Author: Corpus Invictus
Title: Lazy Rainy Sunday
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Spock/Kirk
Rating: Hard R maybe?
Notes: Written for the Star Trek XI Kink Meme prompt found here: "Kirk/Spock, shmoopy domestic fic. Kirk and Spock are between missions, and are holed up in their little San Francisco apartment, and it's a lazy, rainy Sunday morning, and Kirk wakes up to Spock making breakfast in the kitchen, and Kirk wanders out there and wraps his arms around Spock (who has his back to Kirk) and starts nuzzling the back of Spock's neck and planting kisses. And then possibly sex (but I'd like it without sex as much; that would be just as good) and cuddling."
This is shameless, unrepentant, unapologetic shmoop. But it's relatively short shmoop, at least. I have to limit myself or I will write stuff like this forever and I will forget what "plot" means.



There's a kind of brilliant hedonism about this, Kirk decides as his brain slowly eases into wakefulness. There are no computers giving him the time by Federation standards, no security or battle alarms blazing, no sirens giving him a mild headache before he's even aware of his eyes opening. There's only the sound of a soft summer storm pattering against the window, and other, more muted sounds coming from elsewhere in the apartment.

He throws an arm out blindly, searching for hot skin to nuzzle into, grumbling incoherently to himself when he feels nothing but rumpled sheets and cool mattress. He manages to crack one eye open; sure enough, he's the only one in the bed. There's no sound coming from the bathroom, no shower or sink running, which means he's going to have to get out of bed to go find him.

Life sure is rough, he thinks.

He gets up blearily, rubbing the sleep and muck out of his eyes and looking around for some manner of clothing that will keep him decent when he leaves the room. He could swear he had shucked a pair of pajama pants to the floor last night before pouncing on Spock, but they're nowhere to be found now. He ambles off to the bathroom, sparing a minute to brush his teeth before snatching a well-worn bathrobe and tossing it on carelessly, shuffling out to find his missing bedmate.

There's the sound of more rain against the windows out here, but there are more interesting sounds coming from the kitchen. He peeks through the doorway, grinning when the mystery of his missing pajama pants is suddenly solved. They're a little too short on Spock, hitched just a little too high over his feet and baring some of his ankle, but Kirk can't find it too terribly dorky because he's kind of loving the fact that Spock is wearing his clothes.

He also appears to be throwing some manner of breakfast food together, even though they discovered during their last shore leave that they're both of them a little disastrous in the kitchen. Spock is a vegetarian, Kirk is decidedly not, and they're both so used to dealing with the Enterprise replicator that they seem to have lost touch with how to cook. But it's difficult to screw up toast and coffee, which is apparently what Spock has settled on.

Kirk walks over to him quietly, and Spock seems unsurprised when he wraps his arms around his waist, planting a few kisses at his hairline before hooking his chin over his shoulder. "Morning," Kirk mumbles, watching him work.

"Yes, it is," Spock returns, and Kirk rolls his eyes at how damnably literal he can be at times. "I had thought you might be sufficiently exhausted to sleep until I finished this."

He shrugs a bit. "Guess you didn't wear me out enough. Gonna have to try harder next time." He turns his face to nose behind Spock's ear, pressing a kiss against a fading green mark there.

"I will certainly attempt to remedy such a serious situation," he replies dryly, belied by the way he arches his neck to give Kirk more access to his skin.

"We've still got another day before we have to report back," Kirk murmurs, lips traveling along the point of his ear. "That's plenty of time to fix things."

There's a faint tremor passing down Spock's spine, and he only realizes that because he's pressed so close. He grins into his hair, continuing to nuzzle and lick at his neck while one hand unwraps itself from Spock's waist, smoothing along his bare arm and tracing teasing patterns over the back of his hand. Spock becomes too distracted for speech momentarily, gripping the butter knife in his hand just a little too hard while Kirk drags the pads of his fingers over his wrist, tracing around his knuckles, trailing into the creases between his fingers. He grins into the juncture of Spock's neck and shoulder when he feels the man's hips twitch just a little at the attention. When Spock manages to speak again his voice is just as maddeningly even as ever, but there's a husky undertone in it that lets Kirk know he's doing things right. "It would be inadvisable to continue doing that while I am holding a knife."

Kirk chuckles, licking at the small bump of his spine at the nape of his neck. "So drop it," he says, trying to get his best sultry bedroom voice pitched directly in Spock's ear. "Come back to bed."

He hesitates, shivering as Kirk keeps up the attentions to the back of his hand. "We should eat," he murmurs, short and to the point for him.

"We can eat later."

Spock finally sets the knife down, shifting in his arms to face him, one hand attempting to comb through Kirk's thoroughly rumpled hair. "You get to organize our next meal," he informs him, pressing a kiss to his temple.

"S'fine," he agrees vaguely. "You're not the only master chef with toast-making skills."

Spock murmurs equally vague agreement against his lips before pressing in for a proper kiss. Kirk opens to it easily, tasting the faint coppery tang of Spock's mouth while he insinuates his fingers under the waistband of his pajamas. "Y'stole my pants," he tries to accuse him, but it comes out fuzzy and entirely too comfortable for the effect to work.

"Mine were destroyed," Spock reminds him, slowly backing them into the hallway.

Kirk grins against the skin of his jaw, remembering exactly how they were destroyed. "Oh yeah," he rumbles proudly, fingers wrapping around his hips as the waistband slowly eases down his waist.

"You have no room to complain, at any rate," Spock continues, pulling him towards the bedroom and deftly untying the belt of his robe, "seeing as you've stolen this."

"Last time I walked in the kitchen naked you got cranky about it," Kirk points out reasonably, tugging Spock's pants down and off before they crawl back into the bed.

"Last time you walked into the kitchen unclothed, the protest was due mostly to the fact that I was speaking to my father over the viewscreen on my communicator," Spock points out equally reasonably, shifting a leg to rest over Kirk's hip, a silent, subtle request to be touched.

"Got him to shut up pretty quick, though, didn't it?" The grin gets impossibly wider, and he tries to hide it by sliding down Spock's body and pressing a kiss to his upper thigh.

And then he's pressing kisses into far more intimate areas. And then there are pressing fingers. And then there's nothing but the easy joining of their bodies, the relaxed rhythm between them matching the raindrops spattering the window, the luxury of being together without rushing to finish before the next disaster strikes. There's time to map out each other's mouths, to take in the taste of fading scars on skin, to touch and explore and enjoy. The end doesn't rage through them, isn't explosive like it is when they're high on adrenaline and desperation, but they melt against each other with a symphony of moans and contented sighs, arms and legs tangled, foreheads pressed together as they recover.

Kirk has one of Spock's hands trapped between them again, thumbs massaging into the fleshy pads of his palm, his intent now to soothe rather than arouse. Spock is repressing a sound that's dangerously close to a purr, eyes drifting shut at the sensations. "How many more days of leave?" he asks quietly.

"Not counting today," because apparently Spock believes the whole day is shot now, and Kirk can't blame him, "one."

It's not enough - he needs another week or month or longer to get settled in his skin again, to relax enough to forget the sounds of alarms blaring and computers shouting at him and aliens trying to make squishy pink pudding of his brains.

But it'll do, for now at least, so Kirk just smiles and leans in for another kiss.


[If you would like to leave the author a comment regarding this fic, the original posting can be found at Corpus Invictus' Dreamwidth journal.]


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