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After Virn

By Sandy Claws
Page 1 of 1

"That would be ironic, wouldn't it?"

Avon bared his teeth at his hapless pilot. The boy might be stupid enough to fraternize with the enemy, but he would surely recognize that there was nothing friendly about Avon's expression. The last three people who had seen that smile full on, at close range, had been dead within seconds, as Tarrant well knew.

Tarrant stared at Avon with his mouth open. He needed a haircut, Avon thought. Then he thought of Servalan's manicured claws running through those overabundant curls, and his lips pulled away from his teeth just a fraction farther.

Suddenly Tarrant stood up and extricated himself from behind the instrument panel. He came toward Avon, reaching out to him as he approached.

"Now see here, Avon--"

Avon's hand went to his gun.

Tarrant threw himself at Avon's feet and clutched at his legs.

"Avon, please! Please! I can't resist anyone who smiles at me!"

Avon was glad that the others had left the flight deck and would not be witnessing the disgusting scene. Orac's outburst earlier had been bad enough. Presumably Tarrant was under the same influence.

"Get off the deck, Tarrant, unless you want to make yourself useful and clean it." With one hand still on his gun, just in case, he tried to step back, but it proved impossible to evade Tarrant gracefully. He froze in place instead. Tarrant was nuzzling his crotch. So far he was managing not to react, but he wasn't sure how long that would last. The sensations were not unpleasant.

"Avon... Avon, please," the pilot murmured, somewhat indistinctly.

"No," said Avon, but the word came out with less conviction than he had intended. "I'm not Servalan, or hadn't you noticed? Has the Sand addled what little brain you had to start with?"

Tarrant paused and looked up at him. Avon had never noticed before what a remarkably deep blue his eyes were.

"Oh no, Avon. It's not the Sand. It's you."

Avon snorted. Tarrant let one hand creep up and stroke the fabric of Avon's trousers... and what was discreetly concealed beneath.

"Well," Tarrant looked a little embarrassed, "actually it's the way you smiled at me. I can't control myself when people do that. Fortunately it doesn't happen very often, and usually the people who do it don't mind if I, if we, um..."

Avon felt his body responding to the persistent touch. Damn. If he shot Tarrant now, no one would have to know about this. He settled for a sneer instead.

"Did =she= smile at you?" They both knew very well who was meant.

"That was different, Avon. As you know. I expect it was the Sand. But she enjoyed it, I guarantee. Wouldn't you like to have what she had?"

The hell of it was, he would. He'd like to have what Tarrant had had, too, come to that, but this was probably as close as he was going to get.

And it wasn't even necessary to agree. He could sneer, complain, and all the while comply, just the way he had with--

No. None of that. He wasn't going to think about that now.

In fact, he decided not to think about anything just now, except how good certain rather neglected parts of him were beginning to feel.

He took his hand off the gun and let both hands extend out from his sides, ever so slightly. =Go on, then. I won't stop you. Show me what you can do.= Tarrant must have interpreted the gesture correctly, because he responded with a spectacular smile of his own. Avon looked down and felt his anger softening as his cock grew hard. Tarrant was, after all, a handsome young devil, as he had once remarked to Soolin. And perhaps Tarrant was not the only one who was susceptible to certain kinds of smiles. Avon let one corner of his own mouth quirk ironically.

Tarrant released his grip on Avon's legs and used both hands to unfasten the trousers and pull them down just enough for his purposes. A hazy thought crossed Avon's mind, to the effect that none who walked on to the flight deck would have an unimpeded view of his arse. No-- no, they wouldn't after all, because Tarrant's hands would be in the way. And the hands were holding him just so, while the mouth-- ah!

It became increasingly difficult to think about anything at all. Tarrant was not the most skillful partner Avon had ever encountered, but he made up for that with enthusiasm. He had the basics down pat-- teeth nicely covered, suction-- oh! Ah, yes, if he was anything like as good with women, Servalan had had a fine time.

=Damned if I let her mess with =my= pilot again. Not after this.=

Tarrant had stopped. Avon wondered why and then realized that the other man was more clearly aware of what his body was doing-- or about to do-- than he was himself. It would have been embarrassing if he hadn't been so far beyond caring.

"Avon, I think you'd better lie down."

He started to deny it, but when Tarrant released him, he swayed on his feet. Fortunately it was only a few steps to one of the flight deck couches. He let himself be guided onto it. Yes, it was easier this way, easier to relax and let himself experience the sensations. He was vaguely aware that he was stretched across the couch diagonally, with his head lolling off the edge. And he was still fully dressed... it was ridiculous... but what Tarrant was doing felt so good. It had been so long...

Suddenly the sensations changed, in a way that he could not at first identify. Something had been added. There was a hand between his legs-- a finger inside him. Damn, how had Tarrant known... that it was the surest way to...

Coherent thought vanished in a burst of sensation. The touch inside him ignited a chain reaction that sent him over the edge, coming and coming, and falling at last into merciful darkness.

* * *

As the disorientation of the orgasm receded, Avon realized that he was in fact in a very uncomfortable position. But he was free to move now; Tarrant had released him and was kneeling beside the couch with an expectant expression. Awaiting a compliment, no doubt.

Avon rearranged himself on the couch, so that he was occupying it in the way that the manufacturer had intended. He would have liked to straighten out his clothing, but he'd have to stand up to do that properly, and he didn't feel like moving just yet.

"Not bad," he said to Tarrant. "Now take off all your clothes."

Tarrant's feelings were easy to read: mild disappointment that the praise had not been more fulsome, and eager anticipation of what might come next. The long fingers flew to the fastenings of the outer tunic. One garment hit the floor, followed by another, and another. Tarrant sat back on the floor to get the boots off, then stood to remove his trousers. Avon remained on the couch, watching through hooded eyes.

