Stupid. Petty. Pathetic, and yet all the more effective a taunt for it: a century of pleasure, and still Astarion hadn't earned it. Not from the little usurper who came in and so effectively stole what was rightfully his; who didn't even have the decency to acknowledge Astarion's skill, and it didn't matter how often they rut. It didn't matter if Fenris would mewl needily for the feeling of being speared upon Astarion's prick or drool around a mouthful of his cock, for the implication was eternally woven into every wordless cry: I'm not thinking of you. You aren't good enough. You don't have my attention. Petty, pathetic Astarion, too old, too used, too rote to be noticed, especially when stacked next to the gleaming bright wonder that is— was— their master. You aren't good enough, and it was a viciously mean bit of retaliation in their eternal war.
But that usurper is dead now— and in his place, Astarion's whore does better.]
Astarion— Astarion—
[And it's not a choice. Not a deigned bit of acquisition, nor a tactical bone thrown to lower Astarion's guard— oh, gods, no. Fenris howls his name, his head tipping back as his voice cries out in worshipful desperation, every syllable as fervent as a prayer. Please the unsubtle subtext as Fenris' eyes fill with tears, precome smeared on his cheek and his whole body shaking for how much he wants him.
And it's not enough. It's not enough, it's not enough— desperately his swollen hole tightens around the ring, tormented by the absence of that searing stretch he hadn't realized he was addicted to until just now. The molten pleasure of being forced open again and again, every swell and ridge of Astarion's cock catching against his rim, stars bursting behind his eyes as he drools out his pleasure— but there's nothing. Nothing save the blunt, brutal pleasure of being used. The air bursts out of his lungs with every slam of their hips, his vision hazy and narrowed as red mist fills the corners of his eyes, but it's not enough, it's not what he wants&dmash; it's the same impotent desperation that had made him gnash his teeth and wail out his displeasure not moments ago. Not enough, not enough—]
Astarion, please—
[His voice ragged and wrecked as he chokes on that plea: precome still coating his throat and spilling past his chin as Astarion's fingers tighten around his throat, more effective than any leash. The iron scent of blood fills the air between them, a sharp undercurrent to the twin scents of sex and sweat that fill their room. Hot breath against his ear and the low, malicious purr of his voice as he teases mercilessly, good boy, my needy bride, you've always wanted this, craving to be tamed and taken, as seductive as a siren's song and just as effective. He has. He has, he has, and yet still he's being denied, the unfairness of it all making him cry out in mingled frustration and arousal. His left hand feebly gropes behind him, fingers brushing briefly against cold skin as supple curves sting for how harshly they're rut into. Over and over, his body writhing even as he's held still, his eyes rolling back as that voice rolls over him—
And all the while, he touches himself.
It's a roughened grip, harsh and hungry, trading in finesse for whatever pleasure he can possibly eke out of this punishment: more please more, his body begging for it even as he hurtles towards his finish. Calloused fingers stroke and tease, his wrist snapping as he pumps his prick, please, please, squeezing and loosening, his thumb smearing desperately over his slit as fat droplets of precome splatter down onto the soaked sheets. Until he feels that familiar hook in the pit of his belly; until that molten heat that was lit aflame by that spawn's slender fingers and stoked by the relentless battering of Astarion's cock begins to overwhelm him. His cries grow more and more frantic, his body thrashing as he hurtles towards his finish, until there's that perfect moment and he's—]
Astarion—!
[—suddenly and sharply shoved over his finish line, as all at once he's yanked backwards into the most vicious arch. Choking from the brutal grip around his throat that forces him to arch, his back bent and his legs splayed whorishly wide— his hand drops his throbbing prick as both rise to grab instinctively at his collar; he cries out in dismay and rage and lust as all at once his orgasm is taken from him. Ruined but not wrecked, maliciously twisted but not taken— come splattering over his belly and chest in pulse after gushing pulse, until at last his cock hangs limply between his legs.]
no subject
[It's always been a point of spiteful pride.
