Two Turns of a Vicious Cycle [Bishop/Aidan]
TWO TURNS OF A VICIOUS CYCLE;
Who: Bishop/Aidan
What: When Aidan confronts Bishop in the funeral home, Bishop does more than just beat him senseless.
When: During 1x05
Word Count: 5,000~
Warnings: NC-17; language, violence, blood!kink, dub-con, sexuality. Un-beta'd, so be gentle. ._.
"What do you want, Aidan?" Bishop asks, and it's completely unfair for him to whisper those words into Aidan's ear like he's tonguing the nectar out of a pot of honey. The tone of voice makes Aidan groan, pulls the sound from him like a clawed hand dragging along the inside of his throat.
The first strike is the hardest to swallow. It's always been this way. Aidan doesn't like to think he's lost, so it tends to take a few moments for the reality of a failure to settle in. Bishop understands this, usually gives him one good wallop, the nibble of an hors d'œuvre, before moving on to the main course.
The second blow is the sweetest. It cracks the jaw like a fine wine assaulting the tastebuds, drops of vampiric blood splattering across the pavement and smearing across the fist that so expertly caresses his skin. Aidan laughs; the weight of a body pinning him to the ground draws the helplessness out of him in bubbling mirth. There are hisses and growls and the fine, silver silence of a wicked tongue, and when the third, fourth, fifth and beyond blows knock red from the flesh of the dead, Aidan is left with a soft palm smoothing along his cheek and the sickening sensation of unwanted fingers twisting in his hair.
"Aidan," comes the tsking voice of his mentor. "It's time to stop playing these games." His body is solid against the younger vampire's blocky build, hips pinning hips in place. "It's time to come home."
Aidan only laughs, his voice hoarse, and cracked, and desperate. Bishop pities him, he really does. His prized protegee, fending for himself on the streets of Boston, not a single vampire to share his struggles with. He can't imagine the stress of living so far away from one's family for such an extended period of time, and no matter the delusions the idealistic vampire had about independence and humanity, Bishop knew the end result was killing him.
He can't stand the thought of Aidan wasting away to the shriveled husk of a once bold and beautiful being.
Bishop almost expects Aidan's next move. When the contemptuous slap of spit against his cheek tells him Aidan has lost his sense of respect, Bishop really can't be held accountable for his next course of action.
"So you want to play that game, do you?"
He remembers the first time he'd had to break Aidan, back when the child had first been turned. He'd been a ravenous creature, with no sense of order or hierarchy, only simple thoughts filtering through that blood-hazed mind of his. Had Bishop allowed, Aidan would have slaughtered an entire town just to bathe in a river of crimson. He had not, however, given the vampire permission to mindlessly massacre, and he thought this slow formation of what had unwittingly become a conscious had been his first begrudging mistake.
Now, with a slow roll of his hips, Bishop reminds him of his place.
Aidan struggles at first, his body bucking almost violently in an attempt to throw the older vampire off, but Bishop is too strong, and holds fast, one-handedly pinning Adian's hands above his head. He uses his free hand to wipe the spit off his cheek, flashing a cocky, fang-filled smile before leaning down and teasing away the blood caked on Aidan's face with a frighteningly adept tongue.
It's memory that yields Aidan. Bishop is never cruel in this; simply passionate, skilled at a trait well honed in all of their kind. Sex. It's not a verb, it's a sixth sense; an attribute of power, of dominance. Aidan resists it as best he can, but Bishop's free hand has fallen to his waist and is rubbing small circles in the fabric of his shirt, pulling it up with every pass, until just a flash of skin is exposed to the cool air.
"Come now, Aidan," he whispers into the other's ear. "Don't tell me you didn't miss this."
"No," Aidan chokes out, feeling his skin squirm, his veins throbbing with borrowed blood and a need to bleed the monster hovering above him.
"Shh, shh," Bishop whispers, all sensual softness, his hand sliding up Aidan's hip and past his heaving chest to settle around the other's jugular. His touch is innocent at first, light and caressing, but then his fingers clench and he's got Aidan in a choke hold and he's using that leverage to hoist the vampire into the air and across the room. Aidan lands between the two hearses with a crash and a groan, a jangle of chains turning their struggle into something melodious. The music in the background cuts off -- the end of the disk.
Aidan doesn't bother with trying to get up. He can still feel the ghost-like presence of solid fists pounding against his face; the blows were strong enough to make the memory of them hurt.
Bishop slow-walks towards him, his face falling from harsh, to blank, to pitying. It is no incomparable secret that he has his favourites amongst the coven, and Aidan is one of the few whom he'd always granted certain... privileges.
He can remember whole nights spent in bed, all regular duties shirked for the simple pleasure of feasting off the other for hours on end, quenching their thirst with one another's veins and languishing in the darkest burn of carnality; Aidan's needy hands gripping his hips and hauling him closer, begging for more, for deeper, for faster; fangs clanking against fangs as they bit tongues and lips, slow caresses licking away the pain. Of gorging themselves on the sweet blood of their victims, sharing the delicate, sloping neck of a virgin maiden, and laughing at their own little joke when her screams reached a fevered pitch.
Bishop aches for those days again; for his little lost vampire to come back to the brood.
"What happened to you, Aidan?" he asks, drawing closer until the tips of his polished shoes are pecking at the edge of Aidan's boots. "You used to be so... powerful. So self-assured." When he covers Aidan's body with his own, it's a more solid weight in a more comfortable position. "But now look at you." The back of his knuckles glide along the other's jaw, soothing the bruises already beginning to form. "You're so weak... so... vulnerable."
"Get off me."
Bishop doesn't have to say "no" for him to scream it; it's shouted in his fingertips, brushing roughly against Aidan's scalp; yelled in the chains that rattle and shake when they're deftly tied around the younger vampire's wrists, keeping him stretched out and immobile.
