Fic: Green Light - K/S

Green Light

“Jim,” he could still hear the words as though they had been said yesterday, “For a genius, you’re a goddamn idiot.”

The sentiment had usually been accompanied by his friend jabbing him ruthlessly with a hypo, or slapping a bandage on with a little less care than Kirk might have preferred.

“I don’t know why you don’t just start fights instead of flirting with women,” Bones would say, as Kirk sat on his bunk, grimacing whilst the man flashed lights into his eyes and tilted his head about as though he were a doll, “You’d be better off out of it.”

“I swear, she was giving me the green light,” Kirk would typically say in his defence.

“Yeah, well maybe on Tellerite green means get the hell away,” Finished with his repairs and Kirk now sporting a wide, pleased smile and an ugly grey medicinal paste to his cut cheek, Bones would give a last shake of his head, “Look, you’re my friend Jim, but I’m telling you now: one day you’re going to get completely out of your depth if you keep letting something other than your brain do your thinking for you.”

“I know, I know.”

“I know you know,” Bones had always batted away any attempt at a contrite reply, “I’m just warning you: you’re getting left to your own devices when that day comes.”

Now, Kirk had a feeling that he may very well have reached that fabled day.

*

Even to his own mind, his actions did seem impressively idiotic. He was a Captain, a Captain of nothing less than a Constitution class starship. He had a crew of 427 people, all relying on his ability to keep his wits about him in the face of disaster and chaos.

He was Captain James T. Kirk, and he was currently lying, hidden, under a bunk.

There were a few, small details that made the situation slightly rosier, however. One, the space under the bunk in question was completely empty and dustless, by comparison to Gaila’s bunk back at the Academy, where he had been squashed between pairs of shoes and pricked in the shin by what had felt like a pair of tweezers. Secondly, he was currently on a day’s so-called “shore leave”. Not close enough to any especially appealing colonies or outposts, he had chosen to remain aboard the ship, and as a result this would at least mean no-one would wonder where he was, for the time being.

The quarters’ doors slid open quietly. Kirk made his breathing a little shallower. In spite of himself, he shuffled closer to the edge of the bed and peered out.

He blamed the mind-meld entirely. Before then he’d admittedly been curious to know what lay beneath that brittle front of sterility and stoicism, but now, after that onslaught of memories from a life that might have been, he wanted to know what lay beneath his First Officer’s jersey, too.

Bones was going to leave him for dead this time, he realised. Kirk made his peace with the fact.

A familiar pair of work boots strode across the room, stopping in front of a wardrobe unit and affording Kirk a clear view of his First up to the waist. A soft rustle told Kirk that he had taken his jersey off although he didn’t dare creep out any further to confirm the point. More soft sounds, of fabric on metal, metal on metal, implied that the jersey had been placed in the laundry shoot. A familiar pair of long fingered hands now materialised, reaching down to tug off each boot and then placing them neatly alongside each other in the wardrobe.

So, Spock was really like this all the time, Kirk couldn’t help but think, a little dazedly. Everything was clockwork and perfect, even undressing. It made him reflect with a little shame upon his own quarters: sure, he wasn’t a slob, but that was more because of how few possessions he had chosen to bring with him aboard the ship in the first place. He was thankful for his Yeoman, who stopped things from straying from ship-shape to lacking and shambolic.

His train of thought was abandoned as the legs before him straightened once again, the hands deftly unbuttoning, unzipping and removing pants, an under-layer (thermal, presumably, which also explained the noticeably higher temperature of Spock’s quarters, too, Kirk noted) and finally, briefs.

Kirk brained himself, quietly, on the underside of the bunk. The throbbing in his head only added insult to injury: his view cut off at the mid-thigh, which was soon covered by a plain black towel anyway. His failure went far to emphasis for him how totally deluded his plan had been. In a despairing, chastising manner, he let himself fall into a mental Captain’s Log to pass the time until Spock moved out of the room and into his shower.

Captain’s Log, Kirk thought to himself glumly, Stardate 2258.76. Due to unforeseeable failings in my sexuality, I find myself lying under the bunk of my First Officer, Mr Spock, in the fucked up hope of… what? My motives are unclear even to-“

“Jim.”

Kirk brained himself for a second time. Directly in front of him, a pair of cool, near black eyes gave him a neutral stare.

He smiled a greeting, “Yes Spock?”

“I believe my query is self-evident.”

Since he was already doomed, Kirk let himself look askance for a moment before going, “Oh, why am I under your bunk?”

“I admit I fail to see a reason for your actions.”