Stupid. Petty. Pathetic, and yet all the more effective a taunt for it: a century of pleasure, and still Astarion hadn't earned it. Not from the little usurper who came in and so effectively stole what was rightfully his; who didn't even have the decency to acknowledge Astarion's skill, and it didn't matter how often they rut. It didn't matter if Fenris would mewl needily for the feeling of being speared upon Astarion's prick or drool around a mouthful of his cock, for the implication was eternally woven into every wordless cry: I'm not thinking of you. You aren't good enough. You don't have my attention. Petty, pathetic Astarion, too old, too used, too rote to be noticed, especially when stacked next to the gleaming bright wonder that is— was— their master. You aren't good enough, and it was a viciously mean bit of retaliation in their eternal war.
But that usurper is dead now— and in his place, Astarion's whore does better.]
Astarion— Astarion—
[And it's not a choice. Not a deigned bit of acquisition, nor a tactical bone thrown to lower Astarion's guard— oh, gods, no. Fenris howls his name, his head tipping back as his voice cries out in worshipful desperation, every syllable as fervent as a prayer. Please the unsubtle subtext as Fenris' eyes fill with tears, precome smeared on his cheek and his whole body shaking for how much he wants him.
And it's not enough. It's not enough, it's not enough— desperately his swollen hole tightens around the ring, tormented by the absence of that searing stretch he hadn't realized he was addicted to until just now. The molten pleasure of being forced open again and again, every swell and ridge of Astarion's cock catching against his rim, stars bursting behind his eyes as he drools out his pleasure— but there's nothing. Nothing save the blunt, brutal pleasure of being used. The air bursts out of his lungs with every slam of their hips, his vision hazy and narrowed as red mist fills the corners of his eyes, but it's not enough, it's not what he wants&dmash; it's the same impotent desperation that had made him gnash his teeth and wail out his displeasure not moments ago. Not enough, not enough—]
Astarion, please—
[His voice ragged and wrecked as he chokes on that plea: precome still coating his throat and spilling past his chin as Astarion's fingers tighten around his throat, more effective than any leash. The iron scent of blood fills the air between them, a sharp undercurrent to the twin scents of sex and sweat that fill their room. Hot breath against his ear and the low, malicious purr of his voice as he teases mercilessly, good boy, my needy bride, you've always wanted this, craving to be tamed and taken, as seductive as a siren's song and just as effective. He has. He has, he has, and yet still he's being denied, the unfairness of it all making him cry out in mingled frustration and arousal. His left hand feebly gropes behind him, fingers brushing briefly against cold skin as supple curves sting for how harshly they're rut into. Over and over, his body writhing even as he's held still, his eyes rolling back as that voice rolls over him—
And all the while, he touches himself.
It's a roughened grip, harsh and hungry, trading in finesse for whatever pleasure he can possibly eke out of this punishment: more please more, his body begging for it even as he hurtles towards his finish. Calloused fingers stroke and tease, his wrist snapping as he pumps his prick, please, please, squeezing and loosening, his thumb smearing desperately over his slit as fat droplets of precome splatter down onto the soaked sheets. Until he feels that familiar hook in the pit of his belly; until that molten heat that was lit aflame by that spawn's slender fingers and stoked by the relentless battering of Astarion's cock begins to overwhelm him. His cries grow more and more frantic, his body thrashing as he hurtles towards his finish, until there's that perfect moment and he's—]
Astarion—!
[—suddenly and sharply shoved over his finish line, as all at once he's yanked backwards into the most vicious arch. Choking from the brutal grip around his throat that forces him to arch, his back bent and his legs splayed whorishly wide— his hand drops his throbbing prick as both rise to grab instinctively at his collar; he cries out in dismay and rage and lust as all at once his orgasm is taken from him. Ruined but not wrecked, maliciously twisted but not taken— come splattering over his belly and chest in pulse after gushing pulse, until at last his cock hangs limply between his legs.]