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: 'yes,’ as part of a word or as a word, with bonus points for beginning and ending with those letters. If you enjoy this dip into the Stream of Consciousness waters? Come join in – there's plenty of room, and just a few simple rules.
Yesterday, something happened that gave me the idea for my first SoCS post in several weeks. It’s not that I didn’t want to post, in a basic sense. It’s been more a matter of NaNoWriMo and all the rest of life...I was taken away into a swirl of activity and emotion.
But today, I’m here, and, yesterday, something happened that gave me inspiration. I’m writing this almost completely blind today; I only had the idea a couple hours ago, but now it’s gotten a little more lifelike, and I’m about to dive in and write something fictional, from scratch.
Standard disclaimer applies. I neither own them nor profit from them. This is PG-13; a little touch of sizzle.
“Yesterday, you said you were almost to the end, pepperpot. So tell, me – what’s all this, and when do I get my wife back?” Trip nuzzled her neck. T’Pol repressed the urge to twist round and show him precisely how arousing his gesture was.
But she needed to finish. She couldn’t leave it like this. Certainly not now.
“I am in fact nearing the end, adun.” Did her voice betray her? He was better at reading tone and kinesthesiology than she was; it was native to his culture; instinctive. Hers had spent millenia learning to suppress such cues, and that placed her at a disadvantage.
However, if he knew, he chose not to mention it, which certainly wasn’t typical of him. “So, what’s up. Did you get stuck?”
“Stuck.” She hoped he wouldn’t notice that she hadn’t turned around to face him. He was close; his scent was filling her olfactory passages, and triggering a physiological response she struggled to contain. When she was finished with this story....
If she turned around, his vivid eyes, his dimples, his hands, would pull her into his arms. She would lose the battle.
“You know – writer’s block. Like the Cap’n had, back in that singularity of yours. Unable to go forward or get any traction on it.”
“Writer’s block.” T’Pol considered the term, and the characterization he’d given it. “No, it’s not that; or not exactly that.”
He leaned in and whispered in her ear. “So…?” His breath was cool and alive; this time, she couldn’t resist her shudder, which faded, but didn’t subside. “If you’re not stuck, what’s going on? You haven’t even asked how things are going with the reset.”
“Further research was indicated; it seems that the fictional historical portrayal that engendered the fan fiction story I am attempting to complete once inspired a political controversy on the public media of the day.”
“So these actors and writers of yours were rabble-rousers, were they? I think I’m getting interested in this, after all.” He sat on the edge of the desk, and T’Pol lost the battle not to look at her bondmate. Why had she been resisting? He was her adun, her husband.
“I’m uncertain that you understand the nature of the controversy. There were a significant number of factors involved. Apparently, this was an intersection of their national history, global developments, planetary climate decay, cultural divides, and the current political situation, which happened during 2016 – a particularly turbulent period.”
He sighed and nodded. “Yeah, I think I know what you mean. We did an entire unit on it in elementary history. I was sort of into that musical as a lad. Well, if you could have asked Lizzie, she’d say it was more like fixated. I used to cast her as all the women, and I’d play all the men – unless we decided to swap genders, which always cracked Dad up, while Mom looked at us like we were a couple of lunatics, and David pretended he didn’t know us.”
“Do you still remember your parts, Trip?”
“I think I could fake it pretty well – but, listening through once would help -”
She rose from the chair and moved into his arms. As the Borg might say, “Resistance is futile.” “Perhaps, while we listen, we could, as you might say, ‘make up for lost time.’”
“Hey, lady – are you propositioning me?” He didn’t give her the chance to answer right away; he claimed a kiss that she deepened eagerly.
They were both experiencing accelerated respiration when they ended the advance. She looked at her husband, attempting her blandest, most Vulcan non-expression as she spoke a single word.