glorious_spoon: (frisky women)
[personal profile] glorious_spoon
Title: Five People on the Enterprise Who Slept with Jim Kirk, and One Who Hasn’t (Yet)
Fandom: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series
Pairings: Kirk/Gaila, Kirk/Spock/Uhura, Kirk/Sulu, Kirk/Scotty, Kirk/McCoy
Warnings: Dub-con of the sex-pollen variety, spoilers for Into Darkness, dubious techno-babble.
Rating: R
Summary: What it says on the tin. Kirk sleeps around a lot. Everyone pretty much just enjoys it. (or, the one where Kirk is a giant slut and nobody minds very much at all)


She meets him in a bar near the Academy. It’s a mostly-human place that serves locals more than Starfleet cadets, and Gaila has been getting sideways looks all night. No one has approached her, though she’s tasted arousal in the pheromone-thick air more than once. No one, at least, until James Kirk flops into the seat next to her, smiling bright and easy, and offers to buy her a drink. She knows him by reputation and by the one advanced subspace engineering class they share, where he sits in the back of the room and splits his time between napping and arguing (intelligently, even) with the professor.

“This is a human mating custom, am I right?” she asks while he pushes his thumbprint to the screen the bartender offers him. He looks up, and his eyes crinkle. They’re a lovely shade of blue; unusual, she thinks, even for a human.

“Yeah,” he says, like he’s trying not to laugh. She wouldn’t mind if he did. He sounds like he might have a nice laugh. “It’s a human mating custom. Usually it takes a couple more drinks for a girl to be that direct with me, though.”

His other hand is on the bar, loosely curled around the base of his glass. Gaila reaches out and takes it, then brings it to her lips. Beneath the sharp scent of regulation soap, she can smell the salt-iron tang of human sweat, the heady scent of arousal. Kirk is just looking at her curiously; he doesn’t try to pull his hand away, but he does twitch, almost imperceptibly, when she touches the tip of her tongue to the pulse point in his wrist. The rush of blood there is tripping and rapid.

Gaila sips her drink, politely, then sets it down. “I don’t need a couple more drinks,” she says. “Would you like to go have sex?”

He raises his eyebrows, then grins. “Your place or mine?”

They go to her place, because it’s closer and because Nyota is always out late on Thursdays. Meetings with her advisor, which she always comes back from giddy and flushed and smelling of sex.

She brings the lights up to five percent with a negligent flick of her hand as Kirk leans in and kisses her mouth, soft and slow. Then her neck, her throat, the hollow between her breasts. He drops to his knees without much urging, pushes her short skirt up and her underwear down and buries his face between her thighs. She hooks a calf over his shoulder and pushes her head back against the wall, breath caught tight in her throat, fingers tangling restlessly in his hair, which is just long enough to grip.

He doesn’t need much steering, though, she’ll give him that. He braces her hip with one hand; his other shoulder is flexing under her leg as he jerks himself off. Then his tongue curls around her clit just so, and she pushes herself forward onto his mouth and forgets to think about anything else.

They make it to the bed eventually. When he kisses her, languid and sweet, she can taste herself on his tongue.

“You got anywhere to be?” he murmurs into her shoulder while she trails her fingers over the freckled curve of his shoulders. She can feel him starting to get hard again against her thigh.

“Not until tomorrow.”

He lifts his head and smiles at that, towheaded and flushed. “That’s just what I was hoping to hear.”

They have sex another half-dozen times before she tells him she loves him, which is true even if she doesn’t mean it in quite the same way he seems to take it. Then there’s Vulcan, and the Farragut explodes to pieces around her while a senior officer shoves her and three other terrified cadets into an escape pod.

The woman goes down to phaser fire before the pod even leaves the dock, her face bloody and shocked against the flexsteel for a moment before they’re wheeling away into the blackness of space. Gaila closes her eyes and lets her lips find the shape of a prayer she hasn’t said since she was a child.

It’s a long three days before they’re rescued.
The next time she sees Kirk, he’s tired and bruised and looks older, somehow, even though it’s been less than a week. He does a double-take when he sees her, and she knows her smile is wobbly and uneven, and then they’re hugging tight enough to hurt. He smells like unshed tears and old fear.

When he pulls back, though, he’s smiling. “Gaila. You made it.”

“I made it.”

“So, I don’t know if you heard--they’re giving me the Enterprise--” and even though he’s Jim Kirk, his delight is cut with terror, which is just as well, she thinks. “--and I just happen to have a spot open on the Engineering deck. It’s yours if you want it.”

