Boys Boys Boys

AN: Inspired by "Boys Boys Boys" by Lady Gaga! I must say though, this thing sort of ran away from me here, and I find it really bizarre.

Disclaimer: SSDD!

Rating: M

Warnings: Non-con

Hey there baby. The words echoed awkwardly in his head. The thought had come from nowhere and had nowhere to go, but he clapped his hand over his mouth just in case they attempt escape. It had been known for the filter between his thoughts and his mouth malfunctioned often, and this was one thought he'd rather not have to regret saying out loud.

It didn't even matter that he was alone, well, Spock was there, but that was just like being alone. It was just so weird, and saying out loud would only accentuate that fact. He tried to figure out why the thought came to him now. He couldn't put a finger on the origin and instead turned his eyes to the P.A.D.D. in front of him, hopefully boring the thought out of his mind with the inane report.

It worked for the most part, his awkward feeling a dull buzz in the back of his mind, but he slumped in the chair a little more and yawned, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. The small noise caught Spock's attention.

"It is getting late." His First Officer stated, although there was almost an inquiring tone to it. He wasn't sure how to respond to that tone.

"I guess." He fumbled. He rubbed his eyes with the butts of his palms to keep himself awake, the motions rather harsh and his eyes watered. He had never really noticed how calloused his hands were until now. The P.A.D.D. resting on his leg started to fall, but before he could even react, Spock caught it and placed it on the table. "Guess that means it's time to stop." He joked, standing up and stretched, feeling his vertebra separate and hearing them crack, his arms reaching over his head. He let out a small groan at the stiffness. Spock's head titled ever so slightly to the right in question, even though he said nothing.

He could feel those eyes watching, studying, him.

He sighed quietly and padded over to his closet, peeling off his shirt and tossing it in with his other laundry, pulling a T-Shirt on for respect of his guest. Spock stared at him again like a fascinating experiment. He excused himself to the bathroom where he changed into a pair of jeans. Hell, if he knew anything about these reports, he still had hours to go before he could really be finished and he'd rather be more comfortable and out of uniform, since it clung a little too tight.

Again he was met with silent analysis, and he couldn't help but roll his eyes when he fell into his chair.

"Something on your mind?" He asked, breaking the hard silence. Spock didn't say anything and he just heaved another sigh and picked the P.A.D.D. back up, continuing to read through, marking in his memory what he needed to reference in his reply.

When he thought he wouldn't get caught, he stole glances at his First, whose eyes turned that analytic intensity toward the report, and his shoulders lifted lightly, the burden of that gaze fading from memory. He stared longer than he should have because he got caught.

"Is there something you wanted to say, Captain?"

He found that he hadn't heard a single word. To be more specific, he hadn't understood the words that left those lips. He heard the tone, low and quiet, felt it inside him. But he didn't hear the question. He stuck to stare stupidly at his First Officer, hoping, rather illogically, that perhaps he might be able to guess what he had asked.

"No." He ventured, a shiver running up his spine as their eyes remained locked. His fingers were thrumming against the P.A.D.D. nervously. Spock seemed dissatisfied with the answer, but didn't prod further, just maintained their eye contact. The intensity of his shook Jim on the inside, even if it only reflected outwardly as a nervous twitch of his fingers.

He looked away quickly and tried to focus on the report, but it was removed from his hands gently and placed on the desk. He took to chewing on the inside of his cheek before he met Spock's eyes again.

"Are you not feeling well?"

The tone was enticing. The fact there was a tone to that voice outside of dull accommodation or disinterest piqued his interest. He brushed off the query, however, and reached forward to grab something off the desk. He felt a hand wrap around his wrist and his heart stopped.

He wasn't touching him, right? Wasn't there an unwritten rule about touching?

But the fiery grip clamped tighter around, and he could feel the bones shift slightly under the touch.

"I'm fine." He emphasized, trying to free himself, to no avail. "Let go of me. What are you doing?" He asked, the slightest panic leaking into his words and his inner voice, confident and arrogant to a fault, tried to stomp that emotion out quickly.

The grip remained persistent and a wave rose up in the back of his mind, crashing violently, and yet softly, into his mind. The hand on him was hot hot, burning, and in spite of the heat, he felt goosebumps rise up along his arms.

He wasn't really sure what was going on, but he couldn't help but admit he was interested. Hell, he was on the edge of his seat, most literally, waiting for something else to happen, but his wrist was released and he sat back, trying to hide his disappointment.

His eyes fell onto Spock's hands, the one that touched him wrapped protectively in the other as if he had been burned. There was a slight tremble and he couldn't hide the smile. But when he locked eyes with Spock again, his smile fell instantly at the feral look in those dark eyes.

"Hey. You grabbed me." He offered in his defense, holding his hands up, ready to shield his neck, not that he could expect to fight off the Vulcan if this was heading in that direction, and he could only hope he would be able to reach Bones before his First Officer killed him. Or something.

