[The latch clicks as it fixes itself shut— and Astarion's posture stiffens.
Bare soles pad lightly across polished floors towards him, and the angle of sharp ears drop until they pin, tucked in deep against the knotwork of his curls. Wariness that doesn't stop when pathing finally sweeps Fenris past the edge of his bed. It doesn't ease off when he hears the faucet run, or the rippling plink of cold water sloshing in its basin. Against his thighs, slim fingers seem to lock around themselves like the coiling of a snake before it bites, only doubled once Fenris' tall figure sinks down across the corner of that mattress. Imposing with its armor, and buckles, and guarded lacework— and it's the first time that fact has ever lived bright behind silver eyes.
That his bodyguard does fit the role.
And then comes a hand beneath his chin.
Wet relief pushed to his cheek.
A balm he'd never asked for, already turning his skin ice cold beneath his eye (and mercilessly hot along his neck around its nape), dripping as it runs towards his shirt collar, pattering to drip from his jaw— the sloping jut of his throat— down between his legs. His pulse ricocheting through soft tissue, every corded muscle tense enough to snap, and he prays his counterpart can't feel it where he holds his chin. Tongue pushed up to the roof of his mouth like it'll save him petty shame; he's had enough of it already. He can't take more now, too. (What does Astarion expect? Cruel laughter? Snide derision? A look to rival the smugness he'd aimed at Fenris over and over again throughout the last few weeks, let alone the first night they'd met? Oh, everything, maybe. All of the above. Cause and effect come to bear, and here Fenris is: lucky enough to witness its aftermath firsthand. Payback his for the taking, if he wants it.
But—
No, that doesn't make sense.)
The rag isn't laced with anything. The look on dour features hasn't budged since he came in. And for a moment pale eyes flit from mouth, to tsavorite stare, and back again, visibly weighing something just before he licks his lips. Chin bobbing slightly in that rough-edged grasp.
(If this is a trick, it's so deeply buried that it borders on nonsensical. Or genius. Either way, Astarion's too worn down to care.
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albinomilksnake2023-07-11 12:43 am
1/?
Bare soles pad lightly across polished floors towards him, and the angle of sharp ears drop until they pin, tucked in deep against the knotwork of his curls. Wariness that doesn't stop when pathing finally sweeps Fenris past the edge of his bed. It doesn't ease off when he hears the faucet run, or the rippling plink of cold water sloshing in its basin. Against his thighs, slim fingers seem to lock around themselves like the coiling of a snake before it bites, only doubled once Fenris' tall figure sinks down across the corner of that mattress. Imposing with its armor, and buckles, and guarded lacework— and it's the first time that fact has ever lived bright behind silver eyes.
That his bodyguard does fit the role.
And then comes a hand beneath his chin.
Wet relief pushed to his cheek.
A balm he'd never asked for, already turning his skin ice cold beneath his eye (and mercilessly hot along his neck around its nape), dripping as it runs towards his shirt collar, pattering to drip from his jaw— the sloping jut of his throat— down between his legs. His pulse ricocheting through soft tissue, every corded muscle tense enough to snap, and he prays his counterpart can't feel it where he holds his chin. Tongue pushed up to the roof of his mouth like it'll save him petty shame; he's had enough of it already. He can't take more now, too. (What does Astarion expect? Cruel laughter? Snide derision? A look to rival the smugness he'd aimed at Fenris over and over again throughout the last few weeks, let alone the first night they'd met? Oh, everything, maybe. All of the above. Cause and effect come to bear, and here Fenris is: lucky enough to witness its aftermath firsthand. Payback his for the taking, if he wants it.
But—
No, that doesn't make sense.)
The rag isn't laced with anything. The look on dour features hasn't budged since he came in. And for a moment pale eyes flit from mouth, to tsavorite stare, and back again, visibly weighing something just before he licks his lips. Chin bobbing slightly in that rough-edged grasp.
(If this is a trick, it's so deeply buried that it borders on nonsensical. Or genius. Either way, Astarion's too worn down to care.
He wants this to be real.)]