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Spock’s fixing a conduit at the end of the hall while Sarek greets the new arrivals—recent Academy graduates and auxiliary crewmembers. They’re in desperate need of an engineer on this ship; while Spock is perfectly capable of maintaining standard machinery, it’s hardly his field of expertise. But Vulcan science vessels are stocked mainly with scientists, and someone has to do these things.

He’s only marginally paying attention to the new additions. Vulcans aren’t naturally social creatures, and it’s unlikely Spock will spend much time with any of the arriving ensigns before they’re rotated onto another ship. It’s a sea of black hair in his peripherals. A patch of gold interrupts and lingers, and when Spock glances over, the blond’s shaking his father’s hand.

Human, of course. A Vulcan wouldn’t be so presumptuous. Spock’s surprised for different reasons, though he masks it. It’ll be the only set of rounded ears on this entire ship. This isn’t a Federation vessel. Vulcan scientific affairs remain predominantly Vulcan.

But this man’s a bright beacon of everything ‘human,’ letting go of Sarek’s hand to speak animatedly. There’s something so natural about the way his eyes crinkle with his grin, and it makes Spock mildly uncomfortable. He should look back at his conduit, but he doesn’t. And that isn’t good. With all emotions out on the table, humans sometimes feel... naked.

And Vulcans from Vulcan on Vulcan ships aren’t at all used to that, and Spock forces himself to look away.

Out the corner of his eye, he can feel the man looking over at him. Studying him for half a second. Then the man’s following the others down another corridor, and Spock can release a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. It’s the last of the crew, and the doors slide shut, Sarek turning to stroll over to him. Spock continues to meddle with the open panel in the grey wall.

“When will it be fixed?” Sarek asks, voice as smooth as always, as though he didn’t just shake the hand of a handsome, grinning human. Which is an objective statement, not a judgment on Spock’s part.

“One hour, thirty-six minutes,” Spock estimates. Sarek is nodding and turning away before Spock makes the split-second decision to say, “We have a human aboard.”

Looking over his shoulder, Sarek nods. “A somewhat recent Academy graduate, majoring in tactical analysis. Apparently the Vulcan government believes we should have a minimal security force on hand, so I contacted Starfleet for officers that could double as pilots and other, more applicable services.”

“Even so. It is unusual for a human to agree to serve on a Vulcan vessel.”

Sarek raises an eyebrow. “He did not agree; he requested. He insisted station aboard our ship, could give no reason why, and would not take no for an answer.”

“Most illogical,” Spock says disapprovingly.

“That is the human way,” Sarek finishes. He turns and proceeds down the hallway, hands at his sides.


The planet below has a rich ecological system quite different to their own, and various plants are being cultivated in on-ship greenhouses. Spock’s going to head the landing party to the mountains on the northern province in search of a specific vine, and he ignores the whispers of his peers that he’s been chosen simply for being Sarek’s son.

He’s quite capable on his own. He’s overseeing the last container put on board when the last member of their party arrives, panting a little from running. It’s the human, of course. His cheeks are slightly flushed with exertion, lips open to take in more air. He says between laboured breaths, “Hey, sorry I’m late.” Then he shoves out his hand and smiles, adding, “Lieutenant Jim Kirk.”

For a moment, Spock just stares at the offering hand. He can feel the eyes of the three other Vulcans watching him, watching the human, uniform not done up as well as theirs. His grey jacket is open at the top, revealing a peek at a black shirt underneath. His pants are wrinkled, like he slept in them. He’s...

Stunning. Spock takes his hand out of a need to be polite, trying very hard to be neutral and unaffected. As soon as the human’s—Kirk’s—fingers wrap around his, Spock feels a static charge down his spine. Kirk bites his bottom lip attractively, shaking Spock’s hand. His fingers are soft and long, palm warm. His eyes are a bright, crystal blue. Spock could get lost in them.

Spock tries to pretend he didn’t think that, and he wrenches his hand away. He says, “Spock,” too stiffly, and he turns sideways to load the last box. Kirk follows him into the shuttle immediately, and the other three Vulcans are close behind.

Spock’s hand is still tingling. His skin’s too sensitive. Vulcan don’t generally consent to touching others. That touch was...

Kirk doesn’t introduce himself to any of the other Vulcans. He moves for the pilot seat, while Spock sits with his peers in the back. Too quietly for Kirk to hear all the way up in the cockpit, the man on Spock’s right says to the pair in the seats behind them, “How exotic.”

One nods. The other says, “He is most... interesting.”

And the first to speak eyes Spock, but Spock remains silent, staring forward.

Kirk. Spock’s staring at the back of his blond’s head. That isn’t proper protocol, but...

Spock can’t pull his eyes away for the duration of the ride.


Spock’s consuming a bowl of plomeek soup when Kirk strolls into the dining hall. It’s made immediately apparent by the way several heads incline slightly towards the doors. Spock doesn’t miss the furtive looks hidden behind masks of indifference. Kirk has a skip in his step all the way to the synthesizer that’s tantalizing to the point of almost being vulgar. He’s flagrantly flaunting emotions in front of all of them—forbidden fruit. And he wears his smiles so well, lighting up when an Earth pizza appears before him.

He takes his tray right over to Spock’s table, where Spock is, as usual, sitting alone. Spock’s in a mild state of shock. Evidently, Kirk hasn’t picked up on how things work. Spock is half human, and that isn’t tantalizing. That makes him weak at what he should be, and he’s Sarek’s son on top of that—an unknown variable all around. Kirk drops his tray onto the table as he asks, “This seat free?”

But he’s sitting down before Spock can answer. He dives right into his food, picking it up with... his fingers. It’s borderline barbaric. Spock knows he’s not the only one in the room who’s stopped eating in favour of staring, while Kirk lifts a greasy triangle up to his mouth, thumb near the point and fingers on the crust. He opens his mouth wide and bites the tip off. He keeps holding the pizza while he chews, and his eyes flicker to Spock’s.

Spock wills himself not to let blood fill his cheeks. He looks pointedly down at his soup, taking some of the broth into his spoon.

Their table’s too small. It’s a two-seater in the corner. It’s the logical choice; he appears less ostracized when fifty percent of his table is occupied, as opposed to ten percent of a larger table. But the downside is that Kirk’s sitting too close; his knees are touching Spock’s under the table.

“So, Mr. Spock,” Kirk starts in the middle of chewing another bite. “What is there to do on this ship?”

Spock clears his throat and attempts to keep his tone neutral, bordering disapproval. Kirk chews too loudly. “There are several laboratories—”

“I meant for fun.”

Spock raises an eyebrow at being cut off. Kirk’s now finishing his crust, and he pops the last bit into his mouth with his finger. The way he pushes the single digit past his pink lips is entirely too sensual. When it slips out, his tongue curls around it, collecting grains of salt. Spock’s affronted with the awkward urge to squirm in his chair. He can feel the heat of all eyes on their table, on the wet tongue lavishing up that long finger.

“There are...” There are no facilities on board meant solely for leisure. “There is a room set aside solely for the storage of data, which works sufficiently as a library...”

“A library?” Kirk’s cut him off again. Kirk’s hand falls back to the pizza, and his shoulders are hunching, and he laughs, rich and warm. The sound is so foreign to Spock’s ears that it takes him a moment to place it. Pleasure, he thinks, is what laughter is for. When something is amusing. Kirk’s eyes are crinkling again with the force of his grin, teeth showing, dimples highlighted and cheeks a little dusty. He’s all lit up, all more alive than anything Spock’s ever had beneath his microscope. Kirk leans forward across the table and says, “If that’s your idea of fun, Mr. Spock, then I think you need to be shown a better time.”

Spock doesn’t answer. Mainly because he’s sure his tongue will betray him. He’s forgotten about his soup. His hands are flat on the table.

Kirk messily devours another piece of pizza with one hand, and his other shifts next to Spock’s. “Are you coming to get the next sample?” Kirk asks, switching subjects. “From the surface, I mean—apparently they’ve found some growth under the southern plates.” Spock resists the urge to tell Kirk not to speak with his mouth full.

“No, I am not.” He’s proud of how level that comes out.

Kirk’s mouth slumps into a frown. “Oh.” And he leans a little back in his chair, face twisting a bit. A human... what’s the word? A human... pout. Something like that. Spock tilts his head, studying it from a different angle, because he isn’t sure how to handle that.

Kirk goes through more food. All with his hands. In an effort not to be caught ogling a peer, Spock returns to his soup. After a few minutes of oddly electric silence, Kirk sits up again and asks, “Can I try some of your soup?”

That’s... not something Vulcans do. Sharing food. But Spock isn’t one to insult the customs of other cultures. They are in space to observe, after all. And the idea of Kirk’s mouth on his spoon—“You would not like it. There is a sizable difference in the desired outcome of our worlds’ food.”

Kirk shrugs. “I’ll be the judge of that. Can I try some? Just a spoonful.” And he holds out his hand expectantly.

Even though he’s a little annoyed, Spock holds out his spoon. Their fingers brush. There’s a jolt under his skin. Kirk absently stirs the bowl once, then gathers a bit of broth, then lifts it to his lips. Sharing spoons is not appropriate, but neither would getting another spoon for the intention of sharing his meal be. He watches the liquid disappear into Kirk’s lips, then the way Kirk holds the spoon up and licks it off, gathering taste and making Spock’s head go places it distinctly shouldn’t. Eventually, Kirk’s nose wrinkles, and he decides, “Too bland.”

“As I tried to inform you, Lieutenant.” Spock takes his spoon back.

Kirk drops his hand back to the table. Onto Spock’s hand. Spock freezes instantly. Kirk’s hand is over his, and Kirk’s thumb gently brushes over his own. Everything’s tingling and hypersensitive.

Kirk’s voice lowers, and he says, “Call me Jim.”


Lieutenant Jim Kirk is... an odd specimen. Even for a human.

He’s down on the planet with a small landing party, surveying and collecting data and obtaining small samples. Every once in a while, he contacts the ship, constantly forgetting what it is he’s supposed to be collecting. They tell him the name of things, and he forgets what they are. At one point, Spock offers to take over the communication, thinks of how his human mother would put it, and he explains, “It is a small flower similar to an Earth tulip. It will be a florescent pink colour with large white spots on the broad leaves.”

“Broad leaves, pink tulip, white spots, got it,” Kirk’s... Jim’s voice answers. “Thanks, Spock.” And Spock fights the traitorous blush beneath his skin—he never provided his name. Jim must just recognize his voice.

Jim could call one of the other Vulcans on the planet, but he doesn’t. Spock feels special and weak.

He returns to his station to monitor the planet’s atmosphere. The Vulcan manning the communications post says, “He is very... blatant.” There is a tiny hint in his voice portending of interest. Jim is certainly worthy of interest. He inspires it, he invites it—he isn’t overtly flirtatious by his own species’ standards, but by theirs he is a constant temptation to sin.

Sarek, sitting in the captain’s chair in the middle of the ship, drawls, “It is a trait of many indecent species.”

No one dares mention who Sarek married. Spock doesn’t, either.

He wonders if it’s in his blood, thinking of humans.


