This is a collaborative story.
Neither of us owns anything Star Trek. We made up the Ensign.
This chapter was written by ejectingthecore.
50. Lesser Beings
There are lulls between missions, and long trips with nothing to do. People joke about the old saw, that space travel consists of months of dull void punctuated by moments of sheer terror. These are the days when the crew take up hobbies. Or in my case, study for tests. I've been doing a lot of that, and I'm almost ready to take the plunge.
People get antsy and invent games. And these days in the quiet void, the powers that be have been mingling with the junior officers out of a shared sense of boredom. Spock is big on chess and plays a lot with the Captain, but he has been known to play ridiculous drinking games. He says he's observing human nature. I think he's mostly amusing himself with the antics of lesser beings.
Those antics got him in some delicious trouble once before, and as we walk down the corridor to tonight's game night in the rec hall, I recall the rounds of "I Never" we played what seems like a hundred years ago. I'm flooded with warm memories of our first times in a real bed. After so many encounters in shuttles, turbolifts and access tubes, those nights between his sheets were luxurious. So many hours to look at and simply touch his body. To revel in how he laughs, deep and low in his chest, and pretends he doesn't. To watch his eyes-almost more devastating than his hands and mouth.
My mind is wandering when he grasps me by the arm and pulls me toward a supply closet. I look up at him, questioning, and his face is blank. Not just Vulcan. Entirely blank.
He opens the door and pushes me into the dark. Then his hands are all over me, pulling at the neckline of my dress and reaching up under my skirt all at once. His face is buried in my neck, his lips and tongue working on me, the hint of his teeth against my throat. He growls, not seductively, but like an animal. He lifts me up onto a shelf and something goes crashing to the floor. Before I can speak, he's inside me. I'm not ready, and it hurts at first, but he makes me wet in seconds. As he thrusts, my back scrapes against the wall. It's so fast and hard, I don't know what to think.
I look inside myself for some kind of clue. I've gotten used to a little bit of his consciousness in here with mine. But right now, I don't feel anything from his mind. Just his body. It's hot and rough in the dark. His fingers are long. They wrap around my upper arm, where his grip is sure to leave bruises. He's driven in a way I haven't felt in a long time, a way that scares me in its similarity to the hell of pon farr. And it occurs to me, as we fuck in the dark, that he's not just a really strong man. He's another species.
But I have to laugh at myself. There's nothing wrong with what we're doing here. It' just unexpected. It's Spock's body, for goodness sake, not a stranger's. I know every angle and bone and shadow of it, and if he wants to press it against mine in a supply cabinet who am I to argue? Soon I'm biting his uniform to keep from crying out in pleasure, and my arms are around his back, my hands under his shirt. His skin is smooth and cool. I drop a hand to his waist and feel his heartbeat, and it seems normal there. He's not really alien to me. It was a moment of strangeness in the dark, nothing more.
With a final thrust into me, he actually seems to snarl. I've always thought of him as a panther, and that image comes back to me full force with the sound he makes when he comes inside me. It takes me over the edge, too, and I end up panting and clutching him.
A little later, we emerge from the supply closet. Despite how dumb this must look, Spock handles it with grace. He steps smoothly into the corridor and turns to help me out, then resumes walking with his hands behind his back. His face is neutral. You would never know he could fuck like that. Would never be able to tell that he just did. I, on the other hand, am an open book and probably look pretty damn smug and disheveled right now.
We arrive a bit late to game night.
An hour later, we're observing a truth or dare type game. Though he's got a real aptitude for lies of omission, Spock balks when asked a direct question that he doesn't want to answer. It's charming, I think, but it makes this kind of game a pretty bad idea. A few of the junior officers are willing to let us watch without chiming in.
The game is getting pretty intimate, with most of us sitting in a tight group around two low couches. I'm sitting on the floor, and leaning against one of Spock's long legs. A cute brunette Lieutenant, sitting beside me, is watching us. I've gotten used to lots of people glancing at us, and some even ogling when he and I touch. But this woman's gaze is unsettling, and I can't place why.
I realize I'm tracing a circle on his boot with my finger. I guess I'm feeling especially close to him after our encounter, and forgot that he's comfortable with closeness but nothing nearly this personal. Normally he would have shifted by now, gracefully removed his foot, reminded me to regain my composure. It seems strange that I notice before he does. Maybe I'm just getting used to being a Vulcan's woman.
I get up to refill my drink, and offer to get more cocktails for a couple of the players.
On my way back, halfway across the room with drinks in both hands, I stop short. I can't believe what I'm seeing-the incredible image of Spock stretched out on the couch, leaning on one elbow. He has a drink in his other hand. He's placed his long, lean body perfectly and has never looked so statuesque. He's practically on display, and suddenly anyone around can see what I see in him. He's emanating sex. I'm stunned, but I really am looking at Spock reclining like this in front of other people, so open, so relaxed, and more than that. Seductive.
Obviously it's possible. He seduced me like a phaser cutting through butter. But it just seems almost unimaginable that he's acting this way in a group.
The young officer who was watching us is now leaning in to speak to him. She's damn close, and it makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. I don't like how he's looking at her. His eyes are smoldering, he's got her captivated. I see this all in a second or two. And then I see something really wrong, that I wish were my imagination.
He leans forward to place his drink on the low table. As he leans back, almost as an afterthought, he brushes the girl's cheek with the back of his hand. It's a light brush. I know from experience that it's the kind of touch you can barely feel, and yet never recover from.
Every bit of warmth and air has been sucked out of me and I'm hollow. The word wrong keeps ringing in my head like a klaxon. And just like it's a red alert, I don't run. I calmly place my drinks on the closest table, turn neatly around and start walking home. I don't know what I'm going to do when I get there. I don't even know where to begin to think about this. I suppose at some point he'll come home, too. He'd better. And it better be tonight.
These thoughts are haunting me on the way to our quarters, and by the time I arrive I'm shaking. I start a hot shower and step in under the water, and I'm briefly confused because my body wash is not where I normally put it. I'm forgetting something. I replaced it. I'm so disoriented, I could easily be in someone else's room. I gasp under the hot water, and try to ignore it when the gasps become more like sobs. I'm not crying.
Once I'm clean and dry, I wrap a big robe around me and burrow into the covers on our bed. My head feels stuffed up and wrong, and I'm suddenly sleepy. I can't seem to stay angry or scared or even awake. As I drift off, I feel a wisp of emotion from Spock, something like sadness and remorse. Then I'm gone.
...
