by Aldrea Alien
He pulled on his undertunic and slunk out into the night.
The tents were pitched close together, yet creeping across the space between them seemed to take far longer than it should, his every step loud no matter the lack of boots or the carefulness of how he trod. But at last, he was at the entrance to the hound’s smaller tent. He paused, his hand brushing the flap, equal parts unsure and keen.
He slipped into the tent, slowly lest he startled the elf.
Inside, Tracker slept on, seemingly oblivious to his company. Perhaps he should let the man be and seek an alternative method to rid himself of these thoughts. And that’s worked so well thus far.
Steeling himself, he knelt next to the elf and laid a hand upon Tracker’s blanket-covered shoulder. “Tr—”
The hound sat up before Dylan could twitch. The flash of metal in the gloom was all the warning he had of a blade at his throat.
Dylan froze, scarcely daring to breathe. The dagger’s edge lay against his skin, not exerting quite enough pressure to cut. Even in the low light, the blade’s purple sheen was unmistakable. What did you expect? he chided. This wasn’t the tower where people weren’t generally a threat.
“Dylan?” His name left the elf’s lips in a soft tone, deliciously husky with sleep. The blade withdrew. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dimness, Dylan caught the elf frowning in bewilderment. “Is it my turn to watch already? I could have sworn Marin was—”
“No, she—” He felt along his throat, searching for any sign that he’d been nicked. Nothing. “I… I can’t sleep and…” His voice faltered as he became aware of the words spilling out his mouth. By the gods. Was that truly the best excuse he could come up with? Taking a deep breath, he pressed on. “I can’t stop thinking about what happened between us in the tower.” The confession rushed through his lips. “And I was wondering if—”
“If we could do it again?” the man finished for him. The dagger was returned to its sheath, which Dylan now saw lay just on the edge of the man’s blankets. “Do we require more comforting?” There was a definite snicker in his voice.
Sucking his teeth, Dylan sat back on his heels. He’d asked for this, hadn’t he? Coming here after telling the man this would never happen again. But pride demanded he speak rather than let the elf run roughshod over him. “If you’d prefer not to, I can leave.”
Tracker grabbed his wrist, tugging him closer. “Not at all. In fact, I am entirely at your disposal. But we will have to be quiet if we do not wish to wake the others.”
Dylan stretched out next to the man on the blankets. “I can do that.” Whoring himself around the tower had been all the education he required when it came to muffling certain, telltale noises as needed.
The hound chuckled. “Not as far as I have seen.” He propped himself up on one arm, his free hand trailing down Dylan’s chest. “Seeing as how we do not have enough time to repeat everything, was there any particular way you wish me to comfort you?”
There certainly was. He swallowed, his tongue dry. Only here, with Tracker so deliciously close, could he give voice to the images that danced the most in his mind. “The last bit,” he rasped. His face warmed at the reminder, banishing the night chill from his extremities. He hoped even elven night vision couldn’t tell the difference in the gloom.
“Oh?” Tracker smirked and shuffled onto his knees. His hand slid past Dylan’s groin, drawing the undertunic’s hem higher. “Been giving it a lot of thought these past few days, yes?” There was a pause, then a low chuckle as Dylan was laid bare and the man discovered he hadn’t bothered with donning his smallclothes. “We have. Hello again.” These last words were followed by a soft gust of the man’s breath across Dylan’s length.
Dylan shivered. His eyelids fluttered in their effort to shut and remain open at the same time. “Track…” he moaned, the desperate need to convey his desire overriding his lesser wish to remain silent.
Strong, slender fingers encircled Dylan’s length, softly stroking, a thumb sliding up and over the tip. The elf lowered his head and moist heat washed over him, the swirling of the man’s tongue drawing out a groan from deep within his throat.
Dylan bit his lip in an effort to muffle the sound. His hips strained to lift, held in place by the gentle pressure of Tracker’s fingers. It was torture holding back when he ached to lose himself to the elf’s ministrations. Even so, nothing short of an attack on the camp would make him stop this.
