[Everything and not-enough are unwitting coactees under the calloused press of Fenris' palm spread heavy along the back of his neck. Stills something defiant (and confused) in him that feels oilier than nausea and far more restless in his lap, nearly squirming despite himself— shifting by unmonitored inches. It means he's a mess for throughput, following every instruction as best he can about a second after he's directed (he's meant to listen to his bodyguard, wasn't that the deal?) his formerly emboldened hands slid down to rest on stronger shoulders—
—when did Fenris get so bloody strong? It can't have been when he got taller; he'd been a beanstalk then, still wiry and looking even more starved than ever despite eating Zevlor out of house and relative home. But now there's heat and plusher strength, not just bone. All of it tangible through slightly sweatsoaked cloth.
(Is this how it'll be with everyone? Oddly inviting. Addictive. Blinding.
....he could get used to that.)
When the kiss breaks, it's only through the give of that same guiding palm. Fingerprints still burning like a phantom weight along his skin.]
....I'm supposed to compliment you.
[Astarion says, his tone a bottled mess of dumbstruck numbness and distraction. Something of Elise still catches in the back of his mind like bitter flint, but it can't break the surface of this moment, either: his words blow back at him through what proximity affords, and it intertwines his voice with Fenris' breathing.
His hands are on those shoulders. He hasn't moved at all in the aftermath.]
no subject
—when did Fenris get so bloody strong? It can't have been when he got taller; he'd been a beanstalk then, still wiry and looking even more starved than ever despite eating Zevlor out of house and relative home. But now there's heat and plusher strength, not just bone. All of it tangible through slightly sweatsoaked cloth.
(Is this how it'll be with everyone? Oddly inviting. Addictive. Blinding.
....he could get used to that.)
When the kiss breaks, it's only through the give of that same guiding palm. Fingerprints still burning like a phantom weight along his skin.]
....I'm supposed to compliment you.
[Astarion says, his tone a bottled mess of dumbstruck numbness and distraction. Something of Elise still catches in the back of his mind like bitter flint, but it can't break the surface of this moment, either: his words blow back at him through what proximity affords, and it intertwines his voice with Fenris' breathing.
His hands are on those shoulders. He hasn't moved at all in the aftermath.]