#armapin

Armand lay motionless on his bed for a few moments, propped rather comfortably by both his arms—crossed over each other in leisurely fashion—and the soft cottony pillows beneath them. The silk robe he wore, probably a gift from some foreign kingdom, draped over his form gracefully, giving a generous view of his amulet—and the chest it lay on, completing the image of a laid-back royal.

It wasn't an image that necessarily fit him, though a bit stuck up (not too dissimilar to his sister), the prince was far from lazy, but there was a sort of fun in being out of character in the privacy of one's personal space—or at least there was to Armand.

His mind drifted lazily from one event of the day to another, none of which particularly memorable. Bored of the day's memories, he began to think of older events. Even though it'd been quite the while, the several near-distructions of the Sadida Kingdom were still fresh to him. He lingered on the latest one; Ogrest. Of course, as always, the brotherhood of the tofu once again successfully saved the day, quelling the ogre permanently.

His right heel started to drum against the sheets in the way it usually did when he started to daydream about something uncomfortable, but couldn't exactly stop. His mind was on the iop, because of course it was.

Armand tried to distract himself with looking around the room, his heel thumping audibly, but it was rather the feeble attempt, considering he had been in the room a thousand times and knew every nook and cranny.

The prince desperately tried to drag his focus from Percedal, but it seems he was already too deep in to let go. He lay there, a faux prisoner, while his mind went over the knight's features with a passion he almost detested—it felt better to pretend that it wasn't all his own will.

The sadida sat up deliberately, leaning slightly against the pillows as he uselessly chided himself, like shame would somehow stop the act.

The iop's eyes had always been filled with a sort of passion. Even when one expected him to be completely down, it was still there, an ever prevalent shine. His face, perennially in a state of defiant courage. The prince wondered, would Sir Percedal keep that look, if they somehow ended up in bed? Or would it perhaps give way to a softer expression, one of uncharacteristic hesitance—a shyness that was almost (if not certainly) arousing?

Armand sighed—still a bit disappointed in himself—as he brought his hand to his mouth and covered it in spit. Reclining a bit further, he undid the fur belt of his robe hastily. He, of course, felt rather shameful for these small sessions, but he felt as if he could afford himself some pleasure now and then—it was an itch he just had to scratch, if even just occasionally.

A saliva slickened hand met his cock, and he groaned, staring up at the ceiling.

Pace slow, he started praising the rest of Percedal's features. The prince admired his memory's recollection of the knight—the long ears that twitched when he was embarrassed, the visible muscle, refined from years of fights and adventuring.

Of course, it wasn't long before the mental imagery got more amorous. Armand found himself lingering on the iop's hips, which just barely escaped being covered by his pants.

He slid his thumb down the head of his dick, imagining for a second that in its stead were the lips of Percedal—which sent a welcome shock of pleasure up his spine. Picking up speed, he went for something more explicit. Percedal, drunk on pleasure, nipples already perked, bobbing to some erotic rhythm as he bounced on the prince's cock. The thought of bringing the iop to climax—hearing him cry his name, watching him twitch and whimper in the aftershocks, melting into his arms—pushed him to edge.