fic: who doesn't love a little mirrorverse femslash?
Title: Reflections
Canon: DS9
Characters: Major Kira Nerys / Intendant Kira Nerys (plus a small bonus)
Rating: M
Count: ~1,700
Warning: Dubcon. (Sort of. Happily resolved, in any case.)
Summary: Oh, the things you can learn from your megalomaniacal, voraciously omnisexual, hopelessly attractive alternate-universe doppelgänger. Or: the joys of narcissism.
Cold walls and a cold floor. Metal. A cell. What is she doing here? She can’t quite - but never mind. Something more pressing sits right at her side.
The figure next to her in shining black leather and vinyl. The hair and the nose and the earring - and that body, identical to hers, encased in that leather and vinyl. Not identical. A difference of quality, rather than kind, a difference of movement, posture, expression. The difference in the way the woman beside her inhabits her body.
The cuff on her wrist. The chain that leads to another wrist, identical to hers. Not quite identical. That problem of identity. By accident, or as if by accident, her fingertip brushes soft skin so like her own, and she wonders: is this my skin? She feels the thrill of it as though it were.
The Intendant’s wicked-sweet grin. Kira fears it, a little. Or tells herself she does. Desire, clear and hot in those half-mad eyes. The not-quite-fear she feels, being desired. Seeing that madness in her own eyes, or not quite her own.
How is it that they’re here, in this cell, cuffed together and alone? She can’t quite put it together. The Intendant traces lazy circles along Kira’s thigh, and that - oh - she can’t manage to reconstruct the rest. She should jerk away, but she doesn’t. (That’s a kind of thrill, too.)
She’s speaking, the Intendant is, in that bright liquid voice of hers, that voice that manages to be bright and sinister at once. It doesn’t quite matter what she’s saying. Endearments. ‘My dear girl,’ ‘you sweet thing.’ The occasional threat. It’s hard to tell the endearments from the threats. (Thrill.)
Catlike. Kira’s sure she, herself, has never moved like that. Catlike, she straddles Kira’s hips, pushes her back against the wall. Chainlinks chime when their wrists knock. Kira watches as their fingers wind together. The wicked-sweet grin widens.
The Intendant’s free hand rakes fingernails down her spine. She doesn’t let herself whimper. She won’t give this woman - herself? - that satisfaction. Not yet. She resists the desire in the Intendant’s eyes, resists her own desire. She tells herself that this is a test of her will. Of course, it's nothing of the kind.
She’s backed against the wall and her hands are pinned above her head and the Intendant’s hips, cased in their outrageous leather, are shifting gently in her lap. She doesn’t let herself whimper. The Intendant’s lips curl - sinister, seductive - and Kira wonders if her own mouth can take that shape. Then she purrs, and Kira’s certain she’s never heard that sound in her own throat.
The first kiss is a whisper. Her lips and lips not-quite-identical to her own. Hips, shifting softly. She permits herself a sigh of pleasure. Rolls her hips against her double’s. Whisper of a kiss, too soft, too gentle. She wants more, but she doesn’t quite permit it, doesn’t quite permit herself even to want it. Not yet. She holds on to the whisper, lets it linger.
The Intendant speaks again. Something sinister. It hardly matters what. Oh, prophets, her voice. Kira holds herself back - it’s not time to let go, not yet. ‘Oh, I’d like to torture you,’ she says, or seems to say. ‘I’ve waited a long time for this,’ in that voice. Kira says ‘oh, no,’ to herself, whispers, ‘no,’ aloud, deliberately, knowing what she means is ‘yes, please, please, yes.’ She shocks herself to find there’s thrill enough in that alone.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,’ the Intendant says.
Kira clips back responses. Calls her ‘Intendant.’ Bites off the title as though it might hurt, to see if it will. It doesn’t, of course.
But how did they come to be here? And does it matter?
Too gentle, fingertips along her neck. Thumb tracing circles on the inside of her wrist. Toying with the cuff. Too gentle, lips at her throat. The same again. Oh, again.
The voice, sinister, strained with desire, so close to her ear, her own voice, ‘Call me Nerys, darling.’
It’s too much. She finally lets herself whimper; the whimper becomes a whine. She can’t help it. Neither can she identify the emotion that prompts it. Fear. Desire. Despair. Need. All of that. Desire. She wants more.