"I'm beginning to think you like it when I punish you." Bishop jerks the chain once more around Aidan's wrists, drawing it tight and rough against the younger man's pale skin. It wouldn't be enough to hold Aidan in place if his struggles became too much, but it serves as a warning: stay put.
Aidan rails against his own cold flesh, the monster and the man synced up, two voices -- a growl and a groan -- scratching desperately at the underside of his epidermis. His eyes flash black when Bishop invades his space and steals his very air, but he can't tell if it's from anger or desire, and he's ashamed at the not-knowing. He recalls a rather shameful series of events in his past two-hundred-some-odd years of living death, and he turns his face away from a glaring truth that sparks in Bishop's cold blue eyes; that he can never escape the hold his sire has on him, no matter how hard he struggles, no matter how hard he tries.
He can think back on a hundred years ago, when he'd been infatuated with a delicate human girl, how he'd stated a need to distance himself from Bishop by railing against the rules lashed into his back. He can think back on those times and remember Bishop's long-suffering sigh, the twinge of pain he usually hid so well breaking through the surface of his chilly exterior (Aidan didn't care then, and he doesn't care now). He can think back, and he can shudder at the dawning of a terrible realization, how his first act of defiance had kept him away for a few months (the girl had died by his own hands, a horrendous turn of events), and his second act of defiance (occurring several years later) had lasted for a few years, and how each time he'd broken away, he'd always come running back with his tail tucked between his legs; how each test of independence always led to a longer stint of neediness. And now this third time, this last act of contempt, has him shuddering for a chance to finally free himself from the dark clutches of his creation, when all he can see on the horizon is a wavering figure of arrogance and blood beckoning him closer every time he tries to pull away.
Aidan turns his face to the side. He doesn't want to look at it, doesn't want to face his own reflection glaring back at him from Bishop's eyes. It's a painful thing to think that his body groans for the older vampire's touch, and yet the delicate, constrained brushes give cause for so much fear. Real power is knowing when not to wield it, and Aidan knows Bishop's power, has tasted the sweet coppery touch of it on his tongue. The want for it is a craving he can't control, and now, with his bloodied face and sore bones, is no different.
His desire makes him angry; makes him jerk violently around in his prison made of body and chain.
Bishop hushes him by setting his fangs against Aidan's jugular. When he pushes in, it's like sex. It's a throb of desire connecting the both of them in a manner wholly erotic.
A deep, completely wrecked moan shudders through Aidan's chest, and he doesn't mean to squirm his body against Bishop's frame, he absolutely doesn't. But the act still occurs, and by the heavy pant of heated air that escapes his sire's open mouth, Aidan is aware that Bishop is perfectly okay with this. In fact, he gives just as good as he's got, rolling his hips and sliding their groins together just so.
Nothing about this is okay -- nothing -- but Aidan's used to pure debauched wrongness, so it feels almost comfortable to be immersed in a dubiously consensual act of sex with the man who made him a monster.
Bishop is drinking his fill, and it's enough to make Aidan's extremities twitch. Briefly, he wonders if he could die from blood loss, but the pull of the older vampire's fangs against his neck, the light suction and constant cleaning swipe of a velvet tongue, the point of pressure where the skin breaks and the veins burst sweet and begging, is all so terribly orgasmic it has Aidan curling his toes in pleasure. Bishop doesn't pull back for a very long time, like he's sampling something divine, like Aidan's blood is a drug he'll never have enough of. When he does pull back, it's only to lap at the line of red painting its way down the side of Aidan's pale throat.
Bishop is hard above him, and all Aidan wants to do is deny the very noticeable ache coming from between his own legs, but he's not given that chance, not given the privilege of dignity, because Bishop pushes down again, and they brush together, and he's smirking like he knows all of Aidan's dark little secrets and just how to make them darker.
"Now see, this isn't so bad," Bishop drawls, and Aidan bears his fangs.
"Get off."
"Oh, I intend to."
Bishop bears his own fangs, but they're far more sinister than violent. Aidan jerks up, trying to buck the older vampire off of him, but Bishop expects this and bucks down at the same time, eliciting a moan between the both of them. Blonde hair slumps forward while their pelvises grind and rut. Aidan is lost in the pleasures of stimulation for an embarrassingly long amount of time, focused only on the hardness rubbing pleasurably against his deepest ache, and the soft lips mouthing along his jaw.
When he comes to, it's only because a hand has delved beneath his jeans and is now palming him teasingly through the material of his boxer shorts.
Aidan jerks into the touch, but turns his head away and gruffs out a harsh, "Stop."
"I suppose we could move on," Bishop says, rubbing the heat and solidity throbbing against his hand, "but I do so like to see you come undone first."
After the sharp spike of pleasure finally fades, Aidan is left trembling on the edge of a decision. He can keep fighting, there's no doubt about that, but Bishop is obviously not going to let up. His pride shies away from the thought of suffering another blow, but Aidan knows full well that Bishop can be rough when he wants to be, and it's been so long that Aidan isn't sure if he can handle something like that without shattering into a million disjointed pieces.
The decision becomes easy when he hears the sound of a zipper coming undone, and Bishop starts to pull his hand out from Aidan's jeans.
Desperate to stay in one piece, Aidan makes a soft noise of protest and thrusts up into Bishop's warm hand, shivering all over when the pressure jolts through him like electricity.
"Mm," Bishop mumbles, a low noise rumbling in the back of his throat, and then he pushes his hand back in place and begins to massage Aidan through the material of his boxers. Aidan jerks up at a pace quicker than Bishop's actions, but his sire doesn't seem to mind -- finds it endearing, if the warm smile on his lips means anything.
