Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jim clears the transporter room before he gets to the controls, locks the doors tight, and turns off Bones’ ranting. Yes, he’s putting himself in danger, he knows that, but he’s not about to leave Spock on the planet below when they absolutely can’t stay in this system for another minute. They have a vaccine to deliver to Mrennenimus IV that previous transporter complications have already delayed. The two other party members—forced to be beamed up one at a time due to a nearby ion storm’s heavy interference that would make shuttles impossible—are already locked in sickbay. Spock is going to be... a bit more difficult to bring there.

Lieutenant Hendorff, a burly human, was somehow beamed up as something resembling a half-formed gorilla with a largish forehead and terrible posture. An ancient form of humanity, Jim knows. Ensign Linuteray, a Rinestian who resembles something halfway between a man and a frog, wound up like a giant tadpole with legs. It isn’t hard to deduce what Spock will be—Vulcans’ evolution was far longer than either other species, they just weren’t always... as pleasant as they are now.

So Jim knows as he taps in the transport sequence that he’ll be grabbing his usual first officer and receiving a pre-Surak savage. But it’s still Spock and better than leaving him alone on a deadly planet that grows so cold he won’t survive nightfall.

Jim can still hear Bones’ warnings ringing in his head. The transporter buffs are working, the pad shimmering with a bright column of whirring lights. Jim holds his breath, eyeing the far door sideways. It’s locked for the crew’s safety. And for Spock’s. He has no idea what effect phaser fire will have on such under-evolved physiology. It’s a risk he can’t take. Not with Spock. He’ll get Spock through this himself. ...Somehow.

Spock’s form is familiar. It materializes before him in a haze of dissolving sparks, broad shoulders stooped and facing away. The sequence finishes, and Jim draws in a breath. He had to be here for this. Someone had to. He tells himself that’s why he’s alone in the room with a facsimile of everything Spock is, why he’s staring forward hard.

Spock turns around slowly, and the current theory of de-evolution is immediately confirmed. Spock isn’t half-ape, isn’t crude or unattractive. He’s every bit as beautiful as he always is, lithe and strong and perfectly angled, except with uncharacteristically burning eyes that look built to tear meat from bone.

Jim sucks in a breath and just barely manages to say, “Welcome back, Commander.”

Spock sneers. It’s enough to make Jim’s skin crawl, not for the intensity so much as what he knows Spock will feel in retrospect. They’ll fix this, somehow, and Spock will see his own emotions with a surge of shame, humiliation he’ll bury behind a mask. Now his bow lips peel back over his teeth, nose scrunched as he stares at Jim, and it’s so perfectly barbaric that Jim wonders if the Universal Translator will be any good at all.

Spock takes a step off the platform. His boots sound heavy. He grunts, “Jim.”

Jim mumbles, “Good,” without thinking. Then a cough and a quiet, “You remember me...”

Spock’s eyebrows twitch. It looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. There’s something hot all over his face, something like anger but without all the malice. He takes another step forward, and Jim’s mind races for how to get Spock out of here, safe up to sickbay. The others will be working on plans, of course. Bones pouring over the infected crewmen, trying to determine a cure, Sulu drumming up security, Scotty trying to secure the best route from here to there, and Chekov is hopefully making sure they’re off to Mrennenimus IV. Spock comes closer again; the transporter room seems smaller than usual: cramped.

Jim has the console protecting him. He’s not sitting in the chair. He’s ignoring all the beeping lights. “Uh... how do you feel...?” He doesn’t really expect an answer.

“Hungry.”

Jim’s stomach churns. Vulcans weren’t... weren’t cannibals... he’s pretty sure, anyway. Because Spock’s looking at Jim like he’s on the menu, and somehow, this isn’t how he thought it would go down. It was necessary, he tells himself again. He had to be here. He says with a certain kind of hollow confidence, “We’ll have someone bring you food.”

Then, just like that, Spock snaps.

Jim knew it was coming, knew it would come as soon as he realized that this would happen, that Spock would be nothing more than instinct. His body flies around the console, long legs so much faster than Jim could ever hope to be, and he’s pushed back, stumbling, slammed against the hard wall that he thought was far behind him. Spock’s hands are on his shoulders, long fingers wrapped around in an iron grip, and Jim grabs Spock’s wrists in case they try to strangle him. The wall is cold, or maybe Spock’s just warm. Spock leans in and tilts his head to the side, lips parting. Jim almost flinches, shrinking back, but Spock just sniffs him.

