maskormenacelogs | (no subject)

WHO: Everyone!
WHERE: An hour outside De Chima
WHEN: January 10-12
WHAT: imPorts are treated to a Swear-In that’s nothing but a weekend of relaxation at a brand new resort and spa!
WARNINGS: Possible mild nudity

It’s been a long few months, hasn’t it imPorts? Between the invading monsters (yikes!), evading the apocalypse (double yikes!) and then some fear toxin on behalf of your good pal Joker (triple yikes!), imPorts are overdue for a vacation. And wouldn’t you know it? One is coming right up.

Oh, yeah. It’s a Hot Springs Episode.

Welcome to Elysium Resort and Spa! When you come in, you’ll get a brochure with all of their offerings. They’re a little confused, perhaps, espousing relaxation ideals of every culture, clearly having just thrown all of their relaxation spaghetti at the wall to see if it sticks, but they’ve got the spirit! The smell of eucalyptus fills the air as you toe off your shoes and change into the slippers and robes that they have available for you as they usher you into what must be, for some, absolute paradise.

You can find rooms for all persuasions here, all purporting various health benefits. They have your typical fare - salt rooms, saunas, steam rooms, buckets of water with ladles resting in them to pour over the heaters to allow them to sizzle - but be warned! Some of these rooms climb up to ridiculous temperatures, leaving the bottoms of your feet red and toasty as you jump in (they suggest sandals, but who reads instructions anyway?), and other rooms are filled with ice as you’re plunged into what may as well be a walk-in freezer. Sometimes the doors are a little fiddly, though. Don’t worry - you won’t get trapped in here long enough for any real harm to come to you. But you might get a little uncomfortable as you rattle at the door, one of the employees eventually hurrying to let you out and offering their sincerest apologies, and won’t you have a gift certificate?

If those rooms aren’t enough for you, you can check out the baths. Salt baths, chilled baths, and hot tubs galore are here for imPorts, but that’s not all. Ever wanted to bathe in tea? In wine? Would you like to sink into a bath filled entirely with clay? How about getting all your dead skin chomped off by fish? It’s all here for you! Just try not to drink the bathwater - or, heavens, eat the fish. Those aren’t for you!

As imPorts stroll outside, they’ll see a beautiful vista overlooking the mountains, attached to a spacious hot springs (it’s natural, they claim, but who’s checking?) where imPorts can simply relax and enjoy the scenery. After that, why not pop inside to where some of the technicians will absolutely insist that you get a massage. Or a mani-pedi - yes, even you, big guy. Or, really, anything that your heart desires.

Once you’ve been poked and prodded and primped to your heart’s content (or discontent, as it may be), the spa open until the wee hours of the morning, it’s time to go and dine on some of the local cuisine, prepared fresh by the resort’s resident chef with a distinct eye to fresh, clean flavors and a truly ridiculous amount of salad. They want to make sure that you’re healthy inside and out, after all!

Before arriving at the spa, everyone was able to choose who they wanted to room with. But it seems that their systems got a bit scrambled during their grand opening, so you may find yourself bunking with a stranger instead. They’re deeply apologetic, of course, but it really would be easier for them if you’d just be nice for an evening and give it a shot. It’s only one evening, right? It’s not like you’ll be roomed with a serial killer. Probably. Given the imPort population there’s, what, a five percent chance?

The hotel rooms themselves are beautiful and spacious, each with a window looking out over the lovely view of the scenery below. It’s the perfect way to end your night… until 3 AM when an alarm begins to blare and all of the guests are ushered outside in the chilly winter air while firefighters come to check the place out. It’s a false alarm (some brat must have pulled it, the manager says apologetically, ready with more gift certificates), but hey, maybe this is a good chance to get to know your neighbors!

The next day, guests are free to take advantage of the resort’s facilities once more, or they can go hiking in the mountainous trails available to them, complete with regular rest stops with firepits, with the staff more than happy to pack lunchboxes and fixings for s’mores.

After they come back and have a thankfully uneventful night’s rest, buses will be ready to take them back to civilization, along with goodie bags filled with luxury goods and an earnest invitation to come back anytime! But maybe next time, wait a couple of months so they can iron out the kinks in their system.

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Ronan turns back, his head bowed though he holds a steady gaze on Kylo from under dark lashes. This would be a demure expression on any other face, but Ronan looks like his father, and therefore like a schemer. His eyes are cunning, calculating his worship of Kylo's body like he's planning a heist. This should be the part where he undresses Kylo in turn.

But he doesn't.

He sinks slowly to his knees, then further, kowtowing so low that his forehead nearly touches the floor. A soft kiss brushes the top of Kylo's right foot, then the left. Ronan's palms drift over his ankles, climbing slowly up Kylo's calves as he rises again. They stop at his knees as Ronan pushes his face between Kylo's legs, dragging his mouth along Kylo's inner thigh in unhurried kisses.

Oh.

