[There's a long moment where he stares (so stupidly) at Astarion as his mind frantically rifles through old memories, hunting for a hint of an inside joke or a line from a play. The moon must be jealous, the words almost nonsensical for how hard he tries to understand him, and it takes him far, far too long to realize it's a compliment.]
Oh! I— aha, yeah. Um. You too.
[Oh gods. Oh gods oh gods oh gods oh gods oh gods, the words building into a shrieking mantra in the back of his mind. He's so aware of how he's suddenly sweating (does it show? white soaks up sweat so quickly; he doesn't dare check, but who would to fuck someone with growing sweatstains beneath their arms?). He's so aware of the fact his hair is still damp with cologne and water both, flat and decidedly pathetic looking. He's so godsdamned aware of how stupid his body is, all knobby knees and skinny frame, not nearly the muscle-bound creature he wants to be right now. He wants to sweep Astarion up in his arms; he wants to lift him up and— and— well, he doesn't quite know what just yet, but something, for he's seen others fuck that way. He wants to hear that familiar gasp take on a new form; he wants to see the excitement glittering in Astarion's eyes, awe and delight and adoration glimmering there (who could ever compare, who could ever be as good as you, I don't like any of them half as much as I love you, and he is a jealous soul even now, knowing what the future will hold).
And all he can think of is how inexperienced he is. There's a vast gaping chasm between his fantasies and how he's sitting right now, and for the life of him, Fenris has no idea how to bridge it. Every word feels clumsier than the last, every motion somehow the wrong one . . . gods, he should have spent more time paying attention to the courtesans, but it's too late now.]
It's, um. It's new, yeah. The scent. Or— not new. Kanan got it for me last year. So.
[With every word he can feel himself withering into smaller and smaller pieces. Sooner or later he's bound to just fold beneath the weight of agonized self-consciousness and burst into incredibly embarrassed flames.]
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illithidnapped) wrote2025-05-31 06:45 pm
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[There's a long moment where he stares (so stupidly) at Astarion as his mind frantically rifles through old memories, hunting for a hint of an inside joke or a line from a play. The moon must be jealous, the words almost nonsensical for how hard he tries to understand him, and it takes him far, far too long to realize it's a compliment.]
Oh! I— aha, yeah. Um. You too.
[Oh gods. Oh gods oh gods oh gods oh gods oh gods, the words building into a shrieking mantra in the back of his mind. He's so aware of how he's suddenly sweating (does it show? white soaks up sweat so quickly; he doesn't dare check, but who would to fuck someone with growing sweatstains beneath their arms?). He's so aware of the fact his hair is still damp with cologne and water both, flat and decidedly pathetic looking. He's so godsdamned aware of how stupid his body is, all knobby knees and skinny frame, not nearly the muscle-bound creature he wants to be right now. He wants to sweep Astarion up in his arms; he wants to lift him up and— and— well, he doesn't quite know what just yet, but something, for he's seen others fuck that way. He wants to hear that familiar gasp take on a new form; he wants to see the excitement glittering in Astarion's eyes, awe and delight and adoration glimmering there (who could ever compare, who could ever be as good as you, I don't like any of them half as much as I love you, and he is a jealous soul even now, knowing what the future will hold).
And all he can think of is how inexperienced he is. There's a vast gaping chasm between his fantasies and how he's sitting right now, and for the life of him, Fenris has no idea how to bridge it. Every word feels clumsier than the last, every motion somehow the wrong one . . . gods, he should have spent more time paying attention to the courtesans, but it's too late now.]
It's, um. It's new, yeah. The scent. Or— not new. Kanan got it for me last year. So.
[With every word he can feel himself withering into smaller and smaller pieces. Sooner or later he's bound to just fold beneath the weight of agonized self-consciousness and burst into incredibly embarrassed flames.]