[He's focused on keeping up with every roll of Fenris' tongue— on the catch of his mouth and the subsequent closure of it around their kiss— humidity suffused against his skin, flooding through the spaces that they make with their intent. The friction of it. The measure of it. Half a step behind and clumsy under the influence of a dance he's never done, trying to recount its avidly imparted steps. In one moment, he's too aware of his rigidity (not the weight between his legs, but the stiffness in his spine)— the next, forcing himself to slacken, to roll, to arch, he remembers he's stopped working his tongue, his teeth. A note to himself obliterated in the next beat when those fingertips slip soft against his side, coaxing out a burst of dizzying sensation. Something that jolts in him. Kicks beneath his ribs and spurs him higher—
He jumps forwards by degrees into that touch.
Makes a sound, involuntary, reminiscent of a fevered whine as they wind up flat against the wall, his aching hands (too imbued with tension from balling them into fists) now fanned on either side of Fenris' head above his shoulders.
When he breaks away— severs the bond between their lips— he's panting. Slick-mouthed and red across his cheeks, the tender bow of his lips turned a spreading shade of matching pink. Blinking once. Blinking again, his eyes restless as they flit back and forth, unfixed. As if he doesn't know where to look. What to say.
(For once.)
And then, rekindled with the anxious curse of self-awareness, Astarion's eyebrows drop over his eyes, pinching in the middle.]
Well?
[His voice accusatory. Braced hard against the present, already radiating all necessary resolution.]
How was it?
Better than Elise?
[She's older. More experienced by a few years, so—
(So probably not. But maybe. And either way, he needs to know. Has to know.)]
no subject
He jumps forwards by degrees into that touch.
Makes a sound, involuntary, reminiscent of a fevered whine as they wind up flat against the wall, his aching hands (too imbued with tension from balling them into fists) now fanned on either side of Fenris' head above his shoulders.
When he breaks away— severs the bond between their lips— he's panting. Slick-mouthed and red across his cheeks, the tender bow of his lips turned a spreading shade of matching pink. Blinking once. Blinking again, his eyes restless as they flit back and forth, unfixed. As if he doesn't know where to look. What to say.
(For once.)
And then, rekindled with the anxious curse of self-awareness, Astarion's eyebrows drop over his eyes, pinching in the middle.]
Well?
[His voice accusatory. Braced hard against the present, already radiating all necessary resolution.]
How was it?
Better than Elise?
[She's older. More experienced by a few years, so—
(So probably not. But maybe. And either way, he needs to know. Has to know.)]