Eternal Flame by mort

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Eternal Flame

Story completed 11th August 2001 and dedicated to T'Boy with great affection.

Part One:

Reaching the brow of the dune, the bay stallion paused and sniffed warily at the vague familiar scent that wafted through the evening air. His flanks quivered with tense confusion. He shook his head, the long tendrils of his heavy black mane sending a shower of sand that stung his brown eyes as the violent wind whipped it back against his face.

Far behind him, in the shelter of the mountains, the herd cropped eagerly at the coarse tundra grass and sucked greedily at the water that gathered in crevices in the jagged rocks. He was uneasy to be so far from them, although he knew his chestnut lead mare stood point at the edge of the herd and would warn him of any approaching danger.

She was the founding rock of his herd now and yet, at first, he had thought to kill her. He should, at least, have killed the young colt at her side. He shook his mighty head and pondered. It was many seasons since he had stumbled across the bedraggled group of mares and their youngsters on the edge of the Badlands. Driven into the same valley by a ferocious storm, the Bay had found the opportunity to instantly double the size of his herd.

Practicality had warred with his avarice. The Badlands could not sustain so large a herd. His greed would threaten the welfare of his own mares. There was too little grass, too little water and far too many would-be predators for him to protect a herd so large.

He had decided to simply take a few choice mares and abandon the rest to their fate. Bereft of their own stallion the strange herd should have been helpless to prevent him from doing so, yet as soon as he trotted forward, nipping shoulders, cutting the youngest, prettiest mares from the group, the Chestnut mare had challenged him by driving her herd in a tight circle of solidarity.

As fast as he moved to separate a mare from the swirling throng, the Chestnut collected his last prize and pulled her back into the morass, trying to force him to take them all or none at all. It was insufferable, unnatural behaviour and the stallion had reacted with primal fury.

In his outrage he had singled her out, chased her down and struck her, his flashing forefeet ripping her chest, his teeth gouging her throat, and she had stumbled, falling under his angry assault, her smaller body no match for his brute force. He had reared, his intention to crush her defiant head under his hooves, only to be knocked off balance as a hurtling body barreled into him from the side.

It was just a half-grown colt, white as cloud, thin and awkward with youth, yet fearless in his mindless, furious defense of his dam.

Instinct had told the stallion to kill the youngster, instead he had seen humor in the white colt's suicidal attack. He had spared the mare and even her brave, foolish son. He had merely lamed the youngster, leaving him battered and bloody but alive, and then had bowed to their brave insanity by accepting the whole herd into his own.

Except for the colt.

There was no place in his herd for another stallion. The bay knew that the colt's wounds would heal and that he would bide his time, growing stronger and larger, only to ultimately issue challenge and the Bay was wise enough to know that the day would come when the colt would become a true threat to his dominion.

So, he had made his offer to the Chestnut mare and although she had mourned as the beaten colt had dragged himself away in limping broken defeat, his pale flesh gouged and ripped, she had accepted that it was the way of all herds for the young males to be driven off to fend for themselves. She accepted her son's banishment as the price of the Bay's protection because she had known since the day she had foaled the colt that he would be unable to stay with her.

Even his own sire, had he survived the storm that had driven them so deep into the barren danger of the Badlands, would have driven the colt away from her side when he grew large enough to be perceived as a threat.

Selfishly she had imagined refusing the Bay's protection and waiting for her son to grow to maturity, yet her responsibility to the herd was too great. She could not put her own affections above the needs of the others. In this harsh hostile land they needed a protector who was battle-wise and strong, a leader who knew the secret places where sweet grass grew and water could be found.

Since that day, the chestnut mare had been the Bay's staunch ally. She understood the way things were in the Badlands and had helped him seamlessly merge the two herds together into one. Barren now, her value to the stallion was in her wealth of wisdom and the loyalty she inspired in the younger mares.

The stallion's ears flicked backwards as he strained to listen through the wailing wind for any sounds of disquiet. Nothing. The herd was quiet, safe, unmolested finally after months of fear. He had lost a few this year, as they crossed the unforgiving desert to this secret place of safety, but now the mares would lose their ragged thinness, their dull flanks would fill and shine, the few surviving foals would grow strong and well.

He had led them through a hell of adversity and deprivation. They had followed him with blind trust, even as their starved limbs failed and their foals fell prey to the constant attacks of equally starving marauders. Only the fittest and best had survived the journey and that was as it should be. The herd was strong. The herd would survive.

