[Our sire, and for just a moment, there's a moment of camaraderie. For just a moment Astarion's voice sticks and Fenris' heart pangs, and he wonders if they will join together. If the vulnerability will last. If he, himself, can reach out, though in truth he has no real idea how he might do that. And before he can even begin to figure it out—
Ah.
Heat ripples through him at that sliding touch. The ghost of Astarion's fingers lingers on his skin. And what a thing it is to be a vampire, that his teeth ache to bite even as a pulse of arousal courses through him. The lyrium embedded in his palms pulses, his fingers curling as the phantom urge to sink his talons into soft flesh and rip courses through his mind. He knows what's going to happen next. No matter that he refuses to be the one to strike first, there's no way this won't end in blows.
And truth be told, he won't be sorry for it.
It's been a century of enduring Astarion's jealousy. A century of snide remarks and petty revenge; a century of cruelties great and small, humiliations tangling together with rage and grief. Decades of hands yanking at him during parties, shoving him down to his knees and fucking his mouth until he was drooling come; of vicious cruelty that always had the vague excuse of accidental, Fenris writhing in agony as Astarion watched his blood pool on the stone floor.
Years on end of the two of them barking at one another helplessly, impotent dogs collared and leashed by their master, but not anymore.
Fenris' eyes darken as he turns, and oh, but his smile has taken on a mean edge.]
A bold proclamation from a vampire who was taken in front of a thousand witnesses. Do you imagine your posturing will erase that from their minds?
[His head tips.]
Their first impression of our union was you submitting to me . . . and what will you do to remedy that? Tie me to the bed and fuck me? And yet that won't change what happened.
[The smirk fades.]
Try and make me yours, Astarion. You do not have Vakares to hide behind, not anymore— and older you may be, but I am trained for this. And I will not hesitate to finally put you in your place like the rabid dog you are.
no subject
Ah.
Heat ripples through him at that sliding touch. The ghost of Astarion's fingers lingers on his skin. And what a thing it is to be a vampire, that his teeth ache to bite even as a pulse of arousal courses through him. The lyrium embedded in his palms pulses, his fingers curling as the phantom urge to sink his talons into soft flesh and rip courses through his mind. He knows what's going to happen next. No matter that he refuses to be the one to strike first, there's no way this won't end in blows.
And truth be told, he won't be sorry for it.
It's been a century of enduring Astarion's jealousy. A century of snide remarks and petty revenge; a century of cruelties great and small, humiliations tangling together with rage and grief. Decades of hands yanking at him during parties, shoving him down to his knees and fucking his mouth until he was drooling come; of vicious cruelty that always had the vague excuse of accidental, Fenris writhing in agony as Astarion watched his blood pool on the stone floor.
Years on end of the two of them barking at one another helplessly, impotent dogs collared and leashed by their master, but not anymore.
Fenris' eyes darken as he turns, and oh, but his smile has taken on a mean edge.]
A bold proclamation from a vampire who was taken in front of a thousand witnesses. Do you imagine your posturing will erase that from their minds?
[His head tips.]
Their first impression of our union was you submitting to me . . . and what will you do to remedy that? Tie me to the bed and fuck me? And yet that won't change what happened.
[The smirk fades.]
Try and make me yours, Astarion. You do not have Vakares to hide behind, not anymore— and older you may be, but I am trained for this. And I will not hesitate to finally put you in your place like the rabid dog you are.