It’s the middle of the night, and Spock assumes no one would ring his doorbell unless it’s absolutely prudent. He slips out of bed, adjusting his blue nightshirt and the matching pants, the metallic floor cold against his bare feet. He commands the lights half-on and opens the door. Jim looks up from the floor, blue eyes quickly raking over Spock’s body. Spock tries to ignore the attention. “Lieutenant.”

“Jim,” Jim corrects. Spock’s tongue feels thick.

“...Jim.”

“Sorry to bug you so late, but I broke my last PADD—had a frustrating equation and accidentally threw it into a wall. Dumb, I know, but there you have it. I figured since your quarters were only a few doors down I could ask. Do you think you could lend me one?”

Spock raises an eyebrow. Better to wait until their shift begins or simply retrieve one from storage. Instead, Jim’s here. It is... illogical.

Jim’s illogical. Jim waits expectantly, and eventually Spock steps aside, allowing Jim to slip around him. Spock steps back so the doors will slide closed—it’s occurred to him that being caught with a human on his doorstep at this hour would not be fortunate circumstances.

Jim in his room isn’t much better. Vulcan science vessels are not known for their crew quarters. It’s a simple room with a bed, a desk, a dresser, and an attached washroom. Jim stands in the middle of the floor, while Spock walks to his desk and picks up the PADD.

He turns around to hand it over, and Jim’s on him in a flash, making him stumble back, slamming him into the wall. He opens his mouth in surprise, and Jim shoves his tongue inside. Spock’s gasp is muffled. Jim’s all over him. Pinning his shoulders, trapping his lips, thighs against his, torso against his. Crotch against his. So many points of contact. The sensations are overwhelming. For a brief moment, Spock’s brain short circuits.

Then he’s surging back. He grabs Jim’s shoulders, and he means to push, but he doesn’t.

Jim’s mouth is warm. Jim’s lips are soft. Jim’s so, so good looking, but Spock’s eyes are closed. Jim knows exactly what he’s doing; his lips shift, and his tongue tenderly explores Spock’s mouth, sliding over the roof and his teeth, tentatively pressing at Spock’s tongue. Spock lifts his tongue up just as hesitantly, and then they’re wrapping around one another, slipping between their mouths and wrestling. Jim has more taste than anything Spock’s eaten all week. It’s something Spock can’t pin down. Exotic, and fresh, and alluring.

Jim’s broad shoulders feel too good beneath Spock’s fingers. One of Spock’s hands slides up, into the short, blond hair at the back of Jim’s head. Jim’s body rubs against him, hot as the sun. Spock might burn up. He shouldn’t... he shouldn’t be doing this...

He’s running out of air, but he hates when Jim pulls back. There’s a brilliant connection that snaps when they’re no longer touching. He’s breathing too heavy. A part of him wants to whimper, but he reins it in. Jim’s cheeks are a little flushed. Jim’s breathing just as hard. Jim’s pupils are dilated, and the corners of his lips lift in a smile.

He bends down. The PADD. Spock dropped it. Spock forgot about it. Jim retrieves it and gets back to his feet, saying, “Thanks.”

Too quick for Spock to respond, Jim leans in and hooks a finger beneath his chin, pulling him closer for another quick kiss. Closed-mouth.

Then Jim’s pulling away and turning and walking for the door, and Spock’s frozen solid with a need in him that can’t be explained. He hasn’t been this conflicted in a long, long time. He watches the doors slide shut and hears, “Good night, Spock.”

Spock says, “Good night, Jim,” to the empty room.

Chapter Text

Jim’s file is most impressive. He was top of his class in several academic subjects, assistant instructor in advanced hand-to-hand combat, and treasurer to the xenolinguistics club. A mixed bag of everything, in which he did exceptionally well in all areas, despite several notations about ‘bending’ certain rules.

And now he’s on a Vulcan science vessel in the middle of nowhere collecting plants and guarding Vulcans. His commission here was a month. He has three weeks and two days left. Spock won’t be available for the first couple days of that last week because of his... time.

Spock’s frowning when Sarek’s reflection appears over his shoulder, and without turning around, Spock states, “Father.” He doesn’t bother to change the screen on his console, as it’s clear he’s already been caught.

“What is your interest in Lieutenant Kirk?”

“I have no personal interest; I am merely surveying the records of the crewmembers I am likely to serve on landing parties with.”

Sarek says nothing. He lingers more than necessary, and then he turns and walks across the bridge as though nothing’s unusual.

Spock feels horribly transparent.


On the very rare occasions where Spock does not have a specific task to complete, he returns to his quarters to meditate. Given that he’s so close to his time, it’s the most efficient use of the days he has remaining. Perhaps it will make the blow less harsh should he have trouble obtaining someone new—his intended suffered an unfortunate accident several years ago. The severing of their childhood bonding was not as... painful... as he was informed it would be.

Today he finds his feet traveling a path he didn’t intend. He’s lost in thought over which ritual he will undergo on Vulcan, and when he looks up, he finds himself in the shuttle bay.

There are various crewmembers running diagnostic checks and loading cargo, but Spock’s only interested in one. The large room is all grey and full of squares and lights, but there’s a patch of gold near the back, running a whirring tricorder over the far shuttle.

Spock strolls over, too aware of how loud his shoes are against the metal floors, and he asks, “You are adept in engineering as well, Lieutenant?”

Jim turns to smile and repeat, “Jim. If you don’t start calling me Jim, I’m going to stop answering you.” ...That might make things incredibly easier.

Very dryly, Spock repeats, “You are adept in engineering as well... Jim?”

With a bit of a smirk, the subtle upper twitch of one side of his lips that flashes like a signal right into the forbidden part of Spock’s brain, Jim says, “I do a bit of everything. I’m kind of a genius.”

Incorrect and pompous, but impressive, nonetheless. While he’s silent, Jim adds, nodding over his shoulder, “Wanna help me finish the diagnostic of the inside?” There’s only one tricorder in Jim’s hands and absolutely no value Spock could add by climbing into that shuttle.

He nods anyway and follows Jim inside. The power’s off, and Jim manually closes the door behind him, standing in the back, devoid of any windows. It’s a small, empty space, and Jim turns off his tricorder and places it on top of a box in the corner.

Spock hoped... perhaps hope isn’t the right word... expected? Wanted? This. But Vulcans shouldn’t do any of those things, and Spock is rigidly still as Jim strolls over to him, backing him up against the door, just like back in Spock’s quarters. The memory makes Spock’s limbs less steady than they should be. Jim’s right in his personal space. Jim hesitates, as though giving Spock a chance to pull away.

Spock doesn’t.

And Jim leans in, slower this time, tilting his head and pressing his lips against Spock’s. Spock doesn’t hesitate to open his mouth; their tongues meet in the middle. It’s like there’s some silent, unspoken agreement between them, that this is right, this is what they both want. Spock’s fingers slide up Jim’s arms to his shoulders, clutching lightly at the fabric there. Jim flattens against him, every part together. One of Jim’s legs shifts between Spock’s thighs, and Spock grunts into Jim, feeling needy and vulnerable.

It’s not a feeling he normally likes, but there’s a fog over his brain that’s changing that. When they touch, Jim consumes him. The kiss gets more fevered. Spock’s pressing into Jim hard, lips working, little noises in his chest that he doesn’t mean to make slipping into the air. Their breathing is heavy and awkward. One of Jim’s hands slips down Spock’s front, crawling between the fabric of his pants and underwear and his skin. Those long fingers pass the soft tufts of hair in the way and find the base of his cock, stirring hungrily up to meet them. Spock’s holding Jim so tight. Jim’s so hot. There isn’t enough air in here. Jim’s fingers wrap around his cock.

Jim presses his forehead against Spock’s and leans back enough to let Spock moan, languid and long and completely shameful. Jim’s nothing but sin.

Jim kisses his cheek and drags a tongue to his ear, making him shiver, and Jim purrs into it, “I want you.”

Someone knocks on the shuttle. Spock’s heart nearly jumps through his stomach, and he’s thinking nonono let that not have happened. It happens again. Jim grumbles and pulls his hands out of Spock’s pants, hips shuffling back to give Spock space. Spock doesn’t want space.

He wants Jim on him rightnow and he can’t let anyone else know that. Jim grabs the manual handle, calling, “Just a second!”

He glances at Spock and asks more quietly, “You okay?”

No. “Yes.” Spock pulls his uniform down and wills himself soft, trying to stand up perfectly straight and not flushed or dilated as Jim pulls the door open.

“Spock,” a Vulcan scientist on the other side says, flanked by two more of Spock’s peers. “Your presence is requested in Laboratory C.”

Spock nods. He doesn’t miss the way the other Vulcans look at Jim, a little dirty from manual labour and still breathing hard. He’s frowning and glaring a little: the other end of emotion. He practically huffs, “See you,” as Spock climbs out of the shuttle.

“We will discuss the remainder of your diagnostic at a later date,” Spock says calmly, as though they were simply running scans and not engaging in... primitive behaviour. Jim’s expression instantly goes from disappointment to anticipation, lips twitching up beautifully.

He’s beautiful. There’s no way the others don’t notice it. With eyes only for Spock, he says, “If you’re asking me to dinner, the answer is yes.”

There’s no way to comment on that without either making the situation worse or missing out on dinner. So Spock merely inclines his head in a subtle nod, turning curtly on his heels. The Vulcans who interrupted them follow him, and although he knows he shouldn’t, he feels an inkling of resentment.

This is all trouble.


The shuttle checked out fine, and the landing party discovered several fascinating specimen hidden amongst the polar ice caps. Spock is examining the results on his console when Turek approaches, hands behind his back and looking over Spock’s shoulder. “Anything of interest?”

“The results are still in the preliminary stages,” Spock says levelly, switching slides. The other Vulcan scientist—one Spock often works beside but rarely speaks to—sits down beside him, to the left, flipping on the monitor. The other scientist on Turek’s left is clearly observing them.

“I see you have spoken at length with Lieutenant Kirk over mealtimes.”

And in other places. But Spock doesn’t say anything, because there was no question to answer. The room is empty save for the three of them, on beta shift with everything quiet. Discussions are rare, and when they do arise, it’s usually the sort of thing that might not be said in front of Sarek or other heads of their vessel. The Vulcan at the end—T’Pern, Spock believes, or something of that nature—adds, “He is very provocative, that human.”

“Most interesting,” Turek agrees. Their vocabulary is limited in this matter, but Spock picks up on all the connotations and subtext—Lieutenant Kirk is tempting, fascinating, and erotic in the purest sense. “You seem to have made acquaintances with him, Spock.”

Spock says merely, “I have.”

If Vulcans were more emotionally eruptive, Spock would consider his peers either impressed... or jealous. There are notes in their voices he can’t trace. It’s a strange sensation. Spock isn’t used to having things others want. But he has something; that’s certain.


Spock is growing used to the company during mealtimes. The oddness is ebbing away. Jim seeks him out regularly and without fail, with a variety of human foods that often don’t require utensils, despite Spock’s protest. At this point, Spock partially wants to make him stop simply to divert the prying eyes of others, who seem to find the way Jim holds his breadsticks irresistible.

Spock can’t blame them. He’s eating his own breadsticks—a meal Jim insisted he try—with a fork and knife, as chopsticks keep them too long, and Spock doesn’t want to be a spectacle. Jim laughs, “You know that’s not how you eat them, right?” And Spock simply enjoys the sound.

