The Prophecy of Apollo, Part 4
Author: ladyblahblah
Fandom: Star Trek Reboot (AU)
Pairing: Spock/Kirk
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: My cats own all, I own nothing. They have no interest in Star Trek, so they made me trade it to Paramount for a bag of cat food and a catnip mouse. Cats, you make terrible agents! Now we're not even getting paid for this, geez.
Summary: AU, based on the Cupid and Psyche myth. How different would the world be if Surak's influence had never spread, if the Awakening had never happened, if Vulcans had never sought to control their emotions? It's the Federation, Jim, but not as we know it. Warlord Sarek's son has reached his Time and requires a mate. Who will brave the monster's lair?
Author's Note: As promised, the next part up and Christmas still to come! \o/ Whether or not that other thing will get finished by that deadline is another matter. Here, my lovelies, have A WHOLE HEAP OF SPOCK! Don't say I never did nothin' for ya. ^_~ (P.S. I will be responding to comments on the last part soon, as well as including the OMG FANART YOU GUYS I'M FLIPPING OUT SO HARD I CAN'T EVEN TELL YOU! Love you much, bbs.)
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Jim woke with a start, struggling to find his bearings as sleep faded slowly from his mind. His first thought was that he hadn’t slept long: a few minutes, maybe an hour, but a short enough time that the sun had yet to set. Almost immediately, however, he realized that the light wasn’t coming from the window. A single lamp with a thick metal shade hung above his head, turning the bed into a pool of golden light and casting the rest of the room into shadow. The window must, at some point, have been shuttered; not so much as a hint of Vulcan’s bright starlight shone into the room, and the air felt hot and heavy and close. It pressed in on him from all sides as if to emphasize the unrelenting darkness that surrounded his single oasis of light.
And within that darkness, he heard something stir.
The certainty that he was no longer alone in the room hit him with terrifying force, and the thing in the shadows stirred again as though it could hear the sound of Jim’s heart as it began to race. There was a low, rough sound, like a growl and yet not. It didn’t sound angry, Jim thought. He hoped. It sounded . . . inquisitive, maybe. Hungry. Jim tried to take it as a good sign that he was still alive, and sat up completely.
“Hello,” he tried tentatively, and was answered by the same low, hungry sound. He could make out the sound of breathing as well now, unsteady and drawn past gritted teeth. The thought of those teeth sent a frisson of fear through him, something that he tried to ignore. “Ah. Lord Spock?”
The voice that answered him was low and rough, the words spoken slowly and deliberately, and the air seemed suddenly to vibrate with the tension of control that was nearly at its breaking point.
“There is a switch on the wall,” the voice said. “Turn out the light.”
Jim glanced over his shoulder. The metal plate that surrounded the light switch gleamed faintly at the edge of the pool of light. Easy enough to lean over, to stretch out an arm and flip the switch. To extinguish the light and leave nothing but inky blackness and the thing that waited in the shadows.
“I . . .” Jim swallowed harshly, trying to remind himself to submit. “I’d rather not,” he said instead, and wished too late to be able to snatch the words back.
The snarl that split the air was furious, and so close that Jim imagined he could feel the breath that expelled it slam against his skin. He had a split second to think of how high up the sound had seemed to originate, to think Fucking hell, how tall is he? Then something slammed against the lamp-a chair, his panicked brain thought, a heavy wooden chair that would’ve taken all of Jim’s strength even to lift-and ripped it free as though the suspending cord had been made of paper. There was a heart rattling crash as wood and glass shattered and metal crumpled, and a shower of sparks in the sudden darkness. From where he had fallen back against the bed Jim could make out a towering figure: pale skin over corded muscle, long dark hair that seemed to whip around his head, the briefest flash of dark, enraged eyes.
Then the light faded, bright spots dancing before his eyes in the dark, and a hot, hard body fell upon him.
Jim’s instincts took over, fueled by the fear that blazed to life again as he was grappled in the dark. He twisted and jerked, trying to break the Vulcan’s hold on him, and for a moment, with his skin still slick with oil and sweat, he nearly succeeded. Only for a moment, however. Soon enough greater strength and better leverage prevailed, and he found himself face-down, helplessly pinned between soft bedding and hard flesh. He could feel long strands of hair brushing over his shoulders, hot breath rushing over his ear, the unexpected scrape of stubble against his neck as Spock inhaled deeply, as if to test his scent. That first hungry growl again, and then an instant later teeth sank hard into the back of his neck as strong hands slid down his body and spread him open and then . . . then . . .
It was like getting fucked by flame made solid, Jim thought dazedly as Spock thrust into him. Heat beyond anything he could have imagined, surrounding him, inside of him, burning him alive. There was pain, and oddly it seemed to center him, driving back the panic and letting him focus again.
With his eyes closed the darkness was no longer quite as frightening; he focused on the physical: the burning heat and tight stretch of Spock thrusting hard and fast, the sharp sting of teeth holding him in place, marking him. His own cock, quiescent until then, gave a sudden twitch at the thought, and Jim did his best to focus on the idea of his body being taken, claimed, marked. It was unexpectedly arousing, and he shifted as best he could while trapped under the insistent press of the body above his, trying to spread his legs wider. He felt that body shudder violently, hips slamming forward with brutal force, and Spock’s cry was muffled against Jim’s skin as he spilled his release inside of him.
Climax hardly seemed to slow him down. Seconds later the weight lifted from Jim’s back and his head spun as he was flipped effortlessly over, his legs shoved up and apart before that impossible heat filled him again. The back of his neck throbbed dully, but either the rest of the pain had lessened or Jim had simply stopped caring. He was growing steadily harder with each push of Spock’s hips, his own desire rising now that his life seemed to be in less immediate danger. As soon as he shifted, however, seeking more, a low, warning growl erupted out of Spock’s chest and a hand clamped tight around Jim’s throat. He took the hint and went still, trying to project open, calming thoughts.
There was a hitch in the movements of Spock’s hips, the sound of a quickly drawn breath. Another full-body shudder, then, and a low, desperate sound that made Jim’s own muscles clench in sympathetic need. What he did next was stupid and dangerous, something that was only underscored by the hand still locked around his throat, but he couldn’t have stopped himself if he’d tried. That sound was tugging at something deep inside of him, and all he could manage in answer was to reach up blindly, his hand tangling in silky hair before it found the back of Spock’s neck and tugged him down to send their mouths literally crashing together.
He could feel the Vulcan’s surprise in every tense line of his body, would almost swear he could taste it in the lips that parted in confusion over his. Jim managed to tilt his head and pull back just enough so that their mouths no longer ground against each other. He didn’t imagine Spock had much experience with the Human way of kissing-most Vulcans of Jim’s acquaintance viewed the practice with anything from bafflement to distaste. But Jim knew from watching T’Pring and Stonn that there could be no mistaking his next move, as he lifted his free hand to slide his first two fingers against the ones that pressed against the pulse that hammered below his jaw.
Spock made that sound again, breathing it into the kiss as a hot tongue slid hesitantly into Jim’s mouth. Jim moaned, rocking his hips, and reluctantly pulled his mouth away.
“Yes,” he rasped. His airflow was still restricted by Spock’s grip, and he had no idea what he was agreeing to. But he knew that the tangle of their bodies wasn’t enough, and that this desperation demanded no other answer. So, “Yes,” he said again, right before his world disintegrated.
Spock’s hand released his throat, and Jim had time for a single starved breath. Then that hand was pressed against the side of his face, fingertips spidering over his brow, his temple, his cheekbone, the heat of them so great it felt as though they had fused to his skin. Almost as soon as the sensation registered, however, it was gone, his physical awareness lost in what felt like a sort of mental detonation.