Oh, this is dangerously, violently good, watching Ronan consider him almost hungrily, then slowly and deliberately prostrating himself in such total, utter submission. His pulse picks up, throbbing heavy as Ronan pours himself out in worship: the soft, slow gift of his lips pressing increasingly fervent adoration to Kylo's skin is so much more than the sum of every kiss. Kylo can feel it. Ronan, proving his devotion to his body, as if he considers every single inch of it worth all he has to give. It's electric.

By the time Ronan's face is between his thighs, there's an unmistakable tremor fluttering at the edges of every inhale and exhale, where anyone more naturally prone to sighs and groans would be breaking the silence with far more than ragged breaths. Kylo, though quickly stirred to arousal, is not so easily undone by it— though he can't help imagining just how deeply he could be indulging in all this sensation if released from the necessity to remain standing...

There would be a throne, he decides, lips parting wordlessly as Ronan's drag over sensitive skin. If he was Ronan's lord, and this some secret part of his personal chambers. But perhaps, the heated stone table? Immediately, his mind fills with a tangled fantasy of Ronan's lips, his fingers, the slow, rich spread of warm, golden oil spilling in wanton excess—

He hardly notices the slide and twist of his fingers through Ronan's hair.

There is no if in Ronan's mind. Kylo may not have a throne, but he is Ronan's lord here and now. He may not have a court, but he has his concubine. There's nothing that stands in the way of turning that fantasy into reality. Ronan doesn't get on his knees and play at worship. His adoration is true.

As Kylo seizes his hair, he glances up. But there's no protest, no discouragement. Ronan's mouth finds Kylo's skin again, each kiss growing more and more heated as he climbs. His face disappears beneath folds of cloth, and once he's there, his lips are a tease again. Nothing but voiceless whispers brushed against Kylo's arousal. He doesn't have to - anyone could see how much he's wanted - but Ronan begs anyway to be allowed a taste.

Please, please, please...

Kylo's breath hitches as Ronan's lips finally reach the hard, throbbing heat of his erection, his head tipping back. Those lips— so soft, pleading with light, insistent whispers— they have the muscles of his thighs and the twisting grip of his fingers in Ronan's hair tightening in reflex, but not because he wants any of this sweet torment to stop. He wants this strain, this tension, this hunger. He wants to feel Ronan work, willing to endure any discomfort required of him for the privilege of serving his master.

He feels it now, every time Ronan strains but never quite fights against the shifting limit imposed by Kylo's leash-hold on his hair to plead his case with his mouth— and slowly, that grip begins to draw him up until the prize he's been begging for is right at the very edge of his reach, close enough to taste.

Ronan’s scalp burns where he’s tangled up in Kylo’s fingers, but if this wasn’t an option he wanted Kylo to have, he wouldn’t have grown out his hair long enough to pull at. He wants Kylo’s control, his direction. He likes knowing that Kylo will have exactly as much as he desires.

His lips part to accept then close around the very tip of that swollen bulb. He takes the smallest taste for himself and gives Kylo just a sample of his mouth’s warmth. His tongue slides out for a slow caress, running a half-circle along the ventral.

He flicks a glance up, watching for the appreciation of his work, and drops his mouth open wider for a thrust he suspects must be imminent.

It's as perfect as every soft, grazing brush of Ronan's lips promised it would be. Kylo breaks his silence with a low groan, hold loosening and releasing as he gives them both the moment to savour. They both know there's only so much restraint Kylo is capable of imposing on himself. There's only so long he can resist the urge to take everything in his reach.

Hazy, his dark eyes fall on Ronan's upturned face, the sight of his waiting, willing devotion sending fresh heat shuddering up his spine. Is this for him?

He tests it. A slow, rolling push, the thick head of his cock pushing the soft ring of Ronan's lips wide, sliding into the wet, plush heat of his mouth.

As Kylo pushes into his mouth, Ronan holds his gaze. Of course this is for him. All of Ronan belongs to him, for any purpose, anytime it suits him.

Ronan’s tongue cradles and welcomes him, drawing him deeper. Much like the rest of him, Kylo’s arousal is intimidating. The head alone is plump enough to fill Ronan’s mouth. Sinking down and tilting his chin for a better angle, he does his best to clear the way for Kylo to stuff himself in. It’s a tight place, but cushioned carefully. Practiced in giving pleasure.

His throat, when Kylo reaches it, will feel even better.

Kylo loves to feel Ronan proving his commitment. It's a pleasure to rival the soft, gentle welcome of Ronan's tongue, the way he can feel the edge of fear in Ronan's determined efforts to accommodate him. Serving Kylo, Ronan knows, isn't a task for the faint-hearted. Pleasuring him, being pleasure for him— it's a challenge, requiring skill and endurance.

It isn't that Kylo needs to feel Ronan offer himself to banish some doubt about the legitimacy of his ownership. It isn't reassurance he seeks as he watches Ronan open up, as his pulse pounds at the sight and sensation of that beautiful mouth swallowing up every slow inch he feeds inside. He isn't staking his claim at all.

He's celebrating it.

And it's only once he has nothing more to give and Ronan gazes up at him, utterly filled, that he lets the low, muttered curse burst free. His hands drag praise onto Ronan's shoulders.