Title: Listen
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Set after Taste, though it can stand alone. Spock listens as Kirk dreams. PWP.


The ship was never silent. Not even when the third shift was on the bridge and the lights in the crew decks were dim. Music floated from behind closed doors. Very soft melodies from countless cultures, countless planets, countless time periods. Except for the crew members who were from worlds where music either didn’t exist or was unpleasing. But even from those quarters often came the sound of voices, of snores, of heaving breathing, of moans. Then there was the sound of computer, the whistle of various intercoms, and the whisper of doors opening and closing. Below all that, so low that nearly everybody on the ship naturally ignored it, was the soft hum of life support and the engines.

The human mind naturally filtered through the sounds, blocking the ones that were so persistent, so commonplace, as to be deemed unnecessary. That was why Jim Kirk could sleep so easily, and why Spock found himself staring into the darkness, marking each sound, tracing the source of every slight, audible disruption. He could have turned inward, meditating until the outside world ceased to exist and his senses were superfluous nuisances. But if he did that, then he would miss out on everything.

He’d miss the now familiar pattern of Kirk’s breathing. A deep, slow breath that lasted for two-point-six seconds, and then an even slower exhale. One that whistled through his nose in the softest kind of sigh. He would continue in this way for minutes, sometimes hours, with only the slightest variations. An exhale that lasted for three-point-one, rather than two-point-four seconds. Or a brief pause between inhale and exhale, like he was gathering his breath to issue a command.

Or maybe a request.

Those moments were interesting, but not as fascinating as when the pattern dissolved into something that could not be properly ordered. Kirk’s breath came in fast gasps, with no measurable intervals. His hands opened and closed in the air, gaping like useless mouths. Each breath was punctuated by a moan. Those were occasionally followed up by shouts, and even formless words. Spock could never quite decipher what Kirk was trying to say in those moments. It was almost as if in those dark, endless seconds, Kirk became an entirely new life form. One quite alien to Spock, specifically, and Vulcans in general.

Once, Spock’s innate curiosity had been too much, and he had risked a momentary meld. Kirk had stilled beneath his touch—as though a part of him had been waiting for that—and Spock had seen it. All of it.

Kirk dreamt of cliffs. Looming above him. Reaching to the stars. Cutting off below him in dark, sheer drops that never ended. He dreamt about the edges. And it was those edges that pulled the deep, sorrowful sounds from his throat. Spock had broken the meld within seconds, but it didn’t matter. Those dreams had been seared into his mind. It was impossible not to see him when Kirk raced too close to one, when he reached out to catch himself and there was nothing there.

Until the night Kirk reached out, and something was.

Spock was lying on his side, his head pillowed on his arm, his eyes closed. He wasn’t asleep, though, and he knew the second Kirk shifted from his rather peaceful slumbers to the cliffs. His breath didn’t just quicken. It came in sharp, gasping sounds, each one louder than the one before it. He was working himself up into a scream. Spock could sense that much, but he did not know how to stop it. Waking Kirk would save him from that one, particular fall, but it would not cure his fascination. That went far deeper than any dream.

He was still trying to puzzle that out when a hand fell on his shoulder, and immediately tightened. Spock might have been much stronger than Kirk, but that did not mean that Kirk’s grip didn’t hurt. His fingers sunk into Spock’s flesh with the strength of steel, and once they were secure, they gave no sign of loosening. Spock remained still, ignoring the slight pain radiating from his shoulder. He could not see Kirk’s face. He could see nothing in the darkness. Telling the computer to put up the lights would be a trivial matter, but he didn’t. He told himself he would in a moment. But at that precise second, he had no need to see anything.

Kirk’s breathing softened, but it did not even out. The moans started to take shape, but as always, they were words in a language Spock could not grasp. The beginning of syllables. Half-attempts at pleas. A jumble of incoherency until Spock could finally pick out repeated sound. One attempt that came again and again, and thus, must have meaning.

Spock knew that not all auditory experiences could be trusted. There were many, many experiments and examples of people listening to nothing but white noise and hearing everything from their own names, to songs, to unknown, demonic voices. The mind, regardless of species, looked for order in chaos. It processed information in such a way to provide that order, even if there was genuinely nothing except chaos. Vulcan minds were just as susceptible to that phenomenon as human minds, and Spock never forgot that.

Still, he was quite certain that Kirk was not making random sounds. He was trying to say Spock’s name.

“Jim,” he whispered.

If possible, Jim’s fingers tightened. Spock shifted, moving closer on the narrow bed. Not that much space separated them, but Spock wanted to be closer. “Jim.”

He whimpered. Such a weak sound. Something in Spock’s gut tightened. He couldn’t resist that pull. Kirk’s body fit against his, locking into place like they were built to be in that position, in that narrow bed.

