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“G-- give it to me. Please, Mister Spock,” Jim’s lips pursed around his name, his groan twisting around the rounded vowel and his teeth tightening on each consonant, face pressed against the briefing room table where saliva leaked from the corner of his mouth and his fingers clawed uselessly at its gleaming surface.
Each time Spock slammed into him, those hands would clench, Jim would tuck his forehead against the cool metal and bite back sounds that Spock wanted him to scream. Spock had been merciless in his pace, his force, but with that voice and the delicious way it begged him, he thrust harder, grasping at the pliant muscle of Jim’s hips, grunting with the effort and knowing each time Jim clenched around him that he was already close to cumming again. He shoved Jim’s tunic up his back so he could watch the tension of every muscle, the strain under Jim’s skin, the sweat that beaded along tantalizing lines. All this, all this was his.
It’s the pollen , he heard a voice in the back of his head whisper venomously. It’s just the pollen, he doesn’t want--
“Please,” Jim groaned, “Oh, yes, please. More.”
Jim’s words drowned out his own internal voice, filling his thoughts with a single-minded desire. The pollen was powerful. He had wanted this for so long and in so many ways and with such fervor, but never like this-- never in a way that made him lose his sense of self. Never in a way that would cause him to slam his captain against the side of a table the moment they were alone, never in a way that would make him drunk on the simple pleasure of Jim’s touch, never in a way that would make him act on the shameful impulses he’d kept hidden all these years.
But now, now Spock ground his hips against Jim’s ass, burying himself with a broken groan, then pulled out just as the light began to burst behind his eyelids. Taking himself in hand, Spock jerked out his orgasm over Jim’s red asscheeks, painting them in his seed and moaning out his release as Jim shuddered, bent in half over the table with his slacks around his ankles. Spock palmed Jim’s rear, slicking his fingers in his own cum and bringing them back to his still throbbing cock, coating himself and pushing back in.
Jim made a choking sound in the back of his throat, a cry, and then without being touched he came again, jerking out his climax against the edge of the table. Spock felt those hot, tight muscles quiver as they pulled Spock deeper, and he dragged in and out of him again, pace lagging with the force of the high that he couldn’t seem to come down from. Twice now he’d cum crying out against Jim, and still he burned.
“Don’t stop,” Jim begged, tilting his head so he could meet Spock’s eyes. Hazel obscured by wide pupils, Jim looked wanton, animal, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, his lips parted obscenely. “Give it to me, please.”
Spock could never disobey an order, let alone a plea. He pulled out again, and Jim sobbed at the loss, but it was just long enough to grip Jim by the hips, flipping him around and tossing him bodily onto the table. Jim grunted with pain, but not with protest, his dripping cock laying against his stomach as his shirt bunched at his chest. Spock couldn’t think for the wanting, for the needing, for the arousal that had become agony the longer it festered, and now that it had release he needed to release it in its entirety.
He tore off Jim’s boots and slacks, spreading his legs, marveling at the flushed skin laid out for him to touch, but he could only marvel for a moment before the hunger returned, insistent, and he gripped the base of his cock to drive back in.
Jim tossed his head back, biting his lip as a groan tore itself from his chest, and he was beautiful, gripping his erection and pumping it as Spock thrust into him again and again. Spock wanted to give this to him, to give him everything, to bury himself in this man and never dig himself out. He folded himself over Jim’s body, shoving Jim’s ankles over his shoulders, frantic to chase that feeling that was already building again.
Blinking open his watering eyes, Jim watched Spock, his own hunger so ever-present and pulsating that Spock could hardly tear his gaze away. He’d waited years for Jim to look at him like this, to have Jim like this, and he didn’t care how it had happened, only that it had happened. He watched Jim’s eyes roll back into his skull as Jim came again in white spurts all over his stomach, his fingers, his gold tunic, and that sight was enough for Spock to cum himself, his orgasm tearing through him with all the force of a tornado as he spilled himself inside Jim’s channel.
There was no way they could do this again, he thought, no possible way they could cum three times and still need. But already his aching cock begged for more, made him dizzy and irrational because he still wanted more.
