[Zoro may be the picture of stoicism, but it makes Vrenille laugh--free and warm and untroubled in that way people can be when they've made an art of not taking themselves (or sex) too seriously. He's not even trying to hold it in.]
Yeah, I'd say the chances of that are low.
[He moves his phone on its tripod to the mattress, positioning it so that it should keep him well in shot, and then without another word or the slightest hesitation, he strips off his shirt and pulls on the blindfold. When he lies down, again on his side, the camera captures him from just below his eyes to about mid-thigh, the soft material of his track pants showing a hint of contours, but not too much. The frame centres muscles and smooth skin with no major scars, a light dusting of hair below his navel. He can't see how he looks though--he has to trust his eyes to Zoro.]
You're gonna have to tell me if the view's all right.
[That laugh earns a faint twitch at the corner of Zoro's lips. It stirs a memory - an echo from a time before the city swallowed him whole, when his world stretched beyond the crow's nest, and the company he kept was warm and easy.
Zoro watches as he adjusts the camera. Vrenille's physical appeal is undeniable, much like the Marine man before him. His build speaks of someone who keeps himself in shape. But the absence of scars leaves his combat experience, if any, a mystery.
As he secures the blindfold, Zoro shifts on the cot, a subtle release of tension seeping from his own muscles. When he speaks, his words are low and quiet, giving no hint of his internal evaluation.]
[Vrenille is starting to learn how in Zoro-speak 'No issues here' could just as well be a glowing endorsement as ambivalence or apathy, and without the benefit of sight, he has even less basis to gauge which it is. He chooses to hear it, therefore, a bit like the classic comeback to 'How's your head?' ('No complaints.') And he'll take that, ambiguous ironic understatement and all.
So that only leaves him to get started, and at this point a lot of people might balk or equivocate with nervous laughter and embarrassment. Vrenille just runs his fingertips along his midline, from his clavicle down to the centre of his chest and back again, a relaxed opening on self-stimulation.]
Good. So I thought, I'll just show you what I like to do--tell you. And you can--[His fingers trail lower, to his navel and the top of his waistband]--join me.
[Zoro can't help but track Vrenille's movements, his gaze tracing the confident lines of his body. Even blindfolded, Vrenille exudes an unshakeable certainty. Other men in Zoro's position might feel overwhelmed, his own experience dwarfed by Vrenille's. But a familiar calm washes over him as he mirrors the other man's posture, settling deeper into the cot.
His gaze snags on the dip of Vrenille's navel. A low hum leaves his throat, a sound that hangs in the air, open to interpretation. This may be a game, a dance matched to Vrenille's rhythm, but for now, Zoro lets himself be led.
You're 'bout to be in your own. [It's a playful purr of a drawl right back, Vrenille's hand sliding down over the front of his track pants, fingers playing against himself.]
Start rubbing yourself through your pants, just easy, slow. Not in any rush. Let your body relax.
[The fabric stretches a little beneath his fingers, the view of an outline just fleetingly, only semi-hard. He adjusts himself and the material around him as he hardens, and it's probably obvious he's got no underwear on beneath, especially when he pauses to trail his fingers back up.]
Touch your nipples. Could be through your shirt, or maybe you wanna slide your hand inside, touch your skin like I'm doing. But don't pinch or pull 'em. Just slow, gentle.
[With one hand he touches his own, forefinger tracing carefully around the nub of skin, a light friction that tugs and rolls beneath his fingertip. And then, languid touch running the span of his chest, he teases that same touch against the other.
A little sigh of pleasure, and his cock throbs, untouched, a visible pulse that lift the fabric of his pants for a moment as he hardens further.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Yeah, I'd say the chances of that are low.
[He moves his phone on its tripod to the mattress, positioning it so that it should keep him well in shot, and then without another word or the slightest hesitation, he strips off his shirt and pulls on the blindfold. When he lies down, again on his side, the camera captures him from just below his eyes to about mid-thigh, the soft material of his track pants showing a hint of contours, but not too much. The frame centres muscles and smooth skin with no major scars, a light dusting of hair below his navel. He can't see how he looks though--he has to trust his eyes to Zoro.]
You're gonna have to tell me if the view's all right.
no subject
Zoro watches as he adjusts the camera. Vrenille's physical appeal is undeniable, much like the Marine man before him. His build speaks of someone who keeps himself in shape. But the absence of scars leaves his combat experience, if any, a mystery.
As he secures the blindfold, Zoro shifts on the cot, a subtle release of tension seeping from his own muscles. When he speaks, his words are low and quiet, giving no hint of his internal evaluation.]
No issues here.
no subject
So that only leaves him to get started, and at this point a lot of people might balk or equivocate with nervous laughter and embarrassment. Vrenille just runs his fingertips along his midline, from his clavicle down to the centre of his chest and back again, a relaxed opening on self-stimulation.]
Good. So I thought, I'll just show you what I like to do--tell you. And you can--[His fingers trail lower, to his navel and the top of his waistband]--join me.
no subject
His gaze snags on the dip of Vrenille's navel. A low hum leaves his throat, a sound that hangs in the air, open to interpretation. This may be a game, a dance matched to Vrenille's rhythm, but for now, Zoro lets himself be led.
The leash, after all, isn't one-sided.
Words unhurried, he drawls:]
... Alright, then. Show me what you've got.
I'm in your hands.
no subject
Start rubbing yourself through your pants, just easy, slow. Not in any rush. Let your body relax.
[The fabric stretches a little beneath his fingers, the view of an outline just fleetingly, only semi-hard. He adjusts himself and the material around him as he hardens, and it's probably obvious he's got no underwear on beneath, especially when he pauses to trail his fingers back up.]
Touch your nipples. Could be through your shirt, or maybe you wanna slide your hand inside, touch your skin like I'm doing. But don't pinch or pull 'em. Just slow, gentle.
[With one hand he touches his own, forefinger tracing carefully around the nub of skin, a light friction that tugs and rolls beneath his fingertip. And then, languid touch running the span of his chest, he teases that same touch against the other.
A little sigh of pleasure, and his cock throbs, untouched, a visible pulse that lift the fabric of his pants for a moment as he hardens further.]