Not cruelty, not mercy, not the overheated flare of slack-jawed satisfaction. Not power, not loss. Not the perfect feel of how the battered legs he's pushed between thrash ( —and then stop: locking while they shiver, before they fight to tamp down on even that— palpably afraid of the sensation that fighting this enacts, while synaptic response screams just to thresh for freedom like the prey he is, caught in the jaws of something dangerous), each jagged jolt furthering their rut, their madness, their wild desperation. For every inch of twisting, gasping, panting, roiling movement, Astarion feels his partially submerged cock shove one centimeter deeper. Then two. Then three. Heat wet and dragging while his eyes roll back behind shut lids, fighting for dignity when neither he nor his quarry have any left to spare.
The spawn beside them's already sunken to his knees to sweep up shattered glass. The room is grand and empty and echoing. The gifts devised for unity only sit in untouched silence around the sight of their entanglement— a brutal outlay of dark silk and briar barbs hunched low over exposed limbs sporting tattered lacework streaked with blood; golden shackles and fine chains now taut from desperate pressure. They have each other in the eye of the storm (hot breath driven from Astarion's mouth over Fenris' wailing lips, those pleading cries taken across his tongue into a kiss, as if he aims to drink them from their source), and there's a savage beauty to it that overtakes him in ways his master's urging never did. His cock caught in a brutal vice, his body threatening to spill beneath the fluttering clutch of narrow little channels already stretched out to their limits.
His mouth can't keep up when his consort's outline wracks itself into pitilessly savaged shapes; there's nothing he can do to keep those pleas from saturating open air (it isn't benevolence, don't mistake it for that, don't you dare call it that, it isn't— ) two gloved fingers quick to push their way in once more, driven to the back of Fenris' tongue until they're bound to one another only in the reverberating stretches where they meet: fingers and prick both plugged in tighter than a trap within the vulgar throes of painfully glazed submission, no part left independent of this brutally enticing game.
He won't last much longer.
And it doesn't matter.
It's only them here now, and nothing perfect comes without cost.
Damp slickness soaks across the front of his blouse while he dazedly murmurs coarse encouragement (open, like that, yes, good— there's my good boy, my pretty bride, you're learning aren't you— ) but it's as instinctive as the desire to blink. To suck in air. To want to sleep when tired. His voided stare awash in the stunning sight beneath him, more than worthy of being fucked into drooling frenzy; black begetting black. Their pupils only as dark as what they crave in the pit beneath their ribs. Hungry. Hungry.
That prick isn't done twitching.
He can feel it when he lifts his own palm, taking deep breaths of his own.]
....brace....yourself....
[The only warning that he gives before he activates the rune clutched within his fingers, knowing full well what it'll do to them both.
no subject
Nothing.
Not cruelty, not mercy, not the overheated flare of slack-jawed satisfaction. Not power, not loss. Not the perfect feel of how the battered legs he's pushed between thrash ( —and then stop: locking while they shiver, before they fight to tamp down on even that— palpably afraid of the sensation that fighting this enacts, while synaptic response screams just to thresh for freedom like the prey he is, caught in the jaws of something dangerous), each jagged jolt furthering their rut, their madness, their wild desperation. For every inch of twisting, gasping, panting, roiling movement, Astarion feels his partially submerged cock shove one centimeter deeper. Then two. Then three. Heat wet and dragging while his eyes roll back behind shut lids, fighting for dignity when neither he nor his quarry have any left to spare.
The spawn beside them's already sunken to his knees to sweep up shattered glass. The room is grand and empty and echoing. The gifts devised for unity only sit in untouched silence around the sight of their entanglement— a brutal outlay of dark silk and briar barbs hunched low over exposed limbs sporting tattered lacework streaked with blood; golden shackles and fine chains now taut from desperate pressure. They have each other in the eye of the storm (hot breath driven from Astarion's mouth over Fenris' wailing lips, those pleading cries taken across his tongue into a kiss, as if he aims to drink them from their source), and there's a savage beauty to it that overtakes him in ways his master's urging never did. His cock caught in a brutal vice, his body threatening to spill beneath the fluttering clutch of narrow little channels already stretched out to their limits.
His mouth can't keep up when his consort's outline wracks itself into pitilessly savaged shapes; there's nothing he can do to keep those pleas from saturating open air (it isn't benevolence, don't mistake it for that, don't you dare call it that, it isn't— ) two gloved fingers quick to push their way in once more, driven to the back of Fenris' tongue until they're bound to one another only in the reverberating stretches where they meet: fingers and prick both plugged in tighter than a trap within the vulgar throes of painfully glazed submission, no part left independent of this brutally enticing game.
He won't last much longer.
And it doesn't matter.
It's only them here now, and nothing perfect comes without cost.
Damp slickness soaks across the front of his blouse while he dazedly murmurs coarse encouragement (open, like that, yes, good— there's my good boy, my pretty bride, you're learning aren't you— ) but it's as instinctive as the desire to blink. To suck in air. To want to sleep when tired. His voided stare awash in the stunning sight beneath him, more than worthy of being fucked into drooling frenzy; black begetting black. Their pupils only as dark as what they crave in the pit beneath their ribs. Hungry. Hungry.
That prick isn't done twitching.
He can feel it when he lifts his own palm, taking deep breaths of his own.]
....brace....yourself....
[The only warning that he gives before he activates the rune clutched within his fingers, knowing full well what it'll do to them both.
After all: nothing comes without its cost.]