Understand: it isn't that he isn't affected by this cruel tug-of-war. Oh, just the opposite: he's dizzy from it. His eyes are clouded with lust, pupils gone unfocused as his body trembles beneath Astarion's own. Aphrodisiac so potent it burns drips through his veins, clouding his senses and making him little more than a feral beast in those moments. There's a roaring in his ears and a hazy fog around the edges of his vision, his field of focus narrowing until everything drops away and there's just Astarion. His wedded husband, his chosen mate . . . and as his blood drips down Fenris' throat and he snaps his hips forward in brutal punishment, he thinks that he has never wanted quite so badly as he does in this moment.
Vicious thing. Cruel thing. Sadistic and mean and petty, and this, this is what they are. This is how they thrive. Not when one has so much power over the other that he makes him writhe (though gods, but that is a thrilling thing, and trust Fenris has passed the hours fantasizing about Astarion with his legs forced apart and his eyes filled with needy tears), but when they fight. When they're forced into equality, no matter how tenuous and temporary, for only then can they be their truest selves. Not a vampire lord, terrible and nightmarish in his hedonism; not a consort-née-slave, shivering in gratitude for the scraps of freedom his new master offers him. It's them, just them, and Fenris loves it.
Not that he's thinking so clearly. All he knows right now is desire, hot and hungry, pulses through him. It makes him desperate, it makes him oversensitive, so that every point of contact the sweetest torment. The insides of his thighs ache for how they're forced wide, his whole body screaming in desire, please yes please, as he drools around the cruel hook of fingers curving into his throat. Please like that please, and when that first merciless thrust comes—
Fenris barks for it.
A short, sharp cry slickly muffled by fingers and lips, his eyes rolling back as his back snaps into an arch— oh, that punishment works perfectly. Stars blaze across his vision as pleasure pulses through him, and it doesn't matter how much it hurts, for he moans for it all the same. Roughened fabric rubs and grinds against his flushed hole; his chains rattle as Fenris desperately gropes for slickened fabric, fingers falling so far short it's laughable. This is what you could have, and desperate as he is, he whines when Astarion's cock draws back—
Only to slam into him again. Again again again, so brutal it knocks the air out of him, so cruel it leaves him growling, bucking, spreading his legs wider as if that might help, more more more, a desperate slut that doesn't care what form his chosen addiction takes, so long as it's fed to him. His needy little hole tightens desperately, rhythmically, trying and failing to cinch around blunted heat; ripples of desire shudder through him each time he fails. He's so close he can all but taste it— and drugged as he is, time blurs. Seconds become minutes and minutes melt away like moments, so that that the tantalizing fantasy of what he might have feels as though it lasts forever. His mind lingers on the thought of Astarion's cock filling him: searingly hot and so thick, stretching him open so wide it's painful, filling him up so thoroughly that he swears he can all but taste it . . . every fuck is a contest in endurance. In proving that he isn't just some young thing, that he can take it (let me take it, his hole rubbing up needily against that brutal assault).
But he doesn't let go.
Even as the desire consumes him. Even as his mind howls for it, his expression twisted into pleading desperation; even as that command crashes around his ears with all the heavy weight of a master scolding his favorite pet, let go, and every instinct he has ever cultivated shrieks to obey. Not yet, not yet— not until Astarion's fierce punishment has reached a fever-pitch. Not until blood smears over his teeth, vulgar and horrific, and he swears his fangs have reached bone—
Then he lets go.
His head falling back as that taunting grin keeps his lips peeled back, his expression as much about dominance as it is pointed amusement (for vampires are beastly monsters, no matter that they pretend otherwise, and only mortals think bearing your teeth is a sign of friendliness). Blood smears over his lips and teeth, his chest heaving as he stares up at his husband.]
Are you having fun yet?
[It's a growl.]
Lord Astarion, who can't even control your consort . . . you really think you can manage an entire empire? Muzzle me if you wish. Tie me further, til I can't move without pleasing you. But all the chains in the world do not mean you have tamed me, husband mine.
[His cheeks are flushed thanks to that stolen blood. His tongue is slick with saliva and blood, and between them, that pretty adornment clinks as Fenris' cock twitches in open desire, plugged up and yet leaking. And yet though there is a collar around his neck— though he looks every inch the despoiled bride Astarion calls him, dressing in dark silks and glimmering adornments, a courtesan of the highest order— there's such fierce pride in his expression.]
