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The showers of the Incognitio are a crampt afair in reality, but really quite spacious by Protectorate standards. Tristan is humming to himself, again. That same brash melody at the beginning of "We All Watch Together," that goes something along the lines of "Dum daa daa, da da dum daa daa, da da dum da da daaa daaa." Or, at least that's what he figures. He wasn't raised to be a musician after all. Arbiters need only to understand the proper lyrics to the proper songs (he's caught many a citizen singing a spin-off of a Protectorate-sanctioned song). Though right now, there really is no one around to report him, even if he couldn't remember the lyrics. It's not as if the Commander or any of the crew think highly enough of the Protectorate to know who to file the report to. Let alone the fact that none of them are members of the Protectorate, and their reports against an Arbiter would hardly be counted. No, right now, all he really needs to remember is the proper sanitization techniques to remove blood from his hair. And how to ignore the memory of the Supreme Arbiter's voice lecturing him on wasting water. He can waste all of the water he pleases; here, there are no ration cards, and the Commander fills the ship up at every opportunity. Tristan is not the only one who enjoys a lengthy, hot, indulgent shower. Not by a long shot.
At some point, his humming progressed to a brash singing, veering swiftly to a different song: "For The Cause."
"Here at the end of it all, it was worth it!" he belts out in a deep baritone, one soapy arm raised to the ceiling as he scrubs his armpit. "… It's a privilege to die for the cause!"
He carries on like that: loud and reckless, free from the peering eyes of the crew. With the ship parked on Cloister, everyone is out exploring rifts, visiting old friends and giving Tristan free rein of the showers. An absolutely perfect outcome, considering that he, Marisol and the Commander had just returned from wading through cultists and beasts (though, is there really a difference between the two? To anyone but the Commander, that is).
Having endured communal showers all his life, he was initially horrified when the Commander upgraded the Incognito's washroom to have two stalls, along with a few vanity upgrades such as posters from the Order, Aunties and the Protectorate. While he appreciated the well-meaning Commander's attempt at making everyone feel at home, he had been looking forward to a private shower, Law damnit! Yet, more often than not, the crew seemed to stagger their showers and even their time outside the ship so that no two had to share unless it was an emergency. He's fairly certain everyone else is also fed up with Aza's "intimidation tactic" of shitting in the middle of other people's showers.
Thankfully, today is one of those days where everyone conveniently disappeared planetside to award each returning group some much-needed shower-based R&R. And while Tristan performed his duties to the Commander to the highest extent, he was rather covered in viscera when they returned. So much so that the Commander had to guide him inside because he could no longer see out of his visor and refused to remove his helmet. Someone could see him and ruin the anonymity of the Arbiters! His armour had been nearly impossible to remove as the blood had soaked down to his undersuit, rendering a shower critical, lest it dry in undesirable places. Yet, despite the gore, all he can feel now is the phantom heat radiating on his back from where the Commander's hand had been. He had felt it even through the armour.
A shower is exactly what he needed to clear his head. With a little treat stored in his shower caddy for when he's finished, of course.
His singing continues, reaching the interlude in the middle of the song: "Finally, I fulfill my purpose in life: a glorious death! Blown up by a mine—a fine way to go among many ways to die. Electro-shocked. Plasma-smelted. Zyranium-gassed. Goo-pelted! Minced, cubed, n-ray irradiated. Blunt force trauma—"
"Decapitated," a voice says from behind him, chalk full of smugness.
Tristan doesn't even need to turn around to know who that voice belongs to—so distinct in his mind that he could taste it—yet he does so nonetheless. Standing in the doorway, with naught but a fancy robe he pilfered from an abandoned Order shipment, is the Commander. Its blue and dusty yellow silk draws all attention to the hard planes of the Commander's lithe body—all gaunt sinew, padded only by the barest amount of fat. Converging circular black tattoos trail down his chest to his Adonis Belt, where they frame a neatly trimmed star-shaped bush right above… oh my. Sovereign. Even flaccid, he's substantial. His cheeks warm as his mind helpfully drools at the idea of what it might look hard. Of how it might feel inside him. It's not nearly the first time he's had this thought. In fact, he's had so many of them, he's long over them. Nearly immune. They are wholely unhelpful, given that this man is his superior, not a Protectorate citizen and, in fact, a scoundrel (at best).
"Aren't you forgetting 'Eaten by enemy Rapitdon'?" The Commander teases, and Tristan finally, truly, registers two facts in quick succession. One: the Commander has left the front of his robe open. Two: he has been staring for far longer than is appropriate.
That gets him blushing, and he rights himself with a violent force so that he's staring at the showerhead. Presenting his arse to the Commander. Shit. Tristan, you really should have thought this one through before acting rashly. That's what this man has been trying to teach you all this time—the same lesson even the Supreme Arbiter tried to teach you! Rash action will get you nowhere but a swift death (either yours or another's). And apparently, also, the presentation of your naked buttocks.
"Commander, I wasn't aware you had entered the refresher," Tristan manages out through gritted teeth.
"I know," the Commander snickers, dancing into the stall next to Tristan. Effortlessly, the robe floats off his shoulders—barely any weight to it—to be hung on a nearby hook. "You were so engrossed in your singing, I just couldn't help myself."
Tristan tries to search the other man's wide-toothed grin for a piece of boarstworst or stain of purpleberry wine, and comes up frustratingly empty-handed. There must be something imperfect about this perfect man! He cannot be nearly as immaculate as he presents himself to be, with all the preening and the primping and the shiny outfits and the polished guns. Oh, why does he insist on polishing his guns in the middle of the community area? Always right where Tristan can see him while sweeping the floors, sliding oil up and down the shaft like he's, like he's—like he's stroking his cock! It's obscene!
"With Marisol visiting Anais, I thought I'd have the showers to myself," Tristan says, trying to muster some sense of his usual decorum. As if to tell the Commander, no, you haven't caught me with my pants down, staring at the perfect thing hanging between your legs. He's not sure he's succeeding. Not even in the slightest.