Yet, even as he had committed them all to this perilous trek for a new home, he had been aware of his true reasons for the journey, aware of the 'other' following him. Never approaching near enough for battle, hovering at the periphery of his awareness. Like a ghost, the white stallion had flitted at the edges of the herd for months now, disappearing whenever he approached and returning to flirt with the bolder mares whenever the bay's attention was drawn away to another danger.

Did his pale skin still bear the wounds of their last encounter? Presumably so, given the stranger's wariness. Yet the white was a year older, a year stronger now and the bay was weary, his thick muscular body beginning to show the ravages of age. Too many battles, too many hardships endured. The years of responsibility for his herd were growing heavy on his aging bones.

The youngster was biding his time. A pretender for the mantle of leadership, he lurked in the shadows, blindingly beautiful, achingly alone. Instead of slinking off in defeat to slowly build his own herd, the white still remained in covetous greed, planning his campaign to steal the Bay's mares.


He pawed the ground restlessly and waited, trusting his instincts, knowing that his rival was near. He had chosen this place of battle well. The white had no options now. If he turned back to the desert he would die of thirst before he found new water. He had to leave the perilous safety of the desert and approach the mountains. Trapped now between the jaws of starvation and this one route to sanctuary, the only way that the White would pass this place was over his dead body.

It was time for battle, time to destroy the pretender before it was too late. Time was on the White's side. The longer the Bay waited for the confrontation, the stronger the other would become. Another year and the youngster might win the fight, but the Bay was too wise to allow that to happen. He would force the White to settle this here and now. The White would either win everything; water , food and herd, or he would die.

The wind shifted once more and the scent returned, stronger now, causing his nostrils to flare and his heart to race furiously in response.

He stamped angrily, the heavy corded muscles of his neck rippling as his blood inflamed in the certain knowledge that the stranger was approaching.

Rearing he pawed the air, his forefeet flashing, his teeth bared in a snarl of fury. Silhouetted against the darkening sky he screamed his challenge at the one he had once driven off in defeat yet who had now returned.

This time there would be no mercy for the young stallion. This time, death would be the reward for his intrusion into the herd.

Mine, the bay trumpeted into the wailing wind. This is my herd. You have no place here. Run from me now. Run while you still can or your bones will bleach on this desert. There is nothing here for you but death.


"A what?" Kathryn asked, hiding a smile behind her coffee cup.

"I was a horse, a bay stallion," Chakotay repeated with an embarrassed blush.

"Sounds Freudian to me," Kathryn sniggered.

Chakotay gave her a pained look and took a deep sip of his tea with shaking fingers.

"The horse is not the point, Kathryn. In my dream I wanted to kill Tom Paris. It means something, doesn't it? All these years I thought I had put my resentment of him behind me, but obviously I was fooling myself."

"I think you are reading too much into what was, after all, only a dream," Kathryn told him kindly.

"Dreams are never 'only a dream'," Chakotay replied darkly. "They are windows into our subconscious."

"Okay, if we are going to talk about the symbolism of the dream, then let's at least put it into perspective," Kathryn suggested. "In the dream you were a stallion who felt challenged by a younger male. It's obviously a subconscious reaction to Tom's promotion. You feel threatened by him, Chakotay."

"Don't be ridiculous. It was my crew evaluation report that suggested he was ready for promotion, Kathryn. My suggestion that he's ready for more responsibility. Why would it make me feel threatened?"

Kathryn shrugged.

"Think about it, Chakotay. You've been grooming him to be your successor. At some level you obviously see him as a pretender prince who might not simply wait for you to vacate your position. Between you and me, I feel the same way about Seven sometimes. We're getting older, we're still a long way from home and the day may come that we have to step down and let them take over. It's not an easy thing to face."

"I hated him in my dream, Kathryn. I wanted to kill him. I've never felt that kind of hatred before, that kind of passion."

Kathryn looked at Chakotay with renewed interest.

"Passion?" she queried. "That's an odd word to choose, don't you think?"

Chakotay flushed.

"I meant intensity," he said firmly.

Kathryn just smiled.


The white stallion sniffed the air cautiously. The evening air was filled with the sweet scent of the distant mares and his whole body quivered with excitement as the smell charged like electrical currents through his nerve endings, firing his blood with instincts long suppressed.

