[He snorts, leaving the conversation there to do as instructed, using up a good chunk of that time with a shower. It's a luxury to have a bathroom in his own room; he hasn't stopped marveling this fact yet, accustomed to communal bathing over the course of military life — not a problem for him, since he's not shy, but it's nice to feel like he can relax in the process. No eyes, no snide remarks hanging over his shoulder, nobody looking to pull one over on him.
And he can take as long as he, reasonably, wants. And the water is hot.
After cleaning up, he emerges from the steam in only a towel to flop down onto the narrow cot in his room, its sheets tucked tightly around the edge of the mattress. Everything in the room is neat, orderly, bare. He doesn't own enough even to occupy a fraction of the space. Minutes later, Cain fishes out the bottle of whisky he'd managed to obtain earlier and nurses a few burning swallows; he decides to remain in the towel, since it just seems efficient.]
（ well, one mistaken foray into the wrong room later (sorry to the weird guy with drums on the ceiling, actually?) and here he is. he knocks politely, kicks his shoes lazily off once he enters.
gives cain a once-over that culminates in a faint, approving lift of his eyebrows and a playfully blown kiss. ）
Well, fuck me sideways do I feel overdressed.
（ but that neither stops him or drives him to disrobing with any amount of immediacy. instead, he saunters on over, steps in between cain's knees in a spectacularly suggestive way and gestures for that bottle of whiskey to make the obligate rounds. come on, pal, pony up. ）
[He's smiling, nerves reeled looser and less uptight with the addition of whisky-addled inhibitions, mild still for now. The bottle is surrendered without a fight, knees parting to accommodate Cy's bold maneuver; the towel hitches up his thighs, barely hanging on by the knot at his waist.]
I know you said you don't fight, but you've gotta get some kind of workout in, with the way you look.
[Tall, dark and handsome is an understatement, as far from Abel as can possibly be—not slight, pale, blond in any respect. Without newly unoccupied hands, he slides them around Cy's waist to feel the play of muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt.]
（ he takes a swig of the liquor, and it tastes a little like the ghost of a kiss, goes down with the shitty burn of cheap liquor. figures they wouldn't stock the really good stuff on the station, or maybe it's a 'first come, first serve' situation. either way, it gets set pointedly on the stand beside the bed once he's done with it rather than returned to cain's custody. he doesn't mind the weird, cloudy consent issues that crops up around booze with someone he already knows and has gone a few rounds to the mattress with, but a relative stranger amps up the murk.
the compliment makes him grin, and he chases cain's hand beneath the shirt, pressing his palm flat atop it. the guy's basically billowing steam from that shower, and his hand's warm sandwiched between his own palm and the relatively cool plane of his stomach. ）
Believe it or not, I used to be a farmer. Wheat crop. Shitloads of manual labour. Heavy lifting, threshing, you name it, I probably did it — like, at least five times before sun up. And thirty more after it went down.
（ he laughs, and then reaches up to hook his hand against the collar of his shirt, which gets hauled unceremoniously off over his head and thrown... fuckin' somewhere. beneath it, there are no scars, no blemishes to speak of. just a perfect canvas, and he'll probably need to explain that, or more realistically bullshit his way through explaining that. this kid looks bitey. ）
Plus, （ he adds brightly after a moment. ） I'd count sex as a workout.
（ he makes an obvious joke of it, the sort that sidesteps around the truth without apology. ）
[At the set-aside bottle, Cain arches a brow in a questioning expression, but he doesn't pursue or try to reclaim the drink. He's had enough to settle the anticipatory jitter of nerves, and leftover now is a stark appreciation for what he has standing between his legs.]
A farmer? You're joking. [The bark of laughter is incredulous, but it's lighthearted, coloring a very different picture of the version of Cain who behaved like a skittish cat their first encounter.] Guess when you live so long, that's like... not that crazy to believe. I don't know even know what I'd do with all that time. Maybe a farmer too.
[If there's any part of him that questions everything Cy has told him up to this point, in between the moments he knows Cy is saying nothing to say something, it's easy to ignore. His hands are exploratory across that bared upper body, palms flat to the skin in broad strokes. By comparison, his own scars—the newly healed gunshot wound on his abdomen, and a few other scraps and nicks elsewhere—feel vivid. He has a colonist's dark complexion, a soldier's body flawed and bruised through life at a young age.
He unknowingly proves Cy's assumption correct when he leans in and begins nosing the area around a flat navel, lips interposed with blunt teeth, just teasing. Those hands find Cy's pants to hook over the band.]
（ that matter-of-fact line of inquiry notches a faint wry smirk into one corner of his mouth. despite all the bark (and there's been, you know, definitely enough of that to paint a picture) this kid is sure someone who's made his bed being useful. not shy, no shame, enough confidence that he can sell what he's doing. but cy would bet the blowjob that the confidence is tangled up in a deep, pressing need to be offering some sort of tangible benefit for companionship or camaraderie. when everything's transactional, nothing's personal, ain't the bitch of it all?
fucking soldiers. he has a type and he's not sorry about it.
he lifts his hand, palms at the kid's cheek, long fingers falling against the line of his jaw. his thumb traces along his bottom lip, and then teases inwards, stopping only when he hits teeth.
he could get tender about it, but he has a feeling that wouldn't land well with this one. instead, with a bit of a laugh. ）
Well, it ain't gonna suck itself. That'd be a fucking trick, though.
[The smart remark earns only a snicker this time, subdued by the touch, mouth pulled in a smile untamed by the reveal of all his teeth. Two neat, white rows that part against Cy's thumb, lips and tongue eager to taste someone else's skin, lapping at the callused pad before rolling over the knuckle.
