[('You need to control yourself, Astarion.' Cold grip clenched down into the muscle of his arm through coarser linen, pulling him back in the middle of a milling crowd. Every passing body filling his nostrils with a mix of acidity that smells of sweat and pungent ale—
Beyond them, faces. Distorted and braying.
Clank—
A glass hits the floor the second that he yanks himself free against the grain of all concern.)
His heel knocks the cup.
Clank—
It was with a shriek that Chione's heart was pierced to the marrow by cold wrath. Folly ravaged by a twin whose loss was already assured. It's without one that Astarion coarsely tears himself away from bloodied lips, his naked hand in pulpy tatters from the knuckle down, his fingers howling where he'd stopped full minutes ago. The flexion shuck of his lips curling around bone white fangs all he can do to keep from lunging at his penned-in counterpart outright, and even then, it's narrow as the fillamented membrane still clinging to his sinew: the hot, wet, baleful shine of his eyes betraying every churning emotion driving him to weep in retroactive outrage, hammering like the heart he doesn't have (agony— agony— )
—Lust.
Lust like venom in his throat. Lust like a guttural snarl. Lust like a madness that outright seethes only to break across harsh mockery— and flaring all the hotter for the stolen blaze of red already washing over sunset cheeks, those rasping false breaths rumbling with wolfish strength regained. Blind when he lunges. Aware the second that his palms hit their mark— both of them (one wracking his nerves with a fresher surge of pain as it catches Fenris by the neck; torn tissue barely begun mending when that impact shatters all its progress)— gloved hand slammed into the mural bracketing Fenris' head, mosaic tiles splintering in split-second warning, though there's nowhere for his prey to go. Nowhere to run with those chains already tensed nigh to their limit, Astarion snarling in his face.
And when they kiss, it burns.
A bite for a bite— blood flooding the outline of their lips as he consummates their levirated bond a second time. Cock already twinging hard between his legs, aching for its own revenge. (In a moment. In a moment he'll drive those knees against the wall, tearing the last of that lacework away just to mount his waiting hole while it lies slick within his grasp— unguarded and pried open well before it's viciously assaulted. Not fucked, no. Not even that sole scrap of squirming dignity is good enough to offer, now. He won't grant his thieving twin the satisfaction of anything but use.)]
A whore doesn't get his supper until he's begged for it.
[The give of his mouth around Fenris' punctured tongue is like a ragged gurgle of lush movement. Rumbling through pulses of forced air that fill the empty space around sharp teeth, crawling back towards his throat. No effort made to embellish what he sounds like: a monster drunk on envy and rote want. Scraping up satisfaction as it squeals.
Or in this case, maybe: squirms.]
And you stole yours early.
You're not getting fucked tonight.
[Up come those legs in a whip of unseen movement— pinned together so tightly that caught knees must ache for contact. The swollen little sight of a pair of tight, diminutively supple curves gracing the middle of those trapped thighs Astarion's to savor as he likes: their captured tensity trapped in the shadow of dark stockings, right above full cheeks and their precious, agitated nexus. Its slathered epicenter turned a vulgar shade of lacquered red from his abuse, twitching as he draws back just to watch it.
And when he releases Fenris' throat just to strike those upturned cheeks, he aims straight for their meridian. Letting sound shatter in midair. Once. Twice. Three times— each blow sterner than the last.
He howls for the slave— his spawn— to return, but instead of the boy from before another servant arrives in a flurry of movement, her attention keenly fixed. Barely enough time for her to set aside the tray that she'd been holding only seconds before, knowing he won't need it, if nothing else.]
A gag. [He demands without looking.
—slap—
One more snap of his arm punctuating his demand, and furthering his gritted snarl. Bad dog.]
Make that two: one for each of his misbehaving holes.
[He tears a section of her clothing away with his bare hand before she leaves, ignoring her startled yelp. It works to bind those ankles— even when he pushes them higher just to make a better point. Her returned offering driven into Fenris' mouth the second that it's given: a thick ring barring him from biting, but leaving his inner heat exposed. And it's with cold, deliberate cruelty Astarion does the same to Leto's prone little entry— a little harness of a ring plug that's forced right into that helpless cinch— driving it open in ways that beg for filling.
Only to be not.