He had never known true heat before that moment, he realized, never known what it was to burn. It was happening to Spock now; Jim could feel it. Flames consumed him, burning in his blood, in his mind, in the very air he breathed. Jim, the sweet cool body beneath him, was balm and torment at once, like water abruptly transmuted to oil, and what began as relief only made Spock burn hotter. Deeper than need, deeper than craving, aitlu nash-veh k'dular. But fear held him back from what he wanted, fear of destroying this beautiful, fragile golden creature, of shattering his salvation before he himself was consumed by the fires that tormented him.
Jim’s mind surged forward, asserting itself through the maelstrom of howling need that surrounded and filled him. Not fragile, not delicate. And not afraid; not when another depended on him. So he opened himself, inviting Spock further in. Spock didn’t hesitate but immediately sank deep into Jim’s mind, his thoughts like quicksilver in a sea of gold. And there, in the core of who and what and why Jim was, something woke and reached for that new presence.
Something in the Vulcan’s mind answered readily, eagerly; the touch of his mind there was warm sunlight and soothing, welcoming home. Jim felt Spock draw their minds together, a connection that radiated out from that point, and it became an anchor, a bridge, something that was neither and both of them at the same time. The fire in Spock’s mind burned in Jim’s now, as well, though not as brightly nor as hot. Shared between them the burden was bearable, and the rush of euphoric relief that streamed from Spock’s mind into his was too much to bear. Jim felt himself coming apart, flying to pieces, and knew that Spock would see him put back together again.
In the darkness Jim seemed to exist in an almost timeless state after that. He couldn’t have said how long he stayed in that room, if it was hours or days or weeks. It didn’t seem to matter; Spock was there, and Spock would see him through intact.
His awareness came in fits and starts, pieces of reality that managed to filter through.
He was staring into the darkness as Spock’s mouth trailed down his body, the silky hair trailing over his chest a dizzying contrast to the rough stubble that scraped against his stomach. Hot hands slid down his sides to anchor his hips as Spock pulled images straight from Jim’s thoughts and wrapped his lips around Jim’s cock.
He was sitting, propped against a pile of pillows, Spock warm and solid at his side. Every few moments long fingers lifted a piece of food to his mouth, lingering shamelessly over his lips as they retreated. Jim wanted to feed himself, but he couldn’t see where the food was to snatch it away, and the only response he received to his protests was a low chuckle and another bite-sized piece of fruit. Finally he settled for seizing Spock’s wrist before his hand could retreat and holding it there, unable to stop a smug smile from curving his lips at the shocked, helpless groan that sounded in his ear as he sucked two fingers into his mouth.
He was sitting in a warm pool of water, his body cradled by Spock’s behind him. A thin cloth skimmed up one arm and across his chest, a scent like sun-warmed spices rising from the lather that slicked his skin. Jim lifted one arm behind him to wrap around Spock’s neck, turning to draw the Vulcan into a Human kiss; they’d made good progress on that front, and Jim felt his breath catch at a particularly clever twist of Spock’s tongue. There was a splash between his legs as the cloth fell from Spock’s fingers a moment before hands grasped Jim’s hips, lifting him until Spock could slide inside. Water lapped as they moved together, Spock’s hand closing around Jim’s cock beneath the water and Jim turning to brace both hands on the smooth stone ledge that ringed the pool as he rode Spock with single-minded intensity.
He was boneless with their shared release, his body aching and sore, more completely drained than he had ever been in his life. The air was saturated with the scent of them, and it made something in his mind buzz with lazy satisfaction. Jim moved close to the warm body lying next to him, and strong arms gathered him closer still. Spock’s hand lifted to his face and Jim tilted towards him in invitation, managing a pleased hum when fingertips found his meld points. Warm and sated, he basked in the pleasure of Spock’s mind in his again and felt himself slipping into sleep.
The next time Jim woke it was with unfamiliar hands on him and he reacted without thinking, rolling off of the bed and falling into a defensive stance. At least, that was what he tried to do; in reality, he barely shifted before his entire body sent up a screaming protest and he fell back against the sheets, gasping and trying to hold on to consciousness. When he had managed to clear the agonized white haze that had overtaken his vision, he realized that the face hovering over him in patient concern was half familiar. Vlorik lifted an eyebrow, and when Jim made no attempt to move again, resumed his task. A moment later Jim realized that the cool, tingling cream that the Vulcan was spreading over his skin was relaxing muscles that were stiff and knotted, aided every so often by a clever twisting press of long, wrinkled fingers.
A moment after that, it finally struck Jim that he was seeing all of this again.
The window was standing open again, sending daylight in to illuminate the room, though the lamp above the bed seemed to have been repaired. The window must have been so for some time; the air had lost its heavy musk, and was scented now with something fresh and delicate that was blowing in on the warm air. The bed had been remade with fresh linens at some point. Nevertheless, the scent of Spock seemed to somehow linger in the air. Or, Jim noted wryly, possibly on his own skin.
“An attendant will help you to the bath when I have finished,” Vlorik said, moving from Jim’s stomach down to his thighs. “At the moment, attempting to move on your own would not be advisable.”
Jim tried to swallow past a dust-dry throat. “Did anyone ever tell you that touch telepathy thing is a little creepy?” he rasped.
“No.”
“Right.” Jim shifted again, experimentally, and was relieved to find that whatever Vlorik was doing had eased most of the aches in his body. “Look, no one’s ever going to accuse you guys of being bad hosts, but seriously, I am capable of bathing myself. Unless you’re going to tell me that this is more of your Vulcan pon farr tradition?”
“Of course not,” Vlorik replied easily. He dipped his fingers into a small pot and rubbed another dollop of salve between his hands. “If you would be so kind as to lift your arms?”
Jim tried, and the pain that exploded through his shoulders nearly made him pass out.
“Perhaps,” Vlorik said after a moment, “you should accept that my knowledge of what your body may endure at the moment is greater than your own.”
“Oh, shut up,” Jim gasped, and the Vulcan’s lips twitched.
“My master would be quite displeased if the inattention of his servants allowed you to drown while bathing.”
“All right, I get it, more full-service spa treatment.” Jim took a deep, steadying breath, and released it on a helpless groan as Vlorik massaged more salve into his shoulders. “I feel like I’ve been hit with the broad side of a spaceship,” he complained.”
“I would imagine so. Human bodies are not designed to withstand the Vulcan time of mating. You are fortunate to have survived; to the best of my knowledge, you are only the second Human to have done so. Granted,” he mused, “to the best of my knowledge you are also only the second to have attempted it.”
“Well. I guess Spock will have another seven years to-” He cut off suddenly, coughing, and Vlorik withdrew to fetch a glass of water.
“Can you drink?” he asked. “Or would you prefer us to replace the saline drip?”
“The . . . what?” Jim looked down and, sure enough, there was a small bandage on the back of his hand and the lingering feel of the needle, a feeling he remembered from-
“How long was I out?” he managed, pushing those memories back down.
“You have slept for the past twenty-one hours,” Vlorik informed him, and Jim’s eyes went wide.
“Shit.” He took an unsteady breath. “Let me have the water.”
Vlorik helped to lift him into a sitting position, sending a fresh wave of pain through Jim’s abdominal muscles. It was worth it, however, when the edge of the glass touched his lips and cool, sweet water flowed into his mouth. He drank clumsily, and nearly half of the water ended up spilling down his chest, but that was good, too. When he was finished he let himself be eased back down, and took some small amount of comfort in the fact that at least things couldn’t get any more embarrassing for him.
“If you are suitably refreshed, please turn over so that I can check for tearing and damage.”
