DISCLAIMER: The Star Trek characters are the property of Paramount Studios, Inc and Viacom. The story contents are the creation and property of Djinn and are copyright (c) 2004 by Djinn. This story is Rated R.
The Attraction of Falling Bodies
Her skin is pale in the gathering moonlight--pale except where bruises mottle that pallor from wherever he has gripped her too hard. Some are not from his fingers; some are teeth marks, where he nipped her in his passion. Passion that is finally beginning to wane, but is far from gone.
He has turned all the lamps off. But the light still streams in from the window, illuminating her body as she lies naked on the rented bed. He should cover her up. But he hopes that she will get cold, will move and stir and finally wake, if only to get warm again.
She has not moved. And she has started to shiver. What if she will not wake?
He is worried.
He gets up to cover her. His hand lingers on her shoulder. He feels a rush of desire, strokes her body, hard fingers brushing over her breasts, her belly, moving lower. He shrugs off his robe, stares down at her. Shame fills him. But he is pragmatic. If he does not give in now, he will be taken again by the madness. And then he will hurt her more. Only if he slakes the constant thirst with small sips can he keep her safe.
It disturbs him that he will use her while she is unconscious. That he cannot control himself. But that lack of control is why she is here. Helping him. But hurting--hurting enough to have retreated into this sleep that will not end.
She is human. His mother was human. Humans can withstand the Pon Farr. Why has she withdrawn in this way? Why does she not wake? She was not afraid, came to him willingly. He turned her initial offer down, sent her away.
She came back. Over and over and over until the last time when the madness had begun and he reached for her and pulled her to him. She seemed relieved. She did not want him to die.
Now he wonders if she is dying. He could call for help, ring the front desk of this very discreet resort and request aid. But the Pon Farr is not over, and he needs her. She is his for the duration, and if they take her away, he will revert to the primitive Vulcan--the kind capable of tracking his mate forever if needed. Tracking her and taking her back, no matter the risk. He cannot chance it. For his sake, or for hers.
She is not asleep. Not in the traditional sense. She can feel Spock as he moves onto the bed, feel him reaching for her. Her body protests, and she tells it to quiet. Her mind retreats further as he enters her.
He does not mean to hurt her. She knows that just as she is aware that she put herself in this place, opened up this potential, when she offered herself to him.
She did not know what would come. But she does not blame him for how much she hurts. For how tired she is or how she would like to let go of the slim, bright tether that keeps her tied to her life. She would like to die, but if she does, he will too, and she can not bear that. Not when she gave everything to save him.
If she just hangs on for a little while longer so that he will live, that will be sufficient. Even if she dies, he will live.
She did not plan to give everything. The Pon Farr was just sex. Frequent, passionate sex. She would not die from sex.
But the Pon Farr is not sex. The Pon Farr is deeper, hotter, and colder. So frightfully cold that she is freezing to death in this fire of lust.
Perhaps if he loved her, it would be different. But he has chosen not to meld with her, and she feels the distance between them as his body batters hers and his mind hovers atmospheres away from where hers lies reeling.
She would call out for him, but he did not ask for her help. He did not want her, turned her down repeatedly. She came back, each day saw less control and more desire, until finally, he took her. She won. She wore him down.
He took her to his bed, locking the door, pushing her down and covering her, taking his own pleasure in her body. And yet, for all the times he has taken her, he has never really touched her.
And now she hovers at the edge of her own consciousness, looking down on the scene. She sees his back, sees the moonlight gleam on his still black hair as he pumps into her. She could let go, she could drift up and up and up and never come back.
She could die.
Soon, she will die. But only when she is sure he will survive.
Her heart rate is slowing. Her body is shaking, and he draws the covers over them both, pulling her closer to try to warm her against his hotter skin. She is as close to him as she can be, and yet he feels a distance between them. A distance that grows with each passing minute.
He is disturbed, but he is not certain if his dismay is from the fact that she may be dying, or that he is not sure he cares. He should care. She has given him everything she has. She has kept him alive.
He lays her back, adjusts the pillow under her head. Her breathing is shallow and uneven.
She is beautiful. He has never thought that before. But the moon is lighting her hair, and the brown has turned to a dark silver in the light. He traces the line of a bruise on her face. He has not melded with her so he is not sure how it came to be there. But it is in the familiar pattern, the mottled purple and rose markings of his fingers as they would be if he were to settle them on the psi points.
He remembers now. In the throes of his lust, he wanted to meld with her but he resisted. The struggle is marked out on her face. He touches the bruises softly, leans down and runs his lips over her cheek. The skin does not feel different. He licks her, decides her bruises do not taste different.
