[Astarion still hasn't gotten used to it, on the other hand.
The sight of Fenris. His presence, in particular: high contrast setting him apart from any slave or spawn or thrall— a sharpness that isn't anything but bound to him in its every shifting facet, making the pale elf wonder how it is that even passing strangers scarcely see it. That ferocity. That beautiful, straightforward sense of pride. (It was only out of sympathy or snide snarling that Cazador's children ever looked at one another, and even then, only rarely. Never like this.) He wants that. To be that. To be near it.
He'd wept like a child (thankfully alone) the first time he saw his own reflection in the mirror.
Only Fenris could tear him away from it so easily tonight.
Captivating things.]
'Merely lurking?' [Astarion scoffs through the segue that lifts him from his seat and bypasses that outstretched hand— planting himself on the mattress behind Fenris, and— ]
Where's the fun in that?
[ —tugging off his gloves in the wake of an attempt at taming hair with them on. One short yank of leather between his fangs on either side, and blunted nails begin combing back silver somewhere around the fighter's temple: brushstrokes quickly following.]
no subject
The sight of Fenris. His presence, in particular: high contrast setting him apart from any slave or spawn or thrall— a sharpness that isn't anything but bound to him in its every shifting facet, making the pale elf wonder how it is that even passing strangers scarcely see it. That ferocity. That beautiful, straightforward sense of pride. (It was only out of sympathy or snide snarling that Cazador's children ever looked at one another, and even then, only rarely. Never like this.) He wants that. To be that. To be near it.
He'd wept like a child (thankfully alone) the first time he saw his own reflection in the mirror.
Only Fenris could tear him away from it so easily tonight.
Captivating things.]
'Merely lurking?' [Astarion scoffs through the segue that lifts him from his seat and bypasses that outstretched hand— planting himself on the mattress behind Fenris, and— ]
Where's the fun in that?
[ —tugging off his gloves in the wake of an attempt at taming hair with them on. One short yank of leather between his fangs on either side, and blunted nails begin combing back silver somewhere around the fighter's temple: brushstrokes quickly following.]