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Since the initiation of their romantic relationship, and even before, when they played uneasy games of chess and occasionally did paperwork silently in the same room, Spock has noticed that Kirk has a marked preference for his own quarters and possessions even when it makes no logical difference.
It could be easily attributed to human conditioning and dropped, especially considering that Captain James Kirk is a man that nearly every crewmember onboard would benefit from killing, except that it has long been established that Spock is a person he has absolutely no reason to fear. In fact, per Kirk’s frequent and violent ‘cabin fever’ which strikes him usually at inopportune moments, it would be more understandable for him to desire new surroundings, even if those surroundings are merely Spock’s quarters instead of his own, or even simply Spock’s chessboard.
That is not the case.
Spock puts out his incense at the end of beta shift; Kirk pulled a double today to personally manage the aftermath of a bad bit of intel from Starfleet Command, and he will undoubtedly request Spock’s presence.
A resounding shatter drifts through the medium soundproofing of the ensuite. There it is.
On cue, Kirk bursts through Spock’s door—not an override he uses often, mostly because Spock will let him in when asked. He is pink-faced and panting. “Come,” he says, and retreats back through the bathroom without another word.
Spock considers spending a precious moment to rebraid his hair, because Kirk’s obsession with it loose can be hindered by the daunting task of freeing it, but the cold calm in Kirk’s voice means that he will not respond well to being put off for anything, and particularly not for Spock to take one of his favorite things away from him. Spock’s hair stays in its simple ribbon and he goes to his captain’s quarters as ordered.
There is broken glass on the floor in a rather impressive shatter radius; a bottle, it seems, and the faint afterimage of a scent tells Spock that it used to hold Saurian brandy, perhaps two months ago, before it was emptied. He delicately avoids it with his bare feet while Kirk’s boots crunch blindly over it.
He’s digging in his closet, back to Spock. “I have something for you,” he says, followed by a growling noise of irritation. Spock hears fabric rip and several objects tumble. Then Kirk says, “Ha!” and turns, smacking the door controls with an open palm to neatly hide away the mess he’s made. In his other hand he holds a drawstring pouch made of a fabric that shimmers like water in the low light.
Spock says, “You did not have to.”
Kirk says, “Sure, princess. Kneel.”
Spock takes the time to brush shards of glass away from where his knees will land and is not reprimanded, for which he’s grateful. Kirk’s ever-shifting moods often compel him to elaborate games of sadism where Spock’s loyalty is concerned, and if he so chose, he could bring Spock to the brink of death and not even Doctor McCoy would have the authority to stop him. If the broken bottle is any indication, Kirk is not precisely in one of those moods tonight. He’s merely destructive.
Kirk passes him and crouches at Spock’s back. He first leans in to press his face into Spock’s hair and inhale, which is a good sign, then instructs him to hold it out of the way, which is even better.
“You did not have to,” Spock says again, softer this time.
Kirk nips the exposed back of Spock’s neck. “Oh, this isn’t for you. This is for me.”
A sturdy band is affixed with an old-fashioned buckle around Spock’s neck—cool, smooth, perhaps two centimeters wide, feels like the kind of suede leather that some Terrans would and have killed for. There’s an attachment of some kind resting on his throat. He cannot see it.
Suddenly and with great ferocity, Kirk seizes Spock by a thick handful of his hair and drags him to his feet. Spock inhales sharply but otherwise does not react. He does react when he’s picked up with one arm around his back and the other under his knees. Kirk simply laughs, and carries him across the treacherous glass-dotted floor to set him in front of the closetside mirror.
The accessory around his neck, of course, is a collar. It’s a rich, non-reflective black that contrasts his skin and matches his hair. The attachment, held to the leather by a small loop of metal, is a spherical silver bell. It is flanked by two teardrop stones that glint white as he turns his head this way and that. Spock nudges the bell with a fingertip. Sweetly and delicately, it jingles.
