Jul 212009

Title: Let the Pheromones Choose the Man
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Characters: Spock/Kirk, McCoy, Sarek
Rating: E
Warnings: Angst, smut, pon farr cliché
Notes: Yeah, yeah. OMGWTF, I took a pon farr prompt at the crackmeme. I've been struggling through it for a day and a half, now, and I just finally killed it off. Musical inspiration credit for this goes to three tracks, in particular, for the last third: Smash Mouth's 'Can't Get Enough of You, Baby', De/Vision's 'Your Hands on My Skin', and Torley Wong's 'Falling In Love For the Last Time'.

Prompt from here:
Spock produces pheromones as he enters Pon Farr specifically designed to make his intended submit to his needs. They can only be detected by his intended mate,(or a medical tricorder.) Cue Kirk fighting the effects because he doesn't want to see himself as submissive. Maybe he's afraid to let himself go like that, even though subconsciously it's what he needs. It's why he has slept around so much, and never with the same person twice; sex is fun but nothing more. Bonus points if you can make it that someone else was expected to experience the effects i.e. Uhura or a Vulcan who has been sent to mate with Spock, and everyone's confused as hell when the Captain starts acting unusually. Can it be angsty but with a happy outcome, please anon. Will twirl with joy if it includes Pon Farr sex with 'semi-aggressive Spock' and 'still fighting it, but eventually submits (over and over) Kirk' :)

It was a feeling he'd never felt, but he'd been trained from the time he was a child to recognise the symptoms of Pon Farr. All systems functioning normally; this could be acceptable — the ship was only about two days out from New Vulcan. He'd call his father, they'd have a girl waiting for him, everything would be just fine, and he would in no way actually endanger his own life. Except, of course, for the part where he was going to have to tell that jackass doctor what was going on, if he expected this ship to go anywhere near New Vulcan, in the next week.

This was one of those rare moments Spock had a flicker of regret about not being entirely human.

Having imparted some sense to Dr. McCoy, Spock took his post on the bridge. No one else needed to know what was actually happening, the ship just needed to stop off at New Vulcan for one of those perfectly standard reasons — picking things up, dropping things off, consulting with rational minds, before rushing off to violate the laws of both good sense and physics. He could just stare into the screen and let his concerns go, because everything was going to be just fine — or at least that's what he kept telling himself. There was still a nagging sense of wrongness about the entire affair, and it was always worse when he was on the bridge. Something about the captain, he assumed, but it was always something about the captain. Irritating —

Spock stopped, mid-thought, as a shiver ran through him. Like a sensible individual, he checked the controls, making sure the temperature was stable, and no practical joker had aimed a cooling vent at his chair, this week. And the answer came back that he was, in fact, completely illogically cold. This point, of course, annoyed him. His own body temperature seemed to be acceptable, the temperature of the ship was normal, and no one had ever said Pon Farr involved being cold. He flexed his fingers, knuckles popping in irritation.

Frankly, to steal a phrase from his excruciatingly irrational captain, the whole situation fucking sucked.

Finally, after a day of suffering on the bridge, he reported to the captain that he would not be appearing for duty in the morning. "I am ill, Captain. Dr. McCoy has already documented this fact, and I am not contagious, but I am also not entirely fit for duty, at this time. There is a cure for what I have available at New Vulcan, and once we make that stop, I am certain I'll be able to return to the bridge. As it stands, I believe the illness is impairing my judgement."

Kirk actually stared for a few moments, at this unprecedented announcement, before patting Spock's shoulder, kindly. "Hey, sure, if there's anything I can do for you, just let me know, all right?"

The arc of Spock's eyebrow said more than anything that came out of his mouth, as the captain's hand lingered on his shoulder. "I am fairly certain there is not, Captain, but thank you for your concern."