Then the kiss is hard, tearing, and she whines into it. Hips, and fingterips. She thinks she’ll throw the Intendant to the floor, to see what happens. She does. She pins her flat. She straddles her hips. Oh. Yes. She watches carefully as those sinister lips - her own lips, so sinister - curl into a smirk, and the smirk breaks into a grin, and the Intendant bites her bottom lip delightedly, arching in her catlike delighted pleasure. Kira wants to make that happen again; play it like a loop over and over.
She doesn’t let herself move, the way she wants to, against this woman’s body. She holds still, and pins her harder.
She plays at denying this to herself. Plays at telling herself that holding this woman down like this is resistance, when it’s just delicious capitulation. She won’t admit that, quite, not yet. The thrill is too precious to let it go.
The Intendant taunts her. Envenoms her rank, ‘Oh, Major.’ Praises her for playing rough. ‘You’re such a skilled little thing, aren’t you?’ Oh, prophets, that voice. And she purrs. She purrs. Kira punishes her for it, loosening her grip only to thrust her back down, hard, onto the tritanium floor. Cold metal. Something so arousing about that cold metal. The Intendant’s wicked laugh is both rebuke and reward.
Arching hips and springing spine beneath her - Kira’s agile, but she’s never moved like that. The Intendant’s hips arch and her spine springs, and Kira’s on her back again. She wants it to hurt, and it does.
But it happens too fast. Those tearing kisses. Her tunic torn open, her trousers torn down, so much rapid, tearing movement. The Intendant’s hips between her legs, leather on her bare skin, too fast, but she can’t stop it and in spite of herself she wants it too badly to try.
‘Call me Nerys.’ It’s a threat. She won’t. She won’t, she promises herself she won’t. Knowing, of course, that she will.
‘No,’ she says, knowing she means something else. The Intendant knows it too, because she’s her. Of course.
The Intendant’s free hand pinning hers. Her own teeth on the Intendant’s jaw. The taste of her, the smell of her - salt and an edge of something else. Is this how I taste? Do I smell this way? Kira runs her tongue along a tendon; the Intendant bucks her hips. Threat, and reward. That thrill.
The Intendant’s cuffed hand pushing her undershirt up - and of course her own hand can’t not go with, she can’t stop her own hand tracing her body. Oh, prophets. Her breath quickens.
Fingernails raking her skin. The cold metal chain drumming across her ribs. Teeth along her clavicle. Hips rocking between her thighs.
She gives in.
‘Please,’ is all she can say. First low, a breath, then louder. ‘Please. Please.’ The Intendant replies with something. It takes her a moment to reconstruct it.
‘If you’re going to beg, my dear, you have to tell me what you’re begging for.’ Oh, prophets. No, yes. Fear, desire, fear. Oh, prophets. It takes her a moment.
‘I want you to touch me.’ Not good enough. ‘I want you inside me.’ The Intendant tsks and shakes her head.
‘Please. Inside, please.’ She sounds ridiculous and she doesn’t care. She thrusts her hips and keeps talking. ‘I want you to fuck me, Intendant.' She can't quite say, 'I want it to hurt, I want you to hurt me,' so she says, 'Hard. I want it hard, Intendant. Please.’ Ridiculous, but her own voice is sweet as the Intendant’s in her ears.
‘Call me Nerys, my darling girl.’ It’s a condition. She purrs, again. How? Never mind. The hips between her legs stop moving. The palm on her breast relieves its pressure. The kisses at her collarbone, the teeth on her lips and her throat, all stop. ‘It’s not so much to ask, is it, sweet? Call me Nerys.’ Kira wants to weep with wanting. She arches her hips, reaching for the Intendant’s. Not permitted.
She wants to hold this moment, too - the need is precious as the thrill - but, she finds, she can’t.
‘Please,’ her voice thin and stretched. She lifts her head, reaching for a kiss. Refused. ‘Please,’ she whines, over and over, not wanting to give in, not yet, it’s too sweet, prolonging this, letting it last, stretching her desire as far as it can go. Not yet, not yet.
The whisper of leather on her thighs again. Oh, no.
