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Vincent is fuming. Tristan's not exactly sure why—he had been having a half-decent conversation with Aza (an almost treasured rarity) while the three of them wandered across Cloister's surface to track down some logs in exchange for a keycard. Despite the fact that Marisol would have been far better suited for this quest, Tristan had thought things were going quite well! Neither of them tried to decapitate the other for a full three hours! Yet, the moment their boots hit the cargo hold of the ship, and Aza skittered off, Vincent's pleasant smile waned to a scowl. At first, Tristan had assumed Vincent had remembered something particularly annoying that needed doing, such as scrubbing his armour. But as the minutes dragged by, filled with showering and Tristan following Vincent around like a stray Canid, Vincent had yet to say a single word. Not that there were many people around to speak to, as Marisol is currently leading an expedition of Inez and Niles to the Archives for some equation or other, and Aza is apparently giving them a wide berth.
In hindsight, that should have been Tristan's first clue. Unfortunately, he often missed clues of the social variety.
So, as he follows Vincent into the other man's quarters, he is entirely caught off guard by Vincent's stern: "Get on the bed."
"Beg pardon?"
Vincent folds his arms across his chest, affixing Tristan with a withering glare.
"Don't make me repeat myself."
"Is something the matter, Vincent?" Tristan asks in honesty, suddenly feeling rather exposed in nothing but the cozy Protectorate-standard robe he had walked back from the showers in.
"Yes! By the Architect! You—!"
"Me?" Tristan asks incredulously.
"You wander around, swinging your dick at anyone who dares have a differing opinion—!" Vincent crosses the room to prod a finger into the centre of Tristan's carpeted chest— "I'm going to teach you some fucking manners, you damned brat. Get on the bed."
Much to Tristan's horror, his dick fattens. He should bite back, insist that he's only upholding the Protectorate, especially to someone so wayward as Aza. Yet… The stern look creasing Vincent's brow and his commanding demeanour send a shiver down his spine. He has half a mind to bite back and egg Vincent on further, but they've had pettier arguments, and right now Tristan is in no mood to argue.
So he gets on the bed, head pillowed by folded arms, arse stuck high in the air.
Thank the Paradigm they just showered… ah. That might have been the reason Vincent waited so long to bring this up. Not that Vincent had anything against sweat and grime—the number of times they'd rutted in their armour with Vincent's face buried in Tristan's armpit could attest to that—but Tristan had the sneaking suspicion that this was going to go much farther than mere frottage. His dick twitches pathtically at the thought, already half-hard, and Vincent has barely touched him. Sovereign, please let him last long enough for Vincent to follow through with whatever "punishment" he's concocted to teach Tristan some manners. He can learn, he can be a good boy. He's almost desperate to prove it.
Then the click of the radio echoes through the room like a pistol shot, and suddenly all Tristan can hear is Wireless Free Arcadia.
Oh fuck.
Anything but that!
The bed dips behind him as the host announces some advertisement song that Tristan can barely stand. Vincent knows as much, the bastard! Out of respect, the radio is always tuned to either Order or Protectorate stations during their travels. He's almost certain Vincent himself can't stand the music. At least, so he had thought.
This is not the punishment Tristan had in mind.
"Vincent—"
"Shut up—" Vincent presses against a nasty bruise Tristan gained from a melee combatant. Tristan flinches and bites down a moan— "Did I say you could speak?"
Tristan's dick twitches as he desperately tries to rack his brain for the last time Vincent treated him like this. He comes up empty-handed because Vincent is rarely mean (not never, but he certainly leaves the intimidation and threats to Tristan's looming presence). In all honesty, Tristan can't figure out where this is coming from; Vincent wouldn't even spank him the other night when Tristan had tried goading him!
The confusion leaves Tristan completely at Vincent's mercy. One moment, the robe is draped against the back of his thighs, the next it's pooling around his armpits. A rough hand shoves his head further into the thin mattress, as cold lube strikes his backside. Tristan yelps at that, wholly unprepared. Vincent merely tuts, stroking Tristan's hole with his middle finger. Without thinking, Tristan pushes his hips back. The motion earns him the whole finger shoved roughly inside him, punching a gasp from his lungs at the sudden intrusion.