The elf continued in an indolent pace until the slightly cold tip of his nose pressed against Dylan’s body. Another groan broke free of his lips, louder than the first. He frantically stifled it with a hand. The tickling passage of the man’s breath huffing through his nostrils heated far more than mere skin. Tracker swallowed, the contraction of the man’s throat tightening around him.
Despite himself, Dylan bucked, biting down hard on his fist to keep quiet. The elf’s actions were swiftly followed by suction as the hound pulled his head up, his tongue twirling in languid strokes, before sliding back down.
Dylan’s hand found its way into the man’s hair. Tracker kept him neatly balanced, just enough to leave him softly moaning without pushing him over the edge. He wasn’t certain how long the man planned to continue this state of comfortable delight, but a part of him wouldn’t have minded if it never ended.
In too short a time, Tracker released him with a hushed pop. Dylan reached out, seeking the elf lest he tried to leave.
The hound merely stretched on top of him, the unmistakable hardness prodding his skin evidence enough for Dylan of the man’s eagerness. Tracker’s hips moved, grinding himself against Dylan’s groin.
A small groan slipped free of Dylan’s lips, silenced by the elf’s tongue. Gods, was the man planning on teasing him all night?
Tracker moved on to trail tiny kisses along Dylan’s jaw, gently biting as he reached Dylan’s neck. “Roll over,” he breathed, suddenly sitting back and pulling his undershirt over his head.
Dylan obeyed, perhaps a little too enthusiastically judging by the man’s snicker. Lying flat on his stomach, he closed his eyes and listened to the elf rummaging through his pack. Should he take off his undertunic? Might as well. Even with the intermittent chilly breeze drifting under the canvas walls, it was already warm in the tent and would only grow hotter.
Swiftly shedding his sole article of clothing, he resumed his position on the blankets, resting his head on his arms with far more calmness than he ever believed he could manage. Every muscle, every nerve, buzzed with anticipation. Unlike back in the tower, he couldn’t peg whatever happened tonight on the elf. He had come here with the full intent of lying with the man who wouldn’t leave his dreams.
Behind him, the rummaging stopped, replaced by the hurried rustle of discarded clothing, and then Tracker was back at his side. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
He nodded and hummed his affirmation.
The elf’s warm hands travelled down his spine, massaging all the way. They halted at his rump, kneading the flesh like clay. A thumb slid between his cheeks and Dylan shuddered, the dimming fire in his gut reigniting. After last time, he felt reasonably certain that he was ready for whatever the man decided to do with him.
Tracker’s hands slid lower still, their passage leaving a tingling trail along Dylan’s skin. “Remember,” the man rasped as he gently encouraged Dylan’s thighs to part. “Stopping me only takes a word.”
Dylan’s lips twisted into a manic grin. Even after learning how quickly he could heal, the man seemed intent on taking the same precautions as last time.
The muffled squeak of a cork reached his ears, barely enough time to prepare for the cool touch of oil drizzling between his buttocks. A finger pressed against him and his hips gave an involuntary jerk upwards. But, rather than seeking a way in, the fingertip ran over his skin in small, light circles.
Dylan clamped a hand over his mouth, swallowing the unbidden whine of protest. He arched and writhed, seeking a way to put Tracke
r where he wanted him.
Chuckling, the elf obliged. Like last time, the man started slow, always managing to hit the right spot.
He bit the inside of his lip, holding back the hiss of the elf’s name that danced on the tip of his tongue. His fingers tightened their hold on the blankets. He fought the desire to remove his other hand, his breath frantically whistling through his nose, knowing that barrier was all the kept him from moaning aloud. His hips rocked in time to the man’s movement, deepening each thrust and rubbing his length along the blankets.
Dylan wasn’t certain how long they remained like this or when a second finger joined in, but their sudden cessation as he began the climb towards the edge drew him back into the realisation that they didn’t have all night.
“Ready?” Desire, thick and hot, dripped from Tracker’s voice.
The sound shuddered up his spine. By the gods, how he needed the elf. He craved the man’s touch like he’d never wanted anything before. That frightening certainty delved deep, taking hold of his body, tilting his hips. “Yes,” he snarled.
