fic: You May Address Me As 'Captain'
Title: You May Address Me As 'Captain'.
Fandom: Star Trek XI.
Rating: PG-13, sadly.
Characters: Kirk/Number One.
Summary: Starfleet bring in an experienced officer to captain the Enterprise, and puts Kirk under her. Written for this prompt at the Star Trek XI Kink Meme.
A/N: This didn't quite get to the porn bits - I kind of feel like the porn would need to be extra kinky, and I'm not so good at extra kinky, but I'm certain you can use your imaginations. Also, for new fans, this is Number One, the possible first officer from the original rejected Star Trek pilot. I'm trying to work out who would play her in the reboot, but I haven't thought of anyone yet. Ideas?
“This is... this is so unfair.” Jim shies away from Bones's hands as the doctor pushes his hair back and sets the autosuture to work on a particularly nasty cut. “Ow,” he complains.
“It doesn't hurt, Jim,” Bones says, tone even and not unlike the way one might speak to a child. Which, honestly, is one of his default 'talking to Jim' voices.
“Well, you must be doing it wrong, because it does,” he counters petulantly.
“Perhaps the pain you are experiencing is a by-product of the impact you received at the bar,” Spock offers, face neutral and yet somehow seeming to say: you fuckwit.
“When you took a window out with your head,” Bones adds, turning away for a second to get his hypospray of doom.
“You should see the window,” Jim says happily, then flinches as the hypospray is smacked into his neck. He's starting to learn not to react to it, because he's realising that Bones is a not-so-secret sadist.
Bones sighs, and pulls Jim's shirt up, prodding at the tender skin on his back that is going to be a wicked bruise tomorrow morning. Spock lifts one eyebrow, and clasps his hands behind his back. “Had you refrained from initiating hostilities while on Earth, you may have avoided this outcome.”
“'Initiating hostilities'?! He was the one initiating some fucking hostilities!”
“He was Klingon.”
Jim tries to cross his arms, but Bones smacks him just on the wrong - or right - spot on his back and tells him to stay still. He settles for a glare that could make plants wither and die. “Why are you even here?”
“I extracted you from the... brawl,” Spock replies. Ah, so that's what those green stains are on his shirt. Jim had wondered if Spock had been indulging in some of that lethal green alcohol. He's almost halfway to feeling bad, like he should apologise or thank him, or something, when Spock feels the need to add, “Lieutenant Commander Kirk.”
He shakes Bones off, tugging his shirt down as best he can - the right sleeve is missing and there's a rip running from the collar to the seam under his left arm. “Fuck you, Science Officer Spock,” he yells, ignoring the amused and confused looks of the assembled crew outside Sickbay.
-
If Jim had been sober at the time, he might have commented that the whole evening had had an air of deja vu about it, but, you know, he wasn't, and last time he'd run into Pike in a bar, the man wasn't in a wheelchair.
“Why is it that every time I go to a bar for a nice quiet drink, you're getting seven sacks of shit beaten out of you?”
Jim had tried to answer, really he had, but whatever he'd been trying to say came out as something along the lines of 'uhhnn?” He was sure that Spock had rolled his eyes while holding him upright outside the bar, glass crunching underneath their feet.
Shit, he really shouldn't have picked somewhere so close to the academy.
Pike had that 'I'm so disappointed in you' look on his face, something Jim could always identify, even in his currently smashed-in-both-senses-of-the-word state. “Perhaps we gave you too much responsibility too soon,” Pike said. “Four years is hardly enough time to prepare you for captaincy. I'm going to have to recommend to Starfleet that a new captain be put in charge of the Enterprise. I'm sure you'll make a fine first officer, Jim. Spock, take him back to the ship and get him cleaned up. We'll speak no more of this incident.”
And then Pike had just fucking floated off in his floaty wheelchair (which begged the question as to exactly why it was called a wheelchair, since there were no wheels to be seen, but that was for another time). Jim had tried to argue, but by that time, his jaw had swollen up, and his indignant 'what?!' came out as a mangled 'whuhhh?' and a whole lot of spit.
So, that brings us to right now, where Jim is standing in the transporter room, waiting for this amazing new captain of the Enterprise to materialise. Spock is beside him, all clean and crisp and standing at attenshun, while Jim feels like he's been fed through the warp core, and look like it too.
The bruise, however, is indeed awesome to look at.
The transporter starts to whir and hum, Chekov at the controls, his face irritatingly sympathetic when Jim looks round at him.
