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Sasha is just enjoying the thought I'm glad I'm the only one up when she realizes that isn't true at all.
She is on watch. Sat in a few branches about nine feet up, far enough away to be able to give good and early warning if anyone approaches their camp, but close enough to be able to see that everyone is still inside the structure. It had been a good find, the big old cabin in the woods. They'd quickly filled the pantry and ice box and divided up sleeping rooms.
Though Sasha more often than not spends her nights in the trees or on the roof. She's relieved she does, when their cabin is passed by a small band of ... marauders? Traders? Hunters? Hope for the best, prepare for the worst , that was what Zolf said every once in a while, with an especially ratty brogue that made her think it was something a sailor said. So perhaps she should assume they are marauders, to prepare for the worst. Not that she's ever going to find out. She is going to stay still and quiet, and they will never know anyone else is in these woods.
Except someone has woken up and is making their way right toward the marauders.
Hamid. No one else is as stealthy, aside from herself. He is doing alright, moving with careful intent. Maybe he heard them too. He seems more aware than he used to be, not quite as oblivious, caught up in himself. She wonders if the adventuring has done that, or if it’s a dragon thing.
His best still isn't good enough. He is going to be caught.
Sasha easily makes her way from tree to tree, silent as houses, and drops to the ground behind Hamid. She doesn't give him any time, effortlessly drawing on her blinding speed to push him against a tree, turned so the tree shields them from view. She puts a hand over his mouth. Her other hand has come up with a dagger and is crossing his throat. Instinct, like the way she leans in and presses her knee firmly to him to keep him there. It works, anyway. He doesn't make a sound, and she's a little proud of that. Her clumsy loud party, actually doing a good job and not screaming or doing anything stupid.
She shakes her head when his eyes go wide, fear obvious. She's in his space, crowded up against him to keep him still and obedient. Close enough that she can see the weight of mascara on his eyelashes, the flare of his pupils as he's startled, the shimmer of sweat around his nose.
She mouths slowly and with exaggeration, unsure how lip-reading-savvy he is. Marauders. Or someone. A large group. Passing by. Stay silent and still.
Hamid makes a movement of his head that's probably a nod, and Sasha nods back. Good.
She stays there, exactly like that, frozen with him, for long minutes. Until the sound of the marauders passing is gone, and then for a little while after that, to be sure. Hamid has closed his eyes, and his breath is hot on her glove. She realizes she still has the dagger up and her leather clad hand on his mouth, and the leather is wet from where she presses in.
Finally, she deems it safe, and slowly removes her hands from him.
Instead of letting out a sigh of relief and relaxing, he stays still, mouth still open a little.
"Alright, Hamid?" she asks, doing a quick once over.
She sees, and there's a long moment before seeing becomes realization.
For what was likely only the second time in his life, Hamid gets to see genuine surprise on her face.
"We're in danger, and instead of fight or flight, you go ..."
"... fuck, yes, I know, it's embarrassing, but it's just ... just a trick of- of- of biology," he stammers, exhaling heavily and running an irritated hand through his hair.
"Does this happen every time we get in a fight?" Sasha asks, because this is more mechanics, puzzles, cogs and gears and pins and sockets that she needs to figure out.
"Not every time." His tone says that while this is true, it's not every time by a slim margin.
"What do you do about it? Isn't it distracting? You're supposed to be staying alive, watching our backs, fighting!" She's a little indignant now, as she realizes that he's been in such a state when they've been in literal life or death situations.
"Well ... during a fight, it just ... I'm a little bit distracted, maybe, but it's ... arousal is tied to increased sensitivity. It might sound counterintuitive, but when I'm h- when I'm like this, I swear I feel faster, I see more, I focus better. I'm more ... on edge," he says.
She can tell he's not satisfied with his own description, but the phrase 'on edge' is one she can seize on and understand. During a fight, she too often feels on edge. On the edge of making the wrong choice, on the edge of making the right one, the edge of terrified and furious. Every fight is a brink, a precipice where she can either fall or fly. Falling means pain, loss, suffering. But flying. Flying. There’s nothing in the world that is like winning a fight by the slice of her blade, speed, and wit.
At least, nothing she's ever felt.
"Does it go away?"
"Sometimes. Sometimes, I ... take care of it," he says slowly.
"What does that feel like?"
His brows go all expressive at that, but he answers. "It feels like nothing in the world. Like being alive. Like winning. Like flying," he says quietly.
That does it.
"RIght." She slides the dagger back into her jacket and takes another step back, to better see all of him. "Right. So do it, then."
"Do ...?"
She nods at him. "Take care of it."
"I ... with ... you?"
"I mean, you don't have to. I don't want to- it's not- it's your choice. I can- you can say no. Or not say yes. Do you want to say yes?" she stammers, suddenly realizing at some point she'd sprinted right over that line of 'propriety' that everyone talks about, that she’s never really paid much attention to.