Tracker shuffled closer, pressed himself against Dylan and—
There was that little interwoven ball of pain and pleasure, the former barely in evidence compared to last time.
Gasping, Dylan lowered his hands. It was either that or risk passing out. He swallowed great open-mouthed gulps of air and buried his face into the blankets. They still clung to the elf’s glorious hot scent.
Bracing himself on his forearms, he pushed against the elf, encouraging him deeper to the sound of the man’s hushed groan. Tracker’s long fingers latched onto his hips, digging into Dylan’s flesh, and pressed him into the blankets, dictating the leisurely speed with which they coupled.
He closed his eyes and tried not to think how they were only separated from the outside world by a piece of canvas. Being caught in this position wasn’t exactly what he’d had in mind when he entered the tent. “We do have a time limit here,” Dylan grumbled. An hour would be generous.
The warm gust of laughter brushed across his skin. The elf ran his hands up Dylan’s spine, his fingertips rubbing familiar circles into the muscles. Weight settled on his back, not quite enough to push him into the rather unforgiving ground. The heat rolling off the elf’s skin burrowed into his flesh.
“I had no idea you were so eager to be done with this,” Tracker whispered as he rocked his hips ever so slightly. “I promise, you will be more than satisfied before we run the risk of interruption.”
The pace changed, growing that little bit faster with every thrust until the man was all but slamming himself in. Each thrust of the elf’s hips inched them up the blanket, ever closer to the tent wall. The slap of their bodies seemed loud in the otherwise carefully maintained silence, as was the elf’s hoarse breath. How were they not being heard?
Dylan bit into the blanket, trying with all his might not to add to the noises. Every movement rubbed him against the coarse fabric of the blankets, adding to the burning coil of lust searing through his gut. It pulled a moan from him. Then another. They escaped his lips in ever increasing volume.
A hand clamped over Dylan’s mouth, the pressure of it drawing him back and arching his spine. The hound’s rhythm slowed, his chest pressing against Dylan’s skin.
“Be quiet,” Tracker huffed, his breath blasting into Dylan’s ear. “Or do you want them to hear?”
He whimpered into the man’s palm. Having someone hear seemed far less terrifying than it had a moment ago. All he desired was to complete this splendid act, regardless if anyone heard or not, but if it instead served to hinder this…
Dylan shook his head. He didn’t want that.
With the elf’s slower pace, the friction of the blankets was no longer sufficient. He tilted his hips, lifting them enough to get his hand beneath him.
Before he could press any further, Tracker grasped his wrist and withdrew it. “Not yet,” the elf growled, the words low and growing huskier with every breath. “I have plans for that.” Tracker pulled out, taking both heat and pleasure with him. “On your back.”
He obeyed the gruff command. Anything to get back what he’d lost.
Tracker resumed kneeling between his legs. Dylan’s hips bucked at the teasing sweep of the elf rubbing against him, eliciting an amused huff from the man.
“Patience,” the hound breathed, bending over him. Their lips brushed together. Slow. Measured. “As I said, plans. Besides…” He reached down, moving himself into place. “…you are going to need your hands to keep yourself quiet.”
“I don’t need my hands for that,” Dylan managed as the elf slid back inside. His breath rasped. Closing his eyes helped. A little. He bit his lip, determined to prove the man wrong.
Tracker’s lips twisted in their dance down his chest, taking on a wicked tilt. “We will see,” he murmured against Dylan’s abdomen. The hound paused his descent of open-mouthed kisses, his tongue flicking out to lick his skin. He groaned, the vibration shuddering through Dylan’s stomach, the hound’s hips thrusting ever so slightly.
Moist warmth bathed his length, causing Dylan to stiffen in shock. It almost felt like the man was…
His eyes snapped open. It can’t be. Biting his lip even harder, he struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. In the gloom, he spied the man bent over, his head very much in the region of Dylan’s groin. By the gods… He didn’t think such a thing was possible, but there it was. The elf had managed to get inside him, whilst also having those sinful lips around him.
Tracker’s head moved in tandem with his hips, drawing up at every thrust, then down as he withdrew. Slowly and haphazardly at first, then faster as he found a rhythm.
