Notes: Set in JoAnn’s Ryu/Naolin (GodPhoenix) universe, with her permission . . .

Disclaimer: All things Gatch belong to Tatsunoko Pro.

Good and Safe

It shouldn’t have been easy, getting into the hangar after hours. 

But the base’s activity had long since wound down from the feverish post-mission pitch, though, most of the techs had gone home to their families, and the guards had found something better to do than stand watch.

Ken moved noiselessly down the corridor, in and out of the hum of the fluorescent lights, as near a ghost as could be in an age of electronics and sensors.  He heard the guards in their break room, playing cards, the flick, flick, flick of the coated paper loud compared to the murmur of electricity and Ken’s silent steps.

His face was grave, as if this was a Galactor base, not Crescent Coral, and he faced death if he were caught, instead of just mild disgrace.

He flitted past the open door, a breath of movement.  A brief pause confirmed that he had not been seen or heard by the guards, and he continued on.

He wanted to be the first one there.

The first one there got to choose . . .

The entry that the techs had used to get in and out of the hangar was open, and he frowned slightly.  This wasn’t how it was supposed to be; he had been expecting to finesse the lock, had tucked his picks under the waistband of his jeans for just that purpose.  Shrugging—making note of the techs’ sign-in/out loghe stole through the crack and pushed it gently back into its previous position.

The hangar was dark but for one light that only seemed dim in the huge bay.  It illuminated the entry ramp and little else, but really, that was all Ken needed.

There was little call for stealth now that he had reached the holiest of holies, but he still darted up the ramp as if he thought he might come under fire at any second.  After all, there was no telling when some guard might decide to make a sweep, and there was no sense getting caught when he was almost there.

He didn’t want to have to explain to Hakase.

Onboard, he held his breath until he could hear his heart pounding in his ears, listening.

Utter silence.

He let his breath out slowly and relaxed, letting the stealth and tension run out of every muscle.

Safe.  That was always the sense he got when he entered the GodPhoenix.  The ship always felt safe to him, even when they were about to fly out on a dangerous mission.

He felt no harm would ever come to them while they were in the ‘Phoenix.  Once outside the safety of its wings and structure, they were fragile things that could be killed—not easily, of course, nor cheaply—but while they were within, they were like gods.

Ken shook his head at that thought, and trailed a hand along the corridor wall.  Where did that come from? he wondered.  Then he put it out of his mind and continued on.

He was here for a reason.

There was a space, just behind the bulkhead that defined the rear of the bridge.  It may have been originally intended for storage of some kind, or to provide access to some of the wiring above, or maybe it was just dead space as was sometimes found on ships of every design.  He didn’t know what purpose it really served, but he knew the purpose for which it was about to be put, and the eagerness in him was hard to subdue.

He was only a few steps away from his goal when he heard a sound, a whisper of movement.  It gave him an instant’s pause, but then it didn’t matter anymore, because he was there.

Joe was already there.  Even in the dim glow of the faux emergency lights running along the floor of the corridor, Ken could still see him clearly, imagination supplying the details he could not directly make out.

He was leaning against the bulkhead, as if he were simply waiting for Ken to arrive so he could ride him about something.  But . . .

Ken’s mouth went dry, and he had to swallow. 

Joe had undone his belt; the heavy buckle swung low with every breath he took.  His pants were open, too, and Ken could see he was stroking himself, slowly; his hips pushed out from the wall, undulating against the light pressure of his hand, his head was thrown back, the column of his throat a taut line that Ken immediately wanted to lick and bite.

And the expression he wore—eyes closed in sensation, lips parted to draw breath, the anticipation of bliss . . . Ken felt himself growing hard at the sight.

He must have made some sound—how he could have stopped from gasping on seeing Joe, he couldn’t imagine—because Joe’s head rolled against the wall to look at him, his eyes flickering open, heavy lidded with his arousal.  He licked his lips, and a soft noise rolled out of him, an almost breathless moan that eventually resolved itself into a word.  “Nnnnnmmmm, Ken . . .”

Ken shivered at the sound, his pants suddenly too tight to bear.  He slid into the confined space, and was assaulted by the scent of Joe—the warm tingling smell of his aftershave, the hint of perspiration, the musk of his excitement.  He flowed up against Joe, his mouth on Joe’s neck, his hands working up Joe’s shirt, one of his legs slipping between Joe’s.  He thrust against Joe’s hip, and Joe bucked up against him, another soft groan escaping him, eyes fluttering shut again.

