Tile: Language of Love
Rating: M, but just barely, only implied sexy times really
Disclaimer: I do not own Star Trek
--Okay so I have no real ability to learn language beyond a few phrases. I mean I do fairly well with German, but it's close enough to English not to be a real accomplishment, but I love, love, LOVE, hearing people talk in different languages. I just like the sound. So I figured with Spock being a linguist and all he must appreciate the subtle differences in pitch, tone, rythmn associated with different languages. Oh, and I went with old school German, becuase Spock just seems like the kind of guy to enjoy the classics, rather than the slang.--
--Spock POV--
There are times, such as this, that I am stuck by a sense of overwhelming wholeness. Moments such as these remind me that James is not always as brash and brazen as he makes himself to be. He has adjusted the lighting in his quarters to 75%, it seems he's taken note of how sensitive my eyes can be to light. I wonder if he notices the squint I develop by the end of my shift, or if he made an inqurey with Dr. McCoy regaurding my physiology. It is more likely to former than the latter and I'm pleased to believe so.
I can hear a soft melody of Vulcan music, just audible to my own ears, coming from the media consoule to the left of myself. It is one of my favorites. He has put a great deal of thought into preparing this evening. While Vulcan's in general place little regaurd on anniversaries, I find myself drawn to celebrating them. It is something my mother taught me. Tonight is a one year anniversary. Although our courtship has lasted for more than a year, it is this date, one year ago, when I finally declared James my T'hy'la. It was night he often recounts to himself. It seems that he is taking extra care to ensure that I find this particular date worth rememberance as well.
There is a great deal of discussion, all hushed and unhurried. We talk about missions, and food, and whether or not Sulu really does that to Chekov in the turbolift before alpha shift. We eat Plomeek soup, mine plain, while his contains one half cup of cream. We play a game of chess, and I win, but he said he wins, and I'm not entirely sure what that means yet. But he says it often enough that I know some day I'll understand it.
And then we're having sex. It took quite a bit of effort on his part to get me to say 'sex'. I had always said 'coitus' or 'intercourse'. Words are important to me and sex jsut sounded to loose a word for what we do. But he said 'intercourse' sounded too technical for what we do, and eventually I conceeded. Words are important to him too, and as his lover it's only fair that I conceed to him as often as he does to me.
He moves slowly, very concisce, almost like he's timing his movements. Every push is accompanied by a deep exhale that blocks out the Vulcan music. My own breaths carry a sharper tenor, more feminine. There's no awkward positioning, tomorrow I will not have to adjust my stances to accomodate a sore back or hamstrings. Instead my legs are locked loosely around his hips. His hands are holding mine to the matress, our fingers are overlapping and squeezing just enough to be sensual instead of obscene.
His hips rotate, and his exhale is something else. "Ameureux." He draws out the word against my ear, and the breath makes me shiver. I can see in my mind the way his tongue perks up to correctly draw out the 'eux'.
Another push and grind. "Minnaar." A harsher sound, thicker on the tongue.
Again. "Geliebter." His throat moves just so, just enough for me to feel it against my collarbone. Just enough to feel the wet throaty end to the word properly.
Four times, no more hurried.
"Amante."
"Amante."
"Amante."
"Amante."
Each time with a different accent.
Again, with just the slightest slur of saliva working against his teeth. "Любовник." Deeper than any sound I'd associate with Ensign Chekov, more passion.
Again. "T'hy'la." My own, my own language. It does not sound foreign on his tongue, not as I expected it would. It sounds right.
We are still and all I can hear is my own blood rushing in my ears. I can feel his weight press more firmly onto me, and I find comfort in the mess we've made.
"Lover."
"Yes, yes we are."
________________________________________
Words mean lover.
Hah! I have such a kink for language and accents. That last line is suppose to be Spock. His only actual spoken line the whole fic, despite it being his POV.
R&R, oh, and feel free to reuest a story. Any kink/scenario is fair game.