A/N: This is a oneshot I wrote for a halloween anthology that can be found over at the Slash Pile livejournal comm.

Sympathy for the Devil

Tap tap tapon the sterile linoleum floor. Down the hallway, white and bleak and purely government issue. There are no windows. The lab is underground.

Milton has to drive for an hour to get there. He has to go through three security clearances, and then he has to drop down in a creaky elevator. Checking the last time the elevator was inspected (he checks every day), he sees... five years ago.

He leaves a note with his supervisor every time he clocks out, elevator has not been inspected. His notes go ignored.

"Hey, Milt." A coworker nods at him in the hallway. Milton nods back.

Reaching the locker room, Milton glances around. There's no one. He's the night shift boy, the one who's too low-clearance to do anything but observe. He shivers and pulls on his lab coat. Maybe one day, he will be promoted to day shift.

His eyes fall on the Board of Paranoia—rather, the mocking ode to all the citizens out there who were told they were crazy when they weren't. Demon from the Depths reads one torn out cover of a tabloid; The Devil is Among Us?asks another. The Board is covered with these, articles, and testimonials about the red thing that appeared five years ago and vanished just as quickly.

Milton checks his watch, a worn leather piece wrapped around his pale wrist. His skin is almost translucent at this point... not surprising. The night shift, underground. Sleeping behind thick curtains during the day. The sun is a myth at this point. Not that Milton cares; it isn't like he didn't spend his whole childhood in front of the pale glow of the computer, ignoring the world outside.

Stepping back out into the hallway, he nods at several more scientists, all of whom are wrapping up for the day. He barely knows them. Older men, thinning hair, beady eyes. Probably Milton's future. Not that he cares.

The hallway is long, but it only leads to one place: The Room. His government's secret. The place where Milton has spent hours upon hours of his life just sitting and staring at vital signs.

Not that he cares.

He pushes the door open, and there's a whoosh of cold air. Stepping inside, his eyes are instinctively drawn to the middle of the vast room, because that is where the light is, and that is where the subject is, encased in glass and lying on a machine that carefully monitors his every breath.

Milton has never seen the case open. Someone else inserted the needles into the subject's veins, while Milton's only responsibility is to press the button at the right time.

"There he is," John says. John is there for the tail end of the day shift—he has higher clearance than Milton, although they're both the same age at twenty-seven. Milton knows this because John told him, unprompted.

Milton tenses when John reaches out and snaps Milton's clearance card off his lab coat. "New one, eh? They replaced mine yesterday. So many hoops, right?" He eyes the card. "Milton Davies. Level-C. Black hair. Brown eyes. Glasses." He sniffs and looks up at Milton. "Kinda funny, ain't it? It's not like black hair, brown eyes and glasses are the rarest thing in the world. Any ol' imposter could pull that off."

Not wanting to engage John further, Milton shrugs and sets his backpack down the table next to the machine.

"Eh, well," John says, rubbing his thumb over the ID. "I s'pose that's why they add the picture, yeah? Of course, if I had to describe you, Milty, I'd say you—"

"It's unnecessary," Milton cuts in, because he does not need his gangly body, his limp black hair, and his vacant gaze explained to him by John. The cracked mirror in Milton's apartment does that well enough on its own.

Looking putout, John shrugs and flips the ID onto the table. "Suit yourself," he says with a faded smile, and then nods toward the machine. "It's all the same today. Give 'im the shot at midnight."


"We had some crackles from brain functions," John says, and this time Milton's interest is caught.


"Yeah, ol' Penderton's phone went off. Apparently, his granddaughter put some ringtone on it, some pop song. When it played, we got a spike in activity." A curious smile spreads on John's face. "Can you imagine? Could be a coincidence, but... what if he can hear us right now, yeah?"

Milton stares at him from over thick-framed glasses. "He's sedated."

"Yeah, but he ain't human," John says playfully, waggling an eyebrow.
Milton gives him a hard look, and John backs off with an "alright, alright," holding his palms up and retreating through the door. Turning around, Milton considers the subject, reaching forward to touch the glass. It's warm to the touch.

Red skin stretched over a frighteningly human-looking body; corded muscles that have never atrophied during these five years; a square jaw, strong nose. Bald. Milton was told that the subject's eyes are yellow, but he's never seen them. His face is expressionless. There's a towel thrown over his front for decency's sake, but the rest is bared for Milton's inspection.

