so unsubtle.

“Oh.” Why Jim was the flustered one was beyond him, but maybe this was the third clue. Nerves very rarely came alone. Usually something about the other always accompanied them, and Jim would be a fool to say there was no tension in that room.

Spock blinked again, the second time he interrupted their locked gazes. “I reckon that is not common.”

Jim felt himself smile. “Well, it depends on who you ask. But I get it.” He placed his palms flat against Spock’s chest. “It’s kind of appealing, giving up control like this. To some, at least.”

“Not to you?”

Jim shook his head. “We’re talking about you here. Tell me.” He leaned closer, hands moving down. “You don’t want me to stop.”

“I do not.”

“Which means you want me to tickle you, right?”

Spock betrayed his timidness distinctly for the first time now. Gaze flickering. Cheeks reddening. “I do.”

And suddenly Jim understood. Understood the stillness and the forced eye contact. Attempts at keeping himself in the moment. Attempts at not letting his human emotions win.

“It’s okay, you know.” He leaned even closer and let their foreheads bump together. “To want it. To let yourself want it.”

Spock’s breath hitched - delicious, dizzying - but he let Jim’s fingers find his hip bones without protest. Jim could imagine the way his nerve endings were short circuiting. All anticipation, all a battle of control. He wasn’t stupid enough to think that letting go didn’t take control of its own. The only time Spock allowed Jim to take the upper hand was in the bedroom. This was new territory. They were on the bed, they were intimate, but this was different. This was silly.

Spock was rarely silly, only with him. Jim suddenly felt like crying.

Clearing his throat, he pressed his fingers into the skin; not enough to tickle, but enough to ask a question. “May I?”

Spock wasted no time when he said, “Yes. Always.”

Jim squeezed. He didn’t expect Spock to laugh immediately, but he did expect him to squirm, even to buck, but he merely stiffened, as if unsure of how to react. Jim would’ve found it adorable had he not been too focused on how fucking hot it was to be in this position. As he squeezed again, he saw Spock unravel all the more. From the way he now gripped onto the sheets, to the way he nearly smiled. Jim could imagine it, how a few squeezes from now, maybe to his sides or thighs, would have Spock giggling, the tip of his ears reddening, until he wouldn’t be able to look Jim in the eyes anymore.

But Jim, being absolutely captivated by this new flustered Spock, decided to take his time. Spock would giggle either way, he realized when he later went for his belly. Spock would squirm and twitch and refuse to admit to being ticklish, he realized when he went for his neck and ribs at the same time. And Jim would never forgive himself if he went too quickly. This was meant to be dragged out. This was meant to be an exploration.

“You’re so fucking cute,” he said, and Spock opened his mouth to respond just as Jim dove in, mouth on skin, and all that came out was laughter.

[blanc-ci]

Captain!! Saying stuff like that only enforces that mindset!!!

[psychofright]

Head-canon that adds to the whole “Vulcan’s are Feline in nature” concept because I really like it

Spock’s eyes are reflective like a cat’s. The crew (specifically Kirk and Bones) doesn’t find out until the ships power goes out for a time and they’re dead in space, relying only on backup generators to keep life support systems active.

When they go down to the engine room with nothing but flash lights to see, Spock is already there. He’s standing hunched over a panel, in near complete darkness, like something out of a horror film. Jim questions, “Spock…?”

The half-Vulcan turns around, the low light of the flash lights is reflecting off his pupils making them glow, in-human and strange.

Of course, Jim is mostly unfazed by this new discovery, while the sight of it makes McCoy come just short of having an aneurysm. “WHY are you all alone in the dark down here you freak!!” Bone’s eyes are practically bulging out of his skull.

Spock, eyebrow raised in borderline annoyance, just calmly states, “Vulcans have a superior ability to see in darkness, Doctor. I did not need a flashlight.”

[spirk-trek]

Organia Fanzine | Merle Decker, 1982

“We used to come here all the time when we were kids,” Jim told him, flopping down on his back on the grass, “because nobody ever bothered us.” Spock followed his lead more gingerly, making sure there were no nettles or honeybees beneath him before he allowed himself to sit.

Curiously, he examined the strange vegetation around them: white filigree Queen Anne’s lace, exotic milkweed pods bursting with silky down, thistles with their soft, shaggy indigo flowers. A yellow butterfly drifted by on effortless wings. For once, Jim knew the variety, he did not. 

Jim reached up and stroked his cheek fondly. “You never stop being a scientist, Spock.”

“The vegetation here is extremely rich,” he muttered, studying the drops of white fluid that seeped from a broken milkweed stem.

“I’ll bet you could spend a lifetime studying it.” Jim took his hand gently and lifted it from the grass to hold it in his own.

The cool, firm touch struck a chord of pleasure within him, and he looked at Jim, an eyebrow raised. “At least a lifetime.”

Jim squeezed his hand. “The hell with Starfleet, then. The hell with the Admiralty, the Lexington, the Outer Rim -- Let’s stay right here.”

Spock’s heart thudded ridiculously, so hard he had to turn his face away, afraid his expression would betray him. “It is warmer here than in San Francisco,” he said irrelevantly.

Jim nodded. “Almost as warm as Vulcan. But you’d have to hibernate in the winter.”

“Actually, I should prefer to stay awake,” Spock answered drily. 

Kirk pulled himself up by Spock’s hand and leaned toward him. “What would you do without your computers?” he asked lightly, trying to sound mock-teasing. But the undertone of sadness in his voice betrayed him.

Spock shook his head ruefully. “My computers. And your command.”

He had not meant to sound bitter, but Kirk’s eyes clouded over, and he was silent for several moments. Finally, he spoke. “I need you, too, you know.”

Spock nodded, looking down at his hand, still holding Kirk’s. “I know.”

“You’re probably going to tell me now that both needs are illogical.”

The words pricked a schoolboy memory somewhere deep in the recesses of Spock’s mind, and a corner of his mouth curved up infinitesimally.

“Why’re you smiling?” Kirk asked, puzzled. Spock looked at him quizzically. Only Jim would read that gesture as a smile.

“You have reminded me of a well-known problem…”

[onedamnminuteadmiral]

@practicefortheheart I are collabing! For this piece, I wrote a 500-word fic, and Nina drew a beautiful piece inspired by it! Next, Nina will draw and I will write inspired by their art!

See their INCREDIBLE art here:

And read the fic below!

------

Homesick

The flower sparkles with dew, its thousands of concentric yellow petals mesmerizing, calling Jim to kneel beside it. It reminds him of Earth's sun, Iowa summers, though he is further from his childhood home than he has ever been. Further than any man has ever been, in fact.

"Captain," Spock says, casting a shadow over the flower before Jim even lifts his eyes. "It would be unwise to fall too far behind the landing party."

The voices of Jim’s crewmates echo off the trees and into the depths of this strange and alien forest, as their bright uniforms disappear behind the foliage. They have a mission on this planet. They always do.

"Join me," Jim says. He scoots to the side, and motions to the spot where his knees have left wet indents in the loam and soil. 

Spock hesitates. But he’s used to Jim's whims by now, maybe even fond of indulging them. He tucks his tricorder to his chest and kneels, letting the dappled sunlight through the canopy once again shine over the flower. It's the only one like it in this clutch of grass, in the whole forest as far as Jim can tell.

Jim wonders if it's lonely. 

"I wanted to pick it," Jim murmurs, as Spock reaches forward to touch a light fingertip to an even lighter petal. "But I don't see any others. Can you imagine if my sentimentality eradicated an entire species of flora?" He chuckles to himself, smiles.

"You are feeling sentimental?" Spock asks. He withdraws his touch, a glimmer of dew clinging to his finger. 

"Always," Jim admits. “I’ve been homesick.” He tilts his head to look at Spock, how beautiful and calm he is, how close.

Spock nods, understanding as he understands everything about Jim, that Jim wouldn't trade his life of exploration for anything.

