Messing Around

Tyr propped his gun between two rocks for easy aim and shoot, should the need arise, and crouched between the mountain face and a boulder. Dylan stretched next to him on his stomach, heedless of the jagged scree under his elbows, and fiddled with the settings on his goggles. Six, seven Dragan guards below, in an awkward position. Could kill them and make it damn obvious they were here. Could hole up for a bit and wait for them to scatter, if they were quiet. If he didn't shoot Dylan first.

To his way of thinking, there was no reason for them to expose themselves to personal risk. They didn't need to eat dirt to find out what interest the Drago-Kazov had in this little corner of the world. Something about a reconnaissance expedition had appealed to Dylan though, to a ridiculously hearty degree. He'd strapped on more tech than Tyr had taken to assassinate an admiral in the bed of a duke. He bristled with tactical advice. He'd been making jokes since they'd landed, pointless wisecracks Tyr tried to ignore.

Tyr's perch was too high, his suit too dark against the pale gray rock. He eased down, distastefully, next to Dylan and began a meditation he used for long periods of observation; alert to his surroundings but at rest. Minute after minute in silence, listening to birds, watching the Dragans, seeing the bugs crawl. The cliffs, the enemy, the sky. Lizard on a twig. Sun getting personal on the rim of his ear.

Dylan put the glasses to his face for the dozenth time and grunted. "Hey, Tyr."

"What."

"Wanna mess around?" He kicked Tyr's ankle and grinned.

Tyr looked at his gun: reality check. "You're insane."

"I don't know. Got some time to kill. Nice day." He squinted back along Tyr's bulk and winked. "Looking hot."

"You have a strange sense of humor, Sir."

There was another, more crowded silence. The lizard shifted his sticky feet a millimeter lower.

The ground dipped a bit here, between rocks and roots and some stubborn shrubbery. The sun was bright, but hadn't warmed the earth. It was damp and cold underneath, in the hollow where they pressed hip to hip, thigh to thigh. Tyr rocked a bit, to reach his canteen, and jostled Dylan's leg. Dylan snickered and bumped him back. Tyr sighed.

"Boots," he said. "Thermal socks. Insulated leggings, combat trousers, weapons belts, assorted ammunition packs, knives; vest, shirt, sweater, leather jacket, weapons holster, gauntlets, pack."

"Definitely hot."

"Briars, mud, rocks. Enemy at six o'clock."

"That's it. Talk dirty to me."

"You're annoying a man with a very large gun."

"I've seen it."

No, he hadn't. Tyr looked over the ledge again. Seven men, armed, all looking alert and busy setting something up. He glanced at Dylan's seat. Not so inferior, even with the layers. Man probably left off the leggings, went naked against the leather. He pictured that body under the combat ranger getup -- a cutaway vision, captain on the half-shell. Starting with the shoulders. Big shoulders, built, smaller than his own, a little hint of softness in the swelling arms. Long back, slight indent along the spine, all the way down. Nicely square ass, which he had seen, thank you, once before. Firm. Two dimples at the top. Propped up by good muscled thighs, again round and soft around the inner surface maybe, something he could run his hands along and get settled between, nice and comfortable. Skin, hair, all pale and a little golden in the filtered sunlight while he amused himself....

"Hey." Elbow in his kidney. "Recognize that?"

"Portable energy source. Scanner. Field cannon?"

"Guard station, short-range equipment. Expecting guests?"

"Not us. Time to leave, I think."

"I'm recording; we might pick up what they're saying."

"They're saying wouldn't it just make their day to stumble across Tyr Anasazi and his lunatic commander. We move now or we kill them all."

"We move now and they'll have us in their sights in two seconds. We wait until they've set up and leave and we've got a better chance."

"I've got a grenade that says otherwise."

"It's a miracle you're still alive. We wait, we watch, we take our time."

"And if their guests show up?"

"Love to meet them."

Tyr uncapped his canteen and drank, frowning. Pointless, risky, boring, damp. He watched Dylan punch something into his cuff comm and smirk. The lizard, despairing of intelligent company, crawled away. Well, then.

He didn't catch him entirely by surprise; points to Dylan for that. He'd half-turned, so Tyr's move trapped him on his side against the boulder and a bush, not face down in the mud as Tyr had hoped. Still, a full body block against a hard place, a bladed arm pressed across his prey's throat and the force lance out of reach gave him a position he could use.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Pissed, but low; more points to the fool for not crying out.

Tyr moved his head to put the sun in Dylan's eyes and stared into the wincing, handsome face. He got a knee bent between those rounded thighs and pressed. "Messing around."

"That was a joke, Tyr."

"It's a miracle you're still alive."

Not so bad, once he got started and the body under him warmed up to the idea. Mouth to mouth, first, an unanticipated pleasure. He'd speculated on the feel of Dylan's cock rigid in his hand, but never the taste and liquid slide of his tongue. There was a brief struggle, a bite or so, before the thin lips spread cool and firm under his in an open ring. Dylan was drinking him down in long muscular convulsions, hungry and rash. He freed an arm and hooked it around Tyr's neck, pulling him closer while his body arched and his boot heels scraped furrows in the earth. It was hard, fast, rough, but gentle didn't fit with combat gear.

