by Aldrea Alien
A small groan escaped Tracker’s lips and Alan’s eyes widened slightly.
Good. Some elves were particular on who touched their ears and, judging by Alan’s reaction, the hound hadn’t let him get that close.
Tracker trembled and the fingers clutching Dylan’s side tightened. “We simply must go.” He latched on to Dylan’s hand, dragging the arm over his shoulder. “Now. Long day tomorrow.” The hound tugged on Dylan’s arm, encouraging him to follow as he made his way down the corridor.
Dylan fought to conceal a smirk as he glanced over his shoulder at the man. Daggers couldn’t have been sharper than the glare the man gave him. Tough. He’d been promised a night in Tracker’s warm cinnamon-scented embrace, he wasn’t about to give that up for anything less than an attack on the city.
Tracker stopped towing Dylan as they rounded a corner. “You are a terrible man, teasing me like that.” The hound released his grip, flattening himself against a door, his pack sliding off his shoulder to drop unceremoniously onto the floorboards. “Or,” he purred, “were you simply flaunting our intentions before poor Alan?”
By the gods, Tracker had noticed that? Of course he did. Noticed and probably didn’t appreciate being used in such a fashion. Dylan hung his head. “Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
The hound’s hand flashed out, those long fingers grasping the collar of Dylan’s robe, and Dylan found himself pulled closer to the man’s greedy mouth.
He parted his lips, his skin already buzzing in anticipation. He pressed against the door, paying little heed to the creak of protest it gave to his added weight.
Dylan waited, but the kiss didn’t come.
“I think I know,” Tracker breathed. The faint touch of their lips brushed together as he spoke and tingled along Dylan’s spine.
Before Dylan could enquire further, their lips met in earnest. Soft. Restrained. Boiling with the desire for more. He slipped his tongue into the hound’s mouth, grumbling at how infuriatingly passive Tracker had become. Perhaps if he backed off and forced the man to take the lead, he—
The harsh click of a lock broke his thoughts. The door opened, sending them all but tumbling through the doorway leading to a gloom-shrouded room. There was a lit lantern hanging just outside the door. Tracker snatched this up, illuminating their lodgings.
Dylan took in the small space. Roughly half the size of the room he shared with Sulin and seeming smaller still in the lantern’s sooty light. This was where they were spending the night? He tossed his pack to one side whilst Tracker did the same and shut the door.
A bed took up much of the area, even with one side pressed against the wall. Beyond a small stool and table bearing a half-used candle, it was the sole piece of furniture to be had.
“That’s too small for the both of us.” Dylan indicated the bed with a jerk of his chin, although there was barely enough of the furniture to call it such.
The hound glanced up from lighting the candle and grinned. “Only because you are looking at it all wrong. There’s plenty of room, provided you let me sleep on top.”
He cocked an eyebrow at the hound as Tracker sauntered back to his side. “Top?”
The elf drew him lower with a gentle tug of his robe collar. “Perhaps I should show you,” he purred, his long fingers already working on Dylan’s belt. Undone, the strap was tossed to one side.
Needing no further encouragement, Dylan replied in kind, tugging and loosening the hound’s armour. The man’s sword belt hit the floor with relative ease to the dull rattle of sheathed weaponry, only to clatter further as Tracker kicked it aside.
He’d never attempted removing the elf’s armour before. There was so much to undo. Why did it have so many layers and ties? His finger managed to get pricked on what was apparently a knife hidden just within one of the layers.
“Careful,” Tracker whispered. “Some of the blades might still have traces of poison on them.”
Dylan withdrew the abused digit from the man’s clothing to suck the tip whilst it healed. By the sting of it, that blade had been one of them. Something mild. “This is ridiculous,” he mumbled as he returned to battle with a particularly troublesome buckle. How did the hound manage this every single day?
Smug, throaty laughter heated his neck. It was all well and good for him; the elf could undress Dylan in a matter of seconds if he so desired, which he had not. “If it is causing you grief,” he murmured, his lips brushing Dylan’s earlobe. “I am more than willing to strip for you.”