Kirk breathes the word “perfect” against his shoulder. For a long moment, Spock has nothing to say.
(You are greedy. At your most fundamental, you are a greedy person. You must own everything and destroy everything else. I am the former.)
“What do you think?” Kirk says, though the fervor with which he’s nipping Spock’s ear suggests that the answer will not change his plans.
“You have collared me,” Spock says. “You are well aware that Vulcans do not respond well to gestures of domination.”
Kirk snorts. It is an ugly sound. “Vulcans as a whole, sure. But you do. You like to be given expensive things and paraded around every Command gala like a show poodle. You like to kneel at my feet on the bridge when our unruly crew needs a reminder of your loyalty to me.”
“We both benefit from their understanding of my loyalty. Your favor grants me great freedom to conduct the entire science department as I please. When they are all aware that complaining to you is useless, they do not complain at all.”
Kirk’s clever hands drift to the ribbon containing Spock’s hair. Naturally. “Sure, but there are lots of less humiliating ways to shut them up. You kiss my boots in public anyway.” He unties the bow.
Indulgently, Spock shakes his head to let his hair fall how it will. Kirk’s fingers crawl through it. “I have found that blatant and enthusiastic submission subverts their preconception of my species in a way that causes an additional and unique fear. It is amusing, fascinating, and highly useful.”
“Right, of course. That’s the only reason. God forbid you have a little fun.”
“Vulcans do not have ‘fun,’ Captain.”
Kirk jerks Spock’s head back by his hair and brushes his ear with his warm human lips. “Really. Then I suppose I can fuck you while you’re wearing a pretty collar with a cute little bell and you’ll feel no kind of way about it.”
Spock’s heartbeat accelerates before he can halt it. “That is correct.”
Kirk releases his hair and stands. “Interesting. Let’s test that, shall we?”
Spock regulates his breathing. He first closes his eyes, then, when it causes too much speculation, he watches Kirk move about the room in the mirror. He has a pavlovian and quite unVulcan emotional reaction to the sight of Kirk stripping off his command gold and an even worse one to Kirk fastening the electromag clasps of his strap-on. The attachment he has chosen is large.
When Spock reaches to remove his robe, Kirk gives him a sharp glare and says, “No.” Spock concedes. This particular robe only reaches halfway down his thighs, designed to be worn with pants, so it won’t actually hinder them. He’s also aware that Kirk enjoys seeing him in Vulcan garments to the point of ordering him into them at times. The robe will not be a problem.
Kirk settles behind him again. Spock exhales softly in response to a kiss on his shoulder, then freezes when the fabric is pulled aside to make room for a firm bite. Kirk’s simian teeth are perhaps not designed purely to tear flesh like the teeth of Spock’s people, but it makes it all the more poignant when humans do use them for meat. It is much more personal to be bitten by an opportunistic omnivore than an obligate carnivore.
“Hands and knees,” Kirk says, and Spock obeys with haste.
Once he’s arranged himself, the ribbon from his hair is tied around his wrists. Kirk’s bow is lopsided. Not only could Spock tear it as easily as a spiderweb, but he could in fact take a tail between his fingers and undo the bow without damaging the ribbon at all. But that’s not the point of the gesture. He knows very well to do neither of those things. The obedience is everything, his willingness to stay where Kirk puts him no matter how flimsy the suggestion. Kirk could draw a line in sand and Spock would not cross it.
So Kirk needs devotion tonight. Spock can provide that.
“I request that you penetrate my sheath,” Spock says, shifting his legs to allow Kirk to remove his briefs. “It is not currently healing.”
Kirk laughs as if he’s going to defy Spock for the entertainment, but two of his rough, talented fingers gather the tentative wetness that has gathered between the folds of Spock’s sheath and dip inside. “I fucked your ass too hard last night, I fucked your throat too hard the night before that. I know. I’m starting to think you like being sore. You’re aware that you can go to Bones any time and get yourself patched up, right?”
