Archive of Our Own

The orders catch him off guard.

It’s late evening on the Yorktown and Christopher Pike is curled up on his couch in sleep pants and a t-shirt relaxing with a real paper copy of O’Brian’s Post Captain, a present from Phil on his last birthday. They’ve just finished delivering a group of archaeologists to Penthara, a wind down mission after a truly hellacious couple of weeks of chasing down Tzenkethi border raiders, and it’s the first chance he’s had to relax in weeks. So when he finally takes a break from the book and thumbs open his PADD to find a message with the distinctive blue and silver coding of an official mission order he sighs and rubs a hand wearily across his face.

Since Command hasn’t thought it necessary to contact him directly about it he knows it can’t be anything too urgent, just a routine change of assignment, or advance warning of an upcoming mission. So he’s really not prepared for the stomach-churning wave of emotion that hits him when he opens the file and reads that the Yorktown is to have the honour of transporting the Federation Diplomatic Corps to Gemella V for the official entrance of that particularly sensitive, and resource-critical, world as the newest Federation member. And, as he’s not prepared for it, he utterly fails to school his reaction, wincing when Phil asks, with his familiar quiet concern.

“Everything okay?”

Chris takes a breath and now that it’s too late to cover his disquiet he looks up at Phil, who is power-sprawling over the armchair at the end of the coffee table, and runs a hand distractedly through his hair.

“Yeah, well…no, kinda, I guess.”

Phil smirks, and Chris reads fond tolerance at his incoherence. “Want to try that again?”

Chris huffs a short laugh and flips his wrist, depositing the PADD on the other end of the couch and swinging his legs onto the floor, so that he can lean his elbows on his knees and then bury his face in his hands.

“We’re the transport for the diplomatic team that’s overseeing Gemella V’s entry into the Federation.” He stops there, aware that his statement is in no way an explanation of his reaction, aware too that Phil will prod him for more in a moment, and making use of the brief respite to gather his thoughts. As a general rule, he tries not to think about his last mission to Gemella V.

The silence stretches until Phil prompts. “And…?”

“And, the last time I was there, let’s just say it wasn’t my finest hour.” He looks up and registers the surprised concern on Phil’s face, understands that his own must be eloquent with discomfort and not a little shame.

“I think you might need a bartender tonight.” Phil levers himself out of his chair and pads lightly across to the storage unit in the bulkhead next to the replicator, finding everything he needs to fix a couple of strong martinis. Chris watches him silently, still thinking through what he’s about to say, wondering whether he can deflect Phil somehow although, after more than half a dozen years of cohabitation, he knows that’s not really an option.

He takes the martini when it’s offered to him, it’s in a plain straight-walled tumbler and devoid of olives, but really, the only thing that counts here is the three fingers of Hendrick’s gin and the splash of vermouth that’s swimming around a handful of ice-cubes.

“Now, spill.”

“Okay.” Chris takes a measured sip of the martini and holds it in his mouth just long enough to feel the burn of the alcohol before he finally begins to explain. “Like I said, not my finest hour…”

The President’s private dining room in the Gemellian Constitutional Palace is about as opulent a setting as Chris can imagine for an intimate celebratory dinner. Stone columns and elaborately inlaid wood panelling, a couple of long tables draped with heavy fabrics – rich in greens and reds and golds – and covered with a wide assortment of some of the lushest, and most elegantly prepared, food he’s had in a long time. The treaty to tie up Gemella V’s tritium resources – and thereby deny them to the Cardassians – is concluded, bar the final official signing tomorrow morning, and for the duration of the evening, Chris, as the lead Federation negotiator, is expected to relax and enjoy himself, demonstrating to his hosts that the Federation is both a trustworthy, and trusting, ally.

Unfortunately he’s neither relaxed, nor enjoying himself, in fact, he’s uneasy as all hell.

Leaning back in his chair he watches the small army of attendants constantly entering and leaving the room, replenishing the serving plates as soon as they are cleared and making sure that every cup remains more than half full at all times. The servers are all terribly young and that, together with the range of species on display, makes him suspicious as to their origins. These kinds of low-level service jobs don’t usually attract volunteers from off-planet, never mind from what looks like a range of planets across half a dozen sectors and in his experience that suggests that at least some of these young people are not here voluntarily.

It’s a worrying facet of Gemellian life that should – in Chris’s opinion – affect the Federation’s willingness to do business with them. But he’s seen no conclusive evidence of sentient-trafficking and he knows the inner workings of the FDC well enough to know that this treaty will go ahead unless he can come up with something stronger than gut instinct.

A hand on his shoulder interrupts his train of thought, just the lightest of touches, and Chris looks up to find the young man responsible for serving him this evening, as he leans in to top up Chris’s wine glass. Mesmerized for a second by dark, dark eyes and the thin curve of a finely drawn mouth, the sudden rush of desire catches Chris off guard, not least because he doesn’t usually find himself attracted to men this much younger. At thirty-five it’s been a long time since he’s even spared a second look for a teenager and, for all his quiet authority in directing the other wait staff, this youth can’t be more than nineteen.

But, oh he is exquisite.

Tall and willowy lean, with a sweet smile and short, thick dark hair that falls over his face in a way that makes Chris remember the delicious, covert thrill of teenage sex, even as he feels his cock twitch and the slight prickle of sweat on the nape of his neck. The boy’s gaze makes the briefest pass from Chris’s eyes to his groin and back, his smile becoming just a little more knowing as he asks quietly.

“Can I get you anything else, sir?” It’s the first time he’s spoken directly to Chris and his heavily-accented Standard confirms Chris’s suspicions that he’s not from Gemella V. Listening to the long, soft vowels and elided consonants Chris pegs his origin as one of the Earth-settled agricultural colonies close to the Cardassian border. Which begs the question of what he’s doing here. The lift of a fine dark eyebrow reminds Chris that he’s been asked a question and, uncharacteristically, he stumbles just a fraction over his response. “Ah…no, no thanks.”

He gets a wide, slightly impudent, smile in return. “Well, I’ll be back in a bit, ‘case you change your mind, sir.”

Chris leans back and watches the boy walk away, liquid heat stirring in his groin, reminding him just how long it’s been since he’s had anything more than his fist to fuck. In sheer black pants and shirt the exposed lines of smooth, youthful muscle and the easy loose limbed movement of the boy are extraordinarily enticing and it makes Chris wonder if there is something in the food – or the wine – because as beautiful as the boy is, smooth-skinned youth doesn’t usually do this much for him. Certainly not in circumstances as disconcerting as these, for despite the boy’s obvious ease with his situation, Chris can feel the tension crawling up his spine, the atmosphere slightly claustrophobic and electric with an almost malevolent anticipation.