Dylan flopped back onto the bedding, a hand clapped over his mouth, his fingers digging into his cheeks. He groaned and panted to the accompaniment of the elf’s wicked chuckle. Each puff and moan from the man fuelled his own desire. Quiet was a goal he could no longer meet. Thinking of anything apart from the hound’s movement was fast becoming beyond him.
Tracker kept up the rocking motion. Dylan sought out the elf’s head with shaking fingers, clutching at the man’s hair. His hips shifted, moving against the elf, deepening each thrust. A groan vibrated through the elf’s throat, softly constricting around Dylan’s length.
He bucked, his voice cracking in his effort to contain it, control all but gone. His head swam, white rimmed his vision. By the gods, he… was—
Dylan tumbled over the edge, the elf’s name leaving his lips in a hoarse gasp.
Tracker’s hips stilled. The man clutched at Dylan, holding tight, as if he planned on leaving. He continued sucking, not stopping until Dylan was completely spent. Only then did the elf release him, his tongue sliding along the underside of Dylan’s length.
Licking his lips, the hound crawled up the bedding, stretching on top of Dylan, his weight and warmth a welcome addition to the euphoria still quaking through his veins. He kissed along Dylan’s neck, making his way up the side to the base of his ear. “Was that what you were after?” Tracker whispered.
That was far more than he’d hoped. He was going to wind up with fresh dreams of the man, of that he was certain. “You arse,” he muttered. “Be quiet, you said? Then you go and pull that?”
The hound chuckled. “I have a few more tricks to show you, if you are so inclined. Not tonight, of course. We haven’t the time. So, it would have to depend on whether this wasn’t another ill-considered foray for you.”
Groaning, Dylan clapped a hand over his face. “I’d rather hoped you’d forgotten about that,” he mumbled.
“That? You mean how adamant you were on this not being repeated? That that?” He laughed again, this time there was definitely a smug edge to the husky richness heating his ear. “How could I forget?” The hound’s tongue flicked across Dylan’s earlobe.
Dylan bit his lip. His hips shifted involuntarily, rubbing against the elf’s. “I… I like sleeping with men,” he said into the darkness. There, he�
�d admitted it. It felt oddly freeing saying it out loud, like an invisible band had been cut free from around his chest.
The hound’s lips paused in their little climb up the curve of Dylan’s ear. “I have noticed.”
“But I still like doing the same with women.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
He tried repositioning himself to no avail. His legs, having long since lost the strength to hold themselves up, seemed more than content to lay on either side of the elf’s.
The hound lifted his chest. Cool air coiled between them. “Would you like me to get off you?”
“Not yet.”
They lay in silence for a time, Tracker softly nuzzling his neck whilst Dylan wondered if he should dare voice the question swimming in his mind. Would it offend the man to ask? He was certain he already had a fair idea of the answer, but still…
“What about you?” He thought of the man’s exuberance with the prostitute and, of course, there was the eagerness with himself. “I assume it’s the same.”
Tracker hummed, the sound vibrated through Dylan’s skin. “Mostly. I think it might be more than that. I truly only have one condition when it comes to such things.”
He waited for the hound to continue, frowning when the man remained silent. “And that is?”
“All parties must leave satisfied, of course. Everything else is open to negotiation and it is rare for me to refuse.”
Dylan lay still, trying to get his mind around the idea. Was that even the truth of it or just what the hound had convinced himself of? You’re a fine one to judge. How long had he suppressed his own feelings towards men? Too long. Far too long.
“I take it that is not how you feel.”
“I…” A life where attraction to anyone could be possible. It sounded rather… cathartic. “I don’t think so, no.” Hard to tell, really. Bar a few men who apparently did have the right idea about him, even if he hadn’t, he’d generally been the one who did the propositioning.
Silence resumed with Dylan idly rubbing small circles up and down the man’s back. The hound’s breath grew shallow and Dylan slowly became aware of the elf’s low purring. Hello. We like that, do we? Perhaps there were a few tricks the hound would enjoy beyond sex. He chuckled to himself and, pressing his lips against the man’s forehead, deepened the pressure of his fingers.
