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“What?” You’re currently in Vasili’s tent, he’d asked you for help rotating some of his inventory. You’d just finished when he sprang the question. It’s not the strangest thing you’ve been asked but it still surprises you.
“Can I draw you? Dragonborns aren’t common in Barovia and there’s sparse literature for me to—“ he rambles on and you’re somewhat listening. Well, no, you’re not actually listening, not to the words at least. You’ve filtered out everything but the sound and cadence of his voice. You stand there, content to blankly stare at him. He must’ve noticed something, or maybe you missed a dialogue cue, because he’s fidgeting and doing that thing with his eyes where they wander aimlessly. You focus back into the conversation to find that his rambling has taken a turn for the defensive. The more you stay quiet, the more the excuses pile up. It’s purely scientific. Just for anatomical study. It’s not necessary but helpful. He’ll share his notes in case you need a doctor. It won’t even take long—
“Okay.”
His eyes meet yours and you hope you don’t look threatening. “…Okay?” He sounds small and cautiously optimistic. It’s instantly endearing. If you had any reservations about doing this for him you can’t seem to find them.
“You can draw me,” you confirm.
He smiles and goes to fetch supplies from his pack. He doesn’t question your earlier silence, you wonder if it’s because he doesn’t want to push his luck. Is he under the impression that if he presses you’ll change your mind? As if being the center of his attention could ever be a hardship for you. As if you don’t covet every second he can spare you.
He returns with a scroll of paper, some loose sheets, charcoal, pieces of string, a ruler, and a couple of instruments you’re unfamiliar with. One of them looks like it could be used to measure, part of it is graduated but it’s in a weird “X” shape with points. There’s another that catches your eye and you’re at a complete loss as to what it is or does*.
“There might be some occasional touching involved for posing,” he tells you while he sets up.
Your eyes shift to his hands then back to the wood(?) thing. “That’s fine, what is that?”
“Mmm?” He follows your eyes to the instrument. “Oh, it’s a hollowed out piece of wood with a mineral— um, graphite, I believe it’s called— inside. Quite a useful drawing tool, it’s less messy than charcoal, and can do this…”
You watch him make a line on the paper with the thing then rub it with a soft piece of… wax? When he’s done the line was gone. “What the…?”You lean closer to inspect the page. “Magic?”
He smiles. “Not quite. I’ll show you how it works later. For now, let’s begin.” He’s giddy, and so are you. You like the sound of later, the promise of more. You make no fuss at being directed to pose precisely how he wants.
It’s a simple task mimicking a statue. You don’t notice the time passing with your eyes enthralled by his hands while he works. They move in confident practiced arcs, long dexterous fingers threaded in string and smudged in shades of grey. They’re so lovely. Your tongue itches where it rests behind your teeth, you want to know how the charcoal tastes on his skin. You want to learn the shape of them pressing down on your tongue and flirting along your sharp teeth. You want to bite down into the meat of him.
No. No, that’s not polite. Not civil.
You swallow the excess spit that’s built up in your mouth and feel yourself heat up. You need to stop before this escalates, before you turn his innocent request into something violent and obscene. It takes all of your willpower to tear your eyes from his hands. You settle on his face. You’re relieved to find that he hasn’t noticed your staring. His brows are furrowed and his expression is severe in its focus. Steel grey eyes are boring into you with such intensity you fear his gaze might cut through your scales. You feel trapped, pinned like an insect under the weight of his observation. The heat travels down and pools between your legs.
This is so much worse.
It’s easier this time to avert your eyes, to look at anything but him, yet the intensity remains. You can still feel his gaze nearly as tangible as touch and the movements in your periphery lure you back to those hands. They’re filthier now— you want them sullied with something else. Your mind fills with images of charcoal stained hands leaving black streaks on your scales as they prod, and tease, and stroke. Warm hands at your belt, then lower, snaking into your pants, brushing against your slit, slipping inside and coaxing you out—
You let out a small jet of fire on a sharp exhale and he freezes. You silently pray to whichever god hasn’t yet forsaken you to strike you down.
“Is everything alright?” He looks at you concerned. He’s so sweet, if only he knew what your thoughts had wandered to. You can’t help but feel guilty, he’d done nothing but ask a benign favor of you and you’d taken it as an opportunity to objectivity him.
“Fine. I’m fine.” Your voice sounds off and you pray he doesn’t ask why. “Just some stiff joints.” A lie.
“Oh, I apologize. Lost track of time, maybe we should break?” No, you’re the one who should be apologizing. You’re in the wrong here.
“A break sounds great, actually.” You stand and do your best to ignore the slick discomfort between your legs. You’re thankful human senses are as poor as they are, you would not live down the shame and embarrassment if he knew you’d gotten this worked up over nothing.
You flee his tent like wolves are on your tail.