"I had blood all down my back. See—" the Commander spins around to gesture at the sticky, half-dried trail of blood down his spine, obscuring his tattoos of Order designs. Horrifyingly, Tristan can't stop himself from reaching forwards and following the trail up to a tacky mat of blood at the base of the other man's skull, matting his blond hair. The Commander flinches with a yelp, pulling away.
"You have sustained a headwound," Tristan says dumbly.
"Noted," the Commander grumbles, prodding at the wound and flinching at his own touch. "That explains a lot. Thanks… seems those eyes of yours are good for more than just spotting landmines."
"I notice far more than landmines." He says it without thinking, putting his foot in his mouth with such an innocuous comment. Something sure to fly under the radar in any other setting than this particular cursed one.
The Commander flicks on the water in his cubicle, turning his back to it so that he can wet his hair. Unwillingly, Tristan's eyes are drawn to the winding circular designs of the Order mapped across the Commander's skin. He's never been privileged to the sight, the two always missing each other in the showers. "Gloria Arcadia" rings in Tristan's ears as he traces the foreign designs that reach all the way down to the Commander's palms and spread across his chest. Then the Commander turns to grab his soap, and something on his chest twinkles. Eyes jumping upwards, they land on two silver bars pierced through the Commander's nipples, stark against the black tattoos. Identical to the silver and blue earing in the Commander's left ear. Tristan feels the telltale sign of arousal beginning to spark low in his belly.
Horrified, he begins counting floor tiles. He's not yet clean, so he's trapped here, next to this sculpted man whose beauty is sparking thoughts that would surely get him sent to mental refreshment. He can't possibly be more beautiful than the Sovereign!
Throwing himself into finishing this task, not to flee but to make a tactical retreat, Tristan returns to washing with renewed vigour. He does a second pass of shampoo through his hair to truly clean it now that all the product is out. Then he adds a generous amount of conditioner and brushes it through to make sure it's even. The wet hair coils into loose curls when he pulls the brush away, maintaining its shape even when wet, as all things should. Especially Protectorate citizens. No need to get bent when he's (admittedly) out of his depth, no matter how much he wants to be…
"… Tristan? Are you even listening to me?"
Shit.
Mistakenly, he glances over to see the Commander's dazzling blue eyes scrutinizing every inch of him. How long has the Commander been staring? What has gotten into him today?! First, he doesn't hear someone enter the shower; now, he hasn't even heard the conversation carried out beside him. Such behaviours are reckless at best—what if the Commander notices and ceases inviting him planet-side because he deems him unreliably spacey!
"Tristan?"
"Apologies, Commander, I was focused on washing my hair and not following the conversation."
"I thought I told you to stop calling me that—at least not on the ship. Call me Vincent—" he leans forward, staring up at him through his eyelashes— "please."
Tristan swallows thickly as his dick flags, beconing his blood to race south. He can't get hard. Not here—not now! Stop looking at him like that, like he's cornered prey carefully poked, nudged and prodded to coax him into biting back. Like he's desirable. Guilt creeps under his skin at even the barest whisper of a thought that the Commander might return his feelings. He's not a Protectorate citizen—he's not even a pious man! Tristan has been dismissed to wander or return to the ship while the Commander has his fun with a stranger enough times to know that much. And just enough for the bitter taste of jealousy to take root in his stomach, blossoming across his tongue like vomit each time. He wants. Fiercly. He wants what he is certain he cannot have—a deep, primal want that he has never felt before, with such a force that it might consume him, lest he be reckless.
The last of the soap runs down the drain, and Tristan admits he's a cowardly man by reaching for his towel.
"Very well, Vincent. Is that all you require of me tonight?"
Vincent hums contemplatively—by the Soverign, Tristan and his big mouth. He could have fled easily without any preamble. Now Vincent's opening his mouth with a Raptidon grin curling the corners of his lips, the edges of his parted pencil moustache lifting nearly parallel with his nose.
"Well, since you asked… can you wash my back? I can't reach the centre of it, and I really don't want to smear it across my sheets later," Vincent bemoans, already turning away from Tristan as if he'd agreed before Vincent even asked. Presenting his perfect arse.
Tristan is very aware of how close he is to the door and how easy it would be to just leave. Had it not been for the fact that he has spent the last several weeks yearning for any chance to touch this man, he would have fled the moment the request was voiced. In a way, he has already agreed to Vincent's request by merely asking if he had one. At least now he can wrap his towel around his waist and hide any erection that might stir. Hopefully. (Matriarch, please, have mercy on him.)
Unable to trust he won't put his foot in his mouth again, Tristan picks up his own washcloth and pours some soap onto it. He cannot have this man, but at least he can mark him (discreetly). No one else has to know… He presses the cloth to that inked skin, scrubbing the blood away far more tenderly than intended. Vincent sighs at the touch, his shoulders sinking significantly as the sigh melts into a pleased hum. Tristan cannot be faulted for the way his dick fattens against the dense towel. Thank the Protectorate, Arbiters are requisitioned heavy, substantial towels.
His hand dips lower across the curve of Vincent's spine, fingernails dragging against skin, and Vincent moans. Loudly. Shockingly. Tristan's dick jumps before he can regain control over himself, pressing noticeably against the front of his towel. So much for that comfort. Fear and arousal crash into him at full force, so suddenly that he finally remembers himself and tosses the washcloth into the sink, intending to deal with that mess later. Right now, he flees from the washroom, leaving behind his shower caddy, to the safety of his room.
His heart pounds in his chest, back slamming against the door the moment it is shut. There is a dizzy arousal that swims around his head, clouding all sane and rational thought with the image of his Commander perched above him, that same luxurious moan pouring from his lips as he drives Tristan into the pillows. Matriarch, preserve him; his dick only fattens further, now standing fully erect despite the towel's weight.
Desperately, he claws for any thought that might dampen his erection. Mathematical equations! Vincent is posed with a textbook in one hand, forcing Tristan to solve equations as he fingers Tristan's arse. Capitalism! Vincent is wearing one of those skimpy luxury bartender outfits, spilling purpleberry wine absolutely everywhere. Raptidons! Vincent is on top of him, wearing a predatory grin whilst mounting him like the Rapitdon pair they ran into together on Paradise Island.
