OMEGA

by Becca Abbott

Fandom: Andromeda

Pairing: Dylan/Tyr

Rating: NC-17

Warning: Non-con:

Summary: Dylan comes to a decision about how to control Tyr

Disclaimer: The characters from Andromeda belong to others, not me, more's the pity. No copyright infringement intended. This story is a bit of an AU and contains m/m, m/f, BD/SM, consensual and non-consensual sex.

"Tyr is becoming a problem."

Dylan Hunt stared moodily through the forward screen at the great, red ball that revolved slowly in its center. Romy, the holographic representation of his ship, stood at his side, an expression of sympathy on her face.

"His insubordination has already begun to affect crew performance," he continued.

"Will you get rid of him?"

Dylan lifted an eyebrow, wondering if that was actually hope he heard in her voice.

"I'd rather not. For one thing, he's good at what he does." Dylan hesitated, thinking of another Nietzschean, one who had been as dear to him as any brother. "You know I like to maintain diversity among the crew."

"Even when it turns out to be disastrous?"

The Commonwealth officer's face darkened. "I made a mistake with Radhe," he said finally. "Ultimately, I wanted to see him as homo sapien. It was blindness on my part."

"And how are you *not* making the same mistake with Tyr?"

Dylan smiled, but there was little humor in it. "I'm going to remind him that he's not alpha in a way he can't mistake."

There was silence while Romy rifled through her databases. "What way?" she asked finally. "It seems to me you've already demonstrated repeatedly that you're the alpha here."

"No," he said, mouth twisting. "There are -- rituals the Nietzscheans have always kept close. I only know about them because of Gaheris. They should have been performed with him, but I couldn't bring myself to do so. It just isn't my, well, style."

"I don't understand."

"No loss," Dylan muttered slumping further in his seat. Around them, lights blinked, screens flickered as data scrolled endlessly past.

"My database should be complete," she objected.

He didn't respond. After a while, he asked: "Where is Tyr?"

"In the gym, sir, working out -- as usual."

"How long?"

"Sir?"

"How long has he been at it?"

"About an hour."

The captain's long mouth quirked into another mirthless smile. "Good. I'm going to join him. As soon as I do, shut down access to the gym, no one gets in, no one gets visual or audio."

"Yes, sir." Romy fell silent a moment, then: "Would this have anything to do with those sexually explicit entertainment disks you were watching last night?"

Romy was an AI, there was no reason for his face to heat. Nevertheless, Dylan felt the flush starting from his neck and up through his cheeks.

"Just do it, Romy."

"Yes, sir." This time, there was no mistaking the smugness in that soft, light voice. "May I watch?"

"ROMY!"

****

Tyr Anasazi delivered another savage blow to the punching bag, noting with satisfaction that the tough material cracked under it. Soon, he told himself. Soon it would be Hunt at the end of his fist and himself at the helm of this magnificent ship.

It wasn't that he had anything against the lightship commander. In fact, he rather liked the human. But Tyr was an alpha and he was damned tired of taking orders from a human.

Not that Hunt was completely useless. The man did have a talent for understanding the otherwise incomprehensible mental workings of inferior species. Perhaps he would keep Hunt alive, suitably restrained, of course, for use when situations arose that required the kind of fuzzy thinking all too prevalent in the galaxy.

Another blow. The bag split. He stopped then, breathing hard, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

With a ship like the Andromeda Ascendent, he should have no trouble convincing the best and brightest of the prides to join him. For a moment, the image of Freya rose in his mind. His throat closed, remembering what might have been.

Across the gym, the doors hissed open. He looked around. It was Hunt. The captain was wearing his exercise clothes, a duffel slung over his shoulder. He grinned amiably at Tyr and went straight to the weights.

The Nietzschean's lip curled. Just that morning, he'd arrogantly refused an order. He'd been expecting to be disciplined, but so far, Hunt seemed unwilling, or unable, to do so. Hardly alpha behavior.

Hunt was lifting a mere two hundred pounds. In spite of his fatigue, Tyr went over and, after selecting the three hundred pound weight, lay down on the bench. For several minutes, the two men lifted, the gym silent except for the occasional grunt or fart.