Aidan's hands squirm and fidget in their chain-bound state, but he doesn't jerk the flimsy metal off of him because he's not sure if he's allowed. So he's left panting and thrusting and otherwise making a complete desperate fool out of himself. Aidan's trying his hardest to keep every sound of pleasure locked up tight within him, but Bishop knows all the right buttons to push, knows that if he rubs the underside of Aidan's cock fleetingly enough, the younger vampire's abdominal muscles will jolt and flutter; knows that if he circles his thumb teasingly around the head, Aidan is liable to crack his skull on something, he'll arch his neck back so far.
Bishop knows him, and that's what makes it terrifying.
"What do you want, Aidan?" Bishop asks, and it's completely unfair for him to whisper those words into Aidan's ear like he's tonguing the nectar out of a pot of honey. The tone of voice makes Aidan groan, pulls the sound from him like a clawed hand dragging along the inside of his throat.
"Like this," Bishop says, sliding the palm of his hand along Aidan's length, "or this?" His fingers dance around the hem of the other's boxers, then dip inside and finally, finally make contact.
"That," Aidan pants out, squirming in Bishop's grasp. "Like that."
"Alright."
Bishop pulls his hand away and Aidan swears he's gonna kill him, mathematical probability or not, but he feels his zipper being pulled down, his button undone, and before he can get a word in edgewise, Bishop's forcefully lifting his hips up off the ground and tugging his jeans clear off of him.
Aidan feels shamefully exposed, and tries to hide his nervousness in the crook of his arm, but the sudden hand gripping his chin will have none of that.
"Watch," Bishop says firmly, then pulls his hand away and begins sliding Aidan's boxer shorts down, down, down. Aidan is mesmerized by the motion, unable to look away as he's revealed. He winces as the cool air lightly caresses him, then outright trembles when something warmer than that takes its place.
Bishop's grip is firm, yet yielding. He allows Aidan to thrust up into his hand, but never once breaks the rhythm of his fingers. The way he handles this, now, is a lot like how he handles Aidan any other day; with confident, soul-burning strokes, and at a pace that is far slower than what the younger demands. Bishop can feel Aidan's heartbeat through the flesh he's caressing; the thump and the throb of desire as slickness dribbles down his joints.
Aidan is close -- so close -- and all he wants to do is close his eyes and let go, but every lesson branded into his skull from years of steady training demands he follow the command given to him and watch. He's close to coming undone, and if the heavy, smoldering look Bishop is giving him is any indication, his sire knows damned well how unhinged he's gotten.
It's too much when Bishop gives one final, playful nip along Aidan's jaw, then slides down past the rumpled shirt and restricting jacket, and starts to plant heated kisses along the slip of abdomen that's revealed. Aidan melts into the touch, his eyes falling half-lidded, and he finds himself mumbling words of encouragement before he can clamp his stupid lips shut. Bishop laughs along his skin, and the breathy caress makes gooseflesh rise on Aidan's arms.
"It's okay," Bishop assures him, one hand stroking Aidan's cock, the other rubbing circles into his ribcage. "I like it when you squirm."
Aidan swears up and down that the strangled moan scratching its way out of his throat had started as a protest, but Bishop's nosing along his thigh, and he's straining and hot and hard, and Aidan can't think beyond the desire for Bishop's lips to just fucking touch him already.
He's granted his wish almost immediately. Bishop laps at his cock like it's caked in blood, which is just an all-around sick idea, but Aidan hardens at the thought, eyes bleeding into black. He's suddenly completely fascinated with the ceiling, but when a demanding rumble sounds from between his legs, Aidan is helpless to turn his attention back onto the vampire scraping off his sense of self with every pass of lips and tongue.
Bishop's eyes are inky, and really, he sports the smug, self-assured vampire look all too well. The length-wise edge of his fangs rub gently across Aidan's skin, press all needy and demanding against Aidan's inner thigh. He whispers something unintelligible against his fledgling's flesh, and then he's tonguing the head, and caressing the slit at the top, and drawing it inside, and holyfuck--
It isn't Aidan's fault that he's sensitive to his sire's touch. Bishop has done this a million times, and the heat of his mouth, the goddamned suction of his goddamned throat, is as good as a guarantee that he'll do it a million more.
The press of Bishop's fingers digging deep into the crevice connecting Aidan's legs and pelvis isn't restrictive, but encouraging. He urges Aidan to come undone. He wants to see it, to feel his little vampire unravel beneath him, to grab the edge of that string and stretch it from a sweater to a line. Maybe then he could remake Aidan into something a little stronger -- into something with a semblance of what he once was.
Aidan complies, starts to rock his hips up into Bishop's slick mouth. His fingernails are digging into his palms, and he's biting his bottom lip in an effort to keep all the pathetic noises inside of him, but he's failing miserably at that last part; losing himself more and more with each stuttering thrust.
He can't stand it any more.
He loses himself with a bone-rattling growl, his fangs biting at the air, aching for something to dig into.
Bishop swallows -- fuck fuck fuck -- doesn't ease up until the slickness of Aidan's release spills from his mouth and slides down his spent and aching cock.
It takes a full minute after coming down off of his orgasmic high for Aidan to realize that Bishop's got a finger inside of him, wriggling around, teasing him further. His first instinct is to clench up, to fight back the intrusion and the imminent meaning behind it, but Bishop places a kiss on Aidan's thigh and tells him, in that silent manner of his, to calm the fuck down.
Aidan's heart is thundering in his chest. His head falls back and rattles against the chains. Bishop's fingers are slick from his own cum, and he thinks, what a fucking bastard, because that was probably the vampire's insidious plan all along.
