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A Meditative State

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His eyes are closed. He inhales; the spicy candles, strong even for human olfactory senses, successfully obliterate all distracting scents. It is silent in the cave; the inhabitants of this planet require hours more sleep than he does, and most are doubtlessly resting now. A curious species, to dwell in a cave system when they are so clearly humanoid; he would be interested indeed in the causes which drove them underground, as well as the adaptions they have evolved in response -

No. He forces the thoughts out of his mind, dismissing them as distractions. Relaxes. Focuses on the spice in the air, the beat of his pulse, rapid in his fingertips. Stone under him, cold against his thighs; he lays his palms on the ground, feels the chill radiate into his skin. His mind is sand; it ripples in concentric patterns. He breathes; he controls. Sinks deeper, into blankness. Here it is warm, calm; he is alone. Inhale, exhale; he is still.

Footsteps, quiet and slow; there is a pull on his mind, the thread he is still unfamiliar with. The bond itself is new; her presence in his mind is not. He opens his eyes.


"I hope I haven't disturbed you." She is disrobing, removing her red uniform and rolling it tightly before placing it in her small knapsack, tucked under the wide bed.

"An illogical question. You would be aware of my discomfort, had you disturbed me." He studies her, the scar at the back of her knee, the thick weight of her hair. Her skin, dark like Vulcan plants. He wants to put his mouth on her wrist, feel the life pumping there, hold her at the indent of her waist, steadying her as she has done for him, albeit in less literal ways.

"True, but I was raised to be polite." She smiles at him, a quirk to her lips not generally there, a private expression she chooses to show only to him. By now he knows how to manage the emotional response her smile elicits in him: he takes the deluge of admiration, devotion, and lust, and observes it before allowing it to flow through him. Such emotion no longer disrupts his meditations; he has grown used to the sensation.

"I assume your conversation with the Lyncis elder provided useful information?"

"It did, as a matter of fact. Apparently we had such difficulty communicating with them at first because in addition to the combination of verbal and physical cues that make up their language, there's also ritualized dance that they do during every conversation to set the mood. So they thought we were angry and hostile, because we didn't dance."

"Utilizing their considerable physical prowess to broadcast their intentions, as opposed to the human tendency to do so with variations in tone. Fascinating. Have you learned some of their language?"

"Not nearly enough to begin cataloguing or translating, but enough to get by." Nyota flops down on the bed, all loose limbs and yawns. She eyes the candles, and promptly gets back up to examine them. Spock smiles internally; her innate curiosity never ceases to amuse him. "This is a weird wax, I've never seen it before. It doesn't seem to dry very quickly."

"Indeed. Its chemical makeup allows the native people to use it as a writing implement."

"They dip their claws in it?"


"It smells lovely." She, too, is lovely, in ways both physical and mental. He cannot deny, though, that at the moment he is more concerned with her physical state: she is long and lithe, her body evidence of the frequent runs she takes in the gymnasium onboard the Enterprise. Her breasts are small and firm, her nipples hardened from the cool air of the cave. He wants to touch them, hear the little gasp she makes when he takes them in his mouth. Press the pads of his fingers into her thighs, hard enough to bruise.

"Nyota," he says, and pauses. She is watching him, head tilted, still with that little grin on her lips. Watching him watch her, and he can feel her desire rolling slowly and inexorably as a wave; it settles in his bones. "I would see examples of their language. The ritualized movement, as you called it."

"You want to see me dance, Spock?" She moves closer to him, languid, looking at him from under lowered lids, teasing. Runs her tongue across her plump lips, extends a hand to cup his jaw; he closes his eyes, anticipating the touch, but she pulls away and strokes his hand where it lies on his thigh instead. The Vulcan kiss makes his breath catch in his throat, the leak of her emotions into his makes him shiver. "Would it turn you on?"

"I would find it...distinctly arousing. Yes." His voice is lower, and somewhat hoarse, and he is quite willing to say or do whatever she asks, if it means the touch of her skin to his. He finds his reactions to her physical proximity simply fascinating.