Hunt, of course, gave up first, gasping and red-faced, settling the weights onto their brace and sitting up. Tyr continued, aware that the captain was watching. His own muscles had begun to quiver with fatigue, but he kept on, knowing that displays of strength intimidated the weak.

The captain got to his feet and began to turn away. Tyr smiled smugly and gave the weights another hoist. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hunt turn back and, before Tyr realized what was happening, the captain had a grip on his weights, jerking at them. Suddenly, there were three hundred pounds on Tyr's chest, pinning him to the bench, driving the breath from his lungs.

Tyr struggled to throw them off, but Hunt added his weight to theirs. The young Nietzschean couldn't breathe. His mouth opened and closed, eyes bugging out. Lights went off behind them and, moments later, he lost consciousness.

****

Dylan snapped the last metal cuff into place and stepped back. He smiled grimly. Exercise equipment did very well as restraint devices. His insubordinate crewman, naked now, wrists chained together, was attached to one of the gymnastic rings that hung from the distant ceiling. Dylan had found a resistance bar which, when fastened between Tyr's ankles, kept his legs wide apart very satisfactorily. The young man's magnificent body gleamed in the cold, white lights.

In spite of himself, Dylan felt a certain warmth building in his gut at the sight of the Nietzschean hanging there, vulnerable, helpless to defend himself against what was coming. His eyes were drawn repeatedly to Tyr's cock. Even limp, it was impressive. No wonder he'd been able to win over the Nietzschean woman so quickly.

Tyre groaned, shaking his head, the mass of braids dancing. He looked up, blinked confusedly at Dylan. Then, abruptly, he realized where he was.

Dylan, remembering the ritual, simply watched as the young man cursed and tore at the chains. He stood with arms folded over his chest, waiting while Tyr further exhausted himself with violent, futile struggles. Finally, Tyr went still, balancing awkwardly on his toes, glaring ferociously.

"Are you finished, omega?"

The dark gaze sharpened, brows drawing swiftly together.

"What the hell are you doing?" Tyr demanded hoarsely.

Dylan stepped forward and hit Tyr, an open-handed blow across the face that split the Nietzchean's lip.

"You will be silent!"

"Hunt..."

Another blow, knocking him off balance. Swearing through puffy, bleeding lips, Tyr struggled to regain his footing, such as it was. He opened his mouth to fire off an enraged demand, only to be smashed back again.

This time, he wisely remained silent, licking blood from his lips, staring at Dylan with wide, wild eyes.

"I have been remiss in a few things," Dylan said, voice conversational. "I've been treating you like a free man. Today, we correct that little error."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the Omega Oath."

Color drained from the dark face. "W--what?"

This time, Dylan punched him the stomach. When Tyr had regained his breath, there was real apprehension in the gaze he lifted to the Commonwealth captain.

"Don't insult me by pretending you don't know what I mean. Submit!"

"You have no right! By Darwin's Heart, I'll kill you!"

Dylan sighed and turned his back on the raging man. His fist hurt, and this definitely was not the road he would have traveled, but it was clear they could not go on as they were.

Reluctantly, Dylan unhooked a cable from one of the weight machines. Wrapping one end around his fist, he walked around the Nietzschean, snapping the loose end like whip against the floor.

Tyr went very still. "Hunt -- Captain..."

The Nietzschean's back was as impressive as his front. Muscles rippled as he worked in vain at his shackles. His ass, round and tight, looked like the perfect place to start. Dylan reached back and let his make-shift lash fly.

The crack of the plastic cable against shrinking flesh sounded abnormally loud. He heard a gasp from Tyr, whose body jerked at its touch. A wide, red welt raised on the dusky flesh. Dylan waited a moment to let the reality of it sink in, then he struck again. There was a strangled sound from the Nietzschean -- almost a cry, but not quite. Sweat sprang out on his broad shoulders. Long fingers wrapped, white-knuckled, around the ring to which he was bound.

Dylan lowered his whip and approached the trembling man. He let his hands moved familiarly over Tyr's ass, the saltiness of his palm irritating the welts he'd left. Tyr groaned and tried to move away. Dylan squeezed the buttock in his hand and felt a shudder run through his insubordinate crewman.

"Once upon a time," Dylan said, still speaking softly, "on Earth, mutinous sailors were tied to the mast of the ship and flogged. Often, omega, they died."

