Chapter Text
He would like, very much, to seek the captain’s counsel. Confess all, be advised and absolved. Or reassured, at least, that this experience is normal and that he is not, in fact, drowning (however metaphorically) in a river of lust. Jim would know what to do, how to proceed, how to end this, instead of what Spock has been doing for the past twelve minutes and … however many seconds, which is: contemplating the aesthetics of light and dark in the tangle of their limbs.
How would the picture be rendered through Japanese notan on Earth as compared to the atja ha’ge movement in Kir Khomi on Vulcan? Would the pre-Raphaelites’ intense aversion to chiaroscuro been quite so uncompromising if they’d used it to illustrate naked bodies in repose after a bout of frenetic fornication?
“This cannot continue.”
“What’s that, sugar?” Uhura murmurs, drowsy and sated.
This this this.
He’d resolved to tell her when she arrived that evening – no more lessons and no more… this. A return to the dignified state of colleagues and crewmates. But instead of wanting to be taught she’d wanted to listen to him play.
She was in an odd mood, indecipherable to his unpracticed sensibilities and so he’d indulged her with an archaic composition from before the Awakening, all passion and death, betrayal and mistaken identity.
Her eyes were rapt on the swift plucking movements of his fingers, chromatic shifts she could not yet accomplish (and, he suspected, never would), whole tone harmonies she likened to jazz. A rumble of bass made her shudder deliciously.
As soon as the last notes faded, she straddled him in the chair, lapping at his earlobe, the instrument abandoned on the carpet at his feet. She pulled at his shirt and the flies of his trousers. Slid to her knees between his legs—
He tries again. “We cannot continue in this manner.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she says and peels herself away from his side so suddenly, his heart trips and falls out of its natural rhythm. He had not anticipated an immediate cessation, let alone immediate agreement. But instead of rising from the bed, she stretches across his lap with a soft grunt, breasts on one side, pubis on the other, buttocks jiggling and tensing, hand outstretched for the ka’athyra standing sentinel just beyond her reach. “I need to practice.”
“Now?”
The shifting, squirming movement across his lap causes his penis to stir and attempt to rise, trapped against her belly. It disturbs him how easily his body surrenders control to stimulus now. A sudden urge to strike her bottom with the flat of his hand disturbs him even more.
“How did you get that deep bass tone?”
“I adjusted the elat.” He presses a palm onto the tempting flesh, flattening the cheeks slightly. “Stop.”
A breathy squeak comes out of her, but she ignores his command. Her toes dig into the mattress for purchase as she elongates her body, reaching for the ornate knob – the elat – at the base of the strings.
“You do not have the physical strength to manage it," he growls. But Miss Uhura is undeterred, focused on a single, impossible goal, glittery nail-tips waving wantonly at the object of her desire.
Another punishing compulsion possesses him. He slides the knife edge of his hand between the cheeks of her buttocks, down and down, dragging his fingers through sticky labia until they are slick again. His fingertips brush her clitoris as her fingertips seize and pluck a taut string. A discordant pling wavers in the air. He plunges two fingers inside her.
She gasps, rises to her knees, rocks back into his hand with soft little cries of, “oh, oh, oh, oh please please please.”
His gaze fixed on the ka’athyra, he brings her to climax, reveling in the sound of his name drawn out long and low from her lips.
“My goodness,” she exclaims afterwards, breathless and lolling across his lap once again. Face up this time with one arm thrown across her eyes. Her mouth is soft and slack and smiling vaguely.
His satisfaction is short-lived, however.
She hums a little pondering tune. “I wonder what kind of bass tones I can get using the lever keys?”
Spock stands abruptly. Uhura rolls off his lap onto the floor.
“Hey! What’d you do that for?” she yells after him as he enters the bathroom. He locks the door and stares at the fool in the mirror who has just done battle with an inanimate object for the attention of a woman. And lost.
Logic has clearly forsaken him.
His hair sticks up, clumped together in odd tufts. As he reaches to smooth it over his forehead again, he’s stopped by the scent on his fingers.
^^^
Fortunately, the Enterprise is occupied for the next three weeks with a stellar anomaly, the evacuation of an embassy on Nastronope VII, an incident with Klingon spy, and an exploratory mission on a planet in an unchartered system that goes spectacularly sideways.
When there is finally a lull in activity, Spock asks Lt. Uhura to meet with him so that he might discuss her continued instruction in the ka’athrya.
Upon her arrival he can see she’s made assumptions about her continued instruction.
“You’ve altered the styling of your hair.”
“I didn’t want to lose anymore hairpins.” She looks up at him from under the sweep of her lashes. Her eyelids are painted soft metallic gold. Her lips are painted dark red. Her smile is designed to elicit a very specific response in him.
But he is prepared to do what needs to be done and stands well away from her, hands behind his back, studiously avoiding direct eye-contact. “I have taken the liberty of procuring a ka’athyra for you to use.”