Spock takes a long, heady inhale, and it looks like the scent that fills his nostrils is everything he wanted. His eyelids lower, nose pressing and running along the side of Jim’s face. Spock snuggling into him isn’t something Jim’s equipped for. Spock’s entire body is pressed into him; he can feel every little muscles through both of their clothes, maybe feel Spock’s racing pulse. It goes straight to Jim’s cheeks, flushing them. He’s stock still, waiting.

Spock nuzzles into his ear and hisses quietly, “You smell like my mate.”

Lovely. Jim’s startled and tries to show it, but instead he makes a weak, high-pitched keening sound completely beyond his control. His cheeks turn even redder He half expects Spock to laugh at him for it. But Spock’s just some feral animal, taking Jim all in.

Spock’s teeth graze Jim’s ear, trailing back down along Jim’s jaw line, and Jim tilts his head up, away. His eyes fall closed, body tight. Oh Fuck. He can feel everything. His new position only seems to give Spock more access; he scrapes his way down Jim’s throat, circling the side of Jim’s neck. He bites down slowly, and Jim, held so firmly in place, can’t do anything but groan. Hot breath and a warm tongue, Spock’s saliva on him. It’s a shallow bite that doesn’t hurt so much as make his skin tingle. Spock pulls back and gently licks across Jim’s throat, enough to force Jim to stifle a moan, biting harder on the other side.

Sucking in a breath, Jim tries to mumbles, “Spock, you... you don’t mean to do this...”

“Mate,” Spock growls, like it’s the only word he understands. It’s amazing it’s even in Standard. His body flattens impossibly tighter into Jim’s, and one leg slips between Jim’s thighs, nudging them apart. There’s a thick, undeniable bulge in Spock’s pants that presses into Jim. It’s hot, and it feels like it’s pulsing. Big and alive. Jim’s moan is so much louder than it should be.

“Spock...” He should never have done this. Maybe, just maybe, a small part of him thought this might happen, perhaps wanted it, but he knows he shouldn’t have, not now that it’s really happening. They’re already so close (not like this, never like this) but so always together, except for those high Vulcan walls Spock erects around himself. Jim wants those walls, the only things keeping them apart, to come down, but this feels wrong, like Jim’s bulldozed them all aside without Spock’s consent. The real Spock—his Spock—wouldn’t want this. Or at least, not like this. Jim tries to push at Spock’s chest, but Spock just snarls and grabs a fistful of his gold tunic, yanking it and the black undershirt aside. Spock’s teeth sink harder into Jim’s shoulder, and Jim bucks weakly into the man he came down here to save, so horribly turned on.

A few more bites, strong and utterly intoxicating, hard enough to leave bruises, and Spock’s hands slide down. They wrap around Jim’s waist instead, tight and unforgiving. It cuts off Jim’s room to push at Spock’s chest, but his attempts were weak and futile anyway. He knows if Spock kisses him, he won’t be able to resist. And he’s ashamed of himself for that. Spock seems content to mark him, oddly slow (wondrously intimate) but so intense, and Jim’s body is getting warmer and warmer, unbearably hot. Spock nips his way back up to Jim’s face, and Jim turns to him, so very torn about whether or not to take that kiss. But Spock doesn’t reach his lips. Spock just nips at his chin and nuzzles into him, something like a dog or a bear, alien and even hotter.

Spock’s hands release his waist again, and this time they grab Jim’s arms. Jim tries another feeble, “Spock, you don’t really want to do this,” but Spock doesn’t seem to be listening. Jim’s fantasized too much about licking and biting Spock’s ears to push as hard as he should. Spock’s hands run down his arms to his wrists and pin them to the wall, making Jim feel like some sort of sacrifice, up on display. Two fingers pressed tight together on each hand run over his palms, circling and tracing lines, running up between his fingers. The sensation is so much more powerful than it should be—Jim knows Vulcans have a thing for hands. Now Jim does, too. Spock’s touch ripples through him like some sort of powdered aphrodisiac. Spock’s fingers run up along his own, then intertwine, clasping him tight. Spock’s hands are warm, soft, powerful, his. Spock’s grip is so much stronger than it should be. But he should’ve known that.

