rivers_bend

Title: Res Judicata
Fandom: Alias (Jack/Vaughn/Sark)
Words: ~4200
Rating: Adult (sex/violence)
Warnings: Dubious and impaired consent. possible trigger scenarios
A/N: another sequel to Stay Away from Sydney and The Cell
beta by tigertrapped, who can always be counted on for enthusiasm when I put men on their knees.

Written as a holiday gift for the supportive, enthusiastic, beta-tastic, and Jack/Vaughn-mad karaokegal because she is one of the people I would not survive without, and she asked so nicely.



Sark had always been able to sleep anywhere; a useful trait in his profession. His current landlords had furnished him with a steel cot and two wool blankets. They weren't charging him rent, which was something. They were charging him with crimes against the government though. If he was lucky. If his luck gave out, they were just holding him. Indefinitely.

Also useful in his profession, Sark usually woke at the slightest noise. Jack Bristow could be a sneaky bastard though, and this time Sark didn't wake up until he felt the prick in his arm. He tried to struggle upright but Jack had a strong hand on his shoulder and then started stroking Sark's face with the hand that still held the unsheathed needle. Sark was no fool.

Jack nodded approvingly. "That's it, stay still. You'll be moving soon enough."

"What are you giving me? We did the truth serum thing, I told you everything I know." Sark looked over to where Michael Vaughn stood in the doorway. "I can't imagine you're here to kill me in front of witnesses. So what is it?"

"Tonight we're less interested in what you know than what I'd rather you didn't remember. I have a… friend of a friend, in London. He can do amazing things with pharmaceuticals. Asked me to test this one out for him. You'll know what's happening, you'll even be able to follow along for a while. But no new memories will be made. Tomorrow, for you anyway, it will be as though tonight never happened."

Sark felt the brush of Jack's fingers against his cheek as a tightness in his groin. His hips tensed, rose, seeking contact with the rough blanket. Jack noticed and his lips twitched at the corner as though he might smile. "I had my friend add a little something that gives you an itch that can't be scratched. Wouldn't want you to peak too soon." Jack patted Sark's hip, and Sark thrust towards the brief contact. Nodding, Jack turned to a briefcase he'd set on the table in the corner, and tucked the syringe into a plastic box.

Sark curled on the bed and watched as Jack walked back towards Vaughn. "Don't keep me waiting, Jack. You know how I value this time we spend together."

***

Michael watched as Jack glided towards Sark, never waking him until he slid the needle into a vein. His hopes had soared when Jack brought him down here, hoping there would be another empty cell; a cell where Jack would hold him, and fuck him and order him to his knees. He was not interested in another round of questioning Julian Sark.

When Jack came back, having left Sark huddled on the bed, Michael tried to keep the disappointment and anger out of his voice. "What are we doing here, Sir?"

Jack leaned close. "You told me that you needed to see me again. That you would do anything to see me again. I'd like to take your word for it, but I can't. I need you to prove it to me."

Michael's eyes shifted nervously towards Sark. "Prove it to you?" He swallowed. "What do I need to do?"

"Everything you want me to do to you, everything you've been thinking about in your bed at night, or when you stare at me across the office, I want you to do to Mr. Sark here. Every single thing. I will watch. I will know if you hesitate or hold back. But if you're good, and show me what you want, I'll give it to you."

"I…" Jack laid a gentle finger and thumb at the pulses in Michael's neck. "Yes, sir. Of course."

Michael watched Sark's eyes widen slightly as he saw Vaughn rather than Jack walking towards him. Aware of Jack's gaze on him, Michael didn't hesitate. "Get on your knees, facing me, on the bed."

"You call this a bed?"

"Do it, Sark." Michael pulled Sark up by a grip around his arm and the back of his neck. They stared at each other. Defiant.

The last thing Michael wanted to do was kiss the man kneeling before him. The man who'd played his part in Sydney's disappearance, who repeatedly betrayed the CIA, who'd, for fuck's sake, been fucking Michael's traitorous bitch of a wife. He regretted every time he'd begged Jack to kiss him. Because if he didn't kiss Sark now, Jack would know Michael wasn't following instructions. He could feel Jack's gaze on the back of his neck like a hand.