Spock very nearly fled the turbolift, heading for his quarters. He wanted to be fighting the captain, yes, that was it, he was feeling a challenge to his territory. Because the other alternative didn't make a whit of sense. With an air of calm he didn't quite feel, he locked the door of his room — only the doctor or the captain would have the overrides — and attempted to settle into meditation. One more day, he told himself, one day of being stuck in this room, and then he would fulfill the biological urge of his species and return to work. No problem. Still, he felt he was missing something, some nagging little thing that would make all of this so much easier. Doubtless his father would help him remember.

After two Vulcan women had left the room after one look at him, and he'd slept with three more, Spock was both tired and moderately irate. What were they giving him, factory reject Vulcans, beause he was a half-breed? This was supposed to be making him feel better, but his skin still crawled with the early symptoms of plak tow. It was too early for the burning in his blood to begin in earnest, but he was certain he didn't want this to get that far. He began to wonder if death by Pon Farr was a biological consequence of being a half-breed. He was the first known to survive this long, which meant there weren't going to be any easy answers, because he was going to become the textbook case.

He'd broken up with Uhura, months ago, because of her scent, oddly. Arousing, yes, but it lacked a certain something, and that lack left him worse off than nothing at all. In this case, though, he was going to go beg her forgiveness, to see if she'd be willing to save his life — after he got a nap.

In the hour Spock was unconscious, Sarek met with Dr. McCoy, the two men discussing the peculiar failure of their charge to bond. Sarek had seen cases like his son's, a few times, over the years, and they had generally been solved by letting the pheromones choose the mate. The sufferer would kneel in the hot, Vulcan sun, being sniffed by every eligible prospect that could be found, until one reflexively submitted. The practice had, at times, resulted in some extraordinarily peculiar couples, but any couple that included Spock would be peculiar from the start.

"What are the chances of him bonding with a human?" asked the doctor, ever sensible. "He is part human, after all. It may have some effect on the pheromone he's putting off."

"I have absolutely no idea, Doctor. I bonded with a human by choice, not necessity." A hint of a smile played at the corners of Sarek's lips. "I was fortunate, in that regard."

As the discussion stretched on, Spock joined them, in the conference room, looking dishevelled and annoyed. "I have run out of options. I have had six women today, and I am worse than when I started."

Dr. McCoy stood to examine him with a tricorder, asking, "Sarek, is there any chance we can read the pheromone and produce a list of likely hits? We've only got a few days, and the pool of potential mates is much larger, in this case, than it would normally be."

"Try it. There is nothing to lose in making the attempt." Sarek also stood, looking contemplative. "While you do that, I would like to begin the traditional ceremony. We will both try, and perhaps one of us will find the answer."

Spock sat beneath a canopy of cloth, just enough to keep the sun from actually burning him as he sat through hours of Vulcan after Vulcan smelling him, shaking their heads, and walking away. This was it, then. He was going to lose his mind and die from it. It was an undignified way to go, but he wouldn't be the first Vulcan it had happened to. Without an acceptable mate, even fighting over a woman wouldn't cure him, but there was a chance he could go out with some tailings of self-respect, that way. He would ask his father to find someone to kill him in kal-if-fee, if things didn't look up, soon.

Upon his return to the ship, Spock was informed that he'd be subjected to much the same treatment by the crew of the Enterprise, while he slept. Dr. McCoy had finished the tests, and pulled a mere twenty people from the entire crew. They would not be told the reason for the strange request, only that it was an extension of the doctor's research, unless a match was found.

One crewmember after another passed through sick bay, but none seemed to have the slightest reaction, until the captain, who was, for obvious reasons, the last person Spock or McCoy would have expected. Kirk sniffed, blinked, and sniffed again.

"What, are you testing some new perfume on him, while he's sleeping?" Kirk crouched, getting closer, to smell Spock again. "Whatever it is, it's a keeper, Bones."

McCoy's face froze in horror and disbelief. "My office, Jim. Go wait in my office. There are still five more people to test."

Not a one of them had the slightest reaction to Spock. The only option was Jim Kirk, who would not be pleased with this turn of events, in the least. And Spock was still asleep, which left the explanation to McCoy.

With a sigh, McCoy closed the door, behind him, and rubbed his face, tiredly. "Jim, what do you know about Vulcan biology? And spare me your adventures in it."

