J/Kashyk. A little bit twisted, a little bit…hard.
For Froot, whose haunting video pretty much demanded this, and for all those who wrote so much better J/Kashyk than this well before me. You know who you all are, lol. Ah. And yes, Froot is gracious enough to have let me steal her title, which I thought the most fitting one. Because she ROCKS.
Back in uniform, seated in her chair he looks…
“Yes, I remember,” he drawls with that easy authority that’s earned every tug of lust she’d rather have been faking. “I also remember warning you about going where you don't belong.”
Which only ever made her twice as likely to do it.
Kissing him had been a mistake because, now, she knows exactly what she’s missing. Yes, he may have started it, but she had damned well finished it. And all she has to say for herself now is:
“Exploring can sometimes be hard to resist, Inspector.”
Regarding her from across the room, he knows that now. Kissing her was a mistake, one he can still taste. One that, no matter how this ends now, he intends to make again. And again.
“Well it's a romantic notion, Captain, but one I can't allow you to indulge.”
What either one of them would give if he could.
He taps two gloved fingers on her shiny desk, lamenting, “I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave our space immediately. Prax, why don't you check on our teams while I reiterate our protocols for Captain Janeway.”
She’d all but forgotten he was even in the room to begin with. As the overgrown toad nods and ekes out of her office, the ever-silent storm troopers in tow, the fact that she and Kashyk are now alone only peels back the top shell of deception in this layer cake they’ve built around them.
He tries not to watch her with hawks' eyes as she leans over the desk, raw seduction in every nuance of movement. “Do they suspect anything?”
“Not yet, but our warships have been monitoring Voyager's movements for the past few days, and mine as well. I don't think we have much time.”
Oh but if they did.
“The Brenari?” he forces out, thankful there’s no need to pretend he isn’t holding his breath.
“They're in transporter suspension.”
The tension thickens. “And the wormhole?” he inquires keenly.
Everything rests on this. They both know it.
She considers letting him squirm a while longer, but his eagerness is so clear that she has trouble containing a smug smile and admits, “We’ve found it. It's twenty thousand kilometers off our port bow. We've determined that a photon torpedo properly calibrated will force open the threshold long enough for Voyager to get through.”
“Congratulations, Captain.” The superior tone drops, the relieved smirk spreading as he leans back in her chair.
“For a while, I wasn’t sure if even you could find it.”
His reveal is on the tip of his tongue, and it’s sooner than she expected, she admits it. Grim determination infuses her – she acts before she’s aware of doing so. And then she’s circling the desk, cutting him off as he rises, alarmed by her sudden approach.
“Captain?” he prompts, dangerously even, and just the title gives away his deception.
But not officially. She can give those telepaths more time to get out of the system.
The tension around her eyes goes slack, unfeigned desire allowed to take center stage. Trailing a finger down his broad, cloth-covered chest, she idly traces the line of the weapons harness she can’t imagine is easy to remove.
Her gaze locks on his. They’re so close that their bodies almost touch.
She surprises him. He hadn’t expected it. Later. This was supposed to be for later, when all was said and done and she knew she was completely at his mercy. It’s that which keeps him frozen, staring into too-blue eyes he’s beginning to believe are those of some kind of sorceress.
“We still have time,” she all but whispers, the statement seemingly innocuous, and yet anything but.
He stiffens, eyeing her closely. It’s a tactic. Nothing more. She’s stalling for something as she leans in, rising on her tiptoes to kiss him. Moving with lightening speed, his hands clamp around her shoulders, intending to shove her away from him. But perhaps with too much venom, he realizes, when her eyes flare up at him, almost encouragingly. And he knows for certain now that she wants him distracted with this.
His mouth opens to cut a scathing refusal he fully intends to reverse later, when the time is right.
And with little other recourse, she reaches for him, her hand trailing low across his belly until she closes her questing fingers around the sizeable knot she already knew was there.
Choked gasp of pure shock escaping him, he jerks forward into her grasp, unable to restrain himself.
Paydirt. A low chuckle escapes her.
“Nervous?” she breathes tauntingly at his inaction, mercilessly stroking his swelling flesh through his thick pants, allowing him no second of respite from the deliciously torturous sensation.
Any self control he had leeches right into her hand. She feels it. The heat of him is breathtaking, no less so than the danger saturating every molecule of artificial air they breathe. He releases her upper arms with enthusiasm, furiously claims her laughing mouth with his as he rips her jacket zipper straight down, and there’s no turning back anymore.
He snatches her reluctant jacket down her arms, making her release her grip on him. It hits the floor meters away from them. Her turtleneck follows, darkness obscuring her vision before her mussed hair tries to fall back in place, the railing catching the shirt's sailing weight and holding it hanging over the side of it. A few more tugs she doesn’t dare try to slow, and she stands in just the bra, pants and boots now.
This should be harder than it’s going to be is her only fleeting thought before she dives in with both hands.
