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Summary: When Kashyk gives his lover what he thinks is a harmless trinket, there’s no way he could predict the wild ride it’s going to take them on. Fortunately for him, his lover is the indomitable Kathryn Janeway, who’s no stranger to being thrown across time and space … but the Mirror Universe presents her with challenges even she will struggle to meet.

Written for the @voyagermirrormarch fic event.


Characters: Janeway, Kashyk, Mirror Cornwell, Mirror Georgiou, Mirror Lorca, Mirror Pike, Mirror McCoy (AOS)

Codes: Janeway/Kashyk, Janeway/Mirror Lorca, Janeway/Mirror Cornwell, Janeway/Mirror McCoy (AOS), Janeway/Mirror Lorca/Mirror Pike, Janeway/Mirror Georgiou


Disclaimer: Paramount/CBS own the rights to the Star Trek universe and its characters, which I am borrowing without permission or intent to profit.

Notes: We’re not in Kansas anymore. Or, obviously, the canon Voyager universe. Let’s just say this is one of many possible timelines that could have occurred as a result of one tiny change to Counterpoint.

Warning: Violence, rape/non-con, dubious consent and Threshold puns.

Rated E

Chapter Three

He’s been banished without ceremony to kneel in a corner of the Emperor’s opulent suite. His hands are bound behind his back, a shock-collar locked to his throat, and his burly guard has threatened to gag him should the slightest sound pass his lips. His paramour – the one for whom he gave up his wife’s benevolent favour, a good portion of his fortune and very nearly his military standing – has just been fucked by another man before a huddled, attentive audience. And it’s blindingly clear that she enjoyed it.

Kashyk has never been so humiliated in his life.

He’s a seething mass of fury and vengeance and shamed excitement. And if he were the kind of man given to self-examination, he suspects he’d be busy reflecting on his reactions to this experience for years to come.

As it is, he just wants to get the hell out of here. But that’s going to be difficult if he can’t get Kathryn alone.


She’d shrugged back into her robe as the Inquisitor led them out of the throne room – all those eyes on them, Kashyk shudders – and into this antechamber, and has carefully managed to keep possession of it, and the precious device concealed in its pocket, despite the attempts of Cornwell’s attendant, a drably-dressed teenager, to take it from her. The Inquisitor unbuckles the heavy bodice of her armour, tossing it carelessly over the back of a chaise, and arranges herself, long-limbed, across another.

“Come here,” she beckons.

Kathryn eyes her steadily. “Why?”

“Because I told you to.”

There’s steel in her voice, the kind that Kashyk has heard in Kathryn’s own, and Kathryn evidently decides defiance is pointless. Slowly, she walks forward until she’s standing a metre or so in front of the Inquisitor.


Kathryn obeys.

The Inquisitor spreads her legs and stares at her challengingly. “Closer.”

It takes a beat, but Kathryn moves the necessary distance to place her directly between the Inquisitor’s knees.

What the woman does next makes Kashyk yank so hard against his bonds that he feels the tendons creak in his wrists.

Katrina slides one hand between Kathryn’s thighs, crooks two fingers inside her and brings them up to her mouth, licking them slowly to savour the taste.

He can see Kathryn’s legs trembling, but she manages to bite down on her gasp.

“Gabriel Lorca,” Katrina pronounces, “I’d know his taste anywhere,” and she smiles.

Kathryn’s voice is hoarse but steady. “The way I hear it, that makes you and half the Empire.”

Quick as a lash, the Inquisitor is on her feet, gloved hands wrapped around Kathryn’s neck. “You’re impertinent,” she whispers. “The Emperor is right – you’ve been too long away, and you need to be taught proper manners. Luckily, I’m an able teacher.”

She releases Kathryn, who stumbles back, inhaling on a rasp, one hand to her throat. For a moment, Kashyk is certain she’s so badly injured that he’ll have to rescue her – somehow – but as the Inquisitor turns to murmur in the ear of her attendant and the girl scurries from the room, Kathryn continues her staggering trajectory until she bumps into him. As she crumples to the floor, he feels her slip the limina into his cuffed hand. He closes his fingers around it quickly.

“Januzzi,” Inquisitor Cornwell addresses the guard posted at the door, and he strides over and hooks Kathryn under the arm.

