Requital
by Calico



Oct.99

Result of a fine speed challenge.

For Speedo, if she'll take it. <g>



Janeway watched, incredulous, as two of her officers acted with far better grace than most people would have given them credit for.

She'd had no doubts herself, of course; when the rumour had snaked its way around the ship, she'd known they'd honour the bet down to the last specification.

If they lost, of course, which was incredibly unlikely, given the odds. And participants. Paris versus Geron generally had just the one outcome - at least when he had Harry on his team. They probably hadn't thought Geron had noticed the way the results seemed to be biased against him.

In retrospect, Janeway suspected they'd been played like the pair of distracted fools they undoubtedly were.

To B'Elanna's glee - she'd been refereeing; a fairer judge couldn't be found, as long as you only searched among Ferengi - they'd been too busy flirting to pay proper attention to the game. And before they'd noticed the situation, Geron had quietly offered to raise the stakes.

Which brought them-- here. They'd lost. Unless they were stripping each other with their eyes in Sandrine's purely for fun, of course.

Actually, given their history, that wasn't entirely impossible.

She paused. Although protocol was pretty fuzzy at this point in their journey, she still had a responsibility to carry. So far, no clothes had been removed and nothing stronger than intent - although, she thought whimsically, never underestimate the power of strong intent - was flashing through the air between them.

But the bar was buzzing with expectation, and alcohol. The longer she waited, the higher the disappointment when she finally intervened. But to interrupt them now would seem like an overreaction.

She paused. It was only a little fun, after all.

She should leave, let them get on with it. Although walking out now would cause a few too many raised eyebrows for comfort.

Her lips tightened, trying not to grin. Yeah, that’s it, stay firmly in denial. Decide that, on no uncertain terms, did she feel any curiosity regarding Tom, and Harry, and their decreed punishment.

She relaxed a little, and grinned for real. Punishment. Yeah, right. Like they weren't enjoying every minute of it.

She eased back into her corner, and sipped her drink. Over the hazy, shining edge of the glass rim, she watched Tom saunter past Harry to the bar, giving the man one hell of an appraisal as he did so.

"Another," he said to Sandrine, pitching his voice loud enough to intrigue the entire room - not that they weren't already hanging onto his every whisper, of course - and the woman nodded.

Another small, fluted glass slid across the counter. Once again, Janeway wondered idly exactly what he was drinking. Pale golden, viscous and, from the look of things, extremely heady; each time Tom ordered she managed to miss the significant words.

Tom's fingers curled around the glass, holding the narrow base delicately as he brought it to his lips.

Last time, he'd simply tipped it back and waited, throat exposed, eyes closed, leaning against the bar, for the last clinging drops to ease down onto his tongue.

Last time, from the glance Harry gave him, Janeway had thought the show was going to start right then and there. And be over rather fast.

This time, however, Tom paused with the rim resting against his lips. His tongue flicked out, gliding briefly over the glass edge, then he paused again.

Janeway watched. Nothing stronger than intent. She couldn't book him for flirting.

Damn but this man was a tease. She didn't know how Harry could stand it. Equally, she knew Harry wouldn't have it any other way.

Then suddenly, Harry had moved. Alongside Tom, he set his empty glass down on the counter, leaning casually, waiting.

Tom looked over at him. Janeway's hand tightened on her glass. Consciously, she relaxed her grip.

"What're you drinking?"

Harry's eyes flickered to Tom's hand, then back to his eyes. "Actually, yours looks pretty good."

Tom's eyes glittered. He held the glass out, examining it critically, letting the light shine through. "Really?"

Harry turned slightly, easing his elbows onto the bar and leaning back lazily. Belatedly, Janeway realised he was angling himself to give their audience a better view. The thought made her feel slightly warm.

Harry watched Tom lower the glass and take a delicate sip, eyes momentarily sliding closed. "And you seem to enjoy it."

Tom turned a little as well, and touched his fingertip to the top of the glass, then let it glide slowly over the amber liquid.