"I ... don't mind." The quirk of his lips gives her a sudden moment of clarity, and perhaps she's watching him extra closely, or he's reacting more obviously, but in an uncharacteristic awareness of others, she realizes — oh. This is Hamid. The son of a banker, over-the-top-school-partier, mister prestidigitation, the one they'd met when he'd unhesitatingly put himself in front of a crowd to draw attention, the pretty boy of the press, the purple cloak dragon halfling.
He loves to be watched.
So she watches.
She watches with eyes keen as her blades, seeing the stillness and steadiness of his hands as he smooths them down his front. He could be drying sweaty palms. But the lack of any shake or tremor makes her think he just likes the feel of this. He's stone, stable, sure.
She's captivated, and he's putting on a show.
One hand goes back to his hair, carding through the shorter strands over his ear, and she doesn't miss the thumb that skates that sharp edge, angular where her own is round. There's a small breath, and he does it again, and then scrapes his nails over his own scalp, tugging the roots and pulling his own head back. She can see a breath catch in all that exposed throat. His comfort and confidence is another thing to marvel at, his lack of hesitation to bare his own pleasure, skin, and neck. He's utterly defenseless and unprotected here, and she thinks he might be loving that.
Because they both know, in this exposure is power. It's a creature’s soft underbelly, torn open with ease, but somehow, she's paralyzed. He's bared and she's bound by it.
Fascinating.
She hasn't lost sight of his other hand. Smaller and softer than hers, skin bared, rich to her dry paleness. Each finger carries weight and flesh, tender meat, so different from her thin skeletal hands.
The soft pads of his fingers dip down under his waistband- does he just reach right down and go for it? No, it's more show. She's almost disappointed when it's just a quick pass, more of a brush along the base of his low belly, almost to his pubis, before coming back up with the edge of his shirt.
He folds it up and neatly puts the hem between his own teeth. She observes his lips seem almost ... fuller. All the redirection of blood. She thought it would all just go to his genitals, but apparently it also goes other places. His lips, usually full and expressive, are now a pout, wet from where he's been licking. Salivation. That sounds like it ought to go along with these things.
His hand skates back down his front, and yes, that smoothing motion is definitely not palm-drying. It seems to please him, and he closes his eyes and sighs slightly when his fingertips reach the top of his trousers again.
And the showoff still doesn't see fit to reach in. His breath is another soft sigh, contented where she expected it to be desperate. Isn't this a lot? Teasing or something? Doesn't he just want to- to just do it? She knows, in a fight, she’s usually impatient to win. It’s always a rush, a sprint, hurry and get there, end the battle and get through to the heady victory rush.
But with that same consideration, she knows it’s also pleasing to enjoy the climb.
He reaches down, but outside his trousers. Down to where the fabric is taut, stretched by pressure, his body no longer quite fitting and content in the cloth. He traces his fingers, pressing down, giving clarity to the form within. A length, like a rod. It looks so solid for something that had just become like that. She’s pretty sure that genitals don't have bones. It’s just flesh and blood. The way it has swelled is captivating to her, like a cat watching a string dance.
With another breath, this one less sigh and more gasp, he presses directly against his length, cupping it and grinding the heel of his hand against what’s trapped there. First it’s just the motion of his hand- she sees his arm pressing, his wrist angling to drag his palm down against it. The next press is the same, a dragging rhythm, slow, sinuous. The next press, his body moves with it — a rolling motion from his thighs to his core, the carnal flex and arch betraying his slowly burgeoning impatience.
She’s impatient for him to get impatient. Just do it , she thinks, get it out and get going, don't you want this? I want to see how much you want this. She wants to see this carefully constructed show shift, she wants him to forget she’s there and do what he does when he’s alone. She wants to know what he knows and experiences, that nobody else does.
She remains silent, though, for once glad that things she wants to say often get lost on the way to actually saying it. This is him. This is Hamid with Hamid, and she’s content to be forgotten, to slip into the unseen and the dark. With his eyes closed, he can’t see her. She’s still and silent so as not to remind him of her presence. To do so would contaminate the experiment. The experience. Whatever this is. She doesn't want to know what he does for others. She wants to see him be himself. Except maybe a bit more undone. She wants to see how he flies .
His self-restraint seems to be fading, though, the fingers in his hair flexing and tightening, pulling the top of his head to allow his mouth to drop open a bit. It’s still more air than sound, but there’s a trailing "nnnnng" emittance coming from his throat, more of a rumble than a keen. His hand twists up as if to grind against his hardness again, but hesitates, and then finally goes to undo his trousers. He’s a bit less steady now, pulling them open quickly, motion a bit more jerky.
