Little wolf, oh, he hates him for that patronizing nickname. Little wolf, and how many times has he heard it? Right before some trap was sprung, some social embarrassment enacted— look sharp, little wolf, and Astarion's torments were always both subtle and mercilessly cruel. He'd been such a foolish thing those first few decades, slowly learning how to be a person and a vampire all at once— able to defend himself easily with teeth and claws and swords, but Astarion fights so often with words. And it wasn't that Fenris never returned those cruelties, oh, no— trust that he did. Trust that Astarion has been on the brutal end of snapping jaws and flesh tearing, of social awkwardness and embarrassing mistakes— but that's not the point.
Little wolf, Astarion says, and Fenris feels himself seethe.
The kisses are too gentle and yet Fenris chases after them anyway: his lips parting as his fingers stiffen and curl, stilling as Astarion takes control. Take it, give me more, and this will end in stalemate for both of them, he's sure. The two of them neither winning nor losing, and perhaps that's what Vakares had intended all along: neither dominance nor submission, but some third thing, neutral and doting. Come for me, his packmate bids, fingers squeezing tight as he jerks them both off, and Fenris feels his cock throb in heady response. Come for me, even as banded fingers sink in deep as they curl, caressing and tapping that soft little spot that never fails to make Astarion mewl in thigh-trembling adoration.
Come for me, and he grins sharply against his lips, his hips surging up to fuck into that tight grip.
(The thing is: he does not want to be heir, not really. He does in the sense that he would very much like to have power over Astarion— sulking, biting, mean Astarion, who so clearly looks at him as despised rival and little else, oh, yes, Fenris would love to put him in his place. His eyes blown out black as he kneels in front of his new master, whimpering out pleas for attention as he squirms and tries so hard not to fuck himself . . . oh, yes. Fenris would love to see that.
But he does not want to lead.
It isn't a lack of ambition, but rather a focusing of it. What dreams he has (and oh, they are such recently developed things) do not revolve around acting as a lord. He's never had a head for politics, not like his covenmates do. It's not a lack of intelligence, but a lack of interest: he cannot stand the false niceties and complex little chess games that make up the upper echelons of society. It makes his palms itch; it leaves him irritable, annoyed by too many idiots who never worked a day in their life deciding the fate of others while they laugh over wine and blood. Blunt directness, that has always suited him best— and so he does not expect to usurp Astarion's role, not really. If anything, he imagines Vakares is being vague just to put Astarion in his place, and well done him for it— but at the end of tonight, surely Astarion's name will be the one on his lips).
Come for me, and there's no escaping it, not when Astarion is so good at knowing just how to make him whine (his voice choked, his mouth dropped open as saliva and blood well against his lips, his eyes hazy as he stares at the other vampire. There's that familiar hook in the pit of his stomach, that mounting pressure that means soon, soon—]
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Little wolf, oh, he hates him for that patronizing nickname. Little wolf, and how many times has he heard it? Right before some trap was sprung, some social embarrassment enacted— look sharp, little wolf, and Astarion's torments were always both subtle and mercilessly cruel. He'd been such a foolish thing those first few decades, slowly learning how to be a person and a vampire all at once— able to defend himself easily with teeth and claws and swords, but Astarion fights so often with words. And it wasn't that Fenris never returned those cruelties, oh, no— trust that he did. Trust that Astarion has been on the brutal end of snapping jaws and flesh tearing, of social awkwardness and embarrassing mistakes— but that's not the point.
Little wolf, Astarion says, and Fenris feels himself seethe.
The kisses are too gentle and yet Fenris chases after them anyway: his lips parting as his fingers stiffen and curl, stilling as Astarion takes control. Take it, give me more, and this will end in stalemate for both of them, he's sure. The two of them neither winning nor losing, and perhaps that's what Vakares had intended all along: neither dominance nor submission, but some third thing, neutral and doting. Come for me, his packmate bids, fingers squeezing tight as he jerks them both off, and Fenris feels his cock throb in heady response. Come for me, even as banded fingers sink in deep as they curl, caressing and tapping that soft little spot that never fails to make Astarion mewl in thigh-trembling adoration.
Come for me, and he grins sharply against his lips, his hips surging up to fuck into that tight grip.
(The thing is: he does not want to be heir, not really. He does in the sense that he would very much like to have power over Astarion— sulking, biting, mean Astarion, who so clearly looks at him as despised rival and little else, oh, yes, Fenris would love to put him in his place. His eyes blown out black as he kneels in front of his new master, whimpering out pleas for attention as he squirms and tries so hard not to fuck himself . . . oh, yes. Fenris would love to see that.
But he does not want to lead.
It isn't a lack of ambition, but rather a focusing of it. What dreams he has (and oh, they are such recently developed things) do not revolve around acting as a lord. He's never had a head for politics, not like his covenmates do. It's not a lack of intelligence, but a lack of interest: he cannot stand the false niceties and complex little chess games that make up the upper echelons of society. It makes his palms itch; it leaves him irritable, annoyed by too many idiots who never worked a day in their life deciding the fate of others while they laugh over wine and blood. Blunt directness, that has always suited him best— and so he does not expect to usurp Astarion's role, not really. If anything, he imagines Vakares is being vague just to put Astarion in his place, and well done him for it— but at the end of tonight, surely Astarion's name will be the one on his lips).
Come for me, and there's no escaping it, not when Astarion is so good at knowing just how to make him whine (his voice choked, his mouth dropped open as saliva and blood well against his lips, his eyes hazy as he stares at the other vampire. There's that familiar hook in the pit of his stomach, that mounting pressure that means soon, soon—]