“I would rather coat myself in sehlat blood and lay prostrate in a le-matya den,” Spock says.
“Sweet image. Fair enough. You could go to Christi-”
“Nurse Chapel has far too many fantasies about me that are products of her own imagination. She does not need the reality of my sexual activity in addition.”
“Ditto M’Benga, I presume?”
“Yes.”
Kirk adds a third finger to Spock’s sheath and curls them to block the exit of his lok. Spock shivers. Kirk says, low and dark, “If too many more of my medbay crew turn out to want you as bad as those two do, I’m going to have to start removing heads. That’s far too many people who know what my Vulcan’s cunt looks like.”
The fact that what Spock has is a sheath and not a human vulva is perfectly well known to Kirk, so Spock restrains the urge to relay it. Besides, he doesn’t dislike the callous, casually derogatory, subtly awed way that Kirk speaks about his anatomy. Coming from the late Captain Pike, Spock had not appreciated it. Being Pike’s woman was a definitively low position. To be Kirk’s woman is to be his diamond, his queen, his goddess. Marlena Moreau still clings to the title with tired hands even though everyone onboard knows that she’s been replaced. Spock struggles not to preen at the very thought.
Kirk catches the smothered reaction and rewards Spock with a firm spread of his fingers that causes a few drops of slick to spatter onto the carpet between his knees. Kirk says, “Look at you, good girl,” and Spock shivers again.
“You may proceed now.”
“Bossy,” Kirk scolds, but he withdraws his fingers and laughs under his breath when Spock is forced to lower his chest to the (thankfully glass-free) ground in order to keep his lok inside his body with his hand.
Kirk takes seven seconds longer than average to align the head of his harness attachment and pushes in with the steady, luxurious pace that he very rarely has the patience to execute. The inexorable press of the intrusion is delicious, and Spock habitually curbs and swallows the noises that some deep-buried part of him wants to make. When Kirk can go no further, he slowly wraps a section of Spock’s hair around his hand and jerks his hips forward once, and the bell at Spock’s throat jingles excitedly.
Spock, who had momentarily forgotten about that particular addition to the evening, closes his eyes to avoid looking at the flush on his own face and says, “Captain.”
Kirk holds Spock firmly in place to endure the circling of his hips. “Oh, yeah. This was a good idea.”
On principle, Spock is inclined to argue, but then Kirk pulls out of him and slams back in, and Spock becomes too busy biting down on a deeply human gasp to formulate a sufficiently logical sentence.
Kirk’s free hand finds Spock’s hip. Ostensibly it’s to steady him, but Spock is well aware that Kirk simply has inordinate fondness for this part of his body and likes to hold and possess it, as he does with all things he enjoys. The principle applies to Spock’s hair as well—he can feel Kirk’s restless fingers shifting, feeling the smoothness of the Terran coconut oil that Spock uses in the evenings, habit derived from his mother. Kirk’s grip is harsh, but an errant stroke of his thumb can betray his vulnerability in these moments.
Spock does not smirk, because he is Vulcan. He widens the splay of his knees and arches his back, because he is also human.
“Good,” Kirk says, breathy even though he himself is experiencing little if any stimulation. “Good girl. This is what I wanted. Fucking love having you like this. My proud First, all regal and straight-laced and fucking highbrow, even when she’s on all fours for me. What a good girl.”
Spock does not feel the need to correct the mislabeling. “I am pleased that you find my submission so consistently enthralling. It is good for the function of the ship and our efficiency as a command team.”
Kirk, of course, ignores the perfectly logical points and hones in on the language. “Pleased? My uptight Vulcan is pleased?” He leans down to bite at the tip of Spock’s ear. “You haven’t finally lost your marbles, have you? Gone mad like your brother?”
“I would appreciate it if you refrained from mentioning my family mid-intercourse.”
Kirk laughs. “Too bad. I was just thinking about how it would give your dad a heart attack to see you like this.”
