Title: Push It

Author: Kipli

Author's email: kipli16@yahoo.com

Author's URL: http://kipli.net/fiction.html

Date: 06/28/03

Archive: Yes to EntSTSlash, WWOMB, Archers_Enterprise, and ASC*, otherwise ask first pretty please.

Fandom: Star Trek: Enterprise

Category: Slash

Rating: NC-17

Status: Complete

Pairing: Tucker/Mayweather

Summary: The workings of a nightly visitor's mind.

Warnings: Noncon [Extreme Angst, Strong Language, Violence, Non-Con Sex]

Sequel: None

Spoilers: None

Beta: None

Disclaimer: Paramount owns the universe. I just live there.

Author's Notes: This fanfic includes m/m romantic and physical situations. This is most definitely not my normal fare. This evil! plotbunny almost didn't want to give you any pairing, but I wanted to give some point of reference. You are free to fill in the blanks with whomever you wish. I envisioned this being from Tucker's POV visiting Mayweather, but it could be nearly anyone, as no names are ever given in the fic itself, other than Reed as the object of desire and oblivious creator of all this trouble. Don't agree that this could ever be from Tucker's POV? Then I'll email you my first version of "Disconnected". You haven't even begun to see how crazy my psycho! Tucker can become. I do enjoy skipping off into dark corners with him…;) And I realize I have at least two fics that are screaming for sequels, but I couldn't argue with THIS bunny.

Don't worry baby,
No need to fight,
Don't worry baby,
We'll be all right.

This is the noise
That keeps me awake,
My head explodes
And my body aches…

Push it!

~Garbage, "Push It"


Fuck him.

Isn't that what everyone says? The goddamn bastard wins and runs off with the grand prize, gloating his victory over you, and all you can say to yourself is "fuck him" every time you see them together. Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him. It just repeats over and over in your head. It becomes your mantra. You can't even look at him without thinking it—on the Bridge, in the mess hall, walking down the corridor. You catch yourself mouthing it, muttering it, and finally screaming it alone in your quarters.

Fuck him!

But what do we really mean when we snarl those words at the unrightfully victorious? What exactly are we saying? Why repeat *those* two words?

I think we mean it. We'd love to see the son of a bitch tied up and shoved face down, taking it up the ass. We'd love to show him just who is in charge, just who is in control. We'd love to just act on it. Hell, the asshole owes you—owes me—and he'll pay for it time and time again.

And he knows what he's done. He's not as innocent as he lets everyone believe. He could plainly see I was prepping Malcolm. I think nearly everyone onboard, other than Malcolm, knew I had a thing for him. I was taking my time. I didn't want to fuck things up. The man is such a mystery on so many levels. I didn't want to accidentally say or do something to make him run away from me. I thought I could take my time. I knew he was a gorgeous man. He'd catch anyone's eye. But like I said, everyone and their mother could see I had it bad for Malcolm, and I was sure no one onboard would be so callous and backhanded as to step in while I was still taking things slow with Malcolm.

I scowl at the gray door in front of me before tossing a glance in either direction down the corridor. It's 0300 and no one's seen me while on my quick route to the bastard's quarters. I make double sure there are no witnesses, then I enter in my command override to the door panel. I've only ever been spotted once by Crewman Cunningham on my way here a few weeks ago, and I had to quickly make up some story about a midnight snack, changing course for the mess hall. Cunningham had bought it. I'd missed my weekly visit that night, but I made it up to him the next time.

I slip inside the quarters and let my eyes adjust to the dark room. I can hear him breathing. He's asleep and alone. Good. He knows better than to fuck or sleep with Malcolm in his own quarters. They can do all the kinky shit they want to in Malcolm's quarters, but mid-week, every week, he'd better be in his bed alone without Malcolm when I show up, or face severe punishment the next time I track him down.

As I hastily strip off my robe and pajama bottoms, I recall the look he gave me when he took Malcolm on their first date. Fucker had the nerve to look me in the eyes and gloat as he put his arm around Malcolm. He'd stared at me, confidence and glory glowing in his eyes, then he'd actually winked at me. I couldn't look away from them sitting in the front row at movie night. He'd gotten Malcolm to laugh. Really laugh. And smile. In public. That should have been me! And he knew it. He'd known I was waiting to make my move, and he'd stepped in and taken Malcolm anyway. Backstabbing prick dove in and took off with Malcolm before I'd even had a chance to pounce.

My heart is pounding nicely in my chest as I find my ever-ready leather handcuffs hooked to the inside of my robe. I would use metal cuffs, because what the fuck do I care if they hurt his wrists, but Malcolm would notice and recognize those marks far too easily. I prefer to be more creative in my torture. Or at least less obvious.

I know he notices. He doesn't want Malcolm to find out either. He could have told Malcolm after the first night. He could have sent me off to the Brig to await a court-martial and who knows what else. But if he says anything to anyone he'd have to reveal why the hell I did this, just why he deserved to take it up the ass, and oh what a tarnish that would be to his spiffy, clean-cut image. Plus, throughout all the harsh fucking and biting and hitting, he still enjoys it. I make *sure* he enjoys it. Because a kinky motherfucker like him should enjoy it. And because it's not really rape if the other partner gets off, right? He'd have to admit to Malcolm just how long he let this go on, and it would be obvious to all why it went on for so long.

