Barren-racers scratch and howl at the glass obstruction keeping them from an expertly landed ship. It's Cain's job to fly one of these and to fight those, and for that reason, Jonas feels safe. What makes him feel safer is the introduction of body weight on top of him.
He should be surprised, but with the invitations he and Cain issued each other, how could he be? The desire not to be alone manifests in his upward glances, caught between desperately admiring the hard plane of Cain's torso and seeking reassurance from him that this moment is real, too. )
... Yeah? ( His breaths are uneven, so his delivery is full of air. Are they going to suffocate in here? Would he fucking care if they did? ) Hey, just—I... I gotta finish this. Hang on a minute...
( Bandaging an open wound while having the devil himself stroke his skin is almost impossible. Fingers stop working, shaking against bloody skin. He loops material where it's already been tucked in, accidentally unravelling half of his work. )
Shit. Just... Just a sec...
( Curses are only one of the indications Jonas feels similarly to Cain. Tenses of his legs beneath Cain's are another. The most damning, however, is the way his hips tilt infinitesimally closer to the noticeable swell of a hard cock. His own throbs almost confusedly, wondering why the hell it's stirring when the rest of its body is still in an adrenalized flight mode.
Too bad, really; he can't go anywhere with one of the hottest men ever using him as a chair. And now his hands are free.
As the horrific shrieks of alien communication become louder, indicating to Jonas they may have company beyond the walls of the Void Runner, he feels a little rushed to make a choice here. On any other day, he might've gone for the thighs, squeezing them in his fingers only to spread them down over his hips to pull them flush. On a whim, however, and by instinct, he chooses to encircle Cain in a greedy hug.
[In his pursuit of skinship, he almost forgets his own injury, distracted by the sun-drenched scent of Jonas's skin so warm underneath his hand. He wants his gloves off, decides to just lean back and rip them off with his teeth as Jonas fumbles with the bandages — so hopefully he's managed to fasten up his work by the time Cain's touch returns, bare palm raking into fluffy brown hair for a loose fistful.
To his surprise, then, he's drawn into a hug.
Cain sucks in a surprised breath that devolves into laughter, gritty and low. He doesn't try to escape the embrace but that commentary does make him withdraw partially. Just enough to twist at the waist, turning toward the ship's dash of controls.]
Ugh, no, of course not... Don't fuckin' remind me. [A testament to his own skill with technology, he's able to engage the engine despite their positions with a few patient instructions:] Here, pull that controller. Red handle. Hold it for me. Then hit the green switch next to it, it's flashing now.
[Eventually the ship roars to life — then Cain taps at the interface screen, activating the shield generator, a field that blooms translucent blue on the outside of the hull. Kudos to Noctis for making him aware it even existed, though his mind quickly pulls away from that particular memory.
He faces Jonas again, a dark intensity to his expression that belies the level of his desire in the moment, lowering back down onto Jonas's lap with his full, solidly muscled weight.]
Better? Now those assholes can't bother us. Probably.
( Jesus, watching Cain bite at the fingers of his gloves is too hot. Worth it, when bare fingers feel this good against his scalp. Groaning too early beneath an experienced man would be humiliating enough that he bites the inside of his cheek to quiet himself. All that escapes instead is a heavy, affected breath from his nose.
He's almost thankful when Cain twists away to activate the ship's shields. It gives Jonas a moment to reorient himself. Orders are mindlessly obeyed—controller, red handle, green switch—until he's more confident in demanding more attention with an eager touch. Muscled sides are squeezed, and guiding hands help Cain back into his lap, purposefully introducing their erections with a sway to get comfortable. )
And he's a fucking... ship savant. Figures.
( Lizards who? Like he cares anymore. There's a dick warming the front of his pants. Wetting his lips, Jonas cranes his neck—as flushed as his face, and perhaps, like Cain suggested, sunburnt—magnetically following Cain's every small shift over him. )
I can't believe you right now... You're so hot, it's insane, ( Jonas, stunned, laughs again. Quietly, this time. They're sharing air; they'll be plenty loud to each other in a second, especially considering there's no distance to cross to kiss him.
His grip tightens over Cain's hips as lips brush lips. While his levels of experience fucking around vary wildly, kissing is something he's practiced many times. There's no fumbling. No awkward scrape of teeth. No immediate tonguing. Only soft, fluctuating pressure as Jonas makes a noise at the back of his throat. It's not a moan, but it's not a whine, either.
It sounds almost painful, and the kiss breaks only to be smoothly readjusted to accommodate Cain as he surges in for another. )
[There's no way to deny that Cain is in his element. It's like he might wake up and find himself back on the Sleipnir, in the crowded two-man cockpit of the Reliant, figurative chain of the Alliance around his throat in the form of an outstanding message from Bering. But there's none of that — just Jonas's voice, still new enough to sound unfamiliar in his ears, paired with those coaxing hands on his waist as he guided back down.
He can tell where there's experience, though he wouldn't have minded if he hadn't found any either. In answer to the demonstrated eagerness, he squeezes strong thighs and rolls hips in a dragging friction across Jonas's lap, requiring a certain pressure to be felt through their clothes. He wants the evidence of Jonas's cock getting hard underneath the seat of his body because of him, and he knows how to make that happen.]
Thanks for the compliment. [Admittedly a distracted murmur — ] You're cute, J.
[And then they're kissing.
Once upon a time, he might have tried to end it right there, feels the twitch in his arm that's a reflexive instinct to push them apart. But Jonas's mouth is soft, clearly adept in its warm seal over his own, tempting, so painfully needy that he can't bring himself to withdraw. It's different than kissing Abel. It's still intimate in that same way, which is probably not a good thing, but Cain can't make himself stop. He's too used to it now. Maybe he's even missed it. The sensation of Jonas's hot, wind-chapped lips against his own is exhilarating, drawing Cain's hand back to messy hair so he can stroke fingers across the boy's scalp.
There's no resistance to the second kiss, though his grip tightens enough to be a bit more forceful — to hold Jonas and introduce the filthier progression of a tongue, prying for entry past lips.]
( Westedge was a rough town, and he did what outcasts typically do: Fucked around and found out. It was a fast, distracting life he preferred; the girls who hung around his "friends" were pretty and accessible, while his "friends" were handsome and curious. Openly appreciating both, he wasn't often approached, but was approachable, so he's never experienced a dry spell quite like the one he's just weathered.