Harry's jaw shut with a quiet click, audible because the bar had fallen totally silent, and his eyes burned.

Tom stirred the surface idly, delicately, then held it up in front of his face. He watched a droplet gather on the underside of his fingertip. "Yes," he said, apparently absently. "I replicated it myself."

Still casual, he sucked slowly on the pale golden sheen, then held it up again. The soft glimmer was replaced with a faint wet pink.

Harry licked his lips, and Tom smiled.

Janeway swallowed, watching the calculating gleam reflect in two pairs of dark eyes. Perhaps she could call them on licentious intent.

"It's extremely good quality," Tom purred, and despite herself, she felt a darting stripe of heat catch her chest.

"So?" Harry demanded, softly. "Am I allowed a taste?"

Tom appeared to consider, then nodded. "Sure," he said; a verbal caress. He stroked the surface of the liquid again, then delicately traced the other man's lips.

Harry's faintly wicked smile gleamed in the low light, then his tongue flickered.

Tom sucked the last traces off his finger, and asked, "So? What's your professional evaluation?"

"Nice," Harry replied, licking his lips again. "Very nice. Although," he said, drawing out the words, "I don't think I could properly appreciate such a brief taste."

Tom raised his eyebrows. "Oh, really?" He dipped two fingers into the glass, down to the knuckles. The golden fluid rose to the top of the glass, bulging, not quite overflowing. "Maybe you'd better try it again. I really value your opinion."

For a moment, Harry's composure almost broke. Probably, Janeway thought, it was the drawl on that last word which unsettled him. It would have unsettled her, she knew that much. But Harry had discipline, and practice. He reigned himself in.

When Tom's fingers rose carefully to Harry's mouth, they were taken inside readily, and Janeway swallowed.

She really hadn't expected to be affected. Obviously, she was aware they were both handsome men. And they looked good together. And she had consumed enough fine quality liquor to easily admit the appreciation.

But she really hadn't expected the sight to affect her. It shouldn't have, after all. It was just a performance, a punishment. Not a floor show.

Harry's eyes stayed open, locked against Tom, almost tangibly electric. He sucked steadily, straight faced, and Janeway watched Tom's shoulders rise as he took a shaky breath.

That was the point, wasn't it, though. They were performing. They were controlling themselves, ignoring the chemistry that was now snapping around the bar, in order to make it a good show.

They were thoroughly aware of being watched, that every eye in the silent room was fixed in their direction.

"So," Tom murmured, without retrieving his hand, and sounding only a little rough, "does it meet your expectations?"

Harry smiled languidly, allowing the fingers to glide down over his lips, then trail lazily down his jaw. He stepped closer and mouthed something in Tom's ear, before leaning back again.

Tom laughed shortly, and someone gasped. Janeway realised she wasn't the only one feeling rather involved in the situation. And not the only one to find that startling flash of intimacy more compelling than direct exposure.

Not that this audience would protest at direct exposure.

Maybe she should stand up now, issue a warning. Although if she called off the show at this stage, they'd only regroup some other time. Or slink around in muttering resentment.

Maybe she'd drunk more than she'd realised. She wasn't searching for reasons to let them continue, she thought carefully. She was simply weighing up the pros and cons of taking protocol to its logical extreme.

For the first time since Harry moved to the bar, she glanced around the room. And wondered if this unfamiliar group was still possessed by the spirits of her crew. She hadn't thought there were so few inhibitions.

A few people were watching surreptitiously, but most were openly appreciative. Seven was an exception, Janeway noticed, amused; her expression was rather sceptical. Analytical, almost.

A couple of glasses were half raised to slack mouths, frozen. With a start, Janeway set her own glass down. They hadn't started flashing skin around, yet, she couldn't intervene without a solid reason. And if they had any sense --

She looked around again.