Bishop dotes on him like he's delicate and something worth pampering -- he stretches him slowly, first one finger, then another, and Aidan wants more than anything to hate this, but he just can't. He loves it too much, loves Bishop's attentions, loves his mentor's warm hands and scraping fangs and midnight eyes. He hates feeling like he's owned, but when Bishop dominates him, when he asserts his authority, when he draws back his violence and gives Aidan his most genuine sense of care, it lights a fire in Aidan's stomach and burns his soul up from the inside.
There are three fingers working their magic inside of him before Bishop finds everything satisfactory. He crawls up Aidan's body in that stocky-smooth motion of his, and Aidan spreads his legs without even having to be asked. God, he wants this. God, he hates himself for wanting to want this.
The older vampire's eyes are still black. Aidan's haven't changed either, and they both look at each other with the sort of intensity only monsters can fathom.
Aidan feels sick to his stomach. Or perhaps it's anticipation that's making his insides flutter, but he finds it easier to call it fear.
Bishop draws back, pushes his pants down his hips, just enough to expose himself to the cool air, and Aidan can't help but watch, can't help but stare and lick his bruised lips. It's nice to know that Bishop isn't entirely unaffected; nice to see that the other vampire can come undone every now and then, too.
They're both still clothed, except for the places that burn the hottest, and when Bishop rubs his cock against the younger body beneath him, Aidan's own perks up in interest. Stiffly, Aidan lays his cheek against the smooth flesh of his arm and wills his desire to go away, but now that nothing is separating flesh from flesh, he finds it even harder to control the lust rampaging inside of him.
Bishop grinds against him, circles his hips in expert caresses, ripping away Aidan's self-control piece-by-piece.
"Are you ready?"
Aidan swallows, gives a breathy, "Yeah."
He closes his eyes, tenses up, expecting Bishop to go ahead and push inside, but what he gets instead is a pair of insistent lips pressing against his own. Bishop uses his tongue to pry apart Aidan's mouth, and Aidan moans willingly into the kiss, pleasantly surprised by this turn of events. Their tongues clash, all wet and forceful, but it's Aidan who has to finally relent. When Bishop pulls back, they both look utterly debauched -- the older vampire's hair is a perfect mess, and his protege's lips are kiss-swollen.
Briefly, Aidan ponders the idea of using this moment to try to escape, but Bishop's hands are cupping his face, and he's tilting Aidan's head to the side even as he's lowering his mouth to nibble along the other's shoulder, and Aidan is suddenly, distinctly aware of his sire's blood rushing beneath the surface of his oh-so-breakable skin, and the temptation is just far too much.
He'd told Rebecca once that vampire blood wasn't much better than hospital blood -- he'd lied. At least, in regards to a sire/sired relationship.
Bishop's blood is the darkest sort of addiction he can clamp his lips around. Just the memory of its taste, the caramel-thick slide of it down his throat, the heated musk of it clinging to the back of his pallet, is enough to make Aidan slide his mouth along the older vampire's clavicle in obvious desire. His tongue edges out, tickles along the veins in his mentor's neck, and the moment he pushes in and penetrates pliant flesh is the moment Bishop does the same.
It puts them on an even playing field, in a way, and for that Aidan is surprisingly grateful. He moans into the other's neck, sucking down the rush of warm blood that spills across his chin, and pushes his hips up into Bishop's slow thrusts. They're both joined in a manner beyond human, sex and blood and the want for both intermingling. Hips impact hips, a firm but gentle motion, and Aidan finds himself pleading for more, for faster, for harder.
Bishop smiles at how his defiant little boy has so easily reverted back to old times.
He complies immediately, pushing harder, going deeper, grinding against him and otherwise rutting like some sort of feral animal. That's all they are, really -- beasts mindless to all but blood and physical pleasure. For all that vampires exhort superiority over werewolves, they're just as bad; worse, even, because their curse haunts them every day of every month.
It's been too long, and Aidan is so tight, and he's already panting in need, begging for release, so Bishop is almost helpless to snake a hand between them and give his little vampire what he needs the most.
It's all growls and grunts and groans of pleasure after that. Bishop comes inside him, and Aidan is so far gone just the feel of the other's sticky seed is enough to send him toppling over the edge. He releases between them, covering Bishop's hand, and once he's done he can still feel Bishop inside of him, slow pumps straining to take him for all he's worth.
When Bishop pulls out, he doesn't pull off. He takes his time licking along Aidan's salty skin, nipping his jawline and doing other ridiculously tender things. Aidan is left shuddering when Bishop lifts his messy hand and licks away the evidence of the younger vampire's arousal, but the almost delicate nuzzle to the side of his ear slams him back to reality.
Oh god.
He'd just--
He'd let--
It isn't difficult to spot the distress on Aidan's face. Bishops sighs long and low, then lifts off of the immobile body, staring down at him with a softly pitying sort of air. He seems hurt when Aidan ignores his proffered hand, draws it back like he's been burned.
"You're welcome here any time," he's saying, but the words fly by Aidan's head in a whir of motion. All he can see is his weakness -- all he can see are his mistakes.
Bishop clicks his tongue quietly, but he tidies himself up and moves out of Aidan's line of sight, allowing the other a few moments of solitude to compose himself.
Everything within him wants to latch on to Aidan and never let go.
But that's not how things are done, so Bishop buries the sentiment beneath a pile of paperwork, and only looks up to watch Aidan leave.
~*~*~*~
He's not so surprised when Aidan busts out the priest's fangs. It's a violent sort of action that, to most, would seem entirely unjustified. But Bishop knows what they don't; knows that when Aidan feels weak, he tends to do something that makes him feel strong.
He won't say the event is entirely his fault, but he can attribute a lot of the violence to their earlier tryst. Part of the act had been a hunger for that closeness they'd once shared, but Bishop can't deny that he'd been hoping to stamp out some of Aidan's weakness by showing it to him.
