Submission

Spock had done something to him. Something in his head, goddamn telepathic bastard. He was so close, had been close for hours – for days, maybe – and there was nothing physically stopping him, not a damn thing, but he couldn’t... he just couldn’t quite...

He bit back a cry as Spock hit that spot inside him, trying not to let on, but it seemed the Vulcan didn’t need any kind of confirmation. His thrusts hit the spot over and over, never missing, relentless. It was a pleasure that was almost a torture by this point, because it wasn’t going anywhere. They’d been doing this for hours and Spock hadn’t let him come once. Every time he thought he was going to, something in his head – some intangible, psychic force – pinned him down the same way Spock pinned him to the bed and fucked into him, ruthless mental claws seizing hold of the biological imperative and forcing it into submission. Jim could no longer contain the raw, desperate sounds that escaped him as the Vulcan continued to hit his prostate with merciless accuracy. He writhed and fought, unsure if he was trying to get away or press back into it. He wanted to drop down and rub against the mattress, longing mindlessly for some kind of friction, but Spock’s fingers dug painfully into his hipbones, holding him up, forcing him to stay in his kneeling position. His thighs were shaking with the effort.

“Oh god... Oh god, c’mon Spock, please...”

The Vulcan gave no response except to tense, gasp and come inside him. Jim whimpered, his insides feeling scorched. The grip on his hips was released and he collapsed forward, humping pathetically at the bed, too exhausted to do much else. He knew better than to think it was over. Spock had already come several times, in him, on him, and it hadn’t even seemed to make a dent. Pon-farr, apparently, worked miracles for stamina.

“Spock, c’mon, just let me...” His words came out slurred and muffled, spoken into the sweat-soaked pillow. “We can... we can keep going, just let me come. Please, god, just once...”

The Vulcan’s hand pressed down on his back, fever-hot. “Ssh, Jim.”

“I can’t, please, Spock, I need –”

“Jim.”

He shut up so fast he bit his tongue, pressing his face hard into the mattress to silence the pleas he wanted to voice, every muscle in his body trembling. He was strung-out, half out of his mind. Every instinct in him was demanding he fight, demanding he rebel against this intolerable helplessness. But he was being held down, both mentally and physically, pleasure inflicted on him like a punishment.

He became aware of Spock moving behind him, renewing the assault. Strong hands closed over his thighs, pushing them up and apart until he was spread-eagle. Jim gasped but stayed as he was positioned. The muscles in his back rippled and tensed convulsively as Spock ran his fingers down his spine, dipping into the cleft between his cheeks, gently probing the sensitive rim of his asshole. Jim bit down on the pillow to keep from making a sound. The fingers withdrew, stroked down his thighs and back up again, digging into the flesh of his asscheeks and spreading them apart. Jim shook like a junkie, body rebelling against the total exposure. His breath hitched as he felt the wet sensation of Spock’s semen trickling out of him. His cock twitched and ached.

“You continue to fight me,” Spock said quietly, the source of his voice lower and closer than Jim expected.

“I-I can’t help it. Spock, just let... just let me...”

The Vulcan was quiet and Jim’s anxiety shot up. He tried to get up and turn around, but once again Spock’s hand landed on his back, rougher this time, pushing him down and keeping him like that, open and exposed and thoroughly defenceless against whatever new onslaught was coming. He shivered while he waited for it, the moments passing to the count of his pounding heart. The respite was doing nothing to ease his need for release, not with anticipation coursing through his blood like electricity, making him pant and sweat and twitch. And then–

Something hot and wet touched the top of his ass, sliding downwards. The sensation was so unexpected Jim nearly sprained something jerking forward, away from it.

“What–? Spock! Wh-what are you doing?!”

Spock dragged him back into place with an actual growl. “Stay,” he snarled, leaving little room for argument.

Jim lay there and shook, his eyes wild. Spock never did this. Said it was too ‘unhygienic’. He couldn’t comprehend that it was happening now, even as he felt the mattress shift as Spock leaned down again, a hot gust of breath against his inner thigh, and then – oh god – a tongue flicking out over his entrance. He nearly shot off the bed again – would have done, if the Vulcan didn’t have an iron grip fixed on his hips, marking him with yet more bruises. Jim barked a wordless protest, trying to get away, because fuck this was too much and not nearly enough and he was so turned on it hurt. He was going to die of it, he was sure, go insane with the simple need to come god dammit!

Spock licked into him again, pulling his cheeks apart for better access. He already felt far too well-fucked, over-sensitized and raw, to the point where he couldn’t decide if he felt pleasure or pain as the Vulcan’s tongue moved slickly in and out of him.

“Spock... Spock, don’t. I can’t, I can’t –!”

