by Aldrea Alien
“Dylan,” Tracker growled. It was a wonderful sound, rich with equal parts frustration and long-stoked desire. He tugged at the binds, the bed creaking at the force. “Do something.”
Dylan complied, slipping his finger deep into the man to the accompaniment of the hound’s breathless cry. Tracker’s hips tilted, rocking against his hand. Dylan pumped to the rhythm the elf set, his free hand kneading the hound’s rear.
Tracker wriggled, pressing against his hand. “More,” he commanded.
Again, Dylan conceded to the man’s wishes, sliding a second finger in and slowly moving them to the sound of the elf’s groans. As the noises reached their highest, he returned to a single digit, chuckling at the hound’s whimpering demands to continue as before. Then, whilst he still moved inside the man, he focused on letting a pulse of cold pour down the digit.
Tracker jumped, every muscle in the man’s body tensing. His breath hitched, but the command to stop never came.
Dylan massaged small, delicate circles into the hollow of the elf’s back, waiting until Tracker had relaxed before again moving the fingers inside him. He waited even longer to repeat the pulse, this time, with heat.
The jolt of the hound’s body was rather less than before. Although the broken “Yes!” rushing out the man’s mouth more than made up for it. Dylan kept going, alternating between hot and cold until the room overflowed with the elf’s endless moans.
Somewhere along the way, Dylan found himself lost to the rhythm. The passage of dusk to night became irrelevant, but judging by the absoluteness of the dark sky at the window, the sun had finished setting. It was getting harder and harder to concentrate. Time for one last trick.
He twisted his hand, lining his finger up just right and focused on emptying his mind of anything beyond the hold on his magical abilities. That he couldn’t hurt the hound was the one thing that let him block out any uncertainties.
The smallest of sparks danced on the very tip of his finger. Just enough to buzz and—
A startled cry escaped the hound’s throat. Tracker bucked, the bed jumping with him. The belts creaked violently, threatening to give under the strain. The elf huffed and panted and, for one dreadful heartbeat, Dylan thought he’d gone too far.
Then a low, drawn out moan filled the room.
He extinguished the spark to the man’s disappointed groan. “Did… did you like it?” That Tracker relished the sensation of his lightning in other places was well tested, and it sounded like he had enjoyed this, but he needed to be sure. “Do you want me to stop?”
The hound violently shook his head.
Dylan sat back, gnawing on his lip. Was that gesture for the first or second question? Probably best if he took it as a reply to the first one. What was he meant to do now? The restraints. He shuffled up the man’s body, stretching out to untie them.
Tracker’s head lifted as Dylan went to unknot the first belt. “You stopped,” he mumbled. “I did not say to and you still stopped.”
He paused, his fingers slipping free of the leather straps. No, that particular word hadn’t passed the man’s lips, but he’d assumed it. “You… actually want more?”
The hound nodded, humming affirmatively into the pillow.
Dylan cupped the man’s chin, tilting his head so the elf’s face was free of the bedding. “That’s not a good enough answer, Track,” he grated into the man’s ear. “Say it. Tell me what you want.”
He looked up at Dylan, those honey-coloured eyes dark with lust. His tongue snaked out, wetting his lips. “You,” he rasped. “I want you…” His lips trailed along Dylan’s jaw in teasing little pecks. “I want everything you can give me.”
“Wanton,” he murmured, sliding back down the hound’s body to reposition himself between the man’s legs.
“Utterly so.”
“I thought you’d had enough.” He gently kneaded the man’s buttocks. The elf’s hips rolled with each circle, tempting him to sink deep into the hound. But Tracker wanted everything and he hadn’t the heart to deny the man, even if it meant holding himself back for a little longer.
Tracker peered over his shoulder. It was quite a sight, the faint gleam of an eye that spoke of being watched. It did strange things to Dylan’s insides. “Did I not tell you I am not the type to break easily?”
Emboldened, he slipped a finger back inside the man. “Is that a challenge?” He allowed the spark to return before the hound could answer, chuckling as Tracker gave a low groan.
