#v. will turn to noble ambition | dune au

[endeavvor]

There are things he'd almost managed to forget — like the way the grass smells at night and the way vindication can appear like flames beneath a gaze. Irulan has that look now as she stares down where he's settled in.

"If you start singing, I'm going to throw up."

spotify wrapped — the good i'll do — zac bryan

@inn0cencestrained

[endeavvor]

“ You are not taking me seriously. ”

Dune: Part One Prompts

It was a dream.

Is what Kirk wants to tell him, reiterate it, really, since it was the second reaction to the solemn face he'd been met with after coming off the Ornithopter. He knew better than to say it was just anything, given the sometimes near accuracy of Spock's drinks.

Come back to me. He should have said, as he did every time he found his way to the other - rubbing his eyes, half awake - but still capable of seeing the faraway look Spock got whenever a dream truly plagued him.

Unfortunately, he did neither of these things - instead, he had laughed.

And he regretted it, but truth be told, he'd been so damned relieved to be home that it's how the tension released itself from him.

Not home as in a place, as this household on Arrakis was still very new and mostly unexplored. The walls were cavernous for luxury and expensive tastes, not equal to that of the homes on Vulcan, that were cavernous because of the architectural necessity when carving into rock. He imagined it would be odd to see the modest people within these walls.

But home as in the familiar and comforting presence of the other. He'd anticipated it being mutual, but had known immediately something was amiss with the way Spock stalked towards him. There was always a seriousness to his features, but this was something else, something more. The rest of the crew was waved away with the shake of a hand before the two were mere feet apart.

"Okay, listen," Kirk drops his voice, taking Spock by the shoulder and steering him away from the bustle of the rest of the hanger. "I've got about forty minutes until I'm expected in Sarek's council chambers to give a briefing. That's at least ten to get lost trying to find my way, fifteen to get out of this stillsuit and shower." Which suddenly felt like a necessity given he hadn't realized just how dirty he felt until met with the pristine of the other.

Suddenly, he's not sure how much of his golden skin was actual tan and how much was caked on dirt - and he'd heard stories about the scent beneath these things.

"Come with me, tell me about it."

@fasciinating

[endeavvor]

His steps echo around him as he makes his way through the house he's come to call home. At one time, he'd have run the tips of his fingers across the stone, cool despite the afternoon heat, just to convince himself it was real. It didn't matter if he'd been part of the S'Scn T'Gai household for the better part of a decade, welcomed as a son in the way only a Vulcan knew how. There were times he'd close his eyes and get lost in the memories of the cruelties that had been wrecked upon him by the Harkonnens, the worse being the loss of his brother. It left him being driven by a desperate need to prove himself, his skill, his worth.

Sarek knew this intimately. Had pushed him. Trusted him. Now was gifting him with a task.

Each staccato made worse by the tread of the boots he's wearing, but they were necessary for the meeting he'd been called in to - as are the fatigues he's donned. They are not his preference for sparring, but he is late, and the loose linen will have to do in a pinch.

Spock is there when he arrives, ever punctual, with hands cupped and at the small of his back as he looks out the window. Kirk is content to watch him for a moment, a slight tilt to his head as if in deep contemplation. And in a way, he is: is he ready to for this? Moreover, does he have a choice? He also wonders if the other was aware of his orders, either suspiciously absent from or purposefully left out of the briefing he'd come from.

It matters not, and the gaze is dropped by the time the Vulcan turns. It is dropped, and Kirk is turning, biting the inside of his cheek as he turns towards the display of weapons spanned out over the table. When he does look up, when he does meet Spock's eye, his face is a mask.

"What are you thinking today?"

@fasciinating

[endeavvor]

“ Their cruelty to my people is all I've known. ”

Dune: Part One Prompts

Not for the first time is Kirk forced to ask himself what he truly knows of these people. Only what is written in the texts by those that have attempted to carve a hole through them. There is no curiosity in the words, it is purely scientific in a way that reads like a dissection.

It is telling.

He thinks of what he's come to learn in the few days he's spent here amongst them in a brittle peace. How many times did he chide Spock that not everything could be learned in a book, yet fell into the same mold. He relied upon what was comfortable, and because of it, he is falling short.

Kirk has not yet earned his way, and though he can tell this makes them hesitant to him. His time is borrowed on the back of a promised ally. Though, to earn his place would be a fight to the death, senseless without challenge. A robbery of the people he's trying to know.

Logically, he knows it is necessary.

His hands are clasped behind his back, to still them from reaching out and touching anything as they pass, or offering things to the children that are seen - determined to be brave or seek a glimpse of an outsider, whose eyes are so blue they suspect he's one of them, save for the white still visible around them - hide behind their mother's legs, or immediately dart back out of view into familiar outcroppings.

Mostly, it is her side he is kept to: Layla El-Faouly. He catches her eye every time he does something that marks him considerably as an outsider. Tugging at the neck of his stillsuit, a gift from her people that is not yet broken in or comfortable against his skin. Even shielding his eyes from the unrelenting sun. It did not matter if he came from a desert planet of his own, it paled in comparison to Arrakis - whose sand was lighter and reflected heat worse.

It reminded him only how much comfort had been taken for granted, and how ashamed he was of the thought of returning to the house they were to occupy. It was fitted with large tanks to store fresh water so the S'Chn T'Gai household would not go without. His cheeks colored with it now, but could be mistaken for his fairer skin becoming overheated.