"I am aware." His First growled. Yes. Growled. As in the sound that never meant anything good was going to happen. Completely despite the fact of how sexy it was. He really shouldn't be feeding his libido right now.

His whole body tingled. He shivered slightly and stood, backing away slowly, as if he was trying to evade a wounded animal, prepared to strike. He was caught fiercely, both arms held captive in a too strong grip and he was only thankful that his neck had been spared. He was pushed back just as forcefully and he stumbled back into the room, falling over onto the bed, which he hadn't actually bothered to make this morning. It still smelled of last night and his heart stopped. He had meant to change the sheets.

He was ripped from his reverie when his shoulders were pressed down into the mattress and closed his eyes waiting for the grip to reach his neck and his fingers twitched toward the console next to the bed, but a strong hand pinned his down firmly and his last means of escape was thrown out the window.

His throat closed in panic and he couldn't say anything. The constriction hurt and his eyes flew open, his free hand reaching his neck defensively, finding that there was nothing there. Spock's hands were tied up with restraining him.

"Is this your way of showing concern?" He croaked, trying to lighten the situation, still trying to figure out what had gotten his First all riled up in the first place.

"No." Came the curt reply, dark eyes searching his for something.

"Then would you care to explain, Commander?" He dropped to rank pulling, hoping that would bring some sense into the situation. Instead it seemed to work against him.

"You really should watch what you think." Spock stated, darkly. "Captain." He added, facetiously.

"What?"

"You may have weak psychic abilities, Captain," Okay, he was really getting annoyed with that now. "But you are mentally strong, and you're projecting."

Projecting? What?

His eyes got wide when it hit him across the head forcefully. He could only imagine what he was exuding that had caused this.

"At first, you merely seemed distraught, and I caught your hand on impulse. What happened after that." Spock concluded vaguely, tightening his grip. He didn't finish his sentence and Jim lingered on that instead of what had happened last night and he caught himself as the image came back and he shook his head. "Fascinating."

He tried to think about something else. He thought about a band, the band graphically represented on his T-shirt, the first band he ever saw in concert. He never even liked them. He bought the tickets to impress a girl, oh how naïve, and she nearly cried when he handed them to her. He had definitely not gotten his money's worth out of them though. She kissed him, Hell, they made out under the bleachers at their school after that, but she just 'wanted to be friends' after that, and they never talked except for that one time she called to ask him to bring him something she had left in his car.

But for being his first attempt, he got pretty far. He had nearly gotten her shirt off that night on the field. Nearly.

He heard a low noise in his ear and something pull over his head. He felt hot hands on his skin and shuddered. He had never been one to be manhandled, but in this moment, he could give in. Whatever this was, his conscious mind tried to claim it as nonconsensual, threw empty threats around of being submit to court martial and mutiny and a word even his subconscious mind didn't want to approach.

In spite of his protests, however, images flashed in his eyes, sensations travelled along and through his skin and he reacted, against his will, he wanted to add. When his back arched, when his mouth dropped open in a silent scream, when his body went numb and mind dim and dizzy as blood rushed elsewhere, that was completely not his fault.

The moan, that wasn't his.

But the hands felt too good. They reached where they shouldn't.

"Stop sending conflicting thoughts." The deep husky voice above him warned and the hands vanished. It was almost painful the way his back arched to find them. He tried to explain that away too.

He didn't know what he was sending and he wished he'd shut up.

Whatever heat that was pressed up against him, because it was not Spock, pulled away and he was alone again.

What the Hell?

He couldn't feel any part of himself. His arms felt heavy, his legs like lead. It almost felt psychotic or dramatic. He knew himself to be neither, but the current situation had his mind reeling so hard that he couldn't stop it.

He needed to find something to still himself and figure out what the Hell was going on.

He tried to play it off as a huge representation of his imagination, a hallucination, maybe he had another space virus. But no, the sensations on his skin still lingered, tingling and over sensitive that where the air pushed through the vents made his skin feel raw and he longed for something to cover up those weaknesses with gentle hands. When he shivered again, he needed heat.

He managed to sit up in time to see the retreating form of his First.

"What a god damn minute there, Mr. Spock." He called ferociously. His First Officer stopped but didn't turn and he could see the shaking, even from here. "You're going to explain what the Hell just happened."

"I need to go."

"I don't think you do." He replied, acid tainting his voice, making it hard and violent. When he reached out, having walked over from the bed, his hand burned as it held Spock, fire transmitting even through the fabric. "Are you not feeling well?" He asked, turning Spock's question back at him.

"No." The word sounded desperate. Jim's eyes narrowed and he forced his First Officer around.

"What's wrong?"