It's a vicious cycle, he knows, but if it means Aidan will come back to him in the end, he's okay with that.
-FIN-
Who: Bishop/Aidan
What: When Aidan confronts Bishop in the funeral home, Bishop does more than just beat him senseless.
When: During 1x05
Word Count: 5,000~
Warnings: NC-17; language, violence, blood!kink, dub-con, sexuality. Un-beta'd, so be gentle. ._.
"What do you want, Aidan?" Bishop asks, and it's completely unfair for him to whisper those words into Aidan's ear like he's tonguing the nectar out of a pot of honey. The tone of voice makes Aidan groan, pulls the sound from him like a clawed hand dragging along the inside of his throat.
The first strike is the hardest to swallow. It's always been this way. Aidan doesn't like to think he's lost, so it tends to take a few moments for the reality of a failure to settle in. Bishop understands this, usually gives him one good wallop, the nibble of an hors d'œuvre, before moving on to the main course.
The second blow is the sweetest. It cracks the jaw like a fine wine assaulting the tastebuds, drops of vampiric blood splattering across the pavement and smearing across the fist that so expertly caresses his skin. Aidan laughs; the weight of a body pinning him to the ground draws the helplessness out of him in bubbling mirth. There are hisses and growls and the fine, silver silence of a wicked tongue, and when the third, fourth, fifth and beyond blows knock red from the flesh of the dead, Aidan is left with a soft palm smoothing along his cheek and the sickening sensation of unwanted fingers twisting in his hair.
"Aidan," comes the tsking voice of his mentor. "It's time to stop playing these games." His body is solid against the younger vampire's blocky build, hips pinning hips in place. "It's time to come home."
Aidan only laughs, his voice hoarse, and cracked, and desperate. Bishop pities him, he really does. His prized protegee, fending for himself on the streets of Boston, not a single vampire to share his struggles with. He can't imagine the stress of living so far away from one's family for such an extended period of time, and no matter the delusions the idealistic vampire had about independence and humanity, Bishop knew the end result was killing him.
He can't stand the thought of Aidan wasting away to the shriveled husk of a once bold and beautiful being.
Bishop almost expects Aidan's next move. When the contemptuous slap of spit against his cheek tells him Aidan has lost his sense of respect, Bishop really can't be held accountable for his next course of action.
"So you want to play that game, do you?"
He remembers the first time he'd had to break Aidan, back when the child had first been turned. He'd been a ravenous creature, with no sense of order or hierarchy, only simple thoughts filtering through that blood-hazed mind of his. Had Bishop allowed, Aidan would have slaughtered an entire town just to bathe in a river of crimson. He had not, however, given the vampire permission to mindlessly massacre, and he thought this slow formation of what had unwittingly become a conscious had been his first begrudging mistake.
Now, with a slow roll of his hips, Bishop reminds him of his place.
Aidan struggles at first, his body bucking almost violently in an attempt to throw the older vampire off, but Bishop is too strong, and holds fast, one-handedly pinning Adian's hands above his head. He uses his free hand to wipe the spit off his cheek, flashing a cocky, fang-filled smile before leaning down and teasing away the blood caked on Aidan's face with a frighteningly adept tongue.
It's memory that yields Aidan. Bishop is never cruel in this; simply passionate, skilled at a trait well honed in all of their kind. Sex. It's not a verb, it's a sixth sense; an attribute of power, of dominance. Aidan resists it as best he can, but Bishop's free hand has fallen to his waist and is rubbing small circles in the fabric of his shirt, pulling it up with every pass, until just a flash of skin is exposed to the cool air.
"Come now, Aidan," he whispers into the other's ear. "Don't tell me you didn't miss this."
"No," Aidan chokes out, feeling his skin squirm, his veins throbbing with borrowed blood and a need to bleed the monster hovering above him.
"Shh, shh," Bishop whispers, all sensual softness, his hand sliding up Aidan's hip and past his heaving chest to settle around the other's jugular. His touch is innocent at first, light and caressing, but then his fingers clench and he's got Aidan in a choke hold and he's using that leverage to hoist the vampire into the air and across the room. Aidan lands between the two hearses with a crash and a groan, a jangle of chains turning their struggle into something melodious. The music in the background cuts off -- the end of the disk.
Aidan doesn't bother with trying to get up. He can still feel the ghost-like presence of solid fists pounding against his face; the blows were strong enough to make the memory of them hurt.
Bishop slow-walks towards him, his face falling from harsh, to blank, to pitying. It is no incomparable secret that he has his favourites amongst the coven, and Aidan is one of the few whom he'd always granted certain... privileges.
He can remember whole nights spent in bed, all regular duties shirked for the simple pleasure of feasting off the other for hours on end, quenching their thirst with one another's veins and languishing in the darkest burn of carnality; Aidan's needy hands gripping his hips and hauling him closer, begging for more, for deeper, for faster; fangs clanking against fangs as they bit tongues and lips, slow caresses licking away the pain. Of gorging themselves on the sweet blood of their victims, sharing the delicate, sloping neck of a virgin maiden, and laughing at their own little joke when her screams reached a fevered pitch.
Bishop aches for those days again; for his little lost vampire to come back to the brood.
"What happened to you, Aidan?" he asks, drawing closer until the tips of his polished shoes are pecking at the edge of Aidan's boots. "You used to be so... powerful. So self-assured." When he covers Aidan's body with his own, it's a more solid weight in a more comfortable position. "But now look at you." The back of his knuckles glide along the other's jaw, soothing the bruises already beginning to form. "You're so weak... so... vulnerable."
"Get off me."
Bishop doesn't have to say "no" for him to scream it; it's shouted in his fingertips, brushing roughly against Aidan's scalp; yelled in the chains that rattle and shake when they're deftly tied around the younger vampire's wrists, keeping him stretched out and immobile.