“Get up,” he snarls, dragging her back to the chaise and shoving her onto it, face-down.

The Inquisitor plants one booted foot in the base of Kathryn’s back and leans her weight into it. Kashyk can hear Kathryn’s involuntary groan of pain under the Inquisitor’s hissed, “What happens to you in the next hour is entirely at my pleasure, and I get a great deal of pleasure from inflicting pain on people who annoy me.”

Kathryn’s voice is strained. “That seems difficult to avoid.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Cornwell leans in again, her stiletto heel digging into the flesh of Kathryn’s lower back, “I really hope you don’t try.”



The attendant returns, handing Katrina a slim, black leather case and promptly backing out of the anteroom, relief written clear on her face. Kashyk’s gut tightens. He has his own collection of nondescript leather carrycases back on his warship, and he’s prepared to make an educated guess that Inquisitor Cornwell’s holds similar contents.

Cornwell removes her boot from Kathryn’s back and turns to place the leather bag on the chaise beside her. She unzips the bag and draws something long, slender and gleaming black from it. Kashyk watches as Kathryn turns her head slightly to the side, trying to glimpse the object in order to identify it.

Instantly, the Inquisitor’s arm flashes downward across Kathryn’s silk-clad thighs. Her yelp of pain and the spark that jolts her body tells Kashyk that this is no ordinary cane: it clearly carries some kind of charge, and from the way Kathryn holds herself stiff, panting for breath, it’s not the type she’s eager to experience again.

“What’s the matter?” taunts Katrina. “Didn’t like that?”

“Not particularly,” Kathryn grits out.

“Aw.” The Inquisitor tosses the cane aside and ambles in Kashyk’s direction, unzipping her form-fitting black tunic top, letting it drop to the floor. Naked from the waist up, she strolls back toward Kathryn, leisurely unfastening her pants and peeling them down to her knees. “Turn around and kneel,” she instructs.

Kathryn turns.

Kashyk watches his lover’s eyes widen at the sight of the Inquisitor’s pale, slender torso and thighs. The taller woman’s stance is wide, her boots planted on the lush carpet, hands on her hips. Kashyk can’t see it, but he suspects there’s a smirk curling her lips.

“If you don’t want more of the cane,” the Inquisitor informs Kathryn, “you’d better impress me.”



The room is still.

Kashyk reads disbelief on Kathryn’s face, chased by indignation and finally fury.

“I’ve performed for the Emperor,” she says, voice low and even. “But I see no reason why I should service you.”

Cornwell’s gaze flickers to the guard standing at the door. Immediately, he selects a long-tailed whip from the leather bag, raises his arm, and lashes it at Kathryn’s back.

She cries out in agony as the tail curls like fire around her ribcage, her silk robe offering no protection, and falls to her hands and knees. Cornwell’s boot presses down on her shoulder.

“I like defiance in my lovers,” Katrina tells her. “It’s exciting. Why else would I continue to allow Gabriel to live? But if you think I’m going to let your insolence go unpunished, think again.”

Kathryn, panting, glares up at her. “Do your worst.”

Kashyk can’t help wincing.

“I intend to,” answers the Inquisitor. “After I kill your alien pet.”

“No,” blurts Kathryn, her gaze switching to Kashyk.

Warmth swells in his chest. So she does feel something for him. He’d been beginning to wonder …

Katrina cocks her head to one side. “Interesting,” she murmurs. “Why do you care if it lives or dies?”

Kathryn sits on her heels, gingerly stretching her sore back. “I told you. I want my revenge on him, and I want it slowly. I deserve the kill. Nobody else.”

“I can respect that.” Katrina tilts her head. “You can earn the right to keep him, then.”

“I already did that,” Kathryn says through clenched teeth.

Cornwell switches her gaze to the guard, and before Kathryn can tense, the whip cracks across her back again. She sobs, dropping to her elbows.

“No,” shouts Kashyk before he can stop himself, and the guard beside him backhands him viciously across the mouth, sending him sprawling, dazed, across the floor. Blood fills his mouth; his jaw throbs and his brain feels loose in his head.

Worst of all, he drops the limina.

