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Major Veers was not quite sure how he’d gotten his reputation for discretion, but he was beginning to regret it.
In his capacity as Security Team Lead for the Joint Chiefs he had expected push-back to his presence. These were high-ranking, capable men, used to getting their way, and unaccustomed to taking orders from anyone less than the top brass. But ordering them was a necessity: Outside the controlled setting of a Star Destroyer, a security perimeter became a thousand times more tenuous. On these planetside missions Veers was forced to heighten the already-stringent security protocols in place for the Chiefs. It didn’t matter that Corellia was firmly Imperial—without constant vigilance, things could go wrong.
His hardline, no-nonsense approach was precisely what was needed. It would get the job done, but it would not endear him to the men he was assigned to protect.
That’s what he’d assumed, at any rate. When Veers had been assigned this posting he’d anticipated he would be quietly tolerated, once it became apparent he was just as stubborn as any Joint Chief, and would not back down from providing proper security. Yet somehow—the how being a mystery to him with a sort of despairing urgency, as in, how-did-that-Loth-cat-get-into-the-AT-AT-naviconsole—the men had taken a shine to him. Not out of any true affection; Admiral Motti’s constant sneer made that abundantly apparent. Rather, they seemed to view Major Veers as a kind of on-call valet. Capable, cautious, tactful: The perfect man to summon when sensitive problems arose.
One week into this Corellian posting, and Veers had fetched and finagled on behalf of nearly all the Joint Chiefs. He’d been sent to discreet pharmacies for General Tagge to pick up his “little helpers”—whatever that meant—and directed into the seedier shops in Coronet City’s Xenodistrict on behalf of Colonel Yularen, flimsilist in hand, to pick up an assortment of unpronounceable herbs Veers was certain were illegal. Even Admiral Motti had made use of Veers’s begrudging service; an evening of hosting some “local flavor”—Motti’s words, which had left Veers instantly on edge—in the admiral’s suite had, apparently, gone rather wrong. Motti had sent Veers to deliver a hefty stack of credits to the hotelier in payment for permanent damage to the structural integrity of the room, along with a promise to “never do that to a bathtub again.”
Really, Veers didn’t want to know.
The only Joint Chief who hadn’t sent Veers off on these personal, demeaning tasks was Rear Admiral Jerjerrod. Truth be told Veers was a bit disappointed. Out of all those men, Jerjerrod had become his favorite. The lowest ranking of the admirals, Jerjerrod was reserved, and odd, but professional in a way Veers could respect. He wouldn’t have minded helping Jerjerrod out of a jam.
But Jerjerrod was a consummate professional. Aside from being escorted to and from meetings, he didn’t require much from Veers at all.
It was therefore a surprise when, late one evening, Veers’s comm crackled to life with the Rear Admiral’s distinctive baritone.
“Major Veers, can you hear me?”
Swiftly, he pressed down the receiver. “Loud and clear, sir.”
Jerjerrod’s relief was palpable. “Oh, thank the lord—Major Veers, please, if you could—er, I need, ah. That is, if you’re available....”
Technically, he very much was not. Captain Harren was the ranking officer on duty, Veers’s shift having ended well over two hours ago. Really, he should have gone straight to bed, but he’d been roped into a game of magna shuffle with some troopers. That he’d answered the comm at all was pure luck. Jerjerrod could—and probably should—be pawned off as someone else’s problem.
He pictured Jerjerrod’s tense, worried gaze, and he sighed. “I’m available, sir. How can I assist you?”
“I’ve fallen into a... a spot of trouble,” Jerjerrod admitted. He sounded rather strained. “If you could beetle up to my suite, please, and lend me a hand. No need to knock, hah, just b-barge right in....”
“I’m on my way, sir.”
“Thank you, Major,” Jerjerrod said breathlessly. “And needless to say, this is a matter of the utmost discretion.”
***
Like the rest of the security team, Major Veers was housed in the lower levels of Buckell Center. Though he wasn’t complaining—the hotel and business complex was designed with luxury in mind. From business magnates to regional governors to the wealthiest, most powerful members of the Admiralty, the towering structure was the preeminent spot for the military to meet the industrial complex firsthand. Even Veers’s very basic accommodation was one of the nicest rooms he’d ever stayed in.
The Joint Chiefs had been assigned suites on the top floor. Stepping into the turbolift, Veers scanned his security pass, and began his assent. While he climbed, he wondered just what exactly Rear Admiral Jerjerrod had gotten himself into.
