Swims, spins, blurs, and though Fenris knows they have taken no drugs, it hardly matters, for he feels high as anything. Punch-drunk off searing sensation and overwhelmed arousal, and his defiant desperation only makes it worse. He's torn between the two, Astarion a siren dragging him into the darkest depths even as he struggles for air. I can't and don't and no all gracing his lips, barked out fitfully as his mind tries so hard to remember just why he'd resisted in the first place. Thoughts of hatred do no good, for the resulting humiliation burns through him as potent as any aphrodisiac, and as for plans for the future— oh, that means nothing at all. What future? What world? Nothing exists outside of this moment. Nothing exists outside of the two of them, locked together and yet still biting at one another's throats, collared together as surely as if they both had bands wrapped around their throats.
It's everything. It's everything, so blindly overwhelming that each time he thinks he's found a foothold through the scarlet haze of arousal, he's swept off his feet once more. It's the hypnotically vulgar sight of Astarion's prick gleaming in the candlelight as it saws temptingly in and out of him, earning a ragged moan each time it so cruelly grinds over that bundle of nerves (back and forth, back and forth, saliva pooling in Fenris' mouth as his jaw goes slack). It's they way Astarion's hands are always there to pin his own back each time he tries to reach for his prick, lilting voice whispering taunts in his ear (naughty thing, you know better). It's the trembling temptation that comes of featherlight fingertips toying with his welling slit, earning whimpering little whines that only grow as Astarion's cock grinds and ruts within him.
It's the rage that comes from hearing the word broodbitch, and the goading laughter that results when Fenris surges forward to bite that offending tongue. Blood runs hot between them and it doesn't matter, for no matter how he sinks his teeth in (and oh, he does), it's still him helpless. It's still him impaled, spread open upon his twin's cock and helpless to do anything save that. And so Astarion takes even that from him: turning his dripping fangs into a demonstration of his own helplessness, for what else does he have? Not his hands, held captive whenever he tries to seek relief. Not his legs, pinned back and dangling helplessly in the air, trembling wildly as Fenris tries not to lose his mind.
And it's the growing desperation as he is denied his release again and again and again.
Vampires are gluttonous creatures, and he is no different. A single orgasm doesn't approach satisfying him— and so this endless edging is the worst sort of torment. He loses track of how many times he verges on coming, his whole body tensing, his back arching, every inch of him surging up— only to be cruelly suffocated by a tight grip and a vicious thumb. Each waves leaves him reeling higher and higher, every potential orgasm more powerful than the last— so that by the time that spawn (only dazedly seen and vaguely registered) slips in and out of their rooms, Fenris feels nigh-mad from desire.
And the world swims . . .]
I—
[Oh, what a mess he is. Hair hanging damply in his unfocused eyes, his cock drooling as it bobs helplessly in the air. A soft nose bumps against his jaw and instinctively he nuzzles back against it, There's the faintest trace of a flush to his cheeks, the remnants of their wedding feast making itself known. Again the door opens, that same spawn coming in with a bundle of something white in his arms; drunkenly, Fenris thinks once more of ravaged brides and virginal first times. Of himself in torn skirts and stockings with runs in them, mewling as his body melts itself to the shape of Astarion's prick— his eyes rolling back, his mouth slack as he's fucked into his fourth, fifth, sixth orgasm of the night, a captive consort ridden hard and put back wet each and every night . . .]
I won't.
[Panted. Whined. His hips rocking forward desperately as he tries and fails to fuck himself, his skin gleaming with sweat and dripping with blood— and yet still some trace of defiance remains.]
I w-won't, I won't—
[Collar me, if you can. Fuck me. Tie me to the bed. Dress me as your bride— but I will not renounce my claim. That's what he wants to say. He wants to sound brave and defiant and unbreakable— but oh, two words are all he can bear. And in the end, he sounds more like a desperate thing than a defiant one.]
P-please, please, please, Astarion, please—
[Gods, it's been hours, please—]
[Desperate tears filling his eyes and tracking unheeded down his cheeks, his whole body shuddering as another pulsing wave of orgasm rises and falls— and Fenris in the middle, teeter-tottering frantically between his two selves, reeling and yet trying so hard even now to fight. Mouth dropping open before curling in a snarl, his teeth clicking in the open air as he snaps them.]
