[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.
no subject
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.