Arching, that protest, a promise even more than the sound of his sighs, or the rise and fall and roll of his chest as he aches to chase after that subtracted closeness. He can’t know whether or not Fenris is watching him— he can’t know if he appreciates it, the way Astarion’s drawn taut—
but he can imagine it. And he wants it.
“I can’t see you,” he murmurs, reiterating the obvious: that strip of crimson drawn high across sharp features, erasing the constellations of his world. “I can’t tell— are you enjoying yourself?”
no subject
Arching, that protest, a promise even more than the sound of his sighs, or the rise and fall and roll of his chest as he aches to chase after that subtracted closeness. He can’t know whether or not Fenris is watching him— he can’t know if he appreciates it, the way Astarion’s drawn taut—
but he can imagine it. And he wants it.
“I can’t see you,” he murmurs, reiterating the obvious: that strip of crimson drawn high across sharp features, erasing the constellations of his world. “I can’t tell— are you enjoying yourself?”