Fic: Speaking in Tongues (1/2)
Title: Speaking in Tongues (1/2)
Author: Kairi
Pairing: Mirror!Spock/Mirror!Kirk. Very AU.
Rating: NC-3000 17. Porny and dark.
Warnings: ANTI-FLUFF and pure porn. Warnings for dubcon, sensory deprivation, plugs, anal torture, enema, oral, come-on-skin/comeshot, mind-fuckery, D/s, spanking, light humiliation. Crazy-style hurt/comfort and lots of BDSM.
Summary: When Spock became Emperor, the first thing he did was claim James Tiberius Kirk as his slave, body and mind. But Kirk, being Kirk, has serious trouble with authority, and Spock is pressured by his advisors to discipline his former captain. Permanently.
Wordcount: 11,544 words, total.
Notes: So I promised jou fic for her birthday, and this is the result.... too bad her b-day was in February. I'M SORRY DARLING. UM, HAPPY BIRTHDAY?? FEEL BETTER!! This is actually a prelude to the longer fic I am working on, which is nowhere near done yet.
"I had thought, foolishly, that you were above such a juvenile prank as this." The massive granite doors swing shut behind the Emperor's aides with a hollow boom, leaving the two of them alone. Spock stands in the doorway, robes miraculously dry, long dark hair immaculate, his face as impassive as if carved from ice, and for the first time today Kirk is afraid. He can't so much as move a muscle, though, chained to the table as he is. He can only watch as Spock approaches him, the malice in those bottomless eyes making the hair on the back of Kirk's neck try to crawl away and hide. "An error that I shall be certain to rectify."
The vision-memory-dissolves into darkness as another spasm wracks his body, and James Kirk chokes, thrashing uselessly against the restraints that hold him in place. His ass feels like it's positively on fire, the burn spreading up and in through inflamed muscle tissue, making him tremble uncontrollably, the plug nestled inside him jostled with every strained, aborted movement of his hips. Spots appear in front of his eyes, like raindrops on a window-pane, but of course it's all illusion. Kirk has had ample time over the past few months to learn the ins and outs of his own brain-being the slave of a powerful and relentless telepath gets you well-acquainted with your own brain real fast-but he doesn't think he's ever learned the true meaning of agony until today.
He doesn't know how long he's been here. The Emperor's aides dragged him here, stripped him naked and left him in chains to await his master's convenience, but even though Kirk had expected to be punished for his prank, he somehow hadn't dreamed it could be this bad. He keeps hoping the pain will eclipse his body's tolerance and he'll just pass out, that unconsciousness will take him, but the warming lube that Spock smeared all over the plug that's now in Kirk's ass is relentless. It burns, it hurts, it makes him want to itch and squirm and claw his own skin off to make it better, but he's utterly immobile, chained to a table at hips, throat, hands, and feet on his back in complete darkness. The itching & burning comes in waves, as if his overstimulated nerves simply can't handle the constant pummel of sensation and shut off, but every time Kirk thinks maybe the stuff is actually wearing off, or he's getting used to it, and maybe he'll be able to pass out and get some relief, a new assault of red fire will hit him and he's in ruins all over again, sobbing and twitching pointlessly against his bonds, his self-control a thing of the past.
No. No, he's better than this. Kirk draws a ragged breath, sucking cool air past chapped and bitten lips, eyes clamped tightly shut. He's served seven years in Starfleet, rising steadily through the ranks till he was captain of his own ship; he's survived sabotage by mutineers, abandonment on planets of molten lava and asteroids little more than ice and dust; he's outwitted, out-maneuvered, and out-thought superiors, adversaries, and comrades alike, and always, always the victory was his to claim. It took all the resources of the Empire to outflank him at the last, and just because Spock's got his royal panties in a fucking knot over what Kirk personally thinks was a funny (if perhaps childish) prank does not mean that Kirk will give him the satisfaction of getting the reaction he wants from Kirk. Kirk shifts, drawing another careful breath, willing his aching muscles to unclench, not wanting to set off another spasm; the burn seems on the downward swing for now. It's hard to be sure, but Kirk judges that this has already gone on longer than most punishments he's endured of Spock's-and none of them have ever been this ridiculously over-the-top, all out of proportion with the crime. Fuck.
Capsaicin. That's what's in the oil, Kirk thinks. Like the chili peppers back on Earth, and a few other planets scattered across the wide galaxy. Why the fuck such a thing exists in oil form is beyond Kirk's comprehension, though he vaguely recalls hearing McCoy discuss a type of capsaicin cream once that was supposed to be useful for treating chronic pain. Which doesn't matter, seeing as what Kirk is enduring is the opposite of pain relief. Kirk grits his teeth, another wave of indignation rolling through him as he reviews the unfairness of the situation-but of course it's fucking unfair, which is the whole goddamn point. Admiral James T. Kirk of the ISS Enterprise was a feared and well-respected man, in command of the Emperor's most prized flagship. Now he's a glorified sex-slave, ostensibly yeoman to his lying, double-crossing, pointy-eared, very much former First Officer, the collar around his neck a visible sign of his enslavement. Kirk still doesn't understand how, when he'd done everything right, anticipated absolutely every contingency, planned for every worst-case scenario, that this has still somehow happened to him.
He doesn't know if Spock is nearby or not. For all he knows, Spock only stuck around for a little while to watch the show, then took off to deal with the fall-out of Kirk's little programming joke. He is the Emperor now, after all. Which is of course why he's being pressured to choose a consort, the better to provide royal heirs for his throne. It was fifteen minutes into the full ceremonial gathering of all eligible females and their family members, as well as all the members of the Vulcan Imperial Court, that Kirk's carefully-hidden program executed its code, simultaneously overloading every water main in the Imperial palace and drenching almost everyone in the building. It had taken weeks of working on the program in the few precious moments a day when he was unsupervised, hunched over the secretly-augmented PADD he'd been given to keep track of his obnoxious, mundane tasks, and he'd miss that, because he surely wouldn't even be permitted that commodity now, but at the time he'd thought it more than worth it. Spock of all people should have known any electronic device in Kirk's possession wouldn't stay harmless, no matter how carefully encrypted it had been before being given to him. Locked safely away back in the antechamber of Spock's quarters, Kirk could almost hear the yowls and hisses of displeasure as over a thousand Vulcans received an unexpected shower-Vulcans as a race are, of course, far too dignified to make any such noises, but the desert-bred warriors hate water almost as much as cats back on old Earth. And while Kirk did not care to examine his motivations for his sabotage too closely, he didn't require much self-awareness to enjoy knowing how many Vulcans he must have pissed off with that stunt.
