Shatfest @ Thrillville

I'm so there.

Bright Eyes

Thanks, Sarah S.

Another One of Those Things

He's all cute and shit until you get between him and his biscuit.

Click pic to embiggen. Look at his nose! ...tee hee...

Oh. My. God.

Ganked from Fuck You, Penguin. Awww wook at him! He's drinking out of a cup.

Lily Sloan NC-17

A break from TOS and a little about my other favorite captain of the Enterprise.

Disclaimer: Paramount owns the characters. Creative content, plot and original characters belong to me.

Archiving: Ask permission, please.
Contact: frokitt@yahoo.com

Lily Sloan NC-17

Summary: Picard needs the kind of vacation that perhaps only Q can give him.

~Chapter 1

Lily Sloan sighed, scrubbed a hand over her face and dragged her fingers through her hair. She’d been growing her hair out over the past year in an effort to look a little younger but its length only served to highlight the thick streak of silver that was coming in on the left side. She glanced at her reflection in the monitor. She sat so long without action, her screen went dark.

She sighed again and tapped the monitor with her stylus. Her screen winked on. A rusted iron butterfly bounced slowly from one edge to the other. She frowned, irritated that she’d let Cochrane load the program. The butterfly looked stiff and heavy and archaic—the way she felt.

It was a dozen years since First Contact, and the Vulcans were slowly insinuating their influence on Terran society. There was still some resistance to their presence but despite that she sometimes thought them pedantic, Lily found their calm soothing and their intense intellect refreshing. The Vulcans had taken as a temporary embassy the battered Palace of Fine Arts and Exploratorium. Lily would sometimes sit on a stone bench by the rotunda and watch them go about their quiet business. They were also quite beautiful. Of the hundred or so that lived at the embassy, she had yet to meet an unattractive Vulcan.

She admired the Vulcans. And she shared their reluctance to move Earth too quickly into warp technology and all that it implied. She and Cochrane had fought about it. As usual, he was the visionary and she the voice of reason. Their last argument was bitter. He accused her of turning the Vulcans against him and she fired back that his alcoholism and his growing xenophobia had done that job for her. She instantly regretted her words and tried to take them back but he refused to speak to her for weeks. It was a good thing in its way. It gave her the perspective she needed. She was weary of defending Cochrane and making excuses for him. He was a genius but he got nowhere without her dogged determination, discipline and practicality. Warp drive was chicken scratchings on a chalkboard when she became his student and would have remained there if Lily had not wrapped it in a warp core. She practically mined the titanium for the Phoenix’s nacelles herself.

She was convinced—admittedly irrationally—that her gray patch of hair was a result of her radiation poisoning from her defense of the Phoenix during the Borg attack. Where was Cochrane then? She didn’t know and he changed the subject when asked the one time.

For the last two nights, he had drunkenly serenaded her from the street in front of her flat. She was tired of him. Perhaps it was time to move on. That Archer kid was brilliant and level-headed. Let him deal with Zefram Cochrane.

She gazed at a dusty wine bottle that sat on a sideboard. It was a 2045 cabernet sauvignon that Soval found on one of his diplomatic missions to Europe. “Picard” was written in small plain calligraphy beneath a simple sketch of a French countryside. The simplicity of the label belied what was expensive before the war, and what was priceless now. Wealth was another thing that Vulcans did not discuss--and certainly not their own. She kept the bottle hidden here in her office at Stanford, away from Cochran.

The new world government was building a space academy at the Presidio and at at Soval’s insistence, was naming a building for her. Everything else was named after Cochrane. Lily didn’t mind. She detested publicity and was content to work behind the scenes as head engineer, building the space fleet.

Lily walked to her sideboard and stroked her fingers across the label of the wine bottle. The dedication of her building was this evening.

“I need to get out of here,” she muttered.


~~Chapter 2

Picard raised his arms and pressed his palms against the warm wall of the shower stall.

He was tired.

More and more he found himself like this after missions, exhausted from the top of his head to the soles of his feet, every muscle, tendon and joint sore, tender, hot. Just a few days of sitting around a conference table during diplomatic negotiations and he sometimes ached this way.

He leaned forward and rested his forehead against the wall. The low hum of the sonic wave generator lulled him. The hair on his body rose and his skin tingled; he fancied that he could see it ripple with tiny waves in time with the cleansing sonic pulse as each hair was stripped of its mites, dirt and oil. His testicles grew warm and heavy and his penis thickened from the ghostly stimulation. He could come this way—intense, shuddering orgasms that left his knees weak.

But he thought that he was too tired for even that.

“Computer. End sonic, begin hydro, 25 degrees, massage pressure, level four,” he said quietly.

Hot streams burst from three holes in the wall in front of him and one from the ceiling. He lowered his head to let the water pound his shoulders. He bent one knee and shifted his hips to avoid the direct contact of a stream to his genitals. The water beat against his flank.

"Computer. 30 degrees," he said.

The water cascaded down his body and he relaxed into the luxury of the heat on his aching bones.

“Old bones”, he muttered, regretting his rejection of an analgesic hypospray.

A hot shower, a bowl of soup and then to bed, he thought. He rolled his shoulders and turned to face away from the wall. The jet at his hip shot a bull’s-eye of steaming, pressurized water right to his anus. Picard let out a yelp and reflexively turned back toward the stream, only to have it unerringly blast the head of his penis.

“Aahh! Computer, hydro off!”

He stood for a moment, eyes closed and jaws clenched, with one hand pressed flat against the center of his buttocks and the other cupping his sex.

“Fuck!” he said through his teeth.

This was not going well. He would have laughed, were it not so painful.

He carefully inspected his foreskin for tears but other than a tender redness, the head of his penis seemed undamaged. He stepped from the shower, dried himself and walked naked into his sleeping area. He removed a pair of gray, loose-fitting pajama pants from a drawer and pulled them on, gingerly maneuvering the elastic waistband over his penis. He strode to the replicator.

“Riker’s Mulligatawny soup, hot, medium-spicy. Tea, earl grey, hot—decaffeinated,” he added with some regret. “Computer, lights 40 percent. Play any Mozart and Berlioz, shuffle. 20% volume.”

Picard took the tray from the replicator and went to his desk to eat. He caught sight of his reflection in the glass of the viewport and stopped. He was scowling; his jaw was clenched, the muscles in his arms bulging. He made a detour and sat at his small dining table instead.

Q taunted him about his inability to just enjoy life’s simplest pleasures, telling him that he lived a life of planned deprivation, almost obsessively isolated and monastic. Picard had to admit that the life was getting to him. This ship and the ones before were his life. That was not good.

“I’m getting too old for this,” he murmured into his bowl of soup.

He’d just returned from a debriefing and ceremony at Starfleet Headquarters. There were speeches and medals and more speeches--and a quiet sidebar from Janeway with a futile plea for him to join the Admiralty. He’d slipped out of the auditorium and took a long walk around the Presidio. He stood in the dark of a tree with his head down for nearly half an hour before breaking regulation and beaming up to the ship from where he stood in front of the Sloan building.

Lily Sloan.

In their brief, intense interaction, they forged a connection that he thought wasn’t just his wishful thinking. They seemed to share a kind telepathic link from almost the first moment they met. He had looked into her huge, frightened eyes and said, “Jean-Luc. My name is Jean-Luc Picard.”

And even before that, she stood, terrified and swaying with radiation sickness, still defiant, protecting the Phoenix with her body and an empty machine gun. Cochrane did the math but Lily built the ship, loved it and risked her life to protect it. She had the brave heart of a true explorer; her intense curiosity even transcended her fear of the Borg. She and Picard were kindred spirits and she flayed him to the bone with her dead-on assessment of his motives. He had others in his history who claimed to give him their honest opinion when he asked, but he often wondered if they held back because he was the Captain. Guinan was probably the most honest with him but she was often too enigmatic in her analysis. And he had to admit that he wasn’t always completely forthcoming with counselor Troi.

Picard was tired of talking. He was tired of this life, this ship and he was tired of being alone.

“Oh, Lily,” he sighed.

“Your wish is my command, Mon Capitan.”

Jean-Luc didn’t blink. He sipped from his tea and swallowed.

