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A/N: A fill for the Star Trek ID Kink Meme.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.
The first time he went into pon farr, it was a little like this. Emotions spilling out everywhere, everything he’s worked so hard to trap flooding his mind and his veins, twisting his stomach into knots. He’s acutely aware that he’s breathing too hard. That his pulse is too fast. His knuckles are white from clenching his fists too tightly. He hisses, to his father and the doctor, right behind him, “Clear the bridge.”

James T. Kirk—Jim, he says—has no rank anymore, just a menace that should’ve been gone—is still panting, still wet around the edges. Tumbling out of the air, spilling water all over engineering. All over Spock’s ship. Some of the officers are stepping back, and Nyota takes a step forward, but Spock shouts with unabashed fury, “Clear the bridge!”

There’s a rustle around them—ensigns hesitantly getting up and consoles being switched to manual. Dr. McCoy opens his mouth, but Jim, against all odds, says, “Bones.”

And then the doctor’s leaving, ushering Sarek behind him. Nyota looks hurt, but this isn’t about her. Spock can’t make it about her. He can barely control his actions, let alone his thoughts. She can’t get through this, can’t understand this, they’ve been having problems anyway and now he has nothing and how is she supposed to keep up with that? Everyone’s filtering out, and Jim sends the companion he brought with him away.

And then it’s just the two of them, standing in the corner of a beeping, whirring, flashing, empty bridge. And Spock’s ripe with anger, and Jim’s face has the nerve to just stand there and look at him. Spock doesn’t say anything. He wants Jim to finish that rant.

How he doesn’t feel.

His mother... how he doesn’t... didn’t...

They’re utterly alone, and Jim hisses, “You never loved her.”

And it’s the final string in the unwinding, tumbling, downward spiral that is Spock’s mind, all the agony and hatred, greater than anything he’s ever felt. His mother his species his planet his world. Everything lost. In the span of seconds. And then Jim comes on like he understands when he doesn’t and he sits in the chair and tries to send them on a fool’s errand to get more of them killed and then he looks at Spock and says those things like he has any fucking right to—

In the space of Spock taking too long, Jim shoves him suddenly in the chest, and Spock doesn’t even have time to fall backwards, because he’s grabbing Jim’s shirt and shoving Jim around, down to the lower floor. Jim trips and catches himself just in time from falling, dodging Spock’s fist, and Spock’s kicking, and Jim swerves to the side and Spock grabs him by the hair. Jim shrieks, Spock twists. Spock clambers back and tumbles into his chair, high on adrenaline and seeing just red and Jim right fucking there. Jim’s tugged into his lap, squirming to hit, but Spock’s got him by the neck. Spock could pinch him and have it all over. But Spock doesn’t want it over; he wants Jim writhing beneath him, crushed and submitting and in his place.

“I... am... captain...” Spock manages, spitting out each word, full of venom. Jim’s thighs are to either side of his, knees squished against the broad armrests, fingers scraping at Spock’s wrist. Jim’s pretty blue eyes are flickering open and closed, pink lips open and gasping for breath. Jim squirms like the inferior catch he is, and he ruts his whole body into Spock’s.

It grinds their crotches together. Spock grunts. He lets go of Jim’s neck to catch Jim’s hair again, jerking it to the side and making Jim cry out in pain. Jim’s hands dart to Spock’s shoulders, grabbing the fabric and not quite pushing. Fisting in place.

Exactly like pon farr. A part of Spock wonders if it’s hit him early. But it shouldn’t hit all at once, and he’s not gradually descending into madness; he’s overrun with it and already there. He’s broiling and so overwhelmed with adrenaline and hatred that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. It’s not all hatred for Jim. But a lot of it is. (Among other things.)

Jim growls, “’That it, Acting Captain? ‘That all you got?” And he deliberately rocks his hips against Spock again, like he wants Spock to feel this way. Just one more thing Spock needs. One more mess.

Spock’s head is an exploding star.

Jim’s a point of tension that should’ve been worked out the minute their eyes met through the glass. In the span of an instant, Spock’s standing out of the chair and knocking Jim off, and Jim doesn’t let go of his shirt. Spock shoves him forward, fingers wrapping back around Jim’s throat, making Jim stumble backwards. He slams Jim, rough and hard, into the panel before the captain’s chair, and he bends Jim over it like a twig. Jim doesn’t snap. He splutters for air. Spock steps between his legs. Spock only lets Jim breathe again when Spock’s looming over him, pulling Jim’s legs up to either side of him, Jim’s back against the surface. Jim gasps and hisses, ever the brat, “Some Vulcan you are! You can’t feel love or any kind of connection to another being, but you can prickle with rage like any human, you—”

Spock shouts, just a random noise, nonsensical and bursting with malice, and he slaps Jim hard across the face. It snaps to the side. Blood splatters the white console, trickling out of Jim’s mouth, and Spock doesn’t care. Jim’s writhing against him again, all throughout this, rubbing his crotch—his hard crotch, the sick fuck—into Spock’s, tempting it out. Spock can have connections. And when he does, when he breaks, when pon farr hits, he’s a monster. He’s ripping at Jim’s pants in a heartbeat, and Jim gasps and arcs his back, hands lying uselessly beside his head. Spock pulls the fabric down his body without a word. Spock doesn’t even look at Jim’s cock. Spock’s not in a romantic mood.