"Well, if I have to leave out the interesting parts, they've got green blood and pointy ears. Why?" Kirk sat on the corner of McCoy's desk, looking confused.

"I take it you know nothing of the Vulcan mating cycle?" McCoy asked, hoping he wasn't going to have to break it down into small words.

"There's a mating cycle?" Kirk paused, trying to look enthused while he contextualised the idea. "What does that even mean?"

"Well, it means that if Spock doesn't find a mate he can bond with inside the next four days, he's going to die." McCoy decided to start with the bad news, and leave the worse news until after Kirk absorbed the easy part.

"So, we have to … help him pick up chicks? That's what's going on with that perfume you're testing, isn't it?" Kirk mentally patted himself on the back for figuring it out before Bones told him.

"Well, almost. But, no." McCoy rubbed his face again. Without danger and excitement, Kirk was a classic case of short-attention span theatre. "That's not a perfume. It's a pheromone. Spock smells like that, naturally, and the only people who will respond to it are compatible mates."

Kirk stopped looking absently around the room and stared at McCoy, soaking in the implications. "You expect me to bone him, so he doesn't die. No, that can't be it. I have to be wrong. Bones, tell me I'm wrong."

"Jim, you're not wrong. Y—"

"That's not what I wanted to hear, Bones. I said tell me I'm wrong."

"Fine, you're wrong. From what I understand, the partner not in the grips of the blood fever, shall we say, bottoms." McCoy took a certain amount of comfort in the fact that if he had to know that appalling fact, it was that much more important that Kirk be aware of it.

"You —! I — ! This —!" Kirk leapt up, unable to finish a sentence. "There is another way, and I trust you to find it, Bones. You're the best."

Spock sat up, rubbing an eye, as Kirk stormed out of the doctor's office. "Captain. Good morning."

"No, it isn't, Spock. It is neither good nor morning." Kirk stopped a few feet from where Spock sat on one of the infirmary cots. "Do you know what Bones just tried to tell me?"

"I can safely assume from your reactions that he has explained the concept of Pon Farr. There is some part of this you have trouble believing?" Spock was at his most logical, immediately after waking up — the human part of his mind needed a few minutes to catch up.

"He's trying to tell me I need to let you bend me over a table, or you're going to die!" Kirk gestured at the office with one hand, disgusted horror stuck firmly on his face.

"So, you're the one. Fascinating." Spock's eyebrow arced up toward the limits of his forehead, and he he offered his wrist to Kirk. "Smell me. I want to see this for myself. You'll forgive me, I expect, for not taking the doctor's word on the matter, but it is my life at stake, here, and I have become extraordinarily disillusioned with anonymous sex."

Kirk grabbed Spock's wrist and sniffed it. "You smell good. That's what I told him." Kirk sniffed again. "Like really good. You're seriously not testing a perfume for Bones?"

Spock closed his eyes, processing the weight of the matter. He was going to have sex with the captain, or he was going to die. His responses were significantly illogical, given the circumstances — he leaned toward 'die' as a valid option, which was not at all the right choice, all things considered.

"No, Captain. I am not testing any artificial fragrances, at this time." Spock looked up into his captain's eyes. "I do not like this any more than you do. My life is in your hands."

"This is fucking ridiculous. I can't even believe I'm going to do this, but I'm not going to lose the best first officer in the fleet, on my watch." Kirk traced the curve of Spock's jaw with his fingers, before he realised what he was doing, and crammed his hand into his pocket. "Just give me twelve hours. I need to sleep, and I need to think about this. You'll live that long, right?"

"Yes, Captain." Spock stood, and in the few seconds it took Kirk to step back, Spock understood both the gravity and the appeal of this solution. "You can find me in my quarters, when you are prepared."

He walked past where Kirk still stood, staring at the ground with unusual intensity, as he headed for the door. "Captain — Jim — Thank you. I am aware that this is above and beyond the call of duty. It is not as logical a choice for you, as it is for one of my people."