“Q,” he said.

“You rang, Baba Sadhu?” said Q. “Finally tired of the self-flagellation, the barren, ascetic--.”

“Shut up.”

“How rude. You called me!”

“I did no such thing.”

“Didn’t you, Jean Luc? You finally make a wish and it is for the impossible? A wish that only I can grant?” Q fell onto the chaise with the back of his wrist pressed against his forehead. “Some foolish, hopeless romance?” He propped himself up on his elbows. “I can bring her to you, you know.”

“Get out, Q.”

Q gazed at him with narrowed eyes. “Or, I can take you to her.”

Picard glanced at him sharply.

“Aha!” said Q, pointing a finger at Picard. “That’s it, isn’t it? You want to go there.”

“No.”

Q clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Nothing like a little time travel to take your mind off things. Better than taking your only pleasure from a sonic shower, eh?”

“I don’t need you for that,” snapped Picard.

“Perhaps not. To be or not to be? That is the question.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Q?”

Q swung his legs over the side of the chaise and stood. “Going back in time would be breaking the rules. And you do need me for that,” he said.


End Chapter 2

girl6
6/09

An Amazing, Sad-eyed Little Boy

The kid had range. Rest in peace.

When Am I Going to Get Tired of This?

Not soon.

Trek Prequel Sequel

Man, the war is raging over at trekmovie about the rumor of Jack Black as Harry Mudd. I had to jump in the comments fray. So fun.

The Obsidian Mirror NC-17 Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Paramount owns these characters.

The Obsidian Mirror

~~Chapter 3

I entered what I hoped was the relative safety of my quarters to wait for word from Scotty and Bones. McCoy was frightened and angry but I wasn’t worried about him. Scotty, however was a deeply honest man and the mere thought of deception blared from his body like a red alert klaxon. Alone, Scotty was caught the moment he turned down the corridor towards engineering. Bones, on the other hand, would make the best secret agent in the universe. Barring getting shot in the back, McCoy could con their way out of any encounter.

Unfortunately, I had no choice but to leave Uhura on the bridge. I could feel her absence like a knot in my chest.

Bones asked me, what kind of people are we in this Universe. Humans, unfortunately, are essentially the same–vicious and debauched, but recognizable. The Halkans are exponentially more passive. Vulcans in this universe are…logical. But how does a Vulcan reconcile such brutality with logic?

I feel warm attachment from “my” Spock—and he even has a bit of a temper. I see humor in Golan’s eyes. Sarek’s logic is balanced by empathy.

This Spock’s logic is implacable. Terror must be maintained or the Empire is doomed, he said. Terror within and without--a coldly logical justification for the agony booth. It is a most effective means of discipline. But logic and history also dictate that despotism and tyranny is not sustainable. Surely, Spock knew this.

And good men must exist, even here. The real question is, is Spock a good man or not? I believe him when he says he does not want to command the Enterprise. In this universe, this ship is a fool’s gold. It is not logical to desire the instrument of one’s own--

There was a woman stretched out on my bunk. She rolled her head toward me.

“I fell asleep,” she said.

My eyes searched the room for assassins. I folded my arms loosely about my waist, resting the fingertips of one hand lightly on my phaser. I took a casual but quick step towards her when she swung her legs off the bunk, and I watched carefully as she removed two glasses from the dispenser by the bed. I wanted to be close enough to strike her if I had to but not within her reach should she decide to gut me with her dagger.

“We had quite a time in the chem lab, picking up after the storm,” she said.

I glanced at her as I finished surveying the quarters. She was small and beautiful and from the softness of the muscles in her arms, this woman hadn’t worked a day in quite some time. Whatever her assignment was in the lab, I doubted that she lifted a finger.

I caught scent of her as she stood and offered me a glass. Her perfume was faint but still cloying, under lit with the odor of a woman’s body—a smell I usually enjoy. But hers was the musk of a body gone too long between washings. I’ve noticed that about this crew. They smelled bad. It was understandable, given that the act of bathing, even a sonic shower, left you more vulnerable to attack. But it wasn’t just body odor--in itself, not necessarily offensive. Klingons had a deep, heavy odor but as much as I disliked and distrusted them, theirs was the smell of bodies primed for battle.

Greed and malice had a scent too; and despite her carefully constructed façade, this woman was also rank with desperation.

“Nothing compared to your day, I gather,” she continued.

After a moment’s hesitation, I took the glass she held out to me. She took a sip from her drink. Her throat trembled as she swallowed and her lashes dropped seductively. That’s not a show for me, I thought. She’s an alcoholic.

I felt the first stirrings of pity but kept my face empty.

“I heard about Chekov,” she said.

“He gambled, I won,” I said.

“No.” She shook her head. “You got lucky. I’m surprised that you could be caught off guard that way.”

My mind raced. I already gathered that our relationship was intimate. She was the captain’s woman, unafraid to offend me—Kirk—the other Kirk, free to access to his quarters, trusted enough to serve his drinks. One misstep and she’d call Sulu or likely slit my throat herself.

I decided to use what always served me well with women—the truth.

“I was…preoccupied,” I murmured, dropping my gaze to her mouth. Adding a bit of charm to the truth was usually helpful.

She either did not recognize my overture or was unaffected by it.

“Ah,” she said. “You’re still in trouble with Starfleet Command.”

I covered my gaffe by pretending to drink from my glass. She regarded me with narrowed eyes.

“What you’ve got in mind this time is beyond me. You’re scheming, of course,” she said sweetly. “The Halkans have something you want. Or is it all some clever means to advance you to the Admiralty?”

I turned my back to hide my expression. She was finally giving me information I could use. I waited for her to go on.

“Kirk? The Cabinet, itself?”

I glanced arrogantly over my shoulder. “Further than that, if I’m successful,” I said. I was beginning to appreciate the irony of telling a lie by using the truth.

“Really?” she said, finally impressed. “Well.”

I turned to her. Her eyes sparkled with greed and lust and I understood why she was unaffected by my charm.

“You must know what you’re doing. You always do.” She draped her arms around my neck. “If I’m to be the woman,” she paused and planted a kiss on my lips. “Of a Caesar, can’t I know what you’re up to?”

This was the show of seduction, I thought. Her pander to Kirk’s power. She was smart enough to know that her Kirk would rapidly discard a woman only interested in him sexually, as his lust was fired by his gain of power. She fanned those flames alternately with flattery and ridicule; at each step up, praising and goading and belittling him, feeding him information about his enemies, fucking him until she bled and then procuring ever more tender yeomen when she was too raw to satisfy him, pushing him to the top, covering for excesses that were shocking even in this brutal Empire, happily suffering his abuse, waiting for that moment when she could watch his body slump from his throne then roll limply down the Senate steps, her blade in his back.

I saw all of this in her eyes as she stretched up to kiss me again.

Her lips were cold and I could smell on her breath the metabolized alcohol consumed earlier in the day--the real cause of her nap in my cabin. I forced myself not to recoil as she deepened the kiss. Fortunately, I was saved by the trill of the com.

It was Spock.

“I received a private communication from Starfleet Command…”

I had four hours until my execution.

The woman seemed unconcerned by this news. I propped my feet on the desk. There was a holostill of Kirk, Uhura and Spock in a small frame next to the com. It was an interesting keepsake for a man like Kirk. I had a nearly identical one—a gift from Uhura after our shore leave on Aeon V--except I kept mine in a drawer by my bunk. I had to remember to move it to my desk when we got …home.

The woman chuckled and raised her glass.

“A toast to Spock”, she said. “The only man aboard with the decency to warn you—and he’ll die for it. You’ll never find another man like him.”

I nodded. Of course. Kill the messenger. I thought about Spock’s rather elegant warning at the end of our conversation in the corridor.

“I don’t intend to kill him,” I said. “I’ll get out of his way.”

She frowned. She was suspicious for the first time.

“Should I activate the Tantalus field?” she asked.

I tried to keep my expression neutral.

“You’ll at least want to monitor him, won’t you?”

“Yes,” I said.

