Written by Alexandra Kwan
Based on some situations originated by James Cameron.

Rated NC-17 for Content
Warning: This is a slash story. If this makes you uncomfortable, please don’t read it.

A smile on his lips, Caledon Hockley stepped into the room. Both Lovejoy and the boy Dawson looked in his direction. The Pittsburgh native nodded at Lovejoy and Cal's valet left the room, shutting the door silently. Hands inside his trouser pockets, Cal strode forward until the two men were face-to-face. Lips pressed into a thin line, Jack raised his chin.

Past the metal pipes, Cal's right hand snaked out of his pocket to cup the other man's face. Jack took a step back, alarmed, his eyebrows jumping.

The hand moved to stroke the golden strands of hair. Then the grip tightened.

The blond jerked his head away, the pretty mouth slack with confusion and pain. The thirty-year-old brought his hand back into his pocket and walked around his captive, glancing up and down the slender figure, who continued looking at the door.

"Was she good?"

Jack's head whipped to the side to face his rival. "What?"

Cal calmly smiled. "I said, was she good?"

"That's…that's none of your business."

"Considering that she's my fiancée, I'd say it's very much my business." Cal moved in front of the blond, whose gaze followed the older man obediently.

"She isn't going to marry you. Not after--"

"Not after you fucked her?"

Jack winced. "Don't use that word."

"No? I thought that's how you, pardon, your people, describe such an act."

"My people. Pardon, as you've said, but you know nothing of my people."

The younger man craned his neck to keep the eye contact as the older one once again stood behind him. "And I didn't fuck her. I made love to her."

Cal shrugged. "As if you'd know the difference."

"Of course I know the difference. For example, if you and Rose did actually marry--"

"We will. And Jack? You're quite apparently laboring under a false impression. I don't care to know what you've done to my Rose." Cal's hand stroked down the boy's spine, whose owner struggled away from the large hand.

"But rest assured that when I'm finished with you, you'll know very intimately what that difference is."

A trace of fear finally colored the boy's face. "A man can't f-fuck another man."

"Then all your time in Paris didn't teach you anything." A bubble of laughter escaped the older man, who, with his finger, drew a circle, through the fabric of the shirt, on the small of Dawson's back. "And you, Jack, are merely a boy. It wasn't wise for you to try playing a man's game, and, now, you're going to pay a man's price for it."

"No, you can't. You--"

"Go on. Scream all you want." Cal roughly but easily tore off Jack's trousers and undergarments. They pooled at the young man's feet, Jack shivering lightly at the temperature. "No one can hear you. They're all escaping into the lifeboats."

"You're crazy, and…and--" Jack struggled to stepped forward, to put the pipes between the two of them, but his opponent lifted him off the ground and bent him over the pipes.

"Yes, I might be crazy, but I'll be the one living at the end of this." The tone was dry but quite smug.

Jack ground out a low and guttural "No, you bastard!"

But the words did not deter the older man. Cal laughed. "Sorry to inform you, but my parents were appropriately in wedlock when I was conceived."

Jack snorted, but reigned in his retorts. The older man's smart-aleck comments were annoying enough as it was. It would be idiotic for him to add insult to his own injuries. As the silence permeated the room, Jack realized that he could hear the soft noise of cloth rustling and buttons slowly being removed from buttonholes. His mind shrieking of forthcoming horrors, the young man tried throwing his weight toward the front, hoping to roll off the pipes, but a steady hand on his buttocks kept him precariously balanced.

A soft chuckle came from the older man, but Jack could not truly care at this point. The pipes were extremely cold against his body, especially against that very important part of his anatomy. If his appendages froze off--he stopped the thought before he could start screaming. No way in hell would he give the bastard the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

The hand was then joined by its counterpart, handling Jack easily, as if the younger man was no more than a child. The hands spread the blonde’s legs, then the forefinger of the right hand snaked inside him. Jack surged forward, but could not dislodge the left hand on his hipbone. In fact, the hand kept him from falling headfirst onto the metal floor.

The finger forced its way in, the burn immediate. A groan escaped the young man, and he winced, appalled at his own lack of control. Fine. So what if the arsehole was going to…going to--damn, the bastard was going to fuck his arsehole. The blond was, quite frankly, terrified. But he refused to scream; he would take it like a man to disprove his enemy's words. Eyes closed, Jack chanted silently to himself, He won't win. He won't win. He won't win.

