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Entry tags:	fic: other fandoms

Fic: Indigenous Flora (Star Trek Reboot, NC-17, Kink Bingo)
TITLE: Indigenous Flora
AUTHOR: Mari
RATING: NC-17 and how.
FANDOM: Star Trek Reboot
PAIRING: Uh. Focus is on Kirk, Sulu, Uhura, and Spock, but you would not be remiss in saying “everyone.”
SUMMARY: This fandom invented sex pollen.
DISCLAIMER: Not my sandbox.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: For the Kink Bingo, under “orgy.”



This is not Jim Kirk’s fault.

Bones tries to tell him that it is, the next day, when he has a sickbay full of people needing treatment for strained muscles, bite marks, and a full battery of tests and inoculations--that isn’t Jim’s fault, either, he doesn’t know what people thinks that he gets up to, but he’s at least smart while he’s slutting around--against sexually transmitted diseases. Jim points out that Bones is just mad because for once he is having to shoot himself up with that sadistic hypospray. Bones tells him to go fuck himself. Jim smiles very sweetly and then scoots off of the bed and out the door mere seconds before Bones takes a swing at him.

He really thinks that people put far more store by their dignity than it’s worth.

It’s not Jim’s fault, for once, is the funny thing. No one quite knows whose fault it is. (Jim would like to blame Spock, though, because that would be funny.) There is a planet. Jim is already starting to discover that by the end of his career, should he make it that far without court martial or death by alien orgasm, he’s going to have a lot of stories that start, a little hesitantly, “So--there was this planet.” There is this planet, and even from orbit they can see that it is one of the most vibrant, vivid fuschias that any of them had seen before in their lives. Of course Jim insists upon going down to see it firsthand, and of course Spock cites about sixteen different regulations in a voice even less toneless than his normal toneless voice, because after six months he is finally starting to realize that Jim is pretty much going to do what he wanted, regardless. Jim is figuring out ways to tell Spock to go fuck himself without actually telling him to go fuck himself; Spock is learning how to raise his eyebrow in a way that means basically the same thing.

They go down to the planet.

The mission involves two tribes of the planet’s sentient species who were fighting over--even Uhura has some trouble translating it, and Jim is trying to pay proper attention to these pre-mission briefings, but sometimes it’s hard to prove her wrong when she keeps giving him looks like she’s expecting him to prove her right; call it a paradox--something that involved a very, very important aspect of their procreation. The details are blurry beyond that, thirty-six hours later and after every single muscle in Jim’s body is aching and he’s pretty sure that he has bite marks up and down his spine. The point is that someone kicked a plant, the entire team was abruptly covered in pink-red dust that makes them all cough and sneeze, the two tribes are convinced not to murder each other in their sleep for at least two more planet cycles, it--it is really hot in the transport pod that they took down to the surface of the planet rather than simply using the transporter beams, because they planet also had an extremely high content of heavy metal in its crust that fucked up a lot of things which made Chekov and Scotty very excited. Much hotter than Jim can remember it being when they landed, actually, or any time when they were on the surface. He absently rubs his hand against the leg of his uniform as he notices that a few grains of pollen are still ground between his knuckles.

“Seriously, you, too?” Jim asks as he sees a light green flush rising up Spock’s neck and along the arches of his cheekbones. There are fine droplets of moisture collecting along Spock’s hairline and just starting to make the ends of his hair curl, which Jim thinks is going to annoy Spock to no end just as soon as Jim points it out. On a member of a species that evolved in an environment where conserving moisture had been of the highest priority, this is the equivalent of a flop sweat. “I would think that this would be your vacation.”

Annoyed or not--probably especially because he’s annoyed--Spock can still do more things with an eyebrow than Jim has ever see before in his life. “I think,” Spock starts, and then halts so that he can take a series of deep breaths through his nose. This is when Jim starts to understand that they might be in some trouble. When he looks around at the other crew members who have accompanied them down to the planet and sees that Ensign Marcus has her hand placed down Ensign Rodriguez’s pants in such a manner that is definitely not covered by Starfleet regulations, that’s when he knows that they’re in trouble. “I think that we may have contracted a pathogen on the surface of the planet, Captain.”

“Call me Jim,” Jim says automatically, and then swallows. He can’t even get Spock to call him “Jim” during their off-duty chess games, most of the time. Impulsive doesn’t mean stupid by any kind of long-shot, after all, and while Jim is the first to admit that his libido is much healthier than that of virtually anyone else on this ship, this...is something else entirely. “Contact Bones. Let him know that we’re coming in infected.”