Son of a bitch.
Jim bore it all with as much grace as he could manage. Once Vlorik’s examination was complete Jim let himself be led to the adjoining bath by a blonde Vulcan woman, one of the servants who had aided him upon his arrival. The tub there was smaller than the ones he had seen before, fitted with pipes rather than the natural springs that he suspected formed the others. As he settled into the warm water he gripped the sides of the tub, and the sudden memory of holding onto that smooth stone as Spock thrust into him was nearly overwhelming. His breath caught, and he did his best to ignore the memory as he had the others.
The woman seemed content, for the most part, to simply help him into the water and then sit by to ensure he didn’t drown. Jim was grateful for that; something about her touch made him uncomfortable, just as Vlorik’s had. He washed himself as best he could, but his range of motion was still limited. She had knelt beside the tub before he could ask, taking the cloth from his hand and pressing him forward so that she could wash his back with swift, methodical strokes.
“Thanks,” he managed. There was awkward silence for a moment, punctuated only by the soft lap of the water and the sound of the cloth sliding over his skin. “So. What’s your name?”
“T’Perea,” she said. Her voice was quiet but firm, polite without inviting further discourse. Jim couldn’t help smiling; he’d never been able to resist a beautiful woman playing hard to get.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Jim.”
“I know.” She leaned back, wrung out the cloth, and draped it over the edge of the tub. “Shall I shampoo your hair, or would you prefer to do so yourself?”
Jim gave his shoulders a testing flex and winced. “Knock yourself out.” T’Perea tilted her head inquisitively, and Jim smiled again. “Sorry. Yes, I’d appreciate your assistance.”
“As you command.” She reached out with unerring aim and picked up the bottle with a flared neck that rested nearby.
“I’ve never seen a blonde Vulcan before,” Jim commented idly, his eyes closed as she began to work his hair into a lather. Her fingers stilled for a just moment against his scalp, and Jim frowned. “Sorry, did I say something wrong?”
“I am originally from K’lan-ne, on the island continent of Xir’tan. Fairer coloring is somewhat more common there.”
“Oh.” Jim waited, but as no more information seemed to be forthcoming he cast about for a reasonably innocuous subject. “So, what happened to your eyes?”
Smooth, Kirk. Really smooth.
“I was born blind,” she said, and to Jim’s relief seemed far less uncomfortable talking about her eyes than she had been about her hair. “Most of us were, though some, like T’Sal, lived the first part of their lives with sight. All of us are fortunate to have found a place here.”
Jim leaned his head back as T’Perea pulled the showerhead from the wall, where it was attached with a long hose, and began to rinse his hair with a spray of warm water. “Everyone who works here is blind.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but T’Perea inclined her head.
“We all heard the rumors, that the son of T’naehm-Feihan Sarek accepted the service of those who can not see, provided they can make their way unaided to his stronghold. Not many attempt it. The desert and the mountains both are filled with danger, and the city . . .” She couldn’t quite stifle a shiver. “None approach the city if any other choice remains to them.”
Jim tried to imagine it, the long trek through the empty city with no sight to guide you, to distract you from the eerie, wailing winds. “I guess they wouldn’t,” he said eventually.
“It says much in your favor that you braved the test,” T’Perea said, and there was something in her voice that was oddly close to pride. “Lord Spock has found a worthy match.”
“Yeah.” Jim shifted uncertainly. “Where is he, anyway?”
“My lord remains in his study during the daylight hours. He has been monitoring your health quite closely, however; he was quite concerned that he had used you too roughly.”
Jim felt himself blush, and was grateful for the towel that he was handed to dry his face. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice muffled by the thick cloth, though when he lowered it he could see from the doubtful expression on T’Perea’s face that she had heard him. “Really, I’m feeling much better. Any idea when I’ll be getting a clean bill of health? Don’t get me wrong, the massages and the being bathed by beautiful women are great, but I do have responsibilities.”
Their fingers brushed as he handed back the towel, and both of T’Perea’s eyebrows shot up. “You are . . . eager,” she said, clearly surprised.
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t be?”
She flushed faintly green, and all traces of surprise fell from her face immediately. “Of course not. It is perfectly logical that you should be.” She stood in a single graceful movement. “You are clean,” she declared, and held out her hand. Jim grasped it, using her strength to help himself up, and as soon as he left the water she began to dry him with brisk, impersonal efficiency. “It is Vlorik’s place to determine when you have sufficiently recovered. Your state would be improved, however, if you were to eat. Shall I have a tray sent up?”
“Yes, please,” Jim said, focusing on his empty stomach instead of the memory of Spock’s fingers pressing bits of food to his lips.
He needed to get out of here soon, he thought as he settled back into bed, no matter how much a part of him seemed to be protesting the idea. That part of him was close to panic at the very idea, unwilling to do something that meant he would never feel Spock’s touch again. He belonged here, it whispered, belonged with the one whose scent lingered on his skin even now. It insisted that he couldn’t leave, couldn’t abandon what he had found here.
Jim pushed that annoying little voice to the back of his mind. Yes, the sex had been amazing, and he might regret never having Spock’s body at his disposal like that again. But he didn’t belong here. He had to get back to Pike, to his teammates, to the life he had built with them. Had to let them know, he reminded himself, that they’d been risking their lives on a complete fucking waste of time.
Another servant, male this time, arrived a few moments later carrying a tray loaded with food. All things, Jim noticed, that he had eaten the night he arrived. Either they had paid better attention than he had realized, or they’d scanned his ident chip and figured out his allergies. Whatever the cause, however, he found that he didn’t really care. The scent of food seemed to kick his hunger into overdrive, and he tore into the meal with zeal. The more he ate, the more the remaining knot of tension between his shoulder blades eased; by the time he finished he was full, relaxed, and completely exhausted. With nothing better to do anyway, Jim settled down into the soft nest of pillows and let the sated torpor in his limbs lull him into a nap.
His sleep was deep and dreamless, and he woke with a warm sense of contentment flowing through his veins like a drug. He smiled drowsily and tilted his head back, exposing his neck in invitation to the soft lips nuzzling at the skin below his jaw.
Jim came suddenly and fully awake, his heart hammering in his chest. The room was dark again, and a heavy body was draped over him, effectively pinning him to the bed. Silky hair brushed against his shoulders as those lips continued to explore, and Jim shivered.
“Spock?” His voice sounded breathless, needy, and he frowned. Before he could try again, however, Spock’s teeth scraped gently over his pulse and all that came out of his mouth was an eager gasp.
“Vlorik assured me that you were sufficiently recovered, provided that I could remain reasonably gentle. He also informed me that you had expressed an eagerness to fulfill your responsibilities.” The tip of a hot, wet tongue traced the curve of Jim’s ear, making him shiver. “I am pleased to hear it.”
Jim opened his mouth to respond, but when Spock shifted his erection pressed suddenly against Jim’s thigh, and the words turned into a groan. “Is . . . it’s not over?” he asked, unable to think clearly past the press of Spock’s body and the softly nipping kisses that were being trailed across his jaw. Spock made a sound somewhere between a hum and a purr, one of his hands beginning to roam over Jim’s chest.
“I no longer burn,” he said, and sucked Jim’s earlobe into his mouth. “You may struggle if you wish.”
A jolt went through Jim at those words, and if he hadn’t already been hard when he woke up that would’ve gotten him there. There was something off, something alarming about this situation, but it was difficult to focus through the arousal already blazing through his body. He lifted a leg to wrap around Spock’s hips and hauled Spock up for a proper kiss, and decided he’d have plenty of time for thinking after they’d both gotten off.
