Title: The Truth
Author: Juxian Tang
Fandom: Star Trek: Voyager
Pairing: Tuvok/Lon Suder
Disclaimer: Star Trek and the characters belong to Paramount. No copyright
infringement is intended.
Spoilers: Meld (2nd
Comments: Should I comment a bit? The story is quite episode-related and can be...
mysterious for those who missed the particular episode :-) Anyway, Lon Suder
(played by incomparable, beautiful Brad Dourif... really, I am infatuated with
this man :-) Look at my One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest slash if you like him,
too) kills a crewmember of Voyager and Tuvok investigates the case. Tuvok melds
with him, trying to understand his motives, and the things go frighteningly
wrong. Tuvok goes crackers, becomes very violent (ah, this scene in the Sickbay!
And imagine Tuvok saying to Janeway: "You disgust me, Captain. You all
humans do." I mean he was mad... he was surely mad... by all means :-))
and tries to kill Suder with mind-meld. Well, the story is set after Meld but
Warning: rape, violence
Summary: It looks like the consequences of Tuvok's meld with the psycho
murderer are removed - but there is a secret that still connects these two
He knew. *I* could have been deceiving myself - bringing the pattern of my
visits to minute-to-minute perfection, banishing even the tiniest deviations
from routine - in the hope that on this particular time the inertia, if nothing
else, would save me, would help me to get through. My fingers were unfaltering
as I entered the code on the panel at his door - and then I paused, hearing the
voices behind the corner. The Crewmen greeted me passing by and I nodded,
without turning to them, keeping my shoulders as straight as always. Nothing
special was going on. Nothing different.
Their conversation died away quietly. I waited for them to go farther and
finished the voice part of the sequence. The doors slid apart in front of me.
He got up from his bed when I came in, put away the padd unhurriedly - his
gestures smooth as always, so fluid that the seeming absence of control beyond
them was almost frightening. His hands locked behind his back - so habitually,
the strange gracious motion that should have been the greatest anchor of my
calmness with its predictability but sometimes drove me on the verge of my
He made two gliding steps towards me but stopped well on the distance,
looking at my face. I knew I should have made the contact with his eyes but I
did not, my gaze sliding over him instead, not stopping anywhere. He had his
usual kind of clothes - plain and dark, blue this time, as uniform-like as
possible, taking into account that he was not supposed to wear uniform any
*It has been long, Tuvok.*
We met only yesterday for the scheduled session - but no matter how
illogical it was what he said, I was not going to argue. He knew. I could not
*I thought it would be never this time.*
He did not smile; black eyes stayed fixed on me, impenetrably serious as
always. I did not smile, too - not with these lips that were not suitable for
it. The other one - he could smile, an ugly sight, an ugly feeling that still
haunted me - and now I could feel him smiling again inside me.
You thought it would be what? Never? Who do you try to cheat? As if
either of you said a word in this room. As if you do not hear his voice in your
head and answer him the same way, before you can stop it. Do not think. Run if
Too late. Even to try to deny it - because I was there and no matter how
easy it was for me to leave I knew I would not do it. I heard a sharp intake of
my breath - a loud noise, the only one in the room that was silent before it.
The oxygen ran through my muscles, relaxing them, and I felt my arms become
flexible and warm against my sides - and ready to move. Unstoppable. The loss
of control? No, it was not. I let my control go. I could have kept it, armor
myself with it layer by layer. I was trained for it, was experienced in it more
than anybody else on this ship. And if one can live with pain or remorse or
despair, one can certainly live with it - with haunting memories and
unfulfilled desires. And with the closeness of completion just inside one's
reach. The truth was that I let myself go. Over and over again. And I would do
it again. At the very moment when shame and bitter relief coursed through me, I
was open enough to admit that it was not the last time. Later I would tell
myself it was. But not now.
Did he know it, too? The rules I set, the denial I recalled as soon as it
was over. I did not want him to know. But he must have known. Or why did I
never hear his voice in my mind in any other cases, why did it never intrude my
privacy or my work when I was outside his quarters: doing my job or having my
recreations or even in my bed. At all these moments he was there, in his room.
He must have had a lot of time when he wished to call someone. But he never
did. He did not call me.
He knew I did not want him to. He knew I did not want him. Till the moment
when I did want him - and then he was there for me.