His hands ran over hot skin, trembling muscles and striated scars.  Then Ken worked his way up Joe’s throat to his mouth.  The kiss they shared was, as ever, too much of a contest to really go by that name, tongues twining, teeth scraping, hard and wet.  Joe’s fingers clenched in his hair, and Ken growled at the pull against his scalp, disengaged from Joe’s mouth.  Thwarted, he bit at Joe’s neck once more, sharper this time, suckling harder, and Joe quivered, his hand sliding down from Ken’s hair to clutch at his shirt.

Ken’s hands reversed direction, blunt nails scraping against flesh.  One of them snuck down further, down inside Joe’s wide open jeans, and began stroking Joe’s hardness, brushing his thumb over the crown, once, then again, again.

Joe’s head lolled back again, thumping against the bulkhead, and his fingers threatened to rend Ken’s shirt.  “God!” More sounds followed, words in a different language perhaps, but Ken didn’t care what they were, only what they meant.

He’d heard them before, or something just like them, and they meant he was driving Joe wild . . . which was exactly what he wanted to do.

What he’d wanted to do since seeing Joe pleasuring himself.

This time when his mouth covered Joe’s, there was no fight for dominance, just Joe’s lips opening willingly to admit his tongue, his fingers curling into Ken’s flyaway hair without intent to stop him.  This time, he actually got the flavor of Joe, the hot hollow of his mouth spicy and foreign, as if he’d eaten that paas-taa he so loved.

Ken pulled away of his own accord, but not completely, just far enough to feel Joe’s panting breaths against his lips.  His hand still stroking Joe’s erection, he whispered, “You got here first, Joe . . . what do you want to do?” Then, before Joe could even reply, he applied his lips to Joe’s throat once more.

Joe writhed against him, groaning, his hands leaving Ken’s hair to slide down his chest, his turn to let his nails dig into fabric, to leave red marks on flesh.

Still teasing, fondling, Ken leaned in again, his mouth at Joe’s ear.  “Joe?” He swiped his tongue over the whorls of his ear for good measure, and felt Joe’s hands fumble at his belt.

“. . . inside me . . .”

Ken almost didn’t recognize the husky murmur in his ear, so different from Joe’s normally basso voice, and the hand stroking him through his jeans wasn’t helping.  He let one finger trail up the underside of Joe’s cock, moving with exquisite slowness, over the flare of the crown to catch the first drop of pre-cum.  “What?” he asked, and nipped at the earlobe.

“Uhhnnnn . . .” Joe shuddered against him, pelvis jerking forward as Ken stopped moving his hand.  “Want you . . . inside me . . . now, damnit . . .”

Ken felt his prick throb, pressing urgently against the front of his jeans, and groaned.  He tried to muffle the sound in Joe’s neck, and Joe gave a breathless little huff of laughter that wound into a throaty moan when Ken ground their hips together.

A bit roughly, he spun Joe around to face the bulkhead, even as Joe was trying to shuck off his pants.  He managed to get them off one leg, then Ken grabbed his hips to position them, even as Joe was widening his stance.  His breath was harsh in the otherwise silent GodPhoenix; the only other sounds were the quiet humming of electronic gadgetry that never powered off and the ‘purr’ of Ken’s zipper.

Ken was panting as he shoved his own jeans down, and he had them halfway down his thighs before he remembered the crumpled tube of lubricant he’d tucked into one pocket.  Somehow he worked his hand into that pocket, fighting with the fabric where it had bound up, and grabbed the tube.

“Ken . . .” Joe glanced back at him over one shoulder, the arousal on his face starting to give way to impatience and annoyance.

Ken fumbled with the tube for a second, fighting with the cap, and then the lube—warm from the heat of his body—coated his fingers.  Before Joe could give him another look of frustrated desire, Ken pushed him forward, searching between the cheeks of his ass . . .

“Nnnnn!” For a fraction of a second, Joe tensed, and Ken stopped, feeling the muscle around his finger tighten in reaction.  Then, with a moan, he forced himself to relax, to allow Ken to open him up.  “Hurry up!” he hissed, pushing himself further onto Ken’s hand.

Ken nearly abdicated thought at that, slid a second finger into Joe, and watched him shudder.  With his other hand, he squeezed out the last of the lube onto his own cock, then smeared it until he was slick enough, dropping the now-useless tube in his haste.  As he withdrew his fingers, Joe made a sound that Ken would have called a whine, if it had been anyone else, and he’d had more than a couple ounces of blood with which to think.