They’re a little too strong for him. The synthesized cheese flavouring is not a preference of his, although Jim seems to enjoy it. Spock eats it anyway, as Jim tried his salad the other day with very little complaint, not to mention no invitation from Spock. Sharing food seems to be a human custom.

Jim’s popping the end of one stick into his mouth, finger slipping momentarily into it, when Spock inquires, “What are your plans after your service on this ship?”

As he chews, Jim grins and returns, “What makes you think I’m going to leave?”

As Spock doesn’t want to admit he’s read Jim’s profile, he says, “Crew rotations aboard this vessel are quite frequent. We will also be returning to Vulcan shortly and passing a Federation outpost nearer to Earth in the process.”

Shrugging and glancing to the side, Jim admits, “You got me.” Then he’s leaning back on the table, confidence all over his handsome face. “I’m going to be a captain.”

Spock quirks an eyebrow.

“No, seriously. I’m going to do it. I’m going to have my own ship, a Starfleet exploration model, and I’m going to travel this whole universe. ...Right now I’m gathering experience for my record.” He picks up another breadstick and proceeds to munch on it as though he hasn’t just proclaimed himself terribly important.

“So you requested assignment here to improve your record?” Somehow and inexplicably, Spock’s slightly disappointed. He can’t explain why.

Jim shakes his head, looking suddenly thoughtful. He does that thing again, where he reaches one hand over the table and touches Spock’s, gently stroking the back of his wrist. Jim’s eyes get serious, voice a little lower. The contact is making Spock feel things he shouldn’t feel. “No, I... I don’t know, really. The opportunity showed up, and I just felt like I had to take it. It was an instinct. I’m a man who follows my gut, you know?” He pauses, and his lip twitches up into a grin that does things to Spock’s already heady mind. “...And then I found you, and I think I know why.”

Spock’s frowning.

He knows why, too. He does and he shouldn’t. His time is almost up. This is a very unwise idea, but there’s no pulling out of those ice blue eyes, that sharp wit and that charming smile.

Spock clears his throat, withdraws his hand to his lap, and goes back to eating his meal. Jim’s knees are resting against his. Spock doesn’t pull those away.


Spock’s in a laboratory room with several peers when Jim strolls right in. It’s not a place he usually appears, and several, more shut-in Vulcans look up from their microscopes or consoles.

Jim makes a straight line for Spock, stopping right in front of him, and Spock gets the unforgivable urge to preen. The human everyone wants—the forbidden fruit that sways so sensually before their very eyes—has no reason to be here other than Spock, and Spock is acutely aware of the room’s full attention. “Can I talk to you?” Jim asks, voice imperative and curious.

Spock nods. “You may speak.”

Jim laughs once. His face stays in the smile. “I think we should go outside. Come on.” He touches Spock, right on the shoulder, right in front of everyone. His hand trails down Spock’s arm, entwining their fingers and tugging Spock from the chair. As they head for the door, Spock feels the tingling of whispers in the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t catch the words. They leave and the grey doors slide into place behind them.

The hallway’s empty. Jim drops his hand, turns around, and asks, “What’s pon farr?”

Spock’s stomach turns to stone. Tight lipped, he takes a minute to answer. “It is a Vulcan affair that we do not discuss with off-worlders.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Jim snorts. “Look, I heard one of the guys in the shuttle bay whispering about it, but when I asked what it was, he wouldn’t tell me any more.”

“And neither will I,” Spock says simply. Because it’s so much easier than saying the truth, and the idea that someone was talking about it down in the shuttle bay makes him almost sure they were talking about him. His time is almost up. They’re returning to Vulcan specifically for him, and there he’ll have a most unpleasant time, even if things go well. He isn’t... prepared for this.

He isn’t prepared to discuss it with Jim, especially if it means giving up whatever it is the two of them have. Even though Spock is fully aware that their... ‘friendship’... is unacceptable. Jim gives him a pleading look, tantalizing enough to make Spock’s stomach clench with the urge to please.

Lips parted already, he says what he has to. “I cannot.”

Jim frowns.

Sighs, nods, looks aside, like he understands when he doesn’t. He grumbles, “Alright.” Then, “Thanks, anyway.” And he nods at Spock again, turning to stroll back down the hallway.

Spock’s eyes automatically slip to Jim’s rear, shifting nicely with his steps. Spock feels distinctly weak.

Chapter Text

Sarek has a little office off to the side of the main bridge. It has a desk with a console on it, a large viewscreen usually showing a picture of Vulcan, and that’s about it. Spock sits in the chair in front of the desk, acutely aware of how his time is running out.

“You are beginning to feel the change?” Sarek asks without looking up from the computer. He steeples his hands and presses his chin against them, eyes flickering over words that Spock can’t see.

Spock wants to say no. He wishes meditation were working. It’s not. He thinks of the human when he sleeps, and his eyes wander when they shouldn’t. He simply says, “It is happening.”

Sarek nods. He finally turns off the console, focusing all on Spock. As though commenting on the atmosphere, he says, “Your original intended has met an unfortunate end.” Spock nods. “Another must be assigned. We will reach Vulcan in five days. It has come to my attention that you are not the only Vulcan aboard who is to enter pon farr. His intended was lost in the same accident. It was an unfortunate time for us all.”

Spock didn’t know someone else was going into it. It must be a man, or Sarek would match them together out of convenience. Vulcans may bond with men, but the arrangement is not ideal. Men can’t bear children. Spock wants to ask who the man is but knows he shouldn’t.

“Suval,” Sarek answers for him. “An alpha shift shuttle pilot. He will be a formidable rival, should you have the ability to choose between the candidates the counsel gives you once we land. It is critical that you continue to meditate and retain as much of yourself as possible throughout the process.”

“I will do so.”

“It is just as vital that you do not allow yourself to be drawn in by distractions.”

Spock stiffens more visibly than he would like. He knows exactly what Sarek is referring to, and he isn’t the least bit proud of himself. All he can do is pretend there is nothing to worry about despite his own fears. He says, “I understand.”

“That is well.”

And just like that, Sarek’s turning back to his console: a clear dismissal. Spock gets out of his seat, straightens out his uniform, and leaves.


There is no information on hand about the possible bondmates Spock will meet on Vulcan. Sarek offers no information. Apparently it isn’t important that he’s going to be tied to someone for theoretically the rest of his life and never meet them until the minute those bonds are made.

Suval is a particularly handsome man mostly found in the shuttle bay. Where Jim is also mostly found. Spock passes by more than he should to check on if the two are interacting, but they never are.

That is to say, Suval is often surveying Jim, as many of the Vulcans do, but Jim is only humanly friendly with them, not personal. He doesn’t laugh at their not-jokes or touch their hands. Suval has a pristine record. Spock has no intention of speaking with him.

Spock should have no intention of speaking with Jim. In an effort to soften the later blow, he works late. When he enters the mess hall two hours after the usual time, he finds it empty. It makes his stomach feel particularly hollow, but he tells himself it will be easier. He can’t afford to get any more attached than he already is. He’s playing with proverbial fire.

He’s just turning from the synthesizer, holding a tray of plum root salad, when Jim marches through the door, straight over to him. Spock forces himself to choose a table and sit down as though he’s still alone.

Jim orders spaghetti—a plate that requires a fork, thank goodness—and joins him.

Twisting an array of noodles onto his fork, Jim asks, “How was work?”

“Adequate. And yours?” Spock is attempting to be causal.

Jim is seeing through him. “Ended a while ago. As did yours, come to think of it. Did you get held up, or...?”

For a moment there, Spock had really thought he’d gotten away with it. And now he’s in the awkward position of having to blatantly lie or face the awkward truth. Vulcans are not known for being liars. Jim eats his forkful of noodles, and then he drops his hand, and the other reaches Spock’s knee under the table. There’s a large jolt up Spock’s spine. Instead of answering the question, he asks more insistently, “Why do you touch me?”

Jim shrugs. “Because I want to.” He leans a little closer, fingers ebbing up a little higher. Spock’s pulse has surpassed its usual rate. They’re alone in the room, but that doesn’t make this any more appropriate. When Spock doesn’t answer, he adds, “Look, I can’t totally explain why I feel like I do, alright? I just know that I’m drawn to you, and I think you feel the same. I mean, come on... we have fun together, don’t we?” He grins like he always does, alight and too tangible.

There’s nothing logical about fun. “Yes.” But that shouldn’t mean anything.

It can’t work. It can’t work. The anxiety of pon farr is creepy in on him.

And he knows Jim would be there for him if he asked. He just can’t. Jim’s hand doesn’t climb any higher, but it does squeeze him reassuringly. Maybe Jim can see the turmoil in him.

Spock picks his tray up, stands up, and says, “I am sorry. I... am more tired than I believed I was.” He hates that Jim isn’t touching him anymore. Jim’s frowning. “I must excuse myself.”

Spock turns his back and walks away.


His mind is restless, though not productive. Meditation does nothing. Spock’s staring at his ceiling through the darkness when his communicator beeps. He rolls over and reaches for the desk, wondering vaguely why anyone would contact him via a communicator rather than a console in the middle of his night. He’s prepared for Sarek and an emergency.

He gets Jim’s voice. “Sorry, are you awake?” Even with just that, Spock feels... better.

“I am now.” And he was before; it isn’t a lie. Jim sighs.

“Ah, sorry.”

“It’s alright. What did you need?”

“To hear your voice.” While Spock’s cheeks turn green with rising blood, Jim laughs, “Is that too cheesy? Did you ever have a dog when you were little?”

Well that is very random. Spock isn’t even sure where to start, so he picks, “Why would my voice be laden with an Earth dairy product?”

Jim immediately breaks into near hysterical laughter, and Spock has to hold the communicator further from his face to diminish the volume. He adjusts in bed, pulling the blankets a little higher. It’s hard enough not to think of Jim every moment without Jim calling him up.

“You’re too funny, Spock. Never mind. So, did you have a dog? Do Vulcans even have dogs?”

“We do not.”

“Ah, that’s a shame. Cats, then?”

“If you are referring to domesticated animals, yes, I had one.”

He feels like he can hear Jim’s smile, which is, of course, impossible. “Cool. What was it?”

“A sehlat.”

“What’s that?”

Spock has to think for a moment. “It is said to be similar to a human teddy bear, although much larger, about the width of an adult and the length of a child. It has an arched back, thick fur, and walks on all fours.” Then it occurs to him again: “Why are you asking me this?”

“That doesn’t sound like a teddy bear.” Spock frowns at the communicator. That’s not what he asked. But Jim pauses and finally sighs, “I guess I’m just making conversation. It’s hard to get time alone with you on this ship. I want to get to know you better. Do you ever wish we were on a Federation starship?”

It’s Spock’s turn to ask questions. “Why a Federation starship?”

“So we could explore the galaxy and beyond that. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the pursuit of knowledge is great and all, but... who wants to look at plants when we could be discovering planets, you know?”

Spock knows. But he doubts Sarek would approve of him serving on an exploration vessel packed with so many other... unpredictable species. Vulcans are very methodical creatures. Why explore the universe when they still don’t fully understand everything there is to know about their own worlds? Although, there are parts of Spock, the more human parts, that do have questions...