“It is an aesthetically pleasing specimen,” Spock says, which isn't what he actually means. He means ‘I hear you. I see you. I am here with you.’ 

A curious call echoes through the trees, no doubt the landing party realizing their superior officers have strayed. And Jim closes his eyes, sighs. Reluctantly, he puts his hands on his knees and shoves himself to his feet.

“They're ringing the dinner bell, Mister Spock,” he says. But Spock is stuck in place beside the little flower. Before Jim can even think to stop him, Spock reaches forward and plucks the bloom at its stem with a tiny snap. 

“Spock!” Jim practically gasps. Spock stands, unfazed.

“I have observed many of these plants budding throughout the forest. This one is not the last of its kind, merely the first to bloom.” Almost childlike, he holds the flower out to Jim. “You will enjoy it.”

Jim stares at the flower for all of a moment before the blush rises on his cheeks. He reaches out. Their fingers brush. He doesn't let go of the flower, and neither does Spock, and their eyes lock and Jim’s heart flutters, and suddenly --

Suddenly, Jim isn't homesick at all.

[flippyspoon]

D’AWWWWWW SWEET 💜💜💜

Day 12 of Spirktober! It's one of those cute amnesia fics.

[muirmarie]

Title: don't worry be happy

Fandom: Star Trek: The Original Series

Ship: Jim/Spock (extremely pre-mcspirk, but McCoy isn't in this)

Ratings/Warnings: M / no archive warnings

Word Count: 835 words - just a little ficlet

_____

This is a direct prequel to "don't you worry, babe (we'll figure it out)" (the spirk->mcspirk one where Spock & Kirk drag McCoy to their couple's counseling session), and this is very much not a standalone story, just a silly little ficlet. (AKA: You should read the other fic first.)

What do Jim and Spock talk about when they're having sex? They talk about their best friend, of course. You know, the way normal people do.

[smbiotics]

[A little snippet of what I've been working on the past couple of days. This can totally be read as a pre-relationship oneshot all on its own honestly, but I've got it in my head recently that an ensign Jim Kirk accepting an assignment on an entirely Vulcan-manned science vessel with Spock as it's captain would be incredibly compelling. Enjoy!]

He comes to in a room shrouded in darkness, the only hints of illumination from moonlight slanting through lateral steel beams framing the exterior wall like a decorative trim. Aside from this detail, Jim can sparsely make out any other features of his prison, though he does assess that there is another organic lifeform within the confines of the space fairly quickly.

With an undignified yelp, Jim startles backward at the sound of the creature breathing scant inches from him. A confusing jumble of limbs and the ache of joint over-extension follows, further disorienting the near-blind officer, until—

And thank God, actually, because Jim would recognize that voice over his own.

“Ensign,” says the voice, not without its fair share of exasperation.

“Captain,” he breathes, so greatly relieved to find he isn’t about to be eaten by some foreign predator in an undisclosed location. “Oh, fuck. I thought I was a goner for sure. Where the hell are we?”

Spock clicks his tongue, clearly displeased by the vulgarity but also not so much to properly chastise him. “We appear to be prisoners.” He says this in the same way most humans would informally follow up with, duh. Though he isn’t sure there is enough lighting for anyone to witness it, Jim grins triumphantly nonetheless.

Experimentally, Jim tests the feeling in his hands by wiggling his fingers. Above him, Spock hisses out something in Vulcan and one of his legs kick down and jars Jim, yanking on the juncture where their arms are still very, very attached. It’s a wonder his elbows don’t pull right out of socket.

A twinge in his arm reminds him of his rather precarious position. Spock seems to have gotten the better end of the strapped-to-another-person deal, since he has the good fortune to be able to lean comfortably against the exterior wall, legs extended and bent at the knee. Between which, of course (just his luck), Jim lies sprawled on his belly, yellow shirt riding up and exposing a strip of said torso to the cool ground below him. He has never wished he followed regulation more stringently before in his life; at least if he had in this instance, his tucked black undershirt would have saved him a modicum of dignity. Hindsight, twenty-twenty, whatever. Then, his attention is drawn to his hands, which are attached to some terribly tingly arms.

The metal cuffs—if they can rightly be called such—cover his arms to the elbow and cross at his wrists, entirely encasing every inch of skin between. Spock’s cuffs mirror his. At the palms, the cuffs wrap around only the backs of their hands, pressing their palms pretty snuggly together, right to right and left to left. As if the discomfort couldn’t get any worse, the connection of their cuffs extends to the wrists, leaving very little room for finding any position even remotely comfortable.

“Son of bitch,” Jim curses into the cement flooring with a regulation boot digging insistently into his side. Spock seems to shake out whatever the hell had briefly possessed him, because the foot retreats quickly after that.

“So,” he asks after several long seconds of breathing unevenly into the ground. “Is this the new normal? Will we have to learn to cohabitate? I’m kind of a slob.”

“Your incessant witticisms are unwelcome,” Spock states emphatically.

“They’re welcome everywhere, Captain. It’s a universal fact.”

“I do not doubt that you believe that.”

“Aww, you know me so well,” Jim coos, though the faux flirting does fall a little flat when he can’t flash his big ol’ doe eyes at Spock. “Look at us! We’re practically married already. Fair warning: I’m a high-maintenance gal.”

Spock doesn’t respond for a moment, and for a second Jim wilts, assuming he won’t rise to the bait. Then, as if the Vulcan just can’t help himself, he says, “Strictly for clarification purposes, I am compelled to ask: does your self-identification as a ‘high-maintenance gal,’” (Jim can sense the air quotes. They aren’t physical ones—he would feel them against his own palms—but they’re there, all the same.) “extend past impromptu quips, or does it, like most of your other unsolicited narrations, serve only to disarm?”

“Oh, now we’re flirting? The Captain thinks I’m disarming,” Jim sing-songs, then wriggles around inelegantly on the ground in an effort to ease the ache in his joints, trying to ignore the fact that Spock’s crotch is about half a foot from his face. After much uninterrupted shuffling, he lets out a frustrated grunt. He may not be claustrophobic, but anyone would be greatly agitated by the sheer lack of mobility being chained up from elbow to wrist creates. “Listen, I hate to be the kind of guy to complain, but I gotta get out of these cuffs. And, barring that option, I at least have got to sit up or risk needing a double amputation of the arms. Or insanity. Whichever comes first.”

Spock stays quiet, but he does shuffle backwards a touch before carefully raising their joined arms. The leverage allows Jim to get his knees up under him, then from there he sort of–pauses.

He’s got options, for sure, but none are exactly inspiring.

Up on his knees like this, fingertips pressed to fingertips, Jim realizes just how close their bondage forces them, especially in the search for comfort. He could sidle his knees up to press flush against Spock’s thighs. Fuck.

“Ensign?” Spock addresses drily, perhaps curious as to why Jim has stopped both his incessant speech and his restless wriggling all at once. He still can’t see much, not with the hailing dark of the room, but his eyes have adjusted enough that he can pretty clearly make out the milk chocolate of Spock’s eyes, and for fuck’s sake, that is doing wayyy too much for him.

But he’s gotta talk, or risk being caught staring like a creep.

“Hnngh,” he manages, then wishes he could smack a hand to his face. “Sorry. Something stuck in my throat. Dry. Dry mouth, ‘cause I’m thirsty.”

“You have been unconscious throughout the duration of our stay.” Like it’s some sort of vacation. “In this time, I have calculated that we are monitored every two-point-two-three hours. As they have each time before, I am certain that, during their next patrol, our captors will provide necessary sustenance that will reduce your discomfort.”

Jesus, like wading through shallow water every time he opens his mouth. “Wonderful.” Then, before he can think better of it, he asks, “Permission to straddle your lap, Captain?”

Although his expression does not technically change, Jim imagines it might take on an even more bored look. “Permission denied.”

