A rare thing for Fenris. A rarer thing still for a vampire, and he knows it won't last. He's had a century to get used to that constant craving, that desperation instinctive urge for more, sex and power and money and drugs, oh, he understands now why so many of their kind sink so deeply into darkness. When nothing is ever enough, and even the worst kinds of vices only bring temporary comfort . . .
And yet: they are indulged in this house. They are kept in line with a set of rules that keep them on a stricter moral code than Fenris had lived by even as a mortal (and he will never forget that first week: staining one of Vakares' rugs scarlet as he'd justified a bloody massacre of slavers as not the impulsive feasting of a newborn, but the kind of devastation he'd have wrecked long ago if he could have). They are allowed to hunt, to feed, and even (as Fenris so desperately longs for) to enact some quiet justice as they see fit, so long as they don't draw too much attention to themselves. And in that careful indulgence, Fenris finds a certain measure of peace.
Here and now, he feels it once more. Drowsy and so, so sated, he lies there, content to be tangled with the other two. His body still aches with the phantom sensation of two cocks splitting him open for hours on end; come pools hot within him, fucked into him so thoroughly there's no chance he'll ever get it all out. Mine and ours and yours, possessiveness an endless ebb and flow between all three of them— and though he sometimes chafes beneath possessiveness, right now it suits him more than ever. They're his as much as he's theirs, after all.
And understand: he'd be happy to fall asleep like that. He's nearly halfway to it when Vakares speaks— and oh, for a moment Fenris is nearly sorry for it. He doesn't want to think of what's to come, but ah, they must. He blinks hazily once, twice, trying to focus himself as Vakares speaks of what's to come—
And it's funny, for when Vakares focuses on him, he has the exact same reaction Astarion does.
Maybe it will be me, and it is not thrilled, not at all. He doesn't want to lead, not like this. He doesn't want to be the face of their coven for the next few centuries, maintaining alliances with nobles he can't stand, playing nice with those whose heads would be better served perched on pikes . . . oh, he doesn't want it. He doesn't mind being a leader when it's for a good cause (and oh, how many times he's taken command of a company, eager to rid Baldur's Gate of as many slavers as he can), but not like this.
He hadn't realized until this moment how much he had assumed it would be Astarion. Oh, he's scoffed otherwise, but that was only ever to get under his skin; he'd never dreamed Vakares might actually pick him.]
And yet someone will.
[It's more somber than he intends it to be. Fenris sits up a little, glancing just once over at Astarion before focusing back on Vakares.]
1/2
A rare thing for Fenris. A rarer thing still for a vampire, and he knows it won't last. He's had a century to get used to that constant craving, that desperation instinctive urge for more, sex and power and money and drugs, oh, he understands now why so many of their kind sink so deeply into darkness. When nothing is ever enough, and even the worst kinds of vices only bring temporary comfort . . .
And yet: they are indulged in this house. They are kept in line with a set of rules that keep them on a stricter moral code than Fenris had lived by even as a mortal (and he will never forget that first week: staining one of Vakares' rugs scarlet as he'd justified a bloody massacre of slavers as not the impulsive feasting of a newborn, but the kind of devastation he'd have wrecked long ago if he could have). They are allowed to hunt, to feed, and even (as Fenris so desperately longs for) to enact some quiet justice as they see fit, so long as they don't draw too much attention to themselves. And in that careful indulgence, Fenris finds a certain measure of peace.
Here and now, he feels it once more. Drowsy and so, so sated, he lies there, content to be tangled with the other two. His body still aches with the phantom sensation of two cocks splitting him open for hours on end; come pools hot within him, fucked into him so thoroughly there's no chance he'll ever get it all out. Mine and ours and yours, possessiveness an endless ebb and flow between all three of them— and though he sometimes chafes beneath possessiveness, right now it suits him more than ever. They're his as much as he's theirs, after all.
And understand: he'd be happy to fall asleep like that. He's nearly halfway to it when Vakares speaks— and oh, for a moment Fenris is nearly sorry for it. He doesn't want to think of what's to come, but ah, they must. He blinks hazily once, twice, trying to focus himself as Vakares speaks of what's to come—
And it's funny, for when Vakares focuses on him, he has the exact same reaction Astarion does.
Maybe it will be me, and it is not thrilled, not at all. He doesn't want to lead, not like this. He doesn't want to be the face of their coven for the next few centuries, maintaining alliances with nobles he can't stand, playing nice with those whose heads would be better served perched on pikes . . . oh, he doesn't want it. He doesn't mind being a leader when it's for a good cause (and oh, how many times he's taken command of a company, eager to rid Baldur's Gate of as many slavers as he can), but not like this.
He hadn't realized until this moment how much he had assumed it would be Astarion. Oh, he's scoffed otherwise, but that was only ever to get under his skin; he'd never dreamed Vakares might actually pick him.]
And yet someone will.
[It's more somber than he intends it to be. Fenris sits up a little, glancing just once over at Astarion before focusing back on Vakares.]
Will you not finally tell us?