Tarrant naked was as slim as Avon had imagined, but there was a solid layer of muscle between the smooth skin and the elegantly proportioned bones. The effect was very pleasing and distinctly masculine. Not that he was going to say so, of course-- certainly not with that Dominant Male nonsense so recently in the air. He had no intention of encouraging Tarrant's already- inflated idea of his own importance.

"Touch yourself," he ordered. "Make sure that you are as hard as you can possibly be."

While Tarrant followed the order, Avon himself stood and rearranged his clothing, tucking his own vulnerable sex away behind layers of protective black. There was something very reassuring about being fully clothed once again, and facing a naked adversary.

Tarrant watched Avon. There was a flicker of disappointment, a flicker of relief, a flicker of apprehension. Tarrant was confused, perhaps a little off-balance emotionally. Good.

"Lie down," said Avon, indicating the couch he had just vacated. Tarrant obeyed. When he was settled, his right hand crept down again to stroke his jutting cock. He looked at Avon expectantly.

Avon bent and picked up something from the floor. "Hands over your head."

Tarrant opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and shut it again. Looking slightly troubled, he complied.

Avon crossed Tarrant's wrists, looped his own discarded belt around them, and pulled it tight. As efficient bondage, it was ludicrous; Tarrant could have wriggled free in a fraction of a second. But as a symbol of control, Avon thought it might be adequate for his purposes.

Tarrant lay quietly, accepting what Avon chose to do to him. He was very beautiful. Holding the end of the belt taut with one hand, Avon used the other hand to smooth the unruly curls out of the way. He tipped up Tarrant's chin and studied the younger man's face, drinking in his submission. Then he bent to reward him with a kiss.

Tarrant rose to meet the kiss as best he could, arching his back and parting his lips. He still tasted faintly of Avon's come, the salty flavor mixing and blending with the natural sweetness of that pretty mouth. Avon used his tongue to explore what was offered to him, and Tarrant responded eagerly. While they kissed Avon let his hand slip down to stroke Tarrant's throat, then his chest. When he touched the hard little knobs of the nipples, Tarrant writhed under him. He seemed to be trying to say something, but Avon bore down relentlessly, keeping him silenced. Tarrant's movements became more frantic. He was pumping his hips and twisting from side to side, trying desperately to bring his swollen cock into contact with Avon, with the couch, with anything. But he never struggled quite hard enough to break Avon's hold on his head and arms.

At last Avon took pity on him and broke off the kiss. He immediately placed a finger across Tarrant's lips to warn him against speaking. Tarrant licked his lips instead and, obviously with some effort, lay still.

"You will come when I tell you to, Tarrant, and not before." Avon paused to make sure the instruction had been understood. Tarrant nodded slightly. "Lick my hand, then."

He took the moistened hand and wrapped it firmly around Tarrant's straining cock. Tarrant uttered an inarticulate, presumably involuntary cry and then clamped his lips shut-- and his eyes as well, as if not looking at the perpetrator of his sweet torment would help him to resist it. He thrust up into Avon's hand.

Only three strokes later Avon was obliged to pause and clamp his hand around the base of the organ until Tarrant calmed.

"When I tell you to," he repeated, wondering why his own voice sounded a little breathless.

When he began again he paid careful attention to Tarrant's natural rhythm, letting him move just enough to show what he wanted and following up with firmer strokes. In a very short time they were back at the same stage.

"Look at me."

Tarrant's eyes flew open. They were pools of midnight blue. He was completely helpless, trembling on the brink of orgasm, pinned by his wrists and his sex.

"Now."

In his hands, Tarrant convulsed. Even as he made sure that the ejaculate hit Tarrant's chest, and not the couch or himself, Avon felt an irrational surge of affection. He saw the long legs draw up and thought suddenly how he would like to have them wrapped around his waist, while he buried himself in the shapely body before him. His groin throbbed briefly, signalling his body's approval of the idea, even if it could not be carried out just yet.

Tarrant made another little sound as he came and collapsed back against the couch. His whole body went limp, as if he had passed out. Carefully Avon released Tarrant's cock. He wiped his hand against Tarrant's thigh. With his other hand he released the tension on the belt, slipped it off Tarrant's wrists-- there were red marks where it had dug into the flesh, but since the skin was not broken, they should disappear shortly-- and tossed it back into the pile of Tarrant's clothes in the floor.

He stared at Tarrant for a moment. Then he stood up, dusted off his knees, and went to fetch a damp towel. He cleaned Tarrant carefully. Halfway through the process, Tarrant opened his eyes and stirred slightly.

"Lie still until I'm done." Avon made sure that all traces of their activity were wiped away and tossed the towel into the recycling unit.

"You can get dressed now. I expect the others are wondering what happened."

Tarrant blushed charmingly. It might have been very amusing if Dayna, Vila, or Soolin had ventured onto the flight deck within the last few minutes, but perhaps it was just as well that they had not. The methods he used to keep one crew member in line were not the concern of the others.

Not until Tarrant had finished dressing did he speak.

"Avon."

"Yes?"

"There are more things I can do for you, you know. If you'll let me."

"I know. I also know that our other-- associates-- are no doubt feeling very bored in the cargo hold by now. And that we are only a few hours away from Xenon. And that on Xenon there are comfortable beds."

The grin that had begun to spread across Tarrant's face retreated as he contemplated Avon's stern expression.

"Consider yourself thoroughly chastised," said Avon. "It's what they will expect."

Tarrant moved to his position and pretended to busy himself with the controls. "Yes, Avon." His tone of voice was meek, but he had not quite managed to wipe out the smile. Well, it would have to do.

Avon dragged his eyes away from Tarrant and walked steadily toward the corridor that led to the hold. He could tell the rest of them that it was safe to come up now.

(the end, for now)


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