"You do know what people say about me, don't you?"

Apollo, painfully shrugging his way out of his braided and bedecked dress jacket, gave Starbuck a sour look.  "People say a helluva lot about you, Starbuck, and not much of it is complimentary.  Which particular bit should I be bearing in mind right now?  The rumours that you're reckless?  Or insubordinate?  Or a card shark?  Or sexually incontinent?  Or—"

"Well, it's sorta related to the last one."  Starbuck helped with the jacket, wincing in sympathy at the way Apollo hissed with pain, and trying not to think unworthy thoughts about how smoking hot Apollo was in dress blues.  Because Apollo was.  In his ordinary, day-today uniform, Apollo was hot enough to make Starbuck's breath to come short and his pupils to dilate in what Starbuck assured Apollo was a sex-now! right-now! conditioned response.  In his elaborate dress blues, he was incandescent-surface-of-an-exploding-supernova hot.  Sometimes, thought Starbuck, Apollo scorched him like a candle scorched a moth's wings, like Icarus getting too close to the sun; and one day he'd wake and all that would be left of him would be a little tin heart in the ashes.  He turned Apollo's face towards him and shook his head.  "You're getting one helluva shiner there, Apollo."

"Councillor Thom jabbed me in the face with his elbow."

"Why did you let him do that, you great lummox?  Stand still."  He ran a handkerchief under the tap and dabbed gently at the cut above Apollo's eyebrow.  Apollo did a bit more hissing and jerked his head back.  "You may need stitches in that one.  The Councillor must have very sharp elbows."

"All the better to get rid of your opponents on the way up to the top.  Leave it, Starbuck.  It'll be all right."


"Did you let Salik look at it?"

"He looked.  He said it didn’t need stitches.  He also said I wasn't dead yet, wasn't likely to need major surgery, was barely walking wounded, in fact, and would I care to stop cluttering up his Life Centre and leave it for those who really needed his medical services?"  Apollo looked more than a little put out.  "He did give me a couple of pain-killers though, before he threw me out."

"Big of him."  Starbuck shook his head sadly.  "Typical, Apollo. This is just typical.  You have to be the only person in the fleet who flies the Council down to an alien planet for a meet and greet, gets caught in a power blackout, gets trapped in the Banqueting Chamber with a load of Councillors getting festively merry on Yuletide grog—"

"There were lots of other people trapped in there," protested Apollo.  "Including our hosts.  Who were also very merry."  He added, bitterly, "I wish I'd been merry."

"So do I.  Because none of those merry lot fell over six Councillors and one alien in the dark and ended up in Life Centre being snarked at by Doctor Compassionate.  Honestly, what were you thinking about?  You should have sat tight on that nice neat bottom of yours and waited for the lights to come back on, not gone traipsing about in the dark trying to rescue a load of whining politicians.  Died of an elbow in the eye does not look good on the mission report, Apollo.  It means you haven’t achieved your full potential.  It's disappointing.  It's downright ridiculous.  It's just not done."

"Are you seriously saying that to achieve my full potential I have to die in a blaze of glory?"

"It's written in the Regulations somewhere."  Starbuck put one hand against Apollo's poor contused cheek.  "You look tired."

"I didn't get a lot of sleep the past few days, what with planning the meet and greet and coping with Boxey getting excited about the holiday and then doing the meet and greet and then having to fly back here after extracting the Councillor's elbow from my eye... I think I'm dead on my feet, Starbuck."

"No you aren't.  Salik said so."  Starbuck grinned.  "Come on.  Let's get you to bed."

"I'm too tired to sleep," complained Apollo, but he let Starbuck pull him into the bedroom.

"Which brings me back to what I was saying later about what people say about me."

"You said it was related to your sexual incontinence.  Not only am I bruised and aching all over, I'm too tired tonight, Starbuck.  Sorry."

"You won’t be too tired for what I have in mind.  I'm going to finish the job and exhaust you entirely."  As he spoke, he helped eased Apollo's white dress shirt over his shoulders.  "Let me help, Apollo.  You just relax."

It took him a little while.  Starbuck didn’t like to rush his treats, and undressing Apollo was definitely one of his treats.  He was easily diverted, too, and especially easily diverted by the way that Apollo's collarbones caught the light—he was forced, literally forced, to lick the little hollows above them and kiss his way up one side of Apollo's throat—and he was diverted by the way Apollo's voice roughened and hoarsened as he pretended to protest that no, really, Starbuck, I'm too tired, and by the way that Apollo's eyes widened until they were very dark with only the merest rim of green until Starbuck could see himself reflected in them, burning against that incandescent sun.  And then, of course, Starbuck was diverted by having to kiss each eyelid and then kiss his way down the other side of Apollo's neck and down into the shadowy little hollow on that side, licking and nibbling and breathing soft, warm air over the moist skin to cool it.  Oh and he was totally diverted when it came to getting Apollo out of his pants.  Totally.

Starbuck always took his time there.  There was no sense in hurrying.  Slowly undoing the button and pulling down the zip… that was something that gave him an almost overwhelming feeling, a most delightful anticipation.  He usually stopped kissing Apollo when he got to that point, because (much as he loved kissing Apollo) what he was uncovering deserved his undivided attention.  He used both hands; one to steady Apollo by resting it on Apollo's hip, the other to slowly, slowly, pull down the zip and reveal the gorgeous cock underneath.