Dylan focused on alternating the intensity whilst his free hand roamed the elf’s skin. He caressed and kneaded the man’s thigh, kissed up the tattooed spine and softly, slowly, increased the power.
Unlike with his other trick, Tracker rocked against him. For the second time that night, his name fell from the man’s lips, amidst whimpered obscenities and mindless cries to the gods. Over and over, the words came like a mantra. His body trembled, tensed, then sagged.
It took all Dylan’s willpower to let the magic fade, despite the elf’s complaints. Usually, he was content to drive his partner over the edge. But this had gone on long enough. He needed Tracker. Listening to the man grow closer to the edge had set his body thrumming with the desire to ram himself home, to hear his name being cried out soaked in pleasure, to hear nothing at all beyond their primal moans.
Not yet. He needed one more thing first…
Dylan clambered up the bed to loosen the belts. He clawed at the leather, cursing softly as his shaking fingers fumbled to obey. Finally, the straps worked through and Tracker was free.
Before the hound could dictate what happened next, Dylan grabbed the vial from the man’s unresisting hands to empty what was left of the oil on the both of them. He then hooked a hand around the elf’s hip, urging him to roll onto his side.
Tracker complied, slowly.
Dylan lined himself up. It wasn’t just his hands that shook, his whole body trembled. By the gods, he’d waited too long. “Ready?”
A soft chuckle vibrated through the hound, far too smug. “Always.”
Entering the elf wasn’t like last time. There hadn’t been oil or preparation then, he’d been stupid enough, intoxicated by the thought of doing, to believe the hound when Tracker said he’d no need of either.
Still, even with the ease that the elf accepted him and against Tracker’s guttural insistence to move faster, Dylan kept the pace a leisurely one. He liked coupling slowly, enjoyed the sensation of being gradually devoured. Still, he couldn’t deny it was tempting to slam himself deep in one powerful thrust.
Tracker raked at him. His nails bit into Dylan’s thigh.
Hissing at the unexpected pain, he drove in the last inch to the sound of the hound’s slurred affirmation. And here he was, seated in a man for the second time in his life. The same man, granted, but it had to count for something.
His thoughts had been wrong the first time they did this. Back then, he’d managed to convince himself it wasn’t much different to lying with a woman.
But it was different. In a scarily intense way.
The elf wiggled against him. “Are you going to move, or am I expected to do everything?”
Hooking the hound’s leg over his arm to keep the man in place, Dylan rolled his hips, slowly withdrawing until he was almost free, then thrusting back in to the sound of Tracker’s breathless grunt. He repeated the motion, over and over until the elf was clutching at his arm.
Tracker tried to match his pace, pushing back in short strokes. His head tipped back, resting on Dylan’s shoulder, the sensitive tip of his ear close enough to lick.
Dylan wet his lips and blew gently behind the ear’s pointed tip the sound of the elf’s muffled moan. He pressed his lips to the little paw print tattoo and was rewarded with another broken groan.
His fingertips danced down the elf’s quivering thigh. He closed his fingers around the man’s length, stroking in time to his thrusts and grinning at the delicious whimpers it teased from the hound. “Shall I?”
he whispered into Tracker’s ear, coaxing tiny forks of lightning to buzz in his grip, there for a heartbeat, then gone. “Or have you had enough?”
Tracker twisted, bringing his arm up to draw Dylan’s mouth within reach.
Dylan stilled, momentarily distracted by the man’s tongue. He propped himself on his free arm, allowing him a better angle to deepen the kiss. Odd how that something he’d long thought of as simple and innocent could feel so incredibly wicked.
Tendrils of lightning flickered to life in his hand, they flowed up his forearm, raising the hairs.
Tracker groaned into his mouth. His hips moved at a frenzied pace, bucking and rolling. The combined lubrication of sweat and oil between them was beginning to make it harder to hold on. The elf released his mouth, his head dropping to focus on their waists.