“Really?” Her voice is alight with pleasure. Thinking it a gift, no doubt.
“It should be at Starbase 17 when we arrive for scheduled maintenance in approximately two weeks. The tone of the instrument will not be as rich as mine. It was made for use by a child, but you will be able to depress the ozh gonaf and adjust the elat with less difficulty.”
“That’s so sweet of you, Mr. Spock!” He flinches inwardly. “I know they’re not cheap. Let me at least—”
He cuts her off before she offers to pay. “I have also acquired an instructional module so that you may continue lessons without my assistance. It is in Vulcan, but you are moderately proficient in the language, and as it is technically written for children ages six to ten…”
“Supplemental. Good idea.” But she is far too skilled at interpreting minute changes in his expressions. Her brows furrow delicately. “You’ll still be teaching me though, won't you?”
“It is no longer feasible for me to do so.”
“May I ask why?”
Something in her vocal inflection elicits an odd twinge in his side. He draws in a breath to give her his carefully rehearsed response—
“Wait, are you still mad at me? That was weeks ago.”
He squashes the impulse to tell her precisely how many days, hours and minutes ago.
“I wish you’d tell me what I did that that made you so angry.”
“I am Vulcan. Vulcans do not—”
“Get angry. Right. Of course. Then why don’t you want to teach me anymore?”
Spock is suddenly acutely conscious of the hot blush of dilated blood vessels rising in his cheeks. “The nature of our arrangement has become more… transactional than I am comfortable with.”
“Transactional?”
He swallows his discomfort, adjusts his demeanor. “Yes. I did not realize until our last encounter that you may have misinterpreted my initial… reciprocation to your overtures as a requirement for continued instruction. I take full responsibility for the misunderstanding. As your superior I —" He stops. “Your expression alarms me."
“It should. It’s taking all my willpower not to slap you right now.”
“Yes. An understandable human impulse. I betrayed your trust.”
“No, Mr. Spock. You’ve implied I’m a prostitute. For music lessons.”
“That— that is not at all what I meant. If anything, I took advantage of your genuine desire to learn how to play a challenging instrument.”
“So now I’m a helpless female under the spell of a powerful man? Do you have any idea how offensive that is?”
He believes it is a rhetorical question and wisely keeps his mouth shut. She paces back and forth before him, clenching and unclenching her fists.
“How dare you? I’m an accomplished musician in my own right. I play six instruments. I sing in twenty-seven languages. And, I’ll have you know, understanding the music of non-human cultures makes me a better communications officer!”
He does know, knows all this. His mouth goes dry. She’s quite stunning in the throes of righteous indignation.
She stops pacing, lifts her chin defiantly so that he is forced to look her in the eye or be shown a coward.
“I also happen to like sex. With you. Sex with you has been surprisingly… satisfactory.” To a Vulcan there’s no higher praise than satisfactory.
She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, opens her eyes again.
“Spock.” No appellation, simply his name. "If the level of intimacy is putting too much strain on your Vulcan sensibilties, we don’t have to do it. I’d be perfectly content with the music lessons.”
She would be. It’s like a blow to the chest.
“Therein lies the issue.”
Her eyes widen in sudden comprehension.
“Oh.” She looks down, licks her lips. “You know, we could be open about what’s going on. See where it takes us.”
“I cannot go where it takes us. Not without cost. As it is, I find myself raw and jagged each time you leave.” He glances at her with a quick quirk of his lips. “And a little stupid. Yet I crave the very interactions that cause such rough discordance within me. It is not healthy for a Vulcan.”
“I’m sorry. I had no idea I was causing you distress.”
“You bear no blame. It is the result of a long, ongoing conflict between my disparate halves. Our affair disrupted the natural rhythm that kept at least one half of me in line.”
She will assume it is the human-half. Humans usually do.
^^^
"Well, well, well, Lieutenant. It appears Mr. Spock has relented.”
“Sir?” She placed her palm over the strings to still their vibrations.
The captain had just bitten into an apple. Mouth full he made a circular motion with his hand to indicate the ka’athrya on her lap. McCoy provided translation.
“He’s letting you play that crazy Vulcan lyre without micromanaging the placement of your fingers.”
Had either man been paying close attention they might have seen the flash of irritation on her lovely face before she graced them with a bland smile.
“No, Doctor. He acquired this one just for me.”
“Oh yeah,” Kirk noted, swallowing noisily. He pulled his hand across his mouth to catch the juices. “I guess this does look a little different.”
“It's significantly smaller, sir.”
“So, it is. Still, that was generous of him.”
“Not at all, Captain. It was a completely logical decision.”
Kirk huffs a laugh until he sees she’s not being snide. “What?”
“He didn’t want me using his anymore. Apparently, I play too rough.”
Her fingers plucked delicately at the strings but it was a sad and angry discord that perforated the air.
The two men exchanged a glance then moved away, toward tables with cheerful drinkers and casual games of spades.