strangeallure (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
strangeallure) wrote2009-05-29 05:19 am
strangeallure) wrote2009-05-29 05:19 am
Entry tags:
Fic: What She Wants, Spock/Uhura, R
Title: What She Wants
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Spock/Uhura
Rating: R
Summary: There are things he simply can’t give her.
Word Count: ~2,100
Warnings: nightly noises, Uhura thinking, Vulcan sleepwear
Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
meiou_set, who's my meta girl and encouraged me to post this.
Feedback is greatly appreciated.
What She Wants
The faint beeping noise seems to be waiting for her. It's always there at night, there to keep her awake, there to keep her thinking. Not loud enough for her to notice when her mind is occupied, but too loud once she tries to stop thinking and drift off to sleep.
It’s not mocking her, it doesn’t have to; it just makes her mock herself. Mock herself for sleeping alone every night, mock herself for not asserting what she wants, mock herself for trying to be what he wants, trying to hide the parts he wouldn’t want, wouldn’t approve of.
They’ve been together for almost a year now, and she’s still not sure how it happened. All she knows is that she admired him; his mind, his intelligence, his restraint and cool. The way he never started from the bottom up like other professors, but how he gave them the most complex problems from the very beginning, insisting that finding ways of breaking them down into manageable parts would be an essential skill, the only thing which would allow them to put all their other abilities to good use. The way he never brushed students off, but always calmly explained his reasons, picking apart arguments and giving thorough rationalizations. The way he encouraged everyone to ask questions and how he thought about them – about hers –, how he said that he would have to research some details to give her the best answer he could – and how he always followed through.
One day, she had realised that the time she spent thinking up questions for him and researching things she could ask after class almost equalled the time she spent studying for the course itself. He had realised it, too, and he had taken her hand and had kissed her and touched her and she had been his. Just like that.
And now she’s here, lying on her bed, the small beeping sound keeping her up. She’s thinking about how much she likes the way they fit together, how he is always gentle and tender and affectionate, how he makes her come with nimble fingers, warm lips and thrusts sure and measured. Thinking about why she always goes back to her own quarters after they have been together. Thinking about their conversations, before and after, always informed, eloquent and coherent. Thinking about how she wants more.
She doesn’t care what the crew would think if they shared quarters over night. She doesn’t want to always be cherished, kept and caressed, sometimes she wants to be taken, claimed and bruised. She wants to talk sweet and dirty and mindless. And she wants him to say her name, say it when he wants her, say it when he comes, say it after. Murmur, cry, shout, moan it. But he can’t give that to her. It’s not who he is, she knows.
There are reasons why they handle this the way they do. His arguments are flawless, his arms are so assuring, and the way he treats her is respectful and even affectionate when they are alone, but she realises that that won’t be enough.
She’s a rational person and proud of it, has always been an exceptional student and is an asset to the crew, of that she is sure, but she can’t always try and be the perfect student for him, aspiring to his level of cool and calm and collected. She needs more – even if, for the moment, it just means more hurt.
It is half past one earth time and she’s glad for it. It will give her time to say what she needs to say, go back to her quarters, cry, possibly try and get a call through to Gaila and collect herself enough for duty in the morning.
The corridors are empty as she strides out of her quarters in her nightgown. She feels confused, sad and afraid, knowing that she is about to end a relationship which means more to her than she thought it could – and a lot more than she wants to think about.
--
“Did you leave something here?” is the first thing he asks when he sees her. It’s obvious that he has been asleep, his pyjamas are rumpled and his hair is sticking up at weird angles.
It makes her ache when she realises that she has never even known what he wears to bed, that she has never even seen him asleep or right after he got up. That she doesn’t even know he’s a restless sleeper, judging from the hair and the creased sleepwear.
She feels like she doesn’t know him at all and she smiles, sad, and feels pressure in her eyes and wetness. She bites her lips.
“No,” she manages, “I never leave anything here, do I?” It’s true. When she leaves his life – the private part, at least – there will be nothing to remind him, not even a toothbrush to give back to her or throw away.
