ST:AOS Fic: Prepares You
Title: Prepares You
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Kirk/Spock
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Graphic pon farr-related sexual violence, squicky medical stuff, this is much darker than my usual...be warned
Word Count: ~1,200
Summary: Nothing they say prepares you for your first pon farr.
A/N: For the Day Three of Ficmas. Also for my pal coffeethyme4me who gave me a prompt for this, though I only filled half of it.
----
Nothing they say prepares you for your first pon farr.
You say you can handle it. After all, you’re Jim Fucking Kirk and you stare death down every day before breakfast and twice on Sundays - what’s a little rough sex? You like it rough, always have, always will.
But you’re wrong.
He’d felt it coming on, felt it for weeks. So you planned for it - put in for leave for the both of you, found the boutique hotel on Risa with the Very Discreet Staff who’d all signed non-disclosure agreements, because he’s private, Spock, and he doesn’t want anyone to know. Not Bones or the crew, not his elder self, and certainly not his father. So you make all the arrangements, and you make adjustments to his schedule so he can meditate for longer periods, and in the interim the sex is really great. Spock is - well, it’s like he’s possessed, the way he manhandles you, and the endurance he has, and you think if this is it, you could get used to it.
And he tries to warn you - it’s his first time too, but he knows, he’s been taught. He warns you that a Vulcan’s body is meant to handle the rigors of pon farr where a fragile human’s is not.
But you’re Jim Fucking Kirk, right?
The first time he takes you during the plaktow, the blood fever, it’s exciting. You’ve prepped yourself - there were enemas and special applicators for the lube, because this is just that kind of hotel - and now you think you know what it means to be ridden hard and put away wet. Your body’s buzzing with sensitivity, your brain’s alight at the source of the bond you share with him, even if his wavelength seems wrong, and he’s not quite there. He’s more primal than you’d ever think a Vulcan capable: Spock but not Spock, there in body but not mind. But it’s OK, you think, it’s to be expected.
When he grabs for you the second time, mere minutes later, it’s less frenzied, even if your muscles are still sore, even if the bite he gave you before is still bleeding, but you’re OK. This is what you signed up for, and he passes out after, and you take the time to rest.
This third time he takes you, you’re still asleep, curled up against him, and he’s so far gone there’s no thought for lube or condoms. It hurts, but it’s a sweet thing, just this side of too much, and you manage to turn it around so at least you’re on top and in control somewhat. The next time, he finds you in the bathroom and knocks you off the wall a few times, and it’d be hot any other time, but you think it’d be a bad idea to lose consciousness now. All the other times just kind of blur together after that.
Except for the last one. You can feel his fever break, and the ending is sweeter, and you even come this time, and he falls asleep inside you, holding you to him like letting go would kill him.
You let him sleep, for a while, but then biology and simple self-preservation pull you from his arms, and you wince as you move, but you must. You look down on him, and he’s lying there, spent and boneless and beautiful, and you lean over and kiss his forehead and whisper I love yous into his ear and head for the bathroom.
What you find there shocks even you, and you’re the one who lived through it.
You have to sit to take a piss, because your legs are shaking, and when you get up, there’s blood smeared on the toilet seat. You wipe it away with a piece of toilet tissue and forget about it. You wash your hands and make the mistake of looking in the mirror. Is that really you? Your right eye is nearly swollen shut, and how did you not notice? You would grimace, but the cut on your lip would re-open and start bleeding again. You reach for the comm to call the medic, and your ribs ache in that way you know means they’re cracked.
When you pull yourself together enough to get into a robe, you limp to the medsuite at the end of the hall. They’ve done this before for their special clientele, they say - they’re used to it, they say. The nurse helps you up on to the examination table and there are fucking stirrups. “Put your feet there, and there,” she says, and helps you because you’re pretty sure your right ACL is torn, too. “Scoot down a little more, please, a little more.”
“You’ll feel a slight sting,” the doc says as the hypospray of local is pressed against your ass once, twice, a third time, and he was lying - it hurts like a motherfucker. But at least it numbs everything enough for the slim tissue regenerator to be inserted into your asshole, and you stare at the ceiling as it does its merry work, and you wonder at the necessity of the design of so specific an instrument. The nurse does the same magic with a regenerator over your face, and you give her a smile. She tries to hold your hand at some point, but you pull it away.
You don’t need that shit. You signed up for this.
She moves the regenerator down to heal the bite on your shoulder and you stay her hand. You don’t know why, but you want to hold on to that - you want it to scar. You want a souvenir of this. You want his mark.
It takes a couple more hours for the ribs and the knee to knit, and you’re almost as good as new when you leave, if incredibly exhausted. You throw a few hundred more credits at them as a tip and get outta Dodge. Somewhere, your lover waits for you and you don’t want him to wake to find you missing.
When you get back to the room, he’s exactly the way you left him. You wet a few washcloths and clean him up - he’ll need a long, hot bath later, and you look forward to sharing it with him. He stirs. You toss the robe aside and climb into the bed. You’re the little spoon, and he pulls you back into his arms like you fit together, like you’re magnets, like it’s a universal constant. Because it is.
He stirs again. You lean back into him and he hugs you close, his face buried into your shoulder. “Jim?” he says.
“Hmm?” you answer.
“What - what is this?” He lets you go and gets up on his elbow; cool fingers prod the bite on your shoulder, scabbed-over and still tender.
“It’s nothing, it’ll heal.”
“I have injured you, it is not nothing.”
You turn in place, to face him. You pull him into your arms and you kiss him. For him, it was all for him, and it doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t.
Yeah, nothing they say prepares you for your first pon farr, but you’d do it over and over and you know next time you’ll be ready.
Because you love him.
----
Thank you for your time.
