[It takes all of Fenris' self-control not to roll his eyes.
Well— not really. He's not actually annoyed with Astarion for his little game, nor the sly way he's clearly enjoying himself. Nor does he particularly mind this group not instantly leaping to the most sordid conclusion (that part's rather nice, actually). It's just that his stomach is a pit of nerves leaping around, gnawing frantically on themselves as they multiply: what if this goes badly, what if someone overhears, what if it blows up in our faces, what if, what if, what if, and he wants it all to start so he can at least begin to perform damage control.
(Bitter thing that he is, he does not account for anything but the slimmest chance it might all go right).
Astarion reaches over him, his fingers ghosting against the curve of Fenris' hip as he reaches for the bottle— and it's not the reaction but lack thereof that finally makes the penny drop. Yousen first, observant thing that he is; his little oh of surprise alerts the others, and then it's like dominoes falling, one after the other. Surprise more than shock and glee more than than surprise, their eyes gleaming as they realize.
'You wretched little liar— did rut him, then!' Violet exclaims, and Fenris bites back his groan. Six sets of eyes swivel towards him, studying him intently; to his great surprise, it's an effort not to snap at them. He's only been with Astarion a few months now, but it's done more for him than he realized; time was he was effortless at suppressing his emotions, and he cannot decide if this is a good development or not. Something to ponder on later, perhaps.]
It is not rutting—
[Oh, but they're too eager to care. 'Of course it is,' Petras drawls, grinning around his cigarette. 'What else would it be?'
'When did this begin?' Dal asks, her eyes flicking from Astarion and Fenris and back again, a little frown furrowing her brow. 'And what exactly is this, anyway? If it isn't rutting . . .'
And oh, that does make them pay attention. Astarion's known for burning through his hired help, but it's new that he's decided to tell them all with the help present. Rarer still that the help is allowed to sprawl next to him, as casual and informal as if he too belongs there.
And the thing is: Fenris doesn't know. He doesn't know how he wants to define it; he knows even less what a good answer would be, given this pack. He glances over at Astarion, a silent prompt: you tell them.]
no subject
Well— not really. He's not actually annoyed with Astarion for his little game, nor the sly way he's clearly enjoying himself. Nor does he particularly mind this group not instantly leaping to the most sordid conclusion (that part's rather nice, actually). It's just that his stomach is a pit of nerves leaping around, gnawing frantically on themselves as they multiply: what if this goes badly, what if someone overhears, what if it blows up in our faces, what if, what if, what if, and he wants it all to start so he can at least begin to perform damage control.
(Bitter thing that he is, he does not account for anything but the slimmest chance it might all go right).
Astarion reaches over him, his fingers ghosting against the curve of Fenris' hip as he reaches for the bottle— and it's not the reaction but lack thereof that finally makes the penny drop. Yousen first, observant thing that he is; his little oh of surprise alerts the others, and then it's like dominoes falling, one after the other. Surprise more than shock and glee more than than surprise, their eyes gleaming as they realize.
'You wretched little liar— did rut him, then!' Violet exclaims, and Fenris bites back his groan. Six sets of eyes swivel towards him, studying him intently; to his great surprise, it's an effort not to snap at them. He's only been with Astarion a few months now, but it's done more for him than he realized; time was he was effortless at suppressing his emotions, and he cannot decide if this is a good development or not. Something to ponder on later, perhaps.]
It is not rutting—
[Oh, but they're too eager to care. 'Of course it is,' Petras drawls, grinning around his cigarette. 'What else would it be?'
'When did this begin?' Dal asks, her eyes flicking from Astarion and Fenris and back again, a little frown furrowing her brow. 'And what exactly is this, anyway? If it isn't rutting . . .'
And oh, that does make them pay attention. Astarion's known for burning through his hired help, but it's new that he's decided to tell them all with the help present. Rarer still that the help is allowed to sprawl next to him, as casual and informal as if he too belongs there.
And the thing is: Fenris doesn't know. He doesn't know how he wants to define it; he knows even less what a good answer would be, given this pack. He glances over at Astarion, a silent prompt: you tell them.]