“Tell them,” she snaps her head in the direction of the door, “not to interrupt,” she orders as her hands work at his fastenings, buttons unseen, trying to rip them open to free him.
“They wouldn’t dare,” he growls, her pants’ fastening lucky it’s made to endure the kind of brutal treatment he metes out in snatching it open, too.
Not without the call she just cut off by grabbing his cock, he means. Damn him. She knew he was a lying bastard. She did know it.
Having it confirmed, just before having to go through with this last ditch effort to distract him, only heightens her desire.
She doesn’t even care what it says about her anymore. “Computer, seal the doors, authorization–“
His mouth clamps down over hers, less furious, and it’s the kiss they shared earlier in the shuttle bay all over again – with heat, this time. More of it. It’s sloppier, more urgent, wetter, tongues clamoring.
She can’t get his shirt off, and it’s annoying.
“Leave it,” he growls, and it’s clear he has no intention of undressing himself. He doesn’t want to take the time as he breaks away, already breathing hard. He glances furtively behind her, back at the desk they stand next to, making his decision as her hand continues working into the more important opening she’s created for herself in his clothing in the meantime.
“Thinking you’re man enough to bend me over that desk, Inspector?” she taunts, following his gaze, her chuckle husky and mocking. A challenge.
He grins. “I know I am, Captain. And I’ll prove it – later.”
His hands find her hips, the pants still covering them. The material fights as it gathers ‘round her hips, but he pulls it free with force unnecessary, yanks them halfway down her thighs for his gloved hands, cool air hitting heated skin telling her his fingertips had snapped the lines of her underwear right along with it. She’s half bare to him already. His hot, hungry lustful gaze burning her even hotter. He knows. His cocky, shit-eating grin tells her he knows.
Damned attractive, strong bastard. He got the jump on her. Her right hand hits the side of the wall he pins her against, slammed there and held fast.
She’s wet and ready for him well before his boot jams down along the space between her partially parted legs, taking pants and panties with it, grinding them into the floor like the dust he sometimes so arrogantly regards her as. When his gloved hand reaches for her, pinning her in place with the taut clothing still looped around her booted ankles, he knows all he needs to from the hot throbbing folds that greet him, the slickened pink flesh a shade he isn’t expecting it would be. The ease with which his glove glides through all of it is surprising...and damned erotic.
The hand still pinned next to her head against the bulkhead isn’t released, but the hand that’s found its way into his pants makes him jerk when strong, just-as-questing fingers close over a pulsating erection that hardens painfully under surprisingly skilled fingertips. His hips jerk, and he yanks her hand out from the opening, forces it back to her own body.
“Show me,” he demands, his slick fingers curling over hers to ensure he learns his lesson as well as he’s learned every other over his successful lifetime. “Show me how to touch you.”
“Let go of my other hand,” she demands in the same growling, imperious tone he’d used.
“No,” he refuses simply. With finality. “Not yet.”
Her brow arches unappreciatively. “When?”
Instead of answering, he deflects. “Tell me what you like.”
He smiles. Apparently, that’s for him to investigate.
Delightful. She’s always delighting him, it seems.
“For instance...do you like pain, Captain?” he inquires slyly.
It’s a dare. A half threat. An intimidation tactic.
It’s all of that, and nothing of the sort.
“Some,” she admits candidly. Whether she does or not doesn’t matter. What matters is getting him off. Making sure he’s thinking with other parts of his anatomy than his brain. Other parts of his impressive anatomy than his brain, she thinks, her eyes flicking back to the erection she’d held in her palm and wants back in it now, her tongue wetting her lips without conscious effort.
His mouth closes over her nipple, still safely ensconced in satiny cloth, but not safely enough that he wasn’t able to see its puckered outline, wasn’t able to close his lips around it and nip sharply enough to make her cry out.
Which he’ll pay for at least once, she silently vows.
“Too much?” he muses, his mocking eyes meeting hers over the swell of the breast his lips still hover over.
Her eyes flint, her brow arching in challenge. “You’ll have to try harder than that, Inspector.”
“Kashyk,” he growls the correction halfheartedly. He nips again, harder, drawing a toneless exhale of breath from her that ends in a hiss as he fades off into strong suckling of the abused peak of flesh through wetting cloth.
“What about you?” she manages, somehow evenly through the jolts of pleasure being shot to places that don’t even need it but welcome the hell out of it. “Do you like pain?”
His eyes flicker. He’s surprised. Aroused. His dark eyes smoke at her, the soft, taunting smile challenging. “Some,” he admits.
No one’s ever dared.
He dives for her breast again. She lets her lower body melt into that sensation, one hand coming up to encourage his actions by threading through his thick, slick hair as her face turns to the hand holding hers beside her head. Leaning over, she sinks her teeth into his extended wrist, biting down hard enough to draw blood – only releasing just in time for him to yank the arm back without taking her teeth with it.
“Bitch,” he hisses sharply, shoving the sleeves up to regard the dark blue beads trailing down his arm.
