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The weather on the Isle was as temperate as ever.
No need for food, no need for water. Dead, stagnant, and dull.
The cushion of grass was soft under his bare body and gentle waves lapped soothingly at the shore, it mocked his restlessness with its serenity. He was eager for something, anything, to happen. It just had to. The discontent rose almost daily now and so he kept half an eye on the horizon in hopes of discovering exactly what it was he was supposed to be waiting for. That’s what he was doing, waiting.
Another surge of irritation washed over him and with it came the vivid image of a man, always the same man. Arthur didn’t know him but he always seemed to appear at these times. Dark hair, pale skin, and bright flashing eyes. He felt his thighs flex in response to the imagery and abruptly he was angry that he didn’t know the man’s name. Only that he was infuriating and his mouth, his mouth... it never fucking closed, not unless it was full.
Some long forgotten instinct made him tense at that thought, made him pause.
It’s inappropriate.
It’s “not done”.
Yes, worse than touching yourself one simply just does not picture the pale slopes and angles of a man’s body with pleasure. One must not shiver at the thought of that leanly muscled form flexing helplessly under the weight of your body as it's forced carefully, slickly, open.
He did though, always. It was the only thing that made him feel alive in this godforsaken paradise. He had no clue how he came to be here or why, only that he could never seem to leave.
As always abstract and fragmented memory faded quickly when faced with the painfully real sensation of damp skin and rough calluses against his rigid length. Instinctively his hand had already begun to move roughly over the wet tip and he panted and watched as it pulsed and twitched in response to his anxious, needy pleasure. He bit his fist to cut off a too loud groan.
The things he imagined, that he wanted, they were abominable.
He’d have him on his knees, bent forward and pinned in place with Arthur’s hand against the back of his neck. The sharp cut of the man’s hip would be tightly gripped in the other to hold him steady, hold him still, as Arthur pistoned forward in a relentless rhythm. The sloppy wet sound of his thrusts were loud in his mind, almost too filthy to be imagined. Yet it must be, pure fancy, because it wouldn’t actually be like that, couldn’t possibly be that-- good.
Could it?
Already he was sweating and his heels dug grooves into the ground with every brutal thrust into his hand, into the sweet wet suck of phantom flesh. It was madness how clear the vision was. Arthur could hear him. Deep, guttural groans half muffled by the bedding and soft panting breaths. Even the dark, ominous creak of wood was crisply audible and it just made him grasp harder, pull faster, at his aching red cock until sharp throb of release was just within reach.
Then, inevitably, the vision left. It faded into the depths of his broken memory just as suddenly as it had appeared and left him splayed out on the beach, hot and wanting for something that didn’t exist anywhere in the crumbling ruins or green depths of the island. Angrily he forced himself to an unfulfilling peak and lay there gasping in frustration.
Then, as if summoned by the strength of his dissatisfaction, a dark shape in the water caught his eye. He stood to approach the strange vessel, the likes of which he’d never seen, floating in invitation by the rocks. Whoever the man was Arthur knew only two things, he bruised beautifully and he needed him with a surprising desperation.
Arthur was resolved, he was done waiting.