Undertow was written as something of an exercise in ambiguity and redefinition. Every one of my betas used the word "disturbing" to describe it. The schizophrenic soundtrack to which I wrote featured Sarah McLachlan's "Full of Grace" (specifically for the lyric "pulled down by the undertow") and Tool's album "Undertow." The brave betas who tackled this bad boy were Eliza, Emerald, and Gwynedd Rook. They make this compulsion a lot more fun.

I pretend to be asleep when I hear the cabin door open, much good as it will do me. I once thought of locking the door, but there are no old-fashioned bolts on the seaQuest, and an electronic lock is less than useless against him. If I could tell him no and mean it, an electronic lock would work.

But then, if I could tell him no and mean it, I wouldn't need a lock. He's a bright boy; he only comes because he knows I want it. I've never said it aloud, but he knows.

God help me.

There's the soft sound of his bare feet taking the few steps down and then across the floor to my bunk. A pause, and I know he can see me in the ambient light of my cabin porthole. That thought is enough to touch off the memory of his face in that same light, and I'm lost before he even whispers my name.

"Nathan."

Only here does he call me that, and I can never stop my reaction to it, to him. My eyes open, and I'm staring up at him, the water flowing past the porthole painting half his face in ever-shifting patterns. His eyes are huge and dark, his hair tousled from restless sleep, his face pale and drawn with the need we never speak of. The need, I've found to my eternal self-recrimination, that I share.

I'm a decade older than his father. I have no business touching him. He shrugs off his bathrobe and pulls off his tee-shirt and I find I can't stop touching him.

I come up on my elbow and draw him down to the bunk so he's half beneath me, that soft golden hair tangled on my pillow, his eyes on my face. I brush his cheek with one hand and he turns into the touch, his lips touching my palm, then his tongue. I lean down and press my own lips to the side of his neck, tasting him. I can never get enough of his taste. Clean and mild and so, so young. I move up to his ear, biting the lobe gently, and he makes a sound, his mouth opening against my hand.

That's all it takes, and I turn his face back to me to plunder his mouth. He tastes like chocolate here, chocolate and mint and I'm starving, I'm always starving for him, I can't get enough. As I kiss him, my hand wanders down his body. His skin is so soft, so unlined, so different from my own weather-beaten, aged hide. He doesn't seem to mind, though. His hands do their own exploring, he caresses my scars and wrinkles as though he finds them beautiful.

He is beautiful. I thought so the first time I saw him and, horrified at myself, buried the thought so deep I was sure I'd never have to admit to it. Instead, it grew roots, until I couldn't look at him without it tainting every glimpse with the longing it held. I would find myself caught by the way his eyes so perfectly mirrored the color of the ocean and be blindsided by the sudden desire to drown in them. I would tell him to get a haircut because the urge to run my fingers through all that hair was almost more than my self-control could take. I found myself praying he'd have a bout of acne like a normal kid and remind me of our age difference, but his skin remained flawless, cream-pale from the lack of sun in our artificial environment. The first time I saw him in a wetsuit was a lesson in how well my UEO uniform fit in certain areas. A lesson that has since been repeated more times than this old man will ever admit.

My hand brushes his boxers, and I cup the hardness there. He makes a small sound into my mouth and bucks against me, his hands tugging insistently at my tee-shirt. I move back enough to allow him to pull it over my head and off of me, and it joins his tee-shirt and robe on the floor as he reaches for me. I follow his lead and meet his mouth again, briefly, but I'm too hungry and too impatient and I want....

Oh, what I want.

I explore him with my mouth, his eyelids and ears and the long stretch of his throat, greedily drawing noises of pleasure and need from him. He tries to return the favor, tries to draw me back into range with restless hands, but I have a goal tonight and I intend to reach it before all my control is lost. His hands wander into my hair and stay there as my mouth closes on his nipple. I suck and lick and nip in time to the rhythm of my thumbs circling his navel as my hands frame his waist. He arches toward my mouth and I switch nipples, teasing him, keeping him on edge.

"Nathan," he says again, "please...."

"Lucas," I breathe against his skin and abruptly run my tongue in one long line from his chest down his stomach to plunge it into his navel. He gasps and his hands tighten in my hair. He's not used to my mouth down here, we've really done little more than jerk each other off.

