Metallic

9
***

Johns woke with a start, sat bolt upright and groaned when he felt the pain splitting his head. He’d been hit. Again. This time in the forehead – a couple of inches to the right and he could’ve been dead. But he wasn’t. He was alive and sitting on his bed, alone, with no idea how he’d got there.

Riddick. Fuck. He’d walked right into a trap and Riddick had knocked him unconscious. So why wasn’t he dead?

He swung his feet down off the bed and noticed they were bare. His chest was bare, too. And the lights were on. And his vision was swimming. Reflexively he bent forward, dry heaving grotesquely over the floor. He reached out for the container on the dresser, his fingers closed on it, and somehow he managed to get it onto his lap. He pulled it open, loaded the needle with shaking hands, tilted his head back, and shot.

He took a deep breath. He was going to be okay. He was going to be okay.

Except where the fuck was Riddick?

He stood. And almost immediately hit the floor. His feet were taken from under him. By what? By a swe sweeping around, catching his ankles. His head hit the floor with a sick thud. Riddick was under the bed. All the damn time, Riddick was under the bed. Waiting.

Johns scrambled to his feet, onto the bed. He couldn’t run. He wasn’t sure his legs would hold him. Hekingking *knew* his legs wouldn’t hold him. Where was his gun? His eyes scanned the room quickly. Where the fuck was his gun? Lying on the chair next to the bathroom door. Could he make it? Fuck. No. Riddick rolled out from under the foot of the bed and stood, slowly, a smile playing at his lips. He was between Johns and the shotgun.

Johns looked for the shiv in Riddick’s hand. He didn’t see it. It wasn’t there.

“Riddick? What the fuck’s going on here?” Johns muttered. He closed his eyes, screwed them shut, weaving a little on the bed before he caught his balance.

“You disappoint me. C’mon now, don’t pass out on me now. After I’ve gone to so much trouble…”

Johns frowned. He was seeing three Riddicks. As if one wasn’t bad enough.

He lunged. He lunged right off the end of the bed, shoulder burying into Riddick’s right pectoral, doubling him over as Johns hit the floor. Riddick’s foot came up and snapped Johns’ head jarringly to the left, and he bit down involuntarily on the inside of his cheek. The foot was bare. Johns could feel the skin against his jaw.

He quickly spat out a mouthful of blood and rolled up onto his knees. Riddick was advancing. Johns caught a hold of his left leg and tugged, hard; Riddick fell, cracking Johns under the jaw with his right foot as he went down, back slapping heavily against the wooden floor. Riddick grunted. In a second Johns was on top of him, his grazed fist connecting soundly with his jaw.

But Riddick fought back. He shoved Johns hard in the chest, knocking him backwards, sprawled across the floor. And he followed through, springing on top of him, driving his fist hard into Johns’ gut, making him cough deeply and spit out another mouthful of blood.

Riddick hauled Johns to his feet and threw him up against the wall, his head bouncing off it with a dull thud. Johns felt Riddick’s hands pressed against his shoulders and waited for another blow. It didn’t come. He opened his eyes.

Riddick’s goggled eyes were just inches in front of him, so close he had trouble focussing. Johns was sure he could see a metallic gleam behind the lenses.

His heart was beating too fast. All his limbs felt heavy with the thud of morphine and adrenaline in his blood. He felt sick. But he felt excited. He felt the trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth and would have reached out to wipe it away, only Riddick got there first. But not with his hand.

Riddick leant forward, and with one long, measured stroke, licked the blood from Johns’ face. Johns shuddered. Riddick smiled.

He leant forward again, pulling himself up to his full height, one hand moving from Johns’ shoulder to his right temple. With his thumb he held Johns’ eyelid open. And he brought his tongue down, into the corner of his eye, licking lightly at the eyeball and the tear duct.

When Riddick’s tongue burst into his mouth, Johns could taste the morphine and his own blood.

He shoved him, hard, sending him back a few paces.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Johns almost yelled, outraged, blood pumping furiously.

Riddick smirked. “I would’ve thought that was pretty obvious”, he said.

Johns hit him. He let Johns hit him. He let Johns slam him up against the opposite wall, just beside the window, even though he could’ve fought him off.

