#ghostyfic

[ghostofasimov]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

✨New Fic Release✨

Star Trek TOS | Rating-E | Warnings for Violence, Blood, and mentions of Character Injury

Breaking a Sweat

After nearly losing Spock on a diplomatic mission that went sideways, Jim struggles to manage his stress in the aftermath and realizes he isn’t so willing to put Spock back on duty—back in harm’s way—without a fight.

I hope you enjoy the read!!!!

[ghostofasimov]

Based off of the drabble prompts here!

Break Me—Write an angsty drabble. [Kirk/Spock, TOS—pre relationship, City on the Edge of Forever]

——

The furnace burned out hours ago, and Spock was shivering in their apartment—the flop, as Jim had called it— as he sat and worked with a surgical precision on the transistor panels of the crude motherboard that was laying across the second bed.  

Spock’s eyes didn’t raise to the door as he heard it open, Full footsteps entered the room, along with the cloying smell of feminine perfume mingled with pine and musk.  He didn’t need to ask to know where Kirk had been.  

Kirk froze in the doorway.  “I didn’t think you’d be awake.”

“We have an unknown deadline that draws closer the longer we remain in this century.  If we do not find the singularity—“ he tried to keep his shuddering to a minimum.  

“If you’re going to try and burn the midnight oil, you might actually want to burn something.”  Kirk’s footfalls grew closer as he made his way to the furnace, grabbing a log and tossing it into their wood-stove “It’s chilly in here.”

“We must conserve resources.”

He huffed as he lit the furnace, his face in a raptures, golden glow that glinted off his eyes as they turned to look at him.  “Spock, if I have to drag you half-frozen to a hospital in the middle of Earth’s 20th century, I think we’d be looking at bigger problems than resource conservation.  Besides, I’m sure Edith would be more than willing to lend us some supplies if it meant not freezing for the night.”  His features softened in the fire.  Spock had never recalled a time he’d seen him so relaxed.  A Vulcan should have felt nothing.  A friend should have been grateful.  Neither described the twist in his abdomen as he moved on to the next coupling of wires on his board.  “I’d make it up to her.”

“What if Doctor McCoy arrives tomorrow?”

“I’ll deal with that tomorrow, then.”

“She cannot take precedence over the ship, Jim.”

“I don’t need you to remind me of my priorities!” 

 “I would not if I saw no reason—“  A shudder ripped through him in violent waves against his spine, and by the wide eyed shock in Kirk’s face, he hadn’t succeeded in concealing this one.  

Warm hands that smelled like her brushed against his cheek.   “You’re freezing.”  

There were a dozen things Spock should have said as Kirk pulled him away from his work and led him towards the bed.  A hundred more when Kirk began pulling off their clothes, bundling them together beneath the blankets as any man trained in survival would.  A thousand as he felt skin, heat, and a heart that didn’t beat for him radiating against his back.  And against all logic, he sank against arms that weren’t meant to hold him and felt that voice he’d follow anywhere drone against him as the room filled with idle chatter about survival tactics and 20th century economics and Edith Keeler—

And for the first time since they had arrived in this archaic century, Spock could understand why Kirk wanted to hold onto an illusion a little longer.  

[ghostofasimov]

Unfortunately, while not Vitrification nor an update to Symposium, I’ve been getting back into my writing projects after a really rough summer and have a 10k one-shot I’m close to finishing to offer as a treat for you all for being such patient readers!

If anyone is a fan of angst leading to a very steamy spar session with an established secret relationship, this one is definitely for you ;)

As an added treat—here’s a little preview snip below!

Spock dipped his head, his voice low and breath not close enough in the space between them.  “I will remind you, we made the terms clear to one another that our involvement would not impact the ship’s affairs.  Do not allow it to do so.”

Jim could feel his nostrils flare, and his temper seep out from under his control “I’m well within my right as your commanding officer to question your ability to participate in a landing party after a severe injury, Commander.  You saw the instant that explosion happened and not a moment after it.  You didn’t see the wreckage.  The rest of the landing party.  You didn’t see all the—“  He stopped as his throat constricted.  “When I saw you under that rubble, I thought you were dead, and you’re expecting me to clear you for the duty roster, just like that?”

“I am asking you to understand that I am not human, and that your standards for personnel recovery do not apply to me.”

“You’re not.  But you’re not indestructible, either.”  He wanted to see red, but all he could see was green.  Too much green.  Spilling, seeping, staining, even as he’d rinsed it down the drain.  

Spock didn’t respond to that.  “At any rate, the decision will lie with Doctor McCoy whether or not I am fit for duty.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that the duty roster is still mine to decide.”

“And if the medical data agrees with you, I shall respect that decision unquestionably.”

Jim shook his head, turning reaching for his towel to wipe the sweat from his brow.  “I’m sorry, Spock.  But even if McCoy thinks you’re ready, I’m not willing to put you on anything more than light-duty.  Not right now.  That’s what I believe will be the most beneficial to the landing party.”

“Their benefit, or yours, Captain?”

