Kav'eth
I reach my quarters in what can only be described as an undignified retreat, the door sealing behind me with a finality that offers no real comfort. My hands shake as I move to the workstation, attempting to focus on the assessment protocols that should be occupying my attention.
The display screen activates at my touch, showing Derek's vital signs from the pool area. Heart rate elevated but stable. Breathing patterns normal for post-exercise recovery. All systems indicating optimal human physiological function.
The visual monitoring feed appears in a secondary window, standard safety protocol for aquatic activities. I tell myself I am simply verifying that the human's exercise period is concluding safely as I activate the display.
Derek is floating on his back in the center of the pool, his body relaxed in the water, those geometric patterns dark against his skin even in the blue-green lighting.
The tattoo flows from his shoulder down his arm and across his back in mathematical precision that seems to pulse with the gentle movement of the water around him.
I should deactivate the visual feed. The vital signs data provides all necessary information for safety monitoring.
Instead, I watch as Derek moves through the water with fluid grace, each stroke highlighting the muscular development that represents years of dedicated physical conditioning.
The wet fabric of his undergarments has become completely transparent, leaving nothing to imagination while still maintaining the technical pretense of covering.
This is merely safety monitoring. Professional observation of subject welfare during physical activity.
But when Derek emerges from the pool, water streaming from his body as he reaches for one of the drying materials, I find myself unable to look away.
For just a moment, barely a second, he pushes the wet fabric down and away from his body, completely naked as he reaches for the towel.
The geometric patterns flow uninterrupted across his skin, disappearing around his back and presumably continuing down his spine in designs I can only imagine.
The towel wraps around his waist quickly, but that brief glimpse of his complete form sends a shock of heat through my nervous system that has nothing to do with environmental temperature control.
"Focus," I command myself aloud, pulling up the formal assessment documentation interface. "You are a Council member. You have duties."
But my fingers hover over the input controls without typing anything of substance.
Every time I attempt to formulate clinical observations about the human's adaptive capabilities, my thoughts fracture into less professional considerations.
The confidence in his movements. The directness of his questions.
The way he looked at me when he asked if I was attracted to him, as if he already knew the answer.
The way he stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his still-damp skin.
My bioluminescence flares involuntarily at the memory, and I look down at myself with something approaching disgust. This is precisely the kind of emotional compromise that compromises scientific objectivity. This is why Council members do not conduct field assessments.
This is why I should never have been assigned to this ridiculous program.
I attempt to redirect my attention to the vital signs monitor, but even the clinical data cannot distract from the increasingly urgent signals my own body is sending.
The tightness in my chest that has nothing to do with breathing difficulties.
The heat spreading beneath my skin that has nothing to do with environmental temperature regulation.
The pronounced physical arousal that has everything to do with a human who should be nothing more than an assessment subject.
"This is unacceptable," I state firmly to the empty quarters, as if verbal declaration might somehow restore proper physiological function.
It does not.
If anything, attempting to deny the reaction only intensifies it. My formal attire feels restrictive in ways it never has before. The memory of Derek's body pressed close to mine, not actually pressed, but close enough to imagine—makes focusing on official duties impossible.
I should contact the medical bay. Request pharmaceutical intervention for unwanted physical responses. There are compounds that can suppress inappropriate arousal, though their use by Council members would require documentation that would be... problematic to explain.
Instead, I find myself moving away from the workstation, though the visual feed remains active in my peripheral vision. Derek has concluded his exercise period and departed the pool area, but the images remain burned into my memory with uncomfortable clarity.
I will simply review assessment protocols. Return to proper procedures. The physical arousal will subside if I focus on my duties rather than on Derek's... aesthetic qualities.
But my body has other intentions. Each attempt to concentrate on official documentation results in my thoughts fracturing back to Derek's confident smile, the way the water moved around his body, that brief moment of complete revelation.
My sleeping alcove is designed for efficiency rather than comfort, a narrow space with regulation furnishings and storage compartments for personal items. It is not designed for the kind of personal accommodation I am suddenly, desperately requiring.
No. I will not be reduced to this. I am a Council member. I have responsibilities.
But my hands are already unfastening my formal attire before I consciously make the decision to proceed.
This is Derek's fault. This entire situation is the result of his inappropriate directness, his failure to maintain proper boundaries during assessment procedures.
If he had simply followed established protocols instead of.
.. of challenging me, questioning me, looking at me like he could see through every professional defense I have constructed over decades of service.
If he hadn't looked so goddamn perfect emerging from that water, every muscle defined, those patterns flowing across his skin like a roadmap I want to trace with my hands, my mouth...
The anger helps, somehow. It provides a framework for action that duty and logic cannot. I unfasten my formal attire with sharp, efficient movements, each piece of clothing removed with increasing frustration at my own weakness.
Ridiculous. A human, a single, randomly selected human, has managed to compromise my objectivity so thoroughly that I can barely function in my assigned role. This is precisely the kind of emotional vulnerability that Council members are trained to avoid.
I should be above this. I am above this.
But my body, apparently, disagrees with my mental assessment of the situation.
Standing before the mirror surface in my sleeping alcove, I can see the evidence of my compromised state in the erratic bioluminescence patterns beneath my skin.
The glow pulses in chaotic spirals of gold and deep blue, patterns that indicate severe emotional distress mixed with arousal, readable to anyone with basic understanding of Nereidan physiological responses.
My cock is already hard, has been since I watched Derek drop those wet boxer briefs, and the physical urgency is becoming impossible to ignore.
Even my own reflection betrays me.