There was no answer this time. He hadn't been aware of how close they had been until the distance was closed. He felt a brand new fire race through him painfully. It was frightening and he didn't know what to do. He didn't know what was going on, and he desperately tried to think of something to help Spock, though he came up blank.

"I should get McCoy." He stated, more to himself than to Spock and the growl came at his ear again.

"No."

Okay. Hell. He was scared now. Really, seriously worried for his well-being. He tried to take a step back but he was trapped in a deadly embrace where the emotion that lingered in it was horrible, overshadowing another's fear and desperation. Too much was being transferred through his skin. He felt as if the membrane could just rip apart at the magnitude of sensations struggled through.

Fear. Pain. Lust. Desperation. Pleading. Begging. Shame. Fear. Need.

"I had miscalculated." There was strain in that normally serene voice.

"What's wrong? What can I do?" He begged, suddenly afraid for the well-being of his friend. Had something infected him? He feared that they needed to get the doctor, now, as a matter of fact. He didn't want to lose him. No.

Spock didn't say anything. He tried to back away. Jim gave him space, attempting again to contact McCoy. He managed to get patched through and had nearly asked him to haul ass when Spock noticed and shut the link, still shaking.

"No." He whispered.

A feeling of shame that wasn't his, flowing into his skin where that hand rested on his own, overwhelmed him. Spock wanted this to be a secret. But it couldn't be. Not when he was so worried. And it didn't matter. He would bet money that McCoy would be here within minutes anyways, running as fast as his legs could carry him.

Spock's shoulders fell slightly and he hid his face. Jim took a step closer and found that to be a bad idea as he was thrown up against the wall, pinned there. The door to his quarters rushed open and he heard the familiar sound of a hypo-spray echo in the silence as Spock collapsed.

"That's not going to work for long. His metabolism is going to burn that off in barely a half an hour if I think I know what's going on."

Jim ignored orders not to touch and moved Spock his bed, unwilling to let him just lay there on the floor.

"Explain it to me. What the Hell is going on?!" His voice was strained and frantic.

"It's a biological imperative."

"Yeah. That doesn't mean much. You said we don't have much time. Stop fucking around." He replied, annoyance thick in his voice. Bones jumped at the tone.

"It might be caused by the destruction of the planet." The good doctor mused. "His genes are forcing him into an early mating cycle."

Jim's eyes widened.

"It's dangerous to be here. When he wakes up, there's no saying what he can do. He won't be thinking rationally." Spock had definitely not considered the fact that McCoy knew more about Vulcans than anticipated.

"Then what do we do? Run? That hardly seems like handling the situation." Jim answered, gruffly.

"Jim. Do you not understand what I'm saying?" Bones asked, his voice nearly raising an octave in frustration. "He could really hurt you."

"What do you suggest then?" He snipped.

"I don't know." Bones admitted. "I don't know what to do. We need to do something. If we don't, he'll die."

"What?" It was Jim's voice this time that nearly screeched. Spock was not going to die.

"Jim. I don't know what to say. There really isn't anything to say." Bones shifted in his seat. "I'm not comfortable, as you CMO and as your best friend, to let you stay here. I know you don't want to see him get hurt, but there isn't much we can do now. We're too far from the colony." The doctor stated dejectedly.

"What are our options?"

"He needs someone to bond with." McCoy stated off-handedly, glancing over Jim's shoulder to assess if Spock was regaining consciousness.

"Okay."

"What?" Bones asked incredulously.

"I said 'okay'." Jim, too, glanced over his shoulder. "I'll do it."

"Do you even know what the Hell you're talking about?"

"No." He admitted honestly. "But if that's all we have, I'll do it."

"He could kill you. And if you're not compatible, God, I don't even know."

"I think we'd be compatible." Jim responded absent-mindedly.

"What?"

"Before. Before you got here. I could feel what he was thinking. I think, if that means anything, we'd be compatible."

"God, Jim. You know how to find trouble anywhere, don't you?"

"Seems to be a skill."

McCoy sighed heavily.

"If it's gotten to this point, he must have been suffering it for at least a day or so."

"That would explain the weird way he was acting before."

"I'm not sure I'm interested in the details." McCoy shuddered. "Here." He stated, handing over a handful of various medical supplies. "If you're really stupid enough to go through with this, you'll need these."

The good doctor then spent the new few minutes going over exactly what each item was, what it was good for and how to use it. Some of the injuries McCoy was throwing around made Jim start to almost regret his decision. He started to get antsy. Especially when Bones warned him that he wasn't exactly sure what could happen, but he knew that bonding was permanent. Permanent. As in, if this happened, he would be, for the lack of a more appropriate word, married to his First Officer for the rest of his life.

He didn't love him.

No.

That was a definite improbability.

But if they did bond, would Spock hold it over his head? Would the Vulcan get upset if he wanted to marry a woman and have a life, if he could even do so?