Part of his unease is generated by the two Cardassians sitting at his table on the other side of the President of the High Council. They are the losers in this particular battle for resources, their negotiations ended days ago and Chris can’t quite work out what they are still doing here. Unless their continued presence is simply a ploy by the Gemellians to remind the Federation that they will have alternatives when the term of the new treaty expires.

But that doesn’t explain the skin-crawling sense that his hosts have something questionable planned for later in the evening. He leans back in his chair, glad that he’s dismissed the rest of the Nkrumah’s away team, he’s pretty sure he can keep himself out of trouble, but he hates having to be responsible for his crew when there’s clearly something untoward about to go down. Focusing for a moment on the physical cues that are generating his unease, Chris methodically catalogues the sensations – heat flush on his skin, more than should be generated by the room’s ambient temperature, a prickling hyper-sensitivity of sound and touch and taste and above all, a persistent, low-level arousal that has his cock throbbing, with a slow, heavy, disturbingly sweet pulse. Convinced that there has to be some kind of foreign substance firing his blood Chris casts a suspicious eye at his plate and decides to abandon the rest of his dinner.

“T’ain’t in the wine, nor the food neither.” The boy is back at his shoulder, his fingers light on Chris’s arm as they both look at the wine glass, which Chris has, less than subtly, covered with his hand and then at his plate which is covered with the detritus of a half-eaten meal. Chris looks up, trying to will away the distracting flush of arousal that accompanies the boy’s touch, and he’s struck by the sharp intelligence in the dark eyes as the boy goes on. “It’s in the air.”

He glances up at the draped fabric that covers the ceiling, and Chris follows his gaze, suddenly aware that the fabric is moving slightly with the recirculating air. Dammit he should have been paying more attention – not that he could have done anything, it’s not like breathing is optional.

“They always do this when they’ve got guests, keeps you off your game – and softens you up for the entertainment later.”

“Entertainment later?” Oh fuck, that doesn’t sound good. “What does that usually mean?”

The kid shrugs, a half-smile curling at his fine, narrow lips.

“Depends how special you are.” His eyes are bright with laughter, his tone a suggestive tease and Chris just knows he shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn't be flirting with this beautiful, sweet barely-of-age and probably at the very least indentured serving boy, but he can’t stop himself from smiling back as he responds with a tease of his own.

“Very special.”

Smiling broadly now the young man lifts an eyebrow as he fires back. “I think I worked that out already, sir.” And now that Chris has removed his hand from the wine glass, he reaches over and refills it before he goes on to explain. “Anyways, if you’re that special then I ‘spect you’re going to get to see the inside of the President’s seraglio – he only does that for very special guests.”

“And?”

“And you’ll get to pick someone to fuck.”

For all that he’s appalled at the easy way the boy talks about the President whoring out his servants Chris can’t quite stop himself from raising an inquisitive eyebrow and he gets a self-deprecating smile in return. “Never know who they’re going to pick, sir.” And then the dark eyes go cold and slightly fearful as the boy looks across the table to the Cardassians. “And no one’s going to want to be picked tonight, not if there’s a chance of being fucked by one of them.”

Even with the reassurance that the wine is unadulterated, Chris barely touches his glass in the next hour; the tainted air is making him edgy and anxious; alcohol will only reduce his competence further and he suspects he’s going to need to be clear-headed for whatever is coming. Although he’s shrewd enough to make his closing thank you address just a little less eloquent, a little less articulate than he would normally. There’s no point in letting everyone know that he’s not quite as impaired as the Cardassian Gul who delivers a slightly belligerent, and frankly offensive address that effusively thanks his hosts, and lets Chris know that Cardassia is going to be challenging the Federation at every turn in these border sectors.

The President seems oblivious to the slowly escalating tension as he finally stands to dismiss the guests and then gestures for Chris and the Gul to follow him.

“Gentlemen, in honour of our historic new association…” he gestures for Chris to precede him through a secluded doorway behind the head table and then turns to the Gul to continue. “…and in gratitude for your gracious behaviour in the face of the Federation’s success.” He ushers both of them ahead of him to a door some ten meters further down the dimly-lit corridor, apparently still oblivious to the now seething Cardassian who is eyeing Chris in a way that suggests that there’s a real possibility of imminent violence. Chris ignores him in favour of watching the President who has placed his hand against a palm-reader set into the wall.

“May I offer you the services of my household tonight.” The President’s toothy smile leaves Chris in absolutely no doubt as to the nature of the services that are on offer and he takes a deep breath before he steps through the threshold of a door that leads into a dimly-lit and clearly very private entertaining space.

This new chamber is perhaps, the most decadent room Chris has ever seen. The floor is covered with layers of thick, highly-decorated carpets, the walls draped with heavy fabrics, held open in a few places to reveal yet more, deeply-shadowed rooms beyond. The atmosphere is saturated with the low, bass-toned thrum of barely audible music and the faint tease of pheromone-soaked scent, both designed to intensify whatever lingering arousal the atmosphere in the dining room had generated.

“If you will gentlemen. “ The President gestures to a collection of broad divans that are clustered against the far wall, indicating that they should sit and making himself comfortable on the centre one. “Make yourselves comfortable and I will call for this evening’s selection.” He smiles again and Chris has to admit, it’s been a while since he’s run into anyone who can pull off barely-concealed menace better than this asshole.

As he settles himself onto the deep cushions of the divan, Chris steels himself for what is about to come and tries not to clench his jaw as the President reassures them. “Rest assured, my friends, should there be nothing here that takes your fancy, I have many, many more choices available.”

So, there’s going to be no getting out of this by claiming a lack of interest.

Chris feels a thrill of cold dread as the door opens once more and the evening’s offerings file into the room, each of them barefoot; pierced and inked and naked but for body-jewellery and a pair of loose, silky trousers. There are a dozen of them male, female and undefined; human and not; tall and short; fair and dark – but all unmistakably young – and Chris watches intently as each one passes through the threshold to join the line, his dread intensifying as the young man from dinner appears, dressed only in the ubiquitous black silk pants, his only adornment a pair of bright, silver rings threaded through his nipples.

“As my honoured guest Gul Marek has come out the loser in these negotiations, I hope, Captain...” The President turns to Chris, his pale eyes as cold and lifeless as those of a corpse, his over-toothy smile that of a terrifying predator. “I hope you will be generous enough to allow him the first pick of our fine young offerings.”

Marek bestows the most perfunctory bow of thanks on the President and then looks directly at Chris; a deliberate challenge in his black eyes and Chris has the sinking feeling that this has suddenly become very personal.

