#tos fic

[hawkeyefrommash]

must continue up, chapter one

part three of 'anything past the horizon'

After Jim and Spock's sudden engagement, it's finally time to meet the parents.

[sleepymccoy]

An intimacy, a surprise

Chapter two: Pink and Orange

McCoy gave the sales attendant his card and she did whatever it was they'd all done to purchase his clothes and send them back to his room. Convenient, certainly, to not have to carry anything around as he went from shop to shop. Mysterious, too. The whole process was foreign to him, buying a whole bunch at one space station. He didn't really know where he'd got all his old kit, it just sort of steadily accumulated. Some of it quite fondly. He'd miss his old sweater. 

No point carrying on about it. He smiled at the lady and thanked her, taking his card back. As he glanced at the scarves by the door he spotted black hair in the crowd. 

The locals were all redheaded, so this must be someone from the Enterprise. A moment of craning his neck and the movement of the head told him Spock was walking away. 

McCoy slipped between the few people in his way and caught up with Spock. 

“Well, hello.”

Spock stopped and, annoyingly, betrayed no emotion. “Doctor,” he said in greeting.

He was wearing his own clothes. Loose pants, long enough to cover his shoes, and an oddly structured dark silver shirt. The deep swoop of the collar repeated asymmetrically in all the hem lines. He wore his makeup differently today too, perhaps to reflect the different clothes? There was a touch of silver over his eyelids.

Someone bumped McCoy's arm and muttered an apology. They were standing still in the middle of the thoroughfare. Whoops. “Go on, then, I'm busy but you can walk with me if you've got so much to say.”

Spock fell into step beside him quietly. McCoy had been inviting enough, Spock could say something or bugger off. McCoy was, genuinely, in too much of a rush to needle him into conversation. 

He turned them into a store, this one focused on shirts and sweaters. He thought rather bittersweetly of his good cashmere that now floated in space and promised himself something comfortable here.

“It is a great shame the readings of that beast were so damaged,” Spock said as McCoy lifted a green woolen knit up.

“Ah, if wishes were horses, Mr. Spock.”

“What do you shop for?”

“That beast you wish to read up on took out my whole closet. Shielding came up before it could get my knickknacks, but I'm without clothes for the foreseeable.” McCoy threw the jumper over his arm. He pulled the card out of his pocket and flashed it at Spock. “Starfleet gave me this.”

“Have you much left to spend?”

“I've no idea, I can't calculate change to save my life.” He pulled a few shirts off the rack rather absentmindedly. One of them was a rather nice tan and white number, that went over his arm. One was black and silver, that went back. Much more Spock's colours, those. “I'm just spending until it declines.”

Spock smirked. His hand rested on the jumper table, trailing over the folded clothes as he walked slowly in time with McCoy. “You may be at it for some time, Doctor. You are a senior officer, they will be generous.”

“Isn't that nice.” They were by the change room and he had five shirts and three jumpers. “Hang on a minute,” McCoy said and slipped behind the curtain. 

He tried the collars on first, not rushing but not exactly taking his time. He was struggling to bring himself to care very much. He took the tan one off and put it in the yes pile.

“Where does a big ol’ space creature get the mineral intake to grow claws like that anyway?” McCoy called out. He pulled a dark purple polo on.

“There are a great many loose asteroids in the universe, Sir,” Spock said softly. He was standing right by the curtain, barely a foot away. 

McCoy slowed down his changing. This purple was alright, but the shoulders were tight. 

“Yes, Sir, there are,” McCoy said quietly. He pulled the purple off and returned it to its hanger. “Still seems a touch unfair.”

“Evolution does not consider your view of fairness in its process.”

McCoy mimicked Spock unflatteringly and put another polo on, the pink one with thin black lines. It looked terrible.

He opened the curtain, holding the purple polo. “Did you see a-”

“I am not sure pink suits you,” Spock interrupted.

Keep reading via the readmore, or jump over to ao3 for the whole story!

McCoy stopped searching for the shop attended and stared at Spock, dumbfounded. “Of course it does. Why, what do you think suits me?.”

“Blue.”

McCoy lowered his hand, letting the purple shirt whack against his leg. He rolled his eyes and hopefully gave Spock a thoroughly withering look. “I'm not buying a blue shirt, my uniform is blue.” He shook his head. “I look gorgeous in pink.”

“Black, then,” Spock said. 

McCoy gaped. “You've fooled all of the ‘fleet into thinking you have an imagination, Mr. Spock. Don't know how you've done it. Pass me that orange jumper, would you?”

Spock did so. “You cannot wear pink and orange,” he said. 