I pause as I stand beside his bed, barely making out his figure in the engulfing darkness, and I wonder just how long this will go on. I don't think I could ever stop myself. Every time I see them in public together he makes small romantic gestures toward Malcolm that just drive me insane. Every time he makes Malcolm laugh I feel this growing urge to beat the living hell out of him, right there in the mess hall. If it weren't for these nightly visits, I'm sure I would have by now. He doesn't meet my gaze as often as he used to, and he rarely speaks to me without being spoken to first, but whenever he does look at me I can see that same goddamn look in his eyes, like he still thinks he's won.

My breathings turned more ragged as my body gears up for what it knows is coming. He is a deep sleeper and I only take minimal care not to wake him as I move both his hands up beside his head. I strap the leather cuffs on him, tight, and then tie the cuffs to the bookcase above the bed. Don't want him running off on me.

With that I roughly toss him over onto his stomach. He wakes up with a startled grunt, then freezes as he notices the cuffs on his wrists. He opens his mouth to say something but I already have the ball gag ready. He growls and tugs at the restraints as I cinch the gag tight around his head.

"You know there's no talking, bitch," I say smugly. I've got him exactly how I like him—tied up, gagged, and naked. If only I could leave him that way.

He yanks on the restraints again. I punch him hard in his side. His body curls up instinctively, legs trying to protect his stomach. I hit him again. It always feels so goddamn good to hit him. Almost as good as the sex. He reacts just the way he should. He always eggs me on, letting my anger build and build. I grab him by the hair and shove his face into his own pillow, my nails digging into his scalp, before my knee makes a hard kick into the left side of his chest.

The gag muffles his cry, and he struggles to kick me back. The asshole manages to make contact with my hip. I cuff him hard across the back of the head as I swear him out. So it was going to be one of these nights.

I move to sitting on his ass while he's dazed from the blow to the head. My nails dig their way down his back. I can feel them draw blood. I wonder how he explains or hides the scratches from Malcolm.

He comes around and bucks to get me off of him. I hit him in the back of the head again, then once between his shoulders for good measure. His resistance is driving me wild. I wonder if he notices. I'm so hard. My body nearly trembles with the rush going through me. My cock twitches with every insubordinate move he makes.

"Motherfucker, I'll show you just who the fuck is in charge here." His head pinned to the bed, I grab him by the back of the neck and squeeze. I can feel his muscles bunch and twist beneath his skin. So much power and yet I'm the one in control. I dig my nails in. His struggling stops and he lies rigid beneath me. I'm growling. "That's right. You're the bitch."

I use my free hand to coat my cock with my own saliva. Like hell I want to waste real lube on *him*. Without any preliminary I stick my middle finger completely up his ass. I smooth it around the inner wall, then decide that's enough prep work. I'm way too fucking hard to wait for more. I pull my finger out and adjust my hips. He knows what's coming and struggles to relax. My fingers tighten around the back of his neck as I plow my way inside. He's got such a tight ass. Malcolm must really enjoy it. I wonder how tight Malcolm's ass is, and then slam myself harshly into him again and again. Backstabbing fucking asshole!

His muted cries join my harsh panting and growling. I know his cock is rubbing roughly against the bed with my every plunge into him. I know he's hard. He's always hard when I fuck him senseless. I lean over him to whisper into his ear, "Ever going to tell him about this, you twisted shit? About what you did? About what you do?"

I ram myself into him and he half screams, half groans into the gag. His hips arch up to push back against my fucking cock.

"That's what I thought, bitch." I bite at his ear but resist the urge to bite it off. There were far too many questions with that kind of mutilation. I resign myself to simply biting his shoulder—teeth sinking in, blood oozing out, body trembling beneath me. I lick at the wound, then spit. I don't need the dirty fucker's blood in my mouth.

I push myself back up, finger tightening and loosening and retightening around the back of his neck, pumping almost in rhythm with my ramming hips. In the nearly pitch-black darkness of the room I concentrate on the feel of him beneath me, completely under my power, completely helpless, my cock shoved up his ass. Every scorned lovers dream. I laugh between grunts of growing pleasure as I envision taking a picture of us and sending it to Malcolm. Just wait until he sees his precious, devoted boyfriend as the man he really is.

I'm close now, so very close, intoxicated by the power and sensations running through me, and I reach beneath to check on his status. He's hard and leaking pre-cum all over his nice clean bedding. "Kinky bastard," I groan. I pump him once, twice, three times and he comes. His body tightens around me. I completely lose it then and I latch onto his hips, slamming frantically into the tight hole of the man who stole Malcolm from me.

I will teach him who the fuck is in control!

I pull out and come all over his back and sheets. I stroke every last drop out of myself, trembling with the force of my orgasm. When I'm spent, I sit back on my knees panting. He's as quiet as he can be, although I can still hear him trying to catch his breath with the gag in his mouth.

Once I've sufficiently recovered, I reach up and pull off the gag. He smacks his lips but doesn't say anything. Good boy. I stand, a feat hard to do after an orgasm like the one I just had, and dress back into my pajama bottoms and robe. He lies still on the bed. I hate letting him go, but I can't leave him here for Malcolm to find like this. He couldn't have tied himself up. I finally walk over and undo his restraints. His only move is to roll over onto his back and look up at me. It's dark but I still know that look. I know that look far too well. The cocky son of a bitch…

"Fuck you!" I roar. My fist clenches before I can think. His face is surprisingly hard. His arms move to protect his head. That'll leave a visible mark, I suddenly realize. I stop myself from dealing any more blows. I'm shaking with rage, but I grab the restraints and gag and force myself to walk out the door.

Fuck him! I'm in control. I win. Not him. I win! I win! Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him!

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