[The party has been going on for two full days now.
It's a modestly lavish thing, if such a paradoxical phrase can be used. Lavish in that it suits the refined taste of the vampire lord who hosts it: a creature who has lived for more centuries than he cares to admit, accumulating wealth and grandeur as no mortal ever could. Champagne flows freely and sweetly, no matter how many guests call for it. So does the wine (only the finest of vintages, naturally), though the servants have been instructed to cut off any guest that looks as though they've had a few too many glasses. For the mortal guests (and there are more than a few), the food is divine: delicate treats arranged carefully on gold-leaf platters; meat that's so soft and juicy it barely needs chewing before it melts one's mouth. And for the more monstrous of the crowd . . . oh, the chefs are so very creative. Blood-infused antipasti are a charming way to whet one's appetite as they talk and dance and laugh, and when their hunger grows, there's always clever little bottles full of blood ready to be passed around.
Lavish, yes. Lavish for the soft golden glow from silver chandeliers that must have cost a fortune; lavish for the musicians that perch atop a stage, so exclusive that it's impossible to book them (and yet here they are, currently playing a hearty waltz). Lavish for all the jewels that adorn the guests and the silk that covers them, the cream of society's crop. There must be hundreds of them, if not more; anyone who's anyone was invited (and trust that it cost weeks of agonizing, for so many nobles are so awful up close, but gods forbid someone get snubbed).
But modest, too. Modest in the sense that despite it being two days, and despite it being the party of a vampire lord, it's just that: a party. Not an orgy (though trust more than a few guests had expected as such once the sun set on the first day, and grumbled when they were politely deterred from stripping down to little more than masks). Nor, if it comes to it, a show of cruelty and violence: there's no bloodletting, no vicious sport . . . there's entertainment, but it comes in the form of clever feats of magic or marvelous displays of acrobatics. And oh, gods know people are making their own entertainment, and certainly no one is dissuaded from wandering off to have a little revelry all their own, but the fact of the matter is that this party is very firmly staying a tasteful party, thank you very much.
And that's due to the tastes of their host, of course— but also because there's a pointedly planned end to all this revelry. Once the sun sets on the third day, Duke Vakares— that is, Duke Ilrostan Presidius Vios Marus Vakares, if you want to be formal about it— is due to make an important announcement. One that will shift the scales of power, tipping them in one direction or another—
And really, that's why everyone is in attendance. That's why every duke, count, earl, baron, and jumped up merchant prince is still willing to stick around after two days of pleasant partying, for no one wants to miss this announcement. No one wants to miss a chance to get in good with the newest heir as swiftly as possible— and oh, plenty have been trying. The crowd is split evenly on who they think will take command, but though they're eager to kiss up, it's been hard to find either of the heirs.
No, none of that . . . not while Vakares is still around.
He's had his darlings with him these past two days. They've spent most of the first day talking, and drinking, and reminiscing— for though he is not going to sleep forever, he does intend to rest for a time. A few centuries, perhaps: long enough for him to wake refreshed, ready to take the world on once more. And of course time has little meaning to creatures such as them, but still: he'll miss them, and they him. It's a hard thing to say good-bye when you've spent so many years together: strange, but true.
So though there's a party going on . . . this time is just for them.
And oh, they're such impatient things, his darlings. They get riled so easily, biting at one another with words and teeth both, and tonight was no different. What the fight was ostensibly about Vakares has no idea, but the real meaning behind it was simple enough: a bid for attention. Sharp little comments and loud clicks as their fangs snapped in the air, and it only grew more heated the longer Vakares let it go on.
So he put a stop to it.
His needy darlings. His precious, vicious coven that he loves more than anything in all the world. They're going to have to learn to get along without his guiding hand, but perhaps that's part of why he's leaving in the first place. It's far past time for them to stop taking every opportunity to tear each other down.
But ah . . . maybe not just yet.]
There, now. That's better, isn't it?
[He lounges in his chair, his legs fallen open wide and his laces undone. His dark eyes are all but black now, his mouth curved into a (warm, despite himself) little smirk as he stares down at his former fledglings. Kneeling between his thighs, they're mirrors of one another right now. Not identical, no, and read into that as much as you like, for it's their differences that ultimately delight him. But still, similar. Their shirts are both untied and tugged pointedly down around their elbows, leaving their shoulders rounded, their throats bare. Hands folded (and it is folded, not bound, kept still through sheer obedience alone) behind their backs. Leather collars (black and assuredly identical) adorn each of their throats, with three interlocking silver rings connecting them. Their mouths urged open (urged, as if they weren't drooling for it) so that Vakares might slip his prick between them—
And let it rest there. Worshipped by both their tongues, his hips only occasionally stirring as he strokes his fingers through their hair, alternating between one and the other as he pleases.]
You both seem to have calmed down, anyway . . . even if it's only the calm before the storm.
[A little reprimanding squeeze to Astarion's curls. He knows you two. He knows there will be at least a bit of fighting when all this is done.]
(That's how long he's going to have to share the air with a glorified consort-turned-crownprince.)
Of course it's not forever, of course their beloved Vakares is coming back— but when? Eight hundred years? Two thousand? Who will he be by then, once he wakes from countless dreams of reincarnation? Who will they be by then, so long awake they barely recognize each other anymore?
He doesn't want to give this up.
Undeath might not be perfect, consistency easily taken for granted and easily tiresome in its cutoffs (simultated sunlight through magical lanterns works; infused foods with rich plays on mortal favors; they wander at night between affairs of territory and aristocracy), but it's theirs. it's always been theirs. He likes their routine. Their way of— if not life— existing. And every time Vakares tells him that he'll understand what it's like once he has a few more thousand years of existence mired in that same routine accumulated underneath his belt, it makes Astarion (devoted Astarion, loyal Astarion, completely adoring and selfishly inclined Astarion) want to bite his own damned sire just to wake him up from whatever foolishness that's set him on this path.
The man is beautiful. Perfect. Lording, if not the ideal balance between passivity and command. The fact that his mind is too wistful— too patently poetic and artfully melancholic, that only flaw he sports aside from his affinity for the other half of this equation (a pair of red eyes staring back around the shape of lust trapped thick between them)— isn't something Astarion blames him for, even if he had been here first (and oh, wasn't that day such a slight when it happened. Made anointed twin to yet another elf with white hair— as if Vakares needed to take up announcing to the whole world that he has a type).
At least Fenris isn't unattractive.
It'd be insult to avid injury otherwise. So much salt in the wound he might well shrivel on the spot. Because even without a prefixing 'identical' just before it, the word twin always seems to inspire the compulsive urge to draw comparisons. To hunt for similarities until they blot out everything else in full: leaving them a unified whole less than the sun of all their parts. Ergo, as things are, Astarion can conceptually live with all the feasts and fetes filled with curious glances or envious remarks— so long as it means getting to flaunt the title of favorite in regards to Vakares' coven.
Everything else is just a competition.
Like the one Astarion silently enacts all on his own right now, eyelids fluttering as he melts into the loving cruelty of that knowing hold: his exhale hot and sweet— slender tongue unfurled while spit dances across its tip, connecting the nominal expanse between that rigid cock and the flat of his tongue. Lifting his stare with his eyes alone, not the angle of his head (too busy attending to obscene service with showmanship unparalleled); short licks that shiver through relaxed shoulders and an elongated neck. Flickers of dark lashes and panting breathe run into long, long laps— collar clasps jingling as he delivers tests the limits of their binds—
And Vakares' patience.
He misbehaves in sips that make it hard to punish; too clever for his own good. Like:]
....and yet you're leaving us to the storm.
[Protesting even while he basks. Enjoying the feel of one more corrective tug in steep response, promising that if nothing else, he holds their master's attention in full.]
I am not leaving you. I am resting. You know where to find me if you truly need me.
[It's a smooth correction, not a protest. They've had this debate before; it doesn't shock him they're having it one last time. And you know, he won't deny some part of his heart doesn't want to leave. It's the part of him that forgets how long the nights have grown; how the years have begun to blur together, indistinguishable and dull. It's the part of him that leaps when he hears two familiar voices coming his way— and here and now, it's the part of him that smooths his fingers so sweetly through Astarion's hair. I know, my love, and he does. He does.
And maybe he'll just put it off for another week. Another month. Another—
Click.
Loud in the relative silence of their rooms; it almost muffles the slick noise Fenris' lips make as he's forced up tight against his cock. They part in an instant, wrapping sweetly around the width of him— and yet even Vakares can hear the rumbling growl low in Fenris' throat.
Ah . . .
His fingers release.]
Tsk—
[One little disappointed click of his tongue, that's all it takes. One scolding, disappointed little look, and just like that, they're being pushed off his prick. And oh, make no mistake: it's a hardship. His cock hangs heavy in the cool air, thickened and flushed with desire, slick from their duel attentions. And it would take nothing to have them right now. They're always so eager— he could have them sprawled on the bed in an instant. A slick hole, a tight little cinch, his cock sinking into one while he fingers the other, oh, it's so tempting.
But they have hours and hours to go.
And tonight of all nights, Vakares thinks, leaning back heavily as his hand wraps around his neglected prick . . . tonight, he deserves a show.]
Behave. Give me hope for my rest . . . show me that you two can play nicely together.
[It's Fenris that makes the first move this time. His head tipping with serpentine swiftness, ducking forward to slot their mouths together in what looks to be a sweet kiss. And to be fair: it is that . . . so long as Astarion behaves. So long as Astarion settles beneath the dominating push of Fenris' tongue, fucking into his mouth and stroking sweetly against the length of him, his eyes outright glittering beneath lowered lashes.]
Sweet as honey on the surface, with a depth as thin as varnish, that's what he is. Astarion's mind passively recanting a thousand different slights— his bitterness flared like a sore nerve now that there's no brace between them, keeping them apart. Two seconds ago, his collar was clacking with the tension he forced across the line. Two seconds ago, he was defiant, rumbling with resentment on his teeth as if it were a kiss. Two seconds ago, only one person in this room was responsible for changing this dynamic.
Astarion blames Fenris.
His crimson eyes narrowing for a sliver of a second before drifting dutifully closed, lithe body braced against lush redolence rather than committed to its grace; no part of him happy to have lost what was already his (again, you know— again— metaphor dwelling effortlessly in the margins) in favor of what he's told he needs. But again, he wants Vakares. Again, if he has to go through Fenris to get that— and make no mistake, he knows that he does (there's no budging once their master makes up his mind in anything, hence the frailty of their situation now regarding lavish fêtes and closed doors)— he will obey that order.
Albeit with a tactile edge.
Sweet as honey on the surface, and just as rough beneath its lacquered shine, Astarion wastes no time in adopting the perceived tactics of his rival with a serpent-swift show of utterly malicious submission, once he knows it's all that's left to him for options: docile outline melting into feverishly spread contours angled back across his heels, countering the shift in balance brought on by leaning when a single pale palm slithers round the back of Fenris' throat— claws nestling, fingers funneled into precious divots just above latched leather where the nape of that cool neck meets feathered hair— accompanied by his opposing hand nestling in with tenderness unmatched, already stoking the heat tucked within the base of his twin's overstiffened prick as if it were their maker's own. Like kindling a flame, each movement runs hotter than the last; fluidity funneled into his wrist and the soft pads of his fingers, no part of his talons ever coming close to touching vulnerable skin. He's the elder of the pair, after all. Proven through the flourish found naturally in his movements, making certain their sire doesn't lack for a show of lust and love, even if he isn't the one touched right now. An oblation given in his honor.
At cost for the companion he enacts it with.
Because he's careful, you know. So so careful. (He misbehaves in sips that make it hard to punish; too clever for his own good. Like:) His sharp fangs only clipping and cutting the pliant measure of Fenris' tongue whenever their mouths close fully— his weight still tipping backwards farther and farther, the leash between them ensuring there's nowhere else to go but to follow or act out in protest once Astarion's sunken his shoulders and hips fully to the floor. Divinely pretty in satiety with the filthy taste of ashen spawnblood in his throat.
Go on, sweet heir. Go on, warranted inheritor. Help put on a good show of cooperation for your master, who wants only to know you can be good.]
Or— well, no. He does hate him a little bit, but he loves him, too. Sort of. It's complicated. It's just— it's hard to despise someone utterly when you've spent over a hundred years in near-proximity with them; it's hard to love them when you're constantly in competition with them. And it is a competition: the two of them always vying for a rare bit of favoritism, or a pointed choice in their direction. If you ask Fenris, it's Astarion who started it: sulking and biting from the moment he came in. It isn't Fenris' fault they're deemed twins (nor, indeed, that their sire has a pointed preference in what he's attracted to). It isn't his fault that he was brought in second, or that Astarion feels so very threatened by him. He didn't start this fight (if you ask him, if you ask him, but they three of them have such different memories of those first few decades).
But he's more than willing to keep it going.
The thing is: the opposite of love isn't hate, but indifference. And vampires are such solitary creatures, prone to infighting even within covens. It's only natural that they should bite and snarl at one another, vicious even on their best behavior. And though they both know Vakares longs for them to be companions, the truth is this: Fenris thrives on their rivalry.
It's a game. It's a competition. It's a reason to wake up each night, hungry to sink his teeth into more than just soft flesh. It's excitement unending, and he thrills in it no matter if he wins or loses, for there is something so magnetically attractive about a rivalry. Astarion hates Fenris and Fenris hates him right back— but there's such a fierce attraction there that it almost doesn't matter.
