Work Text:
Randy crickets humming in the grass, the heat of the day settling now. A cold tankard of ale at his side and a quiet wank in the sun.
He closes his eyes, trousers open, stroking himself with lazy pleasure. Thinking a moment on hands or mouths, pricks or pink parts, and then...
...on nothing more than the little gusts of the west wind tickling his skin.
Idle fantasies flit about on the breeze. Minerva for a moment. Snape, smirking. His spending's a slow, shallow thing: a shudder as he spills over his hand, moaning softly in relief.
He sighs.
Summer.