I do not own anything Star Trek.
This story takes place when Spock is a brand new cadet, so he does not yet know Nyota Uhura. The female narrator in this story is anonymous.
If you like anonymous females & Spock, come on over to the TOS section where TalesFromTheSpockSide and I have been writing some erotic stuff. (see my author page). Thanks to TFTSS, dr. spleenmeister, outtabreath, and kalanel for feedback and encouragement.
*****
Captain Pike has suggested that I am "hot." It is a term females, and some males, use to describe men who have impressive intelligence, physical grace, a well-formed body, dynamic eyes, and an aloof aspect called "hard to get." Apparently I possess these qualities.
The term also includes a sense of humor. Mine is not widely known. I do not have a "dazzling smile." These two conditions seem to be waived in my case.
Since I came to study at the academy late last year, Pike--whom I am told to call Christopher--has taken a personal interest in my progress and become my mentor. He is also my mentor in all things social--a self-appointed task that confounds him daily--and he tells me I should go out and meet "ladies." He says I would find it an easy task, and that it might help me "loosen up."
Christopher is correct in noting there are whispers and stares directed toward me as I walk about campus. He does not understand the motives behind them. I am a singular being, alone and odd in the universe. Since the first moment I can remember, I have been stared at and whispered about. And while I work to control my unease and anger at all times, there are moments when those feelings become visible. My mentor tells me women think I'm sexy. I cannot believe that Christopher is correct.
In any case, if I am in fact "hot," it is not a situation I enjoy like most males would. Humans have gushing, disgusting emotional responses to their lovers. Orions and Betazoids think Vulcans are a challenge to secure sexually. I have no desire to become a minor deity or a lab rat. I have no reason to explore. I have experienced sexual intercourse once on Vulcan and will again when the proper time comes. Outside of that, I see no point. I am pleased to stay detached. Focused completely on my studies, on proving the rightness of my bold, most say impudent, choice to leave Vulcan for Starfleet.
I exist in this state until I notice an extraordinary person who--by anyone's definition--is hot.
She is intelligent, aesthetically exceptional, has the requisite dynamic eyes and smile, hair arranged in an elaborate shape that, while inefficient, accentuates her neck. I have not noticed before whether anyone around me has such features. I do not know why I see them on her now. I also note that despite my ability to acknowledge and catalog these separate features, they blend to form an altogether pleasing aspect that is more than the parts suggest. I find the features do not explain the wave of chemical reaction she elicits in me. The physical ache that comes along with being in her presence is intense and unrelenting, but some part of me knows it is private and not something to bring to the attention of a doctor.
I meditate in the evenings, and in the mornings I awake early to mentally review several possible causes before beginning my day of study. On particularly pleasing days I sit behind her in class and her hair hangs long and shines when she moves her head and the ache flares up, then settles again into its throbbing constancy. Upon one such moment, a cause I had not considered suddenly becomes clear. This ache is physical desire. I leave class the very second we are dismissed and walk in silent shame to my room.
This new sensation is unpleasant and yet exceedingly pleasant at once. And despite being Vulcan, I find I cannot subdue it.
*****
He is hot. Oh, gods, he's hot. Deep soulful eyes, long limbs, he moves like water. He wears a cadet's uniform like no one has before. It almost doesn't matter that he always looks so grave. That no one will ever see him smile.
At one time I imagined I might see that smile. I was infatuated with him and watched him hungrily from my seat in our enormous classroom. I was distracted, troubled in a way I hadn't been by any man before. So attracted to him instantly, his intelligence, his grace, his body. Messages blinked all over the classroom when he entered, girls like fireflies discussing for the nth time how hot he is. I stayed out of that meadow. Dreamt about him in my mind alone. I'm a passionate person. I imagined that under that uniform and those foreboding eyebrows lay a man who was sexual, an animal, a lover he wouldn't let out of its cage. And in my fantasies I could release him.
But time went on and he presented himself like ice, never did warm up. He did not speak to anyone after class or go anywhere outside of academic confines like any other cadet would do. I once spoke to him and he looked at me as though I were a bug, or less, something that he just noticed was under his shoe. Afterwards, I even sent him a message, asking if he would work with me on refining one of my papers. He sent back a terse negative.
I once thought he was a contained animal. Then I realized that far from it, he was not even part Human inside. He radiated something distasteful which I finally identified as pride. With time his detachment spilled over into arrogance, and I found I didn't think he was gorgeous anymore.
It's a pity, because of how he approaches me one day.
He talks to virtually no one. Now he wants to talk. To me. He asks if I'll meet him in a seldom-used part of the communications lab, no doubt where he hides to work in silence and isolation. As I click down the hall to the lonely lab, I can't help but try to review the possible reasons, and I come up with none. I'm intrigued, and even though I've learned to hate him I go.
He invites me in and closes the door. And damn it, the sound of that door closing thrusts me back immediately into the heat of the infatuation I thought I'd eradicated. I'd fantasized about being alone with him. Now here we are with the door closed. My head is having trouble reconciling dreams with reality.
He starts talking about an exam we just took, a transmission that was the basis for one of the exam scenarios. He asks me to listen, and I lean slightly over the high table to put in an ear piece and wade through mostly static. He leans on the table too, far less casually than I. Though rather awkward, he is alongside me. Watching me. I didn't even think he knew me, and now I'm nearly touching arms with him, listening to white noise. I've never even seen him this close, stood near enough to appreciate his towering height and warm clean smell. Crap. He's even more enticing close-up. Something is different. His eyes are alight. For the first time I can see something reaching out from him.
He unfolds himself gracefully and stands behind one of my shoulders, and I stand too. He continues to watch me listen. It's weird. He gets so close I can feel that his body is heated. In fact, he seems to be almost burning. My idea that he's arrogant and not gorgeous suddenly seems very poorly considered. So, so wrong. He takes a deep breath through his nose as if he's picking up my scent, and in that moment I realize I was right all along about the beast in there.
With a mental snap I realize he wants me.
He's very, very close. I can just feel his body brushing mine but he does not push against me or touch me at all, just hovers there, and I feel static electricity between our red uniforms. Though I'm turned away from him, I can see his face clearly in my mind, his gorgeous eyes, exquisite mouth, the features I used to want under my hands and tongue. I almost lean back into him. Almost.
Then I get angry.
He hardly knows my name, let alone who I really am, my interests, what I like to do for fun, my goals and hopes for my life in Starfleet. When I tried to engage him in friendship, he rebuffed me. Hard. Now he wants me, and he knows he's beautiful and believes that's all it takes. He thinks that after all the time he's been icy to me--to every woman on the planet--he can just walk up to me and say Hey, I choose you, let's go? It's so rude I start to boil. My most generous thought is that his social skills are tremendously blocky. But a big part of me is mad. My skin prickles with it. I stand rigid, eyes on the communications console.
He reaches around my neck and pulls my hair back over one shoulder. It's a very intimate gesture, something a longtime lover would do, and it takes me aback.
It also lights something inside me that is about to make me never care again about being angry.
I have to go.