Email: paxnirvana@home.com
Rating: NC-17
Fandom: Enterprise
Pairing: Trip/T'Pol
Archive: If you ask, I’ll probably say yes.
Author's Note: Vulcan sex. What a challenge! 10/26/01
Disclaimer: It all belongs to the mighty Paramount machine. And I know how much they hate us infringers, so just *pbbbbht*! Get over it! I’m watchin’ the damn show, aren’t I?
Commander Tucker was a problem. The constant sniping, the challenges, the mistrust, the digs at Vulcan culture and ways were disruptive to the smooth accomplishment of her duties, as well as to the harmony of the crew. It could not be allowed to continue.
It had only grown worse, particularly since that day in the decontamination chamber. When they put hands upon each other. In the name of medical necessity. She had had so little time to prepare before they touched...
She had analyzed the situation carefully, viewed it from several angles and had done as much background research into human psychology as was available on Enterprise’s data banks. The logical path was clear.
She would have to take action.
Commander Charles ‘Trip’ Tucker leaned against the warmth of the Enterprise’s warp engine housing, stifling a yawn behind his hand. It was the middle of third shift. The dark of night. Though night was entirely subjective inside a starship, they had powered down to give the illusion of planetary cycles. Starfleet had learned long ago that it was necessary to respect the human diurnal cycle or suffer the consequences. Night was as important as day.
And to keep his crew in top form, he had to rotate some of them off third shift from time to time. That meant that even the Chief Engineer had to take the night watch once in a while.
Of course, it didn’t help that a nasty head cold was sweeping through the ship. A mild virus picked up on their last planetary landing. Dr. Phlox had decided, after conferring with the Captain, that it would be better for humans to build immunity to this virus naturally rather than intervene. He’d smiled and nodded and simply refused to provide anything other than symptomatic remedies. Trip felt a twinge of guilt. He’d been one of the first to catch it, maybe had even been the one to bring it aboard. But he was over it now.
However, it did leave Engineering shorthanded. Thus, why he was currently standing watch alone.
It was quiet. They were running at Warp 3.5 -- an easy cruising speed -- toward the next system, still three days away. The engines were in peak condition. Everything running fine. It was perfect. Smooth.
So smooth, as a matter of fact, that it was boring. He sighed deeply, watching the shadows flicker and dance behind the warp core. He’d almost welcome an alarm now just to stir things up.
Then he heard someone approaching down the main corridor. Far too early for his relief and no alerts or calls had come through. They were steady steps, not too fast, not too slow. He recognized that tread.
T’Pol. The Vulcan.
He cursed under his breath, straightening away from the console.
"Well, well, well," he drawled as she came into view through the shadows. "To what do I owe the honor?" Then he froze, surprised. She was out of uniform, dressed in a long, flowing robe that belted around her slender body at the waist. The delicate sandals on her feet were what he had heard approaching.
The robe was a deep rusty red color, like old iron. It made her slightly olive skin glow with warmth. He’d never seen a Vulcan wear something so casual, so implicitly sensual before. Her dark eyes pinned him.
"Commander," she said in that husky voice of hers, coming to a stop a meter away. "I have expended considerable time and effort in the attempt to comprehend your hostility toward me. I believe I have reached the most logical conclusion for your behavior."
"Oh? Which is?" he said sardonic smile firmly in place as he straightened away from the engine housing, his hands falling ready at his sides. Watching her warily, as he always did.
"You are attracted to me and wish to mate," she said coolly. "Therefore, in order to alleviate this problem, we should do so as soon as possible." He blinked at her in shock.
"Wh-what did you say?" he stammered, stunned.
She raised a brow at him.
"I do not believe there is anything deficient about your hearing, Commander," she said, a vaguely annoyed light in her eyes. He could only stare at her, still struggling to process the full import of her words.
"Are you propositioning me?" he asked finally, voice rising.
"I have presented you with the most likely palliative to the tension between us, Commander," she replied. His own brows threatened to crawl into his hairline at her words, his sharp-featured face still pale. But something she said clicked.
"Between us?" he said, eyes narrowed. "That’s implyin’ that it’s comin’ from both sides, T’Pol."
Her full lips tightened fractionally and her chin lifted in the way that so annoyed him. Arrogant. Dismissive. Vulcan.
"I harbor no hostility toward you, Commander Tucker," she said icily. "I harbor no emotion at all regarding you." A faint grin quirked his lips.
"Oh no, of course not," he said, tone dripping with sarcasm as he straightened away from the engine housing. "That wouldn’t be logical now, would it?"
Her chin lifted a little more and her dark gaze was level on his own as he approached her.
"I only desire the lessening of tension between us. It is detrimental to the smooth functioning of this crew and the mission," she said. Something flickered in her gaze as he neared.
