Grace

Codetta

Perhaps he had too frequently allowed himself to be engulfed by his work. Such was an efficacious vice – a privilege, even, to those with half-hooded eyes unburdened by stars. The conscientious fingers constricting his veins had, at first, directed him as far from the young Terran with the broad smile as physically attainable. Those same cold fingernails that admonished his every lingering glimpse with a haughty dig had been dragged away by the swell of her laughter, replaced with the salty froth of the sunrise that she treasured so dearly. The pleasant monotony of the human heartbeat had danced him to sleep each night since her thumb had brushed his in the throes of an inefficient PADD transference and an impassioned debate regarding the status of a fellow cadet’s grade.

Instead of lending his assistance at the prospect of difficulty, he elected to observe. He watched, enraptured, as the young woman tapered her brow and learned the science of the object balanced between two palms with the inner flesh of her hands. The tawny flecks freckling her irises reflected profound intellect, that of a mind unconfined by slow things like partisan and predilection. She beheld the instrument with such proud admiration, tasting its machinations with the pads of her fingertips and appraising its worth in music, rather than weight or credits. He contemplated sumptuously whether she looked the same way at him as she did a Vulcan lyre.

Spock nudged his cheek against the young woman’s shoulder, still contented with the tempo of his own silence. She eased minutely into his chest with a moderately exasperated breath. He fixed his eyes to her expression, and was fascinated by the faultless grin that augmented her lips. A repellant tune sang from an ignorantly plucked string and bathed the foyer in its ugly timbre. Nyota’s lids fell with incomparable grace, eyelashes sweeping the summit of her cheeks.

“This doesn’t seem fair,” she murmured gently, although the words seemed to petrify in her chest before being granted to the air.

The commander shifted to perch his chin atop the naked knoll of muscle spanning the entirety of her upper shoulder, eyes reeled down at the jagged drone of the harp in her hands. She met his eyes and laughed as he tilted a thick black brow.

“I certainly hope you’re entertained watching me flounder with this damn thing,” She deflected a nonexistent jape. “I’ve never even seen one outside of your apartment.”

“I am intrigued,” Spock replied somberly as he eclipsed her hand with one of his own.

“Is that your way of telling me it sounds awful?” she laughed again, devoid this time of the same ardor that drew the weak sun’s efflorescence through the window fixtures and onto her skin.

He caressed her narrow digits with his and rotated them so as to excavate the creases in the bed of her hand with an unobstructed stare. The surplus flesh between his brows bunched as he considered the subtle trench between two parallel tendons stretched across length of her forearm. He explored the topography of her wrist with the underside of his thumb and patiently embraced the pulse that lay buried somewhere beneath the muscle. Nyota rested the base of the instrument atop her thighs as her focus found Spock’s massive hand.

“Your hands,” he said with the inquisitive tone texture of a child, though his tenor delivered his words like coffee grounds under a hungry blade, “are very small.”

“Yes, they are.” She quietly said.

With her hand under the pall of Spock’s, they approached the manifold lyre strings. They waited – one dispassionate and the other anticipatory – for the sound of composed and practiced melody. When it occurred, their eyes did not meet. Another. And a third. Nyota’s gleeful but reasonably silent grin was palpable. Her skin bled the crux of human happiness into Spock’s palm. He did not smile, but together they played.

 

Read the rest of Grace here or here.

Title: Grace

Category: Star Trek: 2009
Characters: Spock, N. Uhura

Words: 1,405
Genre: Romance/Friendship
Rating: Rated: T

His focus fell elsewhere as he allowed her lips to brush his, eyes clamping
closed as he inhaled the young woman’s aroma and relished in the very texture
of her flesh.

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9352741/1/

If you think about it, “lok” means “penis” in Vulcan — does that make Loki “penis like”?

Title: War Games

Category: Star Trek: 2009
Characters: Spock, N. Uhura

Words: 874
Genre: Sci-Fi/Romance
Rating: Rated: K

Each week was a monochromatic and sedate war game – a dilute prod in his
direction from her and a sober quirk of indifferent acknowledgement from him.
She hadn’t anticipated anything more.

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/9335168/1/

White

There is no truth in silence, for when the vicious things about this life cease and menial caterwauls begin to die, the saccharine musics of terra drip ravenously between vitality’s craggy teeth. We cleanse ourselves as we dribble along Gaia’s jowls, tossed haphazardly forth against the ether of everything. Still, though, security is to be had in the fallacy of quiet. Silence bleeds the breath of parchéd trees and the patriarchal song of Helios upon the flesh. Such is war, infinitesimal and contentious on the bitten tongue.