...Including Spock, obviously. Kirk's throat tightens in anger as he thinks of Spock. That he should be forced to endure this misery because some Vulcans got a little damp is utterly ridiculous-especially when Kirk knows damn well that Spock was reluctant to go through with this dog-and-pony show in the first place, no matter how unwilling to admit it his tight-ass Imperial self was. Bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. Spock can act distant and bored all he wants (and God does he ever) but Kirk spent too many years in the Vulcan's company back on Enterprise to be fooled. It seems insane to him now, to think that he ever trusted Spock, farther than Kirk had ever trusted anyone, man, woman, or otherwise. How stupid of him, to ever count the Vulcan as a friend. But of course that was before-
Something catches his attention, a whisper of air against his cheek. His imagination, or nearby movement? Kirk turns his face, but of course there's nothing there to see; his questing eyes relay nothing back to his frustrated brain. Never mind. Never mind! He's letting his temper get the better of him again. Vengeance will be his, and all in good time. He sucks in another breath, returning to the task of self-discipline, and he must have moved just the wrong way because it sets off a new wave of fiery agony, as what feels like thousands of tiny ants bite down on his insides at the same time, bordering on the exact edge of itchiness and pain. Kirk bites his lip to keep from screaming, and draws a little bit of blood, the copper tang filling his mouth. His muscles ache from the constant barrage of stimulation, and Kirk can't control the second spasm that rolls through him, trying vainly to jiggle the plug in his ass for some small measure of relief. A charlie horse flares in his calf, white-hot pain that shoots straight up in his thigh to his groin, and then Kirk does scream, noiselessly, thrashing against his restraints. It passes again after a few moments, thankfully, and Kirk collapses, tears leaking out of his eyes and down his sightless face at the fresh reminder of his isolation. It's not so bad if he doesn't talk and he keeps his eyes shut, but the minute he tries to speak and hears nothing, he's forced to remember that Spock has struck him blind and deaf.
"You will beg me for relief, and you will not even know I am near," Spock says. He's staring down at Kirk, strapped prone to the table, the burn in his ass just starting to make itself known. Spock's long hair cascades across Kirk's face from this position, like a heavy, spicy-smelling curtain-Kirk's brain skitters sideways, a slideshow montage of all the times Spock has fucked him with his hair in Kirk's face exactly like this, Kirk bent double, legs over Spock's shoulders, Spock pinning his wrists to the bed, both of them hidden in the curtain of Spock's hair, effectively shutting out the rest of the world. Spock puts his fingers to Kirk's face, breaking Kirk's train of thought. "I shall prize your tears, and your cries. And when this has concluded, you will understand that you are my property. You belong to me."
"You're a shitty Vulcan," Kirk tells him, or starts to, because that's when Spock pulls him into the meld. Spock has rolled his mind at least a hundred times or more now, and though Kirk isn't as overwhelmed as he was the first time Spock took him down, he still doesn't have what it takes to fight that psychic undertow. Spock is like some irresistible rip-tide, dragging Kirk under and out to sea to drown in the endless warm darkness of that space inside their minds.
/ /You are mine,/ / Spock tells him, only there's no actual words, just a sense of possession, of being taken. Ghostly fingers rifle through his mind, giving Kirk the fleeting impression of a piano that's being tuned, a guitar whose strings are being tightened. / /You can have back your sight and your sound when you have shown me that you deserve them./ / Kirk jerks against the sensation of violence, something yanking free deep within his mind, before his world narrows, shuttering and closing in around him like a collapsing house.
/ /No!/ / he shrieks, and it echoes hollow inside him as Spock abruptly pulls away, fingers leaving his face. He opens his eyes-to nothing. Not even a sense of light or dark or color, only black. He screams, shouting Spock's name, and he can feel the vibrations in his larynx, but no sound reaches his broken ears. "SPOCK! SPOCK DON'T YOU FUCKING DO THIS TO ME-"
Kirk draws a deep breath, holds it, clenching and unclenching his muscles. In for ten counts, hold for ten, out for ten. In for fifteen counts, hold for fifteen, out for fifteen. Slowly, slowly, the spasms and tremors fade, and then Kirk is encased in endless darkness with only the manufactured noises and images of his own brain to distract him from the endless itching burn inside him, a slow torture that eats away at his sense of self. It's a little like phantom limb pain, the way his brain keeps trying to hear and see when the pathways to both have been sealed off, and Kirk doesn't know which is worse, the hallucinations or the idea of being utterly bereft, as if he had never known sight or sound. His sense of time is now shattered; he no longer has a concept of how long it's been since Spock withdrew his touch, leaving Kirk entombed inside his own tortured body; he might as well have been buried alive.
Focus. He has to focus. He must have discipline. Kirk rips his flagging concentration away from contemplation of his pain, and starts reciting prime numbers, getting as far as 379 before another spasm hits him, when he switches to Fibonacci's sequence. The purity of the math helps calm him, and he moves on to military strategy, replaying historic battle sequences in his mind: Halmut's Gambit, the Astorvekkin'z'sh Maneuver, Archer's Feint. Soon he's chuckling over the mental images of witless Klingons pitted against fractious Romulans-and then agony sears through his body again, so hot he tastes it burning in the back of his throat. A scream clenches tight behind his teeth as his lungs heave for breath, his gibbering mind clawing desperately for the fragmented remains of his tactical musings. Slowly, the tremors of pain recede as he recites mathematical theorems, working through Euclidean geometry and moving on to astrophysics, regaining his control inch by struggling inch.
He's played forty-seven games of chess against himself by the time another negligent movement sets off the crashes of pain, barreling him under to leave him drained, panting and drenched in sweat. The Terran periodic table of the elements helps restore his focused peace of mind, but he only gets through twelve basic revenge scenarios before the suffering comes back for more, deeper and stronger, tearing his thoughts to shreds beneath the onslaught. As it fades slowly, the pain stabs back unexpectedly, and when he regains some semblance of mental command, he realizes he's been steadily moaning through the entire ordeal. Not that he can hear it. Thank god.