For once, Dylan dared to look. It was quite the sight, watching the hound’s length slide in his grip, the arcs of lightning parting as his hand went down. He tightened his fingers to the sound of Tracker’s low growl. Replying in kind, he fastened his mouth onto the man’s neck and bit.
The hound arched against him, the surprised gasp that left the man’s lips quickly turning into a moan.
Dylan extinguished the lightning, snarling at the elf’s protests, and increased the force of his thrusts until the only noises escaping the hound were in the form of ragged breaths.
The slick sound of their movements came loud and fast. Tracker’s fingers entwined his, aiding the frantic pace in which he worked the elf. His own desperate pants rasped through his throat.
Dylan tipped his head forward, resting his cheek on the hound’s shoulder. He clenched his jaw, trying to hold back. The thud of his heart filled his ears. He was slipping over the edge with no way to slow his descent.
Determined to drag the elf with him into bliss, Dylan ran his tongue up the man’s ear, weaving through the seemingly infinite earrings. He found the tip and sucked to the hound’s shuddering, whimpering moans. Back down, he went, twirling the pointed earring that was trapped within his mouth, fastening his teeth onto the earlobe.
Tracker cried out, his name falling freely from his lips and the only clear thing in a stream of incoherent noise. The elf arched, coming undone with a yell that distorted in Dylan’s ears.
That sound, that unabashed roar of having reached the end, was his undoing.
He unravelled, the world one of blind sensation as he drove himself into the man with one jerk of his hips. Something brushed against his mouth. Dylan sank his teeth into it, biting deep.
Only when Tracker let out a yelp did he realise he’d bitten the man.
They lay there for some time, entwined with each other, their shuddering bodies unable to do more than pant. The room spun, speckled in twinkling spots of white and blue.
Dylan’s lips twitched into a manic grin and he laughed softly to himself. He hadn’t felt quite this satisfied in years. Everything seemed so bright and sharp.
Eventually, his heart stopped hammering wildly and the world was still again. His hand slipped out from beneath the hound’s. He rolled onto his back, his arm falling over the side of the bed. There was something he was meant to do.
His other hand slid over the elf’s back, still slick with oil. Dylan’s chest was in a similar state. Right. His gaze idly traversed the room. There wasn’t much beyond their own possessions. He absently patted the man’s oil-slicked rear. “Wait there.”
Tracker grunted.
Dylan half rolled, half fell off the bed. With a little tugging at the sheets, he came up with a strip of cloth with which to clean themselves. He started with Tracker, gently wiping the excess oil off his back and legs.
He was almost done when the hound shifted and, groaning, rubbed at his wounded shoulder. “For future reference, I do not mind the biting, so long as you are gentle.”
“Sorry.” He drew the elf back into his arms to kiss the rather angry-looking crescents. Fortunately, he’d not bitten hard enough to break the skin. “I got a bit carried away.”
Tracker twisted beneath him, turning his head to seal their mouths together for a moment that Dylan considered far too short. “Is that so?” Utter smugness curled his lips. “Then maybe I do not mind quite as much. And I will take partial blame for forgetting you are quite the biter.”
“When have I ever bitten you?” Dylan’s gaze flicked back to the elf’s shoulder. Already, the skin around the marks was darkening. No chance he’d be able to hide it amongst the surrounding tattoos. “Before now, I mean.”
“Never that I can recall, but if my blankets could talk, they would most certainly scream with the way you punish them so brutally.” He slowly worked one of the belts off his wrist. “I knew there was a very wicked man hiding beneath those robes, but…” The words tapered off into a groan. “Are there any more tricks?”
Dylan nuzzled the man’s neck and offered more apologetic kisses to the wounded shoulder. “I’m afraid that’s the extent of them.”
“A pity.” The hound slapped the belt down and set about working the other one free. “Nevertheless, you are truly wasted as a weapon.”
“Really?” He resumed cleaning the excess oil from the man’s back. “I’ve a rather limited set of skills. What else do you recommend, if not blowing people to pieces? Whoring myself out?” Places like The Gilded Lily would probably jump at the chance to have a spellster in their employ, especially if people got a taste for his magic.
