"Don't put your lips up to my mouth and tell me you can't stay,
Don't slip your hand under my shirt and tell me it's okay,
Don't say it doesn't matter, 'cause it's gonna matter to me
If I can't be Alone With You"
Jake Owen
Alone With You – a Kirk/Chekov fanfiction
You hear the footfalls coming from down the corridor and you have pressed the automatic switch for the doors before he has even reached them. He strides into your Quarters as if he owns the place – which in a way he does – and you stand to attention, knowing it is just the beginning of the subterfuge.
"Can I help you Keptain?" You ask; it is part of the procedure and the words are meaningless. And when he gives you that look you know it is not you he is seeing. The image of the Alien Princess from the planet below is still burned onto his retinas and the blood rushing through his veins is on fire – you can see it pulsing in his neck. You know it will be mere moments before that pressure point will be under your skin and sure enough he is already moving towards you, his hands grabbing handfuls of your shirt, his eyes avoiding yours: the combined act of a desperate man. You have not moved. You still stand 'at ease'; your hands clasped behind your back, your eyes looking over his shoulder towards the wall.
"Do you wish to fuck me Keptain?" And with these words go the pretence until all that is left is the drama – for in one swift move he has you up against the wall, his hands now swapping the fabric of your uniform for your skin beneath. And although his fingers are dancing across your torso, you have not removed your eyes from the wall – you have learnt your place.
And you want to argue that you earned your place on the Bridge thanks to your intellect and enthusiasm, but you are only too aware it was a bribe in exchange for you silence. It is a silence that has lasted many months now.
How had it began? Wrong place, wrong time and Kirk on too much alcohol – his heart was in love but his cock wasn't in anything. It had hardly been rape – you had begged for it, later screamed for it and, in the weeks that followed, wept for it. But there had been other planets, other abandoned girls, and it hadn't been long until he had found you again.
And here he is now, clawing at you like a wild animal, and you know you only have to say the words – so you do:
"Do you wish to fuck me Keptain?" You repeat. And his mouth finds yours and kisses you hungrily, scooping your tongue between his lips and sucking. And although you think you are harder than you have ever been in your life, you still don't respond. It is not protocol. Then he is slamming your head back against the wall, fingers clutching at your throat – rough palms squeezing at the skin there.
And he moves his thigh up to your crotch, his height advantage lifting you further into the wall. You wish you could cry out from the friction but experience has told you not to, and you always take lessons seriously.
His breathing seems to be originating in his throat and it is hot and damp against your ear. This is the moment – the moment when he will decide to storm out without a word, or to break the silence with the order you have been waiting for.
"Let me fuck you" It is practically a growl, a feral command, and you will follow it to the letter as is your duty.
Now you can be soft; your body compliant. And this time when he kisses you, you kiss him back – completely in his control.
And you know it is not you he is tasting – somewhere on that planet below is the woman whose scent still lingers on his lips. It is the deepest of torture for you, but you do not show it. However in this moment, this speck on the fleeting timeline of your existence, you can allow yourself to feel for him – for in this moment you can pretend that it is you he wants, your name he will be calling when he inevitably erupts inside of you.
You kiss his cheeks and his neck – your mouth finds his collar bone and suckles there. It is the only reason you adore your height, lacking as it is, for here you are made for him – moulded only for him.
Then he is ripping the shirt from your back – it is in tatters upon the floor – and you know the paperwork will be pushed aside so you don't have to explain the cause of the damage. You wish there was paperwork to explain the damage to your heart; you are yet to understand why you put yourself through this every time. It is hardly a Russian tradition.
His hand is in your pants now and he is swift in the process of their removal. Your boots slide off with them and in one fluid movement he has you on the bed. He stands back and you prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him. You are just following his orders and there is definitely one part of you standing to complete attention.
His is stripping. It is not romantic, but it is achingly slow. Neither is the stripping for your sake – he is not taking the time to appreciate your body open for him: all those generations of Russian DNA that have culminated in the specimen that is you. You are just a defenceless body, whose face right now is not yours. You have grown accustomed to this role play and, sure enough, when he stretches out naked on top of you his mouth finds your lips and his fingertips your nipples. The fact you are flat chested seems to have escaped him – or maybe he is too far gone to either notice or care.
He replaces his tongue with his fingers and you suck on them – you know what is coming and already you are dizzy with lust. When the first of his digits enters you, you are resigned to your duty and remain mute. A second finger is sending a flush up your body, but your throat holds back the dam. Finally, at three fingers, you break – the dam spilling into moans and this is the invitation he has been waiting for. He flips you over with one muscular surge, pounds your head down into the pillow, then enters you – unprotected and dry.
It is what you have been waiting for – what you have wanted since you first heard his name back at the Academy. It is what keeps you awake at night; the lithium crystal that fuels your daydreams. It is the reason why, on more than one occasion, you have been caught staring into space when on the Bridge.
Afterwards you will ask her name. If he is exhausted he will stay and hold you. If he is disgusted he will not even look at you.
But you will still have hope that one day the reflection in his eyes will be of you: Chekov.