So much thanks for every comment and every new message - Jekyll.
--
The room is small, about half the size of her cell, and there's a simple desk with a computer monitor on top of it. The space is dark except for the monochrome light of the screen, beaming an image to the empty chair in front of the desk, and the screen is showing a whole set of tiles, different angles of the same place. Of the same person. It's a surveillance room.
She looks at herself on the screen, through the cameras' eyes. She's sleeping, and she's only half covered. Her breasts sit heavy and exposed, her hair a tangle across the pillow like ink, and the sheet is twisted between her legs almost like one of those old, old paintings from her planet, a kind of biblical modesty in front of Alex.
Alex, who is in the empty chair after all. Who has a hand pushed into his hair, his eyes fuzzy, his frame slouched in a way it never is around her, his body at ease. She looks at him as he watches the screen. Observes how tired he looks. He looks remarkably... human, when he's tired.
He watches her for a long time, hand still in his hair.
She decides it's not enough.
She makes the woman on the screens, herself, stir. Wakes her from her artful slumber so that she'll do something useful with all this observation. Frowning, the woman murmurs something in her dream. Something that makes her hand slide from under her pillow. From the mattress, to her side, to her stomach, to the sheet between her legs.
She watches Alex's breathing slow. Hears it more than sees it. She smiles, and makes the woman slide her fingers under the sheet, into that modest hiding place, and set about doing unmistakable circles. She feels it happening to her, even as she watches it being done, but it's Alex's reaction that makes her stomach tighten most. It's Alex, when he stops breathing all together and focuses, blinking once, on what he's seeing, that makes her smile widen.
Do you like that?
she wants to say, but she knows if she says that she'll alert him to her presence. She gets to watch her captive, sleeping self start to roll her hips, her frown just noticeable through the camera feeds, and she gets to hear Alex exhale.
Then she gets to hear Alex murmur, quietly, just to himself: "You're kidding me, Captain."
And she could laugh at the tone of exasperated tension, like
she's
torturing
him
. Like her captivity is unfair on
him
. She watches his throat bob, and traces the line of his profile with her eyes in a way she's never been able to before - the downward sweep of his brow, the knock of bone in the bridge of his nose, the shape of his lips. How hasn't she noticed his lips before? There's stubble across his chin and jaw that makes something hot twist in her gut - she realises she likes him disheveled, his right hand gripping his hair at the crown and rendering it messy, quietly unprofessional. It's just long enough to get a proper hold - she'd liked to grip his hair like that.
His other hand comes up to his mouth, elbow resting on the arm of the chair as his thumb traces across his bottom lip. His eyes, narrowed on the screen, remind her of stormy waters. Watching her touching herself like it's something deadly, something deadly that he wants.
Then he mutters a simple: "Fuck."
And both his hands abandon their casual stations - the pleasure that had been distantly winding through her body sharpens nicely as his right hand drops down to his lap, then the left does the same, and he tugs belt open with an efficiency that says there's something making him a particular kind of uncomfortable. She's never watched a man pull himself out with such avid, hungry fascination before, the sound of his zipper something erotic in itself, but she can't quite control her gaze in the way she'd like, her own pleasure starting to blur her focus. She can't see what he's working with, even as his right hand takes himself up in a way that is so practiced and private that it makes her ache only worsen. He's touched himself before, of course he has, but she loves to know it all the same. Alex touches himself, and she likes to think he does it often.
She gets to see how his knees widen as he shifts his weight, how he handles himself so unapologetically when he thinks he's alone - how the rhythm he likes starts slow, and how his breathing drops right down with an exhale that's full of quiet relief. Her mouth practically waters with the urge to drop between those knees and help him - he's tired after all, tired and unmistakably aroused. His eyes are locked on the version of her in the cameras, and soft sounds are starting to float to their ears from her now - she hears her captive self murmur, then murmur again, and it doesn't take long for them both to recognise the letters of his name, gently moaned. Alex's jaw tightens and he curses softly, the rhythm of his hand immediately quickening.
She starts thinking about what it would look like for him to make a mess in that chair, and her heart begins to hammer. There's a sweetness between her legs that she's starting to recognise so well, and she can feel her wetness, somehow - feel where she's touching herself.
Oh. I'm... I'm dreaming
.
And she begins to wake. Not suddenly, but with a kind of desperately reluctant drag, like her subconscious mind is made of stone and it wants to stay in the thick, delicious water of the dream. She can still see how good Alex is making himself feel, still feel each stroke of his hand like he's doing it to her body and not his. Her fingers under the sheet are starting to slip, she knows she's in her bed now, but she can still hear the creak the chair makes as Alex's hips seek his hand, as his breathing grows laboured.
He should stop, he knows that. He knows that touching more will only lead to wanting her more. Wanting her kneeling there, pupils blown, and lifting her hands to play with him herself. She hears the small, private sound he makes, almost pained with how good the image looks, and he's leaking over his fingers now, chasing like he knows he shouldn't, but he's thinking about her mouth, and the way it opens just slightly when she's angry, and opens even more when he's making her cum, when he's winding her body so tight only to undo it with a snap, only to make her say his name and beg for him, and make him forget anything about the war at all and just want to
fuck
her, to be inside her and to stretch her and to let her body squeeze out what it wants from his cock until he can't resist it anymore and she makes him cum, makes him fuck it into her like an animal-
She cums sweetly, her hips lifting off the bed as her fingers finally push her over the edge of climax. She gasps into it and manages to bite her lip to stop anything more, her breathing quick, and little sparks dance over where she's most sensitive as her fingers play her through the wave. She holds the image in her mind for as long as she can, the imagined sweat, the imagined fullness, and her muscles tighten up and up - she's rewarded with just a little more of that perfect pleasure for her trouble, and his name dances on her lips, she almost groans it, his face almost visible...
Then the fade begins. Her back relaxes out of its curve, she pulls in a deeper breath, and she eases off with her fingers before they start to make her flinch. She can feel her heart pounding in her ribs as she settles back into the sheets, warmth sliding over her like a blanket, and there's sweat everywhere the sheets touch, twisted into a rope between her legs and creasing under her spine. Her eyelids are still heavy from the dreaming, barely open, and the slight coolness of the cell brings just a touch of gooseflesh to her breasts in the barely-there glow of the light from the edge of the cell door.
She draws in more air. Tries not to think for just a little longer.
Because that was nice.
That was nice.
Not disappointing at all.
She lets out a sigh before she can help it. Because yes, that felt good, but it was nothing like the days before, nothing like the aching build and splitting ecstasy of letting go with a certain alien, and it would have been really nice to have her fears proved wrong about that one. To discover that, news flash, this lowered dose of the drug in her system not only gives her very vivid dreams but renders
all
orgasms mind-blowing, no enemy assholes are required!
She sighs a second time, then tugs at both the sheet and the lingering fog of sleepiness to draw her back into unconsciousness, rolling over on her side.
"Only a little one?"
A heart attack is an understatement. She yelps out a curse and is shoving herself upright in half a second, eyes snapping wide open and her hand flying from where it's still nestled between her legs in a heartbeat. Any thought of sleep vanishes instantly, her adrenaline floods, and she reaches for a light switch that doesn't exist because the lighting in her cell is dictated by the automated computer, not
her
, this isn't a
hotel, fuck
!