Chris can feel the tension in the room escalate as the Cardassian stalks across to the line of barely-dressed offerings and touches one bony finger to the chest of each of them – he lingers longer on the males, and Chris can see the fear radiating from each one that attracts his interest. His own stomach is in a knot just at the thought of a Cardassian fucking any one of these kids – he’s run into enough of them over the years to understand that their brusque, business-like façade covers a heart fashioned of stone and laced with acid – and given that this particular Gul will probably be going home to face some kind of disciplinary action as a result of his failure to secure this treaty, Chris can’t imagine he’s going to be overly gentle with whomever he chooses. Still there is nothing Chris can do without risking a further deterioration of already tense Federation/Cardassian relations and the FDC is not going to appreciate him making the diplomatic situation worse by interfering in a legal, if morally questionable, Gemellian tradition.

And then all his logical rationality is all blown to hell when the Gul stops at the beautiful boy from dinner and almost delicately takes the silver loop of one piercing between his thumb and forefinger, applying a steady tension until the kid is biting his lip in pain, mute terror written in his face. It’s then that Marek turns and grins evilly at Chris, and in that instant Chris knows that he has condemned the boy to this. His interest at dinner hasn’t gone unnoticed and now Marek intends to make him pay as he uses the kid as a fuck-toy.

It takes only seconds for Chris to react, his heart in his throat, adrenaline flooding his system as he pushes himself up off his couch and makes four long strides across the room to step between the Cardassian and his intended victim.

“Mine.” Chris snaps his hand out and wraps it firmly around the boy’s nape, tugging him close, his eyes never leaving the dark angry gaze of the Gul. He can feel the quivering fear in the kid, and can only hope that his intervention isn’t making it worse, but he can’t afford to look away to check, the only way he’s going to pull this off is to maintain eye-contact until the Gul backs down.

The room has gone silent, and Chris is sure everyone in it can hear his heart hammering in his chest, his fingers tightening on the sweat-damp skin of the still shivering kid.

“Back off.” His voice has taken on the deep, unyielding tone of command, a low growl that speaks of someone used to being obeyed. He just hopes to Christ that he can bend this Gul to his will the same way he does everyone else, because now that he’s stepped up he’s very, very aware that he can’t back down. Consequences to the boy still trembling at his touch notwithstanding, Chris knows that showing any weakness to a Cardassian would be devastating to the Federation’s reputation in this shatterbelt region of unaffiliated planets and competing resource claims. So he stiffens his spine and lifts his chin just a fraction, all the while stroking his thumb gently up and down the downy-soft nape of the boy under his hand.

The silence stretches interminably and perversely Chris finds his heart rate settling, his breathing slow and even as he watches the gradual crumbling of the Gul’s resolve until, with a nervous, lizard-slow flicker of his tongue across his lips the Cardassian blinks and looks away. Chris can feel the relief washing through him, but he still doesn’t move, waiting until Marek turns on his heel and points to another young man, indicating with a sharp flick of his fingers for the youth to follow him. Chris watches as the new victim shakes with fear, legs barely working as he stumbles after the Gul and he’s sick with the knowledge of what will happen next. But he can’t dwell on that now, he still has to figure out what he’s going to do with his “prize” because, the President is now grinning widely and gesturing to one of the ornate doorways behind the divans on which they’ve been reclining.

“Well chosen, Captain. I am eager to see how well you enjoy him.”

And Chris’s relief at besting the Gul evaporates as he realizes that whatever happens next with the boy at his side, it’s going to be far more public than he’s usually comfortable with.

A brief flash of anger makes him involuntarily tighten his grip and he feels the youth shudder, his breath hitching in fear and pain.

“Shh, sorry…not angry at you.” Chris relaxes his grip and turns slightly to pull the boy close. He’s only a few centimetres shorter than Chris, but he is willowy slender and he leans into Chris, tucking his head into the curve of his neck and breathing a sigh that whispers across sweat-damp skin. “S’okay, I know what you got to do, it’s alright.”

It's anything but okay, Chris is quietly furious at the position he’s in. He really wants to tell the Gemellian High Council, the Federation Diplomatic Corps and the Cardassians to all go fuck themselves, but he can’t. He can’t risk the treaty, he can’t risk the loss of face for the Federation, but most of all – because he’d be sorely tempted to walk away without a backward glance if it was just the treaty and the Federation’s reputation at stake – he can’t risk this kid being handed over to Marek. Chris has claimed the boy, now he needs to make good on that claim.

He takes a steadying breath and strokes his fingers into soft, thick hair, whispering a quiet question. “What’s your name?”

“Will – Will Ridley” The boy hesitates and Chris finds himself on the receiving end of a surprisingly frank gaze, the dark, dark brown eyes holding a wary suspicion, but surprisingly little fear. “Why d’you do that? Why’d you risk a fight wi’ him over me?”

Chris finds himself momentarily at a loss for words because, while he knows that he intervened because he felt responsible for Marek targeting the boy, it’s not like he’s actually achieved anything useful with his moment of gallant impetuosity. Yes, he’s spared Will the torture of being fucked by the Cardassian, but only at the expense of some other barely-of-age victim, and now he’s faced with being an active participant in this post-dinner debauch. If he’d kept quiet he might – and he’s not entirely convinced about this but the delusion is comforting – have managed to talk his way out of actually having to engage in sex with an, at best, reluctant partner.

“Because you don’t deserve…” Chris tilts his head in the direction of Marek’s departure, “…that.” And he slides his hand around the firm line of Will’s jaw, trying to make his touch, his voice, his entire demeanour as unthreatening as possible as he strokes his thumb up to rest on the narrow curve of Will’s lower lip. And, when he’s sure that he’s convinced Will of his immediate good intentions, trying to project safecalmkind with his eyes and his hands, Chris pauses and glances across to where the President is still watching, wary now; apparently grateful that the confrontation with the Gul hadn’t turned violent, but not entirely convinced that Chris is going to hold up his end of the bargain. He gestures again towards one of the curtain-shrouded doorways, impatient and just a little imperious, and Chris gives a short, curt nod in return before he slides his hand back around Will’s nape and strokes gently, using just the lightest touch to encourage him to move. “I’m sorry – I wish I could think of a way out of this, but I think we’re going to have to go through with it.”

“S’alright.” In the moment before he begins to follow Chris, Will cuts his gaze across the room to where the Cardassian and his victim have disappeared beyond the sheer drapes of another doorway. “Could’ve been worse.”

All right is the last thing this is. Chris feels more than a little violated himself, fucking for the Federation is one thing, doing it with a partner who has no say in his participation is a whole new level of professional debasement. And it doesn’t help that he’s fighting what he thinks is an entirely inappropriate thrum of arousal, more than half-hard already. The adrenaline of winning the standoff with Marek mingles with the seductive feel of Will under his hand, skin hot and damp, his pulse still tripping far too fast against Chris’s fingertips.