She was here, his dam, and her scent in the wind called to him like a siren song. Memories of warmth, milk, affection and safety made him shudder with longing. He was so lonely, so alone, deprived of companionship by his fear of the Bay.

The Bay was waiting for him. He could smell him, his unmistakable musk lay heavy on the evening air.

I want to come home. Let me come home.

He did not want to fight the bay, didn't want to face those flashing hooves again. He did not want to steal the herd. He just wanted to be allowed to belong once more.

I'm tired, hungry, hurt, lonely...I just want to come home, he neighed, but he knew the Bay would not listen, would not believe, would not trust that he meant no threat to the older stallion.

Out of the rapidly approaching darkness a vast shadow moved until the white stallion finally saw his nemesis, outlined against the twilight sky, a bronze-hued mass of scarred muscle, rearing as he issued a blood - chilling scream of challenge.

I don't want to fight you. I just want to come home, the white stallion begged.

The bay crashed back to earth, his lips drawing back to reveal a snarl of disbelief.

Leave, or die! he screamed, and then he began his charge.

For a moment the white considered turning tail and running as the mountain of glistening muscle cantered towards him, his black eyes flashing in fury, his teeth bared. Then the white's instincts took over as his blood fired with angry resentment.

He did not deserve to live alone. He was not designed to be a solitary wanderer. This dark stallion had stolen his dam, his family, had cast him out into the wilderness. The bay thief had taken his sire's herd and made it his own.

I belong here, not you. YOU are the thief. I want what's mine. I want what you stole from me. I will not run anymore!

I will not run. He sprang forwards, his strong haunches powering him towards the approaching maelstrom.

He had to fight. Had to win or lose, live or die, here on this desert plain. He could not be alone any longer.


"You're a truly weird man, Tom Paris," B'Elanna chuckled.

"Weird?" Tom repeated resentfully.

"If you've got such an obsession with Chakotay you ought to just come out and deal with it face to face."

"Chakotay? Obsession? Who the hell mentioned Chakotay? I was telling you about my dream," Tom protested.

"A dream in which some big bronze stallion wanted to beat the shit out of you?" B'Elanna mocked. "It doesn't take a genius to figure out what's going on in your subconscious. You obviously still have a lot of pent-up feelings of resentment towards him. If our crews hadn't merged, Janeway would have had to promote you years ago. Now, you've finally been made a Lieutenant Commander but it doesn't make any difference, does it? Chakotay and Tuvok are still above you in the chain of command. Unless Voyager gets home it doesn't matter how many pips you wear, you still are essentially stuck in the same job."

Tom blushed.

"Don't be stupid, B'El. I knew when I bucked for the promotion that it wouldn't change anything."

"So why did you do it?"

"My dad, I guess. He was so disappointed in me when I sent him the message about our divorce. He was so happy about our marriage, like it proved that I had grown up and learnt responsibility. Getting the promotion was a way of proving that I don't fuck *everything* up."

"Shit, Tom. The only fuck-up you did was marrying me in the first place. We both knew it wouldn't work, didn't we? We both fucked up, Tom, but we have a beautiful daughter and we're still friends so we haven't done too badly, have we?"

Tom took her hand and squeezed it.

"I know, I just wish dad understood."

"I'm sorry, Tom. Maybe we shouldn't have told him. It's not like we'll get home in his lifetime, is it? Perhaps we should have at least pretended to keep the marriage going."

"But then you couldn't have married Greg, could you?"

"And you wouldn't be alone," B'Elanna pointed out. "Maybe that was the real message of your dream. You're lonely, Tom and it's my fault, isn't it?"

"I am lonely," Tom admitted, "but it's no-one's fault except my own."

"So maybe you should just let him fuck you and get it over and done with," B'Elanna suggested with a grin.

"FUCK ME? Let *who* fuck me?" Tom screeched, surging to his feet in panic.

"Chakotay," B'Elanna replied smugly. "That is what you want, isn't it?"

"And you called *me* weird? You're way off base, B'El, way off. I hate him. He's a smug, egotistical, cold-hearted, tight-assed bastard, B'El."

"It was your dream, Tom," B'Elanna pointed out.

"I dreamt about a fucking horse, that's all."

B'Elanna just smiled.


The bay screeched with renewed fury as the white charged to meet his challenge. Finally it would be over. The long years of tension would end now with either the would-be usurper or himself lying dead and broken on the desert floor.

