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.