Motionless, just in a couple of steps away from me - as if still giving me a
chance to go. The murderer. The criminal. He had been killing so well that even
his belligerent comrades-in-arms were turned out with it. He had killed a man
for the way he had looked at him. He said once that he had wanted to kill me.
And he would never touch me if I did not let him - did not show him how I
Because I wanted it. I knew it with the perfect clarity - the clarity that I
missed so much in so many other things. I wanted it and it was what I came here
I rolled from my heels to my toes, just a small motion but the direction was
what mattered - reeling forward - as if falling towards him - and it was all he
waited for. Two steps, so swift and fluid - and his arms already were not
behind his back - but flew around me, catching me, strangely warm and strong in
the unobtrusiveness of the gesture, wrapping around my shoulders and
*Do not worry. I have you.*
As if it was what I needed.
With my eyes closed I recalled for a moment how these arms had felt through
my unconsciousness, raising me from the floor, soothing and incongruously
gentle - after what I had done to him. It was not the first time when he
thought he held me up. And, maybe, that's why I let myself go down.
*Why do you do it?*
No words. Just his breath on my neck, both warm and cool and slightly
*Why do you always ask, Tuvok?*
He touched me. I should have hated it - who would I ever let touch me like
this? And a part of me did hate it, was repulsed - but, maybe, it was why I
wanted it so much, too. The thin fingers, so sure, laying on my nape, so
*daring* - did not he know what I could do to him for it? Oh he knew, how could
I doubt! Who better than him could know? Even if I did not remember it so
clearly - dream-like, rather, perhaps it was how my mind protected me. I knew I
had done it - but sometimes I almost could believe I had not. But he must have
remembered - have it imprinted into his fractured bones and torn flesh; he must
have lived with it for days - if he had used the regenerator, it would all have
come out - and it never did. No chance for him to forget, right?
And yet here he was - pulling my head down slightly as his body, so close to
mine that I could feel it all along, strove up to match my height. And then his
mouth was on mine, the kiss, warm, soft, slightly wet, melding, accepting,
desired. So natural that I did not have a moment to recall that it was what I
must have fought - because it was so good that I could not relinquish it, no
matter how I wanted to.
I felt his chest flutter against mine, the caught breath, the tremble - and
my arms at last got life of their own - rising, laying around his ribcage that
was so hard and frail under my fingers. I knew how easily I could crack his
ribs, my strength seemed alive, pulsing in the tips of my fingers, and I
wondered if he could feel it, if he could sense my realization - my memories -
of how easily it was for me to hurt him, to ruin something in him.
He drew in a breath. His chest rose and fell under my palms - what was it?
Was he afraid? Did he like it? The chant of ravagement where the word 'hurt'
repeated in every language I knew - that I had met in his mind once - returned
to me unbidden and I expelled it with an effort of will. Did he know what never
stopped surprise me about him, as long as I had him in my arms... How
vulnerable he was. How someone so twisted and deadly could be so vulnerable at
the same time.
No, wrong. How can you do what you do - with someone so twisted and
deadly? With someone so vulnerable.
I knew. I knew it all. I wished to say I did not know what I was doing, that
it was still the other one in me who controlled me - but it was not. The other
one laughed at me and tried to open my eyes at it. But the truth was that I did
it with my eyes opened. I had fought. And there were times when I threw the
fight - when I let myself go. Let everything go. One hundred years of my
training, everything what I believed in, T'Pel.
Perhaps it was still the other one. The one who lived in Delta Quadrant.
Everything that was good for Alpha Quadrant belonged there - and sometimes it
seemed to me that on the day when we were back - whether this day was going to
come tomorrow or half of my life later - everything would come back to me: my
logic, my integrity, my bond, real one, not this sordid and lame - and I would
be myself again.
Yes, I should have known better than try to deceive myself like this - but
it was what I did. For the way his hands slid over my shoulders, for this mouth
that never left mine as if he did not need to look what he did as his deft
fingers pulled down the fastener of my jacket.
*Don't be afraid, Tuvok. I know what to do.*
And for once I did not argue with him about me being afraid. As his hands
pulled my jacket away from me, our mouths separated for this moment.
"Computer, Tuvok 1494, seal the door."
