Verin reaches over and tips the vial of oil over his hand, spreads it between Essek's closed thighs as his teeth scrape over his bare shoulder, and slides himself between. He braces Essek's legs with his wound-up smalls, keeping them closed, and begins to fuck him like that--hips meeting flush against the backs of Essek's thighs, his ass, slapping obscenely, and cock nudging over and past Essek's balls. Essek can't stop himself from whimpering. It's so, so good like this. He luxuriates in it. Stretches languidly against the pillows and angles his hips in a way that will have the tip of his cock dragging against the sheets when Verin really starts thrusting. It feels positively divine.
But his brow furrows and he gasps his brother's name sharply, "Verin," as if in admonishment for asking him something so crass with so little shame. But it makes heat curl in Essek's gut, that insistence on knowing, that crude disregard for his proper modesty. He moans, the sound startled out of him, when he feels rough oiled fingers against his hole a moment later. His breath catches, and he squirms uselessly again, as if that will somehow get him out of answering this series of mortifying, delightfully invasive questions.
But his body will answer for him even if he cannot. Beneath Verin's fingers, his hole is tellingly pliant, clear evidence of recent self-pleasure. Verin already knows far more about his masturbation habits than anyone rightly should. It feels almost like a cycle sometimes. There will be weeks at a time where Essek's body feels awake, where he wants to touch himself constantly, where he indulges in long evenings with fantasies supplemented by toys and magic. Then for months his body is a stranger. The mere idea seems distasteful, a waste of time, and he barely spares it a thought.
As Verin correctly observes, the half-empty bottle indicates that recently, it's the former. He has been using it often.
"Only yesterday," he admits at last, barely above a whisper, face hot.
He did think about Verin yesterday. Frequently he does, but not always, which seems like a betrayal to admit, which is silly when Verin actually does sleep with other people. He's never thought about anyone else he actually knows, but sometimes the men are imagined, bodies with vague features for doing exactly what Essek desires. Sometimes they are not exactly men at all, but constructs of his magic, writhing tentacles or formless forces given more monstrous shape. But that doesn't count as having sex, does it? Even if it very much feels like having sex, it's merely elaborate masturbation. There is no one else involved.
no subject
But his brow furrows and he gasps his brother's name sharply, "Verin," as if in admonishment for asking him something so crass with so little shame. But it makes heat curl in Essek's gut, that insistence on knowing, that crude disregard for his proper modesty. He moans, the sound startled out of him, when he feels rough oiled fingers against his hole a moment later. His breath catches, and he squirms uselessly again, as if that will somehow get him out of answering this series of mortifying, delightfully invasive questions.
But his body will answer for him even if he cannot. Beneath Verin's fingers, his hole is tellingly pliant, clear evidence of recent self-pleasure. Verin already knows far more about his masturbation habits than anyone rightly should. It feels almost like a cycle sometimes. There will be weeks at a time where Essek's body feels awake, where he wants to touch himself constantly, where he indulges in long evenings with fantasies supplemented by toys and magic. Then for months his body is a stranger. The mere idea seems distasteful, a waste of time, and he barely spares it a thought.
As Verin correctly observes, the half-empty bottle indicates that recently, it's the former. He has been using it often.
"Only yesterday," he admits at last, barely above a whisper, face hot.
He did think about Verin yesterday. Frequently he does, but not always, which seems like a betrayal to admit, which is silly when Verin actually does sleep with other people. He's never thought about anyone else he actually knows, but sometimes the men are imagined, bodies with vague features for doing exactly what Essek desires. Sometimes they are not exactly men at all, but constructs of his magic, writhing tentacles or formless forces given more monstrous shape. But that doesn't count as having sex, does it? Even if it very much feels like having sex, it's merely elaborate masturbation. There is no one else involved.