Category: Enterprise, Trip/T'Pol
Summary: An interlude between "Harbinger" and "Damage," when the drugs and sex were good.
Author's Notes: If you ever want to be more grateful than usual that you are not a crack addict, read over the Government Drug Control Glossary of slang terms.
Liner Notes: Inspired by Bright Eyes, "Lover I Don't Have To Love," but I'm pretty sure this fic only scratches the surface of that idea.
For: aquarius_1977. And anr. Always for her.
They should not be doing this.
An exhaustive list of all the reasons why they shouldn't be doing this would take days to compile, with cultural taboos and Starfleet honor codes and anatomical cross-species misalignments and their all-consuming Xindi mission and how she told herself this would not happen again, but the reason topmost on T'Pol's mind is that they really don't have time.
"We are due on the bridge," she reminds him, but it's practically a whisper and she isn't sure his human hearing will pick it up, even at this range, her jaw pressed against his, his breath on her ear, tongue just grazing the earlobe sloooowly -
They definitely don't have time for that. This was not essential, the way their other late-night-early-morning-can't-sleep-don't-y
She always seems to be the one to kiss him first, and usually because it seems so much less damning than whatever is about to spill out of her mouth.
"Not for twenty minutes," he murmurs, kissing his way leisurely down her jaw.
"We will be late for the briefing," she says, but the pedantic tone of voice she's going for is curtailed when he edges his teeth on the front of her throat, and she can't keep a bit of a choked gasp from her mouth.
"Nah." Just that, the vibrations from one syllable, make her mentally steel herself against flipping him over onto the bed and making him get on with it. He always grins when she does that, in a smug way like he's in control, and makes it all the harder for her to stop these isolated incidents from becoming... less isolated. Habitual.
"We will have to shower," she snaps. Now that they have the showers working again after their last firefight, there's no excuse.
She can feel his smirk on the skin of her breast as he -- surely deliberately -- kisses her everywhere except the places that she wants him to.
He's infuriating, she reminds herself. That is why she wasn't going to do this anymore. He's irrational and imprecise and completely illogical-
Trip asks, "Who's gonna notice if I smell like you?"
"I will." She commands herself to get up from the bed, end this again onceandforall, but he stops her with a hand on her hip before the thought is even complete.
He shoves her to the bed on her back and she lets him pin her there, relieved that they're more likely to make the briefing on time if things progress faster, and also sharply, primally eager.
His body, his naked body, on her...
This is what she feels when she is on Trellium D. She feels. Like she's shattering into a million emotional pieces, but it's not dangerous, because something warm and comforting is holding her down.
He slips a finger inside her, pushing against the muscles at her entrance to unlock them in a way he is far, far too adept at for not being Vulcan, for being a novice with her anatomy, with having only been in her bed four - five - ten times before. She wriggles a hand free to touch his dick because it is only equitable that they should each get pleasure of their own.
He told her last time that he gets pleasure from touching her and she doesn't believe him, because he isn't Vulcan.
She grasps his erection and feels the thrum of his sexual energy in her like something warm and hard to the chest, knocking her breathing pattern off balance, and like every single time, she isn't sure if she needs him or he needs her or if she will implode or explode when he touches her but she suddenly cares a whole lot less about what Captain Archer will think when they're late to the briefing and she smells like human sex.
His gaze grows intense like he feels exactly the same thing.
She informs him -- politely, she thinks, and not at all rushed like it sounds: "I am adequately prepared for intercourse."
He snickers, just a little, and she's mystified by his human reaction, catalogs it for further study. "Tryin' to get off easy?" he asks, and she senses humor she doesn't understand and won't ask about, not now, because he has two fingers in her spreading wider, exploring muscles that she knows (from the medical database) are different from the human pelvic floor muscles.
She tenses when he finds something charged and then squirms because he is not moving his hand to make use of it.
She begins to stroke his dick, a rhythm she determined in a previous session, and his eyes roll back in his head for a moment but he's grinning right at her like they're sharing a joke.
"You're a lady that knows what she wants," he teases. He doesn't usually talk much during their sexual encounters, not in complete sentences, and never this casually.
But then, neither does she. "I want to attend the officer's briefing."
"Oh, really. Because we can stop right here."
Conversation has become illogical. Counterproductive.
T'Pol flips him over and makes him get on with it, sinks onto his erection with a sound she will not let free. He moans, choked in his throat, and she wills her muscles to relax around him, to absorb every sensation of thisofhim and then she moves, because they're in a hurry, and because she needs.
And she enjoys that, in a way she enjoyed nothing before the Seleya. The tangible emotions rising inside of her are welcome in a sharp way that she will be ashamed of later, but this is exactly what she wanted when she broke their neuropressure session with a kiss because she wanted to feel this, wanted to not be able to stand it if she didn't have him right this instant.
Vulcans do not feel this. Other Vulcans. Vulcans without humans, without Trip.
She pities them.
He challenges her rhythm, presses points in her hips, and she feels nerves coming alive within her in a way she can now anticipate.
They fight for position and she can't keep her mouth from his. His teeth scrape her lips and she fights back until they're at the correct angle, and she goes at his mouth, his tongue his lips his tongue until she hears a sound she recalls and focuses again on her hips, his hips, tightenreleasetighten and he's inside her and out and inside and she has no idea how she ever could have considered this illogical ten minutes ago because she grinds herself forward and sinks onto him once more and he leaves her mouth to bite - her - neck - and -
Her first orgasm with a part of someone else within, with Trip inside her, left her hungry and enthralled and wanting more and convinced that, like everything else except Trellium and the Expanse and leaving the High Command and Trip and Archer and emotion and this thing with a human she justcan'tstop -
Like everything other than that, she would get used to it.
She hasn't, because her orderly thoughts fly apart and she's left reeling and needing and wanting to feel him come too, and when he does, she feels...
Not guilty. Not panicked. Not like she might eat him alive if only to keep him close, or burn to death if he touches her ever again.
She realizes, with him still inside her, his human muscles spent and melted against her skin, that they just had sex, and, perhaps more importantly, that was not what they'd been doing every other sexual encounter.
He pinches her side while she's absorbing that, oblivious to her deeply terrifying revelation. "Shower time?" he asks.
Irrationally, illogically, she doesn't want her scent washed off him. Not until she figures out exactly what this new information means. She wants to smell him across the briefing table with the Vulcan nose she never numbs anymore and know that no other female on this ship will have him because she has marked him for hers.
"We will be late," she argues lamely. She goes to sit up, and her hands are shaking. Her stomach feels empty, but not for food.
It's too soon, she thinks for a moment, but then mentally waves off the concern with logical suppositions about sex, metabolism, dosage.
Trip pushes himself up to his elbows, body languid with a sexual haze she appreciates on him. He touches her shaking hand with gentleness. "You okay?"
She snatches it back, his touch suddenly distasteful. "I will shower," she states.
He understands he's not invited. "I'll make your excuses," he says. He sounds a little annoyed, but something is slipping away inside her, so she can't figure out why.
"Commander," she calls as he goes to leave, fully dressed, while she's still naked on the bed.
He stops. The words in her throat melt away with confusion and logic.
"Tell the captain I will not be delayed long."
He nods. "I'll fill you in on anything you miss."
Trip leaves, and she feels oddly... bereft. She would mentally catalog that for further study, too, if it weren't so disquieting.
She gets dressed in a clean uniform and tidies her hair. Logically, it is more important that she adjust her dosage than shower.
Logic hasn't failed her yet.