Cain's body moves in a way that makes Jonas want to tighten his grip until it aches, affectionately aggressive as their kiss deepens.
A slick tongue is in his mouth, and his own rises to meet it, finally groaning. Blunt nails are raking against his scalp, and there's a perfect amount of pressure against his cock to bring it fully to hardness. Doesn't take long. He's eighteen, going on one billion. No one should expect him to be able to hold out, though it's likely Cain will assume it's boyish sensitivity. Fine by him if they get to come; doesn't matter if it's in thirty seconds or thirty minutes. )
Ah... Jesus, ( he pants against Cain's mouth, readjusting his thighs. They spread wider for an upward grind. One leg slides beneath Cain, however, to knit them together further.
His plan involves a lot of ass, and he gets a thrill up his spine when his hands are filled—and then some. It was his first target, the one he daydreamed about, and it helps him leverage Cain onto the post of his thigh with a tight knead. There's no give on this soldier's body anywhere he plants his touch, which is a little fucking unfair, but he's not stupid enough to complain when it's directly servicing him.
With Cain straddling his leg, and his next kiss a harmless bite, they're wedged together in a firmer rub of clothed dicks that makes goosebumps rise on his neck. )
[He likes how openly affected Jonas is. It comes as a quiet realization, not thought much further than that — something Cain's attracted to in a partner because it means there's no guessing. Their bodies translate easily into the moment, speaking for them both through soft exhalations, eager movements, and grasping touch. Cain's not drifting; his mind is present with his body. He honestly hadn't expected it. What began as a shallow, impulsive desire to get off after the heat of the fight now gradually evolves into a more invested entanglement.
As Jonas's hands cradle his hips and encourage that rubbing friction between clothed cocks, Cain clicks his tongue and stops him with a sudden immobilization of muscles. There's strength behind it that won't be easy for Jonas to resist unless he's really trying. He doesn't know how much younger Jonas is than him, but he wants to test his limits a little bit.]
Are you close? [Cain shifts on his knees, slightly alleviating some of his weight in the boy's lap. It allows enough space to slip one hand in against Jonas's crotch, curving a warm palm over the outline of his dick and giving a heavy pet through fabric.] I'll forgive that you're grabbing my ass if I can get you off with just my hand.
[Ended with another kiss snatched from Jonas's lips, an equally harmless bite a bit sharper with the teeth.]
( It's hot in here. The desert sun sheds bright light on their activities, spilling over half of Jonas' face. When he gazes up at Cain, black hair haloed and glossy, he realizes he's sweating, dampening his spine, under his arms, and the collar of his bloodstained shirt.
He might come. His orgasm is ghosting him, haunted again and again by each roll of their hips, but the idea is tangible now. Which is apparently obvious to both of them, Cain responding positively to the idea by switching up their pace, forcing Jonas' head back against the seat. )
Ah, yeah... ( Gasping into the bite, Jonas licks into Cain's mouth before simply allowing himself to slump and enjoy the ride. ) Fuck yeah, I am... Compliments to the chef, Jesus Christ.
( Tears pricking the corners of his eyes go unnoticed, too happy to explain to Cain that he owes him far more than an ass-grab and handjob. There's love in his gaze, the temporary kind only drawn out of men in sex, rubbing his inseam up into Cain's next strokes to push himself over the edge.
Ass in hand, fingers digging into tight muscle, he holds on for dear life. The ferocity of his orgasm makes him try to curl in on himself. While normally loud with partners, the impact of his former agony—compared, without competition, to the pure pleasure Cain draws out of him—seems momentarily less. And once the initial tension breaks, thighs trembling beneath Cain's, he moans into another breathless laugh.
[It's not an experience he ever gets tired of — even when it isn't him on the end of it feeling that heady rush of an orgasm, the rest of the world lost to a golden tide of pleasure. He enjoys watching it play out over Jonas's expressive body, something deeply hungry in the cast of a dark gaze as his hand works over the boy's clothed cock. It would be better if he could get his fist around bare flesh, but it's pretty obvious to him that Jonas needs this right now, close as he is to that blistered edge, and he's not in the business of delaying that need.
The eye contact feels intimate, but Cain likes intimacy in sex so he doesn't shy away, humming with approval as Jonas becomes more frantic in that rise to the cliff — curling his hand in a firmer squeeze over Jonas's dick through fabric, encompassing the whole of him, fingertips digging a little harder into the soft tuck of clothed balls and heel of his palm rubbing at the tip. He bites Jonas's lip again, purposefully leaving the boy's mouth a bright, abused red that'll last longer than this quick moment in time.
When Jonas comes, he watches him ride through it intently, grip never lessening its hard pressure as he feels the dampness of fabric underneath, growing hot against his hand. At some point he lowers his head into the crook of Jonas's throat and begins laving a hickey there with tongue and a little teeth. As a result, his voice is husky in Jonas's ear.]
Mmm... you look hot when you come. [Not particularly bothered about calling up his return of the favor right now, Cain shifts on his knees.] I should keep you in my ship for a few hours, see how many times I can make it happen.
Ugh, oh my God... Thanks, don't listen to me wheeze...
( Noisy breaths don't level out for a couple of minutes, because the pressure of an expert hand continues to eke come from him in pulses. He doesn't have to chase the dregs of his orgasm with needy tilts of his hips; he's fully serviced, and when Cain licks at and sucks his neck, he groans his satisfaction, nose chasing black hair to its root. Even when his body begins to calm down, his exhales are shuddery and humid against Cain's scalp.
He feels deeply connected to this moment. Stroking up the length of a muscular back, fingers digging into dips and grooves in all of the right places. )
Jesus Christ, you're, like... a horny lamprey or something... Ever heard of a leech? That, but, like... bigger, and with a million teeth. ( Whew, it's fucking hot in here now. Jonas is surprised the cockpit's window hasn't begun to fog up, smiling bizarrely when the situation reminds him of Jack and Rose screwing in a car in the Titanic. While leaving a handprint on the window would be funny, his mind's left Cain alone for a few seconds—far too long after a show like that. )
But, honestly, you have a point. Because if we leave, we'll literally die. So, um... what better way to kill time?
