（ this bed really is stupidly small. he works that massage up to sasuke's shoulder, mindful even as he draws away — and once he's satisfied with it, he lets him go.
as to the blanket... he slips one hand in against sasuke's side beneath his shirt, and then pushes it downward until it's gathered up like the water at a prow of a ship. he pushes it down slowly rather than with any urgency, and stops once it's revealed just enough of him to make this whole thing work, letting it pool over those muscular thighs. Sidenote: this blanket is actually awful. Did they make it that scratchy on purpose?
he leans in, and another kiss is pressed against the jut of sasuke's hip.
the dildo's slipped half out of him, oddly angled where its base has levered against the towel. cy strokes down his leg, similarly kneading at the muscle there, and warns him in a low voice — ）
I'm gonna pull it the rest of the way out for now. Don't brace, relax.
（ he waits, until he feels the kid make a wilful effort to obey beneath his hand, and then he grasps the dildo by its base and slowly, gently eases it out and for now sets it aside on the towel. he's quietly relieved to see that there's no blood streaked against its length, so at least it was purely the pain of new intrusion and not actual damage that sasuke had been gritting his teeth against. it unknots the penitent unhappiness that had wound itself up like a clockwork engine inside of him.
with a breath — ）
Indulge me, huh? I wanna work out the rest of this tension on you first, then I'll fuck you with the toy. Remind me to clean it. （ look, he will forget. so — ） Roll over.
（ there's a massage parlour on the... shit, tenth? floor? that caters both to happy endings and to luxuriating massage, so mentally he maps it out, his lips moving in a soundless equation. facing the door, the display tables with their wares was to the left, 396.2487 centimetres. he reaches, and pulls — that magic rolls over them like thunder, but it does return with a bottle of high end cinnamon-scented massage oil, which he uncaps once sasuke's settled. the shirt gets nudged upwards until it's really more of a fashion-forward scarf, and then he begins: working the oil between his palms, and then dipping down against the corded muscles of the kid's back. even relaxed to his best efforts, there is an unbounded tension singing across every fibre in him, something he's probably not even consciously aware of.
as he works, he tells a story: ）
There's a place I've been to that reminds me of you. The planet is called Osiere, but more specifically — Mon Mahara is the place. It's in the middle of a desert, a temple. It was built probably before I was even born. It's beautiful, cut from stone with a skill I'm not sure I could match even now. It's the place that made me want to be an architect, which I've been about as often as I've been an engineer. Whether by happy accident or design, they built it on top of an oil deposit and tapped into it, so there's this fire there that's been burning as long as I've been going there in a brazier at its heart. No people, though.
（ it was one of the worlds kulo vayn decimated. almost nothing left, as far as living creatures go. he remembers afterwards, visiting each in turn, and how when he'd found mon mahara intact, untouched, he'd gone to his knees, fingers curling into the sand. but that's an old story, and not one he feels terribly compelled to share. something survived. something survived. ）
I go there when I need a break. Sometimes I stay for a few days, sometimes longer. I did that after the last big war on the last planet I was on. I think it was about forty years, just... room to breathe, you know?
the pathos, the range...
as to the blanket... he slips one hand in against sasuke's side beneath his shirt, and then pushes it downward until it's gathered up like the water at a prow of a ship. he pushes it down slowly rather than with any urgency, and stops once it's revealed just enough of him to make this whole thing work, letting it pool over those muscular thighs. Sidenote: this blanket is actually awful. Did they make it that scratchy on purpose?
he leans in, and another kiss is pressed against the jut of sasuke's hip.
the dildo's slipped half out of him, oddly angled where its base has levered against the towel. cy strokes down his leg, similarly kneading at the muscle there, and warns him in a low voice — ）
I'm gonna pull it the rest of the way out for now. Don't brace, relax.
（ he waits, until he feels the kid make a wilful effort to obey beneath his hand, and then he grasps the dildo by its base and slowly, gently eases it out and for now sets it aside on the towel. he's quietly relieved to see that there's no blood streaked against its length, so at least it was purely the pain of new intrusion and not actual damage that sasuke had been gritting his teeth against. it unknots the penitent unhappiness that had wound itself up like a clockwork engine inside of him.
with a breath — ）
Indulge me, huh? I wanna work out the rest of this tension on you first, then I'll fuck you with the toy. Remind me to clean it. （ look, he will forget. so — ） Roll over.
（ there's a massage parlour on the... shit, tenth? floor? that caters both to happy endings and to luxuriating massage, so mentally he maps it out, his lips moving in a soundless equation. facing the door, the display tables with their wares was to the left, 396.2487 centimetres. he reaches, and pulls — that magic rolls over them like thunder, but it does return with a bottle of high end cinnamon-scented massage oil, which he uncaps once sasuke's settled. the shirt gets nudged upwards until it's really more of a fashion-forward scarf, and then he begins: working the oil between his palms, and then dipping down against the corded muscles of the kid's back. even relaxed to his best efforts, there is an unbounded tension singing across every fibre in him, something he's probably not even consciously aware of.
as he works, he tells a story: ）
There's a place I've been to that reminds me of you. The planet is called Osiere, but more specifically — Mon Mahara is the place. It's in the middle of a desert, a temple. It was built probably before I was even born. It's beautiful, cut from stone with a skill I'm not sure I could match even now. It's the place that made me want to be an architect, which I've been about as often as I've been an engineer. Whether by happy accident or design, they built it on top of an oil deposit and tapped into it, so there's this fire there that's been burning as long as I've been going there in a brazier at its heart. No people, though.
（ it was one of the worlds kulo vayn decimated. almost nothing left, as far as living creatures go. he remembers afterwards, visiting each in turn, and how when he'd found mon mahara intact, untouched, he'd gone to his knees, fingers curling into the sand. but that's an old story, and not one he feels terribly compelled to share. something survived. something survived. ）
I go there when I need a break. Sometimes I stay for a few days, sometimes longer. I did that after the last big war on the last planet I was on. I think it was about forty years, just... room to breathe, you know?