He could almost hear Bones shouting at him already and somehow that spurred Kirk on to really go the distance. Crawling out from under the bunk, his limbs throbbing a little at the sudden movement they were now subjected to, he brushed past Spock, who simultaneously stood up to his full height once more, near naked and yet looking as authoritative and severe as ever he did in full uniform.

Kirk raised an eyebrow at Spock, a little smile playing on his lips.

“Now, I find that hard to believe.”

“Captain?”

“That you can’t think of any reasons for my actions,” his expression changed from bemused to mock disappointment, “Spock, you’re a logical man. You must be able to deduce and infer from this anomaly.”

Spock’s expression changed subtly; his lips twitched slightly, one eye narrowed imperceptibly and somehow, Kirk could sense a smile beneath the guise of a dispassionate expression.

“You mean that I should take heed of the evidence of my senses and infer that you were spying upon me in order to observe me, naked, I presume, and gain sexual gratification from those observations.”

“Meaning, I was under your bed with the idea of watching you undress and maybe jacking off.”

Spock’s brow furrowed marginally, “I assume that is a colloquial term for reaching sexual climax?”

“Assume away, Spock.”

“I felt that it did not reflect kindly on you to assume such motives, Jim.”

“I’m flattered.” Something, however, didn’t add up for Kirk. Well, two things actually. The first being that he had fully expected Spock to pin him against one wall of the room and call for security to come and place the clearly psychologically unstable Captain in the Brig. The second, more curiously, was how he had fully expected Spock to get dressed once again, rather than stand before him, with a faintly bulging towel-front that Kirk felt it rude not to eye appreciatively.

Kirk sensed that he had missed a step, somewhere, had been left out of some development on Spock’s part. For him, it was that goddamn mind-meld that had led him to this moment with unerring certainty: sure, it could have happened in a number of ways, but it had to happen. What had it been for Spock? He had a feeling the man would skilfully avoiding explaining as long as possible. Fair enough: that still left him with an aroused, near naked Vulcan in front of him which still constituted something to write home about.

“So, tell me, how’d you know I was there? Under the bed, I mean,” He was reaching out for his First Officer now, in an experimental manner. Spock remained stock still, but his posture was relaxed enough to tell Kirk he wasn’t being given any green-for-get-the-hell-out light. His eyes tracked Kirk’s touches with a flicker in them that looked to Kirk exactly like human curiosity, “I was being quiet under there.”

Spock’s gaze followed Kirk’s fingers as they grasped and pulled away the towel roughly. His voice had the same smooth, level tone it always possessed, the same as when he studied and explained the ship’s route each morning, “Perhaps for a human. I was able to hear your breathing upon entering my quarters.”

”But you called me Jim.”

“You are called Jim,” Spock studied Kirk’s hand as it wrapped around his dick experimentally, “What else would I call you?”

“No,” Kirk studied the man’s eyes even more carefully: there was definitely a flicker. Spock’s fingers too, he could see at the edges of his gaze, were flexing a little, preparing, “No. I meant, how could you know it was-please just unzip my goddamn pants, these are clean on today-“

“Apologies,” Spock unbuttoned, unzipped and pulled down his pants and briefs with the exact same economy of movement that Kirk had seen him use on himself. His unbelievably hot hand, mimicking Kirk’s by wrapping about his shaft, however, was a new development however, “Proceed.”

“Yeah, well,” Kirk closed his eyes with a frown of concentration. Spock did something that involved the tip of one finger and the head of his dick and he failed to get any closer to his train of thought, “…Hn. You definitely said Jim.”

“Correct.”

“How did-“ Kirk cut across himself with an approving groan, letting his other hand stray to Spock’s chest, where the fingers ran over the smooth, firm play of muscle. He stroked one nipple, gently: unlike its owner, it was gave a more blatant reaction to the attention, “You know it was me?”

“Is it customary for one partner in a human sexual coupling to remain partially clothed?”

“Spock, don’t talk bullshit, it doesn’t suit you,” As punishment, he let go of Spock, one hand stopping exploring the development of muscle in his shoulder and upper arm, the other releasing his flushed dick.

“I assure you I am not well versed in the matter. Is it perhaps that it is customary for you?”

“Sp-“

“Or should I simply demand that you undress this instant?” Spock was definitely smirking. Kirk tried, in spite of his raging erection, to catalogue how the expression looked for later reference.

He was happy to oblige. With his jersey off, he shook his head disapprovingly at his First, “Spock, really: “instantly” is an illogical choice of phraseology. It is impossible for me to undress instantaneously.”

“Jim, I believe for you too, “talking bullshit” is unbecoming.” Kirk’s clothes and boots littered the floor and Kirk found himself kind of liking how that looked, in Spock’s otherwise immaculate quarters.

