Hello, all! This an idea I've had stuck in my brain for quite a while now, so I've decided to give it a try. A few notes before we begin:

This is my first delve into the Star Trek fandom, so if my characterizations or information is off, I apologize in advance. I'm basing a lot of stuff in this story not only on the movies, but also the Original Series, because as much as I love the reboot, I adore the 60s series.

This fic is rated M for mature themes, as well as sexual situations, the heaviest of which will be featured in this chapter. But be warned: I have not written a sex
scene in quite a long time, so I'm a bit out of practice. I hope the end result is okay. *crosses fingers*

And that about does it, I think. Please read, enjoy, and review.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Rodenberry, Paramount, and J.J. Abrams do, the latter of whom I blame for this plot bunny. Destroying a planet and devastating the population of a species is a good excuse for the males of that species to evolve which is just giving me a good excuse to write mpreg. Bad idea, sir. Bad idea.

Like many great, seemingly impossible things that have occurred throughout the history of mankind, it happened on accident. Newton's notion of gravity was said to have been inspired by an apple coincidentally falling on his head; Fleming discovered penicillin when he forgot to clean up his workstation before a holiday, and returned to find a strange fungus growing on his cultures; why, even radiation came to light only after Henri Becquerel left that uranium rock in a drawer, never knowing the fantastic results his actions would bring. The point being that no one, especially not the captain of the U.S.S. Enterprise or his first officer, ever expected such major ramifications to stem from a single night of unforeseen pleasure.

Of course, that's going far beyond the beginning of this story. Obviously, the outcome of it was clear from the moment it began, but it's the voyage from here to there that truly matters.

. . . . . . . . . .

It began in a bar on Rigel II, a pretty little place with enough energy and flare to make up for its inelegance. The patrons were rowdy, the women were scantily dressed, and the drinks had the perfect blend of burn and flavor. Music blared from the band on a small corner stage, where a short time ago, an intoxicated Rigelian had declared his love for a waitress named Trixi — which earned him a fist to the face from an angered fiancé, whose name was definitely not Trixi.

All in all, Jim was having a damn good time.

A quick scan of the bar showed that his shipmates were of similar frames of mind. Sulu was sampling the bartender's impressive stock of saki, along with Chekov and a cute yeoman whose name Jim had quite forgotten. McCoy was chatting with a pair of burlesque chorus girls, looking very pleased with the way the conversation was going. Nearby, Uhura and Scotty were squeezed into a booth with a bottle of Enolian spice wine, the picture of intimacy. To his credit, the engineer's eyes never wandered away from the single, stunning woman in front of him. Perhaps that was exactly why he deserved Uhura's adoring gaze in turn.

Out of instinct, Jim's eyes searched the bar for his first officer. Convincing Spock to take shore leave, even for the night, was harder than bargaining with Cyrano Jones over the price of a tribble. In the end, he had practically ordered him to beam down with them for the evening, and even then the stubborn Vulcan was determined not to partake in the festivities.

Last Jim had checked (not that he was keeping tabs), Spock had been sitting at the bar, with only a cup of Tarkalean tea for company. An hour ago, the sight would have soured his mood and his drink, but now he sincerely hoped that this was still the case. Although his break-up with Uhura had been a mutual decision and the two remained close friends, the captain couldn't help but wonder if it might affect Spock to see his ex-girlfriend getting cozy with her new partner.

Fortunately, Spock was in the exact same position he'd been in when Jim last looked. Except instead of a cup of Tarkalean tea at his side, his first officer had garnered the attention of an Orion trader; unwanted attention, if the expression of mild irritation on the Vulcan's usually impassive face was anything to go by.

Jim shifted closer to the bar, trying to get within hearing range. He wasn't worried, per se, seeing as how Spock was more than capable of handling a tipsy merchant. All the same, in the event something did go wrong, he wanted to be sure he was there to intervene. Casually, Jim asked the bartender to bring him another glass of Andorian ale, and willed himself to ignore the smoldering of his inhuman blood that secretly reveled in the thrill of conflict.

"...despite the conclusion your intoxicated mind has fabricated, I am truly uninterested in your advances. Therefore, I would advise that you find companionship elsewhere," asserted Spock, as though addressing a Denebian slime devil.

"You might say that, yet your body says otherwise," the Orion laughed, drunk with lust or alcohol or a lethal combination of the two. "I can practically smell it on you."

Choking back the impulse to spew his beverage at the bartender, Jim mused, As far as pick-up lines go, I would have gone for something more subtle.

