OFC/OMC semi-Trekverse noncon #4 (unrelated to #1-3)
l_eremita made me do it.
Okay, no, she had nothing to do with this other than engaging me in a conversation about Mary Sues tonight. Together with a couple of neat comments I got yesterday on the earlier stuff with the Cardassian, I am again posting old self-indulgent noncon against my better judgment. This time the connection to the Trekverse is even more tenuous, or else I'd think about tying it in to a Kink Bingo square. Anyway-WARNING for noncon/rape. OFC/OMCs, 2,000 words. Same disclaimer applies as before.
Also. Um. Dear new Vividcon friends and old non-Vividcon friends: Once in a while, I post Mary Sue noncon. Please don't judge me.
In which our intrepid intern and the rest of the medical away team are captured by unfriendlies.
"What do you want with us?" she tried.
"Where is Dr. Bashir?" she tried.
"What is the meaning of this detainment?" she tried.
Some sort of comm system crackled on. "Remove your clothing."
Her heart leapt in her throat. Naked? In front of these men? And once she was-they could-they might-
She straightened her back and steeled her voice. "It is against Starfleet regulations to be out of uniform while on active duty."
"Remove your clothing, or my guards will do it for you."
She eyed the burly men who flanked the door. She really, really didn't want their hands on her. And it was true that different regulations applied once you were taken captive. At this stage, a token protest might be worth less than a show of cooperation.
Slowly, she tugged down her outer zipper. When she had pulled the jacket off, she looked around for a place to put it.
"On the floor," came the voice.
Right. She took a breath and placed the folded jacket awkwardly on the floor beside her. Her inner uniform top went next. Then her boots. Pants. Standing in her underwear and socks, she hesitated.
"The rest," said the voice.
Fine. With precise movements to hide a growing case of the shakes, she undid her bra and dropped it on the pile, bent to take off her socks, and finally, with an internal wince, slid her underwear off.
She stood straight, hands at her sides. The floor was cool under her toes.
Movement, and then someone grabbed her elbows. She pulled back on instinct, but the guard twisted her arms together behind her back and fastened some kind of manacles around her, wrists to elbows.
"What is-?" she tried, but she was only led forward and plunked in a chair at the table in the center of the room.
She waited. The chair was just as cool as the floor on parts of her body not used to encountering bare metal.
The door opened, and a tall man in what she was starting to recognize as Ra'ani military garb strode in. He took a seat opposite her.
"Name and rank," he said without preamble.
All right; she could answer that. "Cadet Karin Renée Moreau, Starfleet, three three zeta oh two four. Why have we been attacked and incarcerated?"
"You have been charged with treason against the Ra'ani Empire."
What? "We are here on a medical mission. We have committed no wrongs to anyone on this planet."
"You have assisted the Han Jolar."
She could feel her forehead crinkling in confusion. "Many of whom require urgent medical care because of neglect or injury from the ongoing hostilities."
"They are the sworn enemy of our people. Assisting them is an act of war against the Ra'ani."
"The Federation came here as a neutral party."
"The Federation's intentions are of no concern to us. You have acted against the Ra'ani and you will pay the consequences."
Her pulse picked up again and she started to sweat. What punishment did they intend? Torture? Execution? Her voice wavered as she said, "Starfleet does not take the capture of its members lightly. You would be better off arranging for our peaceful release."
The man smiled at her as though she were as naïve as she felt. "Since you are not of this world, your life may be spared. You will be held here until the council agrees on your fate. In the meantime, you will tell us everything we wish to know."
Interrogation, then. She tried not to make her swallow too obvious.
"However." The man sat back, his manner shifting abruptly from menace to something like cooperation. "You can commute your sentence if you sign this document." He slid a PADD over the table to her.
She glanced down at it. There were a few paragraphs in Standard and a blinking box awaiting her DNA signature. "What does it say?"
"It apologizes for Starfleet's transgression and recommends from this day forward that Starfleet will provide the Ra'ani exclusively with medical care, weaponry, tactical planning, and other services we may require. It has been translated into Standard for you. You may take as long as you wish to read and approve it."