He didn’t seem to have much of a social life, his odd friendship with Admiral Motti notwithstanding. He didn’t gamble, or drink. Bribery for some dangerous debt was therefore unlikely. Could he need Veers to perform some unsavory errand, perhaps? That didn’t seem likely either. There was raw urgency in Jerjerrod’s tone, his need for assistance too immediate.
Jerjerrod had sounded rather embarrassed; that this was a distinctly personal matter was clear. Whatever it was, he didn’t want anyone else to find out.
And the trouble was localized entirely within his room.
A nagging thought slithered into view. Maybe there was someone in the room, whom Jerjerrod could not force to leave. It was common enough for soldiers to take advantage of planetside entertainment. And for every singular officer there was a barge full of women eager to join him in a room, and earn some good, hard credits.
He’d have to stay guarded. Some of those escorts were downright dangerous; Veers knew more than a handful of men who’d been robbed blind by a dockside doxy, and Jerjerrod wouldn’t be the first officer with more money than sense. It was likely he was a bit naïve, given his background. From what Veers understood, he was a born-and-bred Core aristocrat, and that spelled sheltered. Moreover he was a desk admiral, toiling away his time in research stations and science facilities, unversed in the rough and tumble of active service. Wealthy, young, and handsome, too, in a glacial way; the Rear Admiral was a prime target for a more insidious sort of escort. She’d spot his good looks and Core Worlds bearing, and she’d catch his gullibility a mile away. He’d be eaten alive.
When the ‘lift reached the top floor, he was poised and ready. A melodic little ding chimed out, the doors sliding open with a woosh. Shoulders back, hand resting on his blaster, eyes narrowed, Veers stepped into the hall like he was disembarking into active combat.
The floor was empty, nothing but hotel art and the odd potted plant in view. Quickly, Veers walked past the suites he knew belonged to the other Joint Chiefs, past Tagge’s room, past Motti’s, until finally, at the far end of the hall, he was face to face with Jerjerrod’s door.
Aware of Jerjerrod’s request he “barge right in,” but mindful of another man’s privacy, he pressed down on the intercom outside the door and spoke into it quickly. “It’s Major Veers, sir,” he said lowly. “I’m coming in.”
He slotted his security pass into the door. For safety reasons his was the only pass which could open any of the doors, and for that he was grateful. He doubted Jerjerrod would have appreciated Veers flagging down the hotelier to grant him entrance.
A triple blink of green, and the lock disengaged. Without further preamble he stepped over the threshold, braced for the worst.
All in all, Veers considered himself a worldly man. You didn’t reach his rank in the Imperial Army without exposing yourself to some of the strangest scenarios the galaxy had to offer. He’d seen his fair share of Corellian peep shows, and dined at backwater cantinas boasting entertainment which could only be called ethically questionable.
But he’d never seen anything quite like this.
“There you are!” Jerjerrod exclaimed. “Excellent timing, Major Veers! So prompt!”
Stripped down to the waist, his bare chest was crisscrossed with a tangle of dark ropes. They wound tightly over his shoulders and under his armpits, looping round lean forearms and lower down, to run across the clothed inset of his thighs. Wedged between his bed and the nightstand, he appeared to have gotten himself stuck.
Veers was at a loss for words. He could only stand there, gaping at the sight of a Joint Chief trussed up like a chicken.
“Ah, Major,” Jerjerrod said, muffled somewhat by his positioning, “would you mind pulling me up? Not an entirely comfortable position, this.”
He was grateful for the order. It snapped him out of his reverie, and he strode forward at once. “Of course. Just, allow me....”
Carefully, he settled his hands on Jerjerrod’s waist, hauling him upright and depositing him on the bed. Jerjerrod teetered slightly. Veers did not remove his hands until he was certain the Rear Admiral wouldn’t topple over.
There was a flush to Jerjerrod’s cheeks, embarrassment plain on his normally pale features. But he looked grateful. “Thanks awfully,” he said softly. “That’s, er. That doesn’t usually happen.”
Veers cleared his throat. “Did someone... do this to you, sir?”
Jerjerrod’s flush darkened, his entire face blooming richly with color. “Well, no. I... I have a sort of hobby, you see. A fondness for knotwork. Perfectly ordinary, I can assure you.”
He nodded at his own reasoning, nearly tumbling off the bed in the process. Veers steadied him. “Thank you,” Jerjerrod muttered. “As I was saying, this is simply, hmm. Something to keep my hands busy, really. It’s quite harmless.”