He should’ve known about all of this, and a part of it, he did. He didn’t think it would be so careful, almost gentle, slow and hard—is this what it’s like to make love during pon farr? Of course Jim’s wondered. Daydreamed, late at night. Alone and hating that. But he shouldn’t have done this. Guilt, anticipation, and lust all duel and twist in his stomach, and he desperately wants Spock to just kiss him already: wipe away all his will to protest.

Their whole bodies are kissing. Jim can feel Spock everywhere, smell the musky scent of Spock’s raw arousal in the air. He can feel the bulge at Spock’s crotch digging into his own (he’s getting so hard; maybe he’ll come in his pants like a teenager) and he gasps when Spock ruts suddenly into him. It’s too good. He’s going to hell.

“Mine,” Spock hisses again, knocking Jim’s head aside with his nose and biting Jim’s ear with a growl. Jim wonders if Spock thinks of Jim’s rounded ears anything like he thinks of Spock’s, exotic and tantalizing. “I’ll claim you.” Jim moans and nods, he shouldn’t, but yesss...

“Jim?”

As soon as Bones’ voice crackles through the air, Spock stiffens like a rock. He makes a wild snarling sound and presses into Jim so hard that the air’s temporarily crushed out of Jim’s lungs, and Jim starts coughing uncontrollably, trying to breathe.

“Jim, what’s going on down there? We’ve got two life signs, so he’s aboard—have you got him under control?”

“Yes,” Jim lies when he can, gasping up at the ceiling in general. Spock’s making a deep growling sound, eyes sweeping the room as though expecting a rival to jump out of the rocks. He’s bucking wildly into Jim’s crotch the whole time, suddenly and inexplicably, making Jim dizzy and senseless and hardly able to function—Spock’s practically fucking him into the wall through their clothes. “He’s, uh...”—he has to stop to moan—“he’s adjusting, just... just give us a bit... just take the ship to Mrennenimus...” A second later, he adds hastily, “Cut the channels! I... uh... don’t think he’d want anyone else to witness this...” Spock bites Jim’s jaw hard enough that one more millimeter would draw blood, and Jim moans like a whore, trying so very hard to swallow it down.

Bones grumbles, “Get him here as soon as you can.” But the comm clicks off.

Jim breathes a sigh of relief he shouldn’t be holding. He looks at Spock, wanting to say it’s okay, it’ll all be okay, they’ll get through this.

But Spock roars with a sudden ferocity that makes Jim want to shrink back, and suddenly Jim’s being flung from the wall, tossed to the floor like a broken doll. The crash is painful, and he lands on his stomach, scrambling to try and turn around, and Spock’s storming over, looming above him like some kind of monster in his best friend’s body. “You are mine,” Spock repeats, nearly panting with exertion, crazy with some animal lust all over his face. “They cannot have you—I will claim you so thoroughly that you won’t even be able to move without thinking of me.” That’s... more than Jim bargained for.

That’s everything Jim wanted, everything he wants to give back, but he can’t go that far. Fuck. He shouldn’t have done this. He’s such an idiot. He knows Spock wants this. They have a connection, so deep and sharp that it can’t be anything but real, and he’s always wanted to shove that in Spock’s face and solidify it in every way they can. But... he can’t take advantage of Spock, either, and he breathes a frail, “No.”

Spock looks at him. Spock slinks down to hands and knees like a wildcat, crawling on all fours over Jim’s body, and Spock, Spock hisses, “I have always wanted you, Captain. I know you’re mine; you always have been.” He ducks down again, smashing their lips together hard, and Jim gasps as his air’s stolen. He was already barely able to function—this sucks everything out of him, replaces his blood with liquid sex, makes him arch up and beg with his whole body. Captain. Spock knows exactly who he is. Spock tears away too fast—Jim hasn’t had the chance to memorize anything—wants more time to capture Spock’s taste and suck on Spock’s tongue. “My scent is all over you, yours on me. I can feel your mind in me: the imprint of my mate.” A sudden surge in Jim’s head and he feels it—he cries out—some sort of mind meld without the contact: unrestrained mental abilities forced on him. It feels good, right, that string they’ve always had between them. “You want me desperately, you are my—” but he cuts off suddenly, pausing.

His eyebrows knit together in confusion, and for a brief second, he looks just like normal Spock, up on the bridge, trying to fathom another one of Jim’s humanisms. Jim’s taking it all in, unable to move.

Spock breathes slowly, searching Jim’s eyes, “You are afraid I do not want this. That I am different.” He corrects fiercely, “I do.”