"Often," He starts to speak, surprised when his voice cracks from disuse. Nothing is wasted here, not even words. "I think people mistake cruelty for power. They think it instills servitude, but only breeds rebellion." A shrug, he should make another pass here, stress the importance of the alliance he's come to foster, but doesn't. Nor does he show his own scars from such cruelty, but he does give, just a little. "I know of their cruelty too. They took my brother from me, and maybe his death was a kindness, considering everything he went through before it, but it doesn't make me any less angry about it."

@lalamoon

[endeavvor]

That is because at one point, humans fell victim to complacency. He does not say, or elaborate further that it was this complacency that was almost their downfall. It is what allowed the machines, cleverly coined thinking machines, that almost exterminated their race to gain so much power. No one wanted to make decisions, no one wanted the accountability, and it is also why the Empire was allowed to rise in its place.

One evil for another.

Is it lost on her, Kirk wonders, for all her preaching that she is now poised to sit at the head of that very power?

The swordmaster thinks not. Princess Irulan was exactly where she wanted to be. Exactly where the Bene Gesserit witches wanted her to be. She was a pawn in a larger game, whether she realized it or not; but what he had yet to figure out is what she intended to do about it. She did not strike him as one that went down without a fight.

A wolf spider, burrowed in its den, waiting for prey to pass before it lurched out to grab it. The threat of her was real, but that lust for a throne was more dangerous than any form of fury and wrath.

"It would be rude to start correcting your thinking now," It is said with an air of mockery, undercut with defiance. "And a lot less for for me. But let's talk this through, shall we?" Pushing off the shelf and away from her books should give her some form of ease, until he's stalking towards her. Shortening the distance between them. "You knew when you sent your soldiers after me what I was, and your extensive reading list also means you knew that any Ginaz Swordmaster's skill goes above and beyond the capabilities of your precious Sardaukar. You knew I would resist, and you knew it would cost them their lives, so the only person you have to blame here is yourself."

Were she smart, she'd have sent soldiers whose loyalty she was questioning. Two birds, one stone. OR her own Swordmaster, as all great houses generally have one, which means hers is loyal to her father and not beneath her thumb. But who is he to judge her politics? For emphasis, he's ticking these counter points off on his fingers as he continues, pausing only to allow the effect of the silence to punctuate his words.

"You don't want your people to get hurt, that's very noble of you, but that's exactly what is going to happen when war comes — because it will come. Your Bene Gesserit sisters know it, they've been salivating over it for centuries. They pull the strings behind all great houses, and yours is no exception. As a member of their order, as a truthsayer, you know this better than anyone."

Kirk's gaze dips towards her throat now, bared and vulnerable, it would be so easy.

"I'm not interested. Lock me up if you must, but know I'll be out of there by the end of the day."

Emerald eyes lock on him as he strides towards her books, taking a mental note of his seeming interest in them, though she couldn't fight the way her stomach churns with worry and the way her heart pounds in fear he'd do something to disrupt her collection. Her hand selected and organized collection. Nor could she help the step she takes and the near sound that escapes her lips when his finger comes to the delicate bindings.

Maybe bringing this man into her library was a mistake.

"It's a Princess's duty to know the history of the Empire, of her people and their past. If we don't learn from our past, we're bound to repeat it. Humans fall into a pattern of unawareness...so it's best to be aware. Besides, I use them for my own writings. Philosophies, historicals, biographies, and so on. You seem to have your own interest in books...or am I wrong?"

Lips press together once more as his elbow rests upon one of her shelfs, and she does her best to keep her features even- though there is no way to keep the surprise away at his blunt nature. Not many people spoke to her, period, but surely no one below her status had dared to speak to her like that. Were she her father or Reverend Mother, she wasn't sure he'd still be standing.

But Irulan wasn't her father nor the Reverend Mother.

"You'd like the truth?" Irulan repeats, more to herself than to him. Steps slowly begin to walk in his direction. "Let's start here then, wounding just one of my soldiers is enough to sentence you to death. My father and Bene Gesserit don't exactly take kindly to actions such as yours, and I now have to go tell six sets of family members that they've lost someone they love. Not only that, but now I have to keep this mess as quiet as I can so they don't come for you. I meant what I said about not wanting my people to get hurt and that includes you. You're right, I want something from you, but I'm not willing to sacrifice your life for it...though you're not exactly making that decision a concrete one."

She shoots him a look then continues. "We're headed to war and House Harkonnen is relishing in it- pushing it- though they're doing a damn good job at covering their tracks. I have reason to believe one of the men there is pushing it harder than others, in fact he has deliberately leading his own attacks not just on Arrakis but other planets as well- peaceful planets with peaceful people who don't deserve the destruction and death Giedi Prime is bringing their way.- planets that will fall should there be a war. My father won't hear my concerns and I fear it'll be too late by the time he will. I need proof. I need information. The man doing this has ties to the death of your brother. I can't say for certain he was the one to took his life, but I know he had some sort of involvement. You could get answers, just as I could. You know what the planet is like- where to look and how- I'd like your help....in fact I'm close to begging for it. But if you want me to keep with the honesty, I can't say I trust you to get the job done without either getting yourself killed or frankly...betraying me. You can refuse. I won't make you do this...but you'll know a secret of mine just as I know you killed my men- my father's men. I won't bother keeping it locked away should someone start asking questions because I can't know if you'll keep mine. I won't tell...but I won't deny either. Frankly, James Kirk, we both know too much now...and it's up to you how much gets put out in the universe."

[endeavvor]

"You're in no condition to fight." (From Irulan if you'd like)

DRAGON AGE: THE VEILGUARD PROMPTS PT 1

It starts as a second pulse, something that slithers alongside the natural beating of his heart. It is utterly locked within his chest that he desperately wishes to push outwards.

A wave, radiating, only to crash against some unseen shore.

