Archive of Our Own

Nyota Uhura made a minute adjustment to the device in her ear to get the clearest reception. “Captain,” she announced. “I’m picking up noise on the distress channel.”

James Kirk tapped his chin with his fingers. “Put it on the speakers, Lieutenant.”

Uhura turned back to her console, her mouth compressed at Kirk’s command, perhaps in response to being called ‘lieutenant.’ “Yes, sir. On speakers.”

The bridge crew stilled and quieted to listen. The garbled and hissing message gave them little fits of sense: “…this is the Kobayashi Maru… struck a … gravitic mine… lost all power…stranded … sustained many casualties …”

Uhura bent over her instruments. “You’re breaking up, Kobayashi Maru.” She continued to try to intensify the signal, then shook her head in dismay. “We’ve lost the signal.”

“Navigation, give me that ship’s coordinates,” Kirk ordered, frowning at the screen.

“Yes, sir.” A dark head turned. “Sir, it’s a freighter class civilian ship, and it’s within the Neutral Zone.”
The captain groaned and leaned his head back in his chair. “Well,” he said, “damn.”

Spock stood ramrod straight, his hands comfortably clasped behind his back. He examined the man in the captain’s chair very carefully from his view above the simulation room.

Through one-way acrylic windows, he and his project partners were equally observing every aspect of this simulation.

Spock focused on the man in the chair, but his gaze roamed the rest of the bridge crew as well, looking for their reactions, and would often rest on Nyota at her communications station before moving on. The bright red uniform flattered her dark, coffee-and-cream skin, and she seemed to be enjoying the simulation while industriously listening to the subspace and distress channels. Spock was fully aware that his thoughts concerning Nyota were not terribly logical or even coherent, and this was in itself a pattern of behavior that had unfortunately turned into a pastime, but he had generally excelled at keeping those thoughts to appropriate situations.

He would meditate on these memories tonight, he decided, and relegated that task and the accompanying disarranged feelings for a later time.

Kirk, whose name Spock remembered from earlier conversations with Nyota, appeared as Spock had imagined him. Handsome and arrogant, a quality that was sometimes described as ‘brash,’ Kirk had succeeded in impressing Spock as a leader. He had a commanding presence, certainly. Spock had researched James Tiberius Kirk, surprised to discover that the cadet had not only possessed a famous father, but an equally infamous past, including a drunk altercation in an Iowan bar. He’d read the report, the witness footnotes, and had stared at Nyota’s small descriptive paragraph about the altercation. “In the mistaken belief that James Kirk was harassing me, and that I could not defend myself adequately, …” He knew that tone. He could probably even extrapolate the circumstances. He had seen males of different species fly to the aid of female counterparts before in the instinctive need to assert male possession of the desired female, even if it was only in their own thoughts and reflected nowhere else in reality.

How many men had desired Nyota, did desire Nyota? How many of them could give her the human, emotional attachment she surely craved, the sexual expertise she was used to?

“Here we go,” the admiral said, and Spock blinked, consternated that his focus had once again shifted. Most definitely he would meditate tonight and attempt once again to compartmentalize Nyota Uhura. One way or another.

Below them, in the simulation, the captain faced three Klingon battle-cruisers in the Klingon-Federation Neutral Zone. Each bridge crew member sat transfixed by the images of the screen.

If he were human, he would be smiling as he watched his project, his “baby” as his project partners called it, work its will on the cadets straight into the face of death.

 

Playing the harp was a meditative practice; it required only himself and the notes which flowed out into space, a reflection of his innermost peace.

Or his innermost conflict. Tonight, the music sounded abrupt and agitated. He stilled his fingers against the strings and let the notes vibrate and die in the air, cocking his head and reviewing the path of thoughts that had caused them.

James T. Kirk. Brash, human, handsome James Tiberius Kirk. Nyota had, on more than one occasion, stated her dislike for the young man, but she had not shied away from him in the aftermath of his defeat on the simulated bridge. Indeed, she had rested her hand on his shoulder and in an attempt to alleviate the man’s disappointment in his own performance, had kindly joked that if they had to go, “at least it was in a blaze of glory.” Kirk had lifted his head and grinned at her.

In the midst of the chatter of the defeated bridge participants, it was not hard to discern that Jim Kirk wanted Nyota in very primal, human way, and that Nyota was very much aware of it.

Spock’s one consolation was that she clearly did not return those particular feelings. However, he knew enough of human nature, of male human nature, to understand that her attempt to soften this blow against Kirk’s ego only fueled the fire. James Kirk could very well become a rival one day, and perhaps, in the end, he would suit Nyota far better than Spock himself.

 

Spock allowed himself a small sigh, and set aside his harp for the time being. Clearly, the solution was not to reflect because that seemed to only lead to reliving and experiencing the discordant feelings all over again.

The door chimed. Spock unwound from his seated position on the floor. “Come,” he stated, and watched as the door disengaged and revealed Nyota herself standing just beyond, looking uncertain. “Come in.”

“Thank you. I’m so sorry; I’ve interrupted.” As she stepped inside, she nodded to his robes and harp, signs that she now understood to mean he had been attempting to meditate.

The irony of her statement was not lost upon him. “I was finished for the night. Would you care for tea?”

She smiled at him and once again, his thoughts scattered briefly in her wake. “I would love tea, Spock. I’ve been trying to get away from a group party for the last two hours, and finally escaped the noise and endless rounds of beer.” From her expression, he deduced that he would not be stocking beer in his refrigerator for her any time soon.

“A celebration?” he asked, knowing full well the answer. He took down the tin of jasmine green tea she preferred and set the kettle on.

“Well, that’s the bizarre thing about it. We completely bombed the Kobayashi Maru. Went down like a flaming ball of… oh, I lost the simile. Sorry. Blame the beer. There was this comedian once, I can’t remember his name, who used to make the funniest similes from repetition. In his style I will just say that we flamed like a great big flaming thing.”

“I believe I find that humorous,” he pondered, setting the cups.

“Do you? I’ll have to note that down. ‘Spock thought silly simile humorous.’”

He merely gazed at her. She was sitting on the other side of the counter, her habitual spot to watch him cook or prepare tea and offerings, her elbows on the counter and her chin in her hands. Her flushed cheeks and sparkling dark eyes arrested him. He blinked when the kettle on the stove began to whistle, and turned to attend to it.

“Spock,” she murmured as he filled the teapot and set the kettle away. The soft tone caused a curious straightening of small hairs on the back of his neck, similar to a shiver, and he found himself turning to look at her as if tugged on an invisible wire. “Do you really think I came here to have tea?”

“As I am hardly a tea-master, I would say not,” he replied dryly. “How much alcohol did you manage to imbibe?”

“Are you implying, sir, that I have to be drunk to come here in the dead of night and compromise your virtue?” she demanded in a high, dramatic voice. “Oh dear.” She deflated from a pretense of offense. “Or is my virtue? I can never keep track.”

“You did not answer my question,” he pointed out and poured a little tea to test its readiness.

“Far, far too many. God awful beer everywhere. And yet I managed to stay on my feet, and find your door, no less. And I assure you, just leaving that bar without kneeing a few groins was miracle enough.”

He found that he was holding the teapot aloft. He had been about to pour the second cup, and had lost the moment. After a beat, he set it down carefully, and walked around the counter. She watched him approach with complete innocence, smiling even.

“Kirk?” he demanded, point blank.