If it were just these features, then maybe the subject could have passed as a human with some sort of genetic deficiency. But he has a crown of small ridges along the edge of his forehead, ridges that trail all the way down to both sides of his neck and give him a serpentine appearance. He is not human.

Five years ago he was brought here. Five years ago he was sedated. He has not stirred since. To think he might have spent those five years awake, completely aware of the nothingness around him...

Milton coughs, and it echoes. The room is so large that the light from the machine doesn't even reach the ceiling. For all he knows, they didn't bother building one, and all that's up there is sheer rock face. There is literally nothing in the room except the machine, a table and chair for Milton, and the endless darkness.

To be encased for five years, awake and paralyzed, with no stimulus... Milton would go mad.

He watches the rise and fall of the subject's chest. There are scars there, from when the subject was apprehended. Rumor is that he was slaughtering a town when the authorities caught him. Of course, that was a year before Milton was recruited to work at the lab, and info like that is only hearsay, so it would never be confirmed.

Milton taps once on the glass, and then lifts his hand. Nothing happens. Nothing would happen, would it? The subject is sedated. But his brain functions... Milton's lips thin. He won't tap on the glass again—that's the type of thing he'd be fired for. Idle curiosity can be tolerated to a point, but they're aiming cameras at him, of that he's sure.

He steps back and sits down on the metal fold-out chair. He stares for one more second, and then starts fiddling with his watch, setting the alarm for five minutes to midnight. With that out of the way, he zips open his backpack, the sound of which is louder than it should be.

Five years of zippers opening, papers rustling, and hushed speak about vital signs.

Setting out his crossword puzzles, he spreads them across the table. He brought— twenty. Should be enough to take him through the night. If not, he has a whole anthology in his locker. Tonight is word puzzle night. Tomorrow is book night. The night after that... logic puzzles. He keeps it varied, for the excitement.

He picks up his pen, studies the crossword. His lips part, and he whistles. It's one high, unbroken note, and then he goes quiet. Through the corners of his eyes, he glances at the subject. His eyes linger on the brain functions monitor. There was a light bleep, a small uptick. But it stood out.

The pen starts to slide from his hand, and he grips it, turning his focus back to the puzzle. He knocks out five answers, and then he's whistling again, only it's a song. Well, an approximation of a song... a song that doesn't exist. Milton discovers he does not have a wide range, but he whistles as many notes as he can, in what he hopes is a pleasing arrangement.

He taps his pen along with the whistling. Finally, he falls silent. In what he hopes is a pleasing arrangement?Pleasing for whom?

"Dumb," he mutters, and answers another word. The silence starts to push heavily into his ears, and he becomes painfully aware of the fuzzy white noise that usually buffers against the normal sounds of everyday life. It usually never bothers him this much, but... he thinks of having to live with it for five years.

"Ah," he coughs, and clears his throat. "I have to remember to buy groceries."

There is a tick of silence.

"Sometimes I forget."

He closes his eyes. If he keeps up with that, the shadows behind the camera will start to suspect that he's losing it. He glances down at his crossword puzzle. "Let's see... Seven letters, starts with p—"

He stops. Letters, those of the English language, are a human invention.

Sighing, he shuts his mouth and gets on with his puzzle. Silently.


The next night, Milton brings a book. Because it's book night, and not for any other particular reason. John nods at him, murmuring a hello, and Milton says, "I like to read aloud, to practice elocution."

John stares at him for a moment, mouth open. "Is that right?" he says finally, brushing his hand down his lab coat. Milton is aware that what he said is a non-sequitur, but at least it will give some credibility to what he plans to do. Most likely, they will chalk up his actions to Milton being an odd duck.

"You gonna be in a play?" John asks, gathering his things from the table.


John laughs, shaking his head. "Alright."

Watching him leave, Milton's face is blank. The door clicks shut, and he turns back to the machine. Lights beeping tell him that everything is as it should be. He sits down on the metal fold-out chair and unzips his backpack, taking out the ratty copy of a book he borrowed from the library.

Milton opens it to the first page and clears his throat. He reads the the title first, and then moves down the page, speaking slowly and clearly. He stops to define certain words, such as 'car,' before realizing that the subject won't understand English.

