[Gods, Astarion's sensitivity to that never fails to amuse him. Call it the inverse of his own toothless bristling whenever Astarion teases him about his youth, perhaps— though Leto plays that card far less than his mate.]

Old man, [he affirms with a dazed grin, his lip throbbing from that teasing scrape. Or perhaps he's aching from that kiss, his body aching no matter how light a touch is bestowed upon it— or maybe he's just sore, so much so that anything and everything sets him off, aches in his joints as he has not felt since Thedas thundering with every pulse of his heart.

It doesn't matter. He'll get over it. He always has before.]

Centuries older than me, is that not correct . . .? O-or is that only true when you want to score a cheap point?

[And then, as he gives up on dignity and burrows in close, snuggling as pitifully as Ataashi on a lonely day:]

Save your punishments for later, and cash in on them when I'm well.