Unable to rid himself of it, Tristan takes himself in hand. It's barely satisfying, leaving him aching and wanting, rather than the usual cure-all.
Such behaviour would get him sent to mental refreshment for certain.
"Oh, just take that stick out of your arse and come with me! What's the worst that will happen? A little fraternization is expected—healthy, even. The Supreme Arbiter won't do more than slap you across the wrist if you get caught. And we never get caught," Virgil cajoles him for the thirty-second time this quarter. He's standing at the doorway, hands on his hips, dressed in poorly buttoned civvies that expose too much of his chest for regulation standards.
From his bed, novella still in hand, Tristan replies: "If you're so certain, mayhaps I should report you to her right now. I'm sure she'd love to tell you all the reasons sneaking out to 'party' and debase yourself is against the law."
He does the air quotes with comical exaggeration. Both of them know what Virgil is going to can hardly be counted as a party. Orgy just tasted too improper to even utter.
"This is why you're still single!" Virgil shoots back, huffy as always. He grabs his jacket off the centre table and tosses it over his shoulder like a faux-cape.
"I am merely waiting for a pious, Protectorate woman with whom I can have a family," Tristan says, lurching up in bed with the sudden need to defend himself.
Virgil stalks over to him and pokes him squarely in the chest. Not a difficult feat considering the room they share is quite compact.
"You and I both know that is a farce."
"Oh, come off it," Tristan scoffs, knocking the hand away.
"We have communal showers, Rao, you can't pull a fast one over me. If you truly enjoyed the company of women, I would have caught you by now. Instead, what do I see? You, sneaking glances at our brothers-in-arms. You're in the prime of your life; if you were truly looking for a pious woman, you would have found one by now. It's not hard—women swoon over you the moment we step out those doors."
"I do not know what you're talking about." He does. He absolutely does. He just hoped Virgil hadn't noticed…
"For fuck's sake, you keep a poster of the Sovereign where most have one of the Matriarch!"
Tristan blanches, staring back at his oldest friend with wide eyes.
"Those are our grand leaders! You don't mean to tell me some hang those posters for—for—"
Virgil drags his hand over his face with a heavy sigh: "You're too innocent for this world, Roa. This is why you should come out with me. Meet someone, let loose; uncork that bottle between your legs and finally live a little."
"No," Tristan says curtly, sliding away from Virgil until his back connects with the wall. "Leave, now, and be glad I don't report you."
Sighing again, Virgil retreats to the door. He gives Tristan one final look, as if expecting the other man to leap from the bed, admit his foolishness and rush out the door with him. Instead, Tristan stays rooted to the bed, and Virgil shuts the door. This is how it should be, how it has always been. Sweet, sensitive Virgil has his fun, enjoys the protections of his rank, and kisses the young women who swoon at his feet. Tristan won't dare picture them making out; such a behaviour is unbecoming of an Arbiter. Even if he knows… even if he knows Virgil has done far more than merely make out. He has failed in his quest to be a good example for Virgil, unable to show him that a pious Protectorate man is one who maintains his purity until marriage. Now Virgil pities him like something that is broken, rather than exemplary, and tries to pull him away from honour to show him the sanguine touch of a lover. Tristan can't admit how much he longs to follow his brother down into the depths, knowing he will likely never conclude this life in the arms of another. It's not that he has too exacting standards, he just simply cannot ask a woman to wait for him in the way he would require. Not when he knows she'd be waiting his whole life for something he'll forever be unable to do. He has tried but once to take a lover, and that only ended in impotence, even when blessed by her naked breasts. Truth is a poison that will forever cling to his tongue.
The romance novella no longer holds his interest; he finds his head listing to the side, where the poster of the Soveriegn stands proudly, head cocked and body awash in gold light. His stark white outfit contrasts with the colourful background, coaxing all attention to the man himself, upholding Arcadia, surrounded by citizens on one side and the alliance on the other. Truly a bastion of hope and beauty amidst the Protectorate. He lingers on the Sovereign's confident gaze, as if the man in the poster were staring into his own eyes, the rest of the world naught but a background to their moment. Between his own legs, Tristan's neglected cock stirs.
He hates that Virgil is right.
Tristan cannot bring himself to face Vincent again. The night creeps by agonizingly, with Tristan locked in his room until the clock reads 01:00. Until he is absolutely certain that anyone aboard the ship has returned to their quarters, except for perhaps Marisol, who is always watching serials late at night. That he can handle. He creeps from his room to the washroom and finds his shower caddy exactly where he left it. Good. Excellent. No one has stolen his Protectorate-brand curl cream. Then he looks for the washcloth and finds it… missing. He checks the floor, the cubicles, even the hamper and comes up terrifying empty-handed. Unhelpfully, his mind suggests that Vincent might have taken it, and the idea runs down his spine like ice-water. He shudders, wholly unsure if it's out of terror or thrill. To make matters worse, his mind supplies the mental image of Vincent lounging across his bed, nose buried in that same washcloth. A perposterous idea, given how prissy Vincent is over his hygiene and the fact that the cloth had the other man's blood on it. Unless Vincent had rinsed it… It might still smell like Tristan. If sweat and trace amounts of deodorant counted as erotic. Tristan's fairly certain he's the only one to harbour that peculiarity, his cock fattening as if to prove his point. Matriarch's mercy, his frustratingly dull orgasm earlier had done little to assuage his predicament.
There's no noise down the hall, no doors likely to open… This time, Tristan is smart enough to lock the door. He barely pulls his pants down, just enough to free his cock and arse, letting the semi bob against his open fly as he bends down to swipe the small bottle of lube from the shower caddy. There's not much left in it; he'll have to buy more soon (easier said than done, considering Vincent calls upon him for nearly every excursion, and he is certainly not buying lube while the other man can see him). It is already bad enough that he's doing this aboard Vincent's ship.
