[Which means that they can draw apart. And yet Fenris isn't so inclined to flinch away, not yet— his fingers curl once more, hooking deep into Astarion as he glares up at him.]
I have told you not to call me that.
[Why shouldn't they fight as they continue to rut? It's as natural as anything else.]
I happened to be there when you said it. [Astarion rumbles back around the narrow divides between their fangs— his tenor the most patchwork assortment of sarcasm (first), petty spite (second), and last, albeit immeasurably far from least: arousal. Avarice. Need. Acrimonious lust. The rest of his honeyed nature left out in the open like a steel trap, all but begging his companion to come closer towards the gleam of inevitable danger.
The next push down across those crooked fingers (the next febrile pump upwards from them) such a violent collision, the sound of skin-on-skin unremittingly echoing throughout an otherwise empty room: pounding tempo wet-slick and richly audible, while friction punctuates for them what neither would readily admit to if asked— oh, they might be growling into the heart of one another's mouths, but there's no chain left to bind them. There's no mote that keeps them from pulling back too far.
(They could stop, if they wanted to.)]
—Little wolf.
[The only thing pulling is the pressure swollen tight around spread knuckles. The only thing rising is the feverflare strain of his own cock caught beneath his thumb and fore, and the uncut bloom of blistering urgency laced across the edges of his sight, darker and deeper by the second. Their sire gone for the moment. They've been left to wait on his command, but his command only required them to stay. And they are, in technical truth— they are— his slender thighs still tucked tight around lithe hips in the exact same spot they'd perched in just before the door behind them shut. His trousers striving to bite into his skin for tension, their grasp a rolling thing: high and tight as he ruts himself with whorish fluidity (forward, forward, forward— undulating with a series of swift bucks that push him deeper into the catch of Fenris' thickened crown, let alone slip over him; what a sight it has to be, perched on all fours atop glimpses of dusky skin, fucked into and spread and bent low as if he feeds upon his packmate's ruthlessness), slackened so he can feel the sting of restored sensation slither up between his legs. He rolls his shoulders forward until his body eclipses Fenris' own entirely. He cranes his neck until it aches. He chases lips with the sinful urge to bite down—
And none of it is a retreat.
In a way, there's almost more risk involved like this. Unsupervised, what they enact becomes a game of patience. A test of will. (Don't come before he returns. Don't exclude the one that bid you start to begin with, tsk tsk— ) Then again, maybe it's all subterfuge: red light green light played out with the highest stakes imaginable, as far as their own hierarchy goes. After all, whoever's left looking the instigator when Vakares returns is likely going to be the one inevitably pinned for all their play.
And their sire isn't like the other vampiric lords, but still.
Neither of them want to ruin his farewell. The last few days they have to spend together— even Astarion won't bite the way he could (or would, under any other given circumstances).
But—
(But)
What harm is there in just a little more entanglement? If they couch themselves....
Oh, if they're careful. (Vakares could be gone for hours— or minutes.) Desire too blinding to ignore when he's more possessed of incense than sense, groaning and snarling into the bow of Fenris' lips, signing each kiss like a declaration of ownership whilst the figurative cat's away.]
Ridiculous little fledgling cinch.
[His hold twists with sudden intensity— thumb tucked tight over the tip of Fenris' cock, until even beading arousal's forced back down into its den.]
Whining about pet names when you could just be whining for a good breeding.
[Oh, fuck— his head turns sharply, Astarion's next kiss landing haphazardly on his cheek as he bites at his own lip. Don't, don't, and it's a temporary thing. A momentary faltering, and he'll blame it solely on the cruel plug Astarion's thumb has become— but oh, god, he's so weak to that kind of goading. It leaves him panting with open-mouth desire, some small part of him whimpering eagerly: please yes please, take me like that. He loves it when it's from Vakares (their sire always so torturously deliberate about it, savoring fucking into each of them with relish. Tail up, his breath hot against Fenris' ear, his hands locked on his wrists as he rut into him . . . oh, he loves it from Vakares. And as for Astarion—
Oh, don't deny it: he loves it from him too.
Not, as Astarion had once sneeringly suggested, because he wants little more than a cock in him as often as possible, and never mind who it belongs to. And not because he inherently enjoys losing to Astarion— oh, gods, no, never, he loves triumphing over him. He loves mounting him, rutting him, hissing taunts as he fucks him into incoherence, and oh, he can do it. But . . . he does thrill in the other way. When he's beaten and sore and Astarion lines them up, and there's that first stretching push that doesn't stop spreading him open, not until he fucks him to the hilt . . .
He loves it. He drools for it. And here and now, there is a moment when Astarion hisses that and Fenris' first thought isn't of fighting back, but submitting. Please, please . . .
(And it's never quite as vicious as either of them would like. It's not the level of brutal meanness that they both chomp at the bit for— but Vakares wants so badly for them to get along, and fucking someone until they've come twice and are begging you to stop isn't their sire's idea of peaceful co-mingling.)
And yet it wouldn't be half as satisfying if he simply gave in.
So: he glances away. So: his next false exhale is a ragged thing, his teeth flashing as he bites at his lip. And yet there's such steel in his gaze when his head turns back again, for he isn't going to just let Astarion win. Not tonight. Gods, especially not tonight.]
Is that the game we're playing.
[His voice is rougher, lower, a rumble in the center of his chest as he stares up at him.]
And yet only one of us is getting fucked right now.
[With a little grin he scissors his fingers wide in vicious demonstration.]
If you want something, old man, I suggest you ask for it instead of trying to pin it on me. Come ride me, Astarion. Is that what you're aching for? Close your eyes and you can even pretend it's him if you want. Singling you out, making you feel special again . . .
[Oh, that's mean, but so are they— and Fenris is at his nastiest when he's incensed.]
Call out his name. Pretend you're young again. I won't mind.
A good fuck, first and foremost. Possessed of a thick cock with an unrelenting temperament and length enough to split whatever he pierces— and proud of his merits in that regard, so easily knowing that he'll never be replaced: for no one serves Vakares the way that he serves Vakares. No one can part thighs until they tremble the way that he does. No one can coax mewls from freshly bitten lips (oh he sees you duck your head, little wolf) the way that he can. No one else can nestle into the feverish cusp of vulnerable need and instantly push just right against pliant, shuddering, fretful little confines— sparking up fulgent sensation like raked embers.
The very thing he knows drives Fenris to tightening right now, even though he isn't watching him to check ( —ah, but there's a thought for later, perhaps: getting him flustered and soaked through with all his ardor— drool and precome both— then push those agile legs back with both hands just to see him spread, thinking he's about to be well fed.
And then breathe on that tight little hole, the one bared just for him.
Watching it tense. Tighten. Entreat Astarion for his sadistic touch as if he could be swayed so easily by anything belonging to this whelp. Oh, he'll make him beg, this time. He'll lick and tease and brush idly over that glossy little measure without plunging in until it all but breaks him, and pride becomes an afterthought: unnecessary and unneeded compared to the primal bliss of being used.) Satisfaction already curled low within the dark pit of his stomach. Contentment pooling underneath the narrow bracket of his ribs. Deciding now to mount him only when he's spent and useless, if only so that he can spend his time staring down at the measure of his own rucked-up handiwork.
Hm.
Maybe their sire was right after all. Maybe they can reconcile— for a time. A short, pleasant, transient time. Maybe, he thinks—
But of course, that was what he'd thought before Fenris opened his mouth.
And just like that, everything beforehand vanishes. Suddenly he isn't thinking— let alone about sweet denouements and rising thirst. Suddenly he doesn't care anymore, at least not half as much as he hears the incessant clamor of words squeezed out through self-smug fangs: pretend it's him— pretend you're young again. I won't mind.
Old man.
His knee lifts.
It's not gradual. It's not part of another bit of movement— no. His knee lifts so that he can slam it down across his counterpart's forearm, wrenching himself forwards until those digging fingers are yanked free in a single wetted little twist (pressure jolts within his belly, and he doesn't care—) his free hand snagging the clasp of that pretty leather collar and with cruelty unbound, drives Fenris face down against the floor.
There: one tan leg swiftly kicked out wide— (there: the other in mirrored twin— ) leaving the younger vampire sprawled flat with his face and body flush against cold marble, his clothing in scrappish tatters: humiliatingly obscene for how he's been made spread-eagled from the waist down, with Astarion perched on his knees between them. That thick cock heavily tapping at the centerline dividing lush curves right down their suddenly unguarded middle, bobbing for every shift in weight while he makes certain there won't be any wriggling free.
Because there won't be.
(Not now. Not anymore.)]
Thank you for that generous offer, my dear, beloved mate.
[The last word curdles on his tongue. So cloying that it nearly bleeds enmity over red-stained lips.
He rocks his hips just once— the crown of his cruel length butting briefly against a cinch that threatens to spread under hardly any coaxing whatsoever (just like its master). It's a simple tap. A push. He barely levers himself at all, and he can feel how tension melts each time he closes in— ]
I'll be sure to remember it when you're screaming for me to stop.
[Fenris isn't the only one that turns vicious when incensed.
Hunched like a lion over tattered scraps, one hand hooked in that collar and keeping it to cold stone, the other fanned flat across the back of Fenris' skull. His knees resting wide and comfortable like bracketry for the lithe legs they bar fully from even the mere notion of traction: all of his inhuman prowess committed to pinning mastery— all of it surrounding the shallow spurring of his drooling prick, overeager for its hunt.
When he leans forward, close to a downturned, pointed ear, all that pressure doubles.]
Beg.
[And if it weren't convincing enough, he drops his hips by depthless degrees— letting agonizingly blunt rigidity distend the little hole it teases.
A vulgar knife to a pretty, obligingly obedient throat.]
The taunt leaves his lips and Astarion strikes— and oh, it's a fight when he does. A seething snarl rumbling in Fenris' throat as he moves, squirms, fingers curved and claws out, his teeth bared in open challenge— but oh, it doesn't matter. Not when Astarion is centuries older; not when, for all that their master tries to paint them as evenly matched, there's still such a gap between his two favorite pets when it comes to vampiric prowess.
And in the end, he's left humiliated: pain blooming behind his eyes as he's shoved face-first into the floor like an errant pup, his legs spread-eagle and his clothing torn to tatters. Cold air brushes against his hole, and oh, it doesn't matter how many times they've seen one another bare, for Fenris still shudders in rising humiliation as he realizes what a view Astarion has right now. His hated rival not just spread open, but pinned in place like a petulant slut who can't quite admit what it is he wants. For though Fenris' mind is snarling, his body— oh, his body melts to feel that familiar pressure. Hot and thick and perfect, tapping at his hole, spreading him open just enough to leave him shuddering—
Beg.
(He knows what Astarion means. Beg, not just a grudging plea spat up spitefully, but the kind of begging their master loves. Fawning and doting, adoring and needy, please, Vakares, please, I've been so good, sugar-spun sweetness on their glazed lips as they tremble in desire . . . and it isn't false, understand. It isn't a put-on little act (or at least, it comes from a place of sincerity). It's just that Vakares is so very good at slowly but thoroughly driving them out of their minds; it's just that they love him so much, and he always looks so gratified when they do something of their own volition).
Beg.
He struggles again and again, fighting against the inevitable. Squirming and writhing, shoving his palms flat against the floor, only to realize again and again that there is no getting free, not now. Blunt heat presses so sweetly against his hole, spreading him open just a little bit; he tightens in involuntary response, his body greedy for what it isn't being given. More, please, fluttering near-orgasmic pulses as his cock drools against the marble floor.
Still, there's silence. Still, the tension grows— and yet sooner or later, there's the most begrudging:]
Please.
[Oh, he hates it. He hates him, vicious and spiteful elder, so possessive and desperate to keep what is his that he seethes at anyone who dares approach. He hates that he is stronger and faster; he hates moments like these, where he loathes him as much as he desires him, electricity sparking between them and his attraction fiercer than ever. Fenris shudders beneath him, his claws scratching against stone as his fingers flex in vain.
And oh, he can't. He can't, not when his ears are ringing in humiliation and all of him feels so hot. The words dance on his tongue, and there's nothing that can make them slip past his lips now: Astarion, please, I'll be so good, I'll earn it, please, let me worship you, let me lap at you with my tongue, let me put my mouth on every inch of you so that you'll fuck me, please, please, I'll do anything, I'll be your slut, your consort, your needy little brat, please—]
Please. Fuck me before he gets back, please. Do what I can feel you ache to do, please.
[It's not enough. It's barely begging— but oh, it's all he can manage right now, his ears pinned flat against his skull and his voice thick with humiliation.]
Now— or do you intend to wait until he declares one of us heir before you put it in?
That's not the baying whimper of complete surrender that he's owed (yet his lifeless lungs bristle with inflamed desire as he feels the vampire beneath him squirm hopelessly beneath his claws, taken to absently sucking in breath for fun rather than purpose)— and true, Astarion loves submission, but he'll take hopeless ire any day of the week: more than stunning enough payment as it crawls its way up the agile curvature of a spine bowed helplessly in his shadow. Thumb brushing idly at white hair in the most spiteful imitation of their master's praising touch.
A reward befitting that obedience.]
I don't need to wait. [In perfect unison: how his voice (thicker than blood, thicker than curdling lust itself) slithers into a single twitching ear, while his cock slips that much deeper— plush warmth wrapped enviably tight around his restless tip. Where each ensuing angle taken by way of outright undulating degrees (degrees that never stop canting— never stop shifting from left to right or up and down— violating every inch they touch with glossing swaths of dribbling precome), is never far enough inwards to enforce that final, necessary little pop of claiming satisfaction (the one defined in the border between his blunted crest and thickrun shaft), instead merely rubbed against the brim of Fenris' narrow stretch without end. The very cuspis of more intermingling with not enough. Never enough.]
I know it'll be me.
[He doesn't (he does— he doesn't— certainty slipping through his grasp each time he tries to nail it down, oily and unregenerate. Truthfully beneath it all: he doesn't— ) but they're both toying with fantasy right now, aren't they?
And a world in which he gets what he wants appeals to him like nothing else.]
You do too, don't you?
[(Mine. Already you're mine.)]
So let's make this our trial run, shall we? [Another set of shallow pumps— quick, quick, slow— teasing the difference between fucking and being bred, fluidity laid sweetly in his spurring hips when all his prey can do is whine.] I want to take my new whore out for a ride before I fit him with a bit and bridle.
[It isn't a request. He isn't asking for permission. Whether Fenris fights or relents, the threat of being shoved to the floor and made esteemed high cocksleeve for his new master is practically force-fed between his fangs as surely as said bit and bridle: something to break this unruly creature so receptive to his touch and so defiant of it, too.]
Now.
As I said before, little wolf.
Beg.
[A yank against those wisps of moonstruck hair. A hateful tug to— ]
—Faster than its burnished knob can turn, Astarion's already gone flat: all of his weight sunken over Fenris' prone form, his slender body funneled into flowing shapes that mirror sloping contours and suppler high rises. No longer is that collar caught between tight fingers— instead those nimble digits merely pull it tenderly aside; away from the caress of a loving mouth that nestles gently against skin, each kiss enacted just as humbly as if he'd fit them to Vakares himself. Their ankles intertwined, their image utterly enraptured. Lovers lost to salivating appetites, enkindled and undone.
He is, after all, a flawless performer.
And all Fenris need do (just as Astarion assumes he's so adept at from centuries of practice), is lie there and keep quiet.
