(He knows them, those spawn that tended to him. The one with dark eyes who tied him to the bed and clad him in silk stockings and white lace; the pretty red-head who stained his lips and lined his eyes with such care. There was no emotion on their faces, no glee nor grief as they worked to pierce his ears til they hung with gold rings— but they can't disobey, can they? And though they avoided his eyes, though they none of them could escape the call of their new master, it doesn't matter. They'll still remember this.
Good or bad. Humiliating or pitying. Poor thing or he got exactly what he's deserved, spoiled little pup— they'll remember, and worse yet, they'll tell the others. How can they not? It's such a striking picture, after all. Out with the old master and in with the new, and with it a whole host of changes that will affect them sooner or later, for this is just the start. One consort triumphing while the other buckles, and as he lies there, hips twitching with every merciless thrum of that swollen toy, he thinks of how the image will travel, searing itself into the coven's collective memory. Dark and light. Chained and free. A lord husband dressed in the finest of clothes, tended to until he looks every bit as powerful as he feels— and his captive bride, writhing and moaning as he's prepared for his master to devour.)
Lace presses tightly against his hips. His collar is snug against his throat, just tight enough that a mortal might whine for how they strain to breathe. Silk rustles as his knees brush against one another, chains clinking gently for how his fingers curl and uncurl. He'd been wiped clean before, sweat and precome vulgar intrusions on the fantasy of virginal brides— and yet still his neglected cock drools onto his belly, unheeded and yet still throbbing for that cruel punishment.
(And the line is this: he does not renounce his claim. He does not cede that which belongs to him, no matter how bad it gets. He is still Astarion's partner, despite it all; he still rules half of this coven, no matter how it seems right now. He is equal in law if not in deed, and that is important. He has to remember that's important. He has to hold on to that fact throughout the coming days and weeks and years, for it's so vitally important.
But any slave knows that bullheadedness will only end up hurting you in the long run. That defiance is a beautiful thing, and it must be kept burning internally, a flame that never goes out . . . but that to defy one's captors indiscriminately and without thought will never end well.
He could fight right now. He could refuse. And what would that get him?
And maybe he doesn't want to).
He spreads his legs, obedient little whore that he has become.
Slowly, jerkily: his feet slipping over cool sheets until the chain binding his ankles clinks in protest, straining at its limit. His panties inch up, pulling taut between his thighs as tanned cheeks peek out, azure dots of lyrium revealing themselves from behind sheer silk. And that toy— slickened with aphrodisiac oil so potent that even he, eternally undead, feels so hot as it burns through his veins and sinks into his skin— presses against him. Still, now, and yet Fenris swears he can feel it tremble in anticipation— or maybe that's just him. Maybe lust and loathing have tangled into one, and faced with an unwinnable scenario— oh, who wouldn't want to give in? After hours (or is it days, now?) of captivity, his body so spent from screaming that all it can do is whine and whimper and mewl, gods please, oh, is it any wonder he's lost the edge of his defiance?
Fuck me. Take me. Make me yours, but let me come, be sweet to me: his hair glossed and falling in his eyes, his scarlet lips parted as he tips his head to one side. His back arching so needily as his pinned cock strains at its lace prison, swollen and overheated, desperate to be tended to—
And yet his eyes burn with rage.
Come closer, and let me test the mettle of my jaw against that collar.]
Such a brave husband I have with that collar on you . . . why not chain my legs open and make it easy for yourself?
[And gods, he doesn't care what it earns him, so long as he can still speak to say it— for there's losing and losing, and though he's sure he'll howl and moan and beg soon enough, he has to try.
(And yet: he wants him. And yet: his nostrils flare as the scent of lilac washes over him; and yet his eyes are dark as pitch, darting up and down Astarion's form as his tight little hole throbs in memory of that thick cock sinking so deep into him. His mouth aches as his tongue longs to feel something heavy on it; those piercings fitted to his nipples pinch and tug each time he twists his head, and it's no mistake he does that again and again. Saliva pools in his mouth as his thighs tremble in anticipation, his fingers curling in wariness— and impatience.]
Or are you only pleased when you have some form of victory to hold over me?