She shook her head with a sinking feeling. "I can't sign this."
"On the contrary. It would be unwise to do anything but."
Still shaking her head, she said, "We have done nothing wrong in coming here, and I can't speak for Starfleet, besides."
"That is your official answer?"
"My official answer is that you should negotiate our release promptly with Starfleet and that I cannot help you in any act that would harm the Han Jolar or undermine the Federation."
The man didn't look surprised. "Very well." He nodded to someone behind her.
With no more warning than that, she was lifted up by her manacled arms and shoved face-first over the table. Her chair went scraping to the side. She lifted her head, heart pounding, but whoever had shoved her was still holding her down. The PADD pressed into her breast.
People were moving behind her. A boot slid against her ankle and pushed her leg to the side.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
She struggled. Someone took hold of her knee and held it wide.
"No," she whined, bucking. No, God, please, not like this. Not like this. "Starfleet will not-"
A laugh came from whoever was behind her. "Starfleet is not here to stop us," he said, and she recognized the voice of the man who'd been interrogating her.
She kicked out; legs, now, between hers, someone grabbing her other ankle and holding it to his chest, hands at the base of her spine, a puff of air over her ass, the sound of clothing being undone.
"No," she said again, frantic. She couldn't pull free of the hands holding her down and open. "Don't do this, please don't do this." Her head felt tight with tears; she fought to hold them back even as the man pressed closer between her legs. She couldn't-this couldn't be- Wet fingers spread her open, pushed inside-she jerked-a few rough thrusts that had her straining to pull her legs closed, and if his fingers felt this intrusive, like it was all she could fit, how would the rest of him-?
He slid out, held her open with what felt like a thumb, and then he was slotting himself into place and she was making these whines she couldn't stop and then he was pushing in, in, in, grunting, and she tried to curl away from it but she couldn't, forced wide, crying out when he pushed even deeper-he was everywhere, deep where he didn't belong and over and behind (uniform pants against her ass and thighs, hands landing hard beside her head to grip the edge of the table as he worked at her) and God, she'd had no idea, no idea-
She was sobbing, thrashing, disbelief and pain and humiliation all mixed up as they held her there, her breasts and stomach skidding along the bare table with his thrusts. The sounds of him slapping and squelching into her turned her face hot with shame.
Some time later, his breaths grown uneven and loud, he finally stopped.
When he pulled free, she felt as wrong as she had when he'd shoved in. She twisted to try to pull her legs closed, and lost control of another sob when thick liquid dripped down her leg.
She didn't know what to do-how to behave now that this horrible thing was done, had been done to her. She didn't know how to look any of them in the eye or what to say. What she would say to her crewmates when they met again. If they met again. She just wanted to get away and be left alone. She went limp, shaking, waiting for them to let her go. The interrogator-rapist (God) had stepped away, but they were still holding her.
A second set of hands wrapped around her knee, only for one to let go again. She could hardly make sense of it in her current state.
It was only when another belt dragged against cloth that she realized one of the guards was next.
She strained to free herself once more, desperate at the thought of having to go through that again. Stabs of discomfort shot up from her pinioned arms and-down there, but she couldn't stop, even when their grips turned bruising.
No use-hands and fingers and another erection, close and blunt and sliding up and in, one hand on her hip, easy, like she was made for it, like she didn't even exist.
She already ached and burned; already had tears streaking down her face, making her cheek slide on the metal surface; had already lost any remaining dignity as she gasped and begged. It was just as well they'd stripped her of her uniform, she thought; she was carrying on like no Starfleet cadet should.
This one finished like the first one had: a groan, a few hard thrusts that jolted the breath from her. Then the retreat, the filthy seepage again-semen, blood, God knew what.
When the third one moved to take his turn, she lost it-kicked and writhed with no reserve. Exhausted now on top of everything else, she was startled when this time it worked. They lost their grip, or let her go-she couldn't tell-and she bumped off the table onto the floor, landing hard on her shoulder.
