A wee homage to Spock in 270 words, from Uhura
A/N: Hawser: a cable (often steel) used to moor a ship.
Hawser
In repose, his muscles are almost all minutely softened, and she indulges herself an exploration of his molten angles. He is the most arid man she has ever lain with; the stutter of a limb over damp flesh is long unknown to her. Lying curled behind him - the reverse is impossibly stifling - her hands traverse his smooth muscled shoulders. Moving on to brush the tinder scrub of his chest she grazes over a nipple, skimming down and round to a slim waist, cataloguing the dip below his ribs - and heart - and the transition once more to hairless skin. A sharp hip is caressed and read like Braille, the spare contours of it conveying so much more to her than mere construction. Finally, the landscape changes to scrubland once more and her palm pushes gently, every time in wonder, although she knows intimately the shape and texture of his leg and has carried out this covert operation a hundred times.
Vastus Lateralis: the outer edge of the thigh. Her fingers are furtive as she feels the thrill of it beneath the press of their tips. There is no play or give, no reaction to her action. It is a steel cable; hard, corded, tensioned, immobile, coiled. Anchored at his hip, it allows him to flex his knee to facilitate that loose lanky lope, known ship-wide, that even now causes her composure to falter when glimpsed unexpectedly. Tonight, as all nights, it serves as evidence of his immense strength, and of his body’s ability to propel itself from her bed in an uncontainable, devastating whiplash. To strike. To protect.
Hawser
In repose, his muscles are almost all minutely softened, and she indulges herself an exploration of his molten angles. He is the most arid man she has ever lain with; the stutter of a limb over damp flesh is long unknown to her. Lying curled behind him - the reverse is impossibly stifling - her hands traverse his smooth muscled shoulders. Moving on to brush the tinder scrub of his chest she grazes over a nipple, skimming down and round to a slim waist, cataloguing the dip below his ribs - and heart - and the transition once more to hairless skin. A sharp hip is caressed and read like Braille, the spare contours of it conveying so much more to her than mere construction. Finally, the landscape changes to scrubland once more and her palm pushes gently, every time in wonder, although she knows intimately the shape and texture of his leg and has carried out this covert operation a hundred times.
Vastus Lateralis: the outer edge of the thigh. Her fingers are furtive as she feels the thrill of it beneath the press of their tips. There is no play or give, no reaction to her action. It is a steel cable; hard, corded, tensioned, immobile, coiled. Anchored at his hip, it allows him to flex his knee to facilitate that loose lanky lope, known ship-wide, that even now causes her composure to falter when glimpsed unexpectedly. Tonight, as all nights, it serves as evidence of his immense strength, and of his body’s ability to propel itself from her bed in an uncontainable, devastating whiplash. To strike. To protect.