What Jerjerrod was saying wasn’t entirely unreasonable, from a certain point of view. Ropework was a respectable naval skill—although he’d never seen it used on a person. Not like this. But, well. Jerjerrod was a Core Worlds aristocrat, after all. And those people did enjoy the oddest pastimes.
“It’s none of my business, sir,” Veers said finally. “I apologize for prying.”
“No need for apologies, Major, none at all! Now I’ve, ah, another favor to ask, if you don’t mind terribly.” Shifting on the bed, Jerjerrod blinked up at him. He was young for the Admiralty, barely thirty; perched shirtless on the bed and peering up at Veers, he looked younger than ever. “Could you untie these bally knots?”
“I’ve got a vibroblade in my room,” Veers said. “I could—”
“No cutting!” Jerjerrod cried. He recoiled, alarmed, and knocked himself backwards with a mighty oof.
Once again Veers hauled him upright. By the shoulders this time; surprisingly, good shoulders, actually. Slim, but sturdy.
“These are antique,” Jerjerrod babbled, once he was vertical again. “They’re older than I am! Older than you, even—”
“I’m not that much older—”
“And they’re irreplaceable! I’d have to settle for some subpar bargain-bin replacement ropes, and that simply would not do! No, Major Veers,” he said gravely, “I need you to untie me. Carefully, please. If it’s not too much trouble,” he added.
“I’ll try, sir,” he offered.
Jerjerrod beamed at him.
There was unexpected tightness in his throat. But in an instant it passed, and he attributed it to nothing more than the oddity of the scene. “I’ll take a seat then,” he began, gesturing towards the bed. “If that’s agreeable, sir.”
“Of course,” Jerjerrod said at once.
Gingerly, Veers sat on the bed. There was an awkwardness to his movements which was unlike him. It was odd enough already being in the presence of a Joint Chief without his full uniform—he’d removed his cap and gloves before dinner—but sitting side by side with Rear Admiral Jerjerrod, on his bed.... It left a strange sense of agitation simmering under the surface.
Veers glanced to the side, catching a glimpse of a small, pink nipple peeking out from a silky band of rope. He swallowed.
“The knots start towards my shoulders,” Jerjerrod explained, heedless of Veers’s discomfort. “And they wind down, you see, culminating here, along my wrists.”
Wordlessly, Veers reached out. His fingers settled on the knot above Jerjerrod’s left shoulder, and he began to tug and pull at the rope as best he could. Up close, he could see that the coloring was a deep, rich plum, stark against the milky white of Jerjerrod’s skin.
He quite liked the coloring.
While he worked, Jerjerrod prattled on. “I never expected to bungle the arrangement this badly. I pulled it from a book—”
“There’s books on this?” Veers grunted. He’d nearly managed to undo the corner knot, but the rope was looped in the wrong direction. Frowning, he traced his work backwards, to identify where he’d gone wrong.
“Oh yes! All sorts of jolly guides. The Quanta Sector—my home sector, you know—is rather famous for its celebrated tradition of ropework. I’d brought along a flimsibook for this trip, since I knew I’d have so much time alone in the evenings to... to practice. Oh! You’ve got one!”
He did. The shoulder knot fell apart under his fingers. Pleased, he moved down towards Jerjerrod’s middle, where the ropes wound around a narrow waist, and a flat, bare belly.
“What’s it called?” Veers asked, without looking away from his work. A freckle on Jerjerrod’s flank kept drawing his eye, but with a great degree of concentration he remained focused.
“What’s what called?”
“The book.”
“Oh. Hah. Ah.” With a guilty bob of his Adam’s apple, he looked away. “That’s not important.”
Glancing up, Veers caught the direction of Jerjerrod’s gaze. And then he saw it. There, on the nightstand, was a massive flimsibook as thick as Veers’s bicep. Stamped across the side in swirling gold lettering was Knotty Men: Sailors in Silk.
Jerjerrod’s face was flaming. He was studiously avoiding Veers’s eye, staring fixedly at the wall and looking as though he’d like nothing more than to melt into the floor. Veers, for his part, could have been knocked over with a feather. His fingertips felt superheated where they grazed Jerjerrod’s bare skin, his tongue heavy and leaden in his mouth.
Suddenly the idea of stumbling across a female escort in the Rear Admiral’s room seemed foolish indeed.