Leaning against the divider of the shower cubicles, Tristan adopts a wide-legged stance and unceremoniously smears lube across his fingers. It's still cold when he presses them to his puckering hole, causing him to let out an undignified whimper. His hips cant backward, chasing the offered indulgence until finally he gets one finger inside himself. He had intended to do this earlier, when he was finished showering, before Vincent rudely burst into the room and disrupted him. Now, he's blaming his earlier lack of self-control on the other man. Easier than admitting he was a hairsbreadth away from begging his Commander to fuck him into the floor until his knees burned and gave out.
He forces another finger in and twists his wrist forward until he rubs up against his prostate. A bitten-off, horribly stifled moan escapes him—his lips have never been sufficient to keep him quiet. Desperately trying not to wake anyone, he shoves his fist into his mouth, biting into the calloused flesh. It's sufficient, but only just. Anyone listening closely would surely hear him. Not that it matters; no one's awake (enough) to notice. No one's around to judge him when he begins to picture Vincent's fat cock buried inside him, taking him roughly, demanding everything as Tristan hands it over in fistfuls. If he blurs his focus on reality long enough, he can picture Vincent grabbing a handful of hair and yanking him forward to bully his cock down Tristan's throat. He'd gag on it. He'd beg for more.
Following his self-indulgent impulses, his mind helpfully supplies the sensation of Vincent's nails digging into his hips to hold him steady. Fictional-Vincent reaches around him, taking Tristan's cock in hand (something Tristan notably has none free to do so) and begins to stroke him off-beat to his own thrusts, clouding Tristan's head in a miasma of sensation. Unable to find even the slightest ounce of relief from its consistency. The metal cape Vincent stole from the Mausoleum clangs loudly behind him, the Soverign's robes clinging to his body like a tailored glove—oh, Paradigm, when did he start picturing that? Some twisted contortion of the Sovereign and Vincent, melded into one cloying visage, dragging against his prostate. He's gone from the washroom, bent over a throne in a field of dried grass like his poster. There's a city in the background, likely with hundreds of onlookers, but he couldn't care less. All that matters is the hands around his waist and the soft lips dragging against his neck. He can barely see the silver barbells glittering in the sunlight as—
Suddenly, a metallic thud rings through the room as someone bangs their fist against the locked door, and the fantasy decomposes.
"Is someone in there? I really gotta piss, I promise I'll be quick!" Vincent begs from the other side, and all moisture evaporates from Tristan's mouth.
His dick, having a mind of its own, takes this as the perfect opportunity to paint the cubicle in front of him white at the mere sound of Vincent's voice. As well as the interior of his pants, which were shoved down too hastily to be anything but in the line of fire. It is all he can do to clamp down on his fist and stifle the meek groan that whimpers out of him. Please, oh Matriarch, do not let him have heard that!
"Seriously? If you don't answer, I'm opening this myself!"
"One moment!" Tristan finally answers, glancing down at himself. His hand is covered in lube, the same lube which has dripped across the back of his pants and soaked into the fabric. He tries to rub away the cum splattered across the front and inside of his boxers, only able to mash the substance into the material. Now he just looks like he pissed his pants (at least, he hopes he does). He can handle that level of humiliation, not the one where Vincent immediately knows what he has been doing the moment he opens that door.
Vincent manages some sort of reply as Tristan hastily stuffs himself back into his pants. It's sticky and wet, pressing against his balls with lube dribbling down his inner thighs. His hand is still a mess as he pounds the keypad and unlocks the door. It swishes open, and Vincent flies past him with the barest acknowledgement, already fumbling his pants open to drain his bladder into the toilet. Tristan devours the tiny miracle and washes his hands before the Commander can possibly notice. He's gotten away with the impossible; sure, he looks like a mess, but Vincent hadn't stopped to really pay attention to him and hadn't questioned why Tristan had locked himself in the bathroom in the first place. With luck, the Commander will be too sleep-addled to even think to question what he's missed and slink back to his bedroom none the wiser.
Until Tristan turns around and Vincent is holding the bottle of lube that Tristan… left on the… divider. Right above the splatter of cum he'd forgotten to clean up.
Fuck.
He wants to retreat again—grab his shower caddy and rush out the door, leave behind whatever this mess is until morning. But he can't. His feet are rooted to the spot, legs turned to stone, as if Vincent is the rift that finally caught up to him. That same rift that swallowed his career, his family and his future. A rift starving for what little scraps of life Tristan can squeeze until his knuckles are white, and it is all gone. He is as good as naked, his own spend dried on the front of his pants, his face drenched in shame. Matriarch, please, take him back to this afternoon in the shower when he could dance around Vincent with bluster and false bravado. When he could pretend he was more than he actually was.
"You know, you could have just left the door open if you were having a little bit of fun." Vincent makes a popping sound before 'fun', that same predatory grin from earlier returning.
Tristan feels his member stir, despite himself. He is an Arbiter! He should not be afraid of one man, let alone a renegade charlatan. Yet, as Vincent steps forward, Tristan wants to be given a reason to be afraid—one action to settle this misplaced desperation for the violence of love. A yank on his collar, a shove into the wall, a hand white-knuckling his hair. Give him a reason to be afraid, please.
Vincent halts, staring at him with wide, blue oceans. Shit—did he say that aloud? Vincent's shoulders drop, the lube bottle abandoned on the floor with a quiet clatter. Oh, Sovereign, he definitely said that aloud.
"Afraid?" Vincent croaks, arms limp at his sides. "Tristan, I don't—why would you be afraid of me?"
There are too many reasons to list; his heart lurches in his chest, scrambling desperately to claw the situation back into his control. This isn't how he wanted any of this to go! Never, not even one, of his fantasies involved the Commander wilting in front of him. Just touch him, please, just touch him! Get it over with! Start this! Please! Nonetheless, Vincent is waiting for an answer, and he will stand there until he gets one (at least, Tristan hopes he will…). Silence won't do either of them good, and Vincent can carry on a one-sided conversation with no one but himself.
His mouth is drier than Dorado when he rasps: "Don't these sorts of things usually involve power?"
