conjoinedsoul:
An eventful night to say the least. My room feels quiet and clean and safe.
Master comes home just before dawn and I’m relieved for it but don’t approach. I’ll let him rest. If he needs his whore in the last hour he has left I’m sure he’ll find me for it. My door is pushed closed but not latched, any more open than that feels like a direct invitation. I don’t know how closely he looks at these kinds of things, but it matters to me. I wonder if he’d turn the knob.
———-
I’m sitting on the couch that means more to him than a baby’s bloodstain when the sun sets. Ready for anything he wants to give or take, as usual, wine poured.
Nicolas is quick to sneer.
“Don’t taunt me with false promises of companionship. But you have a point I would regret dismissing. Tell me what kind of master to be then, tomorrow at sundown. I’ll be hungry. Good day.”
He closes the door on Jeff’s face and sighs to himself. He’s lost any hand or semblance of control. What kind of master asks for leadership? Someone who will always be first violin, never conductor. The analogy makes him dive to the cot and let its small creaks and groans squeak his consciousness back and forth. After two hundred years, the tidy homunculus of a perfect little gentleman failed to rematerialize after Jeff’s struggles so thoroughly thrashed it. Instead, Nicolas sleeps underneath a level of consciousness he finally lets himself embrace.
(via conjoinedsoul)