Warnings and Disclaimers: Strong R - Bad language and bisexual desire.
Disclaimer: Not my characters, only playing... There's also some of my own cynical musings about the Federation coming from the Marquis spy's mouth.
Note: Written for the Femme-fuh-q-Fest - http://www.geocities.com/femme_fuhq_fest/
"Can I help you?"
"I- I was looking for Ben." Bloody hell, why am I stammering? It's not like me, I'm not exactly a fainting flower, after all. Or a schoolgirl, no matter how much I feel like one while you patiently explain how I can locate Ben, which you must realise I know perfectly well how to do. I want to ask more questions, give myself an excuse to not-exactly look at the smooth hard planes of your face while you talk, listen to my heart turn painfully staccato. But you're barely concealing your irritation under your surface courtesy, and this encounter will become even more ridiculous if I don't shut up soon.
Oh, you're always so polite to me. Painfully so, when what I know of Bajoran women - and I know more than you probably think, Kira Nerys - doesn't really come up to human etiquette standards. Dark eyes are supposed, according to all the inherited human cliches, to be warm. But yours are cool and impersonal as they briefly meet mine. I want to spark them to any kind of emotion, trick some heat into them - tenderness would be nice, lust even better, but anger would do to get along with. Anger is meant to be easy for Bajorans, isn't it? I have a few old wounds which prove it...
But I don't say anything, I never do. Too much at stake...
Spy games. It makes these kinds of encounters potentially awkward, for a militia member and a secret revolutionary. When did my life becoming so bloody melodramatic? Can't even pick up a cute girl in a space station anymore, for the Prophets' sake...
Oh, listen to that, see, I can use your expressions. Clever Kasedy. What a good lover I'd make you, lovely Nerys. Little problems like political allegiance, race, prior relationships and orientation are nothing compared to that... Lean over and kiss me, and you'll find out for yourself. Lean over and kiss me, please... Press those soft lips to mine until I can feel the hard teeth behind them, let my tongue into the soft wetness of your mouth, learn and memorise your delicate taste... Let my tongue into other, more delicious places while you're at it, my sweet, no need to be stingy. After all, it's only a fantasy.
And outside the fantasy, you're not kissing me, of course. You're walking out of the Replimat without a thought in that redly shining head for the Captain's girlfriend.
Well, if I can't kiss you, at least I can watch you go... Definitely a sight worth watching. You're definitely drool-worthy from behind, graceful and lean and taut, the moving buttocks inviting my teeth.
You walk like a man... or a Bajoran woman. I'll admit that may be confusing the issue for me a little, this stride that my human bias has taught me to read as masculine. Devastating in combination with that tiny waist and that almost triangular, very feminine little arse. For a human, you see, there's only one way to read that. For a human like me, the word is, 'available.'
Of course, I'm not stupid. Starfleet doesn't have a monopoly on brains. I know that just because Bajoran women move like that doesn't mean they are open to female lovers. I've been in the Marquis long enough, have attempted to find substitutes for you, dear Nerys, often enough, to know that. Some of my scars came from learning the truth of that from hands on experience.
Fiery little things, aren't you, Bajoran women?
The mistake also led to other things, sometimes, to bodies that made nonsense of racial distinctions and resolved into same... the same... curves pressed against curves, hot wetness against my own aching core, pleasures matching mine... A gallery of sweet hot moments to intrude into my sleep, to trouble me when I'm making love to Ben, to come into my mind every time I look at you...
I can't help it, Nerys. It may all be arbitrary, the meanings assigned to certain mannerisms, but it still sends messages directly to my groin and makes my knees tremble, my nipples harden, every single bloody time I watch you. Can't you grow your hair a little, just to set my poor obsessed mind at ease?
It's odd the things that persisted through the horrors of the Gene Wars and the 21st century. Mostly Western concepts, in the old terms - some of dissident colonists have taught me that there are hidden histories that were lost in old, persisting imperialism. What survived is Gilbert and Sullivan, Earl Grey tea and the complicated cultural coding, coding that means that cropped hair and certain mannerisms in a woman translate to 'will fuck other women.' You're not supposed to mention that, of course, because we are supposed to have evolved past such stereotypes. But, for things that were random and specific to begin with, they've survived...
