"She will not live long, as she is. I almost pity her." Starek shakes his head, reaching out to set the communicator on the nightstand. He is still and contemplative for a long moment, oddly serious, before reaching into his pocket, again, and drawing out a small, jewelled box.
He hands it to Selov, with a smirk. "My thanks. I do not think I will be needing this, this evening, but I am more than certain you and yours would be able to find a use for it." He pauses for emphasis, slyly raising an eyebrow. "Unless, of course, you've found better things to do with your time."
The box -- a replica of an old snuffbox -- is filled with two ounces of powdered cocoa.
"One never knows one when will need to be... less than perfectly engaged with the consensual reality of a situation. Many things are more entertaining once you get the brackets off."
Selov palms the little box, checks its contents, and sequesters it in a pocket of his outermost robe. "Such a fine gift for so trivial a favor. One must wonder what your reaction will be once you get a look at Tunor's manifest of ship's parts
( ... )
"You mistake me, on the subject of the box. It is for the favour you do not know you have done me." Starek shakes his head -- Merendith has been unable to get him to lay off the chocolate, all week. "Or, perhaps you do -- you are rather observant
( ... )
Spock seems taken aback by the nose tap as well as the appellation. Fluffy?
"I would answer your question about the Romulans," Selov replies, taking in Starek's pornographic display. "Except I think perhaps you would rather be left alone, just now."
"I have commanded my ship, in the nude. I have engaged in intercourse while negotiating for a contract -- and it got me the contract, I might add. Unless you're particularly disturbed by my demonstrations, I see no reason why you shouldn't talk and enjoy them, simultaneously. As I was telling Spock --" Starek pops a grape into the air with his thumb and catches it in his mouth. "-- I am a master of multitasking, and I am here to be enjoyed, while I strategise."
He rubs his fingertip against Spock's nose. "Unless, of course, you'd like me to get back to my earlier suggestions on the methodology of breakfast..."
"I object to being used as a platter, yeht-veh," Spock says quietly.
Selov's eyes widen and he nearly leaps off the bed. "Yes, well then, when you are suitably rested and," he swallows, "recovered, feel free to join us at any time."
He waggles the fingers of one hand at the pair and breezes out the door. At the bottom of the stairs, he turns pointedly in the direction of Tunor's workroom, suffused with an urgency he has not felt in some time, perhaps even since their most recent cycle.
Back in the room, Spock turns to Starek with a quizzical look. "You find my body hair illogical?"
"Patently illogical, in the context of insulation on a warm-blooded creature in a desert environment. On the other hand, I strongly approve of the feel of it against my skin." Starek licks his lips and smiles wickedly, before heaping berries and dip onto another piece of bread.
"And why do you object to being used as a platter?" He asks, around a mouthful. "Do you truly find the idea of my tongue chasing drops of kaasa juice across your skin so appalling? Does the idea that my breakfast might taste better with a hint of your skin behind it truly upset you?"
"It is not upsetting. It is, however, a good deal more illogical than body hair on a desert dweller," Spock lobs this back evenly and then reclines, satisfied with himself.
"I must say, the opinions that are now being heard on Vulcan regarding homosexuality," he waves a hand and the volume of history on the table, "have not been heard in some time. How is it on your homeowrld, tal-kam?"
"Hmm. And I thought you found my illogical ideas pleasurable." Starek's face is bland, his voice weighted and teasing. "I suppose I will have to make do with a slightly less delicious breakfast."
At this point, he doesn't even care. He's starting to sober up, for the first time in a week, and his body is demanding that he put food into it at once. It isn't that he hasn't been eating, it's just that he hasn't been sleeping, either, and one can only maintain one of those two things at a time
( ... )
"Another of our misunderstandings", Spock takes a moment to stretch with his eyes closed. "Your health and well-being are important to me; therefore logic dictates that I provide as few distractions as possible while you eat your fill."
"And as to what you keep for me . . . " a slow smile, "I had noticed, ashayam."