Dylan couldn't see Tyr's expression, only the clean of line of jaw, tight with anger and shock.

Never expected this, did you? thought Dylan with a certain amount of satisfaction. Wait until you see what your brother Neitzschean left me three hundred years ago.

"What do you know of the Oath?" Tyr grated finally.

"I know that on the most feared Nietzschean ships, the bridge crew were always omega to their captain. They served him unquestioningly, bound to obey his most trivial whim until they were released, and while they served, they were forbidden to raise a hand against him for any reason whatsoever. A good idea, actually. In war, there's precious little time for dominance disputes. There should be only one enemy."

"Did your old first officer tell you about it?"

"Oh, he did more than that." Dylan walked over to the bench and opened his duffel bag. Inside was another bag, this one smaller and with an intricate pattern burned into the leather. "He gave me this."

The Nietzschean's dark eyes got wide and he recoiled.

"He was a traitor!" The captive's voice shook. "The Oath is among the most secret, most sacred..."

Ignoring him, Dylan turned his back and dumped the bag's contents onto the bench. He remembered Gaheris leaning against him in the bar, voice slurred with fatigue and alcohol, explaining the function of each item. And he remembered his own reaction -- shock, disbelief and, finally, prurient curiosity.

They had never spoken about it after that night, he and Radhe. Dylan knew now that he should have acted on that tacit request, however distasteful. Instead, he'd given in to his Earth-bred prejudices, a bit of cultural blindness that had brought him here, three hundred years into his own future.

Dylan bent and picked up the blindfold. It was a leather strap, embossed with an intricate design, splotched with the dark stains of its previous wearers' sweat and blood. How old was the thing, Dylan wondered? How many men had worn it?

He found himself unexpectedly attracted by a mental image --- the spare surrounds of a Nietzschean captain's bedroom, the bound figure of a young officer, eyes covered, blind, never knowing whether it was torment he faced, or delight.

Dylan turned.

"Captain," whispered Tyr, eyes fixing on the blindfold at once.

Perhaps he had finally realized his predicament. There was real apprehension in that dark face.

Dylan walked right up to him, stood chest against chest. Tyr gave way, swaying backwards, nearly losing his balance. In the end, he was forced to stand, to accept Dylan's body against his.

The human could feel Tyr's heart pounding, feel the rigid cock pressing against his belly, and the heat of it through the fleece of his exercise pants.

"Don't move, omega."

Tyr licked bruised lips and, after the barest hesitation, bowed his head. Dylan tied the blindfold in place. A tremor ran through the powerful body when Dylan's hands came to rest on his shoulders.

Taking a deep breath, steeling himself, Dylan tangled his fingers in the young warrior's braids and kissed him.

There was nothing gentle in this caress -- simply a crushing of his mouth against Tyr's, forcing it open, taking possession. Even so, the human felt that uneasy stirring again, the gathering pressure in his groin. It seemed suddenly too hot in the gym.

Tyr gave in to the assault at last, surrendering to Dylan's tongue. He no longer tried to shrink away. Indeed, his hips pressed harder against Dylan's. He made a sound deep in his throat.

Immediately, Dylan drew back. Tyr licked his lips and swallowed hard. Again, Dylan kissed him, but this time, when those lips parted, the human bit down hard, feeling skin break, tasting copper.

Tyr cried out, although the attack was surely anticipated. The ritual called for a visible mark, traditionally, the imprint of the lord's teeth. Dylan waited for the shattered Neitzschean to recover his composure. The magnificent body gleamed with sweat. A milky drop had formed on the tip of his cock.

Dylan needed no conscious effort to reach out, to let his hand moved over the heaving chest, down the flat belly to grasp that straining rod. All of this was available to him under Tyr's own laws -- as soon as the young man agreed.

"Submit," he said once again.

"No," whispered Tyr. "I am an Alpha. I will not submit."

Ritual words, too. Dylan felt a stirring of satisfaction. Tyr had accepted his right to demand the Oath. In reward, he pulled the younger man close again, ran his hand down the striped back and buttocks. He felt Tyr react to the pain, muscles contracting, but the Nietzschean made no sound. He submitted once more to Dylan's kiss, but this time, the captain was gentle, coaxing a shy response.

He drew away at least. Tyr was breathing hard. The young man's head fell back, throat vulnerable.