Vincent blanches further, if that is even possible. The normally confident, blustering Commander who runs across worlds entirely alien to him as if they were always home has never looked more out of place. Never more unsure of himself. Never more horrified. He reaches forward with a slender hand, and Tristan swallows thickly as it cradles his face. Another comes to join it, so that Vincent is cradling Tristan's face, the two of them now only a few inches apart. The tenderness of such a gesture pierces the starving rift in Tristan's chest, screaming at him to run before it swallows the man before him, too. No one, not even his parents, has held him like this—as if he were a delicate thing worthy of tenderness, rather than a bulwark of metal armour. He shuts his eyes, if only to avoid the other man staring at him as if he were worthy of so much more. The warmth of the palms on his cheeks blossoms deep beneath his skin, stiring what remains of his heart within the rift.
He remains rooted to the spot as Vincent manages a reply: "Not unless you want them to."
Cheeky as ever, even now.
"I wouldn't know," he states bluntly, sticking his foot in his mouth before he can clamp his teeth together.
"Do you want me to show you?" Vincent whispers so close that Tristan can feel hot breath dance across his lips. Not at all perturbed or put off by Tristan's admission to a lack of skill. As if he'd expected this; surmised something of his person and decided that, either too afraid to touch or be touched, Tristan is a virgin. To no small amount of shame, now, at the end of all that he once was.
"Please," Tristan begs, because his dignity drew a final breath when Vincent knocked on the door. An Arbiter doesn't beg, but Tristan, the man, does.
Eyes still shut, he is wholly unprepared when Vincent leans forward and covers Tristan's lips with his own. Tristan's eyes shoot open, staring down at the man holding him steady, whose brows are pinched together as if this might be the first and only kiss they will share. All at once, Tristan clambers to return the kiss, clumsily pulling Vincent forward with a hand on the back of his head and one spread across his back. Vincent sighs contently into the kiss, their noses knocking as he twists his head to the side for a better angle. Tristan shuts his eyes again and licks into Vincent's mouth to memorize the taste, but the other man pulls back, hot breath fanning over his face.
"How was that?" Vincent whispers, fingertips playing with small strands of Tristan's hair.
Tristan can't help himself; "I need to investigate further before casting judgment."
Vincent's laughter is flittering and light, like the Pterorays singing to the morning sun on the roof of the Arbiter training facility. Tristan leans forward and devours it greedily, drinking down every ounce of passion that Vincent pours into him. By the time they pull apart, a thin string of saliva connects their lips, and Vincent's eyes are glassy.
"Wash your hands and come to my room. We'll see about—" Vincent dances his fingers up Tristan's chest until they skim the collar of his shirt— "gathering some more evidence. Maybe bring your pyjamas, too; that way you don't have to leave afterwards… unless you want to."
Vincent gives his own vulnerability no quarter, slipping from the bathroom quickly and down the hall. Leaving Tristan in his wake to pick up the pieces and follow after him. Tristan scrambles to do so, scooping up the bottle of lube from the floor and dropping his pants. He fumbles through the process, cleaning the dried cum from his pubes and working his arse open so there need not be any preamble. Virgil mentioned once that it can be a hassle, and most partners find it easier to just go at it. Bent over the stall, Tristan pictures Vincent taking his time to work him open, and bites down the emotion that bubbles to the surface at such a notion. Convenience is key. Maybe then Vincent will invite him back.
It's over far too quickly. He cannot afford to waste time dawdling; once he's certain he is loose enough, he cleans his hands and slips back to his room (with his shower caddy this time). Regulation standard Protectorate pyjamas come in undersuit grey, with little red accents, and fit tightly to the body so that they can be used as an undersuit in a pinch. Tristan has always hated them. They hug his stomach, making the pudgy gut he sports as padding bulge out obscenely. He looks fat. Despite the numerous times Virgil insisted otherwise. A bulwark, sturdy, huggable, Virgil called him. Tristan is just glad there's no mirror in his quarters. He feels desperate and embarrassed enough as it is. The last thing he needs is the pitiful press of his flagged cock against the nearly too-tight leggings.
Thankfully, no one is in the mess hall nor the hallway.
Taking a deep breath outside Vincent's door, Tristan knocks once. It rings through the ship, causing him to cringe. His heart pounds: what if he just ruined this (whatever this is) and Vincent turns him away because it's no longer a secret? Oh, Matriarch, wouldn't that just slot perfectly alongside the rest of his life. Too loud, too blunt to keep much of anything for long. Citizens can handle it because they only see him for a moment or two. Virgil could handle it because he was raised right alongside him. The Supreme Arbiter could handle it because she taught him all he ever knew. But it's only a matter of time before Vincent can't, just like anyone within and without the Protectorate that he's tried to reach.
The door swishes into the wall with a pneumatic hiss, and standing there, with his robe hanging off his shoulders, naked for all the stars to see, is Vincent. Somehow, his perfect hair is still perfectly mussed, and his perfect moustache is still perfectly pointed, as if he were ripped straight from a painting or serial drama.
"Took your sweet time, big boy," Vincent drawls with a smug grin. He wastes no preamble, grabbing a fistful of Tristan's shirt and dragging him inside.
Tristan stumbles toward him until the door clicks shut, then finds himself pressed up against cool metal chilled by the void of space and faulty ship heating. Vincent's lips are on his as he takes and takes and takes, wasting no preamble on asking if Tristan wants it one way or another. The assumption should be aggravating; to think that someone would assume such submission from an Arbiter! Yet, Tristan can only find it freeing, pouring himself into the greed as he draws Vincent closer by the hips.
"I am going to devour you," Vincent murmurs, pulling back just enough to get the words out. "I almost thought you wouldn't come—I've been trying for weeks to drag you out of your shell and into my bed."
"Weeks?" Tristan squeaks, his voice cracking on the second syllable. Weeks would be—
"Since the day we met and you nearly jumped a counter to give the bartender what for when he wouldn't tell you all you had to do was waltz downstairs," Vincent whispers in his ear, taking a lazy moment to nip at Tristan's earlobe.