*They won't not come in.*
*I know. It is not for them.*
His shiver as I passed my fingers over his chest was so subtle that it was
incredible that something so slight could reverberate like this in me. But I
knew what it was - what had made us so close. I knew how it started - from the
long spikes of fire that my fingers had shot through his brain as I had looked
into his wide and black eyes that had not had any expression in them but the
undeniable recognition of dying... And then another closeness, a part of me in
him, the relentless thrusting, maybe, the same deep and cruel as the invasion
into his mind had been - tearing and torturing him so that the fear and
resignation in his eyes had changed into pain and despair.
We had enough links between us for any resonance not to be surprising.
The tips of his fingers were so light, running over my neck. Their coolness
made me tremble a little, I did not know if it was of pleasure or of cold
against my burning skin. He reached towards me - his chest against mine - and I
nearly gasped, my control allowing me only to do it silently, not to let out a
*Let me do it... please. I just want to make you feel good.*
There was no lie in it now - he could be a cold-blooded liar but not in what
I heard sounding in my mind. I did not want to ask more than that.
His lips were glistening slightly with the moistness of my mouth - and I
knew I would feel my own taste on his lips when I kissed him again. Spicy and
tingling against the cinnamon sweet of Betazoid blend. Not metallic and briny
as his blood had been in my mouth when I had tasted him for the first time.
When the moistness on his lips was not transparent but rich scarlet of blood
that marred the whiteness of his face and transformed it into a weird mask of
violence and pain.
You do remember it, don't you?
* * *
He turned out to be inefficient - in his attempts to convince me - but the
truth was that I was not going to give him a chance to start with. His phrases,
for once fervent, not cold or measured as they used to be, slid over my mind
without touching it. Nothing of what he said mattered. He was going to die.
I knew he saw my decision in my eyes a moment before I thrust my hands
around his face. Terror splashed in his gaze and then I felt him shuddering,
struggling against my grip as I sank my fingers into his cheekbones and above
his temples and the darkness of his mind sucked me in.
Kill him! Murder him! There was such joy of destruction in knowing that I
would do it - and it resonated in the havoc of his own mind: the sordid
memories, the pain discarded and buried away, the secrets that would never go
out before he would be dead. I bathed in it. I took his darkness in and it sang
through me - and I knew I would kill him because he did not deserve to live. I
knew him - we were so much alike and that was why I could judge and execute
He was mistaken. If the murder was wrong and had to be paid with death - it
did not mean that I would have to die, too, for killing him. It just meant that
I would have to be strong and smart enough to cover my tracks better than he
had managed it.
The ink splashes of staring eyes on his pale face filled with horror. I did
not know if it was the instinctive fear of dying - he must have felt, no matter
if he was ready to die or not - or was it what he read in my mind at that
moment when we were one - how the darkness from him passed into me and lodged
comfortably there - as if there had always been the place ready for it.
It was true - there always had been.
I felt my numb lips getting stretched in that frightening smile of the other
one when I saw his eyes become cloudy. It was almost over. I was strong enough
to do it. And it felt good to know it.
Then he was on the floor in front of me, his blank face upturned, and I
looked at my hands that nearly had done their work and still wanted to do it -
and could not. And I looked at him as he got back on his feet shakily, his hand
sliding involuntarily against the side of his face where he still must have
felt the steel of my fingers sticking into his flesh and into his mind. I
glared at him, the hatred boiling in me - not only at what he had done but also
at what he was doing to me now - and if my eyes could do what my hands were
unable to finish - he would be already dead.
"You see," he whispered, his voice still hoarse from pain and
dying but suddenly I could read something in his face that almost looked like
compassion - and I hated even more than anything else. "You do not need to
do it, Tuvok."
He knew it. He knew it all the way when even I believed I could. But, maybe,
he did not know something at all. Something that was already alive in me and
begged to be released.
I hit him. There was only a step of distance between us and I covered it and
backhanded him. I did not remember restraining myself but I must have because I
could have broken his neck otherwise. His head snapped piteously as he slammed
in the wall - and the usual liquidity of his motions became dazed when he
looked up at me again. There was a slow trickle of blood crawling from his
nose, so red, dazzling in its brightness - and his fair skin and black eyes
were two only other colors that I saw.
His hand moved so slowly that it seemed an eternity before he brought it to
his face and wiped the blood with his palm - and all this time I stood still
and staring and my hand pulsed with the strength of connection with his face.