They met in a flashing tangle of legs, their forelimbs striking each other's chests with vicious, hammering blows. The bay screamed as sinew and muscle tore under the white's assault, ripping his chest open. His own right hoof gouged into the white's muscular neck, tearing the flesh and red blood gushed down the pale fur.

The bay snaked his head, his teeth darting for the vulnerable jugular vein and his teeth clamped and closed tightly.

The white screamed his pained defiance, rearing upwards to escape the pain. The bay rose with him, keeping his death hold, oblivious to the hooves that laid bare his own chest as the white struggled desperately for escape.

They overbalanced and fell back to all fours, the bay losing his grip on the white's neck but not before he had torn a wide strip of skin that streamed blood down the white's chest. The bay drew back to consider his next strike as the white screamed with pain. The bay knew he hadn't inflicted a fatal wound, but it was one that was rapidly draining the youngster's strength.

As if he realised the danger of his own blood-loss, the white stallion renewed his own assault. The bay was too strong to defeat in a head on challenge, so the white used his superior speed as his weapon. He leapt sideways, twisting in the air, and lashed out with both of his rear legs. They impacted on the bay's withers and the bay staggered and nearly fell under the blow.

The white spun once more, following his bruising kick with a bite that opened a deep gash in the bay's left flank, then swiftly he turned again and sent a brutal kick that exploded the cartilage in the bay's right foreleg.

The bay screamed in agony, rearing to take his weight of his now useless leg and the white's head whipped forwards, his teeth closing on the damaged limb in a vicious laming bite.

Instinctively he knew that it would be enough. If he could permanently lame the bay he didn't need to fight on. Lame, the bay would not be able to pursue the herd, lamed badly enough he would fall prey to a predator long before he could catch up with the youngster.

The white closed his mouth, ripping skin from tendons, his teeth crushing through delicate sinew and already splintered bone. Victory was his, and he would have screamed his triumph had his mouth not been filled with the bay's mangled leg.

He didn't even see the bay's right hoof descend onto his poll. It was too swift, too unexpected. In his inexperience he had dreamt himself the victor. The bay, veteran of many battles, saw his opportunity and struck.

His hoof crushed through the white youngster's skull, sending shards of bone deep into the white's brain. The white gave one piercing scream, releasing the bay's tortured leg, and collapsed to the ground, his body spasming its death throes.

It was a long time before the bay could bring himself to turn his gaze from the pale corpse and begin his long, painful limp back to his herd.


What the fuck?

Tom gazed blearily at his chronometer and groaned in disbelief. It was 0230. He dragged himself out of bed and staggered towards the door, then realised he was naked.

"Whoever the fuck you are, you'd better have a fucking good reason to wake me," he growled. "Stop ringing the fucking door, I'm coming!"

Harry. It's got to be Harry. Seven's thrown him out again. I'll fucking kill him if he doesn't stop ringing that chime.

He tried to find his robe, stumbled over his boots in the dark and banged his shin on the foot of his bed.


Lights. Lights would be a good idea, his tired brain finally realised.

"Lights fifty percent," he said. Then he flinched. "Lights thirty percent," he amended rapidly.

He found his uniform pants and dragged them on.

"ENTER," he yelled through his bedroom door as he looked frantically through a week's worth of discarded clothes for a shirt.

"Lost something?" an unexpected voice drawled sarcastically from the doorway.

"Commander?" Tom asked in disbelief, spinning around to face his visitor.

"Do your quarters always look like a tornado has hit them, or have I just come at a bad time?" Chakotay asked.

"I'd call 2.30 in the morning a fucking bad time, *Sir*," Tom replied sulkily. "Or is this a new policy? Random room inspections in the middle of the night?"

Chakotay pretended to consider the idea. "Looks like your room inspection is several years overdue, Paris. Are you hoping that your clothes will finally give up and climb into the refresher by themselves?"

Tom glowered at him, wondering what the fuck Chakotay was doing in his bedroom wearing nothing more than a pair of black, silk pajamas.

"Was there a point to your visit or did you just have a bad dream and decide to cheer yourself up by ruining my sleep too?"

To his surprise, Chakotay flushed and looked away before replying.

"I just wanted to check you were okay," he admitted in a quiet, embarrassed voice.

"Me? Why the hell wouldn't I be? And why would you care, anyway?" Tom replied acerbically, deciding the Commander had lost his mind. He found a shirt, began to drag it on, noticed the tell tale stain of cum on the shirt tails and discarded it rapidly. He didn't want the Commander to know he was reduced to jerking himself off these days.