She blinked. Then narrowed her eyes. “Spock,” she said very slowly and evenly after a small pause, “how did you know Kirk was there?”

“Will you answer my question, first?”’

She stared into his eyes, hard, then sighed and shrugged. “Yes, he was there, but no, it wasn’t him out of line. Jim Kirk understands ‘no thanks’ from a woman, even if he is a total infant about it. Just too much alcohol and too many hormonal males. Nothing new.”

Spock reflected that scenes like the Iowa bar where she had met Kirk were apparently not unknown in Nyota’s experience. That would be entirely logical. She was, after all, exquisite in every particular, or at least in the particulars he had encountered thus far.

“Now, answer my question,” she demanded, like a hound on the scent. She, like the hound, was difficult to divert. “How did you know about Kirk?”

“I know about James Tiberius Kirk because I was aware that he was participating in the simulation with you this afternoon.”

“Oh, that’s right. I told you about that, didn’t I?” She smiled softly, then frowned at him. “Wait a minute…”

He kissed her, for the first time spontaneously. He merely leaned down and pressed his lips against the cool curve of hers. Smiling, she returned it, reaching up to slide her hand down the back of his neck. Her fascination with that one part of his exposed anatomy, tactilely and visually, was still as mysterious as the first time she’d admitted it to him, but he had long since come to appreciate her focus.

“Now, don’t think you can divert me -” she murmured, her forehead against his and eyes closed in appreciation.

“No?” he asked, taking that statement for a challenge. Her mouth opened softly to his and her fingers clutched into the hair at his nape, and he indulged himself in the feel of her.
“Mmm. That’s so nice. Now, wait a minute, mister. You researched Jim Kirk?”

“Of course.”

“’Of course’?!”

He traced the little wrinkle between her brows. “Calm yourself. It was part of my work.”
“Jim Kirk is part of your work.” Not a question.

“Yes.”

“Hm. Might this be the mysterious project that – oh Spock. No.”

“Yes.”

“That simulation nightmare was your doing?”

“Not entirely mine.” Only 84.3% of it, actually, but he had a few misgivings about revealing that fact until he knew how she felt about it.

Nyota sighed and lowered her hand from him. This was an action he took as a signal and he straightened from her as well. Reaching over the counter, he slid the tea things their way and passed her a cup. She was leveling a considering look his way as she obediently sipped. “Mm, that’s nice,” she murmured.

His kisses apparently ranked with jasmine green tea, he reflected wistfully.

“So, this project, this Kobayashi Maru simulation, was your child.”

Why did humans insist on comparing creations to children? The creation processes were hardly alike. “I am one of its creators, yes.”

She smiled at him. “Oh, if Kirk knew, he would piss himself.” She spun on her chair in glee and missed his jaw dropping at her vernacular. “And I won’t even try to seduce its secrets out of you.” She giggled and sipped.

Desperately, he mentally routed around that last statement, attempting to track one thing at a time. Logic. No matter that physical reactions were proceeding without his permission. “He will be trying again?”

“Oh, sure he will. Jim Kirk always has to win. That’s just his nature.” She turned back to him, and set down the cup. “I’m keeping you up, aren’t I?” She slid to her feet, unaware of the further irony she had uttered. Nyota performed a little jump on the balls of her feet and kissed him lightly. “You’re looking a little green… greener than usual. Get some sleep, simulation genius. Thank you for the tea.” Another peck. “See you tomorrow.”

He should have kept her there; it would have been effortless to let his hands fall on her slender hips and hold her against him, and tell her that he wouldn’t mind if she tried to seduce secrets from him, regardless of the odds against her success.

There was a word for his predicament.

Blind-sided, that was what he was.

 

“Ooooh, that fucking beer,” Nyota grunted as she rolled over, sunlight stabbing into her eyes and brain.

“Good morning!” Gaila called from their kitchenette, deliberately cheerful.

“Oh, shut up, you Orion wench. Why can’t I have your metabolism, huh? Ow.”

“Did someone finally get laid last night? You came in after I did, awfully late.”

Nyota pulled sheets over her eyes. “Oh, please, I was…” But it was a blank. “Uh, oh god. I don’t know what…” Then a few memories trickled in. “I did go over to see Spock. Tea was involved.”

“Kinky.” Gaila gently sat on her bed and whispered, waving a glass and a tablet. “Now, here’s the hung-overed’s best friend, sweetie. Say hello.”

“Hello,” Nyota grumbled, and took the water and little pill gratefully.

“No hot Vulcan action, huh? So sad. Do you suppose it’s true about Vulcans?”

“What’s true?”

“That they go into heat every few years.”

Nyota was tempted to laugh, but clutched at her aching head instead. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard yet.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’m sure it’s given solace to many a sighing Vulcanophile. ‘It’s not me; it’s that darned Vulcan mating cycle!’.”

“Better than ‘It’s not me; it’s that darned Vulcan self-control’?”

“Well, self-control can always be broken, but biological imperatives?” Gaila shrugged her shoulders. “Hard-wired, right?”

“Yeah, but something like that … he’d tell me, right?” Like the fact that he was a touch-telepath. That had been a doozy of a revelation. He had, now that she thought about it, intimated that there were facts about Vulcans that other species might find shocking, and were deliberately kept from most Starfleet personnel until it was need-to-know. Perhaps cyclical mating periods were one of those need-to-know facts.

God, she hoped not.

 

For convenience’s sake and in deference of their schedules, half of their working dinners still took place in public areas: the cafeteria at the academy, and their favorite restaurants with transporter technology. Now, however, half of them took place in Spocks’s quarters over a pot of tea, or food she would bring, or the odd meal he would cook, which was not often Vulcan cuisine because traditionally no work got accomplished during Vulcan meals.

Tonight was tea he’d brewed, and pastries she’d picked up at the local bakery. She was making headway through the beginnings of her thesis, or at least she was narrowing down its focus, and he was reviewing several PADDs worth of data.

Although tempted to open a conversation with ‘Hey, Spock, is it true that Vulcans go into heat?’ she wisely refrained. Instead, she tackled the second-most concern on her mind. “I’m embarrassed to say this, but I don’t remember much of last night.”

Spock glanced up at her. “I was aware that you had imbibed more than enough beer, but you were adequately coherent. If I had suspected that you’d been mentally compromised…”
“Oh, I don’t blame you. I blame me. I’m never drinking again.”

“Is that not hyperbole?”

“I suppose so. I should be more realistic and say that I won’t be drinking more than two glasses of alcohol at a time.”

“A worthy goal.”

“So, did I say anything … offensive? Humiliating? Did I dance on the table? Sing karaoke tunes too loudly?”’

The makings of a small smile. She really loved those. “You were noticeably light-hearted about the Kobayashi Maru.”

“Yeah, I suppose I would be. Wait a minute. Did you say that you were involved in that project?”

“I did.”

“Okay. Glad that that wasn’t my imagination.” She tried to remember. “Was there at least one pot of tea and kiss in there?”

“Yes.” Here, his expression changed.

“What? What happened?” That expression boded no good. Had the kissing gone into forbidden territory?

“Do not be alarmed. You merely implied that a cup of tea and a kiss gave you the same level of satisfaction.”

“Oh dear god. I’m so sorry.”

“And then you announced that you would not seduce me for the secrets of the simulation.”
He carefully was not looking at her at this point.

“I said that?”

“Quite clearly.”

“Just how much offensive weight did either of those statements carry?” she asked in preparation to apologize.

