Title: Available

Author: Leigh

Fandom: Andromeda

Pairing: Harper/Tyr

Rating: NC-17 - m/m

Status: New - PWP

Archive: Feel free

Email feedback: Leigh1503@yahoo.com

Disclaimer: Not mine, no money made

Summary: Harper's musings on life and why being easy is so freaking difficult

Warning: Yeah, this is my first attempt at a Harperfic - be warned!!

Comments: Written for April, with love

Thanks: To Rhonda and Naomi for sterling support and encouragement

Available
by Leigh

Beka says I'm easy.

Beka says a lot of things.

She means most of them, too, though p'raps not the way you'd think. F'rinstance, she calls me a psycho but I've heard the tone of voice she uses and trust me, she means it in a good way.

Most of the time.

Point is, Beka's known me a long time now and we've done a lot of stuff together, learnt a lot about each other, good and bad.

So if Beka says I'm easy, I suppose I must be. Yeah, Harper the Pushover - the ultimate sure thing, that's me.

But, see, what Beka doesn't realise, even after all this time, is I'm not so much easy as.available. I'm available.

I'm so freaking available it hurts.

---------------------------------------------------------

The evening Tyr Anasazi turned up at the door to my quarters, I was not a happy Harper.

I was hot, dirty and sweaty. And not in a good way.

It had been a long, frustrating day. Beka and Dylan had spent the entire watch playing a fun game of 'who's da boss?' with yours truly as their weapon of choice. The rules of the game are simple: pick a crew member, preferably one called Harper, and proceed to order, bully, flatter, tease, smarm or bribe said crew member into doing what you want. Which just happens to be the exact opposite of what the other player wants. Points are scored each time the lucky crew member stops one job and starts another because of something you've said. Getting the crew member to side with you publicly scores double. Simple. Hours of fun for all the family and no bones broken.

Beka's particularly good at the guilt card, playing on past history and the whole 'you were mine first' thing. Dylan's sneaky - big surprise! - holding out promises of new flimsies with new and cool toys to build.

Of course, there is a downside to all this hilarity. For one thing, what with running from command deck to engine room to access tube and back again, nothing actually gets done and for another, barring death, old age or full-scale mutiny, the game doesn't ever stop. So there are no winners. Specially not the poor sap stuck in the middle.

Today, just to make my joy complete, Dylan had been trying out a new tactic. It probably came from one of his special handbooks, the High Guard Guide to Successful Captaining (advanced level) or something. I'll bet it was something like Chapter 2: Assuring the Continuing Loyalty of Your Crew (way to go with Rhade, big guy!) and was probably standard operating procedure back in the good old days of order and hierarchy and salutes so sharp they could take your eye out if you weren't careful.

Anyway, wherever it came from it was a doozy. Captain Dylan Hunt, the last bastion of truth, decency and the Commonwealth code of honour, started coming on to me.

And I was madder than hell about it.

It's one thing for Beka to use my pathetic attempts to get physical against me, mean, underhand and manipulative, maybe, but that's the Beka Valentine I know and love: it's an entirely different matter for Dylan to try the same thing.

Because one thing you can be sure of, Beka might know I'm easy but it's not because she's taken me up on any of the many, many offers I've made. Not even when I've begged. As far as Beka's concerned, we're family and family don't screw each other. Not literally, anyway. So she knows I know it's not actually gonna happen; the banter is just a way of passing the time, filling in the gaps on a long, boring journey when you've run out of holos.

Or sometimes a way of reminding me where she thinks my loyalties should lie.

Dylan, as I said, is a different matter. For a start, he's only doing it to score a point off Beka - gee, that's flattering! - and for another thing, he thinks I'm so desperate for affection that I'll actually fall in line for a charming smile, the lure of a possible fuck on some yet-to-be-announced future date and the occasional pat on the head. Yep, get Harper all hot and bothered and he'll follow you anywhere. Like a dog.

Like Rommie.

So I was mad. Hot, dirty, sweaty and mad.

And so freaking horny I could hardly walk.

See, Dylan may have miscalculated some but his instinct was spot on. In the Harper Handbook of Hot Hunks, he'd get a section all to himself. Possibly a whole edition.

Hell, make that a small library.

