[In his most normal, human gesture yet, Lance's question prompts Matt to burst into laughter -- genuine laughter, not the least bit constrained by manners or propriety. It's the kind of loud, borderline-obnoxious laughter that wouldn't quite fit anywhere else, save for secret, private moments.
(Matt doesn't talk about those, doesn't share those brief glimmers of happiness with anyone. Let everyone assume he's thoroughly brainwashed. Let everyone think there aren't any moments of downtime, of being exhausted and sated and curled up close to an alien body, where he should by rights be afraid and uncomfortable, but is instead happy and content.)
At any rate, the question is so shameless, so wonderfully earth-like -- never enough time, never a wasted moment, just rushing rushing rushing to the next interesting thing, chasing that next exciting moment or pleasurable high. Matt wonders sometimes how much of this insatiable longing is engineered by the Druids and how much of it was always present, hidden inside human genes. So he laughs, drops his forehead to Lance's shoulder, reaches out under the water to thumb the sharp angles of his hipbones, his giggles melting into a soft, almost-sympathetic sound. Logically he knows Lance is perfectly fit, but he seems too bony, too angular, hard and bony where he should be soft, full, ripe curves. Like Matt is.
A quiet hum, and Matt's nuzzling up the line of Lance's neck, letting the water lift them both, take some of the heavy weight he's carrying around. The gentle rhythmic motion of the waves soothes both him and the kits shifting around under his skin, calms the restless movements, lulls them to only occasional flutters under Lance's curious rough hands. Matt wonders vaguely if the repeated rocking is similar enough to the steady rhythm of one of his masters idly spending an hour or two with him, of the long, slow, lazy motion they take when they have time to waste, time to make him squirm, make him beg. It's more arousing than it should be to think the Galra young inside him are so used to feeling him being fucked that it's soothing to them.
He shakes the thoughts away, pulls Lance a little closer, softening the angles of the boy's body with his own, warm and beaded with water, the metal of the chain he wears cool and dripping as he rises up to claim Lance's mouth with his.]
We can. [Another kiss, this one slower, firmer, reclaiming some of the control he relinquished back on the shore. Craving a traditionally submissive role hasn't made Matt any less sure of himself, it seems. He's still got one hand at Lance's waist, finding that he misses the customary jewelry all other concubines wear. It'd give him something to grab onto, at least.
His free hand is practiced, fingers sliding down to coax Lance's thighs apart, gentle without being hesitant as he ghosts fingertips over the swollen, parted flesh, cupping his palm and teasing penetration without actually giving it. Matt's eyes are still closed when he says, quietly:] You can pretend I'm someone else, if you'd like.
[It's not bitter, and there's something very like his younger sibling in the set of his mouth, the way he glances up through long eyelashes at Lance. It's a gift, an offer of escape, however temporary. It's realistic.
And then, with a trace of that previous teasing, Matt dips his index finger back inside, where Lance is hot and tight, tangibly throbbing from his last orgasm, where he's slick enough to invite Matt in deep, deeper than before. Voice going softer, knowing, almost wicked:] My hands aren't quite big enough to be Shiro's, but...you can imagine, right?
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(Matt doesn't talk about those, doesn't share those brief glimmers of happiness with anyone. Let everyone assume he's thoroughly brainwashed. Let everyone think there aren't any moments of downtime, of being exhausted and sated and curled up close to an alien body, where he should by rights be afraid and uncomfortable, but is instead happy and content.)
At any rate, the question is so shameless, so wonderfully earth-like -- never enough time, never a wasted moment, just rushing rushing rushing to the next interesting thing, chasing that next exciting moment or pleasurable high. Matt wonders sometimes how much of this insatiable longing is engineered by the Druids and how much of it was always present, hidden inside human genes. So he laughs, drops his forehead to Lance's shoulder, reaches out under the water to thumb the sharp angles of his hipbones, his giggles melting into a soft, almost-sympathetic sound. Logically he knows Lance is perfectly fit, but he seems too bony, too angular, hard and bony where he should be soft, full, ripe curves. Like Matt is.
A quiet hum, and Matt's nuzzling up the line of Lance's neck, letting the water lift them both, take some of the heavy weight he's carrying around. The gentle rhythmic motion of the waves soothes both him and the kits shifting around under his skin, calms the restless movements, lulls them to only occasional flutters under Lance's curious rough hands. Matt wonders vaguely if the repeated rocking is similar enough to the steady rhythm of one of his masters idly spending an hour or two with him, of the long, slow, lazy motion they take when they have time to waste, time to make him squirm, make him beg. It's more arousing than it should be to think the Galra young inside him are so used to feeling him being fucked that it's soothing to them.
He shakes the thoughts away, pulls Lance a little closer, softening the angles of the boy's body with his own, warm and beaded with water, the metal of the chain he wears cool and dripping as he rises up to claim Lance's mouth with his.]
We can. [Another kiss, this one slower, firmer, reclaiming some of the control he relinquished back on the shore. Craving a traditionally submissive role hasn't made Matt any less sure of himself, it seems. He's still got one hand at Lance's waist, finding that he misses the customary jewelry all other concubines wear. It'd give him something to grab onto, at least.
His free hand is practiced, fingers sliding down to coax Lance's thighs apart, gentle without being hesitant as he ghosts fingertips over the swollen, parted flesh, cupping his palm and teasing penetration without actually giving it. Matt's eyes are still closed when he says, quietly:] You can pretend I'm someone else, if you'd like.
[It's not bitter, and there's something very like his younger sibling in the set of his mouth, the way he glances up through long eyelashes at Lance. It's a gift, an offer of escape, however temporary. It's realistic.
And then, with a trace of that previous teasing, Matt dips his index finger back inside, where Lance is hot and tight, tangibly throbbing from his last orgasm, where he's slick enough to invite Matt in deep, deeper than before. Voice going softer, knowing, almost wicked:] My hands aren't quite big enough to be Shiro's, but...you can imagine, right?