[His mouth is open before he knows what to say. And maybe it’s a mercy, the sharpness of the burning bite that follows, cool cloth pressed to even cooler skin as the whole of his posture straightens, rigid as a board. A little hiss slipping through sharp teeth.
So much for all his own tall talk.
But the next time Fenris works damp silk over skin, he’s silent. Settling by slow degrees as though sinking into a warm bath; he’s had so much worse than this, after all, and the feeling of warm fingertips perching light across his skin relaxes him more than it should.
Even so, he’s never really been capable of letting kindness slip in through his defenses, thinking it to be a dagger rather than a balm. A weapon, alluring to grasp for and damningly dangerous to leave pressed against one's skin. And yet maybe— maybe careful acceptance takes root in the silence between breaths. In the way his expression, tipped low into shadow— dark lashes fitted heavy across downturned eyes (eyes that can only seem to take Fenris in peripherally now), pale curls obscuring what little there is to observe— doesn't twist itself into either scorn or bruising humor.
Against all his own screaming instincts, that offer isn’t actually unwanted.
But he still blinks too often regardless for a beat, the tips of his canines imperceptibly working, the way a beaten animal might worry at its own leg in a cage. His facade is perfect. He holds his head high in the Gallows. He laughs about the murals painted across every other street here, attestations to old pain. Buildings built like prison walls— even the rusted spikes that jut harshly from the rooftops, only a few feet away from where they sit now. And he is happy. More than he’s ever had the chance to be before.
That doesn't change the fact that there are gaps in the seams. Little snags. Places where nothing sits right and that emptiness snarls outstretched fingertips when touched.
And it shows, now. A flicker of brittle uncertainty worn behind bright red eyes.
Before he looks away.
Before his fingers find that bottle and pull it quickly to his own lips, and it tastes— different this time. Ringing faintly of something far more potent. Soothing.]
...thank you.
[Gratitude laid bare. The fragile makings of trust.
Not for old memories, scattered at their backs like displaced dust— but for what he offers now. Openhanded. Unconditional.
no subject
[His mouth is open before he knows what to say. And maybe it’s a mercy, the sharpness of the burning bite that follows, cool cloth pressed to even cooler skin as the whole of his posture straightens, rigid as a board. A little hiss slipping through sharp teeth.
So much for all his own tall talk.
But the next time Fenris works damp silk over skin, he’s silent. Settling by slow degrees as though sinking into a warm bath; he’s had so much worse than this, after all, and the feeling of warm fingertips perching light across his skin relaxes him more than it should.
Even so, he’s never really been capable of letting kindness slip in through his defenses, thinking it to be a dagger rather than a balm. A weapon, alluring to grasp for and damningly dangerous to leave pressed against one's skin. And yet maybe— maybe careful acceptance takes root in the silence between breaths. In the way his expression, tipped low into shadow— dark lashes fitted heavy across downturned eyes (eyes that can only seem to take Fenris in peripherally now), pale curls obscuring what little there is to observe— doesn't twist itself into either scorn or bruising humor.
Against all his own screaming instincts, that offer isn’t actually unwanted.
But he still blinks too often regardless for a beat, the tips of his canines imperceptibly working, the way a beaten animal might worry at its own leg in a cage. His facade is perfect. He holds his head high in the Gallows. He laughs about the murals painted across every other street here, attestations to old pain. Buildings built like prison walls— even the rusted spikes that jut harshly from the rooftops, only a few feet away from where they sit now. And he is happy. More than he’s ever had the chance to be before.
That doesn't change the fact that there are gaps in the seams. Little snags. Places where nothing sits right and that emptiness snarls outstretched fingertips when touched.
And it shows, now. A flicker of brittle uncertainty worn behind bright red eyes.
Before he looks away.
Before his fingers find that bottle and pull it quickly to his own lips, and it tastes— different this time. Ringing faintly of something far more potent. Soothing.]
...thank you.
[Gratitude laid bare. The fragile makings of trust.
Not for old memories, scattered at their backs like displaced dust— but for what he offers now. Openhanded. Unconditional.
Mercy for a monster.]