Something in him snapped, a jaw trap deep in a wound as he whipped around, closing the distance between them and making no effort to hide the fury on his face.  “Fine.  If we’re at a stalemate and neither of us is proving his point to the other, we’re doing this the hard way.  Spar with me.”

Spock was taken aback by the demand, his eyes softening as they raked over his body.  “You are exhausted, I do not think it wise—“

“Spar with me, or its a hard no,” he said, his tone strict and eyes unwavering as he issues Spock the challenge.  “You win, I let you on the duty roster if McCoy clears you.  You lose, and I don’t want to hear you countermand my decision on this again. Understood?”

[ghostofasimov]

And we’re almost ready for launch tonight!! 😍

[ghostofasimov]

Monday Writing Update!

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

I hit 3.5k for last week working on my Mirrorverse fic Vitrification and I’m well on my way to my soft Camp-NaNo goal of 10,000 words. I’ve also got a little treat for you all below. ;)

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ Spock followed his instructions, tilting his head up towards the ceiling and exposing the curve of his neck to the light.  Kirk saw him shiver and felt an involuntary chill run through his own skin at the soap-slicked pulse that rested beneath his fingers.  

“Were you just maintaining the edges?”  Kirk asked quietly, his eyes following the edge of his jaw, resting his knuckles against the fevered skin of Spock’s neck to anchor the draw of the blade.

“Yes.  I find human features allow me to seem less—intimidating.”

Kirk was no stranger to the knowledge that Spock’s presence was often a subject of gossip from the crew.   The whispers that trailed through the corridors were often a mixture of fear and hostility, remarking on the curve and point of his ears, the angled slant of his brows, how infrequently the man blinked and how little he conversed on matters outside of ship’s business.  He’d dismiss them with a stern reminder that the only business that mattered was the ship’s, but those were the easier things to defend.  The rest of the things sworn to never have been said curled somewhere dark and possessive in the middle of his chest, and he spared them no further thoughts as he steadied his thumb behind the delicate curve of his ear and began tracing the blade against Spock’s skin.

“You don’t owe them that.”  

“It matters not.  I have grown accustomed to it.”

Kirk had nothing to argue for that.  From the moment they’d met, Spock had always lived on the outside of society, too alien to gain the respect of humans, too human to be embraced by his own, alien people.  A boy lost, a man never found, masqueradeing with an identity he hoped would bring him some semblance of belonging in a world that didn’t want him.  Kirk’s reflection danced on the edge of the knife, his face on one end and Spock’s at the other before it was swallowed in soap foam, gliding down Spock’s throat, disappearing into the sanctity of routine.

Their silence over the scrape of stubble on Spock’s blade was a hymn for a truth he knew well.  People rarely hid themselves for the sake of others. 

Two more scrapes along his jaw, and a few strokes away from the side of his cheek, Kirk had finished, swiping his thumb against the side of Spock’s mouth to remove a stray drip of soap.  The line of his mouth tightened at the temperature of Spock’s cheek.  His hand turned backwards, pressing gently into the side of his skin before moving up to his forehead, knuckles blazing like he was holding a furnace.  “Mister Spock—”

“It is merely a fever.  It will run its course.”

[ghostofasimov]

Time for a little Monday treat by way of handing out a snip from my fic Vitrification—my TOS Mirrorverse take on the ‘Amok Time’ storyline.

🌙🌌 ✨

Erikson and Alvarez accompanied him from the bridge to Deck five in a rare and stifled silence. Kirk was impressed. The two had been his guards long enough that they’d stop caring about the number of personal conversations he was privy to. They were more entitled to the ship’s gossip and rumor mill than Kirk would ever be, and other than being a source of mild amusement in the isolation of his position, it also had served to save his life on more than one occaision. It wasn’t until they passed the turn onto the corridor of Deck five that he finally caught on—Alvarez’s lips were pulled taut, his cheeks flushed and glowing with the effort of holding in his laughter.

“Shut your shithole,” Erikson snapped.

Alvarez’s grin widened in a brilliant flash of teeth. “Oh come on that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all day, Rex. I’ve seen dozens of objects used as a murder weapon, but soup?!”

“Do you know how hard a Vulcan Extee can throw?” Erikson wave his hand around his neck. “I thought he was going to take my head off with the bowl!”

It only served to make Alvarez laugh harder. “Well, if Soltone’s color of the year is Plomeek, you’ve already got a head start on your uniform.”

Erikson rolled his eyes. “The agonizer booth is more of a riot than you are, Luís.”

“What’s this about soup?” Kirk watched them flinch, Erikson jumping at the tone of his voice, and Alvarez playing off his discomfort with an easy smile.

“Nothing, sir,” Erikson replied, pulling his uniform tunic straight as he continued walking down the corridor.

“Commander Spock decided his breakfast looked better on Rex’s face,” Alvarez’s Cheshire grin had Erikson muttering curses under his breath. “Hurled the whole bowl of soup at him. Stain’s still on the wall and everything.”

