Coarse.
His skin, from his persistent love of the outdoors. Reddened from the wind and calloused from his work.
His hair, he never bothers to take care of it. Wild and unkempt and perfect for clutching and desperately running his hands through it.
His lips, dry and chapped. Always splitting, not that there is a problem licking up the little blood that escapes.
His tongue- he's never disguised his fondness for ale.
His language, making fuck sound just as harsh as it is even when he is lost for breath.
His self. A hard life he's lived, for a rich man, and the calluses on his palms match the ones on his soul.
Smooth.
His skin, never seen a day's hard work that hasn't been done effectively with ten inches of oak and unicorn.
His hair, so long and carefully looked after, flows through fingers like a river of black, impossible to hold for more than a moment.
His lips, thin and pale and used to curling with derision, but that does not make them un-kissable.
His tongue- he scorns all but the best of wines and he wouldn't drink beer if his life depended on it but he doesn't mind the lingering taste of it on someone else's lips.
His language, making fuck sound like the most eloquent word in the English language, which is good when he considers the amount of times he has been saying it lately.
His self. Clawing his way to the top and shutting away his memories forever in a part of himself and letting no one break into them save for that one moment where all barriers are broken and the scream on his lips sounds coarse to his own ears.
Concrit, concrit, concrit!