[It's the dog comment that catches first. Rough-edged and bitterly uncomfortable, like a sour bite at the end of cool liqueur, ruining the experience in retrospect. He's offput before he's livid— well before those elegant fingertips settle like a wreath around strong shoulders— mussing up the line of Fenris' clothes.
Violet can be cruel. Crueler than cruel, in fact, inclined to chuckle to herself at crossed lines that never quite sink into psychopathic borders (as far as any of them know, though gods swear they all wonder if there might come a time when she walks in and offhandedly confesses to a spattering of murders), but this is different.
This is different.
Because unlike the rest of the pack, Astarion knows what Fenris has been through. And unlike them, he cares about the depth of those clotted memories— their outreach. And unlike them, he—
Is up on his feet in an instant, lithe arm outstretched to latch onto her forearm like a vice, nearly upsetting the booth's table for how hard he'd lunged to yank her off across the distance: hips jammed against the corner of the table, drinks partially spilled across its surface (Petras' undrunk charge, mostly), nails biting into skin with the sort of twisting pull that should elicit something from her. A hiss or a cry or a yelp of outrage.
It doesn't, though. Too many fights between packmates or sisters, or a frigid nervous system that doesn't function like it should, cold as its own owner; whatever the reason, Violet is scowling at him in return.]
Get your hands. OFF. Of him. [ —earns a stiffening of her shoulders like a cat about to launch itself forwards to attack. A raising of her other hand, glass still in it, and a steeling of her outraged gaze.]
no subject
Violet can be cruel. Crueler than cruel, in fact, inclined to chuckle to herself at crossed lines that never quite sink into psychopathic borders (as far as any of them know, though gods swear they all wonder if there might come a time when she walks in and offhandedly confesses to a spattering of murders), but this is different.
This is different.
Because unlike the rest of the pack, Astarion knows what Fenris has been through. And unlike them, he cares about the depth of those clotted memories— their outreach. And unlike them, he—
Is up on his feet in an instant, lithe arm outstretched to latch onto her forearm like a vice, nearly upsetting the booth's table for how hard he'd lunged to yank her off across the distance: hips jammed against the corner of the table, drinks partially spilled across its surface (Petras' undrunk charge, mostly), nails biting into skin with the sort of twisting pull that should elicit something from her. A hiss or a cry or a yelp of outrage.
It doesn't, though. Too many fights between packmates or sisters, or a frigid nervous system that doesn't function like it should, cold as its own owner; whatever the reason, Violet is scowling at him in return.]
Get your hands. OFF. Of him. [ —earns a stiffening of her shoulders like a cat about to launch itself forwards to attack. A raising of her other hand, glass still in it, and a steeling of her outraged gaze.]