Vincent smells like vanilla and incense: Order perfume. Tristan wants to consume him, to turn both of them around, pin this reedy man to the wall and suck his dick until he's praising the Protectorate. He smells like peace, like the enclosed walls of the Order convent that Tristan had spent three weeks in whilst tracking a target. He smells like the young man Tristan had come two inches from kissing before Virgil caught the target's scent, and the two of them never returned. A pang of guilt strikes his chest as Tristan mourns what has become of that Order scholar—the Order split from the Protectorate not too long after their encounter, and Tristan had never worked up the nerve to go back. Even if he did, he would have likely never gotten through the doors, and too much time has passed now that he would be nothing more than a hazy memory. Still, there are some days Tristan wishes that he could… Wait. Did Vincent put perfume on for him?? And what had he just—?
"Since the 2nd Choice Saloon?" Tristan asks incredulously as reality suddenly crashes into him. He pulls Vincent back from him by the shoulders, holding him just far enough to look him in the eyes.
Vincent gives a light shrug, a contented smile, softly pushing his cheeks and moustache up, and Tristan suddenly realizes that Vincent removed his make-up. The make-up he wears every day, rain or shine, helmet or not, and reapplied in the field if they were out too long. Instead, painted across his skin now are little nicks and cuts from Vincent's renegade past, and heavy, almost black bags under his eyes. Here in the dimmed light of Vincent's cabin, Tristan sees him for what he is: just a man.
"Since the saloon. I thought to myself: 'there's a man who's going nowhere but an early grave… and I think he might just know it. I think he might just want it.' Then the barkeep called you a 'lap Canid' and I knew I had to have you. It was such a stupid joke, but I couldn't stop myself from picturing you all curled up in bed like a tamed Canid, snuffling through a dream."
"Really? That's what made you want me?" Tristan scoffs. "How lost I was after the Supreme Arbiter's death, and an image of me as a Canid?"
Vincent smiles wider, and Tristan cringes, knowing he stumbled right into Vincent's ploy. What it was intended to test is beyond him, yet the other man looks pleased as purpleberry pie.
"No, not really. 'Just seeing if you're paying attention this time. I mean, sure, I wanted to bring you aboard because of how palpably you were hurtin', but been there, done that; suicidal men aren't great to bring to bed. Oh, don't give me that look, even being off-world, investigating a closed case as if it were a murder is suicidal by Protectorate standards. You're lucky the Consul didn't immediately send someone competent after you!
But, no. Darling, I wanted you because you were built like a brick shithouse, yet fell easily into someone else's command the moment you thought it to be worthwhile. Then, I thought to myself: 'maybe a few loose screws aren't so bad, since his bark's as pretty as his bite.' Wanted to see if I could get you under me or over me, or both in one night."
Darling rings in Tristan's ears like a gunshot. He lurches forward, pulling Vincent's shoulders at the same time until they both collide with teeth and tongue in the middle. Vincent moans into the kiss as Tristan cows him backwards and against the table. A hand winds in the front of Tristan's shirt again, taking him down with Vincent as the other man lays out across the table. Their legs tangle together, one of Vincent's hooked over Tristan's hip to grind their fattening cocks together with naught but the front of Tristan's pants between them. Tristan drowns himself in vanilla and incense until it is all he can smell, and all he can taste is the disgusting aftertaste of Auntie Fizzo's Citrus-Related Beverage. He could never understand how Vincent could drink the damn things, but he'd buy him a thousand more if it meant they could live in this moment forever.
"You're an idiot," Tristan states when Vincent pulls back to nip at his neck.
"Hm? How so, big boy?" Vincent hums non-commitably. Tristan bucks forward at the pet name, feeling the slick slide of Vincent's precum smeared across the front of his pants.
"You had me from the start," Tristan mumbles to the table.
"Oh ho, what's this now?" Vincent chuckles, pulling back and forcing Tristan to meet his mirth-filled eyes. "You never spared me so much as a second glance! How was I supposed to know?"
Tristan scoffs: "I could never stop stealing second glances! It got so bad that Marisol smacked me for being too obvious. Several times."
"I didn't think you were looking at me—"
"You're gorgeous. How could I not be?"
Suddenly, the leg around his waist presses to the right hard, and Tristan finds himself sprawled on his back across the table. Vincent straddles his waist, holding his head between both of his thin hands. The light hangs above Vincent's body, casting him in a golden halo like the Sovereign in Protecorate posters. His perfectly mussed hair and naked face whisper the barest hint of a man struggling for perfection. Tristan can't help but trace his hands up Vincent's chest, across those swirling, mathematical equations. He stops when his thumbs rest under the silver bars pierced through his nipples, noticing one is crooked by a mere millimetre. Knowing Vincent, that has bugged him to no end.
"Say it again," Vincent rasps and Tristan can barely string two thoughts together to register the request.
"You're perfect," Tristan says, and he means it.
Vincent is on him before Tristan can catch his breath, kissing down his chest and unfastening the pyjamas until they're splayed across the table like a vivisection. Tristan's skin feels like it's on fire as Vincent leaves behind a trail of hickeys and teeth marks in the wake of his mouth, painting Tristan's skin with the imperfect perfection of human nature until his lips plant a final kiss at the top of Tristan's Adonis Belt. Chancing a glance down, he watches Vincent wrap a hand around his perfectly sizable cock and lick the bead of precum off the tip. His head hits the table with a loud thunk, hard enough to bruise, yet the groan that rips from Tristan's mouth is far from pained. Vincent's mouth is hot and wet and sinking down his member with practiced ease. He won't last; this is the first time anyone has ever touched him like this and meant every last inch. All he can do is moan and take it, gripping his hands at his side because he doesn't want Vincent to stop and scold him for ruining the other man's hair.
A loud 'POP' echoes through the room, and Tristan's eyes snap down to watch Vincent pour lube across his fingers. His dick bobs in the air, spit-polished.
"I already—"
Vincent's gaze snaps up to him, pupils so diluted that they've nearly swallowed his blue eyes.
"I already prepared."
Vincent rolls his eyes with a cheeky smile: "Typical Arbiter, stealing all my fun. Didn't you say you've never done this before?"
"Virgil told me a few things."
"Virgil told you to do your own prepwork beforehand? Like it's what, homework?"
Tristan nods his head dutifully, not wanting to put his foot further in his mouth. Vincent pulls a face.