He did not wipe the blood actually, just smeared it - raising his hand palm
upward as if showing me what I had done - but I knew it - and as he showed me
his hand I looked at mine and it trembled and there was no trace on it but I
knew it wanted more.
"So, this is what you want..." he said. It was not the defiance of
his words - I barely heard them, they were so soft - but his damned shaky
thoughtfulness that was probably intended to imitate mine gave me this fever of
hatred. "I understand."
Oh this 'I understand' of his. He must have been telling the truth saying
that he didn't know about feelings - or his Betazoid flare would warn him for
repeating this even once more in my presence.
Did I hit him again? The next thing I remembered was him on the floor at my
feet, crumbled in a compact heap in the little space that was left between me
and the wall. I saw him shiver. It was probably more than he expected - more
pain, more force than he could take. I looked down at him, almost satisfied. I
almost felt as if I could stop there.
Then he twisted up, looking at me, pulling his knees up to his chest and his
eyes were black and unreadable as usual - but they could not become blacker
whether he was in pain or fear or not. He whispered, his voice slightly
muffled, probably with blood in his mouth:
"Do it, Tuvok. If it is what you need."
I squatted at him and saw the fear flash in his eyes - but it was too
little, too late now. He asked me himself! I only did what he wanted. He seemed
to try to start away from me but there was no place, just the wall behind him -
and I grabbed his face, the feeling of his cool smooth skin was so familiar as
if I got addicted to it for those two times when I touched it. The bones - so
frail - it seemed I could crush them just with my fingers, pushing a little
harder - and, in fact, I could. His eyes, black and half-mad, stared in mine
but he did not beg me to stop.
"You freak, you think you can do it to me," I breathed out. There
was this slight flicker in his eyes that indicated that he understood me, even
though my voice was nearly incoherent. The closeness of his mind sang through
my hands even though the fingers were not on the meld points. It was
intoxicating. I looked in his eyes unable to look away. I wanted him to break
the contact - maybe, it could save him. But I knew he would not do it. He would
make me go to the end.
I held his face in my palms and with one movement I slammed the back of his
head against the wall. He went limp - his body, his legs untangling and
stretched between mine - but his eyes only misted, did not look away from me.
There were new trickles of blood leaking over the ones he had smeared. I did
not let his face go, sinking towards it, catching his lips with mine. It was
what he wanted, was not it? Now he had it!
My tongue thrust into his mouth violently - the same relentlessly as my
thoughts had thrust into his mind - and his taste was maddening, the sweetness
of the violation was. It was good to do it!
And then, with the same openness as his mind had opened for my murderous
intervention, his mouth opened, too, and his tongue shoved against mine
bravely, flickering, exploring my mouth. If I wanted sex... I would not want
anything else but this response, maybe, but this kiss.
I did not want sex.
I moved back sharply, leaving his mouth for a moment - only to clamp my
teeth on his lips cruelly. There was nothing much to feel, just the pliable
softness under my teeth - and then I tasted his blood in my mouth and he
thrashed between my knees, probably trying to free himself. The small gasps he
made were definitely sounds of pain and these ones I liked to hear.
He should have tried to push me away. Perhaps he could not - not in the
position we were. But he could knee me between my legs, could hit the comm
badge and set the alarm. But what he did was only to put his hands on my
shoulders - almost shyly - and it showed me better than anything else what he
was still doing with me. Playing his game, luring me. So, he was going to have
what he paid for.
His thin wrist was taut like a string in my grip and his mouth quivered as I
started twisting it backwards. His eyes went wide but he didn't make any noise
"Do not touch me," I said into this pain-blanched face. "Do
you hear me, you sick murderer?"
He kept silent; not nimble enough to answer when I wanted him to. I slapped
him - and very slowly, as if needing time for my words to descend, he nodded. I
made one more twist, emphasizing my words, and for a moment he looked as if he
was going to pass out. The slight sound of something cracking in his wrist did
not make me sick - I should have got accustomed to the things like that, with
the new life I was going to start.
I studied him as he gasped and gasped desperately, trying to resume normal
breathing. His face was a mask of blood and chalk-white, the weird mixture of
fear, surrender and something that I considered sorrow, something that angered
me most of all. How dared he feel sorry for me?!
I would make him stop it. Now.
