Prompt: "Animal play" at kink_bingo/kink_bingo on DW
Word Count: 4921
Warnings: Restraints, toys, pony play
Summary: "I ask of you, Admiral, for permission to instigate unorthodox disciplinary measures as well as the authority to enforce them for the safety of ship and crew." Or, in which Kirk is finally taken down a peg, and likes it.
Disclaimer: All characters and places belong to their logical owners.
Author's Note: Thanks to my awesome betas: bond_girl, roachpatrol, and . This fic was also awarded an Arbitrary Mod Prize ("Hot Like Burning-est") at kink_bingo!
TO: ADM. PIKE, STARFLEET COMMAND
FROM: LT. CMDR. SPOCK
SUBJECT: CAPT. KIRK, U.S.S. ENTERPRISE
I have cause for concern regarding Captain Kirk's comportment, which is unbefitting of a captain of a starship and a representative of Starfleet. Precisely 70.86% of any shore-based missions result in his inebriation and (in 30.02% of those cases) severe breaches of courtesy that resulted in diplomatic tension. Regulation disciplinary measures have proven ineffective, and as captain, Kirk may disobey the advice of both myself in the position of First Officer and Doctor McCoy as Chief Medical Officer. I request permission to instigate unorthodox disciplinary measures as well as the authority to enforce them for the safety of ship and crew.
LT. COMMANDER SPOCK
TO: LT. CMDR. SPOCK
FROM: ADM. PIKE, STARFLEET COMMAND
SUBJECT: RE: CAPT. KIRK, U.S.S. ENTERPRISE
As much as I appreciate your vigilance, I have to wonder if stronger disciplinary measures are strictly necessary. Kirk is wild, true, but he's also one of the best Starfleet officers out there, and a little protocol bending can and will be overlooked. If you really want to beat him up that badly, you'll have to do it on your own time. He probably will deserve it.
TO: ADM. PIKE, STARFLEET COMMAND
FROM: LT. CMDR. SPOCK
SUBJECT: RE: CAPT. KIRK, U.S.S. ENTERPRISE
ATTACHMENT: XO'S LOG 2259 – 2260.46, CMO'S LOG 2259 – 2260.46
My motives in this case are entirely objective. Captain Kirk in his current mental condition posits a danger to crew as well as interplanetary diplomacy. On our most recent mission to the Cassiopeia Conglomerate, the captain imbibed several hallucinatory beverages whose use is solely reserved for the residents' religious rituals, convinced several ensigns to do so as well, seduced and proceeded to have intercourse with the High Priest and Crown Prince, thus violating his vows of chastity and therefore his claim to the throne and resulting in a declaration of war that required one week and two days of diplomatic talks to resolve. This example is not remotely uncommon, as you will see by the attached reports dictated by myself and Doctor McCoy over the past year and a half. A reconsideration of your dismissal would be much appreciated.
LT. COMMANDER SPOCK
TO: LT. CMDR. SPOCK
FROM: ADM. PIKE, STARFLEET COMMAND
SUBJECT: RE: CAPT. KIRK, U.S.S. ENTERPRISE
I see your point. Do as you think is fit. You have my full permission.
"I regret that your behavior has brought us to this point."
Jim bares his teeth at Spock's back. It's useless and self-indulgent, since he knows any insolence will only merit him a harsher punishment, but he is James T. Kirk, after all, and insolent is practically in his job description.
"It wouldn't have gotten us to this point if you'd just kept your trap shut," he snaps, hands balled in fists. He'd love to punch the Vulcan right in his smug, smarmy face. Watch him leak green from the nose, maybe a split lip, but most of all Jim wants to see his shocked expression, just seconds ahead of that mindless, broiling rage that escalates like a summer thunderstorm and explodes twice as deadly – it's a little thrilling in all the wrong ways to see him lose it like that, and Jim Kirk's ace at pursuing the wrong ways to get to anything. Just turn around, he demands silently, turn around and say hello to my fist.
"Had I – 'kept my trap shut', as you so colloquially put it, your insubordinate and risky behavior would have been detrimental to the well-being of the crew as a whole. I am merely being mindful of the needs of the many."
