[The weeks pass, and if you didn't look at them too closely, you might mistake them for blissful.
Certainly they're quiet. Astarion does not try to flee anymore, though whether that's because of Fenris' scolding or otherwise remains to be seen. And thus Fenris' job becomes easy, if not repetitive: silently following Astarion whenever he goes, a shadow that tries and inevitably fails to make himself unseen. It's strange to Fenris' mind, if you want the truth. Danarius was always content to ignore his prized pup unless he wanted him, but Astarion cannot seem to forget him. Little snapped out statements or pointless irritants, his newfound master (though oh, Fenris hates himself whenever he catches himself thinking of him that way) seemingly determined to try and frustrate Fenris into abandoning him.
It doesn't work. Not when Astarion ventures into far more vulgar territory (breathless giggles and a sneeringly derisive tone, don't mind him, darling, I don't think he can even get it up— and it's not the insult that turns his ears red, but the breathless moans that slip past that closed doorway. The breathless whines for more that precede the slickened sounds of that maid getting her cunt eaten out; the rapidfire slap of skin on skin as Astarion takes his prize— and afterwards, the scent of sex filling the air as they both staggered out. A study in contrasts: the maid flushing as she avoided Fenris' eye and scurried off, Astarion boldly catching it). Not when he brings up goading topics at supper, trying to see what earns a flinch or a glare.
Not even the sudden burden of a task he is in no way prepared to handle— nor the fretful barks of a pup too hurt to snarl.
And understand: it isn't pity that fills his heart. Fenris has been through too much hardship to weep over the plight of a rich noble and his petulance. But he has watched the way Astarion's father has spoken around him— not at him, not once, but rather as one might speak about a pet. Ordering around bodyguards and tutors to tend to him, not bothering to meet his gaze when he spits out instructions, only ever paying him mind when he acts out . . .
Perhaps it is not such a shock, then, that Astarion is inclined towards rebellion.
He could be rough, oh yes. He could be spiteful, lording this newfound integration into his young master's life and promising him only hell to come. But as Fenris stares at reddened eyes and hears that fretful sniff, he finds that the only emotion that fills him is just a wearied sort of softness.
And so, quite gently, he ignores Astarion's commands.
And it is gently, for there's such a difference in how he might do it spitefully. He does not shove the door shut and lean up against it smugly. Instead: Fenris is careful to let the latch slip into place near-silently behind him. He meets Astarion's eye, but he does not go to him just yet. Instead: the briefest of detours into his attached bathroom, where he fills a shallow bowl with cold water and grabs a washcloth.
Then to the bed, where he (so very boldly) takes a seat, one leg tucked beneath his knee.]
You will bruise if you do not tend to this.
[It's not pitying. Perhaps it's not even sympathizing. But it's not hostile, either, and there's a gentleness to the way he catches Astarion's chin with one hand, dabbing gently the reddened mark swelling over one pale cheek with the other.
(A kindness, too, for the way he does not mention reddened eyes, for there is no need to draw attention to grief— not especially between them).
It's quiet for a time. And then, his gaze still focused on his task, Fenris murmurs:]
What did he do to earn your ire, this tutor of yours?
[It's a neutral statement, neither dripping with sympathy nor aching with protectiveness. But he is Astarion's bodyguard, at the end of the day. His bodyguard, not his jailer. And if Astarion was not at fault . . .
no subject
Certainly they're quiet. Astarion does not try to flee anymore, though whether that's because of Fenris' scolding or otherwise remains to be seen. And thus Fenris' job becomes easy, if not repetitive: silently following Astarion whenever he goes, a shadow that tries and inevitably fails to make himself unseen. It's strange to Fenris' mind, if you want the truth. Danarius was always content to ignore his prized pup unless he wanted him, but Astarion cannot seem to forget him. Little snapped out statements or pointless irritants, his newfound master (though oh, Fenris hates himself whenever he catches himself thinking of him that way) seemingly determined to try and frustrate Fenris into abandoning him.
It doesn't work. Not when Astarion ventures into far more vulgar territory (breathless giggles and a sneeringly derisive tone, don't mind him, darling, I don't think he can even get it up— and it's not the insult that turns his ears red, but the breathless moans that slip past that closed doorway. The breathless whines for more that precede the slickened sounds of that maid getting her cunt eaten out; the rapidfire slap of skin on skin as Astarion takes his prize— and afterwards, the scent of sex filling the air as they both staggered out. A study in contrasts: the maid flushing as she avoided Fenris' eye and scurried off, Astarion boldly catching it). Not when he brings up goading topics at supper, trying to see what earns a flinch or a glare.
Not even the sudden burden of a task he is in no way prepared to handle— nor the fretful barks of a pup too hurt to snarl.
And understand: it isn't pity that fills his heart. Fenris has been through too much hardship to weep over the plight of a rich noble and his petulance. But he has watched the way Astarion's father has spoken around him— not at him, not once, but rather as one might speak about a pet. Ordering around bodyguards and tutors to tend to him, not bothering to meet his gaze when he spits out instructions, only ever paying him mind when he acts out . . .
Perhaps it is not such a shock, then, that Astarion is inclined towards rebellion.
He could be rough, oh yes. He could be spiteful, lording this newfound integration into his young master's life and promising him only hell to come. But as Fenris stares at reddened eyes and hears that fretful sniff, he finds that the only emotion that fills him is just a wearied sort of softness.
And so, quite gently, he ignores Astarion's commands.
And it is gently, for there's such a difference in how he might do it spitefully. He does not shove the door shut and lean up against it smugly. Instead: Fenris is careful to let the latch slip into place near-silently behind him. He meets Astarion's eye, but he does not go to him just yet. Instead: the briefest of detours into his attached bathroom, where he fills a shallow bowl with cold water and grabs a washcloth.
Then to the bed, where he (so very boldly) takes a seat, one leg tucked beneath his knee.]
You will bruise if you do not tend to this.
[It's not pitying. Perhaps it's not even sympathizing. But it's not hostile, either, and there's a gentleness to the way he catches Astarion's chin with one hand, dabbing gently the reddened mark swelling over one pale cheek with the other.
(A kindness, too, for the way he does not mention reddened eyes, for there is no need to draw attention to grief— not especially between them).
It's quiet for a time. And then, his gaze still focused on his task, Fenris murmurs:]
What did he do to earn your ire, this tutor of yours?
[It's a neutral statement, neither dripping with sympathy nor aching with protectiveness. But he is Astarion's bodyguard, at the end of the day. His bodyguard, not his jailer. And if Astarion was not at fault . . .
Well. One thing at a time.]