I looked down at his body, jammed against mine, pressed into the wall, the
knees raised protectively against his chest, his injured hand pressed to his
belly. His soft rippled hair was not smoothed away from his forehead any more
but a strand hang loosely over his black eyes. He looked messed up, wretched -
and yet there was something in him that made me continue; that made me want to
My lips felt parched and I licked them, my eyes not leaving his body any
more. I nearly did not recognize my own voice when it said:
"So, you understand me, is it what you say?" his eyes flickered
under the curtain of these thick golden eyelashes that seemed incompatible with
the black irises - and he looked away quickly, unable to stand my gaze - a
small victory that exhilarated me nevertheless. It was only the beginning.
"Then show me how well you guess what I want."
I thought that I got him - it was too much even for him. His eyes rushed
away from mine but he could not escape himself. I had him. I took his hand, the
other one, not the one I had tried to break, and put in on the fastener of his
uniform. He obeyed me quietly, pulling it down, with his eyes fixed on me as if
he could hardly stand looking at me but could not look away. As if he looked
into the abyss that sucked him in.
Yes, right. I was the abyss. Now I was it.
He thrashed a little, pulling off his uniform jacket in the tiny space that
was left for him - and his hand probably bothered him, too.
"Come on, you slut," my lips were unaccustomed to these words -
numb as I whispered it but there was so much life in other parts of me as I had
never known before. "You can put a show for me. I know I am not the first
His face rippled agonizingly at my ruthless hint of what I had learned from
our last meld but he did not say anything. He did not move his injured hand but
his left one, slid it over his chest over the thin material of his undershirt -
and even though there was, maybe, only a shadow of eroticism in this movement,
I felt my mouth get dry.
The voice that was not my own but still sounded from my mouth barked
"Yes, bitch. Caress yourself. Show me how you like it. You know how to
If he continued to look at me then, I would probably beat him again, beat
him up to death. But the black eyes missed me, looking concentrated on
something inside him - maybe, at the very memories I had tasted when melding
with him - as he passed his palm between his legs absently. I knew he was soft
there - but it did not matter. He wanted it - I knew it.
"Take them off," I ordered. He did. I knew he would do it. It was
not easy for him to obey, though - I could read it in the subtle changing of
his face. How well I could see through him now - nothing he could hide from me.
It suddenly turned me on - to see his hand caressing his naked cock. His touch
apparently did not do anything for him and I did not know if it angered or
gladdened me. Or, maybe, I did not care what he felt. I wanted *my* cock rammed
into his mouth, wanted to see his black eyes looking up at me when he let my
cock into his throat - and, maybe, then I would feel safe. Then it would be
enough for me.
But I thought I would probably have to break his jaw before doing it. Not
even because I was afraid of what he could do - something told me he would
resist no more than he had resisted me cramming my fingers into his mind - but
because the violence in me demanded to hurt him more, so much that would make
up for not killing him as I had wanted to.
And looking at him I understood he knew it, too - that it was not enough. He
might have said he lost his Betazoid abilities - but he still must have used
them. He knew too much about me.
He turned for me even before I ordered him to.
It felt strange. I had never done it before to a man, I had no idea how
difficult it was. But the other one that was me knew what to do. And I was
strong enough to do it even through the resistance, even with his body striving
away from mine. The pressure against the head of my cock was unbearable for a
few long moments - and then it slipped in and he gripped the wall convulsively.
He was not in the danger to fall. I had him. I pushed and pushed feeling a thin
cool trickle of his blood running over my leg and soaking into my uniform
trousers - and when I pulled back, he leaned against me as if trying to spare
himself - but it was too little to really help him.
Then blood made the things easier.
There was such drumming in my ears that I would not probably hear him making
noises even if he made them. But he seemed to be silent - maybe, too gone to
cry out. His cheek was pressed to the wall and his eyes half-opened,
unblinking, glazed with pain, as I kept slamming his body into the wall on
every in-ward stroke. Nothing was really easy - I had to fight every motion but
enjoyed immensely my strength and how it ruined him. I knew I would not stop -
nothing would stop me, even the Captain coming in now. At least nothing until
he would beg me to.
Somewhere in the middle of the coition I reached for his cock. A tiny part
of me hoped probably that I would find a proof there, that even despite
everything he was still getting off on it. But it was not like that. If he was
getting off it was not physically.
