Fandom: Star trek TOS
Summary: When Spock suddenly goes into pon farr again, there's no chance to reach Vulcan in time.
Note: Written for the third challenge of the ship war run by st_respect. The prompt was "NC-17" (which this isn't).
The solution is found at the last possible moment. It is found after days of struggle, after arguments, a battle of will. For once he loses the debate, has to submit to another’s logic, his own logic failing as his blood burns and sings and calls out in need, and he cannot decline for long when he is offered exactly what he desires.
The solution is found in the form of Doctor McCoy sprawled on his bed, nervous but willing, his posture telling of a stubborn defiance almost, but not quite, hiding his fear. Spock watches him from a distance of two point three metres, nude and open and already prepared, and Spock’s control is very fragile.
Yet he finds the strength to say, in a stranger’s voice, that McCoy has no obligation to do this.
The doctor is pushed up on his elbows, glaring, wearing annoyance like a mask. “Cut it out, Spock. We’ve been over this. I must do this, because I can, and because there is no other way.”
“Yes, locking you in until your own blood has killed you. Not the best plan you ever came up with.”
Spock is aware of that. He also does not wish to die, and that is why he is here now, with a human who by nature and profession had no more choice not to offer than Spock had not to accept.
“I have no desire to hurt you,” he says, apologizing for what he fears will happen. McCoy shrugs.
“And I have no desire to be hurt. But when it comes down to it I’d rather take a few bruises than watch you die.”
Spock does not believe the doctor knows what he agreed to. But he can sense McCoy’s fear of him, subtle and buried under concern and determination but there. Without his clothes he looks vulnerable, smaller than before, his limbs long but thinner than they should be.
Spock’s mouth is dry. He takes a step closer to the bed.
“If there were a way to get to Vulcan in time…”
“But there isn’t. And it’s not like you’re forcing me. It’s not even like I don’t want this, though of course I would have preferred it happening under different circumstances.” He lets his head fall back, exposing his throat in the careless gesture. “And now let’s get over with this and forget I ever said that.”
Spock wants to say something in return but syntax fails him and his thoughts turn to ash. He leans over the delicate human, knowing if he touches him his hold on control will end. His blood, his mind, burns, but there is something else he has to bring to McCoy’s attention.
“You must submit to me completely. The fever demands it.”
Even in the dim light, McCoy’s eyes are impossibly blue. “Vulcan women don’t like to fight for it, huh?”
“The union is for reproduction. There is no practical purpose to a fight for dominance.”
“My, aren’t you a fun people,” McCoy murmurs, flat on the bed now, so close Spock can feel his breath on his own heated skin. “I just hope you know no little Vulcans will come out of this union.”
“I know,” Spock confirms. Then he touches McCoy’s face with the tips of his fingers and loses himself. He knows. His blood does not.
The solution is found in hot hands against cooler skin, in hoarse moans, harsh breaths, the sweat of two species mingling between their bodies. Leonard never fights him; yet Spock holds him down, down, holds both thin wrists in one hand as he spends himself in the heat and the friction.
It starts when he can still think, when he still knows his name, before the plak tow is fully upon him, so the second time is harsher, harder, rougher as Spock drives deeper and deeper into the thin man trapped under him, making him arch and whimper and finally scream; as he thrusts and takes and holds and only thinks mine mine mine and his blood sings louder than ever.
Later he lies still on the bed, the desire resting, not gone. Leonard is tugged against him, held closer than necessary with no one there to take him away. Not sleeping but tired, breathing softly against the side of Spock’s neck where damp skin is drying in the heat of this room.
The touch of Spock’s fingers is as light as the touch of Leonard’s breath as he runs them up and down the human’s back. Feeling the outline of the spine. Counting the ribs. He remembers the numbers now, his own name. He has never forgotten Leonard’s.
His sense of time has yet to return. He only knows that it has been many hours since the door was closed and locked, a warning to everyone not to enter here. Leave us alone. Do not touch what is mine.
Leonard shudders softly when Spock’s hand slides down to ghost touches over the inside of his thighs. He is too worn out for more of a reaction that that, but Spock is not; already he feels his burning blood fill his organ as once again it calls for the joining of their bodies.
His fingers linger as they find an asperity in the soft skin; a tiny spot, perhaps a scar left by one before him. Rolling his mate onto his back, Spock moves down to cover the mark with his own, erase all signs of others from the body beneath him. He will not tolerate them.
He will leave his own marks as a warning for everyone to stay away.
Leonard moves softly, moans, whispers his name like that of a deity. Spock feels the forming of something that was not previously there, its power resonating in the single word.
“Mine,” he says, for the first time out loud.
And Leonard shivers and sighs and whispers, “Yes,” a million stars born in the time between heartbeats. “Yours.”
January 29, 2010