Instead he lets those legs drop. Puts his knees down tight on shackled arms and slowly unfastens his damp trousers— gripping pallid hair just before his cock slips out of restrictive binds with a weighted drop of overengorged motion. Drooling and oppressively thick in the second that it knocks against that gag's slick edge. Sliding on its seam in a crude parody of a lover's languid kiss.
And he doesn't waste time.
Both hands move to fist tight. He's pinned his subsumed bitches' head against the wall and buried in his prick with a quick jerk of his hips, melting to feel the softened give of searing constriction that enfolds him without choice— fucking down until he feels his body driven flush against Fenris' nose and chin—
And onwards.
(In the background that half-dressed spawn still works under strict orders: carefully oiling the full span of Fenris' length after removing decorations and spent silk, her slow, methodical efforts marked by muted jingling and soft strokes— and interceded by the careful feeling of slim fingers doing the very same soon enough to that locked-in plug....as well as everything caught deep inside its borders. Oiling every wall. Every pliant little swell of knotwork muscle and bundled nerves. All so that there is nothing Astarion can't take.
And take he does.)
Grinding into that captive mouth until his prick jerks in the threat of spilling— watching every expression Fenris wears as his throat obeys its new master and his tongue flexes just to milk at those incandescent thrusts, fighting for friction or freedom only to find it's all the same.
And then, never letting go of that hair, Astarion slides back to grind atop Fenris' waiting cock with mocking ease, proving there is no part of his body that won't be used or toyed with at his leisure— bouncing on its span while that buried cinch lies empty and his vacant throat must burn with unsatisfied desire— until his own prick jumps with eagerness and he rises up again: holding his swollen crest to the very rim of that gag, offering the opportunity to obey. To work him over properly like a good little bride. And if it isn't taken— he starts again.
And again.
And again.]
Suck, vampire.
[The spawn's fingers are— on orders— kneading deep inside Fenris, now. Her softset prints playing at his inner walls without gifting him a second's rest. Rolling back and forth within tight heat. Massaging till he wriggles; his body out of tune.
Astarion's sore crown hanging heavy and dripping with glossy precome— a thick line of dewdrop spit strung like jewelry from its twitching slit across that waiting tongue.]
Or I'll take my next meeting in this room and let them see what little you're good for.
iliad 34534676 forever and ever
Beyond them, faces. Distorted and braying.
Clank—
A glass hits the floor the second that he yanks himself free against the grain of all concern.)
His heel knocks the cup.
Clank—
It was with a shriek that Chione's heart was pierced to the marrow by cold wrath. Folly ravaged by a twin whose loss was already assured. It's without one that Astarion coarsely tears himself away from bloodied lips, his naked hand in pulpy tatters from the knuckle down, his fingers howling where he'd stopped full minutes ago. The flexion shuck of his lips curling around bone white fangs all he can do to keep from lunging at his penned-in counterpart outright, and even then, it's narrow as the fillamented membrane still clinging to his sinew: the hot, wet, baleful shine of his eyes betraying every churning emotion driving him to weep in retroactive outrage, hammering like the heart he doesn't have (agony— agony— )
—Lust.
Lust like venom in his throat. Lust like a guttural snarl. Lust like a madness that outright seethes only to break across harsh mockery— and flaring all the hotter for the stolen blaze of red already washing over sunset cheeks, those rasping false breaths rumbling with wolfish strength regained. Blind when he lunges. Aware the second that his palms hit their mark— both of them (one wracking his nerves with a fresher surge of pain as it catches Fenris by the neck; torn tissue barely begun mending when that impact shatters all its progress)— gloved hand slammed into the mural bracketing Fenris' head, mosaic tiles splintering in split-second warning, though there's nowhere for his prey to go. Nowhere to run with those chains already tensed nigh to their limit, Astarion snarling in his face.
And when they kiss, it burns.
A bite for a bite— blood flooding the outline of their lips as he consummates their levirated bond a second time. Cock already twinging hard between his legs, aching for its own revenge. (In a moment. In a moment he'll drive those knees against the wall, tearing the last of that lacework away just to mount his waiting hole while it lies slick within his grasp— unguarded and pried open well before it's viciously assaulted. Not fucked, no. Not even that sole scrap of squirming dignity is good enough to offer, now. He won't grant his thieving twin the satisfaction of anything but use.)]
