Because you won't learn if I do everything for you.
[Pomegranate seeds. Sickles over bloody earth. Thorny collars. Wedding bands. Bitten lips. Proximity synonymous with covetous envy, or so every cautionary fable swears— and if their master dreams of anything, it isn't this (though his bookshelves were lined with warning signs; old fiction shoved beside penned accounts of fallen empires. The very same tomes Astarion had fit his claws to). Too little, too late now. They're past the point of no return, and a hungry beast with its jaws spread wide won't stop because of hindsight— and that's if there even is hindsight to speak of. As things are now, the only thing Astarion would see if he looked behind him, is every step that it's taken to get here.
Soothed by the sight of cream and lace. Gold and tender red. The same pretty mouth that used to snarl at him only whimpers while it barks. Maybe their maker should have said 'I brought him for you' when he'd first brought Fenris home, for there's nothing in Astarion that doesn't leap to see his twin all but stamped with his own name. Nothing in all his fantasies of ownership that quite compares to its own truth.
(He's beautiful.
And what a sin that is for a creature caught.)
But Astarion is placid on approach. His footsteps slow, halfhearted. Dressed in cruelty and dark silk, adorned in intent that looms more viciously than his shadowed silhouette, eclipsing those caught heels to settle in between them. Fingertips light as they stroke upwards over sheer white fabric gone a few shades darker for vulgarity alone— discovered dampness such a pretty sight.
Prettier when it stirs.
Stiffness straining towards the backs of his knuckles, begging where its master doesn't. Touch me. Take me. I need this. I want this. Please. Please— ]
I'll be kind.
[Cross his blackened, deceitful heart, he can be. And isn't that better than his claws?]
You don't have to surrender anything to me.
We're already wed, after all. [Leaning in shifts his weight against the lines of those raised thighs; pressure slow and steady (those panties tensing as the contours that they cling to shift— providing less room, less coverage, less comfort— ) while their contrasting outlines intermingle, bottled pressure caught tight in lightless planes.] Be sweet for me, and we can make our own truce. Christen our first night together. [Testing the waters with his finger first; letting it smooth over the centerline of Fenris' mouth before pressing its way in without request until it meets the very tip of all those waiting teeth. Toying at what it aims to take.
(Try again. Again. Again. Repetition is key.)]
Open for your husband. Tongue first— no fangs.
[For a while, that's fun enough. Tease at him while the toy plugged deep and tight shudders at his behest: too quick and there's a violent buzz between those shackled legs, too slow and there's a buzz; too sharp, too passive, too resentfully— all ending the same way. With Fenris' teeth chattering from the rune his lover keeps, always correcting him when he strays.] Get this right and you can have something nice and thick to suckle on instead. You must be starving by now, after all. [They vampires are such needy things.] Just think about how warm you'll feel with a full belly to sate you.
Your throat comfortably squeezed around my cock. Your mind blissfully blank, relieved just to take in more of my claim. [With a twist, Astarion's spare hand turns around the shape of that held stone— one leashing chain yanked to push a stocking-clad leg high across his shoulder, furthering the violating scrape of their pinned outlines. All of Fenris' lower body raised, providing one more glimpse of soaked lace and thin fabric pushed aside for the sight of his sore cock, its livid crown drooling down the slope of his lithe belly towards gold chain. Towards him. (His lips, his face, his collared throat— )
If Fenris is lucky, he might be able to grind— force scant lingerie and bare skin over thick brocade and dark leather— for some small amount of satisfaction against the measure of captivity, particularly in those moments when Astarion is briefly distracted; brought a glass of wine (no, blood) by waiting servants, the iron in the air makes sense— or to have some small piece of his appearance belatedly groomed mid-game.
Trying to take too much without Astarion's permission, though....
no subject
[Pomegranate seeds. Sickles over bloody earth. Thorny collars. Wedding bands. Bitten lips. Proximity synonymous with covetous envy, or so every cautionary fable swears— and if their master dreams of anything, it isn't this (though his bookshelves were lined with warning signs; old fiction shoved beside penned accounts of fallen empires. The very same tomes Astarion had fit his claws to). Too little, too late now. They're past the point of no return, and a hungry beast with its jaws spread wide won't stop because of hindsight— and that's if there even is hindsight to speak of. As things are now, the only thing Astarion would see if he looked behind him, is every step that it's taken to get here.
Soothed by the sight of cream and lace. Gold and tender red. The same pretty mouth that used to snarl at him only whimpers while it barks. Maybe their maker should have said 'I brought him for you' when he'd first brought Fenris home, for there's nothing in Astarion that doesn't leap to see his twin all but stamped with his own name. Nothing in all his fantasies of ownership that quite compares to its own truth.
(He's beautiful.
And what a sin that is for a creature caught.)
But Astarion is placid on approach. His footsteps slow, halfhearted. Dressed in cruelty and dark silk, adorned in intent that looms more viciously than his shadowed silhouette, eclipsing those caught heels to settle in between them. Fingertips light as they stroke upwards over sheer white fabric gone a few shades darker for vulgarity alone— discovered dampness such a pretty sight.
Prettier when it stirs.
Stiffness straining towards the backs of his knuckles, begging where its master doesn't. Touch me. Take me. I need this. I want this. Please. Please— ]
I'll be kind.
[Cross his blackened, deceitful heart, he can be. And isn't that better than his claws?]
You don't have to surrender anything to me.
We're already wed, after all. [Leaning in shifts his weight against the lines of those raised thighs; pressure slow and steady (those panties tensing as the contours that they cling to shift— providing less room, less coverage, less comfort— ) while their contrasting outlines intermingle, bottled pressure caught tight in lightless planes.] Be sweet for me, and we can make our own truce. Christen our first night together. [Testing the waters with his finger first; letting it smooth over the centerline of Fenris' mouth before pressing its way in without request until it meets the very tip of all those waiting teeth. Toying at what it aims to take.
(Try again. Again. Again. Repetition is key.)]
Open for your husband. Tongue first— no fangs.
[For a while, that's fun enough. Tease at him while the toy plugged deep and tight shudders at his behest: too quick and there's a violent buzz between those shackled legs, too slow and there's a buzz; too sharp, too passive, too resentfully— all ending the same way. With Fenris' teeth chattering from the rune his lover keeps, always correcting him when he strays.] Get this right and you can have something nice and thick to suckle on instead. You must be starving by now, after all. [They vampires are such needy things.] Just think about how warm you'll feel with a full belly to sate you.
Your throat comfortably squeezed around my cock. Your mind blissfully blank, relieved just to take in more of my claim. [With a twist, Astarion's spare hand turns around the shape of that held stone— one leashing chain yanked to push a stocking-clad leg high across his shoulder, furthering the violating scrape of their pinned outlines. All of Fenris' lower body raised, providing one more glimpse of soaked lace and thin fabric pushed aside for the sight of his sore cock, its livid crown drooling down the slope of his lithe belly towards gold chain. Towards him. (His lips, his face, his collared throat— )
If Fenris is lucky, he might be able to grind— force scant lingerie and bare skin over thick brocade and dark leather— for some small amount of satisfaction against the measure of captivity, particularly in those moments when Astarion is briefly distracted; brought a glass of wine (no, blood) by waiting servants, the iron in the air makes sense— or to have some small piece of his appearance belatedly groomed mid-game.
Trying to take too much without Astarion's permission, though....
Well, the toy is there for a reason, isn't it?]