"I don't think I'm capable of being distracted from the food, at the moment, regardless of your charming personality and infinitely desirable body." Starek creates and demolishes another sandwich, licking gobs of thick, spiced dip from where they dripped between his knuckles. "I suspect you will forgive me my manners, on the basis of my delectably obscene methods? This is, for a change, not pain au chocolat, and I think my system is quite thrilled with the idea of actual nutrients."
He looks up, catching Spock's eye. "I have spent the last week extraordinarily drunk. I have been desperately trying to ignore reality, to the best of my ability. The triumph of a lifetime turned into a vivid nightmare, and ... I am ashamed to say that, for once, I could not handle it. I think I prefer the usual stabbing and shooting sorts of nightmares. They're much easier to recover from."
Another sandwich comes and goes. Starek pauses. "I should stop eating so quickly. Perhaps it would be better if you did distract me..."
Starek tips his head far back, nearly pouring the water down his sleekly displayed throat, as he swallows reflexively, every half-second until the glass is empty. Righting himself, he holds the glass out, balanced between the very tips of his fingers, and flicks his tongue twice, drying the corners of his mouth. The entire display is an offer and the acceptance of an offer, as much as anything involving the necessity of water.
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Selov looks at both of them and then returns to the holo. "Thank you, Amber. You may communicate further with Tunor or I, should you have the need."
"I don't think I will, but thanks." She makes the ta'al, but without looking at any of them, before vanishing
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He hands it to Selov, with a smirk. "My thanks. I do not think I will be needing this, this evening, but I am more than certain you and yours would be able to find a use for it." He pauses for emphasis, slyly raising an eyebrow. "Unless, of course, you've found better things to do with your time."
The box -- a replica of an old snuffbox -- is filled with two ounces of powdered cocoa.
"One never knows one when will need to be... less than perfectly engaged with the consensual reality of a situation. Many things are more entertaining once you get the brackets off."
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"I would answer your question about the Romulans," Selov replies, taking in Starek's pornographic display. "Except I think perhaps you would rather be left alone, just now."
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He rubs his fingertip against Spock's nose. "Unless, of course, you'd like me to get back to my earlier suggestions on the methodology of breakfast..."
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Selov's eyes widen and he nearly leaps off the bed. "Yes, well then, when you are suitably rested and," he swallows, "recovered, feel free to join us at any time."
He waggles the fingers of one hand at the pair and breezes out the door. At the bottom of the stairs, he turns pointedly in the direction of Tunor's workroom, suffused with an urgency he has not felt in some time, perhaps even since their most recent cycle.
Back in the room, Spock turns to Starek with a quizzical look. "You find my body hair illogical?"
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"And why do you object to being used as a platter?" He asks, around a mouthful. "Do you truly find the idea of my tongue chasing drops of kaasa juice across your skin so appalling? Does the idea that my breakfast might taste better with a hint of your skin behind it truly upset you?"
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"I must say, the opinions that are now being heard on Vulcan regarding homosexuality," he waves a hand and the volume of history on the table, "have not been heard in some time. How is it on your homeowrld, tal-kam?"
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At this point, he doesn't even care. He's starting to sober up, for the first time in a week, and his body is demanding that he put food into it at once. It isn't that he hasn't been eating, it's just that he hasn't been sleeping, either, and one can only maintain one of those two things at a time ( ... )
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"And as to what you keep for me . . . " a slow smile, "I had noticed, ashayam."
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He looks up, catching Spock's eye. "I have spent the last week extraordinarily drunk. I have been desperately trying to ignore reality, to the best of my ability. The triumph of a lifetime turned into a vivid nightmare, and ... I am ashamed to say that, for once, I could not handle it. I think I prefer the usual stabbing and shooting sorts of nightmares. They're much easier to recover from."
Another sandwich comes and goes. Starek pauses. "I should stop eating so quickly. Perhaps it would be better if you did distract me..."
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There is an edge to his voice now, honed by need.
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Starek tips his head far back, nearly pouring the water down his sleekly displayed throat, as he swallows reflexively, every half-second until the glass is empty. Righting himself, he holds the glass out, balanced between the very tips of his fingers, and flicks his tongue twice, drying the corners of his mouth. The entire display is an offer and the acceptance of an offer, as much as anything involving the necessity of water.
"I am here for your pleasure, after all."
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