She should thank him and ask for time to consider his offer. She should be reconsidering Starfleet altogether, after what happened. Instead, she hugs him again, tightly, and whispers into his neck, “Yes.”

She can feel him smile against her hair. “That’s just what I was hoping to hear.”

The warp core has gone down in a spectacular display of fireworks, dumping them several hundred light-years closer to Klingon space than any sensible person would want to be stranded. There are at least three junior techs that Scotty is going to string up by their ears when this is over, but right now he has his hands full making sure that the rest of Engineering doesn’t perish in a fiery maelstrom and take the Enterprise along with it.

He’s been awake for four days straight, running high on the stockpile of stimulants he keeps under his bunk (McCoy, predictably, cut him off eighteen hours ago and told him to go to bed, with a look on his face like he knew Scotty wasn’t planning to do any such thing, and why are all his patients such bloody fucking idiots, damn the world--Scotty really is very fond of the good doctor, he’ll admit it to himself at least) when the solution hits him like a mule-kick to the face.

Engineering is down to a skeleton crew, and he throws the rest of them out before he gets the captain on the comm, just in case he’s not actually as brilliant as he thinks he is and this floods the deck with radiation instead of fixing the problem.

“Tell me you got something, Scotty,” Kirk snaps over the comm.

“Oh, aye, I’ve got something, only there’s a wee bit of a problem, you see--”


“--I’m going to need your override.”

Silence. Then, warily, “To do what?”

“Detonate a few small charges in the core. Just a few.”

Another long silence. “How likely is this to stabilize the core without killing you and everyone else in Engineering?”

“It’s just me down here. And it’s that, or let her spin until she shreds the containment.”

“Damn it. Alright, I’m on my way.”


“The override is manual-only,” Kirk says shortly, apparently anticipating his answer. From the sound of his breathing, he’s already running. “I hope you’re right about this.”

“Yeah, that makes two of us,” Scotty mutters, and cuts the link.

He has the charges set by the time Kirk makes it down, white-faced and jittery in a way that tells Scotty he’s not the only one running on sleep deprivation and powerful stimulants. “What do you--” he begins, and Scotty jabs his finger at the override console.

“Override there.”

“Then what?” Kirk asks, already pushing his thumbprint to the scanner.

“Duck,” Scotty suggests, folding himself behind a plastisteel barrier that is, realistically, not going to do much of anything to protect him if this goes to shit. Doesn’t stop Kirk from joining him a moment later, though, hunkered down and shaking from what is probably more adrenaline than nerves.

The charges go off, pop pop pop muffled by the containment field, and there’s a roaring sound like a storm sweeping in off the ocean, the core spinning faster and faster, almost out of control--

--and then, silence. Echoing silence. A soft tick, and the core begins to spin again. Slowly, this time, and he can hear inside of two revolutions that it’s regular, controlled.

“Sweet fucking Christ, it worked,” he whispers.

An incredulous laugh bubbles out of his mouth, and Kirk has him by the shoulders, shouts in his face, “You’re a genius, Scotty, a motherfucking genius, you know that?”

Which Scotty does know, thank you very much, but that doesn’t mean he’s complaining when Kirk kisses him on the mouth, smacking and exuberant. It’s the kind of thing Scotty’s seen him do more times than he can count, with any number of human or alien crewmembers (including, to Scotty’s great personal amusement, a very disconcerted Commander Spock). It doesn’t really mean much of anything, other than that Jim Kirk has very little self control and no sense of personal space.

Then again, neither does Scotty, apparently, because Kirk is pulling away, and his grin is electric, and Scotty is leaning back in before he can think better of it. The next kiss is a real one, breathless and open-mouthed. When it’s over, he has both hands wrapped around the back of Kirk’s neck, and his cock has started to take an interest in the proceedings. Kirk’s pupils are huge and dark in the thin emergency lighting. In lieu of thinking it through, Scotty kisses him again.

“This is a dumb fucking idea,” Kirk mutters against his lips.

He’s not trying to pull back, though, so Scotty just says, “Blame it on the sleep deprivation, yeah?” and hauls him into his lap.

Kirk snorts. “Sleep deprivation,” he says, “sure,” and gets to work on the buttons of Scotty’s trousers.
They make it up to the bridge a short while later, tucked in and not much worse for the wear. Still, McCoy takes one look at them as they step out of the tube and rolls his eyes heavenward. “Damn it, Jim, you couldn’t even wait to tell us that the core was fixed first?”

Kirk grins unrepentantly. “You had Chekhov on the controls. I figured you’d know it worked.”