Encouraging.

Dylan helped himself to the soft, dark skin, pulling Tyr close again, tasting his sweat and the spicy, musky scent that lay subtle on the tongue. Tyr moaned and rubbed his hips against Dylan's. Suddenly, the human's loose trousers seemed too tight.

Dylan was heterosexual. He'd accepted the occasional flashes of attraction to other males -- especially the overtly sexual Nietzscheans -- as normal glitches in normal male sexuality. To say that the feelings flooding him now were unsettling was to indulge in rampant understatement

So it was that Dylan stepped back almost as if burned. He stared at young man knowing he could no longer delay the next step. It was one Dylan had dreaded last night in his room. Now, inexplicably, he was drawn to it.

"Captain, please." Tyr tried again. "We don't have to go through with this. I'm sorry. My behavior earlier was -- ill considered."

Dylan picked up the cable again and this time, he left his marks across Tyr's chest and belly. He struck lightly -- he was, after all, not Nietzschean -- but even so, the cable left lacerations and tore a cry from his omega.

"You had your chance and refused it. Now I will bind you by oath and submission."

"Captain..."

"You will be silent."

The blindfolded man lowered his head then and was still. Dylan went back to the bench and took out the small, steel rings. He picked up the leather ball, too. It was a gag. Like the blindfold, it bore the stains of previous use. For a moment, he stood, looking down at the things. Then, deciding against the gag for the moment, he turned and went back to Tyr.

****

"What are you talking about, Romy?" Beka stood in front of the door to the gymnasium, hands on her hips, scowling at the holograph. "They've been in there for over an hour! What's going on?"

"I'm not at liberty to say," replied the ship. "Only that they aren't to be disturbed."

"Who's orders?"

"Dylan's."

Well, of course. His were the only orders the first officer could not countermand.

"How long will they be in there?"

"I don't know," Romy replied, just the tiniest hint of irritation in her voice.

So, thought Beka. Romy doesn't like it either. Beka remembered all too well Tyr's arrogant response to Hunt's orders that morning. What if Dylan had been foolish enough to get into it with the Nietzschean. The bastards were goddammed supermen!

Relax, she told herself, nodding curtly to the AI. Hunt was smart -- had survived against incredible odds and continued to do so, but in the end, he was still the son of a much more civilized age. Very uneasy, she turned on her heel and headed off in search of the others.

****

Tyr heard the captain approach. He tried desperately not to let his fear show, but even his aching gut couldn't distract from the misery of not seeing what Dylan was about to do. Tradition gave the captain wide latitude in the means by which he extracted absolute loyalty. Some omegas died, messily, screaming. They were not mourned. Weakness was unwelcome on the bridge of a Prime Neitzschean fighter.

The welts on his body burned mercilessly. Those left by Hunt's latest attack were twice as painful. One of the blows had caught his nipple. He nearly jumped out of his skin when something warm and wet closed over it. Both pain and erotic heat went out in shockwaves from the spot as Hunt licked away the blood. Then the mouth was gone, leaving the tender flesh to stiffen in the sudden cool. He ached for Hunt to touch it again. Somehow, he kept silent.

Dylan returned to the wounded nipple and began sucking and licking it. When his teeth sank gently into the sore flesh, Tyr whimpered. That was nothing to what came next however. Pain sharper than any bite tore through him. Pierced, he thought dimly, even as his body reacted to the assault. The sound of his scream echoed through the gym. He was shaking when the ring was inserted and managed this time, by extraordinary will, to keep silent.

Like all Neitzschean males, he'd learned about the Omega Oath and its rituals at the age of twelve, sitting at the feet of the spacers for whom the Oath was everything. To be omega was to be absolutely obedient, unquestioningly loyal, a weapon in the hand of one man. Even betas did not give up so much of themselves. It was at once frightening and seductive. To release one's will, to relinquish all the heavy responsibilities the men of his race bore, was tempting in a secret and shameful way. v Dylan brought Tyr abruptly back to the present by sucking his other nipple, and the pressure built in inexorably in his groin.

There was honor in being Oath-bound, for only the best young alphas were chosen, and to those who survived their service and were released by their captain came the promise of high status across the prides. But Hunt -- Hunt wasn't Nietzschean. Surrendering to him would bring no such reward.