“Again,” Jim choked, breath heaving. “Please, I need you again.” He leaned up, gripped at Spock’s shirt as if he needed something to hold onto, something to ground him. Jim’s whole body was trembling, trembling around the cock still buried in him and Spock could barely force himself to stay still. But Jim wanted more. Jim wanted him.
He leaned forward, about to take Jim’s lips, about to promise him he could have this as long as he wanted, as many times as he wanted, forever, anything--
And then a bosun whistle sounded, echoing too loud and foreign and reminding Spock very physically of where and when they were-- an empty briefing room during what could be considered a crisis, indulging in the very impulses that had already consumed the rest of their ill-fated landing party.
With a groan borne of frustration rather than pleasure, Jim closed his eyes and clenched tighter around Spock’s cock. “Don’t move,” he half-whispered, still panting but seemingly trying to force his breath to even out. “Don’t you dare move.”
Spock kept himself still, the need for friction manifesting in the barest throb of his erection, the swelling of his ridges. Jim bit his lip with a quiet whimper and laid back against the table. “Audio only,” he commanded the computer, then as though it pained him to say it, “Kirk here. What is it?”
“Captain, good news.” It was the voice of Doctor McCoy, unwelcome and grating when, moments before, Spock's senses had been consumed by Jim's wanting groans. “Just finished the serum to counteract that pollen. I know you said you were fine, but if there's a chance you and Spock may have been affected, you should probably get down to Sick Bay. I’ve already administered the serum to the rest of the landing party.”
Jim’s eyes, still watering, still hungry, met Spock’s and a sort of horrified understanding passed between them, reality returning with the force of a battering ram. And Spock knew in that moment that everything would change. Perhaps, not in the way he had so long wished.
“Captain? Are you still there?”
“I-- yes. I will... collect Mister Spock,” Jim said, strained, and Spock's stomach sank into his feet at the understanding that it was over, this brief fantasy, this culmination of all he'd ever wanted. “We'll be down in a moment.”
They agreed, as a crew, not to talk about what McCoy had irreverently dubbed “The Sex Pollen Incident.” The rest of the landing party were embarrassed of their hours-long erections and their sloppy attempts to seduce the medical team that had been treating them, and it was agreed that in order to maintain a semblance of professionalism it would be wise to pretend it had never happened, barring the few scantly detailed reports they had been required to submit. As far as anyone else knew, the captain and his first officer had miraculously not suffered the pollen’s effects before the serum was finished, and Spock was pleased that Jim had left what had happened between them out of the discussion, and out of the final reports.
Then, he and Jim had agreed that they, too, would not discuss the incident. They had stood awkwardly in Jim’s quarters, Spock with his hands tucked behind his back, Jim pinching the bridge of his nose against a headache. Agreeing that what had happened between them had been a reaction to a toxic substance, nothing more. They had decided that the incident would not compromise their command. It was done, in the past.
“I still respect you as a friend. And a colleague,” Jim had said.
And though it had pained Spock to reduce what they could be to those two words, he had found it in himself to stand straight, stare into those eyes, and agree. “As do I,” he had managed.
But it was not in the past for Spock. It was not done. Nor could he ensure that it would not compromise the way they functioned together. What happened between them may have been an effect of the pollen on the level that it removed their inhibitions, but Spock had wanted Jim for a very long time-- and wanted still-- and it was more painful having known the feeling of him that he would never have him again. And, moreover, that Jim would not have wanted him without the influence of an outside force.
Jim’s assurance that, in the moment, he had wanted him more than anything helped to assuage Spock’s guilt, but it did little for the rest of his troubled emotions.
It hurt, but Spock was a professional, and he was Vulcan. He could suppress anything if he needed to. And in order to preserve the proper functioning of the ship and his friendship with Jim, he needed to suppress this.
If only Jim could make it easy on him.
“Give it to me, please, Mister Spock.”
The first time Jim uttered that phrase after the incident, Spock almost dropped the padd he was meant to hand over. Though they were on the bridge in the middle of alpha shift, suddenly his mind returned to that empty briefing room, where Jim had pressed his pleas into the tabletop, where Spock had given him something very different and infinitely more satisfying.