He stopped a little less than half a meter away. She looked up, watching him calmly. Ordinarily she’d have stepped back by now. He was well inside her personal space. Almost close enough to touch. He knew, from bitter experience, that Vulcans didn’t care for casual contact. They didn’t shake hands. They didn’t drop hands on shoulders. They didn’t touch others at all, if possible.
"Ya know, this matin’ thing," he said, lowering his voice to a soft drawl. Slowing it down deliberately. "It’s messy. All sorts of touchin’ an’ things go on." If he hadn’t been so close, he never would have seen the delicate shudder that ran through her body. Revulsion? Anticipation? She confused the heck out of him.
"I am aware of the mechanics of the process," she said firmly, staring past his shoulder toward the engine housing. Not looking him in the eye, as she usually did. A victory or a concession?
"Are ya now?" he breathed, watching her closely. He remembered the decontamination chamber. The way her warm hands had felt on his back, his shoulders as she applied the anti-parasitic gel. The way her skin had felt under his own hands. Very human.
He examined her curiously. The short, practical hair. The delicately pointed ears. The graceful line of her neck. The generous curves of her breasts revealed so wonderfully by the sleek fabric of her robe. He could feel his pulse speed up, his breathing slow and deepen. Damn it, he was getting turned on.
Then she looked up.
It was like a blow between the eyes. Shocking. Arousing. Something smoldered in those dark depths. Something primal and wild and firmly leashed. He shuddered. What was he playing with here? And was he really going to do this? But he was already leaning toward her, hand rising to cup her neck, lips parting as he caressed her mouth with his own. Not really a kiss, but more of a brush. And even that sent tremors through him. He paused, eyes fluttering closed as he pressed his lips more firmly to hers. His hand flexed on her neck. It was warm, almost hot, yet not damp with sweat. He could feel the heat coming from her body, so close to his own.
Her mouth was open, receptive, but not responsive. He lifted away, eyes opening to see her own watching him with something like clinical detachment.
"Guess ya don’t kiss on Vulcan, huh?" he asked wryly, letting his hand fall to his side.
"No," she said, gaze cool.
"So what do ya do ta get ready ta mate?"
"We touch," she said starkly. Then her hands rose to his face. Her fingers were long and graceful. Warm fingertips settled in his hairline, smooth palms curving around his face. He felt a tingling surge shoot through him. Like electricity. Like desire. He groaned, shuddering, eyes fluttering closed. She made no sound.
His arm slid around her waist. The silky robe was little barrier. She was sleek and warm and -- Christ Almighty -- naked under that robe. He pulled her close, groaning again at the feel of her against him.
Her hands slipped slowly down his face, trailing delicately over his eyebrows, his nose and cheeks, his jaw. Then his neck. He groaned again, more of a whimper this time. Aching with need. It was like nothing he’d felt before. So simple a touch, yet so charged. He opened his eyes as her hands found the tab of his jumpsuit and slowly slid the zipper open.
"I did not expect this," she said quietly, almost as if she were speaking to herself. "I was not properly prepared."
"P-prepared f’r what?" he managed.
"How easily you touched my katra," she murmured.
"Whatever that is," he said, puzzled but caught up in the fire of her touch. She was pushing his jumpsuit off his shoulders. He shrugged out of it awkwardly, trying to keep an arm around her as he did so, not wanting to lose contact with her until he was forced to in order to get the suit off over his hips.
He stared into her dark eyes as he kicked his boots off, barely hearing the soft thumps as her sandals followed over the roaring in his ears. Her eyes. Something was there, in the depths, something wild like he’d once seen a glimpse of in a drug-induced haze. Fire. Passion. Fear. Then he froze, hands on the hem of his black uniform shirt as her hands went to the elaborate tie on the front of her robe, unknotting it with deft motions.
She let the robe fall with no further ceremony and she was suddenly and stunningly naked. High, full breasts, slim waist, gently curving hips, silky patch of hair between her legs. Woman, his senses screamed. All woman. His eyes widened and his hands reached for her. A dark brow rose haughtily as she warded him off with a raised hand.
"Please remove the remainder of your clothes, Commander," she said, voice cool. He let out a rueful sigh, settling for a quick brush of fingers across her shoulder, down her arm. Then he quickly tugged his shirt off over his head, letting it fall to the floor with the rest of their clothes.
"Trip, call me Trip," he said, amused.
"I do not think so," she replied seriously. He just smiled, rolling his eyes slightly. Then gave a startled yelp when her hands closed around the waistband of his underwear, dragging it down with brisk, efficient motions.
