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Spock had read in a history book when he was a child, that human trafficking had existed since, approximately, the beginning of their race. The current expanse of space hadn’t done much to assuage this particular issue. Humans were a commodity all over the galaxy. In his youth, Spock had wondered why. As a species, human beings were illogical. He found it amusing, now, how Vulcan his thinking had been then. How, in his quest to adhere so strictly to his father’s ways, he had overlooked that this may be the exact reason they were so desired. Humans were illogical. They were spirited and brave to the point of stupidity. They were determined. They fought when they should cower, and often cowered when they should fight. They were of the more physically vulnerable species in the universe, and yet, somehow they managed to survive. To thrive. It was impossible for a logical thinker like Spock to attribute this to anything other than sheer force of will. Humans were willful creatures, and it was fascinating.
And so they were hunted, and collected, mostly as children, and sold throughout galaxy. As pleasure slaves, house servants, pets, instruments to torture at will, science experiments. Demand for them was high. After weeks, and Spock beginning to worry that his Captain was entirely too emotionally involved, Kirk had found the man responsible for the “supply” portion of the equation.
Exactly six days previous, they had led a rescue team down to the hardly livable planet where the humans were kept, and liberated the majority of the man’s “supply”. They’d left a bomb in the facility, and then beamed back up to the ship, feeling properly satisfied. Jim had contacted the culprit, to gloat. His Captain was invariably fond of gloating. However, once the hail went through, they’d found something much different waiting for them.
Mathematically speaking, the mission had not progressed poorly at all. 95.45% of the captives had been saved. Twenty one children rescued, almost singularly thanks to James T. Kirk. Yet, Spock knew Kirk wasn’t thinking of it that way. He was thinking about the last child, the only one they hadn’t been able to save.
The picture had come through grainy, at first, clearing slowly. The room they were in was already shaking from the force of the blast, bits of rubble falling from the ceiling, blurring the picture more. A human man (and that was what had sickened Jim the most, at the bottom of it) sat in a chair, watching the screen patiently. There was a boy on his lap, only six or seven, with the bluest eyes, for Kirk it must’ve been like looking in a mirror, and a shock of black hair that Spock imagined would’ve looked much like his own before it grew long enough to be styled in the traditional Vulcan manner.
Blue eyes radiated terror as the room continued rumbling and falling apart around them, and the old man laughed. “You were planning to torture me, yes?” He began, wheezing slightly, “This bomb. Time release. Drag it out. Cawe my fortress in on me. Make me suffer. This was your plan. And it was a good one, fitting.” Chekov stiffened, the man’s accent was very nearly identical to his own. “You are not the only one to make plans.” He smiled evilly, revealing jagged teeth, stained with yellow grime. A glinting sliver knife was pulled from his robes. “You will watch him suffer. You will watch him die. If you disconnect the feed, the last thing he will know is that he was abandoned, and pain.” The old man chuckled, “Yes, he will know much pain.”
Uhura fled the bridge. The rest of them, they watched. They watched the knife carve rivers of blood into a child’s flesh. They heard him scream, saw him reach for them through the display, pleading for help. They saw him spit blood at his captor, and lose a finger in return. They saw him hyperventilate, the pain too much for his small body. They watched until the room blew, and the feed cut.
Chekov was green. Sulu’s hand was stroking softly over his back, absently, which could be read as an intimate gesture, or a measure to prevent the younger man from vomiting all over the control panel. Spock’s Vulcan hearing could pick up the Sulu’s murmured reassurances, though, quiet enough that he was certain no one else could.
All eyes turned to the Captain as he rose, on legs that were surprisingly steady, gave Spock the conn, and left the bridge.
:::::::::::::
When he returned to duty, he needlessly, yet passionately apologized to his crew, for the gruesome torture they’d been forced to endure. He was forgiven instantly, and he’d returned to his duties, performing them perfectly. That was Spock’s first worry. He was somber. There were no jokes, no mischievous grins, no inappropriate nicknames. The Captain did his job, and retired to his quarters. He took his meals alone; his reports were filed accurately and on time. He was perfect, and Spock was incredibly concerned.
