Pon Farr - End

They are laying on the flat pad in the bare room. The pad is ripped and wet, but they lay there anyway. Both are nude and sweat-soaked, breathing hard. She is very tired. She has not slept in so long - it must be close to two whole days now. If this does not end soon, she will fail. She does not want to fail. He holds her close, his arms around her, breathing on her face. His breath is so hot, his body is hot, he burns continuously. He has lost weight, she can tell. He has not eaten or drunk anything for four days. She doesn't understand how he can keep going, where the energy comes from.

Eventually, her breathing evens out and her muscles relax. He is still. Maybe she can rest a bit. His hands rub gently down her arms, soothing her. She feels him in the back of her mind, feeding her his love, his pride, his admiration. She sends him back a wave of love, of acceptance, of joy at having him in her life. They lay quietly another few minutes.

She feels it growing again. Tendrils of desire, of lust, snaking out towards her. Wanting. Needing. Not yet, please let me rest. He cannot. He tries. She is so tired. She lets him roll her over. His mouth moves over her, his tongue tasting her sweat. He is inhaling her in great heavy breaths. He moves over her, she cannot keep him flat any longer. Her muscles are lax with tiredness. He pulls and pushes at her, trying to arrange her in the position he wants. She resists, keeping herself as flat as she can.

With growing frustration, his face moves over her, tasting, testing, as his hands try to maneuver her into the configuration he wants. He forces her legs apart, puts his face there, inhaling again. He is silent now, has been all day. His throat must be so dry and parched. She cannot imagine how he continues. He is licking her belly now, tasting the traces left behind earlier. He lays his face against her, low down on her belly.

She tries to brace herself, wondering what will come next, now that she is too tired to stop him. But he is quiet, his face laying against her. His breathing slows, the trembling muscles begin to still. It can't be over yet, she is sure that eight days have not passed yet. But he does not move. He lays there with his cheek against her belly, his hands upon her hips. And she hears him begin to laugh. She feels, against her skin, the muscles of his face begin to smile.

"Spock?"

His face stays there, but he raises one hand from her hip towards her face, reaching behind him. She takes his hand and brings it to the familiar points. And he sends her something, something she does not understand. A tiny point of brilliant light. Glowing, lovely light. He adores that light. That light has sent the fever away. He is bursting with happiness.

"Spock?" She still does not understand.

He rolls his face upon her belly, so that the other cheek rests there and he faces her. His face glows, shines, tears glistening on his cheeks. His smile is so wide it threatens to split his face apart.

"Spock?" She doesn't seem to be able to say anything else. She doesn't understand what has happened to bring the burning to an end. But he knows, and that knowing is so wonderful, so awesome, so glorious that he is full and bursting with it.

She hears his voice then, calm for the first time in days, low and husky, both with thirst and with joy. "A son, Nyota, we have made a son."

Nyota all the points, Pon Farr none at all