Spock stands before his window, facing away from Jim, hands clasped behind his back, gazing out at craggy vistas and swooping desert cliffs, a view manufactured by the ship's computer – a new Starfleet regulation, Terran-like images to improve morale. The powers that be worry that continued exposure to space will cause depression, but Jim knows Spock's window-screen looks out on Vulcan. Not the most cheery of sights, especially after…well. Suffice to say, he can't see what there is to love about the barren place.
Jim replies, "I think you should just mind your own damn business and not go blabbing to Command about the fights I get into."
Spock tilts his head slightly, the only reaction to Jim he's shown yet. "I've already pursued that route, with no improvement shown despite both mine and Doctor McCoy's remonstrations. You persist in brawling, drinking, and carousing in ways unbefitting the captain of a starship."
He turns to Jim, a faint sneer on his face, communicated as much by his arched eyebrow than any actual expression. "Such evidence would indicate that your recommended plan of action would be, shall we say, useless."
Jim resists the urge to smack the condescension right out of those cold Vulcan eyes, and instead asks through gritted teeth, "All right, genius. What's your recommended plan of action, then?"
"Strip," says Spock, and his voice is far too tranquil for what he just said.
Jim stares in disbelief, then snorts and says, "Yeah, right."
"I maintain my stance on this order," says Spock, and his voice has a hard, unyielding note to it Jim hasn't heard before. "Strip."
Jim hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, and levels a challenge. "Strip, captain."
"No." A simple, flat-out denial. Jim can't quite believe it. "Right now, I am your commanding officer. And I order you to take off your clothes."
"Fuck you," says Jim conversationally.
A muscle twitches in Spock's face, almost lifting his lip into a smirk. "Commander. I must insist on my proper title."
"No!" There is something about being naked in front of Spock that makes Jim's gut twist, like he'll be defenseless without his uniform. Like without his captain's stripes to prove it, Spock will just level a glare at him and cut him down like he's just a cadet again.
Spock arches one eyebrow quizzically. "I am curious as to whether your resistance to following orders stems from a fear that I will find you and your member somewhat less than impressive, thus deeming your worth as a captain insignificant. This is a common fear of human males, I believe."
Jim's jaw actually drops. He splutters, "You think I'm – I'm – compensating for something?"
"Your rebellious attitude would certainly indicate so."
Jim sets his jaw and says, "I am so not overcompensating. For anything."
"Then provide evidence to indicate such. Unless, of course, your fear prevents you from doing so."
"This really is not worth it," Jim announces to the room, deciding that arguing is useless. He eyes Spock for a moment. "This doesn't mean I'm letting you order me around. I'm just not in the mood to fight your bullshit right now."
His words sound alarmingly close to attempts at validation in his own ear, and he thinks Spock hears it too, if the Vulcan's utter lack of response at this impudence is any indicator. Jim begins to strip (he can still hear Spock's voice saying the word, ordering him to do it – it's perverse but he almost likes the sound of it), pulling his shirt over his head, kicking off his shoes, kicking his pants and underwear into untidy piles at the edge of the room. Spock watches him, dark eyes yielding nothing. Jim shivers – he doesn't know why, it's boiling in Spock's room – and stands stiff, arms crossed over his chest. He won't give in to the urge to cover his privates, even in front of Spock – he's got nothing to be ashamed of, and he won't let the fucker see his discomfort.
"Enjoying the view?" he asks. Spock inclines his head – not in assent, but to look Jim over more closely, more invasively – and says, "Fascinating, how humans persistently utilize sarcasm as a method of masking their distress. I would not expect so illogical a race to use a rhetorical device with such frequency."
"You can shove your expectations up your ass," Jim says, because that seems to be the only fitting response.
Spock stands almost weirdly still for a moment, and raises his eyes to Jim's and says, "Get on your hands and knees."
Jim gapes. "Excuse me? No." He takes a step back, almost involuntarily, as Spock advances a pace forward.
"You may not deny me, Jim. On your hands and knees." Perhaps Spock can read Jim's mind behind his darting eyes, for he adds, in a tone almost exasperated, "I have no intention of forcing you to perform any sexual acts. Now down."
Jim goes down. It's not his intent, but he finds it difficult to disobey Spock when he uses that tone.