“But Captain. Caaaaptaaain. Please. My knees are falling asleep.”

“Permission considered. Permission pending.” Spock pauses as if actually thinking, but neither his expression changes nor do his eyes even waver from boring directly into Jim’s. “Permission denied.”

Spock’s eyes widen practically microscopically, but Jim catches it because he’s not just looking; oh, no, he’s fucking searching.

“Don’t make me wiggle my fingers again.” It’s a pretty hollow threat in the scheme of things, yet they still drag a greater reaction out of Spock than anything else he’s said yet as his eyes dart down at their joined hands and back up again. Those brown eyes assess his, as if trying to pin down just how serious he is, so Jim (curious; always too curious for his own good…) allows juuust his pinky to barely, barely shift to the left.

“Permission granted,” Spock finally allows, a strange but unidentifiable quality to his voice.

Gleefully, Jim pushes higher up onto his knees and sways his balance back and forth to individually swing both legs over Spock’s. After some minor adjusting, Jim finally settles back onto Spock’s strong thighs and thinks (because he can’t say it out loud without probably being murdered), damn. Probably the first motherfucker to sit here, huh?

Spock says nothing, but it is clear he could be more comfortable, for sure. Which is totally fair, because sitting in his ship captain’s lap isn’t Jim’s first choice for leisure. Sure, he’s thought about it in more recreational settings. This exact position, even, though maybe without the excessive bondage. It's suuuper taboo—but that just makes the idea of it that much hotter, ‘specially for Jim.

And, fuck, for the life of him he cannot get those eyes out of his head; the eye contact is so focused that it bleeds everything to the wayside… to be fucked with those eyes looking right into his soul—

“James,” Spock interrupts his rumination, sounding strangled. Jim’s instantly on high alert, certain there is an immediate threat that he hasn’t caught onto yet, so he leans this way and that to look around. He doesn’t sense anything—a pin drop would be deafening in the still quietness of their cell. With furrowed brows, he returns his gaze to his Captain’s, and kind of freezes in place.

Because Spock is—no. Surely it isn’t possibly, but newly gathered evidence would certainly argue with him. In the dimness of the room, Jim can just barely make out a tinge of green dusting Spock’s face. He’s blushing. No fucking way.

“No fucking way,” Jim repeats aloud. “Vulcans can blush?”

It doesn’t occur to him, in this exact moment, to really consider the why.

Spock averts his gaze. Well. His eyes shift from making direct eye contact to looking at the space marginally to the left of Jim’s eyes. “No,” he admits. Then, just as quickly as he had noticed the distinct coloration, it dissipates like it had never been there at all.

“You totally made that go away. How did you do that? Do you just—suck it back up into your body, or something? Like breathing through gills?”

“A wildly inaccurate comparison,” he says thinly. “And assumption, for that matter.”

What Jim wouldn’t give to jab him in the cheek right now, superior officer be damned. He’d risk it all right now just for some good ol’ fashioned slapstick. (It’s been far too long since he’s yucked it up with another human in person.)

“Ain’t you cute,” Jim adopts a seriously terribly southern drawl. “Blushing ‘cause you got a hot piece of ass in your lap.”

Oh, and thus appears the eyebrow of death: Spock’s always so good at looking greatly disappointed without a drop of emotion altering his expression.

“What, hit the nail on the head, did I?”

“As there are currently no implements within our reach to carry out such an activity, I should say not.”

Jim leans forward conspiratorially. “Was that a joke, Captain? A–what’d you call it? Incessant witticism? Careful, sir, I think your fondness is showing!” He can tell that Spock is physically preventing himself from reacting in any way that could be considered emotional, which is so thrilling. If just a little teasing can get him riled up like this, Jim wonders what Spock would do with a mouth wrapped around his—

“Jim.” Uh-oh. That’s a, you’ve been caught watching porn on the school desktop, ‘Jim.’ Like a deer-in-headlights, he blinks innocently down at Spock. “I can only assume that you did not attend a culture sensitivity seminar regarding Vulcans prior to your assignment to my ship.”

Oh. That’s not exactly what he was expecting. “Sure, I did. It was required. I mainly slept through it, though. Memorized enough to pass the exit exam.”

Clearly frustrated and mad about that, Spock shutters between furrowing his brows and smoothing them to their neutral position. Very carefully, very slowly, like Jim is a child: “Vulcan telepathy is limited to touch.”

Jim blinks. Then, blinks again. And once more as he glances down to where their hands rest splayed palm to palm.

Oh.

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

Abruptly, Jim’s face flames up, a perfect parallel to his Vulcan counterpart just minutes ago. “Oh, fuck,” he acknowledges blandly. “Captain, I’m so sorry. God. That’s… well. That’s unfortunate, is what it is, that I didn’t know that like ten minutes ago. I woulda kept my, erm, impulsive human thoughts under tighter lock and key.” He drops his head backwards, staring unseeingly at the pitch black ceiling. “I’ve violated like… fifteen sexual harassment regulations.”

“Surely only fourteen,” Spock states in his typical monotonous tenor, and Jim bursts out laughing, leaning a little more into the Captain’s space.

“God, I bet you’d get crucified telling a joke like that to another Vulcan,” Jim teases, and he doesn’t really notice but their foreheads nearly brush with their renewed proximity. Any closer and the strain on their arms would probably snap Jim back into awareness, into how wildly unprofessional and inappropriate he continues to be with his fucking captain, but Spock has been nothing if not receptive to the attention—the flirting—the touch…

Their noses brush. Jim can’t tell if he’s the only one leaning in, but he can tell that Spock’s eyes have sort of gone half-lidded, that they continue to dart between Jim’s eyes and his lips, and if that isn’t an invite in and of itself—

But of course, this is the precise moment when the door swings open, and two large lifeforms enter with an imposing Vulcan woman trailing behind them. First Officer T’mock salutes Spock, and the hiss-and-click between his and Jim’s body precedes the dull thud of their cuffs coming loose and releasing them.

After that, well. It’s a whirlwind of labyrinthine prison cells and heated negotiating with the locals, but then they’re being beamed aboard the Duhal’im once more where they belong, and Spock doesn’t even look his way once.

Despite everything else that happened in that room, it’s Jim’s fingertips that tingle for hours after their hands separate.

[aerialworms]

Jim's consciousness felt like sunshine. Not the harsh, arid sun of Spock's home planet, but the gentle warmth of Earth's summers, filtered through ozone and the glossy green leaves of a bur oak, as he had heard about from the very man whose mind was gently probing his, cautious in a way his captain seldom was.

They had melded before for various missions, but this was the first time it had been "just because". This was unhurried, unafraid, simply sharing a level of intimacy Spock had wanted for some time - 3.475 years, to be precise - but that he had been unwilling to ask for. It felt good, allowing his mental shields to fall, relaxing into the twin warmth of the skin beneath his fingertips and of the mind now thrumming with affection where it was joined with his.

He sent this thought towards his bondmate, and a rush of what could only be love threatened to overwhelm him. He could not tell where it originated, but it did not matter - he felt it, and so did Jim.

Liked this? Find it on AO3 here!

[gun-roswell]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Trek TOS - Fandom, Star Trek Rating: General Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: James T. Kirk/Spock Characters: James T. Kirk, Spock (Star Trek) Additional Tags: Poetry, Ficlet, fixit, TOS Amok Time, Love Confessions, fluff and love, Ambiguous/Open Ending, spirk Series: Part 1 of Kirk/Spock, Part 200 of Poetry Shorts Collection (Various Fandoms) Summary:

They are and they aren’t, together, the Captain and his First Officer.

TOS/ Amok Time. Fixit of sorts.

As inspired by a plethora of gorgeous fan art.

Part of Spock/Kirk Tales / Fandom Poetry

[alice-the-brave]

“If Spock were here and I were there, what would he do?”