If they had any sense, they wouldn't let this particular audience down.

~~~

Tom felt the hard wood against his back, as he forced himself to remain relaxed. At least, to appear relaxed. What an evening. And it didn't stop here. He wondered if he'd live to see his next shift.

Originally, the bet had been his idea. Well, of course it was - he had the copyright on innovations, didn't he? Hah. Apparently not.

Originally, their "punishment" evening would have involved a few sultry looks and enough innuendo to keep the crew second-guessing every offhand remark he or Harry ever made ever again. Originally, he wouldn't still be here; they'd have left a long time ago. To a volley of catcalls, perhaps, but also directly to bed.

Originally, it had been a good plan, and he would be swallowing happily by now. He hadn't betted on Harry upping the stakes.

When those dark, dark eyes matched the sly, dangerous grin, Tom had forgotten Geron was even in the room. Their oh-so-subtle referee had stood back, allowing for an unlikely alteration to the bet. Alarm bells should have gone off at that point. Tom should have gotten suspicious. Sadly, Tom was too infatuated for his own good.

And it was all too easy to match him, blithely suggesting they increase the wager a little further, challenging Harry to top him again. He hadn't reckoned with the possibility that the other man might do just that.

He'd even considered backing out. He was still considering, albeit in vain, right now, as Harry leaned close and murmured languorously, "You realise we're gonna be asked for an encore…"

Okay. That was the problem; that was the reason he'd do anything and worry about the consequences later. That damned voice.

He laughed shortly as Harry leaned back, unable for a moment to formulate any other sort of reply.

Jesus. His dazed fingers were shifted, taken back into Harry's mouth and abruptly sucked on. Awareness prickled down his back, sharp and aching through his stomach, and he realised belatedly that he was done for.

"You like it, then?" he asked meaningfully, twisting his fingers out of Harry's teeth and brushing them gently against his cheek. Well, if he was doomed already, why not show that Harry wasn't invulnerable either? So far, the other man was looking far too composed for Tom's liking.

Harry tilted his head into the touch, eyes starting to slide closed before he seemed to remember himself and concentrate. "Exceptional quality," he said deliberately. Verbal foreplay. Tom wished he was receiving the treatment those words enjoyed, stroked over and explored.

"You approve?"

"Yes."

Right now, they'd be sprawled across his bed, Harry curved against the side of his body, idly tracing sticky trails across his stomach. Leaning down and kissing his chest, then presenting his glistening mouth to be licked until the salty traces melted away.

He liked his plan. It had fantastic short-term benefits.

"I'm glad." Damnit, that sounded cracked. "Although I guess this means you'll want to share."

Harry reached over and plucked the glass from his forgotten fingers. "Do you mind?"

He'd be feeling the slow draw of excitement back into his body, tingling under Harry's fingertips. Harry would notice - he was so perceptive like that - and his hand would begin a teasing spiral down his stomach. He'd take too long, agonisingly long, and Tom would be hard and craving by the time those welcome damp fingers curved blissfully around his new erection.

He preferred his plan. Without a doubt, it was better.

Tom managed to shake his head. He wished he couldn't feel the ghost sensations licking him, because the rules they'd agreed earlier - when they'd realised they were actually going to try this thing - said he couldn't turn away from their audience until things grew thoroughly indecent.

He caught himself hoping the fastenings on his jeans were feeling robust this evening, since certain parts of him suspected indecency was just another nudge away. And at the turn of his thoughts, to a tight moist grip and inquisitive tongues, the possibility of that nudge was escalating rather fast.

"Not at all," he managed, swallowing carefully.

"Good," Harry purred, drawing the glass to his lips, then tilting it back.

The amber liquid mesmerised him, shifting slowly in deference to gravity, flowing golden into the darkness of Harry's mouth.

He could still taste it himself, heady, melting quickly over his tongue. Sweet, almost too sweet, lifted by a sharp citrus edge, measured by a faint earthy base. Now, his mouth felt slightly dry.

Dry? Lonely, that was the word.

"Hey. Leave some for me," he said, eyes sliding down Harry's throat, tasting him at a distance. "I can't afford another."