Spock’s hands were gentle and careful as they moved over Jim’s bruised and battered body. Warm instead of hot, teasing rather than demanding. Jim lifted himself eagerly to Spock’s touch, seeking more. He needed; not the same fiery, all-consuming need of pon farr, but something stronger. Deeper. By the time Spock’s oil-coated fingers slid inside of him Jim was panting, his skin already slicked with sweat. His hips lifted to meet Spock’s hand, and he smiled as Spock groaned helplessly into his mouth.
Spock had promised to be gentle; Jim hadn’t. He gave Spock’s shoulders a hard shove, smiling wickedly in the dark when the Vulcan allowed himself to be pushed over onto his back. Jim leaned down to kiss him again, tangling fingers in long, soft hair as he rocked his hips and ground their cocks together. Then he leaned back and lifted himself up, long-fingered hands on his hips holding him stead as he sank back down and impaled himself with maddening slowness on Spock’s cock.
Jim’s other senses seemed to come alive with his vision blocked. Spock’s scent rose up around him, familiar and intoxicating, so strong that Jim could almost taste it. The sound of them sliding wetly together as Jim shifted his hips was obscenely erotic. The grip of Spock’s hands anchored him, keeping him balanced, and Jim reached down to run his hands over Spock’s chest. There was thick hair there, unusual for a Vulcan; Jim tangled his fingers in it, delighting in the feel of it scraping against his palms.
He angled his hips, searching, and let out an unsteady cry when the head of Spock’s cock bumped against his prostate. He thrust down harder on the next stroke, and the second ridge hit that bundle of nerves as well. With a shuddering moan Jim braced his hands and began to ride Spock in earnest, blindly seeking more of that mind-shattering pleasure. One of Spock’s hands lifted from Jim’s hip, and Jim waited for it to close around his cock. Instead he felt fingers slide into place against his temple, and pleasure streaked into his brain like lightning. He didn’t last long after that, he imagined; it was difficult to tell, lost as he was to whatever the hell Spock was doing to him. Jim felt his body twitch, then fall, caught by strong hands and lowered gently to lie tucked snugly against Spock’s side.
“Fucking hell,” he said eventually, unable to come up with anything more articulate than that but dimly pleased that he’d at least managed something polysyllabic. Spock made some sort of pleased, almost smug noise, and buried his face in Jim’s hair. “That was . . .”
“Indeed.” Definitely smug. “Your mind is unusually suited to telepathic contact, for a Human.” His voice turned playful. “Almost greedy, James.”
Jim started. “How did you-oh.” He settled back against Spock’s warmth again, rolling his eyes at his own foolishness. “Right, my name is on my chip.”
“Chip?”
“Yeah, the ident chip I’m tagged with.” Jim snagged one of Spock’s hands and pressed his fingers to the underside of Jim’s forearm. “Name, rank, serial number, medical file, all that. We’re all tagged with them; Pike insisted. I go by Jim, though, not James.”
“Ah.” Spock’s fingers caressed the spot, sending unexpected shivers down Jim’s spine. “I see. However, I learned your name from the necklace that you wore on your arrival.” His lips drifted down to Jim’s forehead in gentle exploration. “Kirk, James T.” Jim felt him smile. “My mate came quite well identified. It is fortunate, as your chip will no longer be functioning.”
“What?”
“The neutron bombs that destroyed Da’kum’Ulcha are still partially active; every hour they emit an EMP pulse. Any electronic information that you carried with you was wiped when you walked through the city.”
“Wiped . . . son of a bitch,” Jim cursed. “But . . . no, that can’t be right. I can still understand you, so my UT implant is still working.”
Spock’s mouth drifted lower, and they both shivered as his lips brushed against Jim’s psi points. “I do not understand your logic,” he admitted.
“I don’t speak Vulcan.” Jim’s hands had lifted to Spock’s shoulders by this point, trailing over smooth skin and firm muscles. “I couldn’t understand you if my UT implant had stopped working.”
Spock hummed against Jim’s cheek. “I am speaking Standard.”
“You’re what?”
“Few Humans are fluent in Vulcan; when you arrived, my servants assumed that this would be the case with you. Have you truly not noticed that we have all spoken in your own tongue?”
“I, um. I have trouble telling the difference.” Jim ran one hand through Spock’s hair and slid the other down his back. “Damn it,” he said distractedly, “I’ll have to get new ones put in. That’s going to suck.”
“Why?”
“I don’t respond well to anesthetics; they give me awful hangovers the next day. I hate surgical implants, but-”
“You misunderstand.” Spock pulled away, and Jim just barely bit back a protesting whimper. “Why must you obtain replacements?”
“I told you, Pike’s orders. Everyone in his unit has to have them. When I go back-”
“You will not.”
“I won’t . . . what exactly?”
“You will not go back. You will remain here.” Spock reached for him again. “Therefore you need not worry yourself unduly over-”
“Okay, hold on.” This time Jim was the one to pull back. “I can’t stay here,” he said reasonably, ignoring the part of him that was insisting that it wanted to stay. “Your pon farr is over, and I have a life to get back to.”
“Your life is here now,” Spock replied, his voice every bit as reasonable. “You are my mate; you will remain with me.”
“I was your mate, but . . .” Jim blinked into the darkness as understanding hit in a sudden rush. “Oh, shit,” he breathed. “Mate. You mean . . .”
“You are my bondmate.” Spock was beginning to sound impatient now. “The bond between us enabled you to survive my Time. You are mine, and I will not have you leave.”
“Okay.” Jim struggled to keep his breathing even. “Okay, there’s been some sort of misunderstanding here.”
“There has been no misunderstanding. You initiated the ozh’esta,” he insisted, and Jim felt two fingers slide against his, making him shiver. “You offered your body and your mind to me, and took mine in return. We are bonded, and you will not leave.”
“I . . .” Jim struggled to keep his breathing even. “I can’t have this conversation in the dark. I’m just going to turn on the-”
He found himself pinned flat on his back before he could even begin to move. There was a moment where Spock simply hovered over him, his breathing loud and barely controlled, his hair falling in a curtain around Jim’s face.
“When you spoke of your responsibilities,” Spock said at last, his voice low and dangerous, “You referred to your position in your mentor’s unit.”
Jim’s heart was racing and his mouth was dry, but he managed to nod. “Yes.”
“You never intended to stay.”
“Spock, I-”
“You had planned from the start to escape as soon as the monster was sated.”
“That’s not-”
“You are mine,” Spock snarled. “I will not release you.”
Anger and frustration began to rise in Jim. “I’m not your prisoner.”
“No. You are my mate.” There was a pause, and when Spock spoke he sounded almost resigned. “I had thought . . . you truly have no wish to stay?”
“I . . .”
Jim knew that he couldn’t afford to waver, that he had to get back to the people who were waiting for him. But despite his better judgement, there was a part of him that did want to stay. The part of him, he figured, that recognized Spock as his bondmate. The thought of leaving was enough to make him feel ill; but he had to, had responsibilities and obligations to fulfil, and he opened his mouth to tell Spock that.
“Will you let me see you?” he asked instead. Spock’s hands tightened around his wrists where they were pinned to the bed.
“You will certainly leave if I do.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I will not take the chance. When I am certain you will stay of your own free will, I will show myself to you. Do not attempt to look at me before then.”
“What if I just leave?” Jim challenged, and shivered when Spock’s lips brushed against the shell of his ear.
“Then I will bring you back,” he breathed. “You belong to me now, Jim; you would do well not to forget that.”
Spock released him then, and by the time Jim caught his breath again he was half-hard and entirely alone. He closed his eyes and slid into sleep, too exhausted to worry.
Besides, there would apparently be plenty of time for that in the morning.
