Disclaimer: Not mine, though I doubt I could be fucking 'em any harder than Tribune already has.
Spoiler: Starts about 30 seconds post-"Belly of the Beast". If you don't know that the Cetus bites the dust, then... Oh. Oops!
Archive: AU only, unless you've asked and I've said Uh...?
Rating: NC17, I'm reliably informed.
*The Politics of Dancing*
A_U Flashfic Challenge: Harper/Tyr/Dylan
The day’s been saved: the Cetus destroyed by a legend almost as bloated and incomprehensible as itself. Captain Hunt to the rescue, again.
You’re dancing on the smashed-up bridge of Andromeda with Beka Valentine and it’s pleasant enough, the way she sways forward from time to time and lets her nipples graze your encircling arms. She has a dancer’s poise, too, which is more than you can say for her little engineer. Harper is jiggling about between two of the drones, making up in enthusiasm for what he lacks in rhythm. It’s not aesthetic.
Nor does it make sense. You’ve seen enough of Harper in action to know that he’s usually sure-footed, almost gymnastic. You frown and Beka distracts you by grinding her ass slowly against your groin… When you look up again Harper has vanished, leaving the eerie silver robots synching away in the corner.
Once in a while, curiosity or the desire for some mild diversion gets the better of you. You catch Beka’s arm and pull her in, then pirouette her away with a flick and into Dylan’s embrace. He’s delighted – two nubile women to rub up against! Beka glares at you, but Trance grabs her waist and sweeps her into their little menage and you leave the bridge and go in search.
Not too difficult. The cause of the boy’s clumsiness is block-stamped all the way down the middle of the corridor: a neat trail of blood smudges, each about a yard apart on the metal flooring. Harper always leaves breadcrumbs.
You track them to an unfamiliar door. It seems to be some sort of laundry storage room, dimly lit and piled with shelf upon shelf of High Guard linen, an avalanche of white sheets and towelling.
At the far end, Harper is perched on a counter-top, cross-legged, a socked foot in his hand as he peers at the sole.
If he’s surprised to see you, he doesn’t show it.
“What happened?”
He doesn’t look up. “In case you didn’t notice, we ran into a little ship-wide trouble back there. More specifically, while you and Beka were having your jollies trying to vent me out of the airlock, and Rommie was giving in to her girly fears over Dylan, someone had to try to pull the freakin’ ship back to safety, before that giant jelly-babe managed to suck all the goodness right out of us!”
Harper in distress throws words around like a handful of dirt, trying to get enough in your eye to distract you so he can make a getaway. Luckily, these days you have the measure of the small human. You crouch down and take his ankle.
“Yes… We were not perhaps as effective on the Command Deck as we might have been.” It’s the only verbal apology you’re going to offer, and maybe he senses this: relaxes anyway, letting you see the sole of his foot.
The sock is a blackened mess, with two corroded holes showing raw, bleeding flesh.
“Why did you take your boots off?”
“Because that thing’s acid spit was eating them! I couldn’t move fast enough with my soles fusing to the deck every five feet.”
“Hmm.” It seems unnecessarily hazardous, but you know that Harper is no more willing to harm himself than you are, without extreme cause. It occurs to you that the boy’s unsung exploits today may have been more demanding than anyone has given him credit for. Not Dylan, certainly, though that’s hardly a surprise anymore.
There’s a sink to your left, set into the same counter.
The trick with Harper is not to give him a choice, because he’ll resist out of habit. But you can’t move without saying anything, because that will startle him and he’ll resist and also try to hit you.
Instead, you nod at the sink and say, “Slide over here,” keeping his ankle firmly in your grip.
It works. Harper pivots on his ass and pushes himself along the metal surface with a small sigh. You can feel the gripped tension running along his leg. Foot and hand wounds are surprisingly painful: so many nerve endings.
At the sink, there’s an obstacle.
“Your pants. The cuffs are saturated with corrosive. Take them off.”
“…Uh? And, no!”
Unexpected rebellion, though you have a fair idea why.
“Well, then. You can let me help you clean this up, or I can carry you to Med Deck and have your little not-so-purple friend fuss over your for the rest of the night. Which would you prefer?”
It’s cruel, because you know that Harper’s Magog infestation, together with the unsettling mutation of the alien girl into her future, less amenable self, have made him touchy about going near the med bay. He scowls briefly at you in the half-light, before his pragmatism asserts itself and he reaches for his fly, grumbling, and wriggles awkwardly out of the loose pants.
And – aha – you were right. Harper goes commando. You find it exceedingly hard to suppress the sudden, wolfish grin of anticipation. You cover it by turning to drag a pile of towels over for him to sit on.
“More comfortable than the metal, I imagine.”
He knows you’re enjoying this a bit too much, and hunches forward, tugging his top down to cover himself. His bashfulness is appetising.
“Yeah, go on, laugh. Just get that stuff off my foot, would ya?”
You ease the ruined sock off, trying to avoid dragging. Harper doesn’t make a sound but his breathing is tight, and you can feel the tiny pain-tremor in his leg as you hold it steady. You run the water to tepid and ease the spigot over, and he flinches, but starts to breathe more easily as the water sluices his foot.
