Author's Note: I hate my muse... and after this, well, I love Spock, but... I don't have the medical plan required to survive all THIS. Seriously.

Uhura knows, once his eyes meet hers almost immediately, she knows...

After Spock's two-day absence from the bridge and the change in codes to enter his chambers, Uhura realized something was wrong.

Although they were not exclusive, nor were they public, this type of thing had never happened before. Spock never shut her out — even with his Vulcan barrier, she was always able to get through to him, even if only a small part of him — and, yet, this 'illness' he claimed to have was keeping her away through more than just metal.

She couldn't even talk to him.

He wouldn't talk to her.

Something was terribly wrong.

It took little details for her to realize the truth on her own: McCoy averting his eyes when he refused to discuss Spock's medical condition and Kirk looking like he wanted to ask her something, but fearing for his life if he told her more than she needed to know through his query.

Pon Farr.

A delicate subject they had both touched many months ago.

She had told him that, when the time came, she would be ready to service him — to help him, should the need arise. He said no, looking past her, with a ghost in his eyes, and he never allowed the chance for the subject to be discussed again.

Uhura then decided to play dirty by using Chekov's guilt from long ago to force him to override the codes and open Spock's door. It could've been the quilt, or Chekov's soft side, that persuaded him to let her enter Spock's personal — and quarantined — space.

Spock feels pain.

As soon as she walked through the doorway, letting the door slide closed behind her — probably the quick work of Chekov — she met his eyes and saw nothing but pain.

He's sitting in the middle of his living quarters, shirtless, covered in sweat.

His place is completely changed, as he has covered most of it with candles and everything else is bare.

He's swept the place clean — why?

"You need to leave."

His eyes are hard, but his face is contorted — a display of emotion that leaves Uhura in awe for a second too long.

"Why didn't you let me come sooner?" She knows this isn't the question he wants asked — he wants her to leave, but she won't. He should know her better than that. She doesn't run, not when there's someone left behind to fight alongside with.

"You need to leave." He repeats, closing his eyes, trying to still his emotion — his hunger — when it's a clear struggle for him to speak. Maybe that's why he keeps saying the same thing, instead of asking her what she's doing there or how'd she get in.

Of course, Spock wouldn't ask those questions.

The answers are irrelevant and the need for them illogical. She's already there, and that brings something more important to the fold — the need to get her out.

"I'm not leaving, Spock." She tightens her jaw at him, reminding herself of what the boys called her back at home — titanium-willed, headstrong, most likely to get her way in any situation. "In fact, there's something I have to do before I leave."

She begins to unzip the back of her dress — he must've distinguished the sound immediately, as his eyes snap open, darker than she's ever seen them.

"It'd be unwise for you not to utilize the remaining seconds available for an escape, Nyota."

And the tone of his voice is what makes her shiver — something he immediately notices, his primal side savoring the fact — because she's never heard him talk like that, in that tone. She's very good at listening — exceptional aural sensitivity. She knows every tone Spock has ever spoken with, most very similar, but, this one... it sounds soft but feels rough; it sounds low, but feels so deep that hearing it is feeling it.

She finds the courage to continue, pushing the dress off her shoulders until her arms are free from the sleeves. Once the dress falls to the floor, she swears she can hear a rising growl in his throat — or is it hers?

Is the anticipation growing — like electricity — between them both?

Next, she prepares to shed the undershirt, pulling it over her head, when she feels herself shoved against the cold metal wall by someone warm, and soft.

He doesn't give her a chance to take off the shirt as he pins her hands over her head, to the wall, and claims her lips with an ardor that she had never encountered from Spock.

There's no more calculation, no precise movements of mutual response, there's only a claim, where she can barely keep up let alone fight through the fabric.

He cups her sex through the fabric of her drawers; his fingers pull her underwear to the side, and his fingers slip inside to open her lips, making her legs tremble as her body responds to his actions. His hands are invasive, ignoring the fact that he's going too fast, too soon, trying to get a rise out of her, or forcing himself to prepare his prey before he launches his full attack — she's not sure.

He takes his fingers out of her, releases her hands before he pulls her shirt off — she's sure she heard a growl, just then — before he kisses her and, this time, no fabric.

Teeth clash, breaths mingle, gasps and growls, and blood. Uhura can bite just as hard as he can, after all.