But the lewd observation seemed to have struck a chord with Spock, who was starting to look more uncomfortable by the minute.

The Orion continued in a low, husky voice, "Think I'm the only one? If you didn't come here seeking any attention, you're in the wrong place." A lecherous smirk settled onto his face. "Then again, if it is attention you want, I'd be more than happy to oblige..." As he spoke, his hand landed on Spock's thigh, squeezing the supple flesh there...

...and before Jim could intervene on his first officer's behalf, the trader was wheezing in pain and struggling to break free from the vice-like grip of the Vulcan's fingers. "No thank you," Spock responded coolly. He then released the Orion, who groaned in humiliation. Serves you right, Jim sneered, hoping there was damage done to more than just his pride.

Without another word, Spock stepped away from the bar and scrutinized the crowd. When his roaming gaze landed on the captain, he headed straight for Jim, who made an effort to appear as though he hadn't been watching the scene between him and the Orion unfold.

"Permission to return to the ship, captain," requested Spock. His tone was perfectly polite, yet the way the words were spoken seemed forced and hurried, causing Jim to frown.

"Are you okay?" he asked seriously.

"Of course, sir," replied Spock, but the tightly drawn corners of his mouth told a different story. "I've simply had all the shore leave I can handle."

Then he turned on his heel and exited the establishment with haste, leaving Jim to shake his head wonder why he'd bothered bringing him in the first place.

. . . . . . . . . .

Half an hour later, Jim left the bar and all its forbidden delights behind for the Enterprise, pleasantly buzzed and ready to retire. En route to his quarters, however, he remembered the incident at the bar and felt compelled to check on Spock. Maybe it was the warm flow of alcohol running through his bloodstream or maybe it was genuine concern. He'd spent enough time with the Vulcan to see that the encounter with the Orion had noticeably affected him somehow.

Arriving at the room in question, Jim requested entrance, only to be met by silence. Puzzled, he tried again, and received the same treatment. Which might have been a sign that his first officer wanted to be left alone, except that Spock had never denied him entrance before, even when agitated or preoccupied.

If Jim had an ounce of sense, he would have left then and there. Sadly, if Jim had a drink for every time he had been accused of being senseless (usually by Bones, while being treated for a foolishly-acquired injury in Sickbay), he would be a lot less sober than he was now. Suffice to say, it was with absolute clarity that he uttered the override code to Spock's door, and promptly invited himself inside.

His first officer's quarters were dim, and the heat upon entering was akin to be swallowed by the mouth of dragon. After adjusting to the low light, Jim spotted Spock lying motionless on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He would have sworn the Vulcan was in a self-induced trance, or meditation, if not for the vigilant acknowledgement of his presence. "Captain, I do not recall granting you access to my quarters," spoke Spock, sounding somewhat dazed. "Please leave at once."

At the near desperate-sounding plea, Jim's conviction swelled. "Not until you tell me what's wrong," he said firmly, knowing there was something amiss. Approaching the bed, he debated over what to do next before settling on taking a seat. At this proximity, his first officer did look rather ill. He wondered if he had a temperature. Jim reached out toward Spock as if to check for one, but with a snarl, Spock caught his wrist midair and yanked him onto the mattress with ease.

"Jesus!" Jim swore, attempting to struggle free. "Spock, what the hell — Oh," he gasped as Spock wound those long, long legs around his torso, effectively pinning him to the bed, and more pressingly, to Spock. While the wonderful pressure atop groin temporarily robbed him of his ability to speak, the hand around his wrist slid up to his palm and massaged the skin there in a slow, sensual circle. The contact sent spikes of pleasure racing through his circulatory system, enough to remind his brain that he was, you know, in bed with Spock.

The absurdity of it all made Jim laugh, hard. Okay. This is obviously an insane, elaborate prank, orchestrated by my devious crewmates. Or an outbreak of alien sex pollen. Or I could be dreaming. Or Spock could be drunk. Yeah. Either way, I should put a stop to it...

Then those nimble fingers squeezed, and Jim mewled accordingly.

...as soon as that stops feeling so good.

Okay, maybe he wasn't inclined to share his bed with men — this would be the first, actually — and maybe come tomorrow morning, indulging in sex with his admittedly attractive but obviously inebriated in some way first officer would seem like a huge mistake. In spite of that, it was baffling to imagine pushing Spock away, what with how inviting he was with his weight against Jim's body and his steamy breath ghosting along his shoulder. Maybe he would wake up tomorrow in this bed and immediately regret it — to hell with it, though, that was just a risk he was going to have to take. Jim was a hedonist at heart, after all. And who knows, this could still be a dream. It probably was (which was both a relief and a disappointment).

