Day 2, nominally, ...
... still.
Warning: lemons.
How do you sleep?
We already have established that I sleep underneath the bed, or behind a rock, or up a tree: any good defensive position, really, along with a good offensive one.
If I'm forced to sleep on a bed, under the covers, as I was so this night, I sleep with my hands and arms free: bad defense, as skin contrasts with covers, making me an easier target, but good offense, should I need to rip your arm off and beat you to death with it, if you were stupid enough to think you could approach me, instead of killing me from a (preferably: great) distance.
I became aware, as I became conscious, that somebody was that stupid.
"S'Vrall?" A figure loomed over me in the darkness. The voice was Burnham's.
Her fingertips grazed the back of my palm. They were cold: human-cold, and once again I had to reconcile this ... being, this entity, this Michael Burnham, a Vulcan in a human body, a female with a male's name.
I'd have to get to the bottom of that mystery at some point.
Names mean everything.
I did not react.
I could have. The whole 'ripping off your arm to beat you to death with it'-thing was not metaphor. I had done that several times.
I had been ... 'done,' ... many, many more times than that. Long story. I'm not inexperienced, but my experiences aren't those of probably most of the people living in Federation-space.
"S'Vrall?" she whispered again.
But my experiences also weren't like this. What in Hellguard was Michael Burnham doing?
Her heart rate was elevated. Her breathing was shallow. She was concerned that I would crawl up from under my bed to murder her in her sleep? What was all this, then?
There were several factors keeping her alive.
One was that we were in Federation space, and murdering somebody on a Starfleet vessel was frowned upon here, apparently.
The Federation viewed 'Honor,' as a concept, quite differently than, well, ... elsewhere.
Another factor was my curiosity: what was Michael Burnham doing?
The third factor was ...
The third factor was ... you do get that I'm not romantic, yes? I didn't have the best of upbringings, because I didn't have any upbringing at all.
You see, I'm not Vulcan. I'm half-Vulcan.
And the other half is not human; there's only one of those, and his name is Spock.
The other half is Romulan.
When I said I didn't have any upbringing, that may be technically accurate, but it's not the whole story. Romulans look down on half-breeds: bastard children of no house, no honor, no use.
My mother, as far as I can tell, was Romulan, and induced pon farr in my father, the mating frenzy in Vulcans, and he, well, he fucked her until she tired of him, and then he went insane and died.
Those are my parents, but it doesn't end there. Like the Earth-legend of Romulus and Remus, Rolumans discard unwanted children. In my case, I was shipped off and dumped onto the planet 872 Trianguli V, which the Romulans call Thieurrull.
Federation Standard translates that to Hellguard, and, surviving on that planet, since infancy with other half-breeds like me, I can state with authority that the name fits.
Hellguard was hell: an inhospitable world where if you didn't die from exposure, then either the flora or the fauna would kill you, but those were not the main causes of death ... well, exposure was, but only because the other halfers were worse.
Much, much worse.
Their favorite game to play was to expel a poor, young, malnourished (usually) girl, who wouldn't ... 'play along,' out into the cold wilderness and see if she lasted the night.
She, usually, didn't.
'Usually' meant almost always.
So, I played along. I think I have more sexual encounters in my life than any Orion slave girl ever has. I'm not exaggerating. I'm not proud of that. On Hellguard, it was very quid pro quo. The boys wanted what you had, be you a girl or a younger, weaker boy, and they had food, water, and body heat to keep you alive through the night. Weapons? Nope. Shelter? Some rudimentary lean-tos were castles for us.
Sometimes the boys would fuck us then leave us to gather around their campfire, and laugh at us, their exploits. So, usually the girls and the younger boys huddled together. Sometimes, in those cases, a girl would need more than body heat, sometimes she'd cry at the unfairness of it all.
Those were the young girls, you see: the ones who hadn't yet completely lost their innocence. Sometimes a girl would have needs.
I would, too.
I'm ... very experienced.
But not since I've infiltra-... sorry: entered Federation Space. I've been a very good girl, a model Vulcan, as it were, since putting on this veneer of civilized sophistication.
I escaped Hellguard when I was thirteen, ... so it's been almost ten, ... no, now eleven years since I've felt another's touch, or held somebody in my arms, and now, feeling Michael Burnham's fingers drawing cool traces up and down my arm, the ache of not having that, for more than a decade, ...
... that was the third factor.
I was fine without feelings, nor touch, nor me holding somebody, nor a boy, vicious, hurting me as he fucked me, but on top of me, for a moment, a brief moment, filling me with his warmth and his spite and his anger, and then gone, ...
I was fine without all of that until this moment, and now, S'Vrall, 'Vulcan,' the emptiness of more than a decade of pretense and not-being what and who I am, ...
The ache.
I wanted to take that hurt, and I wanted to hurt the Universe.
I wanted to fill that emptiness with anger and screaming and rage.
I wanted to beat Michael Burnham to death with her arm attached to her tentative, cautious, hesitant fingertips.
I wanted to grab her, throw her down onto the bed and fuck the shit out of her, until she came or I did, I really didn't care, but I just wanted to feel something!
Do you understand me? I just wanted to feel something, after this decade of emptiness and naught.
Michael Burnham's human fingertips were cool, almost cold, against my Vulcanoid arm, but they burned into my very being, and I wanted to die, right now, screaming into the flames of her touch.
