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Between the collapsed sun and hazardous storms, few things could keep anyone warm on Eden-227. Yet for Katana, warmth came in the form of sufficient company, and a glass of alcohol. He was only halfway through nursing his first glass; when Hyperlaser, clad in the thick layers of his agency gray uniform, said:
“You’ve been staring at my gun for the past ten minutes. Why? ”
Katana chokes on his whiskey.
“Are you finally getting tired of that sword? Or is there something else on your mind?” he remarks, huff following soon after.
“Stop your nonsense,” Katana grumbled, shooting Hyperlaser an unamused expression behind his mask. A pointless endeavor of course, considering the artillerist's makeshift bucket-helmet would obscure anything from view. How does Hyperlaser still manage to aim so precisely? Only the gods know.
There is a pause, silence filling the atmosphere. Before long, Katana speaks up.
“..I simply got.. lost in thought. There’s been too much to ponder ever since we crashed here.”
Hyperlaser lets out a low hum in acknowledgment, “There’s nothing we can do except survive.”
And then despite Katana’s last comment about not staring at Hyperlaser’s gun, his gaze instantly locks onto it as soon as the artillerist traces the handle with his metal fingertips.
Hyperlaser’s hands in and of themselves were something notable. The sight of them was somewhat of a novelty considering he only took off his gloves when he was drinking, or if they were too stained with blood. Unlike the flesh and scarred skin that should have lined his palms; his hands were made up of a gray metal that had cords of red wiring, red only visible through the gaps in the plating.
An ‘artillerist augmentation’ as Hyperlaser called it.
Such things were common in the agency. Bodily manipulation and or replacement taken for the sake of on field efficiency.
Even with its benefits, Katana would never get one himself. It would be better off to face the unclean with his flesh pure.
(At the least, as pure as it can be; taking into account the regenerative nanites placed into skin tracking his vitals. As well as the voice-monitoring implants in the neck.
Few of his co-workers seemed to have actually read the contract for becoming an agent.)
It's obvious that he's staring by now, carefully watching the way Hyperlaser takes the weapon into his hand with the flick of his wrist, and spins it around his index finger. Something about it sets something off in deep in his core.
Katana wouldn’t consider himself a gun fanatic by any means, but he can’t deny that something about the subject intrigued him. Old flickering light hits the ridges of the gun, highlighting the glowing red accents around the barrel.
“Just lost in thought.” Hyperlaser quotes, flat laugh accompanying it and— instead of tearing his eyes away for the second time to make up a cheap excuse, Katana says something else.
He swallows dryly. “..Indulge me, Hyper, just this once.”
And surprisingly, he does.
It’s only acknowledged in quiet silence, in the way that the artillerist only grips his gun more firmly after processing what he said. Certainly, it’s not the first time that words between them would go unsaid. Hyperlaser flicks the guns around his fingers again, mesmerizingly twirling the weapon in and out of his fingertips before — Finally, he points the gun at him.
Katana lets himself be tugged out of the rickety chair, and pressed against the stone wall. The rim of the gun is pressed firmly against his abdomen before it’s then trailing a jagged line up his collarbone.
“Is this what you wanted?” Hyperlaser says, dryly, and Katana can’t tell if he's teasing, or being serious. Maybe it’s a mix of both. Despite the fact they’ve barely drunk anything, he can still taste the warm remnants of whiskey on Hyperlaser’s breath.
Any response Katana would have made is cut off by sudden sharp cold weight on his neck. He fights the urge to shiver, exhaling a strained breath instead. The gun is pressing down hard enough to leave a bruise, Katana almost hopes it does.
The agent stares at the barrel, eyes slightly widening beneath his mask. His fingertips twitch to the sword attached to his waist out of sheer instinct, lingering yet never drawing. Hyperlaser doesn’t miss the way Katana leans into the weapon pointed at his neck. A quiet huff of amusement from the artillerist was just barely audible amidst the harsh winds of Eden 227.
The gun is pressed down harder and his breath hitches as he’s forced to tilt his head up.
“You aren’t going to shoot me,” Katana gasps out.
And how easy it would be for Hyperlaser to shoot him dead right now, to leave the frost to eat away at his dead body until the nanites revive him. But Katana also knows otherwise.