Jim held out his hand expectantly, and Spock delivered the padd, hoping that nothing of his thoughts showed on his face. This was merely a week after he had bent Jim over and taken everything he’d wanted for so many years, and he hoped in that moment that the memories might fade with time.
And perhaps they would have if the captain had employed certain phrases with less regularity.
“What would you like me to do with this report, Captain?” Spock might ask as they strode side-by-side down the corridor. And Jim would casually respond.
“Give it to me, please, Mister Spock,” the tone all wrong, the emphasis changed, but the words-- the words recalling Spock of the way they once sounded. And it continued.
“I have news of the Klingon ship we have been tracking, Captain.”
“Give it to me, please, Mister Spock.”
“Where shall I place this sample?”
“Give it to me, please, Mister Spock.”
These incidents layered upon themselves until all it took was for Jim to hold out his hand, for the ‘g’ to form in the press of his tongue on the roof of his mouth, and Spock would be weak-kneed, faltering, control slipping. Most of the time, he could cover the effects of that single phrase with a “yes, Captain,” only stumbling slightly over the words. Most of the time, he could suppress his visceral reaction until he was alone in his quarters and he could allow the images to flood him again-- hard and fast and always over too soon and leaving him unsatisfied and still, still wanting.
Months, they carried on as if nothing had changed between them. And maybe it hadn’t. Jim seemed perfectly put together, perfectly content, perfectly capable of forgetting, always treating Spock with the same, friendly, professional courtesy he always had, completely unaware that he was torturing his first officer every time he made a request.
--
“Give it to me, please, Mister Spock,” Jim said again one evening, leaning forward in his chair and holding out his hand. Spock had come to Jim’s quarters to deliver a science report from their most recent landing party. He had tried to provide the padd immediately to avoid the possibility of Jim uttering those words. But the moment he announced his purpose, there they were, accompanied by that pooling heat in Spock’s groin that was as familiar as it was unwelcome.
And yet, this was the first time they had been alone when Jim had ignited him like this. Usually it was on the bridge or in the middle of crowded corridors or in the middle of meetings. None of which were ideal locations for a conversation like the one they needed to have. So, maybe now with their solitude Spock might be able to do something about it, though not what he so desperately, achingly wanted to do.
Handing over the padd, Spock allowed himself a brief fantasy, bending his captain over the desk and really giving it to him as he’d been asked, as he’d shamefully imagined so many times. But he tore himself from the thought and decided on a much more practical course of action.
“Captain,” he said as Jim leaned back in his chair and looked over the padd. Jim looked up, twirling the stylus in his hand.
“Yes, Mister Spock?”
Spock shifted slightly, uncomfortable, but hopefully not outwardly so. “May I make a request?”
Jim seemed to sense Spock’s seriousness. His eyes narrowed and he set the padd to the side. “Anything,” he replied earnestly, leaning forward. Spock tucked his hands behind his back, attempting not to focus on how gentle Jim looked when he was worried about him.
“I would prefer it if you not employ that particular phrase again,” he said ambiguously. Jim raised an eyebrow.
“What phrase?”
Spock cleared his throat and glanced at the padd on Jim’s desk, suddenly unable to look Jim in the eye.
“‘’Give it to me,’ sir,” he quoted, attempting to force those four words into a detached, professional tone that didn’t fit them. But even saying them himself, suddenly he was flooded with thoughts. Suddenly in his fantasy he was the one bent over the desk, begging in those same words as Jim pressed a hand against the small of his back to bend him so he could force himself deeper and--
“Oh, I apologize,” Jim said with a little chuckle. “I know it’s not the most polite way to ask for something, but you know me. You often catch me while I’m distracted. I’ll try to be a little more gracious from now on.”
“Politeness is not the issue,” Spock said before he could stop himself, halfway to incredulous. And he kicked himself for it. Why did it matter? Why couldn’t he let Jim believe that that was his objection. But Vulcans couldn’t lie, nor could they mislead, and Spock could not let Jim believe that he was ever anything but gracious.
“Then what is the issue?” Suddenly, Jim looked concerned. Was it really possible that Jim didn’t remember what he had said in the throes of passion? Or was it more that he didn’t entertain the idea that it could affect Spock in such a profound way?