****

It’s a relief to make it to the doorway, and more of one when they pass through and Chris pulls the thick drapes behind them, shutting out the sound of the President’s laughter, filthy and slightly cruel as he calls over his own victims. The room is small and richly appointed, although the only piece of furniture is a wide, comfortable-looking bed – and Chris scans it quickly, looking for the surveillance that he knows is there, but it’s not obvious and he tries to put it out of his mind. It’s not that he’s particularly modest; sex with an audience is something he’s actually done before. Albeit in circumstances that involved a lot of alcohol and all the witnesses also being participants – Chris has had, he suspects, more than his fair share of threesomes and moresomes – but, to his knowledge, no one has ever recorded him having sex in the hope of leveraging some kind of political advantage. It's disconcerting and he has to take a steadying breath before he turns back to the bed.

Will is sitting on the edge of it, body language eloquent with relief and slightly cautious interest, and as Chris considers him for a moment, he thinks there might be a way out of this that limits the damage to his dignity and the boy’s psyche. He steps close and reaches out to lay one hand lightly on the dark head, letting the other rest against the fastening of his dress pants.

Almost as if he’s reading Chris’s mind, Will shakes his head just a fraction “I could do that if that’s what you want, but they’re going to think you’re not much of a man, and it’ll get me a beating for not trying hard enough.” And he looks at the large mirror on the wall facing the bed before he lifts his eyes to Chris again. “They’ll know, they’re watching.”

Jesus Christ, just for once Chris would appreciate conducting negotiations with governments that aren’t run by beings that think with their dicks – or equivalent genitalia. This competitive male posturing is fucking – in every sense of the word – exhausting and having the Cardassians involved has upped the testosterone – is it even testosterone for Cardassians? He has no fucking idea – by several orders of magnitude.

Chris strokes his fingers up through the too-long fringe of hair that covers Will’s forehead, letting his thumb brush gently over the fine arch of one long, dark eyebrow as he fights down a wave of mixed emotions – anger, frustration and chemically-induced lust mingling with a thread of genuine arousal and a profound desire to not do this boy any harm.

The look he gets in return is honest appraisal edged with impatience and Will teases his lower lip with his tongue for a moment before offering the faintest trace of a smile. “C’mon then, I done this before, doesn’t have to be so bad.”

It’s just a little fucked up, Chris thinks, that Will seems to feel obligated to make this easier for him when he should be the one trying to offer a little reassurance. But then, it appears that this isn’t unfamiliar territory for the boy and by the look of the faint flush on his cheeks and the slight shift of colour in his eyes as the black of widened pupils encroaches on the dark seal-brown of his irises, he at least has the assistance of the same chemically-induced arousal that’s making Chris get hard far faster than he should in these circumstances.

He resists the urge to adjust himself as the fabric of his dress pants tightens to the point of discomfort and instead sheds the jacket of his dress uniform and drops down onto the bed next to Will, leaning back against the pile of pillows that are stacked against the headboard and extending a hand in summons, inviting the young man to lay down with him. To his surprise, Will grins, all assured audacity now that the danger of Marek is passed, and he straddles Chris, resting across his upper thighs and leaning forward to press his hands to the breadth of Chris’s chest.

Chris strokes a finger lightly up the curve of Will’s throat, letting the back of it brush up the line of his jaw, gratified at the slight hint of stubble. That, and the fine patches of silky dark hair on his chest and across his abdomen, remind Chris that as young as he is, Will is a man and, if the damp spot on the stretched silk of his trousers is any indication, a thoroughly aroused one.

Still, he has to ask, even if he knows it’s a stupid question. “So, you’re alright with this?”

“T’ain’t the way I’d want it – but if I was free to choose, I’d choose you.” The cheeky smile is back. “That’s why I’m here – ‘cos I like to go wi’ boys” And then he laughs, the sound low and slightly husky and going straight to Chris’s cock. “Well, I like to go wi’ men, more like.”

He untucks Chris’s black undershirt from the waistband of his pants and pushes it up his chest, strong, capable fingers stroking through the soft curls that cover the firm muscles of Chris’s belly. “They don’t like boys who do boys on Rubicon II. Couldn’t stay there.”

Chris is sure there’s an interesting story there, but this isn’t the time for it. Now that he’s sure Will isn’t actively unhappy about being coerced into sex with him he’s beginning to relax and allow himself to enjoy the feel of warm, agile hands on his skin. It’s been far, far too long since he’s had company in bed, since he’s been able to lose himself in the seductive heat and musk of another warm body, the exquisite feel of other hands on his skin, the smell and taste of someone else’s arousal.

With another grin Will leans forward, hair falling down across his face in a straight, dark wave and runs his tongue lightly up the midline of Chris’s chest, the wet heat making Chris shiver as he curls his hand gently around the back of Will’s head and strokes his fingers into soft, thick hair. Another touch of tongue, this time across a taut nipple and Chris has to bite back a very undignified whine. He can feel his cock thrumming in the crease between his thigh and torso, urgent, demanding, leaking into the fabric of his pants and he reaches for one of Will’s hands, encouraging him to move it down, to touch him just there.

“Christ yes…” Chris can feel the twitch and pulse of blood as strong fingers mould around his length, Will using the heel of his hand to rub firmly at the base of Chris’s cock.

“Good?”

Chris is a little surprised at the depth to Will’s voice now, the light tenor of the boy replaced with the husky, sex-soaked baritone of an aroused adult.

“Fuck yes, good – better naked, though.” And Chris is reaching for the fastenings of his pants, fingers fumbling a little, laughing when Will shoves them aside and uses his own strong, competent fingers to work the pants open. Chris shudders as the fingers wrap around his shaft, a tight, practiced grip-and-slide that tugs at his foreskin and promises to be too much too soon. With a quiet grunt he lays a hand over Will’s, stilling his rhythm.

“Enough – it’s been too long.” Chris winces slightly in embarrassment. “You keep that up, I’m going to come long before I’m in you.”

He gets a brash grin in return. “Think I like that; making you all desperate.” Will keeps his hand still and tightens his grip just a fraction, just enough to make Chris suck in a hard breath. “Didn’t think old men could come that fast.”

“Old?” Chris grips the slender wrist a little harder, not sure if he should be amused or annoyed. “You’re a cocky little fucker, aren’t you?” He’s trying to keep his voice level, but there’s a tell-tale breathiness to it that betrays the ache that is vibrating through his body.