“Well, come on,” he snaps. Chekov bites his lip and nods his head, twiddling dials and pulling down controls. Two of the pads start to glow, light spinning faster and faster until the shape of a person becomes identifiable. A nice shape, Kirk can't help but note.
“We've got them,” Chekov tells the other ship as the light dissipates and, well-
This might not be too bad.
He ambles forward, hand out in greeting. The captain watches him carefully. “Commander Kirk,” she says, “I do not believe you are in the correct attire for greeting a superior officer.”
He stops in his tracks, and she steps off the transporter pad, brushing past him. “Could you please take my belongings to my quarters, Commander?” she says, because it's plainly clear that it isn't actually a question.
“Yeah, sure, uh-”
“Captain,” she says, glancing back at him when she reaches the doors, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “You may address me as 'captain', Commander.”
-
Shore leave lasts for another three days, and the ship's mostly empty as people go visiting their family and friends - it seems like only him, Spock, and the new captain are left onboard. He saw his mother a couple of days ago, and he should probably visit her again, but honestly he's not quite ready to face either her reaction at his cuts and bruises, or her reaction at his demotion. She'd be all sympathetic and shit, and that invariably makes him want to punch walls. So.
Instead, he focuses all his attention on getting into the captain's good books, or her bed. He pulls out all the stops, sets phasers to sexy, if you will.
She's more interested in Spock.
Fuck. Once was a fluke, twice is getting to be a pattern, and neither the thought that Spock is more appealing to women than him, nor that Jim is just losing his edge is particularly pleasant to think on.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He tries small talk. He asks her where she grew up, if she has a boyfriend, kids, a dog, and she just stares at him, impassive.
“'Cause I'm a country boy, myself,” he rambles. “Good with my hands, you know? Worked the land everyday-”
“I was under the impression that you spent most of your formative years in juvenile detention,” she interjects calmly.
“Oh. You read my file?”
“I've read everyone's file,” she replies, a smirk playing on her lips, then turns to Spock as he hands her a report.
Jim deflates, spinning in his chair to face the viewscreen again. This really is so unfair.
-
“You're trying to seduce a woman who has years more experience in just about every aspect of life. Give it up,” Bones tells him, as ever the supportive friend. “You don't have a snowball's chance in Texas.”
“I've sexed older women before,” Jim slurs, then frowns at the bottle sitting on McCoy's desk in front of him. “What is this?”
“Medicinal alcohol,” Bones grumbles. “It's part of my emergency supply in case the equipment here breaks. Obviously I need to hide it better if you can get your sticky fingers on it so easily.”
Well. That's hardly fair. Bones had been out of the room when Jim came looking for him, and his cabinet was open and it did say 70% alcohol... and maybe he shouldn't have drunk it because now he feels like he's going to throw up.
“Ohhh. You are so old, Bones.”
“It's disinfectant, you moron,” Bones snaps, snatching the bottle from the table and shoving it back into the cabinet. Jim rests his forehead on his arms, 'cause the room's spinning and two Bones' is too much disapproval for anyone.
“I don't get it,” he mumbles into his sleeve. “I'm young! And and viru- ver- fuckable, and that pointy-eared bastard-”
“Jim.”
“That pointy-eared bastard cannot- cannot be getting more than me! I mean, he probably just lies there like a statue and-”
“Jim!”
“And keeps doin' calculations on his PADD, and-”
“Jim, goddamnit, shut the fuck up!” Bones's voice cuts through his haze. Jim raises his head far too quickly, the angry CMO a blue blur.
“Commander Kirk.” The captain's voice is like a bucket of ice being poured down the back of his shirt. He looks round slowly. She smiles at him, dark hair loose around her shoulders, black tank top and pyjama bottoms on. She looks a little rumbled, like she's just got out of bed. He can't help but leer.
“Hiii,” he says, gripping the side of the table.
“Commander Kirk,” she repeats, “please come with me.” She raises a hand, beckoning him with a finger. Fuck, that's sexy - he almost falls on his face scrambling to her side.
He immediately regrets this, as the floor seems to come up to meet his face while his feet are still on it. She steadies him with a hand gripping his arm, and says, “Have a good evening, Doctor.”
“Uh, yeah,” comes the hesitant reply as she guides Jim out, the doors giving a gentle hiss as they slide closed behind them.
“Commander,” she says, all authoritarian-like (his cock twitches at that - her voice is a little throaty and a lot confident, and eminently pornstar-worthy). “I don't understand why you continue to do this.”
“Hm?” he mumbles. Her hand has let go his arm and travelled to his back, her fingers pressing there firmly as she leads him round a corner.
