Re: Roof: Damian/Misha
Chaste was not a word one would use to describe Damian's kiss. He used tongue, exploring as his lips were sucked, but he did manage to do so slowly, with a languor (likely due to how tired he was) that curbed his (now) usual impatience. This did not mean, however, that he wished to end the kiss, and he looked at Misha as they parted. Still mourning this, it took him a moment longer than it ought have to understand what it was that had served Misha his decision. He wiped at his lips with the back of his hand, even as close as they were. "No. It is fine. I am not exhausted by any means." He refused to have that choice made for him and the determined, stubborn lift of his chin said as much, even if his lean took away from that.
He peered sideways at Misha. He had not meant to insinuate that it was his humanity alone that the angel loved, but it seemed he had done just that. "I know it is me you love." He said this with what Father would have counted as arrogance, but he did smile, flecked with stolen gold. His fingers fell to the tulle and he touched along the edge of a frill. Curiously, he asked: "Do you think you have a type?" A phrase he was only recently become acquainted with in its many meanings.