You massage his calf lightly with your free hand. Tight, flat muscle and very pale skin, hazed with fair hairs. Harper flexes his foot under the tap, and you lean forward to check the state of things: the damaged flesh, yes - but also the boy’s cock, not very well hidden under the hem of his shirt.
Definitely some promise there.
The water’s running clear. You lift Harper’s foot to your lips and lick gently across the crescent wound on his heel. A good thing that you have a tight grip, because Harper squeaks and tries to wrench away.
“Did that hurt?”
“My foot’s fine, the water numbed it – Tyr, are you nuts? What if any of that stuff’s still left? You trying to poison yourself or something?”
Snicker. “It’s not like you to underestimate Nietzschean resilience. I suppose the proteolytic acid might tingle a bit... if there is any. Now hold still.”
It’s the best way you can think of to ensure that every last trace of the corrosive is gone. The wound is starting to seep red again and you lap at it, delicately, savouring the salt-sweetness of fresh blood.
He shivers when you run your lips up his instep and over the smaller wound, right on his big toe. It seems easiest to simply take the whole toe in your mouth and you do, sucking gently.
The effect on Harper is immediate. He gasps sharply and glances straight down at his stirring cock. Then looks slowly up, meets your eyes over the bridge of his foot, and a sly grin spreads over his face.
“Niiice! You know what?”
He pushes himself forward, spreading his legs.
“You wanna suck something, big guy? Well, suck this. The kind of day I’ve had, you know, I think I might get everyone to come line up in here and blow the Harper!”
His voice is a little too loud, defiant. He isn’t quite certain yet where this is going, even if his cock has made up its own mind already and is thickening and rearing up as you stare appreciatively.
There’s a subtle draught in the air on your neck. You smile around his toe and let his foot go, leaning in and pushing his legs wider apart, dragging your nails up the tender insides of his thighs.
Up to the last moment, you know he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Right until you lick your lips and lunge, taking as much of his stiff cock in your mouth as you can, and you feel him shaking his shoulders loose – “Oooh, God, yesss!”
You work your hand down and under to squeeze his balls, rolling them gently around as you suck at his cock with sudden, ferocious hunger. Harper’s body is jumping, pleasure-shocked: you can feel his hands clutched in your hair, urging the movement of your head. He isn’t saying much, just a mumbled litany on each out-breath – “Oh yeah, oh yeah… oh God, oh yeah, shit, please!”
It’s been a while since you had a cock in your mouth. You want to savour it, the fullness, the first taste of come, the way Harper’s thighs are convulsing frantically against your shoulders. In the end, though, you can’t resist sucking harder, faster, and you bury your nose into the musky fuzz of his pubic hair, slurping loudly and turning yourself on with the ridiculous noises and the feel of Harper’s balls tightening, a moment before he yells “FUUUCK!” and comes, flooding your mouth.
You swallow around him, so that the change in pressure on his still-pulsing cock makes him moan. The sight of Harper slumped against the white towels, flushed red, is almost enough.
The very low, long sigh from the shadows off by the door makes your mind up for sure.
You ease back, sliding your mouth off Harper’s cock and making him whimper. He watches, dazed, with a silly smile, as you unfasten your fly pretty smoothly for a Nietzschean with a raging erection trapped in tight leather pants.
The counter is a perfect height. Some frivolous fragment of your brain is wondering whether the long-dead High Guard architect designed it deliberately, as you kick your pants away and slide Harper forward, lifting his unresisting legs and hooking his ankles over your shoulders. He sighs and shivers as you position his exposed ass at the edge of the counter. You slick a fingertip with your own pre-come and tease at the tight dark bud of Harper’s asshole. The boy grabs the edge of the counter and levers himself forward, and your finger pops in with little resistance.
It’s no time for finesse. You work Harper loose, encouraged by his little grunts of pleasure. Grab at your cock and press the tip home and thrust hard, driving into the hot tight grip of his ass. Harper pushes hard to meet you, his head rolling back as he moans.
He’s beautiful, he grips you like a vice and you’re too excited and un-lubed to do much more than hump against him, slapping your balls against the pink curve of his ass where it juts over the counter. He squeezes your neck between his ankles and you grab his hips as hard as you can, “Yes… yes!”, slamming your body into his as you come.
Harper slides his legs slowly off your shoulders and down, with a long, contented sigh. You ease out of him and lean forward for a moment, exhausted, to kiss the sweat on his belly.
He can’t get the grin off his face. “I came faster than you.”
“You had considerably more foreplay.”
He considers. “Didn’t that count as medical care?”
“You might be right. We would have to do it again, if you’re determined to make a claim for some sort of superior prowess.”
Harper sits up and puts his arms around your neck.
“Are you asking?”
“Are you dancing, Mr Harper?”
He clamps his legs round your hips and buries his face in your neck, wriggling happily. “Oh yeah. I mean, I never did get my share of the fun on Command Deck. So why don’t you, uh, take me to your ballroom and I’ll show you my cha-cha-cha?”
So horribly corny, and yet it makes you smile as you lock your hands under Harper’s bare ass, hitching him up, and walk to the door, past Dylan Hunt crammed into a shadowy corner, watching you silently with his own cock stiff in his hand and an unfathomable expression on his face.
Next time, maybe you’ll see what kind of a dancing partner he would make.
Tonight, however, you don’t feel the slightest inclination to share.
You give Harper’s ass one last quick squeeze and carry your prize away.