"Easy there!" he cried, stumbling back against the engine housing, hissing as she roughly bared him. He was hard already. And she’d just yanked his underwear down with no consideration for the state of a man’s pride.
She looked up from where she crouched near his feet, waiting for him to step out of the cloth, straight into his eyes. Appearing somehow feral and dangerous and exciting. Something inside him let go. This wasn’t your ordinary delicate woman. She wasn’t even human. But damn he wanted her.
"Fuck it," he said harshly. Then bent down and hauled her to her feet. Kicking off his underwear as he did so, dragging her against him, hands hard on her arms. Staring, mesmerized, into those dark eyes.
"Touch me again," he demanded.
She reached up, fingertips brushing the soft skin under his ears. That elusive something raced through him again, making him moan softly. He bent his neck, letting her reach higher on his head, further into his hair, making him shake and clench his teeth to keep from shouting out. Pleasure, sparkling like bubbles, cascaded through him, even brighter than the feel of her sleek body against his, her breasts flattened against his chest, the slender strength of her thighs where they parted around his own. There was moist heat there, a familiar feel. All woman.
"This should not be possible," she muttered. He could feel the rapid beating of her heart against him, the quick breaths she took. She was affected too. With no psychotropic drugs to make her lose control this time, but something in him. He couldn’t focus enough to try to figure it out, didn’t want to as he ran his hands over her back, her body, pressing her close. She tilted his face toward hers and for an instant he thought she was going to kiss him, but she pressed her forehead to his instead, hot breath washing across his mouth, teasing him. His hands closed around her upper arms again.
"We must mate now," she said, dark gaze locked to his. He groaned deeply at her stark words, at the feelings, the raw sensation still flowing through him that made his hips pulse against hers in response, as he dropped his head down against her neck.
Now, she said, he thought wildly. He’d be lucky to last two seconds in this state.
"Not here," he breathed against her neck. She shuddered softly, trailing her fingers through his dark blond hair. Lost, lost in the sense of him. So bright, so wild, so forbidden.
Then he was tugging her away from the engines, away from the untidy pile of their clothes toward his small office on the port side of the Engine Room. She followed blindly, her being narrowed to the feel of his hand around her upper arm, the urgent pulse in him, the strange coppery scent of him. He palmed the door open to darkness lit only by the multi-colored indicator lights on his station. But even by that faint light she could see the fold-down bunk recessed in the wall. He just appeared to know the space well. He shoved the chair away under the desk, then slapped another switch and the bunk popped down. It was thin and narrow but he was already sinking down onto it, pulling her astride his lap as he leaned back against the wall.
He buried his face between her breasts, arms riding high on her back, holding her close. She ran her hands through his hair and over his scalp again, feeling his bright, undisciplined energy wash over her. Tumbling logic and instinct together. He groaned, mouth moving on her skin. Obsessed with tasting her. The feel of his tongue, his lips a strange torment. Her teeth found her lower lip, pressing down hard to keep an answering sound from passing them.
"God, so good. Ya feel so damn good," he muttered nearly unintelligibly, hands sliding down her back to cup around her buttocks. To lift her. She tilted her head back, breath coming faster. Fingers clenching in his hair. He was hard against her, his sex engorged as she had seen earlier. Then he was lowering her down over it.
A sound escaped her. Soft. Faint. Lost in the brazen, wanton moans coming from his throat. He was there, inside her. Filling her. His hands clenched on her hips, his forehead once again resting in the crook of her neck. He was damp with the moist heat of his water-world origins, sweating. She could smell the salt, the copper, the faintly metallic scent of him. Everywhere.
Then instinct took over. She moved. Rising up, slow and tight, then coming down again. Over and over. Building the energy, the sensation. Listening with strange fascination to the helpless, animalistic sounds he made. Not dismayed by them any longer, but drawn, enrapt. The expected noises of mating were there as well; the sucking wetness, the slap of skin on skin, the sounds of effort. He was shuddering under her, his fingers digging into her hips. Head thrown back, eyes closed, a look of near-agony on his sharp features. She watched him avidly, hands in his hair. Feeling him.
"Oh, God, T’Pol!" he cried, arms crushing tight around her. Shuddering and surging beneath her. She waited until she felt the gush, the cool, wet heat of his ejaculation deep inside her and then she let go. Fire and passion and energy snapped between them. Dimly she heard his surprised shout mingle with her own low cry as she released herself into him, around him, merging them both in a shimmering explosion of instinct and need and mind until it was nearly impossible to tell where one of them ended and the other began...
Shaking. He was shaking like a leaf. She was still there, in his arms. Hot and sleek. Forehead pressed to forehead, her hands cupping his face, almost tenderly.