Only at the soft exhale of relief that comes from the open doorway does Astarion finally lift his head, expression thick with feigned contentment:]
Sire.
[Demure, his catlike rumble. The lifting of his figurative tail evident within the richness of his voice, already rising eagerly— and setting his counterpart loose in the process.]
[Yet Astarion doesn't need to move much to bridge dividing distance: too deeply missing his cherished pair, Vakares has already crossed the room to greet them both with outstretched fingers. He catches Astarion beneath his chin— and Fenris, if he raises himself in time, though there's an extended sweep from ember eyes across dusky features and bare muscular surrounding by slim tatters of cloth. One that borders on searching—
If only just.
And then he's seated on his bed. Grand and plush in the midst of his den-et-study, compliment to lavishly carved bookshelves and gilded desks carved from rich, dark wood. Its bedding and full measure soft— an uncharacteristic trait in anything belonging to their kin. Soft and stern: the nature of his leadership, his clothing, his bearing, his taste. Soft sternness that soon beckons Astarion and Fenris near, patting either side of the mattress he's sunken to in redressed full, waiting for them to nestle in.]
Come here, little gemstones. [Little for comparitive age and nothing more; they are so fierce at heart. Far more bottled with passion and fervor than even Vakares himself, particularly in moments as sedate as these.
Understand: he is so weary, still, and too desiring for their companionship.] I will be glad to rid myself of this ceremony.
[To add, a sobered beat later:]
....and bereft to leave you both.
[So come here to me. Come here.
His most adored of his creations, wreathed within his arms.]
I hope you did not suffer while I was away.
[Ah. But is that a slanted pull just at the corner of his mouth?]
Not even a pathetic little whine, whimpering out by a weak brat who needs his sire to protect him. He could make it sensuous, offering up just enough information to earn Vakares' irritation— that familiar frown creasing his forehead, his mouth slanting as he scolds (and oh, he does it to them both in equal measure; Fenris had never known you could punish someone so easily with mere words). He could breathe out words like new whore and bit and bridle, and he could bask in the smug triumph of favorite as Vakares doted on him in pointed punishment.
He could.
The moment stretches out as he catches Astarion's eye. They three of them all surely know what's going on here; Vakares isn't stupid, after all. Just good-hearted (and oh, how many people conflate the two to their eventual detriment). He could. He held me down, he told me I was to be his whore,, and the words alight between them, hovering in potential.]
No.
[He could. But he won't.
Because he loves Vakares, you see. Because they both do, and they are never more united than when it comes to making their sire happy. Because this is the last night the three of them will ever have together, and Fenris doesn't want to ruin it. And perhaps because some small part of him hopes that tonight might yet become that rarest of things: a night where the three of them actually get along. Where Fenris and Astarion's hackles are lowered and they're caught in doting complacency, their minds running along the same track with no savagery to be found. It's rare, admittedly. Rare and all the more golden for it, those brilliant times when Vakares' vision of a happy coven comes true.
And because that isn't his style.
Oh, he's no snitch. He's no mewling brat that needs someone else to fight for him. Whatever battle is to come will be between he and Astarion, and if he loses, well. At least he'll have lost on his own terms.
And it will be a battle. My new whore, Astarion had whispered, and Fenris has no doubt he means it. He'll have a bit between his teeth before the night ends; he'll be spread open and tied up, aphrodisiac fucked into him, left to drool and howl and beg his new master for his touch. He'll be debased and debauched, humiliated thoroughly for every slight great and small over the past century . . .
But though Fenris' hole still aches for the phantom sensation of what he never quite got, his cock twitching and drooling as those words echo in humiliating clarity in the back of his mind— oh, still, still, he has no intention of becoming that. Not even a consort, but a pet, kept around to dote upon and humiliate as Astarion sees fit.
(And what other choice will he have? Young thing, he'll surely die sooner or later if he flees this coven; vampires don't tolerate rivals, after all, even potential ones. Even ones that swear they've little interest in killing anyone else, little liars that they are. Vakares is not the only anomaly in this coven, and there has been more than one occasion when Fenris wanted little more than to tear the throat out of some visiting lord for how cruelly he treated his spawn).
No. No, he won't be that. Fenris does not know the shape of what's to come, but he knows he will not allow himself to be turned into that. And that means he'll have to strike tonight, right after the announcement comes. He'll have to establish himself, carving out a position all his own, pinning Astarion down and striking a deal . . .
But that comes later.
For now: it is the three of them. For now: Astarion is not yet named heir. For now: Fenris pushes forward, curling beneath Vakares' arm, nuzzling fondly against the sharp line of his jaw as he splays a hand on his thigh. My sire, my love, and gods, but he will miss him.]
We were discussing how best to please you once you returned. If you'd prefer a show . . . or something more intimate.
[And this time when he meets Astarion's gaze, it's a little softer. Work with me, and he knows the other vampire will.]
Lie back. Lie back . . .
[Onto the bed properly this time, Vakares' head pillowed by soft cushions, his legs nudged into gently spreading. His laces tugged at as his cock is coaxed out— and after one long, slow, savoring lap, Fenris murmurs:]
. . . and tell us whether you wish us to both keep mouthing at your cock . . . or have Astarion straddle your chest and fuck your mouth as I tend to you?
[There is absolutely no motivation behind his suggesting that position. Absolutely none.]
[Question posed through capitulation, there is no part of him that resists save for it— and even then, it's mild. Fond. The tone of a protectorate whose wards sit prettily in their bedsites, even as the bolts to their quarters hang unlocked. In that band of narrow seconds he finds himself unstrung as his own lacework, flattened beneath Fenris' attention and coaxed into peerless comfort.
Fenris guiding Vakares.... and Vakares guiding Astarion, soon enough.
His left hand persuading the latter into a pretty lifted straddle (taking nothing of that ample cock between his lips rather than stroking it between his fingers), true to given suggestion— his right hand coursing low in familiar channels through the pale tangles of Fenris' hair, appreciatively stimulating. He touches them both in unison, for he needs to feel them both beneath his filed claws. To ground the promise that this moment will come again after his eyes have shut— and opened.
But trust that does not mean he will be passive in this intimacy, either.]
I have been exhausted by our kin and their vindictive squabbles. How they can set aside nothing, even when lavishly upheld. [By feasting, by music, by extravagancies the world would envy if it knew what happens here behind these walls— and still they bicker and vie as if it all meant nothing.] If I desire anything tonight, it is to know I am not abandoning you to the wolves.
That I've left you something in my place.
[His eyes are dry; he's far from weeping or fretting, not in need of coddled comfort. Still, though, there's a distance to his pensiveness. Thoughtfulness that removes him from the immediacy of blade-sharp arousal (his stare drifting faintly shut under the pressure of that lap while the backs of his knuckles drifting along Astarion's innermost thigh).] Perform for me what you discussed—
[Spoken before he maneuvers the latter of the pair once more with steadfast palms: redirecting that straddled splay around the other way as simply as turning a lantern in its fixture; a centerpiece atop an already prepared table. A fact that would remain true even if Astarion wasn't already eagerly lifting his own hips in the hopes of finding his most velvet stretches of sensitivity graced by the gift of their master's tongue.
(Drawing out one more quirk of Vakares' expression, tugging itself into a smile that neither inheritor will see.)]
Meaning that they face each other when that command sinks in (rather than the bliss of Vakares' tongue, or lips, or waiting throat) in full: a pair of crimson eyes locked fully on the other set— and even a blind man might sense the silent moment of internal resentment laid down across the distance for how Vakares utters the words 'what you discussed'. Oh, well done, Fenris. So if there's a time to tattle or a time to confess, arguably it's now, for come a few unsteady beats of silent staring or fumbling of hands later, Vakares will have his answer anyway.
But Fenris is right, admittedly.
The deception wasn't a misstep, it was necessary; they both would've done the same— the only difference being that Fenris was the one to smartly speak up first.
And he's right about one more thing, too, evident in the rounding of an expression that'd been sharper than the tips of both their claws: it's only their sire that matters. Only these few moments spent with him before they have to find their own ways to self-soothe the emptiness of open space and brittle silence. The lack of his voice, his touch, his comforting silhouette praising them for the smallest job well done.
There's no chance of noncooperation anymore.
His shoulders roll. His head ducks downwards with the same weightless sense of agility as before: all of his coiled prowess funneled down into a languid, hungry kiss nestled inches above the stiff rise of their sire's waiting cock. They stroke it in unison as he wraps his cool fingers through the sturdiness of Fenris' own, more vulgar slickness driven to the back of his companion's throat (his lips, his chin— ) through a tongue that forces wanton compliance with popping smacks of lurid contact— occasionally letting some small dribbles of crystal-clear spit fall from their open mouths across Vakares' waiting prick. Felt soon enough in the seams between each shuttling pump from intertwined grips, its rhythm broken in the very next beat once Astarion takes both of his own hands and wraps them tight around the back of Fenris' head: claws latching to the roots.
—and forces his companion's well-primed mouth down to the very base of their master's upheld swell.]
[Oh, this bratty little beast. This awful-terrible, awful-attractive vampire who makes everything into a competition even when they're meant to be getting along. It's infuriating and thrilling all at once, a push-pull of desire that leaves his neglected cock throbbing even as he glares savagely up at his counterpart. No matter that such a fierce stare looks so paltry so long as he has his mouth full, drooling around their sire's length as his hips grind needily against the bed, still. Still, Fenris is determined, he will not let Astarion best him twice.
But his next move need not be immediately obvious.
With a low moan Fenris splays: his body bowing low as he arches his back up, his thighs spreading open wide as cold air caresses his slickened hole. It's a show for a single person, lewd and vulgar and pointed: you almost had this. You almost had me bowing for you like this, ready to be fucked and taken and made into yours— his hips wiggling in the air, cheeks round and so easily spread, and if he had a tail, it surely would be flicking up in obvious signal: come take me if you can.
For if Fenris' own body is still aching for the slow, heavy press of Astarion's cock, oh, surely his counterpart feels the same. Surely he's so needy right now, his prick heavy and hot and so very close (so very far) from the lithe little body he almost impaled . . .
But ah: this is about Vakares, isn't it?
And Fenris means to savor this.
Every moment. Every single second, trying to burn it into his memory: the heavy weight of his cock as it presses his tongue flat, forcing his jaw open wide as he takes him into his throat. The soft groan that rumbles low in Vakares' throat as Fenris' lips cinch so tight around the base of his cock, his nose rubbing affectionately against cold skin. His cheeks go hollow as he suckles at his prick, and oh, how Fenris loves the way he can't help but buck his hips up into it: an instinctive little movement to try and force his prick even deeper as bitter droplets of precome spill down his throat.
Just like that, and he stares up at Astarion again— for right now, it's only one of them that's earning all this approval, and it isn't him.
Poor Astarion. Poor neglected Astarion, his hole spread open without a single touch; his hands so busy knotting in Fenris' hair that he hasn't a single one to spare for himself. With a little moan Fenris reaches for him, fingers wrapping so tight around the head of his prick—
And stilling.
If that was all Astarion was willing to give him, Fenris thinks, then that's all he'll get in return. Not a caress. Not the slow, steady pump he must surely be aching for. Just rhythmic squeezes around the tip of his prick— and the slow, steady caress of Fenris' thumb against his drooling slit. Rhythmically he spreads him open, mercilessly rubbing and teasing at his cock— quick, quick, slow, wasn't that the rhythm? And all the while he stares up smugly at him, his mouth full and his gaze taunting.
Little spiteful things. Little bits of misbehavior hidden in the guise of cooperation, oh, yes: Fenris can play that game.]
Pitifully soft. Woefully soft. Stifled with resolve that's bound to the tips of curled fingers in white hair (nevermind that teasing pressure, nevermind the rub against his leaking slit— quick, quick, slow), he could stop his own efforts to douse his companion's, but then what of their sire? What of tonight? Cruelty won't satisfy their master. Pettiness might live under his own nail beds, but he's not a fool— and neither is Vakares, all truths being equal: any more vitriol would only be transparent as paned glass. Meaning the scales have tipped, somewhere along the way.
And it's Fenris that slakes himself.
On viciousness, on praising lifts of their master's upstirred hips— on the deepset fullness of a prick squeezed tight into the back of his own throat, insistently pressed flush (until drool runs in ruinously vulgar rivulets around the border between plush lips and cool skin, glistening in lowered lanternlight), and visible through the arch of Astarion's spread thighs. His sunset cheeks drawn thin and hollow with every suckling pull (each noisier and slicker than the last), his nostrils far from flared for how he's likely closed-off his own throat. And above it all, those wretchedly tempestuous eyes are raised in the shadow of long lashes kept half-lidded: proud of their wicked work and every weighted reward it finds— when every hum reverberates into sensation that isn't shared (and all Astarion is met with is the rough denial from cruel hands)—
Oh, it's not fair.
It's not fair, and he hates it. Resents it. Wracked with envy over shadowed little pangs of paler imitations of emulated bliss— his hearing saturated with those wet smacks and softer groans; his vision filled with alluring offers kept harshly from his reach— and he wants it (and it's not fair, and he hates it, and he resents it and he— ) Locks his fingers till they tremble. Pulls against that scalp, nearly keening in the back of his throat through mewls of half-held petitions: wordless little pleas lacking in shape or order, and yet still (still) find their way into asking please while his grip runs harsher on its own. No thought behind it. Nothing spiteful or demanding. Palms squared across each other and he pumps downwards against the creature that he holds— no, uses— that's the word for it. That's the narrow strip of difference between now and every second prior:
He uses Fenris.
He uses him like a toy. Like a suctioned little hilt shuttled rapidly over its designed subsumption: his head jerked up and down along that rigid span without sensuality involved— for no one ever seduces the fuckhole cut into a waiting wall, and no one checks the little storebought sheathe they've purchased for a quick, relieving rut to make sure it enjoys being rapidly shunted into in those few minutes before sleep. Within his grip, and with no stop for air or sweetness, Astarion wildly fucks down over their master's cock and rolls his hips with desperate envy— neglected, yes, but at least like this, with soft whimpers in his throat, he doesn't care if Fenris' fingers gift him more than just that padding bit of pressure.
His mind imagines more.
His mind imagines so much more ( —another push, another pump— again, again, again on loop— faster, fuck, go faster— ) as overstimulation swears against cold sense that it's Fenris' mouth wrapped richly to his hilt— shivering and pulsing and squirming like a bitch in utter need, arousal with its hand on both their necks—
[Again, again, over and over relentlessly and without end: Fenris moves just as Astarion dictates, whimpering as he's made into little more than a toy. A slick mouth ready to be used with not a single thought given to his pleasure or his comfort; a needy little hole that can't help but moan wetly for the way he's treated, degraded and yet so addled that he loves it all the more. Fuck me, use me, and make no mistake, Fenris does thrill in it. Make me yours one last time, and it's the taste of Vakares he savors right now: the bitter drip of precome that coats his tongue as their sire invades his throat. Banded fingers grip the older vampire's hips so tightly his knuckles have gone white as Fenris whimpers in contented service: tell me I'm good,, as all the while Astarion ensures it.
And it's about Vakares. It's about one last joining, the three of them savoring this final night before they're parted. It's goodbye, bittersweet and a little lonely; it's about making this moment last, for who knows how many years they will all be parted?
But it's about Astarion, too.