Eyes on his, she leans forward, mouth open. He glowers, his best glower, pissed, dares her to be so suicidal as to try that again…jolts when her silken tongue extends, licks in one sensual upward sweep, catching the drops with the flat mass of her tongue. But when she hums a throaty, approving, “Mmmmm,” her lips closing over the smarting wound to suck strongly, taking the forming droplets and lapping at them like water in a burning desert, he can’t take it. Breaks.
He shoves her back against the wall, his mouth slamming over hers, his hand snatching the one he’d been pinioning and shoving it back between her own bare legs.
“Show me,” he growls against her lips, pressing his hand hard into hers, forcing her to apply pressure to already-throbbing nerves. “Show me how to touch you,” he orders.
Every second they’re not interrupted is time the Brenari gain. Distance they put between themselves and a brutal man intent on destroying them.
A brutal man she’s relegated to fucking to give them that time at the moment, but one she’s not going to regret fucking as much as she should, come the morning.
Not. When it feels. This good. It takes seconds of showing him the faintly circular motion she prefers. Using her own hand and the moisture he’s already spread there from her own body, he applies hypnotizingly steady, rhythmic pressure.
The two of them shouldn’t be staring into each other’s eyes for this. It’s almost wrong. But the challenge is always there to look away. To be the one to back down first.
Neither will. It’s erotic as hell.
His motions, the motions he won’t relent with… Her head drops back against the bulkhead behind her, her mouth parting to make breathing easier as fingers slide back and forth over sensitive, slick skin. For the first time, he’s able to make her weak in the knees – and he likes it. A few more minutes of this and he’ll have her coming hard, right into their combined hands.
He loses patience. Finishing the job he’d half let her start, he fumbles with his dark pants, yanks them down to bare his hips, exposing his very hard cock, and making her still as she gets her first real look at him.
Again, licking her lips is unconscious. He’s impressive enough. Reaching out a hand, she trails her fingertips over the angry length of him, observing the curled ridges decorating his anatomy. It’s not overly large. Not as large as she’d half feared. With the ridges, which account for a sizeable bulk of him, he’s about the size of a well-endowed human male but nothing freakishly large. The pattern itself is strange but striking, really. In fact…
“He’s beautiful,” she breathes, and it’s genuine, because she forgot for just one second.
The grin she receives she would swear is genuine as he quips with a wriggling brow ridge, “Could be the company I’m keeping.”
She laughs back at him. That sense of humor in him always surprises her. A man as inherently bad as he is probably shouldn’t have one. It makes him dangerous. And hell. That’s what she likes about him.
What her body does anyway.
Her hand again closes over him, and she zones in on the image of him. Thinks how easy it would be to slide to her knees and bring him to his. With one short maneuvering stomp, he pins her clothing extra tightly in place and his gloved hands encircle her hips, lifting her clean out of the legs of the uniform pants. Pulling her up, around him as he steps into her.
“Guide me,” he growls, fiercely serious and apparently foreplay is over.
Apparently, her boots are staying on, as is all of his clothing. He’s about to fuck her fully dressed while she’s naked against the wall and damn her to hell, it sends arousal like only things wicked, forbidden ever can right between her legs. Arching a brow, reaching down only because she’s well past ready for this, she nudges him closer, sets him precisely where he has to go and snaps out, “Do it.”
It’s an order. A clear demand. One he smirks faintly as he has no trouble following – very nearly none.
He doesn’t hit home completely with the first thrust, and she feels her walls stretching, pushing aside to accommodate him with difficulty but not entirely unbearable pain, at least.
Hell no. She prepared for all tactical scenarios. The way he’s been drooling over her for weeks now, this had to be one of them. Thanks to toys she normally doesn’t bother with, he isn’t getting the satisfaction of causing her intensive pain because of circumstances he has no business knowing about.
A safety precaution. You understand?
He probably would. Better than anyone. The bastard.
Still, it’s brief work, for both of them, though he gives no indication of it, never pauses, flinches or hesitates…thank God. A wince escapes on the heels of a throaty moan to offset the pleasure/pain she experiences at thick, brutal stabs slowly inching further and further into her depths. With each backward pull to gain more forward momentum, he gathers additional moisture along his length, creates some of his own as his throbbing cock is clamped tightly inside of her, and on the fourth try, he buries himself to the hilt.
He sees the wince of course, but gives no indication that he does. Doesn’t falter or pause, doesn’t seem to care in the slightest, and it sure as hell doesn’t affect his pace.
But he steps back a half step, adjusts the angle slightly so that he’s no longer pounding against her at an odd slope. The pain…that if she’s honest has only inflamed the ball of burning need inside her instead of dimming it…lessens, allows pure pleasure and sensation to dominate. In turn, she allows a throaty groan to escape, hisses a low “Yesss,” of encouragement, her hands clamping down over the black-clad arms holding her thighs around him against the wall.