“It very well may. He has a condition.”
“That should be on the assassination plot list, then,” Kirk says, low and tonally serious, followed by a firm sink of teeth into Spock’s shoulder that breaks skin and makes both of them moan. Kirk spits on the deck and it’s frothy and green. “Next time you have to go back to Vulcan to see your parents, we fuck in your dad’s office and give him a nice gut-punch sight to walk in on. See if it finally gets rid of him for real.”
The mere suggestion of his father catching them like this is enough to force Spock to tamp down a sudden disgusted snarl, though a readjustment of Kirk’s grip on his hair distracts him neatly. Still, it’s gratifying that Kirk is as invested in Spock’s ongoing mission to kill his father as Spock is. No concrete plan exists for the moment, but that never stops Kirk from ‘spitballing’ his increasingly ridiculous ideas. It seems to be entertaining to him. Spock will let him carry on.
Kirk lets out a gasp, and Spock realizes with mixed shock and resignation that his shields had momentarily gone porous, allowing Kirk’s perfectly synergetic mind to reach for his, sending psionic echoes of pleasure into him. Spock check’s Kirk’s face in the mirror: the same grin that he wears every time he knows he’s about to get exactly what he wants.
“Oh, poor baby,” he murmurs, accompanied by a series of brutal thrusts that would slide a human in Spock’s position across the floor by several centimeters. “Going out of your head already? We just started. Maybe you really are going crazy.”
Spock fails to restrain a soft noise. “You would be pleased by this?”
“Very pleased.”
“Then perhaps I am.”
Kirk moans from deep in his chest, all want, all need, and he uses his grip on Spock’s hair and a significant amount of strength to hoist him upward until Spock’s arms no longer touch the floor, at which point Spock reaches behind his head to grasp for stability around Kirk’s wrist. Spock is unsettled in his balance, but Kirk keeps him stable. Spock is uncertain exactly when he began trusting Kirk to do so.
“A mad Vulcan serving on my ship,” Kirk says, low and close to Spock’s sensitive ear. “We’d be the talk of the quadrant. You’re already the scariest thing in the Fleet. Imagine that terror compounded by the rumors that you went crazy on me and I kept you anyway.”
“You will always keep me,” Spock manages through the small sounds now freely escaping his throat. (Overtly mentioning Kirk’s possessive tendencies is, in the Terran parlance, a ‘hit or miss’ sort of manipulative tool. Nine times out of ten, it only stokes his temper, but every so often, it breaks something open that takes time and energy to close again.)
Kirk laughs with a threatening tightness and says, “Goddamn fucking right.”
Spock would be pleased if he were not focusing so hard on containing himself.
Kirk has always been good at working Spock’s body, even in the early days of their arrangement when neither of them could safely take the other apart for fear of Pike’s jealous retribution. He and Spock were never monogamous, but it was well known that a liaison with Spock was a simple and speedy way to get oneself transferred or ‘accidentally’ killed. There is an expectation both by Command and crew that Spock, having belonged in one manner or another to Pike, now belongs to his successor. Spock’s only misgiving about the assumption is that it includes the prerequisite of himself having given this level of devotion to Pike.
He reaches for Kirk’s mind—there is danger in too much telepathic contact when he’s far enough removed from his good sense, when Kirk’s thoughts glimmer golden like sunlight off metal just out of his reach, but at least their current physical positioning will prevent him from easily reaching for the tempting qui’lari. Good. Somewhere in his own disorganized mind he knows this is a good thing.
(He aches. He always aches, as of late. But he means it when he tells this man he will do anything for him, and that includes refraining from taking more than what is offered. Kirk allows Spock to sip from his thoughts in sparing doses and in return Spock protects him with his life.)
“T’hy’la,” Spock says before he can bite back the word or moan over it, and Kirk’s face glows.
“Good girl,” he says. “There you go. It’s okay. Let it out, baby. It’s not like there’s anyone left on the goddamn ship who doesn’t know what you let me do to you. Come on, let’s hear it again.”
