[Nearly always, it's a fight between he and Astarion. Competitive and snarling, their fangs clicking in the open air as they bite and snap at one another behind Vakares' back, nails digging in and clever words ensuring the other gets in more trouble when their weary sire finally calls them to task. Nearly always it's a rivalry between the two of them: trading words and blows with equal measure, Fenris snarling and Astarion cutting, and at this point, there are a thousand reasons each of them could cite as due justification for the next indignity. He started it, but after a century, they've both started and finished too many times for that excuse to ring true. I push you, you push me, lust tangling with bitter enmity, peace coming only when their sire asks for it.
Nearly always when Astarion pushes, Fenris pushes right back.
But sometimes the goal isn't victory. Sometimes their fights don't have meaning; sometimes the scoreboard is pushed away, and Fenris stops caring about what this might look like in the aftermath (and oh, this is why he is so unsuited to vampiric politics, but never mind that now). And right now— with Vakares' length spearing him open so indulgently as a thickened cock slams down his throat, claiming him and breeding him with fervent desperation— oh, right now, Fenris doesn't care one bit about who wins or loses.
He moans.
Slickly, desperately, the noise a ragged thing slipping out between every obscenely wet choke that the hammering pressure of Astarion's cock forces out of him. Awful and undignified, a vulgar rhythm that Fenris seems all but giddy to play into. Like that, like that, and he offers Astarion no resistance as he forces his head down for the second time tonight. There's no fight, no scrabbling to try and pin his hips down or scrape his teeth against his prick in warning— Fenris' fingers knot in the sheets, his back arching up as he keens in pleasure.
Both ends. Both ends, and he's so sated it nearly hurts: his eyes rolling back as he's bounced between them, so aware of how he's become little more than pretty toy to be shared between them. He tries, once or twice, to contribute: rolling his hips back to fuck against Vakares the way he knows their sire likes, or dragging his tongue sinfully sweetly against the underside of Astarion's prick, but it doesn't matter. The tempo is too swift, the fucking too rough— and soon enough Fenris allows himself to settle, contentedly thrilled to do nothing but take from both ends. A pretty toy, yes; a prized consort put to use by his elders, not as a punishment or degradation but because it's what they all of them want. Harmonious in the most vulgar of fashions (and later, when he's capable of thought again, Fenris will wonder if that isn't such a bad way to bring their celebrations to a close).
He's so aware of himself right now. Every droplet of drool that slips past his tight lips; the searing drip of precome pouring down his throat as Astarion's cock throbs in warning. The ache in his jaw and the sting of tight knuckles gripping his hair as he's forced down farther and farther (and how he whines for it, swallowing so eagerly each time his throat is breached, a needy little slut finally given the cock he so clearly craves no matter what else he might assert). The rhythmic slap of his ass against Vakares' hips, cheeks bouncing with every thrust, his toes curling in the sheets as he shudders and writhes— oh, he's so eager to be bred. Already full of his sire's come and waiting to be filled from the other end, Astarion's mark on the verge of pouring hot down his throat— oh, gods, he loves it, he loves it, and there's nothing but blackened delight swimming in his hazy gaze as he stares up at Astarion.
And it goes on and on . . . oh, he doesn't know how long. Until he's long since given up on trying to contribute, slumping down and letting Astarion dictate the pace. Until the noises from outside have risen and fallen; until the candles have burned low in their holders, the light dancing off shining skin as Fenris writhes and bounces and ruts. And it's no surprise their sire comes first, not when both his consorts have been so dedicated to tending to him— one last thrust before he spills into Fenris' waiting hole, his hips pumping over and over as he works it eagerly into him. Pearl streaks and smears on his cock, fucked so deep into his little consort that he won't ever get it out— and for a moment Fenris thinks that he'll simply plug him like that. Use him as a teasing bit of overstimulation, a pretty little cockwarmer bouncing and rutting atop his length until Astarion finishes, but then—
A hand on his ass. A gentle nudge— and with a little cry Fenris is pushed forward, his mouth torn from Astarion's cock as he sprawls atop him, thighs trembling as his untouched cock (and oh, he'd forgotten his own arousal up until now) grinding needily against Astarion's belly.