He’d hoped, terribly, that after such an ordeal, Jim may….require his services again. But the nights had come and gone, and Jim hadn’t sought him out. The first officer wouldn’t presume to offer, especially since he felt guilty at the sick pleasure he’d receive from having his Captain on his knees again. No, he considered Jim’s lack of desire for that type of interaction his punishment for desiring it so much, and he tamped it down to the best of his ability.
So, when Jim appeared at his door on that seventh night, his XO was giddy with excitement and surprise, though he showed none of those emotions visibly, merely arching an eyebrow at his Captain’s unexpected presence in his quarters.
“How may I be of service, Captain?” He asked, careful to keep his voice level. Jim shook his head, miserably.
“No.” he responded, making eye contact with Spock for the first time. His eyes were wet, red rimmed from tears, his voice rough, “The galaxy can’t be my concern tonight. The chair can’t be concern. Only you.” He paused, eyes filling with panic at what he’d just said, at what he’d just admitted. “Right?”
Spock nodded, then stood directly in front of the captain. “Kneel.” He commanded, and his command was followed. “Beautiful,” he murmured quietly, overcome by the grace of Jim Kirk sinking to his knees. He ran his hand through the younger man’s hair and reveled in the shudder he felt. “You will service me. Other than removing my garments, you will not use your hands at all. Do you understand?” Jim’s eyes fluttered up to his, his head tilted. “I’m not sure, because I don’t think you’re asking me to—“
“Suck my dick, Jim,” the Vulcan growled, and Jim moaned beneath him, eyes fluttering shut. He hands hastened to do what they’d been ordered, pulling at Spock’s standard issue uniform pants, and the underwear beneath, until he was faced with a rapidly growing, green tinged Vulcan cock. Jim was struck by his extraordinary desire to touch it, to weigh it, hot and heavy in his hands. He figured, though, that this was simply because he’d been directly ordered not to touch it.
He settled for testing the weight of it on his tongue. His mouth created a tight seal over the head of Spock’s member as he sucked, hard. Vulcan hands fisted into human hair, and Kirk’s tongue ran circles over Spock’s tip, slowly working his mouth down further and further, until the tip of his dick was massaging the back of Kirk’s throat. Then he swallowed, deliberately, and what felt like an inch of rock hard cock was down his throat. Spock gasped audibly, which filled the younger man with a soaring sense of accomplishment. He took a deep breath through his nose, and did it again. Spock was huge, but soon, he entire length was housed in Kirk’s mouth, nose pressed against the older man’s groin.
An inhuman groan coursed from Spock’s mouth as his hips bucked slightly. He was trying so hard, so hard, not to thrust into Jim’s mouth. Jim’s mouth, that looked entirely too good wrapped around his cock. But he knew he’d release entirely too soon that way. As good as his captain’s mouth was, that’s not where he wanted his seed to end up this evening.
He pulled his Captain by his hair, slowly, slowly off of his cock, biting back a moan at the sight of Jim’s lips, red, swollen, used, shiny with spit and his own lubricant. “Strip,” he demanded roughly.
Kirk rose and began shedding his clothes, slowly, teasingly. “Faster,” Spock bit out, but Kirk’s speed did not change. Made impatient by need and lust, he grabbed the younger man’s arms, twisting them painfully behind his body and ramming him up against a wall, so that his cheek pressed up against the cool wooden paneling. “You would defy me?” He made his voice hard, cold, a direct counterpoint to his hard, hot dick slotting up against the Captain’s ass. “Yes,” Kirk whined, half out of his mind with lust and grief, “Punish me, Spock. Punish me. I deserve to be…”
He trailed off as Spock released him entirely and took a few rapid steps back, realizing now fully what was happening. Jim turned to face him, eyes wide, lust blown. His shirt was off, top button of his pants undone, hair a mess, mouth still puffy, and the Vulcan was suddenly unspeakably angry. He surged back towards his Captain, grabbing him by the neck and lifting him an inch off the floor, so that they were level. He lowered his mouth dangerously towards Kirk’s ear and growled. “You are not in control here, James. You do not tell me what you deserve. You do not wring punishment from me as you see fit. Here, you will follow my orders, you will take what I give you and you will be grateful.”