“What the fuck is this about, Riddick?” Johns was screaming. “Why the…” He stopped, eyes going wide as he leant hard against him. He could feel Riddick’s cock hard through his trousers. He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so *that’s* what this is about”. Riddick smirked again. “So, what? You me me to roll over for you, let you fuck me in the ass? You’ll have to kill me first”.

“I’d planned on it”.

Johns’ blood ran cold. He’d planned on it.

“You kept me alive so you could kill me yourself”, he said simply. Riddick nodded. Johns felt sick. “What if I let you go, stop trackin’ you?”

“What if I don’t want you to?”

“Fuck, Riddick… Fuck”. Johns sucked in a quick breath. Where was the gun? He couldn’t see it. Must’ve been knocked off the chair in the fight. Was there anything? Christ. No, there wasn’t. “What if… what if I let you… what if I let you fuck me?” His cheeks burned just saying it. And Riddick smiled.

“How about I fuck you and afterwards I decide if I’ll let you live”. Johns just stared at him. “Take off your pants, Johns. Step the fuck back and take off your fucking pants”.

Johns took a step back. His hands went to the waist of his pants, fingers fumbling with the button, tugging down the zipper. And slowly, bending from the waist and then from the knees, head swimming and pulse racing, he pulled them down. He stepped out of them, still bent over. And then he saw it.

He grabbed the gun and swung it up with everything he had. Riddick caught it in both hands, twisted, brought it up hard under his jaw and tossed it into the bathroom in one fluid movement. Johns found himself sitting on his naked ass at the foot of the bed. That was it. He was going to die.

Riddick hauled him to his feet and shoved him down onto the bed; Johns tried to struggle but there was nothing he could do with Riddick’s weight pressing down on him and his hands pulled roughly behind him. He felt some kind of tape being wrapped round them, binding them together. He still felt woozy from the morphine and the blows to his head. He just hoped he’d pass out before the inevitable happened.

Riddick’s weight shifted. He heard clothing being shed under the dull roar of the traffic and the falling rain from the open window. Then the lights were off, and Riddick knelt on the bed. Johns’ stomach lurched at the thought of what was about to happen.

A fingertip traced the line of his spine, making him shiver, stopping briefly to rub at the fourth lumbar, slightly to the left. Then it trailed down further, four fingertips brushing over the curve of his ass, two hands parting his thighs. He sucked in a hard breath as one finger penetrated him. It was cool and warm together, slick with something. It made his cock jump and he cursed himself.

Two fingers. They scissored, stretching him wider. It hurt. Fuck, it hurt, but he could feel his cock swelling uncomfortably beneath him. He pressed his head down into the pillow so hard he started to see stars but it didn’t help. And it certainly didn’t stop him bucking back as a fingertip grazed something inside him that had him seeing stars all by itself. Riddick chuckled and did it again. Johns was disgusted when he had to bite his lip to keep from moaning.

He shivered as the fingers withdrew. He felt Riddick’s hands on his ass, spreading his cheeks, and felt the blunt head of Riddick’s cock pressing at his asshole. But Riddick didn’t move. It was infuriating. The hot, slick head of Riddick’s cock was just sitting there, pressed against the sensitive flesh of his anus, not moving. How the fuck was he going to get this over with if Riddick wasn’t going to move?

Then Riddick’s arm snaked under him, around his waist, and pulled him back. Riddick didn’t need to move. He’d moved Johns instead.

Riddick’s cock filled him, hot and slick and throbbing. And his own cock was throbbing between his legs, the head brushing against the mattress, sending shivers through him. He could feel Riddick’s chest against his back, feel it as he breathed, and as he started to move inside him.

The friction was maddening. And the heel of Riddick’s hand against the plane of his belly was infuriating. Fingertips grazed at the trail of fine hairs leading from Johns’ navel down. Johns propped himself up on his hands. And Riddick started to up the pace.

Johns almost came right there when Riddick’s took his dick in his hand and started to stroke. It was hard and fast and it felt like he was going to pass out, but the tension inside him was delicious. It started to build, higher, tighter, winding up between his shoulders and deep in his belly, Riddick’s cock grazing against that spot inside him over and over, teasing him further, blinding him with the intensity, making him gasp and gasp and moan until it was just too much. He came hard in Riddick’s hand, in thick, sticky spurts.

Riddick growled low in his throat and came inside Johns just a few seconds after, collapsing down against his back.

It was over.

***