His composure wasn't being helped by the knowledge that he was half-dressed, his hair was standing on end, he was knee deep in dirty clothing and the Commander looked fucking edible in black silk.

Where the hell did *that* thought come from? Shit, B'Elanna. I'm going to kill you!

"I um, just, um, wanted to check you were okay," Chakotay repeated helplessly. "You're right, I did have a bad dream."

Tom gave a wry grin.

"I had a fucking doozy of a dream myself," he admitted. "Tell the truth, I'm kind of glad you woke me up."

"Well, I'll, um, go and leave you to it then," Chakotay muttered.

"Sure," Tom said, oddly disappointed. "I'll see you in the morning. *Later* in the morning."

Chakotay nodded and started to leave, then paused and turned back.

"I think you're a damned fine officer, Tom. I know we haven't always seen eye to eye about a lot of things but I do like and respect you. I'd never let anything bad happen to you. I'd certainly never hurt you," he said.

Tom blinked.

"Hurt me?"

Chakotay flushed again.

"I just meant that despite our differences, I'd never wish you any harm, Tom. You do know that, don't you? "

"Yeah, whatever," Tom replied, completely confused.

"And I'd never, no matter what provocation, lay a hand on you," Chakotay assured him sincerely.

Tom blinked slowly, his heart racing, and he swayed a little as his dream came back to him in all its violent fury. He flinched as he remembered the agonising blow to his head, as he fell crushed by Chakotay's fatal blow.

Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, Tom reached for a wise-crack.

"So does that mean a fuck's out of the question?" he drawled.

As soon as the words left his lips and he heard his own comment, he blushed with embarrassment.

Damn B'Elanna.

"A fuck?" Chakotay asked, his eyes wide with shock.

"I'm sorry, I'm half-asleep, I don't know why I said that," Tom garbled, beginning to back away in panic, only to stumble over his own clothes and fall to the floor in an ungainly heap.

For a moment Chakotay froze at the memory of looming over another sprawled pale body.

"Are you hurt, are you okay?" he gasped, reaching out to help Tom to his feet.

Tom flinched as the bronze limb flashed down over his head and he remembered the sickening blow.

Chakotay snatched his hand back in terror as a memory of splattering blood made him regard his own hand in horror.

Their eyes met in mutual confusion.

"I'd never hurt you, Tom. Never," Chakotay choked.

"I know," Tom replied, dragging himself off the floor.

"I dreamt I killed you," Chakotay confessed, his shoulders beginning to shake with repressed fear.

"I know," Tom told him quietly. "It doesn't matter. It was just a dream. I'm here. I'm alive. You didn't hurt me."

"I want to..." Chakotay began hesitantly.

"You want to kill me?" Tom asked, his eyes wide with shock.

"I want to fuck you," Chakotay corrected.

"Fuck me?"

"You asked first," Chakotay reminded him with a small smile.

Tom thought about it.

"Yeah, I guess so," he admitted. He *had* said it first, even though it had been a joke, a *bad* joke.

It was only when Chakotay charged forward and enveloped him in his arms that Tom realised the older man had misinterpreted his 'yes' as yes.

Then, as his bare chest was crushed against soft black silk, as arms encircled him with protective strength, as firm lips pressed against his mouth and a hot tongue pushed between his teeth with insistent passion, as his cold, lonely body melted against Chakotay's surprising warmth, Tom decided that maybe Chakotay hadn't misunderstood him after all.


Part Two (Warning - it's NC-17 from here on)


What the hell am I doing, Chakotay asked himself. This is Tom Paris. I don't even like Tom Paris.

Then the ridiculousness of his own thought made him laugh out loud. Maybe he had once disliked Tom but that hadn't been true for years. The pilot was infuriating, exasperating, undisciplined, defiant but still altogether far too likeable for his own good. No-one could stay impervious to Tom's charm forever, not even himself.

But he's a man.

And that *was* a problem, wasn't it? Because Chakotay didn't like men in that way, had never wanted to touch another man, had never even fantasized about touching another male in a sexual fashion.

What am I doing?

Whatever I knew I'd be doing when I came to his quarters without even dressing first.

I was worried about him, that's all. My dream upset me too much to waste time getting dressed. I had to know he was alright, that's all. That's the only reason I didn't get dressed.