He asks the question urgently, thoughtlessly. Spock is the smartest guy he knows, the quickest, the best. He’s better at this than Jim is, could think up three alternate plans of action before Jim’s even managed to reign in his panic enough to think clearly. 

If Spock were here, and Jim was down there, he’d already be halfway to safety. 

“He’d let you die.” Bones doesn’t even look at him when he says it. 

Jim’s breath doesn’t catch - he hasn’t caught enough of it yet for that - but his racing thoughts do stutter. Bones had said it with bite, squeezed out through gritted teeth, but he had still said it. Had still meant it. 

Jim blinks at the screen, reboots his thoughts, gets back to planning.

Bones exaggerates, loses his temper. It’s one of the things Jim likes about him, the way he’s so easy to rile up, the way he gets surly and indignant even when Jim forces himself to laugh things off.

But he doesn’t look like he said it in the heat of the moment. He looks angry, worried, sincere. He does not look like he would take it back if given the chance. 

Jim can’t linger on that, or why the idea hurts quite so much as it does. He’s good at compartmentalizing, and he does. He orders his ship into the worst possible course of action, flies her through half a dozen protocol violations, lies in his report, and he’s not the least but sorry. 

Spock is predictably fixated on the protocol violations more than his friends and their distress, more than his own, but he is standing on the transporter pad, alive, confused, indignant about both of these things. 

Jim cannot bring himself to regret any of it. He couldn’t leave Spock to die. 

Spock stabs him in the back for it. Of course he does. Vulcans do not lie. And Spock likes to pretend that he doesn’t understand emotional motivations. He makes his report to Starfleet and Jim loses his ship for it. 

He wishes he had the gall to be cold about it, at least. If he didn’t know Spock - a chilling concept but one worth entertaining - he might think that his actions having a negative impact on his crew mates would be of no concern to him. But he does know Spock and, more than that, he knows that he cares a hell of a lot more than he pretends to. 

Spock is, as much as he ever is, upset about the whole thing. He never meant for this to go so far, Jim knows. He can see it in the sharp glance he cuts him when Pike confronts them, the lost look he gets when Jim turns to him in anger. The attitude he throws at Pike when he’s questioned. Spock is a prideful, sarcastic bastard, but rarely toward his superiors and never without cause. Jim realizes, through his embarrassment and betrayal, that Spock is defending him, however minutely. 

It doesn’t make it hurt less. If anything, it’s worse because it means Jim can’t really stay mad at him about it. It’s Jim’s fault. It always is. 

Jim is consulting his old friends Jack and Jose about it, considering consulting that pretty woman across the bar about it, when Pike shows up and pulls him from the gutter. Like always, the old man just won’t let him lick his wounds and feel sorry for himself. 

Still, Spock is reassigned and Jim has lost - a lot. Everything, really. He never expected to be made Captain but he felt at peace in that chair more than he ever had anywhere else. The Enterprise had become his home and her crew his family. He had come to rely on them in a way he never had his actual family. It makes the loss all the harder. He is, as he has always been, the kind of man that squanders any good fortune he finds. He ruins everything he touches, pushes all the good people away. 

Spock is waiting at Starfleet Headquarters just to remind him of that, sharp in his dress grays. Jim can hardly stand to look at him. 

“Captain.” He says, ostensibly in greeting but Jim can see the speech he’s itching to start from across the hallway. 

He stalks into the lift, doesn’t make eye contact as he sends it up to executive levels. 

“Not anymore Spock - First Officer.” Spock looks almost baffled when Jim finally turns to him. He folds his hands behind his back, fingers the brim of his cover, in an attempt to keep himself from doing something stupid. He has to keep this professional. Spock is usually the one that does that for the two of them, but for once he looks as stunned as Jim felt hearing the news. “I’ve been demoted and you’ve been reassigned.” 

Spock is silent for a beat but he recovers quickly, though his brow is still furrowed when he speaks. 

“It is fortunate that the consequences were not more severe.”

Jim breaths in deeply, breathes out slowly. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says, more to himself than to Spock. 

Predictably, Spock doesn’t deign to respond to that. 

“Captain, it was never my intention-“

“Not Captain,” he interrupts pointedly, turning to meet Spock head on as they shoot up floor after floor, “I saved your life, Spock. You wrote a report. I lost my ship.”

The doors hiss open and Jim turns to leave, stepping into the white halls. Spock stays still a moment more than he usually would, but he follows soon enough. 

“Commander,” he says, and Jim almost rolls his eyes, “I see now I should have alerted you to the fact that I submitted my report.”

It is more concession than Spock would usually ever make in such an argument. Jim doesn’t want to hear it. 

“I am…” angry, betrayed, disappointed, “familiar with your compulsion to follow the rules. But you see, I can’t do that.” 

He stops, turns to meet Spock’s eyes, only a step or two distance between them. He needs Spock to hear him, to listen, really listen for once. 

“Where I come from, when someone saves your life, you don’t stab them in the back.”

Spock looks almost offended by the implication, whatever he thinks it may be.

“Vulcans cannot lie,” he says, which Jim knows is, ironically, a goddamned lie. 

“Then I’m talking to the half Human part of you,“ he bites back, desperate enough to touch upon even that sorest of subjects. Spock does not talk about his Mother but Jim knows without ever being told how dear she was to him. How close. 

Spock tenses at the words, eyes a fraction wider as they track across Jim’s face, startled, uncertain. Jim hasn’t brought up Spock’s family since their first mission, has tried to make amends for the things he had said out of necessity. Hearing him mention it now must trigger some memory of their violent altercation, of Jim’s cruel taunts. But Spock doesn’t look angry or offended, only concerned, alarmed. He seems only now to grasp the gravity of Jim’s upset. 

Jim had thought, bitterly, that he would be glad to finally be rid of him. They’ve come a long way from insults and violence, so far that he can’t imagine how they started so at odds. Still, he knows what he’s like, and he knows that Spock finds him difficult - at least as difficult as he finds Spock. But he likes that about him, too. Spock wouldn’t understand that kind of illogical paradox though. He would not feel the same. It doesn’t stop him from trying to chase after Jim and mediate whatever argument this is. Jim doesn’t think even Spock understands what it is he’s trying to fix here. 

“Do you understand why I went back for you?” Jim barks, irritated. He doesn’t know why he can’t just be pissed off about this. He is mad, yes, but there’s also an unfamiliar pain in his gut, a pressure in the back of his throat like heartache. 

Spock blinks at him, confused. He doesn’t know. Of course not. Spock likes to pretend that he doesn’t understand emotions. Jim is very good at compartmentalizing. 

It’s a bad mix. 

Captain Abbey of the USS Bradbury - Spock’s new CO - saves Jim from having to explain himself, interrupting their argument to introduce himself with a raised brow. It must be strange to see a Vulcan in such a heated disagreement. They’re well known for their aversion to any such thing. But Jim knows Spock and he forgets sometimes that they might be expected to keep their very commonplace arguments private. Jim finds himself relieved at the interruption, regardless, thinks that it would be better for them both if they continued pretending that he did what he did out of brash stupidity. It’s what Pike thinks, it’s what the Fleet thinks. It is not the truth - at least not wholly. 

“The truth is, I’m gonna miss you,” he says, because he will and Spock deserves to know it. 

Spock doesn’t have many people left to miss him, and hasn’t ever heard it enough from the ones he does. Jim will always miss him, misses him even now, standing a foot away from him. There’s a distance between them that wasn’t there before and Jim knows it’s necessary as much as he hates it. 

This is what separations feel like. He’s done it before. 

Spock stares at him for a moment, mouth open on words he doesn’t voice. He looks - Jim doesn’t know. He’s never seen him make such an expression before; blank, surprised, but more of a mask than true calm. He knows what calm looks like on that face. After a moment, Spock closes his mouth with a wet click, a puzzled look overcoming him and Jim can’t believe that the only time he’s ever managed to render the man speechless was likely the very last real conversation they’ll ever have. He scoffs and stomps away and refuses to feel anything about the conflicted look Spock spares him before he follows his new Captain. 

