[As intelligent answers go, it isn't worth much, but at least it's honest. He needs to give a better one, he knows, but his mind keeps flitting towards little things, like the way Astarion's freckles look when his cheeks are lit up by such a pretty flush. The way his lips have gone swollen and red in a way Fenris has never seen, and the glimmer of saliva still lingering there— gods, he likes looking at his mouth. He wants to kiss him again, he realizes: dart up and catch him another hungry kiss, and another, biting at that bottom lip until he can earn another needy little whine—
Focus.
His eyes dart up guiltily as he tries to think. What is he asking? Oh, Elise . . . no, not Elise. Who cares about Elise? What can I do better, that's the real question here, and Fenris frowns softly as he tries to think.]
But . . . try this . . .
[One hand stays on Astarion's waist while the other lifts, cupping one cheek. Gently he tips his head just a touch, drawing him in as he fits their mouths together. Against his lips, then:]
Slower. F-follow my rhythm . . . don't try and lead.
[And ignore the way he stuttered just a little. Wasn't this how it went last time? He'd been so desperately hungry, fervently trying to take take take, right up until Elise had scolded him with a little bite. Settle down, she'd taught him. Let me be the one to show you the way, and he's almost sure that's what it meant.]
That, uh, that goes for tongues, too.
[He thinks. He's flying blindly and stammering all the while. There's a dull flush building beneath tanned skin, harder to spot but no less luminous than Astarion's own.]
Let, let me lead the way. I'll— in your mouth. Not mine. Just . . .
[Oh, to hell with it. It's easier to show than tell, and he tips his head, catching Astarion in a kiss. He means to start slow, but nerves make him go just a little too fast, clumsily opening his mouth just a little too wide— but it's the rhythm he knows best. The coaxing little dance of pushes and pulls that move in time with the thundering of his heart, drawing Astarion in as much as the hand he wraps around the back of his neck, urging him in closer— to melt against him and settle those rigid muscles.]
no subject
[As intelligent answers go, it isn't worth much, but at least it's honest. He needs to give a better one, he knows, but his mind keeps flitting towards little things, like the way Astarion's freckles look when his cheeks are lit up by such a pretty flush. The way his lips have gone swollen and red in a way Fenris has never seen, and the glimmer of saliva still lingering there— gods, he likes looking at his mouth. He wants to kiss him again, he realizes: dart up and catch him another hungry kiss, and another, biting at that bottom lip until he can earn another needy little whine—
Focus.
His eyes dart up guiltily as he tries to think. What is he asking? Oh, Elise . . . no, not Elise. Who cares about Elise? What can I do better, that's the real question here, and Fenris frowns softly as he tries to think.]
But . . . try this . . .
[One hand stays on Astarion's waist while the other lifts, cupping one cheek. Gently he tips his head just a touch, drawing him in as he fits their mouths together. Against his lips, then:]
Slower. F-follow my rhythm . . . don't try and lead.
[And ignore the way he stuttered just a little. Wasn't this how it went last time? He'd been so desperately hungry, fervently trying to take take take, right up until Elise had scolded him with a little bite. Settle down, she'd taught him. Let me be the one to show you the way, and he's almost sure that's what it meant.]
That, uh, that goes for tongues, too.
[He thinks. He's flying blindly and stammering all the while. There's a dull flush building beneath tanned skin, harder to spot but no less luminous than Astarion's own.]
Let, let me lead the way. I'll— in your mouth. Not mine. Just . . .
[Oh, to hell with it. It's easier to show than tell, and he tips his head, catching Astarion in a kiss. He means to start slow, but nerves make him go just a little too fast, clumsily opening his mouth just a little too wide— but it's the rhythm he knows best. The coaxing little dance of pushes and pulls that move in time with the thundering of his heart, drawing Astarion in as much as the hand he wraps around the back of his neck, urging him in closer— to melt against him and settle those rigid muscles.]