“No particular offense.”

“But-“ No way would she imply she’d hurt his feelings. “- did you … ?” All right, Nyota, slowly and carefully now. “Did a seduction scenario appeal to you?”

“The idea was somewhat arresting.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Double-fuck, excuse her French. Apparently, he’s been very receptive last night and she’d trod all over the opportunity like a drunken hippo. Way to go, Nyota.

And your similes suck.

Where could this conversation possibly go from here? Silence? Or a plunge into totally unknown territory? She’d take door number two. “Say,” she ventured, pushing aside her PADD. “Do you want to make out?”

He did not look up from the reading he’d gone back to. “’Make out’?” he repeated in a vaguely curious tone.

“Um, yes. ‘Make out’ as in … to kiss and … caress?”

Now he had her undivided attention. His eyes lifted immediately from his work and he blinked. “What… are the parameters of ‘making out,’ if I might ask?”

She could feel her face glowing hot. Of course he would ask that. She should have known. “Well, let me think. I’ve never had to express it in words before. Making out is an old Earth tradition, going back to a time before universal contraceptives. Teenagers usually made out as a form of sexual experimentation, and it perfectly remained within the moral, ethical and biological boundaries of their culture of that time.”

“Exploration,” he said in a thoughtful tone.

“Yes, exploration. That’s right. It usually takes place in a comfortable location, such as a couch” her eyes flickered to the couch in his sitting room “or the back seat of a car, or on a porch. Not on a bed, though, that’s a little too dangerous.”

He lifted a brow at her but said nothing, encouraging her to continue.

“You’re allowed to kiss and caress, but only above the waistline.”

His lips parted as if to ask a question, but still he said nothing.

“Clothing stays on.”

“Ah,” he said then. “It is not sex.”

She wanted to bang her head into the dining room table a couple of times. Why, why did she get stuck in the most awkward conversations in the universe? She was sure Gaila would never have conversations like these. But then, the men Gaila slept with… “Not in the … biological sense. It’s like foreplay, which stops before the actual … er… ‘play’.”

Then she saw his expression. Something about it … was that dissatisfaction? “Did you … want … sex?” she found herself stupidly saying.

He was out of his chair like a shot, staring down at her with the darkest expression she’d seen in a long time before leaving abruptly to the kitchen.

Little gods, she groaned to herself and let her head drop back in defeat. I’m averaging one offensive statement per pot of tea these days. Time to grovel and retreat.

“Spock, I’m so sorry. That was …” The truth of it was that she didn’t know what it was. How exactly had she offended him? Been too direct, perhaps? Were the males in Vulcan society supposed to pop the question first? Did Vulcans only go into heat every few years? “Maybe we should call it a night.” Out of the corner of her eyes she saw him circle back her way and almost cringed. Gingerly, she glanced up, afraid of what she would see.

“Forgive me,” he said, the dark look gone as if it had never existed. “I would enjoy making out with you.”

She blinked rapidly. “You- you would?”

“Yes.” He said that perhaps with more firmness than was necessary, as if also trying to convince himself.

“Look, you don’t have to if it doesn’t appeal to you, or if you’d rather do something else. It was an invitation, not a demand.”

“I understand, Nyota. I am … I would enjoy learning this form of sexual exploration with you.”

Okay, that was clear as a bell.

“All right.” Taking a deep breath, she stood up, still a little shaky from the abrupt changes in his moods. Resolutely, she took his hand and led him into the front room and to the couch.

 

“You said no clothes were to be removed,” he observed as she sat down and bent to unzip her boots.

“Shoes don’t count in making out. It’s much more comfortable to curl up without shoes.” She glanced at his feet. “It’s just an option, though. If you have … reproductive organs down there, I’d keep them on, definitely.”

He made a low sound in his throat that might have been a commentary on her sense of humor, but sat down slowly next to her, a little stiffly she thought, and then removed his shoes as she curled her legs to the side. Idly, she reached out and ran a finger along the curve of his ear, admiring the graceful sweep of its shape.

He did not visibly flinch, but he looked at her out of the corner of his eye as he finished and straightened. “I have been studying human sexuality,” he stated, and with obvious effort settled backward against the sofa’s back.

Of course, he had. Of course. He was Spock, after all. She relaxed her head back next to his, her body turned in his direction. Sadly, she could not reciprocate the research; now that would have been fascinating, and she wouldn’t be half so nervous about this moment if she knew at least one area where Vulcans and humans differed. “Interesting reading?” she encouraged him, softly. “You obviously haven’t run off screaming into the night … or did you?”

“I took the information rather calmly.”

There it was, a hint of that dry humor she adored. She smiled softly at him as he turned his head to mirror her position on the couch. “Did you come to any conclusions?”

“I hesitate to make any fixed conclusions at this point.”

She nodded earnestly. “Certainly. You probably need more information from further sources.”

His mouth twitched. “Nyota?”

“Yes?”

He leaned his forehead against hers. “I must point out that you are my other ‘sources’.”

She laughed quietly. “That did briefly occur to me.” She slid her hand through his hair. “You can tell me your revelations later.”

“Mm.” He was definitely getting the hang of kissing. No more awkwardness. More confidence and a certain knowledge of what she liked. When he opened his mouth to her and pulled her closer with an arm about her waist, a sudden, almost painful jolt of arousal hit. She almost jerked, it was that intense.

She’d never gotten turned on so fast, ever, and yet his hands remained in innocent territory. It was that slight touch of his tongue, the hint of male possessiveness in the sure pulling of her body close to his. That had to be it.

“Exploration, correct?” he asked, between lush, slow kisses, as if she needed reminding.
Dazed and breathing deeply, she nodded. Oh, right. She’d restrained herself so often in the past that it hadn’t occurred to her to move her hand from the nape of his neck. Now, she let it slide downward along the slope of his shoulder only to find him descending along with it. The warmth –no, the heat- of his lips meticulously pressed under her jaw in small increments.

She found she liked his mouth there and hummed in satisfaction. He seemed to be searching and she knew when he found it, because another a pulse of pleasure slammed into her unexpectedly and she groaned aloud. His arm tightened further about her waist. Oh baby, you so do it for me, she thought, mind slipping from coherency.

So of course he started talking. “Is this satisfactory?” he murmured against her throat.
“Spock, you’ve got me moaning and all you’ve done is kiss me above the collarbone. I think you’re doing more than a satisfactory job.”

He smiled against her skin. “I am merely being a considerate lover.”

“You sure are, baby.” She ran her hands through the hair at his nape. “Bring some consideration back up here.”

“’Baby’?” he asked, lifting his face up. “A term of endearment?”

“Yes. If you don’t like it, I won’t use it.”

He cocked his head. “Let me consider it.” And he kissed her again.

Okay, this was insane, because she had a feeling that she could come just from this. Her body was behaving in a way it hadn’t since she was a teenager, when every little bit of stimulus had been a lightning strike. Recently, she hadn’t felt it quite that powerfully.
She could let her hands wander down and actually reach beyond his shoulders. She ran fingers, short nails pressed in, down his spine, and then up again. Spock drew in a sudden breath and released it.

“Good or bad?” she asked.

“I believe … good,” he replied. “Perhaps you should repeat it.”

She kissed him and followed his suggestion. This time, a deep sound reverberated in his throat, and she found herself lifted up on his lap. Now, that was the best idea yet. She maneuvered herself, using his shoulders as leverage, and straddled his thighs for more comfortable access.