"I love it when you get all bossy." This he remarks to the floor, almost in an undertone, as he settles on the hard metal floor, hands and shoulders and knees aligned.
"Silence. Or I will be forced to gag you."
This makes Jim look up. He won't deny the frisson of energy that shivers through him at the thought – really, he'd feel this way when kinky bondage games were suggested by anyone – but he refuses to believe that chill is brought on by Spock, and his voice, and the way he still stands, hands behind his back, straight-backed, looking down at Jim like he's a…a pet or something.
"Bullshit," Jim says, and for the first time he begins to think he might not be able to glide through this with sarcasm and wit. "That can't be regulation – "
"I think there has been a misunderstanding between us," interrupts Spock, and his tone is suddenly glacial. This is the all-work, no-play Spock talking – or maybe I've got that backwards, thinks Jim, and he's tempted to chuckle (nervously). Spock begins to pace around Jim in a circle, slow measured steps every inch of the way.
"Starfleet Command authorized me to deal with you in any manner I see fit," he states. "I have used every other method on you, Jim, and this is the only one I believe has any chance of success." He stands before Jim now, his knees on level with Jim's eyes. "Your friend McCoy once likened you to a stallion. I am prepared to break you like one."
Jim raises his eyes to look Spock in the face, but before he can, Spock's hand on the nape of his neck forces his head back down; he stares at Spock's shoes instead. His hand lingers on the back of Jim's neck for a moment, as if to ensure he doesn't attempt to look up again. When he steps back, Jim asks in a surly voice, head still parallel to the floor, "If I'm a horse, do I have to whinny like one?"
"Yes," answers Spock. He sounds almost serene, the bastard. "If you are in pain. I will not permit you to speak otherwise. Is that understood?"
Jim remains silent. Spock takes this for acquiescence and turns to his work, logging into his PADD and appearing utterly absorbed, as if Jim isn't even in the room.
Jim is quiet for two hours, maybe a little more, because he just wants this to be over and done with so he can get back to being captain the way he wants to, but the metal floor is biting into his palms and his knees are aching and the oppressive heat of the room, which is tolerable on a normal day, is sinking into his skin and causing little beads of sweat to break out along his bare back, and after so many hours he bursts out, "You fucking bastard. Why the fuck – you're getting off to this, aren't you? Why the fuck else would you – "
Spock moves, fluidly and quickly, and removes two objects from a narrow box next to his fiendishly organized desk. The first item doesn't register with Jim until Spock smacks him hard across the backs of his thighs, making him lurch forward and sending a spark to his cock – Jim presses his legs together, face flushing, and prays Spock doesn't see it.
"I do not enjoy repeating myself," states Spock, his voice radiating anger, and hits Jim again – none too lightly or kindly, this isn't some light S & M game, this is serious, the kind of lashing done as a punishment, not a prize. Jim whimpers, ducking his head, and when the third blow comes his elbows buckle and he nearly slumps against the floor. Later he'll see that the flogging leaves three angry welts across his thighs and buttocks, but right now it hurts with a stinging smarting pain so intense he's sure he's bleeding.
"Three times you have spoken out of turn," Spock says, and Jim sees him cross the room to lay the riding crop back in the box it came from. He turns and strides toward Jim again, steps purposeful, dropping to his knees before him and grabbing Jim's jaw, tightly enough to bruise. "I will not tolerate such disobedience. Open your mouth."
Jim wants to resist, he really does, but his jaw drops of its own accord and Spock pushes something in, a horizontal steel rod wrapped in leather, with straps that hook around his face and snap at the back of his head. Jim gags a little at the intrusion, and Spock pauses and waits until he's got his reflex under control, and carefully prods the bit into place. For a moment, he seems to pause before Jim, studying his face, and then he stands and turns back to his work, completely dismissing Jim's presence.
Jim's world narrows down to several simple things: the flush he can feel in his cheeks and neck, no matter how hard he wills it to disappear; the half-wilted erection between his legs; the spittle leaking from his mouth, around the bit, and hanging in a string to the floor; the resentment, arousal, and shame. He's bolstered only by his stubbornness; he's not going to let this pointy-eared hobgoblin (to borrow some choice words from Bones) see his weakness, although Jim has the nasty feeling Spock already has.