So it's no mistake that his cock swells so eagerly as Astarion wraps his fingers around him. The moan that vibrates on his lips each time sharp teeth slice at his tongue is no lie (though perhaps he exaggerates it just a little, knowing they have an audience). He kisses his twin with such hungry relish—
And when there's another vicious little bite, pain blooming behind his eyes and a whimper in his throat, Fenris twists: yanking at the pretty little form beneath him and rolling them both over, so that now Astarion is the one panting down at him. Fenris grins sharply, blood smeared on his teeth and his eyes glittering. Hands swiftly slide down the curve of Astarion's waist; Leto's fingers dance as they glide over the swollen curves of his ass. Another kiss, his tongue forcefully thrusting forward again: go ahead, bite it, and he will not run bleating to their sire. He won't be the bratty little fledgling aching for their sire to step in.
He'll simply do this: sliding his hands beneath the hem of Astarion's trousers, Fenris gropes at him. Hungrily, eagerly, palms full as he spreads the other man open wide, his fingers digging in and squeezing with vicious attraction. Go ahead, bite it, their tongues tangling as Fenris feels him up, his own hips rocking up in vulgar rhythm. Again and again, spreading him open and then letting him go, groping and squeezing over and over—
Until there's a stifled moan from the chair beside them.
All at once he strikes: his head jerking back from the kiss with a gasp as one of his hands darts up. Quick as anything he shoves two fingers between them, pushing them past Astarion's lips with the most audacious grin. One quick pump turns into two, three, his index and middle finger fucking past pretty lips to sink in deep, curling and twisting as he fucks the other elf's mouth.
Play nice. Be a good boy, Astarion. Don't bite the fingers that tease you, no matter how tempting it might be. Don't snarl when those selfsame fingers are clumsy in drawing back, smearing saliva and blood over both their lips—
For in the next moment they plunge so deep into that tight little hole, two fingers spreading him wide. There's no slow build-up, no deliberate romance: he fucks into him with vicious familiarity, fingers curling and shoving against resistance with glee. His wrist snaps forward again and again, his other hand palming at one cheek and spreading him open to the cold air. And all the while Fenris smirks, crimson eyes locked on their mirror.]
So let's play.
[Breathed out hotly against his lips, a message all for him.]
[It's a miracle he doesn't tear Fenris' throat out on the spot.
Then again, maybe it's not a miracle at all. Maybe it's deliberate— on Fenris' part, not Astarion's— that he's effectively lunged into the fray with so much ferocity that even practiced senses fumble, spilling capable response through careless fingers; their edges curled until they shudder, his wet mouth sharp along its insides where he still tastes blood and spit. In less than shallow seconds, he's gone from cruel instigator to buckled prey: shuttered eyes pinched tight, stiffened through his otherwise graceful vertebrae and the lurid run of his length (bobbing vulgarly as he's fucked into, trousers tight across his thighs and threatening to tear). He hates this part. He hates the very second when loathing surrenders to lust, turning him into nothing but a craven brace for one more— oh, just one more thrust. One more little pump of those cruel fingers, and how they're goading him to fight.
And begging him to surrender.
Feverish in form if not in blood; the more practiced, the more experienced— he should be mastering this play by all rights, and yet in the most infuriating catch of insult meets injury, somehow it's tenacity (or spite, or love, or a second wind or dogged animosity, or— he doesn't know, but somehow, always something comes along) that buffets Fenris back from pitching points of clear submission, never giving Astarion the decency of a victory he's been owed.
And like everything else, it builds. Like the shiver in his hips or the whine in his throat. Like the anger and contempt that he swears might learn to settle if their sire would just let him have his way with his beloved fledging (who should be Astarion— ) nothing calms and everything builds; his movements gone inflexible as pillars, their chaining tethers thrumming like a bowstring under tension. A little more— just a little more— oh, please, please, please. His world dimming with the urge, his thick cock drenched along its tip from salivating too hard, too quickly, and all of it tempered by the sour taste of nothingness across his tongue, no longer sweet without its accompanying victory to be savored.
Oh, but Vakares is pleased, though. Astarion can hear him over slick slaps of skin on skin. A distant sigh. An approving moan. Doubtlessly already imagining they'll get along beautifully soon enough without the epicenter of their contention on the board— the very same optimism that had him bringing home a stray plucked up from the nearest brothel or auction or bin (Astarion never bothered to ask): a companion chosen for him, when he'd already picked one for himself (you, Vakares, you damned fool. It was you.)
One more plunge.
One more whimper.
One more, and Astarion's hand snags the chain tethered between them. Fingers closed tight, palm twisting as he ratchets Fenris' half closer and closer till it chokes (he knows they don't need air; it's not about that), until their mouths lock and his hips drive down across those fingers, taking control of the pace they both enact— their glossing pricks forced into grinding crudely together, slipping over and under and against with every thrust. No room for Fenris to manuever save obey, wearing the guise of rougher play.
It won't be long now. A few days before the creature he loves sleeps, and he's left alone with this heedless whelp. His bonded mate. So many things can happen in a century or two. Or ten. How hard would it be, he wonders— a wealth of serene ugliness blooming behind the gentlest of kisses (his hips pumping over those fingers, against that waiting cock, those hard enough to bruise a living thing)—
How hard would it be to make a deal? To cut him loose or chase him off? To hire a hunter that doesn't ask questions, if need be— or to find a pawn willing to risk their own hands for pure power?
How hard would it really be, ensuring that when Vakares woke up, it was only to one instead of two?]
You're too careless, little wolf....
[His free hand tucked between them, squeezing their pricks together till spots fleck along the corners of his own vision— false breath run thready before it even reaches his throat.]
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—]
Damn it. Vakares (his hand shuttling lazily over his cock, precome smeared over his fingers, his lip sore from how he's been biting at it) sags back with a little groan. There's always something. Even now, the evening before he goes to rest, there's something, and he can't ignore it.
The servants know better than to enter, at least. With a heavy sigh Vakares sits up, tucking himself back into his trousers as he stares down ruefully at his fledglings.]
Stay. I won't be long.
[Still: he snaps his fingers just once, a short sharp click that dissolves the chain between them. He'll put it back once he returns, but there's no need to keep his darlings uncomfortable while he tends to business. (He is so unusual for a vampire, he knows, but he has never seen much point in courting enmity among the ones he loves— nor much pleasure, if it comes to it. Sadism is well and good in its place, but petty cruelty is not).]
[Which means that they can draw apart. And yet Fenris isn't so inclined to flinch away, not yet— his fingers curl once more, hooking deep into Astarion as he glares up at him.]
I have told you not to call me that.
[Why shouldn't they fight as they continue to rut? It's as natural as anything else.]
I happened to be there when you said it. [Astarion rumbles back around the narrow divides between their fangs— his tenor the most patchwork assortment of sarcasm (first), petty spite (second), and last, albeit immeasurably far from least: arousal. Avarice. Need. Acrimonious lust. The rest of his honeyed nature left out in the open like a steel trap, all but begging his companion to come closer towards the gleam of inevitable danger.
The next push down across those crooked fingers (the next febrile pump upwards from them) such a violent collision, the sound of skin-on-skin unremittingly echoing throughout an otherwise empty room: pounding tempo wet-slick and richly audible, while friction punctuates for them what neither would readily admit to if asked— oh, they might be growling into the heart of one another's mouths, but there's no chain left to bind them. There's no mote that keeps them from pulling back too far.
(They could stop, if they wanted to.)]
—Little wolf.
[The only thing pulling is the pressure swollen tight around spread knuckles. The only thing rising is the feverflare strain of his own cock caught beneath his thumb and fore, and the uncut bloom of blistering urgency laced across the edges of his sight, darker and deeper by the second. Their sire gone for the moment. They've been left to wait on his command, but his command only required them to stay. And they are, in technical truth— they are— his slender thighs still tucked tight around lithe hips in the exact same spot they'd perched in just before the door behind them shut. His trousers striving to bite into his skin for tension, their grasp a rolling thing: high and tight as he ruts himself with whorish fluidity (forward, forward, forward— undulating with a series of swift bucks that push him deeper into the catch of Fenris' thickened crown, let alone slip over him; what a sight it has to be, perched on all fours atop glimpses of dusky skin, fucked into and spread and bent low as if he feeds upon his packmate's ruthlessness), slackened so he can feel the sting of restored sensation slither up between his legs. He rolls his shoulders forward until his body eclipses Fenris' own entirely. He cranes his neck until it aches. He chases lips with the sinful urge to bite down—
And none of it is a retreat.
In a way, there's almost more risk involved like this. Unsupervised, what they enact becomes a game of patience. A test of will. (Don't come before he returns. Don't exclude the one that bid you start to begin with, tsk tsk— ) Then again, maybe it's all subterfuge: red light green light played out with the highest stakes imaginable, as far as their own hierarchy goes. After all, whoever's left looking the instigator when Vakares returns is likely going to be the one inevitably pinned for all their play.
And their sire isn't like the other vampiric lords, but still.
Neither of them want to ruin his farewell. The last few days they have to spend together— even Astarion won't bite the way he could (or would, under any other given circumstances).
But—
(But)
What harm is there in just a little more entanglement? If they couch themselves....
Oh, if they're careful. (Vakares could be gone for hours— or minutes.) Desire too blinding to ignore when he's more possessed of incense than sense, groaning and snarling into the bow of Fenris' lips, signing each kiss like a declaration of ownership whilst the figurative cat's away.]
Ridiculous little fledgling cinch.
[His hold twists with sudden intensity— thumb tucked tight over the tip of Fenris' cock, until even beading arousal's forced back down into its den.]
Whining about pet names when you could just be whining for a good breeding.
[Oh, fuck— his head turns sharply, Astarion's next kiss landing haphazardly on his cheek as he bites at his own lip. Don't, don't, and it's a temporary thing. A momentary faltering, and he'll blame it solely on the cruel plug Astarion's thumb has become— but oh, god, he's so weak to that kind of goading. It leaves him panting with open-mouth desire, some small part of him whimpering eagerly: please yes please, take me like that. He loves it when it's from Vakares (their sire always so torturously deliberate about it, savoring fucking into each of them with relish. Tail up, his breath hot against Fenris' ear, his hands locked on his wrists as he rut into him . . . oh, he loves it from Vakares. And as for Astarion—
Oh, don't deny it: he loves it from him too.
Not, as Astarion had once sneeringly suggested, because he wants little more than a cock in him as often as possible, and never mind who it belongs to. And not because he inherently enjoys losing to Astarion— oh, gods, no, never, he loves triumphing over him. He loves mounting him, rutting him, hissing taunts as he fucks him into incoherence, and oh, he can do it. But . . . he does thrill in the other way. When he's beaten and sore and Astarion lines them up, and there's that first stretching push that doesn't stop spreading him open, not until he fucks him to the hilt . . .
He loves it. He drools for it. And here and now, there is a moment when Astarion hisses that and Fenris' first thought isn't of fighting back, but submitting. Please, please . . .
(And it's never quite as vicious as either of them would like. It's not the level of brutal meanness that they both chomp at the bit for— but Vakares wants so badly for them to get along, and fucking someone until they've come twice and are begging you to stop isn't their sire's idea of peaceful co-mingling.)
And yet it wouldn't be half as satisfying if he simply gave in.
So: he glances away. So: his next false exhale is a ragged thing, his teeth flashing as he bites at his lip. And yet there's such steel in his gaze when his head turns back again, for he isn't going to just let Astarion win. Not tonight. Gods, especially not tonight.]
Is that the game we're playing.
[His voice is rougher, lower, a rumble in the center of his chest as he stares up at him.]
And yet only one of us is getting fucked right now.
[With a little grin he scissors his fingers wide in vicious demonstration.]
If you want something, old man, I suggest you ask for it instead of trying to pin it on me. Come ride me, Astarion. Is that what you're aching for? Close your eyes and you can even pretend it's him if you want. Singling you out, making you feel special again . . .
[Oh, that's mean, but so are they— and Fenris is at his nastiest when he's incensed.]
Call out his name. Pretend you're young again. I won't mind.
A good fuck, first and foremost. Possessed of a thick cock with an unrelenting temperament and length enough to split whatever he pierces— and proud of his merits in that regard, so easily knowing that he'll never be replaced: for no one serves Vakares the way that he serves Vakares. No one can part thighs until they tremble the way that he does. No one can coax mewls from freshly bitten lips (oh he sees you duck your head, little wolf) the way that he can. No one else can nestle into the feverish cusp of vulnerable need and instantly push just right against pliant, shuddering, fretful little confines— sparking up fulgent sensation like raked embers.
The very thing he knows drives Fenris to tightening right now, even though he isn't watching him to check ( —ah, but there's a thought for later, perhaps: getting him flustered and soaked through with all his ardor— drool and precome both— then push those agile legs back with both hands just to see him spread, thinking he's about to be well fed.
And then breathe on that tight little hole, the one bared just for him.
Watching it tense. Tighten. Entreat Astarion for his sadistic touch as if he could be swayed so easily by anything belonging to this whelp. Oh, he'll make him beg, this time. He'll lick and tease and brush idly over that glossy little measure without plunging in until it all but breaks him, and pride becomes an afterthought: unnecessary and unneeded compared to the primal bliss of being used.) Satisfaction already curled low within the dark pit of his stomach. Contentment pooling underneath the narrow bracket of his ribs. Deciding now to mount him only when he's spent and useless, if only so that he can spend his time staring down at the measure of his own rucked-up handiwork.