“Jim.”

Spock didn’t know what he was trying to do. He didn’t speak loud enough to wake Kirk, and yet, he knew Kirk was responding. Or maybe Spock was only imagining that?

Before he could lose too much time debating that point, Kirk’s mouth was against his.

Spock knew immediately that Kirk was still sleeping. For one thing, his mouth completely lacked tension. For another, the whimpers had not stopped. They came from the back of his throat, and they seemed to flow into Spock’s mouth, filling him up. But they had changed slightly. Now he sounded more hungry than lost.

The kiss continued in its sleepy way. Spock responded without pushing for more, wary of rousing Kirk from sleep. He also responded without pulling away. Occasionally, their tongues slid together, sending something like electricity down his spine. Like touching a short circuit and having no choice but to ride out the shocks.

Spock’s hand drifted down Kirk’s body, his fingers lightly running over his taut skin. That changed the shape of Kirk’s moans again. Now they were a little deeper, lasted a little bit longer, echoed in Spock’s mind. Kirk’s erection was unmistakable against Spock’s thigh. He wore light, loose pants—and nothing else. It wasn’t difficult to push his fingers past the waistband, testing the sensitive skin around Kirk’s groin and along the seam of his inner thigh.

Jim’s tone changed again. The pressure against Spock’s mouth changed, as well. Now it was more concrete. Solid. Spock didn’t think Kirk was fully awake, but he was certain that he was no longer hanging over the edge of some high, jagged cliff. Though he still clung to Spock with his full strength. Spock did not bruise easily, but he wouldn’t be surprised the next morning to see five perfect marks on his flesh.

He skimmed his palm over Jim’s slick skin, gathering the pre-come and spreading it down his shaft. Jim’s hips jerked, and Spock automatically tightened his grip in response. He held the other man until he stilled. His flesh pulsed, throbbing against Spock’s fingers, and Spock could hear Kirk’s heart beating as well. Spock could not see him, but he could easily imagine the perspiration on Kirk’s brow, as well as the pulse hammering at his throat.

“Please…”

The first word since the darkness had descended. As soon as Spock heard it, he knew that that was what he had been waiting for. A whisper to caress him, send chills down his back, even as his hands and face warmed with a curious flush. He didn’t ask for a clarification he didn’t need. He pumped his wrist, dragging his fist from the base of Kirk’s penis to the tip and then back again. Kirk reacted exactly as Spock knew he would—his body, at least, was wholly predictable. A shuddering moan that made them both weak, a thrust of his hips, a silent plea to continue that Spock heard loud and clear.

Spock tried to press closer to Kirk’s body, seeking out its sleepy warmth. As soon as Kirk felt the nudge of Spock’s knees, he draped one leg over Spock and pulled him forward. Spock barely had enough room to move his hand, but he didn’t let that stop him. The strokes were short and fast, building friction and heat between their skin. Kirk’s mouth broke away from Spock’s, and his lips sought out the curve of Spock’s neck.

There, all sound became inaudible. Nothing more that vibrations moving through Spock’s flesh. Each one of Spock’s sensitive nerve endings picked up the signal, and the silent moans of encouragement became caresses. Like long fingers, they stroked over Spock’s skin. A low pleasure poured through him, thick and sticky. It was a bit comforting. It made him ache. It was satisfying. He moved his wrist faster in response, trying to give Jim the same sort of sensation. He wasn’t sure if Jim’s flesh was as sensitive as his own. He wasn’t sure if Jim found pleasure in simple things—or even if he could find pleasure in the same things since he was not half-Vulcan. But Spock, at least, knew the basics, and he knew exactly what would make his Captain thrust his hips, what would make him shout into the bend of Spock’s neck.

Spock concentrated on keeping his own breathing even. The more Kirk moved against him, the more Spock slowed each breath. Until they were locked in complete silence, Kirk’s voice fully muffled, and Spock’s body almost utterly still. Except for the occasional expansion of his chest and the rapid motion of his wrist. Even Kirk was still, no longer thrusting his hips to seek out more friction, more pressure. To an outsider, they would look asleep. Spock tentatively reached for Kirk’s mind again and found a swirl of colors, of flesh, of skin, a deepening well of bliss and satisfaction.

And then it all exploded. The calm was shattered, the peace melted away as Kirk’s body went rigid and his length began to twitch in Spock’s hand, coating with warm, thick fluid. Spock held onto him, flexing his fingers, coaxing each drop of come, each second of pleasure from Jim’s body. There was a soft moan, and Spock realized it didn’t quite sound like the others. Because it was coming from his own throat.

Kirk slumped against him, still once more. Spock listened without moving, and counted two-point-seven seconds between each breath.

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