I tried to frame this around an ambiguous religion, but I make a few Biblical references. Don't worry though, it still makes sense if you aren't familiar with the Bible.

Disclaimer: I own nothing except three Star Trek ticket stubs.

She never went to church as a child, but she feels this might be what worshipping is like.

For all her dependency on math and facts and everything proven, she has never been more unfalteringly certain that something greater than this whole existence lays unknown in secreted spaces beyond their reach.

Untarnished marble skin fills her hazy gaze as she thanks whatever deity is listening for creating the resplendent man before her.

His hands fall feather-soft around her, fingers like wings brushing down on her cheeks. She opens her mouth in silent supplication, and they both fold under the weight of a promise.

This is our church, her grandmother's breath blended imperceptibly into the thick beams of sunshine. The yellow light warmed their skins, while the sunlight beamed down, raining golden rays across the grass they laid in. Her grandmother's eyes quivered shut as her hands continued their travels down Nyota's untamable mane.

The goodness fell away like holy water through a drain the day her grandmother died. The grassy hill abandoned her memory, and golden sheens meant nothing more than mornings too bright.

But while her grandmother's eyes would forever be shut, her own starbright eyes remained open, swallowing the indigo sky to her core. Day is dead, but night is uncharted.

Starfleet and space welcomed her with open arms her grandmother could no longer supply.

Sighing out in exaltation, the catharsis takes over. The sunlight once shared with her grandmother has darkened into something much more illicit and enigmatic. (This is how she breaks away. This is her conversion.)

Haphazard lives surround them, pushing in on every angle. Only in the dark and dead of night when the halls whir with loneliness do they find each other. Like blended shadows, they fall into one another, clutching each other's hands in silent affection.

The stiffness and unfamiliarity of the day quickly languish as they reintroduce themselves to the power of midnight. They can do this anywhere, but they choose his room or hers. In their tiny self-made sanctuaries, it becomes a mess of blooming hearts and slick hands on shoulders.

He is forbidden to mention logic and illogic in her presence. For antonyms, they are one and the same to her. Anything but the feel of his skin on hers has become taboo, and she was never one for sinning. Little does she have to worry about, for he is quick to comply with her doctrine. She thrives on his insatiable need for more contact. How grateful she is that he finally relinquishes to his human, boiling blood.

Her lips trail prayers along his skin, tattooing him with sanctity. She breathes songs of praise into the contours of his clavicle, finds secret patches of foreign lands waiting to be mapped out. His knees fold under her hot lips, he realigns and dismounts upon the surface, scraping at her skin for more. The marks she bears so proudly in the dark of the room gleam lustrously under his emblazed fingertips.

She sinks her teeth into his Adam's apple, reveling in his inarticulate confession. With scintillating eyes parallel to hers, his raging breath pins her to the moment. One rampant flash later, they're sacrificing lambs and thinking graciously about their solace in each other.

Then like the personified test of faith, he halts. Bathed in the incandescent light of love, she withers under his aureate stare, persecuted with his inattentions. He stares enthralled as she wordlessly urges him to just hold her in his arms.

Stumbling and fumbling like two children, they clasp at each other, fearing what could transpire if they were to ever break apart. Her hands run through his hair, memorizing the texture, calculating his strength.

She presses herself against him, heart to heart, ribcage to ribcage. His pale pale fingers spider across her arms, like exploding supernovas against a nightsky. Those fingers whisper down her arms. His eyes attentively witness the motion, undoubtedly calculating something while her eyes attentively watch his reverent form. He holds her hands in his, pairing their fingers up one by one, and she knows they will overcome anything that stands in their path.

What if there is nothing to struggle against except our own limitations? She opens her mouth to speak, but for once he is done with conversation. She remembers feather-soft fingers on her cheeks and shuts her eyes to preserve the memory. Then the fingers feel more natural than feathers, more splendid than sunlight or starlight. Her eyes flutter open to find him extraordinarily close, his lips replacing fingers.

She never went to church as a child, but she's certain this is what worshipping is like.

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