This is old and...kind of bizarre. Doesn't make a lot of sense, no real point.

Still, I thought I'd post it.

She's bleeding on the sheets, the creamy white linens stricken with a beastly blush. The patches turn to puddles that I dip my fingers in, admiring the way the blood clings as I lift it to my lips. She tastes like rust.

I catch the faintest hint of a growl in her throat as she gazes at me, and I can't tell if she's pissed or just aroused. For her, the two don't seem too different. I press myself to her, comfortable in the warmth of her wetness.

"You're bleeding to death," I say, my lips grazing her sweaty-cold forehead.

"Klingons don't die from little cuts," she says.

I feel her shivering.

"They do from a hundred little cuts."

My fingers idly trace her breasts, filmy and slick like the rest of her skin. I would, at any other time, be vaguely worried that the smell of imminent death arouses me, but now is now and then is forever gone. Her stench is sickly sweet, the faintness of her perfume mingling with our sex and her blood.

Red blossoms from little chasms in her tan flesh. Her cheeks, her neck, her chest, her tits, her belly, still swollen with pregnancy, her thighs, her calves, her feet, between her toes…She stopped straining against the restraints, half an hour ago, and now she's laying peacefully, breath shallow in her chest.

I'll admit, I was impressed by that Klingon bravado. She didn't utter a single shriek, and the flinching was only minimal, and she even gave some advice about Klingon's major blood vessels. Chakotay was the worst, though I suppose I had it in for him. I've never heard a man reach a note that high, and I sort of wish he were still alive, just so he could tell me what it felt like to have a fist literally inside.

She's the last of the resistance, or…at least the brave ones.

"Why did you want to go home, B'Elanna? You have no one." I say, kissing her bloody ear gently.

She makes a sound, like hollow laughter. "And what have I got here?"

"Fair enough," I say, resting my head on her shoulder, listening to her ailing gasps.

I fall asleep, only to awake sometime later. She's cold and still below me, those rich brown eyes glassy and staring at the ceiling. I kiss them, tasting them carefully, before grabbing the razor blade off of the bedside table and digging it in.

Seven walks in fifteen minutes later, her brow quirked as I inspect the wonders of the visual organ.

"Do you think Celes will suffice as Chief Engineer? Because if you insist on killing every valuable member of this crew, -"

"Valuable? I fail to see how valuable she is when she's dismantling the whole ship and voiding our entire operation because she wants to go home," I reply, "And besides…you're brilliant. You're far more able than she is….was."

"You want sex," she says, "You only talk like that when you want sex."

I stand, putting my hands on her hips, gazing up at her.

"I love you."

"You're covered in blood."