I followed slowly behind and watched as she unlocked a safe in the bulkhead. In my universe, Tantalus was a state of the art rehabilitation facility. Either the Tantalu used their highly advanced technological knowledge for killing or Kirk took a device meant to heal and used it his way. And Marlena—who finally revealed her name--was too eager to use it. I barely restrained myself from reaching out and snapping her neck. I realized, however that I needed her on my side.

There were three hours left until Spock’s deadline to kill me.

I didn’t have time for this.

“How does Marlena want to fit in,” I asked.

She barely restrained a flinch when I raised my hand and stroked it down her hair. She laughed softly and turned away, downing her drink and she walked into the next room.

I checked in with Scotty and discovered that I had even less time than I thought. I could hear Marlena moving and I thought I could slip away but as I headed for the door, she emerged from the next room. She swayed a bit but caught herself with a hand on the door jamb. Her pupils were fully dilated with more than alcohol. Her perfume was so thick that it stung my eyes. I breathed shallowly through my mouth to keep from sneezing.

Marlena mistook it for something else.

“Oiling my traps, darling,” she said.

It was another act and I really, really didn’t have time for it. I had to get to the transporter room. And Uhura was on the bridge, alone.

“I’ve got to go,” I said.

Marlena glared at the photo. As much as she hated Kirk, she was still jealous of Uhura.

“Ship’s business? An important task on the crew deck?” she snapped.

I could almost feel the seconds ticking by.

I was tempted to stun her with my phaser but Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned—especially a woman who knew how to use the Tantalus device.

“I simply meant that you could be anything that you want to be,” I said.

I had to be convincing. I dug deep. The exercises to control breathing and blood flow that Spock was teaching me back home paid off. I summoned an erection. I rolled my hips against her body. When she felt my hardness against her belly, a tremor went through her and her tongue stilled for an instant in my mouth.

She was disgusted. She had to be drunk for this. Drugged .

The pity I felt earlier returned. I pulled my hips back and broke the kiss. For the first time, there was a genuine emotion in her eyes.

“You’re the captain’s woman,” I said. “Until he says you’re not.”

Out in the corridor, I paused and drew in deep breaths. Her perfume clung to my clothes. I peered behind me and then up ahead. I headed for the transporter room.

End Chapter 3

girl6

6/09

If You Never Read Anything Else...

...read "A Worn Path" by Eudora Welty.

"She was very old and small and she walked slowly in the dark pine shadows, moving a little from side to side in her steps, with the balanced heaviness and lightness of a pendulum in a grandfather clock."

Happy Birthday, Zachary

Happy Birthday Odie!

We decided that June 1st was Odie's birthday. He is 15 or 17. We don't know. He was in a shelter for six years after his elderly first owner died. A couple adopted him but returned him after less than a year when they got pregnant. He remained in the shelter for another three years until we adopted him four years ago.

He is Corgi-ish. He is sweet and flatulent, has a potbelly, short crooked legs and an overbite. He potty-trained Spot, taught him how to walk on a leash and how to wait his turn. He makes funny noises and refuses to lose weight. When he walks, one ear flaps up and down and the other ear flaps down and up. He has a deep, sing-song bark that he rarely uses and he is utterly loyal.

Happy birthday, Odie Old Man Tubby Mookieface Bump Bumpity! I love you so much.

*This is a picture of him all dirty, 2 hours after the groomers. So happy.

Sequels & More girl6 FAQs

I've gotten a few questions about writing a sequel to "Happiness At Least". I did write one. It is called "Coda" and you can read it here. I'm afraid that's it for that story.

No planned sequel to "Disobedience of the Heart". Captain Ssizzeen, Praetor Zogozzin and other Gorn will be in other stories.

Yes. Golan will have another story of his own. It's still in my head but I will write it soon...ish. He is featured prominently in "The Prodigal Soul", so you Golan fangirls will have to get your fix there--whenever I get around to updating. I really like Golan, too.

Yes. People do steal my ideas. There's not a whole lot I can do about it. It'd be very difficult and expensive to sue someone over fan fiction--if it can even be done. You might be able to sue over creative content. When I discover that someone has jacked my work, they get outed loudly and get a severe internet beat down.

No. I don't do personal appearances.

No. Uhura is a completely different person from me. But if I were on the cast of Star Trek, I would've been fucking Leonard Nimoy every time I saw him.

Like, totally. Every time I saw him.

Zachary Quinto is a beautiful boy--and a couple months shy of being young enough to be my unplanned teen aged pregnancy. I just can't write "seriously" about him. Leonard Nimoy, OTOH--always and ever shall be.

Thank you, thank you for the gifts. They are lovely(except for that...whatever that was) but please, the economy's bad. Save your money. And it makes me very nervous to know how easy it is to find my address.

Aiight, Monkies. Thanks for Spock Jonesing. I think "The Obsidian Mirror" sucks. I'm off to do some major revisions.

Peace.

girl6

Old Man Bar

You ever been to an old man bar? I mean, one of those dark, moldy places with red carpeting on the floor and Christmas lights from 1972 tacked around a mirror hung behind the shelves of booze? The place smells like funk and cigarette smoke, blue toilet cakes and piss and it may or may not have a jukebox or a solitary pool table that they put in a tiny room in the back so as not to disturb the people hunched at the bar.

It is a place for serious drinkers, people who don't look into the mirror behind the bartender, a place where no comparisons are made and hitting rock bottom is a thin memory, like faded photographs of a Disneyland vacation taken with the family as a child.

What? Too melodramatic?

The Obsidian Mirror NC-17 Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Paramount owns the characters. Original characters and creative content belong to me.

Read chapter one here.

The Obsidian Mirror

~~Chapter 2

I waited for Kirk to speak but he was silent, the confusion in his eyes turning into sharp assessment--further proof that this was a different man than the one who beamed down to the Halkan Planet this morning. In this same situation, the Kirk that belonged in this universe would be bellowing with rage, demanding explanations and ordering executions. This Kirk watched, waited, gathered information.

It was a mistake.

Transporter chief Kyle was observant. And an operative of Sulu’s. In a few moments, he would begin to see that something was amiss. I could easily dispatch him and the guards at the door but could not so easily explain away their murders. I stepped forward.

“Status of the mission, Captain?” I asked.

Kirk stared into my eyes as if searching for something.

“No change,” he said uncertainly.

“Standard procedure, Captain?” I prompted.

Kirk looked me over carefully. I could sense him strategizing. He was a skilled tactician but he was taking too long to answer. Finally, he nodded--not his customary response. I acted quickly to cover for this irregularity and issued the order to destroy the Halkan cities myself. Kirk looked alarmed.

“Military capabilities, Captain?” I asked, interrupting him before he could speak.

“None,” he said quietly. The confusion had returned to his eyes.

“Incredible that this society has chosen suicide,” I said.

Kyle glanced at me, suspicious. He pressed the com button on the transporter console, no doubt to alert Sulu. I had to act quickly to keep Sulu from investigating. And clearly, Mr. Kyle needed to be distracted.

“Mr. Kyle,” I said loudly. “You were instructed to compensate during the ion storm.”

“I tried to compensate Mr. Spock.—,” said Kyle.

“Carelessness with the equipment will not be tolerated.” I knew that Sulu was listening from the bridge. My charade would need to be realistic. I spoke over Kyle’s protestations.

“Your agonizer. Your agonizer, please.”

By now, it was likely that Sulu was watching through one of the recorders that he has installed throughout the ship. But if Sulu was coming, he would be here. I am certain that he continued to observe, solely for his own entertainment. Kyle cried out and writhed satisfactorily enough.

Though my back was to her, I felt Nyota’s horror like the sting of a wasp. It was unfortunate but necessary that she witness this. The other Uhura would have watched with narrowed eyes and parted lips and demanded that I apply the agonizer to the base of the skull where it could inflict the maximum amount of pain. I held the agonizer to Kyle’s chest until the charge was spent then dropped it indifferently unto the deck. I turned to Kirk and saw that my demonstration accomplished another thing: it served to further his understanding of what he and his crew beamed into.

He stood silent, pale, furious.

But Sulu was still watching. I brushed by Kirk and snapped orders at McCoy and Scott. They didn’t respond, instead closed ranks around Uhura, McCoy’s posture almost a challenge. I glanced at Uhura. Her eyes were wide but not frightened. She flattened her palm against the hilt of her dagger.