And eager, maybe, to prove himself after the kiss in the sunlight room that was meant to test boundaries and his own interest, finding himself more than pliable—in fact, dying for physical comfort like a man of thirst. The something wrong a flicker pushed back into his mind, ignored. Abel won't miss him.
When was the last time he went down on someone who wasn't Abel, slender enough to fit easily into his mouth? He can't remember. His thumbs unceremoniously yank at Cy's waistband, not playing coy, hurrying ahead of foreplay in order to mouth directly over Cy's underwear at the crotch until he feels fabric grow damp and firm beneath his lips. The cot is low enough and Cy is tall enough that he barely has to move to reach, even though his bare ankles hook around Cy's lower calves anyway, just to have another place to touch. And then another tug, pulling Cy's cock free from clothes to get it on his tongue—stabilized by a fisted hand around the base. He doesn't balk at the size, seeming instead hungry to lick Cy completely wet before he tries taking his cock past lips and deeper, into his throat, in order to finally push all of the thoughts out of his head.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
And he can take as long as he, reasonably, wants. And the water is hot.
After cleaning up, he emerges from the steam in only a towel to flop down onto the narrow cot in his room, its sheets tucked tightly around the edge of the mattress. Everything in the room is neat, orderly, bare. He doesn't own enough even to occupy a fraction of the space. Minutes later, Cain fishes out the bottle of whisky he'd managed to obtain earlier and nurses a few burning swallows; he decides to remain in the towel, since it just seems efficient.]
no subject
gives cain a once-over that culminates in a faint, approving lift of his eyebrows and a playfully blown kiss. ）
Well, fuck me sideways do I feel overdressed.
（ but that neither stops him or drives him to disrobing with any amount of immediacy. instead, he saunters on over, steps in between cain's knees in a spectacularly suggestive way and gestures for that bottle of whiskey to make the obligate rounds. come on, pal, pony up. ）
no subject
[He's smiling, nerves reeled looser and less uptight with the addition of whisky-addled inhibitions, mild still for now. The bottle is surrendered without a fight, knees parting to accommodate Cy's bold maneuver; the towel hitches up his thighs, barely hanging on by the knot at his waist.]
I know you said you don't fight, but you've gotta get some kind of workout in, with the way you look.
[Tall, dark and handsome is an understatement, as far from Abel as can possibly be—not slight, pale, blond in any respect. Without newly unoccupied hands, he slides them around Cy's waist to feel the play of muscles beneath the fabric of his shirt.]
no subject
the compliment makes him grin, and he chases cain's hand beneath the shirt, pressing his palm flat atop it. the guy's basically billowing steam from that shower, and his hand's warm sandwiched between his own palm and the relatively cool plane of his stomach. ）
Believe it or not, I used to be a farmer. Wheat crop. Shitloads of manual labour. Heavy lifting, threshing, you name it, I probably did it — like, at least five times before sun up. And thirty more after it went down.
（ he laughs, and then reaches up to hook his hand against the collar of his shirt, which gets hauled unceremoniously off over his head and thrown... fuckin' somewhere. beneath it, there are no scars, no blemishes to speak of. just a perfect canvas, and he'll probably need to explain that, or more realistically bullshit his way through explaining that. this kid looks bitey. ）
Plus, （ he adds brightly after a moment. ） I'd count sex as a workout.
（ he makes an obvious joke of it, the sort that sidesteps around the truth without apology. ）
i forgot to cw nsfw this thread oops
A farmer? You're joking. [The bark of laughter is incredulous, but it's lighthearted, coloring a very different picture of the version of Cain who behaved like a skittish cat their first encounter.] Guess when you live so long, that's like... not that crazy to believe. I don't know even know what I'd do with all that time. Maybe a farmer too.
[If there's any part of him that questions everything Cy has told him up to this point, in between the moments he knows Cy is saying nothing to say something, it's easy to ignore. His hands are exploratory across that bared upper body, palms flat to the skin in broad strokes. By comparison, his own scars—the newly healed gunshot wound on his abdomen, and a few other scraps and nicks elsewhere—feel vivid. He has a colonist's dark complexion, a soldier's body flawed and bruised through life at a young age.
He unknowingly proves Cy's assumption correct when he leans in and begins nosing the area around a flat navel, lips interposed with blunt teeth, just teasing. Those hands find Cy's pants to hook over the band.]
Want me to suck your dick?
(it's just their onlyfans startup it's fine)
fucking soldiers. he has a type and he's not sorry about it.
he lifts his hand, palms at the kid's cheek, long fingers falling against the line of his jaw. his thumb traces along his bottom lip, and then teases inwards, stopping only when he hits teeth.
he could get tender about it, but he has a feeling that wouldn't land well with this one. instead, with a bit of a laugh. ）
Well, it ain't gonna suck itself. That'd be a fucking trick, though.
🤡
And eager, maybe, to prove himself after the kiss in the sunlight room that was meant to test boundaries and his own interest, finding himself more than pliable—in fact, dying for physical comfort like a man of thirst. The something wrong a flicker pushed back into his mind, ignored. Abel won't miss him.
When was the last time he went down on someone who wasn't Abel, slender enough to fit easily into his mouth? He can't remember. His thumbs unceremoniously yank at Cy's waistband, not playing coy, hurrying ahead of foreplay in order to mouth directly over Cy's underwear at the crotch until he feels fabric grow damp and firm beneath his lips. The cot is low enough and Cy is tall enough that he barely has to move to reach, even though his bare ankles hook around Cy's lower calves anyway, just to have another place to touch. And then another tug, pulling Cy's cock free from clothes to get it on his tongue—stabilized by a fisted hand around the base. He doesn't balk at the size, seeming instead hungry to lick Cy completely wet before he tries taking his cock past lips and deeper, into his throat, in order to finally push all of the thoughts out of his head.]