He doesn't need to. Even now, his mind gone and his eyes hazy, he knows that on an instinctive level. There's no amount of air that will restore his energy to him. He needs blood, and far more than the slick, searing droplets that've come from tangling tongues and overeager teeth— oh, that was barely enough to keep him going. And until he gets it, he's a trembling thing, spent and overwrought: a youthful vampire brought temporarily to heel. Not an archduke, powerful beyond reason and able to change the fates of thousands with a flick of his hand, no. He's not even Fenris, not right now. That fiercely defiant thing that had gone into this marriage determined to hold his own has retreated, safely stored in the back of his head in favor of something far more adept at survival. All that's left is Astarion's bride. His consort, who whimpers softly as hours (days) of brutal rutting finally lulls.
Truthfully, he does not know what to think (if he can think at all, his thoughts scatter-shot disconnected). He cannot tell if this is truly the end or merely a break: a time for Astarion to indulge in another vice, wine or blood or smoke, before he sets in on his prey once more. And yet Fenris can't ask. He knows better than that (and how easy it is to fall into old habits. Like breathing. Like this, his body and bearing snapping back so easily into slave, his mind so desperate to preserve his sanity that it will do anything to keep him alive).
So he breathes, inhale and exhale, and somewhere he keeps a gentle count. He lets out a soft noise as Astarion's hips shift and another trickle of come spills out of his overfull hole (oh, he's so full, full and fit to burst, his belly faintly swollen and come splattered over his thighs, his hips, his ass). And when he hears open—
Astarion's bride tips his head up (little virgin no longer, no, introduced to the vulgar world of vicious, vigorous rutting, debauched and yet with so much more to learn), his lips wrapping eagerly around leather-clad fingers. Bitterness floods his senses, the taste shockingly sharp after so long tasting nothing but leather and oil. It spills over his tongue, drips down his throat, and some part of Fenris whines silently in satisfaction to know that he's claimed in both ends.
And for a time, there's just that. Peace in the eye of the storm, a fragility that might almost be mistaken for intimate if you did not know better. The room is cool and dark; the boy from before lingers in one corner, his head tipped down and his bearing deferential. Outside, there are faint noises, devoid of context and thus utterly incomprehensible to Fenris. Laughter. Snatches of phrases. The clink of glasses and the sound of music . . . and yet those fade into the background, ignored in favor of the soft, slickened sounds his mouth makes as he suckles. Lazily his tongue winds between Astarion's fingers, his eyes unfocused as he stares up at the canopy of their marriage bed. His thigh rests high, his legs vulgarly stretched around his captor as his bindings dangle from one ankle. Occasionally a pulsing throb from his chest tells him that his piercings are still intact; a soft jangle whenever his ears twitch informs him of the same.
And once the taste of come has faded and there's only leather, his bride slips his tongue out. A pearly sheen coats a drooling tongue, his demonstration obvious: I swallowed.]
Release me . . .?
[It's soft. Not a demand for freedom, impudent and cold, but rather something sweeter: a desire. I want my arms free, and it isn't quite a request and it isn't quite an order. But they hurt. His wrists have broken themselves again and again, his skin rubbed raw; he has not been able to put them down for hours on end, and it hurts.]
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He doesn't need to. Even now, his mind gone and his eyes hazy, he knows that on an instinctive level. There's no amount of air that will restore his energy to him. He needs blood, and far more than the slick, searing droplets that've come from tangling tongues and overeager teeth— oh, that was barely enough to keep him going. And until he gets it, he's a trembling thing, spent and overwrought: a youthful vampire brought temporarily to heel. Not an archduke, powerful beyond reason and able to change the fates of thousands with a flick of his hand, no. He's not even Fenris, not right now. That fiercely defiant thing that had gone into this marriage determined to hold his own has retreated, safely stored in the back of his head in favor of something far more adept at survival. All that's left is Astarion's bride. His consort, who whimpers softly as hours (days) of brutal rutting finally lulls.
Truthfully, he does not know what to think (if he can think at all, his thoughts scatter-shot disconnected). He cannot tell if this is truly the end or merely a break: a time for Astarion to indulge in another vice, wine or blood or smoke, before he sets in on his prey once more. And yet Fenris can't ask. He knows better than that (and how easy it is to fall into old habits. Like breathing. Like this, his body and bearing snapping back so easily into slave, his mind so desperate to preserve his sanity that it will do anything to keep him alive).
So he breathes, inhale and exhale, and somewhere he keeps a gentle count. He lets out a soft noise as Astarion's hips shift and another trickle of come spills out of his overfull hole (oh, he's so full, full and fit to burst, his belly faintly swollen and come splattered over his thighs, his hips, his ass). And when he hears open—
Astarion's bride tips his head up (little virgin no longer, no, introduced to the vulgar world of vicious, vigorous rutting, debauched and yet with so much more to learn), his lips wrapping eagerly around leather-clad fingers. Bitterness floods his senses, the taste shockingly sharp after so long tasting nothing but leather and oil. It spills over his tongue, drips down his throat, and some part of Fenris whines silently in satisfaction to know that he's claimed in both ends.
And for a time, there's just that. Peace in the eye of the storm, a fragility that might almost be mistaken for intimate if you did not know better. The room is cool and dark; the boy from before lingers in one corner, his head tipped down and his bearing deferential. Outside, there are faint noises, devoid of context and thus utterly incomprehensible to Fenris. Laughter. Snatches of phrases. The clink of glasses and the sound of music . . . and yet those fade into the background, ignored in favor of the soft, slickened sounds his mouth makes as he suckles. Lazily his tongue winds between Astarion's fingers, his eyes unfocused as he stares up at the canopy of their marriage bed. His thigh rests high, his legs vulgarly stretched around his captor as his bindings dangle from one ankle. Occasionally a pulsing throb from his chest tells him that his piercings are still intact; a soft jangle whenever his ears twitch informs him of the same.
And once the taste of come has faded and there's only leather, his bride slips his tongue out. A pearly sheen coats a drooling tongue, his demonstration obvious: I swallowed.]
Release me . . .?
[It's soft. Not a demand for freedom, impudent and cold, but rather something sweeter: a desire. I want my arms free, and it isn't quite a request and it isn't quite an order. But they hurt. His wrists have broken themselves again and again, his skin rubbed raw; he has not been able to put them down for hours on end, and it hurts.]