There’s a part of Chris that knows he shouldn’t be enjoying this, he should, in fact be hating every minute of it – but he can’t – he’s only human, and given Will’s obvious ease with him Chris finally lets go of the tension that’s been dogging him all evening. He pauses to catch his breath for a moment, a hand flat on Will’s chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat under silky-damp skin and Will grins at him, all bright lust-blown eyes and youthful insolence. Chris grins back and thinks, if they weren’t being watched, if he wasn’t trying to keep this encounter as swift and clinical as possible, he’d be tempted to flip Will under him and fuck him into the mattress for his impudence.

Instead he just slides his hand up to curve around Will’s jaw, thumb stroking up his cheek, enjoying the burn of soft, prickly stubble and asks. “So – you want it just like this?”

Will nods and it’s a matter of seconds for them to shed just enough clothing to make fucking easy. Eager for the feel of skin on skin Chris wraps his hands around Will’s hips, long fingers splayed on pale skin and pulls him back down to settle over his thighs, Will rocking slowly, so the base of his cock is sliding along the thick length of Chris’s erection. They are both leaking now, and Chris shivers at the sensation of precome cooling on his skin, the slide of Will’s damp, slick prick against his own sending flashes of bright heat through his body.

It feels so fucking good that it takes a real effort of will to concentrate enough to listen to the little voice of responsibility in the back of his head that’s reminding him he’s on the verge of sliding his very naked cock into the ass of a very unprotected partner. Gritting his teeth in the face of another shivering flash of sensation he manages to grind out a soft inquiry. “Do we have supplies?”

Even as he voices the question, Chris is pretty sure of the answer; there’s nothing in the room except the bed, nowhere for lube or barrier film, or any other form of prophylactic to be hiding and he isn’t surprised when Will just laughs grimly and shakes his head.

“Nah, ‘s about trust, remember – you have to trust they wouldn’t send you someone that weren’t clean and…” he shrugs dismissively. “…they don’ care if I catch summat from you.”

The matter of fact way that Will accepts the Gemellians’ indifference to his own well-being also explains the lack of lube, clearly, Will’s comfort is not a part of the equation as far as the Gemellian’s are concerned. But it bothers Chris to no end, the thought of fucking him with only spit to ease the way and, as he strokes his fingers lightly through the fine hair on Will’s belly, a solution comes to him.

“How fast can you come?”

Will shrugs. “Dunno….fast I ‘spose…why?”

“Because…” Chris has dropped his hand, letting his fingers trail through the thicker thatch around Will’s cock, before stroking one fingertip up the thick, flushed shaft and teasing it around the damp seam where the glans is just beginning to emerge from the protection of his foreskin. “…I’m going to fuck you with your own come.”

He swipes his thumb across the generously weeping slit, spreading pre-come down the shaft before spitting into his palm and wrapping his fist firmly around Will’s cock, watching as his eyes go coal-dark with desire.

“Fuck…” Will bucks into Chris’s hand, his breath catching as he thrusts up in a barely controlled arch and then he lets out a breathy whine as Chris thumbs his glans again.

“Show me what you like, show me what works for you.”

Eyes wide, Will shudders again and then covers Chris’s hand with one of his own, setting up a fast, eager stroke, their fingers laced together as his breath begins to hitch and stutter, and Chris is captivated by the unguarded pleasure on his face.

“How long has it been?” Chris slows his stroke; drawing out the moment, feeling the quiver of anticipation in Will’s long, lean body. “How long?”

“How long, what?” It's clearly taking all of Will’s self-control to manage a coherent question.

“Since someone made you come, since someone cared about you coming.”

“Oh, fuck an age…not since…not since I came here.” And Will is writhing now, biting his lip hard as the deep rose flush of imminent orgasm spreads down his throat and across the slender breadth of his chest.

“Christ, you are fucking stunning.” Chris could live without the slightly thready note of awe in his voice, but really, Will is absolutely gorgeous; a kind of sweet, vital beauty that Chris hasn’t been intimate with in longer than he cares to remember and he wants to submerge himself in it for just a little while.

But he can’t; because now Will is coming in a long arching spasm and, as much as Chris would love to just let it happen – to feel the hot spatter of come on his skin as Will shivers and whimpers through his climax – he forces himself to focus, letting the hot, silky-slick of semen coat his palm as he catches Will’s release; slicking it onto his own cock even as Will raises himself just enough to make a space for him to slip a hand between them. Chris has to bite back a low whimper as he circles long slippery fingers up against Will’s entrance, patient, waiting for the moment when Will relaxes before he can press deep.

The erratic flutter of muscle around his fingers sends a shiver of anticipation through Chris; his cock twitching, slapping against his belly as he concentrates on working his fingers deep into Will’s supple, slick, exquisitely tight heat.

“Fuck…you feel un-fucking-believably good.” Chris strokes a finger across the firm knot of Will’s prostate, generating a low whimper as Will lifts his head to meet Chris’s gaze.

“Then fuck me…c’mon…do it right and I’ll come again.” And sure enough Chris feels the unmistakable twitch of warm, damp flesh against his skin as Will’s cock fills and thickens again. Fuck, to have the refractory period of a nineteen-year-old.

One hand on Will’s hip to brace them, the other sliding his cock back until the head is snugged up tight against the indent of Will’s entrance, Chris takes one last deep breath, waits for an almost imperceptible smile of permission from Will and then lifts his hips even as he pulls Will down.

“Fuck…good…fucking incredible….Jesus that’s a fucking fist of death….” And Chris stutters into incoherence, breath and sense stolen by the exquisite feel of being sheathed in the tight, slick furnace of Will’s body.

It takes them a moment to find a rhythm and when they do, Chris wraps his hand around Will’s swelling prick and matches the slide of his hand with the punch of his hips and then they are both lost in the heady thrill of a fast, fervent fuck.

This time when Will comes, Chris feels it, hot and thick on his belly, dripping from his fingers as he milks the last meagre spurts from the quivering cock, and then he thrusts up hard, one last time, just enough self-discipline left to stay cogent and controlled for all but a brief second as the orgasm rolls him under and leaves him breathless and shuddering.

For a long moment Chris doesn’t move; blanketed by 70 kilos of gasping, shivering youth, he lets himself sink into the post-orgasmic haze of sweat and musk, pulse settling slowly as he strokes his fingers gently up the damp curve of Will’s spine.

“What happens now?” Chris waits to speak until Will has lifted his head, resting his chin on hands that are crossed on Chris’s chest – his face still soft and slightly dazed with the force of his orgasm – hair falling in a untidy, sweaty wave across his eyes, which suddenly sharpen with Chris’s question.

“You done what they wanted, you can go.” Will’s trying to be detached, but Chris can hear the uncertainty in his voice, the sense that there’s something he wants to say, something he doesn’t dare ask. Chris cards his fingers up through Will’s hair, sweeping it back from his face, holding his gaze for a long moment before he asks.

