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Far Away From Home	By : mancer Category: S through Z > Star Trek (2009) > Star Trek (2009) Views: 2090 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Star Trek is owned by Gene Roddenberry/Paramount Studios/JJ Abrams. I own none but this writing and the non-canon characters within. Work published for shared fun, not profit.

Chapter List
- 9
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- 11
A sharp pain in his cheek started hallow echoes throughout his skull.
“Wake up, you yellow bellied targ!”
After so long without... even attempting... control.
Strong hands gripped his shoulders, shaking him.
“Wake up, you dirty spy! Wake up and tell me who you work for! Who sent you to kill me and my disciples!”
Disciples.
The civilized word burrowed down through the heat in his blood. The burning. The fire. The need to kill. To feel hot, pulsing blood gushing around his teeth.
Vuron's eyes cracked open.
Inside now. Surely Chijqa hadn't sent him someplace settled. Had to be another hallucination.
“Chijqa? Master Chijqa sent you?”
Vuron groaned. Had he said the name out loud?
Such great weakness. Everything hurt.
With improbable effort, he lifted his hands, palm up, so he could look at them. Coated in red blood. Knuckles crisscrossed in green cuts.
“Why would the master send you to kill us? Is this some plot of Bel'tath's? Or a bid for power from one of the other Houses? Tell me, you bastard!”
Bel'tath lands. Chijqa. Vuron had assumed he'd been sent into uninhabited lands. What if... what if they'd sent him into take care of some... some Klingon diplomatic problem. Or worse, Vuron slaughtered a slew of loyal innocents.
How far had he traveled? In his bloodlust?
The dark room offered no answers. Firelight flicked over old wood. Ceiling so high it was lost in the shadows.
The face... the face that swam over him could never be called beautiful. Subtle ridges on her forehead were prominent... asymmetrical from old wounds. Splatted in red and green blood, like Vuron's hands. Tousled hair, long and snarled away from what once must have been a neat knot at the back of the neck. Thick padded leather practice armor.
Disciples. Marster Chijqa.
Vuron's hand met the strange Klingon's mid-swipe. The woman snarled at him, demanding again. Vuron didn't even have the energy to articulate... but....
The Vulcan pushed, blinded with need, rather than expectation of succe-

Mistress J'Mara, a minor Lady within the House of Bel'tath, but a lady in her own right. Proud. A teacher. Standing before her students. Taking them through their morning ablutions.
A boom echoed through the temple. All eyes turned to the open doors. Silhouetted by the blizzard behind him, a warrior in old battle armor. Hood shoved back. Bloodied blade in hand.
Many warriors came here for respite. For practice. For training. For healing. This one, though. This one came to kill.
Her protegees gathered before her. Ready to protect. Be be the bastion of Klingon flesh, to keep the pillar of their art intact.
J'Mara laughed at their posturing.
“Go, children. I will take care of this one.”
“Mistress,” they called. Poor things. Still scared of their own shadows. Only a few steps on their journeys to make great warriors of themselves.
“If I can not take care of one man, then I have no right to be your Mistress. Go. Return when his head is mounted on a pike out front.”
The warrior's head turned as they moved. When he challenged, bat'leth raised in an all too familiar posture, J'mara grinned.
She shouted, picking up her own weapon from her ceremonial stand. His head swiveled around. Sighting her. Stalking her.
She stalked him in return, circling around the room until she could slam the door shut. No use fighting in the cold when she didn't have to.
J'Mara eyed the stranger. Coated in blood, new and old. Whipmarks across the face, from the vines and branches in the woods. Deep welted bruises on jaw and throat. Green blood welling up. Delicately curved ears and smooth face, framed by dark-as-night hair.
“Vulcan. What are you doing here. Why do you challenge a Mistress of the art of battle?”
The bat'leth swing did not take her by surprise. She side-stepped it quickly, and threw up her own to guard from the second strike.
“What the hell, Vulcan?”
Again he attacked, throwing in so much force he nearly shoved her off balance, before making a mad dash towards the door her students so recently vacated. J'Mara snarled and got in his way.
Again and again he made to hunt down her students. His body strong. His eyes strangely glazed. Inarticulate growls and snarls escaped the alien.
J'Mara had never met a Vulcans who fought, let alone fought with such ferocity, such demand. She could feel the blood singing in his veins with the hunt. Occasionally, their skin would graze, as their blades cut more and more from each other. She felt the irrationality, the burning need unlike none she'd ever known, flowing within him.
She quickly realized, with each blocked stroke, every deflected slice, that there would be no beating this one. His anger, his stamina, his training, too close to her own. Whenever she delved into her creative mind, a new spin she had yet to try with her more accomplished students, a kick that couldn't be blocked, this lithe Vulcan would jump, or twist, or catch.
Through the churning snow past the windows, the sky darkened, turned black, only reflecting the light from the fires within. Then the fires died out.