“T’hy’la. Ah- hah- t’hy’la-”
“What does it mean?”
Spock has neatly avoided explaining this particular term for months and he is certainly not going to hand it over now. It will go with him to his grave if it must. He says, “There is not an—ah—an adequate Standard or English translation. There rarely is, for Old Golic.”
Kirk rolls his eyes, and Spock is fairly certain it is fond. “If I ask Uhura about it, what face will she make?”
“She will not know the term.”
“Keeping secrets even from the hand that feeds you. Very Vulcan.”
“I can only stray so far from my nature.”
Kirk drops him, and he lands hard on his palm heels. The bell creates a small racket. Kirk leans down until his lips brush Spock’s ear and says, “I’m curious. Do Vulcans not respond well to domination or do you just fail spectacularly on that front? Because the third option is that you lied to me, and for your sake I fucking hope you didn’t.”
Offense is an emotion. “I would never.”
“So which is it? Some loophole in Vulcan nature or a key part of yours?”
“Both.”
With little fanfare or, seemingly, effort, Kirk pulls out and takes hold of Spock to toss his considerable weight off balance and onto his side. Kirk drags him back to center and turns him onto his back. Spock spreads his legs immediately, a well-defined habit by now, and Kirk inserts himself between them as though he owns the negative space around Spock’s body, which he does. Spock’s ‘personal bubble’ is breached by others only at significant hazard to their limbs.
Spock’s lok had attempted to evert while his attention and control were elsewhere, and when Kirk presses back into him, the stretch and pressure are painful. He sucks in air through his teeth and keeps his eyes closed. His face must be doing something horribly embarrassing. After a moment, the tip of his lok returns to its idle position, and not via his conscious control. The pressure abates and Spock is able to breathe somewhat normally again.
Kirk, looking almost disappointed, picks up a rough but not overzealous pace with his hips. “It’s so rare to see any kind of pain really get to you,” he says. “You have no idea how much I love it when I get to watch you wince. You’re so fucking pretty, Spock. My gorgeous girl.”
“Yours,” Spock says again on autopilot.
Kirk moans low in his chest and rewards the admission with a shift in angle that forces Spock to exert significant control over his voice and face. Kirk is nothing if not resourceful, even here, and he has had more than enough practice to know intimately what will make Spock react. Case in point: a hard, jolting thrust that shakes a sound from the bell. Spock cannot stop his face and neck from flushing.
Kirk laughs. “Oh, kitty,” he says, a purr if he were Vulcan, “are you embarrassed? You’ve never had a bell before. Don’t worry, you don’t have to wear it all the time. Certainly not on stealth missions. But god, can you imagine? We’d stir up a fight or flight response across the galaxy to the sound of your pretty bell. It would be so fucking funny.”
Spock gasps, “Captain,” because there’s little else to say.
“Shh, kitty,” he says, and Spock fails to swallow a moan. “There you go. Come on. No need for words unless you feel like begging. Just lay there. Will you do that for me? Lay there all pliant and let me fuck you?”
Spock nods.
“Good girl. Fuck. Fuck, baby. Best First in the whole fleet, I’ll tell you that. No one stronger or faster or meaner. No one more perfectly fucking loyal. And you’re all mine.” With an edge just beneath his expression that Spock recognizes as the one that shattered the Saurian brandy bottle, Kirk stares down at him. His lips part just enough to show a sliver of his teeth. The lights are dim, but like this, he is radiant.
Spock murmurs, “T’hy’la,” and for his devotion he receives one of Kirk’s hands shoving his bound wrists higher above his head and the other dipping greedy fingertips beneath his collar. Kirk flicks the bell again. Spock makes a sound not unlike a whimper, then has to focus on not repeating it when Kirk’s hand takes hold of his neck properly and begins to squeeze.