“Again,” he demanded, and now that her new position gave her a better reach, she dragged her nails from his nape straight down his spine. He sighed against her jaw. “Good,” he qualified.

His hands wandered experimentally, hesitantly and she could see his eyebrows crook as they stopped at her waist. Ah, yes, parameters. Stupid, stupid parameters. She should have told him that making out was just another word for having sex on a couch. Then she remembered his odd reaction when she had asked about sex. Perhaps not.

She reached down and took his hand, examining his fingers. Long fingers that she massaged thoughtfully. She wondered what he’d do if she started to suck them. She wondered what she would do if she started to suck them. Too tempting, and would be the slippery slope to wanting to suck other parts southward. Sighing, she guided his hand to cup her breast.

The look he gave her was utterly lost and wondering. This was something he hadn’t expected. She wondered why.

“I thought you studied human sexuality,” she said as he tilted his head and closed his hand gently. His hands were not just really warm, but hot, and felt amazing.

“This is an area where Vulcan and human sexual responses differ.”

She felt really sorry for Vulcan women, then, because she was beginning to know that Spock had amazing hands. She was starting to think she was really going to come soon. She tried to squirm discreetly.

So did not work. Spock’s head lifted. “Nyota.”

Swallowing, she answered, “Yes?”

“Should this continue much longer, I fear I may … inadvertently create a telepathic link. I would not want to do this without your consent.”

How had she forgotten? Could there be anything less sexy than the idea of someone hearing all the little, stupid thoughts racing through a person’s head in the middle of making out? All that inappropriate garbage?

“Nyota?” he asked again, and this time he stopped touching her. Well, damn it, Nyota. What did you expect, that Mr. Perfectly Controlled Vulcan would somehow manage to get hot and bothered and not let those walls down, even a little bit?

“I’m – I’m a little nervous about it,” she admitted.

“Understandably, but of what specifically?”

Sighing, she dropped her forehead against his, closing her eyes. Yes, what was the ultimate problem here? What was the worst thing that could happen? Well, yes, there was that. “That what you see will make you stop.”

For a breathless moment, she thought she’d shocked him, but then: “Short of a photon attack on this building, I can assure you that nothing would induce me to stop.”

“Really?” She found herself grinning, feeling somehow elated. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did, you know. There’s a lot of … uh, messy emotional stuff going on in there when it comes to moments like these.”

“In moments such as these,” he replied thoughtfully, “the physiological response seems to encourage not only tolerating such feelings, but reveling in them.” His dark eyes gazed right into hers. “It is a compliment, is it not, your emotional response?”

She felt her expression betraying her. “You want to feel what I feel?”

He was turning her and laying her onto her back; god, he was strong. She’d forgotten about those dense muscles. “Nyota,” he said above her. “Even Vulcans feel when they mate.”

She sucked in a deep breath, blinking. Reaching up, she cupped his cheek in her palm. He closed his eyes. “Go ahead,” she said. “I consent.”

Spock captured her hand against his cheek, bowing his head. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Nyota stared up at his face. With his eyes closed, some of the intensity left and was replaced with vulnerability. She could study his features without worrying that she was being rude, or that he would take offense. The lips that had made her think her first sexy thoughts about him in a cafeteria a thousand stardates ago (it seemed) relaxed and to her delight, parted. Then his dark brown eyes slowly opened.

“You were thinking sexual thoughts about me the very first day we met?” he asked, obviously surprised.

“Uh, yeah. Little ones. I liked your mouth.” At his puzzled frown, she added: “You know, the average human thinks sexual thoughts pretty much all the time. We can’t help it. It’s like music constantly in the background.”

“My mouth?” he asked again, and tilted his head. Her hand was released from under his, and she traced her fingers down, and lightly rubbed the bottom lip.

“Right there,” she clarified. He captured her wrist almost too quickly, startling her, and examined her fingers. My god, what was it about him that turned her on? The simplest things like standing, walking, looking at her, reviewing his notes, eating curry, making tea, examining her fingers as if they were some alien thing … apparently everything he did basically turned her on.

Did she just think that when he could read her thoughts? From the slow lift of his eyes from her fingers, yes, she just did. Well, there was one way to make this a fair game.

Closing her eyes, she imagined their first kiss. It had been innocent, with closed lips, but earnest and a profound moment. She remembered how her heart had seemed to crash against her ribs. Then she turned that memory around, and showed him the fantasies that had come from it, like shoots from a seed. How she would lay awake at night and touch herself, remembering even that simple kiss. Lying in her bed, she’d reach down …

That was as far as she got, because suddenly he was on top of her, his lips and tongue scattering the constructed patterns of her thoughts. She grabbed at him desperately, surging up helplessly with her hips to encounter his weight settling down on her. Solid, and there, right there. Yes, Nyota, that’s an erection. And by god, it felt so good. She slid her arms about his ribs so she could dig her nails in, getting enough leverage to pull her leg up and over his hip. She wanted those hips to stay right there, doing what they were doing best.

He continued to kiss her and they traded long, involved touches that had her gasping for breath and rolling her hips up to his to assuage the ache. Little gods, she was going to come without him touching her directly, and wasn’t that both hot and humiliating that she couldn’t control her physical response? What she really wanted, what her body really wanted wasn’t going to happen and yet she couldn’t stop herself from rubbing herself against him, against the very nice erection he had going there…

He groaned and abruptly pulled away. Nyota found herself making a dismayed sound.

 

It was perhaps a mistake to initiate a telepathic bond with Nyota, considering her state of sexual excitement, but it had been either that or at some point losing his control and descending into her thoughts without permission. He did not think he had the strength to stop touching her, so it had been as logical a decision as he could have made, considering the situation.

Now he had less reason to stop. Her emotions, her passion, her pleasure – all of them amazed him. They overwhelmed her, reducing her thoughts to very basic and primitive wants and desires. He might have predicted that this state would have repulsed him. But although she was clearly disappointed in her lack of self control, he was not.

He was fascinated.

Nyota’s pleasure was clearly not only of her body, and even then, not completely localized (although her primary struggle now was indeed very localized). She not only felt stimulated, she thought about that stimulation, the origin (him!) of said stimulation. She attached emotions to it. She’d clearly imagined situations similar to this as she’d pleasured herself in the past.

It was not logical, but it clearly was not just animalistic sex drive, either.

He could not have predicted how much her pleasure affected him. Normally, his sexual responses were under his control, with a few exceptions of loss of focus. Being close to Nyota, touching her, had been pleasurable to him in a – not entirely cerebral fashion, but had been emotionally fulfilling. At all times he had managed to keep logic to the forefront, even if his control had noticeably wobbled from time to time. Experiencing her response, sharing it with her, seemed to trigger his own. It was not the much-feared madness of the blood fever of pon farr; perhaps it was closer to what human males felt than what Vulcan males experienced.

Despite his own lessening control and growing sexual arousal, Nyota was the focus, the inspiration. Her arousal climbed steadily, became almost a torturous pain to her. Her thoughts began to turn to her growing desperation for release, and her body followed, and where her body led, so did his own.

He pulled away in an attempt to reclaim his control and she made an amazing sound of need. He stared down at her, trying to equate the flow and ebb of her feelings and the flushed, dazed face – beautiful in this as she was beautiful in everything else.