As his lips touch down again, her body moves slightly under his.
Why did he not meld with her? It is customary.
"Christine." His voice is a harsh whisper in the silent room. He has not spoken to her since he ripped her clothes from her. He has not acknowledged that she is anyone, anything, other than the body he has used to survive.
Her eyelids flicker, the barest of movements. He lifts his fingers, touching her eyebrows, following their curves as they point down to strong cheekbones, to the ever accusing bruises.
He lays his fingers on the map he has left. Closes his eyes. And melds with her.
She is almost free now, pressing against the flimsy cord that ties her. One thrust, two, three, and she'll be released. She jerks and moves against her mortal tether. Her spirit's motions are twins to the way Spock has moved upon her body. Thrusting into her, his hands jerking her to him, his lips hard against her own.
She stops her struggles. There has been no noise in this blessedly peaceful place. Who would call her now?
She senses that she is falling. Dropping hard and heavy and straight for the body she wishes to escape.
Spock's voice? Why would he be in her place--her safe place? He should go away.
Even if she wants him to stay with all her heart. Even if in her still so silly dreams he finds her and saves her. Brings her back to life.
Makes her care again.
Nothing can make her care again. She is tired. She hurts. She sees the light and the warmth and it is just out of reach.
One thrust. One, two, maybe three, and she can reach it.
She falls, down and down and down. Crashes into him. Past him. Into her body.
Into her pain.
He opens his eyes. She is awake. She is staring at him with accusing eyes that fill with tears. She closes her lids tightly, does not let a single tear fall.
"Let me go," she says, so softly that he would not hear her if he were only human.
She would not be lying here, wishing to die, if he were only human.
Would he love her if he were only human?
Would she love him?
"Let me go," she says again. But there is no hope in her voice, or in the eyes she now opens.
They both know it is too late. He has called her back. He has saved her.
"Do you love me?" It is a question he has not wanted to ask.
She does not answer, turns away from him. But she shudders, and he pulls her to him. Her skin is cold. So cold. He rubs her arms, wraps his legs around her. Her back begins to warm where it rests against his chest.
His body begins to respond to her nearness. He wants her.
She moans. "It's not over?"
"No," he whispers. He pulls her closer still, lets his lips rest against her neck. "I am sorry."
"Let me go."
"You wish to die?"
She nods. But her hands come up to cover his own where they lie on her breasts. She moans as he kisses her neck.
"Why do you wish to die?" He begins to suck on her neck, there are already bruises on her throat, lip marks, savage little things left behind where he has sucked and kissed and bit.
She flinches. He is sucking on an old mark. He feels her pain through what is left of the meld. It hurts. It also feels good. He sucks harder.
He is surprised at the thought that is running through his mind. Over and over it sounds.
She is mine. She is mine. She is mine.
Her hands tighten on his. Not to move him away, but in reaction.
She knows. She hears. The meld is still open both ways.
"You are mine," he says. His voice is not tender. His hands are rough on her.
She turns, it is not easy because he is holding her, but she surprises him with her strength. She stares at him. Her eyes are a faded gray in the moonlight. He leans in, kisses under the nearest, on the dark, angry circle that has grown bigger with every hour they've spent together.
He hears her moan.
"Do you still want to die?"
"Yes," she says, but she is pulling him closer, moving her face so he can kiss the other side. He opens his mouth, lets his tongue glide down her cheek, to her lips. He licks them lightly, so lightly she shivers.
Open your mouth, he tells her through the meld--the meld that seems to be stronger, pulsing now with lust and desire. Not just his. Hers too.
He is no longer having sex.
They are having sex.
She parts her lips, lets him in for a moment. Then her tongue bars the way, and he batters at it with his own. She tastes salty and warm, and he pushes her back into the pillow, moving over her, so he can press down.
They kiss for a very long time. Her hands circle his waist, touching him tentatively, then with more assurance. She brushes his back lightly with her fingers, and it is his turn to shiver. She does it again and again, his ticklish pleasure relayed back through the meld.
She touches his lips with her tongue, the same light touch as her fingers, which still move over his back.
He groans. Loudly. He wants her. He wants her, Christine, not just the silent, pained body that has serviced him.
He does not know her. Has never known her. Christine is a mystery to him.
But she is what he wants.
She opens herself to him, legs parting, coming up around him, nearly pulling him into her. Her mind is unguarded. She is holding nothing back and he moves into her, body and spirit.