Bullshit. I've never arrived on the bridge in my pajamas. Even when the red-alert is sounding and I've only got seconds to spare I always manage to get myself dressed.

Thankfully oblivious to Chakotay's internal argument, Tom stripped his uniform pants off and then stood with unconscious arrogance, displaying his nakedness with the proud confidence of his comparative youth.

The voices in Chakotay's head were choked into silence as he gazed for the first time on Tom's body, as he looked for the first time on another man with his eyes filtered by a haze of lust.

He moved silently, only the faint whisper of silk betraying his steps, and he reached his right hand out to cup Tom's jaw, while the other hand traced slowly downwards through the fine golden chest hair.

"Spirits Tom, you're just so damn.." Chakotay paused, searching desperately for the right word.

Go on, ruin it. Tell me I'm what? Beautiful? Sexy? I've heard it all before, big guy.

"You're so *male*," Chakotay concluded.

"HUH?" Well, that's different...but is it good?

Chakotay ran his left hand disbelievingly down Tom's firm stomach, his fingers tracing the defined muscles of his abdomen.

"You're so hard, strong, perfect," Chakotay explained. He moved his hands to caress Tom's narrow hips, wondering at their sleek feel beneath his fingers. There wasn't an ounce of spare flesh. Tom's body was honed and it felt strange to caress velvet skin over rock-hard sinew. Strange but unbelievably erotic.

Tom *was* beautiful, Chakotay decided, but there was nothing soft nor feminine about that beauty. Tom was simply what he was, a young man in the prime of his health and fitness. He was no substitute for a woman, he was gloriously, wonderfully male and although Chakotay had never before tasted the delights of a man's body he knew without doubt that this was a turning point for him.

"Women are nice, but you can't beat the real thing," Tom laughed, as though he had read Chakotay's mind.

Chakotay looked up in shock and Tom winked at him.

"Are you?" Chakotay wondered aloud.

"Am I what?"

"The real thing?" Chakotay asked.

Tom gulped heavily as the true import of Chakotay's words hit him. The older man hadn't even fucked him yet but there was no mistaking the look of cautious dawning hope in his eyes.

Tom opened his mouth to crack another joke, but the expression of embarrassed wariness in Chakotay's face stilled his tongue.

He's serious. He's fucking goddamned serious.

"I'd like to be," Tom confessed, surprising even himself with his words.

Chakotay rewarded him with a smile so brilliant that if Tom could have harnessed the radiance of it he could have powered the warp engines for a year.

The smile, those fucking dimples, that slick black silk, it was all suddenly too much for Tom. His cock reared up and slapped his stomach, smearing pre-cum over his trembling abdomen.

Chakotay's eyes widened and he reached out to stroke the length of Tom's shaft, tentatively at first and then with more assurance as Tom's own eyes rolled and then closed in bliss.

So strange to touch another man's cock, yet somehow *right*. Who but a man could truly understand how to touch a cock? A woman could never fully understand the precarious balance of pressure that was needed, Chakotay decided, as Tom's hand snaked down his waistband and returned the favor with sure deft strokes that sent shivers of delight throughout Chakotay's whole body.

He released Tom just long enough to undo his pajama trousers so that they slithered to the floor around his ankles, allowing Tom free access to his weeping shaft.

Instead of accepting the invitation, Tom released him also, leaving him gasping and bereft, but before he could complain, Tom whispered huskily in his ear.

"Bed," Tom purred.

Chakotay's only answer was to grab the pilot by his shoulders and thrust him backwards. Tom staggered, lost his balance and fell heavily onto the mattress with a hiss of anger that was swallowed by Chakotay's mouth as Tom was swiftly crushed by the heavier body that had rugby tackled him onto the bed.

The unexpected violence of Chakotay's action was like a dash of gasoline on the simmering fire of Tom's desire. He clawed his fingers down Chakotay's back, gouging into the firm bronze skin.

"Fuck me," he growled, tearing his lips from Chakotay's assault and then biting deeply into Chakotay's neck while he fumbled in his bedside drawer for lube.

The pain rippled through Chakotay's body, driving fresh blood to his cock even as he shook his head in denial. He wasn't going to give in to his urge to simply ram his aching cock into Tom's body, even if Tom was inviting him to. Tom meant more than that to him. Tom had said he wanted to mean more to him than that.

"It's okay, Tom. Slow down," he soothed, his hands capturing Tom's arms and pinning them to the bed, trying to ignore the lube clutched provocatively in Tom's right hand. Chakotay bent his head and kissed Tom's neck gently.