You will have to break me before you manage to ever come close to taming me— vishante kaffar mentula!
no subject
Swims, spins, blurs, and though Fenris knows they have taken no drugs, it hardly matters, for he feels high as anything. Punch-drunk off searing sensation and overwhelmed arousal, and his defiant desperation only makes it worse. He's torn between the two, Astarion a siren dragging him into the darkest depths even as he struggles for air. I can't and don't and no all gracing his lips, barked out fitfully as his mind tries so hard to remember just why he'd resisted in the first place. Thoughts of hatred do no good, for the resulting humiliation burns through him as potent as any aphrodisiac, and as for plans for the future— oh, that means nothing at all. What future? What world? Nothing exists outside of this moment. Nothing exists outside of the two of them, locked together and yet still biting at one another's throats, collared together as surely as if they both had bands wrapped around their throats.
It's everything. It's everything, so blindly overwhelming that each time he thinks he's found a foothold through the scarlet haze of arousal, he's swept off his feet once more. It's the hypnotically vulgar sight of Astarion's prick gleaming in the candlelight as it saws temptingly in and out of him, earning a ragged moan each time it so cruelly grinds over that bundle of nerves (back and forth, back and forth, saliva pooling in Fenris' mouth as his jaw goes slack). It's they way Astarion's hands are always there to pin his own back each time he tries to reach for his prick, lilting voice whispering taunts in his ear (naughty thing, you know better). It's the trembling temptation that comes of featherlight fingertips toying with his welling slit, earning whimpering little whines that only grow as Astarion's cock grinds and ruts within him.
It's the rage that comes from hearing the word broodbitch, and the goading laughter that results when Fenris surges forward to bite that offending tongue. Blood runs hot between them and it doesn't matter, for no matter how he sinks his teeth in (and oh, he does), it's still him helpless. It's still him impaled, spread open upon his twin's cock and helpless to do anything save that. And so Astarion takes even that from him: turning his dripping fangs into a demonstration of his own helplessness, for what else does he have? Not his hands, held captive whenever he tries to seek relief. Not his legs, pinned back and dangling helplessly in the air, trembling wildly as Fenris tries not to lose his mind.
And it's the growing desperation as he is denied his release again and again and again.
Vampires are gluttonous creatures, and he is no different. A single orgasm doesn't approach satisfying him— and so this endless edging is the worst sort of torment. He loses track of how many times he verges on coming, his whole body tensing, his back arching, every inch of him surging up— only to be cruelly suffocated by a tight grip and a vicious thumb. Each waves leaves him reeling higher and higher, every potential orgasm more powerful than the last— so that by the time that spawn (only dazedly seen and vaguely registered) slips in and out of their rooms, Fenris feels nigh-mad from desire.
And the world swims . . .]
I—
[Oh, what a mess he is. Hair hanging damply in his unfocused eyes, his cock drooling as it bobs helplessly in the air. A soft nose bumps against his jaw and instinctively he nuzzles back against it, There's the faintest trace of a flush to his cheeks, the remnants of their wedding feast making itself known. Again the door opens, that same spawn coming in with a bundle of something white in his arms; drunkenly, Fenris thinks once more of ravaged brides and virginal first times. Of himself in torn skirts and stockings with runs in them, mewling as his body melts itself to the shape of Astarion's prick— his eyes rolling back, his mouth slack as he's fucked into his fourth, fifth, sixth orgasm of the night, a captive consort ridden hard and put back wet each and every night . . .]
I won't.
[Panted. Whined. His hips rocking forward desperately as he tries and fails to fuck himself, his skin gleaming with sweat and dripping with blood— and yet still some trace of defiance remains.]
I w-won't, I won't—
[Collar me, if you can. Fuck me. Tie me to the bed. Dress me as your bride— but I will not renounce my claim. That's what he wants to say. He wants to sound brave and defiant and unbreakable— but oh, two words are all he can bear. And in the end, he sounds more like a desperate thing than a defiant one.]
P-please, please, please, Astarion, please—
[Gods, it's been hours, please—]
[Desperate tears filling his eyes and tracking unheeded down his cheeks, his whole body shuddering as another pulsing wave of orgasm rises and falls— and Fenris in the middle, teeter-tottering frantically between his two selves, reeling and yet trying so hard even now to fight. Mouth dropping open before curling in a snarl, his teeth clicking in the open air as he snaps them.]
You will have to break me before you manage to ever come close to taming me— vishante kaffar mentula!