[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.']
There they both are at last. Their instincts— their true instincts— set loose to run boundlessly wild like they always should've been. Not a territorial pair of bitten things fighting over what they already own as if they might soon starve, but this— this: that same territorial pair moaning and rutting— their legs splayed and tongues eager, every part of them panting and rushing to take in more; messy with provocation. A host of soft, percussive slaps and throaty moans gone muffled, no sign of who owns either in any amount when they both are busy spilling dismayed ecstasy like melted sugar. Roiling sensation twisting hotly in the snare of their waiting mouths, their clench-sore palms, their open legs and waiting bellies— lust more poisonous than blood, dragging them closer than ever before through so much restless rutting.
Even an intermission doesn't change that.
Astarion couldn't confess how long it takes for him to readjust himself on uttered command (not much— not much, when they're so flush and dripping with spread ardor— a set of slender legs drawn wide with nothing forcing it, their hips already roughly met). He's miles from his own body by the time Fenris is whipped around (or turned around, or pushed) to face the other way, the full moon of his pristine ass raised in reddened display and dripping at its glazing center: a pretty little hole still slightly swollen from all use that tugs in matching direction when Astarion pulls at rich surrounding swells, toying dazedly with the ability to squeeze, to lift, to spread, to catch its barest edge and make it tremble from tender tension—
To watch its perfect shape pull wide between his thumbs and match the outline of his encroaching cock like a key approaching its intended fit.
A gift.
A gift.
For both of them this time, courtesy of their kind master— puncturing the surface of held stillness with an impatient thrust that only quickens at the base: plap plap plap while thin wrists are caught and pulled back into a wheelbarrowish hold— or something resembling a rider harshly holding reins: Fenris' weight pushed sharply forward through his chest and head and shoulders though his lower half and hands stay back, caught and bouncing in that savage hold. His head swinging wildly beneath the angle of his collarbone, close again to their master's sated prick.
That set of ember eyes that meet Astarion's once his gaze somehow rises from the channel of Fenris' spine and the vulgar-hot ravine of shuddering cheeks speared fully by the mesmerizing measure of a restlessly pistoning cock.]
....Clean it....
[He manages (he thinks), oh, sounding nothing like himself. Listening to his own voice speak with a roughened shiver; hearing something like the grit of lupine fervor or the scrape of gravel over stone, hopelessly breathless.
Clean it. And it's not a command— that's Vakares' to give, after all— and even in a wild haze, he doesn't dare to cross that line.
But they've almost switched positions now, haven't they? Thematically speaking, it'd be such a waste not to let that offer hang there like the former elf whose body he's mounting with dizzying aplomb. The idea of sharing him between them again exalt; swept up in yet another smack of pumping contact (and then another, and another— ) delighting in the kiss of those tight hollows that don't know how to do anything but squeeze to drink in more.]
[Vulgar are the noises that fill the room in the minutes that follow. The slick sound of a swollen cock ravaging into a hole already wet with use, come and oil splattering slickly against pale skin, dripping down to soak into the sheets. The repetitive slap of skin on skin echoing just beneath it, damningly rhythmic as Astarion settles into taking just what he's owed from his twin— fast and hard and heavy, oh, a mortal could never keep up such a pace, not the way Astarion is. So intense that the air bursts out of Fenris' lungs for each heavy slam of his hips, his head snapping forward as stars dance in front of his eyes; pleasure pulsing through him in electric bursts, crackling through his body over and over each time the blunt head of Astarion's cock batters his prostate with vicious precision. The roughened murmur of voices pitched too low to be heard from the outside, Vakares' even tones offering sweet praise and goading filth as he leans forward to kiss Astarion—
And rising above all that cacophony, Fenris' voice rises in such a filthy moan.
Raggedly, desperately, endlessly: a moaning, mewling little mess that's so overwhelmed with pleasure he can't help but cry out for it, oh, he's so very loud. His voice rising and falling in time with each of Astarion's thrusts, little barks of overwhelmed pleasure slipping past his lips each time his chosen mate hits home— and that's to say nothing of how he screams when he picks up the pace. His voice so loud that surely some guests must overhear it, but gods, he can't worry about that right now. He can't even think right now, not beyond please and yes and don't stop. Drool slips down his chin as his cock slaps and bounces between his belly and his thighs, and he howls for that, too: the way he's so untouched, so untended, a helpless little slut denied release for no other reason than whim.
And so he bounces there: his arms forced back (and oh, how the pain of it only adds to his pleasure) and all of him suddenly and swiftly rendered into little more than biddable hole—
And that's why it's so important that it isn't an order that Astarion issues.
That's why it will matter later, when all is said and done and the heir is decided upon. Not because Fenris doesn't want to do it— but because he does. Because there is some part of him that eternally craves the pleasure of obedience; because there is so little he loves more than moments like these, when all games and pretense are given up and there's nothing but them, animalistic instincts triumphing over all. It's important it isn't an order because Fenris would follow it, addled as he is— and because that can't be the way this night ends.
