Like molasses. Like those heavy moments that last an eternity in memory's eye, the kind where a thousand thoughts have time to race across the mind before a single breath is exhaled. Twenty-four, and Fenris expects himself to scoff. To say something casually cruel about sluttishness, perhaps, or roll his eyes in a derisive way. Or maybe he'd be nicer about it: a little grimace that suggests he isn't impressed, but that Astarion's business is his own.
He doesn't expect the anger.
He doesn't expect the sudden, nigh-overwhelming urge to snarl.
It's so sudden that there's a lurching moment of uncertainty, fury flaring in his gaze before his eyes dart to the side as Fenris struggles to smother it. Visions of past trysts flicker past his mind's eye (Astarion sprawled atop a desk, his legs spread as roughened hands grip his thighs too tightly; Astarion with his fingers tucked up beneath a woman's skirt, his breath hot against her throat as he murmurs all kinds of filthy promises. Astarion staring up dutifully as a too-thin tutor fucks his mouth with irregular rhythm, all in the service of proving to his father that yet another keeper could be corrupted)—
And his hand doesn't tighten its grip on Astarion's jaw. His frame is wracked with tension, but none of it is directed towards the boy in his hand— for it isn't Astarion he's angry at, he realizes.]
And how many of them were worth anything?
[It's low. Roughened, as his eyes finally dart back at Astarion. He wants— he doesn't know what he wants. He wants to drag Astarion in close, his arms wrapping fiercely around him; he wants to set out into the darkness and hunt down every idiotic tutor and selfish caretaker that had ever fallen for sweet charms and a pouting mouth. He wants to nuzzle fiercely against this young thing, and then again he wants to scruff him like an errant pup, nipping at him until he learns better.
He settles for stroking his thumb against the line of Astarion's jaw, and it's far more soothing than he means it to be.]
How many of them—
[And the dots connect only belatedly. Too belatedly, maybe, and he's being too protective (why? but that fierce anger isn't subsiding, that snarling seething growl that glares out at the world), but that can't be helped right now.]
Your last tutor, too. The one I replaced.
[The bastard was inept, and oh, what an idiot he'd been to buy that story, but Fenris isn't used to a master lying to him like that.]
The one who was inept. Who made you write lines of drivel so he could drink.
no subject
Like molasses. Like those heavy moments that last an eternity in memory's eye, the kind where a thousand thoughts have time to race across the mind before a single breath is exhaled. Twenty-four, and Fenris expects himself to scoff. To say something casually cruel about sluttishness, perhaps, or roll his eyes in a derisive way. Or maybe he'd be nicer about it: a little grimace that suggests he isn't impressed, but that Astarion's business is his own.
He doesn't expect the anger.
He doesn't expect the sudden, nigh-overwhelming urge to snarl.
It's so sudden that there's a lurching moment of uncertainty, fury flaring in his gaze before his eyes dart to the side as Fenris struggles to smother it. Visions of past trysts flicker past his mind's eye (Astarion sprawled atop a desk, his legs spread as roughened hands grip his thighs too tightly; Astarion with his fingers tucked up beneath a woman's skirt, his breath hot against her throat as he murmurs all kinds of filthy promises. Astarion staring up dutifully as a too-thin tutor fucks his mouth with irregular rhythm, all in the service of proving to his father that yet another keeper could be corrupted)—
And his hand doesn't tighten its grip on Astarion's jaw. His frame is wracked with tension, but none of it is directed towards the boy in his hand— for it isn't Astarion he's angry at, he realizes.]
And how many of them were worth anything?
[It's low. Roughened, as his eyes finally dart back at Astarion. He wants— he doesn't know what he wants. He wants to drag Astarion in close, his arms wrapping fiercely around him; he wants to set out into the darkness and hunt down every idiotic tutor and selfish caretaker that had ever fallen for sweet charms and a pouting mouth. He wants to nuzzle fiercely against this young thing, and then again he wants to scruff him like an errant pup, nipping at him until he learns better.
He settles for stroking his thumb against the line of Astarion's jaw, and it's far more soothing than he means it to be.]
How many of them—
[And the dots connect only belatedly. Too belatedly, maybe, and he's being too protective (why? but that fierce anger isn't subsiding, that snarling seething growl that glares out at the world), but that can't be helped right now.]
Your last tutor, too. The one I replaced.
[The bastard was inept, and oh, what an idiot he'd been to buy that story, but Fenris isn't used to a master lying to him like that.]
The one who was inept. Who made you write lines of drivel so he could drink.
Him, too?