[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.]
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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.]