His pace is scaring her, because she doesn't know what to expect, how to keep up, but she's not stopping — she will keep going.

He turns her, his chest on her back, and she feels as he releases himself from his pants. She keeps her hands on the wall, forehead as well, as she tries to catch her breath.

'What's next?' she wonders, trying not to tremble.

She doesn't get her answer in words — she feels it.

He pulls her backside to him, forcing her to spread her legs, and lean forward towards the wall. She keeps her hands on the wall — the top of her head, as well — but she can't help but wish there'd be something else to hold on to.

He doesn't give her a warning — though, having him rip the sides of her underwear should've been warning enough.

One swift thrust and he's in, and it hurts — she wasn't warmed up enough — but she doesn't scream too loudly.

Each of his hands are on her waist, pulling her to meet his hunger, fingers digging into her flesh until she's sure he's going to leave a mark — or worse, a scar.

She bites her lip, feeling it sting, because it's a spot he must've cut with his own teeth.

Tears stream down her cheek as she feels him lean down over her, his weight making it a struggle for her not to lean down on all fours, as he places his hands on the wall for balance.

Her head is hitting the wall now, as his thrusts become frantic, pulling her back and pushing her forth, and she is screaming now — moaning, screaming, groaning; who can tell?

He can't, because he's not stopping.

Spock is lost.

He forces her to stand and she thinks — hopes — that maybe he knew her head was paying the price of Pon Farr, but realizes it might not be so, as he pushes her against the wall again, but keeps her buttocks pushed out to greet him, giving him a good angle to thrust into her sex. This time, his hands roam, grabbing her breasts, squeezing and pinching, scratching and pulling, and he continues on by thrusting a finger into her mouth, then two, almost choking her.

She coughs, tries to breathe normally, but can't, as his hands find a place on her already-bruised waist again.

His pace quickens and she thinks, 'It's over, it's over, let it be over-come, damn it!'

He keeps one hand on her waist and, with the other, pulls her by the hair, pulling her head back so he can mark her neck, growling words of claim that Nyota can barely make out through her own screams.

He comes, and she doesn't — the first time he comes without her, actually — but there are too many things calling out in pain for her to care about that at the moment.

He grabs her hand, tightens his hold, and pulls her back, throwing her to the floor.

She manages to land somewhat gracefully — hands on the floor, in a slight kneeling position, which apparently doesn't suit him at all, as she feels his foot on her back.

His weight forces her to lie down, completely, and the tears are back, but she fights them off.

Yes, it hurts.

Yes, this isn't Spock — not as she's ever known him, ever made love to him, but she's not stopping.

She's not afraid of continuing, of following this through, because she knows what this means — she reminds herself what it means, to help her believe the lie: she is not afraid.

She feels his hand push itself under her stomach and make her lift herself into a kneeling position, but his hand on her back makes a point.

Her ass is the only thing he wants up in the air.

She bites her lips — she knows what's coming next.

His thrust comes slow — lubricated only after being inside of Uhura, but her ass hole is not lubricated enough for a fast entry.

She's whimpering — trying to mute the screaming by keeping her mouth closed — and she feels her lips bleeding as she tries not to be increasingly loud.

Once he's fully inside, he begins to pull out and push in, a steady rhythm that takes a while to build up in speed, because she's not fully open — not yet.

Her knees are beginning to hurt and she's sure that soon, she might lose feeling in the lower half of her body, but she has to do something — she needs to do something for herself, instead of allowing him to claim her like this.

She might not be in heat, but she has needs of her own. She rests her forehead on her arm and reaches down to her clit, beginning to flick and tease before she starts on a steady stroke and tease.

Her whimpers urge him on, her own pleasure causing him to respond with his own hunger for it.

It doesn't take her long to come — she hadn't been so far off, earlier — and her body, the way it convulses in response to the rushing orgasm, causes him to push his way so far inside of her, her toes curl up and she feels everything shatter, twice.

She's so far gone, it takes her a moment to realize he came inside of her, again.

He pulls out and flips her around, seeing her body spread before him.

She tries to steady her breathing before opening her eyes. What greets her is something to clearly alarm — Spock, on his knees, still hard, still hungry.

She can't wear him down — not like this — not if she continues to receive each thrust without giving something in response, she thinks.

