See? Practically a child. [Snorts Astarion blithely, clinging to his lover in the seconds before his heels are swiftly swept off of the floor— warned by the electric crackle of coarse friction and taut fabric seconds ahead of the grind that sets in— the dizzy-sweet fire in his veins, bearing down and holding fast against even the suggestion of gravity. Against the grain of futile movements, locking hot beneath strong hands.]

—shit. [Is a gasp. A groan. A knifing measure of control when all he can do is squirm beneath that touch despite himself— bare the borders of his blunt teeth and cede his eyelids to their fluttering, content to melt into it all. To curl his toes inside their boots and rut across lean hips; submerged heat.

A blooming thickness that even peripheral awareness can't ignore. Could never want to. 

His spine strains to arch. To bring him closer, at least as nominally as movement will allow— broaching bare centimeters at best, straining to the limits of taut muscle under silk (every ripple of it catching at those fingers). Gods. Oh gods, darling, don't dare stop.]

You're— [ah] no better, you know.

Centuries older....and you're still panting at my heels like an unruly teenager, just like the rest of us. Salivating against a backstage wall for what you know you've won. [They both are, but hells, that only proves his point, doesn't it? Underscored in full by the angle of his lowered chin, his lidded eyes and spit-flocked lips, parted and wetter than his breath, and— ]

Or are you....stubbornly convincing yourself you're merely humoring my appetite with this?