mirroredcommand | The Past Remembered

[OOC: This occurs during the year 2253. The year that Pike and Spock left from was 2263, so this was ten years ago. They were only bonded five years ago, to put things into perspective.]

It was not even a full year into their five year mission, but already things had become interesting with his young crew. They desired to rise in the ranks with more urgency then older crews, say the one he had left behind on the I.S.S. Yorktown, but they were young fools without realizing the consequences of having little to no experience in not only the possible new rank, but even in the ways of assassination. Several weak attempts had already been made for his life, but they had been easily dealt with early on. Now things had settled and they were all dealing with their newly acquired positions or grumbling about the failures they had suffered.

There were four in particular that still concerned him, and Pike was keeping the closest eyes on them. The first was his helmsman, Hikaru Sulu. The young man was brilliant in his abilities in flight, absolutely ruthless, but he would not leave alone any young lady that walked onto the bridge. The second was his navigator, the scruffy haired child who was the youngest on his ship. Chekov seemed innocent, but was anything but. He was a silent assassin, vicious and very good at what he did. Pike still couldn't find the body of the person he had originally chosen to be his alpha navigator. Nyota Uhura was dangerous. She was one of the few women to reach as high as she had without sleeping with anyone; she just killed anyone who was in her way. They were often found in their beds, and it often involved a lot of blood.

Then there was Spock, the last of his crew that he was dealing with more often then expected. He heard the constant rumors about 'the Vulcan' on their crew. People were afraid of him, even as they tried to hide it with false bravado. He had taken a shine to the young Vulcan he had bent over the console on the bridge his first day and proven to the crew he had no fear of those who, as rumors put it, 'could turn his mind to mush and drink it through a straw.'

Spock was his, chosen by him when everyone else was too foolish to see possibility. He had been forced to defend Spock on several occasions, most without Spock knowing he had stepped in. One attempt already included a small group who decided to take care of the 'green-blood' on their ship. It had been all too recently that he had been forced to step up and defend Spock in a more physical manner, to prove his point. Spock was a part of his crew, and despite the rumors passing between ships and across Starfleet, was not a slave.

The flesh around his right arm was still tender, itching and burning alternatively despite the incident having happened just over a month ago. It was an ugly reminder of the whip that had curled around his forearm and burned through the skin to the bone. McCoy's skilled hands had been part of fixing it, but also Spock's diligence in making up for the marks by helping him to tend it. Pike was surprised to realize he had begun to trust the young science officer.

He had brought Spock to his rooms more then once a week for a while now, mostly enjoying the mix of resentment and almost puppy-like devotion that came from the half-Vulcan and teaching him the base pleasures of pain and sex. It was almost impossible to find such a raw mass of possible talent that had no molding what so ever, and he had it in one convenient package. He sent the boy back to his own quarters each night, unless he planned to keep Spock trussed up for the entire night.

Pike looked across the room to the collection of leather, metal, and toys he had in mostly plain sight. The weaponry that crossed the walls was more vivid, but the collection was impressive that he allowed it to be displayed. When he wanted to enjoy someone, even more so when they were going to fight back, he wanted to always have something appropriate on hand to deal with them. In fact, the more they fought, the better it often was. Spock had gone back to his bed with no end of marks on his wrists, ankles, neck, and elsewhere.

Tonight, he had yet to decide what he would do with the young Vulcan. The possibilities were endless, and he had yet to find the limits of how far he could push the boy.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It was slow work, work that required his every bit of concentration. He maneuvered the blade deeper with each cut, more layers of flesh parted down to muscle. He had to be careful about the veins, skipping them to avoid the worst of the blood. The towel was drenched in emerald quickly, his thumbs keeping together skin to lower the dribbles of blood.

Each bite of the knife point was strangely satisfying - not the pleasure of hurt but a sense of belonging that Spock had not felt since the earliest moments of his childhood.

Ridiculous fantasy.

But it did not stop the feeling of rightness as Pike carved his brand into Spock's wrist.

It took the better part of an hour to complete the mark. It was no more then three inches in size, and currently looked more like flayed meat then any attempt at a proper mark. Pike stood, hands drenched in green, and picked up on a nearby desk a small portable dermal regenerator. He slipped it over Spock's wrist, still silent as he had been the entire time, and let the device work. He would not let it heal the wound fully, but enough to keep it from continuously bleeding. It would require more then one trial by blade to set the scar permanently into skin.

It was possible, Spock considered as he lay in a dizzy shambles on his captain's bed, letting Pike heal his wrist enough to stop the bleeding and clean up the green-soaked towels, that he should have considered this more thoroughly. Not that he regretted it in either the human or Vulcan sense. But as willingly as he'd accepted the mark, his need for freedom chaffed at his mind.