Probably.

"Trying to get a raise, Mr. Spock?" he muttered wryly, reclaiming his coherency.

"My pay is quite adequate, captain," answered Spock, and without further clarification on his conduct, laced their fingers together. Electricity shuddered through Jim's body, drawing out a loud moan. The sensation was unlike anything he'd ever experience before, but he found himself more than willing to get acquainted with the Vulcan version of kissing if this was what it entailed. More pressure and friction intensified the hot, prickling feeling radiating from his palms; and if the contact was this powerful for him, he could scarcely conceive what it was doing to Spock.

"Is this just a perk of the job, then?" he chuckled. The temptation of the warm, unblemished neck hovering but a few inches away became too much to bear. Struck with the sudden urge to ravage that smooth skin, Jim pressed his mouth to it, nibbling playfully. "Or have you finally succumbed to my manly charms?"

His bite was well-received by Spock, whose normally composed voice shook slightly when he said, "Captain, as entertaining as your banter can be, at times, I suggest you forgo it in favor of pre-coital foreplay."

And goddamn, if everyone told him to shut up in such a manner, Jim might be more inclined to listen. Since his mouth seemed incapable of performing its usual functions, he decided to put it to better use — such as exploring the back of his first officer's throat. Gaila had once told him he kissed like he steered a starship; with confidence, precision, and focus. Judging by the way Spock was melting into his administrations, striving to keep up, he would say the Vulcan very much agreed.

Concentration proved difficult with the scent of sex and musk dominating the room, invading his nose, mouth, and mind. He couldn't escape it, couldn't stand it, yet he craved more. Even as it clogged his throat, choked him like a noose, he still welcomed it with open arms. Eagerly, clothes were discarded, torn off in their haste. With the bulk of their bodies exposed, and only the thin cloth of Spock's undergarment separating their aching arousals, Jim realized that he was so turned on it hurt. Out of the millions of ways there were to die in this universe, though, death by sex didn't sound like much of a tragedy.

"God, you smell good," Jim mumbled, nose buried in Spock's shoulder as he inhaled, deeply. Traveling further down, his tongue drew lines down a pale, heaving chest, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the body below. Licking his lips, the captain grinned. "Taste good, too. Appealing to all the senses."

"Charming as that sounds, sir, I need," Spock paused, abruptly, body wracked with shudders. His frustration was palpable, rolling off him in waves. But Jim wasn't going to let this be easy for him. Spock had initiated this insanity, damn it, and he wanted — needed, really — to know that he was as desperate for this as Jim before they continued.

"Need what, Spock?" he demanded, deceptively calm, as his wicked hand encircled the bulge between his first officer's trembling thighs. Gradually, Jim pulled down the last bit of cloth between them, and smirked when he saw Spock's length standing to attention, all but begging to be touched. Feather light, teasing caresses was what he gave instead, tracing the throbbing vein that ran along the shaft. Spock was quaking at this point in the torture, straining to maintain the control his captain was bent on breaking. Jim removed his hand altogether, leant until his lips brushed the shell of a pointed ear, then whispered, "Tell me."

"More," Spock cracked at last, and with that, rolled on top of Jim, grinding his hips down to meet his captain's own engorged erection. "I need more, Jim."

"Shit," gasped Jim, and wasted no time in complying with that fervent command, forcing two fingers past the taut ring of muscle at Spock's entrance. It was so tight, so wet, so hot that he could barely stand it with two digits alone. Spock tensed at the initial stretch before unclenching and allowing the fingers to explore. Adding another earned him a groan of approval, the vibration of which went straight to his cock. Soon, Spock was panting, begging for Jim to go faster, deeper. And because he was not a merciless man, the captain obeyed, trying to give Spock everything he asked for without being careless.

"Don't wanna hurt you," he explained breathlessly, yelping in surprise when Spock bit down on the sensitive spot where neck met shoulder. "You will not," the Vulcan murmured around the reddened flesh, soothing the sting with his tongue. "You cannot."

The darkness in Jim that he pretended didn't exist, that he resolutely neglected, the part that had resurrected him from death and demanded a presence in his life growled hungrily. Spock's assurance resonated like a challenge, igniting a greedy desire to tyrannize, conquer and own. Here, stripped of clothes and rank and the confines of duty, Spock belonged to him. And it was time, the darkness urged, he learned his place.