The amusement turns sharp, and Kirk's laughing, falling into a hysteria so alarming it's a relief when the next punch of pain hits him, working overtime on nerves pounded weak and soft. Kirk tries vainly to curl in on himself as the ever-present itch starts to ramp up again, making him tremble and curse as fire prickles along untold inches of his skin. He doesn't think Spock would risk doing permanent damage to him... Impossibly it feels as if the heat is actually getting worse, and Kirk concludes through his haze that it's because all the nerves and tissue are inflamed and sensitized now, like a piece of meat that's been thoroughly pummeled in preparation of being cooked. The cycle rebounds faster and faster, until he's left with nothing but the torture, seeking fruitlessly against his bonds for cessation, begging, crying to anyone who can hear him, no matter that he himself can't hear it. It feels like in apathy to his current condition the entire galaxy has been rendered deaf and blind as well, leaving him to burn for his mistakes. Then conscious thought recedes, fleeing before the advance of heat and pain, and though his sight is gone all Kirk can see is red, red, red.
Eternity passes. Or maybe it's only a few hours, Kirk can't tell. But he becomes aware of something whispering over his face, barely touching him, and he can't think what it is (he can't think at all, thought does not exist, only the red and the burning and the itching). Then fingers settle over his face, and again Kirk moans, feeling the vibrations in his jaw as the fingertips trace gently over his cheekbones, a thumb caressing Kirk's chapped lips.
"Please," Kirk blurts, and somewhere he registers shock that he can even form words any longer, "please make it stop please, please Spock please..." Two hands cup his face, holding it for a moment, and then Kirk feels them leave, and he cries out without thinking, grief at the abandonment swamping the part of his brain that can still think. No! God, no more-but the hands alight on his wrists moments later, and Kirk realizes distantly that he's being unbuckled. He sucks in a shaky breath as his wrists are freed, each one taken in a hot, dry hand and rubbed gently, massaging the tender skin, coaxing feeling back into them. Kirk brings his wrists up to his chest when Spock lets him go, folding his arms tightly against himself, shuddering. The hands go to his hips next, undoing the strap that holds them down. As if on cue, another spasm strikes him, and Kirk convulses helplessly against the table-but this time hands pin his hips to the table, stroking his flanks as one would a spooked animal until the worst of the convulsions have passed. A sob sticks in Kirk's throat as he feels the whisper of long hair against his bare skin, and seconds later feels a kiss pressed to one hip-bone.
The hands go to his ankles next, unstrapping each one and massaging gently as they did at Kirk's wrists, helping him to fold each knee in turn, to bend and unbend it, returning the muscles to working order. Spock comes back to Kirk's head last, unsnapping the short length of chain that held Kirk's collared throat against the table, and when the arms slip under his legs and his back and pull Kirk against a strong chest, Kirk folds like a house of cards, moaning noiselessly.
He's aware of warmth, Spock's Vulcan body heat enfolding him as Kirk is gathered against Spock's chest, Spock lifting him effortlessly off the table. Spock's robes are curiously soft, and Kirk turns his face blindly into Spock's shoulder, whimpering as every ache and pain in his body makes itself known. Distantly, he's aware of movement-he's being carried. He doesn't care. All Kirk knows is mute, primitive gratitude for the arms around him, a base animal desire for the torment to end. His pride is gone, melted away hours ago in the haze of his ordeal. Nothing exists outside of the arms of the man carrying him.
Spock shifts Kirk's weight against his chest, and then Spock is sitting, settling Kirk in his lap. Kirk shudders, curling against Spock's chest, fisting his hands in the material of Spock's robe. Fingers card through Kirk's sweaty hair, soothing him, grounding him in the real world again. Fingertips press against his face again, and suddenly Kirk is no longer alone in his head. The meld is shallow-Kirk's still aware of the burn licking and itching inside him-but the strong presence inside his head commands his attention now.
Thinking is hard. Spock seems to know this, somehow, and does not try to force anything difficult from him. A query comes instead: / /Enough, tepul-fam'veh?/ / The diminutive is felt, not said, and Kirk feels the soothing presence around him, inside him, Spock cradling him within and without.
/ /Yes,/ / comes Kirk's response, a flush of helpless assent. No more no more no more. Spock does not reply, but Kirk can feel his master's satisfaction curl inside his mind, and a touch of reassurance as well.
/ /Then speak./ / Pieces tumble back into place inside him, and Kirk feels one of the walls blocking him from the outside world fall away. He gasps, and this time he can hear the air exiting his lungs and throat, the channel of sensory input unstoppered.
Spock breaks the meld then, and Kirk moans out loud, the sound of his own voice in his ears making tears come to his eyes. "Shhhh," Spock murmurs, tilting Kirk's face back with both hands and kissing his eyes, gently swiping away the tears with the pad of one thumb. Kirk is still blind, still sightless, but he can feel and hear Spock now, and it's like coming out of a coma. "You will have relief soon. You must be patient for just a little while longer."
"Okay," Kirk says shakily, glad for the moment that he's still blind. He doesn't think he could cope with the assault of sight on his over-loaded brain just now; he's too disoriented, too off-center. Distantly, in some hidden part of his mind that still registers some vague self-awareness, he knows that this is exactly what Spock wanted by locking him away in torment. And Spock got his wish, in spades.
Kirk tenses as Spock moves, hands clutching at the folds of Spock's robes. "I must stand you upright to remove the plug," Spock informs him, his voice low, reassuring. "Lean against me. I will not let you fall, tepul-fam'veh." The Vulcan word hits Kirk's ears like a welcome splash of water, a pet name for him that Spock uses but rarely. Kirk nods, a fractional motion of his head, and then Spock shifts Kirk's weight in his arm, easing slowly out of the chair he's sitting in, simultaneously helping Kirk to put his feet on the ground until both of them are standing up, Kirk leaning heavily against Spock for support as his aching legs start to tremble. Spock's arm around his waist tightens, and when he buries his face in Spock's robes, Spock lets him do it, Spock's other hand sliding gently down Kirk's spine till he reaches the curve of Kirk's ass.
On a normal night when Spock might choose to enjoy Kirk's body, Spock touches him like a coveted piece of property, fondling every exposed inch of skin and driving Kirk crazy with humiliation and lust. Not that Kirk makes it easy for him, ever, but it always ends the same, and they both know it. But now, Spock simply slides his fingers around the base of the plug, working it carefully out of Kirk's body, and Kirk feels that curtain of dark hair whisper against his face as Spock nuzzles Kirk's temple. When the heavy silicone toy finally eases all the way free, Kirk almost collapses again, and only Spock's arm around him keeps him from sliding to the floor.