Pike had legal claim to him now.

Spock's legs shifted, restless.

But Pike had always provided the opportunity for refusal. Spock trusted that his captain was not looking for a true slave. He had simply not anticipated how strongly the mark would act upon him - Spock realized with a slow unfolding that if Pike did want a true slave that he might not be able to say no. Pike had pushed Spock so far from the comfortable if isolated paths that he knew - the landscape was entirely different now.

The only think that quelled the half-formed panic was Spock's sense of rightness - even if he were struggling intellectually with the concept of allowing this man to... own him, the more primal nature that moved inside of him was vibrating with mak, with the profound ecstasy of belonging.

It thrilled through him.

Pike stared at the regenerator as it worked, his face almost unreadable. He had marked Spock like one of his beasts, something he was proud to call his own. No part of him had even thought twice about the desire to put that label on Spock. Never before had he wanted to have anything similar. He had never dealt with any long-term relationship since the death of his partner at another Vulcan's hands, had never bothered with slaves or servants as they interrupted his peace with their very existence.

Why had he not even hesitated in leaving the mark, his mark, on Spock? The question nagged at him, yet he could find no answers for it nor even a sense of anger, guilt, or any other commonly associated feeling. Just a small, lingering sense that what he had chosen to do was right, and it would serve him well.

He usually listened to his instincts, so the feeling calmed some of the nagging. He removed the regenerator and after wetting a new, clean towel he washed away the last of the blood. The mark sat as a brilliant green against white, as perfect as it could be without a guide, image, or anything but his own hands to work with.

Spock studied the mark and its maker.

"Does it please you?"

He itched to touch it, trace the curve of the C with he edge of his thumbnail just to experience the sensation. That seemed a private thing however, and from the look on Pike's face...

Pike. Christopher Pike. Spock used the first name from time to time - usually when he was reduced to pleading for something.
Christopher.

"It is pleasing to me... Christopher."

Pike's eyes flickered up to Spock's face with the rare use of his first name. No one, not since David, had used it. Always Pike or Captain, as was garnered by respect. "Pleasing." He repeated the word, like tasting it on his tongue, then nodded once. "It is pleasing." He brushed the edge of it with his thumb, feeling the extreme heat that came with wounded flesh.

Despite their earlier activities, the word acted in Spock in an entirely new way. He blushed vivid green, from ear tips to collarbones, and glanced away - pleased and embarrassed at how undone he had become.

Somehow, the blush was amusing. Pike smirked, glanced to the large spotting of blood on the sheets, and moved over to the other side to lay out. He had purposefully made sure that the captain's quarters had a far larger bed then was standard on star ships.

Spock watched Pike's - Christopher's movements, watched the older man laid himself on the bed, before he moved closer, prowled across the bed, with some care for his incompletely healed wrist, and settled close enough to rub their bodies against each other, skin-to-skin contact. Pike was a pleasant coolness and Spock turned, licked out his tongue to taste along a pale old scar along Christopher's ribs. He raised his head.

"Should I leave you now?"

The question raised its own questions. Pike silently met Spock's eyes, focusing closely on the design of them, the nature of what lay beyond them. Spock was his, forever and a day, and little could change that. There was an inherent risk in what thought he turned over in his mind, and what would occur beyond agreement or dismissal was an unknown.

"Computer, temperature raise ten degrees. Spock, pull up the covers or you'll be cold." Pike tugged a pillow under his head.

Spock blinked. And blinked again. Then blushed again and pulled the covers up as directed.

Further into new landscape then.

"Are you... shall I...?"

He gave up. Christopher had not found his own orgasm but Spock could not find adequate phrasing at the moment to inquire what was expected of him. He moved his right hand to trace the design on his left wrist. It was strangely soothing.

"Sleep. We have a long day tomorrow." He would not sleep, it was far too difficult to have someone else so very close to be able to let himself go unconscious. Instead, he only closed his eyes and settled himself into his bed, prepared for this first test of Spock.

Sarek had taught him to sleep alone, always on constant guard. If he was not here to see to Christopher's pleasure, Spock was entirely unsure how to comport himself.

He cautiously arranged a pillow for himself and - it was indeed colder in the room, even with the temperature adjustment - pulled the covers more tightly to his chin. Spock willed himself to relax.

It took long focus on his own steady breathing, but Spock drifted into a sound, comfortable sleep, surrounded by Christopher's smell and a sense of safety.

The Past Remembered - The Brand

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