This is not the first time they have done this. Spock is of course very familiar with the anatomy involved, through perhaps twenty percent schooling and eighty percent independent dissection research, more than enough knowledge to refrain from causing permanent damage when Kirk decides he wants his own air restricted or cut off. They don’t talk about it before or after the event. That is alright. Problems have the potential to arise when Kirk decides that Spock should have his air restricted or cut off, mostly because the captain of the Enterprise has a temper that redefines temper and can lose himself in the sensation of power. Spock breathes deeply while he still can in preparation. If need be, he can easily remove Kirk, but he would prefer not to.
But Kirk does not choke him. He leaves his hand where it is, tight but not quite uncomfortable, and his sharp eyes scarcely move. Spock looks back up at him. Perhaps he is having a flashback of some kind—a brief tap into his psionic state reveals nothing but lust, victory, and a nameless intensity that Spock is beginning to suspect is simply their natural resonance. Seconds pass and Kirk does nothing. Ten, twenty. The movement of his hips is relentless, and Spock distantly notes the encroaching orgasm, but his eyes remain steady on his captain’s. There is something there that he should find.
Finally, Kirk says, “Mine,” but it’s quieter than usual, not quite a question but approaching one. The way a child might try to cling to a new toy, or to a parent when there is a new sibling. Spock aches again. He is unsure from whom the ache originated.
He is not, generally speaking, one to make rash decisions. He prides himself on turning every outcome and variable over in his mind until he’s calculated the absolute best course of action. Emotions are emphatically not conducive to this kind of rational process, but with meditation he’s usually able to wrestle them into their proper place. Irritation and rage and longing and contentment and malicious excitement and adoration all contained where they cannot influence him any more than another similarly subjective data point. They frequently breach containment and influence him unduly in the presence of his captain. Like this, here, they are a cacophony. Spock is not one to make rash decisions, he tells himself. Aloud, he says, “T’hy’la means, in simpler terms, that I am yours until my death, even if you should fall before me. My life and katra. No one will ever belong as deeply to you as I.”
For a moment, Kirk simply looks stricken. Spock cannot remember ever seeing his face so open. Then he remembers himself, or nearly does, and his thrusts become violent and his hands both tighten and he leans down to sink his teeth into Spock’s lip, then the soft hollow under his jaw, then just above his own fingers. When he pulls back, his mouth drips green and his eyes blaze. Spock could not imagine him more beautiful.
“I’m holding you to that,” Kirk says, ragged and almost angry. “You’re fucking mine. No one else gets to even think about it. Mine to command. Mine to kill with. Mine to fuck. Aren’t you, baby girl?”
“Yes,” Spock says.
“Say it.”
“Yours—ah—yours, Captain, hah, please!”
“That’s right. Are you close, kitty?”
“Yes!”
Kirk stretches over him to tear out the bow around Spock’s wrists. He says, “Good. Hold on.”
Spock has time only to wrap his arms around Kirk’s shoulders and his legs around Kirk’s waist before Kirk lifts him by the hips to dig his fingers ruthlessly into the small of Spock’s back where his chenesi are swollen and sensitive. Spock throws his head back with a helpless gasp, and Kirk is quick to take there too, biting along the bared skin until he reaches Spock’s ear and settles there to lick and nibble. Spock makes a humiliating noise. His shields are little stronger than tissue paper, his controls even less so. He drags his nails along Kirk’s back until he feels hot human blood well up and then keeps going. Kirk’s breath in his ear is too loud, his skin too warm and slick with sweat, his mind too bright, and Spock’s sheath tightens hard enough to be painful while his hands scrabble for purchase. His eyes roll back. His mouth drops open. His t’hy’la says something and he does not hear it.
The orgasm lasts an unusually long time—Spock blames the fact that Kirk held still deep inside him rather than fucking him steadily through it as he often does. The fluttering muscles of his sheath try to push out the intrusion to no effect except making Spock feel very full. He can tell that Kirk hasn’t come—the psionic echo of Spock’s pleasure is often enough, but only when Spock purposefully directs it at him. Regardless, he appears on the surface not to care. His hips are still and his mind is focused elsewhere. Spock turns his attention to himself.