He has to hold her up to his level for this to work at all, but he shows no signs of complaining or tiring, and the half grunt, half shout he lets rip against her ear, billowing through her hair, drowns out her own moan of pain/pleasure as she stretches to take him.
Now that he’s able to build a proper cadence, the pace he sets is brutal. Unrelenting. Perfect. She doesn’t want slow, soft, giving: not with him. It would ruin the whole damned thing. She wants what he’s giving: certainty, raw lust, motion. Furious motion. Maybe punishing motion. Her lower back and shoulders, her head when she doesn’t pay attention all slam back into the hard bulkhead in rhythm with those thrusts. She’ll have bruises later, but holding on is her main priority at the moment. That and the eroticism of their most intimate parts rubbing, grinding into each other. Even rotating her hips back at him in counterthrust is damned near impossible with the ferocity of his pounding. She can feel every single ridge sliding against her slickening walls, the bulkhead steadily hitting her back, the extra friction his closeness to her creates against his deep thrusts doing wonders for stimulating just-as-important-nerves crying to be stimulated on the outside of her, too…
“I did tell you I’d have you over your desk, Captain,” sounds brokenly in her ear out of nowhere. It’s her only warning.
Her blue eyes that had been sliding shut snap open, barely in time.
He whirls her, presses her facedown over the desk before she has time or inclination to protest. It’s narrow at this end, and her shoulders hang over the opposite edge as he kicks her legs apart, not waiting for her to do it herself. Settling between her parted white thighs, he fumbles, pressing against her backside. She tenses for all she’s worth, eyes widening.
Damn. They haven’t exactly had the “Devore Birds and Human Bees” talk. Does he even know?
Are the Devore essentially the same…everywhere?
“Wrong place,” she growls just in case, the closest to panic she’s come during this entire exchange. If she hadn’t prepared beforehand and wasn’t so attracted to him, she’d be having considerable trouble taking him other places as it is. This isn’t happening!
His chuckle blasts sharp waves of danger through the air around them. “No?” he inquires silkily, his rough, gloved fingertip pressing insistently now at her clenching, puckered entrance.
He does know.
“No,” she spits back at him decisively. He’s a dead man if he really tries–
His other hand leaves her hip, circles her throat. She grabs for it, instinctively wanting to claw him off of her. Hits her elbow on the edge of the desk and swallows the curse at the sharp pain lancing through her.
“And how exactly would you propose stopping me if I say ‘yes’?” he taunts.
You have no choice, Captain.
The hell she doesn’t. Raising her by her throat like this, he’s close to cutting off her air supply, but the arch of her back gives her critical reaching distance, allows her left hand to shoot back, grab for what she’s looking for.
“Try it,” she dares in a low growl, “and you’ll be on your knees crying for Prax before you even get close to managing it.”
He laughs. Stands his ground through the pain his initial hiss told her she’s causing, and her grip tightens warningly. He laughs again, a bit tighter, though. Leans down slightly, concedes hotly in her ear, “Perhaps later, then.”
Later?! He squeezes her throat closed, cutting off her air supply entirely. One second. Two. Longer. Her eyes are tearing. Then her lungs are starting to burn.
Damn it. Pressed against the desk like this, there’s little chance of maintaining her grip.
She can always reestablish it if need be. Show him just how hard she’s capable of squeezing if she absolutely has to. Testing him, his commitment, she releases him.
He releases her just as immediately, uses the forward momentum the involuntary drop of her upper body creates to shove her the rest of the way down to the desk. His fingers feel for her, find his ideal target to her relief, and with less than a few seconds’ fumbling, he finds his mark. Slams home inside of her still-dripping depths with powerful vigor to punish her for having been witness to his lack of perfection at all.
Keening cries may escape her, sounds she isn’t sure she’s made before, because his pace is just as brutal as before, the angle just as true. His hands dig into the outside curve of her buttocks, knead them furiously even while keeping her relatively pinned against his furious movements and the hard, unforgiving desk.
It’s good. Soo good. She can get off like this. She knows he can, if his feral grunts and murmuring groans of approval are any indication. But she isn’t too fond of the idea. Too soon, maybe. She thinks they can use more time…
Flipping him off her is something that takes a good full minute of strategic, covert effort. It requires getting his wrist firmly within her grasp, moving forward against the desk pulling at her bare, sweat-softened skin…before rocking back with enough force to knock him off kilter, allowing her to put space between her and the desk and gain vital leverage.
Thank God for her boots, giving her crucial traction in the blessed standard carpeting of the ready room, because once his wrist is in her hand, twisting his entire arm, and him, so that their previous positions are reversed – albeit ending with him against the wall – is a cake walk.
She pushes a fraction of too far, hunching him slightly down the wall which helps her grip as he yelps. She leans up on her toes, grins next to his rough, furiously-twitching cheek. “Wrist control, Inspector,” she murmurs just below his ear. “It’s a beautiful thing, don’t you agree?”