“Said controls including vid,” Lt. Uhura interjects in the tone of icy politeness that she seems to reserve solely for Kirk. “Captain.”

“Huh,” Scotty says, scanning the room. Lt. Sulu is determinedly not looking at them, and neither is that Chekhov kid, who has gone the color of ripe tomatoes. Uhura and McCoy are glaring daggers. Only Spock looks unmoved. “Could have thought that one through a bit better.”

“Oops,” says Kirk, mouth twitching in a way that suggests he’s trying unsuccessfully to pinch a smile out of existence. If Scotty meets his eye, he’s going to laugh himself sick.

“Perhaps in the future, Captain, Mr. Scott, you might restrict your carnal endeavors to less public areas of the ship,” Spock says calmly, and that’s it: a snort escapes Scotty of its own accord, then a chuckle, and suddenly he’s laughing, sliding down the wall to land on the cool deck, pants still sticky and four days of engine grease in his hair and laughing so hard he can barely breathe.

It’s sleep deprivation, and he knows it, but it’s hard to care when his ship is humming sweetly beneath him and laughter is bubbling up out of his chest and his captain is leaning against the sleek wall of the bridge, lips kissed red, laughing just as hard.

The priestess touches Hikaru under the chin. Her thin fingers are hard and rough, the approximate texture of a cat’s tongue. “You,” she says in a soft, musical voice. “You are favored by the gods.”

Her facial spines are flushed, which the briefing indicated as a sign that she’s pleased, but it’s still all he can do to keep from recoiling. The last time an alien priest said that to a member of the away team, Kirk ended up dangling upside-down by his ankles while worshipful Denarians tried to burn him alive in glorious sacrifice.

Of course, he’s Kirk, and these things just seem to happen to him. Still. It doesn’t exactly set a good precedent.

“Hey, wait--” he hears Kirk say, faintly alarmed, but the priestess is bringing up one of her other hands, cupped as though to hold something precious. Her scaled lips purse, and there’s a faint puff of air, glittering powder in his face, and then the whole world goes peach-colored and fuzzy.
He wakes to soft sheets, liquid heat, and the sound of his captain arguing with someone in furious whispers at the other side of the room.

“--oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Kirk says suddenly, brittle and loud.

There’s a noise of mild distress, and then the priestess replies, “I assure you, Captain, we are quite serious. It is an honor to be chosen thus.”

Everything seems to be made out of soft edges and heat. He rolls over, and the friction of the sheets against his skin brings an involuntary moan to his lips. He can feel the weft and warp of the fabric against his knuckles and the back of his knees, and he loses himself in the sensation for an indeterminate amount of time.

It’s only when Kirk sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed that he realizes that he’s aroused, and has been for a while. Also, he’s naked. None of this seems to matter as much as it ought to.

“Hey, Sulu,” Kirk says softly. His tone is cautious.

Hikaru hmms contentedly. “Hey,” he says eventually.

“So, uh, we’re getting McCoy down here, and...”

“Why?” Hikaru mumbles. His voice is muffled, and he realizes belatedly that his face is half-covered by one of the silk cushions. He rolls over. “Why do we need McCoy?”

There’s a long hesitation, and then Kirk touches his shoulder. It feels good, warm skin and the faint texture of callouses, and Hikaru arches into it. Kirk snatches his hand away immediately. “You’ve been drugged, Sulu. I mean, I don’t know if you noticed, but...”

“I feel goood,” Hikaru hums, drawing out the vowel sound. “Stoned.”

“You are so fucking stoned,” Kirk mutters, and he sounds like the guy Hikaru knew at the Academy, the idiot who climbed Zefram Hall in full drag to hack the New Year’s celebrations and not at all like the serious-faced captain he’s been trying to be. He liked that guy.

“I like you,” he says out loud.

“I like you too,” Kirk says, voice tight. “Now why don’t you just keep your hands to yourself--”

It’s at this point that he notices he’s stroking the palm of his hand up and down Kirk’s thigh, over and over again. It feels nice. Warm skin under the smooth cloth, the curve of faintly trembling muscle, like Kirk is trying very hard to hold himself still. “Don’t want to.”

“That’s because you’re stoned. Now I’m going to call McCoy--”

“What’d they say?” Hikaru interrupts.


“The--” he waves his hands. The name of their hosts escapes him at the moment, and it doesn’t seem very important, anyway. “The people. Them. Priestesses. You were arguing.”

“It’s not important.”