( Encircling Cain, dazzled by the way warm flesh feels against a once-cold body, Jonas forces him to angle back. It doesn't turn into another hug, perhaps the opposite: He leaves Cain against the console, legs still around him, and kisses his chest. Helpless to indulging himself, ignoring the iron taste joining salty sweat on his tongue, he latches onto a hard nipple and returns the favour.
The logical progression now would be to give Cain a blowjob, but when he tries to get into his pants, he gets a painful crick in his neck. A bullish snort, tickled by the entire situation, jets from his nose, but at least his wrist can bend farther, shoving past the zipper to fish around and sweep up his dick. Oh, wow. )
First, just—Can you, like, spread wider, or take off your pants? ( Why don't you stop being selfish and just be wholly naked? While I'm entirely clothed??? ) I—Okay, also, is there a dimmer switch in here? The sun is burning my retinas, and I'm trying to jerk you off.
[If we leave, we'll literally die. Cain's mouth goes sharp at the humorous statement, amusement playing with the fast heart-rate he's still carrying after what they escaped. He's starting to get the impression that Jonas talks a lot. It keeps coming up in his notice, though sex adds another dimension to it — there's a sweet banter to the way Jonas rambles, one that in the past he might not have liked. He didn't fuck people because he wanted to talk to them.
Not until Abel started doing it, and his perspective completely changed. At first slowly: a trickle so gentle it was almost imperceptible, taking root in his mind, recurring in his thoughts. Until it was finally a flood — too late.
He just watches Jonas through the next few moments, that attempted rearrangement angling him back against the console; he can feel something digging into his shoulder, but without looking he knows it's not important. There's an amused huff at Jonas's requests, less irritated by the prolonged logistics than he is a little captivated by it, by Jonas's clumsiness and transparency.]
Can take off my pants if you let me up a sec, malysh. [The foreign word rolls out of his throat, and just like the last, he doesn't go out of his way to translate.] Right now you're in the way of my legs.
[Cain's breath stutters into breathy laughter, arousal pooling where he'd been touched only briefly between the legs, shape of his cock tented at the crotch of black pants.]
Lean back, [a push, guiding Jonas so he has enough agency to do as requested. It'd be a hassle to stand up again in the cramped cockpit, so he just — starts wriggling the waistband down there in Jonas's lap, lifting hips up with core strength alone, abdomen a solid plane of flexed muscle. It appears he has no issue being naked in Jonas's lap, because he takes everything under the sweep of thumbs, underwear and all, stripping first down one leg with a stretch and then the other. The pile of clothes are dumped somewhere on the narrow floor space. Cain sits up, immodest in the glory of full nudity, flushed dick curving up between strong thighs. He hasn't bothered with shaving maintenance since arriving on the Theorem where there were no more stupid Alliance regulations to follow, so there's the start of a trail, soft black curls low on his belly and around the base of his cock.
Uncut and aroused, he lets Jonas have the eyeful as he twists around again, engaging another control — blinds tinting the windows from the glare of sun.] Better?
I have, like, seven Russian nicknames now that all mean "dumbass," ( he quips, watching happily as Cain rearranges himself on top of him.
Getting pushed back by the chest makes Jonas want to sit forward more. Take his friend by the bare waist, haul him down flush to his body, and drag their cocks together. Maybe grab his ass, follow the seam, curiously feel around. If Cain is stripping down to submit himself for naked analysis by Jonas, he'd better do a good fucking job showing his approval.
The flex of hard muscle beneath the dark sheen of Cain's skin is mesmerizing, and his thighs are strong around him. Jonas can sense the kinetic potential of such a rigorously trained man, stroking any exposed and vulnerable places he can reach while clothes come off. That deserves a desirous groan: a compliment for the man showing off a perfect cock that makes his jaw ache and his mouth wet.
Holy shit. Said both emphatically to himself and aloud in a distracted murmur. ) Yeah, better. You're so crazy hot, man, it's absolutely surreal; just looking at you is gonna get me hard again.
But, uh, ( he adds with a significant look upward, ) I owe you one. So, first things first...
( Can he touch him now? He can, right? What Jonas lacks in experience, he makes up for with pure enthusiasm, squeezing at Cain's hips, following the lines of a pronounced iliac crest down to where thumbs press and sink into a thatch of pubic hair. It's insane to be doing this now with danger lurking outside the shield, but it's been a couple of minutes since he heard anything that could distract him from the task at hand.
In hand, taking up Cain's cock without dramatics, preferring to grasp him loosely in his fingers. He's masturbated plenty—hell, he eked one out earlier in his ship, just thrilled to be able to again—but he's only handled a couple of guys outside of his relationships with girls. Drunk or high, he never got to take his time, feel the thick weight in his palm, and stroke how he wanted to stoke. But when the mugginess of their sex together makes it difficult to ramp up into a pleasurable rhythm, Jonas is all too happy to spit into his hand and get to work.
Uncut skin is carefully guided down over the flushed head. Once safely unveiled, the dick is complimented by a delighted noise, then worked into a slow stroking pace. )
Fuck... Hey, you good? ( The underside of Cain's chin is issued a damp, affectionate kiss, then lips smooth down his neck to lay one on the curve of his shoulder. ) God, your skin is, like... perfect.
[He doesn't say anything further, evidently intending not to translate. In truth, he doesn't think he could if he tried, the two languages snarling up in his mind as Jonas's hands begin to wander. It hasn't been long since he had sex — everything had happened all at once, back on the Sleipnir, but before that it was so often he had built it into the daily routine of life as an Alliance soldier, privileged by the regularity and trust of a partner. Maybe it's only natural that he feels starved now, distracted from his typical tendency to tamp down on the part of himself more vulnerably shown through sexual intimacy.
The way Jonas touches him is familiar, like the way it was with Abel in those final days, slower and exploratory, almost worshipful. Cain finds his ability to process much thought in the moment rapidly deteriorating; his guard slips whether he wants it to or not, voice emerging in a low noise of pleasure as Jonas finally touches his cock, fingers finding swollen skin thick and ruddy with color, slit already wet with pre-come.]
Fuck... [A soft murmur as he angles his head away at those sweet kisses, eventually lowering into the curve of Jonas's throat where he can hide a flushed face.] Yeah, it feels good. So fucking good.