That changes tonight.

I curve my hands around to cup his ass and urge him up. He lifts his hips and I slide his boxers down his legs, pulling away from him long enough to drop them atop the pile of clothing on the floor. I stare at him, naked for me, flushed and aroused, sealight dancing along the clean lines of his long, smooth limbs. He shifts under my eyes, as though caught between posing for me or covering himself in embarrassment. I frame his hips once more with my hands, bend my head, and take the choice away from him.

Down here, he tastes like the sea, salt and moisture and deadly, fragile things. But where the sea is cold, he is the heart of a fire; the heat of him could incinerate me. The heat and the sounds he makes and the way he moves, his fingers tight in my hair but not moving, when I can tell by the tension in the rest of his body that he wants to grab hold and ram himself up into my mouth. He's breathing so fast I think he might hyperventilate. That's not on the agenda yet, so I reluctantly allow him to slip from my mouth and move up his body, letting my own dick rub against his through the fabric of my boxers.

"Breathe," I murmur against his ear, and he turns to capture my lips, sucking my tongue into his mouth, his hips bucking up against me in blatant invitation.

It's an invitation I've sworn to myself I will never take. In my weaker moments, I can convince myself what we're doing now is nothing serious, nothing that will really hurt him. If we ever do more than this, though....

"My robe," he says, letting me breathe at last. I stare at him for a moment, confused and alarmed by the desperation in his voice and eyes. He tries to twist under me, reaching for the pile of discarded clothing. "In the pocket of my robe, Nathan, please."

With a sinking feeling I lean down over him and grab the robe. I pull it to me and reach into the pocket, my fears confirmed as my fingers close on the bottle of lube. Of course he wants it. He wants everything. That's why he came to me. I can deny him almost nothing.

I have to deny him this.

Something must show in my face, because he catches hold of me, forcing me to meet his eyes as I loom over him. He won't say it, but I know. It isn't enough anymore. What we're doing isn't enough anymore. He's desperate, and it hurts, and I still have to say no.

"It's not an option, Lucas," I say as gently as I can, and the pain in his eyes turns to anger.

"Why not? What the hell do you think we're doing here?" His face changes again and he shoves hard at me suddenly. I have to grab him to keep from tumbling out of my own bunk, and he twists under me, forcing me to hurt him. I let my weight drop on him to hold him still.

"Lucas, listen to me--"

His eyes are water bright, water deep. I wonder if, at this moment, he wants me to drown in them as much as I always want it. "No. You think I don't know what you're thinking? You think if we don't fuck, it's not sex, and you don't have to feel guilt--"

I kiss him hard to shut him up, launching a counter-attack against his bitter echoing of my thoughts. He fights me, but he can't get any leverage in his current position. He tries to arch up against me and I rock my hips into his. He gasps, his mouth opening under mine; I take advantage of the moment and slip my tongue inside, tasting him again. I half expect him to bite me. I don't expect him to sob into my mouth and surrender suddenly, all the tension draining from him like water. I'm forced to pull back to keep from crushing him into the mattress and he attempts to slip out from under me.

Something in me snaps at that; I grab his upper arms and haul him back up, grab his wrists when he raises his hands to push me away and force them over his head, then drop back down on him hard enough to force the air from his lungs. The anger in his eyes is diluted with fear now, fear that grows as I take both wrists in one hand and reach down to free my dick with the other. I settle between his open legs, and his mouth opens slightly at that unknown touch of flesh. I start to rock as I raise my hand again to trace his jaw, one finger brushing against his lips.

"You don't know what you're asking for," I say almost to myself.

His eyes flash mutinously. "I know--"

I lean in to replace my finger with my mouth, running my hand lightly over his throat, tweaking one nipple, tracing his ribs and the curve of his hip and then curling my fingers loosely around his dick. He flexes under me and swears incoherently into our kiss, a plea and a curse. I squeeze him once, then reach behind to caress his balls briefly, and then I steel myself and move further down to force one dry finger inside him up to the first knuckle.

He makes a choking sound and I press my lips to his ear. "This is just my finger, Lucas. Just the tip of one finger. I really don't think you want anymore of me inside you."

