Aren't you adorable, wriggling so nicely on a hook when you know you've been outfoxed....
[Tsk. Fool thing. Does he really expect that to work? Does he imagine Astarion so ineffably susceptible to distraction that one thinly veiled goad let out through spit-drenched fangs will somehow convince him to relent? Change his mind? Shy away from sadism in favor of being rational just this once, compared to an unliving lifetime of killing hens in his own coop?
Well.
The downside is: he's right.
Vakares had assessed his consorts correctly to begin with, be it ages or weeks or months or decades ago— their patterned strengths and weaknesses alike (you need each other— ) that depthless voice still humming fresh as snowfall in his mind. Where they'd flourish. Where they'd falter. And Astarion could sway courtly hearts through captivation, but in matters of strength? No doubt already they suspect his softness, nothing to be said about the compounding fact that what is two hundred years to any of their kind, really? There are spawn older than him. There are living elves older than him. The tablewear they'd dined on over the last few days could prove their eldest sibling. Ergo, what then? When the soft-soled heir usurps a waiting throne only to flex how his conquest had mewled for him without hanging his own head— and does still. That's no sign of power; that's hardly worth respect. A rabid dog cowed by many hands belongs to no one and nothing alone, and Astarion can't let that be his start, no matter how avidly it tempts.
But that isn't something Fenris needs to know.
While his mind reels over itself in oscillating forethought, Astarion bears into that kiss in full: catching tongue between his teeth with scraping little flicks of hungry movement while his hips count out a host of heartlessly supplanting seconds— all of his body still angled in pursuit of its captive dinner— tracking time through shallow thrusts and inlaid swells of depraved pressure. It's not obedience that he craves right now while his shoulders ache and his swallowed prick throbs inside hot leylines.
It's the taking.
And so when he pulls away, it's to look downwards into the heart of their vulgar alignment. The twisting, writhing spearpoint that keeps them locked in dripping struggle, one shoved tight atop the other. Hand rushed swift to the back of Fenris' skull, bending him forward until his still-prone posture bows— and he's treated with the obscene sight of his sore cock laid (and bouncing dazedly) on its side in the crook of his own legs: their slender, branded measure shoved back so far and so wide that they bracket either side of his slim torso, folded knees tucked up near his shoulders, toes twisting in dead air while mapped out in their shade—
It's only a glimpse, you see.
Only visible when Astarion draws back— revealing just how thick and long and rigid he is as if for the very first time between them— that the glossy base of his crude length shines in such romantic light as that of their christened room. Drawn back to the limits of his hips and yet still so harshly buried (too expansive not to feel just as full as their master had ever left them; too vindictively heavy not to mock the very same anatomy it defiles), keeping Fenris' body well aware of what it serves, massive and yet waiting just to pounce.]
Watch, now.
[Watch, little one.
As he rolls his hips by slight degrees at a probing angle, bruisingly blunt tip ramming and scraping at that singularly pliant spot. A jab to hunt for it— a dig to mark it— and then a lambent grind, dragging eagerly back and forth across its measure, his thickened shaft stretching out the roseated base of Fenris' tight hole. His fault for clinging. For fighting. For not relaxing and letting Astarion have his fill with servile ease. If it stings, there is a cure. If it maddens, he knows how best to appeal it. Be good. Open wide. Keep your hips relaxed, just like that— be a good boy, let me in.]
I've no choice but to tame you before I let them admire you, then.
—ah ah, watch, I said. [Don't shut your eyes. Don't look away.] You need to see what I'm doing to you to understand how perfect it'll all feel when you let me have my way. That's how it works, domestication.
....or so I've read. I've never tamed my own broodbitch before, after all.
And if you let me— [One pair of fingers lifting just to feather at Fenris' untouched tip, playing more than kindling his dripping need; inciting subservient bootlicking through imperious strokes and the conjoined efforts of his hips, dark lashes having fallen low across his downturned eyes while pleasure flutters through him (oh, through them both, no doubt). His own throat burning like soot. Like smoke. Like the heat of a kill drawn close— ]
I'll make it so much better.
[Calling for assistance is easy.
A single shouted word and one of their sire's— one of their spawn comes running, easily instructed on what to bring.
A bit. A set of cuffs. A collar. A chain. Toys upon toys resting on their waiting bed and a promise to track down 'something suitable to wear'. And all the while Astarion teases. Fucks into him only to stop once Fenris comes even remotely close— again and again and again.]
Relinquish his gift. Surrender.
