There's no thought. No memory, no conscious will— he doesn't remember why he'd resisted so ardently before. He doesn't remember his resolution, don't ever give up your claim; he doesn't remember that they're meant to be equals, that he's more than Astarion's pretty bride (his pretty consort, bed-bound and desperate, a pent-up virgin in desperate heat that needs sating). The world has shrunk itself down to just the two of them, tangled together and housed forever in this grand room, and what else could there ever be? Every breath Astarion exhales is inhaled greedily; every roughened murmur is listened to with a thickened throat, Fenris' eyes black with lust and shiny with newfound tears. They mirror one another, the ebb and flow between them all but tangible, every inch taken earns a moan that buzzes on both their lips. He's a slave to his body, a helpless tag-along to the sensations wracking through him, and there is nothing, nothing that matters beyond the two of them.
Beyond him. Him. His darling. His partner. His lord, high and mighty and yet so intimately close that Fenris has lost all fear. Every brush of their lips is confirmation of their mutual adoration; every searing inch forced into his needy little hole proof of his devotion. My consort, my bride, and the slave who had spent his entire life beneath another's heel whines in agreement.
Yours, yes. Yours, yours, yours—
(And sometimes it's easier to shatter than to try and keep yourself together).
Gloved fingers slips past his lips and with a heady moan, Fenris welcomes them. His lips wrap tight around that slickened span as they fuck deep into his mouth, not caring for how leather forces his spit to spill messily over his lips. His smothered tongue struggles to writhe, so eager to slip between two fingers and show his husband just how clever he really is. The earthy taste of leather and slick oil drips down his throat, the tips of his fingers tapping at the back of his throat as Fenris swallows again and again. Don't stop, his lips aching for every rhythmic rock, his eyes rolling back each time Astarion fucks him from both ends in vicious synchronism, like that, like that, his spent cock already swelling with newfound lust.
Brace yourself, his lord whispers, and Fenris knows it to be a kindness. A momentary fondness amidst all this cruelty, born of a century of standing side-by-side. Brace yourself, and he holds his breath in anticipation.
And everything goes white.
Too much doesn't begin to cover it. Too much was the cry of a wriggling bride tied to a vibrator's cruel form; too much was edging of the worst caliber, a teasing taunt that Fenris had foolishly thought was the worst it could get.
This isn't too much.
It's everything.
He's blinded, his eyes squeezed shut; deafened as a roaring fills his ears, oblivious to the sound of his own baying howls of pleasure as vibration after vibration mercilessly assaults him. It's heat unlike any other, all the searing sensation of overstimulation forced so deep into him that he won't ever get it out. That toy presses mercilessly against his prostate, fixed into place by a cock so thick that Fenris all but barks to feel it move. Slow little rocks or heated thrusts, and it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, for throughout it all there's that maddening buzzing that can't escape (that he doesn't want to escape)—
Crack, and the sound of his own wrist breaking as he thrashes in his bindings isn't heard. The pain is negligible, a momentary burst of distraction that Fenris desperately clings to before it heals itself. His heels kick helplessly in the air, his thighs wrapping around lithe hips so tightly it must ache, his back arching as he snaps and writhes and snarls— oh, beastly thing, and he isn't fighting, he can't possibly fight it, he's just reacting. So overstimulated it hurts, so overwhelmed that he's become a wild-eyed beast, his screams echoing around the chamber over and over. No words, not for such a creature as him; no pleading can save him, no entreaty can possibly help, and so he howls in desperation. Ragged and wrecked, sweat shining on his skin as his lyrium pulses; blood smears over his lips, mixing with sweat and dripping down his chin—
And then he comes.
Again, again, his cock untouched and unheeded, gushes of come staining silk and smearing against skin. Again, his thighs trembling wildly as his body cinches rhythmically around Astarion's cock, the sound of their hips meeting such a wet, quick thing— again, and he does not know how many times he comes nor how long a refractory period he has, only that it doesn't stop, it doesn't stop—
It takes so much to sate a vampire. More still to overwhelm them. And so the blackness of unconsciousness doesn't take him, no— there's just the endless ebb and flow of their fucking. Those precious, breathless moments where there's the slightest reprieve, his body numb and his eyes hazy— and then that inevitable plunge back into the molten darkness, Astarion's name on his lips the entire time.]