“What do you need from me?”

For a nervous moment Will teases his lower lip with his teeth before he finally whispers, “Take me with you, please?”

Chris takes a breath, his chest tight and for one awful moment he thinks that Will is asking to leave with him in the morning – and he really isn’t ready to explain an asylum case to the FDC, especially not one where he’s been physically intimate with the petitioner. Apparently all of that is written on his face, and Will shakes his head.

“I didn’t mean that, you soft git.” His eyes half-hidden behind long, thick lashes, Will smiles a little diffidently and goes on, “I just meant for tonight, take me to your room.”

He hesitates and drops his gaze, looking away and resting his cheek against Chris’s chest, his voice a low whisper as he goes on. “Else, he…” They both know which he Will is talking about “…could ask for me again, later.”

His breath is soft against Chris’s skin and Will shivers slightly as Chris curls his fingers into soft, thick hair and whispers quietly, “I’ll take care of it.”

****

Chris finds the reception room empty but for a couple of minor functionaries – the President apparently still occupied with his own private debauch – and it’s a matter of a few seconds to inform them that he’s taking Will back to his room for the rest of the night, pausing only to put in a request for a prompt delivery of food and drink. After only eating a fraction of his meal, Chris is pretty hungry and, if Will is anything like he was at nineteen, he’s probably constantly ravenous.

Half an hour later the bed in Chris’s room is covered with platters of food; grilled marinated meats and fish, fresh bread, and a large bowl of diced fruit, drenched in some kind of sweet, fermented dairy and Will is happily tearing into a skewer of grilled something, sitting cross-legged on the coverlet.

“Don’t they feed the servants in this place?” Chris watches amused as Will grins through a mouthful of sweet, spicy, meat and shrugs.

“Not like this, they don’t.” He licks his fingers with obvious relish and sucks the marinade off his thumb. “Hmmm…brilliant food, thanks.” And gestures for Chris to hand him one of the bottles of fruit cider from the end table.

“Okay, well knock yourself out, I’m going for a shower.” Chris gives him the bottle before he grabs a fresh pair of sleep pants from his duffle and pauses briefly at the door to the adjoining bathroom. He really has no intention of doing anything other than sleeping with this boy for the rest of the night, as tempting as the idea of a long, slow, relaxed second round might be. Chris knows that he could never be sure if Will was participating out of desire or some misguided sense of obligation. But he does take a moment to appreciate the aesthetics as Will sprawls back against the pillows, long, lean and relaxed as he swallows down a long draught from the bottle of cider.

Chris is surprised that Will only makes one, somewhat half-hearted, attempt to seduce him when he comes out of the shower, the slide of a warm, clever hand on his chest, quickly stalled when Chris wraps his fingers around a slender wrist and insists with all his customary, quiet authority, “No.”

Will frowns, obviously confused and Chris explains, “Food, sleep…” he smiles and runs his hand lightly through Will’s unruly curls “…a shower if you want – but I’m not fucking you again.” His tone makes it absolutely clear that this is non-negotiable and Will’s frown becomes even more confused even as he assents, “Okay, if that’s really what you wan’.”

It’s clear that the boy really doesn’t understand why Chris wouldn’t take advantage of a willing partner for the rest of the night, and Chris aches just a little at the thought of being so inured to the idea of being used that any slight gesture of consideration would seem bewildering.

****

The bed is more than large enough for them to sleep comfortably separated and Chris is a little surprised when he wakes at first light to find Will curled up close to him, an arm over his chest, a leg twined over his thigh and the unmistakable heat of a morning erection pressed against his hip.

For long minutes he stays very still, torn between getting out of bed and distancing himself from temptation, and staying a while longer to just enjoy the all too rare pleasure of skin-on-skin contact. Still sleepy and comfortably content, he’s just about to drift off again when Will moves and Chris draws a surprised breath as a warm hand wraps around his barely-stirring cock and he finds himself looking into knowing, slightly insolent dark eyes.

“No.” Chris removes the hand, he still has absolutely no intention of fucking Will again, but as disappointment clouds Will’s eyes he softens just a little and slides a hand up to cradle the back of his head. He’s not going to fuck him, but perhaps they can come up with a reasonable compromise.

“Jesus, you’d tempt a saint.” He strokes his thumb along a dark jawline, the heavy morning stubble a pleasant burn against his skin and then Chris smiles his own, knowing, seductive smile.

“No, I’m not going to fuck you. But…” he shifts slightly so he can slide his free hand in between their bodies, wrapping his fingers firmly around the damp, velvet-steel heat of Will’s cock. “…I will get you off.”

His thumb tugs gently at Will’s foreskin; spreading the slickness of pre-come all over the smooth, hot flesh and Will stutters in surprise. “You what?”

“I’ll get you off. What do you want?” Chris has no intention of letting Will fuck him – that’s a privilege reserved for the Chief Trauma Surgeon on the Norman Bethune – and he qualifies his offer. “You want my hand?” He strokes firmly along Will’s length. “Or…” and he drops his voice to a seductive growl. “…do you want my mouth.” And even as Will shudders with need, his eyes wide, his cock thrumming in Chris’s grasp, Chris leans in and kisses him, slowly, thoroughly, a deep, soft, filthy-sweet exploration that more than amply demonstrates just how good Chris is with his mouth.

When they come up for air Will is shaking, his fingers gripped tight in the thick fur of Chris’s chest and he looks utterly lost, his eyes confused and desperate and dark with lust. “Why? Why would you do that?”

“Because you’re gorgeous and clever and sweet and however you managed to get here you don’t deserve this life.” Chris can feel the roughness in his own voice, emotion just a little too close to the surface for comfort and he leans in for another kiss, briefer and sweeter before he asks again. “So? What do you want?”

Will arches towards him, all lean muscles and taut lines, aching with need, “Please, suck me, please. Fuck, it’s been so long…”

Chris is very, very good at this and even in the face of Will’s youth and desperation, he manages to make it last. To draw out the pleasure for both of them as he slowly takes Will’s length all the way to the back of his throat and swallows again and again; as he plays his tongue over the slippery, smooth glans, the bitter-salt of pre-come making his own need suddenly flare out along his nerves, his cock filling and firming against the soft warmth of the sheets.

He slides a hand up the concave of Will’s belly, fingers playing in the soft hair, and then further until he can tease fingertips and thumb over the cool metal of the piercings, pinching the tightly peaked furl of his nipples, tugging gently until Will begins to lose control.

For just a second Chris pulls off, breathless and panting, his jaw aching slightly, his hips hitching rhythmically against the mattress.

“Come for me, yes?”