And I did make him cry out and plead, at least when he was able to form the
words through pain, when I crushed the softness of his balls in my hand
When I finished and left him, with blood and white ejaculate following my
cock in a trickle from his torn opening, he collapsed on the floor over his
knees, curling inside himself. I knew I messed him up badly - well, not so
badly as it had happened to him in the past and I knew it - but it had been
long and he must have been out of shape.
It was over. I sat over him and did not quite know what I felt, apart from
the satiation. My cock was cool and sticky and even though I hated to be dirty,
it did not come to my mind to clean it. I tucked it away as it was.
Then he looked up at me.
Even behind the coal-black of his eyes I could see the torment that facing
me caused him. But he did it - he was a whore, he knew how to do things, he
remembered. I expected his voice to be hushed and painful and his lips to
tremble - but I didn't expect them to stay pressed tightly... and his voice
sounding in my mind:
*Thank you, Tuvok.*
What had he done to me?!
And then I wanted to kill him again. Not with the mind-meld - I had proved
to be unable to do it and another failure would be unthinkable. I did not care
if it would get messy, I did not care how I would have to explain it to the
Captain and others. I wanted it to be gory and wild and violent - exactly as I
I saw his eyes opening widely as he saw the murder in mine. I struck
momentarily. I was not even going to use the grip at his collarbone to
immobilize him. And then - I did not know what happened - his narrow pale hand
flashed - and the sharp, numbing pain scorched my throat - so keen that I
wanted to cry out but could not. I didn't pass out at once - I looked in his
eyes - so cold and focused and murderous - and I wondered if it was the last
thing the Crewman Darwin had seen in his life. I thought if it was what they
talked about when they referred to 'artistry' of his killing.
He could have done it all the way to me, since the moment when I had taken
off the screen on his cell. But he did it only now.
Then my consciousness joined my body in its helplessness and the world
turned over around me.
I came round with the vague realization that I was not dead - to his arms
around me, raising me from the floor. The feeling of his body was the same -
fragile and accepting - but there was strength in the way he held me - and
somehow, still half-dazed, I did not want him to let me go. I heard his voice
talking to Chakotay on the comm - he did not forget about it, he used it when
he wanted to - saying that Tuvok was in trouble.
Tuvok *was* in trouble. I knew it. I was too shaky yet to feel the whole
weight of what descended on me. But the realization was already there. Tuvok
had done something... Tuvok that was not me but was me, too. The other one was
gone. Leaving me with the consequences. With the remorse.
I moved, opening my eyes. I knew they would be here soon - Chakotay, others
- and I wanted to be ready for them. And he was not supposed to hold me. He was
in trouble, too, needed medical help... I looked up at him. His face was clean,
blood gone from it, only his lip was split and puffy, still reminding that all
of it was true and I had truly done it. He was dressed.
"Tuvok," there was gentleness in his voice as he hailed me.
Something soft and sad and urgent at the same time. I wanted to waive him away
but was too weak to argue. "Don't tell a word to anybody. Listen to me.
Nothing happened there. Don't tell a word."
The hell I would not.
But I did not. I could hardly believe it, still less explain. I wanted to
tell the Captain at once when she leaned to me in the Sickbay - worry and
tenderness in her eyes. I wanted to tell the EMH - it was what I *had*
to do, it was my responsibility. But I kept silent.
As if he put a seal on my lips. And, maybe, he did. To have me coming to him
again and again later to ask for what I never wanted to get.
* * *
Of course, I remembered.
My memory could be masterly in omitting things - from the last time when I
had seen him on the brig to my first visit in his quarters. He was said to need
my help - my *guidance* - and for the first time I was trapped between logical
assumptions of whether I could refuse or could not. Then from the meetings that
looked so normal, that filled me with the utmost content at the success he was
doing, I was doing with him - to the building pressure in my mind that I tried
to ignore and then feared and that would probably make me snap again, this time
irrevocably, if he was not there, if I didn't hear his voice in my mind once:
*Don't do it again to yourself, Tuvok. You know you don't need to.*
And was there such a long way from where it started to the way I cradled his
face in my palms now and looked down in the black brightness of his eyes?
I didn't stop him as he sank on his knees in front of me - I just reached to
him, my hands into the softness of his hair, running my fingers over his scull
that I still remembered crushing against the wall.
