It's an instinctive thing, swift and silent. As if they've been doing this for years on end; as if he has known his charge for years, not weeks. Fenris rises to his feet and crosses the room, pausing for only a few seconds before he carefully settles into the plush bed. It's far softer than his little cot in the corner of the room; his body sinks gratefully into soft padding and flexible foam, and though he curls one arm beneath his head as he lies on his side, there's at least a dozen pillows for him to choose from.
And he shouldn't do that. He wouldn't, not ordinarily. But something has changed between them today, and though Fenris cannot say what, he still knows it to be true. This is no ordinary attempt at seduction. This is no clumsy ploy, a patriar's feeble attempt to get his minder to lower his guard.
This is something more raw. A cry in the dark (tell me this isn't a trick, throaty and raw, a ghostly statement that slips through his mind and disappears), no matter that it's snapped out.
Astarion looks so small in the darkness. Stripped of his day clothes and scrubbed clean of his makeup, he looks so much younger than the man he tries to present himself as. His angles are softened in the blow glow from Fenris' tattoos, though his mouth still curls in an angry line.]
Someday I will introduce you to the concept of a request.
[It's low. Not a tease, but a gentle way of breaking the silence.]
no subject
It's an instinctive thing, swift and silent. As if they've been doing this for years on end; as if he has known his charge for years, not weeks. Fenris rises to his feet and crosses the room, pausing for only a few seconds before he carefully settles into the plush bed. It's far softer than his little cot in the corner of the room; his body sinks gratefully into soft padding and flexible foam, and though he curls one arm beneath his head as he lies on his side, there's at least a dozen pillows for him to choose from.
And he shouldn't do that. He wouldn't, not ordinarily. But something has changed between them today, and though Fenris cannot say what, he still knows it to be true. This is no ordinary attempt at seduction. This is no clumsy ploy, a patriar's feeble attempt to get his minder to lower his guard.
This is something more raw. A cry in the dark (tell me this isn't a trick, throaty and raw, a ghostly statement that slips through his mind and disappears), no matter that it's snapped out.
Astarion looks so small in the darkness. Stripped of his day clothes and scrubbed clean of his makeup, he looks so much younger than the man he tries to present himself as. His angles are softened in the blow glow from Fenris' tattoos, though his mouth still curls in an angry line.]
Someday I will introduce you to the concept of a request.
[It's low. Not a tease, but a gentle way of breaking the silence.]
You're angry.