Clean it. A suggestion, then— and one Fenris leaps upon in an instant.
All his moans suddenly go muffled as he lunges forward, head snapping up to drag his tongue so clumsily against Vakares' prick. Again and again he laps at him, and when his target proves elusive (for oh, gods, how Fenris bounces as he's bred), he simply mouths at him: come smearing over his lips and cheek, droplets lingering on his lips before his sire takes pity and grabs him by the jaw. 'Open', he urges, and slips his cock past that pearl-coated tongue, groaning as lips cinch tight around it.
And he loves it. He does. He loves being of service like this; he loves being shared, the appreciative hands that pet along his flank and cheek, the little bits of praise woven within groaning gasps: good boy, just like that, my sweet little hole so good at taking what he's given . . . and all the while he's stuffed full. Vakares' cock swelling in his mouth as Astarion outright impales him with every undignified snap of his hips, and Fenris moans so jaggedly for it. Helplessly he cinches tight around his twin's prick, his body greedy for the one thing it's craved all night, don't you dare stop.
And all the while his own cock aches for it. Throbs for it, swollen and slick with precome and so sensitive it hurts each time it bounces against something. Every brush of his flushed tip against silken sheets earns a pleading whine; every vicious slap of his cock against his thigh earns a howl of protest, please please don't stop please don't please please—]
Hells' mercy, they don't stop for a single assailing second between them, these vampiric things with a wealth of pent-up strength to expend.
(Oh, they don't stop when Astarion violently latches himself claws-first onto those hips with a bracing grip as he spills— hot as embers and drenching as a flood— into dominated little channels at last; they don't stop when Vakares' prick finds itself clean once more— only to be rigid again and hungry as it drools in demand for the tender mouth that bathed it; they don't stop when those mewls pitch high and whine and dive or bury deep around the shape of savaging pumps from overswollen lust, muffled to be pushed back in for minutes at a time; they don't stop when the last to come of that trio finally finds his own desperate length cupped within his master's pitying grasp and kneaded to squalling exertion with his mouth full and his hips still punishingly rut: a broodbitch given its vital due at the end of such hard use.)
And isn't he lucky for that?
Isn't he lucky, spoiled sweetheart that he is, kept panting and moaning at the top of those unremittingly sex-starved lungs for so many maddening hours that they're all three of them winded by the time they sprawl together in an enervated heap amongst torn sheets (they always tear his sheets; he never once complains, their patient sire), his arms hooked about them on either side and all thought gloriously eased back into relative numbness behind half-closed eyes.
What complaints could he have like this, so serviced?
What misery could find Vakares when his precious paramours had lapped over each other on trembling hands and shaking knees until they were all equally pristine? Dazed in the aftermath. Comfortably dragged down into utter passivity's soft measure like denmates finally exerted, forgetting their prior slights.
He can think of nothing better to dream of in the coming decades.
Nothing he'd want more.
That's why he tells them first.
Before the vying competitors and obedient allies catch wind. Before they're leapt upon without warning— or worse, pit against each other by those who couldn't picture moments such as these, where they lie tame and still with subdued floes still bedded deep within them, shared in every sense.]
I am sure you've already expected that someone here is meant to take my place while I sleep. [A little wry, that: the guests have not been discreet in their aims, and the banquet itself hasn't been, either. They're not fools, his darlings. He knows they know.]
[Astarion barely has it in him to play coy the way he wants to. Too dumbstruck to be defensive or overtly miserable right now while the buzzing high of orgasm is pulsing thickly through chilled veins: his half-stirred mind caught between the glorious echo of plump cheeks being slapped down eagerly over a pearl-streaked prick to the tune of wild moaning and the sight of his master rumbling praise that— for the first time— felt shared: he can still hear constant hum of 'good boy, there's my good boy' lingering over and over and over again, and you know, it could've been for either of them. Both of them.
In fact, it probably was.
Tangled up in tattered silk sheets like this, he can feel his ankle crossed beneath the tangle of Vakares' and Fenris' legs, his body curled over one high hip into their space— and he doesn't care to differentiate this time; he understands himself better than anyone, after all. All his vitriolic fuss, all the acrid pettiness sharper than gunpowder smoke— it'll come later. There's no rush.
And that's why it sounds so ridiculously paper thin, his purring little croon of a whisper:]
No one could take your place. [Which— all right yes, while true, it's more performative pandering than actual conversation.
It draws a smooth chuckle from their sire at the very least, who then looks to Fenris for a beat without speaking. (And you know, suddenly, for the first time, seeing them look at each other like that right there in that shallow little twist of turned focus, it hits Astarion like a shard of ice against his ribs, lurching low into his gut: an afterthought. A nightmarish little impossibility clawing its way up into the light against all odds.
