[Lanky joints fit around relaxed muscle in a way that leaves their outlines flush through the loose, milky opaque hang of his blouse; he's not sugarcoating any truths this morning.] But me making the absurd decision to try and keep the source of my supposed infatuation is at least, in their eyes, a move that makes sense. Confirming their petty little teases as something real gives them the satisfaction of being proven right, rather than being left out of the loop until all hell breaks loose.
[Plus, there's the chance that it could even endear them on some odd level, like bought stock or a racehorse invested into on a whim: when a hunch is made true, instinct can occasionally evolve into an odd little twitch of protectiveness. Your own secret. Your personal proof of validity on a microcosmic scale.]
I'd be careful about trusting Violet or Petras with holding either drink or your reputation, but— let's be honest— [the next bit said with a dose of implied exclusion, as if Astarion doesn't count:] who listens to children anyway?
[No one, is the answer. Not in higher circles, that is. And it doesn't count if a high lord's trying to fuck you, turning an ear to adolescent gossip while sticking his hand inside your pants— he won't care or remember it later, it's worth less than the chattering of servants. Whores. Anyone with a weathered nose for insights and lessened odds on petty gripes.]
Besides.
[He says, scoffing mostly to himself as he rolls two strands of hair into each other— the start of working on a braid along the edge of Leto's temple.]
no subject
[Lanky joints fit around relaxed muscle in a way that leaves their outlines flush through the loose, milky opaque hang of his blouse; he's not sugarcoating any truths this morning.] But me making the absurd decision to try and keep the source of my supposed infatuation is at least, in their eyes, a move that makes sense. Confirming their petty little teases as something real gives them the satisfaction of being proven right, rather than being left out of the loop until all hell breaks loose.
[Plus, there's the chance that it could even endear them on some odd level, like bought stock or a racehorse invested into on a whim: when a hunch is made true, instinct can occasionally evolve into an odd little twitch of protectiveness. Your own secret. Your personal proof of validity on a microcosmic scale.]
I'd be careful about trusting Violet or Petras with holding either drink or your reputation, but— let's be honest— [the next bit said with a dose of implied exclusion, as if Astarion doesn't count:] who listens to children anyway?
[No one, is the answer. Not in higher circles, that is. And it doesn't count if a high lord's trying to fuck you, turning an ear to adolescent gossip while sticking his hand inside your pants— he won't care or remember it later, it's worth less than the chattering of servants. Whores. Anyone with a weathered nose for insights and lessened odds on petty gripes.]
Besides.
[He says, scoffing mostly to himself as he rolls two strands of hair into each other— the start of working on a braid along the edge of Leto's temple.]
I think they like you.