[Oh, he loves that doting affection, he really does. And though Fenris is not wholly thrilled with the idea of his imminent joining, he goes for broke nonetheless: twisting forward so that he presses himself more fully against Vakares, tucking his head beneath his chin. Resigned or not, he will not give up one of the last chances he has to curl against his sire.
His mouth presses gently against his throat, his arm wrapping around Vakares' frame. There's no purpose behind his questing fingers; he just seeks to press close, suddenly hungry for affection.]
He threatened me not eight hours ago with being turned into little more than his personal whore. [His tone is dry. It's not snitching if your sire already knows about it— and he isn't angry. Just sardonic.] I am not putting down my own worth, but I suspect my value to him begins and ends with how well I can take his cock.
[No, it's more than that. He knows it is. There have been moments . . . not many, admittedly, but still. Soft beats of mutual appreciation, or the unexpected joy that comes from the two of them laughing at the same joke . . . there have even been stretches of it. Times when things were calmer, and it was easier to be together than to be at odds— no, he is worth more to Astarion than a set of spread legs.]
And even if it isn't . . . he has always regarded me as usurper. I think it will take time once you are asleep for him to regard me as more than that.
[He draws back just enough to catch Vakares' gaze.]
You think so too. Has he ever . . .?
[Said anything? Done anything? He isn't asking for flattery, but . . . sometimes it helps, hearing an outside opinion.]
no subject
[Oh, he loves that doting affection, he really does. And though Fenris is not wholly thrilled with the idea of his imminent joining, he goes for broke nonetheless: twisting forward so that he presses himself more fully against Vakares, tucking his head beneath his chin. Resigned or not, he will not give up one of the last chances he has to curl against his sire.
His mouth presses gently against his throat, his arm wrapping around Vakares' frame. There's no purpose behind his questing fingers; he just seeks to press close, suddenly hungry for affection.]
He threatened me not eight hours ago with being turned into little more than his personal whore. [His tone is dry. It's not snitching if your sire already knows about it— and he isn't angry. Just sardonic.] I am not putting down my own worth, but I suspect my value to him begins and ends with how well I can take his cock.
[No, it's more than that. He knows it is. There have been moments . . . not many, admittedly, but still. Soft beats of mutual appreciation, or the unexpected joy that comes from the two of them laughing at the same joke . . . there have even been stretches of it. Times when things were calmer, and it was easier to be together than to be at odds— no, he is worth more to Astarion than a set of spread legs.]
And even if it isn't . . . he has always regarded me as usurper. I think it will take time once you are asleep for him to regard me as more than that.
[He draws back just enough to catch Vakares' gaze.]
You think so too. Has he ever . . .?
[Said anything? Done anything? He isn't asking for flattery, but . . . sometimes it helps, hearing an outside opinion.]