Hm.
Maybe their sire was right after all. Maybe they can reconcile— for a time. A short, pleasant, transient time. Maybe, he thinks—
But of course, that was what he'd thought before Fenris opened his mouth.
And just like that, everything beforehand vanishes. Suddenly he isn't thinking— let alone about sweet denouements and rising thirst. Suddenly he doesn't care anymore, at least not half as much as he hears the incessant clamor of words squeezed out through self-smug fangs: pretend it's him— pretend you're young again. I won't mind.
Old man.
His knee lifts.
It's not gradual. It's not part of another bit of movement— no. His knee lifts so that he can slam it down across his counterpart's forearm, wrenching himself forwards until those digging fingers are yanked free in a single wetted little twist (pressure jolts within his belly, and he doesn't care—) his free hand snagging the clasp of that pretty leather collar and with cruelty unbound, drives Fenris face down against the floor.
There: one tan leg swiftly kicked out wide— (there: the other in mirrored twin— ) leaving the younger vampire sprawled flat with his face and body flush against cold marble, his clothing in scrappish tatters: humiliatingly obscene for how he's been made spread-eagled from the waist down, with Astarion perched on his knees between them. That thick cock heavily tapping at the centerline dividing lush curves right down their suddenly unguarded middle, bobbing for every shift in weight while he makes certain there won't be any wriggling free.
Because there won't be.
(Not now. Not anymore.)]
Thank you for that generous offer, my dear, beloved mate.
[The last word curdles on his tongue. So cloying that it nearly bleeds enmity over red-stained lips.
He rocks his hips just once— the crown of his cruel length butting briefly against a cinch that threatens to spread under hardly any coaxing whatsoever (just like its master). It's a simple tap. A push. He barely levers himself at all, and he can feel how tension melts each time he closes in— ]
I'll be sure to remember it when you're screaming for me to stop.
[Fenris isn't the only one that turns vicious when incensed.
Hunched like a lion over tattered scraps, one hand hooked in that collar and keeping it to cold stone, the other fanned flat across the back of Fenris' skull. His knees resting wide and comfortable like bracketry for the lithe legs they bar fully from even the mere notion of traction: all of his inhuman prowess committed to pinning mastery— all of it surrounding the shallow spurring of his drooling prick, overeager for its hunt.
When he leans forward, close to a downturned, pointed ear, all that pressure doubles.]
Beg.
[And if it weren't convincing enough, he drops his hips by depthless degrees— letting agonizingly blunt rigidity distend the little hole it teases.
A vulgar knife to a pretty, obligingly obedient throat.]
The taunt leaves his lips and Astarion strikes— and oh, it's a fight when he does. A seething snarl rumbling in Fenris' throat as he moves, squirms, fingers curved and claws out, his teeth bared in open challenge— but oh, it doesn't matter. Not when Astarion is centuries older; not when, for all that their master tries to paint them as evenly matched, there's still such a gap between his two favorite pets when it comes to vampiric prowess.
And in the end, he's left humiliated: pain blooming behind his eyes as he's shoved face-first into the floor like an errant pup, his legs spread-eagle and his clothing torn to tatters. Cold air brushes against his hole, and oh, it doesn't matter how many times they've seen one another bare, for Fenris still shudders in rising humiliation as he realizes what a view Astarion has right now. His hated rival not just spread open, but pinned in place like a petulant slut who can't quite admit what it is he wants. For though Fenris' mind is snarling, his body— oh, his body melts to feel that familiar pressure. Hot and thick and perfect, tapping at his hole, spreading him open just enough to leave him shuddering—
Beg.
(He knows what Astarion means. Beg, not just a grudging plea spat up spitefully, but the kind of begging their master loves. Fawning and doting, adoring and needy, please, Vakares, please, I've been so good, sugar-spun sweetness on their glazed lips as they tremble in desire . . . and it isn't false, understand. It isn't a put-on little act (or at least, it comes from a place of sincerity). It's just that Vakares is so very good at slowly but thoroughly driving them out of their minds; it's just that they love him so much, and he always looks so gratified when they do something of their own volition).
Beg.
He struggles again and again, fighting against the inevitable. Squirming and writhing, shoving his palms flat against the floor, only to realize again and again that there is no getting free, not now. Blunt heat presses so sweetly against his hole, spreading him open just a little bit; he tightens in involuntary response, his body greedy for what it isn't being given. More, please, fluttering near-orgasmic pulses as his cock drools against the marble floor.
Still, there's silence. Still, the tension grows— and yet sooner or later, there's the most begrudging:]
Please.
[Oh, he hates it. He hates him, vicious and spiteful elder, so possessive and desperate to keep what is his that he seethes at anyone who dares approach. He hates that he is stronger and faster; he hates moments like these, where he loathes him as much as he desires him, electricity sparking between them and his attraction fiercer than ever. Fenris shudders beneath him, his claws scratching against stone as his fingers flex in vain.
And oh, he can't. He can't, not when his ears are ringing in humiliation and all of him feels so hot. The words dance on his tongue, and there's nothing that can make them slip past his lips now: Astarion, please, I'll be so good, I'll earn it, please, let me worship you, let me lap at you with my tongue, let me put my mouth on every inch of you so that you'll fuck me, please, please, I'll do anything, I'll be your slut, your consort, your needy little brat, please—]
Please. Fuck me before he gets back, please. Do what I can feel you ache to do, please.
[It's not enough. It's barely begging— but oh, it's all he can manage right now, his ears pinned flat against his skull and his voice thick with humiliation.]
Now— or do you intend to wait until he declares one of us heir before you put it in?
That's not the baying whimper of complete surrender that he's owed (yet his lifeless lungs bristle with inflamed desire as he feels the vampire beneath him squirm hopelessly beneath his claws, taken to absently sucking in breath for fun rather than purpose)— and true, Astarion loves submission, but he'll take hopeless ire any day of the week: more than stunning enough payment as it crawls its way up the agile curvature of a spine bowed helplessly in his shadow. Thumb brushing idly at white hair in the most spiteful imitation of their master's praising touch.
A reward befitting that obedience.]
I don't need to wait. [In perfect unison: how his voice (thicker than blood, thicker than curdling lust itself) slithers into a single twitching ear, while his cock slips that much deeper— plush warmth wrapped enviably tight around his restless tip. Where each ensuing angle taken by way of outright undulating degrees (degrees that never stop canting— never stop shifting from left to right or up and down— violating every inch they touch with glossing swaths of dribbling precome), is never far enough inwards to enforce that final, necessary little pop of claiming satisfaction (the one defined in the border between his blunted crest and thickrun shaft), instead merely rubbed against the brim of Fenris' narrow stretch without end. The very cuspis of more intermingling with not enough. Never enough.]
I know it'll be me.
[He doesn't (he does— he doesn't— certainty slipping through his grasp each time he tries to nail it down, oily and unregenerate. Truthfully beneath it all: he doesn't— ) but they're both toying with fantasy right now, aren't they?
And a world in which he gets what he wants appeals to him like nothing else.]
You do too, don't you?
[(Mine. Already you're mine.)]
So let's make this our trial run, shall we? [Another set of shallow pumps— quick, quick, slow— teasing the difference between fucking and being bred, fluidity laid sweetly in his spurring hips when all his prey can do is whine.] I want to take my new whore out for a ride before I fit him with a bit and bridle.
[It isn't a request. He isn't asking for permission. Whether Fenris fights or relents, the threat of being shoved to the floor and made esteemed high cocksleeve for his new master is practically force-fed between his fangs as surely as said bit and bridle: something to break this unruly creature so receptive to his touch and so defiant of it, too.]
Now.
As I said before, little wolf.
Beg.
[A yank against those wisps of moonstruck hair. A hateful tug to— ]
—Faster than its burnished knob can turn, Astarion's already gone flat: all of his weight sunken over Fenris' prone form, his slender body funneled into flowing shapes that mirror sloping contours and suppler high rises. No longer is that collar caught between tight fingers— instead those nimble digits merely pull it tenderly aside; away from the caress of a loving mouth that nestles gently against skin, each kiss enacted just as humbly as if he'd fit them to Vakares himself. Their ankles intertwined, their image utterly enraptured. Lovers lost to salivating appetites, enkindled and undone.
He is, after all, a flawless performer.
And all Fenris need do (just as Astarion assumes he's so adept at from centuries of practice), is lie there and keep quiet.
Only at the soft exhale of relief that comes from the open doorway does Astarion finally lift his head, expression thick with feigned contentment:]
Sire.
[Demure, his catlike rumble. The lifting of his figurative tail evident within the richness of his voice, already rising eagerly— and setting his counterpart loose in the process.]
[Yet Astarion doesn't need to move much to bridge dividing distance: too deeply missing his cherished pair, Vakares has already crossed the room to greet them both with outstretched fingers. He catches Astarion beneath his chin— and Fenris, if he raises himself in time, though there's an extended sweep from ember eyes across dusky features and bare muscular surrounding by slim tatters of cloth. One that borders on searching—
If only just.
And then he's seated on his bed. Grand and plush in the midst of his den-et-study, compliment to lavishly carved bookshelves and gilded desks carved from rich, dark wood. Its bedding and full measure soft— an uncharacteristic trait in anything belonging to their kin. Soft and stern: the nature of his leadership, his clothing, his bearing, his taste. Soft sternness that soon beckons Astarion and Fenris near, patting either side of the mattress he's sunken to in redressed full, waiting for them to nestle in.]
Come here, little gemstones. [Little for comparitive age and nothing more; they are so fierce at heart. Far more bottled with passion and fervor than even Vakares himself, particularly in moments as sedate as these.
Understand: he is so weary, still, and too desiring for their companionship.] I will be glad to rid myself of this ceremony.
[To add, a sobered beat later:]
....and bereft to leave you both.
[So come here to me. Come here.
His most adored of his creations, wreathed within his arms.]
I hope you did not suffer while I was away.
[Ah. But is that a slanted pull just at the corner of his mouth?]
Not even a pathetic little whine, whimpering out by a weak brat who needs his sire to protect him. He could make it sensuous, offering up just enough information to earn Vakares' irritation— that familiar frown creasing his forehead, his mouth slanting as he scolds (and oh, he does it to them both in equal measure; Fenris had never known you could punish someone so easily with mere words). He could breathe out words like new whore and bit and bridle, and he could bask in the smug triumph of favorite as Vakares doted on him in pointed punishment.
He could.
The moment stretches out as he catches Astarion's eye. They three of them all surely know what's going on here; Vakares isn't stupid, after all. Just good-hearted (and oh, how many people conflate the two to their eventual detriment). He could. He held me down, he told me I was to be his whore,, and the words alight between them, hovering in potential.]
No.
[He could. But he won't.
Because he loves Vakares, you see. Because they both do, and they are never more united than when it comes to making their sire happy. Because this is the last night the three of them will ever have together, and Fenris doesn't want to ruin it. And perhaps because some small part of him hopes that tonight might yet become that rarest of things: a night where the three of them actually get along. Where Fenris and Astarion's hackles are lowered and they're caught in doting complacency, their minds running along the same track with no savagery to be found. It's rare, admittedly. Rare and all the more golden for it, those brilliant times when Vakares' vision of a happy coven comes true.
And because that isn't his style.
Oh, he's no snitch. He's no mewling brat that needs someone else to fight for him. Whatever battle is to come will be between he and Astarion, and if he loses, well. At least he'll have lost on his own terms.
And it will be a battle. My new whore, Astarion had whispered, and Fenris has no doubt he means it. He'll have a bit between his teeth before the night ends; he'll be spread open and tied up, aphrodisiac fucked into him, left to drool and howl and beg his new master for his touch. He'll be debased and debauched, humiliated thoroughly for every slight great and small over the past century . . .
But though Fenris' hole still aches for the phantom sensation of what he never quite got, his cock twitching and drooling as those words echo in humiliating clarity in the back of his mind— oh, still, still, he has no intention of becoming that. Not even a consort, but a pet, kept around to dote upon and humiliate as Astarion sees fit.
(And what other choice will he have? Young thing, he'll surely die sooner or later if he flees this coven; vampires don't tolerate rivals, after all, even potential ones. Even ones that swear they've little interest in killing anyone else, little liars that they are. Vakares is not the only anomaly in this coven, and there has been more than one occasion when Fenris wanted little more than to tear the throat out of some visiting lord for how cruelly he treated his spawn).
No. No, he won't be that. Fenris does not know the shape of what's to come, but he knows he will not allow himself to be turned into that. And that means he'll have to strike tonight, right after the announcement comes. He'll have to establish himself, carving out a position all his own, pinning Astarion down and striking a deal . . .
But that comes later.
For now: it is the three of them. For now: Astarion is not yet named heir. For now: Fenris pushes forward, curling beneath Vakares' arm, nuzzling fondly against the sharp line of his jaw as he splays a hand on his thigh. My sire, my love, and gods, but he will miss him.]
We were discussing how best to please you once you returned. If you'd prefer a show . . . or something more intimate.
[And this time when he meets Astarion's gaze, it's a little softer. Work with me, and he knows the other vampire will.]
Lie back. Lie back . . .