[Yet he can't conceal his body's reactions to the attention as Jonas begins to stroke his cock with purpose — the way muscular thighs clench tighter over his lap, the slight rock of hips, the eager forward curve of his body down against him. There's a swallowed sound, a little more vocal though he keeps it clenched back by teeth. Arms come around Jonas's broad shoulders in a sudden half-embrace, enclosing their heads in that trapped space of humid heat from exhaled breath.]
J, mm... [He's not like this usually. He's not this sensitive, at least, or quick to get off — but Jonas is so overwhelmingly reverent that it takes all his self-control not to fuck into the circle of those fingers on his dick with more possessed fervor, desperate for the orgasm to wrench itself loose from his belly. Uncut skin peeled down to expose the reddened head of his cock, slick now with a steady flow of pre-ejaculate, it's not any wonder he's shivering from his own sensitivity.] Careful, 'm already... close.
Good, yeah... Don't hold back, okay? Just... I wanna hear you. Your voice is so hot.
( This is hot, that's hot, everything about Cain is hot, and he fails to think of a better word to describe anything when his brain's so fucking scrambled. His face is burning, breathing unsteadily at each shift over his thighs. And just when he thought it couldn't get any hotter, it does. It becomes... Not more intense, that's been true for several minutes now. More intimate, maybe. More real.
Cain makes his neck and shoulder damp with the heat of his panting, not minding at all that Cain's decided to conceal his expression. He has to focus on hanging onto broad shoulders instead, and Jonas has a job to do, which distracts him from the finer details of their sex. Dizzy, he works his fist in long strokes, marvelling at the appearance of a dribbling cock tip every time he pulls down. It's only when he's confident he won't overdo it that his grip tightens, choosing to bring Cain to orgasm using his own method of doing so: In a firm hold, with shorter, quicker pumps around the head. )
Jesus, Cain... Can't believe you're telling me to be careful right now... I'm covered in blood, asshole. ( His jizz will be the nicest thing to stain his shirt in a while, though he does wish he could aim it somewhere hotter. His face, maybe, or—
Cain's abdomen might do the trick as a target. Jonas spreads his legs wider so the older man is further cradled within his lap, then kicks a foot up to hit the console. This pitches Cain a short distance forward against him, ducking his head to hide beyond Cain's arm within that enclosed space with him. It's muggy so close to his face, lips skimming the curve of his cheek. )
[In the moment, there's no protest for a single thing that Jonas does. It isn't where he thought he would end up — cradled in the younger man's lap, attended to with such devotion as a tight fist and encouraging words — such that Cain is off his guard. A sore, confused heart remembers too well what it was like to be held by someone else like this, sheltered through the powerful experience of an orgasm and all the feelings that chased after it. The scent of blood is in the air, but now there's that masculine sharpness of sweat and sex underneath it, heady enough to pool blood low in his belly as Jonas works his cock to an aching point of release.
Cain barely registers the new angle with how tightly his thighs are clenched over Jonas's lap. He forgets himself enough that his voice spills in a soft, breathy cry when he comes. Every muscle seems to constrict at once in a way Jonas will feel for how he clings, how hips jerk forward in an uneven grind through the high crest of pleasure, pushing his cock into the circle of those perfect fingers — Cain says something in Russian, flow of unintelligible words past parted lips as cum stripes his own abdomen in a wet, messy glaze.]
Ffffuck— [cut off in his throat, he hears himself make an embarrassing sound after it, like a whine.] That's... ah, it feels — Jonas...
[Maybe the most guilty secret of all is that he isn't thinking about Abel then. It would be impossible; Jonas is wholly new against him, little resemblance except for the sweetness of approving words, and even that isn't the same. It's different. It's good.
Cain can't speak in the immediate aftermath, but the circle of his arms hasn't loosened around Jonas's shoulders, and he can't stop shivering.]
( Jonas isn't an idiot. Cain's an expert, or it seems that way to him when he climbed into his lap bleeding and seemed to care more about their dicks than the nickel-sized holes in his forearm. He's been around, and this isn't his first handjob. Because it isn't, feeling Cain shake hard as he comes undone in his lap is so unexpected—and so dazzlingly arousing—that his dick throbs with the intent to harden.
His stamina isn't godly enough to go another round yet, which helps him focus on keeping Cain open over him so he can admire the paint job. )
Holy shit, that felt intense. You... You okay?
( Maybe he hasn't had a partner in a while, or maybe he's got an oversensitive body. Either way, Jonas is more than happy to help him. Kneading come from his cock, feeling it hot between his fingers, he strokes his mouth along Cain's shoulder, kissing rich, flushed skin as he goes.
A replay of the last five minutes is going to haunt him for the foreseeable future, and his gut radiates pleasure at the thought, lifting his hips again to remind himself how good Cain's living weight feels against him. )
You're a mess. Hey...
( Splaying an already filthy hand against the prominent muscles of a well-exercised body, Jonas strokes up Cain's side. Up his ribcage. Up over a defined pectoral. Its travel ends on the side of his friend's neck, thumb brushing his jaw, just touching him. Wherever he can, however he can.
[He had started to like this part, Cain realizes — the warm and gauzy aftermath of sex, the intimacy of closeness between cooling bodies, the residual heat of touches magnified by sensitivity. He doesn't like it, suddenly, now.
It's not Jonas's fault. Those words are soft and coaxing, trying to pull him back into comfort where moods are buoyed by a chemical rush of feel-good affection. But that's exactly what injects sudden anxiety into his body, because he's been here before and it wasn't even that long ago. And it all went so badly. And he doesn't want Jonas to see his face, the shadow cast over it, doesn't think he could kiss him right now without falling apart beneath the weight of recent memory.
There's a deep exhale, head turning as he gets himself together.]
I'm fine. Sorry, I need... air. [They're messy. Cain reaches for a couple of hand towels from the side-storage, using it to wipe himself off, grabbing another for Jonas as he leans back, further away.] I'm gonna check the scanners. See if those things gave up. Okay?
[Clearly an emotional shut-down is happening as he maneuvers himself off of Jonas's lap in the cramped space, hunched over as he fetches his clothes and gets dressed. He retrieves the bottle of alcohol from earlier, too, and takes a hard swallow from the rim.]