Adrenaline pumped through her veins. Ragged breath in her ears. Only the grit in the ground from his light steps betrayed him. The occasional splat of blood on the wooden floor.
Dawn came again.
The Vulcan had not slowed. Cold crept up through the floor. Through the walls. Sweat drenched her neck, her back. The Vulcan threw off his vestments piece by piece. Inner fire making him nearly glow green. She could feel his heat a step away from him. Fever heat. Deep sickness of the mind and body.
On the second day he began to drop. He would lift the bat'leth to block, and end up on his knees from the force.
J'Mara panted from the strength of it herself. She had never trained for battle like this. Unending. Unrelenting. Past Stamina and into Soul. Past the challenge of the assassin, and onto personal challenge.
If she could not out fight someone so evenly matched, what right had she to-
And then, he gave.
The Vulcan did not relent, just, fell. He blocked a blow from the ground, shook, and simply collapsed in on himself.

Vuron pulled his mind away and let himself collapse back down on the floor. The weakness now made sense. Still in the throws of pon farr, but battle exhausted. His plan had worked... to some extent.
Relief at not having killed all of Bel'tath's people flooded him.
Exhaustion. Pure, blessed exhaustion. His blood still burned, but his reserves were nearly depleted. Not much left.
The Klingon, J'Mara his nearly deficient mind supplied, eyed him warily. He let his eyes droop closed again.
He'd been completely blacked-out when he'd found this temple; his subconscious driving him solely by need. The fact that the female had been able to equal him at the height of his madness was... impressive, to say the least.
“What was that?” she asked. Her voice lost all of her previous anger. “Tell me, Vuron!”
Her hands fisted in his remaining clothing, lifting his slack form off of the ground.
Even in his utter lack, he felt his eyebrow twitch. Curious. A Klingon sensitive to touch-telepathy.
She snarled and struck him with a solid punch to the jaw.
His head slumped to the side. Again and again she delivered blows to his limp body. Flares of need licked him with each contact.
Weakly, he lifted a hand, catching that powerful fist before it shattered his eye socket. Her hand stilled over the bloody appendage. Expecting, wanting that joining. Vuron felt her need echoing his own.
Rotating his wrist took a monumental effort. Slowly curling two of his fingers to stroke two of her own. Eyes still shut, he tried to remember how he'd seen more affectionate couples share gentle joinings in such a manner. Mingled blood slid between their fingertips. Her knuckles gentle ripples under the sensitive tips.
Rellig. The old pain blossomed. Learn from the past. Open, instead of shut. Invite, instead of intrude.
Opening that door, tearing down that last barrier... he felt the pon farr beast howling at that door as well.
Gentle fingers stroked back along his. The touch tentative.
“This is how Vulcans show affection.” Not exactly a question. And the breathiness of her statement nearly pulled a groan from his lips. “Why do I know this, Vuron? Why do I know your name?”
No clear thoughts perhaps... but then how did she collect his name?
He groaned in need. His fingers clenching around the Klingon's.
“You are...” He felt the ridges of J'Mara's forehead touch his shoulder. Press against him. “You are prepared for death, and yet I feel....” He felt her growl through his whole body, down to his very fingertips, and whispering through his mind. “It would be illogical for you to fight so hard, only to give up now.”
Vuron felt a smile touch his lips.
J'Mara had spoken the last in his native tongue, rather than hers.
“I could give you an honorable death,” she offered against his chest.
But, she didn't want to. She'd enjoyed chipping her steel against his. Enjoyed feeling the flame in his blood.
“The more we touch, Vulcan, the more my blood burns.” Hot breath on his throat now. Sharp teeth and moist lips grazing his skin as she spoke. Her fingers stroking his, drawing an exhausted little shudder down his spine. “But I like this burn, little Vulcan. I don't run from it. Don't fight it.”
Don't fight it. Don't fight it. Don't. Fight.
J'Mara's voice echoed in his mind. Not an order, like the one betrothed to that scared little girl, or a plea, like the one who ended up on the other end of two abusive bonds.
No, an equal. An equal who's blood burned just as brightly.
The welcoming of that burn frightened him. No Vulcan welcomed the pon farr. Insanity to think it.
J'Mara grinned. Vuron felt the grin as though it were pulling at his own lips.
“Touch-telepathy, hm?” the klingon asked, again using the Vulcan words. Vuron did not have the words for the phenomena in Klingon. “Tell me there is more.”
Her teeth caught his lower lip, her free hand caressing the side of his face. The need suddenly came back in full force. By Kahless, if only she were Vulcan. Those fingers stroked right over the spot. Vuron panted, his lip still captured, fingers clenching against J'Mara's hand. Enflamed.
“My... hand...” he forced out.
She captured it, kissing and nibbling on his palm. He'd never had someone touch him so intimately before. Never had someone want to try.
Even with only the echo of a connection between them, J'Mara slipped into his mind, plucking out these cravings. Teasing out how little nibbles, plucking his skin away from the muscle felt, compared to a deeper bite, taking all of the muscle at the base of his thumb. Her rough tongue laved every crack and crevice, cleaning him of their mingled blood, tracing every curve of each of his nails.