[Onto the bed properly this time, Vakares' head pillowed by soft cushions, his legs nudged into gently spreading. His laces tugged at as his cock is coaxed out— and after one long, slow, savoring lap, Fenris murmurs:]
. . . and tell us whether you wish us to both keep mouthing at your cock . . . or have Astarion straddle your chest and fuck your mouth as I tend to you?
[There is absolutely no motivation behind his suggesting that position. Absolutely none.]
[Question posed through capitulation, there is no part of him that resists save for it— and even then, it's mild. Fond. The tone of a protectorate whose wards sit prettily in their bedsites, even as the bolts to their quarters hang unlocked. In that band of narrow seconds he finds himself unstrung as his own lacework, flattened beneath Fenris' attention and coaxed into peerless comfort.
Fenris guiding Vakares.... and Vakares guiding Astarion, soon enough.
His left hand persuading the latter into a pretty lifted straddle (taking nothing of that ample cock between his lips rather than stroking it between his fingers), true to given suggestion— his right hand coursing low in familiar channels through the pale tangles of Fenris' hair, appreciatively stimulating. He touches them both in unison, for he needs to feel them both beneath his filed claws. To ground the promise that this moment will come again after his eyes have shut— and opened.
But trust that does not mean he will be passive in this intimacy, either.]
I have been exhausted by our kin and their vindictive squabbles. How they can set aside nothing, even when lavishly upheld. [By feasting, by music, by extravagancies the world would envy if it knew what happens here behind these walls— and still they bicker and vie as if it all meant nothing.] If I desire anything tonight, it is to know I am not abandoning you to the wolves.
That I've left you something in my place.
[His eyes are dry; he's far from weeping or fretting, not in need of coddled comfort. Still, though, there's a distance to his pensiveness. Thoughtfulness that removes him from the immediacy of blade-sharp arousal (his stare drifting faintly shut under the pressure of that lap while the backs of his knuckles drifting along Astarion's innermost thigh).] Perform for me what you discussed—
[Spoken before he maneuvers the latter of the pair once more with steadfast palms: redirecting that straddled splay around the other way as simply as turning a lantern in its fixture; a centerpiece atop an already prepared table. A fact that would remain true even if Astarion wasn't already eagerly lifting his own hips in the hopes of finding his most velvet stretches of sensitivity graced by the gift of their master's tongue.
(Drawing out one more quirk of Vakares' expression, tugging itself into a smile that neither inheritor will see.)]
Meaning that they face each other when that command sinks in (rather than the bliss of Vakares' tongue, or lips, or waiting throat) in full: a pair of crimson eyes locked fully on the other set— and even a blind man might sense the silent moment of internal resentment laid down across the distance for how Vakares utters the words 'what you discussed'. Oh, well done, Fenris. So if there's a time to tattle or a time to confess, arguably it's now, for come a few unsteady beats of silent staring or fumbling of hands later, Vakares will have his answer anyway.
But Fenris is right, admittedly.
The deception wasn't a misstep, it was necessary; they both would've done the same— the only difference being that Fenris was the one to smartly speak up first.
And he's right about one more thing, too, evident in the rounding of an expression that'd been sharper than the tips of both their claws: it's only their sire that matters. Only these few moments spent with him before they have to find their own ways to self-soothe the emptiness of open space and brittle silence. The lack of his voice, his touch, his comforting silhouette praising them for the smallest job well done.
There's no chance of noncooperation anymore.
His shoulders roll. His head ducks downwards with the same weightless sense of agility as before: all of his coiled prowess funneled down into a languid, hungry kiss nestled inches above the stiff rise of their sire's waiting cock. They stroke it in unison as he wraps his cool fingers through the sturdiness of Fenris' own, more vulgar slickness driven to the back of his companion's throat (his lips, his chin— ) through a tongue that forces wanton compliance with popping smacks of lurid contact— occasionally letting some small dribbles of crystal-clear spit fall from their open mouths across Vakares' waiting prick. Felt soon enough in the seams between each shuttling pump from intertwined grips, its rhythm broken in the very next beat once Astarion takes both of his own hands and wraps them tight around the back of Fenris' head: claws latching to the roots.
—and forces his companion's well-primed mouth down to the very base of their master's upheld swell.]
[Oh, this bratty little beast. This awful-terrible, awful-attractive vampire who makes everything into a competition even when they're meant to be getting along. It's infuriating and thrilling all at once, a push-pull of desire that leaves his neglected cock throbbing even as he glares savagely up at his counterpart. No matter that such a fierce stare looks so paltry so long as he has his mouth full, drooling around their sire's length as his hips grind needily against the bed, still. Still, Fenris is determined, he will not let Astarion best him twice.
But his next move need not be immediately obvious.
With a low moan Fenris splays: his body bowing low as he arches his back up, his thighs spreading open wide as cold air caresses his slickened hole. It's a show for a single person, lewd and vulgar and pointed: you almost had this. You almost had me bowing for you like this, ready to be fucked and taken and made into yours— his hips wiggling in the air, cheeks round and so easily spread, and if he had a tail, it surely would be flicking up in obvious signal: come take me if you can.
For if Fenris' own body is still aching for the slow, heavy press of Astarion's cock, oh, surely his counterpart feels the same. Surely he's so needy right now, his prick heavy and hot and so very close (so very far) from the lithe little body he almost impaled . . .
But ah: this is about Vakares, isn't it?
And Fenris means to savor this.
Every moment. Every single second, trying to burn it into his memory: the heavy weight of his cock as it presses his tongue flat, forcing his jaw open wide as he takes him into his throat. The soft groan that rumbles low in Vakares' throat as Fenris' lips cinch so tight around the base of his cock, his nose rubbing affectionately against cold skin. His cheeks go hollow as he suckles at his prick, and oh, how Fenris loves the way he can't help but buck his hips up into it: an instinctive little movement to try and force his prick even deeper as bitter droplets of precome spill down his throat.
Just like that, and he stares up at Astarion again— for right now, it's only one of them that's earning all this approval, and it isn't him.
Poor Astarion. Poor neglected Astarion, his hole spread open without a single touch; his hands so busy knotting in Fenris' hair that he hasn't a single one to spare for himself. With a little moan Fenris reaches for him, fingers wrapping so tight around the head of his prick—
And stilling.
If that was all Astarion was willing to give him, Fenris thinks, then that's all he'll get in return. Not a caress. Not the slow, steady pump he must surely be aching for. Just rhythmic squeezes around the tip of his prick— and the slow, steady caress of Fenris' thumb against his drooling slit. Rhythmically he spreads him open, mercilessly rubbing and teasing at his cock— quick, quick, slow, wasn't that the rhythm? And all the while he stares up smugly at him, his mouth full and his gaze taunting.
Little spiteful things. Little bits of misbehavior hidden in the guise of cooperation, oh, yes: Fenris can play that game.]
Pitifully soft. Woefully soft. Stifled with resolve that's bound to the tips of curled fingers in white hair (nevermind that teasing pressure, nevermind the rub against his leaking slit— quick, quick, slow), he could stop his own efforts to douse his companion's, but then what of their sire? What of tonight? Cruelty won't satisfy their master. Pettiness might live under his own nail beds, but he's not a fool— and neither is Vakares, all truths being equal: any more vitriol would only be transparent as paned glass. Meaning the scales have tipped, somewhere along the way.
And it's Fenris that slakes himself.
On viciousness, on praising lifts of their master's upstirred hips— on the deepset fullness of a prick squeezed tight into the back of his own throat, insistently pressed flush (until drool runs in ruinously vulgar rivulets around the border between plush lips and cool skin, glistening in lowered lanternlight), and visible through the arch of Astarion's spread thighs. His sunset cheeks drawn thin and hollow with every suckling pull (each noisier and slicker than the last), his nostrils far from flared for how he's likely closed-off his own throat. And above it all, those wretchedly tempestuous eyes are raised in the shadow of long lashes kept half-lidded: proud of their wicked work and every weighted reward it finds— when every hum reverberates into sensation that isn't shared (and all Astarion is met with is the rough denial from cruel hands)—
Oh, it's not fair.
It's not fair, and he hates it. Resents it. Wracked with envy over shadowed little pangs of paler imitations of emulated bliss— his hearing saturated with those wet smacks and softer groans; his vision filled with alluring offers kept harshly from his reach— and he wants it (and it's not fair, and he hates it, and he resents it and he— ) Locks his fingers till they tremble. Pulls against that scalp, nearly keening in the back of his throat through mewls of half-held petitions: wordless little pleas lacking in shape or order, and yet still (still) find their way into asking please while his grip runs harsher on its own. No thought behind it. Nothing spiteful or demanding. Palms squared across each other and he pumps downwards against the creature that he holds— no, uses— that's the word for it. That's the narrow strip of difference between now and every second prior:
He uses Fenris.
He uses him like a toy. Like a suctioned little hilt shuttled rapidly over its designed subsumption: his head jerked up and down along that rigid span without sensuality involved— for no one ever seduces the fuckhole cut into a waiting wall, and no one checks the little storebought sheathe they've purchased for a quick, relieving rut to make sure it enjoys being rapidly shunted into in those few minutes before sleep. Within his grip, and with no stop for air or sweetness, Astarion wildly fucks down over their master's cock and rolls his hips with desperate envy— neglected, yes, but at least like this, with soft whimpers in his throat, he doesn't care if Fenris' fingers gift him more than just that padding bit of pressure.
His mind imagines more.
His mind imagines so much more ( —another push, another pump— again, again, again on loop— faster, fuck, go faster— ) as overstimulation swears against cold sense that it's Fenris' mouth wrapped richly to his hilt— shivering and pulsing and squirming like a bitch in utter need, arousal with its hand on both their necks—
[Again, again, over and over relentlessly and without end: Fenris moves just as Astarion dictates, whimpering as he's made into little more than a toy. A slick mouth ready to be used with not a single thought given to his pleasure or his comfort; a needy little hole that can't help but moan wetly for the way he's treated, degraded and yet so addled that he loves it all the more. Fuck me, use me, and make no mistake, Fenris does thrill in it. Make me yours one last time, and it's the taste of Vakares he savors right now: the bitter drip of precome that coats his tongue as their sire invades his throat. Banded fingers grip the older vampire's hips so tightly his knuckles have gone white as Fenris whimpers in contented service: tell me I'm good,, as all the while Astarion ensures it.
And it's about Vakares. It's about one last joining, the three of them savoring this final night before they're parted. It's goodbye, bittersweet and a little lonely; it's about making this moment last, for who knows how many years they will all be parted?
But it's about Astarion, too.
Eyes shining with smug satisfaction, Fenris doesn't take his eyes off Astarion for a second. It doesn't matter how vigorously the other vampire fucks him— and oh, trust that he does. Cruelly shoving him down to the very base of their sire's prick, only to force him up a moment later so that spit and precome slip out in a humiliating flood past his lips, little strings the only thing connecting him to their sire's prick— Fenris chokes on it, his eyes hazy and his expression all fucked out, and yet still there's that smug look in his eye.
I won.
Vulgar visions dance through his mind as Vakares groans and bucks his hips up: thoughts of Astarion triumphing only to fall. Thoughts of the other vampire on his knees, on his back, his legs tied open and his vulgar tongue pressed down by some bit, reducing him to little more than furious groans and needy whines. On his hands and knees, bowed down low as his thighs spread wide, eager only to be taken; whimpering out Fenris' name as he's bent over their master's desk, clawing up ancient oak as he mewls and whines and begs for more, scarlet eyes swimming with tears—
(I'm sorry, and for a brief second the fantasy flutters there, too: I'm sorry, my little catulus, the nickname not cruel diminutive but fond, affection and companionship building between them instead of seething rivalry. My darling companion, and perhaps it is not just lust that fuels him, but loneliness).
But it's why— once Vakares comes, spilling down his throat with a moan, both their names on his lips as he claims Fenris' belly one last time— Fenris surges up with a moan. His mouth still full of come, their master's pearly claim smeared on his lips, and he crashes his mouth against Astarion's with a moan— I want you, his hand finally shuttling properly against Astarion's cock, fingers squeezing tight as he pushes his tongue forward. I want you, I want you, not about possessiveness but desire, hot and hungry and instinctive. I want you, I want you, come for me, you little brat, his other hand wrapping around the back of Astarion's neck, wrenching him down so he can climb atop him as they sprawl on the mattress, a chaotic tangle of limbs and tongues and teeth.]
[It's easy to loathe divinity. Perfection so sweet-hot it burns you from the inside out, retinas first (then lungs, then frigid pulse, then sinew and cold reata). Maybe it's only envy— maybe it's something more, akin to being too primitive in nature to begin to comprehend with acute thought. Every sense too awestruck in the moment. Reduced to nothing but a feral animal bristling on approach from what it doesn't understand: terrified and captivated by that dry-mouthed fear. Wanting the meal it knows it'd choke on. Salivating for it, in fact.
That's where he is, now.
Up to his neck in that sick-sweet envy. That dizzying, awestruck, primordial paralysis— heralded by darkened eyes and so much satisfaction that it spills from closed-off lips. Pale, thick, glaze richly overrun, shining on the swell of Fenris' smug (dazed) mouth; stars glinting in an unfixed stare that still somehow manages to find Astarion despite it all: the look of a cat already yanked away even as it licks honeyed cream from its own muzzle. So proud of its own conquest.