“You're quite capable of being an excellent officer, you've shown that clearly, and yet you seem hell bent on ruining your chances.”
“Mmm,” he hums, because her fingers are on the move again, creeping around his back to his hip, settling into a tight grip around his thigh. The few crew members they pass give them looks, but really, it's Kirk - what else would they expect?
She swings his arm around her shoulders, and leans in, smelling like soap and alcohol-- or is that him? “Are you trying to get my attention, Commander?” she breathes into his ear, moving away swiftly when he turns his head. “Because bad boys are only attractive to a point.”
“I can be good.” They've stopped. He sways a little when she lets go of him, keying in her code, the door swishing open.
“Can you?” She turns, one hand on her waist, the other bracing her against the door frame. “How good can you be?”
“Very good.” He steps forward, managing not to stumble, until their noses are almost touching. She licks her lips, eyes never leaving his.
“Ask if you may enter my quarters,” she says, and-- what? She steps back into her room, but when he tries to follow, she presses a hand to his chest and easily pushes him back. “Like a gentleman, Commander.”
“Can I come in?”
“You can come in, certainly, but that's not the question you mean to ask, is it?”
“Uh.” He frowns, and her hand is still holding him back. It's kind of hot. It's kind of really hot. “May I come in?”
She smiles, wide and with her eyes, and it's embarrassingly gratifying. “You may Commander Kirk, you may.”
-
“Number One, what's our status?” she asks, weeks later, when they're making the trip to the new Vulcan colony. She sits in the chair, legs crossed, turning her foot slowly in a circle.
“It's all good,” he says, twisting his fingers behind his back. The corners of her mouth curve up slightly in a disapproving 'we'll talk about this later' smile at his less than professional manner. He bites the inside of his mouth, adding, “Captain.”
She rolls her shoulders and stands up, taking a second to tidy her uniform before crossing over to the turbolift. Her hand ghosts along his ass as she passes.
“Mr Spock, you have the bridge,” she says, turning neatly on her heel. “Number One, come.”
How many times has he heard that before?
The turbolift door slide shut on the mostly (see: Spock) smirking faces of the bridge crew the moment he steps in.
“What am I going to do with you?” she murmurs, straightening his shirt, smoothing out the shoulders. “Say my name again.”
He smirks. “Captain.”
“Mm.” She bites her lip, reaching up to tidy his hair. “Perhaps you'll do.”
Fandom: Star Trek XI.
Rating: PG-13, sadly.
Characters: Kirk/Number One.
Summary: Starfleet bring in an experienced officer to captain the Enterprise, and puts Kirk under her. Written for this prompt at the Star Trek XI Kink Meme.
A/N: This didn't quite get to the porn bits - I kind of feel like the porn would need to be extra kinky, and I'm not so good at extra kinky, but I'm certain you can use your imaginations. Also, for new fans, this is Number One, the possible first officer from the original rejected Star Trek pilot. I'm trying to work out who would play her in the reboot, but I haven't thought of anyone yet. Ideas?
“This is... this is so unfair.” Jim shies away from Bones's hands as the doctor pushes his hair back and sets the autosuture to work on a particularly nasty cut. “Ow,” he complains.
“It doesn't hurt, Jim,” Bones says, tone even and not unlike the way one might speak to a child. Which, honestly, is one of his default 'talking to Jim' voices.
“Well, you must be doing it wrong, because it does,” he counters petulantly.
“Perhaps the pain you are experiencing is a by-product of the impact you received at the bar,” Spock offers, face neutral and yet somehow seeming to say: you fuckwit.
“When you took a window out with your head,” Bones adds, turning away for a second to get his hypospray of doom.
“You should see the window,” Jim says happily, then flinches as the hypospray is smacked into his neck. He's starting to learn not to react to it, because he's realising that Bones is a not-so-secret sadist.
Bones sighs, and pulls Jim's shirt up, prodding at the tender skin on his back that is going to be a wicked bruise tomorrow morning. Spock lifts one eyebrow, and clasps his hands behind his back. “Had you refrained from initiating hostilities while on Earth, you may have avoided this outcome.”
“'Initiating hostilities'?! He was the one initiating some fucking hostilities!”
“He was Klingon.”
Jim tries to cross his arms, but Bones smacks him just on the wrong - or right - spot on his back and tells him to stay still. He settles for a glare that could make plants wither and die. “Why are you even here?”
“I extracted you from the... brawl,” Spock replies. Ah, so that's what those green stains are on his shirt. Jim had wondered if Spock had been indulging in some of that lethal green alcohol. He's almost halfway to feeling bad, like he should apologise or thank him, or something, when Spock feels the need to add, “Lieutenant Commander Kirk.”