My blood warmed.

A chastened Kyle called me back to the transporter console.

“Mr. Spock, there was a power surge--.”

“Due to your error, Mr. Kyle.”

“No, Mr. Spock!”

I took advantage of the confusion.

“Captain, did you feel any abnormal effects?” I asked. I stared into his eyes.

Finally, Kirk understood.

“Yes,” he said. “Dr. McCoy, you’d better look us over. That was a rough beam up.”

Kirk strode towards the door then stopped. “Mr. Spock. Have those transporter circuits checked.”

In my opinion, his attempt at bravado was weak. It was apparently effective since Sulu had not appeared. As the four of them exited the transporter room, Uhura dropped her eyes from mine in a way that made my heart pound in my side. I concluded then that it was in my best interest to continue to assist this Kirk.

Additionally, I was beginning to find the situation…extremely interesting.

I clicked on the com.

“Golan, acknowledge,” I said.

“Golan, here.”

I spoke in Vulcan. “Please see that the captain and the landing party arrive at sick bay without incident.”

“Yes, S’haile.”

I ordered Kyle to an hour in the agony booth for good measure and to give me an opportunity to study the transporter logs. It was as I expected. I deleted the transporter logs and considered my options. This Kirk was thoughtful and restrained. It was likely that he and the landing party would debrief in sick bay.

My communicator beeped.

“Spock, here.”

“Mr. Scott has exited sick bay and is headed to engineering. Lt. Uhura is going to the bridge,” said Golan. “What are your orders?”

Kirk was information gathering again.

“Guard Miss Uhura,” I said. “I will be on the bridge shortly.”

“Acknowledged.”

“Golan--,” I began.

“With my life, S’haile,” he said.


End Chapter 2

girl6
5/09

Alright, Already!

But no more baby pictures!

You Don't Know?!

I received a few emails lately of people asking who's the guy in the cage in my profile pic.

That's Leonard Nimoy, circa the year before I was born.

The picture is a screen capture from "The Balcony"--a very interesting film and excellent cast: Peter Falk, Shelly Winters, Ruby Dee, Lee Grant. And then there's all the sweaty, dirty, half-naked Nimoy. He has such beautiful hands.

Make Your Face Ugly*

I wasn't going to go the teenybopper route with posting a lot of pictures of the babycute Star Trek movie cast (which I so totally do not do with all the hot Nimoy) but this I couldn't resist. This is so sexy, it even makes me want to fuck that motorcycle he's sitting on.

*"Make your face ugly" informal-- apothem [org: Af-Amer, 19th cent]; verb. emphasis on 'your'; def: The contortion of the facial muscles and the utterance of the word "Day-um!" upon viewing an extremely attractive person. The expression on one's face during and/or upon recollection of excellent sexual intercourse. Ex: "Did you see ZQ in that video? Make your face ugly."

The Prodigal Soul NC-17 Chapter 6

Finally! Another chapter--though likely out of order in the finished product. Still, it is good I think, for now. Click on the links for

Chapter 1-3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

At some point I will put it all in one post.

Disclaimer: Paramount owns the characters. All creative content, plot and original characters belong to me.

The Prodigal Soul

~Chapter 6

~~First Night

Kirk lay on the cool stone floor in Spock’s sleeping chambers and listened to Uhura’s soft, shuddering breaths as Spock’s mouth worked between her legs. He realized with a tiny pang of jealousy that for the second time in as many weeks, they started without him.

He was in the transporter room the day Uhura first came on the Enterprise and felt Spock stiffen beside him as she materialized. He glanced curiously at Spock and saw that his gaze was fixed on Uhura. Kirk could almost see the electric arc of lust and wonder and recognition flash between them. The air left his lungs in a soft rush and his hand had fluttered to his chest, his fingertips coming to rest gently over his heart in a gesture that was almost feminine. Uhura recovered her composure first, her dark eyes flicking toward him as she asked, “Permission to come aboard, Captain?”

And even then, in that tiny moment, he knew that her directing her question at him was not for the sake of military protocol, but her generosity in including him in the relationship that formed instantly between her and Spock, as if the two had been only been waiting for the other to appear. Now, despite their protestations to the contrary, there would one day be that conversation that would gently separate him from them, that would regulate him to that status of Favorite Uncle to their children and—

“Stop sulking.”

Kirk looked up with a start. Nyota looked down at him from the side of the sleeping platform.

“What? I’m--,” started Kirk.

“We waited one point four three hours for you, Jim,” said Spock, peering over Nyota’s shoulder.

“Well, one of us waited, anyway,” Nyota grinned.

“Nyota, I implored you to cease your activities but—.”

“Since when has that ever been a problem, Spock?” asked Nyota.

“You are correct. I am Vulcan,” Spock said smoothly.

“Lucky for me,” she said nipping his shoulder with her teeth.

Kirk sighed. Uhura looked down at him.

“Us. Lucky for us,” she said. “What took you so long this time, Jim?”

Kirk dropped his head back unto the stones and spread his arms and legs so that as much of his skin as possible came into contact with the cool floor.

“It’s hard to skulk around in a castle full of Vulcans,” he said. “Between Stonn and General Golan, it took me and hour to nonchalantly walk forty feet to Spock’s rooms,” he said.

“Why would you have to “skulk” to my chambers, Jim?” asked Spock. “It would not be unusual for you to be here at any hour.”

“Guilt makes you skulk,” said Nyota.

“And sulk, apparently,” said Spock.

“Get serious,” snapped Kirk. “I don’t know how you got here so quickly, Nyota.”

“Golan escorted me,” Nyota shrugged.

“What?” Kirk sat up in alarm.

“Is there a problem, Jim?”

“Yeah, Spock. There’s a problem,” said Kirk. “This is a diplomatic mission. The appearance of professionalism must be maintained.”

“And yet, there you lie, naked, on my floor,” said Spock.

“He did say the “appearance” of professionalism,” said Nyota.

“Hence, the skulking.”

“Right.” Nyota rolled unto Spock’s back and nuzzled his neck. “Everybody knows, Jim,” she said. “Sarek, Amanda, Golan.”

“McCoy, Stonn, Admiral Nogura,” said Spock.

“Emony Dax and Ambassador Shras know. But I doubt the Tellarites have figured it out.”

“Nor has Komack,” added Spock.

“Don’t forget Motley. He knows.”

“As does I’Tet.”

Kirk stared at them with wide eyes. “This is not funny. Why is this funny?”

They watched him with straight faces for a long moment. Nyota pointed to a stack of padds on a side table.

“Golan thinks I’m here to discuss L’langon clan dialect and High Vulcan syntax,” she said.

“God damn it. Why do you guys do that to me?” cried Kirk.

“Because it’s so easy.”

“It’s mean.”

“Really, Jim. For such an intelligent human, your gullibility never ceases to amaze me.”

Uhura patted the cushion beside Spock. “Get up here, silly,” she said.

“It’s too hot,” said Kirk. He brought his knees up and propped his forearms across them.

“I can assist you in regulating your body temperature,” said Spock, reaching for Kirk’s contact points.

Kirk tilted his head out of reach. “No,” he said.

Spock and Uhura glanced at each other.

“You and Nyota have engaged in sexual activity without me on occasion,” said Spock.

“Many, many occasions,” said Nyota.

Spock frowned.

“I mean, sometimes,” Uhura winced.

“You said many occasions.”

“Come on, Spock. You know what I mean.”

“Actually, you said many, many.”

“Honey—.”

Jim started to chuckle then he threw his head back and laughed.

“Shh!” giggled Nyota.

Jim pushed himself off the floor and plopped down on the pallet. Spock lay on his stomach with Nyota sprawled on his back. Jim gazed at them. Nyota placed a hand on his cheek.

“You are my love,” she said.

Spock brushed his fingers lightly across Jim’s forehead. Kirk felt his body cool slightly. “Thee are part of our whole, sa’kai. One day thee will come to believe this.”