>>Part 5
Fandom: Star Trek Reboot (AU)
Pairing: Spock/Kirk
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: My cats own all, I own nothing. They have no interest in Star Trek, so they made me trade it to Paramount for a bag of cat food and a catnip mouse. Cats, you make terrible agents! Now we're not even getting paid for this, geez.
Summary: AU, based on the Cupid and Psyche myth. How different would the world be if Surak's influence had never spread, if the Awakening had never happened, if Vulcans had never sought to control their emotions? It's the Federation, Jim, but not as we know it. Warlord Sarek's son has reached his Time and requires a mate. Who will brave the monster's lair?
Author's Note: As promised, the next part up and Christmas still to come! \o/ Whether or not that other thing will get finished by that deadline is another matter. Here, my lovelies, have A WHOLE HEAP OF SPOCK! Don't say I never did nothin' for ya. ^_~ (P.S. I will be responding to comments on the last part soon, as well as including the OMG FANART YOU GUYS I'M FLIPPING OUT SO HARD I CAN'T EVEN TELL YOU! Love you much, bbs.)
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Jim woke with a start, struggling to find his bearings as sleep faded slowly from his mind. His first thought was that he hadn’t slept long: a few minutes, maybe an hour, but a short enough time that the sun had yet to set. Almost immediately, however, he realized that the light wasn’t coming from the window. A single lamp with a thick metal shade hung above his head, turning the bed into a pool of golden light and casting the rest of the room into shadow. The window must, at some point, have been shuttered; not so much as a hint of Vulcan’s bright starlight shone into the room, and the air felt hot and heavy and close. It pressed in on him from all sides as if to emphasize the unrelenting darkness that surrounded his single oasis of light.
And within that darkness, he heard something stir.
The certainty that he was no longer alone in the room hit him with terrifying force, and the thing in the shadows stirred again as though it could hear the sound of Jim’s heart as it began to race. There was a low, rough sound, like a growl and yet not. It didn’t sound angry, Jim thought. He hoped. It sounded . . . inquisitive, maybe. Hungry. Jim tried to take it as a good sign that he was still alive, and sat up completely.
“Hello,” he tried tentatively, and was answered by the same low, hungry sound. He could make out the sound of breathing as well now, unsteady and drawn past gritted teeth. The thought of those teeth sent a frisson of fear through him, something that he tried to ignore. “Ah. Lord Spock?”
The voice that answered him was low and rough, the words spoken slowly and deliberately, and the air seemed suddenly to vibrate with the tension of control that was nearly at its breaking point.
“There is a switch on the wall,” the voice said. “Turn out the light.”
Jim glanced over his shoulder. The metal plate that surrounded the light switch gleamed faintly at the edge of the pool of light. Easy enough to lean over, to stretch out an arm and flip the switch. To extinguish the light and leave nothing but inky blackness and the thing that waited in the shadows.
“I . . .” Jim swallowed harshly, trying to remind himself to submit. “I’d rather not,” he said instead, and wished too late to be able to snatch the words back.
The snarl that split the air was furious, and so close that Jim imagined he could feel the breath that expelled it slam against his skin. He had a split second to think of how high up the sound had seemed to originate, to think Fucking hell, how tall is he? Then something slammed against the lamp-a chair, his panicked brain thought, a heavy wooden chair that would’ve taken all of Jim’s strength even to lift-and ripped it free as though the suspending cord had been made of paper. There was a heart rattling crash as wood and glass shattered and metal crumpled, and a shower of sparks in the sudden darkness. From where he had fallen back against the bed Jim could make out a towering figure: pale skin over corded muscle, long dark hair that seemed to whip around his head, the briefest flash of dark, enraged eyes.
Then the light faded, bright spots dancing before his eyes in the dark, and a hot, hard body fell upon him.
Jim’s instincts took over, fueled by the fear that blazed to life again as he was grappled in the dark. He twisted and jerked, trying to break the Vulcan’s hold on him, and for a moment, with his skin still slick with oil and sweat, he nearly succeeded. Only for a moment, however. Soon enough greater strength and better leverage prevailed, and he found himself face-down, helplessly pinned between soft bedding and hard flesh. He could feel long strands of hair brushing over his shoulders, hot breath rushing over his ear, the unexpected scrape of stubble against his neck as Spock inhaled deeply, as if to test his scent. That first hungry growl again, and then an instant later teeth sank hard into the back of his neck as strong hands slid down his body and spread him open and then . . . then . . .
It was like getting fucked by flame made solid, Jim thought dazedly as Spock thrust into him. Heat beyond anything he could have imagined, surrounding him, inside of him, burning him alive. There was pain, and oddly it seemed to center him, driving back the panic and letting him focus again.
With his eyes closed the darkness was no longer quite as frightening; he focused on the physical: the burning heat and tight stretch of Spock thrusting hard and fast, the sharp sting of teeth holding him in place, marking him. His own cock, quiescent until then, gave a sudden twitch at the thought, and Jim did his best to focus on the idea of his body being taken, claimed, marked. It was unexpectedly arousing, and he shifted as best he could while trapped under the insistent press of the body above his, trying to spread his legs wider. He felt that body shudder violently, hips slamming forward with brutal force, and Spock’s cry was muffled against Jim’s skin as he spilled his release inside of him.
Climax hardly seemed to slow him down. Seconds later the weight lifted from Jim’s back and his head spun as he was flipped effortlessly over, his legs shoved up and apart before that impossible heat filled him again. The back of his neck throbbed dully, but either the rest of the pain had lessened or Jim had simply stopped caring. He was growing steadily harder with each push of Spock’s hips, his own desire rising now that his life seemed to be in less immediate danger. As soon as he shifted, however, seeking more, a low, warning growl erupted out of Spock’s chest and a hand clamped tight around Jim’s throat. He took the hint and went still, trying to project open, calming thoughts.
There was a hitch in the movements of Spock’s hips, the sound of a quickly drawn breath. Another full-body shudder, then, and a low, desperate sound that made Jim’s own muscles clench in sympathetic need. What he did next was stupid and dangerous, something that was only underscored by the hand still locked around his throat, but he couldn’t have stopped himself if he’d tried. That sound was tugging at something deep inside of him, and all he could manage in answer was to reach up blindly, his hand tangling in silky hair before it found the back of Spock’s neck and tugged him down to send their mouths literally crashing together.
He could feel the Vulcan’s surprise in every tense line of his body, would almost swear he could taste it in the lips that parted in confusion over his. Jim managed to tilt his head and pull back just enough so that their mouths no longer ground against each other. He didn’t imagine Spock had much experience with the Human way of kissing-most Vulcans of Jim’s acquaintance viewed the practice with anything from bafflement to distaste. But Jim knew from watching T’Pring and Stonn that there could be no mistaking his next move, as he lifted his free hand to slide his first two fingers against the ones that pressed against the pulse that hammered below his jaw.
Spock made that sound again, breathing it into the kiss as a hot tongue slid hesitantly into Jim’s mouth. Jim moaned, rocking his hips, and reluctantly pulled his mouth away.
“Yes,” he rasped. His airflow was still restricted by Spock’s grip, and he had no idea what he was agreeing to. But he knew that the tangle of their bodies wasn’t enough, and that this desperation demanded no other answer. So, “Yes,” he said again, right before his world disintegrated.
Spock’s hand released his throat, and Jim had time for a single starved breath. Then that hand was pressed against the side of his face, fingertips spidering over his brow, his temple, his cheekbone, the heat of them so great it felt as though they had fused to his skin. Almost as soon as the sensation registered, however, it was gone, his physical awareness lost in what felt like a sort of mental detonation.