"This is temporary," I inform my traitorous physiology. "A brief accommodation of unwanted physical responses that can be managed and dismissed."
I wrap my hand around my length, and the first touch sends a shock of sensation through my nervous system that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the memory of Derek's wet skin, his confident smile, the way those geometric patterns disappeared beneath the waistband of his undergarments before disappearing entirely.
I should stop. I should engage proper meditation techniques for emotional regulation. I should do anything except continue this inappropriate self-indulgence while thinking about the human I am supposed to be evaluating with scientific objectivity.
Instead, I stroke myself with increasingly desperate efficiency, my anger at the situation mixing with arousal in ways that only intensify both responses.
This is Derek's fault for being so visually appealing, for having those perfect lines of ink flowing across his perfect body.
This is the research team's fault for selecting such an obviously problematic subject.
This is the Council's fault for assigning me to this position despite my clear unsuitability for personal interaction protocols.
My grip tightens as I imagine what it would feel like to trace those geometric patterns with my fingers, to follow them across Derek's shoulders and down his spine. To feel his skin under my hands instead of my own, to hear him make those small sounds of pleasure humans are capable of producing.
To have him tell me what to do, how to touch myself, to surrender the control I maintain every moment of every day and let this confident human take complete charge.
To be the one receiving orders instead of giving them, to be told "slower" or "harder" or "don't stop" and simply obey without question.
The thought sends another pulse of frustrated arousal through me.
I increase the pace of my strokes, my bioluminescence flaring in increasingly chaotic patterns that spiral across my chest and arms. Pre-come beads at the tip of my cock, and I spread it with my thumb, imagining Derek's hands instead of my own, Derek's mouth, Derek's voice commanding me to continue. ..
"Fuck," I whisper, the human profanity feeling strange but appropriate on my tongue. "This is... this is Derek's fault."
My breathing becomes irregular as the physical pressure builds, my free hand braced against the mirror surface for support.
The climax builds with the force of days of suppressed want, of professional composure cracking under the weight of genuine desire for someone I should view only as an assessment subject.
I try to suppress it, to maintain some last vestige of dignity, but Derek's name escapes my lips anyway, first as a whisper, then louder as the release approaches.
"Derek," I gasp, unable to stop myself. "Derek, please..."
When the climax finally crashes through me, it's with his name torn from my throat and his image burned behind my closed eyes, confident, direct, geometrically perfect Derek who looked at me like he knew exactly what I needed even when I didn't know it myself.
I come hard across my stomach and hand, my bioluminescence exploding in brilliant gold spirals that illuminate the entire alcove like a star going supernova.
The pleasure is sharp and desperate and completely inappropriate, and for a moment I allow myself to imagine Derek watching, Derek telling me I'm good, Derek taking control of this moment and every moment after.
The fantasy only intensifies the climax, drawing it out until I'm shaking with aftershocks and the mirror is fogged with my rapid breathing, my bioluminescence slowly dimming from brilliant gold to faint amber pulses.
This changes nothing. This was a momentary accommodation of unwanted physical responses, nothing more. I can return to proper assessment protocols, maintain professional boundaries, complete this assignment without further compromise.
But even as I attempt to convince myself of this, I know the next two days will be significantly more challenging than originally anticipated.
I clean myself with efficient, shame-driven movements, using the sonic cleansing unit to remove all evidence of what just occurred.
Fresh formal attire from the storage compartment, careful attention to ensuring every detail of my appearance meets Council standards.
By the time I return to the workstation, my bioluminescence has returned to controlled regulation patterns, my breathing is steady, and my expression reveals nothing of what transpired in the sleeping alcove.
Perfect diplomatic composure, restored through sheer force of will and years of training.
I pull up the assessment schedule, reviewing the parameters for our next interaction. Shared evening meal, followed by cultural exchange discussion period. Two hours of structured social interaction designed to evaluate interpersonal compatibility.
Two hours of sitting across from Derek, making conversation, while trying to forget that I just climaxed with his name on my lips.
I am beginning to suspect this assignment may be impossible to complete successfully.
But I am a Council member. I have duties to my people that transcend personal discomfort. I will complete this assessment according to established protocols, submit accurate compatibility findings, and never again volunteer for field assignments involving direct human contact.
The door chimes with an incoming communication, and I accept the connection automatically.
"Councilor Kav'eth," the ship's automated system announces, "the human Derek Cross is requesting access to the dining facility. Do you wish to join him for the scheduled evening meal interaction?"
I look at my reflection in the darkened workstation screen, noting the carefully controlled expression that reveals nothing of what just occurred. Perfect diplomatic composure, restored through sheer force of will.
"Inform the human that I will join him in ten minutes," I reply, my voice steady and professional. "Standard evening meal protocols will be followed."
"Acknowledged, Councilor."
The connection ends, leaving me alone with the knowledge that in ten minutes, I must sit across from Derek and pretend that nothing has changed.
That I have not spent the last period seeking physical relief while thinking about his body, his confidence, his complete disregard for proper assessment boundaries.
I can do this. I have spent decades maintaining professional composure in challenging circumstances. One human, however visually appealing, cannot possibly compromise my ability to fulfill my duties.
But as I make final adjustments to my appearance and prepare to leave my quarters, I cannot entirely convince myself that the next two days will not test the limits of my diplomatic training in ways I never anticipated.
The dining facility awaits. Derek awaits.
And somewhere in the back of my mind, a traitorous voice whispers that perhaps scientific objectivity is not the most important consideration in relationship assessment after all.