You've probably realised by now I'm a guy who likes to fuck. And be fucked. Pitch, catch, anything in between, I've been there, done it, caught the diseases.

Joking. Joking!

But not about the 'been there, done that' thing. And before you look at me like that, let me tell ya it's about the only fun you can have in some of the places I've been. Not to mention a way of proving you're actually alive. That the body you're with is warm and breathing. That for the few hours or minutes or however long they'll have you, you're not alone.

Hey, it's an Earth thing, OK?

Now shut all those slutty tendencies and all that needy crap into a ship for long periods of time with just five other people. Not counting Rommie. None of whom have ever shown the slightest interest in scratching what is becoming a pretty sizeable itch for me. Counting Rommie.

I think you can see that what Dylan was doing was nothing more or less than engineer abuse, not so pure but pretty fucking simple.

So now I was hot, sweaty, dirty, mad and horny as a frigging rhinoceros, with nothing except another night making out with my own hand to look forward to.

Some things even Altarian ale can't help with.

It hadn't been so bad on the Maru. Beka was strictly off-limits, Rev Bem's a Magog for pity's sake and Trance, well, half the time my little purple playmate didn't even seem to understand the question, let alone offer a solution. And that was OK. She was a vision in violet, a picture of lilac loveliness and she was my friend. I think.

Besides, privacy isn't an option on the Maru.

So I shut down the fun factory for the duration. Sent Harper junior into enforced hibernation and kept my thoughts on the straight and narrow. Well, maybe not my thoughts, just everything else.

But then we found the Andromeda. And my snoozing hormones got the wake up call to end all wake up calls.

Captain Dylan Hunt.

I saw him first. And believe me, as juve as it sounds, that was my reaction. I saw him first. Mine. Well, who wouldn't want to lay claim to the mountain of munchiness that reared up and over me like a walking wetdream, brandishing a force lance like it was some sort of lethal weapon? OK, so it is a lethal weapon but believe me that wasn't why I laid there and gawped at him. Attractive much, Harper? Geez, I even stuttered. It wasn't pretty. Even if he was.

But that was before I heard the gospel according to Dylan delivered in the ringing tones of the truly obsessed and I knew a quick trip round Planet Harper wasn't gonna feature on the 'to do' list of a man who wanted to restore a whole commonwealth. Not even with landing privileges. Not even with landing privileges AND deep-mining rights.

Don't get me wrong, Dylan's dream, well, it's a good dream, even a great dream and I'm happy to go along for the ride. For now, anyway. It just isn't the ride I'd hoped for when I first looked up.and up.and.

And then, in between claiming first dibs on Captain Terrific and discovering nothing was ever likely to get the starch out of that uniform, metaphorically speaking, we were hit with the second half of the Harper libido double-whammy - Tyr Anasazi.

Now, I'm no fan of Nietzcheans and given the opportunity I'll happily return any I meet into the component parts of their oh-so-superior DNA but when that cargo door opened and he stood there, all mean, moody and back-lit - well, let's just say Mr Happy got even happier, capiche?

But somehow double the eye candy didn't double the possibilities for me. Believe it or not, there's some things even the Harper ego can't handle.

I mean, I like big and buff as much as the next guy, right? What am I saying? I like big and buff waaaaay more than the next guy and if the next guy gets between me and any specimen of large-and-luscious currently in view, I would seriously consider beating the crap out of him to get there first. But I digress.

As I was saying, big and buff are fine by me but when you're the small scruffy kludge standing between the supreme examples of muscular perfection that are Tyr and Dylan, well, can we say 'intimidated'?

So despite an overwhelming urge to offer Tyr my personal assistance in spit-polishing his pecs, I kept my mouth shut. And only partly to stop the drool escaping.

But it wasn't as hard as it could have been - and you can take that whatever way you want. See, one thing you always gotta remember about Tyr, cos you can bet your life he will: he is a Nietzschean. From the top of his perfectly sculpted head to the tip of his elegant toes and every gleaming muscle in between. Pure-bred Niet. Tyr Anasazi out of Victoria by Barbarossa. Kodiak Pride. Superior genes, superior bloodlines, freaking gorgeous example of superior beefsteak.

Arrogant. Haughty. Supercilious.

Totally deluded.