“Spock - !” she gasped. She fretfully tugged at his waist, mindlessly wanting the stimulation, but then she stopped, blinking rapidly. She forced herself to loosen her grip, and her breathing gradually slowed. She visibly calmed in degrees. He had never seen this transition before in her, and he felt the strange polar sensations of pride and dismay.

“Nyota,” he murmured. “Do you wish me to break the rules?”

“Rules?” she parroted, and then her eyes cleared, and the spark came back to them. “The rules of making out?”

“Yes.”

“Any rule in particular?” This was the Nyota he loved – yes, loved, as much as a Vulcan-human half-breed could love- inquisitive, intense, finding the same path of his thoughts and curious to know where they were headed.

“I believe limiting touch to above the waistline is proving to be … highly dissatisfying.”
Her mouth dropped open in surprise, and she drew in a sharp breath. “That is… a very perceptive remark, Spock.”

He waited. She was clearly conflicted, and he could follow the eddies back and forth very faintly. Astoundingly, her concern was mostly for him, that her lack of control was forcing him into more intimacy than he was not ready for. A small amount of fear that he would find her orgasm distastefully emotional, but she was overriding that fear fairly effectively.

“Nyota,” he said. “I do not break rules very often, but as I ascertain that the parameters for making out are merely guidelines and not hard and fast laws of engagement, it does not dismay me to discard them in favor of … a satisfactory conclusion.”

She searched his eyes with hers, then huffed out a small laugh. “Baby, all you have to say is that you want to make me come. I’m with you on that plan.”

He examined the vernacular (which apparently happened mostly when she was drunk or aroused) and nodded. “I want,” he pronounced slowly, watching her face intently, “to make you come, Nyota.”

She gulped and licked her lips. “Good. I want you to make me come, really really desperately, Spock. As in, as soon as possible, if not right now.”

“Do you prefer a particular method?” He recalled, from his research, that a human woman could be satisfied in any number of ways, if applied to the correct spot in a particular manner.

“Right now, methodology is the last thing on my mind.” That was the utter truth; her mind was whirling with a strange combination of anticipation, impatience and arousal. “Start with this.” She reached, and took his hand, guiding it down under her skirt and between her legs. His fingertips encountered her underwear, soft, heated and moist cotton. At that faint touch, she groaned and sank back, and his mind was simultaneously assaulted by a sharp pulse of pleasure-pain from her and his own reaction to her heat. Humans, including Nyota, were equally cool to the touch, but here, she was appropriately hot and slick. His fingers gently explored through the cotton as she gasped and arched into the pressure, trembling with tension.

He did not have to ask if she found it pleasurable. The physical connection reestablished, he could feel the blooms and starbursts of sensation more keenly, but still she struggled. Under that maelstrom of feelings, there was a core of concern for him that she could not quite get around, concern for his pleasure, of his reactions. It seemed that in human relationships, selfishness was frowned upon. Her instinct was to give the pleasure she was receiving, but her body and his focus were not allowing her to perform that half of the unwritten contract. Interesting.

“Nyota,” he murmured, “although I applaud your sense of democracy, I should point out that this is for your pleasure only. Take what I give. Be … selfish.”

That was it. Gasping, she thrust hard against his hand, forcing his fingers to apply pressure where she wanted it most, and came with a small, helpless cry, arching backward. The sensation traveled across their link and landed like a blow. He’d never imagined this intensity or the pulses of pleasure that continued, like ripples in a still pond until finally she relaxed and sank back. “Oh, god,” she moaned. “Thank you. Thank you.”

He removed his hand slowly while she attempted to control her breathing, but she grasped his wrist once within her range of motion. “What about you, Spock?” There it was again, that feeling that she should return the favor. Curious. Did human males also follow this rule of reciprocation? Surely, one could be generous without need of reward, or perhaps that was an alien concept. He was the alien.

“I am more than satisfied.” Much more, but he did not know how to communicate how magnificent she was. He was inexperienced in complimentary and amorous small talk.
She frowned, and glanced down, then lifted her eyebrows in surprise. She hadn’t expected his erection to subside. Within her thoughts he surmised that human males generally could not control their physiologies to that extent. A human female expected that an aroused human male would need satisfaction.

Thus, the concept of reciprocation. The male arouses and pleases, then pleases himself. That was her expectation. Fascinating.

“Is this a Vulcan ability, or a Spock ability?” she asked wryly as he pulled her skirt down and she began making motions to sit up. She made a sound and stretched. The sound was distracting for someone who was expending control on his sexual responses.

“Vulcan,” he supplied.

“Can I kiss you, at least? I’m feeling that you got the short end of this deal.”

“A kiss would be welcome,” he replied baldly.

“Say ‘Kiss me, Nyota.’,” she instructed with a smile.

“Is this not a rude tone to take with one’s paramour?” he queried.

“It isn’t when one’s paramour – wow, a really archaic term, by the way – is more than willing to obey.” She ran her hand up the nape of his neck. “And this is an odd hesitation for someone who ordered me to run my hands down their back again.”

He hadn’t remembered that he had said that. “Ah.” He sought to apply the proper emphasis and tone. “Kiss me, Nyota.”

She laughed and flung her arms about his shoulders. “Okay, not bad. We’ll work on it.” Her light kiss was not exactly what he expected, or needed, he decided.

“As I have it under good authority that everything I do turns you on,” he said against the weightless touch, “I am astonished that I need to improve my manner –“

“Oh, you’re going to regret that - !” she cried in mock-anger, but he did observe that her kiss was much more satisfactory afterwards.

 

Strangely, there was no awkwardness. They watched the telecasts together from the couch until Nyota began to smother her yawns. She kissed him on the way off the couch to retrieve her bag and PADD. “Is there a Vulcan phrase to go with this moment?” she asked. After all, the texts and the lessons never got to ‘what to say when you’ve totally made out with a Vulcan male who just gave you the orgasm of your life.’

He leaned forward, his hands draped between his spread knees. “There is none that I know of, and I am leery of inquiring of my father.”

She chuckled. “That’s a moment I’d love to see.”

He walked her to the door and she couldn’t resist one more kiss, which was soft, slow and ended with their foreheads together. “I will see you tomorrow,” he said. She could tell he was at a loss as to what to say. She knew exactly where this hesitancy came from. She, too, didn’t want to assume anything. He wasn’t completely human, and it wasn’t marriage. She didn’t even know if making out and an orgasm made them anything other than friends who were negotiating their boundaries.

With one last smile and a petting touch at the back of his neck, she allowed him to open the door for her and she stepped out into the hallway and then into the rain-slicked night.

It wasn’t until she was well out touching range (and thus, telepathic range), that she allowed her thoughts to careen haphazardly into uncertainty. She was rarely insecure, but this was completely new territory, for both of them. She was in love, but although it was said that Vulcans did feel under that strict control, what exactly did they feel? There were no Vulcan love poems, no written marriage vows that contained any such sentiments.

Where did this relationship go from here?

Sighing, she pulled out her communicator and noticed two messages. One from her mother who was telling her that she needed to message for the traditional care package from the USAF; that was the short of a rather long, meandering letter. Her mother was never very linear, but Nyota had long ago developed the ability to find the core of what was being said. She smiled at the list her mother provided of possible items, including her favorite lotion and childhood snacks, plantain chips. Definitely a yes to that.

