Contentment

There was something about Bruce that even while his soul held darkness; he was, for lack of a better word…soft. Kneeling beside me now in my chambers with his hands cradling a cup of the tea that he hated so much, he was trying to deny to himself that he was gentle and spoiled. Some nights he overcame those feelings and he dueled in vain with me for a dominate position but other nights he gave into them and he wished for tender touches and many simple sensations.

Tonight was one of those nights; I could already tell by the manner in which the melancholy expression overcame his handsome features and by the way his bruised hands loosened their hold on his cup. It was a night that he would seek sentimentality and comfort despite how obvious it made his weaknesses. He looked down at his tea and it was evident tonight he was thinking how instead of the bitter green fluid he wanted his usual sweet English tea and cream in a sparkling china cup.

As I had gathered he would, the boy moved to me, carefully at first leaning in to me for comfort and warmth. I oughtn’t to have encouraged this absurd neediness but I wrapped my arm around him and felt some of his tension leave him. I should instead have scolded that carelessness in his actions but infrequently it was enjoyable to treat him more as a pampered lap pet and less as a disciple. On rare occasion I highly enjoyed that as strong willed as he was, under that there was a desire for voluntary submission.

I used a gloved hand to lift his face up, contemplating his striking blue-grey eyes. He was perfect, exactly what I would have picked in a male for a harem. His body was masculine but without rivers of excess testosterone flowing through him; hard muscle covered by smooth silky skin with quick reflexes. His face was simply stated as very high class European, down to the habitual pout on his lips. Those pale blue-grey eyes were not just a startling contrast from his dark locks but also held a secret that was not easily shared though the hint of it reflected.

The sound of Bruce’s cup being placed on the floor was not loud but noticeable and soon he placed both of his arms around me in an embrace which was not even quite a hug but more a request for one. The poor boy had wanted a father tonight; to tell him he had grown up to make the family proud but instead he had me critiquing his every movement. I wrapped my free arm around him and guided him to settle on my lap, amusement filling my heart when he laid his head against my shoulder, his breathing slowing as he find some of the comfort he sought.

So into the night I held him close to me, moving us to my bedroll when it was finally time to seek slumber. And he held tightly to me under the blankets, cold scratched hands clutching at the shirt covering my chest. He seemed to lull himself to sleep using the beat of my heart as assistance and I watched his face for sometime after. He was even in his sleep not freed from the tragedy that remained never far from his thoughts. His expression was a frown of worry and tears trickled down his cheeks and rested both on the bedroll and on his soft lips, leaving the end result bitter, frightened and soft.