She invokes every shred of energy she has left and meets him halfway — as he's already leaning over her, ready to claim her again — kissing him as hungrily as he had kissed her, in the beginning.

She pulls on his hair, realizes he's enjoying it, and goes one step further.

She pushes him on his back — finding strength where she thought there was none — and there's no time for fear, no time for hesitation, because Spock's already squeezing her thighs, and setting her free of her bra, as he sits up to suck on her breasts, causing her to moan in both pleasure and pain as his teeth graze the tip.

She pushes him back down, but he rises again, and it's a power struggle neither of them is willing to give up so very quickly.

The position is uncomfortable, at first, with her boots on, but she manages, having no time to take them off — they're not something that can be broken free of as easily as the rest of her clothing.

Something comes over her — maybe Pon Farr itself — as she slaps him, causing something in his eyes to burn, and he pulls her head down, fingers through her hair, as he kisses her.

It distracts her, as his hand positions his cock just over her entrance, and she feels what he's trying to do, so she moves her body down ever so slightly so that the angle enables them both to do what comes next.

He pushes the tip in, but it takes her move to accept him the rest of the way.

She pushes him on his back again, keeping her hands on his chest, this time digging her nails into his skin, keeping a steady rhythm and a rule over him, but not for long.

He starts thrusting upwards to meet her sex, and it throws her off balance, because, while she tries to keep a slow rhythm, he's quicker.

He pulls her to him and she fights it, at first, but he's relentless, thrusting into her again, and again, each thrust quicker than the next, so that she feels like a ball attached to a racket by a very short string.

This time, she comes first, and collapses on top of him, unsure of how to move — or if to move.

Spock moves for her, turning the tables by having her on her back again, her eyes still trying to recover from rolling up to her head.

He keeps her legs spread, pushing them back until they defy how much she can actually bend, and he keeps thrusting himself inside, over and over.

Her body's going numb, her mouth can barely form one coherent sound and her hands are only occupied with squeezing something — anything — to remind herself she can still feel somethingother than pain.

When he comes, she feels it everywhereand welcomes his body as he collapses on her chest — even though his weight hurts her, on three different ribs.

She thinks he'll slip out — that he's done — and smiles, thinking, 'That wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be.'

That is, until she feels him thrust up again — his cock didn't slip out.

She opens her eyes to look into his — he's aware of her, watching, slipping away — and he's still hungry, so very hungry, but most of all, he's seeking a response.

That's when she realizes, she's too tired to fight back, to slap him again, to dig her nails into his flesh and bite her way into his lips.

That's when she knows... consciousness would not be hers for much longer.

He keeps thrusting inside of her, his weight nearly crushing her, and she tries to wriggle herself from under him because he's beginning to cut her air supply.

He's forcing her to fight, again.

It's like he knows she has to respond now — life or death — and she does. She uses her hands to push him off, forces her legs to respond to her orders and kicks him off.

She doesn't know why — instinct, maybe — she turns around to crawl away from him, but he pins her down, his body not as tired as hers.

He flips her around, forcefully — he wants to see her — and once he succeeds, she begins to scratch. She would kick, too, but he's sitting on her legs.

He tries to grab her hands — to pin them down — but she doesn't make it so easy this time. Even he's breathing hard, trying to keep up with her feline-like dexterity.

She sits up, her hands around his neck, and she forces him down with her, causing him to lose a moment's balance so that she can be the one on top again, but it doesn't go exactly as planned, as he uses a momentum to roll them again, so that, as they lie on their side, his leg forces itself between hers, and once she's on her back, he pinches her clit.

The jolt from that makes her focus on the feeling — the pain — and she feels other blows — pulling on her nipples, squeezing her sex.

All she can do is keep her arms around his neck — trying to hold on to something — and biting down on his shoulder — to keep from screaming the obvious obscenities that are running through her head.

The final obscenity comes when she feels him spreading her open again. He pulls her hands free, causing her back to fall on the floor without warning, and he quickly turns her on her side, one leg lying on the ground while he lifts one up, placing it on his shoulder.

She's flexible enough for it — too far gone in the mixture of pain to complain — and, through that, his thrusts continue, but she doesn't.

Somewhere along the way, the pain, the exhaustion, the already-present lack of sleep, and the overwhelming magnitude of everything causes her to lose consciousness.