“You are different,” Jim mumbles. It’s hard, but he has to. Jim still loves Spock, of course. Loves this new feeling of Spock’s body draped over his, even on the hard floor of the transporter room. Spock seems to still know so much, enough that Jim could almost justify this, but... “Please... Spock...” He lifts his hand to cup Spock’s cheek, a bristle of pleasure running through him when Spock leans into it. “Come with me to sickbay. You can... claim me... after.”

Spock does jerk back then. He half sits up, straddling Jim’s lap. The movement brushes his crotch against Jim’s, and Jim groans, fingers curling into fists against the ground. But he tries to stay adamant, holding Spock’s gaze. It’s hard to believe that he actually misses being able to appeal to logic. He doesn’t know enough about pre-Surak Vulcans.

So he tries to push through his head, shocked when he can feel Spock taking it in, how important this is. How important Spock is, his wants, his trust. Jim repeats slowly, in his head and in the air, “Sickbay first. Then... this.”

Spock stares at Jim for a good, long time.

Then he slowly rises to his feet, and he reaches out a hand for Jim to take.

Jim’s fingers slip into Spock’s, and Spock tugs him up, pulling him close. He tilts his head, and then their mouths are back together like they were never apart in the first place. Jim’s gasp instantly warps into a moan. This one is softer, slower, easier for Jim to breathe, but it’s still fierce and important. Jim melts into it more than he should, tongue tracing every single nook and cranny while Spock’s maps him back. Spock’s tongue is long and rough, teeth sharp and even. Jim kisses and kisses and tilts his head and kisses Spock more, taking everything he can, just in case this is his last chance. His conscience temporarily flies out the window, everything he is tumbling into Spock’s embrace.

And then it’s all over, and Jim’s nearly trembling with want, only able to do this because he loves Spock that much.

He doesn’t at all expect it, but Spock says, startlingly calm, “I will do this for you, beloved.” Spock raises his hand, two fingers together again, and Jim lifts his, letting Spock’s wrap them together. His eyes flare fire, and he adds, “But then you will be mine, without using me for an excuse.” Jim nods dryly; he hopes so.

Spock turns and heads for the doors, and Jim, reeling, follows.

Chapter Text

Sickbay is an awkward affair. Spock snarls at nearly everyone that passes them, to the point that they wind up stowed away in Bones’ locked office, Jim nearly glued to Spock’s side. Their hands are tightly clasped together, and Bones has to be careful to keep as far away from Jim as possible. There don’t seem to be many tests to do. Hendorff and Linuteray bore the brunt of everything, and they’re still being examined. Apparently, Bones has the results he needs, and he tells Jim uneasily, clearly wishing he could do this away from Spock’s sharp ears, “There’s nothing medical I can do for him at this point. Really, he’s more of a hindrance here than a help—I’ve got my arms full with the other two whose changes are far more significant.”

Jim lifts his eyebrows, because this feels very significant to him, but Bones waves a hand. “No, no, he’s acting different, I get that, but other than a few crude shifts in his abilities, he’s the same man he was this morning. They’ve all retained full memories and even personality—they’re each just being influenced by their more pre-evolved states. Basically... it’s just Spock minus logic.” Spock lifts one arched brow, mirroring Jim, and it’s so very Spock that Jim has to weakly smile.

Bones coughs. This whole thing is... uncomfortable. “Yeah... anyway, it’s not permanent.” He’s mentioned that all ready, and it’s a huge relief, more than Jim can express. “They’re all going back to normal, just so slowly that it’s hard to see. I have to monitor the others’ changes on the screens just to be sure, but Spock should be relatively fine. ...Actually, I’d like to get him out of here if I could—he’s making the others nervous.” Spock makes a growling sort of sound as though that’s their fault for daring to exist in the same room with him, or maybe with Jim. Jim squeezes Spock’s hand to signal not to do anything.

Spock settles tensely, and Jim mutters, “So... I guess I should just take him to his quarters, then.”

“Yes. With a couple of security officers posted outside, I’d say. Someone should stay with him, if possible, just to be able to comm me if anything goes wrong.” It’s clear on his grim face that that someone has to be Jim—Spock won’t let it be anyone else. Bones clearly doesn’t want that, and Jim doesn’t know how he feels, but it doesn’t matter; there’s no choice. Jim nods, and Bones adds quietly, “You’d have to be very, very careful.”