"Well, he's wrong," Vincent states plainly, bringing his lubed fingers between Tristan's thighs. He uses his other hand to pull one of his legs to the side, exposing his taint. "I intend to devour you, and that includes watching you fall apart, clenched around my fingers."
Tristan chokes down a whimper because it's far too improper. Only a strangled noise makes it past his lips. From the look on Vincent's face, it's more than enough encouragement.
Slender fingers press against his prenium before dipping lower to his hole. They glide in easily, two thin little things barely more than one of Tristan's own, and Vincent curses. Tristan peeks his eye open to steal a glance—when had he shut his eyes?—and finds a manic twinkle in Vincent's eyes. In quick succession, he adds another finger to Tristan and crooks all three up. Tristan's back arches off the table with a strangled cry, so utterly shocked that Vincent found his prostate on the first stroke. As if their bodies were made solely for each other. He wonders, relatively deliriously, if his own fingers would strike Vincent's prostate as easily. There's little time to follow that train of thought as Vincent takes his cock down to the root in a swift motion, nose pressing into Tristan's well-maintained pubic hair. This time, Tristan does lurch forward and grab a handful of Vincent's hair, pulling him off. Vincent has the gall to look annoyed, fingers still crooked in Tristan's arse.
"One or the other, not both. Or this will make for a very short night," Tristan hisses through his teeth, his dick giving a neglected twitch at the loss of contact.
"Oh, you're no fun," Vincent huffs, turning his head to plant a soft-lipped kiss to Tristan's inner elbow. When he doesn't immediately release Vincent's hair, Vincent relents: "Fine. Let me go, Arbiter Rao. I'll behave, I promise."
Vincent has never had much love for the Protectorate, yet his voice is so soft when he murmurs Tristan's title that Tristan pulls him forward to crash their lips together. Lest he see the torn emotion painted plainly on Tristan's face. Something wretched wilts in his chest at the notion that Vincent might see him only as an Arbiter, as something that he can deflower for one final laugh at the Protecorate's expense. It chokes in his throat, manifesting as a desperation to show Vincent he can be gentle; to insist he is more than his hammer. That he is a man first and foremost. He holds Vincent as tenderly as he can manage, thumb stroking against the other man's cheek, while his other hand toys with the crooked barbell piercing. Vincent keens against the touch, leaning into both hands so hard that he's nearly squishing Tristan to the table. Tristan allows it—encourages it—despite how the cold metal digs in all the wrong places. His dick has flagged, and Vincent's fingers in his arse have stilled, merely sitting comfortably in the stretched muscle. Tristan can't bring himself to care.
"I should call you Arbiter Rao in bed more often," Vincent says, pulling back to catch his breath.
"Don't," Tristan says too quickly, clamping his mouth shut the moment the word tumbles out.
Vincent's eyebrows shoot to his hairline. His mouth opens and closes as if to say something, only to think better of it. Tristan can't bear to let Vincent follow his train of thought, lest it shatter whatever this fragile moment they have together is. Instead, he gets his hands under Vincent's thighs and pulls both of them up until he can sit the other man on his bed. Sometimes, his strength has its uses outside of the battlefield.
Then he drops to his knees and finally comes face-to-face with Vincent's dick. Sovereign, did this man have to wear his robe for this? Did he do this deliberately to deny Tristan the privilege of undressing him?
Needing to get something in his mouth before he says something else that ruins the moment, Tristan wraps a hand around Vincent's dick and leans forward.
"Tristan, what are you—oh fuck," Vincent gasps, his head colliding with the wall as Tristan takes him into his mouth.
Over-eager, Tristan gets halfway down Vincent's cock and chokes. The head of Vincent's dick hits the back of his throat and triggers his gag reflex. He pulls back, coughing, not wanting to puke on Vincent's lap (that would certainly ruin the moment). Vincent, to his credit, pets Tristan's hair gently until he calms down.
"What was that about?" Vincent tries to ask, but Tristan isn't having any of it. He leans forward for a second time.
This time, he manages not to choke. Starting with slow, small bobs of his head, he sets a perfectly acceptable rhythm. Vincent's breath catches in his chest, and he winds his hand in Tristan's curls, not pulling him, more like petting. Tristan hums around Vincent, and the man jerks his hips forward with a punched-out groan. Both of them take the other's reaction as a sign of approval, and before long, Vincent's nearly pulling Tristan's hair, the other man moaning around his dick like a two-bit whore. Tristan's previously flagging dick bobs between his thighs, needy and drooling. He couldn't care less. Only a singular thought echoed through his mind, and that was a desperate, wounded need to convince Vincent he could be gentle. That he could be good at this. That he was worthy of whatever scraps Vincent had left on his plate. All in a vain hope that maybe Vincent might consider this more than a fling and let Tristan warm his bed, rather than the endless stream of strangers he sneaks into back alleys with. Vincent may have said he wanted him, but Vincent wants a lot of people. Tristan's not a big enough fool to think himself any different.
Fucking seemed to be Vincent's calling card, and a Protectorate Arbiter played nicely into an equation to piss off the Consul. Even a wanted one, such as Tristan.
"Fuck, fuck—oh fuck—stop!" Vincent moans, yanking Tristan back with a tight grip in his hair. Tristan can't even get his mouth closed, panting hard with drool dribbling down his chin. He chances a glance upwards and finds Vincent's face flushed, pupils dilated so heavily the blue had all but disappeared from his eyes. Vincent bends down, a thumb on Tristan's chin: "Get on the bed."
It's such a simple request that Tristan can't find any reason to object. If Vincent wanted him in his bed, he would gladly oblige him every time. Though he does hesitate for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to present his arse. A mournful thought that this could be the first and last time returns to him. So, he lays on his back, greedily wanting to memorize Vincent's face if this were to be his only chance. He feels so exposed spread out like this, vividly aware of the tacky lube on his inner thighs.
