FIC: A Highly Logical Cultural Practice
Title: A Highly Logical Cultural Practice
Characters/Pairings: Spock/Uhura, OVCs
Rating/Warnings: R, no warnings
Summary: On the night of Spock and Nyota's engagement, Nyota learns something new about Vulcans. Written for yalegirl03 for the Where No Woman New Year Exchange.
Author's note: Many thanks to
illariy and soixante_quinze for beta-reading and being excellent cheerleaders. The idea that Vulcans have a tradition of elegant bondage is my own ridiculous head-canon, but it seems logical to me so I'm sticking with it.
Nyota knows Spock is in her room before the door finishes closing behind her.
She stands for a moment in the dark vestibule, listening. The lamps in the inner chamber are already lit; a soft amber glow spills from the open doorway and across the floor at her feet. There's no sound from inside, nothing to disturb the velvety silence but the soft rustling of her dress as she breathes. Yet she knows he's here as clearly as if he'd spoken, and she's already smiling as she steps across the threshold to meet him.
He rises from his seat as she enters. He looks taller in the lamplight, lean and handsome in his simple dark robes. His expression is as mild and serious as always, but Nyota feels the difference now in the presence of his mind in hers, like a chord to which new notes have been added.
"Nyota," he says, with a small bow.
"Spock." She returns the gesture as gracefully as her stiff corsets will permit. "Forgive me for asking, but aren't you supposed to be somewhere else right now?"
He tilts his head as if considering it, but she catches the faint trace of a smile. "I thought you might require assistance with your clothing," he says. "Those not accustomed to Vulcan formal dress sometimes find it difficult to remove."
"I see," she says. "It's convenient you're here, then, since my ladies in waiting only got as far as the door before they suddenly remembered a prior engagement."
"Indeed," he replies, moving closer. "I did not know T'Vora and T'Atia were so unreliable."
"I'm sure they're saying the same thing about you right now," she murmurs, as he leans down to kiss her. Their lips touch, and again she experiences that change in her perception, his mind bleeding into hers more clearly, more constantly than before. She sees a flash of herself at the betrothal ceremony--her dress an iridescent pool around her, her head bowed under a crown of dark plaits and shining silver ornaments. Intentional or unintentional? She breaks the kiss and looks up at him. Intentional. She tries it herself in return--gently pushing out the image of him, kneeling beside her in his embroidered robes, his eyes closed in meditation.
You are adjusting admirably, Nyota. A little rush of warmth accompanies the words in her mind. Out loud he says only, "Do you prefer your hair first, or your garments?"
"Garments, please; I haven't been able to bend at the waist for hours. Also I like my hair. I might decide to keep it like this."
He eyes the silver ornaments skeptically. "You may feel differently when you attempt to sleep on it."
"Hmm. If I feel the need to sleep, I'll reconsider."
"I see. You will keep me informed, I am sure." His trace of a smile has spread to his eyes, but his tone remains perfectly serious. "If you would turn around and lift your arms, please."
Nyota does as he asks, facing herself in the tall paneled mirror, and watches him as he begins the process of dismantling her dress. He works methodically, without talking--shoulder ties first, then the rows of tiny buttons that begin under her arms and disappear around her back. Behind him in the mirror the room is reflected, warm and glowing with the light of the lamps. Nyota closes her eyes for a moment, letting the quiet and his tranquil presence soothe away the last of the day's nervousness.
"T'Vora and T'Atia didn't seem surprised you were here," she says, opening her eyes.
He nods, barely glancing up from his task. "I hope you will not be disillusioned when I tell you they expected it. T'Atia in particular would have been severe in her criticism if I had failed to appear. She regards it as every male's duty to create a scandal on the occasion of his engagement. There, I am finished." The blue dress parts as if by magic, and he holds it aside as Nyota steps free of the rustling silk.
The next layer is the corset: delicately pink, extremely tight, and responsible for an impressive display of cleavage. Nyota contemplates her reflection while Spock hangs the dress in the wardrobe. She looks up to find him staring at her.
"It is unfortunate that this garment is not comfortable," he says. "The effect is--"
"Pleasing, I know."