Apollo might claim to be exhausted, but the moment his cock was free of the heavy dark cloth, it sprang gaily up from the nest of black hair and bobbed about merrily, just begging for Starbuck to do something with it.

"This is what I meant," said Starbuck.  "Yeah, I used to sort of spread myself around a bit, Apollo, but what that boils down to is that I am good.  I do very good blow-jobs.  I am, in fact, very, very good."

"And modest," murmured Apollo, but his eyes were still dilated and he, too, seemed to have trouble breathing,

"No," said Starbuck.  "I never claimed to be modest."  He pushed gently until Apollo, backing up, hit the back of his knees on the edge of the bed and fell backwards onto it, his legs splayed in such a wanton way that Starbuck gasped aloud.  Because Apollo's cock bobbed right up again, almost yelling lookit! lookit, Starbuck! all yours! And Starbuck still could barely believe that was true.

He was out of his own non-dress uniform in split-microns, and kneeling astride Apollo in the merest twinkling of a lust-darkened eye.  He swooped down for a kiss, pressing his mouth over Apollo's soft lips, stealing his quickening breath, while his hand snaked down between them and closed, suddenly and shockingly, over that exuberant cock.

Apollo half gasped, half-yelled into Starbuck's mouth, his back arching.

"See," murmured Starbuck against Apollo's lips, and rubbing a gentle thumb over the leaking head.  "I'm very good."

He could feel Apollo's mouth curve, and feel the little choke of laughter that was rumbling in Apollo's chest.  He sat up, his hand still curled around Apollo's cock, watching Apollo's expression soften into an unguarded longing that made him look very young and vulnerable.  Grinning—because he loved it when he got through Apollo's defences—he slid down Apollo's thighs, bowing his back so that he could lick and kiss his way from the hollow at the base of Apollo's throat, down his breastbone, following the thin line of black hair down the surprisingly soft skin of Apollo's belly, until the hair thickened and widened into a soft, musky thatch.

Apollo laughed, the deep throaty laugh that only Starbuck ever heard.

Starbuck smiled, nosed his way to the base of Apollo's cock, and licked up it, from root to crown, in one hot-tongued swoop.  Apollo's back arched again.  He made a sound, a wordless, needy little sound that jagged its way down Starbuck's spine and somehow made Starbuck's cock twitch like lightning ran down it.  Apollo's hand slid down to cup the back of Starbuck's neck, his fingers carding through the shorter hairs there.

Starbuck swirled his tongue around the head, grinned when those carding fingers tightened and clutched for a micron, and started in good earnest.  Starbuck wasn't one just to bob his head up and down and up and down and that was it.  Oh no.  The essence of the good blow job, opined Starbuck, was to lull the recipient into a false sense of security and then pounce.

He started out with the rhythmic sucking and licking, closing his lips over Apollo's cock and moving up and down; of course he did.  But he let Apollo get used to the rhythm and then, without warning, he changed the tempo to lick Apollo from root to crown again in slow, lazy strokes and, each time he reached the crown, his tongue would stay there and savour it while he mouthed it, gently.

And when Apollo was lulled by that slow, gentle ministration, he'd change again.  Fast again, or swirling his tongue in fast, dirty little circles; or breathing softly and warmly over the head to heat it, or hard and fast to cool it; or making sharp little dabs with his tongue, and even, very carefully, pressing the hardness of teeth against the hot, wet head.

And all the time his other hand was smoothing the inside of Apollo's thigh, or sliding down between Apollo's legs, fingers pressing against the sensitive skin, or gently rolling Apollo's balls, the way that Starbuck's sensitive fingers rolled dice.  And all the time Apollo was writhing; his hips rising and falling to match Starbuck's rhythm, faster or slower; his breath catching in his throat or coming out in a whoosh and those wordless little noises again, until Apollo was stiffening and yelling and Starbuck was catching the hot spurt of come in his mouth, drinking Apollo down; and the heat in his own balls spilled over into the almost-pain of orgasm, coming just because he'd made Apollo come and not needing anything else.

He licked and kissed Apollo through the aftershocks, listening to the harsh breathing and then the sleepy, contented murmurs that assured him of a job well done.  When he sat up and looked, Apollo was boneless and sleepy, his eyes half-slitted, eyelids drooping.  Starbuck felt a rush of tenderness.

He shivered, suddenly chilled.  The air in the room was cold as the ship powered down, creeping its cold fingers down his spine until he could feel the goosebumps running down his arms and legs like static electricity.  He dropped a kiss on Apollo's now-wilting cock, caught up the tee-shirt he'd been wearing under his battle dress to give them both a perfunctory (but brisk) clean up, and pulled the blankets up to cover them, settling down against Apollo's lazily relaxed body.

"That's all your bruises kissed better, then," he said, pulling Apollo close.

Apollo smiled sleepily.  He yawned.  "Well," he said, "that's one rumour that isn't exaggerated."

Starbuck smirked.  Yep, he was good.  None better, in his humble opinion.  And it was with a pleasing sense of justification and satisfaction, that he rested his chin on the top of Apollo's head and followed him down into sleep.

Another job well done.  That would look good on the mission report


End
2035 words

March 2009