He was starting to have second thoughts. He hadn't noticed Bones staring at him concerned.

"You're changing your mind, aren't you?"

He could only nod his head. But he knew that they wouldn't be able to make it to the colony before Spock perished. There really weren't many options. And there was nobody else willing to make such a sacrifice.

He sighed.

"Maybe we should try something else." Bones offered.

"There really isn't anything else we can try." It wasn't really a question. "And we can't put out a ship-wide broadcast as an advertisement. Spock is already beating himself up over this. We don't need to make it public." He stated, swallowing his doubts, because what else could he do?

Bones sighed too. Jim was right. Even if he didn't want to admit it.

"Keep your communicator near by, just in case." Bones stated, really hesitant to leave his Captain alone. "I'll put the two of you on medical leave." He added before standing. Jim refused eye contact. "You don't have to do this."

"I do. Bones, you know I do."

But Bones didn't answer. He just left, though he kept looking over his shoulder as if he was waiting for Jim to change his mind and call him back. But Jim didn't and he left the room.

He was alone again, well, he had his regret and sorrow, guilt and nervousness, but he was alone. Spock was still unconscious. He was mildly grateful for that. But he couldn't have more than minutes left to think about what he had done, what will be done. He was scared. He knew there was a bond, but other than that he didn't know what to expect.

"Why are you here?" The hoarse voice made him jump and he spun around. His heart dropped. "You should leave."

"I know what's happening."

Spock's eyes went uncharacteristically wide. If this situation weren't so grave, that would have been comical.

"I can't." Spock's voice cracked.

He knew he was losing control.

"I know." Jim sat down on the bed at Spock's hip. "But I know what will happen if you don't."

Spock didn't say anything. Jim didn't look at him.

"I know I'm not ideal, but there's no one else that would do this for you." Who would give up his freedom to you, he finished in his head.

"I don't want to take your freedom." Spock answered. Jim dropped his head.

"Just do it before I change my mind."

Spock didn't move. Jim got angry. The anger and fear and restlessness running rampant in him spread to Spock and it shredded away the rest of the Vulcan's control and he was pressed hard into the mattress again, face down and he tried not to think that he was suffocating. He tried not to think about being stripped. Tried not to think about the fire that blistered his skin. Tried to block out every sensation, everything he didn't want. It hurt.

It really hurt.

He felt like he was being ripped open. His mouth dropped open, but the pain strangled the scream in his throat. He knew fighting wouldn't do anything, but he struggled anyway, but felt a hand at the back of his neck, holding him in place, the other hand branding a handprint on his hip as he was invaded, battered. He fisted the sheets. He should have known this would have happened.

But again he tried to block it all out.

Until the hand on his neck found those points on his face and he couldn't stay lost in his other world anymore.

Fire and need and lust and anger burned inside of his mind and he collapsed, unable to control his body anymore. It got dark and his eyes shut.

When he came to, he was flooded with regret and hatred and panic and fear.

He wasn't alone anymore. He could never really be alone anymore, could he?

He couldn't feel any part of his body. He was curled on his side, unbearably cold and exposed and felt something dry and crusted on is skin, pinching and hurting. He could smell copper, or was it iron? He tried not to think that it was probably his own blood that he smelled.

A hand touched his shoulder and he desperately arched away from it. The hand didn't follow. He was flooded with relief, but also with a new wave of guilt. Remorse, coupled with a despondent apology, rushed into him now. He tried to shove the presence out. It retreated.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't talk to me. Please."

"I'm sorry."

"Please."

"You shouldn't have stayed."

"Please."

There was no response after that.

It was quiet. He concentrated on only his breathing. He ignored everything else.

He almost cried. He wanted to, but couldn't. He was bonded now. The weight of that pressed against his chest and he started to hyperventilate. Hands were all over him again and he was flooded with fear. He flailed, trying to separate himself. He still couldn't control his breathing.

"Stop. Please." The deep voice begged.

He ceased his movements, lying flat on his back now. He was still hyperventilating, but it far less severe. Tears escaped from the corners of his eyes, and long, careful fingers brushed them away.

He turned away, looking at the clock. He had lost three days. Lost. Three. Days. He couldn't remember anything. Some part of his subconscious must have faded everything to black. But that was still frightening.

Long arms wrapped around him, warm now, not burning, rocked him gently and he didn't know he was sobbing quietly until the whispers in his ear pleaded with him to stop.

His arms responded to him now, and he placed his hands on Spock's back, holding on with all he had. The reaction was as surprising to him as it was to Spock. But he only held tighter when he noticed.

He wasn't sure if it was love, but it was something.

AN: Well, yeah. This really got away from me. I know that it doesn't really fit in, AT ALL, but I'll still leave it in, because I was listening to "Boys Boys Boys" and it did sort of inspire me. Hidden subliminal message in the song? What?

Anyways.