“And you would be captain of this vessel?” Spock asks.

“Naturally.” Jim chuckles. “You could be my first officer. I’d need a good science officer. We could go gallivanting across the stars, and you could study to your heart’s content.”

Spock feels ridiculous for picturing it. The concept of daydreaming is one of the many things about humans that he doesn’t understand. But Jim is painting him something very intriguing, something very enticing. But they’ve gone off the topic of why they’re talking. Even knowing the distinct lack of reasons, Spock doesn’t want to end the call.

“Spock?”

“I am here.”

“Would you be my first officer?”

Spock hesitates. His mouth speaks before his head has caught up, “I would consider it.” He can feel Jim beaming. ...Jim probably would make a good captain.

They talk far too long, and Spock doesn’t turn off his communicator until, hours later, Jim falls asleep on the other side.


Spock’s fingers still around his comb. He’s staring at his reflection. His hair is perfect, his uniform’s perfect, and his posture is rigid as always.

Something else is off, and there’s no point trying to ignore it. He’ll be forced to face himself sooner or later. He’ll have to face others.

He’s... drawn to Jim Kirk. There’s no denying that. He thinks of Jim too much. He begins to wonder what model of starship Jim will wind up in charge of. Spock no longer has any doubts that one day Jim will be a captain. He’s a little cavalier and over-confident, but he’s still undeniably talented and charming. He’s a man who’ll do well in life and get what he wants.

Apparently, he wants Spock.

Spock wants...

The doors open for him as he shifts towards them, placing the comb down. Time for duty. The hallways feel cold and closing in for some reason. Perhaps it’s from lack of sleep. He needs to collect his new roster from the bridge; he finished his last assignment yesterday.

Sarek is on the bridge. He stands as soon as Spock enters, heading for his office, and Spock knows enough to follow. Orders aren’t usually issued in private, but he can still hope that is what they’ll discuss.

As soon as the doors have closed behind them, Sarek turns around, arms behind his back. He doesn’t even sit, nor does he give Spock room to do so. He looks at Spock in complete neutrality and says, “You must sever whatever ties you hold with Lieutenant Kirk.”

Both of Spock’s eyebrows rise. It’s his way of expressing subtly what he wants to spill in droves; his heart wants to beat faster and his lungs want to stop working. Pon farr gets closer every day.

When Spock doesn’t say anything, Sarek asks, “You will do this, then?”

Spock can’t say yes. So he asks, “Why must I do this?” He knows. He knows. But there’s still a part of him that refuses to listen—

“You know why, Spock. You are approaching the time when you will choose a mate for the rest of your life.” Except that Spock won’t be choosing. Sarek turns and walks around his desk, sitting in the chair. Spock doesn’t move. “It is unwise to begin relationships that may complicate your future. I am giving you the benefit of the doubt and assuming you do not intend for Lieutenant Kirk to be a danger to your bondmate. However, while you are vulnerable to pon farr, there is a chance that you will be confused on the day it hits fully. It would be exponentially unfortunate for both of you if that were to happen. There will be a much superior candidate when we arrive on Vulcan.” He stops talking, though it doesn’t feel like he’s done.

Spock waits.

Nothing comes.

He says, “I understand, Father,” which is the truth. But not a definitive answer of agreement, though it might be easily misconstrued.

Sarek, evidently, does so. Spock doesn’t feel inclined to correct him. “That is good.” Then, “Dismissed.”

Spock makes sure not to let himself shake until he’s outside the office. Then he’s marching off the bridge too quickly, forgetting his orders.


It’s the longest shift he can remember, which doesn’t make any sense, as time is a constant and it’s precisely the same length as usual.

But he can’t concentrate. Once, he finds his leg twitching. Pon farr, perhaps. Or Jim. Both as deadly. He skipped lunch. He skipped dinner. His stomach hurts. Not because it’s empty. Jim commed him and asked if he wanted food, but Spock explained he was busy and needed to work. Jim was understanding. Jim offered to bring him tea.

Spock wanted tea. But he could hardly say yes with a room full of Vulcans watching him, any of which could go to his father. Jim complained about Suval being snippy with him, then hung up. Spock tried desperately not to smirk.

Now it’s the end of the day, and he has to do something, and all he wants to do is lie down, preferably in Jim’s arms. His shoulders are stiff as he leaves Laboratory A. He’s a terrible Vulcan; no wonder the other children never took to him.

And Jim’s standing outside, back to the wall with a PADD in his one hand and a cup in the other. Taking to Spock too easily. He looks up, frowning, when Spock approaches. “You okay?”

Spock shuffles through a few different answers before deciding, “I am functioning.”

Looking ridiculous sympathetic, Jim hands him the cup. A Vulcan blend of tea. Empathy isn’t something Spock’s used to dealing with. He feels strange, and he says, “Thank you.” The synthetic cup is hot in his hand.

“Do you want to go get something to eat?”

Spock shakes his head. It’s all he can do. He lifts the tea to his lips, and it’s too soothing—his eyes close. It’s warm. Vulcans don’t need as much sustenance as humans; he’ll be fine. But the tea is nice, irrationally because Jim brought it.

Jim steps beside him, sweeping an arm around his waist. An arm around his waist. The hallway is empty, but he’s still self conscious. Jim starts walking, taking Spock with him.

Spock steps out of Jim’s arm and follows Jim, just so they won’t have to talk about where to go. Talking leads to things it shouldn’t. Spock sips on his tea as they walk, headed to crew quarters.

But they stop short of his own, and Jim ushers Spock into his room, through the open door. It shuts behind them. Spock can’t fathom why he came in. Jim puts the PADD down on some drawers. The room is fundamentally the same as Spock’s, as all of them, except that there’re a few pictures around and some clothes on the floor and a model of a Starfleet starship sitting on the table by the bed. Jim turns to Spock, right in his space, and says, “I know you’re going through this pon farr thing, whatever it is. And you’re obviously not doing well because of it. Talk to me.”

After a second, Spock realizes his fingers are trembling around his cup. Jim takes it from his hands and puts it beside the PADD, and now Spock has to figure out what to do with his hands. They want to be on Jim. He folds them behind his back, trying to stand up straight. He feels like he’ll rock over and fall. It’s getting to him.

It takes him another few seconds to manage, “We cannot see each other anymore.”

Surprise jumps to Jim’s face. Then a frown. “Why not?”

“Because that is the way it must be.”

“Well, I don’t accept that.” Spock’s eyebrows knit together. Jim looks perfectly serious, standing so close, now with his arms crossed. “I mean, if you don’t like me, that’s one thing, but if it’s some stupid Vulcan tradition, then fuck that.” Disgruntled, Spock tries to repress the irritation at his home world being called ‘stupid.’ Softening a bit, Jim adds, “Unless you really don’t like me... if you tell me you don’t, I’ll never talk to you again, I swear.”

Spock’s throat is dry. It would be so easy to end this. But he can’t lie. And he doesn’t want to. He feels...

He sighs. He has no choice. Jim must see him softening, because the next thing he knows, Jim’s sweeping him over to the bed. Spock lets himself be moved, and he sits down, awkward and out of place. The bed isn’t made. They’re sitting directly on the sheets, the blankets rolled up at the end. Jim’s knees brush his. Jim says, “Tell me. I know you’re not supposed to, but I’m not going to stop unless I know what I’m dealing with. I want to help you.”

“You cannot help me.” Spock pauses. Jim looks quizzical. There is... there is no other way. He knows he shouldn’t, can’t, but it’s Jim, and he has no other choice, lest Jim be around him constantly, an unwavering temptation, pulling him into madness. That and Jim’s taken his hand, holding it tight in his lap. “If I tell you this, you must never let anyone know that I shared this information.”

“I understand.” And he really looks like he does.

Spock takes a deep breath. A shaky one, shakier than he’d care to admit. He licks his lips—a nervous reaction he shouldn’t have. Everything is falling apart. “Pon farr is... it is a terrible affliction all Vulcans must suffer. It cycles many times through our lifetime, and when it strikes, there are certain... rituals that must be observed...” Spock trails off. He knows that isn’t enough, but he can’t think how to phrase anything. Jim’s holding his hand, looking at him imploringly. More. He’s already in this deep. “If they are not, we will be driven into madness and...” Another breath. “Die.”

“Die?” Jim repeats. The concern is all over his face, and he leans closer, turning closer, fingers brushing the back of Spock’s hand, making this so much harder. “You’ll die? Unless you... unless you what? What are the rituals?”

Spock’s trembling. Why is he trembling? This is all so very shameful. It’s hard to speak. “We are... we must marry, in a sense. Mate with a... ah, they are decided very young, but there was an earthquake several years ago that took the lives of many Vulcans, including my intended...” He’s looking down and a bit off to the side, at the unmade bed, because it’s easier than looking at Jim. This last part is the most important. “We are returning to Vulcan. Another will be chosen to serve as my bondmate, and that is why we cannot... we must not continue...” This.

Jim isn’t stroking his hand anymore. Jim’s holding it very tight. Jim leans in, too close, and Spock’s still looking away but he can see Jim anyway, can feel Jim looming over him. “What do you mean ‘chosen’? You’ve never met them before?” Spock merely shakes his head. That isn’t... that’s not supposed to be important. His father will have made the logical choice. “That’s ridiculous! You can’t just... just mate with someone you don’t know! I... Spock...” Jim cuts off in aggravated grunts.

Spock looks over at him because it’s impossible not to, and there’s turmoil all over Jim’s always so expressive features. He’s looking at Spock so desperately. It occurs to Spock how little time he’s actually known Jim, and yet he feels closer to this one human than any of the members of his own race that he’s served with for years. Jim’s hand squeezes his a little too tight.

Jim says, “Consider me.”

“What?”

“Consider me,” Jim repeats. “To be your mate instead. At least we’ve met. And there’s something between us, you know there is... this must... this must be it, why I was so drawn to you, why I knew I had to come to this ship...”

“That is ridiculous.” Except that it isn’t, and Spock’s heart is beating entirely too fast. It isn’t ridiculous at all, the way he is so drawn to Jim, the way he can’t get Jim out of his head—but a human has never been a destined bondmate before, and it isn’t so simple, but Spock—

“It’s not ridiculous,” Jim says, sounding sure. So sure. Looking right at Spock and barely a few centimeters away; Spock can feel Jim’s breath on his chin. “Don’t you ever listen to your gut? You can’t tell me we don’t have something.”

Of course they have something... they have everything... but they need to stop, or... or...

Jim’s mouth is on his. Hot and fast and everything Spock’s ever wanted. Jim is in his arms, their torsos turned to one another, their legs tangled over the edge of the bed. Jim’s fingers are in his hair and on the small of his back, arms around his shoulders and his waist. Spock’s can’t stay still. They’re on Jim’s sides. His eyes are closed. Jim’s tongue is in his mouth, Jim’s lips on his, their noses bumping and their chin’s rubbing together; Jim has the faintest bit of prickly stubble. The temperature in the room has gone severely up, and everything’s happening so fast but perfect, and Spock thinks the madness must be setting in because this is the only thing he can imagine.

