The next day, when Altair woke with his morning wood to greet him, pressed up against Ren's back. He sighed, unsure what to do about this thing that carried a mind of his own. For weeks, it had been acting up, scratching against his clothing, irritating him to no end.
"Seven More Years," He told himself, counting the years until this phase of his life was over.
He could feel Ren resting on his arms like a pillow, and he leaned over her, brushing her hair back to reveal her collar. She rustled, turning to him as her silvery eyes cloaked in a mist of red opened.
He smiled, baring two razor-sharp fangs. "Morning."
Not immediately answering him, Ren lifted a finger to his lips, to the fangs Altair sprouted a week ago. She had thought about them every night since she offered him her neck. And he hadn't refused.
