Title: Of Convenience
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Rating: R (...ish?)
Summary: Kirk needs to get married for political reasons. Spock offers himself as the logical choice. Written for the st_xi_kink meme. Enjoy!
Given they had two days of guaranteed privacy (mostly guaranteed because McCoy, looking slightly green at the thought of James Kirk sleeping with his first officer, had assigned the lock code to their quarters and only given them the corresponding unlock code), Spock had a long while to decide where to put his mother’s photo. Jim was unusually supportive of him, suggesting locations where it might catch the most light or where it would gain the most knowledge (although Jim had an illogical proclivity to assign the photo and frame the labels of ‘she’ and ‘her’ and he was entirely incapable of convincing him to refer to it as anything else.).
When at last Spock settled on a place – hung beside the bookshelf near the door to the hallway – Jim nodded in approval. “Good place. She’ll always be there to welcome you home.”
Spock had not responded to that, but some warmth spread in his abdomen at the thought, irrational as it might have been.
Two days of isolation while pretending to be consummating a marriage passed slowly. The first day was spent deciding where to hang Spock’s photo and planning how to handle the crew’s reaction to the news. There was no doubt that everyone already knew – in fact, as they had made their way out of the transport room as a pair, Spock had heard Sulu informing Chekov, tone almost disbelieving, that not only were the captain and the first officer together, they had just ‘tied the knot’.
Jim had not needed to explain that euphemism. He had, however, had to explain ‘the two person push-up’, albeit amidst nearly hysterical laughter.
But it was obvious everyone would know of their arrangement by this point. The second day was one of relative leisure, during which Jim mainly laid in bed reading an actual book from the bookshelf – “Brave New World”, Spock thought it was called. Spock, for his part, studied interdimensional physics, only slightly distracted by the man on the bed.
“You wanna just, you know, do what we’re supposed to be doing?” Jim called over from the bed and Spock froze, back going ramrod straight. A laugh escaped his captain as he turned around, preparing to be indignant. “Joking, Spock. I know you’re not into that. I’m just bored.”
“Indeed,” Spock managed, the word neither an inquiry nor a statement. Merely a word. Jim patted the bed next to him and before he could control himself, Spock was walking over and sitting next to the other man’s thighs.
“We’re gonna need to leave evidence,” Jim said seriously, setting the book down. It was closing in on what had unanimously been declared (but only named by one) bedtime. Spock raised an eyebrow. “You know. Physical stuff. Bruises and hickeys and that sort of thing.”
The Vulcan rearranged himself, body turned towards Jim’s. “If we have already been together for as long as you would have the crew believe, it would be unnecessary,” he stated, feeling his pulse increase ten – eleven? – percent at the thought of marking that skin. Of biting and holding and pushing and—and nothing. “As they have never noticed anything before, we are obviously quite adept at preventing such noticeable traces.”
Jim grinned. “Thing is, we’re not hiding anything anymore,” he seemed to purr, but that was illogical. Humans did not purr. And it most certainly would not elevate Spock’s pulse further if they did. “And remember, James Kirk is a possessive bastard. Gotta let the whole world know what’s mine.”
Spock breathed deeply. “Logical, I suppose,” he agreed, hesitant. “How to you propose we do this?”
Jim seemed to ponder this for a moment, and then reached forward and grasped Spock’s hips. “Let me know if it hurts,” he murmured, beginning to add pressure at an exponentially increasing rate. “You usually wouldn’t notice it hurting during sex, but—well, you know. We’re not having sex.”
Spock allowed the action, allowed the fingers to dig in to this hips just above the line of his belt. Should he reach for anything or incline his body beyond a few degrees, his shirt would rise and the marks would show. He felt himself bruising and allowed it.
The other man also added a few marks to Spock’s wrists and one tiny bruise to his collarbone (which Spock only allowed after Jim expressed that, were they actually sleeping together, he would want to mark him there). Once he had finished, the subtle clues to their nonexistent intimacy were difficult to deny.
“Now,” Jim said, “do me.”
There was only one mark Spock needed to make. Only one very noticeable and extremely Vulcan mark, the only one he could anticipate he would ever make. Jim gave him permission, but even so—
Spock resigned himself to the task, leaned forward, and bit Jim – not the least bit gracefully, but careful not to hurt him – between the neck and shoulder, applying enough pressure to bruise and show the imprint of each tooth, but not enough to break the skin. He could not help but taste the skin in his mouth – to run his tongue over the salty sweet expanse of smooth skin, to suck lightly and lick against his teeth where the blood pulsed. Jim stiffened under his mouth, and Spock grudgingly pulled away.