There are antiquated words, Nerys, that I don't even know if your pretty little Bajoran badge will translate, because officially they are meaningless in this brave new world - lesbian, butch, homosexual, dyke.
You'd recognize the hypocrisy of removing these words from our official language. After all, it's not so very different from what is being attempted on your people, smoothing out your Bajoran culture to the right to wear pretty earrings and put your family names first. IDIC is all very well, darling, but only if infinite diversity doesn't trouble the homogenous whole of our tolerant, wonderful Federation culture.
Ben understands this, despite his loyalty to Starfleet - it's one of the things I love about him. He'll try and save you, if he can, through his Starfleet protocols and honour. Pity I can't trust that way to succeed, pity I have to dirty my hands with the Marquis and Cardassian blood. Why do I believe, Nerys oh my Nerys, that despite your uniform, in your secret heart you'd sympathise with me?
But I'm drifting off topic. What I'd make you understand, if I had you and could make you listen, was that the Federation have managed to hide same-sex desire by accepting it. The argument is, if we made a fuss about it, that would discriminate, make it different, queer in the phoenix parlance. So we don't do anything as tasteless as mention it, and as a result, everyone's heterosexual by default. Just like the Federation is human by default...
I'm ranting now. And silently, at that. Fucking hell, I must be going insane. Time to go home.
Home - when did I start thinking of Ben's quarters as home? Home to his solid beauty, his rich voice that gives me shivers, his strength and kindness, and Jake's youth and neediness. I almost forget you, in his arms. I love him, really I do. I don't even know you, Nerys, even though I fool myself I understand your mind and heart... I deceive Ben, smuggle weapons under his noble nose, lose myself in the taste and touch of Bajoran women who remind me of you... And I still love him. Still want desperately, in my heart, to confess all to him and be forgiven and live happily ever after...
But I'm not that kind of girl.
I still lie awake in my lover's arms and think of your silky cream skin. Your high firm breasts that are shaped just perfectly to fit into my hand, the nipples growing taut against my palm... I dream of parting those long lean legs with my hands so that you are open to me, your scent rich in the air, my fierce little soldier vulnerable to me, awaiting my decision. Oh, there's an element of sadism in my desire, I'll admit it, in the privacy of my head where you can't hear it. I want to own you, own your orgasms...
Such sweet choices... To plunge my fingers deep inside you and work your clit with my thumb as I fuck you with my fingers, to devour your sweetness, kissing it like it was your mouth, to fuck myself against you, clitoris against clitoris, all wetness and fire and need... I want to know what you sound like when you come, Nerys. Is that too much to ask?
It seems I can't help but betray Ben in one way or another, doesn't it? Ben who trusts me and, perhaps, even loves me...
I don't know what you think about me. I burn to know, and cannot ask... Too complicated. I'm your Emissary's lover, and your political enemy.
Your unfailing politeness scares me, and not only because it's pretty much un-Bajoran. What could you think of me, after all? The alien who has your beloved and resented Emissary's heart, and only cares enough to fuck him occasionally between trading missions.
It's not true, of course, but would you feel differently if you knew otherwise? If you knew I was fighting for what you must secretly want, despite your commitment to the lawful solutions and peace, my little ex-Resistance girl? Would you secretly admire me? Hail me as a heroine? (As a potential lover?) Or are you so corrupted by the Federation's talk of compromise and going slow that you'd be horrified and hate me?
As Ben will hate me. Hell, if I go about it right, I'll lose you both in one shot.
Not that I ever had you.
Ah, well. I settle back into bed, and Ben turns to envelop me in his arms. I wonder if he really is the Emissary? There's something special about my lover, after all.
Something special about you, but you're not the Emissary or even my lover. Just some Bajoran ex-terrorist with a cute arse and an unfortunate way of walking. It's just as well to remember that.
I need to go to sleep.
There's a weapons run to get through in the morning.