( He knows the beginnings of a panic attack too well to ignore the signs in Cain. He's locking up, folding in on himself, and Jonas realizes he's shockingly okay with it happening, viewing it distantly as if he were still people-watching from his booth at his local IHOP. It's fascinating to have such a perspective. To be so intimate with this deadening of feelings in a late-night diner that it seems almost like life's unfolding at half speed.
Handed a square of cloth he uses to clean their mingling come, he discards it anywhere, tucks his dick back into his briefs, and checks on his sexual partner a moment later. )
Hey... Hang on a sec, man. ( His voice isn't pityingly soft, nor is it accusatorily abrasive. It's breathy but calm, still recovering from the rush of his own orgasm. ) It's your business what's going on in your head right now, nobody else's, but I gotta know if I hurt you.
( Unlikely. Cain was riding his thighs, gasping and groaning, feeling himself—God, it was so fucking hot. It can't be that. But what it could be is pain from the bite on his arm... or something else entirely. )
You didn't do anything wrong here, okay? We're cool.
[It's the second time this has happened, Cain realizes. The first was when he'd just met Jonas — surrounded by the newness of the ship and mission, by real grass and trees and food, by a kind boy just trying to have fun. Only that time he could get up and walk away. There's no real option here but to manage himself, which is a messy practice for him, but certainly something he's had to do before.
Not a lot of privacy in prison cells or barracks, after all.
He wants to tell Jonas to stop talking — so he can just exist for a second, alone in his head — but he understands why those questions come. With his back to the other man, it's easier to hide the grimace on his face as he pulls on his shirt and jostles the freshly bandaged wound on his arm. With the natural analgesic of adrenaline and dopamine rapidly fading, he's starting to feel the pain with more clarity. Fuck.
But pain's a way to focus too, so he lets it run through him anyway.]
You didn't. I'm serious. [He hopes the steadiness of his voice translates that, only casting a look over his shoulder afterward, dark eyes furtive in the glance.] Don't worry about it, I'm fine.
[Then he turns away, attention on the ship's display screen.]
Scanner's clear. C'mon, I'll walk you back to camp.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@ cain, nsfw
Barren-racers scratch and howl at the glass obstruction keeping them from an expertly landed ship. It's Cain's job to fly one of these and to fight those, and for that reason, Jonas feels safe. What makes him feel safer is the introduction of body weight on top of him.
He should be surprised, but with the invitations he and Cain issued each other, how could he be? The desire not to be alone manifests in his upward glances, caught between desperately admiring the hard plane of Cain's torso and seeking reassurance from him that this moment is real, too. )
... Yeah? ( His breaths are uneven, so his delivery is full of air. Are they going to suffocate in here? Would he fucking care if they did? ) Hey, just—I... I gotta finish this. Hang on a minute...
( Bandaging an open wound while having the devil himself stroke his skin is almost impossible. Fingers stop working, shaking against bloody skin. He loops material where it's already been tucked in, accidentally unravelling half of his work. )
Shit. Just... Just a sec...
( Curses are only one of the indications Jonas feels similarly to Cain. Tenses of his legs beneath Cain's are another. The most damning, however, is the way his hips tilt infinitesimally closer to the noticeable swell of a hard cock. His own throbs almost confusedly, wondering why the hell it's stirring when the rest of its body is still in an adrenalized flight mode.
Too bad, really; he can't go anywhere with one of the hottest men ever using him as a chair. And now his hands are free.
As the horrific shrieks of alien communication become louder, indicating to Jonas they may have company beyond the walls of the Void Runner, he feels a little rushed to make a choice here. On any other day, he might've gone for the thighs, squeezing them in his fingers only to spread them down over his hips to pull them flush. On a whim, however, and by instinct, he chooses to encircle Cain in a greedy hug.
It's been so long. It's been so long. )
So, like... lizards do it for you, or...?
🥳
To his surprise, then, he's drawn into a hug.
Cain sucks in a surprised breath that devolves into laughter, gritty and low. He doesn't try to escape the embrace but that commentary does make him withdraw partially. Just enough to twist at the waist, turning toward the ship's dash of controls.]
Ugh, no, of course not... Don't fuckin' remind me. [A testament to his own skill with technology, he's able to engage the engine despite their positions with a few patient instructions:] Here, pull that controller. Red handle. Hold it for me. Then hit the green switch next to it, it's flashing now.
[Eventually the ship roars to life — then Cain taps at the interface screen, activating the shield generator, a field that blooms translucent blue on the outside of the hull. Kudos to Noctis for making him aware it even existed, though his mind quickly pulls away from that particular memory.
He faces Jonas again, a dark intensity to his expression that belies the level of his desire in the moment, lowering back down onto Jonas's lap with his full, solidly muscled weight.]
Better? Now those assholes can't bother us. Probably.
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He's almost thankful when Cain twists away to activate the ship's shields. It gives Jonas a moment to reorient himself. Orders are mindlessly obeyed—controller, red handle, green switch—until he's more confident in demanding more attention with an eager touch. Muscled sides are squeezed, and guiding hands help Cain back into his lap, purposefully introducing their erections with a sway to get comfortable. )
And he's a fucking... ship savant. Figures.
( Lizards who? Like he cares anymore. There's a dick warming the front of his pants. Wetting his lips, Jonas cranes his neck—as flushed as his face, and perhaps, like Cain suggested, sunburnt—magnetically following Cain's every small shift over him. )
I can't believe you right now... You're so hot, it's insane, ( Jonas, stunned, laughs again. Quietly, this time. They're sharing air; they'll be plenty loud to each other in a second, especially considering there's no distance to cross to kiss him.
His grip tightens over Cain's hips as lips brush lips. While his levels of experience fucking around vary wildly, kissing is something he's practiced many times. There's no fumbling. No awkward scrape of teeth. No immediate tonguing. Only soft, fluctuating pressure as Jonas makes a noise at the back of his throat. It's not a moan, but it's not a whine, either.
It sounds almost painful, and the kiss breaks only to be smoothly readjusted to accommodate Cain as he surges in for another. )
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He can tell where there's experience, though he wouldn't have minded if he hadn't found any either. In answer to the demonstrated eagerness, he squeezes strong thighs and rolls hips in a dragging friction across Jonas's lap, requiring a certain pressure to be felt through their clothes. He wants the evidence of Jonas's cock getting hard underneath the seat of his body because of him, and he knows how to make that happen.]