“Yes, Captain.” Even though it’s a job that any of the ensigns could handle, Spock is the one who rises to his feet to make the call. Jim is used to watching people’s asses as they walk away. He is not used to having to shove his hand beneath his own thigh so that he does not reach out and try to grab for it. “Oh, what the fuck,” Jim mutters, just barely beneath his breath, as his blood spikes in his veins and his uniform is starting to feel entirely too tight in all of the right ways, every inch of skin in which the fabric is making contact creating a new place of friction turning into pleasure. He glances towards Marcus and Rodriguez and sees that they are...oh, that is definitely not sanitary, or sanctioned use of a transport shuttle.

“Spock?” Jim calls out, his voice suddenly strained, because it would be a very, very bad idea for him to stand. “Tell them to beam us aboard and then take the shuttle in by tractor, we ought to be far enough from the surface. Tell them now.” His voice absolutely does not crack on the last word, because he is James T. Kirk, and from where he’s sitting virtually any sex at all is good sex, except that it can’t count as good sex unless everyone participating has actually chosen to be there.

Spock twists to look at Jim over his shoulder, eyes very dark and only marginally different from that one time when he had played his fun game of trying to choke the life out of his future captain. Oh, Jim is a sick, sick man, and if it would have been an unwise idea for him to stand up before, it would definitely be stupid for him to attempt it now. Spock nods, a little jerkily; that’s Vulcan for being extremely close to pinning someone to the floor and then proceeding to fuck them through it.

Someone is going to have to peel Jim right out of this seat, he decides as he crosses one leg over the other.

“I believe that that would be wise,” is all that Spock says, but it sounds like a promise in spite of itself. Jim leans his head back against his seat and lets out a tremendous groan.

All things considered, there’s not a lot that embarrasses Jim any longer. He’s been beamed back onto his own ship with injuries ranging from the life-threatening to the merely supremely humiliating, and in virtually every state of dress imaginable (once or twice with a handcuff still dangling from his wrist). It’s not the first time that he’s come back with a colossal boner. It is the first time that he’s come back in the company of several other people who also happen to be in single-minded states of arousal, and especially when one of them is a Vulcan. Something about Spock’s message must have conveyed panic--albeit in a very restrained, very contained, undoubtedly incredibly anal-retentive way--enough to get what looks like every single person aboard the Enterprise there to see them arrive. Undoubted medical emergency happening, and Uhura still manages to look at Jim as though he slipped Spock a roofie on the shuttle ride back.

“I didn’t do anything,” Jim insisted. It takes him several seconds to register that Bones is there, too, and that he isn’t taking any precautions in the way, Jim doesn’t know, not getting infected himself. It takes him several seconds beyond that, his thoughts sluggish and hot and thick, to realize that this is a bad thing. “Bones, you have no idea--”

And that is the point at which Spock takes Uhura by her upper arms, pushes her back against the teleportation console, and kisses her so hard that she’s nearly bent horizontal. It’s the single least-collected thing that Jim has seen Spock do since that tiny little incident where he tried to throttle the life out of him, and it’s also one of the very sexiest. Jim freezes where he stands, transfixed, while Bones makes a sputtering noise and then a, “Will someone tell me what in the goddamned hell is going on here?”, Jim realizes that he didn’t hear the details of that transmission that Spock said he was going to send, and that his first officer might be something of a devious bastard. And that’s when it all officially spins out of control.

“What are you--” Uhura puts both of her hands against Spock’s chest and pushes him back; he only allows himself to go a few inches, leaving their pelvises pressed against each other where Uhura is still backed against the console. She finally manages to stop looking at Jim as though she thought that he had roofied her boyfriend, and he can see a faint dusting of fuschia along her cheekbones, her upper lip. Her eyes are dilated even before she sticks her tongue out to swipe slowly across her lips, and she sighs, long and low and from down deep in her belly. “Oh.” She puts her hand against the back of Spock’s neck and drags him down without giving him any particular choice in the matter. Every time that Jim has seen Spock, it has been while looking as if every joint in his body was made of ill-fitting steel, and he imagined that Spock and Uhura had sex as a kind of mathematical equation. Instead, they’re nearly boneless, already squirming up and against one another, Uhura making a series of low and panting moans into Spock’s mouth and Spock raking her skirt up on her thighs, shoving her panties to the side.

Jim has just enough of the gentleman left in him to jerk his eyes to the side, and he has no idea how much longer that’s going to last. “Sulu, seal the transport room,” he chokes out. “No one comes in, no one goes out.” He can see sweat already prickling on the back of Sulu’s neck as he jumps to give the order, then turns back and says, “Captain, this if it acts this quickly, it might have already gotten out the doors.”

That is one of the most morbidly funny things that Jim has ever heard in his life, all of the sudden. “Then I guess we’ll find out when we hear people fucking in the hall,” he says, and even from across the room and engaged in something rather delicate can sense Spock’s disapproval at the crude and no doubt illogical choice of words. Jim doesn’t care; Jim has his tongue in Sulu’s mouth by that point and Sulu has his hands on Jim’s waist, and Bones looks like he very much wants to use a hypospray on all of them to render them unconscious until his madness passed, but his hands are shaking too badly. And then his hands were too full of Chekov.