The hundreds of hours of time spent on assignments together forged a close bond between them. He’s seen Hyperlaser laugh, he’s seen him die. He can’t even begin to recall all of the heads taken for the sake of him. And he knows that Hyperlaser would do the exact same —has done the same— for him if their history is anything to show for it.
This, all to say that he trusts Hyperlaser, more than anyone else who’s on this planet, and likely more than he should considering their current predicament.
Hyperlaser spares him a glance, helmet tilting up slightly as he meets the other’s gaze. He chuckles, short and quiet and vaguely amused.
“Who knows.” and for a second the weight on his neck lightens.
And then a metal thumb immediately flicks the safety off of the gun and Katana can feel his fingers twitch as something deep in his abdomen tightens.
The gun’s bezel lays barely a graze away from one of his veins.
He can feel his heart pound between the silence that fills their small room as Hyperlaser slides a hand onto the curve of his waist, gently caressing it with the ridge of his thumb before drifting down to run along something lower.
His neck bobs as Katana tensely swallows the excess saliva rising in his mouth.
When Hyperlaser’s hand brushes his erection, the agent has to fight the urge to grind against his thigh. He’s all too aware of the heart rapidly beating in his chest, of Hyperlaser’s hand tracing the forsaken tent in his pants, of the damned gun pointed at his neck.
“Hyper, Gods-,” The words come out as a hiss, an unsaid plea, and Hyperlaser suddenly pauses in his movements.
The artillerist’s fingers linger on the edge of his waistband, teasing, waiting — but never faltering to slip down any further or retract.
Hyperlaser tilts his head, voice coming out all too clear in Katana’s ears, “Do you want me to keep going?”
And then he stares. Katana stares, with too many words caught and ensnared in his throat – now wishing he drank more of that forsaken whiskey.
“Yes,” Katana slowly exhales. “I want you to—please, keep going.”
Fingers dip into the line of his waistband and his garments are promptly tugged down to his knees. Katana can’t hold back a shiver when cold air touches his bare skin. The only thing keeping him warm right now is the fluster present beneath his mask and Hyperlaser’s own bodily heat.
That warmth is tested when Hyperlaser’s frigid hands go gasp at his hardened dick, stroking him once, twice, before getting into a soft rhythm.
Bits of pleasure trail up Katana’s spine as he muffles himself with a hand.
Maybe he should have thought this through more before agreeing to get a handjob in a frozen hellhole.
…
It’s slow.
Painstakingly slow and only amplified by the hasty heartbeat in his chest.
Hyperlaser meticulously trails his digits from the base of his shaft to the tip. Still — something about it he savors, strange how such small gestures seem to light up a piece of his brain he never thought possible.
Katana’s cock twitches in his hold, pre gathering at the tip and the other agent in question silently relishes the quiet grunts and strained gasps that come from him.
Then all too suddenly, the pressure against his throat is gone and running down his chest. Drifting past the bandages on his pecs and making sparks of adrenaline arrive in its wake.
The gun stops somewhere between his lower waist, lingering dangerously close to his cock as if the prospect of being shot wasn’t already present.
Before long, the pace against his dick gets faster, once meticulous teasing now quick jerks that too-easily send him reeling. The pit in the vagabond’s stomach flutters and he reflexively reaches out to grab Hyperlaser’s waist, grasping at the agency uniform that always seems to crumple too easily in his fingers.
He pulls the other closer, getting a grunt of surprise from Hyperlaser that leaves just as quickly as it came when Katana shoves his face between his shoulder.
Hyperlaser is insane, Katana thinks between the muffled moans spilling out of his mouth. Yet, at the same time musing, I’m insane for getting off on this —for even agreeing in the first place. That forsaken gun. Maybe more than just boxes of cargo were lost when they crashed landed here.
A bead of sweat rolls down Katana’s neck. The tip of the barrel presses down into his abdomen every time his hips twitch into Hyperlaser’s palm. Pleasure comes out in waves, following the gestures of the artillerist’s digits. Lingering, suffocating, always seemingly ever present. Precum dribbles down his shaft.