The man is older, colder, wiser than Jim. Spock will probably learn a lot from him. He’ll probably argue with him less too. Jim is almost sad about that, weirdly. He likes when Spock argues with him. The way his brow raises, the irritation hidden by aloofness. It’s fun. He likes to see how far he can push him, likes when he does that thing that’s like a smile without actually smiling. 

He’s going to have to learn to live without it.

He sits at the table with the admiralty and tells himself it is doable. He has adapted to survive worse things than a lost friendship. Than a lost home. He breaths and closes his eyes and focuses on the mission Pike needs him to complete. It’s what he’s good at. 

Things go from bad to worse quickly after that. Most of John Harrison’s ambush is a blur, but he knows that when the dust settles he is running for Spock. 

He doesn’t know how he knows where to find him but it is as easy as following the tug in his gut, the unconscious itch in his feet to take him where he needs to be. When he does find him, Spock is sitting there, at Pike’s side. 

The admiral isn’t moving. 

Jim doesn’t quite register what that means, not until he’s knelt next to him, not until Spock turns to look at him with wide eyes. It is a look of unmistakable shock and Jim startles, his own shock shattering at Spock’s alarm, and he reaches forward, scrabbles to find a pulse. 

There isn’t any. 

Jim had lost his Father, and the absence had hurt despite never knowing him, but the pain of that loss was a reverberating echo, the sucking pain of a hole where someone should have stood. This is not like that. This is sweeping and aching, a tide of grief crashing over the whole of him. He crumbles before he can catch himself, buries his face in Pike’s bloody chest. It is as close to an embrace as they will ever get again. He fists the cloth of his uniform, feels the cut of the Fleet insignia in his fist. 

He cries.

Looking at that aged face, for the first time he feels the fear of what it’s absence will mean. There will be no more guidance, no more safety net. No one in his corner, to go to bat for him with the Fleet, to pull him out of the gutter. No more crooked grins and pats on the back, no more beers and stories and arguing about nothing. 

He ruins everything he touches, pushes all the good people away. Pike is gone so far now that Jim won’t ever be able to make it up to him. He knows exactly how much of a pain in the ass he was. Pike stuck with him anyway. 

He takes a breath, and another, tries to find that resolve in him that Pike swore he could see. He doesn’t know if it’s really there, but he thinks he can invent it, make it out of the fragments of the people around him. 

Pike’s grit, Spock’s steadiness. 

Spock sits next to them - Jim and the only man who’s ever really treated him like a son. He watches Jim cry over his corpse and it doesn’t feel like the intrusion it should be. He watches him pull himself back together, sits there silent and grieving too. 

The Vulcan condolences will come to Jim later - formal, ceremonial as Vulcans tend to be. 

I grieve with thee.

Spock does. He does not say the words but Jim feels it, knows it as if he had. Spock has grieved so much, but still he grieves with Jim. 

He stumbles to his feet, pushes himself up with Spock’s shoulder. Spock lets him. He turns just slightly into his touch and Jim squeezes tightly before he let’s go, stumbles  away. Spock turns toward him but doesn’t quite manage to focus enough to see him. Jim doesn’t notice. 

They are both far away. 

[indeedcaptain]

Spirktober 2023, day 20: Protect

Protective!Spock is my favoriteeeeee <3 so here we go!!

Also posted on AO3 here!

☆☆☆

Starfleet, in its infinite wisdom, had changed the design of the cutlery in the mess halls, and Kirk hated the new ones.

They were balanced differently, they were less ergonomic, and --- as he bent down to regather the knife that had slipped down off his plate onto the floor for the third time in as many days --- they refused to stay where they were placed. 

He returned to upright to see Uhura and Bones staring in states of shock at Spock, seated next to him. Spock placidly spooned plomeek soup into his mouth and gave no indication that he was aware of their attention. He finished his meal, slid his spoon into the bowl, and stood. “I will be in Laboratory 7 for the remainder of Alpha shift,” he said. “Good-bye.” 

“Bye, Spock,” Uhura said faintly, and she and Bones watched him leave with that same slightly dazed look. 

“Alright,” Kirk said. “That’s enough. Why are you looking at him like that?”

Bones and Uhura looked at each other before answering, which was never a good sign. Uhura must have won whatever argument they were silently having, because it was Bones who sighed and said, “Jim, have you ever noticed that Spock is slightly… overprotective?” 

Kirk started. “Now, I wouldn’t call it over-protective,” he said, shifting in his seat. “He’s loyal. He’s a Vulcan. The ship and her crew are his responsibility, as first officer.” 

“Not with the crew, captain,” Uhura said. “It’s really just with you.” 

“I don’t think so,” he said. “Mr. Spock is the best first officer in the Fleet. Everyone says so. Protective? Sure. But we seem to get into trouble more than most, so that’s probably for the best.” 

Bones and Uhura exchanged another glance. “If you say so, captain,” Uhura said, and they finished the rest of their meal in relative peace. Kirk had nearly forgotten about the exchange until his padd pinged with a message from Bones as he was preparing to lay down for the night. 

>TheRealMcCoy: just saying

>TheRealMcCoy: [Attachment: securityfile3214-25.gif]

Kirk tapped on the gif and it opened. It was a looping video that Bones must have pulled from the security feed, or bribed someone else to pull, more likely. It showed a black and white view of the officer’s mess hall. Kirk saw the square table where he, Bones, Uhura, and Spock had shared lunch earlier in the day. He watched himself set down his knife, which promptly slid backwards off his plate and bounced to the ground. He saw himself bend over sideways to grab at it, ducking his head down beneath the level of the table. 

He saw Spock lean over and cover the corner of the table with his hand. He saw himself come back up, and as his head cleared the edge of the table he saw Spock straighten back up and return his hand to its standard position in his lap. 

Kirk sat down on his bed, expanded the .gif to fill his whole screen, and watched it again. He leaned down to grab the knife and Spock covered the sharp corner of the table with his hand until his head was safely away from it. He watched the .gif over and over again, memorizing the little protective gesture of Spock’s that he hadn’t even noticed at the time but was now immortalized in the security footage. Spock hadn’t even turned his head to look at Kirk before moving to cover the corner. How frequently had this happened? How many of these moments had Uhura and Bones seen that he hadn’t? 

>JTK: Huh 

>JTK: Okay

>JTK: I still don’t think it counts as OVER protective 

>JTK: does this happen a lot?? 

>TheRealMcCoy: the good lord gave you your own eyeballs 

>TheRealMcCoy: how about you use them

“Computer, lights to zero,” he said. He lay in the darkness, trying to sleep, unable to wipe the sight of Spock’s hand sliding over the table’s corner out of his mind. 

☆☆☆ 

Kirk watched his first officer carefully over the next few weeks, and it was an enlightening experience. Nothing in Spock’s behavior or demeanor had changed, but Uhura’s comment of “it’s really just with you” had latched in his brain and reframed how he saw the little quirks of Spock’s protectiveness. They sparred in the gym and, even though Spock threw him, Spock’s hand was behind his head before he hit the ground. They ate lunch in the mess hall and Spock inserted himself in the seat between him and the security officer with a peanut butter sandwich. And, without fail, when the new shitty knives slid off his plate and he had to retrieve them, Spock’s hand was between his head and the table’s edge every time. 

How had he never noticed this before? The Enterprise, when flying on her own, was not a particularly dangerous place. And yet almost every time he encountered something that was slightly hazardous to himself, Spock was there. Each observation warmed him. His stoic, unfeeling, deeply Vulcan first officer was protective of him. He still wasn’t sure if he would call it over-protective, though. 

Kirk did keep a small collection of .gifs on his padd when he could get the security video discreetly. He liked the proof. 

