It occurs to him, vaguely, as she brushes snow off his shoulder, that it might be rude to use such a word when he has a human in his arms like this—but he dismisses the thought just as easily. Astrid isn't shemlen, she's just human. She has nothing more in common with vile Tevinter magisters or petty Orlesian nobles than the shape of her ears.
He can't help her with his laces, focused as he is on keeping both of them upright, and he laughs into her mouth the more she fumbles. She doesn't want to stop kissing, but he wants his laces undone, so despite her protests he leans away, allowing her space to actually see what she's doing. Only when she's finally successful and his trousers loosen around his hips does Talin lean back in, kissing over her jaw.
"Now you, come on. I want to see you."
His breath fogs against her skin, warmer than the air around them, as he speaks. The cold is biting, but not so terrible this is a bad idea—so long as they stay pressed together, stay moving. He rocks his hips against hers, heedless of making her job undressing them more difficult, pressing them together in a slow drag, a teasing taste of things to come
A human with more experience with elves or the city alienages might recoil at hearing shemlen,
but he’s lucky, Astrid grew up in an isolated human settlement, so the word simply rolls off her as elvhen slang, vaguely derogatory, but she’s foul-mouthed herself and doesn’t mind.
“S’unfair, I’m gonna freeze my tits off,” Astrid announces, but she obligingly reaches for her shirt and hauls it off, tossing it aside to hang off a nearby branch, not minding the tree against her bare back. Her movements are quick, business-like, with no calculated seduction or artful arch of her spine.
But now that she’s half-naked in his arms, Talin can see that the woman is skinny from a lifetime of hunger but lean with functional muscle. It’s cold enough outdoors that her skin’s already pebbling and her nipples hard, from the chill and desire alike. She knows how this goes: she slides both of her hands under his shirt to warm them up a bit first, her palms drinking in the heat radiating off his taut stomach; before she dips her hand into his unlaced and loosened trousers, fingers curling around his cock, giving it an experimental stroke.
"Trust me to warm you up—or do you want to get in the tent?" he teases, eyebrow raised. As far as he's concerned, this is a challenge now—they're no shemlen, no lowlanders. They're staying outside, snow be damned.
Despite her attempt to warm herself up, her hand is still cold when Astrid touches him. Not unbearably so, though, and even as he hisses from the chill his hips rock into her grip, not away from it. Talin has always been expressive, vocal in his pleasure, even in an aravel in the middle of camp, and that's changed very little even now: Astrid twists her wrist and he sighs; she adjusts her pace and he groans low in the back of his throat, teaching her what he likes. His un-self-conscious noises only end up muffled when he ducks his head to set his teeth to the curve of her breast, gentle for now as he lifts his eyes to check if she likes it.
A lock of dark hair falls artfully into his eyes, his lashes flutter appealingly, and at the corner of his mouth where it sits poised on her tit, a smirk curls. He's very aware of how attractive he is, and he's pleased to be in a position to be admired for it.
“Back inside? Never,” Astrid insists, because it’s a challenge now, a dare, and she’s not going to back down from it and the chance to prove herself as belonging out here in the wilderness. No matter the rough bark, the air crisp and cold and even cooler whenever his mouth moves away, his saliva cooling on her skin.
One hand down his trousers, her other maps the edge of Talin’s sharp-cut cheekbones. The artful way he flutters his eyes makes her laugh, thumb against the corner of his lips, her fingertips combing his hair back. Still: she likes it very much.
“Do you pose like this for all the men and women?” she teases. Another slow drag of her hand, thumb rolling over the head of his cock.
His smirk turns to a real smile, pressed pleased against her skin. They're so much the same, he and Astrid, or they would have been—brash and stubborn and confident to a fault. It makes her beautiful to him, more than her high cheekbones or her lithe body, that window she gives into a world where things are so much less complicated. She touches him, and he leans into it, chasing the simple pleasure, makes a point to give it back, to give it first, give it good—
They do, eventually, end up in the tent. Susceptible as they both are to a dare, neither of them wants to wind up with frostbite on their nethers—at least, neither of them wants to explain how it happened to the healer. One round is enough to prove the point that neither of them is a fragile, delicate lowlander, anyway; anything else can be done in the comfortof the heated tent, pride satisfied, point proven.
