[He's a pressure pot waiting to explode. Sharp to the tips of his ears, even Astarion can see it—
But he's mad to think the first option is one where Astarion retains his dignity. That's not a choice, that's just holding onto the hammer while it slams nail-after-nail into the coffin of his own reputation: turning tail after his own father's lackey shows up with a glare that could hone knives is as good as telling the others he can't stay to fuck himself senseless, his nanny's been kept waiting and the warm glass of milk and honey made for him's gone cold.
They'll laugh him out of existence.
But rejection's a tall order.
Not the least for their differences in height, where Astarion has to tilt his chin a little higher just to feel the cold ripple of admonitory warning in the air. The comical juxtaposition of a reedy princeling angled towards his armored counterpart, half-dressed and drinking till his lips stain dark around their corners.]
No errand boy dictates where or when I leave.
[A unified coo of scandalous delight erupts from the little audience behind him. Bright eyes flashing with excitement, almost jostling in their seats for a better view of an unexpected declaration of war; where Fenris had been discreet, Astarion's bravado comes out in the way nature dictates anything posturing should: by making itself louder.
Larger.]
But if you don't feel like sharing....
[He's a noble. He's been hunting before, even if only on the back of a saddled mare. Cornering a deer. A fox. A wolf. With enough dogs, anything is prey.]
I'll share with you instead.
[He pulls one more mouthful of wine, holding it to the back of his tongue— and lunging in a devilish flash over that narrow distance to try and fit their lips together.]
no subject
But he's mad to think the first option is one where Astarion retains his dignity. That's not a choice, that's just holding onto the hammer while it slams nail-after-nail into the coffin of his own reputation: turning tail after his own father's lackey shows up with a glare that could hone knives is as good as telling the others he can't stay to fuck himself senseless, his nanny's been kept waiting and the warm glass of milk and honey made for him's gone cold.
They'll laugh him out of existence.
But rejection's a tall order.
Not the least for their differences in height, where Astarion has to tilt his chin a little higher just to feel the cold ripple of admonitory warning in the air. The comical juxtaposition of a reedy princeling angled towards his armored counterpart, half-dressed and drinking till his lips stain dark around their corners.]
No errand boy dictates where or when I leave.
[A unified coo of scandalous delight erupts from the little audience behind him. Bright eyes flashing with excitement, almost jostling in their seats for a better view of an unexpected declaration of war; where Fenris had been discreet, Astarion's bravado comes out in the way nature dictates anything posturing should: by making itself louder.
Larger.]
But if you don't feel like sharing....
[He's a noble. He's been hunting before, even if only on the back of a saddled mare. Cornering a deer. A fox. A wolf. With enough dogs, anything is prey.]
I'll share with you instead.
[He pulls one more mouthful of wine, holding it to the back of his tongue— and lunging in a devilish flash over that narrow distance to try and fit their lips together.]