Thanks for the compliment. [Admittedly a distracted murmur — ] You're cute, J.
[And then they're kissing.
Once upon a time, he might have tried to end it right there, feels the twitch in his arm that's a reflexive instinct to push them apart. But Jonas's mouth is soft, clearly adept in its warm seal over his own, tempting, so painfully needy that he can't bring himself to withdraw. It's different than kissing Abel. It's still intimate in that same way, which is probably not a good thing, but Cain can't make himself stop. He's too used to it now. Maybe he's even missed it. The sensation of Jonas's hot, wind-chapped lips against his own is exhilarating, drawing Cain's hand back to messy hair so he can stroke fingers across the boy's scalp.
There's no resistance to the second kiss, though his grip tightens enough to be a bit more forceful — to hold Jonas and introduce the filthier progression of a tongue, prying for entry past lips.]
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Cain's body moves in a way that makes Jonas want to tighten his grip until it aches, affectionately aggressive as their kiss deepens.
A slick tongue is in his mouth, and his own rises to meet it, finally groaning. Blunt nails are raking against his scalp, and there's a perfect amount of pressure against his cock to bring it fully to hardness. Doesn't take long. He's eighteen, going on one billion. No one should expect him to be able to hold out, though it's likely Cain will assume it's boyish sensitivity. Fine by him if they get to come; doesn't matter if it's in thirty seconds or thirty minutes. )
Ah... Jesus, ( he pants against Cain's mouth, readjusting his thighs. They spread wider for an upward grind. One leg slides beneath Cain, however, to knit them together further.
His plan involves a lot of ass, and he gets a thrill up his spine when his hands are filled—and then some. It was his first target, the one he daydreamed about, and it helps him leverage Cain onto the post of his thigh with a tight knead. There's no give on this soldier's body anywhere he plants his touch, which is a little fucking unfair, but he's not stupid enough to complain when it's directly servicing him.
With Cain straddling his leg, and his next kiss a harmless bite, they're wedged together in a firmer rub of clothed dicks that makes goosebumps rise on his neck. )
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As Jonas's hands cradle his hips and encourage that rubbing friction between clothed cocks, Cain clicks his tongue and stops him with a sudden immobilization of muscles. There's strength behind it that won't be easy for Jonas to resist unless he's really trying. He doesn't know how much younger Jonas is than him, but he wants to test his limits a little bit.]
Are you close? [Cain shifts on his knees, slightly alleviating some of his weight in the boy's lap. It allows enough space to slip one hand in against Jonas's crotch, curving a warm palm over the outline of his dick and giving a heavy pet through fabric.] I'll forgive that you're grabbing my ass if I can get you off with just my hand.
[Ended with another kiss snatched from Jonas's lips, an equally harmless bite a bit sharper with the teeth.]
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He might come. His orgasm is ghosting him, haunted again and again by each roll of their hips, but the idea is tangible now. Which is apparently obvious to both of them, Cain responding positively to the idea by switching up their pace, forcing Jonas' head back against the seat. )
Ah, yeah... ( Gasping into the bite, Jonas licks into Cain's mouth before simply allowing himself to slump and enjoy the ride. ) Fuck yeah, I am... Compliments to the chef, Jesus Christ.
( Tears pricking the corners of his eyes go unnoticed, too happy to explain to Cain that he owes him far more than an ass-grab and handjob. There's love in his gaze, the temporary kind only drawn out of men in sex, rubbing his inseam up into Cain's next strokes to push himself over the edge.
Ass in hand, fingers digging into tight muscle, he holds on for dear life. The ferocity of his orgasm makes him try to curl in on himself. While normally loud with partners, the impact of his former agony—compared, without competition, to the pure pleasure Cain draws out of him—seems momentarily less. And once the initial tension breaks, thighs trembling beneath Cain's, he moans into another breathless laugh.
Finally. Finally. )
I... I got you after. I... I'm...
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The eye contact feels intimate, but Cain likes intimacy in sex so he doesn't shy away, humming with approval as Jonas becomes more frantic in that rise to the cliff — curling his hand in a firmer squeeze over Jonas's dick through fabric, encompassing the whole of him, fingertips digging a little harder into the soft tuck of clothed balls and heel of his palm rubbing at the tip. He bites Jonas's lip again, purposefully leaving the boy's mouth a bright, abused red that'll last longer than this quick moment in time.
When Jonas comes, he watches him ride through it intently, grip never lessening its hard pressure as he feels the dampness of fabric underneath, growing hot against his hand. At some point he lowers his head into the crook of Jonas's throat and begins laving a hickey there with tongue and a little teeth. As a result, his voice is husky in Jonas's ear.]
Mmm... you look hot when you come. [Not particularly bothered about calling up his return of the favor right now, Cain shifts on his knees.] I should keep you in my ship for a few hours, see how many times I can make it happen.
[Just bros being gay as hell...]
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( Noisy breaths don't level out for a couple of minutes, because the pressure of an expert hand continues to eke come from him in pulses. He doesn't have to chase the dregs of his orgasm with needy tilts of his hips; he's fully serviced, and when Cain licks at and sucks his neck, he groans his satisfaction, nose chasing black hair to its root. Even when his body begins to calm down, his exhales are shuddery and humid against Cain's scalp.
He feels deeply connected to this moment. Stroking up the length of a muscular back, fingers digging into dips and grooves in all of the right places. )
Jesus Christ, you're, like... a horny lamprey or something... Ever heard of a leech? That, but, like... bigger, and with a million teeth. ( Whew, it's fucking hot in here now. Jonas is surprised the cockpit's window hasn't begun to fog up, smiling bizarrely when the situation reminds him of Jack and Rose screwing in a car in the Titanic. While leaving a handprint on the window would be funny, his mind's left Cain alone for a few seconds—far too long after a show like that. )
But, honestly, you have a point. Because if we leave, we'll literally die. So, um... what better way to kill time?
( Encircling Cain, dazzled by the way warm flesh feels against a once-cold body, Jonas forces him to angle back. It doesn't turn into another hug, perhaps the opposite: He leaves Cain against the console, legs still around him, and kisses his chest. Helpless to indulging himself, ignoring the iron taste joining salty sweat on his tongue, he latches onto a hard nipple and returns the favour.
