Fandom: Star Trek (new movie 'verse)
Pairing/Rating: Kirk/Spock, NC-17 (yep, we're still in PWP-land, folks. *facepalm*)
Word Count: 804
Date Completed: 27 May 2009
Disclaimer: These people? Aren't mine.
Author's Notes: Yet another piece for st_xi_kink, which is showing no signs of letting up anytime soon (that poor mod), so there will probably be many more of these to come. Written for this prompt, but cleaned up since then, meaning you'll want to read this one. Another Spock!POV; hopefully this works better than the last one. Also, I'm counting this as practice in limiting my word-count in preparation for summerpornathon, so it TOTALLY DOESN'T MATTER
Ordinarily, Spock likes the feel of Kirk, hot and tight around him. He likes the way Kirk draws him in, clenched muscles surrounding his cock and arms looping over his shoulders and lips pressing tight against his own. It's never quite gentle, per se, not with both of them still young and virile and headstrong, not with this affair between them still tentative and growing and new. It's normally passion, normally the heat of want and skin and contact, that drives the thrusts of someone into someone else's body -- passion and the mutual understanding of it.
Tonight, though -- tonight, it's not necessarily different. It's still passion, still heat and drive and empowerment, but it's rooted in anger. Which is an ironic characteristic, Spock supposes, for a Vulcan copulation, but at the same time one true to the species, to the need to restrain oneself until, to use the long-dated idiom Kirk so often employs, "all Hell breaks loose."
And it has broken loose. Kirk's body (more specifically, his ass, to continue the trend of borrowing Kirk's inelegant human vulgarities) is hot, is tight, and that's normal -- but it squeezes vice-like around Spock in something like a punishment, severe and almost-painful. Kirk's arms still twine around Spock's neck, his legs still encircle Spock's waist, but they're to pull him in for more than closeness (to prevent escape, Spock thinks). Kirk's mouth latches onto not Spock's lips, but his collarbone, his throat, his jaw, his any-place-where-Kirk-can-bite-and-bruise-a
It hurts, yes, but that's logical -- normally-painful stimuli do not lose their impact because they occur in intimacy, if that's even what this can be properly called. Spock thinks it's also logical, grounded in science and basic biology, that they'd be mildly pleasurable, as sudden rushes of endorphins and adrenaline are wont to be.
What's not entirely logical is how pleasurable he's finding it.
Because while it's true that everything between them is new, is unsure and exploratory and premature, this is the most unlike anything they've done. They're not typically gentle, but they also don't typically descend so readily and fully into straight-out violence, into grips that hope to bruise, bites that look to sting, thrusts that aim to elicit whimpers and screams every time.
(They also don't typically do, have never done, this after an altercation on the bridge. Spock's memory is hormone-crazed, made fuzzy from sex and want enough that he’s uncharacteristically lost track of the important background. He forgets now what they even fought about, recalls only how they fought -- or rather, how Kirk fought as Spock stood stoic and silent, typical, in front of him. Kirk's raised and anger-cracked voice, his flushed face, his bright and flashing eyes -- Spock remembers them with startling, puzzling clarity. He remembers them because they're here now, in front of him for reasons -- mutual passion and anger and frustration -- that differ and converge from the norm simultaneously.)
So it's angry, this intimacy that mocks and (for Spock, at least, who can feel his emotional facade stripping further and further away with every thrust into Kirk's body) defines the word. It's angry and it's rough and it's different, and if this is the make-up sex Kirk had waxed lyrical to him about the week before, well. Spock can't exactly fault his logic in wanting it.
Certainly not when Kirk's breath hitches on a particularly sharp thrust, when he snarls against the bite-mark he's leaving on Spock's throat, when his hands finally settle, tight-gripped, on Spock's shoulders -- only not really, because now they're dragging down the length of Spock's back, nails digging into tender flesh with harsh, uncaring pressure.
The scratches burn, more than any nip Kirk has given him, more than the heat of Kirk around him, more than the looks of steadily-fading frustration Kirk has been shooting him all night. They sting, itch a bit as Spock's muscles stretch and pull the skin with their convulsing, as Spock's own sweat runs into and through them on the downward slope of his back. They hurt and, like everything else about this strange, atypical encounter, that's good, logical and illogical responses to something Spock has never known. It's a paradox that's rapidly becoming the standard of his interactions with Kirk, and it's puzzling beyond belief, a problem even a Vulcan mind can't wrap around and work out.
It's still good, though, when Kirk scratches him again. The burn is still there, still stimulating and now too-much, and Spock has a second to push again into Kirk, a second to twist his hand roughly over Kirk's dick, a second to hear Kirk cry out and feel him clench tight once more, before he's, they’re coming, reducing himself to the paradox of a Vulcan in catharsis, them both to the irony of pleasure in pain.