When he kissed Sark it was angry. Resentful. With mouth closed and rigid, teeth grinding against the inside of his lips, grip bruising on either side of Sark's head. The impression of Jack's hand became the heavy heat of it.

"Michael." Michael pulled back and twisted to look at Jack behind him. "Is that how you want me to kiss you? When you beg me to kiss you, is that what you're after?"

Michael shook his head.

"I didn't think so. Exactly as you want me to kiss you. This isn't Julian Sark. This is Michael Vaughn."

Sark jerked his head from Michael's grip. "If you two want to fuck or play house or whatever it is you're doing, be my guest. But get the hell out of my cell. I'm not playing."

Jack's hand closed around Sark's throat. "Oh, you'll play. My friend is a very clever man. I have drugs here that will do just about anything I want. Including one which will make every nerve ending in your body play a symphony of pain at the slightest touch. And Agent Vaughn here likes it when I do a whole lot more than touch him. Play nice. It's not like you'll have the memory to shame you in the morning."

"What do you mean?"

"I've given you a little something to make you forget." Jack thumbed the puncture mark on Sark's elbow. "Be good." Jack pushed Michael back in front of Sark.

Closing his eyes to Sark's glare, Michael cupped his hands around Sark's head. He allowed his hunger for Jack to soften his jaw, and closed his mouth over Sark's. Sucking at his lips, teasing them open with his tongue, Michael imagined Jack's lips under his, erasing Sark. As though guiding Jack's hand, Michael moved his own down Sark's chest to the hard thrust that shifted to meet his palm. A moment of shock, then Michael remembered the drug Jack had given.

"Just like you, he's hard at the first touch." Jack's voice was a whisper in Michael's ear. "What do you want me to do next?"

Michael burned with shame. He wanted this to stop. He wanted to turn to Jack and beg not to have to do this. To bare his throat, offer himself up, offer anything Jack wanted so that he wouldn't have to touch Julian Sark like he was something Michael desired. But this was what Jack had asked for. Michael didn't want to risk that if he walked away from Sark, Jack would walk away from him. He wrapped his fingers around Sark's wrist, twisting it up behind his back, using the leverage to force their chests together. Kissing him again, pressing their bodies together from knees to lips, he swallowed Sark's groan, not caring if it was protest or lust, conscious only of Jack's gaze.

Michael felt the rough weave of Sark's shirt against his knuckles and thought of the night in the storage locker. Of Jack's eyes and fingers on his chest. Releasing Sark's wrist, he stepped back, off-balancing Sark who rocked forwards slightly on his knees. "Take off your shirt." Michael tried to speak with Jack's firm authority.

“No.” Sark's lips were red and Michael wondered if he looked so wanton after Jack kissed him.

Registering Sark's defiance, Michael let his anger and disgust with the man through. "Just do as I fucking tell you."

"No."

Michael wanted to punch him. Wanted to throttle him in a way that had nothing to do with sex. Wanted Jack to take over and make Sark obey. He was scared to turn and look at Jack for fear of disappointing him. He heard the click of a briefcase and then felt solid heat close behind him. Jack's hand reached around to hold something out so Michael could take it. It was the hunting knife he'd last seen pointed at his cock. Sark was staring at it with a mixture of fear and curiosity. Jack didn't say a word as he put the knife in Michael's hand and stepped back again.

Never taking his eyes from the knife, Sark said, "What is with you people?"

Not risking further defiance -- Michael suspected Sark thought he wouldn't use the knife -- Michael grabbed Sark's t-shirt by the collar. Pulling Sark roughly forward, he held the keen edge of the blade against the taut fabric. Too volatile to mimic Jack's cool delivery, he hissed in Sark's face, "Don't move, or you're going to end up breathing through your Adam's apple."

Ever practical, Sark froze as Michael ripped through his shirtfront with the knife.

Fighting the urge to turn and look at Jack, Michael pulled the ruined cotton down Sark's arms and used it to secure them behind his back. The strain of the position made Sark's biceps and deltoids stand out in relief. Michael resented the twist of desire the sight shot to his groin. His eyes jerked away from Sark's pale torso and were drawn by the twitch of his hips. Michael had to pull his gaze away from the front of Sark's khakis, an effort Sark noticed if the tilt of his lips was anything to go by.