“Please don’t say anything,” Jerjerrod said, in a very quiet voice. “I can’t—it’s, it’s a comfort, to have that tension, it’s not indicative of anything... subversive.”
“It’s fine,” Veers said, his voice rougher than before. “Really, sir, I’m in no place to judge.”
His swallow was wet. “I know it might appear unseemly—"
Veers cut him off with a shake of his head. “It’s just art, isn’t it? All that ropework. Nothing unseemly about that.”
Jerjerrod clung to the excuse like a lifeline. “Yes! Well said, Major, that’s precisely my sentiment as well!”
Relief radiated off his slim form; he was practically vibrating under Veers’s hands. Truthfully Veers did not believe the excuse, though he was gratified to offer the poor man some emotional relief. It was artistic, certainly—the design winding its way around Jerjerrod’s torso was too elaborate to be anything else—but it wasn’t as black and white as all that. There was a pinker hue below the surface, a sort of squirming, hitching interest that was becoming more and more evident with each passing second. Rear Admiral Jerjerrod liked being tied up for the feel of it, not just for the art.
Veers shot a darting glance at the book. Knotty Men... that complicated things, didn’t it? It was one thing for an officer to flip through a holozine of women trussed up and on display. But to ogle a flimsibook of men bound and restrained—sailors, even, and didn’t that conjure up images of brawny deckhands and bare-chested crew—it wasn’t the type of information one wanted bandied about. As much as Tagge liked to harp on the Navy as a hotbed of sodomy, relations between the men were still technically illegal.
Of course, that didn’t stop it from happening. Even in the Army, there were plenty of men willing to take the rough, when there was no smooth to be had.
Plenty of men who preferred that, too.
The knots binding Jerjerrod’s middle gave way. No longer blocked by the rope, his torso was properly exposed. It was as trim and pale as the rest of him, with a pleasant dusting of hair darker than the brassy-blond curls on his head. His pectorals were lean, but nicely defined. Stripped of his tunic, it was evident Jerjerrod was in better shape than Veers had previously assumed.
He made to reach for Jerjerrod’s wrists, to undo the knots there, but Jerjerrod winced. “Er, could you deal with these first?” he asked. With his bound hands he tapped the fat knots straining against his inner thighs. “It’s only that these knots on my wrists are—well, they might take a bit to be undone, and the knots down here are, erm. Digging in rather sharply.”
There was a strange heat buzzing along the back of his neck. With some difficulty he tore his gaze from Jerjerrod’s thighs. “If that’s what you’d like, sir.” A thought occurred to him. He cleared his throat, but when he spoke, it still came out gravelly. “Although the angle is going to pose some... challenges.”
Jerjerrod was looking at a point just past Veers’s shoulder. Between the red of his cheeks and the gold of his curls, he was doing a passable impression of a particularly garish sunrise. “I could lay back on the bed,” he said thinly.
“I think that’s best,” Veers agreed. It came out huskier than intended. He very nearly apologized, and he would have, if Jerjerrod hadn’t squeaked out a desperate little noise that promptly distracted them both.
But in a moment the Rear Admiral regained a modicum of equipoise. He managed to scuttle backwards on the bed, collapsing back against the pillow and baring his underbelly to Veers’s watchful eye. “These knots shouldn’t be as tight as the others,” he said, staring up at the ceiling. “I know this is all rather undignified....”
“I don’t mind,” Veers replied automatically.
At that, Jerjerrod fixed him with a look. It was a shrewd gaze, green and unreadable. “Don’t you?”
It was an observed fact, in Veers’s experience, that Navy boys had a bad habit of beating around the bush. They did not inform but rather implied, preferring instead to obfuscate the point behind a fog of smoke and mirrors. The higher the rank, the worse the tendency. He attributed it to so many of them being pulled from a certain class of men which proliferated in the Core: blue-bloods raised in boarding schools and country clubs, their natural manner of speaking scrubbed clean and replaced instead with elocution lessons and etiquette training. They never said what they meant. You had to ferret it out.
Veers, though, was not one of those men. And he did not shy away from direct action.
“I don’t mind touching you, sir,” he said plainly. Rather the opposite, in fact. “You don’t need to worry about any discomfort on my account. I only hope you don’t mind being touched by me.”
Jerjerrod was goggling at him. “Not in the slightest,” he croaked. “It’s, er. You have excellent hands, Major Veers. Very... very capable.”
“I. Ah. Yes,” he said, very stupidly. “Thank you.”
