[personal profile] gmtaslash
Title: Holosuite One
Author: [personal profile] gmtaslash, principally in the guise of Trojie.
Fandom: Star Trek XI/2009/Reboot/whatever the hell we're sposed to call it
Pairing: Kirk/Spock
Rating: NC-17
Notes: Er, supposed to be short PWP written on demand? And ... got a bit bigger? Still PWP, but takes forever to get there.
Warnings: Slash (but warning for incorrectly applied pronouns lest anyone be disturbed), holosuites, blindfolds
Disclaimer: People we are not include anyone actually involved in the production of Star Trek XI, or in fact any Star Trek, ever. We do not own Star Trek. We do own approximately one non-consecutive third of Voyager and the entirety of Deep Space Nine on DVD, but that probably doesn't count.

Beta-read by [livejournal.com profile] ansela_jonla, our PWP beta-goddess, and also by Bridget, who is so happy to be given porn to make her feel better that she doesn't object to having to beta it straight away.



If there is anything Jim Kirk blesses Starfleet tech for, it's the holosuites. Because let's face it, a five year mission to discover new worlds, contact alien species, and boldly go where no fucker has ever bothered to go before involves a lot of time hanging around on the bridge and lounging in a very comfortable chair. If he's not careful, this'll end in a beer gut. Entertainment is in short supply on the bridge, as well. There're only so many jokes to be made about Russian accents before your little genius navigator turns the puppy eyes on you. And you can only call your CMO to the bridge in the hopes of getting him and your First Officer into a verbal punch-up so many times before they both cotton on to you, and while they're hilarious in opposition, they're terrifying on the few occasions they're in agreement. Kirk's had so many officially scheduled full physicals that he feels like he should marry McCoy's rubber gloves and hypospray, they've become so intimately acquainted. Ah, Bones. There's a man who knows the meaning of torture.

So he escapes to the holosuites as often as he can, and runs through every damn programme he can, trying out such pursuits as kayaking on Risa, kickboxing, even Sulu's fencing programmes on occasion.

Thing is, exercise programmes are all very well, but, well, sometimes that's not the exercise you want.

The exercise you want, however, is damned hard to get on a starship when you're the Captain, because you can't just go around propositioning people who might think you're giving them orders, and the fact is that the entirety of Kirk's bridge crew is damned fine, and it's driving him up the wall. Starfleet's regulation tight uniform trousers and microscopic miniskirts were obviously designed to test the self-control of the captains. It's like the Sexual Harassment Kobayashi Maru.

Yes, the exercise Kirk most frequently wants is not exactly kickboxing ...

Programmes set on Risa, fortunately, are quite good at solving whatever entertainment issue you could possibly have. This one involves quite a number of Nuvian masseuses. Very ... good with their hands.

Kirk's aware he's making some really godawful noises, but computers don't care what stupid sounds you make.

'We have someone new here,' purrs the Nuvian girl in his ear. 'He's very good at ... deep massage,' she adds, and the way she says it makes Kirk completely ignore the pronoun in favour of concentrating on the word 'deep'.

He shivers a little, and says 'Yeah, sure, whatever you think,' because she's got one hand smoothing just under his left shoulderblade where he's had an ache for two days now, and her other hand is nudging under the towel that's already slung low enough on his hips, and Kirk thinks maybe he's just a Captain-shaped puddle of anticipation right now. It's a massage (and other, related pursuits) holosuite programme. It's not like anything painful or dangerous is going to happen.

The first pair of hands are removed, and replaced by a pair a good bit bigger, and harder, but God, they're warm as Hell and they push just the right side of too hard. Kirk lets his eyes fall shut and outright moans when they find a knot at the base of his spine, pushing and kneading until it's gone. The movement pushes the towel away as well, and it falls to the ground.

Whoever wrote this programme was a genius. Kirk's never felt so relaxed in his life, and the direction the hands are taking is ... mmm. 'Yeah, right- right there,' he sighs.