[Oh, little pup barking just as loud as he can while he has breath still to do it— and yet that doesn't stop Astarion's shadow from falling over him as he comes closer still. His chest heaves, his eyes narrowed as he tries so hard not to squirm: come take me, please.]
no subject
(He knows them, those spawn that tended to him. The one with dark eyes who tied him to the bed and clad him in silk stockings and white lace; the pretty red-head who stained his lips and lined his eyes with such care. There was no emotion on their faces, no glee nor grief as they worked to pierce his ears til they hung with gold rings— but they can't disobey, can they? And though they avoided his eyes, though they none of them could escape the call of their new master, it doesn't matter. They'll still remember this.
Good or bad. Humiliating or pitying. Poor thing or he got exactly what he's deserved, spoiled little pup— they'll remember, and worse yet, they'll tell the others. How can they not? It's such a striking picture, after all. Out with the old master and in with the new, and with it a whole host of changes that will affect them sooner or later, for this is just the start. One consort triumphing while the other buckles, and as he lies there, hips twitching with every merciless thrum of that swollen toy, he thinks of how the image will travel, searing itself into the coven's collective memory. Dark and light. Chained and free. A lord husband dressed in the finest of clothes, tended to until he looks every bit as powerful as he feels— and his captive bride, writhing and moaning as he's prepared for his master to devour.)
Lace presses tightly against his hips. His collar is snug against his throat, just tight enough that a mortal might whine for how they strain to breathe. Silk rustles as his knees brush against one another, chains clinking gently for how his fingers curl and uncurl. He'd been wiped clean before, sweat and precome vulgar intrusions on the fantasy of virginal brides— and yet still his neglected cock drools onto his belly, unheeded and yet still throbbing for that cruel punishment.
(And the line is this: he does not renounce his claim. He does not cede that which belongs to him, no matter how bad it gets. He is still Astarion's partner, despite it all; he still rules half of this coven, no matter how it seems right now. He is equal in law if not in deed, and that is important. He has to remember that's important. He has to hold on to that fact throughout the coming days and weeks and years, for it's so vitally important.
But any slave knows that bullheadedness will only end up hurting you in the long run. That defiance is a beautiful thing, and it must be kept burning internally, a flame that never goes out . . . but that to defy one's captors indiscriminately and without thought will never end well.
He could fight right now. He could refuse. And what would that get him?
And maybe he doesn't want to).
He spreads his legs, obedient little whore that he has become.
Slowly, jerkily: his feet slipping over cool sheets until the chain binding his ankles clinks in protest, straining at its limit. His panties inch up, pulling taut between his thighs as tanned cheeks peek out, azure dots of lyrium revealing themselves from behind sheer silk. And that toy— slickened with aphrodisiac oil so potent that even he, eternally undead, feels so hot as it burns through his veins and sinks into his skin— presses against him. Still, now, and yet Fenris swears he can feel it tremble in anticipation— or maybe that's just him. Maybe lust and loathing have tangled into one, and faced with an unwinnable scenario— oh, who wouldn't want to give in? After hours (or is it days, now?) of captivity, his body so spent from screaming that all it can do is whine and whimper and mewl, gods please, oh, is it any wonder he's lost the edge of his defiance?
Fuck me. Take me. Make me yours, but let me come, be sweet to me: his hair glossed and falling in his eyes, his scarlet lips parted as he tips his head to one side. His back arching so needily as his pinned cock strains at its lace prison, swollen and overheated, desperate to be tended to—
And yet his eyes burn with rage.
Come closer, and let me test the mettle of my jaw against that collar.]
Such a brave husband I have with that collar on you . . . why not chain my legs open and make it easy for yourself?
[And gods, he doesn't care what it earns him, so long as he can still speak to say it— for there's losing and losing, and though he's sure he'll howl and moan and beg soon enough, he has to try.
(And yet: he wants him. And yet: his nostrils flare as the scent of lilac washes over him; and yet his eyes are dark as pitch, darting up and down Astarion's form as his tight little hole throbs in memory of that thick cock sinking so deep into him. His mouth aches as his tongue longs to feel something heavy on it; those piercings fitted to his nipples pinch and tug each time he twists his head, and it's no mistake he does that again and again. Saliva pools in his mouth as his thighs tremble in anticipation, his fingers curling in wariness— and impatience.]
Or are you only pleased when you have some form of victory to hold over me?
[Oh, little pup barking just as loud as he can while he has breath still to do it— and yet that doesn't stop Astarion's shadow from falling over him as he comes closer still. His chest heaves, his eyes narrowed as he tries so hard not to squirm: come take me, please.]