It is suffocating, this anger and rage, that reverberated upwards since sinking to his knees in a moment of utter weakness. It breeds a type of desperation that is unbecoming of his will. His hands shake from it.

I am a weapon, the mantra reverberates in time of that second rhythm. It should be seamless, the transition from steel to flesh — to drop his blade would be a shame even if his body aches from the bruises it has been dealt.

A severing.

An amputation.

Kirk would be nothing without the weight of a killing instrument within his palm.

I am better than this.

He twists his wrist, stabs the end of his sword into the hard packed earth now and uses the leverage to force his way to his feet.

Standing, he towers over her cloaked form.

“What,” Kirk asks carefully through clenched teeth, his grimace is stained by iron, “Would you have me do?”

[endeavvor]

Time passes, people move. Like a river's flow, it never ends. A childish mind will turn to noble ambition. Young love will become deep affection. The clear water's surface reflects growth. | Dune AU

H I S T O R Y

With the tragic loss of her husband, Winona Kirk does her best to raise her sons. Sam, the oldest, takes after her. Jim, however, has George's eyes. As he grows older, it is evident it is not the only characteristic taken from his father and she can no longer look at him. She remarries with the intention of dumping the boys on their new stepfather and returning to her career as a starship pilot.

Frank is not kind.

When Jim turns thirteen, there is an incident. It results in their stepfather's death. Refusing to collect them, Winona sends her sons to live with their aunt and uncle on Tarsus. At first, it is the happiest Sam and Jim have been in their childhood. They have a freedom that had been previously ripped away from them, and a loving home.

That's when the crops begin to die.

Tarsus was a colonized planet that relied on their harvest to feed the people. When the fungus ran rampant, it caused mass hysteria. In an attempt to save his people, Governor Kodos turned to House Harkonnens - whose arrival was suspiciously convenient - for supplies. The only thing they asked was for half the population to return to their planet, Giedi Prime.

The deal was struck, and the colonists were enslaved.

On Giedi Prime, Sam and Jim were separated. The elder boy sent to be trained as a courtesan. The younger, sent to the pits where they expected him to fall in battle quickly. Maybe it was his age, or maybe the person he shared a cell with just took pity on him, but Jim was taken under his wing and taught to fight. Except he didn't have the stomach for it, he did enough to stay alive, but not enough to win in a way that would gain attention.

Until Sam died.

The details of what happened to his brother are unknown to him. Jim doesn't want to know. What he imagines is bad enough. But it sparked a fire. He stopped fighting to survive and started fighting because he liked the pain.

H O U S E S'CHN T'GAI

Even though he only spent a year on Tarsus and Giedi Prime - it had changed him. He does not know why Sarek's people ended up on the planet, just that they did, and once discovered, could not leave him behind. The battle-worn child was taken back to Vulcan and given a place in the house.

But his anger and violent outbursts were contradictory to the peaceful people. His emotions a stark contrast to their logic; but Sarek did not look down on him. Instead, he appealed to a trusted friend: Christopher Pike.

Pike challenged Jim, trained him, and inevitably suggested he be sent to Ginaz to train where he graduated as a swordmaster. He returned to Vulcan and continues to serve the S'Chn T'Gai household into adulthood.

A L T P L O T S

This verse is directly the result of plotting with one of my partners, which is why his history is tied to Vulcan. I just needed to get it written out for myself to reference back to as needed.

His history after leaving Giedi Prime can be changed based on interaction.

I am open to preestablished relationships, but would prefer them to be plotted first.

[endeavvor]

“ I told my father I didn't want this either. ”

Dune: Part One Prompts

There is defiance in the words that causes Kirk to tilt his head and narrow his eyes. There is an attempt to determine if defiance is laced with pain, but it is hard when it comes to Michael to truly know.

She is human, but she is not.

She keeps her cards close to her chest and the fact she is saying anything at all should be a tell to him, if only he would reach out and accept it. But he is afraid to. Afraid of what it would mean.

Everything he is, everything he has, he owes to her father.

Sarek took him in when he was a boy, freshly freed from Harkonnen enslavement. When he was filled with nothing but grief, pain, and ill tempered. He had tried to impart Vulcan ways, and to an extent, Kirk had been open to it, but it had done nothing to calm the storm that raged beneath his skin. He had needed an outlet, and Pike had seen opportunity in that. It was him that urged the head of the S'Chn T'Gai household to put a blade in his hand and teach him the ways of war.

But no one had stopped to ask if he wanted it. He'd just learned that want was not a luxury handed out to them, and stopping to think about the things he truly wanted left him feeling gutted, raw, and aching.

Want and hope held hands in his mind, and there was no place for either.

Still, the reunion had been unexpected, and there were more questions than time. So why was his mouth awash in bitterness? Why did his words, when they finally did come bleed with it. "Is that why you ran?"

What else was there to think? Present one moment, gone the next.

"Did you ever once stop and think what that would do to him?"

Not her father, not Sarek, but Spock. Because it is always Spock that is at the forefront of his worried mind.

Kirk attempts and fails to rewet his lips, tasting only granules of sand as they catch between his teeth. There is a curse, beneath his breath, one word: selfish.

@mutiineer

[endeavvor]

It is not the explorative hands of their youth that find their way beneath the light fabric of his shirt. Pulling it free from where it is tucked into his belted waistband to slip beneath and leave in its wake heated flesh.

It is weaponized, deft presses of hands desperate to claim. How easily they could destroy him. How easily they could end him here and now.

Spock knows every scar that maps his pain. Has seen them, traced them. The worse being a deep gash across his torso that starts just beneath his left collar bone and sweeps across and stops just beneath his ribs on the opposite side. It is an ugly thing. A self-conscious thing that stills him as he feels the tips of the Vulcan's fingers against it now. But he finds no judgement, only greed.