They were quiet, watching the flickering light of the candle on the walls. A hot breeze blew through the narrow windows, bringing to them the faint scent of sage and roses from Amanda’s garden. T’Khut burned low on the horizon and a raptor shrieked above the desert.

“I love it here,” said Jim.

“It is agreeable to be home,” said Spock, kissing Nyota’s fingers.

“Will you want to live here after Starfleet?” Jim asked.

Spock traced the lines of Nyota’s palm with a finger. He gazed at Kirk. “It is an option among many that the three of us must consider,” he said.

“We won’t leave you, Jim,” whispered Nyota.

“I know,” said Kirk.

“We cannot,” said Spock.

Jim nodded. Spock frowned but decided that now was not the time to pursue the matter. It was good to breathe Vulcan air again and Nyota’s breasts were soft against his back.

“So, are we going to engage in sexual activities or what?” asked Nyota.

“I believe you may have telepathic abilities, Nyota,” said Spock.

He flipped their positions, stretched out on top of her and nuzzled her breasts. She gripped his hair in her fingers and moaned softly. She opened her eyes and saw Jim watching. She lifted her head from the pillow.

“Aren’t you going to—.”

“I’m not really up for it right, now,” he said. He motioned vaguely at his flaccid penis.

Spock reached for his contact points. “I can assist you--.”

“Cut it out,” Jim said, grinning. “Enough with the fingers.” He pushed Spock’s hand away.

“You seriously don’t want to now?” asked Nyota.

“Must’ve been all the skulking,” said Jim.

“It is my understanding that your perception of the illicitness of our meeting should add to your arousal ,” said Spock.

“Maybe it’s the heat,” said Kirk.

“Darling--.”

“Jim—.”

Kirk’s grin grew larger. “Gotcha,” he said.

“You can be a real jerk sometimes.”

“Quite.”

Jim pushed Spock off Nyota and pulled her on top of him. He kissed her deeply. “Vulcans aren’t the only ones who can control their erections,” he whispered.

“Oh,” she sighed. “Indeed.”

But as Jim neared his climax, he closed his eyes against the sight of Spock kissing her mouth, holding her face between the fingertips of both hands, and hearing

(feeling)

Spock say for the first time in all the years that they were together, the words that made Jim cry out when he

came, eyes squeezed shut, his body clenched and his face averted.

(“nee’ota tal-kam”) “I love you, Nyota.”

Later, Jim made them wait while he lay on top of her. He was still hard inside her when she pushed him gently away and he gasped and shivered as his cock and his ejaculate left her body. He rolled to his side and kept his back to them as they moved together. He stared at the far wall.

********

Suvan stepped back from the peephole and took long, careful breaths through his nose. He was certain that the human male—Kirk—could not see him, but for a moment it seemed as if their eyes had met. Suvan could feel his grief and his lust and he ached for the man. He knew this pain. It was part and parcel of his cursed blood. He put his eye to the hole again. Spock and Nee’ota held each other, their bodies trembling with orgasm. Kirk still lay on his side with his hands clenched between his thighs.

“Doubt thou the stars are fire,” whispered Suvan. “Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar; but never doubt I love. Do not squander what is freely given, Kirk. You will end like me. Alone. Bloodless. In the dark.”

Suvan turned from the wall and walked through the passageways with his head down.

End Chapter 6

5/09

girl6

The Movie

What Nimoy had to say about the Uhura/Spock romance:

"Beautiful, beautiful. Wonderful," said Leonard Nimoy, who reprises his role as the older Spock in the movie. "Both of them played it so well. They were both so available to each other. Very touching, really."

I wonder what Nichelle thinks.

The Movie

I sat there in the dark...with my phaser in my purse...when Spock and Uhura kissed in the turbolift, I felt my heart swell and grow warm in my chest.

The Movie

I'm going to go see it again. And again. I need to decide if Zachary Quinto is Spock or is he Leonard Nimoy.

Lost

Oooh. I get it now. It's a wormhole. A naturally occurring tranversible wormhole. That's why no pesky temporal causality paradox. Can't change the past. Right. But you can travel back in time to create a new future. But Daniel needs to brush up on his antecedal causal relation and probability theory. Blowing up the hatch in 1977 doesn't mean that Oceanic 815 will land safely in Hawaii.

Which is to say, there's no way to know what traveling to the past will do to the future, so don't bother. Jeez. What a dumbass.

I need sleep.

Zombies Will Get You First

So, the GOP stripped $870,000,000 of disaster preparedness funds from the stimulus bill because all that bio-terrorism/FEMA money that the States got after the panic of 9/11 and never used--I'm looking at you, Katrina-ravaged Louisiana--would be better spent on whatever. Even after Mount Redoubt erupted, nobody cared because it's in Alaska (yeah, Sarah Palin, about that bid for the White House in 2012...).

Anyway, the Dems tart up the "swine" flu and are all like, "We're all gonna die because the Republicans!!" Arlen Spectre is all like, "There's no way I'm gonna win the primary. *flip* We're all gonna die because of the Republicans!!" The Republicans are all like, "Shit. Obama's 100th day is coming up. Things went pretty well and some stuff got done. We need to distract everyone. We're all gonna die!!"

President Obama is all like, "Chrysler will file for bankruptcy and torture is un-American"

*crickets*

Then WHO is all like, "You know, it's kinda uncool to the pigs if we call it swine flu. And did we say 200 confirmed dead from the flu in Mexico? We really meant nine."

And then I go, "Zombie bunkers. Mark my words."

Yes, I'm Hot...

...and?

The Obsidian Mirror--NC-17

Disclaimer: Paramount owns these characters.


~Chapter 1

As the landing party materialized on the transporter dais, my eyes went immediately to McCoy, the only man on the ship who…gives me pause.

Does that surprise you?

Kirk is intelligent and treacherous, physically strong and charismatic. He can be a formidable opponent—his enemies tend to disappear without explanation. But Kirk is also power-addled, vain and sexually compulsive; his lust for women is second only to his lust for power. He has allowed himself to need me, even to trust me. Therein lays his weakness. He is of no consequence—not to me, at any rate.

McCoy pretends to be sentimental and soft, but I know different. His mental capacity for shielding his thoughts is nearly as well-developed as a Vulcan’s. His intellect rivals my own. He is a skilled clinician--when he applies that skill to healing. In actuality, McCoy is the bringer of death, so utterly ruthless as to make Sulu seem as weak and defenseless as a Halkan. McCoy kills not for the gain of power, but for the sheer joy of holding a dying heart in his hands.

I studied his face, gauging his mood.

I realized instantly that this was not the McCoy who beamed down to the Halkan planet that morning. His eyes were not the flat, predatory blue that I knew. I sent out a mental feeler. This McCoy’s mental shielding was impressive; however, it was only that of a man whose nature is to guard his emotions.

But I also observed that, in the same instant as I, he understood that something was wrong. This McCoy glanced down at himself then froze, eyes flicking around the transporter room. This was not McCoy, but this man’s quick assessment of the situation meant that he too was not to be taken lightly.

I shifted my eyes to Uhura. My breath caught briefly in my throat. This woman was definitely not Uhura. The difference was subtle. The Uhura I knew was lean and viper- quick. Though toned and graceful, this Uhura looked younger, her breasts fuller, her bare belly slightly, softly rounded. Her beautiful eyes held mine for a moment and her plush mouth dropped open. She looked down at the gaudy rings on her fingers and frowned.

She was Kirk’s favorite assassin and occasional lover. The rings were payment for both.

There is a legend about Uhura. An officer, insulted by her rebuffs, decided to force himself on her. He staggered from her quarters, bloody and in agony, his ruined manhood cupped in his trembling hands, having encountered the blade she had hidden in her body. Uhura stood proudly naked in the corridor, laughing and hurling curses. I am uncertain if this legend is true, but only Sulu was unwise enough to test its merit, earning the wound that peeled half his face from his skull. He is still obsessed and will not give up until she kills him. At the moment, she is mildly flattered by his attentions but she will weary of him. His death will be slow, the method of his demise...creative.

I count myself fortunate that she gives herself freely to me.

End Chapter 1
girl6
4/09

Spock & Kirk--2.0

Happy Birthday, Baby!

Still cooler than you.

Happy Birthday, Billy.