Eyes shining with smug satisfaction, Fenris doesn't take his eyes off Astarion for a second. It doesn't matter how vigorously the other vampire fucks him— and oh, trust that he does. Cruelly shoving him down to the very base of their sire's prick, only to force him up a moment later so that spit and precome slip out in a humiliating flood past his lips, little strings the only thing connecting him to their sire's prick— Fenris chokes on it, his eyes hazy and his expression all fucked out, and yet still there's that smug look in his eye.
I won.
Vulgar visions dance through his mind as Vakares groans and bucks his hips up: thoughts of Astarion triumphing only to fall. Thoughts of the other vampire on his knees, on his back, his legs tied open and his vulgar tongue pressed down by some bit, reducing him to little more than furious groans and needy whines. On his hands and knees, bowed down low as his thighs spread wide, eager only to be taken; whimpering out Fenris' name as he's bent over their master's desk, clawing up ancient oak as he mewls and whines and begs for more, scarlet eyes swimming with tears—
(I'm sorry, and for a brief second the fantasy flutters there, too: I'm sorry, my little catulus, the nickname not cruel diminutive but fond, affection and companionship building between them instead of seething rivalry. My darling companion, and perhaps it is not just lust that fuels him, but loneliness).
But it's why— once Vakares comes, spilling down his throat with a moan, both their names on his lips as he claims Fenris' belly one last time— Fenris surges up with a moan. His mouth still full of come, their master's pearly claim smeared on his lips, and he crashes his mouth against Astarion's with a moan— I want you, his hand finally shuttling properly against Astarion's cock, fingers squeezing tight as he pushes his tongue forward. I want you, I want you, not about possessiveness but desire, hot and hungry and instinctive. I want you, I want you, come for me, you little brat, his other hand wrapping around the back of Astarion's neck, wrenching him down so he can climb atop him as they sprawl on the mattress, a chaotic tangle of limbs and tongues and teeth.]
[It's easy to loathe divinity. Perfection so sweet-hot it burns you from the inside out, retinas first (then lungs, then frigid pulse, then sinew and cold reata). Maybe it's only envy— maybe it's something more, akin to being too primitive in nature to begin to comprehend with acute thought. Every sense too awestruck in the moment. Reduced to nothing but a feral animal bristling on approach from what it doesn't understand: terrified and captivated by that dry-mouthed fear. Wanting the meal it knows it'd choke on. Salivating for it, in fact.
That's where he is, now.
Up to his neck in that sick-sweet envy. That dizzying, awestruck, primordial paralysis— heralded by darkened eyes and so much satisfaction that it spills from closed-off lips. Pale, thick, glaze richly overrun, shining on the swell of Fenris' smug (dazed) mouth; stars glinting in an unfixed stare that still somehow manages to find Astarion despite it all: the look of a cat already yanked away even as it licks honeyed cream from its own muzzle. So proud of its own conquest.
And on the other hand: all Astarion knows is that same yawning darkness.
That vertigo. That wicked, entranced, covetous, hungry, hateful sense of whatever it is that surges upwards in his chest once his back drops down against the mattress, blistering in his veins and molten as it blots out all his sight (but that face— oh, but that pretty, comeslick face— ) deliberate in how his claws flex despite already having lost their grip— searching for a new handhold worth puncturing inside the fitful cage of his own skin.
A single snap.
A single surge in the language of a trap sprung around its prey— fingers clamping closed around slight hips until crimson starts to well, too late now to turn back while he wrenches against the grain until Fenris grinds along his drooling cock. Too late five minutes ago— ten minutes ago. Twenty. Too late the second his sire walked in with a pretty young thing on his arm that only bowed to one creature rather than two. So close and wrapped around him and spread out wide for ripened taking, no doubt imagining he's won (without knowing that their hold on each other suddenly runs both ways). A cruel victor seated on his unslaked throne. Oh, Fenris. Oh, little wolf already in a snare. Astarion's going to bite. He's going to bite until you wail and tear and— ]
2/2 here is free permission to run with either of them conceding first <3
[One hand wrapped steady across the backs of their respective necks in gentle warning.
Not of what is, of course (febrile need arched through Fenris' hunkered shoulders to meet Astarion's splenetic overarousal)— only what could be when even wild wolves have better sense when it comes to not turning their claws on their own littermates. And while there are sparse glimmers of peace at times (most often when they're both exhausted and blood-sated), it never truly lasts: when one begins to rile, the other inevitably follows suit— and he has no doubt that if he were blind, at least one of them would lie slain by now (lost to carelessness or callousness on some minor assignment). Flint to tinder. Burning oil to water.
Panting mouths. Tongues and teeth and fangs. They need to find the soft parts of themselves, rather than the jagged edges, and without him, they will—
Eventually.
But tonight (his prick sagging where it's laid out slick over his thigh, glossy with pearl and lacquered sheen), tonight he'll be selfish. Just this once. Tonight he'll keep the spark of volatile progress scruffed tight inside his grip, measuring how steadily they still. Watching a rehearsal just for him.]
Good boy. [He murmurs lowly, finally offering that sought out praise despite the fact that he charts their course: white hair clutched in either of his hands as if maneuvering tight leads. Tighter reins. Their chins soon lifted in a compliment to the now entangled shivers of their hips— arranged across each other so that Astarion's prick keeps pushing hot against the shadow of spread legs. Their mouths forcibly met (not cruelly: forcibly). Nothing to be said of allowance when he has always been free to use them as he pleases. Pressing them into compliance until bitter-slickened tongues obediantly slide through parted lips while he waits to see which one of his beloved consorts settles into it first.
Ah, but they've already been playing tonight without him, haven't they? It must be overwhelming by now. The urge to cede to this: their tax for misbehavior.
The only glimpse of knowing discipline he'll mete out tonight.]
Ease against him for me. [Which one does he mean? Well, that much is simple: whichever one feels like earning his approval.] There. Keep your ankles drawn out and let him have your mouth to explore as he pleases— do not bite. Relax your spine, turn your knees wider so that you might align.
Go slowly, elsewise I will steer you both like unruly children.
me SHRIEKING b/c i KNOW I SENT THIS LAST NIGHT OH MY GOD DW
[It's Astarion who settles first. Astarion, who plays the game of doting favorite so much better than Fenris does; who surely never feels that instinctive spark of bitter defiance that always follows an order, no matter who issues it or why. It's Astarion who melts, his hips gently rocking upwards as he settles beneath Vakares' firm grasp— and so it's Astarion, collared and leashed and dragged back into obedience once more, who parts his lips and allows Fenris to slip his tongue into his mouth. Slick and hot, his tongue still coated with come, and yet there isn't a single hint of vengeful fangs ready to strike.
(That's happened before, you know. Bloody mouths and torn tongues, and oh, how disappointed their sire was as his consorts miserably healed).
And for a time, there's nothing but sweetly slick noises. False breath an overheated exhale between them as Fenris takes control of the kiss: slow pushes and eager pulls growing deeper and deeper the longer Vakares keeps them at it. Slow, their master warns more than once, and Fenris is trying— but he's so desperately hungry for him. For this beastly little consort, this cruel counterpart whose tongue tangles so sweetly with his own, oh, he wants him so badly. He wants to escalate it, throwing him back down against the bed and pinning his arms over his head, pale body stretched out beneath him as he rides him— their cocks pinned together and stroked, Astarion's tongue sliding sweetly against Fenris' cock instead of his lips, Fenris' hungry moans growing louder against Astarion's lips, anything, anything—
And then there will be a little scold. Aht, not yet, Vakares dragging him gently back by the hair, pulling him from the kiss. Watching him pant with open eagerness, spit smeared on his lips and his eyes dark with desire locked only on Astarion. And then it begins again.
Until he's dizzy with lust. Until his cock is leaking again, droplets of precome smearing against his belly, his prick so hard he wants to scream for it. Overwhelming and unending, lust consuming him and his attention focused only forward, desperate desire making him little more than a bundle of needy instincts— oh, gods, he can't even fantasize about it anymore. Top or bottom, submissive or dominant, he knows only that he needs more: more than just the sensual slide of their tongues against one another. More than faint rocks of hips or the subtle grind of his prick against shuddering skin, oh, god, please.
Again, he's drawn back. Vakares' fingers are so tight against the back of his neck, keeping him still as he stares longingly at Astarion. His eyes are unfocused, spit smearing over his swollen lips; desire makes his gaze dark, but he doesn't lunge away from the mindful grip of Vakares' hand.
'Better,' their sire murmurs. One thumb runs affectionately up the curve of Astarion's neck, stroking him as he looks between his consorts. It matters little whether or not he heard their play of before, for he knows them both well enough to know the shape, even if not the specifics. They are not so subtle as they think they are, his little brats— and while there are days that vexes him, it at least works out now.
Vakares leans in, nuzzling fondly against Astarion's cheek. Hello, my love, a kiss pressed to his cheek, his ear— and then, his voice low and rough against his ear: 'If you want him to ride you, Astarion, ask him for it. Tell him what you want, and how you long for it. Or . . . let him take you. Either way: I want to hear you ask nicely.'
Not beg. Not the drooling, open-mouthed pleas that Astarion had demanded of Fenris before, humiliating and cruel— but something smaller. Softer. Please, please, come ride me—
Or don't. He will not pretend to be disappointed if Astarion refuses, for he does so love watching them tangle together, kissing and writhing hungrily.]
Universal, that truth. And not defiant in nature— for defiance alone insists there's something that might somehow change in the act of baring teeth, and in this case (like steel, like water): there isn't. Instead it's a great deal more directly related to alchemical response than all that, defined by preset laws. To nature, some might say. Hot, cold. Oil, water. Spark, tinder. Nature insisting that when two opposing extremes meet— even cordially— that it's inescapably charged.
That Astarion is charged here and now, even richly laden with his beloved's mellisonant approval and slow scuffs across his cheek, in being asked to be generous.
Want really is such a heady thing, though.
Living in the gap left behind by mouths that aren't still met. In the lines of glistening spit (and paler pearl) strung between them like beadwork, emphasizing every last shudder they succumb to once their tongues hang panting and untouched between the reddened measure of their parted lips. Frustration warring with desire in an atmospheric shift, and all of it punctuated by how smooth thighs still squeeze (and brush— oh how damningly they brush against him each time one of them moves in that ensnaring hold) across his hips— their heavy cocks dripping filthily as they bump together, making it impossible to tell which of them is more hungry for the other.
It is nature.
Nature versus want.
....and Astarion has so much room for want.
It's the tightness of his sire's grip that he tracks first. There, the focal point when he can't be sure if he's bending or outright breaking into this hedonistic little dance: his empty hands wrapped around both of Fenris' wrists– thumbs pinned tight over fine bones— breakable bones. Holding their silhouettes fast to each other even as their master holds them too. His heart heavier than stone as his own ribs rise and fall and his mouth tastes salt-bitter just along the very back of his tongue where it delves into his throat. Too out of practice in sincerity to wield it like he should, and far too maddened with need to care all that much how he might sound while his cock throbs and his mind reels.
It's the tightness of his sire's grip that he still tracks first. Vakares' grip.
And he knows it won't be there much longer.]
I want [he starts shallowly, causing the glazing sheen across his lips to run] I want to know what he—
[Talk to him, his adored urges. Lust-brimmed eyes lifting just to meet their twin.]
I want to know what you want from me. [And isn't that the naked truth of it all, always.] I want to hear you fight to say it as I coerce you into inescapable enticement by making that wicked little stretch of yours sing under pressure, narrating every last word even as it happens. I want to hear you....whine out how much you're aching to ride or be ridden....so that when I watch you squirm, and moan and bargain in my grasp— with your lover's eyes upon you—
[Vakares must know what comes next, for there's a warning little squeeze that prevents Astarion from instinctively mouthing out like the mewling little spread-legged whore in heat you are.]
I'll know it's because you're enjoying what I give you.
It's the challenge. Vakares wants so badly for the two of them to get along, and Fenris will not say he doesn't desire the same— but gods, if they must be at odds, let it be like this. Let it be a fierce fight, not a resentful bullying, for there's something so entangling about a challenge from someone so unwilling to bend to him. The goading demand for more coming from a partner who has refused from the first day to give him a single inch he doesn't painstakingly earn. It thrills him even as it infuriates him; it leaves him dizzy with desire, his hands flexing against the cold grip around his wrists, his crimson eyes suddenly burning as his attention focuses forward. Not the slavering need of before, but something hotter. Sharper. More focused, for there is nothing that focuses him more than a fight.
They're so close. Breath mingling hot together, their eyes locked as Vakares watches not a foot away. It would take nothing to tip his head and kiss him again; it would cost everything for him to sink his teeth into those glazed lips, sore and swollen.
And he thinks again of those crowds outside. Of Astarion's confident tone, I know it'll be me, my new whore, and how their lives are going to change within the space of a day. And though nothing is decided as they tumble together, still . . . still, Fenris wants to leave an impression.]
I want to fuck you.
[His voice has dipped down low, a warning rumble in his throat.]
On your stomach. Hips high. I want to take you from behind, Astarion.
[And it's innocuous enough. Simple, perhaps, in face of all that taunting, and certainly not much of an answer to it. But it's not with words that Fenris does his best fighting. He wants Astarion sprawled out before him, yes: pale thighs parted, all of him wrapped so tight around Fenris' cock and throbbing in indignant arousal with every thrust, yes, he wants that. But he wants more, too. He wants to grip the other man's wrists and yank his arms back, using those as brace to bounce him; he wants to hear that voice go from disdainfully arrogant to toothlessly furious. Touch me, and perhaps he will threaten or plea or whine, but it won't matter, for Fenris has no intention of getting him off.
Astarion has come untouched before. Fenris has seen it. His elder trembling with desire as Vakares had edged him endlessly, punishment for some forgotten transgression— not yet, little gem, his tone stern but not unkind, his fingers absently stroking the trembling fledgling leashed to his desk. Not yet, not yet, and oh, how precise Vakares' control is over them. How well he has them trained, for Astarion hadn't needed a single finger to his prick before he was obeying his sire's order: come for me, sweetheart, you've wanted this, you've earned it, there's my good boy, and all the while Fenris watched from the corner.
So. Here and now, when they've been teasing and biting at each all night— when Astarion has had his fill of sadism, tauntingly dipping his cock into his whelp of a mate, shoving his head down over their sire's cock over and over— how hard would it be to earn that? How long would he have to fuck Astarion before the man came all over himself, a needy little slut lying in a puddle of his own come . . .
(And it won't change anything. It won't make the future any easier. But at least when Astarion is named heir, Fenris will have that memory to hold between them).
And he waits. Waits until Vakares praises them both (genuinely, if not a little wearily) and releases his grip on them. Waits until they've begun shifting around, Vakares sprawling close as Astarion turns to lie on his stomach, his hips arched up in the most delicious show of temptation. Waits until he's settled between the other man's legs, staring down at the feast before him—
Palms to cheeks. He spreads the other man open wide for a precious few seconds, staring with open lust at the glistening display before him. And then, as he ducks his head down:]
But first . . . I want to put my tongue to you.
[Slick span sliding against taut muscle as Fenris rumbles in contentment: there you are. And for all that Astarion had the upper hand when they began . . . well. It's him sprawled out, isn't it? Lapped at and teased, as much a slave to his arousal as any of them. Cede to me, little prince, for Fenris has every intention of making this count.]
[Asking a question like that, what had he expected?