It’s a miracle that neither Cornwell nor the guards see it, but Kathryn does. Clearly realising that Kashyk is too stunned to retrieve it, she draws in a pained, shuddering breath and rises to her knees, lifting her trembling hands to rest on Katrina’s parted thighs. She looks up at the Inquisitor like a supplicant, breathing harshly.

“All right,” she rasps. “Tell me what you like.”

The Inquisitor smiles.



Katrina buries long fingers in Kathryn’s tousled hair and drags her between parted thighs. At the first touch of Kathryn’s tongue, the Inquisitor shudders and sighs, tangling her fingers in auburn locks until Kathryn’s neck arches to ease the pain.

From his position on the floor, Kashyk blinks the blur from his eyes, mesmerised. He can see the muscles working in Kathryn’s long, white throat, the increased quiver in Cornwell’s slender frame, the reddened marks where Kathryn’s fingernails dig unconsciously into the other woman’s pale thigh.

The sounds that fill the room are obscene – the moans, the lewd sucking, the choked whimpers of pain pulled involuntarily from Kathryn’s throat as the Inquisitor twines her fist in her hair. And the smells … Kashyk sucks in air, inhales the heady reek of feminine arousal and masculine sweat.

He blinks again.

The limina lies half a metre from his hip.

Both guards are riveted to the scene before him. If he’s ever to retrieve it, the time is now.

Cautiously, he inches closer until he can cover it with his body, wriggling his bound hands beneath his own hip until he clutches it triumphantly again. And not a moment too soon.

The Inquisitor’s moans have reached a crescendo. Her hips buck harshly into Kathryn’s face, arms straining to hold Kathryn to her. Then she flings her aside and staggers to the chaise, collapsing onto it.

Kathryn kneels, shaking, on the floor, the back of one hand pressed to her mouth.

At the door, Januzzi reaches down and adjusts the front of his pants.

“All right,” Cornwell breaks the silence finally, her voice creamy, lazy. “You can keep your alien. Now stand up.”

Kathryn gets carefully to her feet.


Through the haze across his eyes, Kashyk watches Kathryn’s fill with tears. She hesitates.

“Oh, what’s the matter, baby?” Cornwell’s voice is sugary. “Want me to return the favour?”

“No,” Kathryn whispers.

“Good,” says the Inquisitor. “You don’t deserve to come. But I want to see how wet you are, so strip.”

Kathryn takes in a shuddering breath, but doesn’t obey.

“Januzzi,” says Cornwell softly.

This time, Kashyk can tell Kathryn is ready for the whip. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Nor the second strike, nor the third, nor –



She’s on her knees, head hanging, the robe flayed from her body, white skin striped and bloody from countless lashes. Kashyk can see her shaking. Her hair mostly covers her face, but he can see blood on her lower lip where she’s bitten it in her attempt to stifle her screams.

“Kathryn,” he whispers, but she doesn’t respond.

“Madam Inquisitor,” murmurs Januzzi, rubbing the bicep of his whipping arm, “if I might point out – the Emperor was displeased the last time you accidentally … damaged … her new favourite. Perhaps we should call a halt.”

“Good point,” sighs Cornwell. “Rhys, get the doctor in here. And tell him to bring her something to wear.”

Januzzi coils the whip and places it carefully in the leather case as Rhys, the other guard, bows out of the room.

“Oh, Kathryn,” Cornwell sing-songs into the silence. “Have you learned your lesson yet, sweetie?”

Kashyk hears her swallow, and after a moment, Kathryn raises her head and meets the Inquisitor’s amused stare.

“What lesson … would that be?” Her voice is rough and strained. “That you’re a … sadistic bitch who … has to order people to get her off?”

The smirk drops from Katrina’s face. She hisses, “If you think that was sadistic –”

But she’s interrupted: the door opens and a man strides in, tall, bronzed, with a shock of dark hair, wearing battered black leather from head to toe and a prodigious scowl.

He stops short, glancing from Kathryn to the Inquisitor.

“What have you done this time, Kat?” he demands in a Southern drawl, brash where Lorca’s had been languid. “Who’s the cupcake?”

Cornwell gives him an expressionless look. “Can you fix her or not, Leonard?”

He snorts, holding out a hand without speaking. Rhys hands him what Kashyk surmises is a medical kit, and Leonard crouches beside Kathryn, who is staring at him with what Kashyk recognises as awe.