Tom jerked in frustration, his neglected cock crushed between their two bodies. If Chakotay didn't stop pissing about he was going to explode, Tom decided.

"Shit, Chakotay. I won't break," Tom gasped "Just fucking do it, would you? I'm going crazy here."

Chakotay's face registered his hurt shock at Tom's words. Here he was, controlling his urge to ravish the pilot, instead taking his time to make love to the younger man, showing him that he meant more to him than just a quick fuck and Tom was just telling him to hurry up and get on with it?

Tom saw the flash of hurt in Chakotay's eyes and sighed.

"I'm not a woman, Chakotay. I don't want foreplay. I want you to fuck me just as much as you want to do it," he explained. "I want to cum, not kiss."

"No kissing?" Chakotay asked in confusion.

"Later, if you want to," Tom said. "Just not right now! All I want is you. In me. NOW!"

Tom's demand warred with Chakotay's own certainty of what was the *right* thing to do, and then he realised that *Tom* was right. Tom was a man, Tom's desires were the same as his desires. It didn't matter who fucked or was fucked, they were both men and Chakotay was trying to treat Tom as though he were a woman.

He abandoned his assault on Tom's neck , reared backwards so that he was kneeling between Tom's open legs and poured a generous amount of lube into his hands. He warmed it between them, stroked his cock until it glistened in the low light then moved to squeeze the bottle between Tom's legs.

He caught himself in time, poured the oil into his hands and warmed it before using his fingers to stretch and lubricate his desired destination. It was tighter than a vagina, so he took the same care as he would with a tight woman, using his forefinger to tease the muscle into relaxing.

Tom purred and opened his legs invitingly.

"You're a fast learner," he chuckled, as Chakotay inserted a second finger and then gently scissored him wider.

"Is that enough?" Chakotay asked cautiously.

"Deeper," Tom growled.

Chakotay pushed his fingers deeper until they were firmly embedded in Tom's ass, then began to punch them in and out. Tom gave a choking gasp of pleasure and, encouraged, Chakotay pistoned his fingers faster until Tom was bucking his hips in excitement.

"Now," Tom choked. "Do it now!"

"You sure?"

"NOW!" Tom roared.

Chakotay withdrew his fingers and guided his cock towards the entrance. The angle was wrong and he drew back in frustration.

"Lift my legs onto your shoulders," Tom advised him. "Or I can kneel instead."

Chakotay blinked uncertainly, Tom on his hands and knees made sense to him but it would mean he couldn't see the younger man's face as he made love to him and that was unacceptable, so he gently grasped Tom's knees and pushed his legs up onto his shoulders.

It was a strange sensation. Tom's legs were heavy and the weight disturbed Chakotay, made him feel as though he were the vulnerable one, his head pinned between Tom's thighs. The position seemed unnatural and it occurred to Chakotay that women's bodies were definitely better designed for penetration.

"For god's sake, Chakotay, get over yourself will you? I'm dying here," Tom complained.

Chakotay jerked as though slapped by Tom's words and for a moment Tom worried that yet again his motor mouth had gone too far. Then a smile played at the edges of Chakotay's mouth and his eyes sparkled.

"This is how it is between men?" he asked. "No bullshit? No pretence?"

Tom grinned back.

"Just do me, big guy. Let's save the post-mortem for later, huh?"

Chakotay took firm hold of Tom's hips, pushed his cockhead against Tom's anus and angled himself for entry. There was a little resistance at first as he pushed forward, then Tom opened for him.

"Oh shit," Chakotay gasped as he was devoured and enveloped by Tom's unbelievably tight heat. Tom gasped a little too, surprised by Chakotay's girth, and the older man paused his entry, until Tom's slightly pained expression faded back into lustful anticipation, before sliding the rest of the way home.

"God," Tom groaned, as Chakotay filled him.

"Am I hurting you?" Chakotay asked worriedly. "Do you want me to stop?"

"Only if you want your fucking balls ripped off," Tom snarled back. "Jesus, I'm never fucking a virgin again."

Chakotay was surprised at the wave of jealous fury that swept over him at Tom's words. He began to move within the younger man with controlled violence, using each deep thrust to claim possession of Tom's body.

"You're never fucking *anyone* else again," he promised.