His challenge is met with equal fervor. His mouth hidden beneath Spock's own and his lips part to it. Kirk's groan is devoured beneath it and the subtle tease of his tongue. He aches with anticipation for the press of their skin to come together, chases the heated tasted of him. Chases it as if afraid it will be fleeting. As if it will be insubstantial. As if it will abandoned him too.

Too long Kirk has held the other at arms length for his own fear of losing him. Afraid that his touch would be acid, tainting and burning. Destroying the very thing he coveted most in this universe. Too long has he denied his feelings, but there is no denying them now as he is clings to Spock desperately, a single thought threatening to drown him.

Please don't leave me too.

Breaking the kiss, coming up for air, he breathes deeply the intoxicating scent of the desert that always radiates from the Vulcan's skin. He buckles beneath it as his lips find the perfect point of one ear. He nips, tracing away the hurt with his mouth, and as he speaks his command, his teeth continue to graze the soft shell of it. "Take off your clothes, Spock. Let me see you."

@fasciinating

THERE’S NO REFUSAL, NO PROTEST BUT a matching hunger, and Spock’s fingers are bolder for it, playing at latches, curling under fabric and pulling at the slip of warm skin he finds there, as much tenderness as it is greed.

Gone is the careful exploration of their youth, when their hands were only teasing, curious, and eager if only for its newness. Then, they possessed every moment the desert allowed them, nestled together on cliff sides facing endless sands—

—now, their enemy has become the minutes they have found themselves in this room with. Kirk seems to acknowledge the danger in it, shifting beneath him to grip and throw his blade like an obstacle for passerby and time.

Spock pays it no mind; he cannot.

He could not possibly—

Not when his attention is here, fixated on the rise and fall of Kirk’s hips, watching Kirk’s mouth open, the tuck of a grin at his cheek. It is a curve of challenge Spock recognizes, recalling its meaning during battle and every lesson accompanying Kirk’s tenacity to coax Spock out of logic, inspire him beyond control.

He rocks down in an effort to silence it, his eyelids fluttering as he leans forward to steal the smile off Kirk’s face. The kiss that follows is deep, and although Spock is well aware that it is a molecular impossibility, every atom in his body oscillates and spins and hums in chorus.

@endeavvor

[endeavvor]

He does not question that they should stop, for that line has been crossed and unless he is turned away, he will not retreat. But there is one logical thought that remains for him, and it is that the door is not locked. They would hear anyone coming down the long stretch of the hall, but there would be no time to break apart or regain composure. This nagging feeling suspends him for a moment. Kirk is not ashamed, but he does not want Spock to be exposed in such a way or at risk for the potential ramifications.

Reaching out blindly, his hand comes to rest on one of the discarded blades - taking hold of it by metal, not hilt. He flicks his wrist, hears the knife hit true and bury itself into the frame by the handle. It is not a permanent solution, but it is a sturdy one.

It is easier then to relax. To lose himself.

All thoughts of obligation are gone, burned away with a touch as searing as the Vulcan sun. Kirk can feel how desperately he is wanted, feel it in the brush against his skin. An involuntary hiss escapes between his lips as the warmth grazes against his temples. He is familiar enough to know the potential ask, but not what it fully entails. He does not know the risks of such a bond, but the idea of sharing himself so intimately terrifies him.

Terrifies him more just how badly he wants it, that place wholly of his own. To bury himself. To trust implicitly.

Spock's fingers are intrepid and lingering, and he rises to meet him with equal fervor. Kirk goes where he is guided. His back against the floor left open and vulnerable save for the Vulcan's weight above him. Against him. The friction causing heat to pull and settle. Despite the flare in his desire, his own movements are languid, slow. He grips Spock's thighs, feeling the lean and poised muscle, then slides his hands upwards towards his hips. The tips of his fingers are not gentle in their press over hollowed bone.

Kirk holds him steady. Tilts his own hips. Continues the friction of pressing together. His mouth, abandoned in the distance, drops open for a moment before twisting into a crooked grin.

A challenge.

@fasciinating

PERHAPS, IT IS A FOOLISH, IRRESPONSIBLE thing they do, gravitate towards one another, clinging even at distance, wanting of something beyond what duty compels them. It says Spock should have ignored the temptation that was a mentor, a brother, a friend. Tells him that these were only the dreams and childish imaginings of a prince not yet a king.

But his mind is too preoccupied with the taste of him — Jim — finally, to be concerned with the obligations of his House. He pours years of mere glances and those moments lost to the sand into the wrestling of his hands, roaming freely through Kirk’s hair, thumbs brushing along the rounded corners of his ears.

It is not gentle.

Perhaps, it could have been had they have done this sooner, not at the cusp of what could be — the possibility of losing this — what Spock has and has had so briefly, never to have it again.

Some measure of control might have remained to him then.

—impossible, he realizes.

They would not be here at all if Spock were in control of himself. He cannot help now the way his mind reaches out, greedy for contact. Not quite a meld — nothing so precise or invasive — but an intimacy beyond the physical, a sense of belonging like nothing else.

His fingers sear across Kirk’s temples despite himself, burning to melt and fuse and cauterize them together. And their lips brush once, twice, again and again, catching fire under Kirk’s teeth before Spock is shoving Kirk to the floor. He attempts to lay him out and move over him, feel the weight of Kirk underneath him, revel in it. He wants to stop and go slow and nose every inch of this body, to discover where he carries the smell of him, but he can’t because he doesn't have the strength in him to wait. Pressing both hands to Kirk’s chest, he grinds down, discarding the consequences; there is only this.