Thank God he hit eighteen, is all that Jim has room left to think. There is a difference between a pervert and a pedophile; it makes the kind of sense that isn’t when you started thinking about it too hard. All that he knows is that that there is a line he is interested in staying far, far away from, even while Sulu is...seriously, Jim needs to pay more attention when Sulu is trying to convince him to take up fencing, the man can do things with his hands that are unreal. Jim feels his hips surging forward before he knows how to stop himself. Before he even wants to stop himself; there is very little that can convince Jim Kirk to turn down skilled, willing--and, hell, he is flexible when it comes to “skilled” sex--and Sulu at the moment isn’t doing a whole lot to convince him that he needed to change his basic worldview, even when he isn’t hopped up on something that is seriously going to end in torn muscles if it doesn’t wear off at some point.

Sulu puts his hand down the front of Jim’s pants while Jim mouths and bites at the place on Sulu’s neck where his pulse runs closest to the surface, hard enough to make Sulu jump and to guarantee that he will have marks whenever they’re safe to leave this room again. Sulu arches against Jim’s neck and only grips him harder, thumb running over the sensitive tip of Jim’s cock while Jim is still wondering how in the fuck his pants got open in the first place, making Jim grab both of his shoulders and lurch against him. He raises his head, sees Uhura’s dark eyes staring back at him, unblinking, somehow demanding even though she hasn’t spoken a word to him since Spock began to...otherwise distract her. Her skirt is hiked up about her thighs, which are parted as she perches on a console that was absolutely not meant for that kind to treatment, however much Jim might be thinking at this moment that that’s just a failure on the part of the engineers, right there. Spock has her panties moved to the side, his fingers sliding in and out of her with slick noises. Uhura makes an impatient sound and kicks them off. Now there’s nothing.

Jim has a rule with Uhura: getting her to the point where she says “captain” in the way that really means “asshole” is completely okay. He’s doubtful at this point that they can have any interactions that don’t give him the idea that she thinks they really mean one and the same thing. Actually being an asshole is something else, and something that Jim tries to avoid, all appearance to the contrary, and that’s why he’s not quite sure which one of them is going to kick his ass the hardest, Uhura or Spock, as he breaks away from Sulu only long enough to cross those few steps between them and drop to his knees in front of her spread legs. Somehow, Sulu is still right behind him, draping himself across Jim’s back with his hand finding Jim’s cock again with hardly a hitch in rhythm, everything in Jim’s vision moving too slow and too fast at the same time, smell of sex in the room heavy and thick. He hears someone being slammed up against the closed door, hard. So they didn’t manage to seal the place off before some of the pollen got out. Jim needs to rise from his knees and do something about that. Something captain-y. He makes a note of it, just as soon as his head stops spinning with all of the blood that’s not filling it and Uhura’s spread legs before him become something else besides the most captivating thing in the world outside of the Sulu’s sword-roughened hand on his cock. Jim can’t help himself from dropping his head back on his neck and groaning before he meets Uhura’s eyes again and sees that they’ve dilated almost entirely into pupil.

Her sigh is his permission; Jim noses at her nest of soft curls for only a second before he places his mouth against her, parting her folds with his tongue and inhaling, tasting, surrounded by nothing but woman as he finds her bud, swirls his tongue around it and hears her sighs turn into a gasp. Sulu is dragging his pants off from behind; Jim helps as much as he’s able without being able to take his hands from Uhura’s thighs. She breaks into goosebumps when he strokes the soft flesh of her inside legs, as close as he can get to her sex without touching it with anything other than his mouth. He nearly slips as his pants get caught on the shoes that neither he nor Sulu thought to kick off first, and it’s all that he can do not to laugh; if not for its unfortunate tendency to make certain people rut with certain other people that they really should not be taking into their...transporter rooms, then the pollen of that planet ought to be collected as an anti-depressant.

Jim almost jumps when he feels Sulu’s hands against his thighs, his ass; the only thing that stops him is sighing instead and starting to lean back into the touch. A hand touches the back of his neck, urging him harder against Uhura’s cleft, and Jim knows that hand, too. It had a damning tendency to choke him once upon a time, as he recalls. Jim doesn’t have it within him to tense up in a moment’s wariness, even if he and Spock hadn’t, he liked to think, gotten past the point where random violence was the answer (premeditated violence is different, they call that sparring), even in the pollen would have let him. He arches into the touch that’s neither gentle nor cruel but demanding instead, like a cat, and raises his eyes to see that Uhura and Spock are sharing a kiss that’s like sex itself above him. Uhura’s growing sounds are being eaten up by Spock’s mouth, and she has her hand down the front of his pants. Spock is trembling all over, so finely that Jim doesn’t think that he would have noticed if not for the fact that right now he’s noticing everything, and that the fine beads of sweat are back at Spock’s hairline, in the hollow of his throat.