He shakes Bones off, tugging his shirt down as best he can - the right sleeve is missing and there's a rip running from the collar to the seam under his left arm. “Fuck you, Science Officer Spock,” he yells, ignoring the amused and confused looks of the assembled crew outside Sickbay.
-
If Jim had been sober at the time, he might have commented that the whole evening had had an air of deja vu about it, but, you know, he wasn't, and last time he'd run into Pike in a bar, the man wasn't in a wheelchair.
“Why is it that every time I go to a bar for a nice quiet drink, you're getting seven sacks of shit beaten out of you?”
Jim had tried to answer, really he had, but whatever he'd been trying to say came out as something along the lines of 'uhhnn?” He was sure that Spock had rolled his eyes while holding him upright outside the bar, glass crunching underneath their feet.
Shit, he really shouldn't have picked somewhere so close to the academy.
Pike had that 'I'm so disappointed in you' look on his face, something Jim could always identify, even in his currently smashed-in-both-senses-of-the-word state. “Perhaps we gave you too much responsibility too soon,” Pike said. “Four years is hardly enough time to prepare you for captaincy. I'm going to have to recommend to Starfleet that a new captain be put in charge of the Enterprise. I'm sure you'll make a fine first officer, Jim. Spock, take him back to the ship and get him cleaned up. We'll speak no more of this incident.”
And then Pike had just fucking floated off in his floaty wheelchair (which begged the question as to exactly why it was called a wheelchair, since there were no wheels to be seen, but that was for another time). Jim had tried to argue, but by that time, his jaw had swollen up, and his indignant 'what?!' came out as a mangled 'whuhhh?' and a whole lot of spit.
So, that brings us to right now, where Jim is standing in the transporter room, waiting for this amazing new captain of the Enterprise to materialise. Spock is beside him, all clean and crisp and standing at attenshun, while Jim feels like he's been fed through the warp core, and look like it too.
The bruise, however, is indeed awesome to look at.
The transporter starts to whir and hum, Chekov at the controls, his face irritatingly sympathetic when Jim looks round at him.
“Well, come on,” he snaps. Chekov bites his lip and nods his head, twiddling dials and pulling down controls. Two of the pads start to glow, light spinning faster and faster until the shape of a person becomes identifiable. A nice shape, Kirk can't help but note.
“We've got them,” Chekov tells the other ship as the light dissipates and, well-
This might not be too bad.
He ambles forward, hand out in greeting. The captain watches him carefully. “Commander Kirk,” she says, “I do not believe you are in the correct attire for greeting a superior officer.”
He stops in his tracks, and she steps off the transporter pad, brushing past him. “Could you please take my belongings to my quarters, Commander?” she says, because it's plainly clear that it isn't actually a question.
“Yeah, sure, uh-”
“Captain,” she says, glancing back at him when she reaches the doors, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. “You may address me as 'captain', Commander.”
-
Shore leave lasts for another three days, and the ship's mostly empty as people go visiting their family and friends - it seems like only him, Spock, and the new captain are left onboard. He saw his mother a couple of days ago, and he should probably visit her again, but honestly he's not quite ready to face either her reaction at his cuts and bruises, or her reaction at his demotion. She'd be all sympathetic and shit, and that invariably makes him want to punch walls. So.
Instead, he focuses all his attention on getting into the captain's good books, or her bed. He pulls out all the stops, sets phasers to sexy, if you will.
She's more interested in Spock.
Fuck. Once was a fluke, twice is getting to be a pattern, and neither the thought that Spock is more appealing to women than him, nor that Jim is just losing his edge is particularly pleasant to think on.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He tries small talk. He asks her where she grew up, if she has a boyfriend, kids, a dog, and she just stares at him, impassive.
“'Cause I'm a country boy, myself,” he rambles. “Good with my hands, you know? Worked the land everyday-”
“I was under the impression that you spent most of your formative years in juvenile detention,” she interjects calmly.
“Oh. You read my file?”
“I've read everyone's file,” she replies, a smirk playing on her lips, then turns to Spock as he hands her a report.
Jim deflates, spinning in his chair to face the viewscreen again. This really is so unfair.
-
“You're trying to seduce a woman who has years more experience in just about every aspect of life. Give it up,” Bones tells him, as ever the supportive friend. “You don't have a snowball's chance in Texas.”
“I've sexed older women before,” Jim slurs, then frowns at the bottle sitting on McCoy's desk in front of him. “What is this?”
