Spock had the inexplicable urge to bite his lip or clench his hands or shift his footing. He felt warm, warmer than usual, and his clothes scratched at his skin. He felt the same way he did during his sexual relations with Nyota, which was - though he did not like to repeat himself - illogical. He was not in physical contact with Nyota, or any other woman. Pon farr was still years away. There was no reason...
Nyota twisted her hand into T’Pring’s elaborately-styled hair, fingers hooking into the beads that draped around it, and pulled. T’Pring’s jaw clenched and she made a very quiet sort of squeak – she did not allow herself to yelp, though Spock knew firsthand the impressive strength Nyota could command (they were not always gentle in their encounters).
Spock had already tried to diffuse the conflict well before it had become physical. Nyota, however, was insistent that she would win Spock “fair and square”, in her words. She had held her chin high, and her facial expression had been somehow... hungry. Possessive.
Simply the memory of it sucked the moisture from Spock’s mouth.
T’Pring was stronger than Nyota, of course, due to Vulcan physiology. Evidently, Nyota had anticipated this: she did not attempt to win by brute force. She was sly, ducking under T’Pring’s punches to strike from behind, slipping away before T’Pring could turn and attack. T’Pring had begun trying to strike without turning; stepping on Nyota’s toes (a childish attack, particularly since Starfleet uniform boots were sturdy – Spock doubted Nyota even noticed) or jabbing her elbow back into Nyota’s stomach. Though the former tactic did work once, Nyota was still too quick. Unless Spock was mistaken, Nyota had taken only one solid to her ribs throughout the fight.
And now the small pearls that had adorned T’Pring’s hair clattered to the floor, and Nyota yanked at T’Pring’s hair until she was on her knees, and low enough that Nyota could swing a leg around her neck and shove her to the floor. With a knee pressed into T’Pring’s throat, Nyota reached beneath her skirt for the small knife she always kept strapped to her thigh. The skirt caught on the now-empty holster, and even as the point of a blade rested against the flesh covering T’Pring’s heart, Spock’s eyes were held by the long stretch of thigh that was still revealed.
“T’Pring,” he said, slightly alarmed to hear his own voice so husky. T’Pring was frozen, breathing in short, shallow rasps as Nyota’s knee hindered the flow of air – but Spock saw her eyes flicker to him and narrow. “You must concede defeat. I do not think it wise to test Nyota’s resolve.”
There was a moment of pause, and then T’Pring opened her mouth, attempting speech. Nyota eased the pressure of her knee until T’Pring’s voice was steady. “I yield,” she said.
Nyota had been somewhat straddling T’Pring; she swung her leg back over and rose in one graceful motion, resheathing her knife and smoothing down her skirt. By her expression and comportment, Spock might not have known that she had been engaged in mortal combat only moments before. However, her hair, usually sleek and immaculate, was tangled and flyaway, loose strands curled around her cheeks. Her skin glistened very faintly with sweat, and her cheeks were flushed. Her breath came out in small, quiet puffs – she was evidently attempting to even her respiration. Her eyes met Spock’s as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and he saw triumph in her dark eyes. She looked very nearly smug, an expression he was more accustomed to seeing on the captain’s face. Then, it was frustrating – but on Nyota, this look affected him in ways he did not want to admit.
Spock folded his hands in front of him as quickly as he dared. Nyota watched him, a sly curl to one corner of her mouth, eyes so dark they seemed black, tempting and seductive and he saw that she knew.
Re: Cat Fight
==============================================================
There was no logical reason for this.
Spock had the inexplicable urge to bite his lip or clench his hands or shift his footing. He felt warm, warmer than usual, and his clothes scratched at his skin. He felt the same way he did during his sexual relations with Nyota, which was - though he did not like to repeat himself - illogical. He was not in physical contact with Nyota, or any other woman. Pon farr was still years away. There was no reason...
Nyota twisted her hand into T’Pring’s elaborately-styled hair, fingers hooking into the beads that draped around it, and pulled. T’Pring’s jaw clenched and she made a very quiet sort of squeak – she did not allow herself to yelp, though Spock knew firsthand the impressive strength Nyota could command (they were not always gentle in their encounters).
Spock had already tried to diffuse the conflict well before it had become physical. Nyota, however, was insistent that she would win Spock “fair and square”, in her words. She had held her chin high, and her facial expression had been somehow... hungry. Possessive.
Simply the memory of it sucked the moisture from Spock’s mouth.
T’Pring was stronger than Nyota, of course, due to Vulcan physiology. Evidently, Nyota had anticipated this: she did not attempt to win by brute force. She was sly, ducking under T’Pring’s punches to strike from behind, slipping away before T’Pring could turn and attack. T’Pring had begun trying to strike without turning; stepping on Nyota’s toes (a childish attack, particularly since Starfleet uniform boots were sturdy – Spock doubted Nyota even noticed) or jabbing her elbow back into Nyota’s stomach. Though the former tactic did work once, Nyota was still too quick.
Unless Spock was mistaken, Nyota had taken only one solid to her ribs throughout the fight.
And now the small pearls that had adorned T’Pring’s hair clattered to the floor, and Nyota yanked at T’Pring’s hair until she was on her knees, and low enough that Nyota could swing a leg around her neck and shove her to the floor. With a knee pressed into T’Pring’s throat, Nyota reached beneath her skirt for the small knife she always kept strapped to her thigh. The skirt caught on the now-empty holster, and even as the point of a blade rested against the flesh covering T’Pring’s heart, Spock’s eyes were held by the long stretch of thigh that was still revealed.
“T’Pring,” he said, slightly alarmed to hear his own voice so husky. T’Pring was frozen, breathing in short, shallow rasps as Nyota’s knee hindered the flow of air – but Spock saw her eyes flicker to him and narrow. “You must concede defeat. I do not think it wise to test Nyota’s resolve.”
There was a moment of pause, and then T’Pring opened her mouth, attempting speech. Nyota eased the pressure of her knee until T’Pring’s voice was steady. “I yield,” she said.
Nyota had been somewhat straddling T’Pring; she swung her leg back over and rose in one graceful motion, resheathing her knife and smoothing down her skirt. By her expression and comportment, Spock might not have known that she had been engaged in mortal combat only moments before. However, her hair, usually sleek and immaculate, was tangled and flyaway, loose strands curled around her cheeks. Her skin glistened very faintly with sweat, and her cheeks were flushed. Her breath came out in small, quiet puffs – she was evidently attempting to even her respiration. Her eyes met Spock’s as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and he saw triumph in her dark eyes. She looked very nearly smug, an expression he was more accustomed to seeing on the captain’s face. Then, it was frustrating – but on Nyota, this look affected him in ways he did not want to admit.
Spock folded his hands in front of him as quickly as he dared. Nyota watched him, a sly curl to one corner of her mouth, eyes so dark they seemed black, tempting and seductive and he saw that she knew.