Michael wanted to use the knife to cut the smirk off Sark's face. To gut him like a deer. As though Jack sensed his thoughts, he materialized behind Michael. He closed one hand over Michael's fist on the rubber grip of the knife, and the other teased over Michael's hip, down his thigh, and up, between his legs, cupping him then squeezing as though to be sure he had Vaughn's undivided attention. His chin and cheek were cool against the flushed skin of Michael's neck and his breath was hot in Michael's ear. "Everything you do to him, I do to you. Remember that. Go ahead and look at him like you desire him. He's not Sark, he's you." Jack's hand moved on Michael until, helpless, Michael rested his head back on Jack's shoulder and a desperate groan escaped his throat. Jack continued to whisper in his ear. "You're desirable; listen to the sounds you make. Look at him the way I look at you, deciding how best to hurt you so you'll make that sound for me. Hurt him, the way you want to be hurt. But don't take your anger out on him. It's not about anger, or revenge, or punishment. It's about what you want. What you need from me."

Jack's hand moved from Michael's groin to his face. Michael fought the urge to turn and kiss its palm, instead letting it steady him, bring him back to the moment. Jack felt the shift in his mood and loosened his grip on the knife. Michael turned his attention back to the man on the bed.

As he felt Jack pull away, Michael stepped closer to Sark. Holding the knife at his side, he reached for the blond head, pulling it roughly towards him, kissing Sark again as the kneeling man fell into him. As Sark shifted his weight, regained his balance, Michael slid his hand around to Sark's throat, feeling the rough scratch of stubble, then, tightening his grip, the beat of Sark's pulse and the quickening of his breath. Sark tried to jerk back, but Michael brought the knife up so Sark could feel it pricking at his shoulder and Sark gave in to the kiss and the hand at his throat.

Michael finally broke away to breathe, but didn't loosen his fingers to allow Sark the same luxury. When Sark's eyes grew wild and he began to struggle despite the knife-point against his skin, Michael released him. Sark tilted sideways, gasping, and Michael pushed him down the rest of the way. Sark didn't have the air to protest when Vaughn rolled him onto his back, forcing him into an arch over his bound wrists.

Michael wanted Jack's hands on him, now, and he transferred the need to the bound man before him. Laying the knife on Sark's stomach, which was heaving less violently now as his breathing returned to normal, Michael undid the fastenings of Sark's pants and pulled them down and off. The CIA either wasn't issuing underwear to its prisoners, or Sark had chosen not to wear any.

As Michael brushed his hand near Sark's erection, Sark jerked, sending the knife spinning slowly, blade towards the tip of his cock. Michael stopped it just before it made contact; having felt how easily the blade cut through even the bunched cotton of the t-shirt's collar, and knowing that Jack was watching his every move, he didn't want to invite more pain than he could handle.

"You need to learn a lesson in not moving, Sark." Michael laid the knife alongside the recently threatened flesh where it strained against Sark's belly. "Shall we try this again?"

Sark tried to look at the knife without moving, but gave up. Sweat popped on his upper lip, and his eyes darted from Vaughn to Jack as though looking for an explanation.

Michael said, "It's an easy question. Yes or no answer. Will you stay still?" Michael adjusted the knife minutely and heard what might have been a sob catch in Sark's throat.

He laid a hand on Sark's ankle, sliding it lightly up the inside of Sark's leg. Sark stiffened and made a strangled noise. The knife teetered. Jack's low voice arrested Michael's movements. "That drug I gave him makes every touch feel like sex. I think this is a game he's going to lose. It's a little early in the proceedings for that much blood. I know you'll be very, very good when it's your turn, show me what else you want from me."

Michael felt shamed by Jack's reprimand and pleased by his praise. The two twisted in his gut and felt a lot like the desire to kneel on the concrete floor while Jack gripped his hair and used his throat without a thought for Michael's need for oxygen. Cheeks burning and teeth clenched, he took the knife back to the briefcase. Stalling for time, he looked inside. He registered handcuffs, latex gloves, condoms, lube, and a police baton before he felt Jack's hands close on his shoulders. "I trust you'll find everything you need."

The touch and Jack's voice reminded him why he was doing this.