He puts one hand on her hip and pulls her into the room. The door closes and he looks at her. “You are not well.” His hand comes up to her face and wipes at the small tear stain on her right cheek. “How can I help you?”
There’s the affection again, and maybe that’s enough, after all: the small touches and genuine concern. He wants her to be well, he always wants her to be well – and she wants to be, for him.
“Why are you with me?” It’s one of the many things she never asked, one of the many things she doesn’t know.
He thinks about it for a moment, clearly composing an answer that will satisfy his need for accuracy and conciseness: “I enjoy your company. You are a precise thinker and well-read. You have a profound understanding of my area of expertise, which makes you an interesting partner for discussion, and you are very attractive.”
She smiles again, because these are all things she is proud of, achievements - even her physical appearance. It’s all things that are true for her, too. But it’s not all, it’s not enough.
She feels her body tremble slightly and her eyes burn. She feels weak and starts to get mad at herself for this reaction, a female cliché, but then she thinks better of it. She is a woman, a human woman, and her feelings are not there to be reined in and channelled and sublimated all the time.
She takes a few steps back. “I’m ending this.”
His eyes widen slightly, and it gives her a small feeling of satisfaction that she can at least draw some response from him.
“Why?” he asks. And it’s better than just accepting it, but yet it’s so little.
She knows that her voice won’t be steady, but if there are words wanting out, she might as well say them now.
“Because I want you to want me in the same way I want you.”
He looks surprised and brings his hand up to smooth out his shirt somewhat, but his voice is calm. “And what way would that be?”
“Passionately.” Her eyes grow wide as she says the word; as she takes in his appearance: the ruffled hair and crinkled pyjamas, and she realises that yes, that’s exactly the way she wants him. Instinctively, she takes a step in his direction.
“I want you to dream of me - and not about stimulating conversations, but in a way that makes you sweat and moan and wake up wanting me.” Her eyes meet his and she can’t read his expression, but she doesn’t care, she keeps looking.
“I want you to think about my body when you shower, I want to you to notice when my skirt rides up on the bridge. I want you to touch me when no-one’s looking – or even when someone might. I want you to kiss and caress me when we’re alone in the turbolift together, just because you can’t stop yourself from touching me.”
She doesn’t even notice the pleading note slipping into her voice or how she comes closer, crowding him. “I want you to forget your little dating routine sometimes. To not always be polite and have dinner and conversation first. I want you to pull me away from the door and push me against the wall. I want you to dig your fingers into my flesh, to rub and scratch and knead.”
She’s so close to him now, and he’s just looking at her; still impassive, unreadable. She wants, she needs to coax a response from him. Her eyes narrow, focusing on his, but there’s still nothing she can understand. Harshly, she pushes him towards the couch in his living area.
Her voice is dark now, fraying slightly around the edges. “Want you to need me, need me so badly you just push up my skirt, pull down your pants. Not to make love to me. Not to have sex with me. But because you need to fuck me. Need to be inside me, come inside me.”
She shoves him again, and he’s falling onto the couch, sitting there, his thighs pressed together tightly, still showing no reaction.
Without even thinking, she straddles his legs and brings her face to his ear, whispering now, “And then I want you to take me to the bedroom, just so we can do it again. Because you can’t get enough of me, because you want to take me in every possible way. I want you to be rough and tender and possessive and sweet, and I want it all.”
Her voice cracks again, and she doesn’t even know how she went from aroused to almost desperate so quickly. “I don’t want you to worry about what the crew might think, because there’s no room to think about anything beyond us, because I’m everything for you. I want you to say my name, because you’re the only one who knows and because it’s special and ours and you love me.”
She doesn’t even look at his face as she gets up. “You can’t give that to me, I know. It’s not you; it’s not how you feel. And I thought I could live with that. I thought if I would just behave the way you want me to, it would become natural for me, too.”
Her mouth twists into that strange grin again she doesn’t really understand herself as she focuses on a spot to the left of his face. “Turns out I was wrong. I’m sorry, Spock. I really am. I can’t be in a relationship based merely on compatibility and companionship. Not even with you. Especially not with you.”