“I’ll kill you for this,” he threatens low, but it comes out slightly muffled with his cheek squished into the wall.
Neither one of them fully believe him anyway.
Leaning into him with her entire weight, she pats his exposed cheek with her free hand, earning a growl and chuckling softly. “There, there, Inspector. There’s no reason for us to be adversaries, you know. I could be your friend. And from where I’m standing right now…you could certainly use one.”
An extra tweak earns her all the extra venom she seeks.
“Gaharay bitch,” he hisses warningly back at her, eyes smoldering. “Let go.”
She chuckles darkly, twisting again against his attempt to take her by surprise. Enjoys the struggle, beating him. It’s get his arm broken or relent at the angle she exerts over his limb. With intensive satisfaction, she watches the fight slowly leaking out of him as her hold remains unbreakable. Dominant.
“Let go!” he demands, stilling in defeat.
“And what if I do, Inspector?” she inquires in reward for his temporary acquiescence.
No objection to the title anymore, she notes with a definite connection in her lower body. No objection…just a feral promise.
“I’ll fuck you the way you deserve to be fucked.”
“Hmm.” She wonders just how that is, exactly. The throbbing ache between her legs begs to be addressed – and soon. The sharper throbbing in her belly, across her hips begs otherwise. Her lip curls. “The desk is hard, Inspector. If you’re not taking off your clothes, you lie on it. That’s the trade.”
He’ll have a harder time controlling her that way.
He appears to consider. She reaches around his naked hips, finds his slick, ridged cock. Strokes skillfully along its length before reaching under to cup his heavy testicles.
“Agreed.” Grudgingly as hell, too.
She lets up, barely springing back in time for him to launch himself away from the bulkhead, whirl on her and slam her back against the desk she’d already been pinned over.
“We had a deal, Inspector,” she reminds him, her hand finding his still-hard flesh, her thumb skimming the soft hot skin as he jumps. “Or does the uniform mean you’re no longer a man of your word?”
She almost gets it out with a straight face, too, settles for letting the cold smile twist her lips instead of the contemptuous laughter that wants to escape.
Murder reflects in his fuming black eyes. Gripping her calves just above her boots, he rips her legs apart, shoves himself between them. Unmindful of the sharp ledge of desk digging into her back, he drives into her again, gives several hammering thrusts just to remind her that he concedes of his own will, not on her ability to make him do so.
Even if that’s a lie his ego needs to feed upon.
“Point…taken,” she acknowledges wryly, breathily in rhythm to his thrusts. She trails off into a moan of what can only be called appreciation of his enthusiasm.
“Just…making…sure,” he punctuates each vicious syllable with an equally vicious lunge, the potency in his very aura, his dark, fathomless and obvious lust inspiring more lubrication for his brutal movements in spite of herself.
It’s possible that she likes it rough every so often. It’s possible she wasn’t as aware of that as she could have been before. It’s possible they should court martial her, then, if that’s such a horrible thing.
Hell. Starfleet probably will if they ever–
Oh, God. That angle is… Ohhhh, my.
“Kashyk,” she growls, feeling the increasing tightening in her molten belly, the pleasure building, blossoming.
Not like this. Not under him, not with him on top.
With a growl that shakes the desk and an angry snarl to chase it, he rips free of her, a hand curling around her white arm and yanking her up. “Hurry,” he demands, placing himself strategically back on the desk.
In the few seconds she takes to survey him, to decide that his positioning works well enough though he all but dangles over the edge even lengthwise across it, he smirks. Takes her survey as hesitation. Mockingly makes a show of folding those gloved hands – that have been intimate places all over her body – behind his head.
She tears her eyes away from the gloves as he prompts more patiently this time.
Of course more patiently. He thinks he’s winning this game, that he can afford this time. She wonders if it’s just occurred to him that the telepaths are supposedly in transporter suspension. That time they waste here could kill them and save him the trouble of “relocating” them. She thinks she can’t entirely put it past him.
He really is a bastard. He’ll never set so much as a glove on them – but they’re in the middle of something here.
Something she intends to finish.
“Tell me, Inspector, are all of your inspections this personal?” In a purr, she rather vacuously echoes her own line, climbs firmly astride his impressive form. The widthwise space on the desk is narrow enough to make it a feat.
Her eyes narrow ever so slightly, he notes, much like a cat about to be very satisfied…and knowing it.
“You’re the first,” he smirks, watching without moving to help, her trying to figure out how to get proper leverage around him and the narrow desk.
“Somehow I find it difficult to believe you.” She runs an idle hand over his chest, thinks she’s glad he’s still wearing the tunic and shifts like crazy trying to get a good position on top of him. Settles for a second for simply rubbing herself against his still-hard cock and enjoys the darkening of his eyes as he fights to keep still.
“And am I really the first handsome inspector you’ve crawled onto your desk with?” he mocks.
In frustration, she grits out, “Unfortunately. As you can see from the technical difficulties we seem to be having.”