“Adequate,” he murmured, and then, unable to look at the man whose eyes were suddenly so confused (why?), turned to move to the bathroom and the shower within.
The bite mark, Spock noted as he drank his Plomeek broth the next morning, seemed to be the cause of a great deal of conversation. McCoy, for his part, had taken one look at the obvious bruise and run his fingers through his hair with some level of distress evident in his posture. The Vulcan hadn’t quite caught what he’d muttered under his breath, though there was a high probability it pertained to him and/or certain parts of his physiology. He had not become any less distressed since they had joined him at his table.
“You blew off two days of work for a honeymoon,” the doctor muttered, eyes fixed on Jim. Jim shrugged, obviously enjoying his pancakes. “Come on, how is that logical?”
It was obvious that the question was aimed at Spock, so he answered it. “It is a tradition in my culture,” he explained frankly, stealing a glance at the purpling bruise not close to being covered by Jim’s uniform. “The captain was being respectful of this.”
“Respectful, my ass,” McCoy grumbled. He looked directly at Jim’s eyes this time. “You just wanted time off for nonstop sex with—”
“I’d rather not think about that, thanks,” Nyota said stiffly, taking a seat next to Spock. He nodded his acknowledgement, inwardly thankful that she had cut the man off. Her eyes lingered on the light green bruise appearing from under his sleeve, but she gave no other indication of interest or distress. She glanced at the Vulcan. “So, how long have you two been together?”
They had agreed what to say, but it wasn’t in Spock’s nature to lie. Jim, in his almost telepathic way, answers the question for him.
“We melded on-planet during a mission six months ago,” he said, pausing to take a rather sizable bite out of one pancake. He chewed thoughtfully. “After that, it was like we’d been together for years. Felt natural, you know? Before either of us realized it, there was just no way we were separating. I can’t pronounce it, though—what is it, Spock? Tuh-?”
Spock’s pulse plummeted. How would Jim know that word? “T’hy’la,” he informed him. Jim nodded feverishly.
“Yeah, yeah – that. That’s the bond that formed,” he grinned. “One of these days I’ll learn how to pronounce it.”
“Ah,” Nyota said, suddenly disinterested in everything but her food. “There’s no flavoring in the oatmeal.”
“Scott’s fixing that,” McCoy muttered, pushing his eggs towards her. “Trade you. Once you’ve had patients demonstrate just how weak their gag reflex is when you’re six inches from their mouth, you can eat just about anything. Besides, we’ve gotta keep that mouth of yours happy, right, Miss Linguist?”
She scowled at him, but accepted. That was unusual; when he had been involved with her, she had refused all ‘handouts’ or help of any sort. Stubbornly independent. Her willingness to accept a trade with Dr. McCoy did not fit her previous behavioral patterns.
She ate the eggs silently.
Jim finished first, standing and clearing his tray, and on his way back past the table he extended two paired fingers. An odd thrill rushed through Spock’s spine, but all he did was extend his own, brushing the human’s in a gentle and fleeting caress. Jim left for the bridge with a slight smile on his face that Spock, if he believed in such nonsense, could have wished was genuine.
By the time Spock made it up to the bridge, Jim was conversing excitedly with Admiral Pike, who looked quite amused. The rest of the crew had expressions ranging from amused to adoring to completely blank. Spock began his way to his station when he finally heard what Jim was saying.
“And then, Jesus, the look on Bones’s face – I didn’t think I could get him to look that way without swelling up in reaction to one of his hyposprays,” he laughed, the sound worming into Spock’s abdomen. “But yeah, the wedding was pretty kickass. If I’d known it was gonna be this soon, I’d have invited you sooner. Thank Komack for me, wouldja?”
Pike smiled back, a chuckle passing through his lips. “It’ll boil his blood,” the older man said, eyes crinkling at the corners. “He’s saying he’s going to send someone on board the Enterprise to see if your marriage is legitimate. He seems to think you cooked this up to avoid losing command.”
Spock diligently returned to his work, comparing and cataloguing pollen specimens from their last actual mission. Tedious and specific.
He liked tedious and specific.
“Issat so?” Jim asked, resting his head on his knuckles. Spock tried not to think about those hands closing on his hips. About how strong he knew they were. “Can he actually do that? Send someone here to prove that we’re not faking it?”
“Depends on the evidence he has against you,” Pike answered. “I don’t think so. Spock wouldn’t break Federation law like that.”
