[He was never allowed to play with Varania like this.
Nor any of the other elves, if it came to that. No master wants to see the slave brats squabbling in the dirt like pups; it's distasteful and undignified, and no matter that Tevinter believes elves can't help themselves from such savagery, still. It oughtn't happen in a magister's household. What playmates Fenris had (so long ago he cannot recall their names or their faces, just fleeting impressions of laughter and spite) contented themselves with quieter means of play, scrapping behind wine casks or sharpening their tongues on one another.
He isn't thinking of Danarius now. He isn't thinking of his past and all the horrors contained therein; he isn't thinking of the pain that wracks his body with every breath. He does not think about dignity nor propriety, class or rank; he doesn't think about what might happen if someone were to walk in, or all the ways in which his life would be miserable. For the first time in a long time, Fenris thinks only of the here and now— and the wriggling little beast caught in his arms.
Tevene bursts from his lips as fingers knot in his hair; giddy laughter fills the air as they writhe together, Fenris refusing to release him and Astarion doing his damnedest to get away, until (inevitably) they overbalance and end up tumbling on the carpeted floor with a loud thump. From there it's limbs and hand and tussling, the two of them rolling around on the floor like pups, nipping as they scrabble for purchase, Fenris half-inclined to give Astarion his way just to keep the fight going longer— hands in his hair, hands on his wrists, until at last—
At last, training triumphs over sheer force of will: Astarion pinned on his back, his hands pinned above his hand and Fenris straddling his hips.]
Now, what was that? You'll order me hanged . . .?
[A reckless sort of grin as he arches his back, hips pushing down hard against Astarion's lithe frame. He'll spare them both the obvious joke of being hung, but trust that it flashes through both their minds, for he catches Astarion's eye in silent, amused acknowledgement.]
Little magistrate-in-training, I would love to see you try.
[He would. He really, really would. A breeze drifts through the open window, wafting the curtains gently as he smirks down at him.]
Perhaps it's manners I need to focus on next when it comes to you, hm? How to say please and thank you instead of simply—
1/3
Nor any of the other elves, if it came to that. No master wants to see the slave brats squabbling in the dirt like pups; it's distasteful and undignified, and no matter that Tevinter believes elves can't help themselves from such savagery, still. It oughtn't happen in a magister's household. What playmates Fenris had (so long ago he cannot recall their names or their faces, just fleeting impressions of laughter and spite) contented themselves with quieter means of play, scrapping behind wine casks or sharpening their tongues on one another.
He isn't thinking of Danarius now. He isn't thinking of his past and all the horrors contained therein; he isn't thinking of the pain that wracks his body with every breath. He does not think about dignity nor propriety, class or rank; he doesn't think about what might happen if someone were to walk in, or all the ways in which his life would be miserable. For the first time in a long time, Fenris thinks only of the here and now— and the wriggling little beast caught in his arms.
Tevene bursts from his lips as fingers knot in his hair; giddy laughter fills the air as they writhe together, Fenris refusing to release him and Astarion doing his damnedest to get away, until (inevitably) they overbalance and end up tumbling on the carpeted floor with a loud thump. From there it's limbs and hand and tussling, the two of them rolling around on the floor like pups, nipping as they scrabble for purchase, Fenris half-inclined to give Astarion his way just to keep the fight going longer— hands in his hair, hands on his wrists, until at last—
At last, training triumphs over sheer force of will: Astarion pinned on his back, his hands pinned above his hand and Fenris straddling his hips.]
Now, what was that? You'll order me hanged . . .?
[A reckless sort of grin as he arches his back, hips pushing down hard against Astarion's lithe frame. He'll spare them both the obvious joke of being hung, but trust that it flashes through both their minds, for he catches Astarion's eye in silent, amused acknowledgement.]
Little magistrate-in-training, I would love to see you try.
[He would. He really, really would. A breeze drifts through the open window, wafting the curtains gently as he smirks down at him.]
Perhaps it's manners I need to focus on next when it comes to you, hm? How to say please and thank you instead of simply—