She needs a bigger damned desk.
Dislodging from behind his head, his gloved hand reaches up to her while she positions herself. His flat palm grazes over her breasts in a tantalizing downward motion before both reach up to squeeze them suggestively in his palms. Licking her lips is an afterthought, a reflex like her wiggling to position her thighs around him and her feet beside him so that she can gain leverage as he chuckles, “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”
Good. Let him think she fucks random mass murderers across her desk. She’d prefer it actually. Then he won’t be looking for the knife coming at him when he’s least expecting it.
She can’t help smirking as he growls through clenched teeth, “Hurry up!” with an extra squeeze that’s no longer remotely gentle.
She’s got it now, though. At last. She braces her hands against his chest, entirely uncaring about what of his grinds into the desk under her weight. It doesn’t take much to reach back and guide his very erect, marvelously willing cock to her. He slides in with excruciating, perfect ease-to-friction ratio, now that they’ve been at it a few minutes.
Figures. The bastard would be perfect, wouldn’t he? But as the distinctive ridges begin to stimulate her sensitive inner walls, as her clit gains exquisite, blunt stimulation at the end of each full downward grind of her hips into his, she cares less and less about any of it.
Her eyes start to close. That cocky smile, the ferocious intensity of it fades in and out of focus. Motion, sensation overwhelm her. His hand reaches up to her neck, behind, fisting in her hair, hard enough to pull while another glove smoothes over her left breast, pulling down the edge of the scrap of fabric obscuring it to taunt a baring, overly irritated nipple…it’s all she can feel and wants to feel.
He might be telling the truth, but he also might be using us to find the wormhole.
She opens her eyes to gaze down on him. He’s using her. She knows it. Right now he’s wallowing in triumph, in satisfaction, in potency. In expectation.
Right now, so is she. She just hides it better. Mostly.
He still sees it. He looks deep enough every so often. Every few seconds comes out of the haze of liquid pleasure she sends flooding through his body long enough to observe.
Neither could give less of a damn right now.
She rides him slowly at first, more energetically as the friction builds, tightens. Mounting, exquisite pressure, and then his damned gloved hands dig so deeply into her hips she’s sure his imprint will be there for days to come – precisely his intent – but that primal need in him to do it is arousing. Fundamentally so. And when the crest of the wave finally crashes over her, she cries out softly, not bothering to contain herself.
Her head dropping back in fleeting ecstasy, she has little thought as to whether or not he’ll meet her there now that her pace again slows and sensation overtakes her entirely, her thighs untightening and her pace faltering, but he picks up where she leaves off, offering a shout of exaltation, of amazement at the sensation of her body clamping down around him, wrenching a climax like he’s never experienced out of his powerful body.
They shake, shudder together in the fleeting aftershocks of her orgasm, then through the fading aftermath of his.
No sooner does he flood her womb with hot, seemingly unending spurts of temporary adoration, worship then he slackens his grip, allows her to collapse over him.
She’s surprised. She hadn’t thought he’d want that…like that…there. She hadn’t thought she’d like it, but she’d made no move to stop it, had deemed her own impending climax, which had been every bit as good as she had anticipated, more important than any kind of power play over where he came could have become.
She wonders if he’ll regret that when he thinks it over, if he’ll fear they could have conceived some tormented and damned future offspring or if he knows she’s on fertility blockers.
She wonders most especially why she wonders these things and mostly enjoys the sensation of melting bones while she refuses to move.
After maybe thirty seconds of unmasked appreciation for what they’ve just reduced each other to, boneless masses of putty, he sweeps her damp hair back from her face, and her chin scrapes across his rough, sweat-dampened chest enough to tip her face up and meet his eyes.
Has it changed anything, she wonders as her breathing calms and her muscles stop shaking. She supposes it’s really fifty/fifty. Will he do what she stopped him from doing twenty minutes ago by initiating this?
Without preamble, he lifts her off of him, his powerful arms having no trouble in sitting up to set her on the floor. He stands, and she gingerly makes her way over to her pants, her legs feeling like gelatin, to begin to dress. The face off can resume once she does. She turns, her back securely to the wall, watching him while she goes about it.
He seems to be considering his next action as he easily pulls his pants up over his hips, fastens them and regards her straitening, having had a bit of a struggle getting her still-booted feet back into them.
She would love it if she felt in a secure enough position to cross to her bathroom and clean up a bit. She doesn’t. Especially if he isn’t making any move to do so.
Right now, it’s his play. She’s put the ball back in his court.
Counterpoint. It's in all great music. Parallel melodies playing against one another.
She wonders if he’s thinking what she is. That if they aren’t at opposite sides, it just isn’t the same.
She zips her pants, adjusts her bra. Contemplates making her way over for her shirts as she scrutinizes his expression for indication of a reaction to the past twenty minutes. He seems to be doing the same to her.
One second passes. Another.
The smile comes. The cold, superior, cocky smile that turns her insides – in more ways than one. It may not have been unexpected, but all the same she tenses before he can even bellow out the hated word, “Prax!”