They hauled her up again, of course, drawing another cry when the movement wrenched her shoulder. They dumped her on her back on the table. One knee up, one leg out, and now she had to look at them all looming over her, at their hands on her, her skin dimpling around their fingertips, at their faces, all the more terrifying because they looked ordinary. One of them made eye contact with her; she jerked her head to the side and squeezed her eyes closed. The third man stepped up, touched her thigh. She tried to stretch out to scratch at his erection, but her arms were trapped beneath her.
Knowing they were all watching her face, her breasts as they bounced, made this one as bad as the first.
When the man was done, the interrogator stepped into her line of sight.
"You have had time to reconsider," he said. "Will you sign?"
She lay there, naked and hurt and helpless. Her chest and shoulder burned; she couldn't catch her breath. She was shivering so hard her teeth chattered.
If she signed, however meaningless her endorsement of their demands would be, they might stop.
But-Starfleet. Honor. Fortitude. Dr. Bashir wouldn't sign the document. Neither would Dr. Girani. She imagined the disappointment on their faces if they learned she'd been too weak to hold out even a few hours.
She couldn't look at the Ra'ani, but she shook her head.
It was the hardest thing she'd ever done.
"Very well," he said. "Let her go."
She collapsed on the floor on her side. She stayed there.
They gave her a rag, an undergarment like boxer shorts, and a plain tunic. Someone unfastened her restraints. No use fighting. She cleaned up with shaking hands, hardly able to touch herself, and dressed in silence.
When she was done, she sat back on her heels, head low like a chastened slave.
"You are a prisoner of the Ra'ani Empire and will submit to questioning as demanded," the interrogator said. "You will be held here until your sentence has been determined. Any attempt to escape or to contact your Han Jolar associates will result in execution."
At that, her head snapped up.
"We do not coddle traitors," he said. "Get up. We're done."
She couldn't seem to make her legs move. Two guards lifted her under her arms-her shoulder twinged, and she staggered-and led her from the room.
Okay, no, she had nothing to do with this other than engaging me in a conversation about Mary Sues tonight. Together with a couple of neat comments I got yesterday on the earlier stuff with the Cardassian, I am again posting old self-indulgent noncon against my better judgment. This time the connection to the Trekverse is even more tenuous, or else I'd think about tying it in to a Kink Bingo square. Anyway-WARNING for noncon/rape. OFC/OMCs, 2,000 words. Same disclaimer applies as before.
Also. Um. Dear new Vividcon friends and old non-Vividcon friends: Once in a while, I post Mary Sue noncon. Please don't judge me.
In which our intrepid intern and the rest of the medical away team are captured by unfriendlies.
"What do you want with us?" she tried.
"Where is Dr. Bashir?" she tried.
"What is the meaning of this detainment?" she tried.
Some sort of comm system crackled on. "Remove your clothing."
Her heart leapt in her throat. Naked? In front of these men? And once she was-they could-they might-
She straightened her back and steeled her voice. "It is against Starfleet regulations to be out of uniform while on active duty."
"Remove your clothing, or my guards will do it for you."
She eyed the burly men who flanked the door. She really, really didn't want their hands on her. And it was true that different regulations applied once you were taken captive. At this stage, a token protest might be worth less than a show of cooperation.
Slowly, she tugged down her outer zipper. When she had pulled the jacket off, she looked around for a place to put it.
"On the floor," came the voice.
Right. She took a breath and placed the folded jacket awkwardly on the floor beside her. Her inner uniform top went next. Then her boots. Pants. Standing in her underwear and socks, she hesitated.
"The rest," said the voice.
Fine. With precise movements to hide a growing case of the shakes, she undid her bra and dropped it on the pile, bent to take off her socks, and finally, with an internal wince, slid her underwear off.
She stood straight, hands at her sides. The floor was cool under her toes.