He weighed the merits of such an offer before stubbornness gripped him. The strap came free with a rather satisfying jingle and Dylan slid off the first layer. The quilted shirt was far easier to be rid of. Feeling the man’s warm flesh quiver beneath his fingers as he finally removed the undershirt was almost sinful.
Their mouths met in deep, open kisses. They took several clumsy steps towards the bed, their tongues entwined. So enthralled by the passion behind each gasping collision of mouths, he scarcely noticed the hound hauling up his robes until they were bunched beneath his arms. He reluctantly released the man’s lips to remove his attire.
All but naked, Dylan tugged at the belt securing the man’s trousers, distracted from his task by the elf kissing and nibbling at his neck and chest.
A vial glittered in Tracker’s hands. He wasn’t certain when the man had acquired it from his seemingly endless supply, but the sight was enough to pull a soft whine from his throat.
His earnest mission in undressing the man halted as the hound’s hands wandered across his bare abdomen and continued down. The elf’s palm massaged Dylan’s length through his smallclothes.
He groaned, grinding against the touch.
Tracker’s head sank, branding a trail of wet open-mouthed kisses down Dylan’s chest. The hot, tickling blast of the elf’s breath tingled across his skin. Dylan tipped his head back, lost in the sensation. A small whimper left his lips. Such a tame thing should not feel this good.
Kneeling, the hound plucked at the laces holding Dylan’s smallclothes fast, his clearly fumbling hands struggling to keep themselves on task. The tie loosened and those wicked fingers curled around the waistband, tugging them down. The elf’s lips continued to brush Dylan’s skin, working ever lower as the fabric fell.
His legs shook, threatening to dump him where he stood. Dylan stepped back, fully divesting himself of his clothing. He blindly searched for something to keep him upright, his fingers latching onto a bedpost. Another step had him bumping into the bed end, practically sitting on it. He went to move only to be halted by Tracker’s fingers wrapping about his length, slowly moving up and down.
The man wasted little time and the hand was swiftly replaced with a tongue slicking along the underside of his length. Dylan’s breath hitched as the warm wetness curled about the tip and back down. A low moan slid up his throat. He stared at the ceiling, concentrating on following the grain of the bare planks and rafters. It was the only way to keep himself from the edge.
The hound groaned. It vibrated across Dylan’s skin, bringing a fresh wave of pleasure. “Have I ever told you that you taste divine when you have not had the chance to indulge in our dear warrior?”
“There’s…” As much as he wanted to, he daren’t look to confirm the elf was serious. “There’s a difference?”
Tracker answered with a soft hum of affirmation, his tongue barely pausing.
Dylan gasped. He was already too far gone for this level of teasing. The edge of bliss was near, if he reached it before the hound pulled away— “Track…” he panted, desperate to get the man’s attention before it was too late. “You keep that up and I’m not going to be able to do much.”
A small, and very much amused, huff warmed Dylan’s waist. “Get on the bed, then,” the elf said, getting to his feet.
“Actually.” He relieved the hound of his little vial of oil and gently guided Tracker back until the man’s leg touched the wooden bed frame. “I was thinking you get on the be
d.”
Shrugging, the elf kicked off his boots and set about unbuckling his belt. “As you like. Although, I am not going to need that.” He indicated the vial with a thrust of his chin.
Dylan wrinkled his nose. He wasn’t about to be fooled by that again. “If I need it, you need it.” He watched the man slowly shed the remainder of his clothing, balling his hands to keep them from the temptation of roaming the elf’s firm body. Soon.
Tracker stretched out atop the bedding, reclining on his side and propped on an arm. The tattoos on his abdomen seemed to move all on their own with each breath. “Do you require instructions? I am quite willing to direct you.”
I bet. He rolled the vial between his fingers, trying to tear his gaze from the man for long enough to form coherent words. “No, I’m pretty sure I’ve got the gist of it.” A little oil to lubricate things, a little teasing to keep the senses raw. He could fumble his way through the rest if need be.
“So,” Tracker purred. The forefinger of his free hand slowly trailed up and down his body, stopping only to play with himself. “How do you want me?”