And there he is. She’s seen menfolk bare before, a common enough occurrence when one used to be a sneak thief and spent a lot of time looking in windows. But she's never looked all too much, except to ascertain the source of the graffiti isn't all that similar to the actual thing, a long oval with two circles seeming to have very little bearing to the actual biology of it all.
But now, standing up in the air (it really doesn't contain any bone or cartilage? Fascinating, that blood alone can create such solidity — how thick and hot is his blood? Are all menfolk like this?) she can almost see the resemblance to some drawings. The way it flares to a thick, bulbous end, reaching out from a tidy and trim patch of hair. It looks like it wants to erupt. A blocked hose. Or something like that. The bulge and throb of it- is that his heartbeat, making it almost indistinguishably pulse like that?
He just holds it for a moment, breath more gentle again, seemingly relaxed at it being freed from his trousers. No doubt, the lack of pressure is a relief. The way he holds it is as comfortable and familiar as her own grip on a knife or a throat, an easy and confident grasp, a few fingers looped loosely around the base, where he goes from smooth pubis, much like the female sex, to the reach and length of the male sex toolset. Just holding it.
His thumb rubs over the top of it gently, still a loose grip. He moves his hand a bit more, like he’s acclimating to his own touch, re-familiarizing to it, warming up. Just the soft pads of his fingers, dragging along the underside, pressing it up to point a bit higher. Stopping right at the base of that thick, rounded head, then tracing back. Down and back. Down and back.
Sasha watches, feeling herself relax a bit at the hypnotic repetition of the gentle motion.
And then he sighs again, ragged, breath catching, and curls his fingers around it, forming a fist. His thumb and middle finger touch, but the rest don't. She’s heard people talk about girth and how they’re hung, but for some reason, it's not until she realizes he can barely wrap the whole of his hand around it that it dawns on her that it’s rather thick. A small bemused part of her brain thinks and that's supposed to fit where? before flicking the unwanted thought away. She can wonder — or not — about the physics of that later. Now she’s learning this. One lesson at a time, Sasha.
His fist pulls out, and she watches carefully as the skin shifts and slides. It looks almost like there’s a hard core of him, wrapped in soft sensitive skin. A solidity wrapped in fragility. He pulls on the skin and slides up, closing his fingers briefly over the head, before sliding his hand back. And again. Again.
At first, the motion is mostly his wrist — an artistic little twist and snap of the hand, almost dainty, like he’s painting careful strokes or moving with finesse. But after a few moments of this, the motion is rather more ... involved. He seems to be totally enraptured in that, the slide of his cock through the grip of his palm. His arm is starting to move a bit, adding more strength to the strokes. His hips are pressing, an undulation from knee to core that makes his pelvis and cock surge forward into his fist, a countermotion to his hand and arm.
So this is fucking , Sasha realizes, taking in the motion of it all. It’s rhythmic, from the stability and stance of his feet to the breath that huffs through his now wide and wet looking mouth, all of it in sync like some internal music or a deep instinctive pattern, like an animal wearing Hamid's skin. The same rhythmic motion of nature, of wind, of running, of a retch, worms crawling and birds flapping. The carnal snap and release of it all makes her feel like she's cracked open sentience and found the squirming base of it all. This is how life is made, huh? This is how some people live and win and fly.
The rhythm begins to degrade, erased by some urgency, as if Hamid is on a timetable Sasha hasn't realized. He is moving his arm more quickly, less arching and more hunching, bowing in on himself. The hand in his hair drops as his chin does, splaying on the side of his own face and burying his smallest and ring fingers in his mouth, hooking over his teeth even as he makes the most audible noise yet —
Oh. He is ... this is ... right, that’s completion. He wrings himself through it like he has to get it all out, squeezing and dragging his fist with slow and surging strokes.
Now he’s truly trembling, but less his hands and more his thighs, leaned back against the tree she pinned him against — it seems like a long time ago, like this has been hours of lessons, but it hasn't been that long at all. His hand and stomach glistens with what he's pulled from himself, and she understands why he pulled his shirt up.
After several long, deep breaths — this action, she recognizes, a re-centering and trying to realign the body and mind as one has outrun the other — he lets out a low contented hum, and then gestures a languid prestidigitation to banish the traces of his seed. His eyes are still closed, relaxed, almost sleepy. A satisfied sort of fatigue like he'd just made record time crossing a city, or finally mastered a new slashing combo, or- or... like he'd just won.
Sasha realizes she should probably thank him for showing her that. Or apologize for demanding that of him. Or ask if he was alright.
"You want to go back and grab a midnight snack?" she asks, and then winces at her own casualness. What the hell, Sasha. He just did ... that ... in front of you, which was probably all kinds of- of- of inappropriate, and you just ... a snack?
"Sure," he says with a bit of a laugh, pulls up his trousers, and walks away. She stares after him for a minute before quickly catching up.