Title: "A Thing or Two"
Author: Apocalypse1
Rating: M
Pairing: Tyr Anasazi/Seamus Harper
Summary: Harper thinks about things. Set somewhere early-to-mid season 1, 'cacuse that's as far as I've seen.
Disclaimer: Oh, these guys are totally not mine. Neither is their universe. At all, ever. Nope.
A/N: Quick-beta'd by darchildre, lemme know if you catch anything.
Tyr doesn't get the whole madly in lust with Andromeda thing.
Seamus has tried to explain, but there's just this deliberate blank look in the dark eyes staring at him and it's clearly a waste of both of their time.
"I see no logic," says Tyr, "in becoming fascinated with a woman who is nothing more than metal and wires."
"Love isn't about logic, big guy, it's about – fire and whiskey and the big old universe, you know, crazy passionate stuff," Seamus explains earnestly.
"But she could never give you progeny," says Tyr, because it's always genetics with him.
Seamus always finds it really funny when he's arguing the benefits of sex without reproduction with a guy whose stomach he's just licked semen off of, not his own semen either thank you very much. But the Nietzschean wouldn't even acknowledge that there was anything funny – which wasn't to say that Tyr was really the poster child for "sense of humor"; Seamus had a lot of ideas for ways to improve the big lug in that department. Nah, but Nietzscheans didn't have a word for gay, because sometimes the body wanted sex and there wasn't a female available for propogatin' the species with, and that suited Seamus fine.
But females that aren't flesh, Tyr doesn't get that. It's illogical to lust after a seeming that isn't real, especially a seeming that Seamus himself has created.
Whatever. Andromeda's got more than enough logic for the two of them.
Seamus doesn't get the whole Tyr Anasazi thing.
Well, he gets it pretty damn well, actually. Look at the guy. Tyr, sprawled on his side on the bed, a languid expanse of smooth chocolate skin and muscle, grace embodied in a vessel that its owner handles just as well as he handles any weapon, naked right now and propped up on his elbow, totally unselfconscious. And the illusory languor the warrior presents in repose is such a lie 'cause any second now the man could be smashing the living daylights out of anything that dared move five hundred meters away. Not that there's anything for Tyr, naked, to be self-conscious about. Holy mother of God and all her kittens, no. Seamus has been told that men aren't beautiful, but Tyr is sure as fuck an exception to that rule, if it is one: beautiful like a really gorgeous gun. (Seamus likes ships better than guns, but guns can be pretty damn pretty, too.) And hung. Hoo boy. Tyr Anasazi's cock is every bit as much a work of art as any of the rest of his body. Bastard knows it, too.
Reading a book, supposedly, but it's not like he's not paying attention to the little guy who for some crazy-ass reason shares his bed o' nights of light. It's not like Tyr doesn't know where Seamus's attention has wandered to, because said magnificent cock twitches against the Nietzschean's equally magnificent thighs, and it says something almost preenworthy to Seamus that all he's gotta do is look down south to get the big guy going these days.
Yeah, there've been some good times lately.
"You're looking at me again," Tyr says, all smooth low murmur, the one with that ever-so-slight touch of a growl that sends tendrils of something purely groinal down Seamus's spine, straight to one particular destination with which the both of them are at this point intimately familiar.
Maybe it's because he's inclined to look for a protector, and that sleek, deadly warrior is about as efficient a protector as you can get, provided you make sure your interests don't ever fail to overlap. Maybe it's growing up in a shithole waiting to die or get the hell out, making him gravitate towards people who could break him in half if only he weren't on his side. Maybe looking at that chain-mailed leathered-up gun-toting maniac marching, alert and strangely elegant, onto the Andromeda Ascendant some part of Seamus's psyche had gone, "Man, better ingratiate yourself there real quick," and the rest of him had gone, "well all right then, you're the boss," and led cock first into some pretty hefty sex fantasies, most of which had more or less come true (well … at least in the vague happening of a lot of mind-blowing sex with Tyr if not so much in the specific details).
"I wasn't aware we'd declared a moratorium on looking," says Seamus.
Maybe that's where the thing about Tyr comes from. It's the sort of question you might put to Rev Bem, except you really wouldn't because if you told Rev Bem that you wanted a Nietzschean to screw your brains out he might give you that look that reminds you that hey, Magog are fucking scary even if they are reformed.
Tyr's glance doesn't shift from his book, but the faint smirk that curves the corners of his mouth speaks volumes. "Planning on doing anything else?"
Not that Seamus really understands what the Tyr thing has apparently developed into, either. It's not a relationship, because Seamus doesn't think you really have those when you're a Nietzschean and the prospective partner isn't genetically viable in any way shape or form. It's just this thing where sometimes – most of the time – at the end of the day they're naked and in bed in one set of quarters or the other and there's fucking. And sometimes after the fucking they end up sleeping together in the same bed like maybe there'd be a relationship in some weird alternate dimension where Seamus was female and genetically viable. It started at first just kinda randomly, because Seamus had been too tired to get up after a particularly brazen bout in Tyr's bed, and then because Tyr had devious plans to tackle Seamus in the shower in the morning he'd spent the night in Seamus's bed. And then one time Seamus brought a book with him and just climbed into bed with Tyr like it was the most natural thing in the world, and Tyr didn't even look at him funny (or at all actually), just kept reading Machiavelli like everything was perfectly normal.