There is a pinprick itch on one shoulder blade that he presumes is a stray fleck of glass. The places where Kirk bit him sting, and he catalogues and blocks out the sensation. His throat is rather dry. He says, “Thank you, Captain.”
Kirk grins. “Thanks are illogical.” (He says this every time.)
“Nevertheless.”
“Well, you’re welcome.”
“You appear to be significantly more stable than you were when you called me in. I am pleased to see my participation was effective.”
“Your participation will be even more effective if you let me keep you in my bed while I get a yeoman in here to clean up.”
Spock quirks his eyebrow, but his legs do feel somewhat unsteady and the memory of Kirk’s vulnerability is an astonishing motivator, so he says, “Of course. Shall I stand or do you wish to carry me?”
Kirk carries him.
The yeoman (Rand, Spock recalls hazily) appears promptly when summoned. She keeps her eyes on the floor and does not speak unless spoken to. She worked under a significantly harsher captain before, the same man who gave Mr. Sulu his unfortunate facial scar, and has not yet gotten accustomed to the fact that Kirk simply does not care about her. Still, Spock appreciates her discretion. It is not the first time that she has seen one or both of them in a compromising position and it will certainly not be the last.
Spock is held tight against Kirk’s broad chest, head back, purring quietly. Kirk’s fingers are moving steadily in and out of his mouth. Kirk’s other hand is inside his sheath, teasing at the tip of his lok. Kirk’s mind is bright and perfect and Spock is allowed to drink from it.
While Rand steps like a fawn around the treacherous floor and removes the largest pieces of glass with her bare hands, Kirk murmurs to Spock about how obedient he’s been. While Rand calibrates a tractor wand to the glass’ molecular makeup and begins lifting the smaller fragments from the weave of the carpet, Kirk sinks his fingers deep into Spock’s throat and praises his skill. While Rand disposes of the debris and falls into a parade rest, Kirk shifts to further spread Spock’s legs. Spock is unsure exactly what he means to display, but placidly allows it. The telepathic hub of Kirk’s fingers is too precious an allowance to waste on thoughts of anything else.
“Yeoman,” Kirk says, startling Spock only for a moment.
Rand straightens, but her eyes stay low. “Yes, Captain?”
“Run on down to the medbay and inform Nurse Chapel that she’s due for the booth first thing tomorrow. No charge listed for now. Then you’re dismissed.”
“Yes, sir,” she says, and flees the room.
Possessive, Spock thinks, somewhat unkindly, and when Kirk removes his fingers from Spock’s mouth, adds, “Nurse Chapel has hardly made advances on me in the last two months at least.”
“Wildly imprecise for you.”
“The definition of ‘flirting’ is subjective enough to skew any potential data.”
Kirk squeezes him, just once, and puts his fingers back in Spock’s mouth. “Can’t hurt to remind her.”
Spock says, “Mmh.”
Kirk, psi-null though he is, focuses a burst of thought that reaches Spock like a flash flood breaching a barricade, and Spock moans under the onslaught. He shivers and basks. It is glorious. It is everything.
Kirk says, “My little telepathic whore. This is what you needed, huh. Can’t get enough of the inside of my head.”
Spock nods emphatically. There would be no point in deception, not with this man.
“I know, kitty. Relax. God, I wonder what lengths you’d go to to be allowed to meld with me.”
Spock keens, high-pitched and mortifying. There is no logical excuse whatsoever.
It’s worth it, though, when Kirk presses a grin into his hair, uses a hand wet with slick to jingle the bell on Spock’s collar, and says, “Someday, maybe. It’s not like you’re going anywhere.”
T’hy’la, Spock wants to say, but it comes out an obstructed hum that simply makes Kirk laugh. It is enough.