Teasing circles traced around her nipple. Breath hot at her ear.
‘Say it, darling, that’s all, just once.’ She brings her hand down to rest across Kira’s cunt and Kira’s hand goes with it, rests over it.
The whisper of leather and teasing fingertips (whose?), the chain drawing tight across her clit, and yes, now it’s too much, this whispering touch and:
‘Nerys.’
Fingers driving inside her, hips driving behind them, teeth tearing, and the Intendant’s moan is loud and long. ‘Nerys, Nerys,’ over and over, her own name, this woman’s name, her own, ‘Nerys, Nerys, harder, please, oh, prophets, Nerys, harder,’ and the things she can’t quite say: fuck me, hurt me, hold me down like this and fuck me, she wants to but she can’t, hips and lips and that chain, this woman’s fingers and her own, and she can’t tell them apart anymore so she just cries, over and over, ‘Nerys, Nerys, Nerys.’
* * * * * * *
Nerys breathed a deep, shuddering sigh. Her eyes fluttered open.
Alone in her quarters, she blushed. Her wrist, limp from exertion, rested on her hip. The force of the orgasm; her own cries. She was sure she’d been loud. She caught her own eye in the mirror at her bedside and grinned, biting her lip. The flush of her cheeks, the tousled mess of her hair - the thrill, subdued, still lingered.
Her door chimed, and she laughed. Bareil. If he only knew. She blushed again. He loved to hear her fantasies, but this was one she’d never tell.
She pulled a robe around herself and trotted to the door, calling ‘Come in,’ relishing the feel of her hips through the silk as she tied off the sash.
By the prophets, he was beautiful.
‘Nerys!’ His beautiful voice, and his hands, and how he held her so easily when she leaped into his arms. It had been too long - it was always too long. He smiled into her hungry kiss, set her down lightly. His soft laugh. ‘My little hara cat.’ She’d hated that, once. He caught her hand in his, kissed each knuckle. Then inhaled deeply, against her fingertips.
‘...Nerys!’ Astonished mischief in his eyes. She grinned, biting her lip. She’d never tell.
She ran a trail of soft kisses along his neck, raked her nails down his back, and purred.
Canon: DS9
Characters: Major Kira Nerys / Intendant Kira Nerys (plus a small bonus)
Rating: M
Count: ~1,700
Warning: Dubcon. (Sort of. Happily resolved, in any case.)
Summary: Oh, the things you can learn from your megalomaniacal, voraciously omnisexual, hopelessly attractive alternate-universe doppelgänger. Or: the joys of narcissism.
Cold walls and a cold floor. Metal. A cell. What is she doing here? She can’t quite - but never mind. Something more pressing sits right at her side.
The figure next to her in shining black leather and vinyl. The hair and the nose and the earring - and that body, identical to hers, encased in that leather and vinyl. Not identical. A difference of quality, rather than kind, a difference of movement, posture, expression. The difference in the way the woman beside her inhabits her body.
The cuff on her wrist. The chain that leads to another wrist, identical to hers. Not quite identical. That problem of identity. By accident, or as if by accident, her fingertip brushes soft skin so like her own, and she wonders: is this my skin? She feels the thrill of it as though it were.
The Intendant’s wicked-sweet grin. Kira fears it, a little. Or tells herself she does. Desire, clear and hot in those half-mad eyes. The not-quite-fear she feels, being desired. Seeing that madness in her own eyes, or not quite her own.
How is it that they’re here, in this cell, cuffed together and alone? She can’t quite put it together. The Intendant traces lazy circles along Kira’s thigh, and that - oh - she can’t manage to reconstruct the rest. She should jerk away, but she doesn’t. (That’s a kind of thrill, too.)
She’s speaking, the Intendant is, in that bright liquid voice of hers, that voice that manages to be bright and sinister at once. It doesn’t quite matter what she’s saying. Endearments. ‘My dear girl,’ ‘you sweet thing.’ The occasional threat. It’s hard to tell the endearments from the threats. (Thrill.)
Catlike. Kira’s sure she, herself, has never moved like that. Catlike, she straddles Kira’s hips, pushes her back against the wall. Chainlinks chime when their wrists knock. Kira watches as their fingers wind together. The wicked-sweet grin widens.
