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Constant Craving

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It was a constant craving; a need that burned like lungs starved for oxygen wanting one more breath of air. Avon hid it well, covering skin with long sleeves and buttons done up to the very top. Others would be able to see it carved into his flesh, if he allowed it. He would not allow it.

He went on.


When they made love, she almost filled him. Her breasts fit perfectly into his cupped hands, smooth and warm he kissed the tips, then entered her. She was quiet, always quiet, her eyes staring up at him so intently that he could not bear it. He would close his eyes and try to stifle the words that would come. Not love, never love, but others: darling, beautiful, and forever.

It wasn't, of course, forever. It ended with a shot and his blood pouring out of him. It ended with torture, death, and Cygnus Alpha.


He added another layer of clothing to what he normally wore. It was cold in space, cold despite the heat of battle and fatigue...fear. At night he shivered under his duvet and stared into the darkness.


He could not stop touching Blake, could not stop wanting to touch Blake. It was best when they argued, he would grab Blake's arm as they spoke in low, furious voices. Blake would be fairly growling; touching him then was like touching something half wild. You didn't know if he'd bite.

Sometimes, he would imagine Blake so angry that he would shove Avon against the wall and snarl. The pain would be like a shockwave up his spine, it would make him gasp and shudder. With his hands on Avon's shoulders he'd force him to his knees, force him to take Blake into his mouth, to suck until Blake was hard and wet. Blake would strip him, shove him against the wall again, face first, and fuck him, his arse and his cock--Blake's fist would be tight and brutal. He'd let Avon he'd command Avon to come like a 'good boy', and he would. Then Blake, still holding him close, would make him lick his come from Blake's fingers.

Blake would be cruel, so cruel, spinning him around, holding him tight, licking his mouth so that it opened, panting under the assault. Blake would shove wet fingers into his arse, hurting him, bruising him so badly that he'd remember the action for days (for ever).

"You're mine, Avon," Blake would say into his mouth, so softly that it almost felt like a kiss. "You're mine, you belong to me, always."

And Avon would come again.

This is what he imagined, sometimes.


The kiss was a surprise.

They had been talking, for once, calmly, rationally, without the usual barbs. Perhaps if he had thought about it, sitting in Blake's cabin, lights dimmed, drinks in front of them, he would have realized it was a seduction.

It was not what he expected: Blake's mouth was soft under his, opening slowly, coaxing his tongue with gentle swipes and flicks. The taste of Blake's mouth reminded him of mint: sharp and Blake's hands slid under Avon's clothes, he could feel the way Blake's palm curved to cup and follow the shape of flesh (shoulder, hip, penis--Blake stripped him efficiently).

There was no violence, no rape of mouth and arse, no tingle of pain. There was Blake, slicking Avon's fingers with oil, then leading them into Blake's body.


Before he knew it, Blake was on his stomach on the bed and he, Avon, was in him.

He had closed his eyes as he entered Blake, but now that he was thrusting, he opened them. Blake moved under him, quick, small movements against the bed, as if the pleasure hurt him too much for anything more. He stared down at Blake's profile: the damp curls and eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open and wet, moans emerging freely. One of Blake's hands lay near his face and with each thrust it clenched the sheets. Blake looked like he was in pain.

He looked (no don't think it no) like an idiot (vulnerable).

He pulled out of Blake's body, his erection gone.

Blake made a noise. "Avon, what--"

"Shut up, Blake, shut up." He pulled on his trousers and grabbed the rest of his clothing. "If you mention this to anyone, I'll kill you."


But he ignored the plea in Blake's voice.


He bound himself in his sheets, wrapping them around his body so that he could not move. It was very cold.


They would talk in low whispers, Cally's hand on his chest, one of his pressed to her back. She was warm, soft, and not his, did not remotely want to be his. She was not silent during sex; she would speak to him, with words and mind, of pleasure, desire, and need. Caring was easy with her, she asked for nothing. Not like Anna, who wanted his love. Nor like Blake, who wanted his trust. And now both of them were dead.

He was alive. Cally was alive.

It should be enough (why wasn't it enough to keep him warm?).

He kissed her and slipped a hand between her legs.


Xenon was a cold planet. Sometimes he would wake shivering, hands clenching his pillow. He would force them open and pressed his palms to his eyes. It was all he could do to keep himself from reaching out to the empty space in his bed.


Blake liked to be touched and Avon indulged him. His fingers skimmed over Blake's face: cheeks, eyelids, forehead, chin, lips, then down. His skin was smooth, soft and hairless. Nipples peaked when he touched them and Blake squirmed in seeming delight.

"Avon," Blake said, smiling and stroked his hair.

He smiled back and kissed Blake on the mouth. Slipping into Blake was easy (Blake enveloped so easily, one could get lost in him). Blake ran a finger over the curve of his ear and murmured softly.

He strained to hear the words, making out his name and 'oh sweetheart, yes...fuck, please, fuck.' Then Blake ran his knuckles over Avon's temple and said clearly, 'I'm yours... forever' and that was a rush of fire through his limbs and he was coming in Blake, coming...

Coming until his eyes opened and he was gazing into a cold, dark room. He was alone and there was a lump in his throat because he hadn't wanted it to be a dream. He laughed and it sounded harsh even to his ears so he stopped.

"How common," he said and before he could think about it, he reached out to the empty space at his side.


He didn't recognize the man staring out at him with one good eye. The scar made Blake look savage but that was not what made Avon shiver. That was not what made him wonder if it was a nightmare. There was a distant (glacial) quality about Blake that ran through Avon like a shard of ice (or had it been there already, always there). Avon was colder than he had ever been, cold and hollow (always).

He aimed his gun and squeezed.