She arches as their bodies join, as his mind rushes through hers.
He tastes her memories; he feels her essence. He thrusts hard and fast, his hands running over her, his lips on hers.
Her hands are in his hair, rubbing hard, painfully. It arouses him even more.
She comes. It is the first time she has enjoyed his touches during these long nights, and the feel of her body spasming under his is more intense than anything he has felt up to this point. Her pleasure is contagious, her mind a spinning, intoxicating place as she soars far away.
But not to die. Or not for long. She floats back down to him, landing softly. His body pumps still, and she breathes hard as he finds his own pleasure, as he sends what he feels back to her.
She laughs. He hears it both in his mind and in the room. She laughs, and it is a beautiful sound.
He kisses the marks on her cheek. His map. Her salvation.
He does not love her, he tells her. But he wants her.
And it is enough.
She sleeps. A true sleep, her body and mind held close to his, no longer flying high, no longer battering against the boundaries between life and death.
He closes his eyes and sleeps too.
She watches him. He holds her down, even in sleep. His grip on her excites her. She wonders if he will release her as soon as he wakes.
Or will he want her even then?
She can still feel the place far from their bodies where her life hovered in the balance. Still feel the warm, slight sense of a tether that nearly broke.
She does not want to go back to that place.
She wonders if she will feel the same once he opens his eyes.
The meld between them has died, going out sometime when they both slept. His mind has pulled away from her, but his body still touches her, leg wrapped around hers to pull her close, hand tight on her waist. Their lower bodies touch and in the morning stillness she can feel his hardness against her. He is aroused.
Will he want her when he wakes up? Or only her body?
He stirs; his hand closes painfully on her, and she gasps.
His eyes open. His fingers release her, but he does not move his leg.
His expression is different. The Pon Farr is gone.
He pushes her hair back, is staring at her intently, but she cannot decide if it is with any more interest than he might show a delicate experiment.
"Are you in pain?" His voice is gravelly. They have not spoken much.
"Should I call a doctor?"
She shakes her head.
His body pushes against hers, his arousal more evident. She does not move. Then she pushes back with her body.
He closes his eyes, a moan escapes his lips.
"You said I was yours." She touches his chest, moving her fingers over his skin. Will he make her stop?
She pushes against him again, and he jerks her closer, is inside her with astounding ease. He stares at her, his eyes are calm.
"You said I was yours," she says again as she begins to move against him.
He does not try to control their pace, just lets her move. "Yes. I did say that."
He begins to touch her, hands everywhere. Moving over the places that bring her pleasure. She cries out. Once. Then again.
He moves in her then. She lies with her eyes closed, her breathing ragged as she comes down from where he has sent her. She feels his lips on hers, so gentle. Then not so gentle. He is kissing her.
The Pon Farr is over, and he is kissing her.
He is moving frantically now, harder and faster, and she leans in and whispers, "Is it still true?"
She knows this is not the time to ask. She knows he might say anything as he moves hard against her.
But he does not give her an easy answer. He asks, even as his thrusts increase tempo, "Do you want it to be?"
His fingers are on her again and as he cries out, she follows him into this painful, wonderful bliss. His lips are on her face, and she runs her hands over his back.
"Yes, I want it to be" she whispers, when they finally lie quietly, their breathing back to normal.
He does not say anything, just kisses her cheek. His hand is making lazy patterns on her waist, just above where his leg still rests on her hip. They are still joined.
The ship will be back soon. The ship will be back with the lives that wait for them.
The lives that have been lived separately.
He kisses her lips, not savagely but not gently either. Somewhere in between. "Then it will be true."
She nods. She is sleepy again, cannot stop herself from yawning.
"Go to sleep," he says.
But she is reluctant to see this end.
He kisses her again. "Go to sleep, Christine. I will be here when you wake up." His mouth tilts up so slightly she thinks she has imagined it.
But she smiles back anyway, then she lets her eyes close. She has never been held this close to a lover, never fallen asleep still joined.
He presses against her, body half ready for her. She smiles. He will take her again when she wakes up. She wonders how long he will let her sleep.
She hopes not long.
His hands roam along her body. The touch soothing, making her relax.
His lips on hers are the last thing she knows until she wakes up a few hours later. He makes love to her until the ship comes for them.
And later, that first night
back on the
As she falls asleep, she hears him whisper her name. It is as sweet as if he'd said that he loved her. It is entirely possible, that for him, saying her name is saying he loves her.
She finds the words mean little. Only the feeling of falling. Down and down and down.