The logical progression now would be to give Cain a blowjob, but when he tries to get into his pants, he gets a painful crick in his neck. A bullish snort, tickled by the entire situation, jets from his nose, but at least his wrist can bend farther, shoving past the zipper to fish around and sweep up his dick. Oh, wow. )
First, just—Can you, like, spread wider, or take off your pants? ( Why don't you stop being selfish and just be wholly naked? While I'm entirely clothed??? ) I—Okay, also, is there a dimmer switch in here? The sun is burning my retinas, and I'm trying to jerk you off.
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Not until Abel started doing it, and his perspective completely changed. At first slowly: a trickle so gentle it was almost imperceptible, taking root in his mind, recurring in his thoughts. Until it was finally a flood — too late.
He just watches Jonas through the next few moments, that attempted rearrangement angling him back against the console; he can feel something digging into his shoulder, but without looking he knows it's not important. There's an amused huff at Jonas's requests, less irritated by the prolonged logistics than he is a little captivated by it, by Jonas's clumsiness and transparency.]
Can take off my pants if you let me up a sec, malysh. [The foreign word rolls out of his throat, and just like the last, he doesn't go out of his way to translate.] Right now you're in the way of my legs.
[Cain's breath stutters into breathy laughter, arousal pooling where he'd been touched only briefly between the legs, shape of his cock tented at the crotch of black pants.]
Lean back, [a push, guiding Jonas so he has enough agency to do as requested. It'd be a hassle to stand up again in the cramped cockpit, so he just — starts wriggling the waistband down there in Jonas's lap, lifting hips up with core strength alone, abdomen a solid plane of flexed muscle. It appears he has no issue being naked in Jonas's lap, because he takes everything under the sweep of thumbs, underwear and all, stripping first down one leg with a stretch and then the other. The pile of clothes are dumped somewhere on the narrow floor space. Cain sits up, immodest in the glory of full nudity, flushed dick curving up between strong thighs. He hasn't bothered with shaving maintenance since arriving on the Theorem where there were no more stupid Alliance regulations to follow, so there's the start of a trail, soft black curls low on his belly and around the base of his cock.
Uncut and aroused, he lets Jonas have the eyeful as he twists around again, engaging another control — blinds tinting the windows from the glare of sun.] Better?
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Getting pushed back by the chest makes Jonas want to sit forward more. Take his friend by the bare waist, haul him down flush to his body, and drag their cocks together. Maybe grab his ass, follow the seam, curiously feel around. If Cain is stripping down to submit himself for naked analysis by Jonas, he'd better do a good fucking job showing his approval.
The flex of hard muscle beneath the dark sheen of Cain's skin is mesmerizing, and his thighs are strong around him. Jonas can sense the kinetic potential of such a rigorously trained man, stroking any exposed and vulnerable places he can reach while clothes come off. That deserves a desirous groan: a compliment for the man showing off a perfect cock that makes his jaw ache and his mouth wet.
Holy shit. Said both emphatically to himself and aloud in a distracted murmur. ) Yeah, better. You're so crazy hot, man, it's absolutely surreal; just looking at you is gonna get me hard again.
But, uh, ( he adds with a significant look upward, ) I owe you one. So, first things first...
( Can he touch him now? He can, right? What Jonas lacks in experience, he makes up for with pure enthusiasm, squeezing at Cain's hips, following the lines of a pronounced iliac crest down to where thumbs press and sink into a thatch of pubic hair. It's insane to be doing this now with danger lurking outside the shield, but it's been a couple of minutes since he heard anything that could distract him from the task at hand.
In hand, taking up Cain's cock without dramatics, preferring to grasp him loosely in his fingers. He's masturbated plenty—hell, he eked one out earlier in his ship, just thrilled to be able to again—but he's only handled a couple of guys outside of his relationships with girls. Drunk or high, he never got to take his time, feel the thick weight in his palm, and stroke how he wanted to stoke. But when the mugginess of their sex together makes it difficult to ramp up into a pleasurable rhythm, Jonas is all too happy to spit into his hand and get to work.
Uncut skin is carefully guided down over the flushed head. Once safely unveiled, the dick is complimented by a delighted noise, then worked into a slow stroking pace. )
Fuck... Hey, you good? ( The underside of Cain's chin is issued a damp, affectionate kiss, then lips smooth down his neck to lay one on the curve of his shoulder. ) God, your skin is, like... perfect.
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[He doesn't say anything further, evidently intending not to translate. In truth, he doesn't think he could if he tried, the two languages snarling up in his mind as Jonas's hands begin to wander. It hasn't been long since he had sex — everything had happened all at once, back on the Sleipnir, but before that it was so often he had built it into the daily routine of life as an Alliance soldier, privileged by the regularity and trust of a partner. Maybe it's only natural that he feels starved now, distracted from his typical tendency to tamp down on the part of himself more vulnerably shown through sexual intimacy.
The way Jonas touches him is familiar, like the way it was with Abel in those final days, slower and exploratory, almost worshipful. Cain finds his ability to process much thought in the moment rapidly deteriorating; his guard slips whether he wants it to or not, voice emerging in a low noise of pleasure as Jonas finally touches his cock, fingers finding swollen skin thick and ruddy with color, slit already wet with pre-come.]
Fuck... [A soft murmur as he angles his head away at those sweet kisses, eventually lowering into the curve of Jonas's throat where he can hide a flushed face.] Yeah, it feels good. So fucking good.
[Yet he can't conceal his body's reactions to the attention as Jonas begins to stroke his cock with purpose — the way muscular thighs clench tighter over his lap, the slight rock of hips, the eager forward curve of his body down against him. There's a swallowed sound, a little more vocal though he keeps it clenched back by teeth. Arms come around Jonas's broad shoulders in a sudden half-embrace, enclosing their heads in that trapped space of humid heat from exhaled breath.]
J, mm... [He's not like this usually. He's not this sensitive, at least, or quick to get off — but Jonas is so overwhelmingly reverent that it takes all his self-control not to fuck into the circle of those fingers on his dick with more possessed fervor, desperate for the orgasm to wrench itself loose from his belly. Uncut skin peeled down to expose the reddened head of his cock, slick now with a steady flow of pre-ejaculate, it's not any wonder he's shivering from his own sensitivity.] Careful, 'm already... close.