Will arches in a mute ecstasy, flushed and sweat-damp and sobbing with need, biting his lip, his eyes huge and dark as his cock thrums so hard Chris can feel it twitching against his cheek. And all it takes is one last long stroke of Chris’s tongue and a deep, full-throated swallow and Will is spending himself with a howl of almost agonized joy.

“So, when you reported your misgivings to the FDC they turned around and told you what?”

"What do you think?” Chris swirls the dregs of his martini around the glass before he lifts it and sucks one of the ice fragments into his mouth, drawing the last of the alcohol out of it before crunching down and then swallowing the remains.

"Indenture might not be legal in the Federation, but you know how the Council and the FDC deal with it in unaffiliated governments. So long as there is no obvious trafficking and so long as everyone is legally of age when they sign up, we pretty much ignore it. Anyway, that’s not really the point here, is it?” There’s an edge of uncharacteristic irritation in Chris’s voice, annoyed that Phil hasn't been enough of a mind-reader tonight to divine exactly why Chris is still shadowed with shame and guilt over something that happened more than a decade before.

"No, that isn’t the point.” Phil sighs and rubs a hand firmly up the curve of Chris’s spine until he can curl his fingers into the fine hair at his nape and scratch gently at his scalp. And his voice is gentle when he continues. “So…you feel bad because you enjoyed it?”

That's part of it, Chris will freely admit that he’s more than once questioned what kind of a man he is that could take pleasure from an encounter that should never have happened in the first place, and he closes his eyes, unbearably grateful when Phil pulls him a little closer and brushes a soft kiss across his forehead.

But Phil isn’t finished and he whispers softly. “But that’s not the worst of it, is it? This is about control. You lost control at dinner, you flirted with that boy when you shouldn't have and the Cardassian used that against you. Against the boy too, but that wasn’t the point, the Gul wanted a confrontation with you, and you gave him the ammunition he needed.”

"Fucking hate myself for that.” Chris can feel the renewed flush as shame flares across his face and he hides himself in the crook of Phil’s neck, taking comfort in the heat and the familiar sandalwood and cedar musk of Phil’s skin.

"Hmm….” Phil’s tone is one part scepticism, nine parts contemplation and Chris can feel the hesitancy in him, knows he’s trying to figure out exactly how to make this better for Chris, how to finally make him let go of the guilt.

After a moment of silence Chris is surprised as Phil lays a hand on his shoulder and pushes him away, an arm’s length between them as he looks Chris up and down with a gaze gone dark and possessive.

"You want me to take the guilt away, Chris?” His voice is a deep, seductive growl and the self-possession in it makes Chris inhale sharply, his heart rate ticking up in anticipation as Phil continues.

"You want a lesson in control?”

For all he’s shorter and slighter than Chris, Phil can be extraordinarily intimidating when he tips into predator mode and Chris shivers, arousal and trepidation firing along his nerves in equal measure as Phil leans in close again and winds his fingers into the short, soft hair at the nape of Chris’s neck. His grip is just tight enough to make Chris wince and then he whispers, his voice low and rough with a menacing promise.

"You want me to punish you?”

There are moments when Chris thinks that he really, really shouldn’t get this turned on by the threat – or the promise – of rough sex. But they are fleeting moments at best, quickly overturned by the sweet, intoxicating rush of blood to his cock and he just shudders and lets himself breathe out a quiet, needy sound as he finally admits. “Oh, fuck, yes”

And Phil tightens his grip just a little further and pulls Chris into a fierce, demanding kiss that is exactly what Chris needs right now.

****

The base of the hook is a powerful adhesion surface that will more than take the weight of a man once it’s attached to a wall or a ceiling. It’s extraordinarily useful when Phil is of a mind to restrain Chris, given that restraint points aren't standard equipment in a Starfleet cabin and tonight he attaches it to a point on the ceiling, right above the centre of their much wider than standard bunk.

Sitting back on his heels, his knees spread for balance, Chris watches as Phil secures a narrow length of deep crimson silk over the hook, coiling it a couple of times so that the trailing lengths are short enough that Chris has to strain up to get his wrists through the loops. There’s minimal slack left in the fabric once Chris is secured and he wriggles, flexing his shoulders to try to find a comfortable position, watching the momentary concern in Phil’s eyes and then the satisfaction as Chris settles and takes a deep, steady breath.

“Good?” Phil is watching with predatory interest, his eyes traveling from Chris’s bound wrists all the way down his body and back to meet his gaze and Chris flushes slightly with the exposure, gratified and slightly embarrassed at the look of possessive reverence on Phil’s face.

“Good.” Chris nods to emphasise his point and then wraps his fingers around the silk to take a little of the strain off his wrists, slowly stroking the soft fabric with his thumb. This length of silk is an old, old, friend, something that only comes out when Phil wants to make a point. A reminder of their first weekend together; a reminder that Chris belongs to Phil, body and soul; a reminder that the pain he’s about to inflict is a sweet, sacred, cherished ritual that liberates both of them.

He watches as Phil pulls a length of narrow, supple leather from their box and drags it slowly through his fingers, pulling it into a taut, flexible crop and Chris takes a sharp breath, knowing that this is really, really going to hurt. There are so many subtle variations in this game, a continuum of pleasure/pain that extends all the way from the teasing touch of a suede flogger and the intimate burn of a firm hand; through paddle and tawse and belt, all the way to this; the exquisite torture of a narrow, whipping cane and for a moment he wonders if it’s going to be too much.

He needs the relief of physical discipline certainly, but the cane is usually reserved for the very, very rare occasions when he’s desperate for the kind of unique endorphin-high that can only come from the combination of intense pain and shattering orgasm. The only time he’s ever safe-worded Phil has been with this cane and for a long moment they regard each other in silence.

It’s only when Phil softens his gaze just a fraction and bites his lip in hesitation that Chris thinks he understands what is going on here. This isn’t just about absolving his guilt; Phil’s possessive streak is deeply buried, but very, very wide and tonight he’s listened patiently to Chris tell the tale of fucking someone else; apparently he needs to remind both of them exactly who Chris belongs to.

Chris takes another deep breath and relaxes just a fraction; they don’t often do this because Phil needs it, but when they do he is hyper careful not to let his own needs push Chris beyond what is safe and sane.

“It’s okay, I trust you.” And he does, utterly and unreservedly. Phil smiles, stepping close enough to pull Chris into a long, sweet, deeply carnal kiss before releasing him and stroking a hand up through the soft spread of hair on his chest.

“I know.” It’s a whisper against Chris’s ear, chased by a nip to his neck and the soft slide of a tongue against his pulse spot. “I can feel it.”

Phil steps away to lower the lights and strip off his clothes, and when he comes close again Chris is gratified at the slow rise of Phil’s cock, matching his own as it twitches and fills in anticipation. Stretched and exposed and shivering he holds Phil’s gaze for a long moment and then gives just the barest nod of consent.

