Title: "A Fast One"
Fandom: "Andromeda", 'Into the Labyrinth.'
Rating/Classification: 'R', Tyr/Beka, language, humor, vaguely sexual.
Disclaimer: Majel Roddenberry, Fireworks, etc. Not me.
Summary: A rather light, plotless play between Beka and Tyr. Or is it...?
She flopped down in the command chair, idly twirling it from side to side. Dylan was still soothing the nerves of the restless delagates. She was sure he wouldn't mind. It wasn't like the noble captain ever really SAT anyway. He always loomed. Or paced. He was big on pacing. He'd done his share of pacing on this very bridge just hours earlier. Before the attacks. Wondering whether or not to sign with Bolivar.
"Better the devil you know...than the devil who's going to infest you from
the inside and eat their way out your stomach," she chuckled, knowing it was absolutely ghastly to joke about the Magog...but really the only way to keep from going crazy about them.
The ink was barely dry on the deal. The Commonwealth had one more member. Partying from both camps was supposed to go on well into the night ...except for your basic "We just fought four intruders who phased off the ship and left behind a trail of bodies" details. Clean-up, corpse disposal, and a positive spin.
None of which, thankfully, were her department.
No, her department had been making sure Bolivar knew the score. She'd laid down the law for the Nietschean...all cocksure and arrogant in those silk
pants. If he stabbed her friends in the back, she would castrate him. Pretty and sculpted and blond and silky notwithstanding. She had a tolerance built up for good-looking men. Liars and traitors...well, all bets were off.
No one pulled a fast one on Beka Valentine. *No one*. Uh uh.
As if on cue, the other resident genetically superior monkey on her back
strode through the doors. All height and breadth and wild black hair. He brought with him the bristling weight of his gigantic...ego. His *ego*. And
he came to a standstill, sniffing the air with a dark expression of distaste. "I can smell him all over you," he growled. "That wretched Jaguar..."
She whirled around, nearly swiping Tyr's legs with one of her feet. "Are
you sure that's not the blaster residue?" she wondered, rolling her eyes.
He ignored the question, eyes luminous and accusatory. His full lower lip
curled and his voice was like bitters and honey combined. "Did you enjoy his attentions, Beka? I have heard he's quite skilled."
She snorted, incredulous. *Of all the nerve...*
"Skilled at WHAT? Being a pigheaded ass? Nietschean males don't lower themselves to rut with kluges, remember?" She tilted her head, staring up the several feet to the striking bronzed face that hid an obviously addled brain. "We shared some wine...traded a few threats...and I left his quarters, virtue intact."
Now it was his turn to make a sound of disbelief. "Virtue?" he repeated,
arching a skeptical brow. "I wasn't aware that was a trait you possessed,
"Oh...you'll pay for that, Anasazi." She launched out of the padded command chair on her third rotation, tumbling the massive Nietschean to the
floor with the sudden impact of their bodies colliding. She straddled him easily, flush with the element of surprise. "Ha."
His full-bodied laugh sent a vibration straight up through the core of
her...she could feel it rippling outwards from his chest like a wave. The bastard slid one arm behind his head, reclining and casually inspecting his nails. "And what are you going to do? Sit me to death?" he asked, huskily.
"Maybe." Leather rasped against leather. She could feel his legs beneath
her. Tree trunks, she thought disparagingly. His hips surged upwards in an attempt to buck her off, but she stayed put, sliding more securely into the cradle of his thighs, and her breath caught. In repose, he looked like some wanton god. Completely at ease with his surroundings. But there was one thing about him that definitely wasn't at ease. She rubbed slowly against the telltale rise in his pants and the confident twist of his lips flattened into a thin line. *Oh, not so immune after all, are we...?*
Had she really looked at Bolivar? Flirted? She shook her head, slowly,
wondering how someone so little and pale and slender could possibly look appealing next to...*this*. Obviously, different prides bred for different things and Tyr Anasazi out of Victoria by Barbarossa of the Kodiak Pride had won the Hunk Prize.
The muscles of his throat worked a convulsive swallow. "Don't think you've gained the upper hand. I can overcome simple biological response," he
"Tsk tsk." She sighed, shook her head. "No wonder you're so cranky."
He scoffed, shifting below her...presumably to take some of the pressure
off his uncooperative male parts. "I am not cranky!"
"Yes, you are. Men are much more agreeable when they get their pipes
cleaned once in a while, " she informed. "Why, Charlemagne was perfectly lovely to spend time with," she added, enjoying the look of disgust that flitted across Tyr's proud features. "I wonder which wife I have to thank for that?"
He growled, hands settling on her hips so he could physically remove her from his body. "While you contemplate that, Madam...do me the honor of getting OFF me."
She covered his fingers with her own, stalling any major movement, cocking her head and grinning as wickedly as she could. "You want me to get off, Anasazi? You're so considerate...looking to my pleasure and all."
How someone could look sexy while looking appalled and terrified, she didn't know. It was probably another one of those traits the Kodiak bred for. "Madam," he warned, again, "I can assure you that Nietscheans do consider the pleasure of their mates...but that is something you will never have personal experience with."
"Never?" She licked her lower lip, watching his eyes unwillingly follow the motion. "That's a shame, Tyr...you'd be missing out. I'm the best lay this side of Taran Vedra."
He shifted beneath her again, the low, constant, noise emanating from his throat running like an engine. "With all due respect, you have no idea which side of Taran Vedra we are on." His fingertips dug into the creased leather at her hipbones, hard enough to bruise...and to arouse. "Do you enjoy baiting me, Captain Valentine?" he demanded, imperiously. "Playing these games?"
She leaned forward...gasping and laughing into the surprised heat of his sensually innocent mouth. "Only when I win, Tyr," she whispered. "Only when I win."
And she pushed upwards, standing up with ease and careful nonchalance. She left him lying there, tasting her on his lips, as she whistled a cheery, nonsensical tune and headed off to join the celebration a few decks below...
No one pulled a fast one on Beka Valentine. *No one*. Uh uh.
But when she was, safely, out of the Nietschean's sight range, she let her knees go ahead and buckle and the onslaught of frustration, hormones, and self-recrimination knock her flat.
"*Shit*! Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!"
No one pulled a fast one on Beka Valentine...except Beka Valentine.
April 20, 2002.