Survival of the fittest. Big cosmic joke. And they just don't see it. Niets may be the fittest - and Tyr is one of the fittest I've ever seen - but when it comes to surviving I've got them all beat. Yeah, a pathetic, damaged kludge like me is the prime example of the ultimate survivor cos I'd sure as hell like to see any Niet try and survive what I have.

I guess my kind of arrogance isn't that far removed from Tyr's, after all. But I'm not so sure he'd appreciate that.

Anyway, his general dismissal of all things inferior - i.e. non-Nietzschean, i.e. me - made it easier to ignore the little voice in my head yelling 'fuck me, fuck me' every time he walked by. But it didn't stop those non-verbal parts of me sitting up and begging in a language all their own. Good thing form-fitting black leather isn't part of the Harper wardrobe cos even Trance at her most guileless wouldn't need a translation.

And then, in the middle of all this frustrated concupiscence - look, ma, I know big words! - Dylan decided to fuck with my brain, leaving my body to deal with the results.

So the evening Tyr Anasazi turned up at the door to my quarters, I was not a happy Harper.

I was hot, dirty, sweaty, horny and mad. And not in a good way.

"What do you want, Tyr?"

He stared down at me. I resisted the urge to invite him in. It wasn't a big urge.

"We need to talk, boy."

Now even in my current state of mind and with my customary flare of resentment at the whole 'boy' thing, this was unusual enough that I stepped away from the door to let him in.

He threw my room a mini-version of the look popularised by Rommie - the 'I do believe we're in a hovel' look that mixes sociological curiosity with less than well-disguised contempt - and stepped somewhat pointedly over half a prototype bot that was kinda blocking the doorway.

"I was working," I said, defensively. Then I got mad. Madder. OK, it may not be exactly hygienic and the floor is in danger of being entirely taken over by discarded circuit boards and bits of hardware but it's cosy in a nest-at-the-bottom-of-a-trash-heap kinda way. And it's mine.

"Talk about what?"

I didn't exactly snarl it because you don't snarl at a Niet unless you're standing at the right end of a plasma cannon with no shield between him and the pointy end. But I got close enough to get my heart beating faster.

It's a source of secret amusement to me how surprised people are when they hear me really snarl. What, you think the weapons I build are purely a result of my fascination for new engineering toys? Well, OK, maybe sometimes I get carried away by the technology and don't really think about the end use. My bad. But not very often. And certainly not as often as others seem to think. Did you miss the bit where I explained about my survival imperative being at least as strong as any freaking Nietzscheans? You honestly think I'd be here, otherwise? So when I think of a new way to kill something or someone, you better believe I mean it. And then some.

Of course, given the physical differentials between me and most of the things threatening my existence, I have been working on the whole harmless, non-threatening, not-worth-the-energy-killing persona.

Still, it doesn't do my ego any good when I do get riled enough to almost-snarl and the recipient of said almost-snarl stands there looking faintly amused. And tasty enough to serve without dressing. Definitely without dressing.

He'd obviously been working out because his skin was shiny with sweat and he was only wearing a tight vest top thing through which I could clearly see his erect nipples. Oh boy.

I didn't want to let my mind go there. Well, alright, I did. My mind, followed swiftly by the rest of me. Just not now.

What I wanted now was to get mad. Get mad, get rid, get off.

Did I mention Tyr can get me madder quicker than anyone else?

"I noticed you were having a few problems with our esteemed Captain. Both our esteemed Captains."

Crap.

"Problems? What problems? I have no problems. None. Nada. Zilch. The Harper is a problem-free zone. So that all? We done? Good."

"Problems that seem to include choosing sides."

Double crap.

"Oh I get it. And you just wanted to add your bid to the pile. Gee, Tyr, I didn't know you cared."

He looked at me, disgust clear on his face. And something else. Something like - disappointment?

"You would sell yourself to the highest bidder, boy? For what? Sex? An act of purely physical release? I had thought better of you. Perhaps Captain Hunt saw more clearly than I thought "

Well, crap to the power of ten. Captain Dylan freaking Hunt and his High Guard power games walked me right into that. And now Tyr thinks I'm a whore. Pathetic, needy, inferior. And a whore. Shit, that hurts. Why does that hurt? When did it start to matter to me what Tyr thinks? What anyone thinks?

I'm a pretty resilient guy. Sorta had to be, really. And part of the whole Harper persona is the smart mouth.