Harry paused at the blatant lie, licking his lips, and glanced at the gleaming empty glass. He swiped his finger around the inside, then held it up, neutrally watching the droplets tumble down to his knuckle, then dribble down the back of his hand.

Tom let out a slow, ragged breath. He wasn't feeling very neutral. He was feeling like snatching that hand and savaging it, licking between the fingers to suck away every shadow of syrup.

He would resist, though, because they were in public.

The steady gaze magnetised him, as Harry began to lick his own hand with long, deliberate, angled strokes.

There was a flaw in his argument, Tom realised. They were supposed to be in public. He simply couldn't use that as an excuse.

"I'm afraid," Harry murmured, against his fingertip, which he'd started to suck and had to abandon, which made Tom feel distinctly, unfairly warm, "I seem to have finished it."

His eyes flashed wickedly, and Tom read the challenge.

By now, Harry would have slid down his body, biting idly at his chest, teeth skimming slowly downwards.

"That's not very polite."

"No," Harry agreed, unrepentant.

"Hadn't you better make it up to me?"

"I guess I ought to." His eyes gleamed. "So you won't hold it against me."

Nudge, thought Tom, facetiously. The unyielding constriction was beginning to hurt. "How do you plan to do that?" That low question might not have reached his audience, he realised belatedly. Although the thought that he could have cared less never crossed his mind.

Harry would tease, but eventually he'd go down easily, taking Tom down his throat or to some electric heaven, whichever came first.

"I suppose I should use some initiative."

Tom waited, frozen, as Harry turned towards him. That was against the rules, wasn't it, to close them off from the audience? Wasn't it. Wasn't it??

Harry sank to his knees in front of him, hands drifting confidently to press on either side of his hips, pushing him firmly back flat against the bar. He was rather exposed, now, then? Nudge.

Tom's eyes slid closed, but not before he saw the numb faces of his audience clustered at their tables. Familiar blurred faces. Chakotay, eyes dark, lips tight. Seven, probably intrigued. Jenny, actually glazed. Janeway, fingers still curled around her glass, faintly flushed. No Tuvok.

Geron sat with his sidekick, gloating together - Tom decided absently that that would be more impressive if they could wipe the hunger off their faces, and then his attention was snatched away again.

Harry pressed a kiss inside his thigh, firm through the denim. Tom swallowed, and looked down. Harry grinned up at him, brief and startling, before sliding his hands down the back of his thighs and easing his legs apart a little further.

That was the floor of Sandrine's, that he could see. Fucking hell, this was actually Sandrine's. During opening hours. His captain was sitting at a table just over there - but that didn't matter, because his lover was sitting on his heels between his knees.

Another kiss, on the faded seam of his inside leg, while the press of Harry's cheek caused terrible things to happen in his blood. Fire and glitter and swirling shattered ice. He wished the rules had let him wear underwear; that would have muffled a bit of this difficult sensation.

One of his hands carded through Harry's short hair; he'd have liked to use two, but he did actually need to balance, damnit.

Harry swayed forwards, hands adjusting the angle of Tom's hips, as he leant under to kiss the crossed stitching right at the crotch of his jeans. Tom heard at least three ragged gasps, and knew one of them was his own.

Harry's tongue pressed upwards, tight firm circles, and Tom felt two small hot marks begin to stain the denim. And while the geography was different, the cause was the same.

They were in public, that concept was electrocuting him, and his priorities had changed. So he moaned, letting his head fall back, fingers tensing through Harry's inky hair.

The mouth withdrew, and he was pushed back against the bar again. Harry rose to his knees - the shift of fabric was easily audible through the silent, frozen room. Tom fought to open his eyes, and stared up at the ceiling, letting an awareness of the circumstances wash over him. His blood skipped, and his vision crumpled.

Harry's mouth closed over the fly of his jeans, and sucked. His hands moved again, fingertips hooking into Tom's waistband, pulling back and tightening the already rather strained situation.

The first hints of moist warmth touched his erection, and Tom took a chance on his feet - they'd balanced before, they could probably handle the job now - to feel the warm, dark, tilted head rock between his hands.

He decided Harry's plan would probably work out fine.