“No?” McCoy asked sarcastically. “Not to your taste? Would you give me the damn jumper?” 

Spock held it out. McCoy snatched it out of his arms and withdrew into the changing room. “Honestly,” he muttered. 

He pulled the pink polo off and began wrestling a pale slip shirt on. Nothing special, but perfectly useful. He tried the jumpers on, liking all of them. 

Alright, time to wrap up. He pulled everything off and began straightening out his fleet issue undershirt in preparation to put it back on. 

The curtain flapped and Spock slipped into the change room, clothes in hand. 

“You ought to-”

“Spock!”

Spock met his eyes. McCoy held his shirt half-heartedly to his chest. Spock did not hesitate in keeping his gaze, although he did swallow very prettily. 

McCoy lowered the shirt. Spock's gaze lowered, rather confidently, with it. McCoy almost laughed.

“What is your objection?” Spock asked. He raised the small pile of clothes. “None of these are blue.” 

“So, when we're civilians anything goes, huh?” McCoy asked. 

Spock blinked. “That seems obvious to me, yes.”

“Obvious?” McCoy repeated. He'd been kept awake these last months wondering. “What's obvious is you are-” he stopped and breathed out heavily. No help starting a fight. He put his hand to his eyes in exasperation. 

“Leonard, you-”

“Shut up, Spock,” McCoy grumbled, “I'm coming to terms with what you're like.” 

McCoy dropped his hand and glared at Spock. He let his shirt fall to the ground and stepped into the foot gap between him and Spock. He tapped Spock's chin, encouraging him to raise his head. Spock obeyed, baring his throat. 

McCoy leaned in and pressed his mouth to Spock's Adam's apple, kissing him firmly. Spock swallowed, and his throat moved under McCoy's lips. McCoy slid up, tasting the slight salt on Spock's skin, and kissed the dip under his chin. 

Spock let out a huff of air. McCoy sucked his skin in, intending an inconveniently visible hickey. As he did he ran his finger down Spock's neck, finding a curved seam in his shirt and following that down his chest. Spock dropped the bundle of clothes he held and wrapped an arm around McCoy's waist.

“Leonard,” Spock gasped. McCoy let up on the bruise and pulled back. Spock lowered his face and adjusted so his lips lay on McCoy's, not kissing him but dragging their mouths together. 

“There are still rules that apply to civilians,” Spock muttered.

“Like one person per change room?” McCoy asked, lips gentle and teasing against Spock's. “You broke that.” He left the not me implied, for Spock understood well enough. 

Spock slowly let go of his waist, his fingers dragging like pokers across McCoy's back. “How much do you have left to buy?”

McCoy laughed. “A great deal.” He stepped back. “Do you have plans tonight?”

“Dinner, yes.”

McCoy picked up the clothes Spock had dropped. One of the shirts was rather nice, so he started pulling that on. 

“After that?” McCoy asked.

“None.”

McCoy looked at himself in the mirror, then shifted his focus to Spock's reflection. “They put me in suite 712.”

Spock met his reflected gaze steadily. That hickey looked promising. “Good to know.”

McCoy smiled. “Got time for a drink?”

“Oh, yes.”

McCoy nodded vaguely towards a bar he'd eyed earlier. “Across the road. I'll have a bourbon, meet you in a few.”

Spock frowned, turned on his heel, and left. McCoy hoped he would see him in the bar soon. 

He took the shirt off. 

---

Spock had not met him for a drink. McCoy had lost the sting of the rejection before he'd finished the bourbon he'd ordered himself. The rules of this game were new to both of them still, it would take time to walk in lockstep.

He hoped, though, that Spock would take him up on his invitation tonight. He wore some new clothes, he had no other kind to wear, and kicked his feet onto the windowsill. The slow moving opposite edge of the Moebius strip space station they clung onto life inside spun across the way, the edges of glass and mirror catching the light intermittently. 

Eventually, as McCoy was regretting not buying warmer socks, the doorbell sounded. 

“Come,” McCoy invited. 

The sound was slightly off here, the technology worked at an oddly high pitch. But regardless, the nearly familiar sound of the door opening and closing sounded. 

“Enjoy your dinner?” McCoy asked. 

“No,” Spock said. He sounded just slightly surprised at the question. 

McCoy chuckled. Spock stayed quiet. 

“Disaster waiting to happen, out there,” McCoy breathed.

“The station is well within safety requirements.”

“Come sit with me, would you? Can feel you standing behind me like a bat.”

Spock sat in the other chair.

“What are they thinking; prioritising prettiness? If it could be safer, it should be.” 

“You must appreciate the purpose of art, Doctor.”  

