(Hopeless, and it slips beneath his skin, embedding itself deep like a barb. It doesn't hurt, not yet, but it will: Vakares' gentle tones taking on the sneering dismay of Danarius, his sire standing in the doorframe of a stone-lined cell: all that lyrium and you still disappoint me. Pain flooding his body with every breath, his eyes wide and red-rimmed, his mind little more than a blank slate— knowing only that his sole purpose in life is to please his master, and he is failing in that task. Hopeless, and though he thinks it a lie, that will not stop that gnawing seed of doubt to embed itself within him and grow like a festering thing).
It isn't the cold fingers wrapped around his neck, nor the ones that so boldly pry open his trousers. It's not the way his own cock twitches in panting anticipation (and yet still some part of him burns in humiliation to feel it, his body betraying him even as he growls low in his throat). It isn't the ghost of chilled breath on his lips, or the crude names that Astarion tries to cast upon him (and yet he does look ridiculous in this ruff, he knows; he does look like a silly little slave caught dressing in his master's robes— or at least, that's how it feels).
But then again, maybe it is. Maybe all of those build up in those precious few seconds as they stare at one another: a swirling whirlpool of resentment and insecurity that pushes him into the past farther than he realizes. Little slave, little one, his own mind betraying him even as he shoves resentfully against it. Did you dare to dream you hadn't traded in one master for another, boy? As if you could ever survive on your own— it won't be a year before you're killed. Stupid thing. Stupid, mindless vampire, only ever good for rutting and fighting, building and building in the back of his mind—
I'll be your new master. I'll keep you safe. Muzzle that pretty mouth—
Fenris bites.
Like the feral dog he'd just been labeled: his throat straining at that tight grip as sharpened teeth slice through pale flesh with bitter precision. His fangs catch at Astarion's lip, his tongue, a vicious parody of a kiss— blood smears over his lips, spilling down his chin, and still he lunges forward again and again, not caring what he bites so long as he does. So long as Astarion hurts, oh, he will earn that muzzle. His hands grab for lithe hips, talons shredding delicate fabric into tatters with one swift motion; his fingers wrap around that thickened prick, his grip so tight.
Fenris cannot pull away, it's true. Astarion has him beat when it comes to sheer strength, and so he'll stay put so long as those fingers are wrapped around his throat. But that goes two ways— and if Fenris is to be trapped here, so will Astarion.]
Don't you dare move.]
You will never be my master.
[Oh, it's too angry. It's too desperate, his seething rage only barely covering his panic— and yet there's no hesitance to the way he keeps a tight hold on that prick. If they're to fight, let them fight— and to Fenris' mind, he has the advantage.]
Try again, old man. Or are you so arrogant when you have your cock caught in the palm of my hand?
[And yet it's a goading stroke he offers: his wrist snapping as he shuttles his hand along his cock with all the familiarity of a doting partner. His grin bloody and mean as he feels the other man swell against his fingers, throbbing in needy eagerness— oh, he is hungry, isn't he? Of course he is.
I can beat you with one hand . . . His thumb smearing over his welling slit. His grip tightening as he picks up the pace, hard tight pullsanyára, pull away now. Dance out of range and see what it gets you.]
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(Hopeless, and it slips beneath his skin, embedding itself deep like a barb. It doesn't hurt, not yet, but it will: Vakares' gentle tones taking on the sneering dismay of Danarius, his sire standing in the doorframe of a stone-lined cell: all that lyrium and you still disappoint me. Pain flooding his body with every breath, his eyes wide and red-rimmed, his mind little more than a blank slate— knowing only that his sole purpose in life is to please his master, and he is failing in that task. Hopeless, and though he thinks it a lie, that will not stop that gnawing seed of doubt to embed itself within him and grow like a festering thing).
It isn't the cold fingers wrapped around his neck, nor the ones that so boldly pry open his trousers. It's not the way his own cock twitches in panting anticipation (and yet still some part of him burns in humiliation to feel it, his body betraying him even as he growls low in his throat). It isn't the ghost of chilled breath on his lips, or the crude names that Astarion tries to cast upon him (and yet he does look ridiculous in this ruff, he knows; he does look like a silly little slave caught dressing in his master's robes— or at least, that's how it feels).
But then again, maybe it is. Maybe all of those build up in those precious few seconds as they stare at one another: a swirling whirlpool of resentment and insecurity that pushes him into the past farther than he realizes. Little slave, little one, his own mind betraying him even as he shoves resentfully against it. Did you dare to dream you hadn't traded in one master for another, boy? As if you could ever survive on your own— it won't be a year before you're killed. Stupid thing. Stupid, mindless vampire, only ever good for rutting and fighting, building and building in the back of his mind—
I'll be your new master. I'll keep you safe. Muzzle that pretty mouth—
Fenris bites.
Like the feral dog he'd just been labeled: his throat straining at that tight grip as sharpened teeth slice through pale flesh with bitter precision. His fangs catch at Astarion's lip, his tongue, a vicious parody of a kiss— blood smears over his lips, spilling down his chin, and still he lunges forward again and again, not caring what he bites so long as he does. So long as Astarion hurts, oh, he will earn that muzzle. His hands grab for lithe hips, talons shredding delicate fabric into tatters with one swift motion; his fingers wrap around that thickened prick, his grip so tight.
Fenris cannot pull away, it's true. Astarion has him beat when it comes to sheer strength, and so he'll stay put so long as those fingers are wrapped around his throat. But that goes two ways— and if Fenris is to be trapped here, so will Astarion.]
Don't you dare move.]
You will never be my master.
[Oh, it's too angry. It's too desperate, his seething rage only barely covering his panic— and yet there's no hesitance to the way he keeps a tight hold on that prick. If they're to fight, let them fight— and to Fenris' mind, he has the advantage.]
Try again, old man. Or are you so arrogant when you have your cock caught in the palm of my hand?
[And yet it's a goading stroke he offers: his wrist snapping as he shuttles his hand along his cock with all the familiarity of a doting partner. His grin bloody and mean as he feels the other man swell against his fingers, throbbing in needy eagerness— oh, he is hungry, isn't he? Of course he is.
I can beat you with one hand . . . His thumb smearing over his welling slit. His grip tightening as he picks up the pace, hard tight pullsanyára, pull away now. Dance out of range and see what it gets you.]