He wrenches apart, consumed by the want not to, trying so hard to think of Sarek and logic and the fact that he isn’t an animal. Not yet. Jim’s hands stay in his hair and on his back. They’re breathing so heavy. Spock’s lips are moist, Jim’s are pink and soft and right there but— “We cannot do this.”

“Tell me you don’t want me.”

“Of course I want you!” Spock growls, shocking himself with his complete and utter lack of control. He’s falling apart. Jim looks just as surprised, but fiery, not pulling away for a second. “But it is not like that—this is serious. This is for life, Jim. We could conceivably separate if we had to, but it would be at great cost; it is meant to be permanent. And the pon farr itself, it is a trial. I will not be myself while it lasts. It could be days. Even with you, I would be little more than an animal; I would ravage you and tear you apart, human sexual prowess cannot match—”

“You don’t know who you’re talking to,” Jim growls, just as fierce. “Trust me, I can handle ravaging. I want you. I want you, I want you, I want you—I want to take you and fuck you over every surface on this tiny ship, and I’d be happy to let you fuck me like a monster right back.”

Spock’s head is nonsense. A broiling cloud. Everything Jim says makes him want to listen. Jim will be a brilliant captain. And Spock... Spock could be by his side, and...

Spock’s kissing Jim hard, tugging him down, and they fall into the bed behind them. Jim climbs on top of him, straddling him, and Jim’s picking him up by the hips and shifting them around, so they’re on the bed properly, so the heels of Spock’s shoes are digging into the mattress. Jim is grinding against him, pants tenting and hands touching and mouth stealing all of Spock’s air. Spock’s trying to touch every part of him. Jim has a great ass. Spock grabs it and squeezes. He’s completely lost grip of himself, but Jim’s warm and alive in his hands. Jim lets him breath again, kissing the side of his mouth and down to his jaw.

“We cannot do this,” Spock moans. “We can’t...” Jim’s hands are on the waistband of his pants. Spock grabs Jim’s wrists, Vulcan strength holding him in place, and Spock turns his face so he can press his forehead to Jim’s. Looking right into Jim’s amazing eyes, Spock licks his lips and says as steadily as he can manage, “Not... not our pants... leave them on...” Which is his way of surrendering other things.

Jim nods. Jim kisses him hard. Jim sits up, and all in one, fluid motion, he rips his jacket off, then pulls his shirt right over his head, tossing them aside like nothing. Spock’s eyes rake hungrily over Jim’s exposed boy, all golden skin and perfect muscles. The light in Jim’s room isn’t as strong as Spock’s. Maybe Jim keeps them lower. It highlights everything, and Spock’s hands rise up to touch, but Jim’s already surging back down. He’s jerking at the zipper of Spock’s jacket, and Spock, still kissing Jim, lifts up on his elbows to help. The jacket comes off. Joins Jim’s on the floor. Jim lifts up his shirt. It gets caught in his armpits, and Jim ducks down to lick his chest, making Spock throw his head back to moan.

That wicked tongue wraps around one of his nipples, laving it up and sliding to the other, sucking it into his mouth and—“Ahhh...”

Spock’s ashamed of himself. But he also can’t stop. Jim doesn’t show any signs of stopping. He’s back up to Spock’s mouth, their stomachs rubbing together, skin on skin. Everything Spock ever wanted. He’s never felt more connected to someone in his entire life.

Jim’s kissing him hard into the pillows, and Jim stops long enough to breathe, “We’ll... we’ll keep the pants on, but... but when pon farr hits, really hits, you come to me.” Jim’s hands are climbing Spock’s side, and two fingers press over his heart.

The Vulcan caress. Spock’s hand falls over Jim’s, holding it there. A future captain’s order.

He nods and curls up in the arms of the mate he wants.

Chapter Text

Pon farr, apparently, has yet to interfere with Spock’s internal clock. He’s awake before Jim is, with the lights still off and the red glow of a bedside console flashing coloured lights across them. The blankets are up and Spock’s sweating, rolled up against Jim’s back with his arm across Jim’s body. Neither of them are wearing shirts. Their pants are still on. Their shoes are off. Spock shifts his head slightly so he can press his ear to Jim’s neck, checking his heart rate. Slow and even. Deep breathing. Jim’s still asleep.

So Spock deems it safe to stay here for an extra few minutes, holding Jim tight and feeling him all over. Jim fits too perfectly in his arms. No other bondmate is going to fit like that, Spock’s sure of it. When he finally lifts up on his elbow, it’s so he can look at Jim’s sleeping face, content and tranquil. Asleep, Jim doesn’t look nearly as reckless and dangerous as he does awake. His blond hair is slightly sweat-matted, fanned out around the pillow, one hand under his head. His lips are slightly parted. Spock has the overwhelming urge to kiss them. But the angle’s wrong, so he resists.

They’re in Jim’s quarters. The way it should be, but that won’t do. Spock needs a shower. He smells like... humiliating. If he showers here, there’s a good chance he’ll wake Jim. And then there’s a good chance Jim would climb in and...

Slowly and carefully, Spock pushes down the blankets, climbing over his companion. He finds his shirt and jacket in a wrinkled pile on the floor, and he carefully pulls them over his head and around his back. He finds his shoes over by the desk and steps into them, his socks fallen down but still in tact. Spock can see his own reflection in the shut off computer screen, though it’s dim in this room, and he tries to finger-comb his hair. He cannot be seen leaving.

He doesn’t want to leave. He’s halfway to the door when he stops, glancing over his shoulder. Jim’s still blissfully asleep, wrapped in darkness. Spock’s hands become fists at his sides. He mustn’t go over. He wants to.

He turns and leaves the room, watching the floor.


Concentration has become increasing difficult. Somehow, Spock’s managed to get through his report on the Riziljian Orchid, which he’s determined would be ideal for certain aspects of the medical field. The results are all outlined in the PADD he holds in his shaking fingers. He’s on his way to the bridge to hand it in to Sarek and ask advice on the next course of action regarding the vines discovered in the arctic range, which apparently hold—

As soon as the bridge doors open before him, shouting fills the corridor. Spock stops one step inside, frozen and staring, just like the other Vulcans manning the bridge. Shouting on a Vulcan vessel is virtually unheard of.

So it’s of no surprise that Jim is the one insisting in a much too loud voice, “—Of anyone else’s business, anyway!”

Sarek, standing directly in front of Jim, silhouetted by the stars on the view screen, has his lips open and an affronted look on his face. Sucking in a breath, Spock marches forward before Jim can take this any further. Jim must hear his steps and turns around. “Spock—”

“What is going on?” Spock hisses, quietly as he can manage for the two men in front of him to hear but not the rest of the onlookers. Jim doesn’t seem to see the same need for privacy.

He thrusts an accusatory finger at Sarek and huffs, “He told me to stay away from you.”

Tight lipped, Sarek counters, “It is for the best.”

“How is it the best for two people who want to be together to not be allowed to? And for Spock to marry some random woman he’s never met before, sight unseen?”

“It is the Vulcan way.”

“Fuck the Vulcan way.” Face scrunched up, Jim gestures vaguely aside. The hairs on the back of Spock’s neck are standing up. Sarek’s patience is uncanny.

And then he looks at Spock, as though imploring Spock to explain the Vulcan way to his irrational ‘friend.’

Spock doesn’t get the chance. Jim crosses the three-dozen centimeters between them to grab his chin in both hands, slamming their lips together. Spock only opens his mouth out of shock and the need to yelp, but then Jim’s tongue is in it, raunchy and making his eyes flutter. It’s several seconds longer than it should be. Although, it shouldn’t be at all. When Jim pulls back, he’s still holding Spock’s face.

“You’re not reaching your potential here in the Vulcan shadow,” Jim says, voice heavy from the exertion of emotions. “When I get my own ship, I want you to come with me, and when you need to choose, I want to be your mate. I think we both know I already am.”

Spock’s still too shocked to move. His lips are tingling. He can feel everyone’s eyes on him. Jim’s fingers finally slip away, and Jim brushes past him to storm off the bridge. Spock’s eyes shift to Sarek, watching him carefully.

Licking his lips once, Spock says as evenly as he can manage, “I apologize.”

“This is not a public affair. However, as it has already been made one, I will use the opportunity to inform you that he is an entirely unsuitable match, however... tempting he may be.”

“...I know.” Spock feels like he’s five, being scolded. Sarek has that same look in his eyes that he did back then.

“Then you agree.” It isn’t a question.

Spock opens it up anyway. Everyone’s watching him. He’s not sure he’s ever been so humiliated in his whole life. Before he can stop himself, he’s saying, “I... have chosen Jim.”

He holds up the PADD still in his hands, imploring Sarek to take it.

Sarek does.

Spock turns on his heels and leaves the same way Jim did, trying hard to keep his warring face neutral.


Dinner was brief, and Spock insisted on sleeping alone. His bed felt incorrectly huge and empty. He couldn’t sleep. He commed Jim several times and hung up several times. He woke up feeling inordinately sick and he can’t show any of it, has to walk with rigid ease, has to speak as though nothing in the world is ever going on. In the morning, he isn’t particularly surprised to find that he’s on temporary suspension. The message is beeped through on his console, thankfully before he heads to any of the labs.

He isn’t particularly surprised, of course. It’s a reasonable penalty for his actions. If anything, it’s a relief to know he won’t have to answer to any of his peers. But it’s irksome anyway—until now, Spock has had a spotless record.

He heads to Sarek’s office partially to dispute it and partially to apologize. He keeps his head fixed firmly forward on the way there, immensely thankful when none of the Vulcans that pass him attempt to speak with him. Sarek, fortunately, is in the office when Spock arrives, so he can walk silently through the bridge.

The door closes behind him and he’s ushered into the chair before Sarek’s desk. Sarek turns off his console immediately, turning to Spock.

“I must... apologize for my actions the other day.” Sarek raises an eyebrow, and Spock continues, “They were entirely inappropriate.”

“Lieutenant Kirk’s actions were inappropriate. Yours were not. The apology is unnecessary.” Spock does his best to muffle his shock.

“Thank you, Father.”

Sarek nods. “Would you like to amend any of the words you spoke?” In other words: do you still choose Jim.

Spock doesn’t even have to think about it, but it’s still difficult to say, “No.”

Sarek has a moment’s pause. Then he says, “You are not on leave due to your relationship with Lieutenant Kirk; you are on leave because pon farr has made you unstable. Suval is also on leave, and he will be sent down to the planet tomorrow.”

He will be sent down, not both of you. Spock notes that difference with confusion. It must show on his face, because Sarek elaborates, “You may also visit the planet’s surface if you wish, as we will be parked here until we are certain both of our afflicted crewmen have returned to normal. We have too small a crew to proceed with anything less. However, I do not believe a trip would be wise in your present condition.”

Spock’s eyebrows are still knit together, lips slightly parted. “And... you do not feel my visit to Vulcan would be prudent?”

“I cannot imagine why,” Sarek replies smoothly, “as your chosen mate is already aboard our vessel.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, wherein Spock is certain he’s heard incorrectly.

With a mild sigh, Sarek explains, “I still believe your decision to be unwise. However, it is yours to make. Given my own... unconventional decision, I can hardly keep you from doing the same. I can only hope it is not something that I have done to drive you to this.”

