It hurts, it hurts, and worse still: Fenris cannot tell why it hurts. He is not so emotionally aware that he knows that some part of him longs for his sire so badly that it aches— oh, young thing. Young, stunted thing, and that's the thing about vampires, isn't it? A century old, but that does not mean he has all the maturity of an elder. Vampires are frozen in time, and in some ways, he is still the same bloody slave he'd been when Vakares had found him. And Fenris had learned to lean on him, to look to him for guidance, to mold himself to him—
Oh, young thing floundering without a master . . . he does not know just why he longs for his sire. He does not realize that perhaps he picks a fight so that Vakares, indeed, might return. He does not know why anger sparks so easily; why his blood boils when it usually takes far longer to rouse him into defensive snappishness. He knows only that his heart hurts— and that in these moments of newfound freedom, his collar cut and his tether released, when they both of them are charting the new way their dynamic might go, he is desperate not to come out the lesser.
I'll be glad when you are, too—
Turn, grab, shove— his forearm braced against Astarion's chest, striding forward until Astarion's back hits the wall with a dull thunk. His fangs are bared in a snarl, though he doesn't realize it; his talons slice through thin silk, his crimson eyes narrowed as he glares at his counterpart.]
Then try it.
[He leans forward, pressing his weight against the vampire's throat. They don't need to breathe, but that won't stop his voice from sounding strained from the pressure he puts on it.]
Go on. Do it. Kill me if you can— or is it that you intend only to gossip and whine until I slink away in shame? But you will have to try harder than that.
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It hurts, it hurts, and worse still: Fenris cannot tell why it hurts. He is not so emotionally aware that he knows that some part of him longs for his sire so badly that it aches— oh, young thing. Young, stunted thing, and that's the thing about vampires, isn't it? A century old, but that does not mean he has all the maturity of an elder. Vampires are frozen in time, and in some ways, he is still the same bloody slave he'd been when Vakares had found him. And Fenris had learned to lean on him, to look to him for guidance, to mold himself to him—
Oh, young thing floundering without a master . . . he does not know just why he longs for his sire. He does not realize that perhaps he picks a fight so that Vakares, indeed, might return. He does not know why anger sparks so easily; why his blood boils when it usually takes far longer to rouse him into defensive snappishness. He knows only that his heart hurts— and that in these moments of newfound freedom, his collar cut and his tether released, when they both of them are charting the new way their dynamic might go, he is desperate not to come out the lesser.
I'll be glad when you are, too—
Turn, grab, shove— his forearm braced against Astarion's chest, striding forward until Astarion's back hits the wall with a dull thunk. His fangs are bared in a snarl, though he doesn't realize it; his talons slice through thin silk, his crimson eyes narrowed as he glares at his counterpart.]
Then try it.
[He leans forward, pressing his weight against the vampire's throat. They don't need to breathe, but that won't stop his voice from sounding strained from the pressure he puts on it.]
Go on. Do it. Kill me if you can— or is it that you intend only to gossip and whine until I slink away in shame? But you will have to try harder than that.