“Hmm.” Hikaru pushes his face against Kirk’s thigh, and that feels good, too. He can smell Kirk under the thick daze of incense, clean sweat and a hint of deodorant. The uniform pants don’t hide much, and from this angle it’s easy to see that Kirk is hard. Hikaru skates a curious hand over the bulge of his cock, and Kirk hisses a sharp breath through his teeth and rolls suddenly, so that Hikaru is pinned beneath his hands, the bulk of his greater mass.

“Sulu. You need to stop it.”

“But,” he says. The whole thing seems more confusing than he thinks it should be. “You want it.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want. You’re stoned, and you’re under my command. I need you to stop.”

He lets go, pulls away, sits up. Hikaru can feel his absence like a physical blow, and the priestess, hovering, says, “Captain, the release is required, he must--”

“Oh, Jesus,” Kirk mutters, and then his hand is curling around Hikaru’s shoulder, firm and bracing, like an anchor. “We are not talking about this later,” he adds, as Hikaru lets out a low, keening noise and ruts shamelessly into the mattress.

Five hours later, when the pollen finally wears off and leaves Hikaru spent, sticky, and thoroughly mortified, Kirk is as good as his word.
Spock & Uhura

It’s McCoy, somewhat unsurprisingly, who finally drags Kirk out to the bar. Nyota is used to it being the other way around, but death, however temporary, seems to have taken a toll on the captain. He’s been weird and skittish off-duty, sticking to his quarters except when McCoy drags him out to Medical. He hasn’t spoken to her, or to Spock, since he was discharged from the infirmary.

She can guess at least some of his reasons, but still.

“Here,” McCoy says roughly, shoving Jim toward their table. It’s toward the back of the establishment, quiet enough that his voice carries. He sounds harassed and impatient, and she might even believe it if he hadn’t literally worked himself to collapse--twice--refining the serum from Khan’s blood. If she hadn’t caught him crying into his hands after they brought Jim out of suspended animation and he breathed on his own. “You take him. I have to put up with any more of his shit and I’m gonna--”

He breaks off, making a violent motion with his free hand. Jim catches himself on the edge of the table and grins that sleepy hustler grin of his, the one he used to use on liquored-up cadets and alien tourists at the Academy bars. “Aw, come on, Bones--”

“I’m getting another damn drink,” McCoy snaps, and stomps away.

“He needs to get laid,” Jim observes in a loud whisper. “I keep offering, but--”

“Captain,” Spock says, standing. His voice is suddenly, sharply controlled in the way that means he’s breaking apart underneath. “Please. Join us.”

“Uhura?” Jim’s eyes flicker over his face, over to Nyota; there’s something uncharacteristically tentative there, and she smooths her shaking hands over the fabric of her skirt beneath the table, and nods.

“You can buy me a drink,” she says, and when Jim meets her eyes this time his smile is startled and real and utterly dazzling.

Well, fuck.
He buys her three drinks, as it turns out, and that’s still not enough to explain the warm, pleasant hum in her skin when his fingers brush hers, when their knees bump beneath the table. Guiltily, she looks up at Spock, and Spock is--well.

Spock is watching them with dark, intent eyes. He doesn’t look angry at all, actually. He looks, if anything, intrigued.

Jim flicks a grin at him, then raises his eyebrows at Nyota. “Want to get out of here?” he asks. Trust him to cut through all the bullshit.

“‘Get out of here’ as in...?” It’s more for Spock’s benefit than her own; Jim’s smile is all warm, wicked promise, but Spock still occasionally has trouble with the subtleties of human colloquialism. And Vulcans, she’s pretty sure, aren’t really big on threesomes.

It’s Spock, though, who answers. “I believe that the Captain is suggesting that any further flirtation should continue in a more private milieu.” He sets his drink down and stands, all perfect posture and smooth grace, and it’s only because Nyota knows him so well that she can see the uncertainty in the flicker of his hands and the faint tension of his mouth. “As it happens, I quite agree.”

Jim laughs out loud at that, a bright, lovely sound. Nyota tenses, but before Spock can take it in entirely the wrong way, Jim is reaching up, uncurling one of Spock’s stiff hands and bringing it to his lips. Spock’s breath hitches, just slightly, and his fingers twitch in Jim’s, and they really have to get out of here before one of them gets them all arrested for public indecency.

They keep a careful meter of space between them as they leave, and they don’t touch in the elevator. Jim’s got a wide, stupid grin that Nyota knows is mirrored on her own face. Spock looks implacable, but his fingers are twitching.

When the door finally slides shut behind them, he looks at Jim, raises a hand, and asks, “May I?”

