Varric Tethras was perfectly fine. He was fine, thank you very much. It was totally normal that he had to actually read out loud, instead of reading to himself like an adult. It was equally normal that he had to stage-whisper each word as he wrote it, to keep himself anchored to the moment.

It was totally normal that he had to say each word before he wrote it, to make sure he remembered.

It had nothing to do with his cheeks burning, his hands trembling, or his breath coming shaky. It had nothing to do with what Marian Hawke was doing to him, or the way it took real, concentrated effort to keep his hips still. The fact that he kept biting down on small gasps and that his breath rattled in his lungs was unrelated. The fact that he, more than once, bent over and leaned against his closed fist to gather himself had nothing to do with the mouth on his cock.

"Okay," he found himself saying, way too often. "Okay, okay. Okay. Alright. Next sentence."

This was fine.