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If This Isn't Nice, I Don't Know What Is

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You lay on the sheets. The drink is warm in your belly, and you feel a languid smile curl up on your face. Times like these were rare, you muse. There was always another customer, another reading, another journey. You chance a glimpse up at your teacher. There’s color in his cheeks and a soft smile on his face. His silver hair caught the lamplight so well. He leans on his left side, a hand on his cheek, as he absently plays with the strands of your dark hair. Your heart swells and the smile on your face only grows.

“What is it?”

You snap out of your musings. Asra’s looking at you with mirth in those lavender eyes. You feel color tinge your cheeks and look away. An embarrassed chuckle escapes your lips. “It’s nothing, Master,” you say, sitting up. The mirth slips from his eyes and Asra frowns. But you don’t see that. You busy yourself with pouring more honey mead into your glasses. You adopt a cheery expression as you pass him a glass. Then you see him. He’s sitting up now, his right arm draped over his knee, his face etched with concern. He takes the offered glass and replaces with his hand. He laces your fingers together.

“Talk to me,” he urged gently, “please.”

You stare at your joined hands, color rising in your face. It isn’t from the drink. You sigh. You feel silly, worrying him with your embarrassment, among other... feelings. He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. You inhale, steeling yourself. “It’s just,” you begin, “this is... nice.”

The smile returns to your teacher’s face. “Nice?”

You press your lips together to fight the self-conscious laughter. It’s hard to meet his eyes. You decide to talk to his hands instead. They were slender and graceful. The lips of his long fingers were calloused, but his palms were soft. He has both his hands clasped around yours now, gentle fingertips trailing small circles across your knuckles. “Yes,” you breathe, “nice.”

He hummed his assent. He turns your palm over his hands and traces the lines on your palm. Your skin prickles where he’s touched it, almost as if he’s leaving a trail of magic in his wake. Whatever it is, it pulls you closer to him. You don’t realize how close until you feel his breath caress your cheek. You look up, into his eyes. His pupils are blown and you feel his breath on your lips, your neck, your collar bone. His hand glides up your forearm. You gently press yours to his chest. You lean close, your eyes never leaving his mouth. You stop a hair’s breadth a way, breath ghosting on his lips.

He whispers your name like a prayer and you’re undone.

You crash your lips into his. His hands grip your waist. Yours find his shoulders. You climb into his lap, intent on bringing him closer, closer, closer. You’re flush against his chest now, but even that isn’t enough. You wrap your arms around his neck, hands coming to tangle in his hair. His have hiked up your shirt, fingers splayed against your warm skin. His mouth captures your bottom lip, nips at it with his teeth, and soothes the sting with his tongue. You moan into the kiss, granting his silent request. His tongue reaches out for yours as his arms circle your waist. His slender hands trail up your spine, exposing more skin to his touch. He breaks the kiss only to run his lips along your jaw, down your neck, across your collar bone. You bare yourself open to his ministrations, as he buries his face into your shoulder. You feel him mouth something into your skin. You’re so lost in a sea of desire, lost in him, that it takes a moment, or two, or three for you to register them as words.

“Say my name,” he pleads, over and over. His voice soft and hoarse. It lights a fire deep inside you. Your lips find the shell of his ear as you grant his request.

“Asra,” you whisper and he groans against your skin.

“Again,” he begs, “please.”

“Asra,” you feel him grip you tighter, “Asra,” you wind your hands around his waist, “Asra,” your hands press on his back, urging him closer, you need him closer, “Asra,” you feel his lips leave open-mouthed kisses along your skin, “Asra,” his hands wander down from your naked ribs to your hips, “Asra,” his fingers press into your skin, “Asra,” you gasp, as he kisses down the column of your throat, down across your collar to your chest, “Asra,” you plead, as he places the softest, gentlest kiss over your heart.

Your hands cradle his head, thumbs tracing the smooth line of his jaw. You lift him up to look at you. He gazes into your eyes with the most ardent affection. It steals your breath. Asra leans in to capture your lips, as if to return the air he stole from your lungs. He coaxes your lips apart, slowly, gently, always gently. Your hands fall to his neck, down to his chest. His hand is on your nape, fixing you in place. His kisses are insistent but tender. But each press of his lips only serves as kindling to the flames licking at your skin.

Your kisses shift from languid to urgent. You lean bodily into him, as your hands slip into his tunic. You feel him smile into your mouth as you try in vain to tug the garment off. His hands leave you and you’re embarrassed at the whimper that escapes your lips at the loss. But his mouth never leaves yours and you feel the smile shift into a smirk. Indignant, you pull away, to tell him to shut up, when he shrugs off the cloth. You’re dumbfounded as you’re greeted by his wiry arms. You feel more heat rising to your face as you stare and, to your utter mortification, Asra laughs.

“What is it,” you deadpan, defensive, arms crossing over your chest.

He reaches for you, still chuckling, his eyes closed in delight. His cheeks dimple and, you can’t help it, you melt into his touch. “Nothing, it’s just,” he whispers, pecking your cheek, “this is... nice.”

You press your lips together to keep the smile off your face at his mirrored words. He sounded so fond like that, his voice soft and warm. He presses his brow to yours in an embrace. You hum in contentment. He buries his face into your shoulder once more and breathes in your scent. You do the same. He smells as he always has; of cardamom and sandalwood; of magic. You card your fingers through his soft curls and he sighs. He's right, you muse, this is nice.