There's several blades, actually, and all of them within easy reach, for Fenris has no idea how Astarion means to position him tonight. They're wicked things, long and jagged, but they won't stop a vampire for long. They'll barely stop him for half an hour, if that, and even then, one has to bank on the fact that the vampire in question is a fussy thing, loathing pain and inconvenience. But Fenris doesn't need much time.
Just enough to subdue Astarion, at least temporarily. Just enough time to turn the tables on his counterpart, striking a blow fierce enough that once Simon leaks the news, the shockwaves will ripple throughout all the covens. For Fenris has no doubt Astarion's tongue has started its wicked work already: consort and whore, not husband and partner. My pretty little bride, oh, yes, his counterpart is a wickedly clever thing, and he has the advantage right now.)
He's so aware of everything as Astarion approaches, and even he does not know if that's due to wariness or arousal. Both, maybe: his mind rocking endlessly between a warrior's anticipation and a vampire's lust, his senses suddenly working overtime to take note of every single detail in this moment.
Like: the way that gilded decoration jingles so loudly in the relative silence as his cock swells against gauzy lace. Like: the way his chest heaves as he fights for false breath, those piercings straining against thin silk as he fights the urge to glance away. Like: the way his back is forced into an arch thanks to the pillows behind him, forcing him to put himself on display as his lord master settles between his thighs. The scent of blood fills the air, and Fenris cannot swallow the sudden swell of saliva in his mouth without being aware of just how tight his collar has gone around his throat. The golden chain that keeps him leashed is cold against his back; his wrists ache, though his ties have been loosened enough that he can move— albeit at a short distance.
And above all else: the electrifying burst of humiliation that pulses through him in false echo of a heartbeat, wave after wave crashing through him and leaving him all but moaning in response. His ears have flattened against his skull, but though he longs to glance away, he forces himself to hold Astarion's gaze. His crimson eyes are defiant things at first glance— though it will not take Astarion long to see the way they flicker with lust and longing, base instincts struggling to conquer the last echoes of an usurper's defiance.
No, he is no helpless virgin anymore. No longer is this the bride that Astarion had rutted, that trembling thing in desperate need of tending. He's accepted his fate, whether or not he's pleased with it— and so perhaps it's no surprise that he pushes himself forward. His leash goes taut, his wrists straining as Fenris moves to straddle his husband: thighs curling tight around his hips, his hands drawn back even as he squirms, settling in to Astarion's lap. Soft plushness rubs pointedly against swelling hardness, shifting until he can align them perfectly.]
Like this?
[Soft. Throaty. This close, Astarion will be able to see how his eyes flicker now and then, saliva glistening on his fangs as he tries not to focus on that blood— but what a good boy, that he isn't reaching for it just yet.
(Not that he could, not with his arms still tied— but intent has to count for something, doesn't it?)]
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There's several blades, actually, and all of them within easy reach, for Fenris has no idea how Astarion means to position him tonight. They're wicked things, long and jagged, but they won't stop a vampire for long. They'll barely stop him for half an hour, if that, and even then, one has to bank on the fact that the vampire in question is a fussy thing, loathing pain and inconvenience. But Fenris doesn't need much time.
Just enough to subdue Astarion, at least temporarily. Just enough time to turn the tables on his counterpart, striking a blow fierce enough that once Simon leaks the news, the shockwaves will ripple throughout all the covens. For Fenris has no doubt Astarion's tongue has started its wicked work already: consort and whore, not husband and partner. My pretty little bride, oh, yes, his counterpart is a wickedly clever thing, and he has the advantage right now.)
He's so aware of everything as Astarion approaches, and even he does not know if that's due to wariness or arousal. Both, maybe: his mind rocking endlessly between a warrior's anticipation and a vampire's lust, his senses suddenly working overtime to take note of every single detail in this moment.
Like: the way that gilded decoration jingles so loudly in the relative silence as his cock swells against gauzy lace. Like: the way his chest heaves as he fights for false breath, those piercings straining against thin silk as he fights the urge to glance away. Like: the way his back is forced into an arch thanks to the pillows behind him, forcing him to put himself on display as his lord master settles between his thighs. The scent of blood fills the air, and Fenris cannot swallow the sudden swell of saliva in his mouth without being aware of just how tight his collar has gone around his throat. The golden chain that keeps him leashed is cold against his back; his wrists ache, though his ties have been loosened enough that he can move— albeit at a short distance.
And above all else: the electrifying burst of humiliation that pulses through him in false echo of a heartbeat, wave after wave crashing through him and leaving him all but moaning in response. His ears have flattened against his skull, but though he longs to glance away, he forces himself to hold Astarion's gaze. His crimson eyes are defiant things at first glance— though it will not take Astarion long to see the way they flicker with lust and longing, base instincts struggling to conquer the last echoes of an usurper's defiance.
No, he is no helpless virgin anymore. No longer is this the bride that Astarion had rutted, that trembling thing in desperate need of tending. He's accepted his fate, whether or not he's pleased with it— and so perhaps it's no surprise that he pushes himself forward. His leash goes taut, his wrists straining as Fenris moves to straddle his husband: thighs curling tight around his hips, his hands drawn back even as he squirms, settling in to Astarion's lap. Soft plushness rubs pointedly against swelling hardness, shifting until he can align them perfectly.]
Like this?
[Soft. Throaty. This close, Astarion will be able to see how his eyes flicker now and then, saliva glistening on his fangs as he tries not to focus on that blood— but what a good boy, that he isn't reaching for it just yet.
(Not that he could, not with his arms still tied— but intent has to count for something, doesn't it?)]