He had never known true heat before that moment, he realized, never known what it was to burn. It was happening to Spock now; Jim could feel it. Flames consumed him, burning in his blood, in his mind, in the very air he breathed. Jim, the sweet cool body beneath him, was balm and torment at once, like water abruptly transmuted to oil, and what began as relief only made Spock burn hotter. Deeper than need, deeper than craving, aitlu nash-veh k'dular. But fear held him back from what he wanted, fear of destroying this beautiful, fragile golden creature, of shattering his salvation before he himself was consumed by the fires that tormented him.
Jim’s mind surged forward, asserting itself through the maelstrom of howling need that surrounded and filled him. Not fragile, not delicate. And not afraid; not when another depended on him. So he opened himself, inviting Spock further in. Spock didn’t hesitate but immediately sank deep into Jim’s mind, his thoughts like quicksilver in a sea of gold. And there, in the core of who and what and why Jim was, something woke and reached for that new presence.
Something in the Vulcan’s mind answered readily, eagerly; the touch of his mind there was warm sunlight and soothing, welcoming home. Jim felt Spock draw their minds together, a connection that radiated out from that point, and it became an anchor, a bridge, something that was neither and both of them at the same time. The fire in Spock’s mind burned in Jim’s now, as well, though not as brightly nor as hot. Shared between them the burden was bearable, and the rush of euphoric relief that streamed from Spock’s mind into his was too much to bear. Jim felt himself coming apart, flying to pieces, and knew that Spock would see him put back together again.
In the darkness Jim seemed to exist in an almost timeless state after that. He couldn’t have said how long he stayed in that room, if it was hours or days or weeks. It didn’t seem to matter; Spock was there, and Spock would see him through intact.
His awareness came in fits and starts, pieces of reality that managed to filter through.
He was staring into the darkness as Spock’s mouth trailed down his body, the silky hair trailing over his chest a dizzying contrast to the rough stubble that scraped against his stomach. Hot hands slid down his sides to anchor his hips as Spock pulled images straight from Jim’s thoughts and wrapped his lips around Jim’s cock.
He was sitting, propped against a pile of pillows, Spock warm and solid at his side. Every few moments long fingers lifted a piece of food to his mouth, lingering shamelessly over his lips as they retreated. Jim wanted to feed himself, but he couldn’t see where the food was to snatch it away, and the only response he received to his protests was a low chuckle and another bite-sized piece of fruit. Finally he settled for seizing Spock’s wrist before his hand could retreat and holding it there, unable to stop a smug smile from curving his lips at the shocked, helpless groan that sounded in his ear as he sucked two fingers into his mouth.
He was sitting in a warm pool of water, his body cradled by Spock’s behind him. A thin cloth skimmed up one arm and across his chest, a scent like sun-warmed spices rising from the lather that slicked his skin. Jim lifted one arm behind him to wrap around Spock’s neck, turning to draw the Vulcan into a Human kiss; they’d made good progress on that front, and Jim felt his breath catch at a particularly clever twist of Spock’s tongue. There was a splash between his legs as the cloth fell from Spock’s fingers a moment before hands grasped Jim’s hips, lifting him until Spock could slide inside. Water lapped as they moved together, Spock’s hand closing around Jim’s cock beneath the water and Jim turning to brace both hands on the smooth stone ledge that ringed the pool as he rode Spock with single-minded intensity.
He was boneless with their shared release, his body aching and sore, more completely drained than he had ever been in his life. The air was saturated with the scent of them, and it made something in his mind buzz with lazy satisfaction. Jim moved close to the warm body lying next to him, and strong arms gathered him closer still. Spock’s hand lifted to his face and Jim tilted towards him in invitation, managing a pleased hum when fingertips found his meld points. Warm and sated, he basked in the pleasure of Spock’s mind in his again and felt himself slipping into sleep.
The next time Jim woke it was with unfamiliar hands on him and he reacted without thinking, rolling off of the bed and falling into a defensive stance. At least, that was what he tried to do; in reality, he barely shifted before his entire body sent up a screaming protest and he fell back against the sheets, gasping and trying to hold on to consciousness. When he had managed to clear the agonized white haze that had overtaken his vision, he realized that the face hovering over him in patient concern was half familiar. Vlorik lifted an eyebrow, and when Jim made no attempt to move again, resumed his task. A moment later Jim realized that the cool, tingling cream that the Vulcan was spreading over his skin was relaxing muscles that were stiff and knotted, aided every so often by a clever twisting press of long, wrinkled fingers.
A moment after that, it finally struck Jim that he was seeing all of this again.
The window was standing open again, sending daylight in to illuminate the room, though the lamp above the bed seemed to have been repaired. The window must have been so for some time; the air had lost its heavy musk, and was scented now with something fresh and delicate that was blowing in on the warm air. The bed had been remade with fresh linens at some point. Nevertheless, the scent of Spock seemed to somehow linger in the air. Or, Jim noted wryly, possibly on his own skin.
“An attendant will help you to the bath when I have finished,” Vlorik said, moving from Jim’s stomach down to his thighs. “At the moment, attempting to move on your own would not be advisable.”
Jim tried to swallow past a dust-dry throat. “Did anyone ever tell you that touch telepathy thing is a little creepy?” he rasped.
“No.”
“Right.” Jim shifted again, experimentally, and was relieved to find that whatever Vlorik was doing had eased most of the aches in his body. “Look, no one’s ever going to accuse you guys of being bad hosts, but seriously, I am capable of bathing myself. Unless you’re going to tell me that this is more of your Vulcan pon farr tradition?”
“Of course not,” Vlorik replied easily. He dipped his fingers into a small pot and rubbed another dollop of salve between his hands. “If you would be so kind as to lift your arms?”
Jim tried, and the pain that exploded through his shoulders nearly made him pass out.
“Perhaps,” Vlorik said after a moment, “you should accept that my knowledge of what your body may endure at the moment is greater than your own.”
“Oh, shut up,” Jim gasped, and the Vulcan’s lips twitched.
“My master would be quite displeased if the inattention of his servants allowed you to drown while bathing.”
“All right, I get it, more full-service spa treatment.” Jim took a deep, steadying breath, and released it on a helpless groan as Vlorik massaged more salve into his shoulders. “I feel like I’ve been hit with the broad side of a spaceship,” he complained.”
“I would imagine so. Human bodies are not designed to withstand the Vulcan time of mating. You are fortunate to have survived; to the best of my knowledge, you are only the second Human to have done so. Granted,” he mused, “to the best of my knowledge you are also only the second to have attempted it.”
“Well. I guess Spock will have another seven years to-” He cut off suddenly, coughing, and Vlorik withdrew to fetch a glass of water.
“Can you drink?” he asked. “Or would you prefer us to replace the saline drip?”
“The . . . what?” Jim looked down and, sure enough, there was a small bandage on the back of his hand and the lingering feel of the needle, a feeling he remembered from-
“How long was I out?” he managed, pushing those memories back down.
“You have slept for the past twenty-one hours,” Vlorik informed him, and Jim’s eyes went wide.
“Shit.” He took an unsteady breath. “Let me have the water.”
Vlorik helped to lift him into a sitting position, sending a fresh wave of pain through Jim’s abdominal muscles. It was worth it, however, when the edge of the glass touched his lips and cool, sweet water flowed into his mouth. He drank clumsily, and nearly half of the water ended up spilling down his chest, but that was good, too. When he was finished he let himself be eased back down, and took some small amount of comfort in the fact that at least things couldn’t get any more embarrassing for him.
“If you are suitably refreshed, please turn over so that I can check for tearing and damage.”
Son of a bitch.