“Hhn?” All thought fled Dylan’s mind in one swift moment and he had almost vaulted onto the bed, fully prepared to take the man where he lay, before reason came back to him.
“I said—”
“I heard.” He absently wiped the corner of his mouth. By the gods, had he actually been drooling?
Dylan fixed his attention on the far wall as he considered the man’s question. The hound seemed to have a lot of tricks. He’d a few of his own, ones he was rather eager to share with the elf. If only he could keep the man from pushing things further than was wanted at the time.
His gaze drifted to the bedposts, then the discarded belts. The wisp of an idea formed. “On your stomach.”
Tracker obeyed, the swiftness with which he did so belying his enthusiasm to discover what Dylan had in mind.
He picked up their belts and snapped them a few times. They seemed strong enough for what he had planned.
The hound eyed the leather straps, suddenly wary. “I would like to point out that, if you plan on hitting me with those, I will object.”
“I thought you didn’t mind a bit of pain,” he murmured as he carefully threaded the belts through their buckles until they made a loop.
The man’s chuckle carried a somewhat uneasy edge. “Certain types. I had enough of being beaten in my training, thank you.”
“You needn’t worry.” He secured each of the loops around Tracker’s wrists. “I don’t intend to hurt you. Just… constrain for a while.” He knotted the belts around each bedpost, kneeling next to the man as he ensured that the hound was comfortably secured. “Do you think your arm can handle that?”
“I believe so.” Tracker tested the bindings and grunted. “I also assume I have a way out of this.”
He bent over the elf, laying his torso along the entirety of the man’s back. After pouring a little bit of oil onto the palm of his hand, he tucked the vial into Tracker’s fist. “You want to stop,” Dylan whispered into the hound’s ear. “Just say the word.”
The elf snickered. “And just what do you plan to do with me?” He wriggled, lifting himself to grind his rear against Dylan’s still very much erect length.
Huffing, Dylan sat back and rubbed his hands together to smear the oil as he coaxed the warm, soothing power of his healing magic to flow through his palms. He wasn’t certain if Tracker would feel it, but the hound would still enjoy the basic touch. “First,” he murmured, moving the elf’s long braid out of the way. “I’m going to get you all loose and then…” He knelt either side of the man’s thighs. “I’ll show you a few of my tricks.”
Tracker fell silent, seemingly considering if it was worth being bound. “You have me intrigued and—” He gave the binds another tug. The belts creaked, but refused to give. “—rather at your mercy. Do as you like.”
“I promise you’ll enjoy it.” He started in the most obvious place, rubbing small circles into the elf’s shoulder blades, grunting as he worked to relax the stiff muscles. It was a harder task than he’d originally presumed. Dylan had never picked the hound to be one who worried about anything, but the amount of tension in the man’s shoulders suggested otherwise.
Tracker groaned as his muscles slowly gave under Dylan’s fingers. The elf hung his head. Soft whispers, words Dylan couldn’t quite make out, spilt from his lips.
Encouraged, Dylan moved on to lightly glide his thumbs down the hound’s spine, the bronze skin pebbling in his wake. He reached the point where the man’s back turned into his rear and pulled away, grinning as Tracker arched in an attempt to follow his touch. “Be still,” he breathed. There would be time for more later.
Unlike the front side of the man, scars crossed much of the area, smooth lines and ridges slashing apart the designs inked there. Some of the clearly older scars had even been tattooed over. How much of it had been inflicted by the very people who raised him? He wasn’t certain he wanted to know the answer.
Dylan ran tiny circles up either side of the elf’s spine, concentrating on keeping the warmth of healing pulsing through his hands in the off chance that the hound could feel it. He reached the base of Tracker’s neck and curved his fingers over the man’s shoulders. There was plenty of tension here, too. He dug his thumbs in, working small circles until the resistance vanished.
Still, he lingered. Many of the tattoos marking his back followed his natural musculature, the one starting at his neck did not. “I have to ask, what’s the meaning behind this one?” He traced the image adorning much of the elf’s upper body. It was old. The ink faded, the lines no longer crisp, but it was definitely a sword. The hilt ran from the edge of the man’s hair to the base of his neck, where the blade carried on halfway down his spine.