The next message was from the linguistics department, with her anticipated class schedule for the last semester. This was important enough to look at, because if she hadn’t gotten Subspace Identification to complete her major, she was in real trouble and would have to go begging to administration. She scanned down the listing, nodding. Yes, Advanced Phonology which she could probably test out of, but needed on her transcripts, and yes, Subspace Identification. Very good. She breathed out in relief, until her eyes scanned across the document to the listings of instructors and buildings.

She stopped walking, and stared, blinking her eyes to make sure she was reading it correctly, and felt her throat seize up in panic. There had to be some mistake, right?
But somehow, she didn’t think so.
Undecided, she turned back towards the officers quarters and then stopped again. A light rain was coming down. Shaking her head, she turned back and headed home with determined strides. Now was not the time to act without thinking.

She been walking like someone half asleep, but Nyota vibrated inside with a nauseating dread that made her push her food around her plate and stare off in the distance. Mira helpfully pointed out her state of semi-life over breakfast in the cafeteria.

“Are you sick, or something?” her friend asked with her usual sensitivity. “I haven’t seen you this distracted since Prof. Killie gave you an 81% on that written exam about Andorian phonemes.”

Wordlessly, Nyota pulled up her PADD, which she’d loaded with her semester class schedule, and slid it across the table. Mira frowned at her but dutifully bent her head to look it over. She started to shrug and say something and then her eyes began to bug out. “You have got to be kidding me!”

Nyota gave her the patented Uhura does-this-look-like-I’m-shitting-you level gaze.
“He’s your teacher next semester?!”

Nyota winced. “Maybe you should say that louder. There’s someone on Alpha Centauri who hasn’t heard you yet.”

“Oh my god, Nyota. This is just the … well, it just blows, is what it is.”

“Said with eloquence.” Nyota poked her food around and tasted a little experimentally, but her stomach rolled queasily. She put her fork down with finality.

“What are you going to do?”

“I have to talk to him about it, obviously.”

“Yeah, I can tell you’re really looking forward to the prospect. What do you want to happen, though?”

“Mira, I can’t have anything mar my record now. I just can’t, and he’s just this ethical being of massive proportions. This could conceivably kill anything we might have.”

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Mira grasped her hand over the table. “You know you can tell me anything and anytime and I’ll keep it in my bosom until the end of time.”

Nyota gave a watery laugh at that. “Thanks.”

She left Spock a message that she’d like to talk to him privately over dinner and got the affirmative response back. He was in the middle of analyzing data from the Kobayashi Maru simulations, so she told him she’d bring the food and try not to take too much of his time.

She picked up vegetarian Thai at a local favorite hole in the wall, and wondered why she didn’t just bring enough for him alone, because she had been feeling like throwing up since the previous night. But she went through the motions and found herself standing at his door.

It slid open at his vocal command, but she could see he was in the back bedroom putting something in the closet. “Hey,” she said to his vague shadow through the shoji-like screen that separated the living space from the bedroom, and went to the kitchenette to put down the bags of fragrant and gently steaming dishes. “Are you hungry, or should we reheat these later?”

“Perhaps later,” he said, coming from the back. He was wearing a tailored black Starfleet Academy instructor uniform, and her first thought was ‘goddamn, the man is smoking in that!’ followed swiftly by ‘ah, god, here we go.’

“When did you hear?” she asked, straight to the point.

“This morning. They delivered the uniform half an hour ago. I wished to make sure of the fit.” He frowned at her. “You appear very pale, Nyota.”

“Can- can you take it off, please?” she asked, and sat down at his small dining table, putting her head in her hands. And then, she amended, to make clear her meaning: “And put something else on.”

He cocked an eyebrow at that, but turned and obeyed, sliding the screen shut behind him. She massaged her temple and listened for the shifting of cloth. Soon he reappeared in his comfortable, about-the-apartment clothes. “Nyota,” he said. That was all, but it was enough.
Funny how he could say her name a hundred different ways, and it always replaced what your average guy would say in several paragraphs. This ‘Nyota’ said, ‘I am worried for you and unsure what the problem is.’ It told her that he hadn’t looked at, or hadn’t been provided with, his class rosters.

“Congratulations, by the way.”

He sat opposite of her, still frowning in concern. “Thank you. You do not seem very surprised.” Or pleased, the tone said.

What a perfect segue. “I’m not.” To either one. She slid her PADD across the table. “Take a look at that.”

He obeyed, and blinked. His concerned expression bled into a sort of blank mask. His lips parted and his dark eyes flashed up to hers. He cleared his throat and slowly sat back in his chair. “I see.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. You have clearly thought about the ramifications.”

“I have. I didn’t sleep very well.”

He drew in a breath, and his forefinger tapped slowly on the table. It was a sign of his agitation, and she was glad because if he had taken this with his usual composure, she would have been tempted to reach across the table and strangle him.

“I can test out of Advanced Phonology, easily enough,” she said. “It’s the subspace class I need to graduate.”

“Commander Sheffield is the only other viable teacher and there are only enough students at that high level to create one class,” Spock said. “I am replacing him this semester because of health reasons.”

Translation: one class offered, and he was teaching it with no chance at changing it. “That’s that, then,” she said. “You’re going to be my teacher.”

“It appears so,” he replied. His came out of his deep thoughts and focused on her again. “Nyota, we have three options.”

“Yes,” she agreed. They’d have four options if Spock wasn’t Spock and she wasn’t Nyota Uhura, but that was neither here nor there. “One: we continue as we have been, as friends, until I become your student in a month. Then we make sure the relationship stays at a professional level until I graduate.” No more easily misinterpreted visits to these quarters, for one.

“It is five months until you finish your course of study and graduate,” he pointed out.
She nodded. “Yes, Spock, I can do this simple sort of math just as well as you.” At his eyebrow lift, she added: “Sorry.”

He cleared his throat. “Two: we -” The pause was very small, but she could hear the struggle. “- consummate the relationship in the time allowed, and stop the relationship when you become my student, with the option to resume it after graduation.” He stared down at his hands as if fascinated.

At her silence, he glanced up and took a quick breath. She didn’t know what kind of expression was on her face, but she figured it had to be pretty revealing to get that kind of response.

“Do not even state the third choice,” she told him. “I won’t consider it.” There was no way in heaven or earth that she would completely drop her relationship with him, nor did she consider the opposite – continuing it in the face of regulations and ethical considerations. She respected both of their feelings and careers too much in both situations for either one to be possible.

“The- the first choice is the most logical,” he said. “It produces the least amount of discomfort. At the time of severance - ” But then he stopped, as if he’d run headlong into a wall. He was staring at her abjectly and she realized that her own expression mirrored his: absolutely miserable dismay, as if he could not quite believe what he was saying. “I – I apologize,” he said.

“What for?”

“I am applying logic to an inappropriate subject,” he observed. “These sorts of … feelings cannot be qualified logically. I see that, now.”

This was a very new sort of thinking for him, and it clearly unbalanced him. She took a calming breath. “True, but you shouldn’t apologize. If we merely followed our own feelings, we would be irrational and unethical. But in one way, you’re right. Choosing between these two options needs a balance of logic and sentiment.”

Now that it was narrowed down to those two choices, clearly with his agreement, she found herself climbing out of that nauseous no man’s-land of indecision. She found, strangely enough, that she was starting to become hungry. That the future wasn’t as dire as she thought it was. Yes, it would be a miserable five months, but it clearly wasn’t an ending. It might even be considered a beginning.

“Say, let’s eat,” she said, bouncing up from her chair. “And then we can hash it out like civilized beings.”