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( This is hot, that's hot, everything about Cain is hot, and he fails to think of a better word to describe anything when his brain's so fucking scrambled. His face is burning, breathing unsteadily at each shift over his thighs. And just when he thought it couldn't get any hotter, it does. It becomes... Not more intense, that's been true for several minutes now. More intimate, maybe. More real.
Cain makes his neck and shoulder damp with the heat of his panting, not minding at all that Cain's decided to conceal his expression. He has to focus on hanging onto broad shoulders instead, and Jonas has a job to do, which distracts him from the finer details of their sex. Dizzy, he works his fist in long strokes, marvelling at the appearance of a dribbling cock tip every time he pulls down. It's only when he's confident he won't overdo it that his grip tightens, choosing to bring Cain to orgasm using his own method of doing so: In a firm hold, with shorter, quicker pumps around the head. )
Jesus, Cain... Can't believe you're telling me to be careful right now... I'm covered in blood, asshole. ( His jizz will be the nicest thing to stain his shirt in a while, though he does wish he could aim it somewhere hotter. His face, maybe, or—
Cain's abdomen might do the trick as a target. Jonas spreads his legs wider so the older man is further cradled within his lap, then kicks a foot up to hit the console. This pitches Cain a short distance forward against him, ducking his head to hide beyond Cain's arm within that enclosed space with him. It's muggy so close to his face, lips skimming the curve of his cheek. )
C'mon... C'mon, I got you...
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Cain barely registers the new angle with how tightly his thighs are clenched over Jonas's lap. He forgets himself enough that his voice spills in a soft, breathy cry when he comes. Every muscle seems to constrict at once in a way Jonas will feel for how he clings, how hips jerk forward in an uneven grind through the high crest of pleasure, pushing his cock into the circle of those perfect fingers — Cain says something in Russian, flow of unintelligible words past parted lips as cum stripes his own abdomen in a wet, messy glaze.]
Ffffuck— [cut off in his throat, he hears himself make an embarrassing sound after it, like a whine.] That's... ah, it feels — Jonas...
[Maybe the most guilty secret of all is that he isn't thinking about Abel then. It would be impossible; Jonas is wholly new against him, little resemblance except for the sweetness of approving words, and even that isn't the same. It's different. It's good.
Cain can't speak in the immediate aftermath, but the circle of his arms hasn't loosened around Jonas's shoulders, and he can't stop shivering.]
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His stamina isn't godly enough to go another round yet, which helps him focus on keeping Cain open over him so he can admire the paint job. )
Holy shit, that felt intense. You... You okay?
( Maybe he hasn't had a partner in a while, or maybe he's got an oversensitive body. Either way, Jonas is more than happy to help him. Kneading come from his cock, feeling it hot between his fingers, he strokes his mouth along Cain's shoulder, kissing rich, flushed skin as he goes.
A replay of the last five minutes is going to haunt him for the foreseeable future, and his gut radiates pleasure at the thought, lifting his hips again to remind himself how good Cain's living weight feels against him. )
You're a mess. Hey...
( Splaying an already filthy hand against the prominent muscles of a well-exercised body, Jonas strokes up Cain's side. Up his ribcage. Up over a defined pectoral. Its travel ends on the side of his friend's neck, thumb brushing his jaw, just touching him. Wherever he can, however he can.
Living... This is living. This is fun. )
Hey... Kiss me again. Let me see your face.
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It's not Jonas's fault. Those words are soft and coaxing, trying to pull him back into comfort where moods are buoyed by a chemical rush of feel-good affection. But that's exactly what injects sudden anxiety into his body, because he's been here before and it wasn't even that long ago. And it all went so badly. And he doesn't want Jonas to see his face, the shadow cast over it, doesn't think he could kiss him right now without falling apart beneath the weight of recent memory.
There's a deep exhale, head turning as he gets himself together.]
I'm fine. Sorry, I need... air. [They're messy. Cain reaches for a couple of hand towels from the side-storage, using it to wipe himself off, grabbing another for Jonas as he leans back, further away.] I'm gonna check the scanners. See if those things gave up. Okay?
[Clearly an emotional shut-down is happening as he maneuvers himself off of Jonas's lap in the cramped space, hunched over as he fetches his clothes and gets dressed. He retrieves the bottle of alcohol from earlier, too, and takes a hard swallow from the rim.]
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( He knows the beginnings of a panic attack too well to ignore the signs in Cain. He's locking up, folding in on himself, and Jonas realizes he's shockingly okay with it happening, viewing it distantly as if he were still people-watching from his booth at his local IHOP. It's fascinating to have such a perspective. To be so intimate with this deadening of feelings in a late-night diner that it seems almost like life's unfolding at half speed.
Handed a square of cloth he uses to clean their mingling come, he discards it anywhere, tucks his dick back into his briefs, and checks on his sexual partner a moment later. )
Hey... Hang on a sec, man. ( His voice isn't pityingly soft, nor is it accusatorily abrasive. It's breathy but calm, still recovering from the rush of his own orgasm. ) It's your business what's going on in your head right now, nobody else's, but I gotta know if I hurt you.
( Unlikely. Cain was riding his thighs, gasping and groaning, feeling himself—God, it was so fucking hot. It can't be that. But what it could be is pain from the bite on his arm... or something else entirely. )
You didn't do anything wrong here, okay? We're cool.
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Not a lot of privacy in prison cells or barracks, after all.
He wants to tell Jonas to stop talking — so he can just exist for a second, alone in his head — but he understands why those questions come. With his back to the other man, it's easier to hide the grimace on his face as he pulls on his shirt and jostles the freshly bandaged wound on his arm. With the natural analgesic of adrenaline and dopamine rapidly fading, he's starting to feel the pain with more clarity. Fuck.
But pain's a way to focus too, so he lets it run through him anyway.]
You didn't. I'm serious. [He hopes the steadiness of his voice translates that, only casting a look over his shoulder afterward, dark eyes furtive in the glance.] Don't worry about it, I'm fine.
[Then he turns away, attention on the ship's display screen.]
Scanner's clear. C'mon, I'll walk you back to camp.