“He does not need to be careful around me,” Spock snarls suddenly, interrupting. Bones flickers between being taken aback and frustrated. He’s not a fan of arguing with Spock on a good day, and this is anything but that.

Before either of them can do too much damage, Jim slips off the table they’re sitting on, tugging Spock with him. “I’ll leave Sulu in charge a little longer, then. Let me know if there are any serious changes to Hendorff of Linuteray.”

Bones grunts, “Good luck.”

And they’re out the doors. Jim intends to lead, but Spock, who must still know where his quarters are, bursts in front, dragging Jim along. He mutters something under his breath that Jim doesn’t catch, but it might be: now. There are four redshirts outside that automatically fall in line behind them; Bones must’ve called them. Jim doesn’t protest, and Spock ignores them. Evidently, Bones was a bigger threat.

The guards crowd into the turbolift with them when it reaches their level, and Jim and Spock stand at the back, Spock’s fingers dancing sensually down Jim’s wrist. It should be a simple touch, nothing provocative, but somehow, it has Jim’s breath quickening, his eyes sliding sideways to say: wait.

A few more minutes and they’re in Spock’s quarters, the security team waiting outside. Jim’s not sure what he’s going to do yet, what this amounts to—it’s still Spock, Bones said, but without logic, how much of that is true? Control is so very important to Spock. Jim said no excuses. Spock locks his door with only a moment’s hesitation, as though the wall console is foreign, but he’s intelligent enough to figure it out. He looks at Jim over his shoulder, growling, “You said you would be mine.” It isn’t a question.

Jim licks his lips—a nervous habit—and nods. A rush of something pours into his mind without any warning. Jim flinches, a hand flying up to palm his forehead, but he knows what it is—Spock probing around inside him. Jim nearly stumbles backwards; he wasn’t expecting it. Spock mentioned once that Vulcans didn’t always have such a tight grip of their mental abilities. He doesn’t even know if Spock’s doing this on purpose. He doesn’t know if Spock could do it to anyone, or just the man he claims to be his mate. Jim asks, “What?” And he doesn’t know if he’s saying it out loud or in his head.

“You still have doubts.” Spock walks towards him, and Jim, disoriented, only takes one step back: not enough. “Why? I am the same man. You want me. I want you.” Another step, then another, until Jim’s right at the bed, painfully aware that any movement could push him over the edge. At least Spock’s talking more than he was. Maybe he’s getting better; Bones didn’t give a clear timeline, didn’t seem to have one. If Jim could just stall this long enough...

But then he’d miss this opportunity, and he might never get it again.

But at least he’d be able to sleep at night.

Spock raises one hand, held stiff in the air, two fingers up. Jim, before he even realizes he’s doing it, lifts his own to meet them. Spock glances at them, then at Jim’s face, intent and serious. Quieter, more reasonable, he says, “You know you are mine.”

Of course Jim knows that. He can’t think of anything to say other than, ‘leave me alone’ or ‘fuck me,’ so he settles on nothing.

Spock tilts in, and Jim’s stock still as that hot breath ghosts over his neck, filling in the grooves of teeth. Spock sinks in again: a gentle bite with a little squeeze, followed by a soothing lick. Jim shivers, and Spock purrs, “Beloved, let me claim you...” One of his hands slips to Jim’s waist, looping around it and pulling him in, just like they were before. The ‘letting’ might not matter. From the way Spock’s thigh slips back between Jim’s, Jim gets the distinct impression that this is going to happen one way or another.

Good. That’ll alleviate a bit of his guilt. He doesn’t want the choice on his shoulders.

Maybe Spock can sense that about him. Jim’s shoved backwards in the blink of an eye, Spock falling with him, landing heavily atop him in the mattress, their legs still over the edge. Spock barely seems to notice; his mouth attaches to Jim’s throat, nipping and sucking, while Jim throws his head back and groans, body arching. When did Spock become so very good at foreplay? His teeth scrape up Jim’s chin and his arms grab Jim’s hips, picking Jim up easily. Jim’s rearranged in the bed, lengthwise, and there are no pillows, so he thinks Spock might’ve put them the wrong way around. Jim’s completely disoriented. The ceiling’s a grey blur. Spock’s shifting Jim’s uniform aside again to get a clear shot at his shoulders—Spock’s grip’s firm enough that Jim thinks the fabric might tear.

