He's lucky he's been caught by the jaw instead of anywhere else, when even a knuckle pushed against the soft stretch of muscle marking where his chin and the underside of his throat converge is too full of vascular leywork not to hammer with the evidence of what he's thinking about. Letting his backteeth salivate for.
Scolding on playgrounds leads to escalation, after all. A teething cosset inclined to snarl will only lunge into a bite if that initial attempt to scruff isn't tight enough to cow him first. Anger and excitement are the same thing for some— like prey drive— and it's the fact he can't sit still that sees him clipped around his red-tipped ears so often that his cheek still shines with his last censure.
He doesn’t pull away from this one, though.
(I am not going to fuck you, little noble—
—oh, but he wishes that he would.)]
....Twenty four.
[Astarion exhales in the next beat, voice struck through with acclimating tension. There's more that could be said, and yet the lanky little instigator lets that number hang in dead air while they're both standing there stock-still. His fingers twitching around the grip of that old gun, painting this like the stand off it conceptually is.
Because he's stopped blinking, now. Slowed his breathing.
If there's any kind of reaction to that answer to pluck from Fenris' expression, he wants to see it firsthand. Particularly when he adds:]
Could have a nice, even number with you. Maybe even leave it there— change my stripes.
no subject
He's lucky he's been caught by the jaw instead of anywhere else, when even a knuckle pushed against the soft stretch of muscle marking where his chin and the underside of his throat converge is too full of vascular leywork not to hammer with the evidence of what he's thinking about. Letting his backteeth salivate for.
Scolding on playgrounds leads to escalation, after all. A teething cosset inclined to snarl will only lunge into a bite if that initial attempt to scruff isn't tight enough to cow him first. Anger and excitement are the same thing for some— like prey drive— and it's the fact he can't sit still that sees him clipped around his red-tipped ears so often that his cheek still shines with his last censure.
He doesn’t pull away from this one, though.
(I am not going to fuck you, little noble—
—oh, but he wishes that he would.)]
....Twenty four.
[Astarion exhales in the next beat, voice struck through with acclimating tension. There's more that could be said, and yet the lanky little instigator lets that number hang in dead air while they're both standing there stock-still. His fingers twitching around the grip of that old gun, painting this like the stand off it conceptually is.
Because he's stopped blinking, now. Slowed his breathing.
If there's any kind of reaction to that answer to pluck from Fenris' expression, he wants to see it firsthand. Particularly when he adds:]
Could have a nice, even number with you. Maybe even leave it there— change my stripes.
[Another mark, but not reduced.]