Secrets

~Hard Liquor~

Soft muttering within the shadowy darkness. Anywhere without light was a gamble. Dumb luck had provided that this particular building was both dark and safe. At least there was no threat from a non-human source.

The only light glared through the open door. Paris muttered to himself, aggravated every time his own shadow fell across what he was looking at, or more aptly what he snooped through. Surely these people would have had some things of value. So far it all looked like dusty junk, but then, that was exactly where he had found many of his treasures. Dusty forgotten junk could yield a determined antiquity dealer a decent find.

A disposable wet nap was clenched in one of his delicate hands, and he repeatedly wiped his fingers. Dirt on him anywhere was not acceptable if he had the means to remove it, though he didn't have many left.

The missing people from this settlement had been ignorant, in his well-educated opinion. Shelves littered with the trappings of everyday life. Only necessities, and nothing at all that added value to their lives.

A frown of renewed aggravation. He'd been getting good at keeping his shadow from blocking the only light.

It took a few seconds to realize that the shadow wasn't his. A small gasp escaped him as he spun to see what had blocked out the sun.

The two men looked at each other in an equally assessing way. Both showed apparent distaste for the other. That two such different men could even be from the same species was nearly laughable, to each of them.

"Shouldn't you be doing something with the skiff?" Paris tried to sound lofty, but the slight waver in his voice couldn't be disguised.

Shoulders lifting, chest filling, the man in the doorway took a deep breath, as if he were scenting the smaller man. It was a predator's trick, and in this case it worked, making the smaller man even uneasier.

When the bigger man took several steps forward, it felt like he was closing in. The dark lenses gave no expression, leaving him looking ominous, and ruggedly virile.

"I-I don't need any help in here." His voice almost trailed off. It was difficult to breath with the overwhelming presence so close. Sweat beaded on his top lip and he licked it away unconsciously.

A tilt of the bald head caused him to swallow thickly. The reaction of his body was foreign to him, and he adjusted his stance and bag nervously.

The convict knew a fish out of water when he saw one. Soft and weak, the well-dressed man was used to comfort, privilege, and control. No doubt the man had never been in a situation where he'd been so powerless. The physical reaction to the circumstances didn't surprise him.

Paris fumbled within his bag and brought out one of the stoppered bottles. He pulled the plug, losing it to the dusty floor with clumsy fingers, and hastily drank.

Confidence in a bottle. Riddick had seen the same behavior in others and wondered how potent of an intoxicant it was.

His actions were obvious. Push the smaller man, just to.

Eyes wide, mouth gaping, bottle held forgotten in one hand, Paris watched, seeming unable not to.

Riddick's hands weren't exactly slow or careful as he undid his pants just enough to free the heat of his erection. No relief in temperature in the hot building, his equally hot hand was rough from dirt, calluses and dry skin as he gripped himself.

Paris's breaths came in shallow gasps. Even in the shadows the color could be seen rising on his cheeks. His chest rose and fell quickly. The bottle in his hand visibly shook.

The slow lean of Riddick's head drew the smaller man's attention. Wide eyes darted upward. The expression there hadn't changed, nor softened, but the incline of his head seemed as if the big man were expecting something.

His mouth opened and closed, resembling the fish that Riddick had mentally pegged him as. The beads of sweat ran. His knuckles showed white where they gripped the bottle.

"Th-This is highly inappropriate."

If there was anything inappropriate, it was that Paris couldn't take his eyes off the slow movement of Riddick's hand on the hard muscle of his erection. The big man's hand seemed to be caressing the organ in a way that appeared tender, something he should assumably be incapable of.

Riddick took a step forward, forcing a gasp from Paris's still gaping mouth. His gaze had to visibly drop as the distance between them closed significantly. The bottle was removed from his hand and he made a half-hearted grab for the escaping alcohol.

Eyes followed the bottle, his tongue absently licking the sweat from his lips as he watched the bottle touch another's lips. He swallowed with the other man, his mouth suddenly watering. When his gaze dropped, he realized the hand that had followed the bottle was now dangerously close to an exemplary example of an erection. His mouth made an audible noise as it closed for him to swallow again.

The hand that had so gently stroked the column of marble flesh was now still, just holding, as if in offering.

Eyes darted. His own rapid breath sounded loud to his ears.

The bottle, half drained, was lowered. He reached for it, but it wasn't released to his grip instantly. A small push, as if encouragement. He didn't need any more convincing. The alcohol burned a path downward, warming him, settling him, making him feel more solid.

Those dark lenses still glared at him. The hand had lifted, and stroked some. A tilt of the head finalized the invitation, at least in his mind.

His hand was already so close. Fingers stretched out. He continuously glanced upward, and then back to what his aching groin and salivating mouth insisted that he wanted to touch.

The other's hand didn't remove until his fingertips made contact. Even without the support the substantial organ remained in position, questing upward for contact.

Silky soft. For long seconds Paris forgot that this was past any boundary of decency. The tight skin was like satin stretched tight. He'd never thought that such a brute of a man could exhibit such perfection and beauty.

Fascination caused him to close his fingers around the thickness. The man attached to it moved.

Stillness. Paris stared upward, frightened not just by what he had done, but that he might have to stop before he'd satisfied his infinite curiosity.

No other movement came, and no words. The silence and stillness almost allowed him to see this man as not real. He was an unmoving statue, and investigating him was in no way wrong.

Emboldened by his easy willingness to depart from the reality of the situation, he returned to his exploration with new daring.

Grip and try to stroke, forcing the skin to slide over the muscle contained within. Then reverse, losing his grip and ending up catching on the raised head. Not as rigid, not as smooth. His thumb dragged over the pocked flesh, his eyes watching every detail of what his fingers did.

Back to stroking, his nervousness almost forgotten as he toyed with methods of stroking, marveling at how far the skin would stretch and how much real estate he had to work with.

"Magnificent."

He clamped his mouth shut, shocked that he'd whispered the word aloud. But he was a connoisseur of fine things, and this was indeed a valuable object.

If the large man heard his gaffe, he didn't comment, further instilling the reasoning that the man was inanimate.

He had nothing slick to use, but it was simple reasoning that he was holding a semi-suitable liquid. Paris only had to glance at the expensive amber liquor once before tipping the bottle and managing to cup his hand around a puddle of the cool alcohol.

A quick movement brought the improvised lubricant to the target flesh. Some dripped away, but most wet the unyielding length, allowing his palm to slip effortlessly. Friction lost, his pampered flesh bumped from head to groin several times with easy grace.

The unexpected slickness caused a reaction. The monolith of a man leaned ever so slightly forward before righting himself.

Paris preferred no movement. He could pretend so easily if the man remained silent and motionless. But pride was part of his business. That he'd had an effect felt like an accomplishment.

There was no return now. Denial was impossible. So with careful scrutiny, he applied more of the costly liquor and worked his hand over the impressive appendage.

At times he was nearly bathing his hand and the man's organ. Stroking as the alcohol dried caused it to heat. Flesh warmed while lubrication was lost.

Finally the extraordinary penis grew even harder. The man stiffened, a slow tensing of his entire body.

The luminous shots of ejaculate marked the uneven pattern of the decorative bag still slung over Paris's shoulder. He stroked it out, marveling that there would be so much.

A brief awkward pause. Hands moved toward his and he quickly withdrew, uncertain once again. The organ tucked back within the confines of issued pants had barely begun to soften. Out of sight and all he had to look at was the coarse man before him.

The same expression. A tilting of the head. Then the convict turned and left, almost completely blotting out the sun again for a few seconds before he was gone.

Paris's palm burned warm for hours after, a reminder of a silent encounter that he would never admit to.