This is it, what you all have been waiting for. The Pon Farr Chapter, as AtanaM and I have been calling it.
Thank you to AtanaM, for all of her amazing help writing this. Thank you to mhgood, for cleaning it up, and for her high praise. Thank you to Arabic, for teaching me to pay attention to words. Thank you to everyone who PM'd or otherwise let me know that I better get my butt in gear and post another chapter. Thank you to Elizawriter—for listening.
The guards are pleased with themselves—each have earned a case of chocolate covered Arabia coffee beans from Samir, an importer of chocolate and proprietor of Shorb Emir, the best chocolate cafe in all of A-75. The guards chat excitedly about their boon, paying no mind as they shove Spock and Nyota into their cell. They lock the door, walking away as Spock shouts after them.
"No! You cannot—you must—you have to—get her out of here! Now!"
He bangs on the door—punches it, kicks it as if that door is Sybok in their fight. He makes a few dents, but the door does not give. They remain imprisoned.
During his fight against the door, Nyota retreated to the other side of the cell, worried of what would happen if she stepped closer to Spock, if she got in his way.
"Spock," she calls softly. "What's wrong?"
He slumps down, his head in his hands, knuckles bruised a sickening shade of purplish green, shaking, breathing heavily. His cuts have stopped bleeding, but they still look angry and Nyota wishes she had a hypospray, wishes she could make his hurt go away.
"The fever has not been quelled by the fight, Nyota. I...do not have long," he says raggedly.
"Spock, Kirk will have heard of what's happened, or at the very least, he's got to be missing us by now. You know how he is, he'll get us out of here, we'll get on the Enterprise and you'll be okay. You're not going to die today, ashal-veh. Not if I have anything to say about it."
He smiles weakly. She has never seen him smile, and she finds she likes it, wishes he would do it more often. She knows he cannot, that his Vulcan teachings have eliminated the need for anything but a small quirk of his lips to express his happiness, but it is beautiful, his smile and she wants to see it more.
"Ashayam," he moans gutterly, wrenching his head out of his hands, tilting it back, exposing his throat, his entire body taunt and shaking as the fever rakes him.
She admits, she loves it when he speaks Vulcan. She loves the way his tongue caresses the syllables, the gutturalness juxtaposed with the beauty of the words. It was the first thing she noticed about him—how attractive it was to hear the language spoken by him, to hear his gentle cadences murmur Vulcan poetry. Sometimes, and she would never admit it to Spock nor to anyone else, she would deliberately mispronounce a word during her Advanced Conversational Vulcan Independent Study with him, just so he would correct her, would repeat the word slowly and carefully and she would have the pleasure of watching his lips form the words of such a beautiful language.
He moans again and she's taken out of her reverie. She stares at him for a moment, wondering if she should tear her skirt and wipe him down with the water from the tap built into the wall. "Spock," she says in Vulcan. "What do you need?"
They are reminded of another time, not long ago, when she asked him the very same question. He was close, so very close, to losing control, but he didn't. Instead, he kissed her, told her he needed everyone to continue performing admirably, and walked off the turbolift. He wonders if she knows how close he was to losing control, she wonders if he knows how much she wanted him to.
"You," he answers, his voice low. He gives her that look again, that look that is undiluted lust, that look he gave her before kissing her against the wall. It sends a jolt of desire through her, and she wonders what would happen if the Enterprise didn't make it to them in time, what if they had to take matters into their own hands...
"No!" he shouts. "I will not—I cannot do that!" He reaches behind him, punches the door. He cannot seem to catch his breath and he hangs his head in his hands again.
He is visibly shaking again, a sheet of sweat all over his body. She wonders how much time they have, how much longer Spock will still be in there before the Pon Farr takes him away from her.
She doesn't have a choice. Not anymore. She has to save him, even if it means saving him from himself.
"Spock," she says quietly. "Spock, look at me."
He raises his head. "Nyota," he moans. "Please, ashayam."
She isn't sure what he is begging for, for her to stop or continue. She refuses to let him die, refuses to let him descend into madness.
"Spock, we have to."
"No!" He yells at her. "Do you not understand? I could kill you! I will not do it, Nyota. I will not kill the woman I love."
She shakes her head. "You're not capable of killing me, Spock."
"You think you know me? Do you know how many men I have killed as an officer of Starfleet? How many I would for just looking at you?"
"Then make me yours," she says harshly. "Look at me—look at what I'm wearing. Sybok dressed me as one of his whores, he ran his hands all over me, Spock..." she pauses, pulling her hair back from her neck where it is falling out of it's coif and shows him the dark purple bruise where Sybok bit her. "He put his MARK on me, Spock. Prove him wrong. Prove them all wrong. Prove to him, prove to everyone that I'm yours, Spock. Make me your bondmate, now, please, before it's too late."
He stares at her, taking in her appearance. She has crawled closer to him, exposing the skin of her legs. The lust returns to his eyes, with it a look of possession. He shakes his head again, closing his eyes.