The Intendant’s free hand rakes fingernails down her spine. She doesn’t let herself whimper. She won’t give this woman - herself? - that satisfaction. Not yet. She resists the desire in the Intendant’s eyes, resists her own desire. She tells herself that this is a test of her will. Of course, it's nothing of the kind.
She’s backed against the wall and her hands are pinned above her head and the Intendant’s hips, cased in their outrageous leather, are shifting gently in her lap. She doesn’t let herself whimper. The Intendant’s lips curl - sinister, seductive - and Kira wonders if her own mouth can take that shape. Then she purrs, and Kira’s certain she’s never heard that sound in her own throat.
The first kiss is a whisper. Her lips and lips not-quite-identical to her own. Hips, shifting softly. She permits herself a sigh of pleasure. Rolls her hips against her double’s. Whisper of a kiss, too soft, too gentle. She wants more, but she doesn’t quite permit it, doesn’t quite permit herself even to want it. Not yet. She holds on to the whisper, lets it linger.
The Intendant speaks again. Something sinister. It hardly matters what. Oh, prophets, her voice. Kira holds herself back - it’s not time to let go, not yet. ‘Oh, I’d like to torture you,’ she says, or seems to say. ‘I’ve waited a long time for this,’ in that voice. Kira says ‘oh, no,’ to herself, whispers, ‘no,’ aloud, deliberately, knowing what she means is ‘yes, please, please, yes.’ She shocks herself to find there’s thrill enough in that alone.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,’ the Intendant says.
Kira clips back responses. Calls her ‘Intendant.’ Bites off the title as though it might hurt, to see if it will. It doesn’t, of course.
But how did they come to be here? And does it matter?
Too gentle, fingertips along her neck. Thumb tracing circles on the inside of her wrist. Toying with the cuff. Too gentle, lips at her throat. The same again. Oh, again.
The voice, sinister, strained with desire, so close to her ear, her own voice, ‘Call me Nerys, darling.’
It’s too much. She finally lets herself whimper; the whimper becomes a whine. She can’t help it. Neither can she identify the emotion that prompts it. Fear. Desire. Despair. Need. All of that. Desire. She wants more.
Then the kiss is hard, tearing, and she whines into it. Hips, and fingterips. She thinks she’ll throw the Intendant to the floor, to see what happens. She does. She pins her flat. She straddles her hips. Oh. Yes. She watches carefully as those sinister lips - her own lips, so sinister - curl into a smirk, and the smirk breaks into a grin, and the Intendant bites her bottom lip delightedly, arching in her catlike delighted pleasure. Kira wants to make that happen again; play it like a loop over and over.
She doesn’t let herself move, the way she wants to, against this woman’s body. She holds still, and pins her harder.
She plays at denying this to herself. Plays at telling herself that holding this woman down like this is resistance, when it’s just delicious capitulation. She won’t admit that, quite, not yet. The thrill is too precious to let it go.
The Intendant taunts her. Envenoms her rank, ‘Oh, Major.’ Praises her for playing rough. ‘You’re such a skilled little thing, aren’t you?’ Oh, prophets, that voice. And she purrs. She purrs. Kira punishes her for it, loosening her grip only to thrust her back down, hard, onto the tritanium floor. Cold metal. Something so arousing about that cold metal. The Intendant’s wicked laugh is both rebuke and reward.
Arching hips and springing spine beneath her - Kira’s agile, but she’s never moved like that. The Intendant’s hips arch and her spine springs, and Kira’s on her back again. She wants it to hurt, and it does.
But it happens too fast. Those tearing kisses. Her tunic torn open, her trousers torn down, so much rapid, tearing movement. The Intendant’s hips between her legs, leather on her bare skin, too fast, but she can’t stop it and in spite of herself she wants it too badly to try.
‘Call me Nerys.’ It’s a threat. She won’t. She won’t, she promises herself she won’t. Knowing, of course, that she will.
‘No,’ she says, knowing she means something else. The Intendant knows it too, because she’s her. Of course.
The Intendant’s free hand pinning hers. Her own teeth on the Intendant’s jaw. The taste of her, the smell of her - salt and an edge of something else. Is this how I taste? Do I smell this way? Kira runs her tongue along a tendon; the Intendant bucks her hips. Threat, and reward. That thrill.