"I'm beginning to think you like it when I punish you." Bishop jerks the chain once more around Aidan's wrists, drawing it tight and rough against the younger man's pale skin. It wouldn't be enough to hold Aidan in place if his struggles became too much, but it serves as a warning: stay put.
Aidan rails against his own cold flesh, the monster and the man synced up, two voices -- a growl and a groan -- scratching desperately at the underside of his epidermis. His eyes flash black when Bishop invades his space and steals his very air, but he can't tell if it's from anger or desire, and he's ashamed at the not-knowing. He recalls a rather shameful series of events in his past two-hundred-some-odd years of living death, and he turns his face away from a glaring truth that sparks in Bishop's cold blue eyes; that he can never escape the hold his sire has on him, no matter how hard he struggles, no matter how hard he tries.
He can think back on a hundred years ago, when he'd been infatuated with a delicate human girl, how he'd stated a need to distance himself from Bishop by railing against the rules lashed into his back. He can think back on those times and remember Bishop's long-suffering sigh, the twinge of pain he usually hid so well breaking through the surface of his chilly exterior (Aidan didn't care then, and he doesn't care now). He can think back, and he can shudder at the dawning of a terrible realization, how his first act of defiance had kept him away for a few months (the girl had died by his own hands, a horrendous turn of events), and his second act of defiance (occurring several years later) had lasted for a few years, and how each time he'd broken away, he'd always come running back with his tail tucked between his legs; how each test of independence always led to a longer stint of neediness. And now this third time, this last act of contempt, has him shuddering for a chance to finally free himself from the dark clutches of his creation, when all he can see on the horizon is a wavering figure of arrogance and blood beckoning him closer every time he tries to pull away.
Aidan turns his face to the side. He doesn't want to look at it, doesn't want to face his own reflection glaring back at him from Bishop's eyes. It's a painful thing to think that his body groans for the older vampire's touch, and yet the delicate, constrained brushes give cause for so much fear. Real power is knowing when not to wield it, and Aidan knows Bishop's power, has tasted the sweet coppery touch of it on his tongue. The want for it is a craving he can't control, and now, with his bloodied face and sore bones, is no different.
His desire makes him angry; makes him jerk violently around in his prison made of body and chain.
Bishop hushes him by setting his fangs against Aidan's jugular. When he pushes in, it's like sex. It's a throb of desire connecting the both of them in a manner wholly erotic.
A deep, completely wrecked moan shudders through Aidan's chest, and he doesn't mean to squirm his body against Bishop's frame, he absolutely doesn't. But the act still occurs, and by the heavy pant of heated air that escapes his sire's open mouth, Aidan is aware that Bishop is perfectly okay with this. In fact, he gives just as good as he's got, rolling his hips and sliding their groins together just so.
Nothing about this is okay -- nothing -- but Aidan's used to pure debauched wrongness, so it feels almost comfortable to be immersed in a dubiously consensual act of sex with the man who made him a monster.
Bishop is drinking his fill, and it's enough to make Aidan's extremities twitch. Briefly, he wonders if he could die from blood loss, but the pull of the older vampire's fangs against his neck, the light suction and constant cleaning swipe of a velvet tongue, the point of pressure where the skin breaks and the veins burst sweet and begging, is all so terribly orgasmic it has Aidan curling his toes in pleasure. Bishop doesn't pull back for a very long time, like he's sampling something divine, like Aidan's blood is a drug he'll never have enough of. When he does pull back, it's only to lap at the line of red painting its way down the side of Aidan's pale throat.
Bishop is hard above him, and all Aidan wants to do is deny the very noticeable ache coming from between his own legs, but he's not given that chance, not given the privilege of dignity, because Bishop pushes down again, and they brush together, and he's smirking like he knows all of Aidan's dark little secrets and just how to make them darker.
"Now see, this isn't so bad," Bishop drawls, and Aidan bears his fangs.
"Get off."
"Oh, I intend to."
Bishop bears his own fangs, but they're far more sinister than violent. Aidan jerks up, trying to buck the older vampire off of him, but Bishop expects this and bucks down at the same time, eliciting a moan between the both of them. Blonde hair slumps forward while their pelvises grind and rut. Aidan is lost in the pleasures of stimulation for an embarrassingly long amount of time, focused only on the hardness rubbing pleasurably against his deepest ache, and the soft lips mouthing along his jaw.
When he comes to, it's only because a hand has delved beneath his jeans and is now palming him teasingly through the material of his boxer shorts.
Aidan jerks into the touch, but turns his head away and gruffs out a harsh, "Stop."
"I suppose we could move on," Bishop says, rubbing the heat and solidity throbbing against his hand, "but I do so like to see you come undone first."
After the sharp spike of pleasure finally fades, Aidan is left trembling on the edge of a decision. He can keep fighting, there's no doubt about that, but Bishop is obviously not going to let up. His pride shies away from the thought of suffering another blow, but Aidan knows full well that Bishop can be rough when he wants to be, and it's been so long that Aidan isn't sure if he can handle something like that without shattering into a million disjointed pieces.
The decision becomes easy when he hears the sound of a zipper coming undone, and Bishop starts to pull his hand out from Aidan's jeans.
Desperate to stay in one piece, Aidan makes a soft noise of protest and thrusts up into Bishop's warm hand, shivering all over when the pressure jolts through him like electricity.
"Mm," Bishop mumbles, a low noise rumbling in the back of his throat, and then he pushes his hand back in place and begins to massage Aidan through the material of his boxers. Aidan jerks up at a pace quicker than Bishop's actions, but his sire doesn't seem to mind -- finds it endearing, if the warm smile on his lips means anything.