“Perfectly in favour of art, me,” McCoy muttered. He wished Spock would use his first name. “Only not when it leaves my life hanging on by a very pretty thread.” 

“Philistine,” Spock said.

McCoy grinned. He turned to face Spock. “Am I?” 

Spock looked stunning in this light, his shirt catching the glow from the window and reflecting in his eyes brightly. But he was carrying on about art right now, so McCoy wasn't going to compliment him by mentioning it. 

He'd put a necklace on, a high brass thing that looked like it would restrict some movement. It perfectly covered the darkness McCoy had sucked onto his skin earlier, leaving McCoy to suspect that Spock had not healed the bruise away. That was a warming thought. It made McCoy want to leave a few other marks he might be able to keep until they faded naturally. Lower on his neck. His thigh. Perhaps his wrist.

“What makes you the authority on worthwhile art, then?” McCoy asked, slightly breathless from his own meandering thoughts.

“Vulcans value beauty,” Spock said simply.

McCoy hummed. He was in a mood to take it as a compliment, although it almost certainly wasn't intended as one. He wondered if Spock thought copper bruises were beautiful. 

Not knowing what to say, McCoy fell back on old habits. He said lightheartedly, “I regret asking.” 

Spock smiled slightly, and McCoy felt it pull at him. His gut heated, he liked it when Spock shared an emotion. He wasn't expressing, exactly, but was communicating quite intentionally with it. 

And the sounds he'd made under McCoy's hands those couple of months ago. McCoy hadn't known Spock could relax like that, he'd never imagined it. It sat heavy and hot in him, never far from his recollecting. 

But there was something in the way. They should have discussed it last time, but they hadn't. He'd discovered since that there was no way to raise it on the ship. And then in the shop, well, they'd gotten close. But McCoy had distracted himself.

So, he'd promised himself. Talk beforehand. 

“I've got to ask, Spock,” McCoy said, looking back out at the silly space station. 

“Yes?”

“This-” he sucked in his breath. “What would you call this? Between us?”

“A surprise,” Spock said dryly.

McCoy barked out a laugh. “For me too, darlin’!”

“This intimacy,” Spock offered quietly. “What is your question?”

“Only when we're civilians, yes?”

“I think that best.”

So did McCoy. He nodded. “You know I won't, necessarily, always want to pick up with you.” He glanced at Spock, then turned back to the view.

“Variety is quite natural, ashal-veh.”

McCoy frowned and turned to Spock slowly. He was smirking, the bastard. 

“Ashellefeh?” McCoy asked.

Spock’s smirk relaxed into one of his rare, genuine smiles. “Darlin’,” he said, with an exaggerated, and quite unconvincing, southern drawl. 

McCoy laughed outright, tipping his head back. When he recovered Spock still looked very pleased with himself. 

“Tea?” McCoy offered.

Spock nodded, so McCoy went to the kitchen. It was enough for him, some basic guidelines to keep matters off the ship. An implication that this would continue. A clarity that it may be kind, friendly, but not romantic. It all sat well in him, it felt right. He didn't feel the burning fear that he had had one chance to touch Spock and, while he had taken it and spent two nights doing just that, it was in the past. 

There was future now, an amorphous future that allowed him to stop getting so distracted by memories. Hopefully. And a future that still prioritised their difficult work.

As he was poking through the supplied teas for something herbal and not too floral, Spock slid into the kitchen behind him. 

“Do you wish to be alone tonight, Leonard?” 

“No,” McCoy said. “No, I'm just in my head is all.” He tapped the kettle on.

Spock stood by the doorway and tilted his head to the side. The room behind him was dark, blending with his hair. 

“Is that collar comfortable?” McCoy asked. It didn't look it, the metal pressed against the edge of his jaw like a cage. 

“Not particularly,” Spock admitted. “But it is not uncomfortable” 

McCoy hummed. “Like you are not unpleasant?”

“What use is pleasant, I am pertinent.” 

“That sounds like something I'd say behind your back.” The kettle rang to indicate the water had boiled. McCoy busied himself with mugs. 

“Why do you not use the hot water from the tap?” Spock asked. 

McCoy passed him his mug. “I like to wait, tastes better.”

Spock gave him a dumbfounded look, like he'd suggested they quit Starfleet and run a plant nursery together. But he said nothing, simply accepting the mug and turning back into the dark living room. 

They sat in their seats. After a moment, Spock quietly began to remove his collar-like necklace. McCoy watched, fascinated, as he carefully removed a pin which allowed the device to swing open on a tiny hinge. 

The hickey was hard to spot in the low light. As Spock leaned forward to place the contraption on the coffee table the light caught his neck just so, and the hickey stood out. 

