Chapter Text
Isabela didn't know why Sebastian was playing with himself behind a tree when he was supposed to be getting whatever sleep he could manage in his tent. She also couldn't very well ask, because then he'd stop.
Probably blush and stutter at me too, which might be adorable, but he'd definitely pull his trousers up at the same time, and that would be such a shame.
Isabela never thought anyone should stop, but more than just not stopping, she was now considering putting Sebastian at the top of her 'worth fantasizing about when it's just me, myself, and my hand' list.
He still had his armour on, his belt on the ground beside him, his gloves sticking out of a pouch. She couldn't really say why that tightened things so nicely between her legs, but the hint of care and self-control required to carefully put his things aside, combined with the desperate need for relief that meant he hadn't even pushed his trousers far enough down she could see his knees, just a hint of muscled thigh, was simply delectable.
Besides, he had such splendid hands.
She could get herself off on just the memory of those hands, strong fingers, one splayed against the shadowed grass beneath him, the other sliding up the length of his cock before tugging at the skin past his tip.
Would he like the pull of teeth, if it was a mouth there instead of a hand?
That hand slid back down to the base of his cock, the hand itself blocking her view, but he was presumably doing something to his balls. Something good, his eyes closed as his head pushed back against the tree, the bark just a shade darker than his hair, a hint of moonlight silvering his cheeks.
It just wasn't fair, that one man could be that pretty, and completely uninterested in letting her play with him.
She tilted her head as his cock slowly thickened beside his arm, just the hint of the crown starting to show, his hand still occupied in the shadow created by breeches and legs. Perhaps not completely uninterested?
It was such a nice cock, too. Thick, and mostly straight, and more than long enough to hit all the right spots. If the few passing comments he'd made about his wastrel youth were anything to go by, he even knew what to do with it.
It would be a shame not to put all that experience to use again, now wouldn't it? He wasn't really a Brother anymore, after all, all those pesky vows abandoned when he'd walked away from the Chantry to hunt his family's killers down?
A memory of his stance before he took a particularly tricky shot, feet spread and hips squared and elbow up, eyes narrowed in concentration, sent another shot of heat shimmering along the ache in her clit, and Isabela licked her lips.
She had to bite her lip and swallow a groan a minute later, when he lifted his other hand from the ground and wrapped it around his very hard cock. His hips jerked, the cool damp dew from the ground a shock against hot skin, and then he stroked, up and down, and she couldn't take it anymore.
Isabela shifted her body slowly, carefully, silently, mustn't give myself away, until her shoulders were braced against her own tree, one foot propped up on a handy root, one hand sliding up the inside of her thigh.
He was playing with himself in earnest now, two fingers inside his foreskin, tugging and stroking, circling his crown. She could see the tension across the back of his hands, both busy teasing, arousing, the friction of fingers and skin in so many right places.
Her own hand was circling her clit in time to his motions, and she couldn't resist imagining his hands, callused differently than her own, strong in ways hers weren't. She could pull a rope or throw a knife, slide a point between the slimmest gap in armour, but archery did different things to a man, archery was all about patience and timing and tension and just the right pull...
Her free hand covered her mouth, smothering the sigh as she shuddered, body tight and eyes closed, a sharp shock of satisfaction as she came.
She opened her eyes to see him fucking his hands, skin now fully retracted so his thumb could rub against the crown, glistening in the moonlight, hips rocking up off the ground. Maker, he just keeps going, doesn't he?
She thrust two fingers deep in her cunt, bending awkwardly to get the angle right, timing each stroke to match his hips. In and out and in again, fingers curved to hit just the perfect spot, staring at his cock and his hands, gasping softly at the ache in her stomach, the tremble in her back and thighs from holding herself in position.
He grunted, leaning forward just as he came, spilling his seed, thick white streaks shockingly vibrant against the dark ground. He held himself still for a moment, the slight rise of his shoulders the only hint of his heavy breathing.
She wanted to be there, next to him, she wanted to lick his hands and his cock clean, feel him twitch beneath her mouth, over-sensitive to her touch after his splendid performance. Instead she just watched, throat tight as she fucked herself silently with her hand, her body hot and tingling and aching. She watched as he wiped his hands clean on a different patch of grass, as he eased his now softening cock back into his clothes and tied his breeches back up, as he settled his belt back over his hips, pulled out his fingerless gloves and pulled them back on his hands.
She watched as he pulled down on his tassets of mail, assuring they were hanging straight, shifted his shoulders under the straps of armour, and turned and walked away. And then she closed her eyes in the darkness, imagining his cock in place of her fingers, his thighs bracing her body instead of the tree, his voice whispering through the night time breezes, until a deep throb of need tightened her body around her hand, and she came again, moaning softly to herself.
Now it was her turn to pant until she could convince her body to move again. Her turn to wipe her hand on a damp patch of grass, her turn to adjust her clothes and prepare to return to camp.
And start plotting ways to get herself a repeat performance. Hopefully on purpose, even.