The sun sat lower in the sky and shadows streaked the hollow. Their bodies were tangled, dark into dark, black leather into camo straps, holsters, cases, clips. Some plant beneath them crackled sharp and green. Explosive things with triggers and sharp blades with ridged grips dug into Tyr's ribs through the jacket. A broad strap cut across his inner thigh, binding his scrotum as he squirmed, rocking for a better fit. His leg twisted between Dylan's thighs, electric pulses hummed up and down his body under all the seams and layered welts; he knew Dylan was aroused, could smell his desire, but had no idea which rod riding into him was Dylan.

He dragged his mouth clear, his face aside, to breathe. "Where are you?" he gasped. Dylan shook his head and Tyr grabbed his hand. "Show me." Tight fit; Dylan wedged their joined hands down to press a bulge below his belt, rearranging folds and awkward straps in a sequence that left Tyr panting between pleasure and pain. Under Dylan's wary gaze, he drew a knife from his side sheath and slid the blade between them. He severed the strap strangling his balls; then, holding Dylan's stare, gripping the knife, Tyr rubbed his knuckles the length of his own risen sex.

Dylan didn't flinch when the knife tip nudged his hand, in turn; he guided it and pressed it true, sliding down the closure to his fly. "You'd better have plans for that," he said.

He did. He wanted blood, just a taste, just a lick; just a nick of the honed steel on that satiny skin, to make a hairline scar he could feel against his tongue, later. Marking him as his. Tyr bared his teeth and growled. His blades spread with a snap when Dylan without ceremony or grace seized the right flap and jerked him open. A twist through the leggings slit and Dylan had a fist full of Nietzschean pride. Tyr's knife stabbed the ground, unblooded. Dylan's half-gloved hand, the palm webbed with leather, stroked up and back, then clenched around the shaft curving in a bow against Tyr's stomach. Another jerk, and Dylan had him in the open, the air cold wherever Dylan's hot hand wasn't. Tyr shuddered under the assessing slide of calloused fingertips, the roll of the textured glove. His hips flexed, his buttocks clenched; he bent over Dylan's mouth and felt the low voice vibrate against his lips.

"Nice, very nice. Check our friends."

"Wha..."

"You're on top, you look. And then get to work, you owe me here."

"Not...."

Dylan raised an eyebrow and tugged. "Hurry up."

The son of a bitch had reason. Tyr shoved against Dylan's chest and hoisted himself up enough to peer over the boulder. Nothing. "They're gone." He felt cold with the release of Dylan's hand, felt him scrabbling for purchase against the rock. "Quiet!" He strained his ears for the slightest sound of movement through the brush. Dylan was looking at the readout from the recorder.

"Five. Five of them headed downhill."

Tyr raised his glasses and scanned the hillside. "Got them. And the other two?"

"No idea."

"Watering the bushes, maybe?"

"Keep looking."

Dylan rolled back against the boulder and shifted down. Tyr turned his head to look after him and felt a stinging slap across his rump.

"I said, keep looking."

Uncomfortable to scan in this position; more uncomfortable still to be exposed, stiff and chilling in the cooling air. Tyr reached down to adjust himself and was fetched another smarting slap.

"Leave it."

He heard a quiet creak of leather, muted metal clinks. Hard to concentrate, but he kept sweeping the area, praying for a sight of the missing guards. Warm points of contact, finally, circling the tip of his cock, stroking down the underside; a tickling caress, not enough, not nearly enough.... A shadow moved erratically, at the right edge of his vision; he twisted to follow it. And the fingers tightened; and something wet, warm, and agile swept across his glans. "No," he strangled out, trying to focus. Another lick, a swipe the length of his quivering flesh. The shadow straightened into the outline of a guard, armed, on point...and wet, hot, silken pressure engulfed him, pursed around his cock head and paused. "Son of a...Fuck! Guard." He dared a glance downward but could only see a mass of hair, the back of Dylan's head above his crotch...snapped his attention back to the silhouetted guard to find him moving, climbing higher and to the side, slipping in and out of clear view among the scrubby trees. An arm snaked around his hips and trapped him in place; the other hand still gripped the base of his shaft as the hot, sweet mouth slid down another thick few inches and Dylan began to suck.

"Guh." The man above kept moving. The man below was driving up and down now, long, strong strokes gripping him, wringing him, pulling him into a molten-centered pit. His vision grayed, his back tightened in a desperate arch; cursing, he abandoned the scan and dropped both hands to grip the slippery hair, the bobbing head, until his control shattered and he burst in racking spurts down Dylan's throat.

The flash and thud behind him barely registered. The streak of pain below his knee, the blood on his trousers did. Dylan sniggering above his lap, scrubbing a hand across his mouth, definitely came into focus.

"Sorry about that. Damned good reflexes for a Dragan, no?"

A body slumped a few feet away, still looking surprised. The second guard, presumably, weapon in his fist. Dylan slid his force lance back in its holster. "How's your guy doing?"

Later. He could kill him later. Tyr twisted back into position and looked. There. Higher, further to the right, moving away. He gestured; while Dylan checked, Tyr set himself to rights. He was still sensitive, still faintly aroused, and thoroughly disgusted. The graze on his leg was minor in comparison. "Now do we leave?"

Dylan looked down at his still open flies. Under cover of his bent leg, Tyr scooped up a fistful of black sucking mud and waited for his reply.

-End-