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It's the first and most crucial lesson that the Academy drills into every command-track cadet: expect the unexpected. And since taking command of the Enterprise, it's one that Captain James Kirk has seen play out again and again.
But there's unexpected, and then there's "being forced to ritually wrestle your first officer because he's in heat."
Now, on their own, the components of this would fit quite neatly into Kirk's typical expectation of 'the unexpected.' Strange alien biology? Sure. Having to perform some sort of ritual combat? Sounds like another Tuesday. But having both of these applied to Spock, his stoic, unflappable, untouchable first officer? Entirely out of the question, or so he would have thought less than twenty-four hours ago.
They've sparred often enough that Kirk has a good idea of his first officer's fighting style (and an equally good idea of exactly how many cold showers he's had to take after some of those sessions). That's all out the window now - there's none of that elegant calculation working behind his eyes, only primal instinct. And so Kirk is scrabbling desperately against the burning-hot sand trying to avoid the weighted length of rope Spock is wielding to devastating effect, panting for breath in the thin air, although he can feel the effects of McCoy's hypo easing the burn in his lungs.
"I burn," Spock had said - Kirk wonders if it feels anything like this, caught between the heat of unforgiving sun and unforgiving sand.
While Kirk has let his brain spin out on tangents in the vain hopes of finding a solution that will let them both leave here alive, Spock has launched a fresh assault, pinning the full length of Kirk's back against the scalding ground. He's momentarily immobilized by the dense Vulcan's full bodyweight on top of him, and surprised by the distinct pressure against his thigh. He's hard, Jim thinks, briefly wondering if it's a result of their fighting before realizing, with a detached sort of disappointment, that it's probably just a side effect of the mating cycle.
Focusing back on his rough plan - Spock had broken through the fever for a moment of lucidity once before, perhaps he can do it again - he brings his hands up, not to try and dislodge Spock but instead to cup his green-flushed face. "Spock, please, it's me, it's Jim," he pleads. "I don't want to fight you, you can have the girl, I don't want her, please, Spock." He searches for some hint of recognition in those eyes that are usually so expressive, but now unsettlingly flat and glassy with fever. "It's Jim - look at me, come on back, it's okay, I'm not going to fight you," he continues, babbling in what he hopes is a soothing manner. It seems to be working, at least inasmuch as Spock has stilled instead of trying to throttle him. Emboldened, Jim keeps up the stream of babble, combined with gently stroking Spock's face with his thumbs - and yes, there, he thinks he sees it, the brief flash of recognition across Spock's face as he focuses on Jim.
The apparent moment of lucidity fades rapidly, but neither man moves, chests heaving with exertion. A heavy tension hangs between them for some interminable seconds.
Then Spock unmistakably, deliberately rolls his hips down against Jim's own. Jim is as powerless to silence his breathy noise of surprise as he is to prevent the surge of electric heat that shoots up his spine at the contact. Spock's fathomless eyes seem to glitter in satisfaction, and for an instant Jim can see his best friend and science officer looking at him as if he's some fascinating new scientific discovery.
"Okay... okay," Jim says, unsure whether he's trying to reassure Spock or himself. "We can work with this." When Spock grinds against him again, Jim lets himself rock back in response, feeling his own cock filling fast enough to give him a head rush. Don't pass out, don't pass out, he chants silently as Spock's face and the patch of sky beyond waver in front of him. Even with the tri-ox, the environment's already demanding enough that the sudden diversion of bloodflow is enough to threaten his state of consciousness.
Somewhere in the background, there's a subdued commotion spreading through the rest of the wedding party as they start to pick up on the fact that the fight has taken an entirely different direction. Meanwhile, Spock tugs at the hem of Jim's shirt, easily lifting Jim's entire torso off the ground to remove it. When he can't seem to figure out how to get it off, he impatiently grabs the fabric where it's already been sliced and simply rips it open, peeling it off of Jim. At this rate the quartermaster's going to wind up committing mutiny, Jim thinks hysterically as he realizes he's lost yet another shirt. When Spock tries to lay the newly-shirtless Jim back down, he promptly flinches away from the hot sand with a yelp of pain. Spock- protectively?- yanks Jim back towards him, into his lap, with a little growl that seems to be directed at the sand. Jim gasps again at the renewed contact between their still-clothed cocks.
The commotion in the background is growing, with several raised voices breaking over the din. "-Someone get a goddamn blanket-" "-must not interfere-" "-look like I give a damn?-" The chirp of a communicator - "beam down ... supply kit right goddamned now, or so help me-" "Doctor, thou must not-"
Jim is only half-aware of the whole exchange - the environment, physical exertion, and arousal are cooperating to rapidly short out most of his higher functions, particularly as Spock grasps Jim's hips to better grind against him. He noses at Jim's neck, licking before biting down nearly hard enough to break skin. There's a rustle behind them and Spock growls warningly. "Calm down, man, it's just a blanket, Christ," Bones's familiar voice grumbles, fading back into the distance as he (wisely) beats a quick retreat.
