#sark

.....and yes I do have the discs (not all but hey):

Sark should not have wanted this.

It was inefficient.

Illogical.

A corruption in his core code that he had run a thousand diagnostics on, searching for the error, the glitch, the flaw that made his optical sensors track the User across the room, that made his processors linger on the curve of your throat, the dip of your waist, the soft, impossibly soft way your flesh yielded when they simply breathed. Sark was built for order. For precision. For the clean, sharp angles of a system that ran like a blade.

The User was none of these things. You were round where he was angular. Warm where he was cool. Your movements were inefficient, full of hesitation and grace and the maddening, organic unpredictability of a creature that did not run on logic but on want — want that was rubbing off on Sarek as well. Such luck of logic – wanting him and fearing him, trying to get away from his cold gaze and craving the punishment.

He watched you from across the command deck, pretending to study a data slate. You were examining a console, brow furrowed, lower lip caught between your teeth—a nervous, human habit he had catalogued and replayed in his memory files more times than he would ever admit. You were taught to work, to be efficent, to buy seconds of your precious organic life while submitting to a program – to Sarek. Your skin caught the dim light differently than a program's hard light exterior. It glowed. It flushed. When you were frustrated, pink spread across your cheeks like an error message he could not debug. When your were pleased (and that was way, way more often), your entire body seemed to soften, to open.

He hated it.

He hated the way his gauntlets have felt against that skin. The way your pulse have fluttered under his touch like a trapped bird. The sounds you have made—vocal, where programs were silent and efficient. You gasped. You whimpered. You begged. Sarek, you whispered, your eyes going glossy and utterly empty of any thought. Sarek, please, sir--

The data slate cracked in his grip. A lower program nearby flinched at the sound. Sark did not notice. His gaze was fixed on the User, who had just stretched, arms above your head, the movement pulling your soft shirt taut across the gentle swell of their belly.

Inefficient, his logic screamed.

Obsolete.

Organic.

Weak.

But deeper, in the corrupted sectors of his code that he could not purge, something else purred:

Mine.

Sarek did not stop himself. He could not.The wanting was a system error he had stopped trying to fix. He set down the ruined slate and straightened his already straight as board shoulders. He began to walk toward you, each step deliberate, predatory, inevitable. The User looked up as his shadow fell across you. Your eyes widened. That beautiful, maddening flush began to bloom across your cheeks.

"Commander Sark," you breathed.

He braced one hand on the console beside you, leaning in close enough to feel the heat radiating from you skin.

"You are... distracting," he said, the word dragged from somewhere deep and dark inside him.

"And I find I cannot focus while you are in my space. Being..." His jaw tightened. "...soft."

Your lips parted but no sound, no breath came out.

Good.

He wanted you speechless.

"Come with me," he ordered, his voice a low rumble that brooked no argument.

"We are going to conduct a... thorough inspection. Of your vulnerabilities."

He took you to his private quarters. The door sealed behind you with a sound like a tomb closing. The room was sparse, angular, built for function rather than comfort—a command console, a viewing port that looked out over the endless digital sea, and a berth. The berth was wide, low, covered in dark, seamless material that seemed to absorb the crimson light. You barely had time to register any of it before his hands were on you. He spun you around, pressing your back against the cold wall, caging you there with his body. The heat of him—the ambient energy, power of his systems—was a furnace against your front. His cold stone face was inches from yours, his eyes burning with something that looked terrifyingly like hunger.

"You have been a distraction," he growled.

"From the moment you arrived in my Grid. Soft. Inefficient. Vocal."

His gauntleted hand came up to cup your jaw, his thumb pressing against your lower lip. The leather was cool, but the energy underneath was scorching.

"I should have derezzed you. Broken you down to base code and scattered your molecules across the wastelands."

His thumb pushed past your lips, and you let it. The taste of ozone and leather flooded your mouth as your tongue tasted him. A low, helpless sound escaped your throat—exactly the kind of vocal, inefficient noise he had accused you of making. His eyes darkened as your lips closed around his digit.

"But I find I do not want to break you," he admitted, the words seeming to cost him. "I want to feel you. Every soft, yielding inch."

He withdrew his thumb and used both hands to grip the hem of your tunic. He did not ask. Commander Sarek never asked for a thing from his User. He simply pulled, the fabric tearing with a satisfying rip, baring your body to the cool, dry air of his quarters. His gaze dropped. And stayed.

Your belly. Soft. Vulnerable. The gentle curve of your stomach, the way it rose and fell with your rapid, inefficient breathing. You watched him stare at it, watched his chest plates rise and fall faster, watched the crimson glow of his circuitry pulse like a second heartbeat.

"You have no idea," he whispered, "what this does to me."

His hands, those brutal gauntlets that had ended countless programs, came up to frame your waist. His thumbs pressed into the soft flesh of your lower belly, and you gasped at the contact—the heat, the pressure, the sheer possession of it.

"So soft," he hissed, almost to himself.

"So impossibly soft. Programs are hard. Efficient. We have no give, no yield."

He pressed his hands against your stomach, his mouth against your throat and you felt the vibration of his voice through every nerve.

"But you... you give. You yield. You… you jiggle when I do this to you."

To prove his point, he dug his fingers in slightly and gave your belly a gentle, deliberate shake. The movement sent a shockwave of sensation through your entire body, and you moaned—loud, vocal, shameful.

"There," Sarek groaned against your skin. "That sound. I have replayed it in my memory files a thousand times. The sound of you coming undone. You are such a good, responsive little User, are you not?.. You learn so quickly."

He pulled back just enough to look down at where his hand claimed you. His eyes traced the way your soft flesh spilled slightly between his fingers, the way the thin fabric of your shirt stretched over the gentle curve of your stomach. "

"Look at this," he breathed, something almost like an awe in his voice. "And you let me touch it. You let me hold it. You stand there, trembling and flushed, and you do not run."

His eyes snapped back to yours, dark with something that was not quite hunger and not quite rage.

"You are perfect," he said, and the word was torn from him like a confession. "Inefficient. Illogical. Soft."

His hand slid lower, fingertips against your thighs.