“Since--” Spock faltered. They had agreed not to discuss it, yes, but… “Since the incident,” he continued, and though it took a beat, a breath, he saw Jim’s eyes widen. “Those words have an unintended effect on me.”
The implications of that seemed to take a moment to make themselves clear to Jim, who straightened in his chair, wheels turning behind his eyes, before understanding dawned on him with an enticing flush to his cheeks. But the flush could not have been borne of arousal. It was embarrassment, and Spock regretted that he had been the cause of it.
“What--” Jim paused as though second-guessing himself. He licked his lip absently, looking down for a moment before raising his eyes back to Spock’s. “What kind of effect?” he tested.
Yes, now Spock was very uncomfortable. He felt his own cheeks heat, and he looked away, unable to keep his focus on Jim’s shining eyes without thinking of the way they had darkened that day. At the time, Spock had known that he was succumbing to the effects of the pollen, but he had thought erroneously that he could suppress it. Jim had met Spock’s eyes the moment the others had left the briefing room, and they had found themselves alone and rapidly succumbing to chemical arousal in a position far too dangerous for either of them, and far too tempting to resist.
“As we have agreed not to discuss the incident,” Spock stated, pulling himself forcefully from the memory, “I do not wish to make you uncomfortable by recalling you of it. Suffice to say that it is difficult to concentrate when I hear…” he trailed off, unable to say it now that its context was obvious.
“‘Give it to me?’” Jim finished for him, and Spock clenched his hands, gaze shooting up to meet Jim’s. And they were dark again, those eyes, pupils wide and exposed. Before Spock could get over the immediate sting of arousal that shot through him, Jim stood and took a cautious step forward.
The look on Jim’s face was decidedly familiar, as was the deliberate set of his shoulders. This was how he had approached that day, too, crowding into Spock’s personal space before his hand had come-- as it did now-- to Spock’s arm.
But this wasn’t the same, was it? They weren’t under the effect of the pollen, nor had they been for months. They were not compromised or intoxicated, so why would Jim look at him like that, touch him like this, when he had made it clear that his actions had been spurred on by an outside catalyst?
Rational thought fled him as Jim edged closer, a tilt to his lips that seemed sly, almost playful. “So, Mister Spock,” Jim practically purred, and Spock had to swallow his immediate reaction to the tone. “What would you prefer I say when I want you to give something to me?”
Spock couldn’t suppress his shudder, but still his mind reeled in confusion, disbelief, overwhelming need. “I-- I believe ‘please’ would suffice.”
Smile widening, Jim shifted even closer, leaning up, head tilting. “Very well, Mister Spock,” he said softly, breath hot as it brushed Spock’s lips. “Please.”
And Spock knew from experience that when Jim asked him, he would give him anything. Just as he leaned down to capture Jim’s lips in a kiss, Jim’s hands gripped his biceps and pulled him in, rough and wanting and culminating, taking what he had asked for, shoving his tongue between Spock’s lips as if he had wanted it all this time, too.
Spock pressed against Jim, unable to stop his traitorous hands from fisting themselves in the fabric that stretched along Jim’s back, pulling him closer and grinding their hips together as their tongues brushed and a wanton moan poured from Jim’s mouth into his own. He walked Jim backwards, shoving him up against the desk. When he slotted his leg between Jim’s, those hips hitched, bucking against his thigh and grinding down onto him and Spock ground forward in turn, desperate for friction.
Jim laughed into his mouth, something gleeful and relieved, wrapping one leg around Spock’s back as he leaned back to urge Spock closer. He couldn’t help but oblige-- the feeling had returned, that clouding, all-consuming desire, the anguish, the craving. He’d had Jim once, and now he would have him again, on their terms, right here, now. And he would not ruin it by asking why.
Jim broke the kiss, whispering against Spock’s lips in a tone Spock was sure he’d never hear again. “I thought it was the pollen,” Jim said desperately, hands clawing at Spock’s sleeves as though ready to tear the shirt from his body, “I thought you didn’t-- couldn’t want--”
Spock cut him off with a bruising kiss, pressing him harder against the edge of the desk until Jim whimpered with the pain. “I have always wanted,” he managed to say, lips cloying for Jim’s, “always wanted.” He dove back in, and Jim’s hands came around his back, his leg tightening its hold. They ground their groins together, each gasping into their kiss, each needing more. Spock pulled back just enough to bring his hands to the waistband of Jim’s slacks, undoing the fastening and yanking them down his thighs. Jim grunted as his hardening erection was freed, then wasted no time shoving the trousers down Spock’s legs and pressing their erections together between their stomachs. Spock gasped at the feeling, frantic to feel that skin beneath his fingers, to enter Jim once again.