Swift as a switch, Jim flipped them so that it was Spock lying back against the bed. The Vulcan protested the loss of his fingers, but he planned on replacing them with something much bigger and better. Jim spat on his palm, spreading the makeshift lubricant over his prick, hissing at the touch of his own hand. It wasn't much of a preparation, although mixed with a generous amount of pre-cum spilled between them, it would do well enough.

Spock bucked his hips impatiently, eager to be filled. "Oh, you'll have it." Jim bit the inner side of his thigh reprovingly. Throwing both thighs over his shoulders, to allow for a better angle, he crooned, "Be patient, now. Has your captain ever disappointed?"

Before he could form a reply, Jim entered Spock in one fluid motion, groaning at the utter bliss he found within that slick cavern of glorious heat. He gave the muscle a moment to adjust to his girth, and then began to move. Spock surrendered to the intrusion without a fight, although there was much grunting and gasping as Jim began to move in and out, in an out, setting a rhythm of pain-laced ecstasy. Each thrust tore a muted cry of passion from his first officer's throat, awakening the darkness again. It twisted and thrashed against its chains, screaming for freedom, and the only way to sate its lust was to vigorously fuck his first officer into the mattress, which seemed to suit Spock just fine.

"You want it bad, don't you?" intoned Jim. "Want me inside of you, pounding you into the bed. Come on, say it," he , reducing his pace to a virtual stop, an act of utmost cruelty.

"Yes," said Spock obediently, which earned him a series of deep, stabbing thrusts that the Vulcan took all too graciously.

Jim took a moment to fully appreciate the sight of his stoic first officer completely undone — hair disheveled, lips parted, hands clutching at his captain's shoulders, hips rising to meet his thrust for thrust — before pulling out almost all the way and then driving right back in, down to the hilt. Spock actually moaned, a sound that Jim swore never to forget, no matter how many women he fucked after tonight. So close, he was so close now he could feel it stirring in the pit of his stomach; a warm, coiling knot of anticipation.

On the verge of coming, Jim abandoned speed, aiming at prolonging his orgasm. But with Spock so deliciously hot and tight around him, grasping at every inch of Jim's skin he could reach and spreading that tingling sensation throughout his limbs, it was all he could do to grind his teeth and keep the knot from bursting. The last straw was when Spock came, spurting over Jim's chest without even having to be touched, and God, the walls around his dick contracted with such force that it sent him spiraling off the precipice, emptying into his first officer until there was nothing left to give.

He managed to pull out and roll over before collapsing against the bed sheets, spent as his softened cock. "That," he whispered aloud, half-delirious and wondering if Spock was even listening anymore, "was unbelievable."

Beside of him, Spock was finally sated, and all by Jim's hand, he noted with no small amount of smugness. At that point, neither was ready to face the consequences of what they had done, or at the very least engage in some interesting pillow talk. Exhaustion swept over Jim like a tidal wave, and too sweaty, sticky and content to care that he'd never managed to make it back to his quarters, he fell asleep in no time flat.

. . . . . . . . . .

The morning after was, of course, an awkward affair.

Perhaps that was an understatement: The morning after was an incredibly awkward affair, amplified by the fact that they were not strangers, but crewmates who inhabited the same ship and interacted on a regular basis. To make matters worse, all Jim could think about as they recollected their clothes was how good the skin of his first officer's lean, quivering stomach had tasted, and the delectable noises he made when Jim nipped the tip of those pointy ears—

Stop. Bad thoughts. Very bad, unprofessional thoughts.

Once they were modestly dressed, Spock launched into a copious apology regarding his uncharacteristic, debased behavior. He would understand, then, if the captain saw fit to have him transferred — to which Jim had scoffed, because he wasn't about to lose the best first officer in the fleet, or more importantly, a friend over a night of (albeit mind-blowing) sex, and he told Spock as much. They were adults, after all. Surely they had the capacity to move past this.

Ultimately, it was agreed that they would simply forget about that night and go about their business as they always had.

It was no easy task.

For the first week, there was tension; undetectable to others, unbearable to them. For the second, they could engage in a game of chess, despite the frequent bouts of silence. Halfway into the third week, though, a sense of normalcy returned to their routine. By the time fourth week ended, Jim and Spock had regained their usual rapport, and life on the U.S.S. Enterprise continued to function without fault.

Until the fifth week, that was.

So, I realize Spock may seem really out-of-character in this chapter, yes? Don't worry, there's a reason. You see, our favorite Vulcan is currently afflicted with a rush of hormones that creates a reaction akin to pon farr, brought on by...well, you'll find out next chapter, if all goes well.

Until then, readers, live long and prosper.