Sark had twisted back onto his side and was watching them both. Considering, Michael picked up the handcuffs, a glove and the lube. Jack watched, expressionless, as Michael returned to the cot.

Michael was unsure how Jack would feel about Michael's cock in Sark's mouth. He was also a little uncertain about the safety of surrendering himself to those sharp and possibly vindictive teeth, but Jack had instructed him to do to Sark everything which he wished Jack to do to him, and that pleasure was forefront in his mind.

Dropping the supplies from the briefcase onto the foot of the bed, Michael pinched Sark's nipple, twisting it, and used it to pull the other man up to sitting. Sark gasped and Michael pressed three fingers into his mouth. Sark tried to bite him, but another twist to the sensitive skin of his chest, and Sark's eyes and mouth opened wide and stayed that way. Michael used his fingers to trace the edges of Sark's teeth, feel the rough of his tongue and the hard curve of his palate. Sark's nostrils flared as Michael pushed further back, testing his gag reflex. He didn't choke, just glared and tried to loosen the knots at his wrists.

Michael pulled Sark onto the floor by his shoulders, resisting the urge to drop him hard onto his knees. Sark looked up at him, an edge of panic behind his hot eyes. "If you think I'm going to suck you, you are seriously deluded."

Michael undid his pants, other hand around Sark's throat. He used his thumb to force Sark's jaw open, and pushed his way inside. Sark did gag then, and Michael pulled back enough to let him gasp once, before using the wet heat of Sark's mouth as he imagined Jack using his. He fucked in slow, rough thrusts, feeling Sark's jaw stretch under his palms, the strain in Sark's neck under his fingers. Michael felt a strange twinning of experience: pleasure so sharp it was beyond coming, and intense envy of Sark's position on his knees. Jerking Sark close with a hand on the back of his head, Michael let himself give in to the sensation.

Sark sought his revenge by spitting come and a smear of blood from a cut lip onto Michael's leg. Michael scooped the mess up with his fingers and shoved it back into Sark's mouth. This time when Sark bit him, it was with jaws weakened by recent use, so Michael didn't try to stop him, just curled his fingertips into the back of Sark's tongue until he gave up, retching.

Leaving Sark for a moment, trussed and gasping on his knees, Vaughn returned to get the knife. Sark's eyes widened when he saw it, but Michael only used it to cut the cotton from his wrists. Sark flexed his shoulders and his neck and then made as if to rise.

"Please don't imagine that I'm finished with you Mr. Sark." Michael used the knife point to tease at the cut on Sark's lip, feeling the ghost of every nick Jack had left on his skin with the blade. Without looking back, trusting that Jack would know that while Vaughn could be trusted to stay indefinitely on his knees, Sark could not, Michael held the knife out behind him saying, "Jack, would you--"

Jack took the knife with a murmured, "Of course," and Michael hauled Sark to standing with a hand on each elbow. Without allowing him time to steady himself on his feet, Michael propelled Sark back onto the cot behind him. Pushing him until he lay with his head on the rather sorry excuse for a pillow, Michael eyed the handcuffs on the bed near his feet.

"Grab the headboard." Michael gestured with his chin towards the low steel arch that connected the legs of the cot.

Sark's gaze matched the glint of the metal. "Fuck you."

Michael backhanded him, rocking his head to the side and giving his top lip a cut to match the bottom. He would never speak to Jack that way, but if he did, he would expect no lesser punishment. "I said, get your hands above your head."

Sark licked at his bloodied mouth, hips rising slightly as he tasted the salted copper fluid, eyes shining. "Make me."

Forgetting Jack for a moment, forgetting himself, Michael picked up the handcuffs by one bracelet, and raising his arm, brought the other curve of steel whipping down on the inside of Sark's thigh. Sark's mouth opened, and Michael thought he gasped, but then realized that Sark hadn't made a sound; the noise came from Jack. A glance behind him confirmed that it was a gasp of pleasure.

