As elves went Astarion's stamina could probably be considered on the low end, but he still operated on an entirely different baseline than humans did. He turned his head just so so that the light shining in from the window hit those white curls just-so as he pondered Thrawn's proposition.
Laid out on the bed as he was, curls messy, skin almost pearlescent in its luster, he liked to imagine he was a vision.
"Hm..."
He reached up to toy with Thrawn's hair as he pondered, long fingers curling strands of blue-black hair around them, "Might I recommend letting me ride you instead? Eager as I'm sure you are to hold me down by my curls and rail me from behind, it's not fair to have you do all the work."
The scars on his back couldn't hurt him any more. They were just scars. Just memories. Cazador was dead. Astarion had made damn sure of that.
But he was having good enough of a time that he'd rather not have any questions should Thrawn turn out to be the type to ask them. Astarion hadn't ever seen those scars for himself- only knew their shape because someone else had been kind enough to draw them out for him. But scarification was a thing. A deliberate act for some, using a blade as their brush and their skin a canvas to carry their artwork.
And given his partner's art thing, Astarion would prefer avoiding any conversation about the scars he carried on his back by offering an alternative that would make the conversation a bit less likely to happen.
no subject
As elves went Astarion's stamina could probably be considered on the low end, but he still operated on an entirely different baseline than humans did. He turned his head just so so that the light shining in from the window hit those white curls just-so as he pondered Thrawn's proposition.
Laid out on the bed as he was, curls messy, skin almost pearlescent in its luster, he liked to imagine he was a vision.
"Hm..."
He reached up to toy with Thrawn's hair as he pondered, long fingers curling strands of blue-black hair around them, "Might I recommend letting me ride you instead? Eager as I'm sure you are to hold me down by my curls and rail me from behind, it's not fair to have you do all the work."
The scars on his back couldn't hurt him any more. They were just scars. Just memories. Cazador was dead. Astarion had made damn sure of that.
But he was having good enough of a time that he'd rather not have any questions should Thrawn turn out to be the type to ask them. Astarion hadn't ever seen those scars for himself- only knew their shape because someone else had been kind enough to draw them out for him. But scarification was a thing. A deliberate act for some, using a blade as their brush and their skin a canvas to carry their artwork.
And given his partner's art thing, Astarion would prefer avoiding any conversation about the scars he carried on his back by offering an alternative that would make the conversation a bit less likely to happen.