Movement, and then someone grabbed her elbows. She pulled back on instinct, but the guard twisted her arms together behind her back and fastened some kind of manacles around her, wrists to elbows.
"What is-?" she tried, but she was only led forward and plunked in a chair at the table in the center of the room.
She waited. The chair was just as cool as the floor on parts of her body not used to encountering bare metal.
The door opened, and a tall man in what she was starting to recognize as Ra'ani military garb strode in. He took a seat opposite her.
"Name and rank," he said without preamble.
All right; she could answer that. "Cadet Karin Renée Moreau, Starfleet, three three zeta oh two four. Why have we been attacked and incarcerated?"
"You have been charged with treason against the Ra'ani Empire."
What? "We are here on a medical mission. We have committed no wrongs to anyone on this planet."
"You have assisted the Han Jolar."
She could feel her forehead crinkling in confusion. "Many of whom require urgent medical care because of neglect or injury from the ongoing hostilities."
"They are the sworn enemy of our people. Assisting them is an act of war against the Ra'ani."
"The Federation came here as a neutral party."
"The Federation's intentions are of no concern to us. You have acted against the Ra'ani and you will pay the consequences."
Her pulse picked up again and she started to sweat. What punishment did they intend? Torture? Execution? Her voice wavered as she said, "Starfleet does not take the capture of its members lightly. You would be better off arranging for our peaceful release."
The man smiled at her as though she were as naïve as she felt. "Since you are not of this world, your life may be spared. You will be held here until the council agrees on your fate. In the meantime, you will tell us everything we wish to know."
Interrogation, then. She tried not to make her swallow too obvious.
"However." The man sat back, his manner shifting abruptly from menace to something like cooperation. "You can commute your sentence if you sign this document." He slid a PADD over the table to her.
She glanced down at it. There were a few paragraphs in Standard and a blinking box awaiting her DNA signature. "What does it say?"
"It apologizes for Starfleet's transgression and recommends from this day forward that Starfleet will provide the Ra'ani exclusively with medical care, weaponry, tactical planning, and other services we may require. It has been translated into Standard for you. You may take as long as you wish to read and approve it."
She shook her head with a sinking feeling. "I can't sign this."
"On the contrary. It would be unwise to do anything but."
Still shaking her head, she said, "We have done nothing wrong in coming here, and I can't speak for Starfleet, besides."
"That is your official answer?"
"My official answer is that you should negotiate our release promptly with Starfleet and that I cannot help you in any act that would harm the Han Jolar or undermine the Federation."
The man didn't look surprised. "Very well." He nodded to someone behind her.
With no more warning than that, she was lifted up by her manacled arms and shoved face-first over the table. Her chair went scraping to the side. She lifted her head, heart pounding, but whoever had shoved her was still holding her down. The PADD pressed into her breast.
People were moving behind her. A boot slid against her ankle and pushed her leg to the side.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
She struggled. Someone took hold of her knee and held it wide.
"No," she whined, bucking. No, God, please, not like this. Not like this. "Starfleet will not-"
A laugh came from whoever was behind her. "Starfleet is not here to stop us," he said, and she recognized the voice of the man who'd been interrogating her.
She kicked out; legs, now, between hers, someone grabbing her other ankle and holding it to his chest, hands at the base of her spine, a puff of air over her ass, the sound of clothing being undone.
"No," she said again, frantic. She couldn't pull free of the hands holding her down and open. "Don't do this, please don't do this." Her head felt tight with tears; she fought to hold them back even as the man pressed closer between her legs. She couldn't-this couldn't be- Wet fingers spread her open, pushed inside-she jerked-a few rough thrusts that had her straining to pull her legs closed, and if his fingers felt this intrusive, like it was all she could fit, how would the rest of him-?