Kirk’s brow furrowed and his steps slowed as he tried to picture the scene. “Why, out of all people on this ship, would Commander Spock throw something at you if it wasn’t in self-defense?”

“Beats me. I thought Vulcans were pacifists,” Erikson said. “Look, I didn’t want to be on his tail as much as he didn’t, I was just trying to strike up some conversation to ease the atmosphere. One comment about shore leave and recreation dens—and the next thing I know I’m about to have a ceramic headpiece permanently fused to my skull.”

Kirk’s frown deepened. He almost wouldn’t have believed it was true, but the faint purple staining on the front of Erikson’s uniform was unmistakable for the deep hue of Plomeek soup, and as he rounded the hall to his quarters, he could see its matching culprit, the majority of the contents of Spock’s soup, lingering on the panel of the wall across from his cabin door. Spock could exercise violence if necessary. They’d crossed paths enough times under different circumstances for Kirk to know he wasn’t someone to underestimate in a fight. But now that Spock had the choice, violence was a last resort and even then, he detested it enough that he’d frequently abstain from it, often at his own expense.

Kirk sighed and turned to Erikson after he keyed in the code for his room. “You really brought up recreation dens in front of a Vulcan? If I were Mister Spock, I’d have half a mind to hurl a bowl at your head, too.”

[ghostofasimov]

Title: lsn’t That Worth A Career? Fandom: Star Trek: The Original Series Pairing: Kirk/Spock [Pre-Slash/Pre-Relationship] Rating: E Warnings: Unresolved Romantic and Sexual Tension, They don’t get together Words: 4,848 [One-shot, Complete] Summary: In the aftermath of Spock's Pon Farr, Kirk realizes the lines between their professional and personal relationship are not as clear cut as they should be. [A post-Amok Time with lots of pining and two fools who just won’t cross that line.]

Read my first published one-shot here!

Edit: Feel free to reblog and share with folks if it interests you! I’m slowly managing my way through learning to build an audience for my work. Thank you all for the continued support. ❤️

[ghostofasimov]

✨Writing Update✨

I’ve started going through edits and have a few people interested in Beta reads for my spar-thirst angst fest piece, Breaking a Sweat. I’m hoping to be able to post it by the end of the week, but we’ll see!

As an extra special treat for you all—here’s the first 600 words of Breaking a Sweat.

[Content warnings include violence, angst, blood, explosions, injured main character, and trauma.]

The sweat dripping down his face did nothing to cool the flush on his skin as Jim pushed the bar off his chest, hands choking the metal as his arms shook and buckled against the weight of it.  He held it, counting seconds behind closed eyes as he tried to purge the day from his mind, reducing himself to the simple function of breath, numbers, and the ache of his body supine on a bench, lying somewhere between routine and overindulgence.  

  Breath was the foundation for everything.  An expanse he could feel radiating in his chest.  A rhythm he’d memorized, pulling in as the bar came back to hover above his chest, and out as he pushed it up again.  

In.

Out.

In— 

Breath was desperation and panic, spilling quick from his lungs as he tore through the rubble of the Videan embassy, debris and shattered opulence cutting into his palms and scuffing his dress uniform as he searched for signs of life in the aftermath of an anarchist’s playground.  And his duty had kept him on the ship.  If they hadn’t signed the accords on the ship—

Out—

He huffed sharply, his throat raw from calling out ranks and names between dust-filled coughs, and his ears ringing with the screaming silence of their absent response.  He spied a communicator, snapped in half from the pressure of the column that had crumbled over it.   He spied a body just the same, the red of their shirt matching the grim color on the floor.  He swallowed a sickening lump.  If he’d only noticed the signs sooner, he’d have called the whole thing off and made demands of his own.  

In—

Blood.  The twinge of blood and noxious smell of a lithium-fuse reaction made him sick to his stomach.  But he was sicker still without knowing.  He’d never forgive himself if the last conversation they had were the professional  logistics of a landing party for a diplomatic decoy.  He’d bid his usual farewell, a silent, authoritative look that begged him to exercise his best judgement in caution.  There was never enough time and space for more words than that. 

Out—

He’d barely heard Lieutenant Giotto call for him when the air was mercilessly ripped from his lungs.  If breathing was intrinsic, he’d forgotten how and why.  He ran, numb, and threw his weight to the ground, his hands fitting perfectly against the face they’d mapped many times, turning green as they pressed against clammy skin, begging him to open his eyes.

In—

His hands grasped painfully against the stone, skin splitting on broken edges as he failed to lift the column.  And heaved, strained, and failed again.  Giotto was by his side, calling the rest of the security detail to assist.  If there were words of comfort there, he hadn’t heard them over the blood in his ears, or his hands, or the floor.  

Out—

He wasn’t sure if the column moved first, or he did, but his knees slammed against the unforgiving, onyx floor, and his hands moved of their own accord.  For what use, he wouldn’t know.  His knowledge of medicine was like him, enough to get by but nothing extraordinary.  It existed for survival, and survival alone.  And God, if he could will that away to his better half in this moment, he would in the span of the rapid, alien heartbeat that didn’t flutter against his palm.