She’d managed to shock him. She grinned at him and went to re-heat the Thai. “I got that peanut sauce you like so much, and that drunken veggie noodle dish, the really hot one…” Suddenly, he was there and in one second she could tell he wasn’t interested in food. He seized her, turned her about and bent to devour her. Some fool was making absurd, desperate sounds and clutching at him as she completely forgot what she was doing, or saying, and instead decided that yes, he was an amazing kisser, and yes, she was really glad he knew how to use that tongue of his to full advantage, and yes…

“I take it, it’s option number two?” she gasped as her back hit the refrigeration unit and his lips lowered to her throat. He made an affirmative sort of growl. “Now?”

He breathed hard against her, once, twice, then slowly raised his head. “If you would rather not -?” Strange to hear such courteous words when he was clearly aflame and ready, looking a little lost and very much into emotional deep waters.

It was a serious question, and if she were more protective of her feelings, she might consider it carefully, but she was so tired of weighing the consequences of taking what she wanted. Now was that one rarified chance to have him; the future could come apart at any time and the long wait ahead would only serve to create doubt. Yes, she would be miserable, but at least she would have these memories.

Nyota wondered if that was also his reasoning; there had to be some reasoning behind his actions, uncontrolled as they were.

She set those thoughts aside. “Oh, I’d rather,” she laughed. She most desperately would rather right now, in fact, and there was no reasoning around that. “I’d rather, though, on a bed instead of a kitchen appliance. If you would kindly back up toward that bedroom over there.”

Spock was regaining a little composure, as a blinking glance about them seemed to testify. “Yes, of course.” If he were wearing a uniform, he would have tugged his shirt hem decorously into place.

She smiled at him and placed her hand squarely on his chest. “Start backing up,” she instructed. “Slowly.”

Funny, how pliant Spock was when it came to her commands, in this and in many things. She’d never thought it odd before, only natural, but now she could compare it to men she’d slept with before and saw the dramatic divide. Spock respected her as much as he wanted her, and she reciprocated it to the very same degree, not because of any concept of fair play, but because they were a matched set from opposites sides of a universal chess set. It amazed her that had met each other at all. What were the odds?

He slowly and carefully backed out of the kitchenette, past the nook of the dining table.

Nyota lowered her hand from him and used both hands to pull her sweater over her head.

“Keep going,” she told him as he seemed to balk, staring intensely, his composure slowly unraveling. She slid the side-zip to her skirt down and let it fall to the floor before stepping out of it. He knew not to stop by now, but that didn’t stop him from avidly examining her as he backed into the opening to his bedroom. Using the edge of the shoji partition for support, she balanced on one foot and unzipped her boot, watching him. “Sit,” she told, and he did, right on the edge of his bed. She didn’t think he even looked to make sure it was under him. She switched feet and removed the other boot.

Spock breathed deeply and rapidly, his hands clenching and unclenching at his knees as he watched her. Her underwear consisted of an unassuming white bra and panty set, but she might as well have worn the most alluring lingerie; she doubted he would even understand the difference in the state he was in. Reaching back, she slid the screens closed behind her and leaned back against them. Nyota watched him watch her and arched her back a little so he could appreciate the scenery a little longer.

“Shirt,” she said in mid-stretch, and when she straightened, he was setting it aside self-consciously.

She always thought he had nice shoulders. She hadn’t expected chest hair, and that was a little surprising, but nice. Made him – what? More accessible? Less the Vulcan and more the human. She patted his knees apart, and made a space for herself between them, staring down in his face. God, she loved this man. How had that happened? His hands, his wonderfully warm hands settled tentatively on her hips as smoothed her own hands along his shoulders and dipped down to kiss him.

“I am beginning to appreciate the command forms when used in intimate moments,” he murmured between touches.

She smiled again, against his lips. “You like me ordering you around.”

“I believe I just stated that, yes.”

“Just clarifying, baby. Would you like to use the command forms?”

Spock didn’t answer right away, which was telling. “I do not wish to, at this time.” He leaned forward, and pressed his cheek against her naked abdomen, pulling her closer by the hips.
She drew in a sharp breath as arousal shocked through her. Bending her head down to him, she threaded her fingers through his hair and gasped as his mouth opened against her skin.

His face hidden from her, he said quite clearly: “You are beautiful, Nyota. I have thought so from the very first.”

She gulped and blinked rapidly. How much had it cost him to articulate that? “Baby, I’m glad. I’m so glad.” She traced his ear. “But you know I like everything about you.”

“Yes, and I remain perplexed by it.”

“You can’t be scientific about it,” she said. “People feel how they feel, that’s all. Emotions …” His hands traveled up the curve of her spine, stopping just under the clasp of her bra. Nyota’s words stuttered to a halt; her brain officially quit the building. He’d brought her to orgasm once and caressed her through her clothes, but this was growing closer and closer to her hottest fantasies. His hands were releasing the catch - dexterous hands!- and the tension of the material gave way, the straps sagging down her arms and the rest barely hanging on. Spock lifted his mouth from her skin, dark eyes flashing, as with a single finger, he dragged the lacy down over her erect nipples. “Spock,” she gasped as the bra fell away and his hand moved up her ribs and his thumb cradled the lower curve of her breast. “You are a tease.” It amazed her.

“I am merely being methodical,” he said blandly, but his lips seem turn up, just a little.

“What – from your study of human sexuality?” she huffed. “Is that where you learned to unhook my bra without looking?”

“Is it considered a skill?”

“I’d say,” she said, with an unfortunate recall of several fumbling attempts in her past. Then he gently rubbed her nipples, and her knees began to wobble. “Bed,” she managed to convey.

He didn’t need to be told twice. He helped her lie down and finally stood, loosening his pants. She watched him breathlessly as the cloth dropped and the underwear soon after. He was not much bigger than expected, but definitely thicker, and only half-hard. And yes, distinctly less red (and a bit greenish) where a fully human male would be ruddy.

She swallowed, because otherwise she’d be drooling, and stretched her arms up in a lazy movement. He stared and she smiled at him. “Spock,” she managed, “I’m flattered, but could you come down here and touch me again?” She traced a finger under her panty’s waistband. “Or do you want me to start without you?”

He seriously seemed to contemplate both options, head tilted, and she was tempted to push her fingers all the way down her panties and in, and show him what he was missing. She was already wet and wanting, and she could only be so patient. But he took it out of her hands by following her first suggestion, climbing up carefully and settling within the cradle of her thighs.

Oh, god, she was so ready it wasn’t funny. She grabbed at the back of his neck to bring his head down and kissed him like she was sucking the air of out of his lungs. Sadly, the difference in their heights and the angle of his body did not allow for her to feel him where she wanted to feel him the most.

But it was something of a triumph to feel sweat accumulating on the back his neck. Had she ever seen him sweat? And was he struggling to breathe? “Nyota,” he said, his voice coming almost straight from his chest. The first time she’d heard him speak, she’d liked the smooth glide of his baritone, but now it was deeper and it almost wobbled. The foundation was crumbling.

“Baby, I need you to touch me,” she said, staring straight into his eye, allowing for no misunderstandings of where she needed to be touched. “Can you do that for me?” She punctuated her request with a trailing down of her hands down his spine.

“That is - ” he began, then closed his eyes, breathing deeply. “I was under the impression that more foreplay was required for proper stimulus.”

“I’m stimulated as much as I can take,” she assured him. “You have to make allowances for differences in rates of arousal.”

