Morning has never been Starek's favourite time of day, and this morning is slightly lower on his list than some he can remember. He'd been furious when the hail came in, two days ago, then fascinated at the implications and the invitation, and the two sort of settled into a vague irritation. Either way, he's come. And he's come alone, to boot, despite insistence from Stavret and the doctor that he take one of them down, with him, for his health.
It's good to be cautious, and he knows this well, but it's bad form to impose. He's got a bag of tools, slung over his shoulder, and they should be enough to keep him safe -- and if they don't, he's still got a beacon. He can be out in ten seconds, at any time.
He's voluntarily walking into a house full of Vulcans on a neutral world. He wonders if he's taken leave of his senses.
As he approaches the door, a faint itching starts on the back of his hand, and by the time he taps the panel beside the door, it has spread up his arm, to his shoulder, and begun on the other side. Out in ten
( ... )
Selov answers the door and gets about as far as "welcome" before he sees the reaction and hustles Starek inside.
"Oh dear, oh dear. This will not do, not at all. Come with me, quickly -- and quietly."
He sneaks, actually sneaks, down the hall, bends his head to peer cautiously around a doorway, and then dashes by, motioning for Starek to do the same.
Upstairs, in the bathroom, Selov's head and upper body have been engulfed by a cabinet. His robed posterior wiggles in a most un-Vulcan manner as he rummages.
"Where is it? We had another few here . . . this happens often enough that we keep a supply. The second High Council member was most displeased until we could medicate him properly. Even then, he was sure we'd done it on purpose. As if we'd engineered the flora specifically to -. Ah."
He backs out with a hypospray in one hand and a jar of salve in the other. "These should bring relief. We can never tell who will be affected. I am quite sorry."
Starek bows shallowly, visibly relieved, as he accepts the jar and the hypospray. Miraculously, he manages to avoid commenting on the older Vulcan's shapely posterior, but twice damned if he hadn't noticed that display.
"Nash-veh itar-bosh," he says quietly, pressing the hypospray to his own neck. Within moments, the itching begins to fade, and he dabs salve onto a spot or two that have remained inflamed.
"Who were we attempting to avoid? I had thought my visit engineered to miss all of the less-desirable elements that had invaded your home." His eyebrow arcs up and he licks the inner edge of his lip in relatively unsubtle dry amusement. There is no need to pretend to be Vulcan, here -- especially, it seems, in front of this one of T'Nis's fathers.
Starek wakes to the smell of not his own bed. This is the first sign that something is not quite right. In fact, he doesn't recognise the bed, either. It takes a long minute or six for him to remember he'd come to visit T'Nis's fathers.
It comes back slowly... The allergies, flirting with Selov -- here he groans into the pillow. That was probably completely inappropriate, but the old Vulcan seemed to be keeping up pretty well. Still a tempting thought, though.
And then, he remembers the rest, and sits bolt upright, calling out -- "Spock!"
Spock emerges from the adjacent solarium carrying an actual paper book in his hand. HIs expression softens when he finds Starek sitting upright and looking better for his nap.
"Like I've had six pints of ale, laced with cocoa, and slept them off in a blender." Starek relaxes at the sight of his taluhk-veh. "Of course, this is also an improvement, which says more than I will on the subject."
He rubs his face, scratches his hair, and wipes his cheek off on his shoulder, before smiling up at Spock in rumpled amusement. "What are you reading?"
He seats himself on the bed. "A most interesting historical treatise. Selov has quite a collection. He is an historian and something of a sociologist as well. His speciality is," and Spock gave a pause, "the misfits of Vulcan society, and how various groups have withered or flourished, over the centuries."
He puts up a hand to smooth down the tufts of Starek's hair, but like their owner the refuse to be tamed.
"Would you like something to eat? You have slept through the time of the midday meal, but Tunor informed me that some cold foods have been left out for us."
She is resolute. "I'm here to say that I fucked up. Insanely. And it took this fucking media circus to show me that, which is shitty, because I should've just known.