Mostly I can buy into it. Buy into the super-Harper crap that comes out of my mouth at a million words a minute.

But sometimes, just sometimes, I feel brittle and like I'd shatter into a million pieces at the slightest touch and those are the times when I listen to those same words coming out of my mouth with a sort of horrified awe. Times when there's no connector between my mouth and my brain and no way of shutting me up.

Times like now.

"Look Tyr, contrary to popular opinion, some people do actually value me for my mind. They warm to me for my stunning personality, like my terrific sense of humour and yes, even admire my dress sense. But first and foremost I am an engineer - undoubtedly the best you'll ever meet and probably a certifiable genius. What I am not is a consolation fuck-toy for a crew of bored Alphas."

In a heartbeat, he had slammed me up against the wall, hand against my chest, hard thigh between my legs.

"On the other hand, whatever works for you," I said weakly.

Not one of my best comebacks. Of course the fact that all my braincells had migrated south the instant Tyr got upclose and personal and any remaining sparks were currently engaged in setting up this incredible feedback loop with my cock might have had something to do with it. I was being freaking dangled up against a wall by an irate Nietzschean with a hard-earned and well-deserved rep for terminating people with extreme prejudice and I was hard. I. Was. Hard.

Oh crap.

For a long moment I wondered whether there was a special hell reserved for mouthy engineers and whether I'd died and gone there without noticing.

I couldn't interpret the look on Tyr's face as he stared me up and down. But even as I tried to keep the cocky (bad word, bad Harper) pissed-off attitude going, I could feel a blush starting to escape from under my collar.

"You are no one's consolation prize, boy," he growled. And to my total astonishment a hard mouth came down on mine and I was being violently kissed.

Excuse me? Come again? Even as I shamelessly opened my mouth under the onslaught and sucked hungrily on the hot tongue that immediately moved in and made itself at home, I couldn't stop thinking about the anger in Tyr's voice. He sounded really pissed that I was bad-mouthing myself. But surely he'd thought -

My train of thought was well and truly derailed when Tyr started humping against me. I'd got one foot back down on the ground when he moved his arm from across my throat to grab hold of my hair and angle my head right for a quick oral plundering. I wrapped my other leg round his ass and pressed him closer. Each thrust of his hips against me lifted me just about off the floor and I could feel myself shuddering. Then his hand slipped into my pants and I was gone.

Tyr started chewing on my neck as he hoisted me up again, fasteners popping and fabric tearing under his hand.

Gravity's an amazing thing. Even when it's artificial. Although I was still defying it, suspended about a foot above the floor attached only to a large Nietzschean, what was left of my clothes were dropping like Newton's apples and by this point I could only admire their determination to respect the natural laws.

But no one ever said Seamus Zelazny Harper was a hands-off kinda guy so I decided it was time to get reciprocal.

I took a deep breath and latched onto one of those perky little nipples, sucking hard. Even through the vest I could feel it tighten still more and moved over quickly to mouth the other one through the damp, sweaty cloth, making sure it didn't feel left out.

At the same time I tried to push one hand under the waistband of his pants only to discover he has them just about painted on. A change of direction was needed so I went straight to Plan B and undid the zipper, reaching in to free the monster cock inside. For a minute I couldn't decide whether to shrivel or salivate but natural greed won out and I grabbed hold before anyone could take it away from me.

Old habits die hard.

Tyr went still - you think I might have grabbed too hard? - and let me slide down the wall until I was face-first with my prize. I wrapped both hands round the shaft and licked my way round the top before getting the head into my mouth and starting to suck. I was just getting into a good rhythm when Tyr grabbed my hair and hauled me away.

He kicked some circuits out of the way and pushed me down on the floor, face first. Before I could draw breath he was fucking his fingers in and out of my ass and I don't know where he got the slick from but it went in smooth and deep and the burn was so good, I groaned out loud. I was trying to move but the hand in the small of my back had me pinned to the floor.

Being held down and fucked by a Nietzschean isn't exactly a new experience for me. Even voluntarily. Probably not for any Earther. But being held down and fucked by a Nietzschean who hasn't slapped you around a bit first? That was so new as to be almost scary. In fact, let's face it, in terms of Niet/kludge relationships it was positively sappy.