Katana feels a soft hum come from Hyperlaser’s chest and he realizes it’s from the other huffing in amusement. From here, he can smell the familiar scent of lead and smoke that always seems to be on the artillerist , the scent that never fails to make him breathe a little easier.
The two of them continue on like that for a few more moments. Hyperlaser palming the shaft of his dick and Katana trying (and failing) to muffle his groans as he does. That is— until it stops.
He manages to stifle the whine coming from his throat and shoots an inquisitive look at Hyperlaser. A ‘ click’ is heard as the agent temporarily holsters his gun to grab something out of his coat pocket.
A small, worn looking bottle sits in his hand. One that’s definitely seen better days by the fact it’s half frozen and the packaging is practically torn off, but nevertheless the contents are unmistakable. It’s lube.
Katana hasn’t seen anything of the sort in months. Figuring that all of it was lost or in all of the chaos that followed after the collapse, but it makes sense that a few still survived. It’s only from his days as a promiscuous novice that he can just barely recognize the brand.
“Where did you find this?” the vagabond raised an eyebrow.
Hyperlaser’s only shrugs, making quick work of spreading the slick contents onto his fingers before replying. “Two nights ago in Outpost. I couldn’t bring it back to base for obvious reasons, so I decided to keep it on me just in case.”
“…I’m assuming you had some part of this in mind when you gave me that invitation to drink with you.”
“Call it a lucky coincidence,” Hyperlaser murmured, the tone in his voice said otherwise.
The conversation is cut short when slick fingers go to prod at his entrance, giving Katana a seconds worth of warning before slipping inside of him.
He mumbles out a painstakingly breathy groan. The curves of Hyperlaser’s digits go to stretch him out, two fingers becoming three, three fingers becoming four. The stretch burns slightly, but it’s hardly enough to detract from any pleasure.
Katana settles for moaning into the crook of Hyperlaser’s neck, occasionally squeezing the other’s waist as he stretches him out.
Finally he removes his fingers and can Katana feel an all too familiar piece metal replace them.
He spares sharp a glance to the artillerist in front of him. “Be careful, Hyperlaser. I don’t need you shooting a bullet sized hole into my organs.”
“Shouldn’t you have been worried about that before? ”
Katana’s fingers curl into the fabric of Hyperlaser’s uniform “I trust you.”
That’s where the conversation ends. The dark barrel of the gun teases at his entrance, Katana can feel its smooth muzzle prod at the skin of his ass in a way that sets his heart on edge.
The tension is a palatable palpable, a string of words Katana never thought he’d ever find himself thinking, but a string of words he nonetheless doesn’t question for the fact that it’s Hyperlaser.
Hyperlaser. Arguably one of the best sharpshooters in the agency.
An agent who Katana has lived and died with so many times that it would be impossible to count on fingers; someone who’s made him laugh with the guffaw of drunken laughter and cry silent tears at the sight of an all too familiar corpse.
Scars too similar, words left unsaid, actions made on highs of long since euphoria. Their trust is held close like a gun to his neck; Hyperlaser understands Katana in a way few others do, in a way only two war-torn agents stuck together on a frozen rock ever could.
The edge of the gun slips inside of him and Katana is too caught off guard by his own moan to muffle it.
Yet, from the edge of Hyperlaser’s makeshift helmet, he can make out the unforgettable sight of a sly grin plastered on a scarred face.
Hyperlaser begins to thrust the gun in and out of Katana. He can feel the front sight brushing against his sensitive walls, making him clench down around it at the smallest ounce of friction. He places a hand around his mouth, gritting as soft whines pour through his fingers. This is a total misuse of agency technology; How many people have died because of this thing? Have had their brains painted against the walls from Hyperlaser pulling the trigger? Close range, long distance, every life taken with the beautifully precise accuracy only an agent like Hyperlaser could have. Someone would consider this an honor. The more unsavory side of Katana can’t help but agree.
Soon enough, the gun is flush with his hips, the entire barrel now practically inside of him. It stretches Katana out in a hazy mix of heavy pleasure-pain and Hyperlaser doesn’t bother to spare him any grace with the rapid pace; every bezel, indent, mechanism on that thing sends his body reeling when it touches him. Something grazes that sensitive bundle of nerves inside of him that makes his back arch and have a string of profanities spill out of his mouth. The tension in his gut grows by the second. Sputtering, flickering, no, singing in pleasure.
