[His scoff is the lightest brush across that shoulder underneath.]
About what happens to you? [About you.] Mmhm.
[He wants those fingers behind his ears. He wants the soft pull of them tucked under his curls— please— without playing into that he's sorry. That he was wrong. That he might not want to do better, but he wants to try. Good behavior the last thing allowed to sit beside him via choice if he's not getting anything out of it.
But like everything else, Astarion won't beg for it— he pushes.
Starting first through words. Then by shoving back against those teeth as they close in, ignoring the twitch of a bitten ear that flicks once— twice— one part whipping out of reach while the rest of him drives nearer in their sprawl: arching his back. Locking his legs a little more, and using his toes to push over thick sheets. A kind of angled drive that slants him into Fenris right down to the margins.
Which is as far as it all goes.
Considering the messy tangle of conflicted emotion they're otherwise burning through, he's not actually trying to incite a second (third?) bout; there's no skipping over the shaky midline of it all to get right back to the spot where they'd left off, despite the run of his own nature. Even his shirt hem stays put, surprisingly. Balled up somewhere between the corner of an angled thigh and pinched in the creasing merger of rough fabric, it's doing the hard, thankless work of keeping modesty intact.]
You already know you're the most interesting person I talk to, and....
[Oh, give him a second. He's thinking.]
....a fairly decent lay.
[Guilt and indemnity aside, once again: Astarion Ancunín's not laying it on thick unless he's being catered to first.]
no subject
About what happens to you? [About you.] Mmhm.
[He wants those fingers behind his ears. He wants the soft pull of them tucked under his curls— please— without playing into that he's sorry. That he was wrong. That he might not want to do better, but he wants to try. Good behavior the last thing allowed to sit beside him via choice if he's not getting anything out of it.
But like everything else, Astarion won't beg for it— he pushes.
Starting first through words. Then by shoving back against those teeth as they close in, ignoring the twitch of a bitten ear that flicks once— twice— one part whipping out of reach while the rest of him drives nearer in their sprawl: arching his back. Locking his legs a little more, and using his toes to push over thick sheets. A kind of angled drive that slants him into Fenris right down to the margins.
Which is as far as it all goes.
Considering the messy tangle of conflicted emotion they're otherwise burning through, he's not actually trying to incite a second (third?) bout; there's no skipping over the shaky midline of it all to get right back to the spot where they'd left off, despite the run of his own nature. Even his shirt hem stays put, surprisingly. Balled up somewhere between the corner of an angled thigh and pinched in the creasing merger of rough fabric, it's doing the hard, thankless work of keeping modesty intact.]
You already know you're the most interesting person I talk to, and....
[Oh, give him a second. He's thinking.]
....a fairly decent lay.
[Guilt and indemnity aside, once again: Astarion Ancunín's not laying it on thick unless he's being catered to first.]