Thimbletack

He's so cute! Look at his wee vest! And his bow tie is upside down!

Bathe Him...

...then bring him to my chambers...

Three Days (Revised w/new chapters)--NC-17

Ok,monkies. Enough with the music vids. This story is almost complete. I posted chapter one of this before and then totally slacked on it. I made some minor revisions to the first chapter. I'm on a roll so I think I'll finish the whole story by Valentine's Day. Don't kill me Iddy!

Also, more "Prodigal Soul" coming up. No, really.



Disclaimer: Paramount owns the characters. The creative content belongs to me.

Archiving: ASCEM. THFFF. All others ask permission, please.

Contact: frokitt@yahoo.com


Summary: The three reclaimed days after Psi 2000

********

~Day One

2130 Hours

Uhura walked down the corridor on deck five, eyes watering from the powerful smell of the decontamination mist. Even with the cure for the infected crew and the inoculation of the uninfected crew, McCoy took no chances with the Psi 2000 intoxication. He ordered decon details to spray and scour down the ship the old-fashioned way and confined all but essential personnel to quarters.

Fortunately, the crew seemed to suffer no further effects of the intoxication other than a crushing fatigue.

Before collapsing onto his bunk, Kirk sent an eyes-only packet to Admiral Nogura then ordered the navigator to plot a meandering, looping course out in deep space. The Enterprise chugged along on impulse power, trying not to disturb the timeline.

They were going nowhere, very slowly, for the next three days.

Though she had not been infected, Uhura was coming down from the adrenaline high of the triple shift she just pulled—and from nearly dying a horrible screaming death in the atmosphere of Psi 2000. The captain instructed her to deliver Nogura’s reply to him as soon as it came in. After she dropped it off at his cabin, she looked forward to a long, hot shower and twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. She sneezed twice, rubbed at her eyes and yawned hugely, tasting decon mist. She silently cursed McCoy for his overkill.

Kevin Riley nearly collided with her as he left the officer’s mess. He stared at her with wide eyes and a bright red face. Uhura grinned and poked him in the belly as she went by.

“I can’t believe you’re hungry after all this,” she said, walking backwards.

“I—I,” he said, looking back over his shoulder into the empty mess hall. “I’m sorry, lieutenant. I mean, for everything,” he said.

“It’s wasn’t your fault, Kevin. It’s actually kind of funny now.”

He brightened. “Really?” He dropped to one knee and cupped his hands over his heart. “I’ll take you home again, Kath—.”

“Not that funny.”

He jumped to his feet. “Sorry, lieutenant.”

Uhura tried to keep a stern face but the poor guy looked so miserable that she had to laugh.

“You’d better hit the sack before McCoy sees you,” she said. “You are definitely non-essential right now.”

He nodded glumly.

Uhura continued down the corridor to the captain’s quarters. Her finger hovered over his call button while she debated the best way to deliver the message. She knew Kirk was sleeping and didn’t want to disturb him. There was nothing worse than being jolted out of a deep sleep by the sound of a door buzzer. On the other hand, she woke him many times before and each time, he came awake instantly alert. He had been through so much in the last twenty-four hours, she felt terrible getting him up again. She could slip in and leave the data wafer on his desk where he’d see it when he awakened. But he’d ordered her specifically to deliver the message to him in person, as soon as received and ---.

She must be really tired. She gave herself a little mental kick, pressed the door button and waited.

And waited.

Should she press it again? Should she just go in and wake him? What if he wasn’t asleep? What if he was in the shower?

“And what if you get busted down to ensign for not delivering the message ASAR, as ordered, Uhura?” she asked herself.

She pressed the button again. She counted to sixty. She took a deep breath and stepped on the door sensor. The door swished open and she entered the captain’s quarters. She hesitated at the entry and had to hop out of the way as the door closed. The main room was dark but light glowed faintly from the sleeping alcove.

“Captain Kirk?” she called softly.

There was no answer. She took another step into the room.

“Captain?”

She walked carefully to the alcove partition and peered into the gloom.

Kirk lay on his stomach with his arms shoved under the pillows. His hair was still damp on the ends and when she moved to the side of his bunk, she could smell soap and toothpaste and his warm body. There was a small cut in the corner of his mouth. His lips looked tender and swollen and his lashes seemed incredibly long resting against his cheeks. He was snoring softly.

She touched his bare shoulder. “Captain Kirk? The message from Admiral Nogura arrived,” she said.

He rolled over onto his back and turned his head toward her. His eyes opened slowly and he stared at her for a long moment.

“Am I awake?” he asked.

“I think so, sir,” she said. She forced herself to keep her eyes on his face. It was obvious that beneath the thin coverlet, he was naked.

“I dreamed that we were falling,” he said.

“We were. You caught us.”

“Then we were at that beach on Aeon IV. Chekhov, Sulu. Bones went off with two--.” He cleared his throat. “The sun was hot. Everything was bright white and blue and green. Spock’s hair was so dark. You were flying.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

He frowned. “No. You were flying over the water. It scared me.” His eyes were huge.

She smiled softly. “I think you are still asleep, sir.”

He laid an arm across his eyes. “Can you play the message for me, please?”

“It’s EO, Captain. You wanted it hand-delivered.”

He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He held the coverlet in his lap but Uhura could see where skin creased at his hip. He nodded.

“All right, lieutenant. Dismissed.”

“Yes, sir.”

She set the data wafer on his desk, glancing back. She stopped, paralyzed.

Kirk stood by his bunk. The coverlet had fallen from his lap. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, ran his fingers through his hair and stretched his arms above his head. His abdomen was slightly concave, the skin there smooth and pink-gold like the inside of a clam shell. His penis hung from its nest of brown curls, thickly semi-erect. He sighed and opened his eyes. He glanced at the coverlet on the floor then stepped quickly behind the alcove partition.

“Was there something else, lieutenant?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Uhura stammered.

They gazed at each other through the lattice. After a moment, Kirk placed his palm against the partition and squeezed his eyes shut, apparently too tired to be embarrassed. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes.

Uhura took a step toward him. “Are you unwell, sir?” she asked.

“You sound like Spock,” he chuckled.

“Can I do something for you?”

“I’m thinking that Bones put something besides supplements in that second hypospray.” He waved a hand. “I’m fine,” he said.

“If you’re sure?”

He nodded. “I’m just tired. And you look dead on your feet.”

“Thanks,” she said, smoothing her hair.

“Go to bed, lieutenant.”

“Aye, Captain.” She turned to go.

“Nyota.”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m sorry I lost my temper. On the bridge. I know you were trying and--.”

“I understand. And you already apologized, sir.”

“It was uncalled for.”

She looked down at her hands, splayed her fingers then picked at the gold braid on her sleeve. “It seems like it hurt you more than it hurt me,” she said.

“It won’t happen again.”

“I hope you’re not planning on buying me flowers or something.”

“Uh, no. I-I wasn’t—unless--I mean I—.” He stopped when he saw her tired smile. “You’re teasing me,” he said.

“Yes, because it will happen again and you’ll apologize again and it won’t be necessary-- again.”

“So, we’re…okay?”

She blinked. “We were never not okay, Captain.”

He nodded.

“Anyway, I am dead on my feet, so I’m going to bed now,” said Uhura.

“Goodnight, lieutenant.”

“Goodnight, Captain.”

Out in the corridor, Uhura stopped and laid a hand on her chest. She took a deep breath then blew it out slowly. She straightened her shoulders and walked on.

********

2300 Hours

McCoy entered the science lab. He leaned against the bulkhead by the door with his arms folded across his chest. He palmed a Feinberger in his fist and wondered if he should have brought a phaser instead. It was slightly warmer than normal, which meant that Spock probably had a headache, was extremely tired or both. And of course, the only concession he’d make to his physical needs was a two degree raise in the ambient temperature.

Spock siphoned a cloudy fluid from a beaker. He attempted to transfer it to a test tube but his hand trembled. McCoy walked over, set down the Feinberger. He gripped Spock’s hand and helped him release the fluid from the siphon.

“I thought I confined you to quarters, Spock,” said McCoy.