"Nyota, please, do not make me--"
She lets out a groan of frustration, before crawling even closer to him. She grabs his hand, lifting it to her face. "I am already yours, adun. You cannot take what is freely given."
She can feel the link opening between them. He is scared, so scared of hurting her, intermingled with the desire, the lust the fever has accentuated.
"It is the only way," she whispers.
He nods, taking his hand from her face and placing two of his fingers onto hers.
"Are you sure, Nyota?" he murmurs.
She leans her forehead against his and nods.
"Yes," she whispers.
"My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts. Parted from me and never parted, never and always touching and touched," he whispers reverently.
She suddenly feels overwhelmed, drowning, taken over by the scope and breadth of all of his emotions hitting her at once. She feels the punches of the Vulcan students who taunted him as a child, hears the sound of his mother's laughter. She feels the shame he felt when he argued with his father, never feeling fully Vulcan enough for Sarek. She feels the dark, intense possession he feels whenever another man so much as looks at her, the subsequent shame he feels at such an illogical emotion. She feels as if she is drowning while being ripped apart, and it is too much. She is losing herself, does not know who Nyota is anymore. She can't breathe, can't think, feels too much and it hurts. God, does it hurt.
"Nyota! Listen to me!" His voice breaks through the tempest in her mind. "You must listen to me, ashayam. Concentrate on my breathing, Nyota. Listen to it, synchronize yours to mine."
She listens, her eyes closed, as he tries to make his breathing as deep and even as possible, a metronome for her to follow. She follows his example, able to match her breathing to his. She can hear his heart beat, finds that hers is soon intertwining in rhythm with his.
She opens her eyes, finds him staring at her, sees herself staring back at him. Her calmness has soothed him as well and she can tell through their newly formed bonding that he is taken away by her love for him, just as she is taken away by the intense emotions he feels. They stare at each other in wonder, the desire flowing through them, and she realizes all Terran notions of becoming one with another person having nothing on being bonded with a Vulcan. He is in her mind, a constant presence and she marvels that it feels like he has always been there, as if she has never been completely alone.
I feel the same, Nyota.
You can hear my thoughts?!
Well, that would take some getting used to.
He chuckles inside her mind and she realizes she has never heard him laugh before. It delights her, she wants to hear it again.
Yes, Nyota. I can hear your thoughts. You can hear mine, if you concentrate.
She closes her eyes and she realizes that yes, she can. It is odd, being in Spock's mind. Thoroughly...logical, yet passionate. Everything has its place, working in sync, in tandem, like a watch, yet with such...emotion that she is momentarily confused how her logical, calm Vulcan have such warring states inside of him.
A memory enters her head, one that isn't hers, yet feels very familiar. It's Spock's, she realizes; he is providing an explanation.
Emotions run deep within our species, though it is far less in evidence than it is in humans. Long ago, such emotions nearly destroyed us. That is why we decided to follow the teachings of Surak. The result is the calm, controlled and contented civilization you see around you.
She nods. I understand now.
He takes her in his arms and as she settles herself on his lap, she can feel the lust he can barely keep in check. It reaches out towards her, enticing her. This new found closeness coupled with the lust she feels from Spock heightens her own arousal and she tilts her face upwards, seeking his kiss.
He kisses her openly, ardently, his tongue intertwining with his. She can sense that he wants Sybok's clothes off of her and she couldn't agree more. She leans back just enough with the intent to untie the halter-top, but he takes the initiative to rip the fabric at the seam, flinging it over her head. His hands slide up over her breasts and she feels her nipples tighten in response as she leans her head back in submission. He growls in approval, his lips moving to her neck, placing open-mouthed kisses there, before nipping at her collarbone.
She rolls her hips, feeling his arousal. She starts to unbutton his pants, knowing that he wants this just as much as she does. He moans against her neck, sending shivers down her spine.
"Mine," he growls in her ear, clutching her hips tighter to him.
"Prove it," she growls back, the fever heating her, making her crave him. She remembers all the times he came to her, arousing her to amazing heights, then leaving her. It makes her angry, frustrated, and she forgets he can feel all of this through the link.
"I am sorry, aduna. I was trying to save you," his lips move against her skin, leaving trails of wet fire as they travel back to her mouth, kissing her passionately.
She kisses him back, equally passionate. It's not enough, she needs more, he needs more. She breaks the kiss, untangles herself from his lap, and lays herself on the floor, raising to her elbows to look at him.
"Enough talk," she says. Before she can finish, he is on her, kissing her everywhere. She shoves his pants down over his hips impatiently as he shoves the skirt aside. He brushes his hands back up her body, sending goosebumps along her skin, not missing a single inch, learning her, worshiping her.
Her breath starts to thicken as she drags her nails down his chest, trying to bring blood, sensing that he needs it, needs her to mark him, to make him hers. He groans in approval, before biting her neck, hard.
Mine.