Spock picks him up within moments-God only knows what he did with the plug-and then Kirk is being carried again, which is fortunate because his ass and thigh muscles are currently seizing, trying hard to ease the itching and burning still going on inside him. Kirk moans incoherently as pain washes through him, intense enough that for a moment he almost thinks he's going to vomit. Then Spock lays him down on some cool, flat surface that feels vaguely like a bio-bed, and then eases something soft under the back of Kirk's head, and the nausea passes.
"You must remain motionless," Spock tells him, his hands sliding up and down Kirk's body in long, repetitive motions intended to calm the sweating, shuddering human laying prone before him. "I intend to ease your discomfort, tepul-fam'veh. Do you require restraints?"
It's not a threat, Kirk realizes after a moment of panic. It's an offer, but Kirk shakes his head, realizing dimly that he wants to prove his willingness to behave. Spock makes a noise of approval, and Kirk starts as Spock's mouth presses to his own in a brief, possessive kiss. Kirk moans, and Spock pulls away, one hand still planted firmly on Kirk's chest.
The next few minutes are as humiliating and yet welcome as anything in Kirk's entire life. Spock pushes his legs up, exposing his much-abused ass, and eases a tube into him, one hand holding Kirk's hips down as Kirk twitches helplessly, a groan of pain bubbling up from his throat. The shocking sensation of cold hits him as cool liquid fills his ass, and Kirk gasps, throwing his arm across his face as tears well in his eyes, the burning in his ass finally easing. There must be something in the mixture aside from just water, but Kirk couldn't give less of a shit if it's Orion blood and Andorian lice, because the wretched burn that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his tormented muscles is finally melting away. The pain doesn't just disappear-the nerves are too inflamed for that-but the worst of the torture ceases, and Kirk realizes that the pathetic mewling noises he's hearing are coming from his own throat. Suddenly, he's glad of the fact that his vision is still gone, because he isn't sure he could cope what might be on Spock's face right now. It's easier to shut the world out like this, to pretend nothing is happening when he doesn't have to see anything.
Liquid continues to fill him, to the point where Kirk is starting to squirm in new discomfort, his guts bloating painfully. Finally it stops, and Spock removes the tube, followed immediately by what feels like the entirety of his insides emptying themselves out of Kirk's ass. Kirk suffers through it, grateful for the strong hands holding him in place, and finally he's just laying there, utterly spent.
Kirk hears the sound of water running, and then Spock's hands are running over his body again, accompanied by a soft spray of water-Spock is washing him, Kirk realizes. That strikes him as hugely significant, and it's several muddled seconds of struggling to think why, when he finally remembers that Vulcans hate water-that was the whole reason he got in trouble in the first place, wasn't it? But that's too hard to hold onto, and Kirk lets it go, submitting himself to Spock's ministrations. Hands that have struck him and held him down ruthlessly so many times are now as gentle and careful as a mother with a newborn, and yet again Kirk is glad of his lack of vision, glad to be able to just lie in darkness and accept. Spock washes every inch of him, paying special attention to his thighs and ass, pushing one leg up and then the other in order to clean him thoroughly.
He knows-distantly, as though observing a movie, or a play-that this tenderness is an aberration, a side-effect of the ordeal Spock just put him through, and normally Spock would never let himself appear so considerate in front of Kirk. Their sex is often twisted and dark, a cruel game of dominance and power, and it's rare for Spock to treat him so, like something precious and beloved instead of a toy he keeps around merely for his own amusement. It's rare, too, for Spock to punish him so severely, and for such a minor infraction... and furthermore (Kirk's sluggish mind proceeds slowly but relentlessly, heedless of the usual mental barriers he erects against these thoughts, barriers meant to keep out himself as much as Spock) Kirk would have thought Spock would be pleased, to know that the threat of a female consort motivated Kirk to an act of jealous sabotage.
Bad enough that Spock keeps him as a slave, taking what he likes from Kirk without consideration, and then ignoring him like an idle amusement he's grown bored with. Worse yet that he's brainwashing Kirk, or at least trying to, slowly warping Kirk's mind during their melds; Kirk has no idea how many hours they've spent locked in bed together, Spock wrapped around him like a choking vine, fingers pressed to Kirk's temple as they struggle invisibly inside themselves. Kirk is no telepath, but he still resists, and while he has no real way of knowing the full extent of what Spock is doing to him, he's nevertheless aware of the erosion of his psyche-the inexplicable exhaustion he suffers at times, and the fact he can't seem to remember certain things, both in the recent and more distant past-particularly the period of time between confronting the newly-crowned Emperor Spock and finding himself in chains, a period of at least a week. And on top of all of this indignity, Spock has the gall to make Kirk stand by and watch while Spock picks another for his royal, official consort-and he actually expected Kirk to do nothing? But his over-reaction still doesn't make sense. There must be something he's missing. But no, he's giving Spock too much credit.
Ridiculous. So... ridiculous...
A slap to the ass makes Kirk yelp, jerking back to wakefulness. "Your lesson is not yet concluded, James." Spock's voice (and it's so strange to hear him speak when Kirk can't see his face, making everything much more intimate) is deep and full of dark purpose, and Kirk suffers another disconcerting flash of memory: Spock standing in the middle of Kirk's quarters back on Enterprise for the very last time, that dark, eloquent voice raised in a harsh shout and his true brown eyes subsumed with the black of his rage. Kirk had never seen his First Officer truly angered before, but as with so many things, Spock's first quarrel with his captain would also be his last. Of course, if Spock hadn't left Enterprise of his own volition, Kirk would still have had him removed...
Spock has paid him back with interest since then. Somehow, Kirk was betrayed, cornered, captured, and enslaved, and now he is utterly at Spock's mercy, blind and weak, trembling from reaction on some medical bed in the vastness of His Imperial Majesty's palace. Fate is strange, and cruel, Kirk thinks muzzily, but there's no bitterness to it-not right now, anyway. Twin desires have taken control of him for the time being, two halves of the same coin: a desire to please Spock, and a desire to avoid angering him further at all costs. Because the only thing more brutal than Spock's cruelty is his tenderness, and right now Kirk will do anything to avoid the one and give himself up to the other.
