Ficlet: Not the Desert, Not Repenting (Amanda/Sarek, R)
Title: Not the Desert, Not Repenting
Author: igrockspock
Pairing: Amanda/Sarek
Rating: R
Summary: Sarek and Amanda, alone in a moment of the night. Inspired by the Mary Oliver poem "You do not have to be good / you do not have to walk on your knees / for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting./ You only have to let the soft animal of your body / love what it loves."
Notes: for where_no_woman's latest drabble fest.
Amanda rises from the bed, her gauzy nightgown barely covering her body. Sarek knows she wears nothing beneath it, and if he raises his eyes, he will see the pale curves of her bottom beneath the ephemeral fabric. He clenches his fingers convulsively against the sheets, fighting for control over the desire sparked by her nearly naked body. He has already surrendered once this evening; he will not allow it again. It would be better to look away from her, but he cannot, so he focuses instead on her elegant bare feet padding over the wooden floor and the fluttering shadows her gown trails behind her.
Desire marginally controlled, he rises until he is sitting, making certain that the sheets do not fall below his waist. This is irrational, he knows. Amanda has seen his body bare, was lying curled next to it only moments ago. To conceal his nudity now serves no purpose. And yet, ironic though it is to pay tribute to his heritage in such an illogical way, he feels he must make this one small concession to Vulcan propriety. He will make love to a woman not his wife, he will occasionally, at her request, fuck her -- he breathes though a fresh wave of desire, remembering her voice in his ear, harder, please, Sarek, fuck me, her manicured nails leaving half moons in his back -- he will do these things, but he will not pretend that this intimacy of their bodies is ordinary, matter-of-fact, something to be done when it is not required. He locates his underthings at the foot of the bed and puts them on before he rises.
She is waiting for him at the other end of the room, a thick slice of freshly cooled bread in her hand. He reaches her in seconds though he moves without haste; the small studio apartment takes little time to traverse. He had congratulated her on the selection when she moved here a few weeks ago, saying that the small size was a reasonable compromise in light of its favorable location. In truth, he had been pleased that in this small room, she could never be far from him.
"It is ready?" he inquires even though the answer is obvious; she would not have left the bed -- their bed? he wonders -- if it were not, and she would not hold it out to him as a precious religious offering if she did not believe it fit to eat.
Her smile is conspiratorial.
"Ready."
He bites into his slice at the same time she sinks her teeth into her own. He would have preferred to watch the dark outline of her lips against the pale bread, but he knows it is important to her that he seems eager to eat. Crumbs of crust drift down to his feet, as he had known that they would, but he does not ask for a plate no matter how logical it would be to do so. Nor does he pull the broom from the space by the refrigerator to sweep up the bits of flour dusting the floor. He would like to; she is not careful when she cooks, and it is only logical that her partner should complement her messiness with his own cleaning skills. This is the way of Vulcan: one partner's weaknesses mitigated by the other's strengths. But she will not understand the gesture for what it is. She will think it a criticism, a disruption of the moment she had intended to share with him.
He does not understand why she should make bread when the local supermarket's is more than adequate, though he supposes there is value in self-sufficiency. He comprehends even less the impulse that led her to begin baking when she knew the project could not be completed until a most inconvenient hour. Yet, he knows he will revisit this evening many times in his mind, watching her smooth, meditative face as she kneaded the dough, seeing the strange gleam in her eyes as she offered him the bread. These things are somehow symbolic of who she is, and perhaps the reason for the light that glows more brightly in her eyes than in any other woman's. She inhabits a strange world governed by the foreign forces of impulse and desire, and when he surveys the illogical mountains of paper books and the impractical high heels discarded near the door, he knows that she is dangerous.
He does not leave.
Author: igrockspock
Pairing: Amanda/Sarek
Rating: R
Summary: Sarek and Amanda, alone in a moment of the night. Inspired by the Mary Oliver poem "You do not have to be good / you do not have to walk on your knees / for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting./ You only have to let the soft animal of your body / love what it loves."
Notes: for where_no_woman's latest drabble fest.
Amanda rises from the bed, her gauzy nightgown barely covering her body. Sarek knows she wears nothing beneath it, and if he raises his eyes, he will see the pale curves of her bottom beneath the ephemeral fabric. He clenches his fingers convulsively against the sheets, fighting for control over the desire sparked by her nearly naked body. He has already surrendered once this evening; he will not allow it again. It would be better to look away from her, but he cannot, so he focuses instead on her elegant bare feet padding over the wooden floor and the fluttering shadows her gown trails behind her.
Desire marginally controlled, he rises until he is sitting, making certain that the sheets do not fall below his waist. This is irrational, he knows. Amanda has seen his body bare, was lying curled next to it only moments ago. To conceal his nudity now serves no purpose. And yet, ironic though it is to pay tribute to his heritage in such an illogical way, he feels he must make this one small concession to Vulcan propriety. He will make love to a woman not his wife, he will occasionally, at her request, fuck her -- he breathes though a fresh wave of desire, remembering her voice in his ear, harder, please, Sarek, fuck me, her manicured nails leaving half moons in his back -- he will do these things, but he will not pretend that this intimacy of their bodies is ordinary, matter-of-fact, something to be done when it is not required. He locates his underthings at the foot of the bed and puts them on before he rises.
She is waiting for him at the other end of the room, a thick slice of freshly cooled bread in her hand. He reaches her in seconds though he moves without haste; the small studio apartment takes little time to traverse. He had congratulated her on the selection when she moved here a few weeks ago, saying that the small size was a reasonable compromise in light of its favorable location. In truth, he had been pleased that in this small room, she could never be far from him.
"It is ready?" he inquires even though the answer is obvious; she would not have left the bed -- their bed? he wonders -- if it were not, and she would not hold it out to him as a precious religious offering if she did not believe it fit to eat.
Her smile is conspiratorial.
"Ready."
He bites into his slice at the same time she sinks her teeth into her own. He would have preferred to watch the dark outline of her lips against the pale bread, but he knows it is important to her that he seems eager to eat. Crumbs of crust drift down to his feet, as he had known that they would, but he does not ask for a plate no matter how logical it would be to do so. Nor does he pull the broom from the space by the refrigerator to sweep up the bits of flour dusting the floor. He would like to; she is not careful when she cooks, and it is only logical that her partner should complement her messiness with his own cleaning skills. This is the way of Vulcan: one partner's weaknesses mitigated by the other's strengths. But she will not understand the gesture for what it is. She will think it a criticism, a disruption of the moment she had intended to share with him.
He does not understand why she should make bread when the local supermarket's is more than adequate, though he supposes there is value in self-sufficiency. He comprehends even less the impulse that led her to begin baking when she knew the project could not be completed until a most inconvenient hour. Yet, he knows he will revisit this evening many times in his mind, watching her smooth, meditative face as she kneaded the dough, seeing the strange gleam in her eyes as she offered him the bread. These things are somehow symbolic of who she is, and perhaps the reason for the light that glows more brightly in her eyes than in any other woman's. She inhabits a strange world governed by the foreign forces of impulse and desire, and when he surveys the illogical mountains of paper books and the impractical high heels discarded near the door, he knows that she is dangerous.
He does not leave.