They're both quiet again as he stands behind her and carefully removes the pins that hold the corset's ties in place. With gentle hands he unravels the complicated arrangement of laces and hooks that T'Vora and T'Atia had worked so hard to perfect. At last the final hook gives way, and Nyota draws a deep, grateful breath as she slides the corset down her arms and off.
"God, thank you. I was starting to feel like I'd never--"
She stops, because Spock isn't listening. He's just staring at her reflection, his expression slightly stunned.
"Spock?"
He blinks, and quickly lifts his eyes to meet her inquiring look. "I apologize," he says. "I am only--surprised."
His hand comes up by her side, and Nyota watches in the mirror as his fingers barely brush the network of cords that wrap her body from breast to hip. They form an intricate knotted web, beautiful and gleaming, over her chemise of pale, nearly-transparent silk.
"This is T'Atia's doing," he says.
"Yes. She told me it was traditional."
His soft exhalation is nearly a laugh. "Indeed. That is exactly what T'Atia would say."
"So--it's not?"
To Nyota's surprise, he blushes. "It is--complicated." But his eyes are still on the cords, and his hands are still touching her. He slips his fingers under the shining web and pulls gently, as if absent-mindedly testing its strength.
"Go on, I'm listening," she says, her skin blooming with sudden warmth.
Spock clears his throat. "It is an allusion to a work of Vulcan literature, dating to the time of Surak, in which a princess is courted by an inappropriate suitor. One day a servant warns the princess that the suitor plans to visit her room that night. In anticipation of his arrival, the princess instructs her maids to bind her body in this manner. The stated purpose is to protect her virtue."
Nyota laughs. "This is supposed to protect my virtue?"
"I think it is safe to say this is misdirection by the tale's narrator. As I believe you have noticed, these bindings present no actual obstacle in that regard."
"That's--yes, I did notice that. Please continue."
"There is a traditional practice among Vulcans," he continues, the green flush deepening, "in which physical restraint is employed to compensate for weakness in self-control--as when a Vulcan undergoes pon farr, or is otherwise emotionally compromised. It is regarded as logical; nevertheless the ritual character of the practice suggests an origin predating Surak. There are veiled references to it in a number of ancient works. The princess's story is simply the first to describe the activity in detail, and to make explicit its erotic nature."
"I see. So the story is like--"
"--a complex cultural artifact, imbued with contradictory meanings, precisely."
"I was going to say, a Vulcan sex manual."
"Perhaps a little of both," he avers.
"What about you?" Nyota asks, turning from the mirror to face him. "Have you engaged in this--highly logical cultural practice?"
His hesitation is minute, but telling. "It is common for adolescents to experiment. In that respect I am typical." Something flickers at the edge of her consciousness: the ghost-image of his memory, whisked away before she can see it clearly.
"And--you like it. You like--this." She touches the cords lightly.
"As you are now privy to my emotional responses," he says softly, "you already know that I do."
"Mmm," she agrees, moving closer. "I still like it when you say it."
"Then, yes."
"Fascinating," she murmurs. She leans up to kiss him, touching his face where the green flush remains, and when he opens his eyes again, deep and dark in the lamplight, she smiles. "Tell me what happens next."
"I do not--"
"To the princess, I mean. What happened that night? Did her suitor come and ravish her?"
"I do not know; the succeeding chapter has been lost. However in a later volume they are depicted as married, with a child."
"A happy ending. I like this princess."
"She does seem--exceptionally resourceful." His hands linger at her waist, his fingers still tracing the delicate threads, and this time when he kisses her Nyota feels no hint of embarrassment. She leans into his embrace and feels the flow of his mind, still new, still so unknown and mysterious. She wonders if that will ever change, if something so miraculous could ever cease to amaze her.
"How long do you think it would take you to undo all this?" she asks, slipping her arms inside his robe, seeking his body's familiar warmth.
"An hour, perhaps, if you do not wish me to cut it. T'Atia's knots are extremely well-constructed."
"Too long," she says. "I guess I'll have to keep it on until morning."
This time when he kisses her, she sees everything.