"Tyr, you big softie," I panted, "I'd never have guessed."

"Be quiet, boy."

The words hissed out with Tyr's usual passionate intensity but I could hear the amusement underneath. Still, I couldn't let that pass. I opened my mouth to complain but Tyr chose that exact moment to curl his fingers deep inside me and as the pleasure arced through me, the only thing that came out of my throat sounded embarrassingly like a whimper. He did it again and I howled.

"Up."

For a second the word didn't penetrate the wall of pleasure in my brain but a sharp smack on the ass got through and I was scrabbling to get my knees under me even as two large hands grabbed hold of my hips and pulled. I could feel the blunt tip of his hot, hot cock sliding down my cleft as he held my cheeks apart and I concentrated on not saying anything, not begging for it, bit my lips hard to make sure I wouldn't say anything.

"Fuck me, oh god, Tyr, fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me."

Well, that worked well. Obviously all the weeks of fighting not to say it had built up into a critical mass and now I couldn't stop.

"Please, Tyr, please, fuckmefuckmefuckmefuckmefuckme."

When Tyr put a stop to my pathetic display by riding into me, hard and deep and wonderful, I had this insane urge to start thanking him. Not that I could have spoken at that point. After only two strokes I was shuddering and after four my arms were shaking badly as the pounding I was getting actually started sliding me across the floor. I wasn't gonna last and when, a few minutes later, his hand reached round and stroked my cock I convulsed and came hard. I collapsed in a heap and Tyr followed me down, still thrusting. I felt him speed up then everything went completely rigid and he roared as he came inside me. He roared my name.

I was hot, sweaty and dirty. I was damp, sticky and sore. I had a large, heavy Nietzschean lying on top of me.

It felt frigging wonderful.

So I lay there, basking, feeling Tyr's body completely covering me. I couldn't breath but there are times when oxygen is over-rated and I was sure he'd move if I kicked him hard enough in the nuts.

But as the afterglow faded, I started to panic. OK, hardcore fantasy come to life: big-and-buff Niet fucks small-scrawny-but-still-sexy-as-hell kludge into the next solar system. So far, so good.

I just wasn't sure why.

As the panic grew, I started to wriggle. Tyr pulled out gently, rolled off to one side then dragged me half on top of him and clamped me there with an arm that felt like it was made of reinforced steel. It felt great, like every hidden, neurotic wish I'd ever had had all been granted at once. Oh crap. What if this was just the opening bid from a new player in the game of Poke the Harper? I wriggled again.

"Tyr - "

"Peace, Harper. I do not expect this to alter any pre-existing loyalties you have."

Oh.

"So - "

"Neither was it a pity fuck or any other form of consolation you can think of. For either one of us, I trust."

Oh, again.

"Then - "

"Because it was something I believe we both wanted. Something I, at least, continue to want."

Oh. Oh!

"Um...yeah...I mean, me too."

Did I say I was a genius with a smart mouth? I take it all back.

But, hey, I was hot, dirty and sweaty, I'd had a day from hell and to cap it all an overgrown Niet had turned up in my quarters uninvited and fucked the stuffing out of me, also uninvited. What did you expect?

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I'm not usually a klutz and if you said the full-body slam I did into Tyr as I walked across the mess this morning wasn't exactly an accident you might be right. I just like to take any opportunity to touch him in public. Of course, I'd forgotten just how solid he is, like a fully-sprung mattress with the springs on the outside. Yep, I am referring to the dreaded chainmail. Anyway I bounced straight off again and landed on the floor to the less-than-gratifying vocal accompaniment of Beka sniggering.

Still. I looked up at Tyr and grinned.

"If you wanted me on my back, Tyr, you just had to ask."

"If I wanted you on your back, boy, I wouldn't have to ask."

He extended a careless hand in my direction and hauled me up impassively. Actually make that 'apparently impassively'. I have reason to believe appearances are deceptive in the impassive stakes. At least where I'm concerned.

I just couldn't help myself.

"Promise, promises," I said in as sultry a voice as possible.

Across the mess room Beka rolled her eyes and mouthed one word at me. Easy.

She says I'm easy.

And she's right. But only for Tyr.

Because from today Seamus Zelazny Harper is no longer available. The Harper is taken. And taken. And taken.

And it doesn't hurt at all.

ENDS