[FANFIC] Will You Be My Slave? -- K/S -- Star Trek
EDIT: THIS FIC IS ON PERMANENT HAITUS. IT WILL NOT BE UPDATED UNLESS MY OTP DOES ANOTHER 180 AND COMES BACK FROM K/MC TO K/S. I APOLOGIZE, BUT IF I TRY TO WRITE SOMETHING WHEN I'M NOT INTO IT, IT TURNS OUT CRAPPY, AND I'D RATHER LEAVE THE GOOD MEMORY THAN BUTCHER SOMETHING THAT USED TO BE NICE.
Title: Will You Be My Slave
Fandom: Star Trek (TOS or NuTrek)
Pairing: Spock/Kirk
Rating: pg-13 (for this chapter: absolutely will be R later on)
Summary: For a diplomatic mission to a planet with a strict social pyramid, Kirk decides to masquerade as the 'slave' of Spock, the Starfleet 'dignitary'. However, It turns out that a slave's duties on this particular planet are something Kirk had not anticipated. Written for a prompt on the Kink meme that I can't find anymore 6.6 But basically, Kirk is forced to publicly allow Spock to do him.
One
It had been logical, really. He'd thought Spock would like that, but the Vulcan had looked slightly uncomfortable as he'd explained that he would 'rather play the slave. In fact, it would be beneficial, since people who served could go unnoticed where a visiting diplomat would never be allowed in a million years.' Now Kirk thought about it, Spock might have known something at the time. And he must have assumed his captain had also known. Damn it, Jim wasn't perfect, and the more they all expected him to be, the more mistakes he was bound to make.
At least they weren't in danger. Well, Spock wasn't in danger. Jim wondered what would happen to him if the natives decided that the Ambassador Spock's slave was being disrespectful or not behaving properly. Would they have Jim 'removed' and replaced with a servant of theirs as a gesture of good will from their council towards Spock-The-Starfleet-Representative?
He needed to talk to bones.
Oh, but he wasn't allowed to speak. Right.
Jim swallowed, and shifted his weight to the other foot. His toes hurt, and he imagined he would have burn blisters on the bottoms of his feet from the heated flagstones of the council room. But slaves weren't even allowed sandals. It took all of Jim's effort not to let his frustration show on his face. Instead, he kept his head slightly bowed, and surveyed the room surreptitiously.
The great chamber arched around itself as if trying to curl away from the noon-day heat, yellow and black rock shaped artfully into twisted columns and pillars whose patterns seemed to writhe in the still humidity. Lining the edges of the chamber, countless august dignitaries sat on reed mats woven of the thick plants native to the wild tropical forests of the coast. Behind the officials stood their slaves, arrayed in formations obviously intended to show them off. Jim shivered slightly, despite the suffocating heat of the day. Spock shifted in front of him, the reed mat rustling, and Jim realized how distressed the Vulcan must be, to move without provocation.
It was a status symbol here to have slaves; that much Kirk had known before this mission. Bones had even briefed him on general slave etiquette when Jim had informed the doctor of his strategy. But neither of them had known what exactly the specific tasks of slaves were. Jim had, stupidly, assumed that it was similar to Terra's historic practices of menial labor and personal care for the master. Which would mean nothing on the mission-he would follow Spock meekly back to their room, and then, once inside, Spock could take the hell care of himself.
But it turned out there was more to being a slave here than that.
Dammit! Spock had looked so uncomfortable when Jim had explained his plan! The Vulcan must have known. Why hadn’t Spock told him anything?
Why did everyone think he was perfect and all-knowing? Or perhaps Spock simply hadn’t been able to bring himself to say out loud to his captain; ‘On this planet, slaves are sex objects as well as servants.’
Jim wanted to knee Spock in the back (it would be so easy, the Vulcan was seated directly in front of him…but no, he couldn’t.) He hoped that his first officer would at least realize that things would have been a lot less damn embarrassing if Spock had just told him, instead of letting them get to this point. Then maybe Jim could make fun of him for it, once this was all over.
Swallowing and trying to contain his nervous energy without shifting from foot to foot, Jim shot an agitated glance up at the ornate hourglass mounted on the wall. The black and yellow sand trickled slowly and unstoppably through the small hole in the center of the glass. Each grain brought them closer to the end of the diplomatic discussions, closer to the hour when the atmosphere in the room would shift as if at the flip of a switch, and the great hall would become the banquet room, the air filled with loud music, the smell of exotically spiced foods and the murmur of discussion tempered with the occasional loud bark of laughter. Of course, the speech and laughter would come only from the nobles. During banquets, slaves remained still and silent like as if still in negotiations, save when their owners were asked to showcase their possessions.
During the celebrations the previous night, Spock had thankfully been spared the request, which was a double blessing because Jim had been too shocked at some of the things going on around him to try to escape or even just concede to the order.
But Jim had noticed the appreciative glances that some of the aristocracy had been giving him and Spock. He doubted if they would be passed by tonight.
Shit.