And on the other hand: all Astarion knows is that same yawning darkness.
That vertigo. That wicked, entranced, covetous, hungry, hateful sense of whatever it is that surges upwards in his chest once his back drops down against the mattress, blistering in his veins and molten as it blots out all his sight (but that face— oh, but that pretty, comeslick face— ) deliberate in how his claws flex despite already having lost their grip— searching for a new handhold worth puncturing inside the fitful cage of his own skin.
A single snap.
A single surge in the language of a trap sprung around its prey— fingers clamping closed around slight hips until crimson starts to well, too late now to turn back while he wrenches against the grain until Fenris grinds along his drooling cock. Too late five minutes ago— ten minutes ago. Twenty. Too late the second his sire walked in with a pretty young thing on his arm that only bowed to one creature rather than two. So close and wrapped around him and spread out wide for ripened taking, no doubt imagining he's won (without knowing that their hold on each other suddenly runs both ways). A cruel victor seated on his unslaked throne. Oh, Fenris. Oh, little wolf already in a snare. Astarion's going to bite. He's going to bite until you wail and tear and— ]
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It's a modestly lavish thing, if such a paradoxical phrase can be used. Lavish in that it suits the refined taste of the vampire lord who hosts it: a creature who has lived for more centuries than he cares to admit, accumulating wealth and grandeur as no mortal ever could. Champagne flows freely and sweetly, no matter how many guests call for it. So does the wine (only the finest of vintages, naturally), though the servants have been instructed to cut off any guest that looks as though they've had a few too many glasses. For the mortal guests (and there are more than a few), the food is divine: delicate treats arranged carefully on gold-leaf platters; meat that's so soft and juicy it barely needs chewing before it melts one's mouth. And for the more monstrous of the crowd . . . oh, the chefs are so very creative. Blood-infused antipasti are a charming way to whet one's appetite as they talk and dance and laugh, and when their hunger grows, there's always clever little bottles full of blood ready to be passed around.
Lavish, yes. Lavish for the soft golden glow from silver chandeliers that must have cost a fortune; lavish for the musicians that perch atop a stage, so exclusive that it's impossible to book them (and yet here they are, currently playing a hearty waltz). Lavish for all the jewels that adorn the guests and the silk that covers them, the cream of society's crop. There must be hundreds of them, if not more; anyone who's anyone was invited (and trust that it cost weeks of agonizing, for so many nobles are so awful up close, but gods forbid someone get snubbed).
But modest, too. Modest in the sense that despite it being two days, and despite it being the party of a vampire lord, it's just that: a party. Not an orgy (though trust more than a few guests had expected as such once the sun set on the first day, and grumbled when they were politely deterred from stripping down to little more than masks). Nor, if it comes to it, a show of cruelty and violence: there's no bloodletting, no vicious sport . . . there's entertainment, but it comes in the form of clever feats of magic or marvelous displays of acrobatics. And oh, gods know people are making their own entertainment, and certainly no one is dissuaded from wandering off to have a little revelry all their own, but the fact of the matter is that this party is very firmly staying a tasteful party, thank you very much.
And that's due to the tastes of their host, of course— but also because there's a pointedly planned end to all this revelry. Once the sun sets on the third day, Duke Vakares— that is, Duke Ilrostan Presidius Vios Marus Vakares, if you want to be formal about it— is due to make an important announcement. One that will shift the scales of power, tipping them in one direction or another—
And really, that's why everyone is in attendance. That's why every duke, count, earl, baron, and jumped up merchant prince is still willing to stick around after two days of pleasant partying, for no one wants to miss this announcement. No one wants to miss a chance to get in good with the newest heir as swiftly as possible— and oh, plenty have been trying. The crowd is split evenly on who they think will take command, but though they're eager to kiss up, it's been hard to find either of the heirs.
No, none of that . . . not while Vakares is still around.
He's had his darlings with him these past two days. They've spent most of the first day talking, and drinking, and reminiscing— for though he is not going to sleep forever, he does intend to rest for a time. A few centuries, perhaps: long enough for him to wake refreshed, ready to take the world on once more. And of course time has little meaning to creatures such as them, but still: he'll miss them, and they him. It's a hard thing to say good-bye when you've spent so many years together: strange, but true.
So though there's a party going on . . . this time is just for them.
And oh, they're such impatient things, his darlings. They get riled so easily, biting at one another with words and teeth both, and tonight was no different. What the fight was ostensibly about Vakares has no idea, but the real meaning behind it was simple enough: a bid for attention. Sharp little comments and loud clicks as their fangs snapped in the air, and it only grew more heated the longer Vakares let it go on.
So he put a stop to it.
His needy darlings. His precious, vicious coven that he loves more than anything in all the world. They're going to have to learn to get along without his guiding hand, but perhaps that's part of why he's leaving in the first place. It's far past time for them to stop taking every opportunity to tear each other down.
But ah . . . maybe not just yet.]
There, now. That's better, isn't it?
[He lounges in his chair, his legs fallen open wide and his laces undone. His dark eyes are all but black now, his mouth curved into a (warm, despite himself) little smirk as he stares down at his former fledglings. Kneeling between his thighs, they're mirrors of one another right now. Not identical, no, and read into that as much as you like, for it's their differences that ultimately delight him. But still, similar. Their shirts are both untied and tugged pointedly down around their elbows, leaving their shoulders rounded, their throats bare. Hands folded (and it is folded, not bound, kept still through sheer obedience alone) behind their backs. Leather collars (black and assuredly identical) adorn each of their throats, with three interlocking silver rings connecting them. Their mouths urged open (urged, as if they weren't drooling for it) so that Vakares might slip his prick between them—
And let it rest there. Worshipped by both their tongues, his hips only occasionally stirring as he strokes his fingers through their hair, alternating between one and the other as he pleases.]
You both seem to have calmed down, anyway . . . even if it's only the calm before the storm.
[A little reprimanding squeeze to Astarion's curls. He knows you two. He knows there will be at least a bit of fighting when all this is done.]
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That's how long he's going to be without this.
(That's how long he's going to have to share the air with a glorified consort-turned-crownprince.)
Of course it's not forever, of course their beloved Vakares is coming back— but when? Eight hundred years? Two thousand? Who will he be by then, once he wakes from countless dreams of reincarnation? Who will they be by then, so long awake they barely recognize each other anymore?
He doesn't want to give this up.
Undeath might not be perfect, consistency easily taken for granted and easily tiresome in its cutoffs (simultated sunlight through magical lanterns works; infused foods with rich plays on mortal favors; they wander at night between affairs of territory and aristocracy), but it's theirs. it's always been theirs. He likes their routine. Their way of— if not life— existing. And every time Vakares tells him that he'll understand what it's like once he has a few more thousand years of existence mired in that same routine accumulated underneath his belt, it makes Astarion (devoted Astarion, loyal Astarion, completely adoring and selfishly inclined Astarion) want to bite his own damned sire just to wake him up from whatever foolishness that's set him on this path.
The man is beautiful. Perfect. Lording, if not the ideal balance between passivity and command. The fact that his mind is too wistful— too patently poetic and artfully melancholic, that only flaw he sports aside from his affinity for the other half of this equation (a pair of red eyes staring back around the shape of lust trapped thick between them)— isn't something Astarion blames him for, even if he had been here first (and oh, wasn't that day such a slight when it happened. Made anointed twin to yet another elf with white hair— as if Vakares needed to take up announcing to the whole world that he has a type).
At least Fenris isn't unattractive.
It'd be insult to avid injury otherwise. So much salt in the wound he might well shrivel on the spot. Because even without a prefixing 'identical' just before it, the word twin always seems to inspire the compulsive urge to draw comparisons. To hunt for similarities until they blot out everything else in full: leaving them a unified whole less than the sun of all their parts. Ergo, as things are, Astarion can conceptually live with all the feasts and fetes filled with curious glances or envious remarks— so long as it means getting to flaunt the title of favorite in regards to Vakares' coven.
Everything else is just a competition.
Like the one Astarion silently enacts all on his own right now, eyelids fluttering as he melts into the loving cruelty of that knowing hold: his exhale hot and sweet— slender tongue unfurled while spit dances across its tip, connecting the nominal expanse between that rigid cock and the flat of his tongue. Lifting his stare with his eyes alone, not the angle of his head (too busy attending to obscene service with showmanship unparalleled); short licks that shiver through relaxed shoulders and an elongated neck. Flickers of dark lashes and panting breathe run into long, long laps— collar clasps jingling as he delivers tests the limits of their binds—
And Vakares' patience.
He misbehaves in sips that make it hard to punish; too clever for his own good. Like:]
....and yet you're leaving us to the storm.
[Protesting even while he basks. Enjoying the feel of one more corrective tug in steep response, promising that if nothing else, he holds their master's attention in full.]
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[It's a smooth correction, not a protest. They've had this debate before; it doesn't shock him they're having it one last time. And you know, he won't deny some part of his heart doesn't want to leave. It's the part of him that forgets how long the nights have grown; how the years have begun to blur together, indistinguishable and dull. It's the part of him that leaps when he hears two familiar voices coming his way— and here and now, it's the part of him that smooths his fingers so sweetly through Astarion's hair. I know, my love, and he does. He does.
And maybe he'll just put it off for another week. Another month. Another—
Click.
Loud in the relative silence of their rooms; it almost muffles the slick noise Fenris' lips make as he's forced up tight against his cock. They part in an instant, wrapping sweetly around the width of him— and yet even Vakares can hear the rumbling growl low in Fenris' throat.
Ah . . .
His fingers release.]
Tsk—
[One little disappointed click of his tongue, that's all it takes. One scolding, disappointed little look, and just like that, they're being pushed off his prick. And oh, make no mistake: it's a hardship. His cock hangs heavy in the cool air, thickened and flushed with desire, slick from their duel attentions. And it would take nothing to have them right now. They're always so eager— he could have them sprawled on the bed in an instant. A slick hole, a tight little cinch, his cock sinking into one while he fingers the other, oh, it's so tempting.
But they have hours and hours to go.
And tonight of all nights, Vakares thinks, leaning back heavily as his hand wraps around his neglected prick . . . tonight, he deserves a show.]
Behave. Give me hope for my rest . . . show me that you two can play nicely together.
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Sweet as honey on the surface, with a depth as thin as varnish, that's what he is. Astarion's mind passively recanting a thousand different slights— his bitterness flared like a sore nerve now that there's no brace between them, keeping them apart. Two seconds ago, his collar was clacking with the tension he forced across the line. Two seconds ago, he was defiant, rumbling with resentment on his teeth as if it were a kiss. Two seconds ago, only one person in this room was responsible for changing this dynamic.
Astarion blames Fenris.
His crimson eyes narrowing for a sliver of a second before drifting dutifully closed, lithe body braced against lush redolence rather than committed to its grace; no part of him happy to have lost what was already his (again, you know— again— metaphor dwelling effortlessly in the margins) in favor of what he's told he needs. But again, he wants Vakares. Again, if he has to go through Fenris to get that— and make no mistake, he knows that he does (there's no budging once their master makes up his mind in anything, hence the frailty of their situation now regarding lavish fêtes and closed doors)— he will obey that order.
Albeit with a tactile edge.
Sweet as honey on the surface, and just as rough beneath its lacquered shine, Astarion wastes no time in adopting the perceived tactics of his rival with a serpent-swift show of utterly malicious submission, once he knows it's all that's left to him for options: docile outline melting into feverishly spread contours angled back across his heels, countering the shift in balance brought on by leaning when a single pale palm slithers round the back of Fenris' throat— claws nestling, fingers funneled into precious divots just above latched leather where the nape of that cool neck meets feathered hair— accompanied by his opposing hand nestling in with tenderness unmatched, already stoking the heat tucked within the base of his twin's overstiffened prick as if it were their maker's own. Like kindling a flame, each movement runs hotter than the last; fluidity funneled into his wrist and the soft pads of his fingers, no part of his talons ever coming close to touching vulnerable skin. He's the elder of the pair, after all. Proven through the flourish found naturally in his movements, making certain their sire doesn't lack for a show of lust and love, even if he isn't the one touched right now. An oblation given in his honor.
At cost for the companion he enacts it with.
Because he's careful, you know. So so careful. (He misbehaves in sips that make it hard to punish; too clever for his own good. Like:) His sharp fangs only clipping and cutting the pliant measure of Fenris' tongue whenever their mouths close fully— his weight still tipping backwards farther and farther, the leash between them ensuring there's nowhere else to go but to follow or act out in protest once Astarion's sunken his shoulders and hips fully to the floor. Divinely pretty in satiety with the filthy taste of ashen spawnblood in his throat.
Go on, sweet heir. Go on, warranted inheritor. Help put on a good show of cooperation for your master, who wants only to know you can be good.]
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Or— well, no. He does hate him a little bit, but he loves him, too. Sort of. It's complicated. It's just— it's hard to despise someone utterly when you've spent over a hundred years in near-proximity with them; it's hard to love them when you're constantly in competition with them. And it is a competition: the two of them always vying for a rare bit of favoritism, or a pointed choice in their direction. If you ask Fenris, it's Astarion who started it: sulking and biting from the moment he came in. It isn't Fenris' fault they're deemed twins (nor, indeed, that their sire has a pointed preference in what he's attracted to). It isn't his fault that he was brought in second, or that Astarion feels so very threatened by him. He didn't start this fight (if you ask him, if you ask him, but they three of them have such different memories of those first few decades).