Amber pauses. Swallows. "You have every right to jail me or fry me or make me into cat food. But I want to help you."
"My own line of work disinclines me to take revenge, at this time, in these circumstances. That is by no means a guarantee in any other circumstances." Starek's words are measured and crisp. "How exactly do you intend to 'help' us?"
Politics, he reminds himself, is that game in which phasering your opponents under the negotiating table is frowned upon. Of course, at the moment, he has no opponents -- directly. He is, however, caught in the middle of a shitstorm spanning two empires that revolves around the man who, love aside, has the routing codes to hail and track his ship. Speaking of which, it is probably time to change those, before T'Nis leaks them any farther than her fathers.
"I have the tapes, audio and everything. If you want, I can leak the parts that show Spock didn't know you were Romulan, or that once you melded, it was okay between you."
"That was beautiful, by the way," she throws up a hand and then rubs her nose with it, looking away from the camera. "Not like you care what I think but, I'm just saying."
"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
( ... )
Starek can't even beg, any more. He's been rendered incoherent by the force of Spock's lust and the delectable strain of his own pleasure. Wildly desperate sounds spill from his mouth -- keening, groaning, and whimpering -- as he grinds himself against Spock's hand, feeling that damp squish as more of his natural lubricant is pressed out against Spock's palm. He arches, body tensing, but there is no release, and with a hollow sound of frustration, he rocks back, grinding against the heat in Spock's pants.
"Nuh'mau," Spock moans at the sweet torture, extricating his hand and shoving Starek lustily aside in one motion. He climbs out, drops down into kneel on the bed, tugs Starek down towards him, and then works at the fastening to the Romulan's pants with shaking, slick fingers.
He yanks down the zipper -- a good call, given the rapidity and force with which Starek finally unsheathes -- and then wastes no time getting that emerald cock between his lips, right where he's wanted it all week -- among other places. Spock is moaning, almost sobbing around Starek in the intensity of his need.
As for his tunic and sav'el, Spock interrupts his eager sucking only long to yank them up over his head. Then he covers Starek, drags at those damnably tight pants for a moment, remembers the boots, gives up, and just releases his own pounding flesh from its confines. Then he resumes.
Starek actually shouts as Spock's mouth closes around him. It's so good. So much, so fast. He writhes, twisting the sheets in his hands as he struggles to retain control. The world swims, in his vision, dizzying and unimportant. He howls, digging his short nails into his palms, but the pain just makes everything a little brighter.
He's so close, and fighting it so carefully -- he could clamp down and turn it off, but that would ruin the whole experience. He'd have no further pleasure in the act, but what he could take from Spock. So, he claws at the blankets, at his own shoulders, at Spock's hands. He squeezes the tip of Spock's ear, for just a moment, before his fingers fail him, again.
"Dungi ulidau du." Spock snarls, his lips trailing wetness. "Sarlah'uh na'nash-veh. Lu sarlah du, shei'uh ahm t’nash-veh heh fai'uh du dungi sak-tor na'nash-veh, thurai. Dungi ma ek't'du. Dungi nam-tor t'nash-veh."
Spock goes back to work, his thumbs digging into the tender skin just inside Starek's hipbones. The meld has made the Vulcan an even quicker study than usual and there is no hesitation this time and no teeth now, just the strong, pistoning motion of his neck and the heated groans deep in his throat where he pauses, at times, to let Starek feel the full heat of him.
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It's good to be cautious, and he knows this well, but it's bad form to impose. He's got a bag of tools, slung over his shoulder, and they should be enough to keep him safe -- and if they don't, he's still got a beacon. He can be out in ten seconds, at any time.
He's voluntarily walking into a house full of Vulcans on a neutral world. He wonders if he's taken leave of his senses.
As he approaches the door, a faint itching starts on the back of his hand, and by the time he taps the panel beside the door, it has spread up his arm, to his shoulder, and begun on the other side. Out in ten ( ... )
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"Oh dear, oh dear. This will not do, not at all. Come with me, quickly -- and quietly."