Jim swirls his tongue counterclockwise around Uhura’s clit and makes her jump so hard that she nearly smothers him, hears a sound that can only be described as a keen above him. Spock isn’t letting him up, and meanwhile he can still feel one of Sulu’s hands against his hip, holding him in place, while the other returns to his cock. The rhythm that Sulu’s setting isn’t nearly fast enough, isn’t nearly hard enough, for what Jim wants, but if Sulu can hear Jim’s whine of protest from where he’s smothered up against Uhura’s sex, then he doesn’t particularly care. He’s pinned, he has nowhere to jump even if he wanted to, when he feels something cold touching his opening.

When this wears off, Jim is going to have a very firm talking-to with the entire crew about what is and is not appropriate to store in the transporter room.

Later, though, much, much later, when he ever feels like moving again. Jim groans against Uhura as Sulu’s finger slides into him, then a second, scissoring and stretching him open before he’s ready for it, a burn that becomes pleasure when Sulu brushes against his prostate and sends arcs of fire racing through every single one of his veins. Jim groans, he can’t help it, and his tongue lapping at Uhura’s sex like she’s the sweetest thing that he’s ever tasted stutters, in just the right way if her jerk and cry is anything to go by. One vibration, one reaction, among any of the four of them ripples through to the others; they are one creature until such time as their limbs manage to untangle again. Sulu’s hand leaves Jim’s cock, leaving Jim making a protesting noise and then pushing back hard against the fingers inside of him, seeking friction, seeking any friction at all, while he thinks that his body might actually explode into its distinct atoms if he does not find it soon. Sulu’s hand against his hip to hold him still is not the grounding influence that Jim is looking for; the head of Sulu’s cock that he can feel pushing slowly past his entrance might be, if Sulu stops playing around and hurries the fuck up already. Jim thinks that he growls something to that effect, but it’s hard to turn his head and say anything particularly captain-y at that moment, when Uhura has placed her hand over Spock’s own to guide Jim against her, when Sulu is stretching himself out across the length of Jim’s body so that he can whisper a litany of symbols half-filth and half-endearment into Jim’s ear. Jim glances up and sees Sulu place a soft kiss against Uhura’s inner thigh, stroke his hand down the length of Spock’s forearm in something that looks suspiciously like a caress.

And then, without any more preliminaries, the entire length of Sulu’s cock is in Jim, making him jerk hard and utter obscenities that are apparently well received, if the way that Uhura herself spasms and sets the entire connected animal that they are at the moment to rippling. It’s almost too much, and it aches and burns, until Sulu begins to move without giving him more than a second or two to get used to him, and then Jim Kirk swears that he’s going to kill someone if this ever stops. He rebels against the dual hands on his neck and moves back hard against Sulu as Sulu moves into him, one of Sulu’s hands on his hip again to help guide the rhythm and his hand returns to Jim’s cock, Jim decides that he is never going to be capable of rational thought again, and he is really, really okay with that. He continues plying his ministrations to Uhura even as Sulu makes it harder by the second to remain steady, sometimes stroking her thighs, sometimes gripping so hard that she’s certain to have bruises when this is done. Above his head, he thinks that Sulu and Spock might be kissing by now, or Spock and Uhura, or Uhura and Sulu; it has stopped mattering where the lines might have been before they tumbled together. He feels himself tipping over the edge into orgasm mere seconds before any of the others, or maybe less, as each movement that one person makes triggers a reaction before the actor even has time to realize what he or she has done. He feels Uhura’s body tighten before she clamps her thighs about his head, hard, knows when Sulu is following him over by the way that the hands on his thighs tighten to the point of punishment and hears Spock hiss. It’s a haze of white and adrenaline that doesn’t fade until Jim realizes that he’s lying on the floor and that there are sex sounds still echoing about from those who aren’t quite finished; he had nearly forgotten that there were other people in the room at all. It takes a few seconds longer than that for Jim to realize that he has his head resting on Spock’s thigh, or that Sulu has thrown one arm across Uhura’s belly and the other over Jim’s back; they are all breathing in tandem. They remain that way for what seems like forever but in reality surely is less than an hour before they even try to move, none of them quite managing to look each other in the eye.

Jim barely looks across the room to where Bones is disentangling himself from Chekov and looking as if he expects to be thrown into jail at any moment before he has to turn away, putting his hand over his mouth to hide something that wants to be a smile at Bones’ expression and a grimace at his own sore body, and points out with his other hand. “Not my fault,” is all that he can manage to say.

End