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It should be no surprise to anyone that James Kirk is one for spectacle.
He loves a show. He understands the power of a convincing performance and wields it whenever possible. He’s got dramatic flair baked into his bones. It’s for gain, for the schemes. It’s for kicks. It’s for fun.
Still: spectacle for the eyes of others has benefits. There are times when his political agenda lines up with his personal desires and he gets to kill two birds with one stone. Today, the stone is his penchant for the theatrical and the birds are his two-week dry spell and a royal court he needs to put in its place.
Planet Rasalgethi V—dusk. Day three of shore leave slash military occupation. Kirk has been bored to death since after breakfast with negotiation. It’s all economics and the shuffling of files, nothing tactical, nothing tangible. Conversely, Spock has just returned from a separate assignment and barely had time to change into a uniform that didn’t have blood on it before Kirk jumped him.
Now, finally, Kirk is settled within his mind. The light from the second sun is fading, leaving the sky outside his arched windows a gut-punch shade of orange. The sheer curtains of his obscenely large guest bed drift gently in the crossbreeze through the tower. It’s warm enough for him to be comfortable completely naked and not so warm that he’s sweating. His sheets are smooth and delightful under his back. He stretches, sighs, and puts his hands behind his head. He says, “Use your mouth, doll.”
Spock murmurs his customary yes, Captain and gets to work. His eyes flutter shut as he rolls Kirk’s clit with his tongue. He often gets like this, almost high with reverence, when he gives head. Kirk’s not entirely comfortable with how foreign it feels but he’s not about to fucking complain, not when it gets him eaten out this good whenever he wants, when all he has to do to make it happen is spread his legs and give the word. There’s officer loyalty, there’s plain lust, and then there’s… whatever Spock has going on.
“Fuck,” he breathes. God, he missed this. Two weeks is far too long to be without his First. There’s not much he can do to stop the brass from making it happen again, but he can at least be a difficult bitch about it. “Harder.”
Spock’s fingers abandon their leisurely pumping to curl upward. Kirk groans—Spock is very good at that. Eidetic memory plus a couple lessons early in their arrangement mean that he’s now the leading expert in what makes Kirk tick. What makes him squirm, buck, shake, writhe. They haven’t reached screaming yet, but it’s in the cards somewhere. Shore leave on Risa, maybe, where no one will be able to identify the sound of their captain going out of his mind on his ideal cocktail of pain and pleasure. He has his command image to protect, after all. It would do him no favors if his crew knew what he liked in bed.
Kirk’s arms strain a little, but he keeps them firmly where they are. It’s no fun to admit so quickly that Spock riles him up. Spock has to work for it. Kirk deliberately relaxes his whole body, going loose around Spock’s fingers, and focuses on his breathing.
Predictably, Spock reads the challenge for what it is. His eyebrow twitches upward but his face soon melts back into heady concentration. He adds a third finger (always a good move, Kirk is nothing if not a size queen) and works his tongue harder, adding a threatening scrape of his teeth from time to time, and Kirk finds himself panting much sooner than he’d like.
Spock’s skilled hand presses up into his g-spot and holds there for a moment, bumping up the pressure in delicious little repetitions, and Kirk tightens. Spock lets out a low, helpless noise on a puff of air, half subvocal. Kirk rewards him with a quick squeeze of thighs around his head just to let him know he’s doing well.
One of the impractically tall doors creaks open.
Kirk is too lost in his now-ruined mood to react as he should; he lazily lolls his head to the side to stare down the terrified aide standing there, but does nothing to make himself decent.
“C-Captain,” they say.
Kirk sighs. Spock has lifted his head to watch the proceedings and Kirk’s clit throbs in protest. “I was told my time was my own once the banquet started. I already notified your fucking king that I’d be in my room. My business hours are over, so the only shit you could be bothering me about is personal, and in that case I truly don’t care. Go away.”
“We apologize most sincerely,” the aide says very quickly. “Please know that we would not dare to interrupt you if it were not highly important-”
“Yawn. Tell your superior I’m busy.”
Spock says, “Captain, this culture places great emphasis on politeness and courtesy. I do not believe they would intrude were it not imperative.”
“You’re off-duty too, dollface,” Kirk says. “The only person you answer to right now is me. Head down. You’re still working.”
Spock looks at him for a long moment. Kirk looks right back. Unflinching. Unyielding. Spock sometimes needs a firm hand to make him do what he’s told, but then—there. Something in his eyes changes. It’s stronger than loyalty, stronger than fealty. Something more like devotion. “Yes, Captain,” he says. Anything, he doesn’t add, but Kirk knows it’s there.
Spock gets back to work. He’s slow and methodical about it, but no less effective than before, and Kirk lets out a little moan before he can stop himself. When he looks at the aide again, they seem sort of like they’re about to vomit. Kirk grins. “Tell me about this highly important official shit, then.”
The aide swallows hard. Kirk always loves to see that happen in humans and he’s delighted that this species does it too. They say, “One of the treasury accountants noticed a discrepancy between the terms of surrender documentation we exchanged with the ISS Morgana and the orders you relayed to us in the council meeting today.”
