[The level of luxury offered by the Hanara and Saagyu bathhouse proprietors is as new to him as the rich, floral nature covering the islands, an almost heavenly height of excess he's imagined only accessible to the privileged Earth-born elite. It doesn't feel natural when he accepts the invitation to a massage at the spa. Cain is reluctant, almost skittish in the face of strangers touching him in any professional context, overwhelmed finally by competitive overtures committed at the behest of Solare natives—and so he's convinced to give into the weird, unfamiliar indulgence of pampering.
It feels good, there's no question on that. Tired muscles thaw beneath warm, skillful hands, knots of stress worked loose by each fingertip pressure-point applied across his back, legs, shoulders. When it ends, he feels loose and pliant in a way only the brink of exhaustion from exercise (or sex) has ever taken him. Eventually transitioning to one of the personal, indoor baths on the premises, Cain comes to find himself submerged in warm water with an open bottle of native honeyed mead set aside, lounging with arms spread across the rim of the tub. The view opens one whole wall in a sprawl of naked greenery as Primavera begins dimming to night, last threads of daylight left in burnt, coppery strips over paneled wood and paved stone. The silence is uncanny; he realizes he's hunting for that omniscient hum of machinery in spaceflight, its presence as permanent as his doomed sentence.
At some point, becoming slurred and probably drunk, Cain's thoughts inevitably turn to Abel.
It's unfair for him to be enjoying this while Abel is out there—stranded, captured, possibly dead. It's unfair for him to feel anything about it, really. He doesn't know if he'll ever see his navigator again. Whether he should, even if he could. Yet his mind commits to the betrayal anyway, unraveling memory as sore muscles fully relax in the heated pool, water a fragrant perfume of petals scattered across its mirrored surface. He remembers all of it. That slack, sweet mouth half-formed around a whimper, the dark cast of eyes—from flawed genetic mods so unlike the other flawless navigators—over a slender shoulder, the willing bend of a lean spine, the eager hips sloped upward and so easily bruised, the spread of ass cheeks under his gloved thumbs.
Before Cain is even aware of the decision of movement, one hand slides down a flat abdomen to take the base of his thickening dick in a tight, brutal circle, falling prey to the sudden throb of arousal in his system.
The door behind him clicks open. With a frustrated noise, Cain's head rolls on a shoulder; he doesn't relinquish the hold on his own cock even as he stares, eyes lazily slitted, at the intruder.]
@pushpin (nsfw)
It feels good, there's no question on that. Tired muscles thaw beneath warm, skillful hands, knots of stress worked loose by each fingertip pressure-point applied across his back, legs, shoulders. When it ends, he feels loose and pliant in a way only the brink of exhaustion from exercise (or sex) has ever taken him. Eventually transitioning to one of the personal, indoor baths on the premises, Cain comes to find himself submerged in warm water with an open bottle of native honeyed mead set aside, lounging with arms spread across the rim of the tub. The view opens one whole wall in a sprawl of naked greenery as Primavera begins dimming to night, last threads of daylight left in burnt, coppery strips over paneled wood and paved stone. The silence is uncanny; he realizes he's hunting for that omniscient hum of machinery in spaceflight, its presence as permanent as his doomed sentence.
At some point, becoming slurred and probably drunk, Cain's thoughts inevitably turn to Abel.
It's unfair for him to be enjoying this while Abel is out there—stranded, captured, possibly dead. It's unfair for him to feel anything about it, really. He doesn't know if he'll ever see his navigator again. Whether he should, even if he could. Yet his mind commits to the betrayal anyway, unraveling memory as sore muscles fully relax in the heated pool, water a fragrant perfume of petals scattered across its mirrored surface. He remembers all of it. That slack, sweet mouth half-formed around a whimper, the dark cast of eyes—from flawed genetic mods so unlike the other flawless navigators—over a slender shoulder, the willing bend of a lean spine, the eager hips sloped upward and so easily bruised, the spread of ass cheeks under his gloved thumbs.
Before Cain is even aware of the decision of movement, one hand slides down a flat abdomen to take the base of his thickening dick in a tight, brutal circle, falling prey to the sudden throb of arousal in his system.
The door behind him clicks open. With a frustrated noise, Cain's head rolls on a shoulder; he doesn't relinquish the hold on his own cock even as he stares, eyes lazily slitted, at the intruder.]
I thought these were private.