“Want another?” McCoy asked. 

Spock looked at him and sat back in the arm chair. He blinked slowly, then, “Yes.” 

McCoy went to Spock and stood over him, running a hand into Spock's hair to tip his face up. Spock slid a hand between McCoy's legs, gripping his inner thigh. As McCoy kissed Spock, Spock's hand moved to grope McCoy's ass.

Here's that ao3 link again, there's nineteen chapters <3

[spocks-husband]

I made these ideas all sound so fucking boring but I promise I'll make them cool 😭

[galacticforces]

Amok

Spock's first pon farr, through the eyes of his father (I rewatched Amok Time and I had to wonder what his more immediate family thought of this. I might have to add Sarek's reaction to actually finding out what happened later.)

Sarek had, more often than he would care to admit to many, found himself missing the days when his youngest child was still young--the short time that their parental bond had been healthy. He mourned that loss of closeness now more than ever, as his son's majority finally approached. Spock may have hoped he would escape the Vulcan curse of madness. His mother may have even believed it was so. Sarek knew better.

No, no child of Vulcan was spared this, and his son, softened by humanity as he may be, would be no exception.

Were he able, he would have waited for his return all year, but his career demanded otherwise. Were their bond healthy, he would have been able to sense the coming fever in his son and return to meet him, to support him in his Time, in his final joining with T'Pring. But it was futile to dwell on that now.

As it was, his son was only barely present in his mind--Sarek could tell that he was alive and very little else. But even with so little connection, he could feel the very height of the fever.

He could not return home--could only stop and hope that things resolved successfully. But neither could he ignore the excruciating pain of his child. "My wife!" he called, somewhat urgently. And without another word, his Amanda knew. His gratitude for her nearly covered the burning, for a moment. She held him, and he hoped she would continue to do so for the days to come, until he could be certain the fever was waning and that their son's life was safe. But after only an hour, he was startled out of his ineffective meditation by a complete cessation of the feelings.

"Sarek?"

Her concern was obvious, and he shared it. Sarek's first thought was that his son had been killed. What else could put a stop to the fever so quickly, but to be defeated by a challenger? But no. No, he had not been struck by the absence of his child--only by the absence of the terror and need that accompanied pon farr. Perhaps, then, it was that an establishment of a complete mating bond had finally severed the remains of their parental bond? That wouldn't be entirely unheard of, in a bond so unnurtured as theirs.

But... Was that grief?

Sarek squeezed his wife's hand. "He lives. I do not know more than that, but I will make inquiries with our clan mother." He paused, shuddered, and took a steadying breath. No, he needed to meditate. Urgently. "In a moment. I would have you join me."

Her soft, relieved smile was a comfort, but her presence was even more so. They had not lost another child on this day, and they would need to be content with that.

[frownyalfred]

Reminders for new ao3 users (in no particular order):

- filter your searches like you would on a library website or in an online catalogue

- don’t post placeholders, fic searches, or recommendations as fics. DON’T! It’s against ao3 TOS

- there is no algorithm. ao3 sorts by date posted/updated unless you filter with specific search criteria

- ao3 is a non profit. that means it doesn’t sell ads to make money — it only survives on donations. this is why it can show you so many fics without ever flashing an ad or pop up at you!

- report fics that break TOS when you see them (I.e., placeholder fics, searches) to help other users navigate better

- the tag “dead dove, do not eat” doesn’t equate to gore/awfulness automatically. it is a complementary tag that enhances current tags. E.g., if the fic is tagged “gore” and “dead dove, do not eat” the author really wants you to mind the gore tag

- most fandoms have a variation of “no beta, we die like (x character)” and they all link back to the “No beta” tag

- publishing a new fic sometimes means it won’t show up in the fandom/pairing tag for a few minutes

- subscribers receive update emails at different times, depending on when you update/publish your fic. there’s no good way to predict when an e-mail will be sent — it can be in 30 seconds, or two hours later

- some fics are restricted by authors to those with ao3 accounts only. if you see a blue lock in the upper right corner, that fic is only visible to logged in ao3 users

- you can block commenters now! this didn’t use to be a thing

- updating a fic just to stay at the top of the pairing tag/fandom tag is a dick move. unless you’re legitimately editing or adding chapters, this just annoys readers and fellow authors, and people will skip over your fic

[a-most-beloved-fool]

There's a fic I've been (slowly) working on that features Kirk being just about the Only person on the ship who can read Spock's expressions, simply because he Likes Spock (not even romantically at first, he just sees Spock and goes, 'friend-shaped <3'.) and therefore pays attention, where he winds up being like. a Spock-interpreter for everyone else. (Captain, is he mad at me?? Captain, are my questions annoying him? Captain, did he like my joke? Captain, I feel like Spock hates me. etc.)

and the reason I bring this up is because I think there's a lot of potential in a Different version of this, where Kirk is still the only one who can read Spock's emotions, but this time, it's because they managed to spontaneously bond like. immediately. and neither of them realize this for a good while, because what are the odds that you're So Compatible with someone that your minds just Instantly glue themselves together? They're astronomical, that's what they are.