Tom's eyes flared with fury. He opened his mouth to protest Chakotay's assumption but before he could form the words of his denial, Chakotay's downstroke caught his prostate.

"Oh fuck," Tom groaned in ecstasy.

Chakotay grinned, twisting his hips to ensure he did again whatever it was he'd done that had just turned Tom's fury into quivering submission.

"Oh god, yeah, that's it," Tom encouraged as Chakotay's rhythm grew surer.

"That feel good, honey?" Chakotay purred with satisfaction.

"I'm not your honey," Tom snapped.

Chakotay froze, a decidedly wicked smile on his face.

"You're not?" he asked.

Tom bit his lips and waited, knowing that Chakotay would be unable to stop himself from continuing. He waited, and waited, then groaned and gave in.

"Okay, I am," he sobbed. "I'm your..."

"That'll do," Chakotay interrupted.


"You said you're mine. That's enough," Chakotay purred, rewarding Tom with a series of powerful thrusts and delighting in Tom's whimpers of pleasure.

"I never said that," Tom protested, when he finally caught his breath.

Chakotay froze mid-stroke again.

"You didn't?" he asked mercilessly, beginning to withdraw completely this time.

"Jesus, what the hell do you want from me, Chakotay?" Tom asked in despair.

"You," Chakotay replied. "I want you, Tom Paris. Not for one fuck, not for one night. I want you, period. I love you."

"You WHAT?"

"I love you," Chakotay repeated firmly.

"And when did you get this blinding realisation?" Tom demanded.

"About half-an-hour ago," Chakotay admitted, with a helpless shrug.

"And that's supposed to impress me?" Tom demanded.

"No," Chakotay admitted. "*This* is supposed to impress you," and he plunged back inside without warning, his assault hard and furious this time, each thrust dragging a gasping sob from Tom's throat. At the same time he reached down and took careful possession of Tom's cock, rubbing his thumb over the swollen head before moving his grip lower and then stroking in time to his powerful thrusts.

The doubling of sensation wrenched a scream from Tom's throat.

"Oh god, yeah, that's it, that's it, oh yeah, Jesus, I can't, oh shit I'm going to cum!"

Chakotay slid his fingers down to the base of Tom's shaft and pinched it tightly, the pressure of his hand preventing Tom's release.

"Now," he continued quietly. "Where were we? Oh yes, I was telling you that you were mine and I love you and you were agreeing with me, weren't you?"

Tom's eyes widened in shock.

"Jesus, Commander, you are a piece of work," he exclaimed.

"What?" Chakotay asked, not understanding the reference.

"Blackmail. This is fucking blackmail," Tom protested.

"It is, isn't it?" Chakotay grinned.

Tom stared at him in complete disbelief.

Chakotay shrugged.

"Like you said, Tom. I'm a fast learner. No bullshit. No pretence. I want you."

"What about what I want?"

"You want me, too," Chakotay replied. "Why waste time pissing about playing games?"

What if he calls my bluff? I can't leave now. I can't ever leave him. What if he *doesn't* want me? Oh shit, what if I've completely misread his signals and blown it with him?

Tom saw the flicker of uncertainty in Chakotay's dark eyes, saw the rapidly concealed fear of rejection that crossed his face, and his lonely heart soared with hope.

He *does* love me. He wants me. Chakotay wants me and he means forever.

"Okay," Tom grinned. "I'm yours. Now stop pissing about, will you?"

"Just one thing," Chakotay murmured as his hand resumed its caress of Tom's weeping cock and stroked it in time to his renewed thrusts.

"Oh shit, what now?" Tom wailed, humping desperately against Chakotay's fingers as Chakotay's cock pounded his ass.

Chakotay's balls tightened. He couldn't fight it anymore; the delicious friction against his shaft, the heat of Tom's passage, the knowledge that Tom was his, it was all too much to bear and he came, pumping his seed into the pilot, claiming him, making him his own.

A moment later Tom wailed and came too, his cum splattering both their chests, the baptismal liquid of their new lives together, and Chakotay, who even an hour earlier would have sworn himself to be straight, was reborn.

"What thing?" Tom asked sleepily as Chakotay rolled him onto his side and spooned up behind him.


"You said just one thing," Tom reminded him.

"Oh yes. The no-kissing thing. It's not acceptable. I intend to kiss you whenever, however and wherever I want to," Chakotay announced.

Tom sighed happily and snuggled into Chakotay's embrace.

"Whatever," he agreed.

The End