Aidan's hands squirm and fidget in their chain-bound state, but he doesn't jerk the flimsy metal off of him because he's not sure if he's allowed. So he's left panting and thrusting and otherwise making a complete desperate fool out of himself. Aidan's trying his hardest to keep every sound of pleasure locked up tight within him, but Bishop knows all the right buttons to push, knows that if he rubs the underside of Aidan's cock fleetingly enough, the younger vampire's abdominal muscles will jolt and flutter; knows that if he circles his thumb teasingly around the head, Aidan is liable to crack his skull on something, he'll arch his neck back so far.
Bishop knows him, and that's what makes it terrifying.
"What do you want, Aidan?" Bishop asks, and it's completely unfair for him to whisper those words into Aidan's ear like he's tonguing the nectar out of a pot of honey. The tone of voice makes Aidan groan, pulls the sound from him like a clawed hand dragging along the inside of his throat.
"Like this," Bishop says, sliding the palm of his hand along Aidan's length, "or this?" His fingers dance around the hem of the other's boxers, then dip inside and finally, finally make contact.
"That," Aidan pants out, squirming in Bishop's grasp. "Like that."
"Alright."
Bishop pulls his hand away and Aidan swears he's gonna kill him, mathematical probability or not, but he feels his zipper being pulled down, his button undone, and before he can get a word in edgewise, Bishop's forcefully lifting his hips up off the ground and tugging his jeans clear off of him.
Aidan feels shamefully exposed, and tries to hide his nervousness in the crook of his arm, but the sudden hand gripping his chin will have none of that.
"Watch," Bishop says firmly, then pulls his hand away and begins sliding Aidan's boxer shorts down, down, down. Aidan is mesmerized by the motion, unable to look away as he's revealed. He winces as the cool air lightly caresses him, then outright trembles when something warmer than that takes its place.
Bishop's grip is firm, yet yielding. He allows Aidan to thrust up into his hand, but never once breaks the rhythm of his fingers. The way he handles this, now, is a lot like how he handles Aidan any other day; with confident, soul-burning strokes, and at a pace that is far slower than what the younger demands. Bishop can feel Aidan's heartbeat through the flesh he's caressing; the thump and the throb of desire as slickness dribbles down his joints.
Aidan is close -- so close -- and all he wants to do is close his eyes and let go, but every lesson branded into his skull from years of steady training demands he follow the command given to him and watch. He's close to coming undone, and if the heavy, smoldering look Bishop is giving him is any indication, his sire knows damned well how unhinged he's gotten.
It's too much when Bishop gives one final, playful nip along Aidan's jaw, then slides down past the rumpled shirt and restricting jacket, and starts to plant heated kisses along the slip of abdomen that's revealed. Aidan melts into the touch, his eyes falling half-lidded, and he finds himself mumbling words of encouragement before he can clamp his stupid lips shut. Bishop laughs along his skin, and the breathy caress makes gooseflesh rise on Aidan's arms.
"It's okay," Bishop assures him, one hand stroking Aidan's cock, the other rubbing circles into his ribcage. "I like it when you squirm."
Aidan swears up and down that the strangled moan scratching its way out of his throat had started as a protest, but Bishop's nosing along his thigh, and he's straining and hot and hard, and Aidan can't think beyond the desire for Bishop's lips to just fucking touch him already.
He's granted his wish almost immediately. Bishop laps at his cock like it's caked in blood, which is just an all-around sick idea, but Aidan hardens at the thought, eyes bleeding into black. He's suddenly completely fascinated with the ceiling, but when a demanding rumble sounds from between his legs, Aidan is helpless to turn his attention back onto the vampire scraping off his sense of self with every pass of lips and tongue.
Bishop's eyes are inky, and really, he sports the smug, self-assured vampire look all too well. The length-wise edge of his fangs rub gently across Aidan's skin, press all needy and demanding against Aidan's inner thigh. He whispers something unintelligible against his fledgling's flesh, and then he's tonguing the head, and caressing the slit at the top, and drawing it inside, and holyfuck--
It isn't Aidan's fault that he's sensitive to his sire's touch. Bishop has done this a million times, and the heat of his mouth, the goddamned suction of his goddamned throat, is as good as a guarantee that he'll do it a million more.
The press of Bishop's fingers digging deep into the crevice connecting Aidan's legs and pelvis isn't restrictive, but encouraging. He urges Aidan to come undone. He wants to see it, to feel his little vampire unravel beneath him, to grab the edge of that string and stretch it from a sweater to a line. Maybe then he could remake Aidan into something a little stronger -- into something with a semblance of what he once was.
Aidan complies, starts to rock his hips up into Bishop's slick mouth. His fingernails are digging into his palms, and he's biting his bottom lip in an effort to keep all the pathetic noises inside of him, but he's failing miserably at that last part; losing himself more and more with each stuttering thrust.
He can't stand it any more.
He loses himself with a bone-rattling growl, his fangs biting at the air, aching for something to dig into.
Bishop swallows -- fuck fuck fuck -- doesn't ease up until the slickness of Aidan's release spills from his mouth and slides down his spent and aching cock.
It takes a full minute after coming down off of his orgasmic high for Aidan to realize that Bishop's got a finger inside of him, wriggling around, teasing him further. His first instinct is to clench up, to fight back the intrusion and the imminent meaning behind it, but Bishop places a kiss on Aidan's thigh and tells him, in that silent manner of his, to calm the fuck down.
Aidan's heart is thundering in his chest. His head falls back and rattles against the chains. Bishop's fingers are slick from his own cum, and he thinks, what a fucking bastard, because that was probably the vampire's insidious plan all along.
Bishop dotes on him like he's delicate and something worth pampering -- he stretches him slowly, first one finger, then another, and Aidan wants more than anything to hate this, but he just can't. He loves it too much, loves Bishop's attentions, loves his mentor's warm hands and scraping fangs and midnight eyes. He hates feeling like he's owned, but when Bishop dominates him, when he asserts his authority, when he draws back his violence and gives Aidan his most genuine sense of care, it lights a fire in Aidan's stomach and burns his soul up from the inside.