Fool Astarion, for it assuredly wasn't this— not this. Not the mouthwatering agony of overstimulated bliss spreading outwards from that first rumbling flicker of rapine contact; wet and soft and somehow warm in defiance of everything he'd anticipated (thick rigidity; fixed, hungry subsumption) as it sinks in fully against near-nonexistent twitches of barely withheld resistance— all of his senses falling to coiling tatters with it. Not an ounce of thought— not a splinter-thin shard of it left behind rolled eyes that isn't already— ( fuck— oh, fuck— ) he groans for one heady second, the world spinning and everything in him thrashing under the softest picturable onslaught. Little swipes of a pretty pink tongue that don't dare leave him room (he's brought this on himself, hasn't he? A full night of incensed fervor, and now, he's earned his just reward): teasing routine bringing him a different sort of high than what he's used to beneath his sire's grip. Sweeter and sweeter and— falsely suffocating gasps running breathier and breathier and—
Shattering to pieces on a single, dawning tempo change.
Palling licks slipping deeper and deeper before he knows how to brace enough to stop its harrowing descent into pit of his arousal, tight grip keeping him fully splayed for every chasing dive without reprieve.
Drilling him. Coaxing him. One Flick. Two. It's a bloody miracle that Astarion even has it in him to hold fast without witlessly whimpering aloud while he drools across his fangs— with only his shoulders breaking rank to openly shudder as they rise: his fingertips busy tearing into sheetcloth and bedding by almost silent degrees— a shameless breed of tension carved from scattered linen lines between white knuckles— too busy. Too lost. Too maddened with the urge to rock back atop a mouth he hates (and adores— gods— ) to think of acting out at all. Much less take to wondering if that heat— that torturous, constant curling heat that laps at him like cream— is borne of friction (how their tongues had been lathing, coursing wildly across one another), or solely from the savage sear of their sire's lingering come, shared between them now once more....in a vulgarly corruptive sense.
Oh, like that, it's not his fault he rocks against the mattress, knees and hips first, elbows and palms second: his engorged prick dangling in the shadow of a body that won't stop screaming for more— please, more—
To be touched. Fondled. Milked to meager orgasm, at least— anything more than the electified pangs of biting need that find him each time his cock barely taps against his leg. The covers. Everything. Anything. Mercy find him, that he can't even feel the trails of precome left behind each time.
Oh he does cede.
Eventually. (Immediately.)
Vakares' Crown Prince. That crowing heir apparent. Reduced to a shuddering thing with spread legs and a lolled tongue; no sense of dignity maintained. Not a second spared for pretense of notoriety in the souls beyond a locked door or an eager mouth. So little exists outside the aches, the shudders, the keening whines and needy gasps. Between the only two souls that watch him now he doesn't languish for attention, only focus. Only his usual vindictiveness, enough to bite or growl or snarl or return fire through whorish beseechment or— or—
(Or or or—
Another set of seconds lost. Maybe even a minute, while his vision starts to blur across its borders.)
—anything other than this sense of depraved limbo that gives so little (and yet pushes him towards the precipice all the same): one more lick, and then the next, and then the next, his hole wringing at its own aggressor, inviting agile subjugation to come sate itself on him. On all of him. Oh please, oh please, oh please— wretched, despised perfect (perfect perfect perfect) little beast that he loves right now and will turn his teeth on for it come eventual scaletip backwards into sanity— please—
[Even now (even after his bridling encouragement), without disobedience in their hearts, the pair play rough. The signs as plain as shuttered daylight warming fastened sills, easily detected. After all: he is not blind (and they might be well-loved, his most cherished fledgling gemstones, but they are not discreet.
Yet in watching all the telltale signs from his perch, Vakares reasserts to his own self that he cannot dictate their every movement, even when he sees them circling the edge of harsh emotion. So long as the risk of conflict remains low, they're better off tempering themselves— lest they start believing cohabitation can only exist at the end of his fingertips. (Again, that silent affirmation fed to no one but himself: they're going to have to learn to see each other;) There's no forcing them to perceive their priceless outlines with his eyes— and one can't claim to love something with a hand wrapped tight around its throat.
Well.
Not always.
It is beautiful, anyway. Their sparring (both upon his bed and within emptier corridors alike). The countless ways they interpose and melt like warmed sugar after raging for incalculably longer than most other creatures would ever willingly tolerate even amongst kin, longing for the other's touch where otherwise they would battle perceived slights like wildcats: Astarion drawn down into an angle so bowing that he could be strung from wrist to tail with agile ease, moonstone slantlines peeking out beyond a stretch of sunset limbs and a set of shoulders that ripple with fine muscle as they arch— and roll— and sink as if gorging himself on prey (the thought amusing only if not for the fact that Vakares imagines that perhaps there is a spark of prey drive thriving in that hungering approach: the barks and whines and whimpers— the squirming thrashes that rock back into his waiting jaws— mm. His adored hunter always did have such an affinity for the fight.)
And yet—
Perhaps they've rubbed off on him (in so many ways, in fact).
That everpresent sense of impatience without absolute control, foreign to Vakares yet second nature to them, now tentatively adopted for himself. Hefted between his fingers to grasp the weight of its merit while something in their tempo surges back and forth between that well-enamored pair. Kept tucked (and pinched) between thumbprint and forefinger when— again— the air splits with yet another fruitless cry for release.
Laid bare the second he wraps his palms (slides them, more like) across the span of Fenris' hips, unwarned. (Perhaps the vampire will know it's coming anyway: they are sensitively tuned creatures. Alight and alert and endlessly sharp.) No move made whatsoever to interrupt his consort's play— in that, he keeps his promise: it's not interference, nor overt policing of their behavior. Fenris is free to play however he wishes, and it's true, Vakares himself enjoys the baiting sport of edging them to orgasm in so very many ways.
Let that same rule extend, then.
When all Vakares aims for is to satisfy his own desires through the act of pulling his lover's hips higher without disturbing him from his meal— soon graced by the bluntest pressure of a cock slid between the exposed span of those malleable cheeks (gripped in the very same way he grips Astarion in turn, forming a mirroring array: Vakares to Fenris, Fenris fiercely to Astarion), there's no reason why the other two should stop. Certainly not even when their sire adjusts his kneeling posture (widening his knees, the bed shifting not solely for Astarion's lossy dismay, now)— and begins levering his weight against that waiting hole.
Slow. Inching. Pressure like a trap: pressing forwards, forwards, forwards— insisting that with every glimpse of movement the inevitable will come, so long as Fenris stays caught within its grasp. Cornered by pale thighs. Cornered by encroaching hips and the subtle prickle of his sire's claws against his skin.
Tension built around that lurid crown, Fenris' hole such tight resistance as it finally starts to give.]
[Oh, not fair, not fair— it's a silent cry, a wailing little whine that that's all instinct and no thought. Not fair that this is the second time tonight he's been teased in such an awful way; not fair that he doesn't get exactly what he wants when he wants it, and never mind what he's doing to Astarion. Fenris has spent all night longing to be fucked, his cock twitching and drooling from the mere memory of a hot prick pressing so tauntingly against his hole, a low voice cooing in his ear— oh, he deserves more than to be teased with such slow indulgence.
No whining. No begging. Not yet, not while he's being given what he wants, albeit so slowly it aches— and yet surely begging can't be far behind, for Fenris outright melts the moment he feels blunt heat coaxing him open. Melting across the splay of his designated mate, his thighs trembling as his shoulders round out. What had been a languid grope from the palms splayed over Astarion's cheeks (massaging and squeezing, spreading him open wide just to hear the other man cry out in frustrated arousal) suddenly turns mean as Fenris' claws dig into soft flesh. It's not intentional, not really; it's just that suddenly every languid inch of him is tense, his body all but screaming out for more. Please please please—
And yet he doesn't rock back. He doesn't try to take what hasn't been given— oh, no, not tonight. Not when they're both on their best behavior. He won't be a brat. And that's because he loves Vakares, yes, but it's also because he doesn't think he can stand another round of corrective punishment. He can't stand not being fucked, not anymore; he needs it like air, like blood, all of him craving nothing more than the thorough breeding Astarion had taunted him with all those hours ago.
And maybe he hopes that his sire will echo him throughout— for what was a languid, merciless tease with his tongue suddenly becomes something frantic. Fenris laps at that slickened hole with fervor, hot and swift; his tongue goes stiff as he fucks into him, head undulating as he sinks in deeper and deeper, just like that, that's what you want, isn't it? But it's not enough. It's not enough, not nearly enough—
With a growl Fenris draws back, hands grabbing for Astarion's hips. There's a complicated moment while he flips him over, sprawled on his back with his legs drawn up and out— given only a half-second to understand what's happening before Fenris wraps his lips around his swollen, slickened cock, taking him to the root in one smooth motion. He bobs once, twice— and then draws back, gasping as he laps and licks at the underside, his fingers fondling and stroking in slavering counterpoint.]
Please . . .
[Beg for me like you beg for him, Astarion had demanded. Now he gets to watch an echo of what he wanted: Fenris pleading as he laps and sucks and debases himself over the span of his prick. Frantic words spoken against a thickened cock, every little plea slurred thanks to spit and precome pooling on his tongue. Crimson eyes hazy and silver hair hanging in his eyes, staring up at Astarion so needily—
And yet none of that begging for him.]
Please, please . . . Vakares, please, do not deny me, not tonight. Come fuck me, please, I'll do anything, but please . . . only tell me what you want from me, but do not draw it out, please, please . . . I can't stand it, not any longer, not when I've waited all night to be taken . . . please, I've been so good, please—
[Oh, it goes on and on, whimpering and undignified (and yet no worse than any other given night), desperate and hungry— oh, forget fucking Astarion. Forget the vengeful little plan he'd had, for right now Fenris wants only to be impaled.]
[Please, the filthy thing between his legs implores, his lips pressed tightly to a risen cock (so thick the borders of his mouth must sting from where they'd stretched; so imposing that the back of his throat must feel raw from that first insistent delve), his hands curled fiercely around soft thighs— and above it all, just out of immediate focus, lean hips raise and wriggle in their sire's grasp, wiggling back and forth as if to beg just as much: Please, please....I've been so good, please—
So good.
So good, like the exhausted little hole left empty and wet with his slick spit, shadowed underneath his chin in eclipsed demonstration: I've been good, can't you see? Rumbled while his shoulder drops and his head turns slightly, showing off Astarion's livid cock instead, burying the evidence of his mean hunger in exchange for— what, exactly? The latter lies pretty and drooling against his profile, but it's no more sated than the former; piquant attention draws out bubbles of shining precome over a thin patina of drool, but it's not come, is it? His master tasked him with a demonstration of doting reciprocity, and now that its reward has come, he flits ardently between its scattered parts, lifing their unfinished fractals as proof of his hard work, desperate for so much praise.
If Astarion had any lucidity left in him, he'd be livid at that ploy.
But that theory hinges on the idea he had any in him already. Gods know he didn't when that tongue was twisting in him, his cheeks forced to spread and his squirming kept tethered while he fretted on a tether— keening for just a hint of mercy. Fuck— he feels high. He feels dizzy, still, his legs shivering where they're caught in a latching hold that's bordering on absent: more claws than fingertips, more stiff— knuckles so clamped tight and unbudging that he sees pinprick lines of red slipped around the edges of turned talons.
It isn't about him anymore.
He's just a bit player now, Astarion. Just that risen cock under those imploring lips. Just the sound and punctuation of one more moaned-out please— echoing in the chamber of his chest without pride or preservation. 'Please, Vakares' tangled up in 'Please, Fenris'— and the rest is background clutter, holding its breath for their dismayed beseechments to be met by that tall shadow that flocks them.
Ambition gives fenris what he wants.
With a grueling slip of well-glazed movement, the tension barring his sire's cock from the heat of his own body breaks: without a second spared for acclimation, the bulbous head that speared the charge plunges deep— ploughing the way as it drags along tight walls until resistance finally meets its molten match— potent girth prying his fluttering cinch outwards so it can't settle. Oh, ambition does swell in him now, doesn't it? Palpable reward having pushed in to the hilt, those mastering hands pumping him over its breadth with unsparing abandon. Everything he'd wanted: his. Wet and slapping, plump and spreading redness over the curvature of his upturned ass—
(Yet that ambition doesn't make him ready to handle it all just yet.
Being the controlling marse of two taxing creatures without succumbing wholly to their conjoined touch, ah, now that takes mastery....)
With his prize pushed roughly in behind him, his quarry slips its lede to demand satisfaction of its own: in a surge just as swift as their proud sire, Astarion's unheld hands rush to fist around pale wisps of straight white hair— cruelly grabbing palmfulls to the root on either side and yanking that open mouth down across his waiting cock— his hips lifting in tangent, trembling as they pump. Push. Pummel. Fuck. They fuck those pretty lips with riled madness, driven to desperation by minutes upon minutes of pent-up teasing. So severe in its momentum Vakares barely needs to move to watch his own prick disappear as dusky hips squirm their way down across its measure again and again and again—
[Nearly always, it's a fight between he and Astarion. Competitive and snarling, their fangs clicking in the open air as they bite and snap at one another behind Vakares' back, nails digging in and clever words ensuring the other gets in more trouble when their weary sire finally calls them to task. Nearly always it's a rivalry between the two of them: trading words and blows with equal measure, Fenris snarling and Astarion cutting, and at this point, there are a thousand reasons each of them could cite as due justification for the next indignity. He started it, but after a century, they've both started and finished too many times for that excuse to ring true. I push you, you push me, lust tangling with bitter enmity, peace coming only when their sire asks for it.
Nearly always when Astarion pushes, Fenris pushes right back.
But sometimes the goal isn't victory. Sometimes their fights don't have meaning; sometimes the scoreboard is pushed away, and Fenris stops caring about what this might look like in the aftermath (and oh, this is why he is so unsuited to vampiric politics, but never mind that now). And right now— with Vakares' length spearing him open so indulgently as a thickened cock slams down his throat, claiming him and breeding him with fervent desperation— oh, right now, Fenris doesn't care one bit about who wins or loses.
He moans.
Slickly, desperately, the noise a ragged thing slipping out between every obscenely wet choke that the hammering pressure of Astarion's cock forces out of him. Awful and undignified, a vulgar rhythm that Fenris seems all but giddy to play into. Like that, like that, and he offers Astarion no resistance as he forces his head down for the second time tonight. There's no fight, no scrabbling to try and pin his hips down or scrape his teeth against his prick in warning— Fenris' fingers knot in the sheets, his back arching up as he keens in pleasure.
Both ends. Both ends, and he's so sated it nearly hurts: his eyes rolling back as he's bounced between them, so aware of how he's become little more than pretty toy to be shared between them. He tries, once or twice, to contribute: rolling his hips back to fuck against Vakares the way he knows their sire likes, or dragging his tongue sinfully sweetly against the underside of Astarion's prick, but it doesn't matter. The tempo is too swift, the fucking too rough— and soon enough Fenris allows himself to settle, contentedly thrilled to do nothing but take from both ends. A pretty toy, yes; a prized consort put to use by his elders, not as a punishment or degradation but because it's what they all of them want. Harmonious in the most vulgar of fashions (and later, when he's capable of thought again, Fenris will wonder if that isn't such a bad way to bring their celebrations to a close).
