The First Officer

It's three am when the door slides open almost silently. The air stirs, but only slightly. Heat fills the room, the sound of breath turns shallow and speeds up. Whisper of clothing, the clunk of a boot. The scent of man.

The bed doesn't creak under the extra weight, he made sure that it wouldn't. It would do no one any good to know what their captain and first officer were up to all hours of the night.

He tries to play coy, but his partner knows better. The rustle of sheets break the silence before a touch ignites the fire.

It's not a soft, tentative touch, but one that is firm and sure. A caress of a confident lover and a trusted friend.

No words are spoken, none are needed. No permission asked, for it was understood.

Cool skin against sleep-flushed flesh. Hot breath spreading chills. Pleading words that will never make it past the four walls.

A pale hand moves, mapping the planes and hollows before it settles in the middle and grasps tight.

A husky gasp accompanies the bucking of hips. A whimper for more. Slow strokes designed to torture, fabricated for drawing out maximum pleasure. Sensitive fingertips outline and tease the throbbing head, spreading around the pearl of liquid that had pooled.

The larger man scoots closer and rolls, moving his partner into position at the same time. No more foreplay is needed, it's unwanted. It holds no allure, brings them no closer to their ultimate goal.

He gets on his knees and slides his hand over the other's perfect ass. A press of knuckles against the tight opening makes the other moan. Unwilling to wait any longer, he presses himself in slowly.

Burning heat makes skin prickle with sweat. A long, almost pain-filled moan fills the air, but that's how he wants it. He takes it almost like a punishment for wanting. Needing it.

Withdrawal and push. And again. Hands turn hard, demanding. The one on bottom is yanked up sharply and crushed against the lean chest behind him. Shoving harder, he buries himself as deep as possible and grinds.

One alabaster hand circles the tan neck and holds fast. Not tight, no bruises will be left. No evidence for anyone else to see, but a show of ownership. Of claiming. Reminding the one that's getting fucked that he asks for it.

Hold tight, push deep. Gasps and growls.

Breathing changes and he knows his captain is getting close. He won't assist him, he's already doing more than he should. If he wants to keep denying what they have, then he can take care of his own needs, but he waits. Holds out until the stroking goes from frantic to a dead stop. Hips jerk and he slams home one final time, having no defense against the tight, pulsing hole that is milking him dry.

A few moments to savor his victory and then he gets up, desses and quietly leaves the room. In the morning, it will be as if this never happened. His lover will deny any involvement with his dying breath. It stings and it is illogical that he still comes, stays. But love has never been a logical choice or emotion.

Once night comes again, the same actions will be repeated with different variations. Almost every night for the last year and still, no one knows. No one hears the whimpers for more.

The Captain

Sleep eludes him as he waits for his lover. The one person, the only person that makes him lose all control. The only one he allows himself to be vulnerable with because he knows he's in capable hands. Perhaps even more so than his own. Maybe that is part of the allure? The need. The fire. Forbidden and taboo.

He squeezes his eyes closed tightly, resisting the urge to turn and watch him undress. He wants to see the long expanse of naked flesh but he will not allow himself the pleasure. It's wrong, but yet, so very right.

The noise seems extra loud in the stillness of the night and it frightens him. Will someone find them? Will his crew discover what he needs, who he does it with? The womanizer reduced to pleading for a man.

The first touch ignites him, makes him burn for things he shouldn't want. Shouldn't need.

Contact with the chilled flesh sears him as warm, moist breath makes him shiver. Makes him plead for more.

No need to explore, nimble hands know the way. Cool hands, hot skin, tight grip.

Loss of reason.

Strokes, long and slow make him whimper, bring him close. Allow him to him relinquish control.

Powerful arms move him where he needs to be. They take over, demand things that he shouldn't be willing to give.

Intrusion, sharp and deep. Filling. Hot and hard. Wrong, but not.

He tries to bow his head in denial but is not allowed. He's forced up and against. Held fast and hard against lean muscle, not subtle curves. His mind tells him to struggle, break the hold, but he can't... wont.

The deeper the invasion goes, the more authority surrendered until there is nothing left. Nothing but submission and the fiery need for release. Knowing that no help is coming, he takes care of himself and almost smiles as he feels the other hold back. Waiting.

Mind goes blank as bliss overwhelms. He's selfish in his release, taking more than he's giving. Allowing the violation of his body for brief moments of pleasure that only one can give.

The arms around him loosen, but he stays deep for a few moments before final withdrawal. From his body, from his bed.

The older man wants to stay, he knows it for fact, but that would not do. Still, guilt settles heavy. He owes his first officer, he deserves more than a fuck in the middle of the night. No reciprocated touches, no words of commitment.

He can't look at him, he'll cave if he does. Those fathomless dark eyes see into him, all of him. They know all of his secrets and all his lies. Giving power over in the bedroom is one thing, he will not release it or share it on his bridge. His ship. So, he just lays down flat and pretends indifference. The door slides closed once again and he shivers, alone in the dark with his lover's heat slowly leaching from the bed and whimpers for more.