[No. No pity whatsoever. No miring, no squirming as the screws wind tight over old vulnerabilities and fears— like a well done dance, there's an unseen balance woven deep throughout the seams, and it isn't a mirror to the Szarr's puppeting strings. Each time he feels it tug tight (coaxing either of their banter back and forth), he swears he can very nearly pin the difference down between his balled-up fingertips. Mark the places where it sinks into his fingerprints. His mood. His awareness: the thinnest razor edge between intuition and compulsion.
It isn't a lie, what Fenris tells him.
It can't be.
Not when choice comes as easily as this, nesting in a fluttering heartbeat that aches hard and hot along the inside of his throat. Intoxicating. Perfect. Too right.]
....don't make promises you don't intend to keep, darling boy. [Weaves its way out of his throat with a bruising quality to it. Warm as a fever. Distinct in its hue when exposed.
Hopeful. That's what it is. And yet still too afraid to give in blind.]
no subject
It isn't a lie, what Fenris tells him.
It can't be.
Not when choice comes as easily as this, nesting in a fluttering heartbeat that aches hard and hot along the inside of his throat. Intoxicating. Perfect. Too right.]
....don't make promises you don't intend to keep, darling boy. [Weaves its way out of his throat with a bruising quality to it. Warm as a fever. Distinct in its hue when exposed.
Hopeful. That's what it is. And yet still too afraid to give in blind.]