DISCLAIMER: Star Trek is the property of Paramount, this story depicts a loving/sexual relationship between women...okay, disclaimer done.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
Passion had played such a small part in my life. The intricacies of emotion and want of physical contact have been as alien to me as the man in the moon. Then I met her. She is everything I am not; fierce, impulsive, and filled with so much passion she practically radiates a forbidden heat. I thought her a fool and simpleton. I was wrong.
I have heard the others talking. Commenting on how her fire has finally melted the ice of my heart. An over used cliché, and in this instance an incorrect one. I was never made of ice. Cruel comments, disdainful looks, they all had their effect. I just chose to hide my pain from those who willingly caused it. They would not assume a child was made of ice simply because it hadn't displayed overt signs of passion. They'd know it was just too soon, and leave them time to grow and mature. I know I'm not a child, but I needed time, or maybe I just needed her.
It's disconcerting to find I fall into the cliché trap just as easily as anyone else. Presumably, I will start blushing and stammering in her presence soon. Despite neither of those things being within my range of experience. I just pray I don't begin writing poetry. I've always found that indulgence in others very tiresome.
She if thankfully free of clichés, or perhaps she has just subverted them to her own liking. Just when I feel safe in categorising her as an angered soul waiting for unfettered love to redeem her, she proves me wrong. I change my viewpoint to recognise her as the hero waiting to save another and again she does something to prove me wrong. I dislike being wrong, but I enjoy the fact that her inner reasoning alludes me. I like to be surprised by people, it intrigues me. She intrigues me more than any other.
The first time we had sex it had been nearly brutal. The slow kisses and rising music novels tell us to expect were absent. There was just the two of us; hot, angry and impatient to satiate the need we neither wanted or could stop. Afterwards, as my heart raced and skin glistened with sweat, I had expected her to leave. We had accomplished the release we sought and I could think of no reason for her to remain. But she did.
We lay on the too small couch, our bodies slick against one another and her finger absentmindedly tracing a scar upon my shoulder. She didn't look in my eyes and I presumed she was thinking of something or someone else. All my thoughts were centred on her. I wanted her to leave, but at the same time stay. To talk to me, and be quiet. Tell me it had all meant nothing, and admit it had been more than just a mistake.
My experience of laughter had been fleeting. I hadn't yet discovered the joy of being laughed with, only at. So I naturally took her response as an insult. All those who claimed I was made from ice would have been surprised by my actions. I know she was, but that probably had more to do with finding herself flat out on the carpet, an angered and naked blonde standing over her. She stopped laughing.
Neither of us said a word, we just stared. Slowly she stood, and with uncharacteristic precision she donned her uniform and transformed herself into the epitome of a starfleet officer. It wasn't an image I'd associated with her before, but at that moment she appeared to be the calm and rational one. I was left the position of hot-headed fool. Her face surprisingly clear of anger, she left.
I've said I liked to be surprised by people, but at that moment I wasn't so sure. Then seconds later she reappeared in my doorway. Gone was the starfleet officer and in her place a young woman who seemed as confused as I was. She didn't smile, or even speak, yet in the few moments she stood there my anger melted and confusion set in. I strongly dislike being confused.
As I look back on it now, I suppose our whole encounter was a cliché. Weeks of sexual tension, coupled with heated arguments, resulting in an explosion of lust. The misunderstanding and storming off only transformed one cliché into two. Perhaps if I'd read more romantic fiction I would have realised it was all just a prelude to a happily ever after, but I hadn't. For me it was just proof that passion had no place in my life.
I was wrong, of course, and am for once overjoyed at my fallibility. If I'd been right I would have missed out on so much.
The second time we had sex things were different. We were still unsure of each other, aware of our mutual attraction but unable to fathom the reason behind it. Yet that time we wanted to know. Wanted an answer to why we were so drawn to one another. Each touch of her fingers against my skin became a question. The feel of her lips against mine the beginnings of an answer. We took our time. Loving each other, before we were in love. Seeking clues to our own feelings in each other's eyes.
Afterwards, as we lay satiated and warm, I experienced a calmness I hadn't know since the collective. None of my questions had been answered, but I did not care. One day I knew it would all make sense, and until then I was willing to embrace our shared discovery. I looked at her; caramel skin tinged red, lips swollen by our kisses, and eyes laughing in a way that made me feel joy, not anger. I think we surprised each other.
We neither hid nor announced the change in our relationship, but it seemed only seconds before we had become a source of speculation for the crew. There was something different in the way they looked at me. Some eyed me with suspicion, others with a touch of joy. Then there were those who had presumed to call themselves my friend. Their looks bordered on smug satisfaction, triumphant in the knowledge that I too had been made humble by love. I am not humble, and at that moment I wasn't truly in love. So it is perhaps unsurprising that their looks angered me the most.
My response had been to emulate the ice princess they had all taken me for. My face once again a mask of indifference and my tone flat with boredom or resolute with arrogance. It confused them, for which I was glad. She merely hid a smile, safe in the knowledge that she alone would see the real me when we were together.
The first time we made love I cried. We had been talking for hours and exhausted, we lay down to sleep. She was warm against me, her arms encircling my body and head resting on my shoulder. It was a position that had become familiar to me during the months we had been engaged in a physical relationship. It was comforting. Safe in a way that defied logic, and left me desperately grateful.
Just as those thoughts entered my mind she looked at me, and the universe changed. My breath caught and chest began to ache with the beauty of her. Then before I was aware of it, I was kissing her. Such soft, sweet kisses. I thought I'd die from wanting more, but I didn't want to take things further, I just wanted to enjoy the wonder of her lips. I think it was when she reached up to caress my face that the first tear drop fell. I know that by the time she pulled away to look at me, my face was awash in tears. She held me then, so very tightly, and before I could utter a word she had declared her love. I could only cry harder. When at last my tears slowed she loosened her hold, moving back slightly to look in my eyes. I thought for a moment that she was waiting for a response, but then I realised she didn't want to force a confession from me, just make sure I was all right. I think I smiled, I know that she did. Then in a deliberate but tear filled voice I told her I loved her.
Thinking of it now my heart still aches with joy. The memory of our kiss echoing through time and making me want to reach out and touch her. We lay there for hours that night, kissing and touching, but never once allowing ourselves to be over taken by our bodies' passions. Preferring instead to bask in the passion of the soul.
I cannot help smiling. I know my musings have gone on too long when I start talking like a romance novel. I think it's time to put the memories behind me for tonight, and go and drag my love out of her engine room so we can make some more.
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