“Medicinal alcohol,” Bones grumbles. “It's part of my emergency supply in case the equipment here breaks. Obviously I need to hide it better if you can get your sticky fingers on it so easily.”
Well. That's hardly fair. Bones had been out of the room when Jim came looking for him, and his cabinet was open and it did say 70% alcohol... and maybe he shouldn't have drunk it because now he feels like he's going to throw up.
“Ohhh. You are so old, Bones.”
“It's disinfectant, you moron,” Bones snaps, snatching the bottle from the table and shoving it back into the cabinet. Jim rests his forehead on his arms, 'cause the room's spinning and two Bones' is too much disapproval for anyone.
“I don't get it,” he mumbles into his sleeve. “I'm young! And and viru- ver- fuckable, and that pointy-eared bastard-”
“Jim.”
“That pointy-eared bastard cannot- cannot be getting more than me! I mean, he probably just lies there like a statue and-”
“Jim!”
“And keeps doin' calculations on his PADD, and-”
“Jim, goddamnit, shut the fuck up!” Bones's voice cuts through his haze. Jim raises his head far too quickly, the angry CMO a blue blur.
“Commander Kirk.” The captain's voice is like a bucket of ice being poured down the back of his shirt. He looks round slowly. She smiles at him, dark hair loose around her shoulders, black tank top and pyjama bottoms on. She looks a little rumbled, like she's just got out of bed. He can't help but leer.
“Hiii,” he says, gripping the side of the table.
“Commander Kirk,” she repeats, “please come with me.” She raises a hand, beckoning him with a finger. Fuck, that's sexy - he almost falls on his face scrambling to her side.
He immediately regrets this, as the floor seems to come up to meet his face while his feet are still on it. She steadies him with a hand gripping his arm, and says, “Have a good evening, Doctor.”
“Uh, yeah,” comes the hesitant reply as she guides Jim out, the doors giving a gentle hiss as they slide closed behind them.
“Commander,” she says, all authoritarian-like (his cock twitches at that - her voice is a little throaty and a lot confident, and eminently pornstar-worthy). “I don't understand why you continue to do this.”
“Hm?” he mumbles. Her hand has let go his arm and travelled to his back, her fingers pressing there firmly as she leads him round a corner.
“You're quite capable of being an excellent officer, you've shown that clearly, and yet you seem hell bent on ruining your chances.”
“Mmm,” he hums, because her fingers are on the move again, creeping around his back to his hip, settling into a tight grip around his thigh. The few crew members they pass give them looks, but really, it's Kirk - what else would they expect?
She swings his arm around her shoulders, and leans in, smelling like soap and alcohol-- or is that him? “Are you trying to get my attention, Commander?” she breathes into his ear, moving away swiftly when he turns his head. “Because bad boys are only attractive to a point.”
“I can be good.” They've stopped. He sways a little when she lets go of him, keying in her code, the door swishing open.
“Can you?” She turns, one hand on her waist, the other bracing her against the door frame. “How good can you be?”
“Very good.” He steps forward, managing not to stumble, until their noses are almost touching. She licks her lips, eyes never leaving his.
“Ask if you may enter my quarters,” she says, and-- what? She steps back into her room, but when he tries to follow, she presses a hand to his chest and easily pushes him back. “Like a gentleman, Commander.”
“Can I come in?”
“You can come in, certainly, but that's not the question you mean to ask, is it?”
“Uh.” He frowns, and her hand is still holding him back. It's kind of hot. It's kind of really hot. “May I come in?”
She smiles, wide and with her eyes, and it's embarrassingly gratifying. “You may Commander Kirk, you may.”
-
“Number One, what's our status?” she asks, weeks later, when they're making the trip to the new Vulcan colony. She sits in the chair, legs crossed, turning her foot slowly in a circle.
“It's all good,” he says, twisting his fingers behind his back. The corners of her mouth curve up slightly in a disapproving 'we'll talk about this later' smile at his less than professional manner. He bites the inside of his mouth, adding, “Captain.”
She rolls her shoulders and stands up, taking a second to tidy her uniform before crossing over to the turbolift. Her hand ghosts along his ass as she passes.
“Mr Spock, you have the bridge,” she says, turning neatly on her heel. “Number One, come.”
How many times has he heard that before?
The turbolift door slide shut on the mostly (see: Spock) smirking faces of the bridge crew the moment he steps in.
“What am I going to do with you?” she murmurs, straightening his shirt, smoothing out the shoulders. “Say my name again.”
He smirks. “Captain.”
“Mm.” She bites her lip, reaching up to tidy his hair. “Perhaps you'll do.”