Jim’s hips bucked up into his, seeking friction on his aching cock. Spock chuckled a little, glancing down at his straining erection. “You like this, do you, Pet?” Kirk’s eyes rolled back in his head at that. “Like my hands around your throat? Like the names I call you?” The younger man nodded, frantically, and Spock dropped him back to the ground. “We shall see what we can do about that.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Now strip.”
The younger man’s clothes disappeared in a flurry of movement that had Spock’s mouth turning up at one corner. Kirk stood before him, naked and panting, legs shaking, awaiting his next command.
Spock left him standing there, removing his own garments, and going over to sit on the bed. He shivered at the images that played behind his eyes. The things he desperately wanted to make his Captain do. The things he knew his Captain would do if they were commanded of him. “On your knees,” he bit out, slowly. Still, he was overcome with the beauty of the movement as Jim sank. “Now to me.” The blue eyed man looked confused again, for a moment. “Crawl to me, Pet.” Spock clarified, and Jim shuddered as he did. His hands and knees moved slowly, one after another, shoulders rolling with the grace of a jungle cat. When he arrived between Spock’s legs, the older man pulled him up by his chin into a searing kiss. His tongue licked up into the Captain’s mouth, mapping, exploring, claiming every inch that he found. Jim moaned back into him, taking as much as he was giving and still demanding more.
Groaning, he pulled Jim up the rest of the way, pushing him back until he bounced against the pillows on the bed. He had too many, it was an indulgence. Vulcans didn’t sleep often, but when they did, it was no harm to be comfortable. And if he alternated them correctly, they were almost always cool to the touch, a blessed relief for his inhumanly overheated skin. Watching Jim’s tawny skin settle against them filled Spock with an unexpected pleasure, adding to the already immense urgency he felt to claim this man as his own.
He snaked a hand into a drawer, removing the lube quickly and then shutting it again. Moving between his captain’s legs, he lubed up only his middle finger, and was poised to press it into the younger man when he was overcome with another desire. Leaning down, he pressed his tongue to the puckered skin at his lover’s opening. Jim’s back arched sharply in response. So Spock did it again, tonguing the tight bunch of muscles there, until they loosened and allowed him entry. Jim was on fire above him, moaning and whining, letting out sharp, desperate pants of air.
Spock dragged his tongue up to lick at the younger man’s balls, simultaneously pressing his lubed finger into his ass, massaging deliberately, until he felt the prostate engorge and stiffen under his ministrations. The noises Jim was making were choked off and divine. Spock couldn’t resist the urge to lick a hot stripe up the underside of his Captain’s cock, and lube up another finger. He was desperate and aching to get inside the man, but he didn’t know how much experience his captain had with this type of intercourse, and he’d rather be safe.
The second finger slipped in and Kirk gasped at the fullness, his knuckles white as his hands tightened beautifully in the sheets. It only took a moment, though, for him to adjust, and resume panting and writhing, thrusting his hips down into Spock’s fingers.
The Commander couldn’t take anymore. Pulling his fingers from Kirk’s ass and reveling in the whimper of loss, he lubed up his cock liberally, and positioned himself at his lover’s entrance. Straining above him, he pulled Kirk’s hands up over his head, holding them as he guided himself into the velvet heat of the younger man’s ass slowly, so slowly that he almost came apart just from that.