☆☆☆ 

Kirk thought that there was a slight possibility that Spock was a little overprotective of him when he went missing for only a few hours --- alright, was kidnapped like a damsel --- on an away mission and Spock went, according to all reports, absolutely berserk. His first introduction to this idea was Spock ripping the door to his cell clean off its hinges. He threw it behind him, where it hit the wall of the corridor with an almighty clanging, and stepped inside. Kirk stared at him from where he sat on the cot in the corner. Spock stared at him, chest heaving, face flushed green, and as he registered Kirk’s unharmed state and general air of relaxation his breath slowed until he was very nearly back to his normal appearance. 

“Hello there, Mr. Spock,” Kirk said, slightly bewildered. 

“Captain,” Spock said, inclining his head. He straightened his uniform shirt and clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m gratified to see that you are well. I believe you are free to go.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Spock,” he said, rising from the cot. “You were able to negotiate with the rogue faction?” 

“Yes, captain,” Spock said, and turned to follow Kirk out of the cell. “I found that they were willing to acquiesce to my demands rather quickly.” 

“That’s good, very good,” Kirk said distractedly as they walked down the hallway. He did not see any sign of his security team, and there were unconscious guards lying solo or in piles at regular intervals along the hall and down the stairs. He recognized his kidnappers from their clothing among the guards, but they were also all unconscious. 

“What, ah, negotiation tactics did you use, Mr. Spock?” Kirk asked as they ascended the stairs into the front hall and reunited with some red-shirted security officers. They stood around with their arms crossed, phasers holstered, and they gave no indication of having participated in any sort of strenuous activity. What had their role been in the fight with the guards…?

“Vulcan ones, captain,” Spock said, and if he noticed that the security officers stared at him with an interesting mix of respect and horror, he gave no outward indication. 

“Ah,” Kirk said. “That’s… good.” He had a feeling he could guess what Vulcan negotiating tactics were, but he reserved judgment until he had received mission reports from his other officers. Spock walked alongside him with his usual reserve, and as he was now free from the cell he had formerly been trapped within, Kirk found that he had no complaints of however Spock chose to negotiate on his behalf. 

On the ship, in his quarters, he read over the reports from his security team, which varied from professional to unfortunately creative, in mounting disbelief. 

First Officer Spock proved the efficacy of the Vulcan art of Suus Mahna in about thirty seconds… 

Science Officer Spock kicked down the door to the building and then neutralized the entire kidnapping party… 

Mr. Spock in combat is, in my professional opinion, somewhat of a demon… 

God help the man who gets between Spock and the captain. 

Kirk pressed his intercom button. “Mr. Spock, could you please come to my quarters for a moment?” 

“Yes, captain.” Spock’s response came immediately, and the man himself appeared in Kirk’s doorway about twenty seconds later. “How can I help you, captain?” 

Kirk handed the padds with the security reports to Spock and sat back down in his desk chair. “Could you please review these and let me know your thoughts on their accuracy?” 

Spock raised one eyebrow at him, but said, “Certainly, captain.” He stood in front of Kirk’s desk and methodically skimmed over each report. He set them down one by one until his hands were empty, and then he clasped them behind his back. 

“I believe these reports to be mostly accurate, if unfortunately unobjective,” Spock said. 

Kirk blinked. “So you did kick the door down.”

“Yes, captain.” 

“And you refused to wait for the security detail.” 

“I did not need them, captain.” 

“And you neutralized the entire threat before ripping my cell door off the hinges.” 

“I believe you witnessed the second part firsthand, captain.” 

“I see,” Kirk said, and covered his hand with his mouth to hide his smile. When he had regained control of his face and looked suitably serious, he said, “Mostly accurate? What in the reports is false?” 

Spock straightened the pile of padds on the desk in front of him, forcing them into perfect alignment. “I do not believe there is a god in this universe that could help the man that stood between us. Good night, captain.” He turned on his heel and left, leaving Kirk gaping at the space he had left behind. He looked back at the stack of padds on his desk to his closed door once more, replaying Spock’s departing words to him in his head.

“I’ll be damned,” Kirk said. He had never been one for pick-up lines, and he wasn’t even sure if that was one, necessarily, but… that was one hell of a pick-up line. He made copies of the security reports and added them to his little folder of proof and if he smiled to himself while he washed his hair in the shower then it was nobody’s business but his own. 

[shyravenns]

[monster au]

Spock has long forgotten what it feels like to be mortal.

It’s rare that he feels such baseless emotions such as happiness, anger, or even the mild sense of uneasiness as he walks through the shadows of his territory.

He is, as most of his kind are, above them.

But as the air grows colder around him, and he begins to feel his hackles rise he can’t help but let out a short yet barely noticeable breath. The closest emotion that he can refer to is that of irritation. Irritation at himself for the smallest slip of control over his own body, and irritation and well-worn affection towards what can only be described as a nuisance (no, THE nuisance).

Such nuisance has only ever referred to itself as *Kirk*.

He can usually tell when Kirk will appear. It would be ironic for Spock to refer to him as an “unnatural presence��, but his very existence at times unnerves Spock. Whether it be the faint marks around his throat (If Spock concentrates he can spy the impressions of large fingers, and he thinks of the hands those fingers belonged to. Spock’s own curiosity almost always propels him to ask *What happened*, but he knows better than to pry.) or the unnatural stillness of his body.

He can feel him watching him. From where Spock isn’t exactly sure, but he is hyper aware of the fact that he isn’t alone.

“Spock!” Is the only real warning he receives before the familiar weight of Kirk’s hand runs through his fur. A small privilege Spock has only recently begrudgingly allowed Kirk in the span of their long friendship. He doesn’t turn to look towards him. Knowing he won’t see anything but the dark line of trees from the forest. It’s pointless to try to look for Kirk. Instead he simply stares out at the dark, vast sea and replies to him in kind.  

“Kirk.” He rumbles in response. He can tell that Kirk has more energy today given the strength of his voice and the heavy weight of his hands on his fur. It’s rather fascinating, he thinks, the faint distinction between the various types of specters. He assumes that because Kirk is a Poltergeist (the word almost always feels strange on his own tongue) that full body apparitions don’t come as easily to him as other specters (or so Kirk says). It’s different, and slightly more comforting than the faint whispers and bone deep chill as his hands pass through his body Spock is used to when Kirk is feeling particularly tired.

They relax against each other in a rather easy silence. From an outsider's perspective it would be a curious sight. A tall, lithe leonine creature with wings tucked neatly (and elegantly) into it’s side. As still a statue as it settles into the sand of the beach while it overlooks the waves of the beach. The air is crisp and uncomfortable around them. Warning them to go no further.

“Bones yelled at me again.” Kirk’s voice is amused as Spock watches a tiny crab scuttle along in front of them.

“You say that as if that isn’t a regular occurrence.”

The crab begins to dig at the sand in front of them. Spock glances to his right where Kirk’s voice is the clearest.

“Do not.” he warns. Poltergeists, he has learned, are very mischievous.

Kirk doesn’t respond, and Spock is suddenly grateful for the thickness of his own fur as the air near his side becomes even colder. A sign that Kirk has decided to settle against him.

“God, you sound like Bones. Not like I was going to punt the little guy.” He almost sounds offended, but Spock can hear the grin in his voice.

It’s Spock’s turn to not respond. Instead he crosses one paw over the over, and lets silence wash over them as easily as the waves lap at the shores of the beach.

Spock doesn’t know how long they’ve stayed pressed against one another. Time is a fleeting memory to him, a distant memory of when he himself was mortal. His species is a nocturnal one. Concerned only with the phases of the moon, and how it affects those under its control. They could have stayed there for minutes or hours, Spock with his eyes halfway closed as he listens to the faint murmurings of Kirk’s voice and the gentle crash of the ocean.

Soon enough he will grow tired as the sun begins to rise. Kirk’s voice and very presence will soon begin to fade into nothingness (or perhaps there is a realm where even Spock isn’t aware of. A place where lost and discarded spirits roam freely and happily. A juvenile thought, he thinks, but a pleasant one.)