Yeah.
Fucking weird, really.
Especially 'cause now it almost seemed perfectly normal, to the point where on any given morning Seamus couldn't tell you which bed he'd be waking up in.
They didn't spend every night. That'd cramp both of their styles. Tyr was a private guy and Seamus liked to be able to talk to himself sometimes without getting stared at like he belonged in a nuthouse. Nobody looks blank and judgmental at the same time like an irritated Nietzschean, for damn sure. And it'd be impossible to avoid funny looks if they did that.
"I'm fine just looking, thanks." Seamus says it mostly to be annoying. Tyr's ego is annoying and Seamus believes it to be his sacred duty as – well, as Seamus Zelazny Harper, anyway – to annoy Tyr in return, especially when Tyr's vanity is, as like now, entirely justifiable. Foundless arrogance could at least be mocked properly. It's certainly not because the stirring of Tyr's cock isn't in itself a massive temptation, although unlike some other very annoying people when Seamus is naked in bed he lies under the blanket rather than sprawled across the top of it so it's not quite so easy to determine when he's hankering for something naughty.
"Enjoy yourself." Tyr delicately turns a page with one finger. Ayn Rand again. Jeez. Seamus has vowed on several occasions to try and convert Tyr to books with a little less politics and a little more spunk, but he has yet to get better results than a deliberately blank stare. If worst came to worst, he could always lock Tyr in the bathroom with something, but he figured he'd better save that for a day when he was looking for a broken neck (or at very least, a severely damaged bathroom).
And if there was an available Nietzschean female, Seamus knew for damn sure that the idyll or whatever it was would be over faster than he could say "Bob's your uncle," which was pretty much the terms of the arrangement as it stood to the point where if either of them had bothered to mention it the other one would have surely been justified to stare at him or make merciless fun of him (or possibly even both).
No, he doesn't know what the bleeding fuck the thing with Tyr is all about.
Not that the bleeding fuck part is literal.
Well.
There was that one time. But Tyr had been very apologetic about it.
Well … at least the warm, callused hands had been extremely gentle and precise when Tyr had provided medical treatment for Seamus's well-earned wound. Tyr's not very apologetic about anything. That's okay by Seamus – apologetic is not at all what Tyr Anasazi is for.
Seamus had wanted to make a joke at the time about being wounded in the line of duty, but back at the beginning he hadn't known that this was going to be a thing at all and he'd been kind of scared to say anything smartass. He figured Bekah might say that Tyr'd only fucked him in the first place to shut him up and when he'd seen how well it worked he'd decided to start doing so on a regular basis, although he'd avoided the subject with Bekah as much as possible. (He figured she probably knew about it. Girls were supposed to figure that shit out. But then again, she'd tease if she knew, so she probably suspected and figured it was a secret that he'd get drunk and blather about eventually. Whatever, she was probably right.)
Seamus has even less of a clue what Tyr's apparent Seamus Harper thing is all about. He knows he's no bad looker, but – jeez. Guy like Tyr, anyone he wants. Of course, pickings are kinda slim around here; the women are off-limits as playmates 'cause women don't understand that kind of thing, and Dylan is so upright and stiff as a board that Seamus suspects he isn't even capable of bending over. The idea of Dylan and Tyr boggles Seamus's brain a little and he forces it onto another train of thought pretty close to immediately.
The first time he'd seen – well, maybe not the first time he'd seen. The first time he'd really looked at Tyr anyway. There'd been a lot of scared shitless, but the kind of horny thing had been there, too. He'd found himself thinking about what it would be like to fuck the guy's mouth, which was pretty damn weird, not because he'd never thought about a guy before but because it wasn't generally one of the first things that popped into your head. You trained yourself not to, maybe. Girls was okay, that was acceptable. Guys pretended it wasn't there most of the time, and that was okay, 'cause it wasn't like you were gay, you just wanted to get off with whoever was there and sometimes with whoever happened to be kind of hot. Sometimes it developed into a thing and sometimes it didn't and whatever, it was all fine and dandy. Tyr had been an exception. Seamus looked at Tyr and some part of his brain went, fairly forcefully, "damn me but I want that guy to suck me off."
Which, and Seamus let his gaze slide back to his bedmate and in this instance his bedmate's face, was actually not all that surprising, considering Tyr's fucking incredible mouth. Which had proven every bit as incredible as it looked like it could be, thanks for asking … not that Seamus had ever got any complaints in that department. No, when it came to a quick and versatile tongue, Seamus could compete with the best of them.
Not that it was generally a, you know, competition.
Seamus leaned over and flicked his tongue, light, teasing, over the head of Tyr's cock, grasping it round the base with one hand.
"Thought you were just looking," Tyr murmurs, playing at being all unconcerned, but it's not like they both didn't know there was going to be fucking eventually what with both of them naked in the same bed, regardless of Seamus's surfing mag and Tyr's political literature pretending at being read. And it's not like Tyr's erection isn't making a fucking liar out of him. Big beautiful fucking liar, though.
"Well, I've finished looking, my good man, and I've decided to make a selection, that's all," Seamus says, 'cause customer jokes are always appropriate when you're about to suck a guy's cock. Not that he figures this'll stop there. They can get creative.
No, Seamus doesn't get the Tyr thing, but that doesn't mean he's not gonna indulge it every chance he gets.