"Look at me," she whispers, and steps back, lets her hands drop to her sides and holds them stiffly, fingers pointed toward the floor, elbows locked and arms straight. She dances, hips rolling hypnotically, in a careful pattern on the cold stone floor. As she does, she purrs, a low roaring sound that undulates in frequency to the swing of her body; the vibrations make Spock's skin prickle, and when she breaks from the purr into a low, sensuous song, he finds himself leaning forward, appreciating his sensitive hearing like he seldom has before, caressed by her mellifluous voice. It excites her, to do this for him, he feels it like hot cinnamon flaring in his mind, the beat of her feet on the earth mimicking her pulse.

And when she touches him, her hand on his face, fingers stroking over his lips, he takes her by the wrist, pulls her down to him, brushing their fingers together and breathing in sharply as she presses herself against his bare chest. Skin to skin, the sensation is exquisite; her arousal joins his in his blood, he slides one hand to her back, holding her against him as she sinks her full weight in his lap and kisses him, lips and tongue against his, wet and messy and undeniably human, undeniably Nyota. She fizzes in his nerves, her thoughts disorganized and chaotic, and he leans back to pull her on top of him, pressing close and tight to his body as she wraps her legs around his, and it is still not enough, he always will want more. So she gives it to him, stripping off the scrap of fabric that serves as her undergarment, running her mouth along his index finger before pressing his hand between her legs. He whimpers at the slickness there, the feeling indescribable as he rubs his fingers along her flesh, sparking a swift burst of pleasure he shares with her, and when he slips those same fingers inside her she tenses her muscles around him and it's too much, too extreme, he bites her shoulder hard in his effort to seek control and removes his fingers from her, dragging them across her belly as he reaches to cup her skull and pull her mouth towards his again. She catches his hand before he can, sucks her own juices off his fingers. His breathing is heavy, erratic; if she continues in this manner he will fall apart all too soon.

"Nyota," he says again, or perhaps he moans it this time; he is prepared to appear less than Vulcan when in her presence, when in private. She understands without words, and moves away to lay beside him, still close but not as overwhelming as before.

"Spock," she says, her voice warm. He does not look at her, but places his index and middle fingers against hers. She understands. Those two words, perhaps, are the foundation of their relationship.

After a moment, she sits up, pressing a kiss against his stomach as she goes, at the place where the fine trail of hair revealing his human ancestry disappears into his regulation trousers. "I have an idea."

He watches her as she stands and goes to the bed, dipping her finger in the bowl below the candelabrum where wax collects. "Go to the bed," she says. "Take off your pants, first."

"You were raised with impeccable manners, indeed," he quips, and she arches one eyebrow at him in perfect imitation of his expression.

"Was that sarcasm, Mr. Spock?" she asks, amusement lacing her voice. She looks him up and down shamelessly, her smirk widening as he obeys her orders, and licks her lips in a manner Spock can only deem as complimentary to his physique.

"Vulcans do not consider sarcasm a proper rhetorical device," he tells her, unsmilingly.
She chortles and strokes his back as he walks by her on his way to the bed, sending a shiver of laughter and good-natured arousal through his mind. "I don't believe you for a second. Is the bed comfortable?"

The bed is a stone slab, covered with a thick animal fur and several thinner pieces of hide. Normally Spock would find it repulsive, but these people are an omnivorous society with little technological development, and he cannot truly hold them at fault. He dismisses his reservations and says, "It is quite serviceable."

"Good. Lay down, please."

The fur is surprisingly decent padding, and the soft leather blankets prevent it from scratching at his skin. His ruminations on the topic are quite distracted, however, by Nyota, leaning over him, hair obscuring her face in a dark cascade, darting her tongue over his nipple. Flickers of contact, centered around her hand on the flat plane of his abdomen; he breathes and is still until she raises her mouth and closes her lips around his earlobe, fingers stroking the delicate pinna of his ears, and this time he shifts his body to be closer to her touch, her questing mouth. Only around her is he willing to fully accept his need for contact.

"Shut your eyes," she murmurs softly, and he complies. "Keep still, I want your hands flat on the bed at all times, okay?"

"Of course, Nyota."

"And let me know the instant anything hurts, okay? If it becomes at all uncomfortable to you. I don't want you to pull the stoic act on me."

His eyes are closed, but he is certain she is hovering over him, watching him closely for any signs of discontent, forehead creased in worry. The image makes the corners of his lips curl, and he replies softly, "I trust that you would never cause me undue pain intentionally."

