Though Maker knows it’s suitable turnabout for him conducting this whole conversation in the nude. Something he’ll have cause to regret (but oh, never really, never for this) if Simon goes on like that at any length, that voice like warm dark velvet against his skin, like a welcome touch at the base of his spine. It catches in his awareness, drags him to rapt and prayerful attention, suggests the sort of worship best conducted on one’s knees—
He takes the towel from off his shoulders, knotting it at his hips and not quite managing to make the whole thing look casual and unhurried. It won’t do much for his modesty if this goes any further. They should stop.
They should stop, but he isn’t ready to stop yet. “No one else has any more reason to be objective,” he replies with a grin. “We’re always seeing in other people what we find most or least attractive about them anyhow, and telling ourselves why we’re right or not to do it. Barring someone in the Inquisition knowing precisely what I like, I’d rather someone inclined kindly toward your good looks.”
Or Melys. There’s always Melys, and Simon’s remark on her assessment gets a laugh out of Myr, because: How exactly like the Fereldan—never let anyone get too comfortable. “Knowing her, that may as well be a seven and a half.”
He pauses then, reaches out to check how dry his blindfold’s gotten. Not quite enough. More softly, he goes on: “Though if you’re not opposed, I’d like to—to find out for myself.” Hands held up in illustration of just how he’d do that—and still he keeps his face turned away.
I need a proper shy icon.
Though Maker knows it’s suitable turnabout for him conducting this whole conversation in the nude. Something he’ll have cause to regret (but oh, never really, never for this) if Simon goes on like that at any length, that voice like warm dark velvet against his skin, like a welcome touch at the base of his spine. It catches in his awareness, drags him to rapt and prayerful attention, suggests the sort of worship best conducted on one’s knees—
He takes the towel from off his shoulders, knotting it at his hips and not quite managing to make the whole thing look casual and unhurried. It won’t do much for his modesty if this goes any further. They should stop.
They should stop, but he isn’t ready to stop yet. “No one else has any more reason to be objective,” he replies with a grin. “We’re always seeing in other people what we find most or least attractive about them anyhow, and telling ourselves why we’re right or not to do it. Barring someone in the Inquisition knowing precisely what I like, I’d rather someone inclined kindly toward your good looks.”
Or Melys. There’s always Melys, and Simon’s remark on her assessment gets a laugh out of Myr, because: How exactly like the Fereldan—never let anyone get too comfortable. “Knowing her, that may as well be a seven and a half.”
He pauses then, reaches out to check how dry his blindfold’s gotten. Not quite enough. More softly, he goes on: “Though if you’re not opposed, I’d like to—to find out for myself.” Hands held up in illustration of just how he’d do that—and still he keeps his face turned away.