Spock lifts Jim like he weighs nothing and flips him over to set back down on his elbows and knees. The blessedly cool Mylar of the emergency blanket crinkles under him. With a quick glance around from his new position, Jim can see that most of the wedding party has dispersed or politely turned around with the notable exceptions of Spock's ex?-fiancee (amused), T'Pau (scowling), and Bones (peeking through his fingers like he's watching a horror movie). Behind him, Spock yanks the waistbands of Jim's pants and underwear down to his knees with another loud rip of fabric. He grits his teeth in anticipation - he doubts Spock, in his current state, will give him the courtesy of any preparation, so he desperately tries to relax as much as possible.
He can feel the cool shadow of Spock leaning over him, a welcome relief from the onslaught of sunlight, quickly followed by the press of his - thank whatever gods Vulcans might worship - wet, slick cock between Jim's asscheeks. Instead of trying to immediately ram it in, a fate Jim had pretty much expected, Spock instead leans in closer and presses a hand against his face with his fingers spread in the distinct configuration of a mind-meld.
There are no ritual words this time, only the hot, insistent press of Spock's mind against his own, a mirror of the hard cock pressing between Jim's thighs. As they connect, Jim feels the unique impression of Spock, same as he's felt during the other few melds that they had shared out of duty or necessity. The impression is almost instantly swept away, however, by an overwhelming onslaught of heat and lust and need. Jim gives a full-body shudder at the sensation. So this is what they meant about burning - every nerve ending on his skin is aflame, soothed only by the contact between Spock's body and his own. When Spock pulls his hand away, the feeling doesn't abate. If anything, it grows worse, and Jim tries to chase after Spock's hand with a pleading whine.
Consumed in exquisite agony, Jim only feels Spock entering him in terms of overwhelming relief. He moans in response, loud enough that he would be embarrassed if he were still capable of such a thing, but any self-consciousness has been overridden by need. He can both hear and feel the vibration of Spock's matching groan behind him. The restless burn over his body is quickly converting from physical discomfort into urgent lust, and Jim is about to start outright begging for Spock to fucking move when Spock finally does so.
Jim outright screams at the sensation, head dropping down to the blanket because he's never felt anything like this. The resulting pleasure consumes his entire body with the same ferocity as the original burn. He feels like he could come with just the lightest touch. Instead, Spock thrusts into him again, and instead of tipping him over the edge like he expected the pleasure just builds higher. He's nearly yelling with every thrust, fingers scrabbling at the blanket in search of something to just hold on to, with Spock's symphony of unrestrained noises of pleasure above him sounding like the sweetest music he's ever heard. "Ah- Spock, please don't stop, ohhh-" he gasps out. It's like a floodgate has opened. Suddenly he can't stop talking, desperately crying out Spock's name for the entire desert to hear. "Spock, yes, please, Spock, Spock, Spock, fuck!"
Spock increases the pace in response, grabbing Jim's hips hard enough to bruise in order to slam Jim's ass back against his cock in hard, deep thrusts. Jim is helpless to do anything except scream out Spock's name at increasing pitch and volume. He reaches a hand down to touch his own cock, desperate for release but unable to find it even as he jerks himself roughly, nearly sobbing with need. It's only when Spock's own wordless cries give way to a single, unmistakeable moan of "Jim-"
- and he's gone, painting the blanket and his own chest with streaks of cum with a long, wordless wail. Spock's bitten down on his shoulder again - the other one, this time - muffling his own yells in Jim's flesh as he empties himself into Jim, pressing close to fill him as deeply as possible with a few final, erratic thrusts.
Spock pulls out of him, releasing his grip on Jim's waist, and he bonelessly sprawls forward onto the metallic blanket with a groan. With a herculean effort, Jim rolls over to look up at Spock. To his relief, Spock is obviously lucid again, cataloguing Jim's state with obvious concern. "Jim, are you well?" he asks, worry clear in his tone as he reaches forward to very carefully brush a sweat-damp strand of hair out of Jim's face, as if Jim is something fragile and precious.
Jim, also feeling a great deal more clarity, considers his own aches and pains. "I'm fine- you didn't hurt me, not badly, at least. If I'm being honest that was probably the best sex of my life," he adds, hoping to forestall Spock's inevitable guilt, although it's also the truth.
"Well whoop-de-doo," a sarcastic Southern drawl cuts in, combined with the whirr of a tricorder. "Spock, your hormone and temperature levels are down but still not back to baseline, is this over?"
"Negative - assuming I follow standard Vulcan physiology in this matter, I am only experiencing a brief reprieve before the next round. The cycle continues for two to three days." He seems to brace himself. "Although it will be... unpleasant, further intercourse is no longer... strictly necessary to ensure my survival."
"So I assume it's safe to beam you two idiot lovebirds back to the ship without you jumping each other? -Jesus Christ, Jim, drink this, you're way too dehydrated," Bones fusses, shoving a water bottle from the emergency supply kit into Jim's hands.
"Affirmative, the symptoms should not return in force for at least an hour," Spock replies, back to overly formal stiffness.
"Fantastic," Bones mutters, still hovering over them with the tricorder. "Well in that case, what's the hold-up, get your damn clothes back on and let's go."