He's so aware of himself right now. Every droplet of drool that slips past his tight lips; the searing drip of precome pouring down his throat as Astarion's cock throbs in warning. The ache in his jaw and the sting of tight knuckles gripping his hair as he's forced down farther and farther (and how he whines for it, swallowing so eagerly each time his throat is breached, a needy little slut finally given the cock he so clearly craves no matter what else he might assert). The rhythmic slap of his ass against Vakares' hips, cheeks bouncing with every thrust, his toes curling in the sheets as he shudders and writhes— oh, he's so eager to be bred. Already full of his sire's come and waiting to be filled from the other end, Astarion's mark on the verge of pouring hot down his throat— oh, gods, he loves it, he loves it, and there's nothing but blackened delight swimming in his hazy gaze as he stares up at Astarion.
And it goes on and on . . . oh, he doesn't know how long. Until he's long since given up on trying to contribute, slumping down and letting Astarion dictate the pace. Until the noises from outside have risen and fallen; until the candles have burned low in their holders, the light dancing off shining skin as Fenris writhes and bounces and ruts. And it's no surprise their sire comes first, not when both his consorts have been so dedicated to tending to him— one last thrust before he spills into Fenris' waiting hole, his hips pumping over and over as he works it eagerly into him. Pearl streaks and smears on his cock, fucked so deep into his little consort that he won't ever get it out— and for a moment Fenris thinks that he'll simply plug him like that. Use him as a teasing bit of overstimulation, a pretty little cockwarmer bouncing and rutting atop his length until Astarion finishes, but then—
A hand on his ass. A gentle nudge— and with a little cry Fenris is pushed forward, his mouth torn from Astarion's cock as he sprawls atop him, thighs trembling as his untouched cock (and oh, he'd forgotten his own arousal up until now) grinding needily against Astarion's belly.
'Little tease,' their sire chides fondly. 'Don't think I didn't notice how long you kept him on your tongue, my Fenris.' Settling back on his heels, he reaches down, idly spreading open one of Fenris' cheeks just to see the puddle of come and slick smeared over his hole. Then his eyes flick up, focusing on Astarion. 'Fuck him, he adds softly, and it's a command. 'Let me see you two rut.']
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no subject
I have told you not to call me that.
[Why shouldn't they fight as they continue to rut? It's as natural as anything else.]
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I happened to be there when you said it. [Astarion rumbles back around the narrow divides between their fangs— his tenor the most patchwork assortment of sarcasm (first), petty spite (second), and last, albeit immeasurably far from least: arousal. Avarice. Need. Acrimonious lust. The rest of his honeyed nature left out in the open like a steel trap, all but begging his companion to come closer towards the gleam of inevitable danger.
The next push down across those crooked fingers (the next febrile pump upwards from them) such a violent collision, the sound of skin-on-skin unremittingly echoing throughout an otherwise empty room: pounding tempo wet-slick and richly audible, while friction punctuates for them what neither would readily admit to if asked— oh, they might be growling into the heart of one another's mouths, but there's no chain left to bind them. There's no mote that keeps them from pulling back too far.
(They could stop, if they wanted to.)]
—Little wolf.
[The only thing pulling is the pressure swollen tight around spread knuckles. The only thing rising is the feverflare strain of his own cock caught beneath his thumb and fore, and the uncut bloom of blistering urgency laced across the edges of his sight, darker and deeper by the second. Their sire gone for the moment. They've been left to wait on his command, but his command only required them to stay. And they are, in technical truth— they are— his slender thighs still tucked tight around lithe hips in the exact same spot they'd perched in just before the door behind them shut. His trousers striving to bite into his skin for tension, their grasp a rolling thing: high and tight as he ruts himself with whorish fluidity (forward, forward, forward— undulating with a series of swift bucks that push him deeper into the catch of Fenris' thickened crown, let alone slip over him; what a sight it has to be, perched on all fours atop glimpses of dusky skin, fucked into and spread and bent low as if he feeds upon his packmate's ruthlessness), slackened so he can feel the sting of restored sensation slither up between his legs. He rolls his shoulders forward until his body eclipses Fenris' own entirely. He cranes his neck until it aches. He chases lips with the sinful urge to bite down—
And none of it is a retreat.
In a way, there's almost more risk involved like this. Unsupervised, what they enact becomes a game of patience. A test of will. (Don't come before he returns. Don't exclude the one that bid you start to begin with, tsk tsk— ) Then again, maybe it's all subterfuge: red light green light played out with the highest stakes imaginable, as far as their own hierarchy goes. After all, whoever's left looking the instigator when Vakares returns is likely going to be the one inevitably pinned for all their play.
And their sire isn't like the other vampiric lords, but still.
Neither of them want to ruin his farewell. The last few days they have to spend together— even Astarion won't bite the way he could (or would, under any other given circumstances).
But—
(But)
What harm is there in just a little more entanglement? If they couch themselves....
Oh, if they're careful. (Vakares could be gone for hours— or minutes.) Desire too blinding to ignore when he's more possessed of incense than sense, groaning and snarling into the bow of Fenris' lips, signing each kiss like a declaration of ownership whilst the figurative cat's away.]
Ridiculous little fledgling cinch.
[His hold twists with sudden intensity— thumb tucked tight over the tip of Fenris' cock, until even beading arousal's forced back down into its den.]
Whining about pet names when you could just be whining for a good breeding.
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Oh, don't deny it: he loves it from him too.
Not, as Astarion had once sneeringly suggested, because he wants little more than a cock in him as often as possible, and never mind who it belongs to. And not because he inherently enjoys losing to Astarion— oh, gods, no, never, he loves triumphing over him. He loves mounting him, rutting him, hissing taunts as he fucks him into incoherence, and oh, he can do it. But . . . he does thrill in the other way. When he's beaten and sore and Astarion lines them up, and there's that first stretching push that doesn't stop spreading him open, not until he fucks him to the hilt . . .
He loves it. He drools for it. And here and now, there is a moment when Astarion hisses that and Fenris' first thought isn't of fighting back, but submitting. Please, please . . .
(And it's never quite as vicious as either of them would like. It's not the level of brutal meanness that they both chomp at the bit for— but Vakares wants so badly for them to get along, and fucking someone until they've come twice and are begging you to stop isn't their sire's idea of peaceful co-mingling.)
And yet it wouldn't be half as satisfying if he simply gave in.
So: he glances away. So: his next false exhale is a ragged thing, his teeth flashing as he bites at his lip. And yet there's such steel in his gaze when his head turns back again, for he isn't going to just let Astarion win. Not tonight. Gods, especially not tonight.]
Is that the game we're playing.
[His voice is rougher, lower, a rumble in the center of his chest as he stares up at him.]
And yet only one of us is getting fucked right now.
[With a little grin he scissors his fingers wide in vicious demonstration.]
If you want something, old man, I suggest you ask for it instead of trying to pin it on me. Come ride me, Astarion. Is that what you're aching for? Close your eyes and you can even pretend it's him if you want. Singling you out, making you feel special again . . .
[Oh, that's mean, but so are they— and Fenris is at his nastiest when he's incensed.]
Call out his name. Pretend you're young again. I won't mind.
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A good fuck, first and foremost. Possessed of a thick cock with an unrelenting temperament and length enough to split whatever he pierces— and proud of his merits in that regard, so easily knowing that he'll never be replaced: for no one serves Vakares the way that he serves Vakares. No one can part thighs until they tremble the way that he does. No one can coax mewls from freshly bitten lips (oh he sees you duck your head, little wolf) the way that he can. No one else can nestle into the feverish cusp of vulnerable need and instantly push just right against pliant, shuddering, fretful little confines— sparking up fulgent sensation like raked embers.
The very thing he knows drives Fenris to tightening right now, even though he isn't watching him to check ( —ah, but there's a thought for later, perhaps: getting him flustered and soaked through with all his ardor— drool and precome both— then push those agile legs back with both hands just to see him spread, thinking he's about to be well fed.
And then breathe on that tight little hole, the one bared just for him.
Watching it tense. Tighten. Entreat Astarion for his sadistic touch as if he could be swayed so easily by anything belonging to this whelp. Oh, he'll make him beg, this time. He'll lick and tease and brush idly over that glossy little measure without plunging in until it all but breaks him, and pride becomes an afterthought: unnecessary and unneeded compared to the primal bliss of being used.) Satisfaction already curled low within the dark pit of his stomach. Contentment pooling underneath the narrow bracket of his ribs. Deciding now to mount him only when he's spent and useless, if only so that he can spend his time staring down at the measure of his own rucked-up handiwork.
Hm.
Maybe their sire was right after all. Maybe they can reconcile— for a time. A short, pleasant, transient time. Maybe, he thinks—
But of course, that was what he'd thought before Fenris opened his mouth.
And just like that, everything beforehand vanishes. Suddenly he isn't thinking— let alone about sweet denouements and rising thirst. Suddenly he doesn't care anymore, at least not half as much as he hears the incessant clamor of words squeezed out through self-smug fangs: pretend it's him— pretend you're young again. I won't mind.
Old man.
His knee lifts.
It's not gradual. It's not part of another bit of movement— no. His knee lifts so that he can slam it down across his counterpart's forearm, wrenching himself forwards until those digging fingers are yanked free in a single wetted little twist (pressure jolts within his belly, and he doesn't care—) his free hand snagging the clasp of that pretty leather collar and with cruelty unbound, drives Fenris face down against the floor.
There: one tan leg swiftly kicked out wide— (there: the other in mirrored twin— ) leaving the younger vampire sprawled flat with his face and body flush against cold marble, his clothing in scrappish tatters: humiliatingly obscene for how he's been made spread-eagled from the waist down, with Astarion perched on his knees between them. That thick cock heavily tapping at the centerline dividing lush curves right down their suddenly unguarded middle, bobbing for every shift in weight while he makes certain there won't be any wriggling free.
Because there won't be.
(Not now. Not anymore.)]
Thank you for that generous offer, my dear, beloved mate.
[The last word curdles on his tongue. So cloying that it nearly bleeds enmity over red-stained lips.
He rocks his hips just once— the crown of his cruel length butting briefly against a cinch that threatens to spread under hardly any coaxing whatsoever (just like its master). It's a simple tap. A push. He barely levers himself at all, and he can feel how tension melts each time he closes in— ]
2/2
I'll be sure to remember it when you're screaming for me to stop.
[Fenris isn't the only one that turns vicious when incensed.
Hunched like a lion over tattered scraps, one hand hooked in that collar and keeping it to cold stone, the other fanned flat across the back of Fenris' skull. His knees resting wide and comfortable like bracketry for the lithe legs they bar fully from even the mere notion of traction: all of his inhuman prowess committed to pinning mastery— all of it surrounding the shallow spurring of his drooling prick, overeager for its hunt.
When he leans forward, close to a downturned, pointed ear, all that pressure doubles.]
Beg.
[And if it weren't convincing enough, he drops his hips by depthless degrees— letting agonizingly blunt rigidity distend the little hole it teases.
A vulgar knife to a pretty, obligingly obedient throat.]
Beg for me like you beg for him.
no subject
The taunt leaves his lips and Astarion strikes— and oh, it's a fight when he does. A seething snarl rumbling in Fenris' throat as he moves, squirms, fingers curved and claws out, his teeth bared in open challenge— but oh, it doesn't matter. Not when Astarion is centuries older; not when, for all that their master tries to paint them as evenly matched, there's still such a gap between his two favorite pets when it comes to vampiric prowess.
And in the end, he's left humiliated: pain blooming behind his eyes as he's shoved face-first into the floor like an errant pup, his legs spread-eagle and his clothing torn to tatters. Cold air brushes against his hole, and oh, it doesn't matter how many times they've seen one another bare, for Fenris still shudders in rising humiliation as he realizes what a view Astarion has right now. His hated rival not just spread open, but pinned in place like a petulant slut who can't quite admit what it is he wants. For though Fenris' mind is snarling, his body— oh, his body melts to feel that familiar pressure. Hot and thick and perfect, tapping at his hole, spreading him open just enough to leave him shuddering—
Beg.
(He knows what Astarion means. Beg, not just a grudging plea spat up spitefully, but the kind of begging their master loves. Fawning and doting, adoring and needy, please, Vakares, please, I've been so good, sugar-spun sweetness on their glazed lips as they tremble in desire . . . and it isn't false, understand. It isn't a put-on little act (or at least, it comes from a place of sincerity). It's just that Vakares is so very good at slowly but thoroughly driving them out of their minds; it's just that they love him so much, and he always looks so gratified when they do something of their own volition).
Beg.
He struggles again and again, fighting against the inevitable. Squirming and writhing, shoving his palms flat against the floor, only to realize again and again that there is no getting free, not now. Blunt heat presses so sweetly against his hole, spreading him open just a little bit; he tightens in involuntary response, his body greedy for what it isn't being given. More, please, fluttering near-orgasmic pulses as his cock drools against the marble floor.
Still, there's silence. Still, the tension grows— and yet sooner or later, there's the most begrudging:]
Please.
[Oh, he hates it. He hates him, vicious and spiteful elder, so possessive and desperate to keep what is his that he seethes at anyone who dares approach. He hates that he is stronger and faster; he hates moments like these, where he loathes him as much as he desires him, electricity sparking between them and his attraction fiercer than ever. Fenris shudders beneath him, his claws scratching against stone as his fingers flex in vain.
And oh, he can't. He can't, not when his ears are ringing in humiliation and all of him feels so hot. The words dance on his tongue, and there's nothing that can make them slip past his lips now: Astarion, please, I'll be so good, I'll earn it, please, let me worship you, let me lap at you with my tongue, let me put my mouth on every inch of you so that you'll fuck me, please, please, I'll do anything, I'll be your slut, your consort, your needy little brat, please—]
Please. Fuck me before he gets back, please. Do what I can feel you ache to do, please.
[It's not enough. It's barely begging— but oh, it's all he can manage right now, his ears pinned flat against his skull and his voice thick with humiliation.]
Now— or do you intend to wait until he declares one of us heir before you put it in?
1/2
That's not the baying whimper of complete surrender that he's owed (yet his lifeless lungs bristle with inflamed desire as he feels the vampire beneath him squirm hopelessly beneath his claws, taken to absently sucking in breath for fun rather than purpose)— and true, Astarion loves submission, but he'll take hopeless ire any day of the week: more than stunning enough payment as it crawls its way up the agile curvature of a spine bowed helplessly in his shadow. Thumb brushing idly at white hair in the most spiteful imitation of their master's praising touch.
A reward befitting that obedience.]
I don't need to wait. [In perfect unison: how his voice (thicker than blood, thicker than curdling lust itself) slithers into a single twitching ear, while his cock slips that much deeper— plush warmth wrapped enviably tight around his restless tip. Where each ensuing angle taken by way of outright undulating degrees (degrees that never stop canting— never stop shifting from left to right or up and down— violating every inch they touch with glossing swaths of dribbling precome), is never far enough inwards to enforce that final, necessary little pop of claiming satisfaction (the one defined in the border between his blunted crest and thickrun shaft), instead merely rubbed against the brim of Fenris' narrow stretch without end. The very cuspis of more intermingling with not enough. Never enough.]
I know it'll be me.
[He doesn't (he does— he doesn't— certainty slipping through his grasp each time he tries to nail it down, oily and unregenerate. Truthfully beneath it all: he doesn't— ) but they're both toying with fantasy right now, aren't they?
And a world in which he gets what he wants appeals to him like nothing else.]
You do too, don't you?
[(Mine. Already you're mine.)]