Tyr's thoughts broke apart as the other nipple was pierced. When he could think again, he was sagging in his bonds, shaking with reaction, all the weight of his body on his abused wrists.

Those lips were on his again. Without sight to tell Tyr otherwise, they were not unlike Freya's or, indeed, any of the countless whores or barmaids he'd bedded in his life. But unlike those women, these lips did not seduce, did not entice -- the captain *demanded* his response.

He gave it, heart pounding. The captain pulled his head up even as Tyr struggled to regain his footing. His swollen lips parted to admit the invading tongue. Electricity tore through him, adding to the misery of his chest and that of his gut, which now threatened to overwhelm the other hurts.

Tyr was dizzy from more than the pain. That he could tolerate. He was Nietzschean; pain was nothing. But this...oh, Darwin... Hunt's tongue went where it would as the captain asserted his dominance even here. Each place he touched or stroked left tingling behind. This time, when he released Tyr, the young man heard the dreaded question:

"Who are you?"

"Tyr Anasazi," Tyr croaked, the defiance asserting itself even as his better sense urged stalling. "Of the Kodiak Pride."

"Wrong answer," came Hunt's voice, soft, no trace of rage in it.

If he had been Nietzschean, Hunt would have rewarded that response swiftly, brutally. Tyr waited, stomach churning, telling himself that Hunt was an Earther, soft, inclined toward kindness...

Hunt's hair brushed his shoulder, soft as silk. Then that relentless mouth found his nipple again, the torn one. The captain toyed with it. Tyr gasped at the seemingly random brushes of the human's tongue against the sore, rigid nub. He clamped his mouth shut on the moan that rose in his throat.

Briefly, Hunt's attentions wandered, encompassing the other ring, the hollow of Tyr's throat, the soft flesh under his arms. Each touch elicited greater pleasure, distracting him from the pain, combining with it to produce a relentless intoxication.

This time, no power in the universe could have kept Tyr silent and the groan that forced itself past his clench teeth seemed unnaturally loud in the gym. He almost cried out when those demonic lips sudden withdrew and he was left shivering and alone in his bonds.

"Who are you?"

Tell him. Say the words. Give it up. Be his.

"Tyr Anasazi. Of -- of the Kodiak Pride." There was despair in his voice. Even he heard it. Tyr shook then, fingers wrapping tightly around the chain that held him upright so precariously.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

*That* response was pure human. A part of his spinning mind latched onto it with feverish hope, thinking, "No, he won't keep on. He hasn't the stomach ..."

"Open your mouth."

Tyr's heart almost stopped. Then it slammed into his throat. He shook his head, but nothing came out.

Cruel fingers seized Tyr's chin, forcing his bowed head up, fingers tightening on his clenched jaw.

"Open," Hunt snarled.

Tyr shuddered and, in spite of himself, obeyed. Something was forced between his teeth. A ball gag! Another groan forced its way past his control as he struggled to draw a breath through his nose.

"Submit!"

He shook his head.

A Nietzschean captain would have cursed him for his defiance, assaulted his ears as well as his body, but not Hunt. Tyr heard him step away, and with gut-liquefying dread, heard the unmistakable hiss of the cable whipping through the air.

This time, the whip found its way between his spread legs, leaving fire everywhere it struck. He was able to keep silent through the first few blows, then he lost count and control, and behind the gag, screamed.

***

Seamus Harper scratched the side of his nose and gave the circuit board a poisonous look. It was the interface for the optical system used to control the forward thrusters -- a simple piece of equipment. Unless, of course, that piece of equipment was the Andromeda Ascendent, Commonwealth lightship and, in all probability, the most powerful weapon in the galaxy.

"Fuck," he muttered, edging a small monofilament from its bed. "Fried."

"So are we. Where's Trance and Bem?"

"Our lovely Trance is in Hydroponics -- surprise, surprise -- and I think the Rev's off praying somewhere. SHIT!"

The filament snapped off in his hand. He stared at it in dismay. Now he was going to have to find his microstat to pick the damn thing out of its canal.

"Harper, listen -- I think we're in trouble."

"I *know* we're in trouble," he replied and dove under the console behind him in search of his tools. "I don't think we have another filament."