Michael took advantage of Sark's surprise, and gripping both his wrists pulled them up, locking them with the handcuffs to the bed support. Sark's breathing was jagged, and he seemed to be trying to flinch away from the welt rising on his leg. Michael watched it in fascination for a moment, hard purple center giving way to a broken edge of skin on one side, and then leaning down, licked it. Sark made a noise then, a sharp sound escaping his throat, as the flat of Michael's tongue pressed the salt of sweat into the wound. The mark felt like a brand, an incandescent stripe, even against the wet heat of his tongue. Sark tried to kick him, to buck him off, but Michael's body weight held his near thigh, and he kept a vise grip on the other leg, so Sark struggled in vain.

Galvanized by the metallic taste and heat, Vaughn licked again across the welt. When he reached cooler, unmarked skin, he sucked it into his mouth, biting, feeling Jack's teeth on his neck in the heat of Sark's blood under the surface of his skin. Rising from where he knelt next to the cot, Michael turned and looked at Jack.

"Only one mark?" Jack's voice was low.

"As many as you think I'm worthy of. Sark deserves no more than one." Michael sought a sign of approval in Jack's eyes.

"Come here."

With no hesitation, Michael closed the distance between them. Jack put a hand in the center of his back and used the other one to pull aside the collar of Michael's shirt. He pressed the oval of his mouth to the skin just above the center point of Michael's collar bone. Michael felt as though Jack were sucking all the blood in his body into that point. The rest of him was weightless, he was grounded only by the connection to Jack's teeth and lips and tongue. Just when he thought he would lose himself in the sensation, Jack stopped.

"You've earned more, but I don't think you're done yet." Jack used the hand on his spine to turn Michael back towards Sark.

Sark had a wild look and was testing the handcuff chain against the bed head. Michael ignored Sark and pulled on the glove he'd gotten out of the briefcase earlier. Eyes on Jack's, he squeezed lube onto his fingers and hand, mindful that Jack watched his every move. Turning his gaze to Sark he asked, "Have you ever had anything up your ass before?"

Sark couldn't keep the smirk off his face as he said, "Your wife's tongue. Hotter than any cock it was, too."

With his bare hand Michael pinched the welt on Sark's thigh between thumb and knuckle, twisting it until beads of blood spotted the raw edge. Sark screamed thinly and jerked his legs apart. Vaughn sank two fingers into his ass, forcing his way past any resistance. Sark clamped muscles tight against him, but Michael just rocked his hand until the pressure and friction overwhelmed his anger. As soon as he felt the muscles giving, he began sliding his fingers in and out, working a third in as Sark began to moan. "If you liked Lauren's tongue, just wait until you feel my fist."

Sark was shaking his head no, no, no but he pushed back against Vaughn's thrusts and opened to take a fourth finger. As Michael's knuckles banged against the ring of muscle he slowed down his rhythm and began to twist and press instead. He slid his thumb in alongside his fingers, watching Sark's face which had gone slack with sensation. Sark's breathing came in ragged keening gasps, his cock, hard since this began from the drugs Jack gave him, was inflamed, leaking, tortured looking, though Vaughn hadn't touched it. With a final twist of his hand, Michael pushed his knuckles into Sark's maddening heat and watched his body close around the relatively smaller diameter of Michael's wrist.

Vaughn could hardly breathe; his hand caught in the clinging furnace of Sark's body, every tiny movement answered with a noise unlike any he had heard a man make before. He felt powerful, like he could reach up and pull out Sark's heart, and breakable in some way he couldn't identify. Reaching for Sark's cock, he pinched its tip and rocked his fist until Sark came, screaming as though he were being murdered.

***

As Jack unlocked Sark's wrists and packed things away into his briefcase again, Michael looked at the unconscious man on the bed. Mouth, wrists and hips bruised, knees abraded and thigh marked, he looked hard-used at the least. Nervous, he looked at Jack. "Who is this man who gave you the drugs?"

"He's an MI6 asset. When I was at SD6 you might have said we were in the same line of work. Though I don't think we're in the same league."

"Did you say you were testing this memory drug for him? Are you sure it was safe to test it on Sark? I mean, look at him. Surely he's going to have some memory of what happened when he wakes up to all this in the morning." Michael tried to encompass the cuts and bruises with a gesture.

Jack laid a hand on Michael's neck, stroking his jaw with a gentle thumb. "Don't worry." He looked into Vaughn's eyes, smiling. "Sark wasn't the first man I gave it to."