He was hoping for some kind of a response to that, even just the sort of indulgent chuckle that seems to be the only response programmed into these girls, because if he wanted to do this on his own he'd be in his quarters making use of his vivid imagination, not here using up valuable holosuite time, but he was disappointed. Little miss masseuse is being coy, or something.

Okay, so, not talkative. Good with her hands though. Kirk wriggles to give her a bit more room and is startled to find one hand wrapping a blindfold around his eyes.

Alright, getting a bit kinky there. But he can tell the computer to end programme any time he likes. So that's okay. It's okay.

Actually, as he helps the masseuse roll him over, it's more than okay. It's fucking fantastic, because now he can just concentrate on the feel of the whole thing as she works him over, collarbones, down over his chest, stomach, hips, then starting again at his feet, slowly, teasingly, up his calves, thighs ... she's avoiding everywhere he wants her, and that makes it even better ... means it's going to last, it's going to be so good when she gets to it.

Finally he can feel the insane heat of her hand over him, and it seems like she's hesitating. By this point Kirk's panting, desperate for her to just go for it, but he forces himself to ask what's wrong, (just because she's a hologram doesn't mean he shouldn't practice his manners, after all, one day maybe he'll actually get to go to Risa, if Starfleet have factored shore leave into this whole crazy five-year-mission crap, and he'll be damned if he's rude to an actual girl when he finally gets to one).

There's a little pause, while Kirk squirms uncomfortably and keeps reminding himself it's bad manners to grab someone's hand and shove it places, and then a voice, a good bit deeper than Kirk was expecting, and far too familiar, says '... nothing, but I must ask-'

Kirk rips off the blindfold in a fraction of a fraction of a second and finds himself face to face with his first officer, out of uniform and wearing a ridiculous sarong, no shirt, and some kind of stupid necklace of flowers.

Being stark naked in the presence of your just-this-side-of-crossdressing first officer is breaking so many Starfleet regulations that Kirk can't actually think of them all right now. And Spock hates breaking Starfleet regulations. Hell, he probably sleeps with the book of rules under his fucking pillow. Ergo, this can't be Spock.

He scrabbles for a bit of sanity. 'Computer, discontinue image of Commander Spock.' And then send coded message to designer of holosuite programme Risa 07, informing him that if this is his idea of a practical joke he can shove his datafile right up his-

Cannot comply. There is no image of Commander Spock currently being generated by this holosuite.


'Computer, locate Commander Spock.' The image of Commander Spock looks uncomfortable.

Commander Spock is currently in Holosuite 1. Ah. That would be because it's not an image of Commander Spock, it IS Commander Spock, in which case he had better fucking well look uncomfortable because what the hell does he think he was doing?

Kirk ignores the little voice that says 'He was doing something you've daydreamed about him doing for quite some time, ever since he manhandled you on the bridge in front of everyone and you had to go and have a wank in the bathroom while Chekov did his telemetry and Scotty found a towel.'

'You had better have a fucking good explanation for this, Spock,' says Kirk, hauling himself off the bed and grabbing the towel. Yes, admittedly, Spock has definitely seen everything he could possibly have wanted to, and the towel is a bit late, but Kirk won't feel better until he's got at least four layers on and is five hundred yards from every Vulcan in existence, so the towel is at least a start. How he ever managed to mistake a male Vulcan's hand for a holographic woman's one is something he'll never work out.

'Efficiency,' is the Vulcan's only offering. Kirk can't even begin to form words as to how inadequate an explanation this is. Apparently his expression conveys this, though, because Spock goes on to say, 'It seemed to me that the standard Human method of expressing mutual attraction was both time-consuming and needlessly inefficient.'

'And how did you work out that the attraction was mutual?' Kirk asks, trying very hard to keep his dignity when the rest of his body is thinking about efficiency and blindfolds and massage oil.

'Captain, I pride myself that I am an astute observer. However, if you inform me that I was mistaken in my inferences, I will of course terminate this programme and leave. And if you so wish, I can and will transfer to another vessel.'