“Into the arms of a human?” Spock fills in. He opens his mouth, closes it, then says simply, “It is nothing you have done.” And he can’t explain any more, not to his father. Sarek nods again.

“As your time is fast approaching, I believe it would be best if you remained in your quarters. I will arrange to have meals sent to you. I will leave you to inform Lieutenant Kirk as to his role. Is that agreeable to you?”

More than Sarek could ever understand. Spock says only, “Yes.”

“Very well. Then, as I shall not see you for several days, I will leave you with the wish that you should live long and prosper.” He holds his hand up in the Vulcan salute. Spock mirrors it.

But instead, he says, “Thank you, Father.” And he means it for more than just the blessing.

He’s dismissed.


Things are still restless but less so. There are still worries: what will he do, how will Jim take it, will he go too far? But having Sarek’s approval, or, at least, not having his disapproval, is a sizeable weight off Spock’s shoulders. It counters the need to pace restlessly and knock things over, but it doesn’t make meditating any easier. He’s on the floor when the door chimes—dinner on the way. He gets to his feet and punches in the release code, wondering vaguely how they’ll do this when the madness is too much to allow a door, even otherwise locked, to be opened at all.

It’s Jim’s beaming face on the other side, holding out a bowl of Plomeek soup. Spock instantly steps aside. Jim’s barely even through the door before he starts talking. “I apologized to Sarek. Who, by the way, you never told me was your father.”

“I believed the information common knowledge.”

“It was; I overheard it. But still.” Jim sits down on the bed—the only place to sit other than the desk, and the only place for two to sit side by side. Spock sits next to him, letting their legs touch. The soup is passed into his hands, and he stirs the ladle absently. Jim must’ve either eaten dinner or isn’t hungry, because he just sits there.

Then Spock lifts the ladle to his lips, and Jim dives in to sip the soup out, a few centimeters from Spock’s lips. Utterly scandalized, Spock stares at him. Jim smiles audaciously, swirling the broth around his cheeks. Then he swallows and chuckles, “Sorry, couldn’t resist.”

And he’s picked that. This is the person Spock’s going to be with for the rest of his...

It doesn’t feel as wrong as it should. Spock takes another spoonful of the soup; this time, Jim lets him have it. As he sips away at it, Jim explains, “I can duck out for a synthesizer run any time you want something.” His hand transfers to Spock’s lap, lightly squeezing his knee. “Your dad took me off duty too, so... I’m just going to stay with you until pon farr hits. So we know I’ll be right here for you.”

Spock lowers the spoon. He tries to say with his eyes what he can’t say with his mouth—how immeasurably grateful he is. How much that means to him. Waiting... it doesn’t seem so poor a concept. The restlessness is easing.

Of all the emotions he should be experiencing, regret should be it.

It isn’t.


It’s strange, waiting. But sort of... nice. They’re in Spock’s room, with empty plates and half-full cups, sitting on the floor with a 3D chessboard between them. Jim takes longer to beat than most humans, Spock thinks. Longer than some of Spock’s peers, even. A formidable opponent. Spock imagines that if he had more control of his senses, as he usually does, he would’ve won by now.

Instead, he finds himself losing focus, watching the way Jim’s fingers slide down each piece rather than where that piece is moved. The way Jim smiles when he’s found a good move or frowns when he thinks he’s trapped. He’ll sort of snicker to himself, sometimes, swear others. Twice he rakes his hand through his hair, displacing everything and somehow making it more enticing. Spock wants his fingers in that hair. Spock’s sitting cross-legged, and his hands aimlessly rub his legs, attempting restraint. There’s only a few pieces left.

Jim’s eyes catch Spock’s palms, and Jim asks, “...Do you want to play strip chess?”

“What?” Spock’s head tilts. He’s heard of all the different types of chess, he’s sure.

Jim grins in a nearly-smirk way. “Strip chess. It’s like strip poker, but just for two people.” When Spock still doesn’t show signs of understanding, Jim continues, “Basically, every time we take a player’s piece, the loser has to remove an article of clothing.”

To demonstrate, he shifts his castle across to Spock’s last pawn, pulling the black figure off the board. “See, now you have to take something off. Your jacket, probably.”

Slightly confused but eager to get all Jim’s clothes off, Spock peels his jacket off, realizing, “You are at a disadvantage. Yours is already off.”

Jim shrugs. “Call it me giving you a handicap since I’m clearly the better player.” Something in his smirk makes Spock not want to argue.

This is... a very interesting way to play. Neither of them are wearing shoes. Socks, underwear, pants, and a shirt. Jim’s is white and stretched across his chest, long sleeved and snug in all the right places. Spock has a peek at what everything looks like under it, but more would certainly be appreciated. It’s his turn, and he eyes his knight. He’s been allowing Jim’s castle to live simply because it was helping his grander scheme, but if it’s between taking the king later and removing Jim’s shirt now...

Spock isn’t particularly proud of himself. He isn’t thinking clearly. All he wants is Jim. He takes Jim’s knight, and his eyes dart up. Smirking, Jim pulls off his socks, tossing them idly on top of Spock’s jacket. “Since I’m feeling kind, I’ll count both of those as one item.”

There’s a growl in the back of Spock’s throat that he tries to contain. Jim moves his queen and doesn’t get any pieces. Spock has no options. He shifts his king. Jim pulls back his castle. Spock sees an opening and takes that castle, all thoughts of winning forgotten. He just needs pieces. Jim has more pieces than clothes; it doesn’t matter which.

Jim pulls his shirt over his head. He takes a minute to pause and flex, showing off, that winning smile all over his face, a hint of a laughter and a large invitation. He’s radiant. He says, “Your turn.”

Spock’s staring, staring, staring. It’s hard to think about chess. Jim’s body. Jim’s mind. Jim’s heart is probably beating faster, probably wanting Spock, just like Spock wants Jim, and he can hardly stand it. He takes Jim’s queen without even looking at the board. Jim shrugs and stands up, hand on his fly.

Trembling, Spock can’t take it. He doesn’t even remember getting to his feet. He walks around the board, up to Jim, and Jim steps back, then again, until the back of his legs hit the bed, and Spock’s still walking. He flattens his body against Jim’s, not stopping Jim’s hand, placing his own at Jim’s sides. Jim’s clear blue eyes are looking right into his, seeming to ask, ‘is it happening?’

Yes.

The thought of not having Jim another second is... is unbearable. Spock’s head is tilting down, and Jim’s already meeting him. Jim tastes just like Spock remembers. Feels so soft, so warm in his arms. The kiss stays closed-lipped, until Jim’s fly is down, and his pants are pooling around his ankles.

Then he’s on Spock with full force, hands in Spock’s hair and tongue in Spock’s mouth, pulling Spock back onto the bed with him. They go crashing down in the sheets, and Jim’s kicking off Spock’s pants and trying to tug off his shirt, and Spock just barely manages to make his brain cooperate, moving his arms to help. Then the fabric’s gone. Skin on skin. Jim sets in on Spock’s pants, and Spock’s devouring Jim’s mouth, grinding him into the mattress. He can feel Jim’s nipples against him. His own, hard, are rubbing into Jim’s chest. He can feel the smooth lines of Jim’s stomach. He can feel the slight prickle of hair beneath Jim’s belly, disappearing into underwear that shouldn’t still be on. There isn’t even a thought about it.

Spock rolls them over suddenly, Jim caught with Spock’s pants and underwear shifting down, and Spock rips Jim’s underwear right off. Not all the way down, but off, into shreds, with nails he didn’t realize were so sharp and strength he didn’t realize he had. Jim grunts in shock and maybe pain, the fabric catching on his skin, but Spock brushes it all away. Jim shoves Spock’s pants and underwear right down, and Spock kicks out of it while he descends on Jim’s body, touching everything. There’s so much to memorize. He starts with Jim’s heart, brushing two fingers over it and proclaiming in a fierce hiss, “Mine.”

Jim smiles, grabs his chin, and pulls him in for a thick kiss. It’s like Jim’s trying to confirm it with more than words. One of Spock’s legs is between Jim’s. Their cocks are rubbing together, already hard and too dry. Spock parts their lips and leans his forehead against Jim’s, arching his body off and staring down.

For a human in particular, Jim’s very well endowed. Large and long, a nice, straight shape and a budding mushroom head, pink with interest. It’s perhaps a bare centimeter short of Spock’s, but perhaps a tiny bit thicker. Spock’s dick twitches just from looking at it, and that nudges it against Jim’s. Jim groans and chuckles, “Like what you see?”

Spock responds with another feral, “Mine,” and sets in on Jim’s face. He kisses Jim’s left cheek and touches the right one with one hand, the second still on Jim’s chest. He runs his tongue and fingers down Jim’s jaw, meeting at the chin, dipping down his throat. He nips and strokes and feels, and Jim makes a gorgeous, fluttering moaning sound, tilting his chin back to give more room. Spock can feel Jim’s pulse through the skin—the heartbeat of his mate. He puts his ear to the rhythm, eyes closed and listening. A moment of peace in the fever.

Jim moans, “Keep going,” and bucks against his stomach.

So Spock kisses and touches down his collarbone, licking his clavicle, tracing his shoulders. Spock smoothes over Jim’s shoulders, down Jim’s abs, kissing a wet trail to Jim’s left nipple, sucking one into his mouth and rolling the other between his fingers. He grazes it lightly with his teeth, tongue shifting and prodding and probing. Jim body is brilliance itself. He switches nipples, both pebbled, but he wants to taste both, anyway. Then he’s feeling and kissing Jim’s ribs, finger slipping along each bone, each muscle, over the taut skin atop them. Jim has the outlines of a six-pack and perfect hipbones, strongly jutting down. Spock pushes his tongue into Jim’s bellybutton, lapping up Jim’s gasp. He scratches his nails lightly along Jim’s hips, but Jim is a good boy and doesn’t buck up. Spock’s mouth trails lower, through the soft, golden hair and down to the proud cock, already bobbling against his chin. Spock licks down it, tongue flat against the end. He kisses the tip and licks back down the other way—Jim moans uncontrollably. Jim’s balls are big but tight, and Spock sucks them into his mouth, one at a time, thumbing Jim’s inner thighs. Then he’s kissing down one leg and feeling another, until he’s got Jim’s foot in front of him, and he lightly kisses the sole.

He sits back up, nearly panting with want and just surveys. Jim lies still, flushed and wet. There’re a few pink patches where Spock might’ve bit or scratched too hard. Jim’s whole body is...

Beautiful and Spock’s. His, his, his. Jim’s looking at him just as hungrily, and he leans down as slow as he can manage, crawling up to straddle Jim’s hips and reconnect their mouths. Jim bucks into him. Spock helps spread and lift Jim’s legs around him, pulling Jim into his lap. Jim’s ass rubs at his cock; he shivers in delight. His fingers trace down Jim’s arms, and he finds Jim’s hands in the sheets, untangling them to intertwine. Spock kisses Jim, over and over again, and Jim kisses him back. It’s a thick cloud of broiling lust, stable enough for Spock to keep it mostly in check, keep it slow and nice, the way he’d like to normally. Not as slow, of course, but good for his state. He isn’t as meticulous as he’d like to be. More raw passion. His cock is sliding along Jim’s crack, rubbing between his cheeks.