With a sigh, he sets the book down.

There is a beep from the machine.

Milton glances over—the brain activity is spiking higher than he's ever seen. His eyes move to the subject, but of course nothing has changed there.

Tracing his finger along the edge of the book, Milton glances down at the table. He flips the cover open again and continues reading out loud.


Today is logic puzzles. Milton also brings a small pair of speakers and his iPod. He sets them down on the table, and John eyes them, tapping his clipboard against his knuckles.

"Yeah," he says. "I guess it does get a bit...haha, well—"

"Am I not allowed?" Milton curtly asks.

John shakes his head. "No, no, no, I mean, yes. I just didn't realize you liked music, Milty."

Milton turns his head. "I do."

"Ah," John replies, and he ruffles his hair. He chuckles, shifting on his feet. "What kind of music, then?"


John laughs at this. "I shoulda guessed!"

Maybe he expects Milton to crack a smile, but Milton doesn't, and John's laughter dies. The silence of the lab seems especially pronounced. The dripping of the IV takes over, and Milton wonders how long John is going to just stand there. His shift is over; he should be leaving. Eyeing the door, Milton frowns.

"Well." John coughs. "Guess I'll see you tomorrow."

Milton remains standing until the door shuts behind John, and then he sits at the table. He switches on the speakers and the iPod, and the light strains of piano music fill the cavernous room.

Opening his logic puzzle book, Milton taps the table once with his pen, and then looks over at the machine. There are definite spikes in brain function. Milton turns the music up a little more, and then sits back with his puzzles.


"So, ah," John says, rubbing the back of his head, "really sorry about this..."

"It's fine," Milton replies.

"They just, don't want the music. And the reading."


John takes the hint and shuffles out of the lab. The door clicks shut, and Milton stands there, his hands clenched in fists. He was too naive to think his random foray into oratory practice would go unnoticed. Especially after whoever is watching heard John tell him about the brain functions.

"This is my job," he says, loudly and clearly. He sits down at the table and opens his book.


There are several men in the lab when Milton walks in the next day. They don't look up, but they mutter to each other quickly as he approaches. They give him looks. Milton is used to looks, has been since grade school. However, looks from men who are exactly like him feels like cause for worry. Suddenly, he is an outsider again.

"Milty!" John hurries over and grabs Milton's arms, bringing him to a halt. "There's some things..." He coughs and looks over at the other scientists, perhaps for support. They stare back. "Ah, yes, well," John continues, "seems you're being transferred soon. See, it's such a waste to keep you here doing nothing, so they're sending you to records!"

"Records?" Milton asks blankly. It hits him. "Records?"

That dank room with the file cabinets and the rolls and rolls of vital sign printouts. Records.

"Yep, you're...yes, going to be—"

Milton stops listening. His stupid, stupidempathy has gotten him exiled to records. He will never be able to sit with the subject again, will never get the chance to be there during the day...to see his yellow eyes, maybe. All of it, gone.

"Tonight?" he asks.

John shakes his head. "Oh, no, transfer papers are going through, plus you've already come in, so...this is your last night."

Milton nods. "And them..."

"We're leaving," John replies, gesturing toward the other scientists. "Just—finishing things up."

The other scientists leave, but John remains and gives Milton a glum look. "I know how much you wanted to be promoted in the lab, Milty," he says. "And I want you to know, it's not over yet. I'm really rooting for you!"

"Thank you," Milton says, and feels obligated to smile, but he doesn't.

John pats him on the shoulder and leaves. Milton is alone, for the last time, in the lab. He looks over at the machine, which is still a distance away and glowing brightly in the dark.

That shift, Milton doesn't press the button.


Milton is accustomed to monotony, so Records is not a huge trial for him. He doesn't get antsy; he just pores over the sheets and sheets of vitals, marking down every time he sees a change. The room is small and dim, windowless. He may feel a little claustrophobic, but that is to be expected after spending so much time in the vastness of the lab.

There is a dripping sound coming from some indeterminate location. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Even with the room being small, the light from Milton's lamp does not venture far and casts a tepid glow. Darkness surrounds him.

He wonders who is watching the subject. It is almost midnight, almost time to press the button. Likely nothing really happened because Milton didn't press the button. It was only one time, out of the thousands of times that button was pressed over the years.