@endeavvor

[endeavvor]

That moment of doubt continues to settle into the depths of him at sharing this information now. Their parting would already be painful, but having set a timeline makes the inevitable goodbye barbed. Kirk knows, without a doubt, that it will viscerally rip him open if they continue down the path they are on. But he has no desire to resist, even if he shies away slightly at the sudden intensity of Spock's gaze.

This is not the far off stares Spock often gets when lost in his train of thought, or is lingering on a dream where all Kirk has to do is call out to him - come back to me - for the Vulcan to return. Grounded again. Upon this plane of existence with him. This is something else entirely. A heat. An almost silent anger that for a moment, the weapons master is not sure if he should move away or apologize.

He's not sure what caused it, but he has a guess. Kirk has never told Spock no before. Doesn't want to tell him no now, but he must. For that alone, he does not shrink back. Does not explain himself or change his decision. The two must part, for now, for the good of the house.

Whether it is forgiven remains to be seen, but Spock's sudden boldness takes precedence. The press of his hands on either side of Kirk's face, and the automatic lean into the heated touch. There is nothing mistakeably innocent about it, and to move forward, there would be no return. This proposal, this closeness, was not the stuff of child's play or exploration. This was not moments stolen in the Vulcan desert, questioned, but never raised within the confines of this home.

There is a desperate intensity with which Kirk watches Spock's lips form the words until they are sharing a breath. Where his automatic response is to crack a grin, to boast, don't just talk about it, be about it. But the words are lost, this moment is too important for a wise cracked, baited response. For all his talk of proper etiquette or prior belief his being sent away to make room for Spock to fulfil his duties to the house by finding a wife, there really is only one right response.

"Ah, fuck it." He breathes, hands coming up to fist the Vulcan's shirt and tugging him impossibly close. There is nothing tentative in the way Kirk kisses him. No gentle first pressing of his mouth to give him the chance to draw back, or a moment to regret it; but an all consuming overlapping. Spock's bottom lip is pulled between his own, traced, and committed to memory. With the initial barrier gone, he cannot help himself. One kiss turns to many, over and over as if he cannot stop himself as one thought fully solidifies for him: whether it is this life or the next, there will never be anyone else for him but Spock. And the gravity of it terrifies him.

@fasciinating

TWO DAYS IS HARDLY ENOUGH time to both discard and disseminate the visceral response that flares inside him. To his involuntary chagrin, Spock finds himself looking away, his eyes having strayed to no particular point over Kirk’s shoulder as he thinks about the desert, a different desert, and all the terrible possibilities that could come with it.

The weapons master could die. He could be maimed. He could suffer the elements of a place so alike and not at all resembling the sand that scrawls and whispers under their feet. But perhaps, the odds are improved with Spock at his side. There are the books he has read, the film viewers that he has watched over and over, memorizing every last detail of Fremen record because they are well and truly fascinating.

Not only that, Spock is trained in the art of suus mahna, honed by combat. Despite having yet experienced the actuality of it, it did not mean he was entirely defenseless. Spock has proven as much. Kirk has never denied him recognition of that skill, not even now, resting with his knees spread around Kirk’s body in a manner of — albeit subjective — triumph.

He could be useful.

But all of that dies in the skim of Kirk’s finger.

Leveling his attention back on Kirk, Spock’s expression smoothes as if on command, that touch evening out the beginning indentations of thought and planning and ways to escape his father’s house—

—and he should rebuke Kirk for it, he thinks wildly, for the audacity to say Spock cannot do anything — unkeen, discomforted — protest with his chest and closed fists and rail against that better reasoning because traitorously, logic has worked against him.

Kirk is correct, of course. In all of those things.

He opens his mouth, wanting to dispute Kirk, to ask Kirk what he meant to ask Spock and never quite does. It fades from them, taking with it Spock’s resolve, and uncertain in what to do with that information when Kirk tells him I will miss you instead.

Spock stares at him and says nothing, both hands rising to the sides of Kirk’s jaw. The records say the whole of the Fremen’s eyes are blue, a byproduct of their proximity and intake of the melange, blue like the Vulcan sky at dawn, blue like the cornflower petals of the ni’vian flower. An alarming shade, unforgettable.

But he doubts they can compare to the aberrant color of Kirk’s.

“ I think, ” Spock says, so close and brushing Kirk’s lips, “ That I would like to kiss you, now. ”

@endeavvor

[endeavvor]

The look he shoots over his shoulder can be described in one of two ways — boredom or disdain. Truthfully, it falls somewhere in the middle as he refuses to allow her to see the offense. Irulan's attempts to get to know him, and his continued reluctance to share, has caused her to get creative.

If continuing to be presumptuous was creative.

He does not tell her that his mother used to sing before his father died and left her alone to raise two boys she didn't know how to deal with. That he always wondered if she started singing again after she'd traded them away.

Instead, he turns cheeky. "And what type of assistance are you offering?"

“I didn’t presume a man with your sort of repugnance for the universe even knew what singing was. Yet now I’m intrigued when was singing checked off your list? And, tell me, when did you become so insufferable?”

Quietly the princess moves closer to him, though keeps enough distance not to send the man into murderous frenzy. It was always better to approach wild animals slowly- though it wasn’t ever recommended to approach them at all.

“You look like you haven’t slept in months…which is a more polite way of saying you look terrible. I can’t imagine you feel any better, and still i know you aren’t likely to take any help I mean to offer, are you?”

[endeavvor]

It was the overall lack of thought that gave way for the natural inclination towards each other. That desire for comfort like two opposing ends of a magnet. Kirk leaned forward, ducking his head, watching the thoughts span across the planes of Spock's face - the rigid brow, sharp cheeks. Gently, he reached up, pressed the tip of his index finger into the dent of thought, and smoothed it.