He wonders about McCoy. He knows that the gargoyle will soon begin to settle into his roost before the sun begins to rise. Stretching out enormous dark blue wings against the backdrop of the night sky. Perhaps, he’ll visit him once night comes again. And here he goes Kirk is bound to follow.

As the night begins to dwindle, and Kirk’s voice is nothing but a whisper in the wind, he almost purrs.

[smallblueandloud]

i'm not gonna have anything posted by tonight (i'm on a bus right now and i do NOT feel capable of whipping something together by the time i get home) but i'll have something out this week that'll count as june's second fic. so there'll be 3 fics in july, if i have my way!

[spirk-trek]

Would love to see a little something about TOS spirk and dress uniforms, whatever speaks to you!! I love the intimacy of getting ready together and dressing up fancy with your partner :)

inspired in part by this post by @flippyspoon, this fan art [deactivated], and also this fan art by @lesbospirk!

i initially wanted to do something with spock's eyeshadow (still might??) but then the idea of him cutting jim's hair broke into my mind and wouldn't leave... and i never stop thinking about mind melds, so.

lastly: fuck hypersonic showers, ok? spock takes baths and jim loves sitting under steaming water for the drama. that is all. hope you enjoy, anon!

now on ao3!!!

~*~*~*~

Jim was toweling his hair dry when he re-entered his quarters, screwing his face up as he scrubbed at any residual dampness. He let the towel fall in an open loop around his neck, cotton sleep pants slipping down his waist as he leaned against the partition. Spock was there, of course. Jim watched as he diligently smoothed the sleeves of a green dress tunic laid out over his mattress.

And, my, was Spock a sight for sore eyes. The reflective blue complimented him, each fold capturing light like shards of zircon, lattice trim evoking something almost… royal, in the way it climbed his high collar. Jim’s eyes traced the line of gold down Spock’s chest as soon as the Vulcan turned to find him there.

“Dressings suit you,” he murmured by means of explanation, pushing off the wall and taking a few slow steps to close the space between them. He propped both arms against Spock’s shoulders, extending them into the room with loose, lazy wrists.

For so long he had savored these moments of up-close observation, even going so far as to fabricate close quarters on multiple occasions just so he could drink Spock in. The shades of barely-there greens surrounding his lips, touching the hollows of his cheeks, arching over where his nostrils met the bridge of his nose. Short, dark lashes lining irises the color of a mud-settled pond. Of tadpoles. Of space between stars.

“You have a significant bias, Captain."

“Do I?” Jim's gaze dropped to Spock’s lower lip. “Based on the evidence,” he dragged his finger down that seam of gold, “I’d say we’re dealing in objective fact, Mr. Spock.”

Spock finally angled his face lower so their lips were mere centimeters apart.

“Aesthetic preferences cannot be objective.”

Jim’s smirk only grew before he finally captured Spock’s mouth, letting a satisfied breath out through his nose. Spock met him, hands bracketing his waist before sliding upward over skin, eventually finding the nape of his neck where fingers curled into damp hair…

Spock broke the kiss and Jim hummed in protest, blinking his eyes open.

“I’ve noticed an increase in the length of your hair,” he observed, as if commenting on the weather. Spock's eyes rose to watch his fingers card through the wave of Jim’s bangs.

“Is that right?”

“I estimate it has exceeded typical length by 2.51 centimeters.”

“Hm. I suppose it has been a while since I had a trim. Remind me after the delegation-”

“We have time presently, if you are amenable.”

Jim drew back, giving Spock an amused look. “I doubt the salon will be accepting appointments at this hour, Spock. Even for the Captain.”

He curled his fingers over the nape of Jim’s neck again.

“I perform my own haircuts.”

Jim’s brows shot up even further in surprise, still sporting an open mouthed grin which he laughed brightly through. “You want to cut my hair?” He withdrew his arms so he could place one hand on either side of Spock’s neck, thumbs just reaching each corner of his jaw. “I’m not sure I could pull off your cut, sweetheart,” he joked.

Spock didn’t answer aside from a quirk of his lips, accepting the implied agreement before extracting himself and moving past Jim to the door of their adjoined bathroom. Jim watched him go, once more thanking Starfleet for their choice of dress uniforms, and still hadn't looked elsewhere by the time he returned holding a basin and several utensils. Jim knew that Spock preferred his own grooming routines (right down to the fingernails), but he wasn’t expecting the fine golden scissors. Nor did he expect the straight razor which resembled antiques from Earth, yet was still different somehow. He reached for the handle, turning it over in his hands, appreciating the way it gleamed.

“You’ve never shown me these.”

“It has not been pertinent until now.”

Jim placed the razor back into the basin, supposing that was true.

“Come,” Spock requested, and Jim did, allowing himself to be turned so Spock stood at his back. Gentle fingers slid the towel from his neck and draped it over his shoulders.

“Sit.”

And Jim did again, lowering himself into the desk chair Spock had wheeled around. He began pulling strands of hair upward and letting them fall free, so Jim shut his eyes, almost losing himself to the sensation until he heard a snip. The very end of a curl tumbled down the length of his arm and fell to the floor. He peered down at it, prompting Spock’s hands to wrap around his head and face it forward once more.

“Remain still, k’diwa.”

Jim smiled, a warmth blooming throughout him. He loved when Spock called him that.

He continued to snip here and there, a halo of trimmed hair quickly forming around them. Jim relaxed into the contact until once again a sound roused him. Water. He cracked one eye open to see Spock running his fingers over the surface of a clear pool now filling the basin, flicking droplets back inside and combing the moisture through his hair.

“Could get used to this,” Jim murmured. Snip.

“I have no objection to making it a regular practice.”

He grinned, shivering briefly as cold droplets rolled down his neck to be absorbed into the towel.

“Apologies.”

“No, no. Feels nice.”

Snip. Snip. Then, Jim saw in his peripheral as Spock set the scissors down on his desk. Gentle pressure on the back of his head tilted it downward, chin to chest. More swishing in the water.

“Do not move,” Spock directed more seriously, and a moment later Jim felt the press of sharp metal scraping down the lines of his neck. He swallowed, hairs on his arms raising as Spock diligently shaped the bottom of his hairline. Slow. Careful. He felt a hot flash of trust, of comfort and care skittering over him until the pressure from Spock’s hand released. Jim didn’t immediately raise his head, allowing Spock to trace his fingers over the line, inspecting it by touch.

The same hand soon reached around to tip Jim’s chin back up. He continued the movement until he was craned back as far as he could go, sure he looked ridiculous as he peered up at Spock, batting his eyelashes.

“You know, the barber usually kisses me once he’s finished.”

Spock’s second brow rose to meet the first before he bent at the middle, pressing a chaste kiss to Jim’s lips upside down.

“I do not find that amusing,” he murmured. Jim brought his hand up to the back of Spock’s neck to pull him back down for second kiss before he could pull away, lingering this time, smiling into it before releasing his hold. He could hear Spock smooth the lines of his uniform and draw a short breath through his nose.

“Regardless, I am not yet finished.”

When Jim tried to twist in his chair, he found Spock already circling around to his front.

“You aren’t?”

“You have not shaved.”

Jim blinked. He usually just used a photon shaver on his way out the door, which could be done in an instant, but when hazel eyes fell to see the razor still held in Spock’s hand his lips curled. He flashed his eyes back up.

“Okay,” he answered with a slow nod. He settled back in the chair as Spock moved to stand closer, eclipsing the ceiling light, and when a hand reached for his face he leaned into the touch readily. Spock's thumb swiped over the rough stubble covering his chin, then fell away again.