~~~

Harry was on knees. His tongue hurt, a little - not that that was stopping him. The alcohol was still warm and pleasantly musky in his mouth, but between that sugar and the hot, wet denim, his tongue was beginning to feel slightly raw.

It only served to emphasise the situation.

Reality caught up with him in stages. He was on his knees, with Tom's erection between his teeth - and while that wasn't very original, this time he was in Sandrine's, this time they had an audience, and that made this a pretty fucking unusual set of circumstances.

He'd honestly thought they'd win. However high the stakes, when they played against B'Elanna, they tended to win. And then he'd caught the look in Tom's eyes, read the mischievous desire, and let go.

The idea wasn't unappealing, after all.

It was just something he'd never, ever do. Under any circumstance. Although, apparently, there was this single, prominent exception: when Tom's eyes took on a glassy, impish edge, and the man started flirting in public with seductive determination.

Then he found it quite easy to sink to his knees. And the thought of sucking him fully clothed was somehow even more potent than that of his lover naked and arching towards his throat.

Which was saying something. Last night, he wouldn't have thought anything could be more erotic.

He'd been proved wrong. There was very little he could imagine, right now, that could be more intense than feeling the hard, wet denim rubbing against his lips as he sucked and explored with his sugar-corroded tongue.

Especially when Tom moaned. Low, for his ears only, easily overheard by their crowd.

Harry felt a thrill ice through him, as a point somewhere near the back of his brain reminded him, again, exactly what was going on. And the way he didn't care, not with something like this waiting to be tasted.

His fingers, twisting Tom's waistband, unclenched deliberately, and he let them run lightly down the back of Tom's strong, warm thighs. The muscles twitched, and another hoarse sound touched his ears. Tom's hips began to slide forward, then back, pressing into his open mouth. Hands skimmed his shoulders and round the back of his neck, hinting and begging.

His needs corresponded with the whispers of Tom's fingers; he recognised hasty suggestions to accelerate, wondering only how he'd lasted this long.

He shifted, fabric crushing quietly against itself, and heard a breath of a word from above. "Yeah."

Harry squared himself, and edged his aching knees apart a little further. He'd need to balance. It'd be pretty bad if he keeled over at this point. A faint bitter taste began to filter through the material, as he mouthed his way upwards, feeling the firm shape of Tom's erection pushing against the wet seams.

When his lips found the small, metal disk, taking it between them, he paused. Tom was panting harshly in the silence, each shuddering breath feeding directly into Harry's cock.

He looked up, teeth working to ease the button open, and his grip tightened on Tom's thighs. From this angle, he couldn't see his face. He could just see the movement of his chest, and that his pale neck was curved, inviting. Tom was standing, legs apart, head back, guiding Harry to blow him in front of most of the Bridge crew.

No, he couldn't think of many things more intense than that.

He nuzzled in a little closer, inhaling the dark heat of his crotch, wrestling with the zipper. Tom gasped, as his tongue managed to snake over the tip of his cock, then retreat again. It wasn't quite accidental.

The hands settled unsteadily on the sides of his head, flexing in an attempt not to throttle. At least, that was Harry's assumption, in a fleeting point of coherency, before he managed to ease the fly fully open and inched a couple of centimetres closer to utter erotic insanity.

Tom's hands moved forwards, shielding himself. That had been the plan, after all - people really would intervene if too much skin were flashed around. Harry felt a little surprised Tom had remembered that much detail. Harry himself could hardly remember the ship's name.

His eyes fell closed. He felt the blunt tip of Tom's cock kiss his lips, and exhaled softly. He could see it clearly in his mind's eye, pink and hot from confinement and blood, little pearls seeping out to be tongued away.

Tom murmured something, something pleading, and Harry decided against making him beg in public. Or maybe he just wanted to taste him, after an entire evening of painful celibacy.

