His body felt odd. Like someone had scrubbed him from the inside, but the itch was still there. An itch he couldn't pinpoint to a location on his body. They'd synced several times already, in various areas of the chambers, and once against the very clear, and very see through glass panels to the vast void. In the haze, he vaguely remembered imagining an invisible alien race zooming past them, recording his shameful eagerness on their high-tech ship. The thought had escaped him when he'd cum against the glass and Hawthorn's teeth let go of his neck.

By now, his neck was a raw bundle of nerves, bruised and bitten so many times he could be wearing a collar. Yet, the soreness wasn't entirely unpleasant. It made his body heat up and tingle. It reminded him of that strange choking sensation Blackthorn had put him under.

Hawthorn was asleep on the bed, the linens replaced about an hour ago by a laundering droid. Had a cycle already passed? Or several? There were no time pieces in Hawthorn's chambers and the public announcement systems didn't reach the private quarter sectors. He places a hand against the pooling tug in his gut, that made him bite his bottom lip. He'd soiled so many borrowed undergarments already, so he'd opted to stay unclothed for the meantime.

The feeling of being aroused after 34 years of libido-less existence had been like pulling open a cork from a bottle. His body simmered and stirred at the slightest of jostling. Parts of him that were typically passive yearned for contact hungrily.

He traced a hand over the curve of his mid-drift to his prick, which woke with a start at his touch. He shuddered as he curled over, leaning against the glass panels, displaying a wide expanse of savannah and golden sunlight. Hawthorn was sleeping just across the room, and he didn't want to wake him. He'd probably been exhausted from his mission just before the start of the sync.

He stroked himself slowly, legs trembling as the friction of his calloused palm caught on the sensitized skin. His mouth opened, silently gasping at the coursing pleasure that drove his body into a fever. He increased his tempo a bit, then wrapped his thumb around the head. He had to bite his other fist as he did so, as he came in stuttered streaks across the glass.

He inhaled shakily, closing his eyes and resting against the glass. No wonder people were so eager to participate in the sync each year. He couldn't imagine what it was like to know what this was like, then to not have it. The hormones could only be produced artificially, but what if they could produce more of it each year. Then everyone could enjoy the experience every year. Why did they only make a limited quantity?

All he really knew was humans have not been naturally sexually active for at least longer than humanity can bother to convert to Old Earth Years. Possibly in the high hundreds? Maybe thousands? How long had they been on this ship? Questions like these were unanswered or in other cases, deliberately ignored. History had become a subject crafted mostly into generational tales and myths or even rumors. Relying on their community brain power didn't really leave much longevity of clear or unbiased history.

All humans, or at least so he was told, have Beta status hormonal levels, which essentially means they do not feel the need for sex, nor have the abilities to reproduce. Only the concoctions provided during the sync allows for arousal or reproduction.

"Having fun without me?" Hawthorn's voice was scratchy, from the sleep. He turned to see the man stretching out on the bed covers, bare legs opening wide. He frowned and Hawthorn closed his legs together. His brows were stitching together as Hawthorn sat up in the bed, covering his body with the blanket.

Hawthorn's voice was low and his gaze averted, "There's a reason why I've never been called sir."

He stumbled to the edge of the couch and blinked furiously. All this time, Hawthorn hadn't really been a man, or rather, he was both female and male. He flushed, cheeks coloring deep, as he stammered, "I'm sorry, I had no idea. I just assumed." Was it because he'd wanted Hawthorn to be a man? Or had it really been because he'd not wanted to know.

Hawthorn watched his reactions, then let his eyes go to the window. "There was a time when I wanted nothing more than to be normal. To be like anyone else. But those days are long gone. I've accepted who I am. I hope you can too."

Hemlock shook his head and Hawthorn's head snap to him, shock and underlying betrayal in his hardening eyes. He rushed forward, waving his hands as well, "No, no, I'm sorry for making you think I had anything against it." The thoughts were sticky, hard to put into the correct phrase to make Hawthorn relax again. The force pulsed around his body, waiting for him to continue. "I was afraid I had offended you, back then, when I called you sir."

Hawthorn's slow smile rivaled that of the rising sun that the screen had projected some hours ago. "Contrary. I thought it very charming. I rather like how it sounds." Hawthorn outstretched his arms and he didn't delay in returning to the warmth. Lips planted a kiss against his temple as the lithe arms held him tightly. "You are perfect." Hawthorn whispered.