“Your orders were for all non-essential personnel,” said Spock, gently removing his hand from McCoy’s.

“We’re going in circles out in deep space. Despite that Vulcan grandiosity, you are non-essential for the next three days.”

“There are laboratory projects that require my attention.”

McCoy stoppered the tube and placed it in the centrifuge. He gazed at Spock. Spock’s eyes were puffy, his expression haunted.

McCoy decided not to argue. He picked up the Feinberger and clicked it on for a second. He studied the readings. He pursed his lips then shrugged with a tilt of his head. “Looks like your system is still clearing the compound on its own. There should be no traces in a few hours. How do you feel?”

“I am well,” said Spock.

“I would like to draw some blood to synthesize a serum in case other Vulcans encounter the polywater. We don’t know that it originated on Psi 2000 and there’s no reason for Vulcans to suffer through the illness if they don’t have to.”

“A logical course, doctor. However, it will be necessary for you to filter out the…human factors in my blood,” said Spock. He folded his hands behind his back.

McCoy felt a tug in his heart.

“Spock, there’s no way to know if your human blood had anything to do with your infection.” he said. “We have no evidence that full-genetic Vulcans can’t be infected as well. You’re a scientist. You know that.”

“I understand.”

“The emotional lability is a symptom of the infection. You’re not responsible, Spock.”

Spock nodded curtly.

“Okay, okay,” said McCoy. “Just promise me you’ll eat something and at least sleep a few hours.” He caught a yawn in his fist.

“It appears that you should take your own advice, doctor,” said Spock.

“I did part of my residency on ER rotation in a mining hospital on Titan. This is nothing. And don’t try to change the subject, Spock. I’m the doctor, not you, and that was an order, not advice. I have a duty, too. Mine is to see to your well-being,” snapped McCoy.

Spock lowered his eyes. “I will comply when Mr. Scott returns to duty,” he said quietly.

“I guess that’s the best I can hope for,” McCoy sighed. “Maybe play some chess with the computer to help you relax.”

“I will comply---.”

“When Mr. Scott returns to duty. Right. If I see you in here after Scotty comes on, I’m going to shoot you myself and strap you to a bio bed.”

McCoy walked to a cabinet and removed a hypovac. He held it to Spock’s neck and watched the vial fill with dark emerald blood. He glanced at Spock’s face. Spock’s eyes glittered beneath his downcast lashes. McCoy removed the filled vial and turned away to insert another. When he turned back, Spock’s eyes were clear and his chin up. McCoy finished drawing the blood and placed the vials in a stasis unit. He stopped at the door.

“You know where to find me,” he said.

“I do. And I shall endeavor to avoid those places,” said Spock.

McCoy concealed a grin with a fake frown. Now, that’s more like it, he thought as he marched out of the lab with a huff as false as his frown.

Outside the lab, McCoy let his grin emerge.

Inside the lab, Spock noted with mild curiosity that he did “feel” better.

********

2330 Hours

Uhura stood in her shower with her face upturned as sonic waves rippled over her body. She usually preferred the hydro setting because, illogically, it made her feel cleaner. But that damned McCoy put something smelly in the water and she had no choice but to use the sonic. She had to admit that the throb of the wave generator was soothing. Sonic fingers stroked across the back of her neck and probed gently between the folds of her vagina. She tensed then relaxed.

She planted her feet a little further apart.

“Oh,” she sighed. I need this, she thought.

The computer quietly counted down, “…four, three, two…sonic, off.”

Uhura barked out a laugh. “No dance tonight,” she said.

“Please rephrase your request,” the computer asked politely.

“Nothing. No.” Uhura stepped out of the shower stall. “Just forget it,” she said.

She walked naked into her sleeping alcove, stretching her arms above her head. She sniffed her armpit and wrinkled her nose. This was why she preferred the hydro to the sonic. You came out of the sonic shower super clean--no bacteria, no natural skin oils, no dead, dry epithelials—and smelling like, well, nothing. She looked at the verbena cream Sulu bought her. She dropped her arms. She was too lazy to use it.

She stood before her replicator. There was a stack of replicator wafers left by the previous occupant of these quarters. She kept forgetting to give them to him.

She thought about the captain when she delivered Nogura’s message to him tonight. He certainly was a beautiful man—all over, as it turns out.

She shivered. She wondered if he slept nude all the time or was he just too tired to pull on some pajama pants. Was he naked now? If he was, then they were both naked at the same time. This is the naked time, she thought.

“Don’t even think about it,” she told herself.

On the other hand, Kirk, slowly, over the last year and a half, even as he held himself distant, cool, professional, had let her know that he was available to her, not now, not soon, but…yes. He was subtly familiar in his behavior towards her. He occasionally used her first name. No one except for Scott and McCoy got that—not even Sulu with his status as Favorite Son--and certainly never a female crewman. In fact, he rarely addressed the women by more than their rank. He turned to stone if a female crewman dared to push the boundaries of a conversation beyond the normal pleasantries. He didn’t exactly engage Uhura in idle chit chat, but he listened in on her bridge banter with Riley and Sulu, occasionally adding a comment, and in his chair, with his back turned, she could tell that he smiled at her gentle teasing. Uhura was no stranger to the signals of seduction. Another woman might not read this as such. But Uhura knew differently.

She knew him.

She also knew that if she actually let it happen, Jim Kirk would never be hers alone. Part of him—the best part of him—would always belong to this ship.

She sighed. “Oh, Jim,” she said. “If only.”

She shuffled through the replicator wafers. There was chicken salad, a Vulcan tea and something labeled “murder burger”. She hadn’t the courage to ask Kirk what that was. Probably something that gave Dr. McCoy nightmares. She settled on the tea.


She sipped her tea, still not inclined to dress for bed. It felt good to be naked, even if she was alone.

But she could pretend.

“Computer, cabin atmosphere to Vulcan normal,” she said. Gravity pulled on her limbs and pressed against her shoulders. Warm air puffed from the vent, bringing with it a sharp, medicinal odor.

“Damn you, McCoy,” Uhura wailed.

“Please state the nature of--” began the computer.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” snapped Uhura. The computerized yeoman was a benefit of living in quarters designed for the captain. It was really starting to get on her nerves.

She rummaged in a drawer until she found an incense cone. She sat at her desk and checked her inbox as the air suffused with the scent of sandalwood. There was a message from Spock rescheduling her harp lesson. He had to stand in for the head of the geology department in the landing party on Psi 2000. The message was twenty hours old.

“Is that all?” she whispered. “Feels like twenty years.”

In terms of reading signals, with Spock, she got nothing but static. His relationship with her, on the face of it, was nothing short of astonishing. He spent almost as much off-duty time with her as he did with the captain. He taught her the Vulcan harp. Alone. In his quarters. He sang or played in every music group she organized, he participated in the ship’s talent show at her bidding, —he won—and once spent part of his leave attending a concert with her on SB11. He allowed her into his personal space as they worked, sometimes for hours, their heads together at her console, deciphering an ancient signal from some long-dead civilization.

And in all that, not a hint of anything more than a professional relationship that occasionally overlapped in a shared special interest. They were so chastely platonic in their interactions that no one gave a second glance at her exiting his quarters in the evenings when their lessons ran long. None of her crew mates ever inquired as to the nature of their relationship. Christine always wanted to know if he said anything about her but even Tonia Barrows asked about Spock only once, idly and without any real curiosity.

Uhura and Spock were colleagues, perhaps friends but nothing more.

Six months ago, they were in Spock’s quarters and had come to the end of a harp lesson. He fingered the strings of his harp almost absently as she gathered up her sheet music. She stood by the door, not wanting to leave. Spock began to sing. He gazed at her, his expression soft and intense. His voice rose and fell from tenor to baritone, in between the notes of his harp.

“That was beautiful, Mr. Spock,” she said.

“It is called Y’el,” he said. “It means--.”

“Star,” she said, flushing hotly. “That’s my name.”

“Yes, I know.” He stood and set his harp in its case. He’d had a workout with the captain before her lesson and was dressed in a long, sleeveless tunic and loose pants. His hair was freshly washed; and free of its usual pomade, it waved lightly at his temples and parted on his forehead. The diffuse red light glowed on his skin. She was stuck again by his beauty: pale and dark, soft and angular, cool and warm.