“I’m Leonard McCoy,” he introduces himself in a surprisingly gentle tone.

“I know,” she blurts, then presses her lips together. “I mean … I’ve heard of you.”

“And who might you be?”

“My name is Kathryn.”

McCoy glances at the Inquisitor again. “And what did you do to incite my dear wife’s displeasure, Kathryn?”

“Your … wife?” Kathryn echoes faintly.

Ex-wife,” cuts in Cornwell. “And she was insubordinate. Enough chit-chat, Leonard. Did you bring her some clothes?”

“I’m a doctor, not a dressmaker,” snaps McCoy, but gestures at Rhys, who produces a flimsy-looking shift dress.

“That’s mine,” pronounces Katrina glacially.

McCoy shrugs. “Got it in the divorce settlement.”

“Fine,” Katrina hisses, standing and yanking up her pants, “call me when you’ve cleaned her up,” and she snags her tunic and stalks out of the room.



“Can you stand, honey?” McCoy asks.

Kathryn nods, accepting the offer of his arm as he guides her over to the chaise, but when she lowers herself onto it she winces.

“Sore ass, huh?” the doctor says sympathetically. “Kat has a way of doing that to people. Here, lemme sort that out for you first. Bend over and put your hands on the seat.”

Kathryn shoots him a look, but does as he says. In the corner, Kashyk shifts to get a better look; there’s something about this doctor he doesn’t trust, easy manner or no.

“That’s it,” McCoy soothes, resting a bare hand on the upper curve of Kathryn’s behind. “Yeah, she really cut you up good. You, boy,” he orders Januzzi, “hand me that regenerator.”

As he passes the instrument over Kathryn’s abused flesh, his other palm slides lower, curving around the globe of her ass, fingers spreading. Kathryn edges away, and he takes hold of her hip and slips a knee between her thighs from behind.

“Just relax,” he murmurs. “You gotta stay still or the regenerator won’t work right.”

From Kashyk’s vantage point, he can’t be entirely sure what the good doctor is up to. But he can clearly see his hands move, and he sees Kathryn gasp and clutch the back of the chaise.

“What are you doing?” she whispers.

“Making you feel better,” drawls McCoy. “Is it working?”

“I don’t –” she cuts herself off on a moan, and Kashyk manages to edge far enough to one side to get a clearer view.

The doctor has healed her entire back now, the regeneration device has been laid on the chaise, and his hands are busy: one arm is anchored across Kathryn’s chest, fingers cupping and pinching her right breast, the other hand buried deep between her thighs. His fingers are clearly slick; her legs are spread wide, pinned by the knee he’s thrust between them.

Kashyk looks at her face. She wears an expression of shock tainted with undeniable lust; it’s clear she didn’t intend this, but equally obvious that now that it’s happening she’s reluctant to stop it. This doctor, he gathers, knows what he’s doing.

McCoy is pressing into her from behind, rubbing his leather-clad cock into the crack of her ass, and as Kashyk watches, Kathryn begins to push back onto him. The doctor’s fingers move faster between her legs. Her eyes drift closed, her mouth drops open; her breath begins to come in short bursts, her chest beginning to flush the way it does when she’s close to climax.

And then it hits her. She moans, long and low, her body sagging in McCoy’s grip. He holds her firmly around the waist as he fumbles with the fly on his pants and shoves himself inside her unceremoniously while she’s still clenching and convulsing. From the way her eyes go wide, Kashyk gathers he’s managed to shock her again, but she braces her hands against the chaise and works her ass against McCoy as he fucks her, hard and slow.

Kashyk half-expects the doctor to come almost immediately, but it seems like the man has other plans. Strong hands manacle Kathryn’s hips as he ploughs into her. Her breath begins to hitch and waver, her thighs quivering, her back arching.

“That’s my girl,” mutters McCoy approvingly.

He drives into her forcefully, and she moans in response.

“Come on, baby,” he croons, “you can do it again,” and he reaches around and tweaks her clit, and Kathryn groans and shatters into his hand as she’s filled, yet again, by someone who isn’t Kashyk.

In the corner, Kashyk closes his eyes and wills his throbbing, humiliating erection away.

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