She stiffens. That was unexpected. She’s still half naked for all intents and purposes, but the odious man barrels immediately into the room, followed of course by the two storm troopers, as usual.
Looking from one gloating, contemptuous Devore face to the other, she realizes they’re waiting, quite smugly, for her horrified reaction to this sudden turn of events. Her hands slowly return to her sides, a concerted effort from her.
They can stand here ‘til hell itself freezes over before they’re getting it.
Her eyes slide back to his, arctic ice in them. “You son of a bitch,” is all she grits out quietly, all she’ll afford him for that seedy little tactic.
It’s crystal clear what they’ve been doing in here.
He grins unabashedly back at her. Holds her eye. “Prax. Go to Cargo Bay One. You'll find the transporter patterns for more than a dozen telepaths.” He pauses, smirking at her venomous gaze. “That is, if they lasted all this time, and I must say I’m eager to see if they have. If so…rematerialize them.”
“Yes, sir.” The smug silver-haired toad rushes out to do his inspector’s bidding. Leaving her squaring off, facing Kashyk, with a pair of smirking Devore watching her every movement as well. Or…non-movement, as the case may be.
Her glare doesn’t hasten her pace. “Impressive,” she lies, staring him down. “You gave a masterful performance.”
In here he did. Elsewhere, eh, not so much.
Darting a solitary glance over her shoulder as she throws her undershirt over her head, she can see their surprise. Theirs and Kashyk’s. They probably expected her to scramble for her shirts long before now, to rail at him for not waiting for her to finish dressing before calling them in. Which one it was, she neither knows nor cares.
She listens to his crowing with one ear as she makes her way to her remaining articles of clothing.
“I'm the one who's impressed, with your selflessness, your humanity,” he drawls, ostensibly watching her dress. “It made all this so much easier.”
“Oh? But what about your selflessness?” she clips, pulling the turtleneck over her head. Her hair catches in it, and pulling it out properly takes a minute. “That touching story about the little girl? Was that a fabrication, too?”
“Oh, that incident was real.” He’s enjoying the hell out of this, in spite of her disappointing reaction to the others finding her in the mother of all compromising positions.
At least he can still prioritize as he makes a show of adjusting his own pants. “What I didn't tell you was that after wrestling with my ethics…I realized that I'd done the right thing. In order to protect my people from a very real threat.”
And so has she.
She says nothing more; what else is there to say? Feeling along the side of the collar, she realizes she’s lost a pip with a repressed curse. Phenomenal. Like Chakotay isn’t going to notice that the second-
The back fastening is at her feet. She leans down and picks it up, looking for the pip itself.
A few seconds’ scanning, and she spots the errant pip on the floor over by the other soldiers. Thank God.
Regally, her movements unhurried, she approaches them. The closest one nervously tightens his grip on his weapon as she leans down and retrieves the wayward metal, going by feel and experience in replacing it and hoping it’s relatively straight with regards to the others before crossing back over and snatching her jacket off the railing. Yet the more time she takes to collect herself, to redress, the more time those telepaths have to…
“Hurry up,” Kashyk finally snaps impatiently, eager to put on the rest of his carefully calculated “reveal”.
She coolly ignores him. Makes her own pace so that by the time she’s presentable again, jacket zipped, it’s been a full several minutes that they’ve had to wait for her to pull herself together.
Fuck the hovering storm troopers with their undisciplined leers morphing into utter confusion at her unhurried, unabashed demeanor. Them, she ignores. The glare, she saves solely for their master.
Only when she’s completely ready, has smoothed her hair and the sole tangible reminder of their coupling is the smell of him all over her and the lingering dampness between her thighs…only then does she let him gesture her out onto the bridge at the none-too-subtle gesture from one of the thugs with the huge phaser canon that weighs as much as he does.
Should she be surprised that the bridge is now manned by his officers, her own crew replaced? Maybe. On another day, she might admit to being unsettled by it. She knows he didn’t have them beamed off or shot yet, because the computer would have alerted her to either action.
Today, she grounds herself in the soreness of muscles that have been well abused by the both of them, in what the friction of jostling them by walking is doing, and in hating that she wasn’t able to clean herself up properly before having to walk out here. It’s only going to distract her from enjoying the look on his face when–
When she moves to take her chair, he stands fast in front of it, blocking her access. Firmly indicates the first officer’s seat , a smug smile on the face she’d rather slap than regard by now.
With a slow, controlled roll of her neck to keep from letting anything slip out of malice, she silently takes her place, crosses her legs in synch with his, knows he isn’t feeling what she is at this current position and hates him just a little bit for it. But mostly, she waits for him to discover who the true victor will be here today.
It takes time, but he gets it. Eventually.
“You created false readings!”
Her head snaps up, feigning surprise. “That is the theme for this evening isn’t it?” The thesis of their interaction from day one?
Yes. Yes, it is.
