Spoken like a true Baldurian who cannot handle the least bit of flavor. But you will learn. I will start you on the spices we use for children and go from there.
[Their noses and foreheads bump together over and over in something a little rougher than a nuzzle. It's a soothing motion, assuring for reasons that Fenris cannot quite place; he tips his head forward, chasing after Astarion each time, delighted by the heat of the pale elf's breath against his lips.
It's a different sort of delight to feel Astarion's hips rock sedately against his own. It isn't deliberate so much as the natural result of pressing together, but oh, he can't help but notice it. And yet— mmph, and though he doesn't go stiff with discomfort, still, he doesn't rock back just yet. Forty-five still lingers in the forefront of his mind, appalling and scandalous, not helped by his own teasing jokes about age. And it's not that it's a dealbreaker— clearly it's not, for he sets a heavy hand against the small of Astarion's back in implicit encouragement. But gods, it does linger. And he's going to have to figure out a way to make his peace with it.
His other hand slips between them, catching Astarion's chin. Gently:]
You're forty-five.
[Not a shocked statement, but a soft emphasis now that the revelation has had time to settle in.]
Are you certain you wish to— to do anything with someone so much older?
[And he doesn't just mean sex. Anything, and slot in whatever word you like, romance, companionship, partner . . . there is a difference between them, and it will do no good to ignore it.]
no subject
[Their noses and foreheads bump together over and over in something a little rougher than a nuzzle. It's a soothing motion, assuring for reasons that Fenris cannot quite place; he tips his head forward, chasing after Astarion each time, delighted by the heat of the pale elf's breath against his lips.
It's a different sort of delight to feel Astarion's hips rock sedately against his own. It isn't deliberate so much as the natural result of pressing together, but oh, he can't help but notice it. And yet— mmph, and though he doesn't go stiff with discomfort, still, he doesn't rock back just yet. Forty-five still lingers in the forefront of his mind, appalling and scandalous, not helped by his own teasing jokes about age. And it's not that it's a dealbreaker— clearly it's not, for he sets a heavy hand against the small of Astarion's back in implicit encouragement. But gods, it does linger. And he's going to have to figure out a way to make his peace with it.
His other hand slips between them, catching Astarion's chin. Gently:]
You're forty-five.
[Not a shocked statement, but a soft emphasis now that the revelation has had time to settle in.]
Are you certain you wish to— to do anything with someone so much older?
[And he doesn't just mean sex. Anything, and slot in whatever word you like, romance, companionship, partner . . . there is a difference between them, and it will do no good to ignore it.]