He's jolted out of his reverie by Spock, hovering over him and carefully unsnapping the gag's bonds. He's clamped down so hard on the bit that it's difficult to unclench his jaws, and when it's out of his mouth he sees he's left imprints of his molars on the leather. With Spock's nod, he stands, knees protesting, unsteady on his feet, but he doesn't want Spock's assistance, and the Vulcan doesn't offer it.
"Go to sleep, Jim," the Vulcan says. Jim turns and looks at the bed, fastidiously made and seemingly never slept in. It looks cozy. He glances down at the pool of spittle between his feet and feels vaguely bad about it, but he won't offer to clean it up because it's Spock's problem now, he's the bastard who made him drool in the first place.
"Sleep," Spock directs, and Jim stumbles to the bed and collapses facedown on it. He's weirdly drained, and his emotions feel raw and too close to the surface to look at Spock or really interact with anything in the room besides the sheets. He's out within moments, and doesn't notice Spock standing over his body, contemplative, his posture almost protective.
When he wakes, Spock is in the same exact position as he'd been most of the previous night: at his desk, PADD open, seemingly unaware of Jim. The captain stares at him for a moment, then down at himself, registering his nakedness and the bruise-like pain on his thighs. For a moment, his mind is blank, unable to decide what to do with this information. He decides to curse.
"Shit. I mean, this is some motherfucking shit."
"Jim." Spock spins in his chair to face him, his expression carefully neutral. "You've awakened."
"No shit, Sherlock." Jim sits up and groans; his muscles are clearly unhappy with the way he's been treating them. "What time is it?"
"Oh-seven-hundred," Spock answers. "If you dress quickly, you will manage to arrive at breakfast on time."
"Shit." Jim finds his clothes, stuffed into a corner of Spock's room, and pulls them on slowly. He thinks his face is bruised, too, where Spock grabbed him. The Vulcan merely sits, unmoving, attention on his PADD.
"So," Jim says. The silence is killing him. "No more Mister Horsey, I guess?"
Spock lays the device on his desk and stands to face Jim. "It would be illogical for you to behave as such while completing your duties as captain."
"Oh, so I'm still captain?"
"So it would seem."
"Tell me," demands Jim, stepping a pace forward toward Spock, who (to his credit) doesn't budge an inch. "Do I have to come back here to stay captain?"
Spock's forehead furrows minutely. "I would not force such an action upon you against your will, despite what you seem to believe."
"So I don't have to."
"It would be unwise not to, as I would then have to enact other disciplinary measures."
"Would these other measures involve me naked and being treated like a horse?"
Spock blinks once, and his lips tighten. "No."
"Then I won't." Jim steps back and stretches, a light smirk on his face. "See you later, Commander."
"Jim," says Spock, just before Jim exits.
"Captain, please." He thinks Spock barely restrains an eye roll before continuing.
"Should you desire to continue with this particular course of discipline, I will expect you here at twenty-two-hundred tonight."
"Yeah, right," Jim says, and leaves.
But he has to deal with Spock on the bridge, Spock in the mess hall, Spock rigid and unmoving and watching him with those knowing dark eyes – Spock, whose whip and restraints and goddamn dominance made Jim touch himself with shaking hands safely behind closed doors –
No, he tells himself, just the word, over and over: no, no, no.
Jim goes back. That night, and the next, and the next.
He trembles. Spock's hands are slow and methodical, fingertips tracing his spine on the skin of his bare back, their gentleness barely masking the terrible strength Jim knows Spock is capable of. He's crouched beside Jim, still fully dressed despite all of Jim's wishes to the contrary, and although Jim can't see past these new blinders he's sure Spock has his reins coiled in his hand.
"Close your eyes," Spock orders, and Jim complies immediately. He's found there's some pleasure to be had in – this, whatever it is, something that dances along the line between punishment and submission. It's soothing, really, to come here at night and get rid of the stress that sometimes makes his hands shake, to allow Spock some of the control. Just some. He's still the captain, after all. But for now, he does what Spock asks. He never asks why.