He parted his lips, feeling the heat pulse and spread through his mouth as Tom pressed his hips forwards again. A soft buzzing issued into Harry's ears and stayed there, making him light-headed and hungry.

He pushed forwards - the angle was wrong to take it fully, but he could still manage enough without disabling himself to make it seem worthwhile. Like anything would be less than worthwhile, under these circumstances.

He started sucking, twisting his head from side to side. People were actually watching him, his brain whispered incessantly. Seeing his body lean in, swaying, head bent to their pilot's groin.

He wondered how the sight was affecting them. He knew how it'd affect himself - they both enjoyed mirrors, as it happened.

It had been disconcerting, the first time, to throw his head back and lock eyes with the man who was writhing so beautifully beneath him. Although, not disconcerting in a bad way. And then afterwards, watching Tom's swift fingers swerve carelessly up over his ribs and shivering under the chase of invisible goose bumps, his dreams had been stoked for days.

He had a feeling he'd be replaying this particular encounter for decades to come.

His hands dragged slowly up Tom's thighs, fingers sliding right up between his legs to find the rough, damp spot he'd licked at earlier. Tom gasped, and started gliding against his tongue in long, slow thrusts. That wasn't part of the rules, but then, they'd always gotten distracted when trying to discuss the actual sequence of events. Things kept getting out of hand. As it were. Eventually, feeling pretty sated, they'd decided it was easier to improvise.

Well, Harry could do that. He withdrew partway, ignoring the warning pressure of Tom's fingers, and squeezed the tempting ass hard. Tom groaned abruptly; he slammed his dick down his throat and left it there, grinding his hips, balls pressed up against Harry's chin.

Nothing could ever be more intense. Ever. Harry's cock twitched, burning in its constraints. His fingers had locked. His blood was trembling with shivery, satiny approval.

Tom began to ease out a little, with killing slowness - apparently remembering Harry needed to breathe, but not at all happy about it.

Deliberately, Harry let his teeth drag over the sensitive skin as it withdrew, tongue working against the velvety heat in a slippery, near frictionless caress.

Tom's hand tensed at the back of his neck, blunt fingernails scraping mindlessly along his hairline. Familiar ground, at last. He opened his mouth wider, just about breathing, letting the dusky flavour wash through his senses.

The soft buzzing in his head was increasing, and the shivers of pleasure that rode over his body came quicker and harder. Tom sped up as well, sinking into his mouth with low, breathless groans, making Harry cling to his ass to keep balance.

It would be really, really bad to keel over at this point.

He tried to listen for the change in pitch, then decided he was lucky for Tom's lack of subtlety. When he came, Harry had the generous warning of a short, startled hiss of his name, and the tightening of the hands beside his head.

They'd done it this way round for a reason. Harry could think on his knees.

He swallowed flesh and liquid fast, feeling the heat sink down his throat as Tom withdrew. Harry licked his lips, panting, then snatched enough breath to murmur, "Computer, forty-two."

The lights died instantly, as Tom had promised they would. Reeling from the contrast, head still buzzing, Harry felt Tom's hands tug him to his feet. The room was still silent - not that Harry blamed them.

That was the other reason for Harry to go down. Tom had a faster recovery time.

They stumbled to the door, fingers tangling, then reached the corridor and broke into a run. Tom, Harry was bemused to note, had been thoughtful enough to redo his fly.

After all, they wouldn't want to be chastised for indecency in Voyager's corridors.

The command was designed to light the bar again after a full two minutes. Harry tumbled against the turbolift wall, and wondered if their audience would remain in that shocked silence for the entire duration. He almost wished he could see their faces when the lights returned.

Tom turned him, pressing them against the wall. "I liked your plan better, in the end," he murmured, kissing him hard, while reaching down to ease his fingers under Harry's waistband.

"Mh," Harry replied, sucking in his stomach to make it easier for those fingers to explore. He didn't know what Tom was saying, didn't care. He hissed as a warm, competent hand closed around his erection. The buzzing returned. The shivers returned. He cried out, thankful for the soundproof turbolift doors.


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