But still, that's all she did, this gentle ... nothing of a touch.
I waited. My throat was dry and ached as I regulated my not-scream into even breaths of a Vulcan in repose.
Carefully, Michael Burnham stopped her tracing and withdrew her hand.
I almost killed her, right then and there. Leave me like this?
But then a slight adjustment to her ... 'P.J's? ... which I don't know what that means, but her one hand return to my own, resting her palm in mine.
The other hand was busy.
I heard the sound of steady, insistent, rhythmic motion as her hand, now inside her P.J.s, massaged her labia, then, forcefully, rammed fingers into her vagina.
She gasped quietly, but her hand, tightening in mine, and her panting, uneven breaths, gave her away.
I was so glad somebody was having a good time tonight, I thought wryly.
Except that it sounded like she wasn't. She was whimpering as her thrusts became both faster and more forceful, almost whining. Then, soon enough, she scrunched over herself and grunted several times, her fingers slowing, but making very wet sounds as she brought herself down.
Her hand was tight, tight, tight in my own.
She slowed to a stop, then breathed out a very heavy sigh, easing her death-grasp on my hand.
"S'Vrall?" she whispered.
I didn't move.
She left my side, staggering to the tiny commode, shared with the officers' quarters adjacent to ours. I heard her urinate then wash up after.
Our quarters: the room was thick with her arousal. I could taste it on my tongue.
I should have been retching with the human stank.
I wasn't.
She approached me.
Not again! I cursed silently. I didn't have to read her mind to know what she was going to do next.
"S'Vrall?" she whispered.
Yes. This is how this starts, isn't it?
But then, again, she surprised me.
She lifted up my covers, then crawled into bed with me.
This... I thought.
I was bewildered. What in actually Hellguard was going on? What demon had possessed Michael Burnham to do these things?
What was she going to do next?
She began to chant a little prayer. It wasn't in Vulcan. "Please don't wake up. Please don't wake up. Please don't wake up..."
She pulled the covers over us both, then spooned herself into me.
This. I thought.
This filled the ache in my cold heart, dead since birth, I thought.
When your own mother doesn't love you, how can your heart live? Why would it?
I decided not to kill Michael Burnham. Not at this moment, at any rate.
"Just for a minute, okay?" she whispered into my hair.
Her arm fell from my shoulder, and I was encased, podded, in the cool body that was Michael Burnham.
Her breaths became even, and I was content.
This. I thought.
But, as it turns out, she wasn't.
Slowly, carefully, she reached down, then under, then ...
... up.
Her hand had stealthily, or so she thought, slid under my issued sleepwear, then traveled up my stomach to cup my breast.
Michael Burnham, you sly sehlat!
I didn't know whether to snarl, to growl, ... or to purr.
Fuck! By the Immanence! This felt good and much, much better than good!
Boys, see, boys, they wanted one thing. They wanted to dominate you, and whether that meant using you or hurting you they did their business and made sure to show you they were 'strong.'
I was a good crier. They loved that as they hurt me! I was one of the more popular girls for that reason.
Michael Burnham, a boy's name, but she wasn't hurting me. She was almost skittish in her love-making, timid, even, but she needed me, and that need was palpable, and I fed on that as much, if not more, as she used my body to satiate her own need.
Fuck! It felt so delicious to be needed like this. Other girls had needed me, needed my comfort, needed my warmth, but, in the morning, Hellguard awaited, and made us all monsters again, cold, distant, vicious creatures, fighting over scraps, struggling to stay alive one more day.
Michael Burnham needed me so badly it was an actual taste in the air. It was a wanton, helpless lust that lit her on fire and warmed my insides with an ache for her.
She shifted slightly, molding herself more into me, and then she started rubbing herself against me.
Dry humping.
She was slowly, methodically fucking my ass, and she held herself to me, her hand pressed tightly against my breast.
Her breathing became heavier and her motions became more insistent. I felt her clothes rubbing against me. I felt her clothes rubbing against her.
I felt her clothes become wetter and wetter.
"I...I..." she gasped and then: "Oh, FUCK!" she whimpered and held herself tightly against me as I felt her wetness spread over my ass.
"Oh, my God!" she whispered, then repeated herself. "Oh, my God!"
It took a while for her breathing to return to normal.
"S'Vrall?" she whispered sadly. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I..."
She yawned. "Just let me rest here. Just one moment, please?" she said quietly.
Her breathing became even, and then she slept, her hand on my breast, holding me as if she were never going to let me go.
Incidentally, Vulcans have extra senses. We know, for example, what time it is. Always and perfectly.
It was now 05:27.
I had not yet been on the USS Discovery 24 hours.
One Federation Standard day.
It's been quite the day so far.
Our reveille would be quite awkward, ... for Michael Burnham, that is. I, myself, looked forward to reveling in the huge embarrassment Michael Burnham would face, waking up in my bed, reeking of sex, ... our sex, or, more accurately, the leavings of her sex having marked me.
I wondered, idly, how she would handle this in the morning.
I had heard that humans can die of embarrassment. I wondered if that were merely hyperbole. I would soon find out.
I smiled, more content than I had been in more than a decade.
No, that is inaccurate: I was now more content than I had ever been in my entire miserable existence.
I slept.