'No!' says Kirk, perhaps a little too fast given he's still trying to maintain the appearance of righteous anger. 'I mean, that will not be necessary, Commander Spock.'

Spock eyes him. 'Captain, I require clarification,' he says at last, after his eyes have had time to travel up and down Kirk's mostly exposed body one more time. 'Do you mean that there is no need for me to terminate the programme, or to transfer to another vessel?'

Kirk gulps. See, there are two ways this could go. Either he tells Spock to get out, opens another programme, one that's not so big on the foreplay, and gets a convenient hologram to take care of the now quite pressing issue underneath his towel, or he tells him to stay. Either option is going to end in lots of awkwardness on the bridge for at least another couple of weeks.

Spock, however, has clearly thought of this already. 'I have already taken the liberty of arranging the next two month's shifts so that we do not man the bridge together,' he says. 'In case of distractions.'

Kirk's still deciding what to do. He tries to look away, but Spock's physique and the little that the sarong is doing to conceal it and its state of arousal is not helping. He tries for that clarity of mind that he felt during the battle with the Narada, that sense that the decisions were so easy, so obvious.

Fuck it. Actually, this is not a hard decision.

Kirk drops the towel and steps forward, mentally daring Spock to back away now. This was your idea, bucko. Don't make me court-martial you for being a cock-tease.

Hot arms go around his shoulders, and there's no mucking around, Spock obviously knows how long Kirk's been ready for this. He sweeps him up and deposits him back on the bed, dropping to his knees.

Kirk's eyes roll back into his head and he has to bite his tongue to stop those stupid noises coming out again. Maybe this is how the bastard got promotion so fast, he thinks slightly hysterically. It's not going to matter that they're not scheduled to man the bridge together for two months - every damn time Kirk leans against or sits on anything, anything, for months, he's going to be thinking about this, hot and raw and perfect, wet, god, so wet, so hot, in every possible sense of the word, with just that hint of teeth, hint of danger to it, like there always is to having something so delicate and so personal so intimately involved with someone else ... and Spock's breath is hitching, there's this loss of rhythm, and Kirk looks down to see Spock's got one hand lost somewhere inside his sarong, and his eyelids are fluttering.

It's possibly the most arousing thing he's ever seen, including that time Gaila turned up to navigation class in men's uniform because she'd been in some guy's room the night before and something unspeakable had happened to her uniform and she'd had to borrow his. Oh God, oh fuck, what a time to start thinking about that too, but even she's not as ...

'Spock, don't,' he says weakly, pulling at Spock's hair, trying to get him off because he's about to lose it, but he's not moving, and oh Jesus, there he goes.

There they both go, apparently. Kirk can't help but wonder dazedly if it's more efficient that way, if Spock planned it that way for that reason. And who is he, Scotty, to think that efficiency is such a turn-on all of a sudden? Next thing he knows he'll be humping the coolant pipes, for Chrissakes.

'Spock,' he says, as the Vulcan turns away to delicately wipe his mouth on one of the towels liberally strewn around the place. 'Spock.'

'Yes, Captain?' says Spock, resolutely meeting Kirk's eyes.

To hell with awkwardness. Kirk wraps an arm around his first officer's shoulders. 'You'd better schedule us back how we were,' he says.

Spock raises an eyebrow.

'If we're not working together, we don't have downtime together either. And I don't know about you, but that? Was too good to be a one-off.'

'Captain, I -'

'C'mon, Spock, don't make me do something you'll regret.'

'Such as?'

Kirk lowers the timbre of his voice seductively. 'You, me, midnight shift, Captain's chair ... I know you like ordering me around ...'

'And how would I regret this?' asks Spock, an audible quiver in his voice.

'If you schedule us to different shifts,' says Kirk, 'we never get to try it out.' He steers Spock towards the door. 'Think about it, Spock. Computer, end programme.'
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