Now come fuck me like the good little lord you are.
no subject
Understand: it isn't that he isn't affected by this cruel tug-of-war. Oh, just the opposite: he's dizzy from it. His eyes are clouded with lust, pupils gone unfocused as his body trembles beneath Astarion's own. Aphrodisiac so potent it burns drips through his veins, clouding his senses and making him little more than a feral beast in those moments. There's a roaring in his ears and a hazy fog around the edges of his vision, his field of focus narrowing until everything drops away and there's just Astarion. His wedded husband, his chosen mate . . . and as his blood drips down Fenris' throat and he snaps his hips forward in brutal punishment, he thinks that he has never wanted quite so badly as he does in this moment.
Vicious thing. Cruel thing. Sadistic and mean and petty, and this, this is what they are. This is how they thrive. Not when one has so much power over the other that he makes him writhe (though gods, but that is a thrilling thing, and trust Fenris has passed the hours fantasizing about Astarion with his legs forced apart and his eyes filled with needy tears), but when they fight. When they're forced into equality, no matter how tenuous and temporary, for only then can they be their truest selves. Not a vampire lord, terrible and nightmarish in his hedonism; not a consort-née-slave, shivering in gratitude for the scraps of freedom his new master offers him. It's them, just them, and Fenris loves it.
Not that he's thinking so clearly. All he knows right now is desire, hot and hungry, pulses through him. It makes him desperate, it makes him oversensitive, so that every point of contact the sweetest torment. The insides of his thighs ache for how they're forced wide, his whole body screaming in desire, please yes please, as he drools around the cruel hook of fingers curving into his throat. Please like that please, and when that first merciless thrust comes—
Fenris barks for it.
A short, sharp cry slickly muffled by fingers and lips, his eyes rolling back as his back snaps into an arch— oh, that punishment works perfectly. Stars blaze across his vision as pleasure pulses through him, and it doesn't matter how much it hurts, for he moans for it all the same. Roughened fabric rubs and grinds against his flushed hole; his chains rattle as Fenris desperately gropes for slickened fabric, fingers falling so far short it's laughable. This is what you could have, and desperate as he is, he whines when Astarion's cock draws back—
Only to slam into him again. Again again again, so brutal it knocks the air out of him, so cruel it leaves him growling, bucking, spreading his legs wider as if that might help, more more more, a desperate slut that doesn't care what form his chosen addiction takes, so long as it's fed to him. His needy little hole tightens desperately, rhythmically, trying and failing to cinch around blunted heat; ripples of desire shudder through him each time he fails. He's so close he can all but taste it— and drugged as he is, time blurs. Seconds become minutes and minutes melt away like moments, so that that the tantalizing fantasy of what he might have feels as though it lasts forever. His mind lingers on the thought of Astarion's cock filling him: searingly hot and so thick, stretching him open so wide it's painful, filling him up so thoroughly that he swears he can all but taste it . . . every fuck is a contest in endurance. In proving that he isn't just some young thing, that he can take it (let me take it, his hole rubbing up needily against that brutal assault).
But he doesn't let go.
Even as the desire consumes him. Even as his mind howls for it, his expression twisted into pleading desperation; even as that command crashes around his ears with all the heavy weight of a master scolding his favorite pet, let go, and every instinct he has ever cultivated shrieks to obey. Not yet, not yet— not until Astarion's fierce punishment has reached a fever-pitch. Not until blood smears over his teeth, vulgar and horrific, and he swears his fangs have reached bone—
Then he lets go.
His head falling back as that taunting grin keeps his lips peeled back, his expression as much about dominance as it is pointed amusement (for vampires are beastly monsters, no matter that they pretend otherwise, and only mortals think bearing your teeth is a sign of friendliness). Blood smears over his lips and teeth, his chest heaving as he stares up at his husband.]
Are you having fun yet?
[It's a growl.]
Lord Astarion, who can't even control your consort . . . you really think you can manage an entire empire? Muzzle me if you wish. Tie me further, til I can't move without pleasing you. But all the chains in the world do not mean you have tamed me, husband mine.
[His cheeks are flushed thanks to that stolen blood. His tongue is slick with saliva and blood, and between them, that pretty adornment clinks as Fenris' cock twitches in open desire, plugged up and yet leaking. And yet though there is a collar around his neck— though he looks every inch the despoiled bride Astarion calls him, dressing in dark silks and glimmering adornments, a courtesan of the highest order— there's such fierce pride in his expression.]
Now come fuck me like the good little lord you are.