Dylan flicked his tongue expertly against the blunt tip and then slid it between his lips, tasting, sucking a little to make the end pleasantly wet. He rolled the firm, brown length between his fingers and Tyr squirmed.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Dylan swirled the tip in his mouth and popped it out, grinning. "Just showing you how it's done. Come on -- lick --" he demonstrated again, his words becoming muffled "'li' the en'," he gestured; "an' go...." He sucked in short steady pulses then luxuriously exhaled a jet of smoke at the bedside lamp.

"I have some experience with this." Tyr considered the fat cigar dubiously. "But nothing of this size or...age?" He canted an eyebrow at his bedmate, who was blowing a ring.

"Private stock," said Dylan. "Liberated from Admiral Stark's walk-in humidor. She liked them big."

"And stupid," muttered Tyr, still regarding the cigar with distrust. "Wasn't this illegal?"

"Occasional indulgence is perfectly safe. And legal on my ship, mister. Any other concerns?"

A tendril of smoke slithered under Tyr's nose and he suppressed the urge to sneeze. The smell was inviting, but not one he cared to carry on his person. Still, there was a challenge in Dylan's attitude that made his blades twitch, the hairs on his arm rise...and other sensitive reactions. He picked the silver cutter from Dylan's lap and clipped the end of the cigar. He moistened the tip in his mouth and puffed as Dylan held the lighter to the other end. Sweet. Smooth, warming, aromatic. The smoke circled up against his palate, through his mouth, and out. "Ahhh."

Dylan laughed. "Good?"

Narcotic?. Tyr nodded. "Agreeable."

Dylan laughed again. "Good. After dinner, with brandy, after sex." He knocked his knee against Tyr's under the coverlet, then pulled his pillow higher against the headboard and leaned back. Tyr gazed at him through the curling haze. This was an unfamiliar face. He'd seen Dylan, felt Dylan, in desire and abandon, in anger and command, in his bantering, wary simulation of informality -- but never this much at ease. He puffed speculatively, testing. It was nice. Mildly calming, faintly stimulating, but nothing extraordinary. Just pleasantly, sensually good. The Captain was talking on.

"...sex with men. Women tend to disapprove."

"Of sex?"

"Of the post-sex cigar. Unless they want one too, and I must say...not a pretty sight."

Tyr had a sudden urge to dump the cigar...(Dylan settled the ashtray on his knee)...turn out the light...(Dylan angled the lampshade to better highlight the smoke)...and kick Dylan's pale symmetrical ass out of bed...(Dylan slid a hand under the covers, snugly home in Tyr's lap).

Dylan squeezed. "You know what I mean?"

No, no he didn't. He really, really didn't. "You don't like sex with women?"

"God, I love women. Lots of women. Many very lovely kinds of women." Dylan squeezed again and took another smacking puff on his cigar. Tyr smoked more cautiously, straining again to detect any drug. He also felt a tingle start under Dylan's determined hand. By the Progenitor (a little mental wince away from all that name implied)...by...all that was hard and holy, he had no inclination to discuss the relative charms of women with Captain Hunt. But that might not be what Dylan had in mind...he twitched under another firm squeeze and teasing slide of that infernal hand.

"Blondes, I like blondes. Shiny, sweet blondes with long legs and plump breasts and round asses that fit just...right." Dylan's hand and cigar cupped a lazy scoop of air as he floated a smoke ring through the target zone.

"Beka," said Tyr, thoughtlessly. Freya.

"Hrrrmph. No, not, no. She's not the... ah, she's crew, Tyr." He squeezed again for emphasis and then, finally, looked down at the covers rumpling over his hand. "I mean, she's not that kind of woman. Not for me."

Amusement finally tickled through the fumes. This could be turned to some advantage, sometime. Crooking an elbow and propping his head on his hand, Tyr smiled wide and white. "What kind of woman is for you, Captain Hunt?" He tapped a silent fall of ash into the tray on Dylan's knee.

Dylan pressed his legs together and Tyr saw the outline of a familiar contour hard between them. "Ripe. Willing. Temporary. Good breasts, you know, right to the touch like fruit ready to burst. No imbeds. No nipple thorns. Firm thighs, but not too young, not too skinny, not hairy. And a rump I can get a grip on."

Tyr's memory flickered to the hold he'd had on Dylan earlier, his damp and tossing hair. "And blonde?"

"Black, brown, red, orange, blue -- but I am partial to honey blondes."

"Blue?"

"Not Perseids -- not worth the risk. But Alerins...."

"Other species?" The covers heaved and the ashtray spilled. Dylan laughed and released Tyr to rescue the ashtray and bounce ashes off the coverlet with a snap.

"Well, you know the saying: never with a Nightsider unless the bar's on fire. And I've never used an android that way." He frowned. "Never had sex with one. But the Commonwealth was wide and the uniform was a magnet, back then. Before I was...when I was free. Like now." Dylan leaned back into the shadows and crossed his arms. "What about you? The way you...you must have orbited a few stars yourself."

Taken, overcome. Driven in the night. Tyr sat up, drawing smoke slowly in, letting it leak out. "Our women...for Nietzscheans women are not a form of entertainment." He shook his locks back and straightened his spine.

Dylan shot him a sharp look. "I knew Nietzscheans in my time. And I've seen the current records. Nietzschean slaves. Nietzschean brothels with humans and half-breeds. Niet...."

"Not for me!" Tyr cut across Dylan's words. Then, controlled, "Not...for me. The slavers are degenerates, Drago-Kazov and their scum." Yvain. "Women are the path to the future, the means to re-create. They choose the worthiest, we follow. I wouldn't dishonor a mate."

"More than one?" It was a quiet question. Provocative. Tyr restrained a snarl and looked back, carefully. Saw intelligence now behind the ease. "One wife, Orca Pride. You knew about that." He paused. "There's nothing else you need to know."

"No deal with Elsbett? You found her--not ugly."

"No." It was a sour failure, but not the first, not the last. His name was rising along with this lunatic cause, he had his Pride's legacy locked in the hold. He had a destiny...Dylan nudged his hand with the ashtray.

"Tap." Dylan waited a beat, then took Tyr's cigar, put both aside to extinguish in the ashtray near the lamp. "I loved a woman like that, once." He snapped off the light then turned back to Tyr, pulling up the covers, sliding his legs over, curling his hand home again between Tyr's thighs. At the touch, the steady grip, Tyr unbent, rolled on his side, gathered Dylan in. When he entered Dylan's mouth, he tasted smoke.

-End-

Sincere thanks to Ana, Aunty Mib, Cherubino, and 3eyes for comments.