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“Captain, I-” Spock began. Jim silenced him with a wave of his hand, and shot a glance at the arched entryway to ‘Ambassador Spock’s’ quarters to make doubly sure no one was listening.
“No. You know what? Screw this. I’m beaming back up. I’ll ask Gaila if she wants to come be your slave. It seems like her type of thing.” Jim was sick and tired from standing in the heat, and his feet hurt like hell. All he wanted was to crawl into his bed on the enterprise and tell Bones to disable his alarm clock for ‘medically necessitated rest’.
Walking over to the bed, Jim began to rummage in their bags for his communicator. A still, tense hand on his arm stopped him.
“Captain. I apologize for my transgression. I did not inform you of facts that are more than relevant pertaining to this mission.” Jim grunted in derisive agreement, and turned back to search through the luggage. But Spock wasn’t done. “I have also gathered new information in the past two days. About the. Etiquette. Or the ‘culture’ of slaves here." In any other situation, Jim would have found the Vulcan's awkward pauses wildly amusing. Now, it simply made him nervous. Spock coughed and then continued. "A noble’s slaves are an integral part of his social image. And, following that this culture’s government is based highly on social interaction, and the circles of popularity in which one travels, it is integral to the success of this diplomatic mission that I remain in high regard.” Jim stopped shuffling belongings, and turned to face Spock, who stood with the tense stillness that normally signified that the Vulcan was extremely on edge.
“What are you getting at here?” Jim had a bad feeling about this…
“It is considered almost immeasurable rude not to display all of one’s attending slaves during any day of any social gathering, especially diplomatic negotiations.”
“So, you mean you can’t bring anyone new to replace me?” Jim felt a slightly hysterical laugh bubbling up inside him at the way his voice rose in pitch with his incredulity.
“Affirmative.” Spock managed with difficulty. “Also, to cease to display a slave is considered selfish, and is tantamount to a major insult to any other noble who has shown interest in said slave.” Despite the horrified incredulous little voice that was keeping up a running commentary of ‘what the fuck?!’ in his head, Jim couldn’t stop himself from grinning despairingly at that information.
“And of course they all have the hots for me.” Jim smirked like a satisfied cat, because at least something was going as it normally did. Both men could feel some of the tension in the room relax as Spock’s lip twitched in concurring amusement.
“Of course, Captain.” The Vulcan nearly smiled. Then his eyes flicked to the side in surprise, and Spock’s expression quickly reverted to its previous austere severity.
The slave girl who had appeared almost inaudibly at the door gave a gracefully deep bow, and then stood stiff, almost at military attention.
“Speak.” Spock commanded, his voice smooth and full of self-assurance. Jim had to give it to the Vulcan; he was a great actor. As she stepped into the room, the girl short Jim a slightly incredulous look, and he jumped in realization, then quickly turned to busy himself with organizing his and Spock’s baggage into neat piles. This was apparently a menial enough task to be natural for a slave, because the girl stopped looking at Kirk and refocused her attention on the ground.
“I have been sent to be assured that His Excellency the Ambassador does not require further assistance with the formal clothing provided, and to inform His Excellency that His Excellency’s presence at the banquet would greatly honor my master.”
Ah. So she was sent to hurry them up. Jim swallowed down the apprehension that was suddenly creeping up on him again. For all that he and Spock were quickly becoming inseparably close friends, they still were not that close. And Jim definitely didn’t want to be on the bottom-wait, why was he even thinking that? This damn mission was screwing with his head.
Spock nodded confirmation and dismissed the girl with a sharp word.
"They seem to think you're pretty excellent." Jim snorted, and pulled out the formal robes to help Spock shrug into them. Jim was allotted considerably less clothing, and found himself nervously tying and retrying the drawstring of his not-quite-opaque pants while Spock did up the many fastenings on his robe.
“Okay.” Jim muttered as the Vulcan finished. “Ready for this?” He punched Spock’s shoulder in what he hoped was his usual encouraging manner.
“Negative, Captain.” Well. The Vulcan certainly wasn’t alone in that sentiment. Jim tried to grin at him, but failed miserably. Spock seemed to pick up on Jim's badly masked distress. The Vulcan reached out an awkward hand to pat Jim's shoulder.
"Captain. You have my word that, should the situation become ciritical, I will be gentle." Spock stated in dead seriousness.
Jim almost choked, but the Vulcan had already turned on his heel and made his swift way out of the room towards the great hall. As Jim followed, head downcast in faux meekness, he considered the fact that not breaking into a hysterical fit of laughter at the Vulcan was one of the most difficult experiences in his Starfleet career to date.
END
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Next chapter probably up in a few days. The pinto/spork fic is also making sequel-y babies. Um. THANK GOD FINALS ARE OVER.
If anyone knows where this prompt went, please tell me!!! I want the OP to read this...I feel bad that they might not find this since it's their idea, really. (I just write it)
MUAHAHAHA. I'M GONNA COSPLAY KIRK SO HARD. (But I have to get my Spock to wax his eyebrows. or let me pluck them.)