What the hell had happened? He’d hit his own climax, wondering only then if Vulcans had anything comparable despite the eerie similarity in physical structure, when - WHAM - his mind had blown apart with another staggering dose of pleasure so overwhelming it was a wonder he hadn’t blacked out. Well. Maybe he had.
He groaned, turning his head in her hands, prying his eyes open slowly.
"I should at least get a kiss f’r livin’ through that," he said, blinking blearily at her. To his shock she bent down and melded her mouth with his. Warm, moving, seeking -- a real kiss. There was curiosity and resignation there, as well as a reluctant interest. Things, feelings that weren’t his own. In his mind. But she felt so good on him.
His hands rose as if he were drugged, every movement slowed, heavy. He could feel that something building again, in his mind, his body - that wild sensation. Her mouth hot and eager on his, her hands slipping into and out of his hair, stroking his face, driving him up. He was hard again. So fast. Too fast. And moving inside her, feeling the tight heat, the slow, aching glide as she rode him. Relentless.
He pulled his mouth away, panting desperately for air. Her lips slid across his face, to his neck, latching on there. He cried out at the sharp tug, the suck. Every sensation heightened almost unbearably, until even the barest brush of her skin was nearly a torment of ecstasy. He cried out again, trying to still her against him; to pause for a moment, to take an instant to try to sort it all out. But she was merciless, riding him wildly. Her mouth now devouring his skin, her small tongue darting out to lick him leaving trails of fire. And he could almost taste himself on her tongue, feel his pleasure entwined with hers, sense himself deep inside of her.
What the hell was happening to him?
But the panicked thought was lost as her hands found his head again and vivid pleasure fountained up, spilling though him and he thrust up, hard and high into her again and again. Until it was too much. And then coming, this time almost like pain; quick and fast and brilliant.
"T’Pol!" he cried, teeth clenched, body straining. Afraid, suddenly, that she would leave him, alone and lost in this too-bright pain/pleasure all by himself.
"Yes, I am here," she said, her voice hoarse, raw. "I will catch you." So unlike her usual voice. And finally, he fell. This time into blackness, overcome with pleasure, overloaded by sensation, only vaguely feeling her arms about him holding him close.
Commander Charles ‘Trip’ Tucker sat on top of the warp engines, chin braced on his fist, feeling the pulse, the thrum of the ship’s engine heartbeat through his entire body. He was fully dressed again, hair slicked neatly back, blue-gray eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he stared at nothing.
He was alone. And suddenly damn glad to be that way.
He still ached, in a way, even though his body had recovered with amazing speed. He had woken on the crash bunk to find her fully dressed in her robe and sandals, seated in the duty station chair, watching him. Her posture erect and formal, as always. Her face expressionless. His uniform and underclothes had been folded neatly in her lap, boots at her side.
It still gave him a strange pang to think of her folding his clothes. Such an intimate, mundane task. He had struggled up on his side and reached out and snagged his underwear off the top of the stack. Drew it on fast as he sat up, suddenly uncomfortable in front of her.
"I trust this will alleviate the tension between us," she had said, watching him coolly. Her dark eyes had been flat, empty of the savage wildness he’d glimpsed before. He had leaned forward, dropping his head into his hands. Not wanting to look at her right then.
"I reckon," he had said heavily, still weary. "If I can ever figure out just what the hell ‘this’ was."
"We mated. You should be content with that, Commander Tucker," she had said, rising to her feet with graceful ease and setting his folded clothes on the bunk beside him. "It is the 0400 hour. Your relief will be here at 0500. I suggest you prepare yourself."
He still didn’t know why he’d done it, but his hand had snaked out, caught her wrist. Her dark gaze had pierced him as she straightened up. But she didn’t pull away.
"Someday, you’ll tell me what really happened," he had said. There had been a flicker deep in her eyes, then nothing. Her brow had risen as she raked her gaze up and down his body, her lips thinning slightly.
Then she had gently pulled her arm free, and was gone.
Leaving him alone with his troubled thoughts.
Sub-Commander T’Pol sat in her quarters, legs folded, arms loose, staring with steady, unblinking concentration into the flame of her meditation lamp. Naked once again, her russet robe pooled about her body. She struggled to center herself, to restore her balance with the disciplines of higher thought and of logic.
The salty-coppery scent of him still rose from her skin. The smell of him distracted her.
It should not.
Just as he should not have been able to touch her katra.
It made no sense now, looking back. The logic was weak, stretched. She had simply wanted him. Wanted to mate with him. A human. A human who disdained her kind.
But he had touched her. She shuddered briefly, controlled it. The Science Council would need to learn of this. There was more hazard than simple impetuosity in these humans. There was hazard to the Vulcan spirit, the Vulcan mind. . . the Vulcan heart.
She closed her eyes.
- - fin - -