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If there's one thing Lunais just can't bring himself to care about, it's the specifics of trade routes and political dalliances of ancient Allag. The discussion presently underway at the Scions' Last Stand table has long since become background noise — partly for reasons of Lunais' lack of expertise on and interest in the matter, and partly due to the fact that his libido seems to have decided that here and now is an acceptable place and time to send whatever blood his body is able to spare to his nethers, for no apparent reason at all.
He can't very well excuse himself whilst Alphinaud and G'raha passionately rant on about... whatever it is they're ranting on about, and the minutes trickle by at an increasingly agonizing pace. Lunais barely even dares adjust himself in his seat. The way his stiff cock — trapped where it is — already pulses and throbs at the mere pressure the fly and seams of his pants provide, does not lend itself to any kind of unnecessary movement.
Feeling a tad feverish, he lets his gaze drift out to Sharlayan's harbor, clinging to anything and everything that might serve to distract. The docks, normally bustling with dockworkers, gleaners, and officials of all sorts, are dishearteningly quiet at this late hour of day.
Perhaps he should tune back in to the conversation. It might do well enough to bore his erection into surrender.
It is then that Alisaie sets in motion what he's been too polite — and rather too preoccupied — to do. Surely, further research into airship technology might have done something or other to optimize the Allagans' exorbitant revenue streams, she states, but that's honestly all the same to her, she's headed to bed.
Perhaps, had Lunais not been quite so focused on staving off the rampant need burning through his veins, he might have been impressed at how quickly their little party dissolves after that. Alisaie is quickly followed by Y’shtola and Krile, as well as Thancred and Urianger, which ultimately leaves only him with the two caught up in their debate.
Though he is loath to be the one to get up first, what with concealing the ridiculous bulge he's sporting proving something of a challenge, there is no sign of a lull in their enthusiasm to carry on the discussion. And so, Lunais resolves to approach the issue with a flavor of grim determination similar to what he would normally reserve for taking down primals, sorcerers of eld, or cosmic horrors. He somewhat brusquely bids the men goodnight, barely gritting his teeth, and does not register the bewilderment on their faces as he not-too-hastily makes his way past the Last Stand.
Each step Lunais takes causes the fabric of his pants to rub against his cock in a manner that makes his breath catch and fireworks spark behind his eyes, and it very quickly dawns on him that he isn't going to make it back to the Annex like this. And because desperate times call for desperate measures, he — instead of returning to his room and taking himself in hand there — changes course and lets his feet carry him towards the reasonably secluded area behind the gleaners' guildship.
By the time he finds shelter between crates and Sharlayan's rather uninviting white stonework, there is naught on his mind but the overwhelming need to come. One final glance around the corner of his hiding place confirms he is alone — unsurprisingly so, although the mere possibility of an unassuming gleaner catching a glimpse of him here, flushed and beyond desperate for release, sends a new, red-hot wave of desire through his system.
With his back to the stone wall, Lunais fumbles with the fastenings of his pants, mind blank and fingers clumsy with arousal. A rare curse escapes him and trails off into a whimper, his breath a white puff in the cold air. He's so close, he needs to– he just needs–
Finally, his belt budges. Button and fly follow suit, and Lunais wastes not a second longer hooking a thumb into the waistband and shoving the offending fabric out of the way. His cock springs free from its torturous confines. Yet, what he hasn't taken into account is the sweet, sweet friction the motion causes, nor the chill of the air that now caresses his tender flesh.
Lunais sinks heavily against the wall, fighting to regain control over his faculties, but the battle is already lost. A low moan falls from his lips, his back arches as he feels the tell-tale sensation of his balls tightening, and–
He finishes with a narrowly suppressed groan, cock twitching helplessly with every spurt of come that hits the ground at his feet, despite him not having touched himself at all. After spending over a bell staving off his urge to reach it, the high brings an indescribable relief.
The aftermath of his orgasm leaves Lunais' muscles trembling and twitching with aftershocks. He sighs, contented, his breath a billowing cloud before him. But the thrill of knowing he could have been found out or discovered at any point doesn't quite seem to let him go, only serves to stoke the embers of his desire until they flame with greed.
When he tucks himself back into his clothes, Lunais concludes that this was but a prelude. Once he returns to the Annex, he will rid himself of his clothing, he will keep pleasuring himself until the persistent undercurrent of arousal in his blood has dissipated, put himself entirely at his insatiable body's mercy, and savor every moment of it.