"Needy brat," Vincent snarls, twisting his wrist until he brushes against Tristan's prostate.
"No more needy than you," Tristan replies because he can't help himself.
The snark earns him a hand gripping his hair, roughly pulling him to a sitting position. At this angle, he can grind his hips down against Vincent's finger, earning him gentle tugs in his hair until he rolls his head to the side and exposes his neck. Vincent wastes no time biting down around the corded muscle there, working a second finger into him at the same time. Tristan's vision crosses, the pad of Vincent's middle finger stroking against his prostate for the first time. It's heavenly—then the crooning whine of capitalism cuts through the moment as the singer's voice emerges from beneath the instrumental backing. Utterly ruining any peeking arousal.
Vincent, however, is undeterred. He continues to scissor his fingers languidly in Tristan's arse, striking his prostate each time. His vicious teeth gnaw up and down Tristan's neck and shoulders, leaving behind a purple painting of bruises interspersed with the imprints of teeth. Tristan has never been more thankful that his Arbiter armour covers him head to toe, including a high collar. Otherwise, he is certain that any individuals they speak with tomorrow will ask if he was attacked by a wild animal. Or worse. But right now, his mind is stuck halfway between the moment and heaven, gorging itself on the pain intermixed with pleasure Vincent doles out to him in heaps.
Completely unconsciously, Tristan grinds his hips down on Vincent's hand and desperately claws his concentration to focus on the activity. It doesn't work; he still hears the radio keep time, refusing to allow him to slip into that pleasant, timeless void of sex.
He huffs, straining his voice to sound apologetic: "Can you please turn that infernal noise off?"
"Did I tell you to speak?" Vincent growls, forcing a third finger into Tristan.
Tristan moans, his head tipping back and hitting Vincent's shoulder.
"I said please!"
"I didn't ask for your unsolicited opinion. You will finish with the radio on or you won't finish at all."
"You are an arse," Tristan grumbles, shoving his hips roughly against Vincent's hand in hopes he might increase the pressure enough that it would distract from the radio entirely.
Vincent pushes Tristan forward so his head lands on the pillow once again, barely managing to catch himself in time. His hand stills completely; Tristan is not nearly desperate enough to beg for it (yet).
"You're greed is worse than those fucking capitalists," Vincent snarls, dragging his nails down Tristan's back and leaving raised marks behind. "Speak when spoken to or don't speak at all; so far, you haven't given me a reason not to kick your sorry arse out of my bed. You're lucky you're even here to begin with after you spent the whole day griping at Aza."
"It would be easier to do so without the blasted radio on!"
"That's the point of a punishment, or did the Protectorate coddle you like an Order initiate?" Vincent snarls, harking back to one of the subjects of his earlier debate with Aza.
Tristan shuts his mouth lest he say something incredibly foolish and wind up sleeping in his own bunk tonight. Besides, there's no real heat behind his words. Vincent's anger is far more attractive than it is infuriating. He merely wanted to see how far he could push the other man, and clearly, he's pushed Vincent far enough.
"Good boy." The words are more venom than they are praise, yet Tristan devours them all the same. A glob of spit lands on his back, and Vincent smears it into his skin. Tristan's dick jumps between his legs despite the radio; the disgust is overpowered by his desire to be marked by the other man. If he were of sounder mind at present, he would blame the Protectorate for such idiotic notions of ownership (arbiter training raises you up to be an independent beacon of justice—it's nice to let someone else take the reins for once).
Despite the radio, Tristan eventually loses track of the passage of time. Vincent continues to twist and contort his fingers inside of him, stroking his prostate constantly with varying degrees of pressure. Tristan's hips twitch involuntarily, stuck between pushing back for more and drawing away for some semblance of relief. Every time he gets close, the radio manages to sneak back into his mind and completely ruin him, even with Vincent's consistent presence. Eventually, it renders him a drool, whining mess, biting his own tongue so he doesn't speak out of turn again. He can ignore it. He will ignore it. He's so fucking close, if only the song would cut to an instrumental break right now—
Vincent's fingers pull out of him suddenly, leaving him dreadfully empty. Tristan gasps for a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in, heaving air into his lungs. The bed dips briefly, and Vincent's return is heralded by the popping of a lube bottle top. Eagerly, Tristan relaxes into the pillows, thinking Vincent's fingers are starting to ache, and he is switching to his dick. For such a slender man, Vincent's cock is a miraculous creation; thick in all the right places and decorated by a silver Prince Albert piercing.