Spock did not feel guilty. Even if he had to remind himself that it wasn’t the entire reason he’d married the other man.
The rest of the conversation was rather mundane, talking about Pike’s recovery and his new duties and the like. And then, everything fell into the rhythm the ship was used to – the only difference being the looks the crew pointed at Spock and Jim when they didn’t think they would notice.
The first month passed with relatively little difference in their lives. Certainly, Spock found himself with significantly less time to himself, but Jim unexpectedly allowed him his privacy. Spock could maintain his meditations, and while Jim required more sleep than the Vulcan, the man slept deeply enough that Spock slipping into bed with him did not wake him.
But there were distinct problems with sharing the bed. Distinct and humiliating and possibly ruinous problems, the most significant of which had Jim, who had somehow pinned Spock to the mattress while they slept, staring down at Spock with a bewildered look on his face.
“Please,” Spock searched for the correct word. “Please dismount.”
Jim whistled, not moving an inch. “Damn,” he said lowly, causing Spock’s stomach to twist. “Do all Vulcans get morning wood or is that just you?”
“You do not seem immune either, Captain,” Spock pointed out, willing his blood to any other place on his body. But his body would not heed the order, rebelling more so when he felt Jim’s hardness against his hip. The man lifted an eyebrow playfully.
“This is the longest I’ve gone without since I lost my virginity,” Jim informed him. “Doesn’t matter how often I clean the pipes out, so to speak. Every day I wake up with one of these. My body just wants sex.”
Spock’s body echoed the sentiment, hips begging to buck up into the man atop him. Every inch of him felt taut, stretched, aching for touch. Jim’s hips shifted against his slightly, and it took everything he had not to react. He collected himself as best he could. “I apologize that our nuptials have disrupted your preexisting sexual patterns,” he said in as clear a voice as he could manage, though to his own ears it sounded perhaps a little deeper. “I should have anticipated your needs.”
Jim shook his head. “That’s not—Spock, it’s been almost eight months since I got anywhere with anyone, and that wasn’t anywhere near sex,” he confessed. Spock’s expression must’ve given him away, because a moment later Jim was sighing. “I’m not the kind of guy who sleeps with his crew. Professional situations are based on a hierarchy and sleeping with someone on a different level of that hierarchy? Throws a wrench in the whole thing.”
Spock could not help the words that came out of his mouth then. “It would seem, then, that you see us as equals in this hierarchy or you would not have wed me.”
“Yeah,” the man sighed. “God. I want sex so fucking bad, Spock. I didn’t know it could be this hard to be celibate.”
Spock hadn’t known until that very morning, either. He was so hard he ached, and he knew that if he just shifted a little bit, just manipulated Jim’s ready body the slightest bit, that he could be given release. He remembered the long-faded bruises on his hips and wrists and the bite he’d delivered to Jim’s neck—
“It would be for the best if you were to dismount,” he managed, not quite groaning the words out. “There may be unintended consequences should you not.”
With what seemed great exertion, Jim obeyed, rolling off Spock. Spock brought himself to a sitting position, eyes locked with his husband’s. Jim beckons him towards the bathroom, to which Spock raises an eyebrow. “Look, Spock, it’s my fault we’re in this mess,” he ground out, the throaty tone to his words making Spock impossibly harder. “You handle yourself in the bathroom. I’ll handle myself out here. Okay?”
Spock found himself nodding, walking into their bathroom without glancing back at the other man. He barely made it inside before he was locking the door, leaning against the wall, and running his hands over himself, shivering at the dual stimulation. He’d hardly had the presence of mind to pull himself out of his pants. Ordinarily, he would declare this action unnecessary, illogical – something easily replaced with meditation, but he needed this, needed it now. He was too far gone to simply will it away. This required—required—
He gasped, and then bit down on all sounds he could make. Jim couldn’t hear him moaning, whimpering, or whimpering his name. He couldn’t afford to ruin everything. But he remembered the feeling of Jim pinning him to the bed, hands on his hips and that biting, sucking kiss he’d placed on his collarbone to bruise it – the taste of Jim’s skin under his teeth and the blood pulsing and the mark, that mark that stayed for a week before he couldn’t find it anymore—
And then Spock was gone, ejaculate streaming from his body, aimed in no particular direction. He should have been ashamed, guilty, but he knew that just outside the door, Jim was doing the same thing. And before he could stop himself, he indulged in thinking that perhaps Jim was thinking about him too.
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