He straightened and folded his hands behind his back.

“I think I should go,” whispered Uhura.

“Good evening, lieutenant,” he said.

To her great despair, she had fallen in love with him that night.

“Oh, Mr. Spock,” she said. “Oh, stupid Nyota,” she sighed, rolling her eyes at herself.

She thought for a moment then began typing her reply to his message. “That’s fine,” she wrote. “Please feel free to come over anytime.” She tapped the send key with her stylus. She yawned and sipped her tea.

The “message read” tone beeped softly. Uhura arched a brow. I wonder if I concentrate real hard, will he get an image of my naked body, she thought. A moment later, an incoming message popped up on her screen. Uhura sat up, startled. It was from Spock.

“Don’t tell me that worked,” she whispered. She opened the message.

“Practice your scales,” it read.

Uhura slumped back in her chair. “How romantic,” she said.

She walked into her sleeping alcove and fell backwards onto her bunk. She pointed a finger at the ceiling. “See? This is why you don’t fall in love on the ship. Someone just push me out of an airlock, now!”

“I am unable to comply with your request,” answered the computer.

“Oh, shut up,” she said, flinging a pillow across the room.

*********

~~Day Two

2230 Hours

Uhura’s running shoes tapped lightly on the saucer catwalk in time with the tune she hummed in her head. She could’ve run on one of the treadmills in the gym, but her mood took a turn for the worse by the end of the day and she chose the “saucer track” for the solitude.

The crew was still on skeleton rotation and McCoy eased his restriction so there were more people on duty than the day before. They spent a lot of time apologizing to each other. Sulu left an orchid on Uhura’s chair. Riley slunk around like a puppy convicted of murder.

Kirk was quiet all day and stood at attention by Uhura’s station while he recorded the message to Tomorlen’s parents. McCoy glanced once at Kirk’s face and left him alone.

Spock spent his shift in the labs after checking in briefly on the bridge. He was there and gone so quickly that Uhura only saw the back of him as the turbo lift doors closed. She saw him at lunch in the mess hall, sitting with the captain. Spock took minute sips from a bowl of broth cupped in his hands while Kirk picked grimly at a chicken salad.

Most of the crew claimed to remember very little of their behavior while infected, only bit and pieces, like fragments of memories from a dream. Sulu didn’t remember holding the captain at sword point—he’d have to be crazy to try and fight Kirk, he said. Riley remembered nothing after Spock relieved him of duty but Christine’s recollections seemed a little embellished with wishful thinking. It set Uhura on edge, which was why she was exercising on the saucer track instead of in the gym. All of the camaraderie of the infected crew was starting to make her feel a bit left out of things.

She wished she had an excuse to throw herself at Mr. Spock.

“You’re taking this kind of personally, aren’t you?” she grumbled to herself. “Yes, I am and I don’t care,” she answered.

She put her head down and pounded around the catwalk—and slammed right into Captain Kirk.

She would’ve gone flying over the catwalk’s thin railing had he not caught her with an arm around her waist. They stumbled back, crashed into the bulkhead and slid down the smooth, curved plating. Uhura’s teeth clicked together. Kirk rolled immediately to his feet. Uhura sat on the catwalk, rubbing her jaw, thanking god that she didn’t bite off the tip of her tongue.

“What are you doing here, lieutenant?” Kirk asked.

She looked up at him from the catwalk. “I’m fine, sir. I don’t think I have any broken bones,” she said.

He frowned. “Are you ok?”

“Yes, sir.” Uhura heaved herself up, ignoring the hand he held out only after she was already on her feet.

“What are you doing here?” he asked again, hands on hips. He wore cut off gym shorts, a thin tee shirt and court shoes. He wasn’t perspiring but his skin glowed and his arms were pumped as if he worked out elsewhere before he came here.

“Running, sir,” said Uhura. Her body still rang from their collision.

“This area is not authorized for that activity.” His eyes ran quickly over her. A muscle flexed in his jaw. “And it’s a bit late to be exercising,” he said.

“Yes, sir. I just needed to be al--.” She paused. “The gym smells like decon mist and sweat. It was making me queasy.”

He nodded. He glanced over her shoulder. “Who were you talking to?”

“Sir?”

“I heard you talking right before—when I came in.”

“Oh. I was um, talking to myself.”

“I was expecting to be alone up here,” he said.

“Me, too.”

He gazed at her, still frowning. His hands were clenched into fists on his hips.

She decided to cut him some slack. She was also in a bad temper and she wasn’t recovering from an infection.

“Why don’t you go that way and I’ll go in the opposite direction,” said Uhura. She pointed behind her.

“Ok.”

“I’ll try to stay out of your way.”

“Good.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, moving around him.

“I meant, that’s a good plan.”

“I know what you meant, Captain. I think that’s a good plan, too.” She started jogging away.

“Lt. Uhura--.”

She pretended not to hear.

“Nyota,” he called.

She kept running. He started after her. He was fast, but she was faster. She sprinted to the turbo lift at the saucer midline and dodged inside. Kirk reached the lift before the doors closed. She backed away, her chest heaving. They stared at each other. The only sound was their loud breathing. Kirk bounced the side of his fist lightly against the door frame. He stepped back from the door sensor.

“Deck five,” said Uhura. The doors closed.

She’d been wishing for an excuse to throw herself at somebody.

Be careful what you wish for, she thought.

*******

~~Day Two

2330 Hours

Spock clicked off his computer and leaned back in his desk chair. He had not slept the night before as he’d promised Dr. McCoy. Instead, he meditated, repeating the Disciplines—including v’shan poses—over and over. He finally allowed himself a healing trance for an hour after his shift this evening; but he emerged still fatigued, with a dull achy tension in the muscles of his upper back.

His study of the Disciplines restored his emotional control but the v’shan always served to fan the flame that warmed his blood. Even an imitation of the battle arts came dangerously close to igniting the ancient passions--being impaired by the intoxication only made matters worse. He reconsidered his agreement to instruct Sulu in the martial practice. His meditation cooled his blood somewhat but his flame still burned low in his sex. He would manage. A slight physical imbalance was a small price to pay for a return to control. He took a moment to direct the flow of blood away from his penis. He was moderately successful.

Perhaps some push ups.

He thought about his Psi 2000 intoxication as he levered himself slowly up and down on the floor. He recalled entering sick bay and seeing Nurse Chapel standing at the foot of a bio bed, gazing at Sulu and brushing her hair. He thought her behavior was somewhat unprofessional, even peculiar, but his limited observations of Chapel did not register that as unusual for her. He recalled his surprise when Chapel grasped his hand but after that, he only knew the sound of Lieutenant Uhura’s voice calling his name over and over. At the time, he

( felt )

her all around him. He wanted to go to her but was stopped by Captain Kirk. He did not remember why.

Spock had no recollection of calculating the intermix formula, nor of the cold engine restart, to the chief engineer’s utter amazement. When Spock reviewed the formula later, he thought perhaps it was best that he had been intoxicated. He otherwise would have dismissed it as impossible.

Spock stood and looked at his fire pot. Blood sang in the muscles of his arms, shoulders and chest.

His penis was flaccid, finally.

He considered and rejected in turn, another session of meditation, a game of chess with the computer, and a cup of tea.

The sonic shower was most emphatically a bad idea right now.

After a moment, he registered that he was hungry. He had not allowed himself to consciously feel hunger since he was an adolescent. He deduced that that too was part of the after effects of the intoxication. He had received a stasis box in a package from his mother the previous week. He retrieved it from his shelf, sincerely hoping that it was not plomeek. Her insistence that he needed plomeek was a bit troubling. The last tuber she sent, he donated to the ship’s “from home” box. He saw nurse Chapel take it and was utterly incurious as to what she might want with it.

He opened the stasis box. Inside were kasa custard and a packet of his favorite flat, sweet biscuit made by the palace cook. Plomeek not withstanding, he marveled at how his mother often knew exactly what he desired, even from six point two parsecs away.

And there was enough to share.

******

Let the Sun Shine In

Close Your Eyes...

...and make a wish.