Jump to part 2.
Author: Kairi
Pairing: Mirror!Spock/Mirror!Kirk. Very AU.
Rating: NC-3000 17. Porny and dark.
Warnings: ANTI-FLUFF and pure porn. Warnings for dubcon, sensory deprivation, plugs, anal torture, enema, oral, come-on-skin/comeshot, mind-fuckery, D/s, spanking, light humiliation. Crazy-style hurt/comfort and lots of BDSM.
Summary: When Spock became Emperor, the first thing he did was claim James Tiberius Kirk as his slave, body and mind. But Kirk, being Kirk, has serious trouble with authority, and Spock is pressured by his advisors to discipline his former captain. Permanently.
Wordcount: 11,544 words, total.
Notes: So I promised jou fic for her birthday, and this is the result.... too bad her b-day was in February. I'M SORRY DARLING. UM, HAPPY BIRTHDAY?? FEEL BETTER!! This is actually a prelude to the longer fic I am working on, which is nowhere near done yet.
"I had thought, foolishly, that you were above such a juvenile prank as this." The massive granite doors swing shut behind the Emperor's aides with a hollow boom, leaving the two of them alone. Spock stands in the doorway, robes miraculously dry, long dark hair immaculate, his face as impassive as if carved from ice, and for the first time today Kirk is afraid. He can't so much as move a muscle, though, chained to the table as he is. He can only watch as Spock approaches him, the malice in those bottomless eyes making the hair on the back of Kirk's neck try to crawl away and hide. "An error that I shall be certain to rectify."
The vision-memory-dissolves into darkness as another spasm wracks his body, and James Kirk chokes, thrashing uselessly against the restraints that hold him in place. His ass feels like it's positively on fire, the burn spreading up and in through inflamed muscle tissue, making him tremble uncontrollably, the plug nestled inside him jostled with every strained, aborted movement of his hips. Spots appear in front of his eyes, like raindrops on a window-pane, but of course it's all illusion. Kirk has had ample time over the past few months to learn the ins and outs of his own brain-being the slave of a powerful and relentless telepath gets you well-acquainted with your own brain real fast-but he doesn't think he's ever learned the true meaning of agony until today.
He doesn't know how long he's been here. The Emperor's aides dragged him here, stripped him naked and left him in chains to await his master's convenience, but even though Kirk had expected to be punished for his prank, he somehow hadn't dreamed it could be this bad. He keeps hoping the pain will eclipse his body's tolerance and he'll just pass out, that unconsciousness will take him, but the warming lube that Spock smeared all over the plug that's now in Kirk's ass is relentless. It burns, it hurts, it makes him want to itch and squirm and claw his own skin off to make it better, but he's utterly immobile, chained to a table at hips, throat, hands, and feet on his back in complete darkness. The itching & burning comes in waves, as if his overstimulated nerves simply can't handle the constant pummel of sensation and shut off, but every time Kirk thinks maybe the stuff is actually wearing off, or he's getting used to it, and maybe he'll be able to pass out and get some relief, a new assault of red fire will hit him and he's in ruins all over again, sobbing and twitching pointlessly against his bonds, his self-control a thing of the past.
No. No, he's better than this. Kirk draws a ragged breath, sucking cool air past chapped and bitten lips, eyes clamped tightly shut. He's served seven years in Starfleet, rising steadily through the ranks till he was captain of his own ship; he's survived sabotage by mutineers, abandonment on planets of molten lava and asteroids little more than ice and dust; he's outwitted, out-maneuvered, and out-thought superiors, adversaries, and comrades alike, and always, always the victory was his to claim. It took all the resources of the Empire to outflank him at the last, and just because Spock's got his royal panties in a fucking knot over what Kirk personally thinks was a funny (if perhaps childish) prank does not mean that Kirk will give him the satisfaction of getting the reaction he wants from Kirk. Kirk shifts, drawing another careful breath, willing his aching muscles to unclench, not wanting to set off another spasm; the burn seems on the downward swing for now. It's hard to be sure, but Kirk judges that this has already gone on longer than most punishments he's endured of Spock's-and none of them have ever been this ridiculously over-the-top, all out of proportion with the crime. Fuck.
Capsaicin. That's what's in the oil, Kirk thinks. Like the chili peppers back on Earth, and a few other planets scattered across the wide galaxy. Why the fuck such a thing exists in oil form is beyond Kirk's comprehension, though he vaguely recalls hearing McCoy discuss a type of capsaicin cream once that was supposed to be useful for treating chronic pain. Which doesn't matter, seeing as what Kirk is enduring is the opposite of pain relief. Kirk grits his teeth, another wave of indignation rolling through him as he reviews the unfairness of the situation-but of course it's fucking unfair, which is the whole goddamn point. Admiral James T. Kirk of the ISS Enterprise was a feared and well-respected man, in command of the Emperor's most prized flagship. Now he's a glorified sex-slave, ostensibly yeoman to his lying, double-crossing, pointy-eared, very much former First Officer, the collar around his neck a visible sign of his enslavement. Kirk still doesn't understand how, when he'd done everything right, anticipated absolutely every contingency, planned for every worst-case scenario, that this has still somehow happened to him.
He doesn't know if Spock is nearby or not. For all he knows, Spock only stuck around for a little while to watch the show, then took off to deal with the fall-out of Kirk's little programming joke. He is the Emperor now, after all. Which is of course why he's being pressured to choose a consort, the better to provide royal heirs for his throne. It was fifteen minutes into the full ceremonial gathering of all eligible females and their family members, as well as all the members of the Vulcan Imperial Court, that Kirk's carefully-hidden program executed its code, simultaneously overloading every water main in the Imperial palace and drenching almost everyone in the building. It had taken weeks of working on the program in the few precious moments a day when he was unsupervised, hunched over the secretly-augmented PADD he'd been given to keep track of his obnoxious, mundane tasks, and he'd miss that, because he surely wouldn't even be permitted that commodity now, but at the time he'd thought it more than worth it. Spock of all people should have known any electronic device in Kirk's possession wouldn't stay harmless, no matter how carefully encrypted it had been before being given to him. Locked safely away back in the antechamber of Spock's quarters, Kirk could almost hear the yowls and hisses of displeasure as over a thousand Vulcans received an unexpected shower-Vulcans as a race are, of course, far too dignified to make any such noises, but the desert-bred warriors hate water almost as much as cats back on old Earth. And while Kirk did not care to examine his motivations for his sabotage too closely, he didn't require much self-awareness to enjoy knowing how many Vulcans he must have pissed off with that stunt.