The flesh beneath Dylan’s fingers shuddered. Tracker lifted his head and the sword danced, twisting as muscles and tendons shifted just beneath the skin.
“It…” The word was slurred, heavy with pleasure, but not quite content. “It was an aid for my trainers. Not every hound is proficient in the same weapon, they mark us so it is easier for them to know where we belong and who should be teaching us to fight.”
Dylan frowned. Beatings, no name, forced marking, torture of every kind… The more he heard of what Tracker had gone through, the more he wished the hound hadn’t been born of a spellster.
He pressed on, determined to push aside all thoughts of the outside world. His well-oiled palms slid over the elf’s skin. He was thorough, and a little self-indulgent, in oiling every inch of Tracker’s back until the hound gleamed in the low candlelight. Flesh rippled in his hands, moulding at his touch like the finest clay.
When there were no more knotted muscles to be found on the man’s back, he shuffled further down the bed. The elf’s legs parted at the barest of requests, allowing Dylan to kneel between them. Tracker tensed as Dylan placed his hands on the man’s hips to steady himself. His back arched, tilting his rear into a more agreeable position.
He ran his palm in circles upon the small of the hound’s back, soothing himself as much as he did the elf. “Not yet.” Not until he knew Tracker was completely relaxed.
Placing one hand atop the other, he gently pressed them into the pliable flesh and slid up Tracker’s spine. Dylan reached the base of the man’s neck and pulled away to repeat the process. He did it over and over, listening.
Tracker sagged, a sigh gusting out with every stroke. His name.
Dylan froze mid-stroke. That hadn’t been what he expected. He’d done this many times in the tower and the elven patrons had usually starting purring or groaning by now, not whispering his name. And never in such a breathy, gut-quiveringly intimate way.
He finished the stroke and shuffled down a little more, tracing the swirling designs etched into the man’s hips and thighs. Determination moved his fingers and the massaging continued as he sought out the tension that lingered in each leg. He would see the elf
completely relaxed before he went any further, however long it took.
He’d made it part way down a calf when a few small, steady purrs emanated from the hound.
Dylan smiled. That was what he’d been aiming for. A purring elf was a deeply contented one. Finishing up with the legs, he returned his focus to the man’s back. The hound’s entire body was pliable now and softly vibrating.
He ran his hands up the elf’s back, kneading Tracker’s shoulders. “You still with me?” Some of his partners had fallen asleep under his ministrations. He didn’t mind, usually. But if the elf ranked amongst them, then he wouldn’t get a chance to show the man what he could do.
A short, but nonetheless pleased, moan breaking through the low purring was Tracker’s only response.
Dylan clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. “Have we forgotten how to speak?” His hands fell upon the elf’s rear. He kneaded the flesh, marking how the man’s breath hitched at each teasing sweep of his thumbs. “Or are we all out of words?”
The purring faded. “Neither yet.”
Dylan slid up the hound’s body. “Good,” he whispered into Tracker’s ear. “Because I’m not done with you.”
Tracker watched him, those honey-coloured eyes slightly glazed, as Dylan uncorked the vial and dipped his finger into the oil. The hound licked his bottom lip, anticipation turning the man’s breath husky.
Replacing the cork, Dylan ran his tongue up the top slope of the elf’s ear.
The hound shuddered beneath him. Tracker buried his face into the pillow and a muffled moan escaped the feather-stuffed cloth.
Dylan slid down Tracker’s back, the man rising up beneath him to press them together. He groaned. The intensity of the fire in his gut had dulled during the massage, but the full contact of that warm skin, still slick with oil, swiftly had it burning anew. Not yet.
Sitting back, he discovered Tracker had pushed himself to his knees. Dylan rubbed the man’s rear, smearing the excess oil further between the buttocks and idly teasing as he considered which particular trick he should reveal. Heat? It was already quite warm in here, it likely wouldn’t feel that good. Cold? He normally couldn’t use that one for long without risking injury, but the hound’s ability to negate it conjured all sorts of possibilities.