Jim bore it all with as much grace as he could manage. Once Vlorik’s examination was complete Jim let himself be led to the adjoining bath by a blonde Vulcan woman, one of the servants who had aided him upon his arrival. The tub there was smaller than the ones he had seen before, fitted with pipes rather than the natural springs that he suspected formed the others. As he settled into the warm water he gripped the sides of the tub, and the sudden memory of holding onto that smooth stone as Spock thrust into him was nearly overwhelming. His breath caught, and he did his best to ignore the memory as he had the others.
The woman seemed content, for the most part, to simply help him into the water and then sit by to ensure he didn’t drown. Jim was grateful for that; something about her touch made him uncomfortable, just as Vlorik’s had. He washed himself as best he could, but his range of motion was still limited. She had knelt beside the tub before he could ask, taking the cloth from his hand and pressing him forward so that she could wash his back with swift, methodical strokes.
“Thanks,” he managed. There was awkward silence for a moment, punctuated only by the soft lap of the water and the sound of the cloth sliding over his skin. “So. What’s your name?”
“T’Perea,” she said. Her voice was quiet but firm, polite without inviting further discourse. Jim couldn’t help smiling; he’d never been able to resist a beautiful woman playing hard to get.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Jim.”
“I know.” She leaned back, wrung out the cloth, and draped it over the edge of the tub. “Shall I shampoo your hair, or would you prefer to do so yourself?”
Jim gave his shoulders a testing flex and winced. “Knock yourself out.” T’Perea tilted her head inquisitively, and Jim smiled again. “Sorry. Yes, I’d appreciate your assistance.”
“As you command.” She reached out with unerring aim and picked up the bottle with a flared neck that rested nearby.
“I’ve never seen a blonde Vulcan before,” Jim commented idly, his eyes closed as she began to work his hair into a lather. Her fingers stilled for a just moment against his scalp, and Jim frowned. “Sorry, did I say something wrong?”
“I am originally from K’lan-ne, on the island continent of Xir’tan. Fairer coloring is somewhat more common there.”
“Oh.” Jim waited, but as no more information seemed to be forthcoming he cast about for a reasonably innocuous subject. “So, what happened to your eyes?”
Smooth, Kirk. Really smooth.
“I was born blind,” she said, and to Jim’s relief seemed far less uncomfortable talking about her eyes than she had been about her hair. “Most of us were, though some, like T’Sal, lived the first part of their lives with sight. All of us are fortunate to have found a place here.”
Jim leaned his head back as T’Perea pulled the showerhead from the wall, where it was attached with a long hose, and began to rinse his hair with a spray of warm water. “Everyone who works here is blind.” It wasn’t exactly a question, but T’Perea inclined her head.
“We all heard the rumors, that the son of T’naehm-Feihan Sarek accepted the service of those who can not see, provided they can make their way unaided to his stronghold. Not many attempt it. The desert and the mountains both are filled with danger, and the city . . .” She couldn’t quite stifle a shiver. “None approach the city if any other choice remains to them.”
Jim tried to imagine it, the long trek through the empty city with no sight to guide you, to distract you from the eerie, wailing winds. “I guess they wouldn’t,” he said eventually.
“It says much in your favor that you braved the test,” T’Perea said, and there was something in her voice that was oddly close to pride. “Lord Spock has found a worthy match.”
“Yeah.” Jim shifted uncertainly. “Where is he, anyway?”
“My lord remains in his study during the daylight hours. He has been monitoring your health quite closely, however; he was quite concerned that he had used you too roughly.”
Jim felt himself blush, and was grateful for the towel that he was handed to dry his face. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice muffled by the thick cloth, though when he lowered it he could see from the doubtful expression on T’Perea’s face that she had heard him. “Really, I’m feeling much better. Any idea when I’ll be getting a clean bill of health? Don’t get me wrong, the massages and the being bathed by beautiful women are great, but I do have responsibilities.”
Their fingers brushed as he handed back the towel, and both of T’Perea’s eyebrows shot up. “You are . . . eager,” she said, clearly surprised.
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t be?”
She flushed faintly green, and all traces of surprise fell from her face immediately. “Of course not. It is perfectly logical that you should be.” She stood in a single graceful movement. “You are clean,” she declared, and held out her hand. Jim grasped it, using her strength to help himself up, and as soon as he left the water she began to dry him with brisk, impersonal efficiency. “It is Vlorik’s place to determine when you have sufficiently recovered. Your state would be improved, however, if you were to eat. Shall I have a tray sent up?”
“Yes, please,” Jim said, focusing on his empty stomach instead of the memory of Spock’s fingers pressing bits of food to his lips.
He needed to get out of here soon, he thought as he settled back into bed, no matter how much a part of him seemed to be protesting the idea. That part of him was close to panic at the very idea, unwilling to do something that meant he would never feel Spock’s touch again. He belonged here, it whispered, belonged with the one whose scent lingered on his skin even now. It insisted that he couldn’t leave, couldn’t abandon what he had found here.
Jim pushed that annoying little voice to the back of his mind. Yes, the sex had been amazing, and he might regret never having Spock’s body at his disposal like that again. But he didn’t belong here. He had to get back to Pike, to his teammates, to the life he had built with them. Had to let them know, he reminded himself, that they’d been risking their lives on a complete fucking waste of time.
Another servant, male this time, arrived a few moments later carrying a tray loaded with food. All things, Jim noticed, that he had eaten the night he arrived. Either they had paid better attention than he had realized, or they’d scanned his ident chip and figured out his allergies. Whatever the cause, however, he found that he didn’t really care. The scent of food seemed to kick his hunger into overdrive, and he tore into the meal with zeal. The more he ate, the more the remaining knot of tension between his shoulder blades eased; by the time he finished he was full, relaxed, and completely exhausted. With nothing better to do anyway, Jim settled down into the soft nest of pillows and let the sated torpor in his limbs lull him into a nap.
His sleep was deep and dreamless, and he woke with a warm sense of contentment flowing through his veins like a drug. He smiled drowsily and tilted his head back, exposing his neck in invitation to the soft lips nuzzling at the skin below his jaw.
Jim came suddenly and fully awake, his heart hammering in his chest. The room was dark again, and a heavy body was draped over him, effectively pinning him to the bed. Silky hair brushed against his shoulders as those lips continued to explore, and Jim shivered.
“Spock?” His voice sounded breathless, needy, and he frowned. Before he could try again, however, Spock’s teeth scraped gently over his pulse and all that came out of his mouth was an eager gasp.
“Vlorik assured me that you were sufficiently recovered, provided that I could remain reasonably gentle. He also informed me that you had expressed an eagerness to fulfill your responsibilities.” The tip of a hot, wet tongue traced the curve of Jim’s ear, making him shiver. “I am pleased to hear it.”
Jim opened his mouth to respond, but when Spock shifted his erection pressed suddenly against Jim’s thigh, and the words turned into a groan. “Is . . . it’s not over?” he asked, unable to think clearly past the press of Spock’s body and the softly nipping kisses that were being trailed across his jaw. Spock made a sound somewhere between a hum and a purr, one of his hands beginning to roam over Jim’s chest.
“I no longer burn,” he said, and sucked Jim’s earlobe into his mouth. “You may struggle if you wish.”
A jolt went through Jim at those words, and if he hadn’t already been hard when he woke up that would’ve gotten him there. There was something off, something alarming about this situation, but it was difficult to focus through the arousal already blazing through his body. He lifted a leg to wrap around Spock’s hips and hauled Spock up for a proper kiss, and decided he’d have plenty of time for thinking after they’d both gotten off.