...Including Spock, obviously. Kirk's throat tightens in anger as he thinks of Spock. That he should be forced to endure this misery because some Vulcans got a little damp is utterly ridiculous-especially when Kirk knows damn well that Spock was reluctant to go through with this dog-and-pony show in the first place, no matter how unwilling to admit it his tight-ass Imperial self was. Bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. Spock can act distant and bored all he wants (and God does he ever) but Kirk spent too many years in the Vulcan's company back on Enterprise to be fooled. It seems insane to him now, to think that he ever trusted Spock, farther than Kirk had ever trusted anyone, man, woman, or otherwise. How stupid of him, to ever count the Vulcan as a friend. But of course that was before-
Something catches his attention, a whisper of air against his cheek. His imagination, or nearby movement? Kirk turns his face, but of course there's nothing there to see; his questing eyes relay nothing back to his frustrated brain. Never mind. Never mind! He's letting his temper get the better of him again. Vengeance will be his, and all in good time. He sucks in another breath, returning to the task of self-discipline, and he must have moved just the wrong way because it sets off a new wave of fiery agony, as what feels like thousands of tiny ants bite down on his insides at the same time, bordering on the exact edge of itchiness and pain. Kirk bites his lip to keep from screaming, and draws a little bit of blood, the copper tang filling his mouth. His muscles ache from the constant barrage of stimulation, and Kirk can't control the second spasm that rolls through him, trying vainly to jiggle the plug in his ass for some small measure of relief. A charlie horse flares in his calf, white-hot pain that shoots straight up in his thigh to his groin, and then Kirk does scream, noiselessly, thrashing against his restraints. It passes again after a few moments, thankfully, and Kirk collapses, tears leaking out of his eyes and down his sightless face at the fresh reminder of his isolation. It's not so bad if he doesn't talk and he keeps his eyes shut, but the minute he tries to speak and hears nothing, he's forced to remember that Spock has struck him blind and deaf.
"You will beg me for relief, and you will not even know I am near," Spock says. He's staring down at Kirk, strapped prone to the table, the burn in his ass just starting to make itself known. Spock's long hair cascades across Kirk's face from this position, like a heavy, spicy-smelling curtain-Kirk's brain skitters sideways, a slideshow montage of all the times Spock has fucked him with his hair in Kirk's face exactly like this, Kirk bent double, legs over Spock's shoulders, Spock pinning his wrists to the bed, both of them hidden in the curtain of Spock's hair, effectively shutting out the rest of the world. Spock puts his fingers to Kirk's face, breaking Kirk's train of thought. "I shall prize your tears, and your cries. And when this has concluded, you will understand that you are my property. You belong to me."
"You're a shitty Vulcan," Kirk tells him, or starts to, because that's when Spock pulls him into the meld. Spock has rolled his mind at least a hundred times or more now, and though Kirk isn't as overwhelmed as he was the first time Spock took him down, he still doesn't have what it takes to fight that psychic undertow. Spock is like some irresistible rip-tide, dragging Kirk under and out to sea to drown in the endless warm darkness of that space inside their minds.
/ /You are mine,/ / Spock tells him, only there's no actual words, just a sense of possession, of being taken. Ghostly fingers rifle through his mind, giving Kirk the fleeting impression of a piano that's being tuned, a guitar whose strings are being tightened. / /You can have back your sight and your sound when you have shown me that you deserve them./ / Kirk jerks against the sensation of violence, something yanking free deep within his mind, before his world narrows, shuttering and closing in around him like a collapsing house.
/ /No!/ / he shrieks, and it echoes hollow inside him as Spock abruptly pulls away, fingers leaving his face. He opens his eyes-to nothing. Not even a sense of light or dark or color, only black. He screams, shouting Spock's name, and he can feel the vibrations in his larynx, but no sound reaches his broken ears. "SPOCK! SPOCK DON'T YOU FUCKING DO THIS TO ME-"
Kirk draws a deep breath, holds it, clenching and unclenching his muscles. In for ten counts, hold for ten, out for ten. In for fifteen counts, hold for fifteen, out for fifteen. Slowly, slowly, the spasms and tremors fade, and then Kirk is encased in endless darkness with only the manufactured noises and images of his own brain to distract him from the endless itching burn inside him, a slow torture that eats away at his sense of self. It's a little like phantom limb pain, the way his brain keeps trying to hear and see when the pathways to both have been sealed off, and Kirk doesn't know which is worse, the hallucinations or the idea of being utterly bereft, as if he had never known sight or sound. His sense of time is now shattered; he no longer has a concept of how long it's been since Spock withdrew his touch, leaving Kirk entombed inside his own tortured body; he might as well have been buried alive.
Focus. He has to focus. He must have discipline. Kirk rips his flagging concentration away from contemplation of his pain, and starts reciting prime numbers, getting as far as 379 before another spasm hits him, when he switches to Fibonacci's sequence. The purity of the math helps calm him, and he moves on to military strategy, replaying historic battle sequences in his mind: Halmut's Gambit, the Astorvekkin'z'sh Maneuver, Archer's Feint. Soon he's chuckling over the mental images of witless Klingons pitted against fractious Romulans-and then agony sears through his body again, so hot he tastes it burning in the back of his throat. A scream clenches tight behind his teeth as his lungs heave for breath, his gibbering mind clawing desperately for the fragmented remains of his tactical musings. Slowly, the tremors of pain recede as he recites mathematical theorems, working through Euclidean geometry and moving on to astrophysics, regaining his control inch by struggling inch.
He's played forty-seven games of chess against himself by the time another negligent movement sets off the crashes of pain, barreling him under to leave him drained, panting and drenched in sweat. The Terran periodic table of the elements helps restore his focused peace of mind, but he only gets through twelve basic revenge scenarios before the suffering comes back for more, deeper and stronger, tearing his thoughts to shreds beneath the onslaught. As it fades slowly, the pain stabs back unexpectedly, and when he regains some semblance of mental command, he realizes he's been steadily moaning through the entire ordeal. Not that he can hear it. Thank god.