He hears the rip a moment later, and Spock frees both hands to exacerbate it, snarling suddenly and tearing it right apart, gold snapping in two. Jim makes a startled noise of protest, but his mouth is cut off by Spock’s, a stronger tongue holding his down. It makes him forget what he was even processing. Spock’s lips are so soft. The collar of his black undershirt is taken next. It’s torn the same way, as easily as though it’s paper. His sleeves are torn to shreds, one tear after another that he can’t stop, can’t even protest, wouldn’t anyway. He could through their bond but doesn’t. They’ll get new clothes later. The shards are pushed away, and Jim, irrationally, wants to do the same to Spock. He wants skin on skin instead of Spock’s rough blue tunic sliding along his stomach. He wants their pants gone too.

He wants to fuck, fuck Spock, be fucked by Spock, anything that involves just the two of them, not even clothes. All of the sexual tension from earlier is coming back to him, rising up to the tip of his skin, Spock awakening it easily. Jim’s pants are tenting again. His own hands slide over Spock’s shoulders, and he should push them away, but all he does is pull them in. Spock’s mouth makes him think of eating chocolate, even though the taste is far more exotic and inexplicable. Spock’s tongue seems to shed sparks when it hits his. His legs are spreading.

“We are bound,” Spock’s saying, but they haven’t parted, and it takes Jim a second to realize that the words are filling his head. “You are already my mate. Already mine. But I will mark you and make sure no one, even ourselves, ever forgets that.” Jim can’t help but shiver; that might be something a future Spock will want to regret. He wants to know how they’re already bound. How Spock knows they’re already mates. He wants to ask how long that’s been for, but he’s still being kissed and has no will to pull away.

Even when Spock gives him room to breathe, kisses his cheek instead, he can’t seem to say anything. Spock’s got Jim flattened into the mattress, touching all over, grinding slightly. Spock’s hips are moving at just that perfect rhythm, working into something of a roll, pressing their cocks together through too many clothes. Spock’s thighs are on Jim’s, their legs tangled, shoes still on and against one another. Their chests are together, Spock a heavy weight trapping Jim in, and Spock’s hands find Jim’s, pinning those down too. Jim wonders what exactly Vulcan claiming includes, and his wild imagination runs over the idea of dogs—maybe Spock will piss on Jim to mark his territory. The idea should make Jim laugh, but instead it makes him shiver. He wants it to mean sex. Pure, simple sex. For once, he isn’t interested in extra frills, doesn’t need fetishes, toys, anything to spice it up, just him and Spock. Spock gnaws at Jim’s jaw and breathes through the bond, “Yes. I will be inside you, and you will forever be mine...”

Jim has to stop himself from groaning a steady stream of, ‘do it.’ His legs shift wider apart, knees rubbing against the outside of Spock’s legs. He should be drawing this out. The longer it takes, the more Spock Spock will be. But he doesn’t think he can wait that long. Spock pulls back suddenly, and Jim keens, pushing hands away and lifting up on elbows to follow.

He stops when he realizes what’s happening. Spock pulls both of his shirts from his body, straight over his head and halfway across the floor. Jim doesn’t have much of a shirt left. Spock’s staring at Jim’s body while his hands work on his own belt, a feral growl deep in his throat. Jim can only watch. Spock’s taught muscles shape him so beautifully, the rest of him still trim, tall, long and gorgeous. Spock’s underwear and pants come down without any ceremony, with no care at all. They go the way of the shirts. Spock’s dick bobs free of everything, and Jim’s eyes are drawn there like a magnet, growing wide. It’s bigger than he thought it would be—very, very big, rock hard and a little yellow in parts, green-veined and jutting out of a thick spread of dark hair. It looks like it’s pulsing with need, and Jim wants it inside him more than he ever knew. He’s barely even able to form the conscious thought; he sees it and he’s just hungry.

Spock grabs Jim’s waistband, clearly about to tear it off, and Jim mutters, “Wait.” He hurriedly pushes off his own clothes. Spock would clearly just rip it. So much for stalling, protesting. He doesn’t even stop to wonder what he looks like naked to Spock—he’s squirming out of his clothes and sending every second look in Spock’s direction, still taking it all in. Their shoes go next, socks after that. Spock looks at Jim like a man at an oasis, dying of thirst, almost dangerously lustful. Jim barely even has the room to be flattered. He wants their cocks touching so badly.

Spock shoves his shoulder, and he falls back to the bed. Spock looks down at him a few more minutes, hovering above on all fours, taking in every detail. Then Spock growls like a lion, “Mine.”