He swallowed. “Yes,” he acknowledged. He levered himself up a little, and back. She was gifted with a very nice view; wouldn’t Gaila just gag to get a peep at Vulcan tackle? It was inappropriate to giggle, but she was tempted. Avoiding her own self-conscious doubts with concentration on the absurdity of life was a skill she’d often employed. And boy did she need to stop it before Spock starting touching her intimately and establishing the inevitable telepathic link.

She watched in anticipation as he reached down and carefully tugged at the waistband of her panties. She lifted her legs up to allow the whole thing to come off and tried not to think about what he expected to see. Just how visual had his studies in human sexuality been? Full color images? The panties went over the side of the bed and with it part of her courage.
No going back now, is there, Nyota? We’re naked together, and he’s going to give you another amazing orgasm, one way or another, and he’s going to fuck you and holy shit, if you’re not ready for this you should have not let it go this far… But then his hand was there, warm going on hot, and she was liquid and already rising to meet him, and what kind of crazy doubts had she been thinking? When she opened her eyes to see the amazed look on his face, she forgot to be afraid.

“Would you truly have done this on your own?” he asked, “or was that an idle threat?”

“Mostly a threat, though I could have done it if I’d gotten impatient enough.”

He looked a little exasperated. “The human sexual response is that strong?”

“Yes, it is, and –oh, oh, that’s –that’s perfect – just a little harder! – press up like that …” She wriggled and twisted, and there… she was almost there. “Oh, baby, you can make me come right now or wait until you’re in me, but it’s right there. You’re doing it for me.”

“What would you prefer?”

No fair, asking her that when she was ready to just tip over the edge. “Now, baby, and I’ll be more than ready to take you on, and maybe get another one in the bargain…” She lost her breath as he gave her just the exact pressure and rhythm. “Oh, yes…” Those hands needed to be gold-plated; they needed to be worshipped and sacrificed to; they were the hands of a god.

The pulse of her climax took her and she shook, whining in her throat, aware that he was watching, fascinated, and most certainly party to her more intense thoughts, which were all her thoughts right now. The pleasure was loosening her and letting her relax after the tension of the whole, horrible day, and the really great thing was that it wasn’t over yet, especially for him. He had his own orgasm to look forward to, and she was looking forward to it with great anticipation herself. She wanted to be filled with him; the strength, the stretch, and the rawness of the act would obliterate everything else. She wanted its reality, and she wanted its memory to sustain her, and she wanted it for him most of all. The experience of sexual intimacy, the act of pleasure, was a gift as well as a bond.

“Nyota,” he said, a breathless quality to his voice now. His weight settled upon her and she held him. She couldn’t interpret his tone; she’d never heard it before. A little lost, a little overwhelmed. Was he feeling trepidation? He certainly was still hard and physically ready.

“Yes, baby? What do you need? You can tell me.” He might balk. He might feel he’d been rushed, or had rushed himself into this. Or perhaps he was losing control faster than he wished.

“Please,” was all he whispered, and she understood then that it was the last possibility after all.

She reached down and touched him, grasped and caressed him, delighting in the heat and strength. His breaths had quickened, his eyes half-closed, watching her hand on him, and when she guided him and they adjusted their positions together and he began to enter her, he made a sound from deep in his chest. She made quite a few sounds on her own. He was thick and the stretch was pleasurable and vaguely uncomfortable, but he was proceeding slowly and it was all right. When he was finally seated within her, she let out a huge sigh and experimentally shifted a little. Little waves of pleasant sensation followed each little shift. Very nice.

She looked up into his face. Spock’s eyes were closed tightly. The Vulcan green tinge that normally made him look merely pale was now distinct in his cheeks, and sweat dotted his upper lip. He was either in a lot of pain or barely holding on by a thread to his control. Or both.

“Baby, you can move,” she murmured. “Take what you need.” How had he said it, that night when he’d given her an orgasm on his couch? “Be selfish.”

He shook his head. The muscles in his arms trembled. “I would not wish to hurt you,” he said through clenched teeth.

“You won’t, baby, you won’t. You know how I feel; you’ll know if it happens. You don’t have to worry.” Then it occurred to her that alien biology might be the basis for his fears. “You aren’t going to get any bigger, are you?”

He shook his head.

“You’re not barbed, like a feline?”

A more emphatic shake, and a huff of released breath which might be humor or exasperation.

She grabbed his face in her hands and shook him until he opened his eyes. “Spock. I promise. If you hurt me, I’d let you know, okay? I wouldn’t just put up with it.” He ducked his head. “Baby, you’re in me and you feel so good. It can only get better.” Finally, a small nod. He was being very noble and protective, but god, he had to be suffering!

He shifted, frowning, feeling his way through where it was most comfortable, and withdrew slightly. The first thrust was shallow, tentative, and from his expression not very rewarding. It was not enough movement for her, either. Another shift, and a deeper penetration and her eyes rolled back in her head. Much better. It took a few more tries, and then he had a rhythm, his expression turning inward, eyes closing again.

She didn’t think she’d climax again, but that wasn’t worrying her at this time. He filled her up and it felt fantastic, if not orgasmic. She smoothed her palms down his sweat-slicked spine, feeling the movement of his dense muscles. He was lean and more solid than you’d guess by his frame. Vulcan physique. She dragged her blunt nails up his back and wasn’t surprised when he grunted and his rhythm hitched. She wondered what he’d do if she grabbed his ass.

Then he bent and kissed her hard in response, probably their messiest kiss yet. Nyota wrapped her legs around him and whimpered, undulating at a sudden prick of pleasure. “Oh, god!” she gasped, feeling the upward climb to another orgasm, completely unexpected. She stared up into beautiful brown eyes that were watching her reactions so minutely. He was probably monitoring her thoughts and emotions just as carefully. She didn’t have to ask how he was doing; his face for once showed everything, the physical strain in his open and panting mouth, and the emotional intensity blazing from his wide eyes. In a human, these clues would tell her a story. “Baby, you’ve got to come. Aren’t you ready?”

He closed his eyes in acknowledgement and lowered his head until his face pressed into her shoulder. He clutched at her, and she clutched right back. He’d been holding out on her; now his thrusts rocked her back and she clung with arms and legs.
When finally he came, he wasn’t alone.

 

The chronometer next to his bed read 0200 when she opened her eyes and stretched. Turning over, she found him sitting upright, industriously reading his PADD set for her consideration in silent mode. Smiling, Nyota yawned and sat up beside him, ignoring the sheet that fell away from her; she let herself rest against his bare side. The work on the PADD seemed to pause slightly.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she enquired, tilting her head to his warm shoulder.

“I do not require more than five hours of sleep,” he told her.

“Am I distracting you?”

“No.”

She blinked sleepily as he scrolled down through his readings, then she deliberately rubbed her breast against his upper arm. “How about now?”

He sighed and seemed about to say something, when her hand ‘accidentally’ fell to his lap and under the modest covering of the sheet. He put the PADD down with finality. “Yes, I am now sufficiently distracted,” he admitted ruefully.

“And I’m not even trying very hard,” she mused, pushing down the sheet and sliding down along with it. “How thoroughly did you research oral sex?”

“Not thorough enough,” he replied, “and lacking in practicum experience.”

The sound he made a moment later spoke to her like every book opening. She would remember that sound and with it the moment she knew that the five torturous months without it would be a high price to pay.

But she would gladly pay it for the promise of hearing it again.