A moment before his mouth enveloped my cock easily, down almost to my crotch
in one smooth movement, I heard the phrase that I expected and dreaded and
still knew that he would say it - because it was every time the same and every
time shocked me inevitably.
*Hurt me if you want. Just please don't leave me.*
I would never hurt him again.
His lips on my cock were soft and clinging, sliding easily up and down it as
he worked his head over my crotch. His hair was not smooth any more, flying
against my groin, and he tucked the strand away absently, not breaking the
rhythm. I pulled his hand away, not letting him do it. I liked the touch of his
hair against my skin. I felt him smile - maybe, he caught my thought - and,
maybe, I wanted him to catch it. Or did I? I did not know where the truth was
I reached for him, putting my hands on his shoulders slightly - the touch
that would be too much for me in any other situation but was almost too little
now. I pulled him up. He did not resist. His face looked strangely young among
the strands of curly hair falling over his eyes - delirious, happy. I could
hardly believe it but I knew he was happy. I could not ask why.
I slipped on my knees in front of him, reaching for his cock, and this time
it was hard.
His pubic hair was curly and the brighter shade - as his eyelashes were, as
his hair must have been - and I felt the slight blend of soap and his own
smell, delicate and heady, sweet and savory at the same time. Was this smell
what I kept coming for? I could see how his abdomen tensed, the flat narrow
belly drawing in when I touched him - and I felt his hands lie lightly on my
head, not pulling me forward, just touching me. I wrapped my arms around him
and continued working my mouth up and down - and I felt him leaning back
slightly against my arms - and as I looked up, I saw him toss his head back,
too. I liked to see it. I liked what I was doing, liked how it felt... It felt
Let me guess. Maybe, like being alive?
He was close - I knew it upon the subtle shivers going over his body - and I
was just a little bit sorry it was so soon. Then he freed himself from the
circle of my arms carefully. He knew what I wanted. He always did. It was not
easy for him - he closed his eyes to fight himself - as he always fought his
own demons in the privacy of darkness. But usually it were much more vicious
demons and impossible to fight.
*It is not necessary...*
*Shh... I want it this way.*
As always. Where did his way become my way? And could all my meditation
sessions wipe this feeling of giving up the control from my mind?
He stepped back - just two stumbling steps without looking - and fell on the
bed, pulling me over him, spreading his legs. There was such precision in his
movements - he knew how to give in - the experience, acquired willingly and
unwillingly, as I knew so well, as I could never forget, even if we would never
talk about it again.
I took care to be gentle with him this time. He had everything ready at his
bed, showing me with his hand blindly - and for a moment my pride kicked in
that he was so ready, did not have doubts we'd finish like this. But it died
away as soon as I pressed my slick cock against his shut opening.
*It's okay... Just go on.*
His face was distorted briefly at the moment of penetration and I plaited my
fingers into his hair, keeping him with me. His breath became smoother as the
pain was over, more in cadence with my own breath as I moved sharply setting
the rhythm of the thrusts.
At the moments like this it seemed to me that I knew the truth. And even the
other one could not argue with me.
At the moments like this I did not know that the man in bed with me - whose
pale face I looked down to - was a criminal and in my charge - and that what
happened was the twisted and erroneous thing I would be sorry for all my life.
I did not know that a while later - half an hour, even less - I would be myself
again. The Tuvok you know.
Not now. Not when his face was flushed like that - in the manner of
Betazoid, when the skin seemed to be not pink but the same pale and glowing
from inside - I could not give it up. Even for what I was - and, maybe, I was
not exactly what I thought I was any more.
I looked in his eyes and for once they were so defenseless that I seemed to
be able to read even through their impenetrable darkness - drunk, the same
drunk as the smile that flickered on his lips briefly and vanished as if he was
not sure in his face expression.
His hands flew - on my nape and against my temples - the pale wings of the
exotic tender birds - and I caught his fingers with my mouth, squeezing the
knuckles between my teeth. I never stopped thrusting. I saw him smile again and
released his hair for putting my hands on his face, dark against white, the
slight film of moistness of his temples burning cool on the tips of my fingers.
I heard him gasp. For a moment his eyes became plaintive - begging - and
greedy at the same time, fixing on me - and it was not fear in them, I knew
what it was. Inevitable. I wanted to stop it, anything just to change the look
in his eyes from this hopeful one.
