The tension slips out of his body like an exhale, taut muscles uncoiling for what feels like the very first time since they crossed the border. A gust of air leaves his lungs in the form of one slow, satisfied exhale as a flush touches the very tips of his ears. That feels—
Maker, it feels so good.
Astarion's fingers are cool as they work through his hair, and every subsequent brushstroke is soft and sweet, working through stubborn knots and brittle ends with endless patience. The motion is hypnotic in its rhythm, and the soft press of warmth from the body behind him only adds to the sudden duel feelings of intimacy and safety that wash over him like the sweetest tide. It's been . . . Maker, he doesn't know how long it's been since someone touched him like this, much less brushed his hair. Years. Decades, maybe.
(Unguarded as he is, he forgets he sits near a mirror; he doesn't think about how he must look, his eyes fluttering shut and his expression so utterly content. Such a far cry from the fierce warrior who stalked these halls, he looks more akin to a pup who's finally found a spot by the hearth).
But— oh, he was asked a question, he realizes belatedly. His eyes snap open as his mind scrambles to catch up— where's the fun in that— in where, in what, in lurking, because they're spying, because they're in Orlais—
Maker's breath.]
As opposed to the fun of chatting up nobles?
[His voice is almost entirely as it should be, his tone dry and familiar— but there's a warm contentment there that wasn't before.]
Mm, anyway, it is not down to whether it is fun, but a matter of talent. I am not good at lying on the spot, not like that. Nor being . . . [Well, be honest:] nice to people, not if I already have a grudge.
[Maker, if he were a cat (if this were Toril), he'd be purring up a storm by now. And he's so distracted, which means that each sentence sort of exists both on its own and as a vague continuation of the last, his attention decidedly split.]
My point is merely that I suspect I will slow you down rather than aid you.
no subject
The tension slips out of his body like an exhale, taut muscles uncoiling for what feels like the very first time since they crossed the border. A gust of air leaves his lungs in the form of one slow, satisfied exhale as a flush touches the very tips of his ears. That feels—
Maker, it feels so good.
Astarion's fingers are cool as they work through his hair, and every subsequent brushstroke is soft and sweet, working through stubborn knots and brittle ends with endless patience. The motion is hypnotic in its rhythm, and the soft press of warmth from the body behind him only adds to the sudden duel feelings of intimacy and safety that wash over him like the sweetest tide. It's been . . . Maker, he doesn't know how long it's been since someone touched him like this, much less brushed his hair. Years. Decades, maybe.
(Unguarded as he is, he forgets he sits near a mirror; he doesn't think about how he must look, his eyes fluttering shut and his expression so utterly content. Such a far cry from the fierce warrior who stalked these halls, he looks more akin to a pup who's finally found a spot by the hearth).
But— oh, he was asked a question, he realizes belatedly. His eyes snap open as his mind scrambles to catch up— where's the fun in that— in where, in what, in lurking, because they're spying, because they're in Orlais—
Maker's breath.]
As opposed to the fun of chatting up nobles?
[His voice is almost entirely as it should be, his tone dry and familiar— but there's a warm contentment there that wasn't before.]
Mm, anyway, it is not down to whether it is fun, but a matter of talent. I am not good at lying on the spot, not like that. Nor being . . . [Well, be honest:] nice to people, not if I already have a grudge.
[Maker, if he were a cat (if this were Toril), he'd be purring up a storm by now. And he's so distracted, which means that each sentence sort of exists both on its own and as a vague continuation of the last, his attention decidedly split.]
My point is merely that I suspect I will slow you down rather than aid you.