"I'm glad you think so." Though his charm was only helpful after his foot was in the door. Everything he knew of Fremen - which admittedly was not as much as he'd have liked - is that their core values conflicted between conservation of energy and water and combat. There was no excess or flair for dramatics. You were either strong enough to survive, or you weren't.

He didn't know where to even start, but somehow, he was cognizant of where it would end. Kirk wasn't afraid of the fight, but he was deeply afraid of failing. In his mind, there was much riding on his ability to secure this alliance. It could make or break their lives on Arrakis. It could be the difference between Spock living or dying, and he was feeling every ounce of pressure that applied as it draped across his shoulders.

There is a slight shake to his hand as he finally drops it away, but it is calm in comparison to the usual tells that mark his anxiety.

Spock's comment is not a surprise, nor is he alone in thinking it with slight modifications. He shouldn't be going with Kirk, but it didn't change the fact Kirk wished he was.

"Your knowledge would be invaluable." He concedes, but it was more than that, and they both knew it. They hadn't been apart that long since he'd first stepped foot on this planet. "But it's too dangerous, and I don't like our chances convincing your parents it is a necessity. In fact, I'm not really keen on facing your mother's wrath if she so much as suspected you were planning to stow away."

Though, he could be coaxed into laughing at the idea of them stealing a ship and still carrying out the mission - dumbly rebellious while still being productive. It was just too dangerous, and no one would forgive Kirk if Spock fell - if there was anything left to forgive.

Only then would your death be tolerable.

"Do you think - " He starts to ask, but cuts himself off. He bites his lip, and looks away for a moment. Kirk had been wondering lately if Sarek believed the two had outgrown each other as companions. That sending him away was a twofold - the believe in his skills and a chance to prove that all the time, energy, and resources that went in to raising and training him were not going to waste. But also to separate, diminish the forming bond, make way for Spock to for a different type of alliance.

Did it matter? Kirk decides it does not with the shake of his head. He says, instead, his voice barely audible. "I will miss you."

@fasciinating

IF THERE EXISTED AN EDGE OF levity in their exchange, it slowly dissipates with Kirk’s ambiguity, unchanging even as he rises, rising into Spock. He only shifts himself to accommodate the move, merely resting against him as he allows his own breathing to level and calm. Among Vulcan’s army of warriors, Kirk is one of so few to present him with the challenge that he does.

But the exhilaration of combat rightly vanishes from Spock’s mind as he speculates across Kirk’s face. It appears conflicted, hedging on an air of remorse — or resignation — despite the soft curl of warmth that just reaches Kirk’s lips before it fades. None of it does well to comfort him when Spock was seeking reassurance to multiple queries at once.

“ Two days? ” A dent of thought marks itself into Spock’s brow. He had not realized his father wished to mobilize their forces so soon. The strategy itself is logical however — intelligent — when he calculates the decision as yet another offensive maneuver in the chess board of imperium politics.

It would be wise to form an alliance if at all possible.

With little knowledge of Fremen interest in the ever-evolving occupation of their home world, Spock finds himself discomfited as to what it might imply. As an outsider, a wanderer, a stranger lurking into their territory, the likelihood that Kirk will be destroyed is too great for Spock to ruminate out loud.

But his mind — and quite abruptly — then, chooses to supply him with the fact of Kirk’s propensity to forge amicable company, and effortlessly so, to combat it. Kirk’s demeanor is overall congenial, he knows, even diplomatic to a degree. His own mother has even referred to the weapons master as charming.

Spock was not immune to it himself.

“ You are the logical choice. ” He concedes, aware well enough that he can do nothing to protest Sarek’s actions. It would elicit a label of compromise, somehow detrimentally worse than the compromising position they would be presently found in.

Exhaling slowly, he tries to appease the fluctuation of concern tensing in his ribs with these truths, command it to silence either way. Because Kirk is warm under him, under his hands. Spock is suddenly sure he will miss this, how Kirk fits together with him so well.

“ I should be going with you. ”

@endeavvor

[endeavvor]

So she can bring her dogs to heel -- he thinks, but why shouldn't she? He's more impressed with their control from all he'd put them through. Six lay dead in the forest where they'd found him, another four wounded, and now he'd issued a challenge the the last two that they couldn't rise to.

Their control was impeccable.

Kirk openly thinks nothing more as he is left with little choice but to follow her into her domain, and a domain it is. Such expense can only befit royalty, and he is mentally calculating how much just one tattered tapestry could feed back home. It turns his anger self righteous, and with it, his hand curls into a fist.

Though the library is as good a choice as any, he supposes, for a conversation such as this. Not as formal as many of the offices he'd stood in, but not so informal as one might question the motived behind a locked door. But Irulan is correct, he will refuse to sit, just as he will refuse to stand still. He paces nearer to a shelf to run the tips of calloused fingers over embossed titles. It is deliberately old fashioned considering how most have transitioned to vids and tablets to tell their stories.

So much knowledge in the palm of your hand.

The swordmaster's attention is lazy as it drags back towards her, acknowledging her speech to ask, "Empowering, did you practice that proposal?"

"You've certainly brushed up on my history, but given the books in this row alone - " He steps back, motions towards the shelf he'd been perusing. "I'm not surprised. You've got at least half a century of knowledge here, and I'm guessing its a bit of a past time for you."

If not, at least it seems they are both making assumptions. Geidi Prime hadn't taken him into their walls because he wasn't then what he is now. He'd fought out of necessity, not enjoyment. There was no art to it, no grace; but that same unfiltered fury still sung through his veins. It was the spark, but it was not the carefully crafted flame.