Spock’s hands were gentle and careful as they moved over Jim’s bruised and battered body. Warm instead of hot, teasing rather than demanding. Jim lifted himself eagerly to Spock’s touch, seeking more. He needed; not the same fiery, all-consuming need of pon farr, but something stronger. Deeper. By the time Spock’s oil-coated fingers slid inside of him Jim was panting, his skin already slicked with sweat. His hips lifted to meet Spock’s hand, and he smiled as Spock groaned helplessly into his mouth.
Spock had promised to be gentle; Jim hadn’t. He gave Spock’s shoulders a hard shove, smiling wickedly in the dark when the Vulcan allowed himself to be pushed over onto his back. Jim leaned down to kiss him again, tangling fingers in long, soft hair as he rocked his hips and ground their cocks together. Then he leaned back and lifted himself up, long-fingered hands on his hips holding him stead as he sank back down and impaled himself with maddening slowness on Spock’s cock.
Jim’s other senses seemed to come alive with his vision blocked. Spock’s scent rose up around him, familiar and intoxicating, so strong that Jim could almost taste it. The sound of them sliding wetly together as Jim shifted his hips was obscenely erotic. The grip of Spock’s hands anchored him, keeping him balanced, and Jim reached down to run his hands over Spock’s chest. There was thick hair there, unusual for a Vulcan; Jim tangled his fingers in it, delighting in the feel of it scraping against his palms.
He angled his hips, searching, and let out an unsteady cry when the head of Spock’s cock bumped against his prostate. He thrust down harder on the next stroke, and the second ridge hit that bundle of nerves as well. With a shuddering moan Jim braced his hands and began to ride Spock in earnest, blindly seeking more of that mind-shattering pleasure. One of Spock’s hands lifted from Jim’s hip, and Jim waited for it to close around his cock. Instead he felt fingers slide into place against his temple, and pleasure streaked into his brain like lightning. He didn’t last long after that, he imagined; it was difficult to tell, lost as he was to whatever the hell Spock was doing to him. Jim felt his body twitch, then fall, caught by strong hands and lowered gently to lie tucked snugly against Spock’s side.
“Fucking hell,” he said eventually, unable to come up with anything more articulate than that but dimly pleased that he’d at least managed something polysyllabic. Spock made some sort of pleased, almost smug noise, and buried his face in Jim’s hair. “That was . . .”
“Indeed.” Definitely smug. “Your mind is unusually suited to telepathic contact, for a Human.” His voice turned playful. “Almost greedy, James.”
Jim started. “How did you-oh.” He settled back against Spock’s warmth again, rolling his eyes at his own foolishness. “Right, my name is on my chip.”
“Chip?”
“Yeah, the ident chip I’m tagged with.” Jim snagged one of Spock’s hands and pressed his fingers to the underside of Jim’s forearm. “Name, rank, serial number, medical file, all that. We’re all tagged with them; Pike insisted. I go by Jim, though, not James.”
“Ah.” Spock’s fingers caressed the spot, sending unexpected shivers down Jim’s spine. “I see. However, I learned your name from the necklace that you wore on your arrival.” His lips drifted down to Jim’s forehead in gentle exploration. “Kirk, James T.” Jim felt him smile. “My mate came quite well identified. It is fortunate, as your chip will no longer be functioning.”
“What?”
“The neutron bombs that destroyed Da’kum’Ulcha are still partially active; every hour they emit an EMP pulse. Any electronic information that you carried with you was wiped when you walked through the city.”
“Wiped . . . son of a bitch,” Jim cursed. “But . . . no, that can’t be right. I can still understand you, so my UT implant is still working.”
Spock’s mouth drifted lower, and they both shivered as his lips brushed against Jim’s psi points. “I do not understand your logic,” he admitted.
“I don’t speak Vulcan.” Jim’s hands had lifted to Spock’s shoulders by this point, trailing over smooth skin and firm muscles. “I couldn’t understand you if my UT implant had stopped working.”
Spock hummed against Jim’s cheek. “I am speaking Standard.”
“You’re what?”
“Few Humans are fluent in Vulcan; when you arrived, my servants assumed that this would be the case with you. Have you truly not noticed that we have all spoken in your own tongue?”
“I, um. I have trouble telling the difference.” Jim ran one hand through Spock’s hair and slid the other down his back. “Damn it,” he said distractedly, “I’ll have to get new ones put in. That’s going to suck.”
“Why?”
“I don’t respond well to anesthetics; they give me awful hangovers the next day. I hate surgical implants, but-”
“You misunderstand.” Spock pulled away, and Jim just barely bit back a protesting whimper. “Why must you obtain replacements?”
“I told you, Pike’s orders. Everyone in his unit has to have them. When I go back-”
“You will not.”
“I won’t . . . what exactly?”
“You will not go back. You will remain here.” Spock reached for him again. “Therefore you need not worry yourself unduly over-”
“Okay, hold on.” This time Jim was the one to pull back. “I can’t stay here,” he said reasonably, ignoring the part of him that was insisting that it wanted to stay. “Your pon farr is over, and I have a life to get back to.”
“Your life is here now,” Spock replied, his voice every bit as reasonable. “You are my mate; you will remain with me.”
“I was your mate, but . . .” Jim blinked into the darkness as understanding hit in a sudden rush. “Oh, shit,” he breathed. “Mate. You mean . . .”
“You are my bondmate.” Spock was beginning to sound impatient now. “The bond between us enabled you to survive my Time. You are mine, and I will not have you leave.”
“Okay.” Jim struggled to keep his breathing even. “Okay, there’s been some sort of misunderstanding here.”
“There has been no misunderstanding. You initiated the ozh’esta,” he insisted, and Jim felt two fingers slide against his, making him shiver. “You offered your body and your mind to me, and took mine in return. We are bonded, and you will not leave.”
“I . . .” Jim struggled to keep his breathing even. “I can’t have this conversation in the dark. I’m just going to turn on the-”
He found himself pinned flat on his back before he could even begin to move. There was a moment where Spock simply hovered over him, his breathing loud and barely controlled, his hair falling in a curtain around Jim’s face.
“When you spoke of your responsibilities,” Spock said at last, his voice low and dangerous, “You referred to your position in your mentor’s unit.”
Jim’s heart was racing and his mouth was dry, but he managed to nod. “Yes.”
“You never intended to stay.”
“Spock, I-”
“You had planned from the start to escape as soon as the monster was sated.”
“That’s not-”
“You are mine,” Spock snarled. “I will not release you.”
Anger and frustration began to rise in Jim. “I’m not your prisoner.”
“No. You are my mate.” There was a pause, and when Spock spoke he sounded almost resigned. “I had thought . . . you truly have no wish to stay?”
“I . . .”
Jim knew that he couldn’t afford to waver, that he had to get back to the people who were waiting for him. But despite his better judgement, there was a part of him that did want to stay. The part of him, he figured, that recognized Spock as his bondmate. The thought of leaving was enough to make him feel ill; but he had to, had responsibilities and obligations to fulfil, and he opened his mouth to tell Spock that.
“Will you let me see you?” he asked instead. Spock’s hands tightened around his wrists where they were pinned to the bed.
“You will certainly leave if I do.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I will not take the chance. When I am certain you will stay of your own free will, I will show myself to you. Do not attempt to look at me before then.”
“What if I just leave?” Jim challenged, and shivered when Spock’s lips brushed against the shell of his ear.
“Then I will bring you back,” he breathed. “You belong to me now, Jim; you would do well not to forget that.”
Spock released him then, and by the time Jim caught his breath again he was half-hard and entirely alone. He closed his eyes and slid into sleep, too exhausted to worry.
Besides, there would apparently be plenty of time for that in the morning.
>>Part 5