Work Text:
His aide brings the whore to his chambers, whispers discreetly to Kashyk — First Minister Kashyk, now, a devoted and powerful servant to his people – that she’s available.
He apologizes to his guests, murmuring something about pressing matters of state, and slips away. His heart is already racing in anticipation.
Prax is half-hidden in a corner, just gaping at the girl. The hair is the right color, coppery and silky, but she’s taller than Janeway and not as finely built. He supposes her curvy figure is attractive enough, but he prefers slimmer, stronger women who show no fear of his power or position.
If Janeway were here now, she would know the meaning of fear; he would have instructed her in it until it informed her every breath.
But she and her cursed crew and their doubly cursed ship are far from the Imperium, and she will never know the status he has achieved.
And that knowledge drips like acid in his psyche, eating away at any softness that might remain.
“Hello, my dear,” he greets the red-haired whore. “So sorry to keep you waiting.”
After wine and pleasantries, it’s time to get down to business. He nods to Prax, who only remains in his employ because he alone knows of Janeway’s treachery, and the dolt silently locks the chamber doors.
The whore steps out of her dress and bends over a console at his direction. He enters her with brutal swiftness, pounding into her so hard she knows she’ll be bruised. He grips her hips hard as he rams himself into her; when he grabs her hair and pulls her head back, it’s almost a relief. He’s almost finished, surely?
She catches their reflection in a mirror across the room. Their eyes meet, and a glint of metal catches her eye. She sees the knife, but he draws it across her pale throat before she can scream. He can smell her sex and her blood and the mingled scents push him to climax. She collapses on the console and he spills into her.
He fancies he feels her last heartbeat against his limp cock, pulls himself free.
The room reeks of blood and spend. Her coppery hair is stained with blood, and he imagines Janeway lying there, bloody and broken by his lust.
He rearranges his clothing and returns to his guests, nodding to the aide who procured the redhead. “Exquisite,” he tells the young man.
Not for the first time, he regrets that red hair is so rare in the Imperium.