'Little tease,' their sire chides fondly. 'Don't think I didn't notice how long you kept him on your tongue, my Fenris.' Settling back on his heels, he reaches down, idly spreading open one of Fenris' cheeks just to see the puddle of come and slick smeared over his hole. Then his eyes flick up, focusing on Astarion. 'Fuck him, he adds softly, and it's a command. 'Let me see you two rut.']
no subject
Nearly always when Astarion pushes, Fenris pushes right back.
But sometimes the goal isn't victory. Sometimes their fights don't have meaning; sometimes the scoreboard is pushed away, and Fenris stops caring about what this might look like in the aftermath (and oh, this is why he is so unsuited to vampiric politics, but never mind that now). And right now— with Vakares' length spearing him open so indulgently as a thickened cock slams down his throat, claiming him and breeding him with fervent desperation— oh, right now, Fenris doesn't care one bit about who wins or loses.
He moans.
Slickly, desperately, the noise a ragged thing slipping out between every obscenely wet choke that the hammering pressure of Astarion's cock forces out of him. Awful and undignified, a vulgar rhythm that Fenris seems all but giddy to play into. Like that, like that, and he offers Astarion no resistance as he forces his head down for the second time tonight. There's no fight, no scrabbling to try and pin his hips down or scrape his teeth against his prick in warning— Fenris' fingers knot in the sheets, his back arching up as he keens in pleasure.
Both ends. Both ends, and he's so sated it nearly hurts: his eyes rolling back as he's bounced between them, so aware of how he's become little more than pretty toy to be shared between them. He tries, once or twice, to contribute: rolling his hips back to fuck against Vakares the way he knows their sire likes, or dragging his tongue sinfully sweetly against the underside of Astarion's prick, but it doesn't matter. The tempo is too swift, the fucking too rough— and soon enough Fenris allows himself to settle, contentedly thrilled to do nothing but take from both ends. A pretty toy, yes; a prized consort put to use by his elders, not as a punishment or degradation but because it's what they all of them want. Harmonious in the most vulgar of fashions (and later, when he's capable of thought again, Fenris will wonder if that isn't such a bad way to bring their celebrations to a close).
He's so aware of himself right now. Every droplet of drool that slips past his tight lips; the searing drip of precome pouring down his throat as Astarion's cock throbs in warning. The ache in his jaw and the sting of tight knuckles gripping his hair as he's forced down farther and farther (and how he whines for it, swallowing so eagerly each time his throat is breached, a needy little slut finally given the cock he so clearly craves no matter what else he might assert). The rhythmic slap of his ass against Vakares' hips, cheeks bouncing with every thrust, his toes curling in the sheets as he shudders and writhes— oh, he's so eager to be bred. Already full of his sire's come and waiting to be filled from the other end, Astarion's mark on the verge of pouring hot down his throat— oh, gods, he loves it, he loves it, and there's nothing but blackened delight swimming in his hazy gaze as he stares up at Astarion.
And it goes on and on . . . oh, he doesn't know how long. Until he's long since given up on trying to contribute, slumping down and letting Astarion dictate the pace. Until the noises from outside have risen and fallen; until the candles have burned low in their holders, the light dancing off shining skin as Fenris writhes and bounces and ruts. And it's no surprise their sire comes first, not when both his consorts have been so dedicated to tending to him— one last thrust before he spills into Fenris' waiting hole, his hips pumping over and over as he works it eagerly into him. Pearl streaks and smears on his cock, fucked so deep into his little consort that he won't ever get it out— and for a moment Fenris thinks that he'll simply plug him like that. Use him as a teasing bit of overstimulation, a pretty little cockwarmer bouncing and rutting atop his length until Astarion finishes, but then—
A hand on his ass. A gentle nudge— and with a little cry Fenris is pushed forward, his mouth torn from Astarion's cock as he sprawls atop him, thighs trembling as his untouched cock (and oh, he'd forgotten his own arousal up until now) grinding needily against Astarion's belly.
'Little tease,' their sire chides fondly. 'Don't think I didn't notice how long you kept him on your tongue, my Fenris.' Settling back on his heels, he reaches down, idly spreading open one of Fenris' cheeks just to see the puddle of come and slick smeared over his hole. Then his eyes flick up, focusing on Astarion. 'Fuck him, he adds softly, and it's a command. 'Let me see you two rut.']