"I am 'your people', Spock." Kirk looked up, hand flipping dismissively. "I'll see you in a few hours."

It was impossible not to notice that the captain was behaving strangely, after that. He showered three times, in the course of the evening, every time he wandered into his quarters, again, and at least twice, did not even bother with a towel, before dressing. It was in this dripping state that he announced to the bridge crew that due to a particular strain of illness that Spock had caught, and now he, too, was suffering with, they would be unable to leave orbit for a minimum of two days, at most a week.

"While this disease has had no human casualties," he said, "there is a chance that Mr. Spock might die of his illness, if it isn't treated swiftly. With that in mind, the Enterprise will hold position, and the crew is more than welcome to file for shore leave for the next forty-eight hours, if Mr. Scott would be so kind as to handle the paperwork. I have already discussed this option with Ambassador Sarek, and he will see to it that you become acquainted with the New Vulcan colony."

"I am," Kirk said, in closing, "temporarily unfit for duty, due to this illness. Until Spock and I are well, this is the last you will see of me on the bridge. Mr. Scott is in command."

"You have seemed distracted, the last few days, Captain. I hope you feel better, soon," Uhura offered, with a faint smile. She had a sneaking suspicion about what had happened. "Give my best to Mr. Spock."

"Certainly, Lieutenant." Kirk turned to leave the bridge, still dripping on everything he passed. "Carry on!"

The entire crew watched in amazement as the captain stepped onto the turbolift, fully dressed, dripping wet, and humming to himself. Whatever the mysterious illness was, each of them was very glad not to have been the one who caught it, and Chekov quietly called McCoy to come disinfect the bridge, before it afflicted anyone else.

Seven hours after telling Spock it would be twelve hours, yet, Kirk let himself in to Spock's quarters, using the captain's override codes. "I'm early. Hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"You'll forgive me if I decline to stand, just yet. I was not expecting you so soon." Spock sat in the posture of meditation, naked and facing the windows that looked out onto the vast expanse of space. "Hand me the sheet from my bed, and I will rise to greet you, properly."

"Hey, sorry, I … uh…" Kirk grabbed the sheet and tossed it to Spock.

Spock rose gracefully, exposing no more of his skin than he had to, as he wrapped the sheet like a toga and turned to face his captain. Holding out his hand, he asked, "You are prepared to undertake this, with me?"

"No, but I'll do it, anyway." Kirk grinned and ran a hand through his wet hair. "Cold showers aren't helping, at this point."

Much to Spock's surprise, Kirk jovially reached out and claspd his wrist, instead of his hand. There were, he reflected, some things that were too intimate for a human handshake, but not intimate enough for a Vulcan one. One corner of his mouth twitched in amusement.

"Jim, I need for you to understand what you are about to do, before you do it. If you decide that my life is not worth what I am asking of you, I will not hold it against you. It is a great deal to ask of anyone." Spock breathed deeply, before continuing — whether it was his human side, or the irrationality comorbid with Pon Farr, he was terrified. "We will never again be apart. I know that you have experienced a mind meld, with my older self, but the meld required for this to work will never wholly close. You will be a part of me, until your death. And I of you."

"Does that mean you'll be able to heckle my stupid ideas without even opening your mouth? I might get to like this idea." Jim's grin didn't falter in the least as he looked into Spock's eyes. "I already told you: you're not dying on my shift. The end."

Spock's eyebrows arced up, in surprise. "So be it."

He drew the captain to him, hands still clasped about wrists, each with one arm bent between them. "Parted from me and never parted. Never and always touching and touched," he whispered, fingers finding the appropriate points on Kirk's face. "Forgive me this, Jim."

"There's nothing to —" Kirk starts, but the world is gone in a violent swirl, and the heat of the fever which haunts Spock seizes him as well. It has never been like this, with a woman. It has never been like this, with a man. He has never had anything like the demanding, brutal need that floods him. Spock's fingers lift from his face, but the burning in his blood remains. "You're still with me… I can feel you."