The Intendant’s cuffed hand pushing her undershirt up - and of course her own hand can’t not go with, she can’t stop her own hand tracing her body. Oh, prophets. Her breath quickens.
Fingernails raking her skin. The cold metal chain drumming across her ribs. Teeth along her clavicle. Hips rocking between her thighs.
She gives in.
‘Please,’ is all she can say. First low, a breath, then louder. ‘Please. Please.’ The Intendant replies with something. It takes her a moment to reconstruct it.
‘If you’re going to beg, my dear, you have to tell me what you’re begging for.’ Oh, prophets. No, yes. Fear, desire, fear. Oh, prophets. It takes her a moment.
‘I want you to touch me.’ Not good enough. ‘I want you inside me.’ The Intendant tsks and shakes her head.
‘Please. Inside, please.’ She sounds ridiculous and she doesn’t care. She thrusts her hips and keeps talking. ‘I want you to fuck me, Intendant.' She can't quite say, 'I want it to hurt, I want you to hurt me,' so she says, 'Hard. I want it hard, Intendant. Please.’ Ridiculous, but her own voice is sweet as the Intendant’s in her ears.
‘Call me Nerys, my darling girl.’ It’s a condition. She purrs, again. How? Never mind. The hips between her legs stop moving. The palm on her breast relieves its pressure. The kisses at her collarbone, the teeth on her lips and her throat, all stop. ‘It’s not so much to ask, is it, sweet? Call me Nerys.’ Kira wants to weep with wanting. She arches her hips, reaching for the Intendant’s. Not permitted.
She wants to hold this moment, too - the need is precious as the thrill - but, she finds, she can’t.
‘Please,’ her voice thin and stretched. She lifts her head, reaching for a kiss. Refused. ‘Please,’ she whines, over and over, not wanting to give in, not yet, it’s too sweet, prolonging this, letting it last, stretching her desire as far as it can go. Not yet, not yet.
The whisper of leather on her thighs again. Oh, no.
Teasing circles traced around her nipple. Breath hot at her ear.
‘Say it, darling, that’s all, just once.’ She brings her hand down to rest across Kira’s cunt and Kira’s hand goes with it, rests over it.
The whisper of leather and teasing fingertips (whose?), the chain drawing tight across her clit, and yes, now it’s too much, this whispering touch and:
‘Nerys.’
Fingers driving inside her, hips driving behind them, teeth tearing, and the Intendant’s moan is loud and long. ‘Nerys, Nerys,’ over and over, her own name, this woman’s name, her own, ‘Nerys, Nerys, harder, please, oh, prophets, Nerys, harder,’ and the things she can’t quite say: fuck me, hurt me, hold me down like this and fuck me, she wants to but she can’t, hips and lips and that chain, this woman’s fingers and her own, and she can’t tell them apart anymore so she just cries, over and over, ‘Nerys, Nerys, Nerys.’
* * * * * * *
Nerys breathed a deep, shuddering sigh. Her eyes fluttered open.
Alone in her quarters, she blushed. Her wrist, limp from exertion, rested on her hip. The force of the orgasm; her own cries. She was sure she’d been loud. She caught her own eye in the mirror at her bedside and grinned, biting her lip. The flush of her cheeks, the tousled mess of her hair - the thrill, subdued, still lingered.
Her door chimed, and she laughed. Bareil. If he only knew. She blushed again. He loved to hear her fantasies, but this was one she’d never tell.
She pulled a robe around herself and trotted to the door, calling ‘Come in,’ relishing the feel of her hips through the silk as she tied off the sash.
By the prophets, he was beautiful.
‘Nerys!’ His beautiful voice, and his hands, and how he held her so easily when she leaped into his arms. It had been too long - it was always too long. He smiled into her hungry kiss, set her down lightly. His soft laugh. ‘My little hara cat.’ She’d hated that, once. He caught her hand in his, kissed each knuckle. Then inhaled deeply, against her fingertips.
‘...Nerys!’ Astonished mischief in his eyes. She grinned, biting her lip. She’d never tell.
She ran a trail of soft kisses along his neck, raked her nails down his back, and purred.