Auto-Erotically Yours, and Yours, and Maybe Yours

He knew, the first time he ran his hands over her sleek frame, the first time he eased back against her, legs splayed wide. He knew she’d be supple, accommodating, maybe even addictive. He wondered now that he was here if he was the first, wondered if Pike had maybe indulged in such a fantasy, wondered if he’d pumped those thick fingers hard over his flesh, right there in that same chair.

And if Kirk let out a groan at that thought it was okay, because there was no one there to see him outspread against his command chair, no one there to see him press his hand against the strain in his faded old jeans or to run his thumb over the zip and push up into and against the friction. Not that Kirk would mind if anyone saw him pull down that zipper and hiss at the rush of cool air against his heated, engorged flesh. No, Pike might smile, encourage him maybe, a few filthy words in his ear perhaps to further him along, might slap him on the back in approval on his way out the door, maybe passing Bones along the way, maybe smirking like a frat boy knowing that the CMO of the Enterprise was about to get treated to quite the show.

And a show there would be. Chair swiveled just right, true exhibitionist that Jim could be, so that Bones would see, would stop and roll his eyes and yell “God damn it, Jim” in that Southern drawl that crept in when he was upset or angry or surprised or drunk or… Yeah. Yeah, he’d be surprised and drunk, would watch as Kirk planted his feet firm on the ground to arch his back up, as he fisted himself from root to tip with punishing strokes. Yeah, like that, god it’d be just like that, hard and fast while Bones watched, shaking his head and rambling off all the reasons Jim shouldn’t be doing it there, shouldn’t be rutting up into his own god damn hand in his own god damn chair where any god damn person could see. Kirk wouldn’t tell him that he didn’t have to watch if he didn’t want to, wouldn’t close his eyes and groan when Bones stepped closer, wouldn’t whisper his name against the sudden, vivid image of him splayed against the desk in his office, or under a real water spray in some old bathtub somewhere in backwoods rural Georgia.

Wouldn’t stutter when he mentioned Spock, or how he could sneak up on Jim with that quiet god damn way the green blooded hobglobin had.

No, he wouldn’t swivel the chair in the direction of the Spock’s station, wouldn’t yank his too tight jeans down as far as he could get them. And if he did? If he sucked two of his fingers into his own mouth like a wanton little whore desperate for cock? If he moaned around them and covered them in spit thrust them awkwardly up inside his own body? It’d be okay, because Spock wouldn’t be there when he opened his eyes, not really, not with his eyebrow raised or lips quirked, not with the tip of those sexy as fuck ears tinged green from some human emotion like modesty, or disapproval or maybe arousal. Spock wouldn’t watch such an illogical act, no, he would cite regulations and equations and probabilities and would absolutely not notice the flush creeping into Kirk’s neck and face as his release neared, would not call out his name as he came, in that way that sent electricity surging through Jim’s body. God, fuck, no, he wouldn’t.

Yeah, addicting, he thought as he sagged against her, pulling his come-splattered shirt off and dropping it in a ball by his feet, taking in the dark bridge around him as she sat in repair dock, already wondering when he might get a chance to do that again.