"I wouldn't," she says, and moves away, and everything is still. Spock waits for her to return to his side, but there is no movement in the room, nothing but the measured sound of his breathing. A minute stretches by and he finds himself searching for the bond, but aside from a low, comforting thrum there is no indication of her presence. His mind turns inward; he is naked, aroused, vulnerable. The thought is a skitter of discomfort in his otherwise calm state, and he fidgets just slightly, curling his fingers in the soft hide covering.

A clink, metal against metal, and now he can hear Nyota, nearly silent on dancer's feet, and sense her standing at his side. He turns his head as if drawn by her presence, but does not open his eyes.

"Not impatient, are you?" she asks, teasing gently, and when he opens his mouth to reply she shushes him. "No, don't say anything. Do you want me to touch you?"

He conveys both his assent and his impatience through the bond; she hums in response and then splatters of heat drip on his chest, painful in a concentrated, exquisite way that makes him twitch and hiss through his teeth. It's wax, he's nearly certain of it, and he can suddenly see Nyota, vivid in his mind: silver-tipped fingers wrapped around the filigreed handle of the metal bowl, tipping it slightly, allowing droplets of wax to splash on his skin. Her body an arc over his, her movement smooth and controlled. A smirk tilted on the side of her mouth; she loves making him fall apart. He finds he quite enjoys it as well.

More wax, creating a pool on his chest; now aware of his situation, Spock is free to give in to the sensation. The wax runs in drips down his side, following the slope of his ribs, the heat biting like fingernail scratches, Nyota leaving marks on his chest and sides and upper arms while she rides him, while he licks the salty sweat off her breasts and she moans in reply -

Vulcans are not prone to fantasies, but Spock is, after all, half-human.

"Tell me what you're thinking," Nyota purrs, and drags her fingers through the viscous wax, to the pulse point at his neck, her bare skin so close to his; he can hear flickers of her thoughts but his mind is not truly hers, not yet. It's absolutely tantalizing, a thin film of wax the only thing preventing them from touching. She runs her fingers to his hips, stroking the sensitive skin at the inside of his thigh, and while the wax has cooled considerably from prolonged contact with her skin, it's still warm enough to elicit a reaction from him. Her breath is hot against his cock; he grips the blankets for anchor as he tries to resist rolling his hips. "Are you thinking about fucking me?"

"Yes," he breathes, and she licks him root to tip; he shudders. His eyes are shut so tightly he sees supernovae exploding on his eyelids.

"Tell me how," she murmurs.

"You astride me," he whispers, and flinches when she spills heated wax on his thigh, tracing patterns in it with her fingers; he recognizes the musical flow of written Vulcan, but fails entirely at deciphering it. "We - move together - "

"Like this?" she asks, and straddles him, fitting him inside her and moaning as she sinks to sit upon him. "Ah, fuck, this is good. No, hands down - " he has grasped her hips, seeking friction - "Tell me more."

"Nyota," he says - perhaps he begs - he thrusts into her, hard, hears her squeak and the slap of his flesh against hers, the prickle of wax drying on his skin is a decadent itch, and this time, when he grabs her by the hips and thigh and forces her to rock against him, she doesn't protest. Instead she collapses, burrowing her head against his chest, swiveling her hips in time with his thrusts - "oh God," she whines, and repeats it like a mantra - in their fumblings they have tipped over the bowl of wax and it spills molten against his side, but he does not particularly care; the deep sting merely spurs him on, he crushes her to him, hip to hip and chest to chest and she bites at his throat and the sensation - it's all too overwhelming, he is drowning in the deluge, so much, skin to skin, fingers interlaced, flickers of thought and emotion and their twinned minds shaking in the shockwave - oh Nyota -

. . .

Later, they will sit in meditative silence. She will peel sticky sheets of wax from his skin and place one kiss between his shoulder-blades, both a seal and a promise. He will watch her as she sleeps, curled in the hide blankets, and look upon her dreams. He will not hold her, but they will be together regardless, always touched and never touching. Perhaps he will slip into blankness, a meditative state unlike any he has known before. She provides solace, gauze over wounds he refuses to allow to bleed; he will find peace in her mouth and the grace of her skin. She understands. It is more than enough.