[A nose bumped against his jaw, slipping over countless welling bites.]
no subject
[Tsk. Fool thing. Does he really expect that to work? Does he imagine Astarion so ineffably susceptible to distraction that one thinly veiled goad let out through spit-drenched fangs will somehow convince him to relent? Change his mind? Shy away from sadism in favor of being rational just this once, compared to an unliving lifetime of killing hens in his own coop?
Well.
The downside is: he's right.
Vakares had assessed his consorts correctly to begin with, be it ages or weeks or months or decades ago— their patterned strengths and weaknesses alike (you need each other— ) that depthless voice still humming fresh as snowfall in his mind. Where they'd flourish. Where they'd falter. And Astarion could sway courtly hearts through captivation, but in matters of strength? No doubt already they suspect his softness, nothing to be said about the compounding fact that what is two hundred years to any of their kind, really? There are spawn older than him. There are living elves older than him. The tablewear they'd dined on over the last few days could prove their eldest sibling. Ergo, what then? When the soft-soled heir usurps a waiting throne only to flex how his conquest had mewled for him without hanging his own head— and does still. That's no sign of power; that's hardly worth respect. A rabid dog cowed by many hands belongs to no one and nothing alone, and Astarion can't let that be his start, no matter how avidly it tempts.
But that isn't something Fenris needs to know.
While his mind reels over itself in oscillating forethought, Astarion bears into that kiss in full: catching tongue between his teeth with scraping little flicks of hungry movement while his hips count out a host of heartlessly supplanting seconds— all of his body still angled in pursuit of its captive dinner— tracking time through shallow thrusts and inlaid swells of depraved pressure. It's not obedience that he craves right now while his shoulders ache and his swallowed prick throbs inside hot leylines.
It's the taking.
And so when he pulls away, it's to look downwards into the heart of their vulgar alignment. The twisting, writhing spearpoint that keeps them locked in dripping struggle, one shoved tight atop the other. Hand rushed swift to the back of Fenris' skull, bending him forward until his still-prone posture bows— and he's treated with the obscene sight of his sore cock laid (and bouncing dazedly) on its side in the crook of his own legs: their slender, branded measure shoved back so far and so wide that they bracket either side of his slim torso, folded knees tucked up near his shoulders, toes twisting in dead air while mapped out in their shade—
It's only a glimpse, you see.
Only visible when Astarion draws back— revealing just how thick and long and rigid he is as if for the very first time between them— that the glossy base of his crude length shines in such romantic light as that of their christened room. Drawn back to the limits of his hips and yet still so harshly buried (too expansive not to feel just as full as their master had ever left them; too vindictively heavy not to mock the very same anatomy it defiles), keeping Fenris' body well aware of what it serves, massive and yet waiting just to pounce.]
Watch, now.
[Watch, little one.
As he rolls his hips by slight degrees at a probing angle, bruisingly blunt tip ramming and scraping at that singularly pliant spot. A jab to hunt for it— a dig to mark it— and then a lambent grind, dragging eagerly back and forth across its measure, his thickened shaft stretching out the roseated base of Fenris' tight hole. His fault for clinging. For fighting. For not relaxing and letting Astarion have his fill with servile ease. If it stings, there is a cure. If it maddens, he knows how best to appeal it. Be good. Open wide. Keep your hips relaxed, just like that— be a good boy, let me in.]
I've no choice but to tame you before I let them admire you, then.
—ah ah, watch, I said. [Don't shut your eyes. Don't look away.] You need to see what I'm doing to you to understand how perfect it'll all feel when you let me have my way. That's how it works, domestication.
....or so I've read. I've never tamed my own broodbitch before, after all.
And if you let me— [One pair of fingers lifting just to feather at Fenris' untouched tip, playing more than kindling his dripping need; inciting subservient bootlicking through imperious strokes and the conjoined efforts of his hips, dark lashes having fallen low across his downturned eyes while pleasure flutters through him (oh, through them both, no doubt). His own throat burning like soot. Like smoke. Like the heat of a kill drawn close— ]
I'll make it so much better.
[Calling for assistance is easy.
A single shouted word and one of their sire's— one of their spawn comes running, easily instructed on what to bring.
A bit. A set of cuffs. A collar. A chain. Toys upon toys resting on their waiting bed and a promise to track down 'something suitable to wear'. And all the while Astarion teases. Fucks into him only to stop once Fenris comes even remotely close— again and again and again.]
Relinquish his gift. Surrender.
[A nose bumped against his jaw, slipping over countless welling bites.]
Just say it....and I'll let you come.