“Your blood urges me,” she growled. “The shadow of what I feel of your hands is astounding. Show me.”
Vuron guided, pushing her. He had no energy to hold his own hand up now. Too far gone. She kissed his palm one last time, lips an exquisite balm, before, edging his fingers into the right places.
Your mind to my mind....
“Your thoughts, to my thoughts,” J'Mara whispered along with his mind.
This time, this meld, felt so much different. So. Damn. Right.
No fight. No submission. Just welcome, honest, lust.
The animalistic lust in his own mind twinned up and pored through her.
You are so frightened of your passion.
You do not think you will survive?
There is so much-
Why didn't you come sooner-
Why not give in sooner-
How do I-
There must be some way-
I want your steel against-
Take me-
Fuck me-
Suck me-
Vuron panted against the sudden onslaught. J'Mara's sudden need.
What is pon farr?
Ah, the real question.
Before Vuron could gather himself to explain, the Klingon barged into his memories, pulling out all of those terrible memories, those years of half-loneliness. The place where helpmeet, mate, friend, lover stood empty. And now finally empty enough, in truth, to be filled.
I can not complete-
J'Mara laughed. Her hips ground down on his.
“You damn Vulcans,” she growled. So uninventive. Uncreative, she thought instead.
Slips of memories tickled at him, playfully. Warriors wounded in battle, in interesting ways. Some who would return to battle until they died with honor. Others, others with metaphorical balls, if not real ones at times, who found other ways to make it work. Shieldmates of the same gender that did the same.
A multitude of bodies passed before his mindseye. Different permutations. Combinations. Gyrations.
“We mate for life,” Vuron fought to say out loud. Important enough that he had to. “We will be bonded until death.”
The strength of her mind pressed his once more, exploring the bond he'd held with Rellig, the expectation of solitude for the rest of his years. Two centuries alone. Perhaps more. And of viewing other's bonds. As an outsider.
“It is simple then. If I get tired of such a strong sparring partner, I shall just kill you in battle.”
How can you just accept-
J'Mara bit him again, hard.
Vuron saw their fight again through her eyes. The graceful sweep of his weapon, even while exhausted and half crazed. The strange gymnastics that he realized he'd incorporated from his years studying on Earth. On Andoria. The way his thumb stroked the leather wrappings of his handle. The careful tilt of his ankle to keep his balance, but not give away the next strike. The very taste of his blood.
I know enough. Your first mate knew less of you.
That acceptance caused a strange click in Vuron's mind. In J'Mara's mind.
Vuron breathed a laugh of relief.
The adrenaline, the drive, dematerialized. Snow in the wind. There and gone.
J'Mara's fingers gave his a little squeeze before releasing his grip. She settled her forehead against his, to keep their meld connected while she reached between them, quickly unfastening buckles and latches, spreading as much of their armor as she could reach, so that she could press her bare, ample breasts against his flat chest.
Her fingertips grazed the scars there, a promise to discover them in more detail later, before trailing down to his pubic mound.
A multitude of trepidations swam to the surface as she cupped his lack. She squeezed hard. No lack. A challenge. To be conquered.
But for now- she separated his folds, expertly finding the miniscule counterpart to the Vulcan's male organ. Its sensitivity pleased her. She craved to taste him. She wanted to suck him off, jerk him off, bite him, devour him.
Jerk me off?
Just wait. We'll get there.
For now... for now they both felt the deep seated need for simple release. Too bone-weary for foreplay, for the invigorating fuck that J'Mara craved. That Vuron craved.
J'Mara's thumb flicked back and forth. Her fingers slid up and down, delving into his lubrication, bringing it back up to the nub at the apex to squeeze, rub, tug. Slowly, painfully, tormentingly slowly, she built up pressure. Pressure with her hands. Pressure with her mind. Drawing him up and out as she wiggled her way deeper into him.
Until, Oh Kahless, her fingers curled around Vuron's public bone. Deep within him, she'd found some wonderfully sensitive pressure point. Some point that had him gasping and writhing up against her body.
J'Mara's mind followed him crashing over the cliff. Her teeth caught up his neck, muffling her screams as he came. Her fingers spasmodically clenching deep within him.
As their breathing slowed in time, their heartbeats calming as one heart, Vuron felt the inevitable pull of sleep tugging at his mind.
Men. The same in all species.
Vuron offered a mental caress, an apology for the abrupt drop of the meld before his hand fell away.
What really surprised him, however, was the presence he still felt in his mind. Be it all the skin contact that remained, between her hand and their bare torsos, or just a lingering connection.
“A connection remained between you and that coward Rellig,” she murmured into his ear. “Why does this surprise you?”
Ah. Because I am Klingon.
Vuron felt a flare of anger. Healthy, normal anger.
It felt... good.
Righteous.
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Far Away From Home