So let's make this our trial run, shall we? [Another set of shallow pumps— quick, quick, slow— teasing the difference between fucking and being bred, fluidity laid sweetly in his spurring hips when all his prey can do is whine.] I want to take my new whore out for a ride before I fit him with a bit and bridle.
[It isn't a request. He isn't asking for permission. Whether Fenris fights or relents, the threat of being shoved to the floor and made esteemed high cocksleeve for his new master is practically force-fed between his fangs as surely as said bit and bridle: something to break this unruly creature so receptive to his touch and so defiant of it, too.]
Now.
As I said before, little wolf.
Beg.
[A yank against those wisps of moonstruck hair. A hateful tug to— ]
2/2
—Faster than its burnished knob can turn, Astarion's already gone flat: all of his weight sunken over Fenris' prone form, his slender body funneled into flowing shapes that mirror sloping contours and suppler high rises. No longer is that collar caught between tight fingers— instead those nimble digits merely pull it tenderly aside; away from the caress of a loving mouth that nestles gently against skin, each kiss enacted just as humbly as if he'd fit them to Vakares himself. Their ankles intertwined, their image utterly enraptured. Lovers lost to salivating appetites, enkindled and undone.
He is, after all, a flawless performer.
And all Fenris need do (just as Astarion assumes he's so adept at from centuries of practice), is lie there and keep quiet.
Only at the soft exhale of relief that comes from the open doorway does Astarion finally lift his head, expression thick with feigned contentment:]
Sire.
[Demure, his catlike rumble. The lifting of his figurative tail evident within the richness of his voice, already rising eagerly— and setting his counterpart loose in the process.]
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If only just.
And then he's seated on his bed. Grand and plush in the midst of his den-et-study, compliment to lavishly carved bookshelves and gilded desks carved from rich, dark wood. Its bedding and full measure soft— an uncharacteristic trait in anything belonging to their kin. Soft and stern: the nature of his leadership, his clothing, his bearing, his taste. Soft sternness that soon beckons Astarion and Fenris near, patting either side of the mattress he's sunken to in redressed full, waiting for them to nestle in.]
Come here, little gemstones. [Little for comparitive age and nothing more; they are so fierce at heart. Far more bottled with passion and fervor than even Vakares himself, particularly in moments as sedate as these.
Understand: he is so weary, still, and too desiring for their companionship.] I will be glad to rid myself of this ceremony.
[To add, a sobered beat later:]
....and bereft to leave you both.
[So come here to me. Come here.
His most adored of his creations, wreathed within his arms.]
I hope you did not suffer while I was away.
[Ah. But is that a slanted pull just at the corner of his mouth?]
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Not even a pathetic little whine, whimpering out by a weak brat who needs his sire to protect him. He could make it sensuous, offering up just enough information to earn Vakares' irritation— that familiar frown creasing his forehead, his mouth slanting as he scolds (and oh, he does it to them both in equal measure; Fenris had never known you could punish someone so easily with mere words). He could breathe out words like new whore and bit and bridle, and he could bask in the smug triumph of favorite as Vakares doted on him in pointed punishment.
He could.
The moment stretches out as he catches Astarion's eye. They three of them all surely know what's going on here; Vakares isn't stupid, after all. Just good-hearted (and oh, how many people conflate the two to their eventual detriment). He could. He held me down, he told me I was to be his whore,, and the words alight between them, hovering in potential.]
No.
[He could. But he won't.
Because he loves Vakares, you see. Because they both do, and they are never more united than when it comes to making their sire happy. Because this is the last night the three of them will ever have together, and Fenris doesn't want to ruin it. And perhaps because some small part of him hopes that tonight might yet become that rarest of things: a night where the three of them actually get along. Where Fenris and Astarion's hackles are lowered and they're caught in doting complacency, their minds running along the same track with no savagery to be found. It's rare, admittedly. Rare and all the more golden for it, those brilliant times when Vakares' vision of a happy coven comes true.
And because that isn't his style.
Oh, he's no snitch. He's no mewling brat that needs someone else to fight for him. Whatever battle is to come will be between he and Astarion, and if he loses, well. At least he'll have lost on his own terms.
And it will be a battle. My new whore, Astarion had whispered, and Fenris has no doubt he means it. He'll have a bit between his teeth before the night ends; he'll be spread open and tied up, aphrodisiac fucked into him, left to drool and howl and beg his new master for his touch. He'll be debased and debauched, humiliated thoroughly for every slight great and small over the past century . . .
But though Fenris' hole still aches for the phantom sensation of what he never quite got, his cock twitching and drooling as those words echo in humiliating clarity in the back of his mind— oh, still, still, he has no intention of becoming that. Not even a consort, but a pet, kept around to dote upon and humiliate as Astarion sees fit.
(And what other choice will he have? Young thing, he'll surely die sooner or later if he flees this coven; vampires don't tolerate rivals, after all, even potential ones. Even ones that swear they've little interest in killing anyone else, little liars that they are. Vakares is not the only anomaly in this coven, and there has been more than one occasion when Fenris wanted little more than to tear the throat out of some visiting lord for how cruelly he treated his spawn).
No. No, he won't be that. Fenris does not know the shape of what's to come, but he knows he will not allow himself to be turned into that. And that means he'll have to strike tonight, right after the announcement comes. He'll have to establish himself, carving out a position all his own, pinning Astarion down and striking a deal . . .
But that comes later.
For now: it is the three of them. For now: Astarion is not yet named heir. For now: Fenris pushes forward, curling beneath Vakares' arm, nuzzling fondly against the sharp line of his jaw as he splays a hand on his thigh. My sire, my love, and gods, but he will miss him.]
We were discussing how best to please you once you returned. If you'd prefer a show . . . or something more intimate.
[And this time when he meets Astarion's gaze, it's a little softer. Work with me, and he knows the other vampire will.]
Lie back. Lie back . . .
[Onto the bed properly this time, Vakares' head pillowed by soft cushions, his legs nudged into gently spreading. His laces tugged at as his cock is coaxed out— and after one long, slow, savoring lap, Fenris murmurs:]
. . . and tell us whether you wish us to both keep mouthing at your cock . . . or have Astarion straddle your chest and fuck your mouth as I tend to you?
[There is absolutely no motivation behind his suggesting that position. Absolutely none.]
no subject
[Question posed through capitulation, there is no part of him that resists save for it— and even then, it's mild. Fond. The tone of a protectorate whose wards sit prettily in their bedsites, even as the bolts to their quarters hang unlocked. In that band of narrow seconds he finds himself unstrung as his own lacework, flattened beneath Fenris' attention and coaxed into peerless comfort.
Fenris guiding Vakares.... and Vakares guiding Astarion, soon enough.
His left hand persuading the latter into a pretty lifted straddle (taking nothing of that ample cock between his lips rather than stroking it between his fingers), true to given suggestion— his right hand coursing low in familiar channels through the pale tangles of Fenris' hair, appreciatively stimulating. He touches them both in unison, for he needs to feel them both beneath his filed claws. To ground the promise that this moment will come again after his eyes have shut— and opened.
But trust that does not mean he will be passive in this intimacy, either.]
I have been exhausted by our kin and their vindictive squabbles. How they can set aside nothing, even when lavishly upheld. [By feasting, by music, by extravagancies the world would envy if it knew what happens here behind these walls— and still they bicker and vie as if it all meant nothing.] If I desire anything tonight, it is to know I am not abandoning you to the wolves.
That I've left you something in my place.
[His eyes are dry; he's far from weeping or fretting, not in need of coddled comfort. Still, though, there's a distance to his pensiveness. Thoughtfulness that removes him from the immediacy of blade-sharp arousal (his stare drifting faintly shut under the pressure of that lap while the backs of his knuckles drifting along Astarion's innermost thigh).] Perform for me what you discussed—
[Spoken before he maneuvers the latter of the pair once more with steadfast palms: redirecting that straddled splay around the other way as simply as turning a lantern in its fixture; a centerpiece atop an already prepared table. A fact that would remain true even if Astarion wasn't already eagerly lifting his own hips in the hopes of finding his most velvet stretches of sensitivity graced by the gift of their master's tongue.
(Drawing out one more quirk of Vakares' expression, tugging itself into a smile that neither inheritor will see.)]
Upon each other.
no subject
Meaning that they face each other when that command sinks in (rather than the bliss of Vakares' tongue, or lips, or waiting throat) in full: a pair of crimson eyes locked fully on the other set— and even a blind man might sense the silent moment of internal resentment laid down across the distance for how Vakares utters the words 'what you discussed'. Oh, well done, Fenris. So if there's a time to tattle or a time to confess, arguably it's now, for come a few unsteady beats of silent staring or fumbling of hands later, Vakares will have his answer anyway.
But Fenris is right, admittedly.
The deception wasn't a misstep, it was necessary; they both would've done the same— the only difference being that Fenris was the one to smartly speak up first.
And he's right about one more thing, too, evident in the rounding of an expression that'd been sharper than the tips of both their claws: it's only their sire that matters. Only these few moments spent with him before they have to find their own ways to self-soothe the emptiness of open space and brittle silence. The lack of his voice, his touch, his comforting silhouette praising them for the smallest job well done.
There's no chance of noncooperation anymore.
His shoulders roll. His head ducks downwards with the same weightless sense of agility as before: all of his coiled prowess funneled down into a languid, hungry kiss nestled inches above the stiff rise of their sire's waiting cock. They stroke it in unison as he wraps his cool fingers through the sturdiness of Fenris' own, more vulgar slickness driven to the back of his companion's throat (his lips, his chin— ) through a tongue that forces wanton compliance with popping smacks of lurid contact— occasionally letting some small dribbles of crystal-clear spit fall from their open mouths across Vakares' waiting prick. Felt soon enough in the seams between each shuttling pump from intertwined grips, its rhythm broken in the very next beat once Astarion takes both of his own hands and wraps them tight around the back of Fenris' head: claws latching to the roots.
—and forces his companion's well-primed mouth down to the very base of their master's upheld swell.]
no subject
[Oh, this bratty little beast. This awful-terrible, awful-attractive vampire who makes everything into a competition even when they're meant to be getting along. It's infuriating and thrilling all at once, a push-pull of desire that leaves his neglected cock throbbing even as he glares savagely up at his counterpart. No matter that such a fierce stare looks so paltry so long as he has his mouth full, drooling around their sire's length as his hips grind needily against the bed, still. Still, Fenris is determined, he will not let Astarion best him twice.
But his next move need not be immediately obvious.
With a low moan Fenris splays: his body bowing low as he arches his back up, his thighs spreading open wide as cold air caresses his slickened hole. It's a show for a single person, lewd and vulgar and pointed: you almost had this. You almost had me bowing for you like this, ready to be fucked and taken and made into yours— his hips wiggling in the air, cheeks round and so easily spread, and if he had a tail, it surely would be flicking up in obvious signal: come take me if you can.
For if Fenris' own body is still aching for the slow, heavy press of Astarion's cock, oh, surely his counterpart feels the same. Surely he's so needy right now, his prick heavy and hot and so very close (so very far) from the lithe little body he almost impaled . . .
But ah: this is about Vakares, isn't it?
And Fenris means to savor this.
Every moment. Every single second, trying to burn it into his memory: the heavy weight of his cock as it presses his tongue flat, forcing his jaw open wide as he takes him into his throat. The soft groan that rumbles low in Vakares' throat as Fenris' lips cinch so tight around the base of his cock, his nose rubbing affectionately against cold skin. His cheeks go hollow as he suckles at his prick, and oh, how Fenris loves the way he can't help but buck his hips up into it: an instinctive little movement to try and force his prick even deeper as bitter droplets of precome spill down his throat.
Just like that, and he stares up at Astarion again— for right now, it's only one of them that's earning all this approval, and it isn't him.
Poor Astarion. Poor neglected Astarion, his hole spread open without a single touch; his hands so busy knotting in Fenris' hair that he hasn't a single one to spare for himself. With a little moan Fenris reaches for him, fingers wrapping so tight around the head of his prick—
And stilling.
If that was all Astarion was willing to give him, Fenris thinks, then that's all he'll get in return. Not a caress. Not the slow, steady pump he must surely be aching for. Just rhythmic squeezes around the tip of his prick— and the slow, steady caress of Fenris' thumb against his drooling slit. Rhythmically he spreads him open, mercilessly rubbing and teasing at his cock— quick, quick, slow, wasn't that the rhythm? And all the while he stares up smugly at him, his mouth full and his gaze taunting.
Little spiteful things. Little bits of misbehavior hidden in the guise of cooperation, oh, yes: Fenris can play that game.]
no subject
Pitifully soft. Woefully soft. Stifled with resolve that's bound to the tips of curled fingers in white hair (nevermind that teasing pressure, nevermind the rub against his leaking slit— quick, quick, slow), he could stop his own efforts to douse his companion's, but then what of their sire? What of tonight? Cruelty won't satisfy their master. Pettiness might live under his own nail beds, but he's not a fool— and neither is Vakares, all truths being equal: any more vitriol would only be transparent as paned glass. Meaning the scales have tipped, somewhere along the way.
And it's Fenris that slakes himself.
On viciousness, on praising lifts of their master's upstirred hips— on the deepset fullness of a prick squeezed tight into the back of his own throat, insistently pressed flush (until drool runs in ruinously vulgar rivulets around the border between plush lips and cool skin, glistening in lowered lanternlight), and visible through the arch of Astarion's spread thighs. His sunset cheeks drawn thin and hollow with every suckling pull (each noisier and slicker than the last), his nostrils far from flared for how he's likely closed-off his own throat. And above it all, those wretchedly tempestuous eyes are raised in the shadow of long lashes kept half-lidded: proud of their wicked work and every weighted reward it finds— when every hum reverberates into sensation that isn't shared (and all Astarion is met with is the rough denial from cruel hands)—
Oh, it's not fair.
It's not fair, and he hates it. Resents it. Wracked with envy over shadowed little pangs of paler imitations of emulated bliss— his hearing saturated with those wet smacks and softer groans; his vision filled with alluring offers kept harshly from his reach— and he wants it (and it's not fair, and he hates it, and he resents it and he— ) Locks his fingers till they tremble. Pulls against that scalp, nearly keening in the back of his throat through mewls of half-held petitions: wordless little pleas lacking in shape or order, and yet still (still) find their way into asking please while his grip runs harsher on its own. No thought behind it. Nothing spiteful or demanding. Palms squared across each other and he pumps downwards against the creature that he holds— no, uses— that's the word for it. That's the narrow strip of difference between now and every second prior:
He uses Fenris.
He uses him like a toy. Like a suctioned little hilt shuttled rapidly over its designed subsumption: his head jerked up and down along that rigid span without sensuality involved— for no one ever seduces the fuckhole cut into a waiting wall, and no one checks the little storebought sheathe they've purchased for a quick, relieving rut to make sure it enjoys being rapidly shunted into in those few minutes before sleep. Within his grip, and with no stop for air or sweetness, Astarion wildly fucks down over their master's cock and rolls his hips with desperate envy— neglected, yes, but at least like this, with soft whimpers in his throat, he doesn't care if Fenris' fingers gift him more than just that padding bit of pressure.
His mind imagines more.