His eyes are shut. All sensations suddenly seem to amplify – the leather straps on his cheeks and forehead, holding the bit in place; they'll leave indentations when they're removed, but the noticeable pressure centers him, something to focus on while the rest of his senses are whirling. The presence beside him, eerily still. The slight itch as droplets of sweat slip across the nearly-healed welts on his thighs, souvenirs of his first flogging. His cock is somewhat less than flaccid, but no matter how much he'd like attention paid to it, Spock has never commented either way about it. Well, a man can hope.
Spock moves, and sweeps something against Jim's ribs, something fringed, and Jim flinches at the tickle. He relishes the tiny shock of shame when Spock reaches under his belly to prevent his movement and brushes against his erection; he can control his urge to buck against the touch, but only barely. The Vulcan doesn't react, and drags the very tips of the fringe against Jim's back, gently stroking his buttocks with the implement. Jim shivers, and Spock speaks as if in reply.
"Do you know what this is?"
Jim makes a low noise in his throat, halfway between a whicker and a moan. It's the only reply he can make – or rather, that he is allowed to make. Spock continues caressing his skin, sending delicate shudders up Jim's spine; he breaks out in goosebumps.
"It is the final stage. I believe that once you have accepted this and fully understood the logic behind this punishment, there will be no further need for chastisement due to your behavior." His voice is quiet, detached, almost scientific. Jim is about to explode from arousal. Dammit, just give it to me, he thinks, I'm ready, I don't want your lectures, but he isn't prepared when Spock's fingers, coated with something damp and sticky, gently spread him – oh, down there, god – and press against his entrance. Jim's entire body goes stiff with alarm (and more than a touch of hesitant curiosity), but Spock lays a hand at the small of his back, and suddenly Jim is – calm. Still nervous, still aroused, but there's a serenity at the very core of him that seems to stem from Spock's hand on his skin. Ridiculous, but he can't explain it any other way – and what is that –
Jim twists his head in an attempt to look behind him and his muscles contract around Spock's finger, but he can't quite see more than one arched eyebrow over his blinders.
"Be still," Spock commands, and Jim turns to face front again, dropping his head. His breath is whooshing in his lungs; his jaws clench convulsively on the bit.
"But then," Spock continues as if nothing had happened, easing another finger inside, careful and methodical and far too slow for Jim's tastes, "if you persist on behaving in the decidedly sophomoric manner you have previously," his fingers curl and something shoots through Jim's nerves, gut-deep and intense, "further disciplinary action will be taken."
His voice drops even lower on the last few words, becoming almost velvety, and Jim could swear Spock might be actually hot right now. Because of me, Jim thinks, and the idea makes him rock back against Spock, fucking himself on the Commander's fingers, yes, fucking Spock's fingers, oh god and Spock is moving his fingers inside him and this is – fuck, this is fantastic – and then Spock withdraws and Jim mewls and arches his back, seeking Spock's touch, squeezing his legs together in a vain attempt to touch his cock.
"Now," says Spock, and he doesn't complete his sentence but Jim doesn't care because Spock is pushing something inside him, an inexorable pressure, slow, too slow because it hurts but Jim wants it to, his hands clench into fists and he's making noises in his throat and those delicate fringes he'd felt earlier are brushing his thighs and oh my god, Jim sighs and moans and cries out, rocking back to make it go in faster and more than anything he wants Spock to fuck him right now because what this is, what's inside him, that's a tail. He's a stallion and he needs a tail. And yes, he's whimpering and tossing his head and rubbing his ass against Spock, shamelessly savoring the sensation of being filled, and yes, he's basically lost the last shreds of dignity he possessed in this room, thinking only the words please please please, but he doesn't care, because – because Spock has just inhaled, a deep shuddering breath as if in response to his internal plea (Jim can only imagine the expression on the other man's face right now – and his imagination is painting a pretty picture indeed) and now Spock is brushing the fringes of Jim's new tail out of the way and reaching between his spread thighs and wrapping those slender Vulcan fingers around Jim's cock.