To the young man's surprise and annoyance, his former captain planted her booted foot right in front of him, nearly trampling his hand as he reached for the metal box. Harper yelped and jerked it back.

"Dylan and Tyr have been shut up in the gym for hours, damn it! Romy refuses let me in."

"So?"

"So? Remember this morning?"

Harper's mouth twisted. He did, indeed. Damn Nietzschean bastard! Dylan should have spaced the fucker on the spot. Then her words sank in.

"Oh, no! You don't think the son of bitch challenged Hunt, do you?"

"Can you think of another explanation?"

A Nietzschean challenge for dominance? It was frighteningly possible. Appalled, he stared at Beka, then: "ROMY!"

"Forget it," Beka said sourly as the holograph flickered into substance.

While Beka gave Harper her best I-told-you-so smile, Romy informed Harper that she did not know what was occurring in the gym, would not let them in nor give them access visuals or audio.

"Do something!" Beka hissed to Harper. "You're the genius!"

Harper rolled his eyes, but even so, was conscious of a small niggling of panic. Tyr in charge of the Andromeda Ascendant? It was a horrible thought.

Seamus Harper was quickly becoming very comfortable on the Andromeda. It was more than just the luxurious accommodations and the heady knowledge that he was an integral part of this masterpiece's crew. What put the hook in Harper -- and, he suspected, his shipmates -- was being treated like someone of value. That would all end abruptly under the grim Nietzschean's control. It would be back to the scrounging, hand-to-mouth existence that he had once considered the good life.

"I'll get right on it," he said.

******

Dylan flinched at the muffled cries. Even so, he forced himself to strike once more. Then he stepped back, breathless, heart pounding, a fire surging through his veins the likes of which he'd never before experienced. It was as if some primal man was forcing his way up through the millennia of civilization, a cruel, hungry, lustful creature. That creature wanted the young man in chains before him, wanted the beautiful body and fierce, Nietzschean soul, wanted the pleasure and the service of that strong back and long, heavy erection.

Stepping back, Dylan wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his shaking hand. Tyr hung bonelessly in the shackles. The young man's nostrils flared as he struggled for breath, chest heaving.

Dylan regarded him through half-closed eyes. He thought again of Gaheris Radhe, wondering dimly if he could have treated his beloved friend so. The bottom edge of Tyr's blindfold was wet. His nipples, skin stretched taut over the heavy steel rings, looked very sore indeed. And that cock...

Unable to resist, Dylan ran his hands over it, clenched his fingers around the thick shaft and heard a moan of a different tenor from his captive. Smiling faintly, he released Tyr, ignoring the second moan of protest.

Wrenching his eyes from that increasingly seductive image, Dylan returned to the bench for more of Radhe's artifacts. He took the tangle of leather straps and steel and brushed it over Tyr's lips.

"Submit."

A small, frightened motion of negation.

Dylan took the other man's erection, slid his fingers beneath to the heavy sac, caressing it, feeling the testicles shift and move. Tyr's narrow hips twitched and there was another strangled sound from behind the gag. Dylan remembered the bar, Radhe's eyes gleaming as he lifted the intricate weaving of leather strips, explaining its use in detail that had set Dylan to squirming in his seat.

Now he seized the Neitzschean's balls, wrapping his fingers around the scrotum, squeezing the sensitive flesh. Refusing to let his hands shake, Dylan wrapped the leather around those dangling organs, stretching the scrotum as far as it would go. Another loop of leather separated Tyr's balls, and the entire construct pulled them up and bound them fast against the base of the young man's straining cock.

Anguished, Tyr shook his head, braids dancing.

"The object of this device," Radhe had told Dylan, "is to bring your omega's entire external genitalia within easy reach. There, it may be caressed or abused, whichever pleases the captain."

Even as he bound Tyr in this particularly humiliating way, the young Nietszchean pushed his hips forward, almost as if he desired it. Sweat dripped off him like rain. Dylan leaned forward and ran his tongue along an angry welt and Tyr's whole body jerked.

Dylan took up the cable again and snapped it. Tyr flinched wildly. Then Dylan wrapped it around that muscular neck.

"As long as it takes," he promised hoarsely. "And know this, omega. To my surprise, I'm rather enjoying myself."