Spock dives down with his whole body. Their crotches smash together and their mouths collide, Jim’s instantly open to gasp. Spock’s tongue slithers right in. Spock’s hips roll into Jim like they never stopped, grinding them together while Spock’s fingers run everywhere, touching and squeezing. Jim can barely coordinate himself enough to do the same. He snakes one hand down Spock’s spine and threads his fingers through Spock’s hair with the other, not wanting to let Spock go. Even naked, the room feels warm, stuffy. His hips are trembling from the way Spock’s shaft slides along his. It’s dry at first, then a little wetter, something sticky and warm lubricating their movements, and Jim stops the kiss to look down, unable to see past their chests. Spock, maybe reading his mind, kisses his cheek and hisses, “It will not hurt. I will not hurt you.” He reaches between them, and Jim’s breath hitches. Spock’s spreading something between them, something liquid. Maybe Vulcans give enough precum to use as lube. Lubed up for his first officer’s cock with Vulcan cum... Jim’s so turned on he might come just like this...

He makes a needy keening sound, and Spock purrs, “Shh, soon... I know... I will take you...”

Jim moans, “Yes.” He thinks he can feel Spock smirk against his cheek, but that wouldn’t be very Spock-like—maybe it’s just a growl—but that wouldn’t be right, either. Spock’s fingers are sliding through the copious amount of liquid, wetting them, and it’s already trickling around Jim’s cock and down between his thighs. Spock’s helping to spread it, his hand coating Jim’s balls and sliding past. Jim tries to help, tries to lift his ass and keep his legs open, his knees sliding up and wrapping around Spock’s back. He wants to make Spock promise not to hate him later.

“Only love you,” Spock whispers in his mind. “Always wanted you, could only want you.” Always. Jim wants to believe that. “Even when I had to strangle you on the bridge, wanted you...” Jim almost laughs, but the weight of that sits in him, the memory of their first mission, of the way he pushed Spock and the way Spock snapped, his hand tight around Jim’s throat. He remembers all too well what that did to his body. Maybe it affected Spock too. Was there ever a time when they weren’t amplified in one another’s lives? There was always something.

One finger finds Jim’s hole, and Jim groans, his muscles twitching. He’s pushed into faster than he expected, not given much time to adjust. It doesn’t hurt. Spock’s finger is rigid but thin, coated in cum and careful, worming in bit by bit. It strokes his walls almost lovingly, and he swears whenever he’s touched, there’s a spark. His channel’s gently coaxed open, wider and wider, until a second finger slips inside, and Spock kisses Jim again to stifle the groan. In this state, Jim’s half surprised Spock’s bothering to prepare him at all. Earlier, he was sure he’d be taken on the floor like an animal.

“I will do what my mate needs.”

It’s strange to feel a voice in his head while he’s kissing, and Jim tries to push his gratitude back, still not sure if it works. He thinks Spock hears it from the way Spock bucks into him, almost like acknowledgement. A third finger. Jim’s scissored apart, and though he knows it’s necessary, it’s making him impatient. He bucks back into Spock. He thinks he can feel Spock chuckle, comment on how young and untrained he is—young by the standards of another race—how eager and needy. Spock tries to lift up—maybe to verbally mock him—but Jim holds Spock down by the hair, refusing to let their mouths part.

Spock lets him. Only Spock’s hips lift up, and Spock’s finger slips out of him; he knows what’s happening. Spock’s tip presses against his open hole, and Spock swallows his scream.

It’s all a crazed spiral from there.

Spock pushes inside so fast that Jim arches right off the bed, his entire body filled at once, his whole ass impaled, Spock’s huge, mammoth cock slipping in five centimeters at a time. It’s so much, so soon, and Jim tries to relax but instead shakes, his ass spasming, and it’s his turn to swallow Spock’s moan. A wild frenzy starts to spill into the bond, Spock hissing things like, “Mate,” and, “Mine.” Jim can’t deny any of it, wouldn’t if he could. There’s no going back now. It’s done. It’s still Spock—he can feel it. It’s his first officer. The man he’d go to hell and back for. He clings to Spock for dear life, and he finally lets Spock’s mouth pull away.

