[He retorts it just as teasingly, an irresistible smile still tugging at his lips. He can't help it. It's rare he smiles for a prolonged time, even now (and that isn't a marker of happiness, just personal preference). But Astarion inspires it in him. The slow intimacy they've cultivated here; the sweet scent of smoke drifting through the air (and in the distance, one wolfish sneeze of protest before Ataashi settles again). The weight of Astarion atop him and all the world kept at bay . . . moments like these come rare enough, he has learned, and it is no bad thing to enjoy them while they last.
So: he tips his head up, lips parted in expectant demand for the push of a metal pipe. So: he inhales slowly and deeply, letting smoke fill his lungs and leave him pleasantly buzzed, drifting gently through dazed relief. So: he tips his head up, one arm reaching blindly behind him, a little clumsy in his desire to nuzzle or stroke whatever bits of Astarion he can reach. Hello, hello, silly and simple, until at last he settles down on the pillow, his cheek sinking against soft feathers.]
And you missed drugged me to lull me into a false sense of security when listing your misdeeds, amatus. Though you may have a hard time riding me if you're keeping me pinned on my stomach . . .
[He knows, or at least suspects, what Astarion is up to. It's not hard to guess, not when they've spoken of it before; not when his back feels so bare without twin fangmarks gleaming white just outside of his spine. But with anticipation brings tension, and though they play with pain so often, well. It's hard not to instinctively flinch if you know you're going to be hurt.
So better to play it like this: with soft-mouthed flirtations and a slow easing into it.]
Mph. Take that off. If I am to be shirtless, so should you. It's only fair.
[And maybe he's very fond of the way Astarion looks clad in pants and little else. Little matter he can only half-see him like this, it still counts.]
no subject
[He retorts it just as teasingly, an irresistible smile still tugging at his lips. He can't help it. It's rare he smiles for a prolonged time, even now (and that isn't a marker of happiness, just personal preference). But Astarion inspires it in him. The slow intimacy they've cultivated here; the sweet scent of smoke drifting through the air (and in the distance, one wolfish sneeze of protest before Ataashi settles again). The weight of Astarion atop him and all the world kept at bay . . . moments like these come rare enough, he has learned, and it is no bad thing to enjoy them while they last.
So: he tips his head up, lips parted in expectant demand for the push of a metal pipe. So: he inhales slowly and deeply, letting smoke fill his lungs and leave him pleasantly buzzed, drifting gently through dazed relief. So: he tips his head up, one arm reaching blindly behind him, a little clumsy in his desire to nuzzle or stroke whatever bits of Astarion he can reach. Hello, hello, silly and simple, until at last he settles down on the pillow, his cheek sinking against soft feathers.]
And you missed drugged me to lull me into a false sense of security when listing your misdeeds, amatus. Though you may have a hard time riding me if you're keeping me pinned on my stomach . . .
[He knows, or at least suspects, what Astarion is up to. It's not hard to guess, not when they've spoken of it before; not when his back feels so bare without twin fangmarks gleaming white just outside of his spine. But with anticipation brings tension, and though they play with pain so often, well. It's hard not to instinctively flinch if you know you're going to be hurt.
So better to play it like this: with soft-mouthed flirtations and a slow easing into it.]
Mph. Take that off. If I am to be shirtless, so should you. It's only fair.
[And maybe he's very fond of the way Astarion looks clad in pants and little else. Little matter he can only half-see him like this, it still counts.]