Something hard presses against his arse. Tristan welcomes it gratefully, only to find it unwieldy and cold. Chancing a glance behind himself, he sees Vincent grasping a silicone dildo with an almost manic look in his eye. The other man's cock hangs heavy between his legs, lifting his robe and leaving a steadily growing wet spot of pre-cum on the material. Tristan doesn't need to look down to know there's a puddle beneath him as well.
Catching his eye, Vincent drags his nails lightly up Tristan's back. At the same time, he steadily begins to piston the dildo in and out of him, as if daring Tristan to continue to snark at him. Tristan is far too gone to even consider the notion. Instead, he sinks lower into the bed, spreading his knees as wide as the cramped bunk will allow him to welcome the intrusion. With each stroke, the dildo curves perfectly against Tristan's prostate, drawing him closer to orgasm with each thrust.
Then the song switches to Yearning and Earning, causing Tristan to lose his tenuous grasp on climax. This time, he has the mind to let out a frustrated huff and nothing more.
"Good boy," Vincent praises, his voice dripping with saccharine sincerity as he thrusts the dildo.
"Please," Tristan begs between moans, so close yet unable to grasp his attention long enough to cum.
"Please, what?" Vincent humours him, drumming his fingers on the swell of Tristan's arse.
"Please fuck me—Soverign, I can't finish with the radio on!" Paradigm, when had he resorted to begging? Is he truly driven mad with pleasure?
Vincent tuts, as if scolding a Sprat who snuck aboard the Incognito.
"Have you learned your lesson?"
"Yes! I'll be nice. I'll do anything. Just have mercy on me, Vincent, please," Tristan says, dropping his shoulders further to present his arse. He doesn't dare look over his shoulder at Vincent, though, fearing he looks truly desperate and would destroy the last shred of respect Vincent has for him.
"Such a good boy. See? I told you I would teach you some manners," Vincent hums, sounding rather pleased with himself as he gets off the bed again. Leaving the dildo in Tristan. He puckers his arse around it, trying to hold it in place.
The radio clicks again, not off but switched to a new station. As Vincent returns to the bed, Gloria Arcadia rings throughout the room. Little preamble is given, with Vincent sliding the dildo free and replacing it with his own cock, beginning to thrust almost immediately.
It's horrible. It's indignant. It's entirely Vincent.
Tristan cums on the third stroke, drooling a string of 'thank yous' onto the bedsheets beneath him. Vincent continues to fuck into him as Tristan's hole flutters, finishing shortly after (clearly as affected by their activities as Tristan). Tristan can't even bring himself to care that he wasn't fucked for longer. Not as Vincent collapses next to him and curls their bodies together. All he cares about right now is pulling Vincent closer, broad shoulders eclipsing the other man's lithe body.
"I am sorry; I had not realized my conversation with Aza was affecting you so much."
Vincent sighs wearily: "It's okay, now at least. I only wish you two would get along, despite your differences."
"She is a cultist who abandoned the Paradigm for a false prophet—" Vincent shoots him a withering glare, and Tristan swallows thickly— "Perhaps I can try to be more cordial. Only because we are part of the same crew."
"Better," Vincent concedes, tucking himself under Tristan's chin. "Could you really not finish to that music?"
"It was wretched! How can one be expected to maintain concentration when such capitalist propaganda is filling their ears?"
Vincent giggles and kisses the underside of his jaw, right beneath the carefully shaved beard.
"I don't think you should have told me that, love. That's dangerous knowledge in my hands."
"I trust you to use it responsibly," Tristan says despite his internal panic, because he does, genuinely, trust Vincent. Maybe that's the part that scares him the most…