Spock pulls all the way out and slams all the way in, hard and sudden. Jim gasps, and Spock does it again, then again, growling and grabbing Jim’s wrists, holding them down and out, feet kicking his wider. Spock’s mouth descends back on Jim’s marked neck, and the bite Jim gets can’t be that far off from a vampire’s. It’s deep and possessive, painful but so sexy. Jim’s eyes are fluttering from the force of the thrusts, and his lips are stuck open for air. Spock fucks him so hard, so good, that he’s dizzy in minutes—easily the best sex he’s ever had. Spock leaves bruises all over him, even lowering down to bite the top of his chest, to tug his nipples in firm teeth. Even when it stings, it’s worth it. Spock mouths Jim’s biceps and bites Jim’s ears, nuzzles into his hair and snarls, hips so relentless. Jim couldn’t protest if he wanted to—his brains are being fucked out of his skull.

Then comes the flood of emotion, completely overwhelming, and Jim sees white for the first few spasms inside him. It’s Spock in his head, he knows, sharing things too fast and too solid for him to understand. Maybe Spock’s getting him back, memories and thoughts, a mind meld without hands on his face. For a moment, Jim thinks he’ll go insane—their connection’s too strong.

But he grows used to it, it becomes a part of him, just like Spock is, and his vision clears and he’s back to the blurry shape of Spock over him, marking his skin irreparably. Bones is going to have a field day with this. Jim can’t care. He’s never had such a powerful cock—it would be throwing him up and down the mattress if Spock weren’t pinning him in place. The slapping sounds are loud in the air, their panting almost as bad. Jim’s skin is starting to bead with sweat, stifling hot. Spock’s skin is burning. Jim’s blood is broiling. He’s going to come. He doesn’t want to finish so soon, and he begs Spock through whatever it is, “Help me hold on.”

“No,” Spock snarls back, no longer a benevolent master. “Finish for me...”

“I don’t want to; I want this forever.”

“You will have me forever.”

Jim whimpers, no, he wants this. Spock inside him, fucking him without mercy, over and over again. It’s so good. More than he can take. So, so good—he’s going to pass out—it’s too much—Spock’s eating him alive, biting him and nuzzling into him and growling and driving him mad with the sheer sex; Jim breaks and moans, a sudden thrust sending him roaring over the edge. He comes with a cry, splattering Spock’s stomach and shuddering his release, Spock still going. He’s just barely at the end of everything he has when Spock follows, filling Jim and screaming louder. Spock’s forehead leans against his, and all Jim can see is Spock, feel it flooding through him.

He’s a mess of stars, bristling down from the top of a too-tall ride.

Everything oozes out of him, leaving him weak, limp, useless. He lies below Spock and can barely stand it. Spock stays inside of him, crushed tight against him, breathing just as hard.

Spock kisses his cheek and purrs into his ear, “You are mine.”

Jim says, “Yes,” and then has the horrible wonderment of if this bond will last.

It comes down to him as he comes down, the realizations, while Spock slips out of him. It feels strange, open and slick, and Jim winces. Spock rolls beside him onto the bed. They’re overtop of the blankets, and neither bothers to get beneath them. Neither bothers with the lights. Spock pushes at Jim’s shoulder until Jim turns on his side, and Spock sidles up to his back, spooning close.

Jim opens to say something, doesn’t know what, and winds up with a quiet, “I’m sorry.” He thinks Spock will understand what for.

Spock kisses the back of his neck, so much more gentle than any of this was.

When Spock speaks, his voice is just as low, just as heavy. “I understand that I will change. I see it in you, your mind and your memories, what I was. I may be ashamed, but I will not regret. I am glad I have done this now, that it happened.” He kisses Jim again and says so confidently, almost in a hiss, “I love you and always have. You smelled like my mate because you are my beloved, and if I never acted on it before, I was foolish.” Another kiss; Jim’s holding his breath. “We will not change. Despite any embarrassment, having you for my mate is only... logical.”

Jim can’t help but glance over his shoulder, tired though he is. There’s something in Spock’s eyes that’s more familiar, just as grave. He means it.

Jim mumbles without hesitation, “I love you too. ...And I really hope you’re right.” He couldn’t stand if Spock hated him.

Somehow... now, he doesn’t think Spock will.

Maybe it’s the bond between them. Maybe it’s the feel of Spock, warm against his back, so perfectly fitting, but Jim knows that this couldn’t be forgotten, couldn’t be hated.

He rolls over in Spock’s arms and snuggles into the crook of Spock’s neck, unable to stay conscious much longer. He wonders if when he wakes up Spock will be... different.

So long as Spock’s still there with him, that’s all that really matters.