[Crisply and swiftly stated, and he's proud of himself for how even his tone stays.
No, the freed man tells his master. No, I won't do that, and what can Astarion do to him? Nothing. Nothing. At worst he'll stomp his foot and go tattle to his father, and what will that get him? The man won't take it out on Fenris, not when his entire job is to babysit this brat. No, he says, and it's as if the world reels on its axis, for never once before now has the word slipped past his lips in response to an order.
No. No, no, no, and maybe some of that impudent glee is evident in his gaze. Maybe some of his heady relief shows in the fractional flicker of a smile that graces his lips, unintended but still there. He does not think about how it might be misinterpreted, for in truth all of his mind is simply lingering on how good this feels.
Like inhaling after a lifetime of holding his breath. Like the heady surge of power that had come from grasping a sword for the first time. No, and gods, but he savors it.]
I am your bodyguard, not your servant. If you cannot manage your ties and buttons, I am told there are others who can aid you in that.
[And understand: it's not that Fenris doesn't notice the pale elf. He is a beautiful thing, all soft angles and pale skin . . . it would be impossible not to notice the slender span of that throat. The gilt collar that wraps around it, starkly framing it even as it hints at more. The coy way dark lashes flutter against cheeks touched faintly with color, flushed from the wine at dinner; the sudden stark showing of skin, all the more alluring after the gauzy teasing of that shirt . . . oh, he notices him.
But Fenris is good at keeping such feelings to himself. And though his cock twitches in faint interest, his mind knows far, far better than that. Noticing such things will only get him in trouble. Pursing them . . . oh, what a foolish risk that would be, and all for what? A fuck that couldn't ever be worth it. Carnal pleasure sated for a single night and then—
No.
He cannot lose this job. He cannot. The alternatives are too dire, the stakes too high. It simply isn't an option— and so it won't be.
(Besides, Fenris thinks nastily, how good a fuck could it even be? A rich little brat who's too used to getting what he wants— oh, surely he's used to simply lying back and spreading his legs, chasing after his own pleasure with no thought of anyone else . . . surely it wouldn't satisfy).]
no subject
[Crisply and swiftly stated, and he's proud of himself for how even his tone stays.
No, the freed man tells his master. No, I won't do that, and what can Astarion do to him? Nothing. Nothing. At worst he'll stomp his foot and go tattle to his father, and what will that get him? The man won't take it out on Fenris, not when his entire job is to babysit this brat. No, he says, and it's as if the world reels on its axis, for never once before now has the word slipped past his lips in response to an order.
No. No, no, no, and maybe some of that impudent glee is evident in his gaze. Maybe some of his heady relief shows in the fractional flicker of a smile that graces his lips, unintended but still there. He does not think about how it might be misinterpreted, for in truth all of his mind is simply lingering on how good this feels.
Like inhaling after a lifetime of holding his breath. Like the heady surge of power that had come from grasping a sword for the first time. No, and gods, but he savors it.]
I am your bodyguard, not your servant. If you cannot manage your ties and buttons, I am told there are others who can aid you in that.
[And understand: it's not that Fenris doesn't notice the pale elf. He is a beautiful thing, all soft angles and pale skin . . . it would be impossible not to notice the slender span of that throat. The gilt collar that wraps around it, starkly framing it even as it hints at more. The coy way dark lashes flutter against cheeks touched faintly with color, flushed from the wine at dinner; the sudden stark showing of skin, all the more alluring after the gauzy teasing of that shirt . . . oh, he notices him.
But Fenris is good at keeping such feelings to himself. And though his cock twitches in faint interest, his mind knows far, far better than that. Noticing such things will only get him in trouble. Pursing them . . . oh, what a foolish risk that would be, and all for what? A fuck that couldn't ever be worth it. Carnal pleasure sated for a single night and then—
No.
He cannot lose this job. He cannot. The alternatives are too dire, the stakes too high. It simply isn't an option— and so it won't be.
(Besides, Fenris thinks nastily, how good a fuck could it even be? A rich little brat who's too used to getting what he wants— oh, surely he's used to simply lying back and spreading his legs, chasing after his own pleasure with no thought of anyone else . . . surely it wouldn't satisfy).]