like she walks
by not jenny

She fucks like she walks, all anger and determination and fire burning far too bright. Her fingers stabbing inside you are knives, are phasers, are knives again, and as her teeth tear into your flesh, you wonder if she feels your pain.

Fucking her is like fucking a mirror, all glass shards and tricks of the light. You're never quite sure she's really there, really doing this, until you're left bleeding under her touch.

You are she and she is we and aren't we all just fucking ourselves, in the end?

This is not you. This broken, sobbing, twitching thing is not you. She is you; she is not you. This is you, clawing at the bed, this is not you. You wake up itchy and squirming and not at all amused.


The first time, you just watched her as she silently wept in her sleep.

She was beautiful in her grief, solemn and quiet, and you found yourself trapped in her. And though your original plan had involved station wide intelligence gathering, you stood frozen in her quarters all night, just watching. Mesmerized.

You barely managed to slip away before her alarm began to chime, and, when you finally reached the privacy of your own quarters, the force of your orgasm was enough to make you scream.

You never scream; you're the one who makes everyone else call out.

But it's your name on your lips, your name echoing against the walls, and the strength of your release is frightening and vast. You resolve, then and there, to make her yours.


It's like looking in the mirror, only this mirror can look back. This mirror can touch.

She's you, only not. She's you, this woman with her ugly clothes and her soldier's gait; she's you, in reverse, and you're dying to slip inside her, to see what makes her tick. Your skin twitches, just thinking about it, and burns underneath your uniform.

It's surprisingly simple to get access to a multidimensional transporter; it's even easier to slip into one of the cargo bays on Terok Nor. There's always some boy, somewhere, or some girl, anxious and itchy and needing a good scratch, and you've always had sharp nails. The night guard practically purrs.

You swing your hips especially seductively as you approach the platform.

Tonight, you want to touch. You will.


You are careful not to wake her.

Her skin is hot. Her breath is humid.

Screwing her is like screwing a phaser that's been set to kill: dangerous, painful, and exhilarating. Like dancing with death, yet again, and walking away unscathed; like the best con you've ever pulled. You feel more alive than you've felt since the Regent surrendered.

Her skin is rougher than yours; her hair is longer. Darker. The circles under her eyes are more pronounced; she has the air of a wounded soldier around her, and you briefly wonder if she tastes like tears or blood or phaser residue.

So you lick her arm. You swallow. She tastes like you.

You bite, and her arm swings at your head as you try to drink her down. And then your lips are on hers, your teeth piercing the skin, and she is struggling, squirming and pushing and it feels so good, her body against yours.

She opens her mouth to scream, and you pull your phaser from its holster.

You shoot.


There are dozens of mirrors in your quarters, hanging from walls and ceiling alike, and you watch the images as you touch yourself. And your eyes can barely focus, but that doesn't mean you're not watching as your fingers pump in and out. She's smiling, your reflection, and it's not quite your usual self-satisfied smirk, but it's close. It's close enough.

And when you call out your own name as you come, it sounds like her.


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