There are three fingers working their magic inside of him before Bishop finds everything satisfactory. He crawls up Aidan's body in that stocky-smooth motion of his, and Aidan spreads his legs without even having to be asked. God, he wants this. God, he hates himself for wanting to want this.
The older vampire's eyes are still black. Aidan's haven't changed either, and they both look at each other with the sort of intensity only monsters can fathom.
Aidan feels sick to his stomach. Or perhaps it's anticipation that's making his insides flutter, but he finds it easier to call it fear.
Bishop draws back, pushes his pants down his hips, just enough to expose himself to the cool air, and Aidan can't help but watch, can't help but stare and lick his bruised lips. It's nice to know that Bishop isn't entirely unaffected; nice to see that the other vampire can come undone every now and then, too.
They're both still clothed, except for the places that burn the hottest, and when Bishop rubs his cock against the younger body beneath him, Aidan's own perks up in interest. Stiffly, Aidan lays his cheek against the smooth flesh of his arm and wills his desire to go away, but now that nothing is separating flesh from flesh, he finds it even harder to control the lust rampaging inside of him.
Bishop grinds against him, circles his hips in expert caresses, ripping away Aidan's self-control piece-by-piece.
"Are you ready?"
Aidan swallows, gives a breathy, "Yeah."
He closes his eyes, tenses up, expecting Bishop to go ahead and push inside, but what he gets instead is a pair of insistent lips pressing against his own. Bishop uses his tongue to pry apart Aidan's mouth, and Aidan moans willingly into the kiss, pleasantly surprised by this turn of events. Their tongues clash, all wet and forceful, but it's Aidan who has to finally relent. When Bishop pulls back, they both look utterly debauched -- the older vampire's hair is a perfect mess, and his protege's lips are kiss-swollen.
Briefly, Aidan ponders the idea of using this moment to try to escape, but Bishop's hands are cupping his face, and he's tilting Aidan's head to the side even as he's lowering his mouth to nibble along the other's shoulder, and Aidan is suddenly, distinctly aware of his sire's blood rushing beneath the surface of his oh-so-breakable skin, and the temptation is just far too much.
He'd told Rebecca once that vampire blood wasn't much better than hospital blood -- he'd lied. At least, in regards to a sire/sired relationship.
Bishop's blood is the darkest sort of addiction he can clamp his lips around. Just the memory of its taste, the caramel-thick slide of it down his throat, the heated musk of it clinging to the back of his pallet, is enough to make Aidan slide his mouth along the older vampire's clavicle in obvious desire. His tongue edges out, tickles along the veins in his mentor's neck, and the moment he pushes in and penetrates pliant flesh is the moment Bishop does the same.
It puts them on an even playing field, in a way, and for that Aidan is surprisingly grateful. He moans into the other's neck, sucking down the rush of warm blood that spills across his chin, and pushes his hips up into Bishop's slow thrusts. They're both joined in a manner beyond human, sex and blood and the want for both intermingling. Hips impact hips, a firm but gentle motion, and Aidan finds himself pleading for more, for faster, for harder.
Bishop smiles at how his defiant little boy has so easily reverted back to old times.
He complies immediately, pushing harder, going deeper, grinding against him and otherwise rutting like some sort of feral animal. That's all they are, really -- beasts mindless to all but blood and physical pleasure. For all that vampires exhort superiority over werewolves, they're just as bad; worse, even, because their curse haunts them every day of every month.
It's been too long, and Aidan is so tight, and he's already panting in need, begging for release, so Bishop is almost helpless to snake a hand between them and give his little vampire what he needs the most.
It's all growls and grunts and groans of pleasure after that. Bishop comes inside him, and Aidan is so far gone just the feel of the other's sticky seed is enough to send him toppling over the edge. He releases between them, covering Bishop's hand, and once he's done he can still feel Bishop inside of him, slow pumps straining to take him for all he's worth.
When Bishop pulls out, he doesn't pull off. He takes his time licking along Aidan's salty skin, nipping his jawline and doing other ridiculously tender things. Aidan is left shuddering when Bishop lifts his messy hand and licks away the evidence of the younger vampire's arousal, but the almost delicate nuzzle to the side of his ear slams him back to reality.
Oh god.
He'd just--
He'd let--
It isn't difficult to spot the distress on Aidan's face. Bishops sighs long and low, then lifts off of the immobile body, staring down at him with a softly pitying sort of air. He seems hurt when Aidan ignores his proffered hand, draws it back like he's been burned.
"You're welcome here any time," he's saying, but the words fly by Aidan's head in a whir of motion. All he can see is his weakness -- all he can see are his mistakes.
Bishop clicks his tongue quietly, but he tidies himself up and moves out of Aidan's line of sight, allowing the other a few moments of solitude to compose himself.
Everything within him wants to latch on to Aidan and never let go.
But that's not how things are done, so Bishop buries the sentiment beneath a pile of paperwork, and only looks up to watch Aidan leave.
~*~*~*~
He's not so surprised when Aidan busts out the priest's fangs. It's a violent sort of action that, to most, would seem entirely unjustified. But Bishop knows what they don't; knows that when Aidan feels weak, he tends to do something that makes him feel strong.
He won't say the event is entirely his fault, but he can attribute a lot of the violence to their earlier tryst. Part of the act had been a hunger for that closeness they'd once shared, but Bishop can't deny that he'd been hoping to stamp out some of Aidan's weakness by showing it to him.
It's a vicious cycle, he knows, but if it means Aidan will come back to him in the end, he's okay with that.
-FIN-