[Astarion would regret it too, actually. That he brought it up was less about himself and more about having someone to tell about the others for once— and for a passingly fumbled second, the full breadth of it shows: his grin twisting slightly with muted hesitation, followed by a dismissive flick of silver eyes turned skyward just to get away from his tutor's possibly perceptive stare (the man punctured targets so cleanly in succession that it's hard to imagine him missing anything, even in conversation running well over his attractive, drowsy head).
To note: he doesn't actually care that Violet's better at it. Honestly one look at her proves why, irrespective of the sadistic quirks that flock her prowling presence (or on second thought, maybe they're what makes up the narrow difference to begin with).
It's that he doesn't want to admit it to Fenris.
And thankfully again (again— fate rolling consistently in his favor for one entirely backwards day— ) he finds just as fast he doesn't have to: his companion's only teasing. Only playing. And switching away from the thought (again) brings a different shade of brightness to peregrine features. Leaves them conspiratorial once more, brief silence punctuated by yet another scoff.]
I'd have to like them to have favorites.
[Ah, but his liar's tongue isn't so deft anymore; he's feeding Fenris the codex to his tells in piecemeal splices without realizing it. 'I'd have to like them' only a handful of shades more sincere than 'change my stripes'.
And far, far less than the way 'together' left his lips.]
Why, trying to figure out who you should be nice to? [When he leans forward, the bedding only steepens the angle of it for how it sinks under his palm (Dalyria. The answer's Dalyria: the only one with a nickname). His mouth so lopsided when it curls high to show the edges of his teeth that his nose crinkles. The same look as a shark that's scented blood.] The answer's none of them, darling.
[Again, he's made transparent. Again, he's telling the truth:]
no subject
To note: he doesn't actually care that Violet's better at it. Honestly one look at her proves why, irrespective of the sadistic quirks that flock her prowling presence (or on second thought, maybe they're what makes up the narrow difference to begin with).
It's that he doesn't want to admit it to Fenris.
And thankfully again (again— fate rolling consistently in his favor for one entirely backwards day— ) he finds just as fast he doesn't have to: his companion's only teasing. Only playing. And switching away from the thought (again) brings a different shade of brightness to peregrine features. Leaves them conspiratorial once more, brief silence punctuated by yet another scoff.]
I'd have to like them to have favorites.
[Ah, but his liar's tongue isn't so deft anymore; he's feeding Fenris the codex to his tells in piecemeal splices without realizing it. 'I'd have to like them' only a handful of shades more sincere than 'change my stripes'.
And far, far less than the way 'together' left his lips.]
Why, trying to figure out who you should be nice to? [When he leans forward, the bedding only steepens the angle of it for how it sinks under his palm (Dalyria. The answer's Dalyria: the only one with a nickname). His mouth so lopsided when it curls high to show the edges of his teeth that his nose crinkles. The same look as a shark that's scented blood.] The answer's none of them, darling.
[Again, he's made transparent. Again, he's telling the truth:]
They're all beneath you.