“ Hyper- please, I-“
The sounds of wet squelching ring out through his ear. Katana squeezes his eyes shut and is left to focus the way Hyperlaser fucks him with one hand, and caresses his exposed hip with the other. Between his whines and the warmth spreading up his gut, Katana can vaguely make out Hyperlaser’s reaction in all of this. The breathy gasps caught between laughter and interest; the fingers tracing shapes into his skin and tensing whenever he arches; the pieces of praise murmured under Hyperlaser’s breath, “ Just like that. ” “ You’re doing so well” “I want to hear you.” Words that went straight to Katana’s head (or dick in this case) as he began to roll his hips in tandem with Hyperlaser’s thrusts.
He groans into the open air. It smells like sex, like alcohol, like Hyperlaser.
The small corner of the mountain two of them are in has his moans reverberating through the walls, the barriers walls of the area being the only thing keeping them modest. Too many things could go wrong. One of their teammates foolishly stumbling upon them, a gang of scavengers waiting outside to ambush, a flare fired, a storm miscalculated. A trigger pulled, sending lead up his spine as he’s so desperately fucked by one of his most trusted comrades.
The agent lets his head fall back against the wall he’s being railed against, and faintly laughs, because then again, maybe a death by Hyperlaser’s hand would be one he would be able to live with.
And just like that, the beating tension in his gut curls and a loud groan can be heard as Katana orgasms. White slick strands of cum spill from him, his back arches, his dick throbs and snowy static fills up his vision and for a moment, the world is completely white. Pleasure overwhelms him, so he says Hyperlaser’s name like a prayer, “Hyperlaser, Hyperlaser, Hyperlaser.” Words that were gritted out between ragged, heavy breaths.
Despite it all, Hyperlaser —cursed, wretched, beloved Hyperlaser— still fucks him through it. Through the fistfuls of fabric Katana has clenched around his fingers, he can feel the gun drag at his sputtering insides, curves and edges of the barrel rubbing against every part of him too sensitive; hitting his prostate once, twice, before it all becomes too much. His legs buckle and then the world turns black.
…
When Katana wakes up, there are two things of note. One, the soreness in his tailbone, (or rather, present in his entire body, but mainly in his tailbone) ass aching and clenching sorely against nothing. Two , he’s not cold. A remarkable statement considering it’s Eden 227; Katana feels content, warm even. A warmth that sticks in his chest and lingers in every joint. A warmth that their cheap agency-distributed alcohol could only dream of replicating, a warmth Katana hasn’t felt in literal years.
After a few minutes pass and the initial high fades, he realizes Hyperlaser must have already wiped the cum off of his thighs, slick noticeably spotless from his body. Katana lets out a small murmur of gratitude for it. From his place on the floor, the agent can make out the image of their discarded drinks, still mostly full, laying fogged over on the table; By now most likely completely frozen over from the cold winds. An undoubtable waste of supplies, but it’s not like that was the last bottle of whiskey left. There will be other opportunities to drink, Katana can only wonder if they will be as ..intimate as this one.
His attention is swiftly redirected when he hears the familiar click of Hyperlaser’s boots walking to meet him. Katana immediately internally cringes when he catches the sight of a noticeable white stain on Hyperlaser’s coat; small remains of his cum thoroughly stuck on. Of course, It was inevitable that something was going to get dirty over the course of their ‘activity,’ but parts of him still felt some surprise at the spectacle.
Katana cleared his throat with a grated ‘ahem’, making Hyperlaser cock his head in surprise. “…Hyper, you have my apologies. I didn’t realize I ruined the state of your coat,” he stifled with poorly hidden embarrassment.
Hyperlaser shrugs. “Don’t worry about it, ‘tana,” He says, waving him off with a gloved hand, part of which sparks disappointment in the more questionable side of Katana that wishes he got to see them off more often. Hyperlaser walks over to his place perched on the floor, running a nonchalant hand through the vagabond’s hair and fondling the messy strands while presumably looking him over. “How are you feeling? You came pretty hard and I wasn’t aware you were awake yet.”
