[Where Estinien growls, Aymeric hums his pleasure. Even the barest of contact, through fabric though it may be, feels good. He bows his body closer, pressing against the other man with a low noise in his throat. He can only hope the racket encourages him, spurs those hands to travel perhaps lower, or to duck under fabric, even if he won't give the command to do so outright.
He is, after all, distracted by more pressing matters. He presses his teeth against delicate skin, then suckles against the skin to draw the blood upward. He may not consider himself greedy, or possessive by any stretch of the imagination, but there is still something exhilarating about seeing his own claim against Estinien's skin.]
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He is, after all, distracted by more pressing matters. He presses his teeth against delicate skin, then suckles against the skin to draw the blood upward. He may not consider himself greedy, or possessive by any stretch of the imagination, but there is still something exhilarating about seeing his own claim against Estinien's skin.]