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Caught

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The wall's cold on his back, and he's peripherally aware of it, of metal against his skin, cool from nape of neck to small of spine. It's not unpleasant, not quite, but it's strange.

Much more to the forefront of his attention is the fact that he's being shoved up against said wall by Elim Garak, whose cock is crammed into him, filling him fit to bursting and grinding away within him, its fat bottom stretching the skin of his arse until it burns. With every twist he moans, he cries out, then bites his lip in a futile attempt to keep quiet. It's no good. He can't stop making noise. He can't stop begging for more.

I— oh, God, I—

He's spread wide against the wall, legs lifted, and Elim's hands are under him, holding him up, gripping his buttocks and squeezing them as he twists himself into Julian again and again, that repeated, merciless rolling of hips that has him pinned and pinioned. Elim's thighs are between his, beneath his, supporting him; he's strong, so strong, and Julian lets himself be lifted, opens himself as wide as he can, trying to take more of him in, more, deeper, God, he's desperate for it, he's never been like this—

He makes a wordless, questioning sound, and Elim's answering hiss is thick and clotted, a cluster of wet sounds from a mouth that's forgotten how to speak. Elim presses closer to him, predatory, chest against his, belly against his own aching cock, and now his back is scraping against the wall with every back-and-forth motion; it hurts, and he doesn't care. He rides Elim's undulating hips, and with each punctuated movement he gasps a sharp noise, an abbreviated cry. It jolts out of him, beyond his control. Everything is beyond his control. All there is in the world is hot, roiling pleasure-pain and the whispering hisses that flicker from Elim's lips, the breath cool against his skin, the hands that squeeze him tight enough to bruise.

His own hands wander aimlessly over Elim's back, his neck, his shoulders. There's no focus in their movement, no plan to produce pleasure. They spasm helplessly as Elim moves in him. The best he can manage is an occasional sliding scrape of nails, sometimes against fabric, sometimes against skin. Maybe it feels good to Elim. It doesn't really matter. His body's no longer his own; it's in control, now, and his mind's being dragged along for the ride, and I never knew, oh, God, I never knew—

Elim's taking him hard. There's no gentleness in his hands, no diffidence in his face. It's all anger and lust and need, and he's helpless against him, against his own body's response, against the yearning to be used. It's new and sharp and strange, and if he had the time to think, the breath to spare, he might be half-ashamed at how much he likes it. As it is, all he can do is whimper with each rub, each slide, each wriggling writhe.

Now Elim's moving faster. His eyes are closed, his lips are pressed together; he's urgent, and Julian lets himself go loose, lets himself be filled as Elim's hands tighten on his arse, as Elim gasps almost angrily, face contorting; oh, he's captured, he's caught, and as Elim leans heavily against him, his voice a scraping moan, his full weight pressing him to the bulkhead, he closes his eyes and gives himself up, sweetly and shamefully, for lost.

He's held there, trapped without movement, as Elim breathes; he's held there as Elim presses a cool kiss to his neck, just below his ear; he's held there as Elim sighs and says, low and almost to himself, "Infuriating."

What…?

His eyes open to Elim's, and the expression on Elim's face is at once adoring and resentful.

He doesn't have words, not right now; he's too hard, too needy, too well-used, but Elim answers his unspoken question.

"The way you've snared me. I am yours. And you barely had to try." He rolls his eyes, smiles an exasperated half-snarling smile. "I'm caught, Doctor. Do be gentle with me."

But he's—

But I—

His mind reels, and there still aren't words, and so pulling Elim in for a kiss is all he can do. It's vicious, teeth against teeth and lips pressed together to the point of bruising. It's needy and angry and filled with revelation.

"Yours, Doctor," murmurs Elim against his mouth, between bites. "Yours and yours only."

Afterwards, when Elim takes him in his mouth, moaning low against him, his own climax is almost an afterthought.