[ A glance down at their linked fingers prompts a touch of a smile to soften the edges of Iorveth's face again. He's no stranger to affectionate gestures, having been raised, however briefly, in a community that held (in all definitions of the word) its members; still, he thought he'd given softness up when he chose his bow and sword. A part of him wonders if he deserves to relearn it after he'd discarded it.
The fact remains, though, that he can't unlearn all of this anymore. He knows what Astarion's temperature feels like against his skin, knows the gentle strength of Astarion's handhold. It'd probably ruin Iorveth to give it all up, even if he had to.
In contrast to all that affectionate internal musing: ]
no subject
The fact remains, though, that he can't unlearn all of this anymore. He knows what Astarion's temperature feels like against his skin, knows the gentle strength of Astarion's handhold. It'd probably ruin Iorveth to give it all up, even if he had to.
In contrast to all that affectionate internal musing: ]
I'm growing rather fond of the ugly sandals.
[ Tugging on Astarion's pigtails. Fondly. ]