His mind imagines so much more ( —another push, another pump— again, again, again on loop— faster, fuck, go faster— ) as overstimulation swears against cold sense that it's Fenris' mouth wrapped richly to his hilt— shivering and pulsing and squirming like a bitch in utter need, arousal with its hand on both their necks—
And nothing but their own hands to blame.]
no subject
And it's about Vakares. It's about one last joining, the three of them savoring this final night before they're parted. It's goodbye, bittersweet and a little lonely; it's about making this moment last, for who knows how many years they will all be parted?
But it's about Astarion, too.
Eyes shining with smug satisfaction, Fenris doesn't take his eyes off Astarion for a second. It doesn't matter how vigorously the other vampire fucks him— and oh, trust that he does. Cruelly shoving him down to the very base of their sire's prick, only to force him up a moment later so that spit and precome slip out in a humiliating flood past his lips, little strings the only thing connecting him to their sire's prick— Fenris chokes on it, his eyes hazy and his expression all fucked out, and yet still there's that smug look in his eye.
I won.
Vulgar visions dance through his mind as Vakares groans and bucks his hips up: thoughts of Astarion triumphing only to fall. Thoughts of the other vampire on his knees, on his back, his legs tied open and his vulgar tongue pressed down by some bit, reducing him to little more than furious groans and needy whines. On his hands and knees, bowed down low as his thighs spread wide, eager only to be taken; whimpering out Fenris' name as he's bent over their master's desk, clawing up ancient oak as he mewls and whines and begs for more, scarlet eyes swimming with tears—
(I'm sorry, and for a brief second the fantasy flutters there, too: I'm sorry, my little catulus, the nickname not cruel diminutive but fond, affection and companionship building between them instead of seething rivalry. My darling companion, and perhaps it is not just lust that fuels him, but loneliness).
But it's why— once Vakares comes, spilling down his throat with a moan, both their names on his lips as he claims Fenris' belly one last time— Fenris surges up with a moan. His mouth still full of come, their master's pearly claim smeared on his lips, and he crashes his mouth against Astarion's with a moan— I want you, his hand finally shuttling properly against Astarion's cock, fingers squeezing tight as he pushes his tongue forward. I want you, I want you, not about possessiveness but desire, hot and hungry and instinctive. I want you, I want you, come for me, you little brat, his other hand wrapping around the back of Astarion's neck, wrenching him down so he can climb atop him as they sprawl on the mattress, a chaotic tangle of limbs and tongues and teeth.]
1/2
That's where he is, now.
Up to his neck in that sick-sweet envy. That dizzying, awestruck, primordial paralysis— heralded by darkened eyes and so much satisfaction that it spills from closed-off lips. Pale, thick, glaze richly overrun, shining on the swell of Fenris' smug (dazed) mouth; stars glinting in an unfixed stare that still somehow manages to find Astarion despite it all: the look of a cat already yanked away even as it licks honeyed cream from its own muzzle. So proud of its own conquest.
And on the other hand: all Astarion knows is that same yawning darkness.
That vertigo. That wicked, entranced, covetous, hungry, hateful sense of whatever it is that surges upwards in his chest once his back drops down against the mattress, blistering in his veins and molten as it blots out all his sight (but that face— oh, but that pretty, comeslick face— ) deliberate in how his claws flex despite already having lost their grip— searching for a new handhold worth puncturing inside the fitful cage of his own skin.
A single snap.
A single surge in the language of a trap sprung around its prey— fingers clamping closed around slight hips until crimson starts to well, too late now to turn back while he wrenches against the grain until Fenris grinds along his drooling cock. Too late five minutes ago— ten minutes ago. Twenty. Too late the second his sire walked in with a pretty young thing on his arm that only bowed to one creature rather than two. So close and wrapped around him and spread out wide for ripened taking, no doubt imagining he's won (without knowing that their hold on each other suddenly runs both ways). A cruel victor seated on his unslaked throne. Oh, Fenris. Oh, little wolf already in a snare. Astarion's going to bite. He's going to bite until you wail and tear and— ]
2/2 here is free permission to run with either of them conceding first <3
[One hand wrapped steady across the backs of their respective necks in gentle warning.
Not of what is, of course (febrile need arched through Fenris' hunkered shoulders to meet Astarion's splenetic overarousal)— only what could be when even wild wolves have better sense when it comes to not turning their claws on their own littermates. And while there are sparse glimmers of peace at times (most often when they're both exhausted and blood-sated), it never truly lasts: when one begins to rile, the other inevitably follows suit— and he has no doubt that if he were blind, at least one of them would lie slain by now (lost to carelessness or callousness on some minor assignment). Flint to tinder. Burning oil to water.
Panting mouths. Tongues and teeth and fangs. They need to find the soft parts of themselves, rather than the jagged edges, and without him, they will—
Eventually.
But tonight (his prick sagging where it's laid out slick over his thigh, glossy with pearl and lacquered sheen), tonight he'll be selfish. Just this once. Tonight he'll keep the spark of volatile progress scruffed tight inside his grip, measuring how steadily they still. Watching a rehearsal just for him.]
Good boy. [He murmurs lowly, finally offering that sought out praise despite the fact that he charts their course: white hair clutched in either of his hands as if maneuvering tight leads. Tighter reins. Their chins soon lifted in a compliment to the now entangled shivers of their hips— arranged across each other so that Astarion's prick keeps pushing hot against the shadow of spread legs. Their mouths forcibly met (not cruelly: forcibly). Nothing to be said of allowance when he has always been free to use them as he pleases. Pressing them into compliance until bitter-slickened tongues obediantly slide through parted lips while he waits to see which one of his beloved consorts settles into it first.
Ah, but they've already been playing tonight without him, haven't they? It must be overwhelming by now. The urge to cede to this: their tax for misbehavior.
The only glimpse of knowing discipline he'll mete out tonight.]
Ease against him for me. [Which one does he mean? Well, that much is simple: whichever one feels like earning his approval.] There. Keep your ankles drawn out and let him have your mouth to explore as he pleases— do not bite. Relax your spine, turn your knees wider so that you might align.
Go slowly, elsewise I will steer you both like unruly children.
me SHRIEKING b/c i KNOW I SENT THIS LAST NIGHT OH MY GOD DW
(That's happened before, you know. Bloody mouths and torn tongues, and oh, how disappointed their sire was as his consorts miserably healed).
And for a time, there's nothing but sweetly slick noises. False breath an overheated exhale between them as Fenris takes control of the kiss: slow pushes and eager pulls growing deeper and deeper the longer Vakares keeps them at it. Slow, their master warns more than once, and Fenris is trying— but he's so desperately hungry for him. For this beastly little consort, this cruel counterpart whose tongue tangles so sweetly with his own, oh, he wants him so badly. He wants to escalate it, throwing him back down against the bed and pinning his arms over his head, pale body stretched out beneath him as he rides him— their cocks pinned together and stroked, Astarion's tongue sliding sweetly against Fenris' cock instead of his lips, Fenris' hungry moans growing louder against Astarion's lips, anything, anything—
And then there will be a little scold. Aht, not yet, Vakares dragging him gently back by the hair, pulling him from the kiss. Watching him pant with open eagerness, spit smeared on his lips and his eyes dark with desire locked only on Astarion. And then it begins again.
Until he's dizzy with lust. Until his cock is leaking again, droplets of precome smearing against his belly, his prick so hard he wants to scream for it. Overwhelming and unending, lust consuming him and his attention focused only forward, desperate desire making him little more than a bundle of needy instincts— oh, gods, he can't even fantasize about it anymore. Top or bottom, submissive or dominant, he knows only that he needs more: more than just the sensual slide of their tongues against one another. More than faint rocks of hips or the subtle grind of his prick against shuddering skin, oh, god, please.
Again, he's drawn back. Vakares' fingers are so tight against the back of his neck, keeping him still as he stares longingly at Astarion. His eyes are unfocused, spit smearing over his swollen lips; desire makes his gaze dark, but he doesn't lunge away from the mindful grip of Vakares' hand.
'Better,' their sire murmurs. One thumb runs affectionately up the curve of Astarion's neck, stroking him as he looks between his consorts. It matters little whether or not he heard their play of before, for he knows them both well enough to know the shape, even if not the specifics. They are not so subtle as they think they are, his little brats— and while there are days that vexes him, it at least works out now.
Vakares leans in, nuzzling fondly against Astarion's cheek. Hello, my love, a kiss pressed to his cheek, his ear— and then, his voice low and rough against his ear: 'If you want him to ride you, Astarion, ask him for it. Tell him what you want, and how you long for it. Or . . . let him take you. Either way: I want to hear you ask nicely.'
Not beg. Not the drooling, open-mouthed pleas that Astarion had demanded of Fenris before, humiliating and cruel— but something smaller. Softer. Please, please, come ride me—
Or don't. He will not pretend to be disappointed if Astarion refuses, for he does so love watching them tangle together, kissing and writhing hungrily.]
DW YOU SON OF A BITCH
Universal, that truth. And not defiant in nature— for defiance alone insists there's something that might somehow change in the act of baring teeth, and in this case (like steel, like water): there isn't. Instead it's a great deal more directly related to alchemical response than all that, defined by preset laws. To nature, some might say. Hot, cold. Oil, water. Spark, tinder. Nature insisting that when two opposing extremes meet— even cordially— that it's inescapably charged.
That Astarion is charged here and now, even richly laden with his beloved's mellisonant approval and slow scuffs across his cheek, in being asked to be generous.
Want really is such a heady thing, though.
Living in the gap left behind by mouths that aren't still met. In the lines of glistening spit (and paler pearl) strung between them like beadwork, emphasizing every last shudder they succumb to once their tongues hang panting and untouched between the reddened measure of their parted lips. Frustration warring with desire in an atmospheric shift, and all of it punctuated by how smooth thighs still squeeze (and brush— oh how damningly they brush against him each time one of them moves in that ensnaring hold) across his hips— their heavy cocks dripping filthily as they bump together, making it impossible to tell which of them is more hungry for the other.
It is nature.
Nature versus want.
....and Astarion has so much room for want.
It's the tightness of his sire's grip that he tracks first. There, the focal point when he can't be sure if he's bending or outright breaking into this hedonistic little dance: his empty hands wrapped around both of Fenris' wrists– thumbs pinned tight over fine bones— breakable bones. Holding their silhouettes fast to each other even as their master holds them too. His heart heavier than stone as his own ribs rise and fall and his mouth tastes salt-bitter just along the very back of his tongue where it delves into his throat. Too out of practice in sincerity to wield it like he should, and far too maddened with need to care all that much how he might sound while his cock throbs and his mind reels.
It's the tightness of his sire's grip that he still tracks first. Vakares' grip.
And he knows it won't be there much longer.]
I want [he starts shallowly, causing the glazing sheen across his lips to run] I want to know what he—
[Talk to him, his adored urges. Lust-brimmed eyes lifting just to meet their twin.]
I want to know what you want from me. [And isn't that the naked truth of it all, always.] I want to hear you fight to say it as I coerce you into inescapable enticement by making that wicked little stretch of yours sing under pressure, narrating every last word even as it happens. I want to hear you....whine out how much you're aching to ride or be ridden....so that when I watch you squirm, and moan and bargain in my grasp— with your lover's eyes upon you—
[Vakares must know what comes next, for there's a warning little squeeze that prevents Astarion from instinctively mouthing out like the mewling little spread-legged whore in heat you are.]
I'll know it's because you're enjoying what I give you.
[What Astarion gives him— no other.]
no subject
It's the challenge. Vakares wants so badly for the two of them to get along, and Fenris will not say he doesn't desire the same— but gods, if they must be at odds, let it be like this. Let it be a fierce fight, not a resentful bullying, for there's something so entangling about a challenge from someone so unwilling to bend to him. The goading demand for more coming from a partner who has refused from the first day to give him a single inch he doesn't painstakingly earn. It thrills him even as it infuriates him; it leaves him dizzy with desire, his hands flexing against the cold grip around his wrists, his crimson eyes suddenly burning as his attention focuses forward. Not the slavering need of before, but something hotter. Sharper. More focused, for there is nothing that focuses him more than a fight.
They're so close. Breath mingling hot together, their eyes locked as Vakares watches not a foot away. It would take nothing to tip his head and kiss him again; it would cost everything for him to sink his teeth into those glazed lips, sore and swollen.
And he thinks again of those crowds outside. Of Astarion's confident tone, I know it'll be me, my new whore, and how their lives are going to change within the space of a day. And though nothing is decided as they tumble together, still . . . still, Fenris wants to leave an impression.]
I want to fuck you.
[His voice has dipped down low, a warning rumble in his throat.]
On your stomach. Hips high. I want to take you from behind, Astarion.
[And it's innocuous enough. Simple, perhaps, in face of all that taunting, and certainly not much of an answer to it. But it's not with words that Fenris does his best fighting. He wants Astarion sprawled out before him, yes: pale thighs parted, all of him wrapped so tight around Fenris' cock and throbbing in indignant arousal with every thrust, yes, he wants that. But he wants more, too. He wants to grip the other man's wrists and yank his arms back, using those as brace to bounce him; he wants to hear that voice go from disdainfully arrogant to toothlessly furious. Touch me, and perhaps he will threaten or plea or whine, but it won't matter, for Fenris has no intention of getting him off.
Astarion has come untouched before. Fenris has seen it. His elder trembling with desire as Vakares had edged him endlessly, punishment for some forgotten transgression— not yet, little gem, his tone stern but not unkind, his fingers absently stroking the trembling fledgling leashed to his desk. Not yet, not yet, and oh, how precise Vakares' control is over them. How well he has them trained, for Astarion hadn't needed a single finger to his prick before he was obeying his sire's order: come for me, sweetheart, you've wanted this, you've earned it, there's my good boy, and all the while Fenris watched from the corner.
So. Here and now, when they've been teasing and biting at each all night— when Astarion has had his fill of sadism, tauntingly dipping his cock into his whelp of a mate, shoving his head down over their sire's cock over and over— how hard would it be to earn that? How long would he have to fuck Astarion before the man came all over himself, a needy little slut lying in a puddle of his own come . . .
(And it won't change anything. It won't make the future any easier. But at least when Astarion is named heir, Fenris will have that memory to hold between them).
And he waits. Waits until Vakares praises them both (genuinely, if not a little wearily) and releases his grip on them. Waits until they've begun shifting around, Vakares sprawling close as Astarion turns to lie on his stomach, his hips arched up in the most delicious show of temptation. Waits until he's settled between the other man's legs, staring down at the feast before him—
Palms to cheeks. He spreads the other man open wide for a precious few seconds, staring with open lust at the glistening display before him. And then, as he ducks his head down:]
But first . . . I want to put my tongue to you.
[Slick span sliding against taut muscle as Fenris rumbles in contentment: there you are. And for all that Astarion had the upper hand when they began . . . well. It's him sprawled out, isn't it? Lapped at and teased, as much a slave to his arousal as any of them. Cede to me, little prince, for Fenris has every intention of making this count.]
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Fool Astarion, for it assuredly wasn't this— not this. Not the mouthwatering agony of overstimulated bliss spreading outwards from that first rumbling flicker of rapine contact; wet and soft and somehow warm in defiance of everything he'd anticipated (thick rigidity; fixed, hungry subsumption) as it sinks in fully against near-nonexistent twitches of barely withheld resistance— all of his senses falling to coiling tatters with it. Not an ounce of thought— not a splinter-thin shard of it left behind rolled eyes that isn't already— ( fuck— oh, fuck— ) he groans for one heady second, the world spinning and everything in him thrashing under the softest picturable onslaught. Little swipes of a pretty pink tongue that don't dare leave him room (he's brought this on himself, hasn't he? A full night of incensed fervor, and now, he's earned his just reward): teasing routine bringing him a different sort of high than what he's used to beneath his sire's grip. Sweeter and sweeter and— falsely suffocating gasps running breathier and breathier and—
Shattering to pieces on a single, dawning tempo change.