But he's more than willing to keep it going.
The thing is: the opposite of love isn't hate, but indifference. And vampires are such solitary creatures, prone to infighting even within covens. It's only natural that they should bite and snarl at one another, vicious even on their best behavior. And though they both know Vakares longs for them to be companions, the truth is this: Fenris thrives on their rivalry.
It's a game. It's a competition. It's a reason to wake up each night, hungry to sink his teeth into more than just soft flesh. It's excitement unending, and he thrills in it no matter if he wins or loses, for there is something so magnetically attractive about a rivalry. Astarion hates Fenris and Fenris hates him right back— but there's such a fierce attraction there that it almost doesn't matter.
So it's no mistake that his cock swells so eagerly as Astarion wraps his fingers around him. The moan that vibrates on his lips each time sharp teeth slice at his tongue is no lie (though perhaps he exaggerates it just a little, knowing they have an audience). He kisses his twin with such hungry relish—
And when there's another vicious little bite, pain blooming behind his eyes and a whimper in his throat, Fenris twists: yanking at the pretty little form beneath him and rolling them both over, so that now Astarion is the one panting down at him. Fenris grins sharply, blood smeared on his teeth and his eyes glittering. Hands swiftly slide down the curve of Astarion's waist; Leto's fingers dance as they glide over the swollen curves of his ass. Another kiss, his tongue forcefully thrusting forward again: go ahead, bite it, and he will not run bleating to their sire. He won't be the bratty little fledgling aching for their sire to step in.
He'll simply do this: sliding his hands beneath the hem of Astarion's trousers, Fenris gropes at him. Hungrily, eagerly, palms full as he spreads the other man open wide, his fingers digging in and squeezing with vicious attraction. Go ahead, bite it, their tongues tangling as Fenris feels him up, his own hips rocking up in vulgar rhythm. Again and again, spreading him open and then letting him go, groping and squeezing over and over—
Until there's a stifled moan from the chair beside them.
All at once he strikes: his head jerking back from the kiss with a gasp as one of his hands darts up. Quick as anything he shoves two fingers between them, pushing them past Astarion's lips with the most audacious grin. One quick pump turns into two, three, his index and middle finger fucking past pretty lips to sink in deep, curling and twisting as he fucks the other elf's mouth.
Play nice. Be a good boy, Astarion. Don't bite the fingers that tease you, no matter how tempting it might be. Don't snarl when those selfsame fingers are clumsy in drawing back, smearing saliva and blood over both their lips—
For in the next moment they plunge so deep into that tight little hole, two fingers spreading him wide. There's no slow build-up, no deliberate romance: he fucks into him with vicious familiarity, fingers curling and shoving against resistance with glee. His wrist snaps forward again and again, his other hand palming at one cheek and spreading him open to the cold air. And all the while Fenris smirks, crimson eyes locked on their mirror.]
So let's play.
[Breathed out hotly against his lips, a message all for him.]
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Then again, maybe it's not a miracle at all. Maybe it's deliberate— on Fenris' part, not Astarion's— that he's effectively lunged into the fray with so much ferocity that even practiced senses fumble, spilling capable response through careless fingers; their edges curled until they shudder, his wet mouth sharp along its insides where he still tastes blood and spit. In less than shallow seconds, he's gone from cruel instigator to buckled prey: shuttered eyes pinched tight, stiffened through his otherwise graceful vertebrae and the lurid run of his length (bobbing vulgarly as he's fucked into, trousers tight across his thighs and threatening to tear). He hates this part. He hates the very second when loathing surrenders to lust, turning him into nothing but a craven brace for one more— oh, just one more thrust. One more little pump of those cruel fingers, and how they're goading him to fight.
And begging him to surrender.
Feverish in form if not in blood; the more practiced, the more experienced— he should be mastering this play by all rights, and yet in the most infuriating catch of insult meets injury, somehow it's tenacity (or spite, or love, or a second wind or dogged animosity, or— he doesn't know, but somehow, always something comes along) that buffets Fenris back from pitching points of clear submission, never giving Astarion the decency of a victory he's been owed.
And like everything else, it builds. Like the shiver in his hips or the whine in his throat. Like the anger and contempt that he swears might learn to settle if their sire would just let him have his way with his beloved fledging (who should be Astarion— ) nothing calms and everything builds; his movements gone inflexible as pillars, their chaining tethers thrumming like a bowstring under tension. A little more— just a little more— oh, please, please, please. His world dimming with the urge, his thick cock drenched along its tip from salivating too hard, too quickly, and all of it tempered by the sour taste of nothingness across his tongue, no longer sweet without its accompanying victory to be savored.
Oh, but Vakares is pleased, though. Astarion can hear him over slick slaps of skin on skin. A distant sigh. An approving moan. Doubtlessly already imagining they'll get along beautifully soon enough without the epicenter of their contention on the board— the very same optimism that had him bringing home a stray plucked up from the nearest brothel or auction or bin (Astarion never bothered to ask): a companion chosen for him, when he'd already picked one for himself (you, Vakares, you damned fool. It was you.)
One more plunge.
One more whimper.
One more, and Astarion's hand snags the chain tethered between them. Fingers closed tight, palm twisting as he ratchets Fenris' half closer and closer till it chokes (he knows they don't need air; it's not about that), until their mouths lock and his hips drive down across those fingers, taking control of the pace they both enact— their glossing pricks forced into grinding crudely together, slipping over and under and against with every thrust. No room for Fenris to manuever save obey, wearing the guise of rougher play.
It won't be long now. A few days before the creature he loves sleeps, and he's left alone with this heedless whelp. His bonded mate. So many things can happen in a century or two. Or ten. How hard would it be, he wonders— a wealth of serene ugliness blooming behind the gentlest of kisses (his hips pumping over those fingers, against that waiting cock, those hard enough to bruise a living thing)—
How hard would it be to make a deal? To cut him loose or chase him off? To hire a hunter that doesn't ask questions, if need be— or to find a pawn willing to risk their own hands for pure power?
How hard would it really be, ensuring that when Vakares woke up, it was only to one instead of two?]
You're too careless, little wolf....
[His free hand tucked between them, squeezing their pricks together till spots fleck along the corners of his own vision— false breath run thready before it even reaches his throat.]
Come for me.
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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—]
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[Only for a sharp rap at the door to interrupt.
Damn it. Vakares (his hand shuttling lazily over his cock, precome smeared over his fingers, his lip sore from how he's been biting at it) sags back with a little groan. There's always something. Even now, the evening before he goes to rest, there's something, and he can't ignore it.
The servants know better than to enter, at least. With a heavy sigh Vakares sits up, tucking himself back into his trousers as he stares down ruefully at his fledglings.]
Stay. I won't be long.
[Still: he snaps his fingers just once, a short sharp click that dissolves the chain between them. He'll put it back once he returns, but there's no need to keep his darlings uncomfortable while he tends to business. (He is so unusual for a vampire, he knows, but he has never seen much point in courting enmity among the ones he loves— nor much pleasure, if it comes to it. Sadism is well and good in its place, but petty cruelty is not).]
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I have told you not to call me that.
[Why shouldn't they fight as they continue to rut? It's as natural as anything else.]
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I happened to be there when you said it. [Astarion rumbles back around the narrow divides between their fangs— his tenor the most patchwork assortment of sarcasm (first), petty spite (second), and last, albeit immeasurably far from least: arousal. Avarice. Need. Acrimonious lust. The rest of his honeyed nature left out in the open like a steel trap, all but begging his companion to come closer towards the gleam of inevitable danger.
The next push down across those crooked fingers (the next febrile pump upwards from them) such a violent collision, the sound of skin-on-skin unremittingly echoing throughout an otherwise empty room: pounding tempo wet-slick and richly audible, while friction punctuates for them what neither would readily admit to if asked— oh, they might be growling into the heart of one another's mouths, but there's no chain left to bind them. There's no mote that keeps them from pulling back too far.
(They could stop, if they wanted to.)]
—Little wolf.
[The only thing pulling is the pressure swollen tight around spread knuckles. The only thing rising is the feverflare strain of his own cock caught beneath his thumb and fore, and the uncut bloom of blistering urgency laced across the edges of his sight, darker and deeper by the second. Their sire gone for the moment. They've been left to wait on his command, but his command only required them to stay. And they are, in technical truth— they are— his slender thighs still tucked tight around lithe hips in the exact same spot they'd perched in just before the door behind them shut. His trousers striving to bite into his skin for tension, their grasp a rolling thing: high and tight as he ruts himself with whorish fluidity (forward, forward, forward— undulating with a series of swift bucks that push him deeper into the catch of Fenris' thickened crown, let alone slip over him; what a sight it has to be, perched on all fours atop glimpses of dusky skin, fucked into and spread and bent low as if he feeds upon his packmate's ruthlessness), slackened so he can feel the sting of restored sensation slither up between his legs. He rolls his shoulders forward until his body eclipses Fenris' own entirely. He cranes his neck until it aches. He chases lips with the sinful urge to bite down—
And none of it is a retreat.
In a way, there's almost more risk involved like this. Unsupervised, what they enact becomes a game of patience. A test of will. (Don't come before he returns. Don't exclude the one that bid you start to begin with, tsk tsk— ) Then again, maybe it's all subterfuge: red light green light played out with the highest stakes imaginable, as far as their own hierarchy goes. After all, whoever's left looking the instigator when Vakares returns is likely going to be the one inevitably pinned for all their play.
And their sire isn't like the other vampiric lords, but still.
Neither of them want to ruin his farewell. The last few days they have to spend together— even Astarion won't bite the way he could (or would, under any other given circumstances).
But—
(But)
What harm is there in just a little more entanglement? If they couch themselves....
Oh, if they're careful. (Vakares could be gone for hours— or minutes.) Desire too blinding to ignore when he's more possessed of incense than sense, groaning and snarling into the bow of Fenris' lips, signing each kiss like a declaration of ownership whilst the figurative cat's away.]
Ridiculous little fledgling cinch.
[His hold twists with sudden intensity— thumb tucked tight over the tip of Fenris' cock, until even beading arousal's forced back down into its den.]
Whining about pet names when you could just be whining for a good breeding.
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Oh, don't deny it: he loves it from him too.
Not, as Astarion had once sneeringly suggested, because he wants little more than a cock in him as often as possible, and never mind who it belongs to. And not because he inherently enjoys losing to Astarion— oh, gods, no, never, he loves triumphing over him. He loves mounting him, rutting him, hissing taunts as he fucks him into incoherence, and oh, he can do it. But . . . he does thrill in the other way. When he's beaten and sore and Astarion lines them up, and there's that first stretching push that doesn't stop spreading him open, not until he fucks him to the hilt . . .
He loves it. He drools for it. And here and now, there is a moment when Astarion hisses that and Fenris' first thought isn't of fighting back, but submitting. Please, please . . .
(And it's never quite as vicious as either of them would like. It's not the level of brutal meanness that they both chomp at the bit for— but Vakares wants so badly for them to get along, and fucking someone until they've come twice and are begging you to stop isn't their sire's idea of peaceful co-mingling.)
And yet it wouldn't be half as satisfying if he simply gave in.
So: he glances away. So: his next false exhale is a ragged thing, his teeth flashing as he bites at his lip. And yet there's such steel in his gaze when his head turns back again, for he isn't going to just let Astarion win. Not tonight. Gods, especially not tonight.]
Is that the game we're playing.
[His voice is rougher, lower, a rumble in the center of his chest as he stares up at him.]
And yet only one of us is getting fucked right now.
[With a little grin he scissors his fingers wide in vicious demonstration.]
If you want something, old man, I suggest you ask for it instead of trying to pin it on me. Come ride me, Astarion. Is that what you're aching for? Close your eyes and you can even pretend it's him if you want. Singling you out, making you feel special again . . .
[Oh, that's mean, but so are they— and Fenris is at his nastiest when he's incensed.]
Call out his name. Pretend you're young again. I won't mind.
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A good fuck, first and foremost. Possessed of a thick cock with an unrelenting temperament and length enough to split whatever he pierces— and proud of his merits in that regard, so easily knowing that he'll never be replaced: for no one serves Vakares the way that he serves Vakares. No one can part thighs until they tremble the way that he does. No one can coax mewls from freshly bitten lips (oh he sees you duck your head, little wolf) the way that he can. No one else can nestle into the feverish cusp of vulnerable need and instantly push just right against pliant, shuddering, fretful little confines— sparking up fulgent sensation like raked embers.
The very thing he knows drives Fenris to tightening right now, even though he isn't watching him to check ( —ah, but there's a thought for later, perhaps: getting him flustered and soaked through with all his ardor— drool and precome both— then push those agile legs back with both hands just to see him spread, thinking he's about to be well fed.
And then breathe on that tight little hole, the one bared just for him.
Watching it tense. Tighten. Entreat Astarion for his sadistic touch as if he could be swayed so easily by anything belonging to this whelp. Oh, he'll make him beg, this time. He'll lick and tease and brush idly over that glossy little measure without plunging in until it all but breaks him, and pride becomes an afterthought: unnecessary and unneeded compared to the primal bliss of being used.) Satisfaction already curled low within the dark pit of his stomach. Contentment pooling underneath the narrow bracket of his ribs. Deciding now to mount him only when he's spent and useless, if only so that he can spend his time staring down at the measure of his own rucked-up handiwork.