He grasped Jim’s rear, pulling him away from the desk just long enough to flip him around. Jim hummed appreciatively as Spock’s hands roved up and down his back, smoothing the tunic along his tight muscles. He thought to remove it, but there was something dangerously arousing about the image of Jim in nothing but his shirt, his gleaming rank stripes a reminder of his superiority. A reminder that he was allowing this, giving himself freely to Spock, just as Spock planned to give everything he had to Jim.
Spock sank to his knees and tossed Jim’s slacks and boots to the side. Then, with those bare thighs quivering before him, Spock prompted Jim with grasping fingers to spread his legs. He did so, an obscene sight as he reached back to spread his own cheeks.
“Give it to me, Mister Spock,” Jim said dangerously, and Spock didn’t need to be prompted further. He leaned forward, running his tongue over Jim’s sensitive hole as Jim groaned, thunking his head against the table.
Spock buried his face in the cleft of Jim’s ass, lapping at him and coating his entrance with saliva. The whimpers Jim released were needy, almost pitiful, teasing and teased and too enticing for Spock to ignore. He stroked himself as he licked into Jim, but even as he shoved his tongue into that pulsing ring of muscle, he knew they would need more than this. He pulled away, pressing his thumb against Jim’s hole. “Lubrication,” he croaked.
“Bedside table,” Jim managed to say. “And please, hurry.”
Pulling himself to his feet and shucking off his own trousers, Spock made his way to the bed and practically pulled the drawer out of the night stand in his haste. It took him mere moments to find the small bottle before he turned, meeting Jim’s heavy-lidded eyes, swallowing at the sight of the man spread out for him. He looked obscene, hair mussed, legs bare, ass in the air, erection hanging below the table where he stroked it slowly, never once taking his eyes off Spock.
“I said hurry, Mister Spock,” Jim reminded him, voice low.
Spock’s ridges swelled, member throbbing almost painfully as he returned to Jim.
Jim was resting on his elbow, bracing himself, and Spock didn’t waste a moment slicking his fingers and bringing them to Jim’s hole. It felt like he’d been overcome by the pollen again, urgency and need for release eclipsing all other thought, but it was just Jim that did this to him, just Jim, and even if they hadn’t succumbed to the pollen all those months ago, this would still have been inevitable. Eventually, no matter what, Spock would have succumbed to this.
He ran his wet fingers along the crease of Jim’s ass, delighting in the shudder that passed through the body beneath him. “Please,” Jim whispered, so quiet Spock barely heard him, but he obliged all the same, slipping a finger into that tight heat. Jim whined in the back of his throat, head falling, and Spock bit his lip.
The preparation was sloppy, hurried, but Spock could hardly care. Jim didn’t seem to mind either, keening each time Spock pressed deeper, leaning up and craning his neck so Spock could take his lips in a kiss, groaning at every crook of Spock’s fingers.
When Spock was sure he had stretched Jim enough, he pulled his fingers out, and Jim laid himself over the table. Spock slicked his own erection, painful now in its hardness, and rubbed himself between Jim’s cheeks. The friction felt phenomenal, electric, sparking pleasure along his nerves, overwhelming. Jim pushed back against him, clearly impatient.
“Spock,” he growled, “give it to me ,” and that was all Spock needed.
He pressed his cock against Jim’s hole and inched forward, eyes rolling back into his skull at the feeling that dragged along his shaft. Jim was pulling him in, and the shuddering staccato of his breath at the pain and pleasure was intoxicating. “Don’t hold back,” Jim ordered as Spock inched inside of him. And he was holding back, holding himself in check, unwilling to hurt Jim to chase his own pleasure. “I mean it,” Jim groaned, as though sensing his thoughts. “I want it like the first time. Just like that.”