no subject
There's no thought. No memory, no conscious will— he doesn't remember why he'd resisted so ardently before. He doesn't remember his resolution, don't ever give up your claim; he doesn't remember that they're meant to be equals, that he's more than Astarion's pretty bride (his pretty consort, bed-bound and desperate, a pent-up virgin in desperate heat that needs sating). The world has shrunk itself down to just the two of them, tangled together and housed forever in this grand room, and what else could there ever be? Every breath Astarion exhales is inhaled greedily; every roughened murmur is listened to with a thickened throat, Fenris' eyes black with lust and shiny with newfound tears. They mirror one another, the ebb and flow between them all but tangible, every inch taken earns a moan that buzzes on both their lips. He's a slave to his body, a helpless tag-along to the sensations wracking through him, and there is nothing, nothing that matters beyond the two of them.
Beyond him. Him. His darling. His partner. His lord, high and mighty and yet so intimately close that Fenris has lost all fear. Every brush of their lips is confirmation of their mutual adoration; every searing inch forced into his needy little hole proof of his devotion. My consort, my bride, and the slave who had spent his entire life beneath another's heel whines in agreement.
Yours, yes. Yours, yours, yours—
(And sometimes it's easier to shatter than to try and keep yourself together).
Gloved fingers slips past his lips and with a heady moan, Fenris welcomes them. His lips wrap tight around that slickened span as they fuck deep into his mouth, not caring for how leather forces his spit to spill messily over his lips. His smothered tongue struggles to writhe, so eager to slip between two fingers and show his husband just how clever he really is. The earthy taste of leather and slick oil drips down his throat, the tips of his fingers tapping at the back of his throat as Fenris swallows again and again. Don't stop, his lips aching for every rhythmic rock, his eyes rolling back each time Astarion fucks him from both ends in vicious synchronism, like that, like that, his spent cock already swelling with newfound lust.
Brace yourself, his lord whispers, and Fenris knows it to be a kindness. A momentary fondness amidst all this cruelty, born of a century of standing side-by-side. Brace yourself, and he holds his breath in anticipation.
And everything goes white.
Too much doesn't begin to cover it. Too much was the cry of a wriggling bride tied to a vibrator's cruel form; too much was edging of the worst caliber, a teasing taunt that Fenris had foolishly thought was the worst it could get.
This isn't too much.
It's everything.
He's blinded, his eyes squeezed shut; deafened as a roaring fills his ears, oblivious to the sound of his own baying howls of pleasure as vibration after vibration mercilessly assaults him. It's heat unlike any other, all the searing sensation of overstimulation forced so deep into him that he won't ever get it out. That toy presses mercilessly against his prostate, fixed into place by a cock so thick that Fenris all but barks to feel it move. Slow little rocks or heated thrusts, and it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, for throughout it all there's that maddening buzzing that can't escape (that he doesn't want to escape)—
Crack, and the sound of his own wrist breaking as he thrashes in his bindings isn't heard. The pain is negligible, a momentary burst of distraction that Fenris desperately clings to before it heals itself. His heels kick helplessly in the air, his thighs wrapping around lithe hips so tightly it must ache, his back arching as he snaps and writhes and snarls— oh, beastly thing, and he isn't fighting, he can't possibly fight it, he's just reacting. So overstimulated it hurts, so overwhelmed that he's become a wild-eyed beast, his screams echoing around the chamber over and over. No words, not for such a creature as him; no pleading can save him, no entreaty can possibly help, and so he howls in desperation. Ragged and wrecked, sweat shining on his skin as his lyrium pulses; blood smears over his lips, mixing with sweat and dripping down his chin—
And then he comes.
Again, again, his cock untouched and unheeded, gushes of come staining silk and smearing against skin. Again, his thighs trembling wildly as his body cinches rhythmically around Astarion's cock, the sound of their hips meeting such a wet, quick thing— again, and he does not know how many times he comes nor how long a refractory period he has, only that it doesn't stop, it doesn't stop—
It takes so much to sate a vampire. More still to overwhelm them. And so the blackness of unconsciousness doesn't take him, no— there's just the endless ebb and flow of their fucking. Those precious, breathless moments where there's the slightest reprieve, his body numb and his eyes hazy— and then that inevitable plunge back into the molten darkness, Astarion's name on his lips the entire time.]