He slid out, held her open with what felt like a thumb, and then he was slotting himself into place and she was making these whines she couldn't stop and then he was pushing in, in, in, grunting, and she tried to curl away from it but she couldn't, forced wide, crying out when he pushed even deeper-he was everywhere, deep where he didn't belong and over and behind (uniform pants against her ass and thighs, hands landing hard beside her head to grip the edge of the table as he worked at her) and God, she'd had no idea, no idea-
She was sobbing, thrashing, disbelief and pain and humiliation all mixed up as they held her there, her breasts and stomach skidding along the bare table with his thrusts. The sounds of him slapping and squelching into her turned her face hot with shame.
Some time later, his breaths grown uneven and loud, he finally stopped.
When he pulled free, she felt as wrong as she had when he'd shoved in. She twisted to try to pull her legs closed, and lost control of another sob when thick liquid dripped down her leg.
She didn't know what to do-how to behave now that this horrible thing was done, had been done to her. She didn't know how to look any of them in the eye or what to say. What she would say to her crewmates when they met again. If they met again. She just wanted to get away and be left alone. She went limp, shaking, waiting for them to let her go. The interrogator-rapist (God) had stepped away, but they were still holding her.
A second set of hands wrapped around her knee, only for one to let go again. She could hardly make sense of it in her current state.
It was only when another belt dragged against cloth that she realized one of the guards was next.
She strained to free herself once more, desperate at the thought of having to go through that again. Stabs of discomfort shot up from her pinioned arms and-down there, but she couldn't stop, even when their grips turned bruising.
No use-hands and fingers and another erection, close and blunt and sliding up and in, one hand on her hip, easy, like she was made for it, like she didn't even exist.
She already ached and burned; already had tears streaking down her face, making her cheek slide on the metal surface; had already lost any remaining dignity as she gasped and begged. It was just as well they'd stripped her of her uniform, she thought; she was carrying on like no Starfleet cadet should.
This one finished like the first one had: a groan, a few hard thrusts that jolted the breath from her. Then the retreat, the filthy seepage again-semen, blood, God knew what.
When the third one moved to take his turn, she lost it-kicked and writhed with no reserve. Exhausted now on top of everything else, she was startled when this time it worked. They lost their grip, or let her go-she couldn't tell-and she bumped off the table onto the floor, landing hard on her shoulder.
They hauled her up again, of course, drawing another cry when the movement wrenched her shoulder. They dumped her on her back on the table. One knee up, one leg out, and now she had to look at them all looming over her, at their hands on her, her skin dimpling around their fingertips, at their faces, all the more terrifying because they looked ordinary. One of them made eye contact with her; she jerked her head to the side and squeezed her eyes closed. The third man stepped up, touched her thigh. She tried to stretch out to scratch at his erection, but her arms were trapped beneath her.
Knowing they were all watching her face, her breasts as they bounced, made this one as bad as the first.
When the man was done, the interrogator stepped into her line of sight.
"You have had time to reconsider," he said. "Will you sign?"
She lay there, naked and hurt and helpless. Her chest and shoulder burned; she couldn't catch her breath. She was shivering so hard her teeth chattered.
If she signed, however meaningless her endorsement of their demands would be, they might stop.
But-Starfleet. Honor. Fortitude. Dr. Bashir wouldn't sign the document. Neither would Dr. Girani. She imagined the disappointment on their faces if they learned she'd been too weak to hold out even a few hours.
She couldn't look at the Ra'ani, but she shook her head.
It was the hardest thing she'd ever done.
"Very well," he said. "Let her go."
She collapsed on the floor on her side. She stayed there.
They gave her a rag, an undergarment like boxer shorts, and a plain tunic. Someone unfastened her restraints. No use fighting. She cleaned up with shaking hands, hardly able to touch herself, and dressed in silence.
When she was done, she sat back on her heels, head low like a chastened slave.
"You are a prisoner of the Ra'ani Empire and will submit to questioning as demanded," the interrogator said. "You will be held here until your sentence has been determined. Any attempt to escape or to contact your Han Jolar associates will result in execution."
At that, her head snapped up.
"We do not coddle traitors," he said. "Get up. We're done."
She couldn't seem to make her legs move. Two guards lifted her under her arms-her shoulder twinged, and she staggered-and led her from the room.