Vincent settles easily between his open thighs, despite the narrowness of the bed. He does not comment on the mess between Tristan's legs. He doesn't ask why the other man's brow is pinched together. Instead, he pours lube on one hand and uses it to slick his dick, whilst the other grabs a handful of Tristan's doughy middle and squeezes. Old, familiar self-consciousness flares in Tristan's mind, and he opens his mouth to apologize for his appearance, only to catch on Vincent's expression. Vincent's tongue wets his lips, eyes still half-lidded with arousal, as he grabs a hold of Tristan's plush pectoral and squeezes again, this time toying with the nipple. Tristan can do nothing but moan and watch as Vincent leans down and licks a wet, hot stripe from his pelvis to his other pec, sucking the nipple there into his mouth until it pebbles. Then he pulls off with a wet 'POP' and hums lightly.
"You look even better out of armour than you do carrying that big hammer around," Vincent says, tilting his head down to watch himself align his cockhead to Tristan's arse.
"I—what?" Tristan stumbles, at a loss for words.
"You're hot, Tristan," Vincent deadpans, as if it's obvious. For further emphasis, he rolls his hips forward and hilts himself. Tristan lets out the most indecent of moans as the other man's cock strikes right against his prostate with what has to be practiced finesse.
"Oh," Tristan says dumbly.
Vincent merely smiles with a pleased hum and bends down to take Tristan's nipple in his mouth again. He laves his tongue over it, making Tristan twitch and jerk under him in ways Tristan has never been able to do to himself. His flagged dick fattens to full attention, pressing achingly against Vincent's skinny frame. Esquisite friction rubs against it with each languid thrust of Vincent's hips, the other man so utterly distracted by kissing his way across Tristan's sternum that he's barely putting force behind his thrusts. As if Tristan were a thing to be savoured.
That wretched thing is back again, yet this time it's unbearably tender. The notion that he has always been just a man to Vincent and only an Arbiter to himself. That he had convinced himself the only thing others might see is an Arbiter. That he needed Vincent to show him he was something more.
Gentle hands roam his body, a little tacky with lube, but Tristan is far from caring. They run over his sides and through his hair, tracing every little scar dipped into Tristan's skin. He follows each touch with rapturous delight and finds himself wanting to tell the tale behind each scar. Even the tiny ones he got from his own knife during practice. Vincent showers him with kisses, across his jaw, down his neck, on his stomach, leaving a blooming bruise every few beats, as if marking Tristan as his. Tristan wraps himself in the sentiment, finally soothing his aching heart. Even if he only has Vincent for one night, it will be enough to keep him going for a lifetime; it will be enough to have been known and still loved.
Vincent's thumb wipes something wet away from Tristan's face, and for a brief moment, he fears he came across his own face without even realizing it. Then he realizes he's still hard, pressed against Vincent's stilled hips, and that's not his own spend on his face—it's tears. He's crying. He hasn't cried since… he can't remember when.
"Don't stop," Tristan rasps, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Not before you tell me why you're crying," Vincent insists, cradling his face now. His palms rub against the five o'clock shadow Tristan has been sporting for the last few days.
"It's foolish."
"I don't mind. Our lives are built on foolish things."
Tristan opens his eyes to try and search Vincent's face for any sign of trepidation. Yet, it forces him to confront the fact that Vincent is hanging over him, buried inside him, with the softest expression painted across his face. His eyes are warm in the same way they get when he finds a Sprat that lets him steal a few pets, or when the sun rises over Dorado and they stop together on a hill to watch, sharing a can of boarstloaf.
"I thought you would be… rougher. Demanding. That you would take in the same way you take in back alley dalliances," Tristan admits quietly, finally putting a voice to the truth of the matter.
"Do you… want me to be rough?" Vincent tests cautiously, searching Tristan's eyes. What he hopes to find, Tristan isn't sure, but he hopes he finds it.
"No," Tristan intends to say. Instead, what comes out is: "I want you to be mine."
Vincent laughs softly, stooping lower to kiss over Tristan's lips.
"You already have me. This is so much more than a tryst to me; I thought I made that clear when you first arrived. Or, perhaps I need to make myself clearer." Vicent thrusts his hips pointedly, striking Tristan's prostate. Tristan's hips lurch, dick straining from the sudden pleasure.
"Sovereign, don't stop—Mmph! Mmm…" Tristan's sentence trails off as Vincent presses their lips together, licking his way into Tristan's mouth.
Continuing to kiss him, Vincent grabs a hold of Tristan's thigh and hoists it up, wrapping it around his own waist to give himself a better angle. Tristan gasps at the power it awards Vincent's thrusts, rocking his hips upwards to meet Vincent's, craving the pleasure that tears through his body. Neither of them is going to last very long, having edged their way toward orgasm through intermittent breaks of emotional vomiting; everything rapidly catches up to them. Barely a few minutes pass, lips locked together, before Tristan is on the precipice of orgasm. He clings to it, not wanting to shatter the moment so quickly as Vincent's diligent thrusts grow sloppier by the second. This is utterly ruining him; there's no hope for Tristan to find a pious Protecotrate woman, not when he knows he can have this. He cracks his eyes open only to see Vincent cast in the same halo of golden light and knows that he is done for. Whatever the future holds, Tristan will always be in love with him—love? Oh fuck.
His orgasm rips through him so quickly that he only realizes it during the aftershocks.
Vincent doubles over, cursing as his dick pulses inside Tristan, milked for everything it's worth. Tristan watches—he can't help himself. In the golden light, Vincent truly is more beautiful than the Sovereign, with white streaks of cum painted across his stomach and striking blue eyes staring down at Tristan with unparalleled fondness.
Unable to stop himself, Tristan wraps his arms around Vincent and pulls him down until he crashes into his chest. Vincent lets out a startled yelp, but goes boneless the moment he's cradled in Tristan's arms. His soft dick slips out of Tristan's arse, creating more of a mess on the bed, yet neither of them can bring themselves to care. All that matters in this moment is basking in the afterglow and the unspoken "I love you." It hangs heavy in the air, palpable to both men, who wrap themselves in its comfort without feeling the need to coax it to life. It can wait until morning, when their heads are on straight and they're forced to ask if they're hiding this from the crew or not. Knowing Vincent, he'll have Tristan up against the counter in the mess hall by dinner, no matter what they decide. Tristan will finally get to use the helpful gesture Aza taught him on anyone who dares walk in, the one with the middle finger.