Spock just lowered his mouth slightly, tonguing his perineum, and Jim realised what he was doing, realised he was cleaning up the semen he’d already left inside Jim. That almost tore a sob from him, and he knew he would have come from that thought alone, had he been able. As it was, he could only continue to writhe and struggle and tear at the sheets, whispering senselessly over and over, “I can’t, god, I can’t, I can’t...”

Spock’s tongue pressed against his asshole again, pausing there, intimate and invasive. He licked inside with tortuous delicacy, lapping at him, too hot and slow to bear. Jim shuddered like he was trying to shake himself apart, whole body straining, but there was nothing to fight against. The mental restraints in his head only tightened the more he resisted.

Something broke in him, then.

All strength fled him. He was boneless, mindless, unconcerned by such things as defeat of dignity or – or anything. The need to come was still there, still all-consuming, but it was simply a fact of existence now. He had felt like this forever, would feel like this forevermore. It was perpetual, and there was nothing he could do but lie there and take it.

Spock stilled behind him, mouth pressed against that intimate place like a kiss. He reached up to stroke Jim’s side approvingly, praising the submission. Barely audible, he breathed, “Yes.”

And then Spock was rising up over him again, not bothering to make him kneel this time but sliding into him just as he was. Jim closed his eyes as the sensation of being filled returned. Spock pushed his legs higher than he thought they could go, until his knees almost touched his ribs, and then the Vulcan leaned over him, placing his hands on Jim’s shoulders to brace himself. He rode him like that, his greater weight immediately pressing the human hard into the mattress, trapping him, half suffocating him. Jim didn’t bother to fight, just gasped softly when Spock began to thrust in earnest. There was something thrilling in the helplessness, in the knowledge that he was being used like this, and it only served to make the ache of pleasure-pain between his legs grow worse.

Spock angled for his prostate and found it with practiced ease. Jim let out a cry as the stimulation resumed. Over and over and over without letup, and it was short-circuiting something deep inside him. Suddenly he was sobbing with every savage thrust – real, humiliating sobs – and he was half aware of tears gathering behind his eyes, and god, god, he couldn’t be crying during sex, he just couldn’t. But he’d already surrendered any control he’d had over himself, obliterated it, offered it up to the other and watched it be destroyed before his eyes.

Spock abruptly withdrew and Jim let out an unrepentant moan at the loss. But Vulcan hands were already grabbing at him, turning him over with casual manipulations. Spock grasped his left leg, pushing it up to his chest, and then he was inside again. Jim let his head tip backwards, his legs spread further open, utterly submissive in a way he hadn’t thought himself capable of. The Vulcan’s eyes were jet black as they stared down at him, the fever of pon-farr making them glazed and burning and dangerous. Jim bit his lip as the true depths of his own vulnerability dawned on him.

Spock’s hand closed briefly over his offered throat, making a point, and then trailed downwards over his heart, his ribs, his stomach – every defenceless part of him. When it finally, finally closed over his leaking cock, Jim fairly screamed. He arched upwards so violently that something flared painfully in his back, but that was a dim, distant concern. His hands flew up to clutch at the other, to claw at him furiously, draw trails of green blood from his flesh. Spock bared his teeth in response and squeezed almost painfully on his cock, never once having slowed in hitting his prostate with every thrust. Jim lost his mind. He was begging, he knew he was begging, but what he was saying he had no idea. It was all incoherent, all struck through by hysteria and desperation.

Spock continued to stroke him, rough and fast, and Jim couldn’t understand how he hadn’t come yet, how anything possibly had the power to stop him when the need was this intense. Pre-come pooled on his stomach, practically pouring out of him. His hips snapped backwards and forwards, thrusting up into the hot, tight fist Spock had around his cock, and back down to impale himself. He was making sounds he’d have been ashamed of had he still possessed a single higher thought process.

Spock leaned down suddenly, once again trapping him beneath his full body weight. “Mine,” he hissed, directly into Jim’s ear.

Jim clung to him, nodding obediently.

Teeth fastened on his shoulder, vicious enough to draw blood. “Mine. Say it. Tell me.”

“Yes, yes, yours. God, Spock, please...!”

Spock’s movements were getting faster, ragged, less precise. “T’hy’la.”

“Y-yeah, t’hy’la...”

Spock gasped as he said the word, eyes flashing wildly, thrusts becoming brutal. The mental claws dug deep enough to make Jim scream in protest, and then – and then –

Then, at last, they let go entirely. A long moment passed in which Jim couldn’t process it, couldn’t react at all.

“Mine,” Spock repeated against his throat, and Jim lost it, coming so hard he saw spots, saw stars, saw the frigging galaxy, and then – then nothing, because he was rapidly losing grip on conscious thought, spiralling into a darkness lit only by the electric flashes of aftershock.

The last thing he felt was Spock spilling inside him yet again.