His voice, gutteral and thick with desire even in her mind, is a mantra. It underlines how much he needs her, wants her, craves her with everything that he is. She is the center of his universe, the most necessary thing to him and it almost overwhelms her again, the force of what he feels for her, it turns the sharp pain of his bite into a heated kind of passion, and she almost wishes he'd mark her again.
She arches her neck, taking his earlobe between her teeth, worrying it, caressing it with her tongue before she bites down, hard, on it. He roars, his back bowing, the pleasure too much for either of them.
"Nyota," he pants. "I--"
She takes him in her hands, almost clumsy in her need to guide him where they both want him to be. He is in her, she surrounds him, he is on top of her, she is below him and she is drunk off the feeling. He moves, his hips jerking, and he is so far gone now he can't find a rhythm but it feels so damn good she doesn't care, doesn't care that she is on her back on some cold stone floor, that his elbow is caught in her hair and making her neck jerk with every thrust, that this isn't the refined lovemaking she expected to have with Spock. She wraps her legs around him, moaning, digging her heels into the small of his back, her fingers scrambling for purchase against sweat-soaked skin as his body slides hard against hers with every thrust. She groans, finding it harder to breathe as the friction and the heat and the fever take them both higher, deeper, and she wants to scream so badly but can't find the air, doesn't know if she's going to live through all of this sensation--
Someone screams. She is not sure if it's her, or him or perhaps both of them together in a single harmony, but the world contracts to the single point of consciousness and explodes outward, a burst of lights blinding her as she loses all coherent thought. He collapses, panting, thanking her through their link, murmuring words of Vulcan, of Standard, telling her Taluhk nash-veh k'dular, I cherish thee, and she wonders if this is the closest a Vulcan ever gets to babbling.
He cannot stop.
He knows he should. He needs to give her time to recover. Her body cannot keep up, it is spent. She is exhausted, bruised, sore and barely able to move any more. He tries to be gentle, tries to love her like she deserves, but the fever yells at him to take her, to possess her, regardless of her, regardless of everything.
It laughs at him as he wonders how long it will take before it stops.
But isn't this a lovely way to burn, Spock?
He flips her over on her stomach and begins again.
She wakes up slowly, consciousness coming out and in like the tide, and when she finally does open her eyes, she doesn't remember falling asleep, wonders if she simply passed out.
She tries to move and realizes how much of a grave mistake it is. Her body mightily protests, every muscle aching, all of the bruises, scratches, aches, and pains she has making themselves known. She bites back a cry as she stretches her arms, noting the finger-shaped bruises on them. She can feel the burn of Spock's fingernails down her back, the soreness of her bruises from where he's bitten her. There is a burning between her legs that is such that she doesn't know if she'll ever walk again.
Despite all of this, she smiles. Her man is good. Even half mad, even when she was so worn out he had to move her like a rag doll and it hurt and she desperately wanted him to stop, somehow through everything there was still pleasure. Pon Farr was dangerous and took an unbelievable toll on both body and mind but still, it had its benefits.
She can feel his gaze on her. He has gone back to his corner, his pants back on, his knees pressed up against his chest, he looks like a wounded animal. He looks gaunt. He needs to shave, though she kind of likes the five o'clock shadow he's currently sporting.
"Hey," she croaks. "How are you feeling?"
He doesn't respond. She frowns. Is the fever still there? Did last night not work?
The fever is gone, Nyota.
Then what's wrong, Spock?
She feels his fear, his shame. "I hurt you."
She takes a good look at him, sees the bite marks on his chest, his neck. She notices that he has more than a few bruises, himself.
"Looks like I hurt you too," she says out loud hoarsely, wishing that she had a glass of water.
He shakes his head. "I could have killed you, Nyota. Your body...I should have been able..."
"Spock," she says sharply. "It is illogical for you to torture yourself over an uncontrollable condition. Just have been illogical for me to let you die when I had the power to stop it," she gives a raspy chuckle, rather delighted at the logic of her argument. "Nam-tor ri thrap wilat nem-tor rim, beloved, and it looks like I gave as good as I got so just...stop it, OK? The next time this happens we'll be prepared. We'll...take precautions, I'll tie you up, I don't know. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. But what I do know is that I chose this. I signed up to deal with this the day I fell in love with you."
He looks at her as if he cannot believe what he is hearing and for a second she thinks that she is going to have to explain it to him again. Then he slowly, hesitantly comes to her, wrapping her in his arms.
"Taluhk nash-veh k'dular, aduna."
She kisses him again, confident that it will stay at a kiss. He caresses the side of her face, cradling her to him.
"I love you too, Spock," she says against his lips.
He leans his forehead against his, and they marvel in the feeling of being together, of being two halves of the same whole.
He takes the ripped and tattered halter top and, wetting it with water from the tap on the wall, starts to wipe her clean.
They hear the door open and, thinking it's Sybok, Spock places Nyota behind his back, guarding her, shielding her.
Kirk pokes his head in. "Oh, good. This is the right cell. Hi, guys. Let's get out of here."