The amusement turns sharp, and Kirk's laughing, falling into a hysteria so alarming it's a relief when the next punch of pain hits him, working overtime on nerves pounded weak and soft. Kirk tries vainly to curl in on himself as the ever-present itch starts to ramp up again, making him tremble and curse as fire prickles along untold inches of his skin. He doesn't think Spock would risk doing permanent damage to him... Impossibly it feels as if the heat is actually getting worse, and Kirk concludes through his haze that it's because all the nerves and tissue are inflamed and sensitized now, like a piece of meat that's been thoroughly pummeled in preparation of being cooked. The cycle rebounds faster and faster, until he's left with nothing but the torture, seeking fruitlessly against his bonds for cessation, begging, crying to anyone who can hear him, no matter that he himself can't hear it. It feels like in apathy to his current condition the entire galaxy has been rendered deaf and blind as well, leaving him to burn for his mistakes. Then conscious thought recedes, fleeing before the advance of heat and pain, and though his sight is gone all Kirk can see is red, red, red.
Eternity passes. Or maybe it's only a few hours, Kirk can't tell. But he becomes aware of something whispering over his face, barely touching him, and he can't think what it is (he can't think at all, thought does not exist, only the red and the burning and the itching). Then fingers settle over his face, and again Kirk moans, feeling the vibrations in his jaw as the fingertips trace gently over his cheekbones, a thumb caressing Kirk's chapped lips.
"Please," Kirk blurts, and somewhere he registers shock that he can even form words any longer, "please make it stop please, please Spock please..." Two hands cup his face, holding it for a moment, and then Kirk feels them leave, and he cries out without thinking, grief at the abandonment swamping the part of his brain that can still think. No! God, no more-but the hands alight on his wrists moments later, and Kirk realizes distantly that he's being unbuckled. He sucks in a shaky breath as his wrists are freed, each one taken in a hot, dry hand and rubbed gently, massaging the tender skin, coaxing feeling back into them. Kirk brings his wrists up to his chest when Spock lets him go, folding his arms tightly against himself, shuddering. The hands go to his hips next, undoing the strap that holds them down. As if on cue, another spasm strikes him, and Kirk convulses helplessly against the table-but this time hands pin his hips to the table, stroking his flanks as one would a spooked animal until the worst of the convulsions have passed. A sob sticks in Kirk's throat as he feels the whisper of long hair against his bare skin, and seconds later feels a kiss pressed to one hip-bone.
The hands go to his ankles next, unstrapping each one and massaging gently as they did at Kirk's wrists, helping him to fold each knee in turn, to bend and unbend it, returning the muscles to working order. Spock comes back to Kirk's head last, unsnapping the short length of chain that held Kirk's collared throat against the table, and when the arms slip under his legs and his back and pull Kirk against a strong chest, Kirk folds like a house of cards, moaning noiselessly.
He's aware of warmth, Spock's Vulcan body heat enfolding him as Kirk is gathered against Spock's chest, Spock lifting him effortlessly off the table. Spock's robes are curiously soft, and Kirk turns his face blindly into Spock's shoulder, whimpering as every ache and pain in his body makes itself known. Distantly, he's aware of movement-he's being carried. He doesn't care. All Kirk knows is mute, primitive gratitude for the arms around him, a base animal desire for the torment to end. His pride is gone, melted away hours ago in the haze of his ordeal. Nothing exists outside of the arms of the man carrying him.
Spock shifts Kirk's weight against his chest, and then Spock is sitting, settling Kirk in his lap. Kirk shudders, curling against Spock's chest, fisting his hands in the material of Spock's robe. Fingers card through Kirk's sweaty hair, soothing him, grounding him in the real world again. Fingertips press against his face again, and suddenly Kirk is no longer alone in his head. The meld is shallow-Kirk's still aware of the burn licking and itching inside him-but the strong presence inside his head commands his attention now.
Thinking is hard. Spock seems to know this, somehow, and does not try to force anything difficult from him. A query comes instead: / /Enough, tepul-fam'veh?/ / The diminutive is felt, not said, and Kirk feels the soothing presence around him, inside him, Spock cradling him within and without.
/ /Yes,/ / comes Kirk's response, a flush of helpless assent. No more no more no more. Spock does not reply, but Kirk can feel his master's satisfaction curl inside his mind, and a touch of reassurance as well.
/ /Then speak./ / Pieces tumble back into place inside him, and Kirk feels one of the walls blocking him from the outside world fall away. He gasps, and this time he can hear the air exiting his lungs and throat, the channel of sensory input unstoppered.
Spock breaks the meld then, and Kirk moans out loud, the sound of his own voice in his ears making tears come to his eyes. "Shhhh," Spock murmurs, tilting Kirk's face back with both hands and kissing his eyes, gently swiping away the tears with the pad of one thumb. Kirk is still blind, still sightless, but he can feel and hear Spock now, and it's like coming out of a coma. "You will have relief soon. You must be patient for just a little while longer."
"Okay," Kirk says shakily, glad for the moment that he's still blind. He doesn't think he could cope with the assault of sight on his over-loaded brain just now; he's too disoriented, too off-center. Distantly, in some hidden part of his mind that still registers some vague self-awareness, he knows that this is exactly what Spock wanted by locking him away in torment. And Spock got his wish, in spades.
Kirk tenses as Spock moves, hands clutching at the folds of Spock's robes. "I must stand you upright to remove the plug," Spock informs him, his voice low, reassuring. "Lean against me. I will not let you fall, tepul-fam'veh." The Vulcan word hits Kirk's ears like a welcome splash of water, a pet name for him that Spock uses but rarely. Kirk nods, a fractional motion of his head, and then Spock shifts Kirk's weight in his arm, easing slowly out of the chair he's sitting in, simultaneously helping Kirk to put his feet on the ground until both of them are standing up, Kirk leaning heavily against Spock for support as his aching legs start to tremble. Spock's arm around his waist tightens, and when he buries his face in Spock's robes, Spock lets him do it, Spock's other hand sliding gently down Kirk's spine till he reaches the curve of Kirk's ass.
On a normal night when Spock might choose to enjoy Kirk's body, Spock touches him like a coveted piece of property, fondling every exposed inch of skin and driving Kirk crazy with humiliation and lust. Not that Kirk makes it easy for him, ever, but it always ends the same, and they both know it. But now, Spock simply slides his fingers around the base of the plug, working it carefully out of Kirk's body, and Kirk feels that curtain of dark hair whisper against his face as Spock nuzzles Kirk's temple. When the heavy silicone toy finally eases all the way free, Kirk almost collapses again, and only Spock's arm around him keeps him from sliding to the floor.