"You will be the second human in history to know the violation of being mated to a Vulcan. I only pity you, that you did not love me of your own will." Spock faltered, stepping back. "I cannot force this on you, but I will, if you remain here."

"Force? Spock, have you lost your mind? I've already said I would do it."

"You don't understand what you've consented to. I can still remove myself from you, now, but if you go through with this —" He was cut off by Kirk's mouth against his own. With a strangled groan, he forced the captain back. "Captain, let me die. I cannot impose this on you."

"You are the most goddamned irrational Vulcan I've ever had the displeasure of being throttled by. I forbid you to die, so take off the goddamned bedsheet, and let's go." Kirk jerked his hand back and stripped off his shirt, throwing it to the floor in unspoken challenge.

Something inside Spock snapped, and he tore off the bedsheet he wore, roughly pulling his shirtless captain to him. "Mine. You are mine," he insisted, over and over again, as he traced over every feature of the body being offered, with his fingers and tongue.

Spock could remember leaving the now-darkening bite on Kirk's collarbone, but he couldn't recall how Kirk had become undressed, or how they had gotten to the bed. He was fading in and out of coherence as his captain sucked at his fingers, and he knew they could both feel both the sucking and the being sucked. The sound of Kirk's voice, below him, filtered through his consciouness, begging.

"Please! Spock, please, just take me… Stop fucking around and fuck me." Kirk's tongue stroked Spock's fingers between words, and Spock knew his mate's blood burned like his own.

With a clumsiness born of unfamiliarity, Spock pushed himself into the body below him, surprised to find his way already slicked. An appropriate memory floated by on the hazy connection between them, suggesting that Kirk had known enough to come prepared. The thought sparked a rush of jealous lust, and Spock slipped back into incoherence.

"Mine. You are mine." The words brought him to his senses, as he heard them from his mouth, and as much as he wanted his fingers back in his mate's mouth, his hands were locked tightly to Kirk's hips, instead, supporting the body he pounded into, hard and fast.

"You are mine," he growled again, and heard the words echo back from Kirk's mouth.

A change came over Kirk's face, as if he were waking from a dream. His eyes cleared, momentarily, as he gazed knowingly up at the Vulcan relentlessly fucking him. "I'm yours," he breathed, fingers caressing Spock's hand.

Spock came fast and hard, as those words settled into his mind, losing his balance, dropping Kirk's hip with one hand, and collapsing into a rather uncomfortable shuddering and panting tangle of limbs. The burning in his blood had subsided to a faint electrical crackle, and he just needed to be touched — as much of his skin as possible, as soon as possible. Awkwardly, he rolled over, pulling his mate with him, trying to stay inside for just a little longer.

"Jim, I need you. Touch me — anywhere — everywhere." His hands roamed over Kirk's body, revelling in the sensations of sweat-soaked skin, as his mate — he didn't dare think lover, for there was no love in it — stretched out over him, still grinding between his softening erection and his pelvic arch.

"Don't you tell me there's no love in this, asshole," Kirk muttered into his ear, breaths coming shorter as his cock slid across Spock's sweat-slicked skin. "I have spent my time pushing every button you have, for the good of my crew and my ship. I know what you are, now. And I know what you will become. Don't you even start to think I don't love you."

My mate, Spock insisted, through the bond, writhing in ecstatic bliss at the feel of Jim's skin against his own. Somewhere, in all of this, his captain had very definitely become Jim, in his mind.

"Your lover, you intractable Vulcan jackass." Jim slapped him upside the head. "And don't you forget it."

And that was when Jim finally came, panting and cursing, riding it out against the hot Vulcan flesh beneath him. He begged for mercy as Spock moved to roll them over again, and Spock consented to play nice, as long as Jim kept both hands on his skin.

The end tally was three days, before either of them left the room, and another day before either was fit for duty. Kirk whispered filthy secrets of Vulcan anatomy to Bones every time they passed in the halls, for weeks afterward, and Spock looked unconscionably smug. McCoy didn't want to know any of it, a fact he made exceedingly clear every time he heard more. This was, he decided, the last time he was doing a favour for a Vulcan.

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