She turns around and walks towards the door. She shakes her head to herself, the self-deprecating smile painful on her face. He doesn’t even say anything. Not one word.
She’s in front of the door, when she’s pulled back suddenly. He’s there, right there. No words, just his body, and he pushes her against the wall. His hands are in her hair, holding her head in place and then his fingers close around her face, thumbs pressed against her cheekbones.
His pupils are blown wide, willing her to understand, but she’s not sure she does.
“Please,” he breathes, his voice rough and low and like she’s never heard before. She understands, she nods, and that’s all it takes.
She’s inside him, inside his mind.
She sees what he sees, sees the way he sees her. Images of her tugging her hair behind her ear, smoothing down her skirt, throwing her head back as she laughs. Gaze fixed on the line of her neck, on her pulse point, on her breasts. Stolen glances in the classroom, months before she realised how she felt for him. Fleeting looks on the bridge, in the corridors of the ship, on Starfleet campus. Hungry eyes on her flesh as he touches her gently, love and want and craving colouring his vision as she comes apart.
She hears his voice, too, and it’s so different, not like she knows. It’s rough and broken and full of need and dark, deep breaths. It’s filthy and sweet and loving and obscene.
It’s exactly what she needs, what she wants.
When she’s back in her own mind, she just takes a deep breath, and he pulls her against him, stroking her back lightly.
“Stay,” he murmurs into her hair. And she does.
Fandom: Star Trek XI
Pairing: Spock/Uhura
Rating: R
Summary: There are things he simply can’t give her.
Word Count: ~2,100
Warnings: nightly noises, Uhura thinking, Vulcan sleepwear
Written for
meiou_set, who's my meta girl and encouraged me to post this.Feedback is greatly appreciated.
What She Wants
The faint beeping noise seems to be waiting for her. It's always there at night, there to keep her awake, there to keep her thinking. Not loud enough for her to notice when her mind is occupied, but too loud once she tries to stop thinking and drift off to sleep.
It’s not mocking her, it doesn’t have to; it just makes her mock herself. Mock herself for sleeping alone every night, mock herself for not asserting what she wants, mock herself for trying to be what he wants, trying to hide the parts he wouldn’t want, wouldn’t approve of.
They’ve been together for almost a year now, and she’s still not sure how it happened. All she knows is that she admired him; his mind, his intelligence, his restraint and cool. The way he never started from the bottom up like other professors, but how he gave them the most complex problems from the very beginning, insisting that finding ways of breaking them down into manageable parts would be an essential skill, the only thing which would allow them to put all their other abilities to good use. The way he never brushed students off, but always calmly explained his reasons, picking apart arguments and giving thorough rationalizations. The way he encouraged everyone to ask questions and how he thought about them – about hers –, how he said that he would have to research some details to give her the best answer he could – and how he always followed through.
One day, she had realised that the time she spent thinking up questions for him and researching things she could ask after class almost equalled the time she spent studying for the course itself. He had realised it, too, and he had taken her hand and had kissed her and touched her and she had been his. Just like that.
And now she’s here, lying on her bed, the small beeping sound keeping her up. She’s thinking about how much she likes the way they fit together, how he is always gentle and tender and affectionate, how he makes her come with nimble fingers, warm lips and thrusts sure and measured. Thinking about why she always goes back to her own quarters after they have been together. Thinking about their conversations, before and after, always informed, eloquent and coherent. Thinking about how she wants more.
She doesn’t care what the crew would think if they shared quarters over night. She doesn’t want to always be cherished, kept and caressed, sometimes she wants to be taken, claimed and bruised. She wants to talk sweet and dirty and mindless. And she wants him to say her name, say it when he wants her, say it when he comes, say it after. Murmur, cry, shout, moan it. But he can’t give that to her. It’s not who he is, she knows.
There are reasons why they handle this the way they do. His arguments are flawless, his arms are so assuring, and the way he treats her is respectful and even affectionate when they are alone, but she realises that that won’t be enough.