Pulling out another stack of printouts, Milton starts slowly flipping through the sheets, his mouth set in a small frown. The lamp flickers.

Milton admits to himself that, although he is accustomed to monotony, Records seems to be on a level at which even rocks would find tedious. He can hear the footsteps of the people on the floor above. The thrum of the air conditioner only becomes apparent when it shuts off, leaving Milton in a silent, chilly void.

He hears footsteps again, but faster. Scientists running... Something to pay attention to.

The old wired phone on the wall erupts, and Milton jerks. Standing up, he approaches it with distaste, its shrill cries completely excessive in the tiny room. He pulls it off the cradle and brings it to his ear.

"Milty," John says, a little breathless. "Just, uh—wanted to know, were there any, um. Did anything stand out last night?"

Milton hadn't press the button. A small act of defiance. Stupid. "No," Milton says.

"Right, well," John chuckles. There is harried talking in the background. "Ok. That's..." He sounds distracted, and then Milton hears shattering glass and shouting. "Shit! What, hey—"

The line goes dead.

Milton stares at the phone. Dropping it, it clatters on the floor, but he's already at the table, pulling his backpack on and fishing his car key from his pocket. If he makes it out now, he won't have to deal with what happens when the special forces start swarming in.

He takes a second to think. Maybe he should stay in the tiny records room. It's on the lowest floor; no one else is down there. Anyone trying to escape, to leave the lab, would obviously go up. Yes, he could just hunker down here, maybe even keep scanning through the records, because he doesn't really know what's going on.

However.When all the paperwork goes through, all the damages assessed...someone will notice—the button, and who didn't press it at midnight.

When that happens...

Milton hears more running and shouting through the ceiling. Thuds and crashes. He shivers. Immediate safety first, then. He can still make it out when the dust settles.

Striding to the door, he shuts, and locks it, and then returns to the table to sit down. He wonders how long, exactly, it will take for special forces to show up, because his mouth is dry and his heart is beating rather fast. The air feels thin, and he breathes shallowly.

The running and shouting stops, allowing the silence to really take over—except for that drip drip drip.Milton is so focused on the apparently originless dripping, that it takes him a moment to realize that he can hear the jutting crank of the elevator outside in the hallway. There's a high screech when it finally settles, and then he hears the doors trundle open.

Licking his lips, he stands up, eyes glued to the door, and starts backing away, stumbling on his chair. He winces at the legs scraping on the tiled floor.

He doesn't hear anything else, and then the lamp chooses that moment to blink out.

With the light out, the hallway is illuminated through the foggy glass of the door, and there behind it is a silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered—

Milton careens backward, slamming against the metal cabinet behind him and sliding to his knees. He hears the doorknob rattle and starts to scramble back to his feet. He barely has time to cover his face when the glass shatters.

There's a weary sigh. "It was such a pain to find you, Milton."

Milton keeps his face covered. Outstanding English—an accent not known on Earth.

Steps approach him, crunching over broken glass. "And I'm not exactly pleased with the location, either," the smooth voice tells him. "Only one way out. We'll have to fight our way through if any of your worthless kind shows up to stop us."

Well...the subject can't be blamed for mixing up plural and singular.

Milton feels heat directly over him. "But first," the voice says, with some wryness, "I was hoping you would extend a little more of that delicious, adorable pity for my sake." The voice is closer—the subject is crouching in front of him. "You understand, don't you, Milton? You feel bad for the creature that's been lying there for five years, awake. Alone. Right?"

Shaking his head, Milton lets out a guttural whine of protest. He keeps his eyes covered. He doesn't. He doesn'tunderstand.

A hand pushes against his thigh, and Milton flinches, kicking back further against the cabinet. Heat radiates from the hand, much warmer than any human.

"Look at me, Milton."

Slowly opening his eyes, peeking through the cracks of his fingers, Milton sees the flecked, golden irises he has always wanted to see. He exhales. To top it off, the pupils are silver. And slitted. Just like a snake.

Milton swallows, and then takes in the rest of it. The red skin, the crooked smile. The subject is wearing a pair of pants, slightly ripped at the seams. Turning his head, Milton covers his face again with his arm. "What do you want?"

"Several things," the subject answers. "Some more pressing than others."

