That's how it goes, isn't it? Fenris remembers. His mortal life seems a faded nightmare at times, but what the front of the mind forgets, the bundle of muscle-memory survival instincts remember. Lessons learned a century before forgotten in face of a new master that doted upon him and called him consort . . . he'd grown complacent. Too enraptured on notions of freedom and autonomy, but before all that, he'd known how to endure this role. How to become whatever it is his master needed of him, whether that was bodyguard or bedslave, confidant or fawning peon— oh, it didn't matter, for Fenris only existed to please. And he did it swiftly and effectively, not because it was what he wanted, but because it was a matter of survival.
Remember, now, he thinks as his head tips back, iron pressed to his lips and blood impossibly far away. Remember that a slave is not a person; remember that mortification is for those who can afford autonomy. Don't ignore the humiliation, but rather let it suffuse through you, for that is the point of tonight, and your master won't be happy unless he sees you writhe. Play your role, little consort, and know in your heart of hearts that it will be a temporary thing. Let that comfort you as you give in . . .
(And it won't. And it doesn't. And he does not know what to do with the fact that some part of him is enjoying this— but then again, he has never known what to do with that part of himself, save bury it and pretend it doesn't exist. But it's that part of himself he leans on now, for there are only two ways out of this predicament, and he is not strong enough to take the option dignity cries for).
Fenris whines for the feeling of leather wrapped so tight around his cock. His back arches into it, his lips parting as overheated air slips past his slickened lips and brushes against iron, oh, he wants more. Every heavy pump of Astarion's hand feels as though it pulls on a string wired throughout his entire body, molten heat pulsing through him in time with a heart that no longer beats. Again, again, his eyes fluttering as his cock swells, helpless to do anything save surrender to his master. The pretty jewelry that hangs from his tip swings with every motion, tugging ever-so-faintly each time his hips rock back and forth. Sparks fly behind his eyes, a low, longing moan rumbling in his throat as his belly twists and his hips snap forward and back, forward and back. Forward, rutting into that domineering hand, his body all but begging for more as his neck strains and his tongue aches for the droplets of blood that flood his senses— and then back, shuddering in anticipation each time blunt heat nudges against his slick hole. More, and the words wash over him, demeaning and enrapturing, wrapping around him like the sweetest collar: I think flush submission is truly your color . . .
And his breath goes ragged. His eyes snap up, crimson eyes murderous even as his lips stay wrapped around the cup's edge. Vampires can't flush, not with rage nor humiliation— and yet there's no mistaking just why his hands tremble in their chains. His chest heaves— and though his every sense is screaming for him to lean forward and take what's offered (for what is a half-cup of cold blood in face of something fresh), still, he lingers there.]
Y-you believe a few droplets are temptation enough to have me submit utterly?
[Bait him. Enrage him. Don't give him time to look around and see that things are off; don't let him grow so enraptured with you that he notices you about to strike. Make it a fight between a vampire and his chosen whore— and it will be a fight, for there is nothing they two love more than to vicious tear at one another. Blind submission might be what Astarion thinks he desires, but oh, Fenris knows his fellow consort— and knows just how to keep his attention.
His head tips forward, his tongue darting out as he laps at those droplets, and it's—
Oh, it's everything. Words don't do it justice, not when blood is so much more than just nutrition. It's a burst of color blinding behind his eyes; it's the sudden deafening roar of sensations and scents and sounds as all his senses roar to life once more. It's feeling a flush to his cheeks and a sudden brightness to his eyes; it's feeling his cock throb in a swift surge of desire, his hips suddenly grinding back with whorish precision. He swallows desperately once, twice, his tongue flicking out to lap at the edge of the cup, determined not to waste a drop.
It isn't nearly enough to sate him, starved thing that he is— but it's just enough to ensure he'll have energy for the coming night. Fenris' head tips forward, his tongue dragging against the side of his mouth as that vicious spark of rebellion flares in his gaze.]
You are my husband, and my lord, and my master . . . but do not think [don't think about what you're saying] that means you have fully tamed me.