“You have to prepare me,” Jim stops long enough to say, and the pon farr must be really setting in, because Spock finds it hard to hear the words properly. He struggles to listen, to retain language. “Just the first time.”

Spock just grunts and rocks their hips together, causing a groan on both sides. He hears Jim’s words, but he can’t articulate the meaning. With difficulty, Jim tears his fingers away, and he glares and says, “No,” when Spock tries to grab his wrist again. Spock bristles but obeys. Jim holds his other hand and smiles appreciatively, spare hand climbing Spock’s chin. “Open up.”

Looking right into Jim’s eyes and restraining his hips, Spock opens his mouth. Jim’s fingers slip inside, first three, then four. Spock licks at them and sucks them, and it makes Jim grin. So Spock does it more. He leans forward and takes as much as he can, wondering vaguely if this is something human. When Jim’s fingers pull back, Spock tries to follow them, but Jim croons, “Stay.”

Spock stays. Simple orders he can understand. He’s losing it. He wants Jim so desperately, but there’s enough of him inside to hold still, though he sits up a little more and bends Jim’s legs back to look. Jim’s wet fingers slip past his cock, down his crack, pressing at his hole. Spock’s throat is dry. He licks his lips. He should’ve kissed Jim there. Now, he doesn’t want to interrupt. He watches Jim gently push a finger inside himself, grunting at the intrusion and letting it piston in and out. A few thrusts and then there’s a second finger, and Spock lets go of Jim’s legs, repeating Jim’s order more fiercely, “Stay.”

Breathless, Jim nods. Spock crawls down the bed so he can lean in closer, get a better look at Jim’s finger, disappearing and reappearing past the tight ring of muscle. Fucking that pouting hole, like Spock should be doing. Spock sticks his tongue out to help, lapping at the puckered, pink rim, and catching bits of Jim’s fingers in the process. Jim moans. Spock has a fleeting thought of Jim making that noise in the mess hall—every Vulcan in the room, pon farr or no, would be on him in a second. They’d all be scrambling to have him, to get their cocks in all of his holes, fill his pretty ass and his pretty mouth, put their cocks in his hands and rub them against his hair and his back and his sides. The thought makes Spock simultaneously horny and jealous.

But he doesn’t need to be, because he knows that Jim is his, and he can parade his little temptress in front of them any time. Irrational thought it might be, he hopes that when the affliction’s passed, he remembers to make Jim moan like that in a room full of men that used to see Spock as less. Who’s laughing now?

Spock’s grinning l when he sits back up, scooting up to Jim’s ass and thinking that’s enough. Jim must see the look in his eyes, because the fingers recede, and Spock’s not even asking. He’s pressing his cock against Jim’s hole, climbing over Jim and looking at Jim, wanting to make this final.

He slams inside. All at once. All the way up, until his balls are slapping Jim’s ass and Jim’s screaming, arcing his back and throwing his head to the side, hands scrambling at Spock’s back. Spock’s face is scrunched up in an incredible rush of pleasure—Jim’s perfect. Tighter than anything Spock’s ever felt. The pressure’s amazing. Jim’s walls are sucking at him, warm as fire. Jim’s knees are bent around Spock’s sides, cock against his stomach, fingers clawing at his skin. He doesn’t care if Jim scratches. Fuck, Jim’s good. Jim’s so, so good, and Spock hasn’t even moved yet—he never wants to leave—he’s so glad of pon farr—if only this could last forever. This is where his cock belongs. Where his body belongs. It only makes sense; it’s only reasonable. Jim’s shriek dies out into whimpers, and his body’s trembling.

Spock rocks into him to start another moan. Then pulls out a bit and slams back in, not at all as nice as he means to. He should be nice. Should be gentle. It’s their first time, and Jim’s so good to him, but...

But Spock just wants to fuck Jim wild—fuck him over every surface in the room and up against every wall, fuck him hard enough that he can’t see straight or walk straight for days. Spock wants to ravage Jim senseless, and he starts in on that, mouth bearing down to suck on Jim’s neck, pounding his hard cock into Jim’s tight body. He’s impossibly hard. He’s stuffing his cock in a place that won’t fit: a place lined in hot velvet that’s trying to push him out, then suck him in. Spock thrusts and thrusts, while Jim clutches at him and moans and whimpers, whines and begs, “Oh, fuck yes, Spock, ahhh...”

Spock can’t find words anymore. His vocabulary’s shot. He hears the pleading of his lover and listens, but he can’t interpret and he can’t respond. He’s an animal fucking his mate. A monster fucking a human. He knows he has to be careful. Jim’s human, can’t tear him apart. But he’s so, so, so good, and Spock can’t stop, not with an ass like that, fitting his cock so perfectly and sucking on it hungrily, letting him pummel it over and over. Spock’s hands are everywhere, and then he’s clutching Jim’s hair and wrenching Jim’s head aside, kissing and marking.

And then he jerks Jim’s head back and presses several fingers onto his face, hips surging faster and mind surging forward: his consciousness into Jim’s. Jim’s eyes fly open and he gasps, but it’s too late. Spock’s in. Spock spills everything in him over into Jim: his want, his desire, his need—his complete and utter ownership of the man beneath him. Jim struggles and takes it, his mind a chaotic, frazzled mess, and then Spock’s getting it back, ‘yours’ and ‘you’re mine too.’ Spock presses his forehead to Jim’s and keeps going, breathing heavy. Fucking hard. Hips insane. He doesn’t grab Jim’s cock, though he should, because he’s so busy grabbing everything else, rubbing the small of Jim’s back and connecting their worlds. Both their minds are nothing but ecstasy and devotion: a mental orgasm to add to his physical one.

It goes on and goes on, until Jim is a whimpering mess, writhing wildly on Spock’s dick, begging to be touched and milked. Spock feels the cries but doesn’t hear them. He just keeps going. He kisses Jim to shut him up. Mouths together. Sucks Jim’s tongue into his mouth. He’s fucking so hard; there’ll probably be bruises. Jim tastes like bliss.

Jim finishes before Spock’s ready, even without being touched. He roars and he arches and he explodes all over their stomachs, leaving sticky, white trails up their skin. His ass starts spasming. Spock’s eyes flutter, half lidded and consumed. Those tight muscles around him twitching tighter... it’s too much.

He fucks his orgasm right out, filling his mate right up with his cum, not pulling out, slamming in and out harsher than ever. Jim whines and takes it. Spock wants to come all over him. For now, this will do. Spock goes and goes, pouring out ten times what his human lover did. It’s too much for Jim’s body to handle, and it slips around Spock’s cock while he keeps going.

And Spock keeps going.

He hears Jim’s whimper, but he can’t stop.

He’s lost.

He falls onto Jim and keeps going, fucking him raw in no time.


Over the desk and in the shower. Now Jim’s knees are on the floor, body draped over the bed. He’s got cum in his hair and on his face, a little down his chest, and plenty in his ass. It leaks out around Spock’s dick as he thrusts in and out, body looming over Jim’s. His hands pin Jim to the mattress, his legs keep Jim on the floor, and his cock holds Jim to the side of the bed. Every time Spock pulls out, Jim groans, and every time Spock slams in, Jim screams. Or tries to, anyway. He’s screamed himself hoarse. He’s light headed and dizzy; he can barely stand up. Spock holds him up.

Spock knows his mate is tired and can’t do anything about it. His body wants more, more, more. He’s fucking Jim just as harsh every time, slamming Jim into the mattress. Jim isn’t hard any more, but Spock still touches his cock anyway, because Spock likes touching everything. Right now he’s got his teeth around the shell of Jim’s round human ear, so different and soft. Spock runs his tongue along it, marveling at his prize. Perfection.

He’s getting close again. His hips go even harder, if that’s even possible. Jim’s hands are limp in the sheets. He said he was a sexual creature, said he could take it. Spock’s going to see that. Spock knows just the right spot to hit, every time, and he senses the pleasure in Jim’s mind at being bitten and licked, bruised and claimed. He’s going to need to see a doctor after this. Which will be a shame, because right now, Spock’s not sure he’d let a doctor near Jim.

Spock wouldn’t let anyone near Jim. Jim’s going to stay right in this room, naked and ready for Spock’s hard dick, maybe tied to the bed or strapped against the wall, never allowed to leave. Yes, that’d be nice. Jim, Jim, Jim, just for him, all the time. Every other word falls from Spock’s head—he can’t remember why he’s in this room or the password to get out or what he’s doing with his life, but he remembers Jim’s name and face like beacons in the dark. He knows everything about Jim, from the slight curve of Jim’s spine to the human dog Jim had as a child. He’s carrying Jim’s memories and he’s carrying Jim’s emotions, such a heavy burden. But over and over again Jim’s head will say please through the pain, and Spock knows he wants this.

Spock pulls out when it’s too much, because he knows Jim’s ass can’t take anymore. He presses his cock beneath Jim’s bruised cheeks and shoves Jim’s thighs together around it, rutting against them. The cum trickles down between them: a river that crawls to the floor. Jim groans. Spock keeps thrusting. He only pulls back when everything’s out, but he wants Jim again.

He gets to his feet and grabs a chunk of Jim’s hair, yanking his head back. Jim’s neck arches so beautifully. Trembling with desire, Spock tries to look into Jim’s eyes, trying to communicate. He wants to go again.

Jim’s eyes flutter open, pale lashes heavy around his dilated eyes. “Fuck...” Jim pants, “I can barely stay conscious... ugh, do me again...” He closes his eyes. Spock’s hands clench. Permission. That was permission, wasn’t it? But Jim still looks tired. Spock wants to hump him over and over and fill him up and plug him that way and breed him and pound him into the floor and make him writhe and beg...

Jim licks his lips, looks up again and purrs, “It’s okay, keep going...” He reaches up to slide two fingers against the underside of Spock’s arm, causing a shiver. “I can take it.” And then he drops his hand, runs it along his thigh, scoops up a glob of cum and lifts it to his lips.

His tongue plays over it, and all Spock can do is be proud of his mate, inexplicably impressed. He watches Jim lavish his own fingers, and then Spock’s back down, knocking Jim right to the floor.


Spock doesn’t have any sense of time anymore. He doesn’t have any sense of meals. He doesn’t need water, he doesn’t need drink, and it kills him when he has to let Jim sip at the cup left by the bed. He shakes while he watches, and it’s hard to stay put. Now he’s against the door. Back to it. It’s cold. Jim’s mouth is so hot. Jim’s mouth around his cock. Jim’s on the floor. On his knees. Naked and gorgeous and covered in sweat and cum, glistening in the light. Spock can’t remember how to turn the lights off. Doesn’t want to. Wants to see Jim. Jim...

Something beeps on the side of the wall. At first, Spock ignores it, staring down at his pretty mate, pink lips stretched around his girth, bobbing obediently up and down. The noise happens again, and Spock’s head twitches aside, the panel there glowing and beeping. Spock slams his hand against it, struggling so hard to regain some sanity.

The man on the other side—Sarek—his father—it takes him a few moments to realize—it’s just the voice—asks, “Are you well?”

No. No, no, no. There is no visual. Spock grits his teeth, has to be normal. Jim’s still sucking on his cock. Sucking on it. He growls as steadily as he can manage, which isn’t even remotely steady, “Ye-es.