Suddenly, Milton is dragged forward on his back, his elbows hitting the ground, and he winces. Glancing up, he sees that the subject is still crouched, kneeling between Milton's knees. Red hands run down the tops of Milton's thighs, leaving a trail of lasting warmth. "Are you getting a clearer picture now, Milton?" the subject taunts.

Milton is stunned, caught in the subject's gaze. Comprehension dawns, but not understanding. "...with me?"

The subject's grin is slow and curving. He narrows his serpentine eyes and hunches forward, crawling over Milton. "What?" he asks. "Afraid our differences are too great?" He leans down, inches away from Milton, and Milton seizes up entirely, trembling. Turning his head as much as he can, he suddenly feels sandpapery heat slide up his neck. Milton gasps, curling away. It's the subject's tongue, rough and wet.

"Come on, Milton," the subject says with a low, coaxing tone. A hand grips Milton's arm, drawing it away from his face. "Aren't you curious?"

"No!" Milton shouts, his cheeks flushing red. He slams his palms against the subject's broad chest, tries to scramble away, but he barely moves an inch before the subject pushes him down again.

A single clawed finger runs down his chest, Milton's shirt ripping artlessly in its wake. The subject's hand fans out, rubbing warmth into Milton's chest. "Calm down," the subject says, his yellow eyes meeting Milton's dark ones. He shushes Milton, his thumb running over Milton's nipple. "You know," he says, grinning, "you may not be curious, but I am."

He scratches his nails along Milton's skin, and Milton hisses, scrunching his eyes shut. "I see," the subject says, and the pressure lifts. He continues to rub Milton's chest, must be able to feel how fast Milton's heart is pounding.

Opening his eyes, Milton stares at him warily, lips parted.

"That's right," the subject says. "Four years of watching, nothing but a babysitter. But you never quit. You're really saying you aren't curious?"

Milton shakes his head, his eyebrows knitting together. The subject digs his nails down again, and Milton whimpers.

"You're lying."

"I'm not!" Milton says, tears pricking at his eyes. The nails release, and he lets out an involuntary breath of relief.

"Hmm," the subject replies. He leans forward and presses a kiss at the corner of Milton's mouth. "I see..." He kisses Milton again—even his lips are warm. "Then let's start with my name. Do you want to know my name?"

Know a name from an alien culture? Be the first human to know it? Despite himself, Milton tilts his face toward the subject, his eyes widening.

Lips press forcefully against his own, and Milton shouts with surprise into the subject's mouth. The rough tongue pushes into his own mouth, strong arms wrapping around him and pulling him up against the subject's chest. Struggling away, Milton claws at the subject's back, tears falling down his face. The subject leans back, the slits of his pupils dilated.

"'Sairn' would be the easiest way for you to pronounce it," the subject says, licking his lips with satisfaction. "Why don't you try, Milton?"

Shivering despite the warmth coming from the subject, Milton crosses his arms protectively over his exposed chest, his teeth chattering with nerves. "Sairn..." he whispers. Sairn smiles at him.

"Close enough," Sairn says, and then he forces another kiss, the rough surface of his tongue sliding over Milton's lips. Milton exhales, his eyes closing and lips parting. Sairn keeps trying to coax him to kiss back, sucking at his lips, and finally Milton does. He reaches up tentatively, the pads of his fingers ghosting against Sairn's chest. A deep rumbling chuckle echoes into his mouth.

"You can touch me, Milton," Sairn says, pressing kisses against the line of Milton's jaw. Milton hesitates another moment, and then he's running his hands up Sairn's chest, over his rounded shoulders, and down his back. The red skin is so hot, Milton just wants to press his face into the crook of Sairn's neck.

He touches the ridges there, his fingers running along the bumps. "What are these?"

"Extraneous features that haven't been worked out of the gene pool yet," Sairn replies. He brushes a hand through Milton's hair. "Like this— although, I like it. Soft." He takes a handful and jerks Milton's head back so that his neck is exposed. He laughs. "Useful as well."

Milton shudders, pressing his lips together. He's both terrified and excited, the tightness in his pants proof enough of that. Feeling a touch there, his eyes widen, and he tries to jump back again, but Sairn is holding him too tightly.

"Shh," Sairn breathes, his lip curling. Milton hears a snap, his belt ripping apart, and tears start to fall again.