She’s a rational person and proud of it, has always been an exceptional student and is an asset to the crew, of that she is sure, but she can’t always try and be the perfect student for him, aspiring to his level of cool and calm and collected. She needs more – even if, for the moment, it just means more hurt.
It is half past one earth time and she’s glad for it. It will give her time to say what she needs to say, go back to her quarters, cry, possibly try and get a call through to Gaila and collect herself enough for duty in the morning.
The corridors are empty as she strides out of her quarters in her nightgown. She feels confused, sad and afraid, knowing that she is about to end a relationship which means more to her than she thought it could – and a lot more than she wants to think about.
--
“Did you leave something here?” is the first thing he asks when he sees her. It’s obvious that he has been asleep, his pyjamas are rumpled and his hair is sticking up at weird angles.
It makes her ache when she realises that she has never even known what he wears to bed, that she has never even seen him asleep or right after he got up. That she doesn’t even know he’s a restless sleeper, judging from the hair and the creased sleepwear.
She feels like she doesn’t know him at all and she smiles, sad, and feels pressure in her eyes and wetness. She bites her lips.
“No,” she manages, “I never leave anything here, do I?” It’s true. When she leaves his life – the private part, at least – there will be nothing to remind him, not even a toothbrush to give back to her or throw away.
He puts one hand on her hip and pulls her into the room. The door closes and he looks at her. “You are not well.” His hand comes up to her face and wipes at the small tear stain on her right cheek. “How can I help you?”
There’s the affection again, and maybe that’s enough, after all: the small touches and genuine concern. He wants her to be well, he always wants her to be well – and she wants to be, for him.
“Why are you with me?” It’s one of the many things she never asked, one of the many things she doesn’t know.
He thinks about it for a moment, clearly composing an answer that will satisfy his need for accuracy and conciseness: “I enjoy your company. You are a precise thinker and well-read. You have a profound understanding of my area of expertise, which makes you an interesting partner for discussion, and you are very attractive.”
She smiles again, because these are all things she is proud of, achievements - even her physical appearance. It’s all things that are true for her, too. But it’s not all, it’s not enough.
She feels her body tremble slightly and her eyes burn. She feels weak and starts to get mad at herself for this reaction, a female cliché, but then she thinks better of it. She is a woman, a human woman, and her feelings are not there to be reined in and channelled and sublimated all the time.
She takes a few steps back. “I’m ending this.”
His eyes widen slightly, and it gives her a small feeling of satisfaction that she can at least draw some response from him.
“Why?” he asks. And it’s better than just accepting it, but yet it’s so little.
She knows that her voice won’t be steady, but if there are words wanting out, she might as well say them now.
“Because I want you to want me in the same way I want you.”
He looks surprised and brings his hand up to smooth out his shirt somewhat, but his voice is calm. “And what way would that be?”
“Passionately.” Her eyes grow wide as she says the word; as she takes in his appearance: the ruffled hair and crinkled pyjamas, and she realises that yes, that’s exactly the way she wants him. Instinctively, she takes a step in his direction.
“I want you to dream of me - and not about stimulating conversations, but in a way that makes you sweat and moan and wake up wanting me.” Her eyes meet his and she can’t read his expression, but she doesn’t care, she keeps looking.
“I want you to think about my body when you shower, I want to you to notice when my skirt rides up on the bridge. I want you to touch me when no-one’s looking – or even when someone might. I want you to kiss and caress me when we’re alone in the turbolift together, just because you can’t stop yourself from touching me.”
She doesn’t even notice the pleading note slipping into her voice or how she comes closer, crowding him. “I want you to forget your little dating routine sometimes. To not always be polite and have dinner and conversation first. I want you to pull me away from the door and push me against the wall. I want you to dig your fingers into my flesh, to rub and scratch and knead.”
She’s so close to him now, and he’s just looking at her; still impassive, unreadable. She wants, she needs to coax a response from him. Her eyes narrow, focusing on his, but there’s still nothing she can understand. Harshly, she pushes him towards the couch in his living area.