Perhaps it was that new note in his voice, one even Dylan had never heard before. Perhaps it was simply that the promise of more pain was too much, but this time, when he growled "submit," the braided head lifted slightly and there was an almost imperceptible nod.

Digging his fingers into Tyr's mouth, Dylan pulled out the gag.

"Do you submit?" he asked again.

"Yes, lord," came the barely audible croak. Tyr's tongue moved over his cracked lips.

"Who are you?"

"Yours, my lord. Yours."

****

No sooner had the words left Tyr's lips than a wash of relief left him weak and trembling like a child. He felt Dylan's hands on his bleeding wrists, then the shackles were disconnected from the ring and his knees gave way. He fell into strong arms and was held there with unexpected tenderness. Even the pain of his wounds against the rough fabric of Dylan's shirt was nothing to the sudden giddiness of surrender and the desire pulsing through his veins.

Knowing the ritual, hurting everywhere, Tyr fell onto his elbows and knees, chained hands open and flat against the floor. The bar between his ankles kept his legs apart. He lowered his forehead to his wrists, arching his back, pushing his buttocks into the air as far as he could. Lordosis -- submission.

//I am yours, captain.//

There was several moments of silence, then he felt Hunt kneel between his spread legs and braced himself for this part of the ritual. Behind the blindfold, tears scalded his eyes.

Hands on Tyr's burning ass, Hunt pulled the cheeks apart. The tip of the captain's cock, slick with some greasy substance, pushed against his clenched asshole. A part of his mind recognized this unlooked-for mercy and was grateful. Then Tyr had only time to draw a quick breath.

It felt like a torpedo ramming into him. He screamed, head flinging back. Hunt took him roughly, swiftly, the age-old assertion of dominance. All the pleasure was his lord's, all the pain his. And it was right and necessary.

Grimly, he endured the assault. It was mercifully brief. Hunt came, filling him with a rush of warmth. Then the captain pulled out, still without gentleness.

Tyr remained where he was, at his lord's convenience. Was Dylan pleased?

Hands lifted him upright, left him swaying on his knees. The blindfold was drawn away. He looked up into Hunt's face. The expression there was every bit as cold and triumphant as a Nietzschean captain's. Mutely, Tyr held out his wrists. They were unbound. Dylan nodded curtly and Tyr bent awkwardly to free his own ankles. Then he sank back to his knees.

No longer doubting that Dylan Hunt knew every step of the Omega Ritual, he said, "Allow me to serve you, my lord."

******

Dylan looked down at the kneeling man, the wet eyelashes, so thick and black as ink. Tyr's bruised lips parted slightly. Between the Nietzschean's open knees, his bound genitals were almost purple. Even so, the young man made no complaint, uttered no pleas, only knelt with lowered head, hands on his thighs.

"Proceed," Dylan said huskily.

Without a word, Tyr raised his eyes to Dylan's. He whispered, "Permit me, lord?"

"Permission granted."

The heat of Dylan's lust and its sudden release made him wish for nothing but the chance to sit and recover. But that was an Earther's reaction. A Nietzschean was insatiable -- a point Dylan recognized and had earlier addressed by taking several doses of a certain drug. He stood now, stone-faced, as Tyr rose briefly to pull off his damp shirt and then, kneeling once again, slowly slid down Dylan's exercise trousers. The shoes were last, set neatly aside.

When Dylan stood over him, naked, Tyr folded forward and pressed his lips against Dylan's foot. Somehow, the Earther kept still as the Nietzschean began licking and kissing it. Soon that wandering mouth moved upward. Dylan shifted his position, standing with his legs braced apart. Tyr did not stop and soon, the captain was shivering, feeling his cock harden again as Tyr's mouth moved up the tender flesh of inner thighs.

Without thinking, Dylan thrust his hips forward and his omega, acutely sensitive to his every desire, brought that eager tongue between Dylan's legs. Setting hands lightly on Dylan's thighs, Tyr began to tongue and suck Dylan's balls.

Groaning, Dylan's fingers knotted in Tyr's soft, thick hair. He trembled as the Nietzschean's attentions grew more focused, more insistent. When he could no longer bear it, he pulled Tyr back and made use of that mouth.

