[Some people wear silver jewelry. Fenris wears iron resolve.
(And it looks just as nice on him, too— if not a little tight).]
Does it have to be one or the other?
[Asked in the gap between where Fenris was and where he is now: the irony being that the less Astarion can feel of him the more that he can see. Up close this time. In full. How he's not— old, so much as older: worn more by the darkened angles underneath his eyes or the paper-edge crows' feet adorning their angled outer span (or the way his frown pulls tight against his jawline, or the nicks scattered like constellatory waypoints over slightly roughened skin), than he is any real amount of age. The angles of his throat, for example, or the vivid shade of silver just above his ears, aren't the proof of handfuls of measured centuries like the tired Patriars with stiffened hands. And if his joints are stiff (Astarion doubts it) instead of limber, then the culprit's more likely to be from wear and tear by his best guess, not time.
So think of it as a layered answer when he shows his teeth and grins.
Pink across his nose and cheeks and lifted ears, which has the added effect of making his blunt teeth look even whiter. The edges of his salt-soaked curls, too, particularly where they've tangled in his lashes. A little out of hand, as far as exploratory tête-à-tête goes, salvaged barely by increasing distance (like they're not still more than in arm's reach. Like Astarion couldn't just turn his wrist, and catch something hard between soft thighs).]
Or do you actually think you don't warrant the kind of attraction I'd have to try not to brag about?
no subject
(And it looks just as nice on him, too— if not a little tight).]
Does it have to be one or the other?
[Asked in the gap between where Fenris was and where he is now: the irony being that the less Astarion can feel of him the more that he can see. Up close this time. In full. How he's not— old, so much as older: worn more by the darkened angles underneath his eyes or the paper-edge crows' feet adorning their angled outer span (or the way his frown pulls tight against his jawline, or the nicks scattered like constellatory waypoints over slightly roughened skin), than he is any real amount of age. The angles of his throat, for example, or the vivid shade of silver just above his ears, aren't the proof of handfuls of measured centuries like the tired Patriars with stiffened hands. And if his joints are stiff (Astarion doubts it) instead of limber, then the culprit's more likely to be from wear and tear by his best guess, not time.
So think of it as a layered answer when he shows his teeth and grins.
Pink across his nose and cheeks and lifted ears, which has the added effect of making his blunt teeth look even whiter. The edges of his salt-soaked curls, too, particularly where they've tangled in his lashes. A little out of hand, as far as exploratory tête-à-tête goes, salvaged barely by increasing distance (like they're not still more than in arm's reach. Like Astarion couldn't just turn his wrist, and catch something hard between soft thighs).]
Or do you actually think you don't warrant the kind of attraction I'd have to try not to brag about?
[Teacher, please.]