As always, Phil starts with the faintest whisper of sensation and the feel of the leather on his skin as the edge of the crop is dragged up the curve of his spine makes Chris arch and twist into it. The tip is a soft tab of leather, a few centimetres long, and Phil drags it across Chris’s skin in a long, slow tease. Across his shoulders, along his clavicles, flicking up the curve of his throat and down the mid-line of his chest, stirring the thick curls and making the muscles of his abdomen twitch as Phil teases the firm lines. When he reaches Chris’s cock and slides the leather along its length, Chris lets out a soft whine of need, he can feel the tickle of pre-come coating his glans, the tip of the cane smearing it down his shaft until the tease is under his scrotum, the leather stroking around his balls and sliding between his thighs to rub lightly along his perineum.

His back gets the same treatment, a gentle tease from nape to ass, until finally, Phil slides the crop between his thighs, tapping lightly to encourage him to widen his legs so that he can press the tip firmly against Chris’s asshole.

“Oh please…” Chris can feel the ring of muscle flex against the gentle pressure and he tries valiantly not to plead with Phil to just shove the damn thing up inside him. Normally when they do this Phil opens him first, keeps him spread and ready with one of their inventive selection of insertable toys so that he’s available whenever Phil is ready to fuck him. But not tonight, and while Chris thinks he should be concerned about that, he really can’t summon up the mental acuity to think about it very carefully at this precise moment. All he wants now is sensation – pain, pleasure, pressure – anything that will push him higher along the path to what he knows is going to be a mind-wiping orgasm.

Then, for one painfully long moment there’s no external stimulus at all – no cane, no touch, no sense that Phil is at his back – and Chris knows that Phil has pulled back to give himself room to swing his arm. He tries not to tense up, familiar enough with this ritual that he knows it’s going to hurt so much more if his muscles are taut with strain, but he can’t help himself and the first strike, when it finally comes, sears across one shoulder. He bucks and bites his lower lip hard enough to make it bleed.

“Don’t hold it in, Chris. I want to hear you scream.” The command is couched in a deceptively gentle whisper, Phil leaning in for a moment, breath stirring the short hairs at the nape of Chris’s neck, and then he’s gone again and Chris tries to relax, tries not to anticipate the where and when of the next stroke.

It burns right across the full swell of one buttock, a searing, breath-stealing agony that makes him whimper and moan. The next cuts across the tender flesh at the juncture of thigh and ass and now Chris does scream, a deep throaty exhale of surprised pain. He only has time for a moment of clarity when he’s grateful for the high-grade sound-proofing in Starfleet officers’ quarters, before another stroke lays across his ass and he doesn't even attempt to hold in the howl.

When Phil is done Chris can feel the lines of ten stinging, swollen welts across his skin and he’s soaring on the heady mix of pain and agonisingly intense arousal, ready to come at a word, or the barest touch, his cock throbbing painfully, dripping precome cool and slick down the length of his shaft. He’s had his eyes squeezed tight shut for the last few strokes and when he opens them, blinking away the wet of pain-sparked tears, Phil is kneeling on the bed, less than a hands-reach away. He’s flushed and quivering, clearly at the edge of his own control, eyes dark with wildly focused desire and Chris bows his head in submissive deference as he asks again, simply.

“Please…”

It’s not until he shudders back into full consciousness long minutes later, his body limp and relaxed, supported against Phil’s chest, that Chris realizes that Phil has caught his release in his palm and is smearing it onto his own, deeply flushed and twitching erection. His eyes are bright with the need to fuck something now and his breathing is fast and erratic and Chris is aware that he’s about to get fucked into the middle of next month, but he’s entirely unprepared for Phil to announce.

“Now I’m going to fuck you with your own come.”

There is no way in heaven, earth or any of the multitude of planets Chris has ever visited that he’s going to be able to get another erection anytime in the next few hours, but he still feels the aching swell of arousal as it rises once more and mingles with the burning sting of the welts on his back and ass and thighs and his breath shudders out in quiet surrender.

“Oh, fuck yes” He knows it’s going to hurt, Phil isn’t small, and at his age Chris no longer comes generously enough to provide anything close to enough lubrication for a fuck that’s preceded by minimal preparation.

He gets the courtesy of one slick finger, pressing deep and twisting just enough to torture his over-stimulated prostate and then Phil is at his back, nudging his cock into the tight indent of his entrance, a firm, unrelenting pressure that persists until Chris forces himself to relax. For a long moment the burn of penetration is excruciating, and Chris whimpers, gripping the silk wrapped around his wrists until his hands ache.

“Fuck…” His voice is ragged with pain. “…fuck that hurts.” Chris can feel every centimetre of Phil’s cock as it stretches him; the pain of being too open too fast all wrapped up in the piercing burn of too much friction against too sensitive flesh.

“Shh...” Phil soothes gently, pressing his chest to Chris’s back until the reawakened sting of his welts, bathed now in the salt of Phil’s sweat, distracts him from the burn in his ass. “Relax, it’s okay.” And Phil is very, very still, letting Chris get used to the thick heat as it fills him.

And then, slowly, very slowly the burn recedes as Chris relaxes and Phil begins to thrust up – tiny, incremental movements that barely register as fucking at first. And then Chris hears the soft exhale and feels the bite of teeth on his shoulder and he knows that Phil is about to come undone. Holding Chris’s hips, steadying both of them as he fucks up in hard, powerful thrusts, Phil shudders and moans as he works himself to a heart-stopping climax, his voice low and rough and barely intelligible as he whispers a familiar litany of possession.

“Mine…only mine…no-one else, no-one else gets to have you…not ever again…not as long as I’m alive…oh Christ I need you, Chris…”

His voice trailing away into incoherence as his orgasm finally hits and Chris is wrapped in a tight, quivering, sweat-damp, embrace.

****

It’s only later, when they are on the verge of sleep and Chris is stroking his fingers gently through Phil’s hair, his welts still stinging slightly, soothed by a topical analgesic, but not erased, not yet, not until morning; he realizes exactly how thoroughly he has been claimed tonight.

He shifts slightly, so he can look down into Phil’s eyes, gone hazy and soft with love and exhaustion. “So have you satisfied your inner-Neanderthal for a while?” he’s smiling as he says it, teasing and Phil raises an eyebrow at him.

“Depends, you planning to do anything that makes him reappear?”

Chris wonders, for just a moment, if Phil is worried about the possibility that they might encounter a grown and emancipated Will Ridley on Gemella V and he strokes a hand down his partner’s face in gentle reassurance. “No, the past is past. Now there’s only you, there will only ever be you; don’t ever doubt that.”

fin