Spock picks him up within moments-God only knows what he did with the plug-and then Kirk is being carried again, which is fortunate because his ass and thigh muscles are currently seizing, trying hard to ease the itching and burning still going on inside him. Kirk moans incoherently as pain washes through him, intense enough that for a moment he almost thinks he's going to vomit. Then Spock lays him down on some cool, flat surface that feels vaguely like a bio-bed, and then eases something soft under the back of Kirk's head, and the nausea passes.
"You must remain motionless," Spock tells him, his hands sliding up and down Kirk's body in long, repetitive motions intended to calm the sweating, shuddering human laying prone before him. "I intend to ease your discomfort, tepul-fam'veh. Do you require restraints?"
It's not a threat, Kirk realizes after a moment of panic. It's an offer, but Kirk shakes his head, realizing dimly that he wants to prove his willingness to behave. Spock makes a noise of approval, and Kirk starts as Spock's mouth presses to his own in a brief, possessive kiss. Kirk moans, and Spock pulls away, one hand still planted firmly on Kirk's chest.
The next few minutes are as humiliating and yet welcome as anything in Kirk's entire life. Spock pushes his legs up, exposing his much-abused ass, and eases a tube into him, one hand holding Kirk's hips down as Kirk twitches helplessly, a groan of pain bubbling up from his throat. The shocking sensation of cold hits him as cool liquid fills his ass, and Kirk gasps, throwing his arm across his face as tears well in his eyes, the burning in his ass finally easing. There must be something in the mixture aside from just water, but Kirk couldn't give less of a shit if it's Orion blood and Andorian lice, because the wretched burn that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his tormented muscles is finally melting away. The pain doesn't just disappear-the nerves are too inflamed for that-but the worst of the torture ceases, and Kirk realizes that the pathetic mewling noises he's hearing are coming from his own throat. Suddenly, he's glad of the fact that his vision is still gone, because he isn't sure he could cope what might be on Spock's face right now. It's easier to shut the world out like this, to pretend nothing is happening when he doesn't have to see anything.
Liquid continues to fill him, to the point where Kirk is starting to squirm in new discomfort, his guts bloating painfully. Finally it stops, and Spock removes the tube, followed immediately by what feels like the entirety of his insides emptying themselves out of Kirk's ass. Kirk suffers through it, grateful for the strong hands holding him in place, and finally he's just laying there, utterly spent.
Kirk hears the sound of water running, and then Spock's hands are running over his body again, accompanied by a soft spray of water-Spock is washing him, Kirk realizes. That strikes him as hugely significant, and it's several muddled seconds of struggling to think why, when he finally remembers that Vulcans hate water-that was the whole reason he got in trouble in the first place, wasn't it? But that's too hard to hold onto, and Kirk lets it go, submitting himself to Spock's ministrations. Hands that have struck him and held him down ruthlessly so many times are now as gentle and careful as a mother with a newborn, and yet again Kirk is glad of his lack of vision, glad to be able to just lie in darkness and accept. Spock washes every inch of him, paying special attention to his thighs and ass, pushing one leg up and then the other in order to clean him thoroughly.
He knows-distantly, as though observing a movie, or a play-that this tenderness is an aberration, a side-effect of the ordeal Spock just put him through, and normally Spock would never let himself appear so considerate in front of Kirk. Their sex is often twisted and dark, a cruel game of dominance and power, and it's rare for Spock to treat him so, like something precious and beloved instead of a toy he keeps around merely for his own amusement. It's rare, too, for Spock to punish him so severely, and for such a minor infraction... and furthermore (Kirk's sluggish mind proceeds slowly but relentlessly, heedless of the usual mental barriers he erects against these thoughts, barriers meant to keep out himself as much as Spock) Kirk would have thought Spock would be pleased, to know that the threat of a female consort motivated Kirk to an act of jealous sabotage.
Bad enough that Spock keeps him as a slave, taking what he likes from Kirk without consideration, and then ignoring him like an idle amusement he's grown bored with. Worse yet that he's brainwashing Kirk, or at least trying to, slowly warping Kirk's mind during their melds; Kirk has no idea how many hours they've spent locked in bed together, Spock wrapped around him like a choking vine, fingers pressed to Kirk's temple as they struggle invisibly inside themselves. Kirk is no telepath, but he still resists, and while he has no real way of knowing the full extent of what Spock is doing to him, he's nevertheless aware of the erosion of his psyche-the inexplicable exhaustion he suffers at times, and the fact he can't seem to remember certain things, both in the recent and more distant past-particularly the period of time between confronting the newly-crowned Emperor Spock and finding himself in chains, a period of at least a week. And on top of all of this indignity, Spock has the gall to make Kirk stand by and watch while Spock picks another for his royal, official consort-and he actually expected Kirk to do nothing? But his over-reaction still doesn't make sense. There must be something he's missing. But no, he's giving Spock too much credit.
Ridiculous. So... ridiculous...
A slap to the ass makes Kirk yelp, jerking back to wakefulness. "Your lesson is not yet concluded, James." Spock's voice (and it's so strange to hear him speak when Kirk can't see his face, making everything much more intimate) is deep and full of dark purpose, and Kirk suffers another disconcerting flash of memory: Spock standing in the middle of Kirk's quarters back on Enterprise for the very last time, that dark, eloquent voice raised in a harsh shout and his true brown eyes subsumed with the black of his rage. Kirk had never seen his First Officer truly angered before, but as with so many things, Spock's first quarrel with his captain would also be his last. Of course, if Spock hadn't left Enterprise of his own volition, Kirk would still have had him removed...
Spock has paid him back with interest since then. Somehow, Kirk was betrayed, cornered, captured, and enslaved, and now he is utterly at Spock's mercy, blind and weak, trembling from reaction on some medical bed in the vastness of His Imperial Majesty's palace. Fate is strange, and cruel, Kirk thinks muzzily, but there's no bitterness to it-not right now, anyway. Twin desires have taken control of him for the time being, two halves of the same coin: a desire to please Spock, and a desire to avoid angering him further at all costs. Because the only thing more brutal than Spock's cruelty is his tenderness, and right now Kirk will do anything to avoid the one and give himself up to the other.
Jump to part 2.