****
This post originated on Dreamwidth, where it has
comments. Comment here or there.
Characters/Pairings: Spock/Uhura, OVCs
Rating/Warnings: R, no warnings
Summary: On the night of Spock and Nyota's engagement, Nyota learns something new about Vulcans. Written for yalegirl03 for the Where No Woman New Year Exchange.
Author's note: Many thanks to
illariy and soixante_quinze for beta-reading and being excellent cheerleaders. The idea that Vulcans have a tradition of elegant bondage is my own ridiculous head-canon, but it seems logical to me so I'm sticking with it.
Nyota knows Spock is in her room before the door finishes closing behind her.
She stands for a moment in the dark vestibule, listening. The lamps in the inner chamber are already lit; a soft amber glow spills from the open doorway and across the floor at her feet. There's no sound from inside, nothing to disturb the velvety silence but the soft rustling of her dress as she breathes. Yet she knows he's here as clearly as if he'd spoken, and she's already smiling as she steps across the threshold to meet him.
He rises from his seat as she enters. He looks taller in the lamplight, lean and handsome in his simple dark robes. His expression is as mild and serious as always, but Nyota feels the difference now in the presence of his mind in hers, like a chord to which new notes have been added.
"Nyota," he says, with a small bow.
"Spock." She returns the gesture as gracefully as her stiff corsets will permit. "Forgive me for asking, but aren't you supposed to be somewhere else right now?"
He tilts his head as if considering it, but she catches the faint trace of a smile. "I thought you might require assistance with your clothing," he says. "Those not accustomed to Vulcan formal dress sometimes find it difficult to remove."
"I see," she says. "It's convenient you're here, then, since my ladies in waiting only got as far as the door before they suddenly remembered a prior engagement."
"Indeed," he replies, moving closer. "I did not know T'Vora and T'Atia were so unreliable."
"I'm sure they're saying the same thing about you right now," she murmurs, as he leans down to kiss her. Their lips touch, and again she experiences that change in her perception, his mind bleeding into hers more clearly, more constantly than before. She sees a flash of herself at the betrothal ceremony--her dress an iridescent pool around her, her head bowed under a crown of dark plaits and shining silver ornaments. Intentional or unintentional? She breaks the kiss and looks up at him. Intentional. She tries it herself in return--gently pushing out the image of him, kneeling beside her in his embroidered robes, his eyes closed in meditation.
You are adjusting admirably, Nyota. A little rush of warmth accompanies the words in her mind. Out loud he says only, "Do you prefer your hair first, or your garments?"
"Garments, please; I haven't been able to bend at the waist for hours. Also I like my hair. I might decide to keep it like this."
He eyes the silver ornaments skeptically. "You may feel differently when you attempt to sleep on it."
"Hmm. If I feel the need to sleep, I'll reconsider."
"I see. You will keep me informed, I am sure." His trace of a smile has spread to his eyes, but his tone remains perfectly serious. "If you would turn around and lift your arms, please."
Nyota does as he asks, facing herself in the tall paneled mirror, and watches him as he begins the process of dismantling her dress. He works methodically, without talking--shoulder ties first, then the rows of tiny buttons that begin under her arms and disappear around her back. Behind him in the mirror the room is reflected, warm and glowing with the light of the lamps. Nyota closes her eyes for a moment, letting the quiet and his tranquil presence soothe away the last of the day's nervousness.
"T'Vora and T'Atia didn't seem surprised you were here," she says, opening her eyes.
He nods, barely glancing up from his task. "I hope you will not be disillusioned when I tell you they expected it. T'Atia in particular would have been severe in her criticism if I had failed to appear. She regards it as every male's duty to create a scandal on the occasion of his engagement. There, I am finished." The blue dress parts as if by magic, and he holds it aside as Nyota steps free of the rustling silk.
The next layer is the corset: delicately pink, extremely tight, and responsible for an impressive display of cleavage. Nyota contemplates her reflection while Spock hangs the dress in the wardrobe. She looks up to find him staring at her.
"It is unfortunate that this garment is not comfortable," he says. "The effect is--"
"Pleasing, I know."