After smoothing a layer of lotion that smelled like desert spices over the bottom half of Jim's face, Spock began his ministrations high on each cheek, making smooth swipes downward and carefully steering the blade around the corners of Jim's mouth. He relaxed his jaw, lips parting, eyes falling shut of their own accord. Spock eventually brought his hand to one side, propping Jim's face against his palm as he shaved along the opposite edge.

By the time he recognized the warm feeling wrapping itself around him, the tightening thread pulling through his mind and lifting him from the world, Jim was already plummeting through space. He was vaguely aware, somewhere, of his physical body falling into Spock, a cold hand meeting the drop of his head with gentle steadiness.

K'diwa.

Spock!

Delight spun through him in tendrils. He rushed forward, coiled around Spock’s presence, reached inside and felt the beating of his heart like it was his own.

Jim. His name was feather light, yet somehow more insistent. Echoes bounced around them before Spock brought him back to center. My intention was not to meld with you.

Then I must be dreaming, he thought warmly, and suddenly Spock was there before him in swirls of shimmering twilight, pulling him by the hand, by his chin. He felt his warmth from the inside out. Like he had swallowed a sun. Like he could never be cold again.

Return to me, k'diwa. I must finish.

“I love when you call me that.”

The words, his own voice, were what pulled him back to reality. Their faces were mere inches apart. His cheek was wet. He smelled spices around him, felt humidity in the room. Suddenly, Jim remembered the task at hand and blood rushed to color his face, but the expression he found on Spock’s was fond. Soft. His fingers followed Jim’s chin as it drew back before letting the contact cease altogether.

“Did I…?”

Spock nodded once. Jim bit his lip.

“Sorry.”

He shook his head, denying the apology. “My hand placement was unwise. I admit, I was distracted.”

Jim’s embarrassed grimace began to lift into a self-satisfied smile.

“You, distracted? I'd be curious to know what could've managed such a thing.”

Spock said nothing at first. He placed a considerably more careful hand on top of Jim’s head to steady it.

“Aesthetics.”

And Jim let Spock steer his head sideways once more before feeling the cool metal touch back down on his skin. This time the path began just below the line of his jaw, trailing down and catching fine hairs along the column of his throat. When he could, he tried to catch a glimpse of the unwavering concentration on Spock’s face as he worked his way across.

“You do this every morning?” Jim all but whispered as his head was allowed to level. He instinctively brought a hand up to feel the smooth skin, running his fingers over it in appraisal.

“My metabolism has adjusted to living aboard the Enterprise. I only require this level of grooming approximately once every twenty one standard days.”

Jim blinked. How was he still learning new things about Spock, even after all this time? He supposed that explained why he never had a hair out of place- that is, unless Jim had something to say about it behind closed doors.

Spock was inspecting him now, dark eyes roaming his face, searching for any neglected spots over it's surface. Jim sat still, defiantly keeping his gaze steady until those eyes met his again. They both held it for a prolonged moment until Spock reached out, touching his thumb to what must be a single hair left behind. His fingers climbed…

Jim couldn’t have stopped it if he’d wanted to. He surged forward again, their minds coming together like a flood as if protesting the premature ending from before. As always, Spock was there to catch him. Arms twined around, undefined and abstract, embracing him from all directions. He was steady, as if he himself were the solid ground on which they stood, as if Jim would float away and cease to be without him there. His tether. His anchor. His north star.

Hello, ashayam.

Spock, Jim practically sang. Not for the first time, he felt a certain sort of music shivering free in a distant part of his mind. A single note hanging suspended in the fog. He wanted to hum along, to stretch it into a tune that could be carried by birds, a song composed for a symphony, but instead he simply reached for Spock and thought you’re here, you’re here, you’re here as they twisted together.

Always.

He felt love float up between them, lifting like bubbles from vents below the sea and racing for the surface. Oranges and pinks brightened in the periphery, dropping off into blue below. He marveled inwardly, distracted by the space that was all their own before his attention was drawn to a thought passing over him. Uncertainty. Spock was the one who put words to it.

You are nervous.

It was as if Jim hadn’t recognized the ache in his stomach until then.

That is why you are seeking me. K’diwa. Come.

Clarity. Sense. Logic. Jim followed him into an embrace of sensation; Lying against Spock’s chest in the morning. Finding his hand below the table without having to look. Kissing him in the dark. All at once it came over him, settled inside him. Comfort. Home.

Your nerves are unwarranted. You have prepared thoroughly.

So did the admiralty when the delegation turned them down.

You are Jim Kirk. Decidedly, not the admiralty.

Jim laughed, and the music came back distantly. Bells.

Spock continued. I, for one, have historically found it difficult to deny you.

Jim could feel the ache within him begin to subside as quickly as it had come, could practically feel Spock pulling it from him. He reached out again, hand closing around a wrist which was not there before he decided to hold onto it.

I love you.

And I, you, ashaya.

And with that, the meld began to abate, turning to mist and leaving only filtered sunlight behind Jim’s eyes. His quarters returned to him like waves of a dream. He sighed, nodding forward until the hand supporting his chin steadied him enough for him to open his eyes.

“Are you comforted, Jim?”

And the question was so sincere, he felt his heart reeling in appreciation for the man before him.

“I am, thank you,” he murmured, and seemingly satisfied, Spock brought the razor up and grazed it over the missed spot on his cheek. He wordlessly gathered his belongings, submerged in the now frothy water, and disappeared to return them to his quarters.

Jim raised a hand to ghost over the spot their foreheads had met and thought back to a time long ago, when they were practically strangers. Spock's words to him...

If I seem insensitive to what you’re going through, Captain, understand… it’s the way I am.

Spock’s brow lifted when he caught Jim watching him a beat longer than he should have. He was standing in the doorway now, drying his hands, and all Jim could think was how could I have let him be so wrong?

All he said, however, was, “How do I look?”

“Tempting,” Spock answered without hesitation.

Jim’s grin warmed several degrees. “That is what I was going for.”

After taking a moment to appreciate the curve of Spock’s lips, reserved just for him to see, he finally stood to face the green tunic laid out with such care on his bed. Unsurprisingly, each medal was already pinned in perfect position. He ran the backs of his fingers over the dyed fabric, parted it, smiled when he found his undershirt neatly folded there, too. He imagined Spock alone in the room as he had been washing up. His careful movements, so precise and so graceful at the same time, always yielding perfect results. Point A to point B. The path of least resistance. Jim sometimes marveled that Spock, in all his simplicity, could tolerate him at all.

A hand pressed to the small of his back, their hips touching as Spock reached for the undershirt. He presented it to Jim, who pulled it over his head, emerging to find Spock holding his tunic out for him to slide his arms into.

“I’m beginning to feel rather spoiled,” he teased before sliding one arm in, turning, sliding in the other. He leaned back and Spock wrapped his arms around him, closed the shirt over his chest, bowed his head to tuck himself into Jim’s neck. Lips pressed to his pulse. One. Two. Three.

“You are worthy of the treatment, Captain.”

Jim shut his eyes. Captain. It was spoken like a name. Like found treasure. Like he’d follow him anywhere.

He turned again so they would be face to face, leaving some space for Spock’s hands which immediately sought out his sleeves to soothe them down his arms. Comfortable silence enveloped them as Spock resumed closing his cuffs, tightening the material around his wrists and sliding each gold disk through their respective slots.

“Thank you,” Jim said again sweetly once he was finished, reaching two fingers out to find Spock’s and pressing the tips of them together. As he so often did, Spock looked down at the contact, observing it as he pushed more purposefully along Jim’s fingers, up over the first fold of his palm.

“I am confident you will be successful.”

“What, I don’t get to hear the odds?”

Spock’s grip flexed inside Jim’s, their fingers laced now. Reverent. Devout. Jim squeezed back.

“I could provide them, however I see little point as it is your tendency to defy all probability.”

Jim leaned up on his toes to press a kiss to Spock’s cheek, delighted to leave behind the faintest imprint of sage.

“Perfectly logical, Mr. Spock. As always.”