There’s a pause on the receiver. Jim’s stopped bobbing up and down, but he’s still sucking. Spock grabs his hair and practically chokes him in the process of making him slide on and off again. Sarek says, Pon farr has commenced. Lieutenant Kirk, is he well?”

Jim pops off Spock’s dick with a wet slurping sound, rasping, “’M fine.” And then he’s back on, and Spock holds him there again, this time tighter.

Sarek says, “Very well,” and the communication ends. The beep goes off, the console still. Spock’s eyes are rolling back in his head. His thighs are tensing. His balls are tightening. He starts thrusting wildly into Jim’s mouth, fucking Jim’s head and bursting with a scream.

Jim splutters, but can’t pull off, not with Spock’s fingers in his hair. His hollowed cheeks bulge with the sudden spurt of cum, shooting right down the back of his throat. Spock can feel Jim’s tongue supporting his heavy cock. Jim struggles for air and swallows, mouth flattening beautifully. It takes Jim several gulps to swallow it all, and when Spock finally pulls out, a thin trail still hangs from Jim’s abused lips.

Spock’s dick flags for barely a minute. As it hardens again, looking down at the perfect fuck toy, Jim falls back on the floor, groaning, “Fuck, you’re insane...”

Spock doesn’t hear it. He’s on his knees and over Jim again.


The last one for a while is in bed, again, under the covers. Jim’s on his back with his legs around Spock’s shoulders, similar to how they first were, but the blankets are draped across Spock’s back. Jim’s blacked out and come to again, dick impossibly spent and not going up. Spock’s not hitting that pleasure spot, because when he does, his mate shudders and there’s a guttural pain in his head, through their ever-present bond, magnified by touch. So Spock’s just rocking into him, slower than before, dying down but still a mess.

Jim’s limp and takes it, so very good to Spock. He doesn’t complain. He tries to kiss back when Spock claims his mouth, but he’s weak. Spock nuzzles into him, and he finger combs Spock’s hair, and he whisper, “I love you,” into Spock’s ear. The words register, but the meaning doesn’t make any sense. But he senses the meaning. Spock wants to say it back, but his mouth isn’t working.

It only works for kissing and licking and biting and panting for air. Even now, slick with cum and fucked raw, Jim’s still tight. It’s still great. Perhaps because he’s going slowly, perhaps because it’s dying out, or perhaps because he wants to savour the moment, it takes Spock a long time to finish. He milks Jim’s body for everything it’s worth, and he pours his adoration through their bond, holding Jim close to him.

He’s a shuddering wreck when he’s done. He collapses on top of Jim, knocking the air out of Jim’s lungs, finally coming down from the high.

Jim pushes at him lightly, but he doesn’t budge.


He didn’t figure out the lights. Jim did. They’re off. He’s lying on his side, Jim at his back, Jim’s arms around him. He’s holding Jim’s arm in place. Jim’s head is on his shoulder, breath tickling his ear, out like the lights. Spock’s letting him rest.

Spock’s feeling heady and satiated and still hungry for more, but he knows he has to wait.

But he can’t, so he turns around in the blankets, so he can at least rub his cock against Jim’s thigh, moaning slightly and trying not to wake Jim up. He sniffs at Jim’s hair and nuzzles into Jim’s neck, licking up the sweat. So much sweat; a Vulcan ship is too hot for his delicate human, this constant love-making too rigorous. Jim keeps sleeping, so Spock keeps nuzzling into him.

By the time Spock gets to Jim’s mouth, Jim’s moaning himself back to consciousness. His eyes only open halfway, lashes silhouetted in the thin glow of an overhead console. Spock bumps his nose into Jim’s, waiting.

Jim’s sleepy face twitches into a grin, and he murmurs, “I’m really glad I came to this ship.”

Spock can’t think properly. But he agrees. He nods. Jim grumbles, “But sooner or later, you’ll have to really let me rest and get some ointment or something.” He’s still smiling. He kisses Spock’s cheek.

For a moment, they’re just cuddling. Holding one another. Being close. Legs and arms brushing, fingers tracing, lips touching. Then the need becomes too great again.

Spock grabs Jim’s hips and rolls them over, Jim on top, and he pushes at Jim’s chest to make him sit up, straddling Spock’s waist. Jim yawns, but goes. His hand traces Spock’s cheek.

Spock holds it there.


It’s dark.

It’s quiet.

There’s something alive in his arms, breathing slowly. Spock becomes aware of that first. His eyelids are heavy, and it takes a moment to get them up.

It’s still dark. His cheek’s in the pillow. He shifts his legs. He’s holding Jim, on his side, curled around Jim’s back. He feels...

He feels light. Light headed and not burdened. Things are... things are a little clearer. Somehow... he thought it would be a lot worse than that.

Last longer. Be more painful.

Jim made it better. Jim made it easy. Spock wants to kiss Jim’s shoulder, but he’s Spock again. It takes a moment to do it anyway. His lips linger. Jim has a pink mark on his bicep that looks like teeth.

Spock only faintly remembers putting it there, and that makes his cheeks glow. He took Jim... on a lot of different surfaces, in a lot of different ways. He threw Jim around, and treated Jim far too roughly, and he’s still hungry but now a little ashamed, and he mumbles, “Sorry.”

He didn’t think Jim was awake.

But Jim rolls over in his arms, sleepy and yawning. Snuggling back into the pillow, under the blankets, and up to Spock’s chest, he mumbles, “’You okay?”

Spock should be asking that. His arm’s around Jim’s waist. Words are still not fully in him, so he settles with a simple, “Fine.”

Jim’s eyes close, and he smiles. He exhales. “’M sore, but alright. ...Apart from maybe never being able to walk again, that wasn’t so bad. Kinda fun, actually.” He peeks one eye open, and he must see that Spock’s frowning, because he corrects, “That was a joke. It’s fine.” Another contented sigh and a shoulder shrug. Their cocks are brushing. Neither is erect, and neither is limp, somewhere in between for different reasons. Jim’s had room to come up again; Spock’s finally had room to come down. “We were meant to be together.”

“We’re bonded, now.” Spock’s own voice feels strange to him.

“Good.”

“...Good.” And Spock means it, but he’s still surprised about Jim’s optimism and strength.

He shouldn’t be surprised about anything when it comes to Jim.

Jim’s so close that Spock can almost hear his heartbeat. Jim’s smell is all over Spock’s room, underneath the stench of sex. Jim yawns again and asks, “So, when I get that ship... will you be my first officer?”

Spock’s only just getting his words back, so he stumbles and says, “I love you.


There are only a couple days left. The days they shared are a blur to Spock, but ironically, he remembers the emotions clearly. He remembers everything he shared, just like he knows that there’s a shocking lack of regret in Jim’s body. Jim stays with him the whole way, cleaning his room when he won’t leave the bed and feeding him when he forgets to eat. A doctor sees Jim inside the room, so Spock can keep him in sight, and Spock has to fight every urge to glare at the doctor the whole time. It’s obvious the doctor wants Jim, like every Vulcan does, but whenever he can get away with it, Spock wraps a possessive arm around Jim and makes it very clear who Jim belongs to.

Jim has no problem enforcing this. When Sarek comes to check in, Jim sometimes answers. He answers naked, once, while Spock’s sleeping, and Spock wakes up to an instant bucket of embarrassment, chucking a sheet over Jim’s head.

And then things creep back to normal, slowly and eerily, and Spock remembers little things to apologize for. Jim won’t have any of it. The logic trickles back in, and eventually, Spock’s able to say no to strip chess, because, “That’s illogical.”

“Eh,” Jim laughs, “I’ll just wait another few years.”

Spock glances over his shoulder, unable to tell if Jim’s serious. He doubts he’ll get that long a reprieve if Jim’s decided he wants something. Jim’s already fully dressed. Their first duty in a long, long time.

And Jim’s last week—he asked for seven days of extension. Then he’ll be going back to Starfleet to try for captain, and Spock...

Spock said yes during pon farr, somewhere. He’s sure of it. He doesn’t hold the exact memory, but he knows he wanted to. He still wants to. He thought maybe when it went down, when logic came back...

But he wants to, and he offers a hand to Jim, sitting on the bed next to their chessboard. Jim lets himself be pulled off it. Spock’s still unreasonably nervous, but Jim helps push him out the door.

And then they’re down the hall, walking to the bridge. Spock tries to hold his head high. He showered multiple times—without Jim, though it took some effort—and the pon farr should all be passed. Spock tenses at the first Vulcan they walk by.

There’s a respect in the man’s eyes that Spock’s not used to. But then, he’s not used to having a handsome, exotic, intelligent mate, strong and walking boldly down the hall with him, right to the bridge. A few eyes subtly fall on them as the doors open, and they’re walked into Sarek’s office, Sarek’s face utterly calm.

There’re two chairs facing the desk. After being in his room for a week straight, it’s strange for Spock to be outside. Jim takes one seat and Spock takes the other.

Sarek takes the one behind the desk and pushes two PADDs towards them, one each. Spock picks his up with a quick glance: a basic duty roster. When Spock looks up to say thank you, Sarek’s leaning across the desk. “It is good to see you well.”

Spock nods curtly. He appreciates that, but doesn’t know what to say. Sarek glances over at Jim with a slight incline of the head; it’s not a thank you, but it’s acknowledgement. Jim smiles back, taking it. “Sir, about my duties...”

“Your transfer is in order,” Sarek says. And here he pauses, turning to Spock. “...Yours can be, as well.”

Spock’s eyebrows furrow, lips opening. He knew his father was perceptive. But... he licks his lips. Has he been so obvious? “I did not request a transfer.”

“No, but it would not be unheard of for a bonded Vulcan to want to follow his mate. ...Nor for a young man with your talents to want to pursue them further.”

Spock’s eyebrows lift. “I... I was under the impression you preferred my presence on your ship.”

“It is only logical for a father to want his son by his side. By the same token, I would also wish you to see your full potential. You are young, Spock. You have plenty of time to come back if this is where you decide you would be best suited, but viewing other options would not be improper.”

Spock... doesn’t even know where to begin. His tongue’s caught in his throat, collar hot. Beside him, Jim says softly, “I think he’s giving you permission to come with me.”

“That is exactly what I am doing.”

The decision... isn’t even a decision anymore. There isn’t any reason to fight it, anything to choose from. Spock says, “Thank you, Father.” And his eyes say yes.

Sarek nods and turns to his console. “It will be done.” Spock’s inclined to smile.

Instead, he rises from his chair, Jim following. Jim turns to the door, and Spock sends go ahead through their bond. Jim hesitates, but leaves.

Spock walks around the table. He can feel his mother’s blood in him and Jim’s influence over the little time they’ve shared. Sarek looks up curiously at him.

“Thank you.” He says it closer, in place of a hug. Sarek seems to understand. Slowly, he stands.

He puts a hand on Spock’s shoulder, an insurmountable gesture, and says, “You will do well.”

There’s a moment where Spock savours it. The feeling of being loved, even if it isn’t about that, even if he shouldn’t, even if neither of them are saying it. He knows. He turns and strolls for the door, letting them slide shut behind him.

Jim’s waiting on the other side with an outstretched hand.