It was not really a thought, just a ghost of it because he knew he did not
have to ask and it would not change anything all the same. He probably could
not stop himself in time. I felt his hands lie on my wrists, so gentle, almost
imploring - and they stayed gentle even when he pulled on them and I had to
fight him for leaving them as they were. I steeled my muscles. He could not win
me, even with all his force.
I would not let him do it. The tips of my fingers were just in a fraction of
inch from the meld points but I would not let him move them - no matter how his
eyes begged for it, how his body moving in cadence with my thrusting urged me
to do it. It was one thing that I could not do - despite the sordidness of our
affair, despite the crimes that we both perpetrated and remembered too well -
despite the power he had over me in these moments.
*I would not do it again.*
He sighed. He let me go. I wanted to kiss him.
I locked my lips on his, losing the sight of his unhappy delirious face -
and he answered me, eagerly and passionately as always - and I felt a pang of
pain for him, for his openness to me, for my knowledge about him that was
deeper than anyone else had - but still couldn't help him. I heard him cry out
in my mouth as I moved sharper and wilder, grinding him down to the bed with my
pelvis. He thrashed under me, probably half in pain, and as I convulsed coming,
I felt his cock pulse against my belly and the warm fluid leaked between us,
smearing on my skin. Just as his blood had been warm and tickling when I had
raped him on the floor of the brig.
I groaned. The tiredness and bliss was rolling on me so sweetly - and for a
moment I thought I would succumb to them. But I did not. It was over.
We lay tangled, his arms wrapped around my ribcage gently but with the
subtle clearance between us so that I could free from this half-embrace as soon
as it would come to my mind. And I knew it would be soon. We both knew it.
*Have to go?*
His soft curly hair was slightly moist under my cheek and the touch of his
skin was cool, cool as I loved it. Too cool to be comfortable for long.
The sheets were crumpled under us, the traces of our fluids drying quickly,
still slightly sticky at the accidental touch. With the corner of my eye I
looked around his little quarters, overstuffed with the plants, and in what I
saw I already felt the signs of my sanity coming back. There was something so
sad in these flowers he cultivated - as if they were not alive but a kind of
fake - not because of their flaws or on his fault - but just because it had to
be like that, because it could not be in any other way with what he was.
He tried, I knew. He was ruining himself trying to be as people wanted him -
as he thought I wanted him - trying to be something that he was not. Being a
gardener instead of being a slayer, too. But he could not. I knew it. Perhaps I
had found the truth then, when untangling the net of his mind in my fierce
invasion - deeper and deeper, to the very first moment when he had been broken,
when rape had become the sign of affection to him and death the sign of
I could not help him - no matter how we both pretended I tried.
"I need a shower."
His arms opened easily and when I stood up from the bed, everything was
over. I gathered my clothes from the floor, not looking at him, seeing just
with my peripheral sight as he pulled the bright Betazoid-style patchwork quilt
over himself. I knew he would stay like that until I leave. There was no question
of us doing anything together now.
I stood under the sonic shower and felt it remove any trace of him from me.
Clean. Ready to return to the Captain and others, to face the crew, to carry on
Nobody would know.
My reflection looked at me - chaste and cold and shut down. There was
nothing in it that I would not want to see. Exemplary. And as I put on the
uniform again, all the evidence was gone. I nodded to the Vulcan that gazed
levelly at me from the mirror - and thought that, maybe, it was the only other
one that existed.
The lights in the room were half-gone and I could barely see his face, the
strands of longish rippled hair falling over its sides. He looked worn-out - no
wonder if he felt the same tired as I was. His eyes were covered with the pale
trembling eyelids edged with the golden eyelashes. So soft and thick and
I knew it. I had to forget it now.
I thought I would leave without looking back - but then I could not. It was
not easy - nothing like after our usual sessions that made both of us feel
better, feel doing something right.
I looked at him. He sensed it. And without opening his eyes he raised his
hand to me in the gesture that was an abomination appropriated by him - and he
knew I would not answer him with it, would be appalled - but still he did it -
two fingers reached to me in the emptiness.
I turned away. It was more than I wanted to see. As I walked out, the doors
slid together behind me softly - and I entered the code sealing them again.