Learning Curve 1

This is an education, Tyr thought in his heart, in the dark. He'd learned as a child to hide the true levels of his skills. Learned to learn, as well, whenever an opportunity arose. So, here was one.

He was far less experienced a lover than he hoped he seemed.

...the heavy body next to him jerked. Another dream, probably. He caught a whiff of human distress, a muttered word. It was a big bed and they could sleep without touching, as Dylan seemed to prefer. He was lying in his deep-sleep position, curled in on himself, back to Tyr, one arm under his head and the other across his body so he could clutch his sex. Tyr wondered if that was normal. If it was sane.

An education. It was different with women; they took the lead in bed and he thought he'd given satisfaction. Those encounters had been precious and rare. Less precious were his dealings with men, damned few of which he'd allowed a second time. But now, now he had unshameful access to a prize, a beautiful body wrapped around a keen mind. Human, yes, but that had its advantages. No hierarchical complications, no attachment--his physical superiority made him master.

Dylan jerked again and hit his heel against Tyr's shin, a cold hard tamp that lingered there.

An education in reading the body under his hands, his mouth, his thighs, his beating heart...his blade sockets tingled and a warm glow slithered south. In reading this man, capable and potent, brought to a stage of flux and abandon...he curled his hand between his thighs. An education in influence and change, in steering his partner, in making him....

Another kick and a choking sound. He gripped Dylan's shoulder. "It's a dream. Settle down."

"Pie," Dylan cried. "Bad pie."

***

He laughed, and Dylan roused.

"What?"

"I've saved you from an evil dessert."

"What?" Dylan groped after the fallen blanket and curled back into position. Rubbed his chest.

Tyr had seen that gesture before, after nightmares. Observe and learn, he told himself. And control. He shifted onto his side and placed a hand warm on Dylan's stomach. "Calm yourself. You were dreaming." Lull him back to sleep: heat, he likes heat, and weight against him. Tyr molded himself around the body in front of him, nestling Dylan's hips into his lap. The cool, broad muscles of Dylan's back pressed against his chest and stomach, flattening and shifting the curls at his groin, below his navel, around his nipples as they puckered to tight, points. Dylan's body was always cold to come to, a pleasure to warm up. His cock was filling against the firm curves that pressed below his belly; he petted Dylan's stomach, clutched softness over muscle, stirred the sleek hair that lay beneath his hand. He lowered his face to the side of Dylan's neck, breathing in his scent. He passed his mouth over the pulsing vein, savoring the vibration, parting his lips enough to feel the subtle throb of life against his tongue. Dylan sighed and arched.

He feels me, Tyr thought. He wants me. And he wanted him, wanted to bury himself in that body, in the coolness, in white flesh that smelled like the apples in his cousin's garden; apples, crisp apple flesh he crushed to juice, kissing in the flower fragrant grass, the black soil moist beneath his knees... his mouth was open, hungry on Dylan's neck, his hips rocking against him, driving himself rigid across the fine, taut skin above Dylan's buttocks, the groove between them plucking at his tightening sac. The body against him writhed, then bucked; he rode it, tightening his grip. An elbow jabbed back at his ribs; his blades flared erect and he struck.;

Dylan yelled. The lights flashed on. Andromeda's image crackled overhead. "Dylan: are you all right?"

Tyr growled and reared at the apparition, pinning Dylan with a hard hand to the bed.

Dylan twisted his head, tried to brush hair from his eyes. "Okay, I'm okay, Rommie. Out."

Tyr caught his reflection in the wall mirror, rampant over Dylan, aroused, wild. The holo blinked off. Dylan slapped his arm.

"Hey." There was blood on the sheets. "Got a little carried away there?" Dylan looked composed, but Tyr could smell the adrenaline and feel the pounding heart. Their pounding hearts.

"Sorry."

Tyr moved his arm and Dylan rolled off the bed, to his feet. There was a gash across his bicep, an angry leaking scrape across his ribs. His cock swung limp against his thigh. "Want to tell me what the hell was going on while I was asleep?"

Sleeping. "You had a nightmare. You were cold. I was...I thought you were...." He steadied his breath, tried to calm his pulse. Dylan stared back at him, hands on hips. Tyr forced a shrug. "You were there."

"That all it takes?" He smirked, the bastard. "I said no blood and I meant it. I thought you were civilized enough to understand."

He wasn't in the mood. "The Ship is watching us?"

"At her request. She doesn't trust you." Dylan picked his pants off the bedside chair and shook them open, pulled them on.

"It's only a scratch; surely the intrepid, *civilized* captain has suffered more than that in bed." More pain, he knew for a fact. His body, stubbornly, refused to relax interest; he was still achingly, ridiculously erect and ready, willing, eager to pound the son of a bitch through the mattress if he'd only shut up and strip.

The smirk took it all in."Not debating the issue tonight." He picked up his undershirt, wound it around his bleeding arm. "I need my sleep this week. Maybe you could use the break. Learn a little control." He turned his back with that little jounce Tyr had come to loathe and stalked barefoot across the rugs. Tyr's cabin door whisked open for him and shut without command.

Control. Tyr sneered at the mirror, slapped his palm over his erection. "Privacy mode, damn it," he yelled. He leaned over and grabbed Dylan's uniform jacket from the chair. Sat back on his heels, knees wide, wrapped the lapel around his cock and squeezed. Slick, hard, cold, against his blood-flushed skin -- scent of High Guard Dylan, of leather and polish and a faint tang of old scorched silk and blood. The trim and buckles dug into the skin of his shaft, just shy of pain. He shifted the encasing fabric, dragged the polished outer cloth across himself and squeezed again--and again, his breath coming in shorter bursts--and slid the wet head of his cock over seams and leather strips to the slippery lining of the jacket breast. He took a grip, started a steady, pumping stroke, driving into the dark, tight, silky sheath, the buckles clattering, the trim brushing against his swaying balls, his straining thighs. Fool, he said, the blood said, pounding in his heart; fool; fool; educated fool --

***

Learning Curve 2