“I’ll manage,” Katana replies. He goes to fidget with his pants, pulling them up to his mid thigh before immediately freezing after a thought crosses his mind. “Hyper , do you still— ?” He stifles mid sentence . He’s hardly in the state for another round, just having a literal gun up his ass only a few moments before, but leaving Hyperlaser unsatisfied would make him feel worse. Katana could always use his hands, mouth even if it comes down to it.
Before he’s able to finish his sentence, he’s cut off by a soft laugh. Hyperlaser hooks a finger underneath Katana’s chin. “Seeing you was enough,” he says, and Katana can practically hear the smug satisfaction in his voice. Bastard.
Getting dressed is an annoying task, but that’s really only to be expected after having sex. Hyperlaser stands back by the entrance, wiping down his gun with a spare cloth and occasionally going to type something into his agency communicator. After he’s all redressed, Katana pats himself down, re-securing his blade to his waist and generally checking for any mishaps that may have occurred. By the time Katana is done, Hyperlaser is waiting with a hand outstretched and offers his shoulder to lean on.
“We have seventeen minutes until the storm arrives, it’s better to go now before we get caught in it,” Hyperlaser states, in which Katana nods in reply. He’s slightly amused by Hyperlaser’s decision to let him lean on his shoulder considering the fact it would be all too easy to make the both of them fall with a single misstep, but nonetheless, he’s grateful for the thought. Hyperlaser’s coat feels soft under his weight.
The second the two step outside they’re immediately faced with the usual weather of Eden 227; Cold harsh winds, a thick layer of powdery snow on the ground and a noticeable uneasiness that came with the heavy atmosphere. Katana could never quite put his finger on the exact reason for it, but out of all of the planets he had visited for missions, Eden 227 was the strangest.
There was always a presence of unreality to it, a constant teetering on the edges of dreamlike or nightmarish. On bad days, gun shots would ring out with no discernible source, paranoia would stick to you like a bloodstain, the stench of death would be unavoidable. Luckily, today wasn’t one of those days. The snow had a soft looking, almost blue tint to it. The winds had faded into a humming lull and the sky was filled with the shining slits of stars. It seemed like Eden 227 had decided to be beautiful today.
“I hope you’re aware that others are going to question why I’m limping,” Katana says into the open air, sparing a glance towards Hyperlaser’s helmet as the two of them walk together in the company of each other's warmth.
“I’ll make an excuse.”
“And the state of your shirt?” He asks, cocking his head.
“It’s snow,” Hyperlaser replies with an impression of his usual deadpan work voice. “Strangely sticky and warm snow. Curse Reikgon for any inconsistencies.”
Katana rolls his eyes, not opting to comment on it any further. Minutes tick by while they navigate through the eternal winter. The pair had faded into what seemed like comfortable silence, quiet except for the sounds of the harsh winds blowing, and a few heavy breaths being exhaled. Between it all, Hyperlaser tosses a glance towards Katana, words lingering on the tip of his tongue before they’re being casually spoken out into the open air.
“..What did you think of it?,” Hyperlaser asks. His tone unremarkably plain to the untrained ear, but to Katana who’s known him for too long, he can hear all of the hesitancy in his voice.
It’s a notable contrast from his usual demeanor, confident whether it’s sarcastic jokes or serious remarks. The difference makes a twinge of unease present in Katana, but it isn’t like he can blame him for his hesitancy. The atmosphere seemingly becomes tense. He attempts not to let it show.
The agent peers at the snow “Of what? Your terrible excuse or the drinking.”
Hyperlaser scoffs lightly, unamused, “The latter, obviously.”
Katana lets the thought bask in his head, trying to mediate the rising feeling in his chest. It’s different, everything he’s feeling, but he can’t decide if he dislikes it. From here, situated at his best friend’s shoulders, he can feel the dull thrum of the artillerist’s heart from beneath his coat, quietly accompanied by a softer, faster hum made by the nanites laced into his skin. Maybe it’s time to risk a chance, maybe it’s already too late to go back.
Katana let’s a deep breath out, fingers tracing the edge of Hyperlaser’s collar. “..I wouldn’t mind doing it again.”
Funny how one thing always seems to lead to another.