Palling licks slipping deeper and deeper before he knows how to brace enough to stop its harrowing descent into pit of his arousal, tight grip keeping him fully splayed for every chasing dive without reprieve.
Drilling him. Coaxing him. One Flick. Two. It's a bloody miracle that Astarion even has it in him to hold fast without witlessly whimpering aloud while he drools across his fangs— with only his shoulders breaking rank to openly shudder as they rise: his fingertips busy tearing into sheetcloth and bedding by almost silent degrees— a shameless breed of tension carved from scattered linen lines between white knuckles— too busy. Too lost. Too maddened with the urge to rock back atop a mouth he hates (and adores— gods— ) to think of acting out at all. Much less take to wondering if that heat— that torturous, constant curling heat that laps at him like cream— is borne of friction (how their tongues had been lathing, coursing wildly across one another), or solely from the savage sear of their sire's lingering come, shared between them now once more....in a vulgarly corruptive sense.
Oh, like that, it's not his fault he rocks against the mattress, knees and hips first, elbows and palms second: his engorged prick dangling in the shadow of a body that won't stop screaming for more— please, more—
To be touched. Fondled. Milked to meager orgasm, at least— anything more than the electified pangs of biting need that find him each time his cock barely taps against his leg. The covers. Everything. Anything. Mercy find him, that he can't even feel the trails of precome left behind each time.
Oh he does cede.
Eventually. (Immediately.)
Vakares' Crown Prince. That crowing heir apparent. Reduced to a shuddering thing with spread legs and a lolled tongue; no sense of dignity maintained. Not a second spared for pretense of notoriety in the souls beyond a locked door or an eager mouth. So little exists outside the aches, the shudders, the keening whines and needy gasps. Between the only two souls that watch him now he doesn't languish for attention, only focus. Only his usual vindictiveness, enough to bite or growl or snarl or return fire through whorish beseechment or— or—
(Or or or—
Another set of seconds lost. Maybe even a minute, while his vision starts to blur across its borders.)
—anything other than this sense of depraved limbo that gives so little (and yet pushes him towards the precipice all the same): one more lick, and then the next, and then the next, his hole wringing at its own aggressor, inviting agile subjugation to come sate itself on him. On all of him. Oh please, oh please, oh please— wretched, despised perfect (perfect perfect perfect) little beast that he loves right now and will turn his teeth on for it come eventual scaletip backwards into sanity— please—
More—]
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Yet in watching all the telltale signs from his perch, Vakares reasserts to his own self that he cannot dictate their every movement, even when he sees them circling the edge of harsh emotion. So long as the risk of conflict remains low, they're better off tempering themselves— lest they start believing cohabitation can only exist at the end of his fingertips. (Again, that silent affirmation fed to no one but himself: they're going to have to learn to see each other;) There's no forcing them to perceive their priceless outlines with his eyes— and one can't claim to love something with a hand wrapped tight around its throat.
Well.
Not always.
It is beautiful, anyway. Their sparring (both upon his bed and within emptier corridors alike). The countless ways they interpose and melt like warmed sugar after raging for incalculably longer than most other creatures would ever willingly tolerate even amongst kin, longing for the other's touch where otherwise they would battle perceived slights like wildcats: Astarion drawn down into an angle so bowing that he could be strung from wrist to tail with agile ease, moonstone slantlines peeking out beyond a stretch of sunset limbs and a set of shoulders that ripple with fine muscle as they arch— and roll— and sink as if gorging himself on prey (the thought amusing only if not for the fact that Vakares imagines that perhaps there is a spark of prey drive thriving in that hungering approach: the barks and whines and whimpers— the squirming thrashes that rock back into his waiting jaws— mm. His adored hunter always did have such an affinity for the fight.)
And yet—
Perhaps they've rubbed off on him (in so many ways, in fact).
That everpresent sense of impatience without absolute control, foreign to Vakares yet second nature to them, now tentatively adopted for himself. Hefted between his fingers to grasp the weight of its merit while something in their tempo surges back and forth between that well-enamored pair. Kept tucked (and pinched) between thumbprint and forefinger when— again— the air splits with yet another fruitless cry for release.
Laid bare the second he wraps his palms (slides them, more like) across the span of Fenris' hips, unwarned. (Perhaps the vampire will know it's coming anyway: they are sensitively tuned creatures. Alight and alert and endlessly sharp.) No move made whatsoever to interrupt his consort's play— in that, he keeps his promise: it's not interference, nor overt policing of their behavior. Fenris is free to play however he wishes, and it's true, Vakares himself enjoys the baiting sport of edging them to orgasm in so very many ways.
Let that same rule extend, then.
When all Vakares aims for is to satisfy his own desires through the act of pulling his lover's hips higher without disturbing him from his meal— soon graced by the bluntest pressure of a cock slid between the exposed span of those malleable cheeks (gripped in the very same way he grips Astarion in turn, forming a mirroring array: Vakares to Fenris, Fenris fiercely to Astarion), there's no reason why the other two should stop. Certainly not even when their sire adjusts his kneeling posture (widening his knees, the bed shifting not solely for Astarion's lossy dismay, now)— and begins levering his weight against that waiting hole.
Slow. Inching. Pressure like a trap: pressing forwards, forwards, forwards— insisting that with every glimpse of movement the inevitable will come, so long as Fenris stays caught within its grasp. Cornered by pale thighs. Cornered by encroaching hips and the subtle prickle of his sire's claws against his skin.
Tension built around that lurid crown, Fenris' hole such tight resistance as it finally starts to give.]
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No whining. No begging. Not yet, not while he's being given what he wants, albeit so slowly it aches— and yet surely begging can't be far behind, for Fenris outright melts the moment he feels blunt heat coaxing him open. Melting across the splay of his designated mate, his thighs trembling as his shoulders round out. What had been a languid grope from the palms splayed over Astarion's cheeks (massaging and squeezing, spreading him open wide just to hear the other man cry out in frustrated arousal) suddenly turns mean as Fenris' claws dig into soft flesh. It's not intentional, not really; it's just that suddenly every languid inch of him is tense, his body all but screaming out for more. Please please please—
And yet he doesn't rock back. He doesn't try to take what hasn't been given— oh, no, not tonight. Not when they're both on their best behavior. He won't be a brat. And that's because he loves Vakares, yes, but it's also because he doesn't think he can stand another round of corrective punishment. He can't stand not being fucked, not anymore; he needs it like air, like blood, all of him craving nothing more than the thorough breeding Astarion had taunted him with all those hours ago.
And maybe he hopes that his sire will echo him throughout— for what was a languid, merciless tease with his tongue suddenly becomes something frantic. Fenris laps at that slickened hole with fervor, hot and swift; his tongue goes stiff as he fucks into him, head undulating as he sinks in deeper and deeper, just like that, that's what you want, isn't it? But it's not enough. It's not enough, not nearly enough—
With a growl Fenris draws back, hands grabbing for Astarion's hips. There's a complicated moment while he flips him over, sprawled on his back with his legs drawn up and out— given only a half-second to understand what's happening before Fenris wraps his lips around his swollen, slickened cock, taking him to the root in one smooth motion. He bobs once, twice— and then draws back, gasping as he laps and licks at the underside, his fingers fondling and stroking in slavering counterpoint.]
Please . . .
[Beg for me like you beg for him, Astarion had demanded. Now he gets to watch an echo of what he wanted: Fenris pleading as he laps and sucks and debases himself over the span of his prick. Frantic words spoken against a thickened cock, every little plea slurred thanks to spit and precome pooling on his tongue. Crimson eyes hazy and silver hair hanging in his eyes, staring up at Astarion so needily—
And yet none of that begging for him.]
Please, please . . . Vakares, please, do not deny me, not tonight. Come fuck me, please, I'll do anything, but please . . . only tell me what you want from me, but do not draw it out, please, please . . . I can't stand it, not any longer, not when I've waited all night to be taken . . . please, I've been so good, please—
[Oh, it goes on and on, whimpering and undignified (and yet no worse than any other given night), desperate and hungry— oh, forget fucking Astarion. Forget the vengeful little plan he'd had, for right now Fenris wants only to be impaled.]
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So good.
So good, like the exhausted little hole left empty and wet with his slick spit, shadowed underneath his chin in eclipsed demonstration: I've been good, can't you see? Rumbled while his shoulder drops and his head turns slightly, showing off Astarion's livid cock instead, burying the evidence of his mean hunger in exchange for— what, exactly? The latter lies pretty and drooling against his profile, but it's no more sated than the former; piquant attention draws out bubbles of shining precome over a thin patina of drool, but it's not come, is it? His master tasked him with a demonstration of doting reciprocity, and now that its reward has come, he flits ardently between its scattered parts, lifing their unfinished fractals as proof of his hard work, desperate for so much praise.
If Astarion had any lucidity left in him, he'd be livid at that ploy.
But that theory hinges on the idea he had any in him already. Gods know he didn't when that tongue was twisting in him, his cheeks forced to spread and his squirming kept tethered while he fretted on a tether— keening for just a hint of mercy. Fuck— he feels high. He feels dizzy, still, his legs shivering where they're caught in a latching hold that's bordering on absent: more claws than fingertips, more stiff— knuckles so clamped tight and unbudging that he sees pinprick lines of red slipped around the edges of turned talons.
It isn't about him anymore.
He's just a bit player now, Astarion. Just that risen cock under those imploring lips. Just the sound and punctuation of one more moaned-out please— echoing in the chamber of his chest without pride or preservation. 'Please, Vakares' tangled up in 'Please, Fenris'— and the rest is background clutter, holding its breath for their dismayed beseechments to be met by that tall shadow that flocks them.
Ambition gives fenris what he wants.
With a grueling slip of well-glazed movement, the tension barring his sire's cock from the heat of his own body breaks: without a second spared for acclimation, the bulbous head that speared the charge plunges deep— ploughing the way as it drags along tight walls until resistance finally meets its molten match— potent girth prying his fluttering cinch outwards so it can't settle. Oh, ambition does swell in him now, doesn't it? Palpable reward having pushed in to the hilt, those mastering hands pumping him over its breadth with unsparing abandon. Everything he'd wanted: his. Wet and slapping, plump and spreading redness over the curvature of his upturned ass—
(Yet that ambition doesn't make him ready to handle it all just yet.
Being the controlling marse of two taxing creatures without succumbing wholly to their conjoined touch, ah, now that takes mastery....)
With his prize pushed roughly in behind him, his quarry slips its lede to demand satisfaction of its own: in a surge just as swift as their proud sire, Astarion's unheld hands rush to fist around pale wisps of straight white hair— cruelly grabbing palmfulls to the root on either side and yanking that open mouth down across his waiting cock— his hips lifting in tangent, trembling as they pump. Push. Pummel. Fuck. They fuck those pretty lips with riled madness, driven to desperation by minutes upon minutes of pent-up teasing. So severe in its momentum Vakares barely needs to move to watch his own prick disappear as dusky hips squirm their way down across its measure again and again and again—
Oh, stunning little Fenris. How lucky you are.
Given everything he'd asked for at both ends.]
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Nearly always when Astarion pushes, Fenris pushes right back.
But sometimes the goal isn't victory. Sometimes their fights don't have meaning; sometimes the scoreboard is pushed away, and Fenris stops caring about what this might look like in the aftermath (and oh, this is why he is so unsuited to vampiric politics, but never mind that now). And right now— with Vakares' length spearing him open so indulgently as a thickened cock slams down his throat, claiming him and breeding him with fervent desperation— oh, right now, Fenris doesn't care one bit about who wins or loses.
He moans.
Slickly, desperately, the noise a ragged thing slipping out between every obscenely wet choke that the hammering pressure of Astarion's cock forces out of him. Awful and undignified, a vulgar rhythm that Fenris seems all but giddy to play into. Like that, like that, and he offers Astarion no resistance as he forces his head down for the second time tonight. There's no fight, no scrabbling to try and pin his hips down or scrape his teeth against his prick in warning— Fenris' fingers knot in the sheets, his back arching up as he keens in pleasure.
Both ends. Both ends, and he's so sated it nearly hurts: his eyes rolling back as he's bounced between them, so aware of how he's become little more than pretty toy to be shared between them. He tries, once or twice, to contribute: rolling his hips back to fuck against Vakares the way he knows their sire likes, or dragging his tongue sinfully sweetly against the underside of Astarion's prick, but it doesn't matter. The tempo is too swift, the fucking too rough— and soon enough Fenris allows himself to settle, contentedly thrilled to do nothing but take from both ends. A pretty toy, yes; a prized consort put to use by his elders, not as a punishment or degradation but because it's what they all of them want. Harmonious in the most vulgar of fashions (and later, when he's capable of thought again, Fenris will wonder if that isn't such a bad way to bring their celebrations to a close).
He's so aware of himself right now. Every droplet of drool that slips past his tight lips; the searing drip of precome pouring down his throat as Astarion's cock throbs in warning. The ache in his jaw and the sting of tight knuckles gripping his hair as he's forced down farther and farther (and how he whines for it, swallowing so eagerly each time his throat is breached, a needy little slut finally given the cock he so clearly craves no matter what else he might assert). The rhythmic slap of his ass against Vakares' hips, cheeks bouncing with every thrust, his toes curling in the sheets as he shudders and writhes— oh, he's so eager to be bred. Already full of his sire's come and waiting to be filled from the other end, Astarion's mark on the verge of pouring hot down his throat— oh, gods, he loves it, he loves it, and there's nothing but blackened delight swimming in his hazy gaze as he stares up at Astarion.
And it goes on and on . . . oh, he doesn't know how long. Until he's long since given up on trying to contribute, slumping down and letting Astarion dictate the pace. Until the noises from outside have risen and fallen; until the candles have burned low in their holders, the light dancing off shining skin as Fenris writhes and bounces and ruts. And it's no surprise their sire comes first, not when both his consorts have been so dedicated to tending to him— one last thrust before he spills into Fenris' waiting hole, his hips pumping over and over as he works it eagerly into him. Pearl streaks and smears on his cock, fucked so deep into his little consort that he won't ever get it out— and for a moment Fenris thinks that he'll simply plug him like that. Use him as a teasing bit of overstimulation, a pretty little cockwarmer bouncing and rutting atop his length until Astarion finishes, but then—
A hand on his ass. A gentle nudge— and with a little cry Fenris is pushed forward, his mouth torn from Astarion's cock as he sprawls atop him, thighs trembling as his untouched cock (and oh, he'd forgotten his own arousal up until now) grinding needily against Astarion's belly.
'Little tease,' their sire chides fondly. 'Don't think I didn't notice how long you kept him on your tongue, my Fenris.' Settling back on his heels, he reaches down, idly spreading open one of Fenris' cheeks just to see the puddle of come and slick smeared over his hole. Then his eyes flick up, focusing on Astarion. 'Fuck him, he adds softly, and it's a command. 'Let me see you two rut.']
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2/2 more forever free permission to timeskip or just burrow into us threading the boys talkin :>
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iliad XXX: the return to iliadening
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iliad 34534676 forever and ever
ILIAD III: RETURN OF THE KING
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