[Look on the bright side: he didn't actually shout that. More of a loud speaking voice, really, echoing around the room (but likely not down the hall) as he stares at Astarion. Astarion, who looks so young; Astarion who fusses with his curls and stares at him clad only in a nightshirt, his mouth fuck-sore and his cheeks flushed—
Forty-five!
And there are assuredly worse ages to bed, but there are far better ones too, and he'd already thought Astarion a brat at a mere century. Forty-five— forty-five, his mind and body grown and yet still so damned sheltered. What does anyone know at forty-five? What can anyone know? Fenris barely remembers the age; only a vague sense of endless indignation and snarling rebellion, fueled by hormones and a lack of understanding of anything outside his master's estates. Forty-five, the number echoing endlessly in his head, and it's—]
Venhedis kaffan vas, festis bei umo canavarum—
[The Tevene slips past his lips sharply, growled to himself as he stares at his ward. At his ward. His forty-five year old brat, who sucks and fucks and spreads his legs to be the most tempting little thing in the Upper City— gods, no wonder he's so confident. No wonder he's so easy to fluster. No wonder all those tutors had gone for him (but oh, oh, he cannot think along those lines, not unless he wants to grow even more furious).
Fuck.
And what is there to do? He cannot take his actions back. He cannot say his heart's thrumming desire has lessened. Fenris shoves a hand through his hair, sweeping it back as he glances sharply away and then back again.]
no subject
[Look on the bright side: he didn't actually shout that. More of a loud speaking voice, really, echoing around the room (but likely not down the hall) as he stares at Astarion. Astarion, who looks so young; Astarion who fusses with his curls and stares at him clad only in a nightshirt, his mouth fuck-sore and his cheeks flushed—
Forty-five!
And there are assuredly worse ages to bed, but there are far better ones too, and he'd already thought Astarion a brat at a mere century. Forty-five— forty-five, his mind and body grown and yet still so damned sheltered. What does anyone know at forty-five? What can anyone know? Fenris barely remembers the age; only a vague sense of endless indignation and snarling rebellion, fueled by hormones and a lack of understanding of anything outside his master's estates. Forty-five, the number echoing endlessly in his head, and it's—]
Venhedis kaffan vas, festis bei umo canavarum—
[The Tevene slips past his lips sharply, growled to himself as he stares at his ward. At his ward. His forty-five year old brat, who sucks and fucks and spreads his legs to be the most tempting little thing in the Upper City— gods, no wonder he's so confident. No wonder he's so easy to fluster. No wonder all those tutors had gone for him (but oh, oh, he cannot think along those lines, not unless he wants to grow even more furious).
Fuck.
And what is there to do? He cannot take his actions back. He cannot say his heart's thrumming desire has lessened. Fenris shoves a hand through his hair, sweeping it back as he glances sharply away and then back again.]
And when were you planning on telling me, hm?