Rating: NC-17
Characters/Pairings: Kirk/Spock
Spoilers: None
Content Notice: Graphic pon farr-related sexual violence, squicky medical stuff, this is much darker than my usual...be warned
Word Count: ~1,200
Summary: Nothing they say prepares you for your first pon farr.
A/N: For the Day Three of Ficmas. Also for my pal coffeethyme4me who gave me a prompt for this, though I only filled half of it.
----
Nothing they say prepares you for your first pon farr.
You say you can handle it. After all, you’re Jim Fucking Kirk and you stare death down every day before breakfast and twice on Sundays - what’s a little rough sex? You like it rough, always have, always will.
But you’re wrong.
He’d felt it coming on, felt it for weeks. So you planned for it - put in for leave for the both of you, found the boutique hotel on Risa with the Very Discreet Staff who’d all signed non-disclosure agreements, because he’s private, Spock, and he doesn’t want anyone to know. Not Bones or the crew, not his elder self, and certainly not his father. So you make all the arrangements, and you make adjustments to his schedule so he can meditate for longer periods, and in the interim the sex is really great. Spock is - well, it’s like he’s possessed, the way he manhandles you, and the endurance he has, and you think if this is it, you could get used to it.
And he tries to warn you - it’s his first time too, but he knows, he’s been taught. He warns you that a Vulcan’s body is meant to handle the rigors of pon farr where a fragile human’s is not.
But you’re Jim Fucking Kirk, right?
The first time he takes you during the plaktow, the blood fever, it’s exciting. You’ve prepped yourself - there were enemas and special applicators for the lube, because this is just that kind of hotel - and now you think you know what it means to be ridden hard and put away wet. Your body’s buzzing with sensitivity, your brain’s alight at the source of the bond you share with him, even if his wavelength seems wrong, and he’s not quite there. He’s more primal than you’d ever think a Vulcan capable: Spock but not Spock, there in body but not mind. But it’s OK, you think, it’s to be expected.
When he grabs for you the second time, mere minutes later, it’s less frenzied, even if your muscles are still sore, even if the bite he gave you before is still bleeding, but you’re OK. This is what you signed up for, and he passes out after, and you take the time to rest.
This third time he takes you, you’re still asleep, curled up against him, and he’s so far gone there’s no thought for lube or condoms. It hurts, but it’s a sweet thing, just this side of too much, and you manage to turn it around so at least you’re on top and in control somewhat. The next time, he finds you in the bathroom and knocks you off the wall a few times, and it’d be hot any other time, but you think it’d be a bad idea to lose consciousness now. All the other times just kind of blur together after that.
Except for the last one. You can feel his fever break, and the ending is sweeter, and you even come this time, and he falls asleep inside you, holding you to him like letting go would kill him.
You let him sleep, for a while, but then biology and simple self-preservation pull you from his arms, and you wince as you move, but you must. You look down on him, and he’s lying there, spent and boneless and beautiful, and you lean over and kiss his forehead and whisper I love yous into his ear and head for the bathroom.
What you find there shocks even you, and you’re the one who lived through it.
You have to sit to take a piss, because your legs are shaking, and when you get up, there’s blood smeared on the toilet seat. You wipe it away with a piece of toilet tissue and forget about it. You wash your hands and make the mistake of looking in the mirror. Is that really you? Your right eye is nearly swollen shut, and how did you not notice? You would grimace, but the cut on your lip would re-open and start bleeding again. You reach for the comm to call the medic, and your ribs ache in that way you know means they’re cracked.
When you pull yourself together enough to get into a robe, you limp to the medsuite at the end of the hall. They’ve done this before for their special clientele, they say - they’re used to it, they say. The nurse helps you up on to the examination table and there are fucking stirrups. “Put your feet there, and there,” she says, and helps you because you’re pretty sure your right ACL is torn, too. “Scoot down a little more, please, a little more.”
“You’ll feel a slight sting,” the doc says as the hypospray of local is pressed against your ass once, twice, a third time, and he was lying - it hurts like a motherfucker. But at least it numbs everything enough for the slim tissue regenerator to be inserted into your asshole, and you stare at the ceiling as it does its merry work, and you wonder at the necessity of the design of so specific an instrument. The nurse does the same magic with a regenerator over your face, and you give her a smile. She tries to hold your hand at some point, but you pull it away.
You don’t need that shit. You signed up for this.
She moves the regenerator down to heal the bite on your shoulder and you stay her hand. You don’t know why, but you want to hold on to that - you want it to scar. You want a souvenir of this. You want his mark.
It takes a couple more hours for the ribs and the knee to knit, and you’re almost as good as new when you leave, if incredibly exhausted. You throw a few hundred more credits at them as a tip and get outta Dodge. Somewhere, your lover waits for you and you don’t want him to wake to find you missing.
When you get back to the room, he’s exactly the way you left him. You wet a few washcloths and clean him up - he’ll need a long, hot bath later, and you look forward to sharing it with him. He stirs. You toss the robe aside and climb into the bed. You’re the little spoon, and he pulls you back into his arms like you fit together, like you’re magnets, like it’s a universal constant. Because it is.
He stirs again. You lean back into him and he hugs you close, his face buried into your shoulder. “Jim?” he says.
“Hmm?” you answer.
“What - what is this?” He lets you go and gets up on his elbow; cool fingers prod the bite on your shoulder, scabbed-over and still tender.
“It’s nothing, it’ll heal.”
“I have injured you, it is not nothing.”
You turn in place, to face him. You pull him into your arms and you kiss him. For him, it was all for him, and it doesn’t matter.
It doesn’t.
Yeah, nothing they say prepares you for your first pon farr, but you’d do it over and over and you know next time you’ll be ready.
Because you love him.
----
Thank you for your time.