They're both quiet again as he stands behind her and carefully removes the pins that hold the corset's ties in place. With gentle hands he unravels the complicated arrangement of laces and hooks that T'Vora and T'Atia had worked so hard to perfect. At last the final hook gives way, and Nyota draws a deep, grateful breath as she slides the corset down her arms and off.
"God, thank you. I was starting to feel like I'd never--"
She stops, because Spock isn't listening. He's just staring at her reflection, his expression slightly stunned.
"Spock?"
He blinks, and quickly lifts his eyes to meet her inquiring look. "I apologize," he says. "I am only--surprised."
His hand comes up by her side, and Nyota watches in the mirror as his fingers barely brush the network of cords that wrap her body from breast to hip. They form an intricate knotted web, beautiful and gleaming, over her chemise of pale, nearly-transparent silk.
"This is T'Atia's doing," he says.
"Yes. She told me it was traditional."
His soft exhalation is nearly a laugh. "Indeed. That is exactly what T'Atia would say."
"So--it's not?"
To Nyota's surprise, he blushes. "It is--complicated." But his eyes are still on the cords, and his hands are still touching her. He slips his fingers under the shining web and pulls gently, as if absent-mindedly testing its strength.
"Go on, I'm listening," she says, her skin blooming with sudden warmth.
Spock clears his throat. "It is an allusion to a work of Vulcan literature, dating to the time of Surak, in which a princess is courted by an inappropriate suitor. One day a servant warns the princess that the suitor plans to visit her room that night. In anticipation of his arrival, the princess instructs her maids to bind her body in this manner. The stated purpose is to protect her virtue."
Nyota laughs. "This is supposed to protect my virtue?"
"I think it is safe to say this is misdirection by the tale's narrator. As I believe you have noticed, these bindings present no actual obstacle in that regard."
"That's--yes, I did notice that. Please continue."
"There is a traditional practice among Vulcans," he continues, the green flush deepening, "in which physical restraint is employed to compensate for weakness in self-control--as when a Vulcan undergoes pon farr, or is otherwise emotionally compromised. It is regarded as logical; nevertheless the ritual character of the practice suggests an origin predating Surak. There are veiled references to it in a number of ancient works. The princess's story is simply the first to describe the activity in detail, and to make explicit its erotic nature."
"I see. So the story is like--"
"--a complex cultural artifact, imbued with contradictory meanings, precisely."
"I was going to say, a Vulcan sex manual."
"Perhaps a little of both," he avers.
"What about you?" Nyota asks, turning from the mirror to face him. "Have you engaged in this--highly logical cultural practice?"
His hesitation is minute, but telling. "It is common for adolescents to experiment. In that respect I am typical." Something flickers at the edge of her consciousness: the ghost-image of his memory, whisked away before she can see it clearly.
"And--you like it. You like--this." She touches the cords lightly.
"As you are now privy to my emotional responses," he says softly, "you already know that I do."
"Mmm," she agrees, moving closer. "I still like it when you say it."
"Then, yes."
"Fascinating," she murmurs. She leans up to kiss him, touching his face where the green flush remains, and when he opens his eyes again, deep and dark in the lamplight, she smiles. "Tell me what happens next."
"I do not--"
"To the princess, I mean. What happened that night? Did her suitor come and ravish her?"
"I do not know; the succeeding chapter has been lost. However in a later volume they are depicted as married, with a child."
"A happy ending. I like this princess."
"She does seem--exceptionally resourceful." His hands linger at her waist, his fingers still tracing the delicate threads, and this time when he kisses her Nyota feels no hint of embarrassment. She leans into his embrace and feels the flow of his mind, still new, still so unknown and mysterious. She wonders if that will ever change, if something so miraculous could ever cease to amaze her.
"How long do you think it would take you to undo all this?" she asks, slipping her arms inside his robe, seeking his body's familiar warmth.
"An hour, perhaps, if you do not wish me to cut it. T'Atia's knots are extremely well-constructed."
"Too long," she says. "I guess I'll have to keep it on until morning."
This time when he kisses her, she sees everything.
****
This post originated on Dreamwidth, where it has
comments. Comment here or there.