[And yet: his hips keep moving, rutting heavily against his master's cock, ignoring the way it makes his collar pull at his throat. A caught whore, yes. A bride tamed but not broken, snarling and seething at his bit—
no subject
That's how it goes, isn't it? Fenris remembers. His mortal life seems a faded nightmare at times, but what the front of the mind forgets, the bundle of muscle-memory survival instincts remember. Lessons learned a century before forgotten in face of a new master that doted upon him and called him consort . . . he'd grown complacent. Too enraptured on notions of freedom and autonomy, but before all that, he'd known how to endure this role. How to become whatever it is his master needed of him, whether that was bodyguard or bedslave, confidant or fawning peon— oh, it didn't matter, for Fenris only existed to please. And he did it swiftly and effectively, not because it was what he wanted, but because it was a matter of survival.
Remember, now, he thinks as his head tips back, iron pressed to his lips and blood impossibly far away. Remember that a slave is not a person; remember that mortification is for those who can afford autonomy. Don't ignore the humiliation, but rather let it suffuse through you, for that is the point of tonight, and your master won't be happy unless he sees you writhe. Play your role, little consort, and know in your heart of hearts that it will be a temporary thing. Let that comfort you as you give in . . .
(And it won't. And it doesn't. And he does not know what to do with the fact that some part of him is enjoying this— but then again, he has never known what to do with that part of himself, save bury it and pretend it doesn't exist. But it's that part of himself he leans on now, for there are only two ways out of this predicament, and he is not strong enough to take the option dignity cries for).
Fenris whines for the feeling of leather wrapped so tight around his cock. His back arches into it, his lips parting as overheated air slips past his slickened lips and brushes against iron, oh, he wants more. Every heavy pump of Astarion's hand feels as though it pulls on a string wired throughout his entire body, molten heat pulsing through him in time with a heart that no longer beats. Again, again, his eyes fluttering as his cock swells, helpless to do anything save surrender to his master. The pretty jewelry that hangs from his tip swings with every motion, tugging ever-so-faintly each time his hips rock back and forth. Sparks fly behind his eyes, a low, longing moan rumbling in his throat as his belly twists and his hips snap forward and back, forward and back. Forward, rutting into that domineering hand, his body all but begging for more as his neck strains and his tongue aches for the droplets of blood that flood his senses— and then back, shuddering in anticipation each time blunt heat nudges against his slick hole. More, and the words wash over him, demeaning and enrapturing, wrapping around him like the sweetest collar: I think flush submission is truly your color . . .
And his breath goes ragged. His eyes snap up, crimson eyes murderous even as his lips stay wrapped around the cup's edge. Vampires can't flush, not with rage nor humiliation— and yet there's no mistaking just why his hands tremble in their chains. His chest heaves— and though his every sense is screaming for him to lean forward and take what's offered (for what is a half-cup of cold blood in face of something fresh), still, he lingers there.]
Y-you believe a few droplets are temptation enough to have me submit utterly?
[Bait him. Enrage him. Don't give him time to look around and see that things are off; don't let him grow so enraptured with you that he notices you about to strike. Make it a fight between a vampire and his chosen whore— and it will be a fight, for there is nothing they two love more than to vicious tear at one another. Blind submission might be what Astarion thinks he desires, but oh, Fenris knows his fellow consort— and knows just how to keep his attention.
His head tips forward, his tongue darting out as he laps at those droplets, and it's—
Oh, it's everything. Words don't do it justice, not when blood is so much more than just nutrition. It's a burst of color blinding behind his eyes; it's the sudden deafening roar of sensations and scents and sounds as all his senses roar to life once more. It's feeling a flush to his cheeks and a sudden brightness to his eyes; it's feeling his cock throb in a swift surge of desire, his hips suddenly grinding back with whorish precision. He swallows desperately once, twice, his tongue flicking out to lap at the edge of the cup, determined not to waste a drop.
It isn't nearly enough to sate him, starved thing that he is— but it's just enough to ensure he'll have energy for the coming night. Fenris' head tips forward, his tongue dragging against the side of his mouth as that vicious spark of rebellion flares in his gaze.]
You are my husband, and my lord, and my master . . . but do not think [don't think about what you're saying] that means you have fully tamed me.
[And yet: his hips keep moving, rutting heavily against his master's cock, ignoring the way it makes his collar pull at his throat. A caught whore, yes. A bride tamed but not broken, snarling and seething at his bit—
And so much fun to put in his place.]