“Spock,” Jim breathed out as they sank into each other, the older man still holding Kirk’s wrists with one hand, the other on his hip and he began to thrust into the younger man. He was trying to restrain himself, to go slowly, make it good for Jim, but his Captain was bucking his hips up beneath him. “More,” he moaned out. “Spock, please, more,” and it was all the commander could take. Releasing Kirk’s wrists, he held on to his hips with both hands and began pounding in and out of him with earnest. Jim keened his pleasure, writhing passionately, still trying to rise to meet Spock’s erratic thrusts.
On every stroke, Spock’s dick scraped across Jim’s prostate, continuing until he bottomed out inside, dragging across it again on the way out. The pleasure in Jim’s eyes, the pleasure radiating off of Jim’s skin fueled Spock’s own, until he was fumbling for words. “So…so……fuck” he moaned out, getting an echoing moan from Jim. Spock never swore. It was illogical. But there was nothing logical about the electricity that coursed through him at every point of contact. He was so far and away from logical at this moment, he thought he may actually understand what it was like to be human. And it was, “Beautiful,” he moaned, dropping his head in an attempt to clear it, to focus, but it was in vain. “So fucking beautiful,” he found himself swearing again. “Such a beautiful little slut for me.” And that almost snapped him out of his haze, because he knew that term was derogatory, yet Kirk’s legs came up to wrap around his waist, and his moans got louder. Spock tried to stop, tried to calm himself, as he realized he was going mad with it. Mad with the power of making the great James T. Kirk a panting, begging mess beneath him. “Shit, Spock, yes. God…please…don’t stop. Fuck…don’t stop…” He moaned desperately, and Spock resigned himself to the fact that he couldn’t even if he tried. He was lost in the feeling of being part of Jim, being so deep inside him that the place where one stopped and the other started was blurred.
The pace that they’d set was brutal and punishing, to be enjoyed while it lasted, not maintained for long. Spock felt everything in him begin to tighten, as if we were being wound into a coil, poised to spring. He lifted a hand, and wrapped it firmly around Kirk’s throat, delighting in the way he whined for the love of it. “Touch yourself for me, Pet.” He commanded lowly, and one of the Captain’s hands, which had been curled around Spock’s forearms, flew to his cock, stroking madly. “Yes,” Spock praised, “Yes. Like that. So good for me. So fucking good…Mine,” he gritted out roughly, “My Pet. Only ever mine.” Jim’s nails were drawing blood in Spock’s arm, but the older man didn’t care as he rushed to agree. “Yes. Yours. Anything. Fuck, Spock, anything…”
His vision began to blur, cock began to throb and swell, everything in him winding, winding, and tightening, working himself up and towards the edge. His hand on Jim’s throat tightened. “Come with me, Pet. Come with me, please,” he moaned helplessly, voice wrecked and broken as he exploded into his lover’s willing channel. Kirk’s back bowed away from the bed while seed was still being pumped into him and he released all over his hand, his chest, his chin. Spock leaned and licked the bead dripping from the Captain’s jaw, before his arms gave out under him, and he fell gracelessly on top of Jim.
Quickly he rolled them over so that Kirk’s chest and leg were sprawled over him, head cradled in the crook of his neck.
“We should clean ourselves up,” Jim muttered.
“I would be offended, I think, if you could find the energy to move.” Spock responded, tired and smug.
“Can’t,” Jim confirmed, yawning. The commander made a contented sound in his throat. “Nor can I, so the mess will wait.”
The captain shivered a little, and Spock wrapped an extra arm around him, infusing him with Vulcan warmth, while reveling in the curves of his body, pressed up so close. “Are you cold?” He asked. “Not anymore,” Jim muttered into his neck. Spock could feel himself begin to drift towards sleep, chuckling briefly at all the things he would likely allow himself to worry about again when he woke. “Something funny?” Jim muttered, sleep already lacing his voice. “You undo me completely, Pet.” He smiled, stroking a hand up Jim’s back, and down again to cup his ass. “Feelings mutual.”
They drifted off into silence after that, and Vulcans didn’t dream, so he was fairly certain at some point on of them asked, Will you stay? And the other responded Forever.
But he couldn’t be sure.