He finally looks alarmed. Like he’s beginning to get it. He seems to be at the expression on his face as he barks out over the comm. system, “Prax! Do you have the telepaths?”
“I have cargo containers. Filled with…vegetables.”
She can’t help the smirk that spreads across her own face for that one.
He glowers at her. Wants to kill her, she’s quite sure, as he snaps to the unseen Prax, “Return to the bridge!”
It’s really a shame for him to be so tense so soon after being so at ease in her ready room, isn’t it? And he’s definitely sexier when he has the upper hand. Or thinks he does.
“Computer,” she orders regally, “change music selection, Mahler, Symphony Number One, Second Movement.” To Kashyk, she explains benevolently, “Maybe this will help you relax.”
It will her. That was a brilliant idea Chakotay had, she must admit. The computer has just locked onto every Devore life sign on the ship with that single innocuous order from her. Is preparing to beam them all into the brig on her next command…when it’s necessary.
Not yet though. Not quite yet.
“Two of their shuttle craft are missing,” one reports from Tactical, alarmed.
“They can’t have gone far! Why didn’t they appear on our long-range scans?” his inspector frets, agitated.
She ignores him again, watching his leather-covered hands moving over her command control panels out of the corner of her eye and wondering what he’ll do with those gloves when this is over. Will he keep them? Or burn them, as she half suspects?
She’s definitely going to have to clean those consoles he’s touching with them as soon as she gets him the hell off her ship.
Otherwise, she pretends a distinct lack of interest and silently runs a hundred possible scenarios in her mind.
He sets a course to pursue the telepaths. She quips something about the specifications hiding them from sensors being something he himself had given them, but she’s given the telepaths more than enough time to get through that wormhole before he can stop them. She’s no longer worried for their fate.
Her mind is on what happens afterward.
She watches the wormhole implode from within, the torpedoes Harry had programmed to disperse behind the Brenari doing their jobs with remarkable accuracy. Now only a ripple in space is left. Beside her, Kashyk sinks back into her chair, undoubtedly running through the list of ways he can make her pay for this. Weighing the costs and benefits of each method of reprisal.
She’s ready for all of them.
She hears Prax propose Voyager’s detainment and impoundment, the crew’s relocation to a detention center. Almost…
She’s running through her options for when the true confrontation commences. It’s almost here, but she’s more prepared for this deception of his than she ever was for getting stuck in the Delta Quadrant, that’s for certain. Kashyk will find that out soon enough…
The surprise comes when the preparations she’s put in place against him simply impounding the ship…aren’t necessary. Calculations, odds and percentages go flying out the airlock, drawing the tension from her body like a siphon the instant he redresses Prax.
“Do you think either of us will benefit from having this failure on our records?” Kashyk rails. “As far as you’re concerned, this incident never. Occurred. Make sure your teams share that understanding.”
She’s amazed his neck doesn’t snap with the force of dismissing the smug, not-so-little prick of a lieutenant of his.
She’s cold. Relieved.
He’s giving her up. Giving Voyager up. Without so much as a token fight.
Well. She isn’t about to look a gift Devore in the mouth – no…actually…technically…she is.
Blue lights play over his powerful ridged face. His unfortunately handsome face.
She leans into him. “I never lied to you, you know.” Except when I was breathing. But she had meant this part, “My offer to take you with us was genuine. And it would still stand if you’d kept your part of the bargain.”
His dark eyes speak volumes. Loss reflects in them. Humiliation. What damn right well could be genuine regret as he softly concedes, “For what it’s worth…you’ve made a tempting offer.”
She knows that.
Gigaquads of unsaid things pass between them in the seconds of silence that fall. Light years of truths they’ll never admit are allowed to exist, to stretch openly in that ever-growing silence which holds them connected at the core.
Until he breaks it, tears his eyes away from her and stands, one final time.
“The bridge is yours.”
She knows that, too. She watches him walk out of her life, feels the damp, throbbing ache pulsating steadily between her legs that will be the reminder of his presence for hours, perhaps days to come.
Her gaze sweeps back to the ripple in space created by the destruction of this end of the wormhole. It will never again appear in this location. Neither will Voyager.
Neither will she.
No hard feelings?
No hard feelings.
Seated in the first officer’s chair of her ghostly empty bridge, she gives herself another minute to feel. To process. With a half smile, she watches his ships power up, shoot out of her life, leaving bare space to fill the massive frame of the view screen.
Just the ripple is left, winking at her from the screen.
She wonders which of them will have the more satisfying sleep tonight. Certainly her own will be more triumphant. She may just sleep soundly – a rarity out here. She may not. It all comes with a price. Every victory does…especially out here.
“Sweet dreams, Inspector,” she murmurs the idle, caustic parting words to the memory of his image. She even half means it, she finds, faintly surprised.
Her dreams, she knows, will be bittersweet for a long while as she rises to collect her crew from…whatever hole in the ship the bastard stuck them in.