Hm.
Maybe their sire was right after all. Maybe they can reconcile— for a time. A short, pleasant, transient time. Maybe, he thinks—
But of course, that was what he'd thought before Fenris opened his mouth.
And just like that, everything beforehand vanishes. Suddenly he isn't thinking— let alone about sweet denouements and rising thirst. Suddenly he doesn't care anymore, at least not half as much as he hears the incessant clamor of words squeezed out through self-smug fangs: pretend it's him— pretend you're young again. I won't mind.
Old man.
His knee lifts.
It's not gradual. It's not part of another bit of movement— no. His knee lifts so that he can slam it down across his counterpart's forearm, wrenching himself forwards until those digging fingers are yanked free in a single wetted little twist (pressure jolts within his belly, and he doesn't care—) his free hand snagging the clasp of that pretty leather collar and with cruelty unbound, drives Fenris face down against the floor.
There: one tan leg swiftly kicked out wide— (there: the other in mirrored twin— ) leaving the younger vampire sprawled flat with his face and body flush against cold marble, his clothing in scrappish tatters: humiliatingly obscene for how he's been made spread-eagled from the waist down, with Astarion perched on his knees between them. That thick cock heavily tapping at the centerline dividing lush curves right down their suddenly unguarded middle, bobbing for every shift in weight while he makes certain there won't be any wriggling free.
Because there won't be.
(Not now. Not anymore.)]
Thank you for that generous offer, my dear, beloved mate.
[The last word curdles on his tongue. So cloying that it nearly bleeds enmity over red-stained lips.
He rocks his hips just once— the crown of his cruel length butting briefly against a cinch that threatens to spread under hardly any coaxing whatsoever (just like its master). It's a simple tap. A push. He barely levers himself at all, and he can feel how tension melts each time he closes in— ]
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I'll be sure to remember it when you're screaming for me to stop.
[Fenris isn't the only one that turns vicious when incensed.
Hunched like a lion over tattered scraps, one hand hooked in that collar and keeping it to cold stone, the other fanned flat across the back of Fenris' skull. His knees resting wide and comfortable like bracketry for the lithe legs they bar fully from even the mere notion of traction: all of his inhuman prowess committed to pinning mastery— all of it surrounding the shallow spurring of his drooling prick, overeager for its hunt.
When he leans forward, close to a downturned, pointed ear, all that pressure doubles.]
Beg.
[And if it weren't convincing enough, he drops his hips by depthless degrees— letting agonizingly blunt rigidity distend the little hole it teases.
A vulgar knife to a pretty, obligingly obedient throat.]
Beg for me like you beg for him.
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The taunt leaves his lips and Astarion strikes— and oh, it's a fight when he does. A seething snarl rumbling in Fenris' throat as he moves, squirms, fingers curved and claws out, his teeth bared in open challenge— but oh, it doesn't matter. Not when Astarion is centuries older; not when, for all that their master tries to paint them as evenly matched, there's still such a gap between his two favorite pets when it comes to vampiric prowess.
And in the end, he's left humiliated: pain blooming behind his eyes as he's shoved face-first into the floor like an errant pup, his legs spread-eagle and his clothing torn to tatters. Cold air brushes against his hole, and oh, it doesn't matter how many times they've seen one another bare, for Fenris still shudders in rising humiliation as he realizes what a view Astarion has right now. His hated rival not just spread open, but pinned in place like a petulant slut who can't quite admit what it is he wants. For though Fenris' mind is snarling, his body— oh, his body melts to feel that familiar pressure. Hot and thick and perfect, tapping at his hole, spreading him open just enough to leave him shuddering—
Beg.
(He knows what Astarion means. Beg, not just a grudging plea spat up spitefully, but the kind of begging their master loves. Fawning and doting, adoring and needy, please, Vakares, please, I've been so good, sugar-spun sweetness on their glazed lips as they tremble in desire . . . and it isn't false, understand. It isn't a put-on little act (or at least, it comes from a place of sincerity). It's just that Vakares is so very good at slowly but thoroughly driving them out of their minds; it's just that they love him so much, and he always looks so gratified when they do something of their own volition).
Beg.
He struggles again and again, fighting against the inevitable. Squirming and writhing, shoving his palms flat against the floor, only to realize again and again that there is no getting free, not now. Blunt heat presses so sweetly against his hole, spreading him open just a little bit; he tightens in involuntary response, his body greedy for what it isn't being given. More, please, fluttering near-orgasmic pulses as his cock drools against the marble floor.
Still, there's silence. Still, the tension grows— and yet sooner or later, there's the most begrudging:]
Please.
[Oh, he hates it. He hates him, vicious and spiteful elder, so possessive and desperate to keep what is his that he seethes at anyone who dares approach. He hates that he is stronger and faster; he hates moments like these, where he loathes him as much as he desires him, electricity sparking between them and his attraction fiercer than ever. Fenris shudders beneath him, his claws scratching against stone as his fingers flex in vain.
And oh, he can't. He can't, not when his ears are ringing in humiliation and all of him feels so hot. The words dance on his tongue, and there's nothing that can make them slip past his lips now: Astarion, please, I'll be so good, I'll earn it, please, let me worship you, let me lap at you with my tongue, let me put my mouth on every inch of you so that you'll fuck me, please, please, I'll do anything, I'll be your slut, your consort, your needy little brat, please—]
Please. Fuck me before he gets back, please. Do what I can feel you ache to do, please.
[It's not enough. It's barely begging— but oh, it's all he can manage right now, his ears pinned flat against his skull and his voice thick with humiliation.]
Now— or do you intend to wait until he declares one of us heir before you put it in?
1/2
That's not the baying whimper of complete surrender that he's owed (yet his lifeless lungs bristle with inflamed desire as he feels the vampire beneath him squirm hopelessly beneath his claws, taken to absently sucking in breath for fun rather than purpose)— and true, Astarion loves submission, but he'll take hopeless ire any day of the week: more than stunning enough payment as it crawls its way up the agile curvature of a spine bowed helplessly in his shadow. Thumb brushing idly at white hair in the most spiteful imitation of their master's praising touch.
A reward befitting that obedience.]
I don't need to wait. [In perfect unison: how his voice (thicker than blood, thicker than curdling lust itself) slithers into a single twitching ear, while his cock slips that much deeper— plush warmth wrapped enviably tight around his restless tip. Where each ensuing angle taken by way of outright undulating degrees (degrees that never stop canting— never stop shifting from left to right or up and down— violating every inch they touch with glossing swaths of dribbling precome), is never far enough inwards to enforce that final, necessary little pop of claiming satisfaction (the one defined in the border between his blunted crest and thickrun shaft), instead merely rubbed against the brim of Fenris' narrow stretch without end. The very cuspis of more intermingling with not enough. Never enough.]
I know it'll be me.
[He doesn't (he does— he doesn't— certainty slipping through his grasp each time he tries to nail it down, oily and unregenerate. Truthfully beneath it all: he doesn't— ) but they're both toying with fantasy right now, aren't they?
And a world in which he gets what he wants appeals to him like nothing else.]
You do too, don't you?
[(Mine. Already you're mine.)]
So let's make this our trial run, shall we? [Another set of shallow pumps— quick, quick, slow— teasing the difference between fucking and being bred, fluidity laid sweetly in his spurring hips when all his prey can do is whine.] I want to take my new whore out for a ride before I fit him with a bit and bridle.
[It isn't a request. He isn't asking for permission. Whether Fenris fights or relents, the threat of being shoved to the floor and made esteemed high cocksleeve for his new master is practically force-fed between his fangs as surely as said bit and bridle: something to break this unruly creature so receptive to his touch and so defiant of it, too.]
Now.
As I said before, little wolf.
Beg.
[A yank against those wisps of moonstruck hair. A hateful tug to— ]
2/2
—Faster than its burnished knob can turn, Astarion's already gone flat: all of his weight sunken over Fenris' prone form, his slender body funneled into flowing shapes that mirror sloping contours and suppler high rises. No longer is that collar caught between tight fingers— instead those nimble digits merely pull it tenderly aside; away from the caress of a loving mouth that nestles gently against skin, each kiss enacted just as humbly as if he'd fit them to Vakares himself. Their ankles intertwined, their image utterly enraptured. Lovers lost to salivating appetites, enkindled and undone.
He is, after all, a flawless performer.
And all Fenris need do (just as Astarion assumes he's so adept at from centuries of practice), is lie there and keep quiet.
Only at the soft exhale of relief that comes from the open doorway does Astarion finally lift his head, expression thick with feigned contentment:]
Sire.
[Demure, his catlike rumble. The lifting of his figurative tail evident within the richness of his voice, already rising eagerly— and setting his counterpart loose in the process.]
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If only just.
And then he's seated on his bed. Grand and plush in the midst of his den-et-study, compliment to lavishly carved bookshelves and gilded desks carved from rich, dark wood. Its bedding and full measure soft— an uncharacteristic trait in anything belonging to their kin. Soft and stern: the nature of his leadership, his clothing, his bearing, his taste. Soft sternness that soon beckons Astarion and Fenris near, patting either side of the mattress he's sunken to in redressed full, waiting for them to nestle in.]
Come here, little gemstones. [Little for comparitive age and nothing more; they are so fierce at heart. Far more bottled with passion and fervor than even Vakares himself, particularly in moments as sedate as these.
Understand: he is so weary, still, and too desiring for their companionship.] I will be glad to rid myself of this ceremony.
[To add, a sobered beat later:]
....and bereft to leave you both.
[So come here to me. Come here.
His most adored of his creations, wreathed within his arms.]
I hope you did not suffer while I was away.
[Ah. But is that a slanted pull just at the corner of his mouth?]
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Not even a pathetic little whine, whimpering out by a weak brat who needs his sire to protect him. He could make it sensuous, offering up just enough information to earn Vakares' irritation— that familiar frown creasing his forehead, his mouth slanting as he scolds (and oh, he does it to them both in equal measure; Fenris had never known you could punish someone so easily with mere words). He could breathe out words like new whore and bit and bridle, and he could bask in the smug triumph of favorite as Vakares doted on him in pointed punishment.
He could.
The moment stretches out as he catches Astarion's eye. They three of them all surely know what's going on here; Vakares isn't stupid, after all. Just good-hearted (and oh, how many people conflate the two to their eventual detriment). He could. He held me down, he told me I was to be his whore,, and the words alight between them, hovering in potential.]
No.
[He could. But he won't.
Because he loves Vakares, you see. Because they both do, and they are never more united than when it comes to making their sire happy. Because this is the last night the three of them will ever have together, and Fenris doesn't want to ruin it. And perhaps because some small part of him hopes that tonight might yet become that rarest of things: a night where the three of them actually get along. Where Fenris and Astarion's hackles are lowered and they're caught in doting complacency, their minds running along the same track with no savagery to be found. It's rare, admittedly. Rare and all the more golden for it, those brilliant times when Vakares' vision of a happy coven comes true.
And because that isn't his style.
Oh, he's no snitch. He's no mewling brat that needs someone else to fight for him. Whatever battle is to come will be between he and Astarion, and if he loses, well. At least he'll have lost on his own terms.
And it will be a battle. My new whore, Astarion had whispered, and Fenris has no doubt he means it. He'll have a bit between his teeth before the night ends; he'll be spread open and tied up, aphrodisiac fucked into him, left to drool and howl and beg his new master for his touch. He'll be debased and debauched, humiliated thoroughly for every slight great and small over the past century . . .
But though Fenris' hole still aches for the phantom sensation of what he never quite got, his cock twitching and drooling as those words echo in humiliating clarity in the back of his mind— oh, still, still, he has no intention of becoming that. Not even a consort, but a pet, kept around to dote upon and humiliate as Astarion sees fit.
(And what other choice will he have? Young thing, he'll surely die sooner or later if he flees this coven; vampires don't tolerate rivals, after all, even potential ones. Even ones that swear they've little interest in killing anyone else, little liars that they are. Vakares is not the only anomaly in this coven, and there has been more than one occasion when Fenris wanted little more than to tear the throat out of some visiting lord for how cruelly he treated his spawn).
No. No, he won't be that. Fenris does not know the shape of what's to come, but he knows he will not allow himself to be turned into that. And that means he'll have to strike tonight, right after the announcement comes. He'll have to establish himself, carving out a position all his own, pinning Astarion down and striking a deal . . .
But that comes later.
For now: it is the three of them. For now: Astarion is not yet named heir. For now: Fenris pushes forward, curling beneath Vakares' arm, nuzzling fondly against the sharp line of his jaw as he splays a hand on his thigh. My sire, my love, and gods, but he will miss him.]
We were discussing how best to please you once you returned. If you'd prefer a show . . . or something more intimate.
[And this time when he meets Astarion's gaze, it's a little softer. Work with me, and he knows the other vampire will.]
Lie back. Lie back . . .
[Onto the bed properly this time, Vakares' head pillowed by soft cushions, his legs nudged into gently spreading. His laces tugged at as his cock is coaxed out— and after one long, slow, savoring lap, Fenris murmurs:]
. . . and tell us whether you wish us to both keep mouthing at your cock . . . or have Astarion straddle your chest and fuck your mouth as I tend to you?
[There is absolutely no motivation behind his suggesting that position. Absolutely none.]