Except, a year or three into the mission, Spock discovers the bond. and panics. and blocks it. Of course he does! It's an egregious breach of telepathic etiquette! (Or, it would be, if he'd done it on purpose.) He has No Idea how long it's been there - he assumes it must be new. And, once the bond is blocked, by a Spock who is absolutely swamped with shame that he could let that happen to his own captain and dear friend, Kirk suddenly. cannot read Spock's emotions. And then he panics, because ohmigod i can't read him is he mad at me what did i do does he hate me???? (everyone else on this ship is baffled. they're like 'his face has literally not changed?? what do you mean you can't read him now??)

and eventually, they figure out what happened, and that they love each other, and then restore the bond to its original state and kiss and what not. but they angst about it for a bit first, and possibly have to get their heads slammed together by bones before that happens.

[hahahalfwit]

I HATE MIRROR MIRROR IM GOIGN TO FROW UP

[spockderangementsyndrome]

Congratulations to TOS Kirk/Spock shippers, thee original slash fandom that is only getting stronger with time. Let's get this bread in 2024.

Edit: It's annoying the shit out of me that this is circulating with an interpretation I don't think is supported by data (see this), and then I remembered it's my blog and I can be petty if I want to. No more reblogs.

[josukesfever]

technically finished on this side of the world, but Happy Amok Time Day to all who celebrate, i literally cannot believe they let kirk and spock dry hump each other on the sands of vulcan on national television in 1967 but boy am i glad they did

[justveeing]

But, as he rematerialises and catches sight of Spock’s glossy hair and pointed ears amidst the waiting crowd in the transport station, he’s sure even this tourist’s haven of commercialism has its benefits. Spock’s gaze softens as their eyes meet, and Jim steps down from the platform as Spock comes to greet him.

For this year's @kiscon zine I had the absolute pleasure of doing 5 illustrations for @gunstreet's amazing fic Late Bloomer. It's a 10K rated E TOS story full of fun shenanigans, sweet moments and a very incredible explicit ending (there also a sexy illustration there!).

Read it HERE. You won't regret it (;

[spirkbitch]

tos spirk fic writers you know i love you

and i do hate to break it to you, but i really don’t think that these chairs

would allow for very much straddling to occur

[papanowo]

was looking thru the mermaid au tag on ao3 a couple months ago and realised bones is rarely the mermaid so i sought to change that

[treesspeaklatin]

One of my favorite parts in spirk fics is when authors commit themselves in the worldbuilding and come up with amazing strange new worlds so they can fit every trope they want in their story. Ooh here's a planet in which the most fucked up flora lives, the flowers want to digest Kirk so Spock has to rescue him! There's that alien queen that feeds on love, hope spirk's unrequited crush won't be a probleeeem. There's a city where for some reason people sleep standing up, and guess what, there's only one single fucking bed! I love unhinged creativity. I love when I read something like that and I feel the author is a curious person that had so much fun coming up with shit like that. We're some really fucking cool nerds.

[spirk-trek]

Sharing the Sunlight Fanzine & Novel | Drawings by Chris Soto, 1992

Entire work available to read here!

Editorial note from author Jenna Sinclair:

"I have been in love with the Star Trek universe and its characters for twenty-five years now. I wrote my first 'novella' in the seventh grade. Over the years I wrote sporadically, mostly in my head, never, ever satisfied, knowing that there was an elusive 'something' I was unable to grasp. But then I discovered K/S! Unbelievably, it took me a good twenty-three and a half years to do it! I felt as if I had been working on a puzzle all that time, and finally the pieces flew naturally into place. Like just about everybody else, I became obsessed. In six months, I read about 200 zines (yes, I was broke and suffering from eyestrain), and then I sat down to write an established relationship short story, as a way of saying 'thank you' to all the K/S authors, artists, and editors who had given me so much pleasure. That story refused to be written, and this first time novel came flowing from my pen instead. The first 120 pages were composed on a 25 year old typewriter which lacked a 'k,' a '/', and a '-'. You try writing a novel with Kirk, Spock, and other fairly essential words without a 'k'!"

[daezedglownut]