Tracker hummed as he removed the remaining belt. “I would not go that far, not unless you are unconcerned with having one very dedicated client.” Cleaned, the elf clambered off the end of the bed.
Dylan shook his head. Such a suggestion was almost as absurd as the idea of him becoming a brothel worker. Slowly wiping the oil off his skin, he idly watched the man make his way across the room. A strange, and oddly possessive, surge of pride bubbled up at the sight of the hound’s unsteadiness. It was rare he’d such an effect on those he slept with.
“What…?” He sat up, unsure he was seeing right. But yes, Tracker was picking up his clothes as he went and… putting them on. “Y-you’re leaving? Whatever happened to making yourself available for ‘a night’?”
Laughter shook the hound. “Sadly, I must cut this short and depart whilst I am still capable of walking. There are things I need to confirm before tomorrow.”
Dylan dropped the oil-soaked cloth and scrambled to his feet to haul on his undertunic. “I’ll come with you.” His legs wobbled as he bent for his robe.
“No.” Tracker drew up the hood of his cloak and opened the window. “It is better if you remain.” He deftly hopped onto the ledge. “That way I know you are safe.”
Safe from what? There was very little he couldn’t defend himself against if the need arose. “Is there a reason you can’t use the door?”
“I would prefer if they believed I am still at your side.”
“They?” With his robe dragging behind him, all but forgotten in his hand, he crossed to the window. No one in Whitemeadow knew who they were and anyone hostile they came across hadn’t exactly been left with the capacity to say much. “They who?”
Tracker sighed. He dipped his head, throwing his face into shadow. “The men in the tavern. The overtly drunk ones taking up the far table. They were eyeing you, and not in a good way.”
He knew the ones. “What of it?” They’d made a few mumbled curses in his direction after he’d dealt with Willy, but attempted nothing more about him.
“They were lingering near the entrance when we went up the stairs.”
Dylan rubbed at the side of his neck, trying to work out the fresh crick in it. “You think they were looking to do… what? Start some trouble?” Why would they attack him now they knew he was a spellster? He’d done nothing except defend himself with a simple shield. Hadn’t even attempted any magic beyond that since entering the city. Outside of Tracker’s presence, at least. “They’re probably just still bitter about what I did to their friend.”
“What you did to—?” Tracker hung his head. “Dare I even enquire?”
“He started it.” The childish response was out before he could stop it. Blushing, he continued, “Seemed bitter about the priesthood for some reason. Mistook me for one of them.”
“A misunderstanding you were all too happy to correct, yes? Whatever happened to being discreet? I would rather not have to spend time convincing my fellow hounds that everything is under control.”
Considering that no one had returned after the man’s exit, he doubted another hound knew. Or even if there was another within the city. Oldmarsh had been oddly vacant of even one. That’s where Tracker had vanished to after visiting Treasure, to Oldmarsh’s hound base. But, given that hounds often patrolled the roads and fields, the lack of hounds in the village itself was a common occurrence. At least, according to Tracker.
Perhaps the king knew of the tower attack and had summoned them back to the capital. “It’s not like I just blurted ‘I’m a spellster’. No one had any idea until the drunkard tried to punch me and hit my shield instead.”
Those already large, honey-coloured eyes bulged. “He—? Why was he trying to hit you?” He dropped his head into his hand. “Maybe I should stay for now. Go at first light, instead.”
Dylan frowned. He wasn’t quite sure what Tracker needed to do so badly, but waiting would only mean a protracted stay here and he’d rather avoid lingering. “Go. I can handle the thugs if they try anything.”
Tracker twisted on the ledge. “Of that, I have no doubt.” The fingers that patted Dylan’s cheek were already cool from the night air. “It is perhaps for the best if you show your face as little as possible whilst we are here. Just… stay in the room unless—” His hand fell, trailing down Dylan’s chest. “Stay in the room. I will be quick.” With that, the man slipped out the window and into the night.