He gasps for breath, then spits through clenched teeth. "Damn you, it wouldn't be like this. You wouldn't--"

I press my finger in to the second knuckle and he breaks off with an almost soundless cry, arching up in an attempt to escape the invader. His body is taut and still, except for his ass muscles clenching and spasming around me. He's so tight, and so hot, and I want.... I can't resist starting to rock against him again, working to arouse his softened flesh. I tell myself it will make the lesson that much more pointed.

I almost believe it.

"You don't know what it would be like," I whisper to him. "You don't know what I would be like."

He sobs once and tugs at his trapped wrists. I capture his mouth with mine, pushing my finger all the way inside him, ruthlessly seeking his prostate and pressing it hard. I swallow his scream as he convulses against me, his dick jerking against mine. I ease my finger back a little and stroke again, gentler. His eyes slide closed. Something between a moan and a sob is lost against my lips and his hips rock beneath me as he mindlessly seeks more stimulation.

"You don't know," I murmur into the kiss. His answer is to force himself to stillness, his eyes opening again to stare up into mine, huge and dark and bottomless. Something in them forces me back enough for him to speak.

"You don't know."

The words are near soundless, but they rock me as if he screams them. I realize, suddenly, that I'm holding him down in my bed with the weight of my body, that I have my finger up his ass and my dick is hard and leaking against his. I'm hurting him, as I swore I wouldn't. I'm hurting him, as I have been all along.

I drop my head to take his lips again, gently this time. He resists, his mouth closed to me. So I brush my finger across his prostate once more and give him a whispered order.

"Come for me, Lucas."

I've pushed him so far that it doesn't take much more than that. Another few strokes, my hips grinding into his, and he comes with a thin cry between clenched teeth, eyes shut tight. The first splash of warmth against my skin triggers my own release, and I gasp his name, shuddering. Guilt does amazing things for sex, I guess; it's the most intense orgasm I've had since we started this.

I pant against his skin in the aftermath, fighting to keep from collapsing on top of him. When I can see straight again, I pull back enough to look at him, and find his teeth are still clenched, his nostrils flaring with each labored breath. Something sick and painful coils in my gut. As gently as I can, I slip my finger from his body and release his hands. I expect him to shove me again, but he only lowers his arms and begins to massage his right wrist with his left hand.

And then he opens his eyes.

"You going to tell me that wasn't sex, Nathan?"

Cool, cool voice. Eyes like a tsunami, and I'm being pulled down where there is no air. Pulled down to where I took him, where it's dark and cold and need is defined by the lies I tell. His eyes harden and when he speaks again, his voice is just as hard.

"Get. Off. Me."

It's more effective than any push. I draw back and he sits up, expressionless as he slides from the bunk to reach down for his clothes. His eyes never leave me as he dresses, and in the shifting light of the porthole he looks elemental, remote. Untouchable. Untouched.

He shifts, and light flares over a mouth-shaped bruise on his chest. His hair is tangled, his lips kiss-swollen. My fists clench and I almost laugh aloud at myself. I never knew I was such an accomplished liar; bare minutes from taking him in my own bed, and I'm blinding myself to the evidence.

This is how I ended up on a deserted island for six years. Only this time, I don't think there's going to be any Bill Noyce coming to pull me out of the quicksand of my own mind. It just seems unfair that Lucas is going down with me.

"Lucas...," I murmur, and he stills, waiting. I expected him to interrupt and so I'm not entirely certain what I'm going to say. I'm surprised when what comes out is, "Please."

He tenses further, which I didn't think was possible. "Please what?"

I wait too long to answer that, and he turns toward the hatchway. I want to stop him, but I can't make myself move, and he looks back at me with his hand on the latch.

"I told you what I wanted," he says, and the low thread of anger and pain in his voice reaches out and swamps me. "When you figure out what you want, you let me know."

"Lucas," I say, starting forward, unable to leave it like this. His eyes freeze me in mid-motion.

"Don't. Captain."

The word guts me like a fish. Another lie between us, the thing I should be to him, the thing I would have been if I could deny him when he comes to me like this.

But I can deny him, can't I? Enough to be left drowning in his need.

And mine.

The cabin door clangs shut behind him, and the waterlight coming through the porthole is a tangible weight. Heavy, I imagine, as I am to him.

I wonder when I will go down under it.

~END~