Post by Llewellyn Ludlow on Jul 6, 2016 23:07:44 GMT -5
When the portrait swung open Llewellyn first poked his head inside, scoping out the innards of the cozy dimly lit golden hour common room despite it being so late in the evening that surely everyone would be sleeping. The walk from the party to the common room had been short and filled with anxiety in which Llewellyn had fretted obsessively over whether or not the palm of his hand was too sweaty. Likewise, he cursed the magic that kept the stonework castle uncomfortably warm at all times (by his standards), catching small and shy glimpses of Edmund as the flustered impatience caused him to babble on relentlessly about some rad album he'd listened to earlier that week and the nuances of each track broken down by solos but the drums weren't really that great and stuff that the Eagle really did not give a shit about but entertained because he saw something in Llewellyn or, the more likely intention, because he just wanted to get laid.
What was important, however, was that Llewellyn filled the air because if he didn't then he would think and once he thought too much he was all the more likely to unravel. Just so long as he disguised the impending hysteria that had planted itself in his gut with passion and the charade of small talk then maybe Edmund wouldn't realize just how nervous and inexperienced the badger really was.
He really needed a handful of xanax and a blunt to the face but he wasn't about to air all his bad habits to someone that was practically a stranger despite the familiar appearance.
To be perfectly honest, he wasn't sure why he was being so cautionary as he pulled the other male into the empty room behind him. Apparently these days anyone could waltz their incredibly mediocre red and gold ass inside whatever common room they pleased and peacock around like they owned the place like some fucking entitled prince of Swedesfuckery or whatever and no one batted an eye.
But once the parameter had been secured (save for Chompa of course, but the massive tortoise minded his own business), he let go of his hand and turned to Edmund and opened his mouth but felt at a loss for words. Well, what now? Closing his mouth again he let a nervous laugh bubble up in his throat. Finally, after he'd spent the better half of the ten minute walk down to the dungeons dribbling indiscriminately, he thought to ask Edmund a question.
"So do you, uhm... like music?"
Without waiting for so much of an answer he was moving across the room towards a wooden table that sat at the far end of the oval alcove where a record player perched. Beneath it rested a sizable box of vintage records, which Llewellyn slid out and began sifting through swiftly, the habitual movement of his hands offering the badger the opportunity to soften his nerves.
Edmund Strangways
What was important, however, was that Llewellyn filled the air because if he didn't then he would think and once he thought too much he was all the more likely to unravel. Just so long as he disguised the impending hysteria that had planted itself in his gut with passion and the charade of small talk then maybe Edmund wouldn't realize just how nervous and inexperienced the badger really was.
He really needed a handful of xanax and a blunt to the face but he wasn't about to air all his bad habits to someone that was practically a stranger despite the familiar appearance.
To be perfectly honest, he wasn't sure why he was being so cautionary as he pulled the other male into the empty room behind him. Apparently these days anyone could waltz their incredibly mediocre red and gold ass inside whatever common room they pleased and peacock around like they owned the place like some fucking entitled prince of Swedesfuckery or whatever and no one batted an eye.
But once the parameter had been secured (save for Chompa of course, but the massive tortoise minded his own business), he let go of his hand and turned to Edmund and opened his mouth but felt at a loss for words. Well, what now? Closing his mouth again he let a nervous laugh bubble up in his throat. Finally, after he'd spent the better half of the ten minute walk down to the dungeons dribbling indiscriminately, he thought to ask Edmund a question.
"So do you, uhm... like music?"
Without waiting for so much of an answer he was moving across the room towards a wooden table that sat at the far end of the oval alcove where a record player perched. Beneath it rested a sizable box of vintage records, which Llewellyn slid out and began sifting through swiftly, the habitual movement of his hands offering the badger the opportunity to soften his nerves.
Edmund Strangways