He sneaks, actually sneaks, down the hall, bends his head to peer cautiously around a doorway, and then dashes by, motioning for Starek to do the same.
Upstairs, in the bathroom, Selov's head and upper body have been engulfed by a cabinet. His robed posterior wiggles in a most un-Vulcan manner as he rummages.
"Where is it? We had another few here . . . this happens often enough that we keep a supply. The second High Council member was most displeased until we could medicate him properly. Even then, he was sure we'd done it on purpose. As if we'd engineered the flora specifically to -. Ah."
He backs out with a hypospray in one hand and a jar of salve in the other. "These should bring relief. We can never tell who will be affected. I am quite sorry."
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"Nash-veh itar-bosh," he says quietly, pressing the hypospray to his own neck. Within moments, the itching begins to fade, and he dabs salve onto a spot or two that have remained inflamed.
"Who were we attempting to avoid? I had thought my visit engineered to miss all of the less-desirable elements that had invaded your home." His eyebrow arcs up and he licks the inner edge of his lip in relatively unsubtle dry amusement. There is no need to pretend to be Vulcan, here -- especially, it seems, in front of this one of T'Nis's fathers.
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"Stariben vuhlkansu ha?" he raised a well-shaped eyebrow. "Nam-tor ek'mesukh?""
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It comes back slowly... The allergies, flirting with Selov -- here he groans into the pillow. That was probably completely inappropriate, but the old Vulcan seemed to be keeping up pretty well. Still a tempting thought, though.
And then, he remembers the rest, and sits bolt upright, calling out -- "Spock!"
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"I am here. How are you feeling?"
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He rubs his face, scratches his hair, and wipes his cheek off on his shoulder, before smiling up at Spock in rumpled amusement. "What are you reading?"
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He puts up a hand to smooth down the tufts of Starek's hair, but like their owner the refuse to be tamed.
"Would you like something to eat? You have slept through the time of the midday meal, but Tunor informed me that some cold foods have been left out for us."
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His hand closes possessively around Spock's wrist. "Say what you have come to say, and we will consider it."
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Amber pauses. Swallows. "You have every right to jail me or fry me or make me into cat food. But I want to help you."
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Politics, he reminds himself, is that game in which phasering your opponents under the negotiating table is frowned upon. Of course, at the moment, he has no opponents -- directly. He is, however, caught in the middle of a shitstorm spanning two empires that revolves around the man who, love aside, has the routing codes to hail and track his ship. Speaking of which, it is probably time to change those, before T'Nis leaks them any farther than her fathers.
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"That was beautiful, by the way," she throws up a hand and then rubs her nose with it, looking away from the camera. "Not like you care what I think but, I'm just saying."
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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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"T'du. Ek t'nash-veh."
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He yanks down the zipper -- a good call, given the rapidity and force with which Starek finally unsheathes -- and then wastes no time getting that emerald cock between his lips, right where he's wanted it all week -- among other places. Spock is moaning, almost sobbing around Starek in the intensity of his need.
As for his tunic and sav'el, Spock interrupts his eager sucking only long to yank them up over his head. Then he
covers Starek, drags at those damnably tight pants for a moment, remembers the boots, gives up, and just releases his own pounding flesh from its confines. Then he resumes.
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He's so close, and fighting it so carefully -- he could clamp down and turn it off, but that would ruin the whole experience. He'd have no further pleasure in the act, but what he could take from Spock. So, he claws at the blankets, at his own shoulders, at Spock's hands. He squeezes the tip of Spock's ear, for just a moment, before his fingers fail him, again.
"Fan-nuk du aitlu nash-veh. Aisha nash-veh shetau t'du. Ulida'uh nash-veh! Ma'uh nash-veh!"
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Spock goes back to work, his thumbs digging into the tender skin just inside Starek's hipbones. The meld has made the Vulcan an even quicker study than usual and there is no hesitation this time and no teeth now, just the strong, pistoning motion of his neck and the heated groans deep in his throat where he pauses, at times, to let Starek feel the full heat of him.
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