In the end, Astrid isn't the only one who's forgotten how this started.
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😈
It occurs to him, vaguely, as she brushes snow off his shoulder, that it might be rude to use such a word when he has a human in his arms like this—but he dismisses the thought just as easily. Astrid isn't shemlen, she's just human. She has nothing more in common with vile Tevinter magisters or petty Orlesian nobles than the shape of her ears.
He can't help her with his laces, focused as he is on keeping both of them upright, and he laughs into her mouth the more she fumbles. She doesn't want to stop kissing, but he wants his laces undone, so despite her protests he leans away, allowing her space to actually see what she's doing. Only when she's finally successful and his trousers loosen around his hips does Talin lean back in, kissing over her jaw.
"Now you, come on. I want to see you."
His breath fogs against her skin, warmer than the air around them, as he speaks. The cold is biting, but not so terrible this is a bad idea—so long as they stay pressed together, stay moving. He rocks his hips against hers, heedless of making her job undressing them more difficult, pressing them together in a slow drag, a teasing taste of things to come
(her, if he does his job right.)
no subject
but he’s lucky, Astrid grew up in an isolated human settlement, so the word simply rolls off her as elvhen slang, vaguely derogatory, but she’s foul-mouthed herself and doesn’t mind.
“S’unfair, I’m gonna freeze my tits off,” Astrid announces, but she obligingly reaches for her shirt and hauls it off, tossing it aside to hang off a nearby branch, not minding the tree against her bare back. Her movements are quick, business-like, with no calculated seduction or artful arch of her spine.
But now that she’s half-naked in his arms, Talin can see that the woman is skinny from a lifetime of hunger but lean with functional muscle. It’s cold enough outdoors that her skin’s already pebbling and her nipples hard, from the chill and desire alike. She knows how this goes: she slides both of her hands under his shirt to warm them up a bit first, her palms drinking in the heat radiating off his taut stomach; before she dips her hand into his unlaced and loosened trousers, fingers curling around his cock, giving it an experimental stroke.
no subject
Despite her attempt to warm herself up, her hand is still cold when Astrid touches him. Not unbearably so, though, and even as he hisses from the chill his hips rock into her grip, not away from it. Talin has always been expressive, vocal in his pleasure, even in an aravel in the middle of camp, and that's changed very little even now: Astrid twists her wrist and he sighs; she adjusts her pace and he groans low in the back of his throat, teaching her what he likes. His un-self-conscious noises only end up muffled when he ducks his head to set his teeth to the curve of her breast, gentle for now as he lifts his eyes to check if she likes it.
A lock of dark hair falls artfully into his eyes, his lashes flutter appealingly, and at the corner of his mouth where it sits poised on her tit, a smirk curls. He's very aware of how attractive he is, and he's pleased to be in a position to be admired for it.
(But only by a select few.)
no subject
One hand down his trousers, her other maps the edge of Talin’s sharp-cut cheekbones. The artful way he flutters his eyes makes her laugh, thumb against the corner of his lips, her fingertips combing his hair back. Still: she likes it very much.
“Do you pose like this for all the men and women?” she teases. Another slow drag of her hand, thumb rolling over the head of his cock.
no subject
They do, eventually, end up in the tent. Susceptible as they both are to a dare, neither of them wants to wind up with frostbite on their nethers—at least, neither of them wants to explain how it happened to the healer. One round is enough to prove the point that neither of them is a fragile, delicate lowlander, anyway; anything else can be done in the comfortof the heated tent, pride satisfied, point proven.
In the end, Astrid isn't the only one who's forgotten how this started.
🎀 already a great closer imo