Another finger drove in, and Jack bit his lip to halt the reflexive whimper at the pain. The two fingers pulled at every angle, widening and stretching his small entrance. They withdrew and the younger man breathed a sigh of relief. Then he discovered that his torture was far from over. Coated with some unknown gel, the fingers came back and slid in much easier this time. Slowly, they oiled his passage, smoothing the way. They departed again, and, once more, inserted themselves in, coated with the gel, three fingers now. Then the fingers were removed, the hands softly kneading the blonde’s buttocks. They suddenly grasped Jack's hip and forced his pelvis back. A searing pain, disguised as the older man's cock, ripped through the blonde’s body.

Jack bit back another scream, only to hear the soft snort of laughter from Caledon. The two men stayed still, very still for a long minute. The gold-haired one not able to move because of the pain; the black-haired one waiting for the other to relax so that he could move. The man from Pittsburgh spoke again, his tone sardonic and coldly amused, but it took a while for the words to register in the young man's mind.

"You know, it'd actually hurt less if you relaxed, Jack."

Hurt less were the only words the blond truly comprehended at this point. So he quickly obeyed, forcing himself to relax, to let in the whole of the older man's member. It was beating like a heart inside him, hot and pounding, each pulse lessening the pain as he himself calmed. Jack then shuddered, the icy weather clearing his brain. His only source of heat was from the other man's body, the body that was deliberately pulling back and then thrusting in. The pain had finally morphed into numbness, and the younger man did not know what to do. He hated the cold, but…but--strong arms wound around the blond and they lifted his body off the pipes, though the young man's wrists were still chained. The large hands traced across Jack's hips to his shriveled cock. Stroking, massaging, the hands faithfully coaxed into existence the younger man's aroused hardness. Tendrils of enjoyment wove into the act, pain a completely forgotten memory now. As their rhythm steadied, Jack's erection finally made an appearance. The blond whimpered, giving in, allowing himself the excuse that he vowed not to moan when in pain; nothing was said about pleasure.

And pleasure it was. Great was the dose of pain, greater still the dose of ecstasy. Jack could feel himself letting go, could feel himself also thrusting, contributing to both men's gratification. The younger man moaned, whimpered, and finally screamed to his heart's delight. Bliss like this demanded a complete surrender and he gladly jumped into it. He came then, his cock spurting semen all over Caledon's hands. The black-haired man thrust for half a minute more, then also relinquished his body into the depths of orgasm.

They rested for a moment, then the older man pulled out of the younger one, drew out a handkerchief from his trousers' pocket, and wiped them both clean. After carelessly throwing the handkerchief to a corner of the room, he fastened his trousers, and then Dawson's. His face impassive, he walked back to stand in front of Jack. The two men's gazes holding, Caledon slowly took the brass key from his coat pocket. He looked down at it for a moment, then put the key inside the lock of the handcuffs, but did not turn it.

Gracefully, he pressed in to kiss Jack. The blond, surprised, did not respond at first, then slowly opened his mouth. They kissed for a while, tongues dueling. Expression still guarded, Jack broke the kiss and lifted his wrists, obviously wanting the older man to release him.

Caledon tilted his head, still studying the blond. "What do you think exactly happened between us?"

Blushing, the younger man stood up from his slight slouch, but looked down at his feet.

"A trade agreement, perhaps? You slept with me, and, therefore, you should have your freedom? Is that so?"

A timid nod was still a nod.

Smiling, the older man grasped the younger one's chin and raised it. Meeting those startled eyes, Cal snorted. "I don't care for whores. Now, if you hadn't given in so easily--" His right hand still on the boy's chin, the left one pulled back out from the lock the small brass key and held it in front of the blonde’s face. "Look at it closely, Jack, for this is the last time you'll see it." The Pittsburgh native dropped the key back into his pocket.

Jack snapped up his head, furious now. "You took me against my will!"

Cal sneered and slapped the boy. The blond flinched, but the blow connected solidly.

"I did nothing of the sort. You kissed me back." Then the older man turned sharply around and marched out of the room.

Slamming the door shut, he took out his pocket watch and, looking at it, shook his head. He wasted too much time already; better ran up and secure himself, Rose, and Mrs. Bukater seats on the lifeboats. One last glance at the door caused him to laugh delightedly. He had never intended to free the boy in the first place. As always, it was so disgustingly simplistic to mess with people's heads that he almost pitied them.

Almost.

The End.

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