Listen attentively to the sanguine sussurration of nothing at all. Consuming, contorting, writhing as the leviathan tugs the tide beneath the surface of the ocean’s hungry froth. Silence is white and reeks of wasted time. Such is the cerebral fruit.

(Source: f3tid)

Brevity

Archive: 1. Flesh Wounds | 2. Breakfast in America | 3. I Am Not a Stranger | 4. A Lamentable Procession

5. The Narcissus Contract

The placating glow of the inglenook guided my hand across the thin sleeve of parchment sprawled before me, the fracas of the tavern’s lobby counterpoised by soothing flames enclosed in brick. I listened unenthusiastically to the languorous refrain of a solitary lute player posted near the door as I scrawled prosaic memories upon an otherwise vacant page. The spontaneous plucks of the bard’s fingers against his habituated corded column stifled the drunken cacophony erupting relentlessly about me, erratic and listless. Despite my consciousness of the garrulous and inconstant grandeur of the life music tumbling free of the sour mouths of men and the clangor of mug flats upon the bar, my sentiments were with Ziio.

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Presidium

We fight valiantly with bare bodies and bloody fingers – flesh rent, ruptured and tingeing with every salty lick of the smoldering desert wind. Slick with perspiration that seeps ceaselessly into our gaping, dribbling wounds, drenched in the scarlet water of pious mongrels, we stride upon and into the sand. It clings to the scalding moisture of our skin, invades our veins and embosses our hearts in its molten stone to the black and infinitesimal ether noshing unremittingly at our ankles and fracturing our sapphire skies. My flesh tears haughtily and spills onto the ground beneath me, malleable and parched. I have nothing left to bleed. A thick tendon peers without reticence from the gouge in my leg, but I do not falter. I stress my repentant limbs and screaming fibers to fall in step once more.

The dunes decline and the blazing orb peddling the faulty leisure of freedom submerges itself into the waning blue pool of indefiniteness. The slopes of my shoulders that once were lined with the capable frames of soldiers and sentinels, of iron horses and brass beasts, breath blazing, now were punctuated by naked plebeians, armed only with their hands and what little strength leeched upon their bones. In a nigh fictitious past we had been warriors – protected by dense and rueful plates of silver, arms staunch enough to wield blades smelted from the ivory and armor of our ancestors, skin warm and brown in vitality. We decimated our heritage as our swords splintered feebly against the impenetrable flesh of our enemies. We watched our own bones break as our weapons crumbled and the fine dust of the carnage was swept into our eyes by the breeze.

Our splendid revolution perished and we are left in the wake.

I am naked, I boast blood that I cannot distinguish from my own, I am weak and small and my skin is sallow from pestilence, but I am alive. The last of my men expel their souls in each of the breaths they take as we approach the tower that once was ours. I do not watch, but I can hear their bodies degrade and reassemble with each step we take. There are no more adversaries and no more allies – nothing but forsaken air and sand and distance between our band and the buttresses of the kingdom all but us had died to inherit. Our rights are hollow. We have earned nothing. We triumph only in that our lives are weakly snagged beneath our cold, sepulchral fingers.

I am the first to fall. One man follows suit shortly after, and we watch and rejoice vicariously as the last of us ascends the incline into the maw of our spire. He collapses before he plants his foot upon the cobblestone, and together – although apart – we weep.

I gaze through bleary eyes up at the structure I have never known, piercing the cerulean cistern in the sky with its altitude alone. The calk between its laden sandstone bricks croon to me with taunting, tantalizing voices in the knowledge that never again may I stand. My legs are shattered, my blood ebbs slowly back to my core as I expel the last of the warmth from my body in tears of mourning and regret for a kingdom I had never known. The hot rills streaming down my face pool about my body and I shudder, sobbing and pining for hope in a small facet. My mind is permeated with the dissonant cries of my fellow men, and I feel infinity begin to swallow me by the fingers. I resist with power I do not possess.

The granules of earth beneath me dampen, and I wheeze desperately against the plane, clinging to consciousness and tasting the salt upon my lips. I gasp in misery as the supports to our tower begin to crumble. In silence, we embrace impending oblivion and I feel the salt rumble beneath my frame as our castle decomposes along with us. The spire glides effortlessly from its base and I watch numbly, vaguely aware of the smile occupying my lips as it careens violently toward me. I close my eyes and the restrained moans of men vanish.

I am naked, I am tired, I am green with sickness, and skeletal from famine. My skin is drenched in mingled blood and torn from muscle that is my own. I am not alone.

In silence, we lie undisturbed beneath the ruin of a kingdom without a king. We inherited nothing but life itself.

We inherited nothing.

(Source: f3tid)