He turns towards her, but rests his elbow on one slotted shelf, laces his fingers in front of his chest, and cants his hip. "You don't want to insult me, but you've done nothing but since your guards dragged me here. You've made assumptions. Praised my skill. And attempted to work your claws beneath my skin by dragging my brother into this. The only thing you haven't tried is the actual honest truth."

That's politics for you, and she was carefully crafted.

"What do you want from me?"

The action at the guards' feet have them all but charging the man with their swords drawn- ready to kill- but Irulan's hand comes up before they can take more than one step. The last thing she needed was for this to escalate, should his manners continue on a downwards spiral perhaps they'd have to intervene, but aggrvating the Swordmaster in any way would just make things worse.

"It's alright," Irulan vows to her protection. "I will be alright. I'll call to you if I need to. Thank you."

The Princess shoots the rage filled man a look before she strides inside the palace to her library. "Sit," she instructs, though doesn't fully expect him to oblige. "Should a Princess not care about the people she presides over? It sounds neglectful if I choose not to."

Irulan turns to him once more, keeping her gaze steady. "Giedi Prime has a strong hold on you. I'm surprised House Harkonnen didn't bring you inside their walls, though for your sake, I'm glad they didn't. It's a horrific place, as you're well aware. That rage makes you stupid, you know that right? You may think your mind is clear, but anger makes us do foolish things, and right now your intelligence isn't exactly shining through."

She takes a half step towards him. "I didn't bring you inside to insult you. I'm trying to help- I want to help. You need an outlet- a release of all that anger and while you've been trained remarkably well, it's clear by the actions you've taken against my guards, that you need more. If you don't mind me being frank with you, I think you need some revenge. You had a brother, correct? Sam was it? I am truly sorry for your loss. I have younger sisters and I cannot bear to think of losing one of them. I'd like to hear more about him...but I don't think I can pry that from you just yet. You aren't aware of how he died though, isn't' that right? You don't know who killed him?"

[endeavvor]

The comment sinks into his chest and rests there, earning a soft smile reserved only for the other in these moments. There are no teeth, no crinkles, just the gentle raising of the corner. It is reserved, hesitant, an almost refusal to let hope take root and build. Despite everything the other does being so calculated, Kirk has convinced himself that Spock has no idea what he does to him. These passing comments made with ease, or the gentle dragging of a hand down his body. Were it not muted by the shield still in tact, he'd shiver to it.

He does not have it in him today to speak of the inevitability of his own death.

Their chosen fighting styles speak of it enough - Kirk made the sacrificial move to secure a win. To teach a valuable lesson. Spock, though having improved significantly, continues to fight with all the technique he's been given through their lessons and simple observation of video reels. His ability to translate from his eidetic memory often left Kirk envious. There's a thought he let's free, and one day will regret, that perhaps the Vulcan needs to know such loss in order to truly become the fighter he needs to be to survive.

It's there, and gone again. He'd rather eat his own blade than have Spock exposed to such grief. An admittedly contradictory thought.

"I don't know." Kirk's response is a two-fold. He means this, in a sense that his brain is unable to compute a more intelligent response while their shieldless bodies are still pressed so closely. Gone is the barrier, and all he feels his heat despite being pressed to the cool rock floor. Yet he makes no move to move, or to remove Spock's weight from him. Were someone to walk in, an advisor, or Sarek himself, he genuinely did not know how it would be taken.

He suspected, knew they attachment was not a secret, but it served no purpose. There was nothing political to gain, because he brought nothing to the table but himself, and his fealty was not enough. Once he'd given his report on today's sparring lesson, the likelihood of these meetings decreasing was high. Spock, in all rights, could defend himself, and Kirk's time on Vulcan was limited.

Sitting up, he stays close. One knee is pinned under the other's legs, but the right is pressed against Spock's back. Caging him. They are so close now, the Vulcan's shoulder brushes against his chest and he can almost count the freckles that span across and mark his human side - forgotten to most, but not all. Were he braver, he might reach out, press the tips of his fingers to them.

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out. I leave in two days time." No weight is lifted by sharing the knowledge. He's to lead the second wave onto the planet, now that the first has swept the chosen residence. "Your father wants me to try and track down the Fremen, see if they are open to an alliance against a common enemy...It's a smart move, I agree with it, but I won't see you again until your family comes."

@fasciinating

THE FIGHT IS FLUID, HAND TO hand, blade to blade, and the spins and turns Spock makes against Kirk’s avid tactics is a display of blue color and sliver arcs of light.

Reading about battle strategies in his text isn’t quite the same as feeling the pressure of real combat, the scent of ozone under his nose, or the slippery catch — of human perspiration — inside his grasp from exertion, when Kirk leaves traces of himself on Spock’s shields where it glances against his own.

They have done this before, inside training rooms and in the fields within Sarek’s kingdom. But its frequency — the places they have come together for these lessons — is irrelevant. None of it compares to the thrill that thrums under his skin like it does in private.

In this room, they are two shadows, reaching through a hopeless, heavy dusk. And when their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like comets raining to the earth, it lasts only minutes, his heart beating viciously to an ancient rhythm of war drums, rising blow for blow. If he’s been allowed a reciprocal victory, he doesn’t comprehend it soon enough.

Above Kirk, Spock recognizes the sense of triumph that nearly emerges within him, no matter momentary, in how fleeting it is. His hair is tangled against his forehead, eyes flinted and blown, breathing harshly just inches from Kirk’s face. His blade is tucked under Kirk’s chin. But any comment he would have made about a killing blow stays neatly behind the show of his teeth.