He wants power and control, and he wants to exert his dominance over Jim, until Jim breaks and bows to him, like the first officer he should be. The officer Spock was, Spock could be. Jim doesn’t belong in Starfleet. He didn’t belong in the Academy. He belongs in the back of some bar somewhere, with some brute fucking his pretty face. It’s all he’s good for. (Or maybe just at Spock’s feet.)

Jim clearly doesn’t disagree; he moans when he sees Spock’s pants opening. Spock only opens them enough to pull his cock out, stroking it once for show, making Jim see it. It’s bigger than Jim’s—of course it is. It’s paler, rippled with green veins and pulsing with his need.

“Shit,” Jim grunts. Spock shoves a finger into his hole, barley even looking, and Jim breaks off in a cry. Spock’s finger pistons in and out, not because he wants to make this easy for Jim, but because he knows human rears are too tight for his massive cock. He shoves in a second finger and starts to scissor Jim apart, and Jim grits his teeth together and says, “Fuck, you’re really gonna fuck me...”

Spock doesn’t say anything. He’s too lost to form words. But if he could, it’d probably be something like ‘I’m going to break you.’ Every good stallion needs to be broken in. Jim isn’t any good. He deserves this anyway. Spock pulls out his fingers and lines himself up, glaring down at Jim’s face the whole time.

Jim’s pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushed, but that could be from the fight. Spock makes sure to hold Jim’s gaze when he slams inside, making Jim instantly scream. Jim throws his head back and claws at the console, and he arches and shrieks and writhes, but Spock holds his hips and pulls him down, further and further. Jim’s fucking tight. Almost unbearably tight. Spock leans down and buries himself to the brim, wanting to spit on Jim’s face.

As soon as he’s in range, Jim has his arms on Spock’s shoulders. He grabs the fabric tight but doesn’t push or pull. He screws up his face and dares to growl, “Some Vulcan, coming undone on your own bridge, fucking your own crew...”

“You are not my crew,” Spock snarls, and he pulls out and slams back in for emphasis, as hard as he can. Jim screams again, and Spock can feel a lube he didn’t use—blood spilling out. He doesn’t know what Jim is anymore. Still his now, but more his toy than his crew. He slips out and stabs in, and he does it again and again, pounding Jim’s frail little human body into the console. Jim cries on every hit, claws at him and still takes it, eyes scrunching closed, then open, boring holes into Spock’s head. So intense. Jim’s hot as fire and burning him up, and the pleasure, for a brief moment, is enough to mask the pain. Spock doesn’t think about everything he lost. He just thinks about how good it feels to be balls-deep in a gorgeous, pathetic human body, in the man who’s riled him up like no other being could.

Jim doesn’t stop. Filthy thing. His fingers slide into Spock’s hair, and Spock’s squeezing his hips too tight to swat them away, and he practically purrs, “Yeah, fuck me, pointy.” His voice turns to sarcasm as he repeats, “Fuck me hard, Captain. You want to order this ship around, but you can’t even stop yourself from getting all emotional...

Spock roars.

He picks Jim up by the hips and steps backwards, holding Jim up and still buried deep, pulling them back until he lands in the captain’s chair, and he shoves Jim down and kicks him to the floor. Jim scrambles to try and get up, pants slipping down his thighs, but Spock grabs his arm and jerks him back on. It’s too easy for Spock to pull Jim into his lap again, facing him, their eyes locked and charged. His cock is bolt upright, and he shoves Jim right back onto it, putting Jim where he belongs. Jim hisses but takes it, because he knows it’s his place.

And Spock lets his head fall back, ignoring Jim’s pathetic whining and brutally thrusting his hips up, taking that tight ass for everything it’s got. He’s harsh and he’s cruel and he’s relentless. He’s utterly lost. Surak would have him exiled. He’d be ashamed, but he’s too busy being horny, getting so damn close and looking back at Jim, taking in every centimeter of the body that now belongs to him.

And Jim has to ruin it, like Jim ruins everything. He leans next to Spock’s face, bouncing up and down on Spock’s spasming dick, purring into Spock’s ear, “You’ve been emotionally compromised.”

Spock howls. He explodes inside Jim’s body, filling it and grinding up. He sees white and his head bursts, panting and wild. His heart’s out of control. He’s left bruises in Jim’s tanned skin.

His head’s coming back down, slowly and torturously.

Jim stays on him, slumped against him and panting, cock half-hard. He’d probably be as stiff as Spock if he’d been prepared, but he wasn’t, and he’s bleeding and his body’s cringing. His pain is a small consolation.

Spock covers his face with his hands.

Fuck.

Reality’s a brick through the view screen.

Jim mumbles, “Sorry,” and pulls Spock's hand away to kiss him on the cheek. A complete one eighty. But they both know what for.

Spock lets Jim climb off him. Jim fastens his pants back up and stumbles, limps, for the doors blocking off the rest of the crew. Spock wants the floor to open up and swallow him. Everything went wrong.

He went wrong.

They’ll head to Earth.

And Jim will be captain.
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