This post is part of Linda G.Hill’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday meme -an unedited stream of consciousness piece that ties into the weekly prompt: the word ‘still’, used any way we like.
This prompt serves two purposes. It lets me play with two of my favorite characters, and it’s the freewriting phase of my current OctPoWriMo poem, which will be a cascade poem based upon the Rumi quote I used in this story.
Disclaimer: I don’t own this universe, or these lovers. This is also an R-rated post, for sexual suggestiveness and nudity. Proceed at your own discretion.
“I Still Don’t Understand”
“I still don’t understand the intent of this writing.”
The young woman looked at her companion, her head tipped slightly to one side, one eyebrow moving slightly upward to the rumpled ruffle of her dark bangs.
“Try reading it again,” the blonde man said, one of his hands lazily tracing patterns on her bared shoulder and the upper reaches of her chest. His vividly blue eyes held contentment and a hint of amusement, as though he might smile or laugh in the next moment.
“’Dance, when you’re broken open. Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off. Dance in the middle of the fighting. Dance in your blood. Dance when you’re perfectly free. ‘ This Rumi was a Terran philosopher?”
“And a poet. Maybe that’s what you’re not getting. Poetry isn’t exactly logical. Maybe you’ve got to have a heart here -”, he stroked down to the place just below where her left breast started to swell. Other than her soft breathing, it was still and quiet. No heartbeat in her chest. “-And not here.” He let the hand drift down, to the precise place where her heart was, off to the right at the bottom of her ribcage, beating, even now, fast enough to kill her if she was human.
“I fail to see why the disparity in our respective physiologies would have any bearing upon my ability to comprehend the meaning of these words.” She was scowling, even though, if told so, she would deny being capable of it.
“I don’t. It’s not that, exactly. It’s that, even after us both reading it a few times, and after making love-”
Now the man did chuckle, low and soft as he pulled her in for a kiss. “That too. It’s all the same. You’re trying to quantify both of them. Mating is the process. Making love is the spirit in which we entered into the process. Still mating, true – but so much more, pepperpot.”
“I think I’m beginning to understand. While all sexual relations are mating, not all mating is making love?”
“You got it.” He rewarded her with the brush of his paired fingertips across the backs of hers; an invitation to intimacies not natural to his people, but essential to the healthy pairbonds of hers. “The way we learn from each other, blend your ways and mine, making something of our own that suits us – that’s the ‘making love’ part.” Her fingers scarcely hesitated; certainly not the three breaths that were customary and expected. This man wasn’t Vulcan. He didn’t need her to wait for him to slowly release his hold on his mental barriers. He was already wide open and welcoming in a way that was exhilaratingly different, exotic – human. “As for the poem – ” he whispered raggedly, just before she kissed him.
It took several breaths before she could pull away, and then only a little. She looked into the eyes of this man, her t’hy’la, and, when she spoke, it was a husky, breathy purr, a voice that was only for him, because he was her bonded mate. “We still have three hours before we’re on duty. There will be time, after.”
That brought a laugh she smothered with another kiss. But the thought lingered in his mind, so open to hers. “I doubt it.”
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