Jim, reaching towards the pile of fabric next to him, picks up his shirt and pants only to discover that both have been effectively. "Well, that's not going to work," Jim chuckles, trying to find the humor in the situation. "Lord have mercy," Bones says. "Well, we'll just wrap you up like a little Mylar burrito, then - you can do that part yourself, I'm not touching that," he adds, gesturing to the soiled blanket. Spock picks up his uniform to find it in similar disarray - the shirt's salvageable for now, at least, but he evidently got impatient with the pants at some point during the proceedings.
"Absolutely fantastic," Bones repeats, with even more sarcasm than before. "Stay here." He returns with another Mylar blanket, which he shoves at Spock. "Well, get yourselves decent, I for one don't want to spend another minute on this godforsaken oven of a planet."
Spock, taking the sandy blanket out of some sense of chivalry, wraps it into an approximation of a very shiny kilt, then helps Jim - too exhausted and approaching heatstroke to do it himself - get wrapped in a bath-towel style that covers most of his chest. "At least we managed to keep our boots," Jim says, before adding giddily, "I guess that means we both metaphorically and literally knocked boots, huh, Mister Spock?"
"It seems you are correct," he replies, complete with a characteristic eyebrow raise. "Now drink your water." Jim complies, chugging half the bottle in a matter of seconds. Bones, having packed up the remains of the hastily-ransacked supply kit, flips open his communicator. "McCoy to Enterprise, three to beam up." A second later, they're enveloped in the familiar shimmer of the transporter beam.
Jim feels overwhelming relief upon seeing the inside of the transporter room, despite the fact that he's wearing nothing except an emergency blanket and has one arm hooked around Spock, who's more or less holding him upright. Scotty, manning the transporter, leaps upright. "Whit in th' world happ'nd doon thare, Captain, Ah thought ye wer goin' tae a weddin'!" he exclaims.
Bones pinches the bridge of his nose. "Trust me on this one, Scotty, you really don't want to know," he says. "And you two are going straight to sickbay, doctor's orders, now march!" He gives a firm prod to Jim and Spock's backs to get them moving.
After Jim stumbles most of the way across the transporter room, Spock pulls them both to a halt in order to scoop Jim into, ironically enough, a bridal carry. Bones just sighs. "Jim, you owe me at least three bottles of whiskey after this nonsense, and I mean the really good kind."
"Noted," Jim says. "Can you at least let me walk, Spock, I'm not an invalid," he protests.
"Negative, Captain," he replies.
Scotty stares after them in utter confusion.
A few moments later, getting fussed over in Sickbay, Jim looks at Spock standing like a living statue next to his biobed and still wearing the ridiculous Mylar blanket kilt (Jim has been stuffed into a medical gown). "So, Spock," he starts, cautiously.
"Yes, Captain?"
Jim sighs. "So you said you can survive without further assistance, but it would be unpleasant," he begins. "Are we talking about mild to moderate discomfort, here, or the same sort of agony I was feeling before we..." He flaps a hand, suddenly shy. "You know."
"More akin to the latter," he answers, before frowning. "Jim - you were experiencing the same symptoms?"
"Yes?" Jim replies cautiously. "You melded with me for a minute, and then I was, I assume, in the same situation as you were."
Spock sighs, finally taking a seat in a nearby chair. "Then that complicates matters."
"Complicates matters how?" Jim asks, frowning in response. "I wanted to offer to, well, help you through the rest of it - and before you start being concerned about my health or something, please let me remind you that I had a very good time."
"I think most of Vulcan knows you were having a 'very good time,'" Bones cuts in, immediately before pressing several hyposprays against Jim's bare arm. "In fact, I'm pretty sure my ears are still ringing."
Spock's cheeks have flushed a vibrant shade of green, and he clears his throat. "I... was going to inform you that if you were experiencing the same symptoms, particularly since we melded, it is likely that I have formed at least a temporary bond with you. One which would cause you to continue to share those symptoms until my... condition reaches its conclusion."
"Well, in that case," Jim says, "wouldn't the logical solution be to spend the rest of this together?"
"Yes, except for the fact that doing so would almost certainly solidify the temporary bond into a permanent marriage bond. One which cannot be broken easily or without significant risk to the participants."
Jim takes a moment to contemplate it, but no matter which way he looks at the problem, the decision is easy. "I have no objections to that," he replies softly, reaching out to tangle his hand with Spock's. He swears he can hear Spock's breath hitch in response.
"You are certain, Jim?"
"Spock, I was - I still am - expecting that I may get court-martialed for redirecting the ship to Vulcan against express orders. I've already made the decision that you are the most important part of my life." He reaches over to enclose Spock's hand in both of his. "Let me help."
"Jim," Spock says, voice trembling with barely-contained emotion, before leaning forward to kiss him.
Several crewmembers passing by in the corridor outside are startled by the roar of "NOT IN MY SICKBAY, YOU DON'T! OUT! OUT!!!" This proclamation is immediately followed by the Captain and First Officer scurrying out the door, wearing a medical gown, a ripped blue uniform shirt over a metallic skirt, and two pair of regulation Starfleet uniform boots.