Jim nods mutely, and Spock touches his face. His eyes fall shut, his lips part in a shuddering gasp, and like a hot wave through her connection with Spock, Nyota can feel him. He’s giddy and aroused, and she’s not sure who moves first but suddenly he and Spock are kissing deep and slick and sweet, and she can feel that too.

Things get blurry after that. Somehow they end up on the bed, the sheets bunched beneath them. Jim’s hands are on her breasts, his cock slipping between her thighs as he gasps into her neck. She can feel the echo of his shocked pleasure as Spock’s slick fingers slide into him, slow and inexorable. Spock is a patient, careful lover, and there’s something beautiful about watching Jim discover that, watching him bite his lip while his eyes go soft and unfocused--she’s so damn close to the edge just from watching.

Jim lets out a low groan and slips his fingers down between them to her clit. He doesn’t even move, just lets her ride him until she comes apart in bright, sparkling shocks.

They sleep together afterward with Jim between them in the too-small bed, curled around him like a pair of bookends, enclosed and safe.

“We’ve never had sex.”

Leonard squints at the indistinct blur that is Jim, slumped against the arm of his most comfortable chair in his captain’s golds. It’s impossible to tell from his voice if it’s the beginning of a come-on or if he’s just reached the stage of intoxication where this passes for deep philosophical observation. They’re both tired, gritty and limp with sleep deprivation, and if either of them had the least bit of common sense, they’d be in bed by now instead of sprawled out in Leonard’s office doing their best to finish off his good Tennessee bourbon.

Neither of them has any common sense, obviously.

“No,” he says eventually, letting his eyes slide shut. He could just sleep here, he thinks. He’d probably regret it in the morning, but that’s six hours away and the prospect of moving, right now, is entirely too daunting to contemplate. “We haven’t.”

They’ve come close a time or two, but while Leonard may have a double-shot of bad judgement with a masochism chaser, he isn’t a complete idiot.

Jim, on the other hand-- “Why is that, anyway?”

Leonard opens his eyes. Jim is blinking at him, smiling, soft-edged and sleepy, and Leonard is too tired, too drunk, and too damn old for this.

“Because the last time you propositioned me, you were so hammered that you threw up down my shirt before you could even finish the question,” he says, and closes his eyes again.

Jim groans. “Aw, come on, you’re still holding that against me? It was two years ago.”

“I liked that shirt.”

“I could get you a new one.”

“I’m still not gonna sleep with you.”

He can hear the pout in Jim’s voice. “Why not? It would be fun, I bet.”

“I don’t even want to know how many damn alien STD’s I could catch from you.”

“Oh, now that’s just mean.” He can tell that Jim is smiling without even opening his eyes. When it comes right down to it, there’s not a one of Jim Kirk’s expressions that he can’t read with his eyes closed. That’s just one of the reasons he’s not gonna sleep with the guy. No matter how good the sex, it’s not worth losing this.

“Don’t forget who had to treat that case of Belgarian lesions our second year at the Academy.”

“And an admirable job you did of it, I might add.”

“I’m just saying, seeing a man’s equipment in that kind of condition doesn’t exactly inspire me to a frenzy of lust.”

“Well, I don’t have them now.”

Leonard laughs, he can’t help it. “You’re a goddamn menace, you know that?” He opens his eyes. Jim is grinning, the soft light falling into the creases of his eyes, the imperfections in his skin. There’s a scorch mark across the shoulder of his uniform shirt, a bruise on his jaw, and his hair is a sweaty, tangled mess. It’s a helpless, stupid kind of love that twists Leonard’s chest up, and it ain’t exactly new. He’s had a good long while to get comfortable with it. “Get your ass out of my quarters and go to bed. Doctor’s orders.”

“I’m not tired,” Jim says, all whiny little boy tones, still smiling.

“I’m tired. And you have to be functional at 0700. Go to bed or I’ll hypospray you where you sit.”

“Insubordination, Bones,” Jim says, but he’s already unfolding out of his boneless sprawl to stand swaying on his feet, scrubbing both hands through his hair. “That’s insubordination and I will not--” He breaks off, jaw cracking into a yawn. “--I will not tolerate it on my ship.”

“The hell you won’t,” Leonard says, and it comes out gentler than he means it to, fonder. “Go to bed.”

“Night, Bones,” Jim says, and before Leonard can stop him he leans over and drops a dozy, affectionate kiss on the top of Leonard’s head.

Leonard bats him away, and holds onto the smile that’s threatening to break through until Jim is safely out the door.

June 2016

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