They faced each other naked: Kirk panting slightly and grinning from ear to ear, Spock pale and still, hands resting against his sides.

“Your move, Spock.”

“A chess metaphor?”

“If you want it to be,” Kirk smiled. He gestured Spock forward with a flick of his fingertips, and, almost as though drugged, the man complied.

“What would-“

“No questions, genius. Just hands, lips, teeth-“

“Teeth?” Spock’s eyebrow raised a little further.

“No drawing blood though.”

“Agreed.”

“Proceed, Mr Spock. Anyone would think you were nervous.”

Kirk was rewarded with a Vulcan pressed against his torso, walking him back against the closed doors of the wardrobe unit. At every point where their bodies touched, he felt as though his skin was being focused under the intense glare of sun through a car windshield. Fingers combed through his hair; trailed down his hip, tracing bones and veins before once again wrapping about his dick and beginning to pump. Kirk scrambled to find something to hold onto behind him or to his sides. Instead, he was forced to grab hold of Spock’s back. The grip which grew tighter with each peak in the mounting sensation rippling out from his groin to his scalp and his toes would have been enough to make any other man stumble or fall flat on the floor. Spock remained totally grounded.

“I have still not had chance to explain my deductions.”

Half formed responses like “Go ahead, Holmes” and “How can you think about deduction at a time like this?” swam through Kirk’s mind. His mouth, however, around repeated guttural moans, was only able to offer a “Hm?”

“I could feel you,” and with that Kirk came, gripping Spock by the shoulders and staring deep into the man’s eyes. Spock looked to Jim, albeit through the haze of orgasm, to be bewildered, intrigued and perhaps even shy, his gaze threatening to break away from Kirk’s own to study their surroundings instead.

As Kirk’s hands stop gripping hard enough at Spock to send his knuckles white, the man went on, “I could feel you,” Kirk dropped to his shaking knees, “Under my bunk. I could feel your-“

Kirk gave Spock’s shaft a long, slow lick and was pleased to note that the man was not treating this activity as a curiosity, an experiment, an investigation into the sexual behaviour of humans. The momentary buckle of Spock’s knees and the hitch in his breath told Kirk that much. He took him in his mouth.

“I. Could feel-“ He heard Spock smoothly rub his hand down his side to clean it of cum. Both hands then found Kirk’s hair and gripped it, not painfully but tightly. Kirk moved faster.

Presence. Spock had felt his presence. He didn’t even need to say. Kirk too felt Spock right now; he felt him in his mouth, grasping his hair and inside his skin, all of Spock’s passion and logic and his memories and secrets: Kirk was being inundated by them all. Judging by Spock’s increasingly noisy pants for breath, loud enough to warrant being called moans, even, Spock was just as in tune to Kirk.

Pressure and sensation and rhythm mounted. Spock jerked forward one last time. Kirk swallowed with an inward grimace, consoling himself to the fact that some things never improved. Oh well. Looking up to see Spock with his hair dishevelled, face ever so slightly perspiring and eyes dark and dazed more than made for the inconvenience. Kirk got to his feet again, still achy from his stint under the bed. He stood close to Spock and felt the heat pour off him like out of an overworked engine. He could smell, too, his own cum and sweat, and he could smell it on the Vulcan, not himself.

Spock straightened his shoulders and drew himself up to his full height, but his still faltering breaths undermined his attempt at a dignified and controlled speech.

“I believe I was able to sense your presence, under my bunk. You have both invasive and idiosyncratic thought patterns.”

“I came on your hand,” Kirk noted, sweetly. There was a split-second pause before Spock replied.

“I see no reason to deny concrete fact. However, my next shift begins in approximately three hours, Captain. I trust you will appreciate how imperative it is that I am suitably rested in order to best perform my duties.”

“Of course,” Kirk leant forward and, almost apologetically, placed his first kiss at the corner of Spock’s mouth. For him, the gesture was shy and oddly tender; it almost made him want to be met with a disastrous, violent but predictable accident in flirting once again. To his surprise, Spock tilted his head enough to press an uncertain, dry mouthed kiss of his own fully on Kirk’s lips.

“I would advise you to rest as well, Captain. Your actions of this evening suggest your shore leave is by no means overdue.”

And there was that smirk again.

*

A day later, Kirk stepped into his quarters and knew, unaccountably, that something wasn’t right. He frowned, hand itching to form a fist or reach for his phaser.

He nearly jumped out his skin as, quietly and with dignity, Spock peeled himself away from standing flush to the wall beside the doorway.

At Kirk’s wide eyed stare, Spock offered the slightest tilt of his head, his eyes glittering with curiosity once again.

“I did not feel inclined to hide underneath your bunk,” he said.