"What are you doing?" he moans, pushing out again, but Sairn is immovable.

"I'm a bit pent up," Sairn replies, dragging Milton's pants down, lifting his knees up and pulling them over with a swift jerk. "Don't you feel sorry for me, Milton? Show me your sympathy again."

Desperately trying to cover himself, Milton inches away from Sairn, but hands clasp his waist. He's lifted up and settled back down on Sairn's lap. Sairn looks at him, eyes narrowed with delight. "You know why I chose Earth, Milton?" he asks. He leans forward to nip at Milton's collarbone. "Because you humans are built very similar to my race. Although far weaker..."

Milton stares down at him, tears dripping down his face. Grabbing Sairn's shoulders, his voice shakes as he says, "I was nice to you..." The words trail off weakly, and he hiccups.

Nails dig into his waist, and he yelps, falling forward to wrap his arms around Sairn's neck. "Shhh," Sairn whispers. "I know it very well, how nice you were to me, Milton." Teeth bite down on his ear, and Milton sobs. "Nice enough to keep me sedated for four years."

"I came here as a friend," he continues, rolling his hips up, and Milton can feel the hardness there. "I came with my hand extended, having studied your customs, your languages— and what happens?" His nails run up Milton's back, under his lab coat. "I get shot at, electrocuted. Called a devil and sent deep under the ground."

Bringing a finger to his mouth, he sucks on it, wetting it, and then leans forward. Milton feels Sairn's hand groping his ass, spreading the cheeks, and then the sharp nail—

"No, no, no, no!" Milton wails miserably. He bows his head, kissing at Sairn's neck. "Please, I'll do it, or—"

"Honestly," Sairn sighs. He lifts his hand again, and right in front of Milton, bites off the edges of his nails, spitting them to the side. He runs his coarse tongue over them, smoothing them out, and then reaches down. "Don'tsay no again."

Milton nods into Sairn's neck, keeping his face pressed against the warmth. Wincing when spit-slicked fingers push into him, he holds on more tightly to Sairn. He hears Sairn exhale with amusement. "You're certainly taking this in stride," Sairn says, spreading the fingers, making Milton moan. "Curiosity won out?"

"No..." Milton says quietly, and Sairn laughs.

"No?" Another finger, and Milton cries out. "Having sex with an alien?"

Milton's breathing is erratic, his entire body hot. "I'm—I'm curious," he stutters.

"I know." Milton is shoved to the side, and he looks up with surprise. Sairn is moving over, sliding his cotton pants down and sitting back against the cabinet. Milton stares.

"Oh, that's right," Sairn says. "First time seeing it for you, yes?"

Milton stares at the giant erection in front of him, the deep red skin with four lines of ridges spiraling down the length. "I guess our females need more stimulation or—" Sairn laughs. "Who knows."

He spits into his hand, and starts languidly jacking his cock, spreading the saliva. "Natural lube," he says, grinning at Milton's obvious curiosity. "Much better than what you humans produce." Indeed, it appeared much more slick.

Extending out a hand, he gestures for Milton to come closer. "Let's test how it works on human males, shall we?"

Milton shakes his head emphatically. Crossing his arms, Sairn smirks. "Alright," he says. "I guess I'll just have to go home with absolutely nothing to say in the defense of humans. My race will be displeased. They may even want to come here and destroy everything."

Stomach dropping, Milton falls on his hands toward Sairn. "Please don't do that!"

"No?" Sairn replies, with a curve of his eyebrow. "...then maybe I won't."

Milton starts shaking, his fingers curling into his palms. "And your decision rests on whether I have sex with you? What—" What insane dream had he landed in?

Staring at him and frowning impatiently, Sairn licks his lips with a smack. "I'm feeling pretty fickle at the moment," he says, tilting his head with a wicked grin. "In fact, I don't care one way or the other if this useless planet is annihilated, but wouldn't it be great if you, Milton, were the one to keep that from happening?" His grin turns menacing, the slits of his eyes narrowing. "We don't have forever."

Twitching nervously, Milton nods. He crawls toward Sairn, who waits until Milton is straddling him, before grabbing his waist with one hand. Milton feels something broad nudge at his opening, then Sairn is pushing Milton down. Milton opens his mouth soundlessly as Sairn's cock breaches him.

