That press of fingers to his hip makes Estinien move in instinctively, lost right away in sensation again, more eager to taste than talk -- more eager to touch, but there's still all that blasted chain mail in the way. So, busy as he is with Aymeric's throat, and in no great rush to focus on anything else, Estinien's only reply is to laugh softly, a huff of sound, breathed hot against skin. He'd gotten the exact reaction he'd hoped for.
Still, his fingers move nimbly around buckles and laces -- ever diligently adept when set to a physical challenge. There isn't much room for thought in all that, but he does feel a great deal of fondness with each word Aymeric utters. Protest, then argument, then compliment. One and two and three. A bit like dancing.
Were he someone else, someone not consumed by vengeful rage, not wholly set on his war, Estinien would dance with Ser Aymeric. He is not someone else, though. And so, it is this.
Once he's finally undone the last of Aymeric's buckles, Estinien takes a half-step back, an expectant look on his face. "Glad as I am that you finally see the wisdom in my choice, I, myself, am now well past patience."
He starts shrugging off his own armor before the straps securing the chain mail are even entirely undone -- and he is surprisingly deft at it, chain mail, then tunic on the floor in a moment, then onto his boots. Estinien truly does give the impression of a man who spends his time training until he has only the energy left to clumsily undress and collapse into bed. But, he is not yet exhausted. There is ample energy left in him now.
"Have me." One boot off. On to the other. "In your bed."
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timeasmymeasure
Re: <3
Date: 2024-05-01 03:59 pm (UTC)Still, his fingers move nimbly around buckles and laces -- ever diligently adept when set to a physical challenge. There isn't much room for thought in all that, but he does feel a great deal of fondness with each word Aymeric utters. Protest, then argument, then compliment. One and two and three. A bit like dancing.
Were he someone else, someone not consumed by vengeful rage, not wholly set on his war, Estinien would dance with Ser Aymeric. He is not someone else, though. And so, it is this.
Once he's finally undone the last of Aymeric's buckles, Estinien takes a half-step back, an expectant look on his face. "Glad as I am that you finally see the wisdom in my choice, I, myself, am now well past patience."
He starts shrugging off his own armor before the straps securing the chain mail are even entirely undone -- and he is surprisingly deft at it, chain mail, then tunic on the floor in a moment, then onto his boots. Estinien truly does give the impression of a man who spends his time training until he has only the energy left to clumsily undress and collapse into bed. But, he is not yet exhausted. There is ample energy left in him now.
"Have me." One boot off. On to the other. "In your bed."