Her voice is dark now, fraying slightly around the edges. “Want you to need me, need me so badly you just push up my skirt, pull down your pants. Not to make love to me. Not to have sex with me. But because you need to fuck me. Need to be inside me, come inside me.”
She shoves him again, and he’s falling onto the couch, sitting there, his thighs pressed together tightly, still showing no reaction.
Without even thinking, she straddles his legs and brings her face to his ear, whispering now, “And then I want you to take me to the bedroom, just so we can do it again. Because you can’t get enough of me, because you want to take me in every possible way. I want you to be rough and tender and possessive and sweet, and I want it all.”
Her voice cracks again, and she doesn’t even know how she went from aroused to almost desperate so quickly. “I don’t want you to worry about what the crew might think, because there’s no room to think about anything beyond us, because I’m everything for you. I want you to say my name, because you’re the only one who knows and because it’s special and ours and you love me.”
She doesn’t even look at his face as she gets up. “You can’t give that to me, I know. It’s not you; it’s not how you feel. And I thought I could live with that. I thought if I would just behave the way you want me to, it would become natural for me, too.”
Her mouth twists into that strange grin again she doesn’t really understand herself as she focuses on a spot to the left of his face. “Turns out I was wrong. I’m sorry, Spock. I really am. I can’t be in a relationship based merely on compatibility and companionship. Not even with you. Especially not with you.”
She turns around and walks towards the door. She shakes her head to herself, the self-deprecating smile painful on her face. He doesn’t even say anything. Not one word.
She’s in front of the door, when she’s pulled back suddenly. He’s there, right there. No words, just his body, and he pushes her against the wall. His hands are in her hair, holding her head in place and then his fingers close around her face, thumbs pressed against her cheekbones.
His pupils are blown wide, willing her to understand, but she’s not sure she does.
“Please,” he breathes, his voice rough and low and like she’s never heard before. She understands, she nods, and that’s all it takes.
She’s inside him, inside his mind.
She sees what he sees, sees the way he sees her. Images of her tugging her hair behind her ear, smoothing down her skirt, throwing her head back as she laughs. Gaze fixed on the line of her neck, on her pulse point, on her breasts. Stolen glances in the classroom, months before she realised how she felt for him. Fleeting looks on the bridge, in the corridors of the ship, on Starfleet campus. Hungry eyes on her flesh as he touches her gently, love and want and craving colouring his vision as she comes apart.
She hears his voice, too, and it’s so different, not like she knows. It’s rough and broken and full of need and dark, deep breaths. It’s filthy and sweet and loving and obscene.
It’s exactly what she needs, what she wants.
When she’s back in her own mind, she just takes a deep breath, and he pulls her against him, stroking her back lightly.
“Stay,” he murmurs into her hair. And she does.
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Great job!!
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Love the icon!
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I hope you'll post more fic in the near future, huh? You got oodles of great FDK on this one. Heck, you had more on this than I've ever had on anything (darn the micro fandoms) so you'd better damn well post some more stuff!
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You may view the entry here. (http://community.livejournal.com/crackenterprise/13730.html)
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Thank you for sharing.
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Here from Crack Enterprise
God bless this fandom and the way it drags in the most unlikely writers. I couldn't believe it when I started in on it, so I have an idea how you felt when you wrote this.
Re: Here from Crack Enterprise
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I'm glad Spock can mindmeld, because he'd never ever in his life be able to express what he feels in words.
It's not enough for Uhura, probably, but maybe he'll learn. I like the openness at the end. She stays, for now. There are so many ways this could go.
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I'm glad that you liked where I left them.
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And yeah, Spock definitely trumps most of the men I know ...
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Thanks for your comment.
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Thanks for your comment.
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I quite like her, too.
OOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Re: OOOOOOOOOOOOO!
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It makes me happy you like this so much :)
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We haven't seen too many stories where Nyota's passion comes through--where she demands more. I like it!
I'd love to see where this leads off from here...
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It's still awesome. :)
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That's a beautiful icon, btw. Perfect for fall.
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