His hands were itching to be put to use, a restlessness boiling under his skin he had not felt in quite some time. Without dithering any longer, he reached forward, resting his bare palm on Jerjerrod’s clothed thigh, while his free hand got to work on picking apart that knot.
It was odd to have Jerjerrod laying on his back, staring up at him. Odd, but not bad. Distantly Veers had always been aware the Rear Admiral was more than passably attractive. He was objectively handsome; fair-haired and fine-boned, willowy but not weak, patrician in his poise and bearing. But reclined on the bed, he was downright pretty. His close-cropped curls were in a state of mild disarray, tousled against the pillow, and his mouth, rather than pressed in its normal tight, fine line, was parted slightly, exposing a hint of incisor Veers was shocked to note was somewhat crooked. There was a whipcord masculinity to him, delicate as a reed, sharp as a knife.
It was a testament to Veers’s monumental self-control that he did not pitch forward and kiss him.
Jerjerrod, though, seemed to notice something simmering in Veers’s gaze. He watched him quietly, and eagerly, his eyes large and bright and his legs parted obediently to Veers’s touch. Neither of them spoke. The only noise in the room was the twin staccato of their breathing, the both of them heaving out their breaths a bit louder than before, and the rustle of silk against fingertips.
When the knots came undone, Jerjerrod let out what could only be called a whimper.
“All that’s left is your hands, sir,” Veers said softly. When Jerjerrod made no move to sit up, Veers bent forward, leaning over his prone form on the bed and tugging him upwards by the knot on his wrists.
Jerjerrod was biting his lip, staring more brazenly than ever. Seconds from doing something monumentally ill-advised—and possibly career-ending—Veers made quick work of the knots on his wrists. He’d gotten good at maneuvering the elegant silk through its loops and holes. In short order those fell as well, and Jerjerrod was finally freed.
“Done,” said Veers, more to himself than anything. He stood abruptly, Jerjerrod wobbling on the mattress from the sudden loss of weight. “If you’ve no more need of me, sir—”
“Wait!” he stuttered out. “I—you’re not leaving, are you? So soon?”
“Unless you’re tied up anywhere I’ve missed.” It was meant to be a joke, but he regretted it instantly, his face exploding with heat and his eyes widening with alarm at his own daring.
Jerjerrod was staring at him, slack-jawed, from the bed. Coming to his senses, he snapped his mouth shut, and rose to join Veers. Even standing, he still had to tilt his head back to meet Veers’s eye.
“I thought we might have dinner,” Jerjerrod said. Under the tremulous baritone there was an edge of steel.
Veers met his gaze. He was all iron. “I’ve eaten already,” he explained, “and I’ve an early shift in the morning. I really ought to head to bed.” Jerjerrod looked crestfallen, and he quickly continued, “But tomorrow evening would be ideal. If that’s agreeable.”
Jerjerrod’s smile was dazzling. “Perfectly agreeable. I’ll have it arranged and send you the details.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“No need for all that,” he muttered, with a wave of his hand. The ligature marks were red against his skin. “Not after all you’ve done for me. Tiaan is perfectly acceptable.” A pause. “Or, well, perhaps just in private. I suppose it would look a bit odd if you were traipsing about in the hallways calling me Tiaan.”
“Tiaan,” he echoed, his tongue clicking along the back of his teeth at the end.
Jerjerrod colored. “That’s me. So, ah, yes. Dinner. Tomorrow. How lovely.” With a light laugh just the tiniest bit hysterical, he settled a hand on Veers’s bicep, and squeezed. “I’ll see you then, Major.”
“Max,” Veers said, hyperaware of the hand on his arm.
A shy smile at that. “Max it is, then.”
Jerjerrod escorted him to the door, prattling on in thanks and failing to remove his hand from Veers’s arm until finally, at the threshold, he was forced to relinquish his touch. Veers was just about to open the door and leave when Jerjerrod rocked up onto the balls of his feet and pressed a kiss to his mouth.
It was chaste enough, nothing more than a cool press of lips against his own, and the barest scrape of stubble along the hard line of his jaw. But when Jerjerrod stepped back, they were both breathing hard.
“Thanks again,” Jerjerrod murmured. “And I’ll see you tomorrow, Max.”
He managed a strangled sort of agreement to that—embarrassing, but Jerjerrod appeared delighted—and then stepped out into the hall, the door to Jerjerrod’s room sliding shut behind him.