Hah! Now there's an exchange rate I'll happily agree to. [One the boys are long overdue to experience, he thinks, before shivering with the abrupt remembrance of just how long it's been— Maker, what it is to run a brothel and a family all at once: he's become chaste in new and exciting ways (by 'exciting' he means the heart attack he flirts with nightly) for less intriguing reasons than what shifts over him now, slender talons trickling over battleworn skin— eliciting a vibrant trickle of sensation. Something that kindles up the measure of his nerves and deadened scars, more awake now than they've been in ages, it feels.
A single, soft-throated —oh catches him as he conversely catches on. The difference between hypothetical teasing and intent by any bright-eyed name. By wandering fingertips and the way they've both wound up along the rails of this discussion, he's waking up with every second despite the mire of his thoughts confusing odalisque equivoque until now.
(There are grey hairs flocking at his temples. His stony joints too tense from hunching at a shutterd desk rather than working oiled steel, a little atrophied from time and lack of battle, but only insofar as a well-worked utensil is molded by its purpose. They vanish at the sight of a face that hasn't lost a fraction of its famed beauty, finally fixated on him and him alone.)
When he reaches up to bury strong fingers into silk— into places no straightlaced paladin would ever think to grace in worship— he's fifteen years lighter.]
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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A single, soft-throated —oh catches him as he conversely catches on. The difference between hypothetical teasing and intent by any bright-eyed name. By wandering fingertips and the way they've both wound up along the rails of this discussion, he's waking up with every second despite the mire of his thoughts confusing odalisque equivoque until now.
(There are grey hairs flocking at his temples. His stony joints too tense from hunching at a shutterd desk rather than working oiled steel, a little atrophied from time and lack of battle, but only insofar as a well-worked utensil is molded by its purpose. They vanish at the sight of a face that hasn't lost a fraction of its famed beauty, finally fixated on him and him alone.)
When he reaches up to bury strong fingers into silk— into places no straightlaced paladin would ever think to grace in worship— he's fifteen years lighter.]