Then he was pushing himself into Joe, and Joe was panting beneath him like there wasn’t enough air, and he was surrounded by a tight heat that became his whole existence.  It felt like a lifetime later that he was fully sheathed inside Joe, his front brushing against Joe’s back, and it was all he could do to brace himself against Joe, his head resting against sweat-damp cotton, and just quiver.

“Move, damn it!” And Joe’s breathless demand was accompanied by a tensing of muscles, and Ken could only gasp and do as he was bid.

His hands gripped bruisingly hard at Joe’s hips, fingers digging in as he tried to control Joe’s own movement.  But Joe would have none of that, and Ken was forced to speed up, to give up trying to angle his thrusts.

Back, forth, back, faster, faster, and when Joe suddenly cried out and shuddered, Ken knew he’d hit the right spot.  He tried to hit it again, succeeded, and his head spun as Joe’s passage contracted around him in reaction.

So close . . .

His vision was starting to go hazy around the edges.  Abandoning the hold he had on Joe’s hip, he slid one hand down to wrap around his cock, stroking his fist firmly down once, twice . . .

Joe gave a low, drawn out groan, so deep that it seemed to come from his toes, jerking as he came, his ass clenching around Ken’s cock.  Ken bit down hard on Joe’s shoulder, the cotton of his shirt against his tongue, as he climaxed, and his vision did more than just waver—it actually went black at the edges.


Ken blinked, tried to answer, and realized he still had a mouthful of Joe’s shirt, now damp with saliva.  He spat it out, tried to get his mouth wet again and managed a gravelly, shaky “What?”

“Next time,” and Joe’s voice wasn’t nearly as steady or cocky as it usually was, either, “you can get here first.”

Ken snorted, still trying to regain his breath.  “What’s to stop me from choosing to do it this way again?” Slowly, he withdrew, and Joe trembled, muscles gripping him for a moment before releasing again.

Joe rolled over against the wall, leaning against it again, staring at Ken, eyes half-lidded.  Casting an eye over his second, Ken couldn’t help but think how thoroughly debauched he looked; pants trailing by one leg, shirt rucked up but still spattered with cum, streaks of it on his stomach, running down the wall next to him.

Even so recently sated, his cock tried to twitch.

“Next time, you get here first,” Joe repeated, then closed his eyes.  “And just listen.

Ken leaned against the opposite wall, watching Joe carefully.  “Listen?”

“Mmm.”  Continuing to come down off the orgasmic high, Joe shivered and nodded.

Ken tilted his head to one side and closed his eyes.  After listening intently for a moment, he shook his head, not caring that Joe wasn’t looking. “I don’t . . .”

“’S not doing it now,” Joe replied, and sighed.  When Ken looked again, Joe had slid down the wall to sit on the floor, legs sprawled.

He opened his mouth to say . . . then closed it again, looking up at the corrugated metal ceiling and frowning thoughtfully.

He could have sworn he just saw a light through the latticework flash on and off.

Just then the heavy, heady aroma of sex swirled through the small space, lingering in Ken’s nose.  He glanced down at Joe, still collapsed on the floor, eyes closed, and sighed.  “We should get going,” he said quietly.  “And clean up a bit . . .” Carefully, he wiped his still-sticky hand on his shirt, carefully tucked himself away and zipped up his jeans.

“Jesus, Ken,” Joe muttered, opening his eyes at last. “Why come here if we just have to leave when we’re done?  At least if we went to your place, we’d have a bed to crash on afterwards . . .”

Helplessly, Ken shrugged.  “I don’t know, I just . . . I like it here.”  He held out a hand to help Joe to his feet.

“You’re just kinky, that’s all.” Joe grabbed the proffered hand and hauled himself to his feet, then had to brace himself against Ken to avoid falling over when his pants tried to trip him.  Not quite recovered enough to support them both just yet, Ken’s back slammed hard into the opposite wall.

“No, that’s not it! I . . . feel safe here.” His voice dropped on the last few words; he’d never confessed that particular secret to anyone before.

Joe snorted, and leaned heavily into Ken, no longer trying to sort out his pants.  “Safe, hmm?” Without warning, he kissed Ken, not as savagely as they had before, but with definite intent.  When he pulled back, they were both out of breath again.  “You sure about that?”

Ken silenced him with another kiss, and tried to remember if Joe had yet gotten into the habit of carrying lube with him.

And as he tilted his head back, he could have sworn he saw the flicker of a light above the ceiling, almost if the ship were winking at him.


February 20, 2006

©randi (K. Shepard), 2006