A whore doesn't get his supper until he's begged for it.
[The give of his mouth around Fenris' punctured tongue is like a ragged gurgle of lush movement. Rumbling through pulses of forced air that fill the empty space around sharp teeth, crawling back towards his throat. No effort made to embellish what he sounds like: a monster drunk on envy and rote want. Scraping up satisfaction as it squeals.
Or in this case, maybe: squirms.]
And you stole yours early.
You're not getting fucked tonight.
[Up come those legs in a whip of unseen movement— pinned together so tightly that caught knees must ache for contact. The swollen little sight of a pair of tight, diminutively supple curves gracing the middle of those trapped thighs Astarion's to savor as he likes: their captured tensity trapped in the shadow of dark stockings, right above full cheeks and their precious, agitated nexus. Its slathered epicenter turned a vulgar shade of lacquered red from his abuse, twitching as he draws back just to watch it.
And when he releases Fenris' throat just to strike those upturned cheeks, he aims straight for their meridian. Letting sound shatter in midair. Once. Twice. Three times— each blow sterner than the last.
He howls for the slave— his spawn— to return, but instead of the boy from before another servant arrives in a flurry of movement, her attention keenly fixed. Barely enough time for her to set aside the tray that she'd been holding only seconds before, knowing he won't need it, if nothing else.]
A gag. [He demands without looking.
—slap—
One more snap of his arm punctuating his demand, and furthering his gritted snarl. Bad dog.]
Make that two: one for each of his misbehaving holes.
[He tears a section of her clothing away with his bare hand before she leaves, ignoring her startled yelp. It works to bind those ankles— even when he pushes them higher just to make a better point. Her returned offering driven into Fenris' mouth the second that it's given: a thick ring barring him from biting, but leaving his inner heat exposed. And it's with cold, deliberate cruelty Astarion does the same to Leto's prone little entry— a little harness of a ring plug that's forced right into that helpless cinch— driving it open in ways that beg for filling.
Only to be not.
Instead he lets those legs drop. Puts his knees down tight on shackled arms and slowly unfastens his damp trousers— gripping pallid hair just before his cock slips out of restrictive binds with a weighted drop of overengorged motion. Drooling and oppressively thick in the second that it knocks against that gag's slick edge. Sliding on its seam in a crude parody of a lover's languid kiss.
And he doesn't waste time.
Both hands move to fist tight. He's pinned his subsumed bitches' head against the wall and buried in his prick with a quick jerk of his hips, melting to feel the softened give of searing constriction that enfolds him without choice— fucking down until he feels his body driven flush against Fenris' nose and chin—
And onwards.
(In the background that half-dressed spawn still works under strict orders: carefully oiling the full span of Fenris' length after removing decorations and spent silk, her slow, methodical efforts marked by muted jingling and soft strokes— and interceded by the careful feeling of slim fingers doing the very same soon enough to that locked-in plug....as well as everything caught deep inside its borders. Oiling every wall. Every pliant little swell of knotwork muscle and bundled nerves. All so that there is nothing Astarion can't take.
And take he does.)
Grinding into that captive mouth until his prick jerks in the threat of spilling— watching every expression Fenris wears as his throat obeys its new master and his tongue flexes just to milk at those incandescent thrusts, fighting for friction or freedom only to find it's all the same.
And then, never letting go of that hair, Astarion slides back to grind atop Fenris' waiting cock with mocking ease, proving there is no part of his body that won't be used or toyed with at his leisure— bouncing on its span while that buried cinch lies empty and his vacant throat must burn with unsatisfied desire— until his own prick jumps with eagerness and he rises up again: holding his swollen crest to the very rim of that gag, offering the opportunity to obey. To work him over properly like a good little bride. And if it isn't taken— he starts again.
And again.
And again.]
Suck, vampire.
[The spawn's fingers are— on orders— kneading deep inside Fenris, now. Her softset prints playing at his inner walls without gifting him a second's rest. Rolling back and forth within tight heat. Massaging till he wriggles; his body out of tune.
Astarion's sore crown hanging heavy and dripping with glossy precome— a thick line of dewdrop spit strung like jewelry from its twitching slit across that waiting tongue.]
Or I'll take my next meeting in this room and let them see what little you're good for.