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@felself.bsky.social

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🔞 nsfw alt for writing and posing of my OCs, and nsfw reposts

The moment, today—Sylvien stood at his bench, and Beatin, observing, had stepped forward to correct his grip, at the exact moment that Sylvien had moved back to ask a question, and in their collision—front to back, Sylvien flush to his chest, hair brushing his lips—Beatin had reflexively grasped his hip to steady him. Only half a breath drawn with his nose against his temple, the barest whiff of pine and…lavender?—and yet his hand seems to recall the shape of his waist as it does his most-used tools, and though he had released him straight away— He can barely convince himself that he had, now, for his memory seems determined to embellish. To make him believe that his grip had tightened, that Sylvien had arched into him, that Beatin had wrapped his other arm around his chest and ducked his head against the lovely curve of his neck and— “Hells,” he mutters as the stirring low in his belly becomes impossible to ignore, and he sets aside his notes and stands, determined that a cold shower should remedy the problem.
Sylvien sitting on his knees on a bed, wearing nothing but an olive green cardigan, looking plaintively off to the side.
Sylvien in nothing but an olive green knit cardigan, sitting on a bed with Beatin, leaning contentedly back against his chest, while Beatin, shirtless, seems to murmur something in his ear and reach for the button. Sylvien also has a couple hickeys on his bare chest and neck.
notes screenshot; Lysander settles back to the bed, watching with a sleepy smile as Aymeric throws on a shirt and starts stepping into his trousers. "You know, I think I like it when you fuck me in a hurry before church," Lysander muses. Aymeric pauses, turning back to him with a surprised blink. "Really? I almost wondered if my haste bothered you." Lysander stretches before curling more deeply into the blankets now that the warmth of exertion has begun to fade. "No...perhaps if that were my *only* opportunity. As it is...there is something satisfying about it. In making you run off all touseled to your prayers, perhaps." Aymeric glances in the mirror on the vanity, then sighs and grabs a comb to hurriedly rake through his hair. Lysander's smile widens to a slight smirk.
Lysander returns to Limsa Lominsa thinking of two things. He is not thinking of the “Sharlayan lass,” whose marks confirmed the moniker but whose manner perplexed him, simultaneously a jarring reminder of the island he had left behind and an entirely unfamiliar presence. He is not thinking of the frenzied goobbue that had nearly taken his head off, dealt with easily enough but not without the creeping feeling that it would only add to the bizarre renown he had begun to accumulate since his arrival here. And he is not thinking— —or hearing, or feeling— No, he is thinking of two things, and one is the hefty tankard of Lominsan ale that has just been set in front of him, and the other is the prospect of sinking far enough down a Roegadyn’s cock that he cannot hear his own voice in his head any longer, let alone someone else’s.