It was all too easy to be heedless of the young man's comfort, to ignore the tears streaming down Tyr's face as the Nietzschean fought to draw a breath. In moments, Dylan again climaxed and this time, it was Tyr who wrapped strong arms around Dylan's legs and held him, keeping the captain from crumpling to the floor.

The first part of the ritual was almost complete. Dylan glanced at the clock. It was late. They'd been at it for two hours. He looked down at his battered Nietzschean. His instinct was to send the man off to medical at once and go get drunk, but the Nietzschean tradition forbade it.

"Omega?"

"Lord?"

Tyr straightened on his knees, profusion of braids falling over his battered shoulders and back. There were white lines of pain at the corners of his mouth and his eyes still glistened with tears. It cost Dylan to stare coldly down at him.

"I am allowing you the maximum two days reflection before I ask you to swear to me and complete the binding of the Oath. I trust I have your gratitude?"

"Yes, sir." It was a breath.

"Then rise."

Awkwardly, Tyr obeyed. Barely seeming to breathe, he watched as Dylan reach for his caged genitals. The merest brush of Dylan's fingers against the visibly throbbing erection forced a whimper from the Nietzschean. Carefully, while shudder after shudder ran through that powerful young body, Dylan began to remove the hellish device.

First, he released Tyr's testicles, peeling away the slender leather strips, leaving deep, angry marks in the delicate skin. Tyr gasped at the sudden relief and fresh tears flooded his eyes. He lifted them mutely to Dylan, who nodded.

Tyr moistened his bruised lips and he, himself, with shaking hands, reached down and untied the leather cage wound tightly around his cock. He handed it to Dylan, who nodded again.

Closing his eyes, legs wide apart, Tyr seized his freed sex and, with long, strong fingers clenched around it, began to pump.

Dylan found himself fascinated by the emotions that chased across that handsome face.

"An Omega has no secrets from his lord, not even feelings," Radhe had explained. "It is the one state among us where a man may become a child again without loss of status."

Tyr's head fell back. With his other hand, he reached under his cock to fondle the dangling balls. As Dylan watched, those balls began to tighten, pulling close to the body. Tyr's lips parted, his breath became quick and shallow. His hand moved rapidly.

Abruptly, he cried out. At the last second, his hands cupped the head of his cock. Panting, covered with sweat, tremulous, Tyr caught his seed and, under Dylan's watchful eye, finished the first half of the ritual. On unsteady legs, the young man crossed the room to the sink and washed that most precious of Nietzschean substances down the drain.

****

"Someone's coming out!" Beka lifted her gun. Beside her was a frightened Harper. He'd appropriated Dylan's lance. Trance made small, incoherent noises of distress at their backs. Reverand Bem, on the other hand, had refused to join them.

"I am certain that the Captain has matters under control," the Magog said serenely. "Trust in the Light."

"I do," had been Harper's response. "Lasers are light, aren't they?"

The door hissed open. Beka's fingers tightened on the trigger, ready to end any Nietzschean dreams of dominance on the Andromeda. It was only at the last second that she held her fire.

Dylan stood in the doorway, not a hair of his handsome head out of place. At his back was Tyr and, from the looks of it, much the worse for wear. Her jaw sagged as she lowered the weapon. Dylan's brows lifted at the sight of his crew, armed and ready in front of him.

"Is there something wrong?"

Beka looked from him to Tyr, who glared woodenly back, daring her to say word about the array of cuts and bruises on his powerful body. But it was the unmistakable imprint of teeth on Tyr's swollen mouth that made her blink.

"Beka?"

"Um. Nothing. Nothing. Glad to see you, sir. We were -- concerned."

Dylan looked over his shoulder at Tyr, whose eyes immediately dropped. Harper whistled under his breath. Beka, stunned, stepped aside. The captain paused.

"I want the power cells moved," he told Tyr. It was the same order the Nietzschean had refused earlier that day.

Now, Tyr only said, "Yes, sir."

With another glare at the assembled crew, he pushed past them and vanished down the corridor. Dylan gave them all a bland smile.

"Is *everyone* on break?" he inquired politely.

Beka closed her mouth with a snap. "No, sir!"

He smiled and held out his hand. Harper placed the lance in it, muttered something about monofilaments and bolted. Speechless, Beka met those amused, blue eyes.

"Everything's fine, Beka," Dylan told her. "Come on. Let's see if the Asmodians returned our message."