“Oh?” Kirk’s already bored again. Spock’s tongue feels so good.
“The terms of surrender included a clause which stated that we are to be allowed continued possession of the dilithium within the mine catacombs beneath the Capitol, which have historically belonged to the royal family rather than the people. It was of course difficult for His Majesty to agree to hand off the rest of the Continent’s dilithium, but in exchange for the mercy of your Empire, he did.”
Kirk manages a vague, “Mmh.” He lets one hand drift down his body to tangle in Spock’s hair. Spock exhales hard and his hips twitch where they’re pressed against the bed. Kirk doesn’t yank like he knows Spock wants him to, not yet. Just guides him a little to remind him who’s in control here.
“In the council meeting today, during the portion of the discussion regarding exports, you stated that there would be two-hundred and fifty-three Imperial mining posts on the Continent. We are aware that we signed these off to you in return for our planet’s safety. We accepted these terms. But there are two-hundred and fifty-two mines listed in the original terms.”
“Harder, doll,” Kirk says, and swears when Spock obeys. He glares at the aide. “Yeah. Two-fifty-two owned by the collective, now ours. Two-fifty-three mining posts. I don’t know why this is difficult for you. It’s all standard—god, fuck, babydoll, just like that, don’t you dare stop.”
“This is highly unprofessional,” the aide says. They must have scrounged up some nerve from the depths.
Kirk smiles genially and keeps his tone light. “You know what’s unprofessional? Barging in on your guest, who, by the way, is a galactically-renowned war tactician who’s never lost a single battle and isn’t about to start, talking about paperwork. I’m not even the one who filed that. Any of it. I’m just the big bad messenger.”
“We are aware of your reputation, Captain, but would you please pause your- your-”
“Oh, don’t mind my Vulcan,” Kirk says, rolling his hips up as luxuriously and pointedly as he can. “He’s my political advisor. He’s cleared to hear anything you have to say to me. It’s none of your business that he’s also my whore in his spare time.”
Spock shivers. The aide looks nauseous. “He was not at the council meeting.”
“Take that up with Fleet Command. He was on an assignment halfway across the quadrant, destabilizing a democracy they didn’t like. And I was left behind to come to your terminally boring planet by myself. This is the first time in two fucking weeks that I’ve had a chance to unwind. I’m a very high-strung man, and I’m liable to do serious damage when I’m not able to de-stress. You tell His fucking Majesty that if he has a problem with his Imperial orders, he can either come see me now and subject himself to whatever my possessive Vulcan chooses to do about it, or he can wait to talk to me in the next council meeting like a good little puppet monarch. Will that answer satisfy your superior?”
The aide had been steadily trying to shrink into the stonework and now goes loose like a freed kite with the promise of an end to the conversation. “Yes,” they say, shuffling backwards, “that is certainly satisfactory, Captain Kirk, we thank you for your understanding and we apologize for the—intrusion,” a terrified glance at Spock, followed by a hard, scrunching blink, “and we bid you good night!”
The tall door closes with a climactic thunk.
Kirk lets out an incredulous laugh, but it bleeds easily into a moan as Spock doubles down. It’s good, it’s so good, it’s incredible, but Kirk is an adrenaline junkie, always upping the ante, and he’s sort of disappointed with the lack of unwilling audience. To make up for it, he says, “I didn’t mention your possessiveness just for fun. I mentioned it because the king spent most of the meeting undressing me in his head.”
Spock’s eyes, reflecting silver in the minimal light of the room, flick up to his face. The subvocal rumble of a growl goes right to Kirk’s clit.
“Relax, he wasn’t even hot. I bet you anything he would be terrible in bed. Wouldn’t know the first thing about how to handle me. He might try to give orders. Imagine, Spock. Me taking orders without a fight.”
Spock delivers a vicious nip to Kirk’s thigh and says, “Anathema for a man such as you, k’diwa.”
Kirk gives his hair a firm tug, half reward and half demand that he get back to where he belongs. “Goddamn right. Now hump the bed for me. I know you need a little something. Don’t touch yourself. I want you hard and soaked and needy when I let you fuck me. You know the drill, you’re not allowed to come until I say you can, and that’s no fun if I don’t get to watch you struggle. If you’re good, I might suck on your fingers.”
Spock’s eyes widen and his hand moves faster, breath coming shallow and hard, and Kirk knows that tonight is going to be one of the nights when Spock is so busy drinking down his psionic energy through their skin that Kirk’s orgasm will take Spock out too. He’s always so desperate for telepathic contact when they’re apart too long. A level of desperate that’s kind of suspect, actually. Kirk should bring that up sometime. He’s not sure it’s normal.
Still, he can feel himself winding up, and he groans, “Oh, fuck, good boy, haaahfuck, ah- hah- that’s my good fucking boy, oh my god- I- Spock- Spock, baby- fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!”
His back arches, his toes curl, his cunt clamps down hard around Spock’s fingers, and his voice bounces between the stone walls. As he shouts Spock’s name, he hopes the whole city can hear him.