He follows after Kirk’s words and the tip of Kirk’s dagger. Red light scatters, hums violently where Kirk has delivered a hit to match. He should have known better — he did know better — twisted now with amusement and annoyance, both. So, defeat is theirs too, to share.

Spock lifts eyes as Kirk’s shields vanish from between them.

“ Only then would your death be tolerable. ” He breathes roughly. Lowering his weapon, Spock hovers his grip of it down Kirk’s body, grazing freely until he can disengage his own shields. The blade clatters to the floor, discarded.

“ Is it so terrible? ” He means Arrakis, he thinks; or he means this, this closeness they have come to through combat and wisdom of violence; or he means here, where long legs have cut across Kirk’s waist and have yet to move.

Watching the expressions that play over Kirk’s face, Spock does not think so.

But he worries. Kirk said they were brutal, an entire planet made of sand more golden than Vulcan’s, his own home world, the color of human blood. The irony of such a comparison is not lost on him even if the breadth of their futures there, Spock has yet to comprehend.

@endeavvor

[endeavvor]

Spock's certainty is correct, but it does not quell the fear Kirk has for the other.

From the moment the order was given, they all knew they were walking into a trap. It might be one of the only reasons Sarek finally relented to formally allow Kirk to place a blade in his son's hand. Before that, it had been sparring. Hand to hand combat. An excuse to touch and explore and push the limits of their bodies. It allowed a healthier outlet for the building negative energy within Spock at being different. Vulcan's possessed a strength far greater than human, but it was not enough when faced with the unknown.

Their biggest failing was the inability to impress upon the son the severity of what lie in wait; but how could he know when his whole life has been spent here in the safety and comfort of his home?

In hindsight, he never anticipated the loss that would finally cleave Spock's reality into a before and after would come at such a high personal stake.

Perhaps the fear is selfishly driven, the potential loss being something the sword master cannot bear. Kirk is certain Spock knows this as intimately as the sound of his steps. It's just the way the other is, his perception dipping between the conscious and unconscious. It leaves Kirk feeling raw and vulnerable. Seen. Illogical emotions that had no business in this room. This house. This planet. Though he's been running on illogical since he took his first step into the heavier gravity and sank to his knees in the density.

His shoulder's relax as Spock finally activates his shields and follows suit. Despite using them for years, he's still never quite used to the way it dulls everything around him. Sounds are dampened, air less crisp, it's almost claustrophobic.

Spock has no tell when he springs into motion, and his physiology of lean muscles means he's faster; but Kirk has spent years honing his own form to pose equally as threatening. So he waits until the last minute to sidestep the blow and deflect the blade. It is seamless, the pivot on the ball of his feet as he raises an elbow to lash out in a move himself. They've danced the dance so many times that each opponent's moves are memorized.

Kirk sees his shields waver and buckle, he's aware of each hit he's taking, and finally, he lets Spock drop him to the ground. It's never the claustrophobia that bothers Kirk the most about the shields, but the obvious barrier it places between them. The position they've found themselves in is compromising by even human societal norms, yet he feels none of the other's weight. Like the pressing of a hand against a thick pane of glass, it is only the intention that is there.

He sees red. Knows the strike would mean demise, or one hell of a scar, without the barrier. But it is this closeness that clouds Spock's vision to his own downfall, for the tip of Kirk's blade is against his stomach. "Look." He says, demands really, though his eyes never leave the others. He watches, fascinated, and greedily devours every ounce of emotion that bleeds through. These are Kirk's favorite songs, his chest hums with them. "At least in death we would be reunited...wouldn't that be something."

And neither would know the grief of continuing in this world alone. Slowly, Kirk reaches between them and lowers his shields.

@fasciinating

MANY OF SPOCK’S MEMORIES OF their time together is filled with a sense of discovery — by sword or by sight — this wonder that was pilfered from the desert of the sas-a-shar, plucked between their fingers until the first ochre band of the morning sent them back into the world around them.

The subject of insolence is an entertaining hypocrisy that Spock does nothing to expand upon. He merely raises a brow, challenging that aspect when he could inquire whether Kirk truly expected anything else.

Spock is certain Kirk didn’t.

They have wandered together, tested the boundaries of Vulcan’s sensibilities with laughter out of Kirk’s chest and Spock standing beside him. Over the years, the fault of illogic was often exchanged freely between them, shared with one another because every other waking minute was simply reserved for violent politics and war.

He’s only glimpsed the life that Kirk lived in the way the other man poses his feet, the way he handles a blade; he is marred by scars not just sheared into his skin. The edge of seriousness to these facts should be more concerning. And yet Spock ignores them. The rest is the past — irrelevant — an era before Kirk came into the House of Sarek and was charged with the molding of an heir.

And this is what Spock chooses to know of him: his fierceness and unbreakable loyalty, all of it so bold — unavoidable — in a splitting grin of white teeth.

—the wick of a blade.

Spock does not blink or flinch. He turns — and almost leisurely — to find the weapon stuck into the mannequin’s faceless skull. Kirk’s precision has always been impressive. But rather rude.

“ A fashion of this. ” He says, wrapping his fingers around the hilt and tugging it free. Steadying his posture, Spock activates his shields. It hums, fractured light shimmering across his body.

The physicality of what he envisioned was not so different. There was only so much time left before everything would change. He meant for remembrance, confession he wouldn’t dare otherwise. Though, this is what Kirk chooses: a fight. The sight of the second knife only motions Spock to oblige him. He tests the end of his own against his palm, watches it vibrate and shudder red before snapping his eyes up.

Without warning, he lunges with his weapon and his fist, aiming for Kirk’s chest.

@endeavvor