"Please," Jim begs, aloud this time, although it comes out more like "mnleesh", and Spock slides his thumb along the swollen flesh, rearranging himself for better access, sprawled across Jim's back, one hand splayed across Jim's stomach and the other gripping, stroking, smearing drops of precome along the shaft. The heat radiating off his body is sexy in the most animal sense of the word, overwhelmingly so, and Jim ruts against him wantonly, his backside rubbing against Spock, each nudge of the tail sending little electric bolts of pleasure through his nervous system. The Vulcan is panting and Jim arches his back, begging for more contact, more violence, more pressure, just more and Spock bites him hard, over and over, along his spine and his shoulder, and it hurts and Jim is certain he's bleeding and he loves it – and when Spock finally says something, something indecipherable but god it doesn't matter, it's his voice that cements this whole event into reality (and Spock says it again, in his head – Jim) and Jim cries out and comes in bursts on Spock's hands, nearly collapsing onto the metal floor.
Spock shifts away almost immediately, and Jim can hear him stumble – oh yes, Spock stumbles – to his chair by his desk, where he's always sat every other time. Jim scrabbles at the snaps on his harness and manages to rip it off, spitting out the bit, and without the blinders he can see Spock, staring at the hand Jim came all over as if it's something faintly unreal. It's the most expression Jim thinks he's seen on the Vulcan's face (except for that one time when he was beating the shit out of Jim), a heady combination of guilt and lust and maybe a touch of fear.
"Spock," Jim says hoarsely. Spock jerks and stares at him for a moment, then clears his throat and says:
"I did not give you permission to take that off."
"Or to speak," Jim says, and he grins at Spock's rebuking eyes, "but I'm doing that, too."
He crawls toward Spock, and the other man stands quickly and steps away – the wrong way, into a corner, and although he's schooled his expression into its typically bored state, his eyes look terrified. Too bad, really, but then again…He needs this, Jim thinks, with a certainty that might have as much to do with the lingering link between them as his own intuition.
"You cannot – " Spock begins, but Jim's already reared up on his knees and put his hands against Spock's thighs. Spock's hands are flat against the wall, as if he thinks he'll escape if he pushes hard enough.
"I can and I will," Jim says cheerfully. He mouths the bulge in Spock's pants – no matter how stoic the man is, he can't hide that – and murmurs against the fabric, "How d'you like that, Commander?"
He clamps his fingers around Spock's wrist and draws the hand he came on to his mouth, and licks it clean, sparing no patch of skin from his tongue, sucking lightly at his fingers. Spock makes a low noise – barely enough to be called a moan by most people, but for him basically a scream – and when Jim looks up his eyelids are lowered and he's watching Jim, mouth slightly open.
"Jim," he says again, or maybe it's in their minds, but it doesn't matter; it's enough of a go-ahead for Jim to unzip his slacks and stroke his cock. The Vulcan quivers under his touch.
(It's green, Jim thinks, and he doesn't quite know why he's surprised. It's only logical, after all.)
Jim's never sucked cock before, but he didn't get to be the captain of a starship for being a slow learner, and if the way Spock's hands are in his hair within minutes is any example (not to mention the way Spock's hips are swaying with a rhythm that shows a total lack of his typical Vulcan restraint), he's doing a damn good job. He suckles and nibbles and laps, and while the taste is different than any woman he's ever had, it's equally enjoyable, and when Spock comes, silently, hands fisting in Jim's hair and mouthing what Jim can only assume are curses, Jim's wondering why he's never tried this before.
"So," he quips, wiping his mouth as he watches Spock attempt to construct some semblance of control, sagging against the wall and looking rather shell-shocked, "am I the greatest fuck in the world or what?"
"Statistically improbable," Spock says, and all the mathematical babble in the world couldn't keep the tremor out of his voice. "Although I admit, I lack the empirical data to make a proper estimate."
"Sounds sexy," says Jim. Spock licks his lips and shuts his eyes for a moment, composing himself. Jim waits, kneeling on the floor. He likes the weight of the tail inside him. Maybe he could wear it – no, it'd be too obvious under his uniform. Something else might not be. A little distracting, though. But – if Spock were to help – Jim's mind goes into particularly savory directions, and he doesn't notice Spock's suddenly stern expression until he's pushed back down to all fours.
"The fact remains," states Spock, still holding his head down, "that you disobeyed my direct orders."
"That I did," Jim agrees readily.
A pause, and then Spock says, his voice pitched low and smooth, "And what, Jim, do you believe is the best course of action to deal with this incident?"
Jim grins at the floor. He rather thinks Spock is smirking, too.
"Punish me," he begs.