The first time, when Spock had slicked his erection with no more lubrication than their own semen and shoved himself into Jim without thought or fear. He had been so ashamed of his haste but now--
He drove forward the rest of the way and bit back a groan at the feeling of being fully buried. Jim’s forehead hit the table again, his fingers curling. He shoved himself back onto Spock’s cock as though urging him into movement. So Spock began to thrust, dragging in and out without worry that he was going too fast, too hard, because Jim met him each time, cries falling from his lips.
If Spock didn’t know any better he would have thought he had been infected again, or that somehow his Pon Farr had begun. His blood burned as they always said it would, his mind clouded, his logic failed him, but this feeling--
Jim slammed his fist on the table, tucking his head and taking his shirt between his teeth, and Spock laid himself over Jim’s body, thrusting shallow and fast into the heat beneath him. They were close already, and Spock could feel it in the quake of Jim’s legs, hear it in the groan Jim released, muffled by the fabric in his mouth. This should have felt wrong, dirty, not the way he had long wanted to honor the gift of Jim’s consent, but this wasn’t just making love. This was a frenzy, a passion, and he could only give Jim everything he deserved if he first gave Jim everything he wanted.
He shoved himself deeper into Jim on every thrust, hitting a spot inside that made the channel around him tighten, that made Jim rock back against him. The rhythm was broken, imperfect, but gaining in speed and Jim urged him on with pleading words, the ‘more’s and the ‘please’s that had filled Spock’s imagination for so long and were now reality again. Here, now, Jim was his again.
With a strangled cry, Spock felt himself seize, and it was a miracle he managed to pull out before he came, fisting his erection and spilling out his seed over Jim’s back.
He was dizzy, vision white, world obscured by a haze of pleasure and gratitude and desire, but Jim gave him no time to recover. In moments, the man beneath him lifted himself and turned around.
Jim met Spock’s eyes, pulling him in for a bruising kiss that Spock sank bonelessly into, licking into Jim’s mouth with an almost gluttonous satisfaction as Jim still rutted against him, desperately seeking his own release. But the kiss was severed far too quickly for his liking. Jim pushed Spock away and shoved him to his knees. His hard, flushed cock hung in front of Spock’s face, dripping with precum, and Spock knew what Jim wanted from him now.
He wrapped his lips around the head, sank down its length, hollowed out his cheeks around Jim’s girth, and then in moments Jim's hips were jerking, his cock pulsing on Spock's tongue, his ejaculate filling Spock’s mouth. Spock drank him in, swallowing past the urge to choke while Jim’s moan of relief filled his ears.
Jim stumbled back against the table, his chest heaving as Spock lapped the last drops from his leaking tip, running his tongue along the underside and bringing himself back to the head.
“S--Spock,” Jim managed to say, a hand coming to Spock’s hair and pushing it back from his forehead. “Too much. Too… too much.”
Spock looked up to him, the after-effects of his own climax still clouding him, coloring his cheeks, causing his breath to come out uneven, hot.
Jim’s lips broke into a lazy, satisfied smile, one which spread as he let his hand fall to Spock’s lips. With his thumb, he wiped away a stray drop of his own semen, his fingers trembling. Spock managed to lift himself from the floor, though his legs were shaky, too. His arms came around Jim’s back, to bring him close as much as to steady himself. When their lips met, the frantic hunger gone, they sighed heavily into each other's mouths, hips rocking together.
Last time, it had been urgent, unyielding. They had cum in the grip of Spock’ hand, and immediately Spock had shoved Jim against the table for more. Now, he knew for certain that this wasn’t pollen, or Pon Farr, or anything but what it was. Jim.
Jim wanted him.
“Maybe next time,” Jim whispered hoarsely against his lips, “we can actually make it to the bed.”
“Whatever you would like, Jim,” Spock said, heart rate speeding at the thought of a next time.
Jim smiled, chuckled, rested his head against Spock’s shoulder. “Whatever I want?” he huffed, hands running up Spock’s sides. “And how would you like me to ask for it?”
Resting his lips on the rounded shell of Jim’s ear, Spock brought his voice low, a whisper. “‘Give it to me,’ sir,” he said, and Jim smiled against his skin.