"Hold on to me, Milton," Sairn says, and Milton quickly wraps his arms around Sairn's neck. "Don't tense up."

It hurts, and Sairn is barely inside him yet. Milton sniffs, tears still streaming down his face, his fingers digging into Sairn's back. He whines when Sairn pushes him down more, the stretching becoming too much to handle.

He feels the ridges rubbing inside him. "Oh, God," he moans.

"Hm," Sairn murmurs. Suddenly, he's not holding Milton up anymore, and gravity takes over. Milton cries out, sliding down the full length of Sarin's erection, taking it all in at once. Just as pain starts to take over, Sairn lifts Milton, and then thrusts up into him.

"Nn!" Milton's eyes go wide. He looks down to find Sairn watching him. He's dropped again, his face contorting with too much sensation, the sense of fullness hitting him. "Please," he murmurs, his own cock aching.

Sairn doesn't respond. He tightly clasps Milton's waist, hard enough to leave bruises, and then he's slamming Milton down on his cock over and over, while thrusting up at the same time. All Milton can manage to do is grasp Sairn's shoulder and emit moans he's never heard himself make before.

The heat from Sairn's body, the heat from the friction inside him starts building, and just when Milton thinks he has a handle on that, the ridges hit something inside him that makes him scream. The orgasm rocks through him, and he comes between them.

He hears Sairn chuckle in his ear, although the laughter sounds a little tight. Thrusting harder, Sairn pulls Milton closer, sucking on his skin, leaving a red mark. "Milton—" he says through gritted teeth, but he doesn't finish the sentence, his body seizing up tight as a tripwire, and Milton feels something too hot shoot inside him. He gasps, collapsing against Sairn's heaving chest, waiting for it too cool down with clenched teeth.

Barely a moment passes when Sairn coughs, and then slaps Milton's ass. "No," he rumbles. "No time to rest." Milton looks up, staring at those yellow eyes, dumbfounded. Sairn shakes his head. "No, we can rest later. I will spoil you and comfort you later. Now, we must go."

"Go..." Milton echoes stupidly. He realizes Sairn is still inside him, and blushes. He lifts up on trembling legs, feeling the length slide out, and something burning drip down his thigh. "I will be staying here," he says, backing away.

Sairn watches his retreat. "Will you?" he asks, sitting up. He pulls his pants back on. "And what happens when your government finds out you purposely let an alien go free?"

Milton feels a different kind of cold, in the pit of his stomach. He had forgotten about that.

"No, Milton," Sairn says. He stands up and looks down at Milton, who is kneeling, folded over on his hands, his lab coat spread around him. "You will be coming with me."

"I don't want to," Milton says, his voice rising an octave. He licks his lips. "You don't want me to," he breathes. "No one ever likes me. They always think I'm annoying in the end."

Reaching down, Sairn grabs Milton's upper arm and drags him to his feet. "Is that so? You seem quite obedient to me." He cups the back of Milton's neck and pulls him in for a kiss. Breaking away, he grins at Milton's flushed expression. "It's a very long, very lonely journey back to my home, Milton," he says. "And I am so tired of being alone."

"Besides"—Sairn's eyes flash, and Milton barely has time to gasp before Sairn is wrapping the sides of Milton's lab coat around him and lifting him up. Milton instinctively wraps his arms around Sairn's neck—"if you get too annoying, I can always kill you."

Milton gapes at him. "Would you..."

Smirking, Sairn presses a kiss to the tip of Milton's nose. "Maybe. If you keep lying." He tilts his head. "You better show me how grateful you are, Milton," he says teasingly, "The first human to ever visit an inhabited planet."

Milton stares, blinking several times. "I suppose, for the sake of research... " His eyes widen. "But," he babbles, "Your...body temperature is far higher than mine, which can only bring me to the a-assumption that your planet is much colder than Earth, and—" He's cut off by the slow grin on Sairn's face.

"That's true," Sairn says. "Maybe you'll freeze to death." Milton sucks in a nervous breath, and Sairn's eyes flash with delight. He bows his head to capture Milton's lips, biting, and then pushing his coarse tongue against Milton's. Milton lets out a moan, and Sairn pulls back, clearly pleased.

"But," he says pointedly, "I think I can come up with quite a few ways of keeping you very, very warm."