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[Question posed through capitulation, there is no part of him that resists save for it— and even then, it's mild. Fond. The tone of a protectorate whose wards sit prettily in their bedsites, even as the bolts to their quarters hang unlocked. In that band of narrow seconds he finds himself unstrung as his own lacework, flattened beneath Fenris' attention and coaxed into peerless comfort.
Fenris guiding Vakares.... and Vakares guiding Astarion, soon enough.
His left hand persuading the latter into a pretty lifted straddle (taking nothing of that ample cock between his lips rather than stroking it between his fingers), true to given suggestion— his right hand coursing low in familiar channels through the pale tangles of Fenris' hair, appreciatively stimulating. He touches them both in unison, for he needs to feel them both beneath his filed claws. To ground the promise that this moment will come again after his eyes have shut— and opened.
But trust that does not mean he will be passive in this intimacy, either.]
I have been exhausted by our kin and their vindictive squabbles. How they can set aside nothing, even when lavishly upheld. [By feasting, by music, by extravagancies the world would envy if it knew what happens here behind these walls— and still they bicker and vie as if it all meant nothing.] If I desire anything tonight, it is to know I am not abandoning you to the wolves.
That I've left you something in my place.
[His eyes are dry; he's far from weeping or fretting, not in need of coddled comfort. Still, though, there's a distance to his pensiveness. Thoughtfulness that removes him from the immediacy of blade-sharp arousal (his stare drifting faintly shut under the pressure of that lap while the backs of his knuckles drifting along Astarion's innermost thigh).] Perform for me what you discussed—
[Spoken before he maneuvers the latter of the pair once more with steadfast palms: redirecting that straddled splay around the other way as simply as turning a lantern in its fixture; a centerpiece atop an already prepared table. A fact that would remain true even if Astarion wasn't already eagerly lifting his own hips in the hopes of finding his most velvet stretches of sensitivity graced by the gift of their master's tongue.
(Drawing out one more quirk of Vakares' expression, tugging itself into a smile that neither inheritor will see.)]
Upon each other.
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Meaning that they face each other when that command sinks in (rather than the bliss of Vakares' tongue, or lips, or waiting throat) in full: a pair of crimson eyes locked fully on the other set— and even a blind man might sense the silent moment of internal resentment laid down across the distance for how Vakares utters the words 'what you discussed'. Oh, well done, Fenris. So if there's a time to tattle or a time to confess, arguably it's now, for come a few unsteady beats of silent staring or fumbling of hands later, Vakares will have his answer anyway.
But Fenris is right, admittedly.
The deception wasn't a misstep, it was necessary; they both would've done the same— the only difference being that Fenris was the one to smartly speak up first.
And he's right about one more thing, too, evident in the rounding of an expression that'd been sharper than the tips of both their claws: it's only their sire that matters. Only these few moments spent with him before they have to find their own ways to self-soothe the emptiness of open space and brittle silence. The lack of his voice, his touch, his comforting silhouette praising them for the smallest job well done.
There's no chance of noncooperation anymore.
His shoulders roll. His head ducks downwards with the same weightless sense of agility as before: all of his coiled prowess funneled down into a languid, hungry kiss nestled inches above the stiff rise of their sire's waiting cock. They stroke it in unison as he wraps his cool fingers through the sturdiness of Fenris' own, more vulgar slickness driven to the back of his companion's throat (his lips, his chin— ) through a tongue that forces wanton compliance with popping smacks of lurid contact— occasionally letting some small dribbles of crystal-clear spit fall from their open mouths across Vakares' waiting prick. Felt soon enough in the seams between each shuttling pump from intertwined grips, its rhythm broken in the very next beat once Astarion takes both of his own hands and wraps them tight around the back of Fenris' head: claws latching to the roots.
—and forces his companion's well-primed mouth down to the very base of their master's upheld swell.]
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[Oh, this bratty little beast. This awful-terrible, awful-attractive vampire who makes everything into a competition even when they're meant to be getting along. It's infuriating and thrilling all at once, a push-pull of desire that leaves his neglected cock throbbing even as he glares savagely up at his counterpart. No matter that such a fierce stare looks so paltry so long as he has his mouth full, drooling around their sire's length as his hips grind needily against the bed, still. Still, Fenris is determined, he will not let Astarion best him twice.
But his next move need not be immediately obvious.
With a low moan Fenris splays: his body bowing low as he arches his back up, his thighs spreading open wide as cold air caresses his slickened hole. It's a show for a single person, lewd and vulgar and pointed: you almost had this. You almost had me bowing for you like this, ready to be fucked and taken and made into yours— his hips wiggling in the air, cheeks round and so easily spread, and if he had a tail, it surely would be flicking up in obvious signal: come take me if you can.
For if Fenris' own body is still aching for the slow, heavy press of Astarion's cock, oh, surely his counterpart feels the same. Surely he's so needy right now, his prick heavy and hot and so very close (so very far) from the lithe little body he almost impaled . . .
But ah: this is about Vakares, isn't it?
And Fenris means to savor this.
Every moment. Every single second, trying to burn it into his memory: the heavy weight of his cock as it presses his tongue flat, forcing his jaw open wide as he takes him into his throat. The soft groan that rumbles low in Vakares' throat as Fenris' lips cinch so tight around the base of his cock, his nose rubbing affectionately against cold skin. His cheeks go hollow as he suckles at his prick, and oh, how Fenris loves the way he can't help but buck his hips up into it: an instinctive little movement to try and force his prick even deeper as bitter droplets of precome spill down his throat.
Just like that, and he stares up at Astarion again— for right now, it's only one of them that's earning all this approval, and it isn't him.
Poor Astarion. Poor neglected Astarion, his hole spread open without a single touch; his hands so busy knotting in Fenris' hair that he hasn't a single one to spare for himself. With a little moan Fenris reaches for him, fingers wrapping so tight around the head of his prick—
And stilling.
If that was all Astarion was willing to give him, Fenris thinks, then that's all he'll get in return. Not a caress. Not the slow, steady pump he must surely be aching for. Just rhythmic squeezes around the tip of his prick— and the slow, steady caress of Fenris' thumb against his drooling slit. Rhythmically he spreads him open, mercilessly rubbing and teasing at his cock— quick, quick, slow, wasn't that the rhythm? And all the while he stares up smugly at him, his mouth full and his gaze taunting.
Little spiteful things. Little bits of misbehavior hidden in the guise of cooperation, oh, yes: Fenris can play that game.]
no subject
Pitifully soft. Woefully soft. Stifled with resolve that's bound to the tips of curled fingers in white hair (nevermind that teasing pressure, nevermind the rub against his leaking slit— quick, quick, slow), he could stop his own efforts to douse his companion's, but then what of their sire? What of tonight? Cruelty won't satisfy their master. Pettiness might live under his own nail beds, but he's not a fool— and neither is Vakares, all truths being equal: any more vitriol would only be transparent as paned glass. Meaning the scales have tipped, somewhere along the way.
And it's Fenris that slakes himself.
On viciousness, on praising lifts of their master's upstirred hips— on the deepset fullness of a prick squeezed tight into the back of his own throat, insistently pressed flush (until drool runs in ruinously vulgar rivulets around the border between plush lips and cool skin, glistening in lowered lanternlight), and visible through the arch of Astarion's spread thighs. His sunset cheeks drawn thin and hollow with every suckling pull (each noisier and slicker than the last), his nostrils far from flared for how he's likely closed-off his own throat. And above it all, those wretchedly tempestuous eyes are raised in the shadow of long lashes kept half-lidded: proud of their wicked work and every weighted reward it finds— when every hum reverberates into sensation that isn't shared (and all Astarion is met with is the rough denial from cruel hands)—
Oh, it's not fair.
It's not fair, and he hates it. Resents it. Wracked with envy over shadowed little pangs of paler imitations of emulated bliss— his hearing saturated with those wet smacks and softer groans; his vision filled with alluring offers kept harshly from his reach— and he wants it (and it's not fair, and he hates it, and he resents it and he— ) Locks his fingers till they tremble. Pulls against that scalp, nearly keening in the back of his throat through mewls of half-held petitions: wordless little pleas lacking in shape or order, and yet still (still) find their way into asking please while his grip runs harsher on its own. No thought behind it. Nothing spiteful or demanding. Palms squared across each other and he pumps downwards against the creature that he holds— no, uses— that's the word for it. That's the narrow strip of difference between now and every second prior:
He uses Fenris.
He uses him like a toy. Like a suctioned little hilt shuttled rapidly over its designed subsumption: his head jerked up and down along that rigid span without sensuality involved— for no one ever seduces the fuckhole cut into a waiting wall, and no one checks the little storebought sheathe they've purchased for a quick, relieving rut to make sure it enjoys being rapidly shunted into in those few minutes before sleep. Within his grip, and with no stop for air or sweetness, Astarion wildly fucks down over their master's cock and rolls his hips with desperate envy— neglected, yes, but at least like this, with soft whimpers in his throat, he doesn't care if Fenris' fingers gift him more than just that padding bit of pressure.
His mind imagines more.
His mind imagines so much more ( —another push, another pump— again, again, again on loop— faster, fuck, go faster— ) as overstimulation swears against cold sense that it's Fenris' mouth wrapped richly to his hilt— shivering and pulsing and squirming like a bitch in utter need, arousal with its hand on both their necks—
And nothing but their own hands to blame.]
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And it's about Vakares. It's about one last joining, the three of them savoring this final night before they're parted. It's goodbye, bittersweet and a little lonely; it's about making this moment last, for who knows how many years they will all be parted?
But it's about Astarion, too.
Eyes shining with smug satisfaction, Fenris doesn't take his eyes off Astarion for a second. It doesn't matter how vigorously the other vampire fucks him— and oh, trust that he does. Cruelly shoving him down to the very base of their sire's prick, only to force him up a moment later so that spit and precome slip out in a humiliating flood past his lips, little strings the only thing connecting him to their sire's prick— Fenris chokes on it, his eyes hazy and his expression all fucked out, and yet still there's that smug look in his eye.
I won.
Vulgar visions dance through his mind as Vakares groans and bucks his hips up: thoughts of Astarion triumphing only to fall. Thoughts of the other vampire on his knees, on his back, his legs tied open and his vulgar tongue pressed down by some bit, reducing him to little more than furious groans and needy whines. On his hands and knees, bowed down low as his thighs spread wide, eager only to be taken; whimpering out Fenris' name as he's bent over their master's desk, clawing up ancient oak as he mewls and whines and begs for more, scarlet eyes swimming with tears—
(I'm sorry, and for a brief second the fantasy flutters there, too: I'm sorry, my little catulus, the nickname not cruel diminutive but fond, affection and companionship building between them instead of seething rivalry. My darling companion, and perhaps it is not just lust that fuels him, but loneliness).
But it's why— once Vakares comes, spilling down his throat with a moan, both their names on his lips as he claims Fenris' belly one last time— Fenris surges up with a moan. His mouth still full of come, their master's pearly claim smeared on his lips, and he crashes his mouth against Astarion's with a moan— I want you, his hand finally shuttling properly against Astarion's cock, fingers squeezing tight as he pushes his tongue forward. I want you, I want you, not about possessiveness but desire, hot and hungry and instinctive. I want you, I want you, come for me, you little brat, his other hand wrapping around the back of Astarion's neck, wrenching him down so he can climb atop him as they sprawl on the mattress, a chaotic tangle of limbs and tongues and teeth.]
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That's where he is, now.
Up to his neck in that sick-sweet envy. That dizzying, awestruck, primordial paralysis— heralded by darkened eyes and so much satisfaction that it spills from closed-off lips. Pale, thick, glaze richly overrun, shining on the swell of Fenris' smug (dazed) mouth; stars glinting in an unfixed stare that still somehow manages to find Astarion despite it all: the look of a cat already yanked away even as it licks honeyed cream from its own muzzle. So proud of its own conquest.
And on the other hand: all Astarion knows is that same yawning darkness.
That vertigo. That wicked, entranced, covetous, hungry, hateful sense of whatever it is that surges upwards in his chest once his back drops down against the mattress, blistering in his veins and molten as it blots out all his sight (but that face— oh, but that pretty, comeslick face— ) deliberate in how his claws flex despite already having lost their grip— searching for a new handhold worth puncturing inside the fitful cage of his own skin.
A single snap.
A single surge in the language of a trap sprung around its prey— fingers clamping closed around slight hips until crimson starts to well, too late now to turn back while he wrenches against the grain until Fenris grinds along his drooling cock. Too late five minutes ago— ten minutes ago. Twenty. Too late the second his sire walked in with a pretty young thing on his arm that only bowed to one creature rather than two. So close and wrapped around him and spread out wide for ripened taking, no doubt imagining he's won (without knowing that their hold on each other suddenly runs both ways). A cruel victor seated on his unslaked throne. Oh, Fenris. Oh, little wolf already in a snare. Astarion's going to bite. He's going to bite until you wail and tear and— ]
2/2 here is free permission to run with either of them conceding first <3
me SHRIEKING b/c i KNOW I SENT THIS LAST NIGHT OH MY GOD DW
DW YOU SON OF A BITCH
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2/2 more forever free permission to timeskip or just burrow into us threading the boys talkin :>
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iliad XXX: the return to iliadening
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iliad 34534676 forever and ever
ILIAD III: RETURN OF THE KING
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