A rare thing for Fenris. A rarer thing still for a vampire, and he knows it won't last. He's had a century to get used to that constant craving, that desperation instinctive urge for more, sex and power and money and drugs, oh, he understands now why so many of their kind sink so deeply into darkness. When nothing is ever enough, and even the worst kinds of vices only bring temporary comfort . . .
And yet: they are indulged in this house. They are kept in line with a set of rules that keep them on a stricter moral code than Fenris had lived by even as a mortal (and he will never forget that first week: staining one of Vakares' rugs scarlet as he'd justified a bloody massacre of slavers as not the impulsive feasting of a newborn, but the kind of devastation he'd have wrecked long ago if he could have). They are allowed to hunt, to feed, and even (as Fenris so desperately longs for) to enact some quiet justice as they see fit, so long as they don't draw too much attention to themselves. And in that careful indulgence, Fenris finds a certain measure of peace.
Here and now, he feels it once more. Drowsy and so, so sated, he lies there, content to be tangled with the other two. His body still aches with the phantom sensation of two cocks splitting him open for hours on end; come pools hot within him, fucked into him so thoroughly there's no chance he'll ever get it all out. Mine and ours and yours, possessiveness an endless ebb and flow between all three of them— and though he sometimes chafes beneath possessiveness, right now it suits him more than ever. They're his as much as he's theirs, after all.
And understand: he'd be happy to fall asleep like that. He's nearly halfway to it when Vakares speaks— and oh, for a moment Fenris is nearly sorry for it. He doesn't want to think of what's to come, but ah, they must. He blinks hazily once, twice, trying to focus himself as Vakares speaks of what's to come—
And it's funny, for when Vakares focuses on him, he has the exact same reaction Astarion does.
Maybe it will be me, and it is not thrilled, not at all. He doesn't want to lead, not like this. He doesn't want to be the face of their coven for the next few centuries, maintaining alliances with nobles he can't stand, playing nice with those whose heads would be better served perched on pikes . . . oh, he doesn't want it. He doesn't mind being a leader when it's for a good cause (and oh, how many times he's taken command of a company, eager to rid Baldur's Gate of as many slavers as he can), but not like this.
He hadn't realized until this moment how much he had assumed it would be Astarion. Oh, he's scoffed otherwise, but that was only ever to get under his skin; he'd never dreamed Vakares might actually pick him.]
And yet someone will.
[It's more somber than he intends it to be. Fenris sits up a little, glancing just once over at Astarion before focusing back on Vakares.]
[But he doesn't rush to do so. Not out of sadism, a perverse desire to watch them both grow wary, but because this will be . . . difficult, perhaps, to adjust to. They'll balk, he's certain, and perhaps even protest— but it's for the best. He knows it is. He's spent years trying to think of how best to handle this, and every other solution only breeds more problems.
There's no real way to do this delicately, you know. Sometimes you have to simply rip the bandage off and deal with the sting in the aftermath. And so though he's loathe to shatter this moment of tranquility, he says simply:]
It's both of you.
[His words come swiftly, though he can already feel shock rippling through both their slender frames.]
Both of you will rule jointly in my place, for as long as I am asleep. You will be a united front— and you will have to be united, at least in public, for there are too many who will leap on any hint of disagreement between you. I will elevate you both, and you will have equal power— and I expect it to stay that way.
[No usurpation. No civil wars a century down the line, when impulse and instinct might overwhelm good sense.]
Which is why I intend for you two to be joined together.
[It's not marriage. It's not. That's a very mortal concept, not unheard of but not often used among their ilk. Instead: it's something decidedly more vampiric. A symbolic joining, heavier and with far more weight than a mere marriage— for it's such an unnatural thing, vampires sharing power. They do not tolerate rivals, potential or otherwise; they certainly don't take partners, not when consorts are so much easier.
So it has weight, a vow like this. A promise unlike any other, set in stone and marked in blood— oh, there's a whole ceremony, but in the end they'll be united, the two of them. Bound to care and protect one another, not because their sire is around to ensure it, but because to turn on one another will ensure their own ruin. What vampire, after all, wouldn't take advantage of such a delicious opening? When two partners squabble and fight among themselves, oh, a throne is so easily stolen . . . no, they'll have to work together, at least in public.
And eventually, Vakares hopes, they will unite in love. But one thing at a time.]
Joined— [His head spins when he manages to yank himself upright across his own forearms.
Reality spins faster.
Surrounded by a grand study and suddenly it feels cramped enough to choke. A box. A fenced-in, miserable bracket surrounding the humiliating concept of co-rulership through the absurdity of a bedded bond: as if they were a pair of mortal weaklings. As if their sire watched them fuck just to prove a point about getting along (oh Astarion, you know that wasn't it; he loves you more than that). As if their past sharpness meant nothing whatsoever compared to a couple instances of good behavior. Their thundershirt: Fenris' ability to suck down come— oh yes, that's the glorious making of true vampiric sovereignty, isn't it? Divine Right the punchline shoved between two sets of open legs. 'Which consort did you choose?' 'I don't know, their merits are so varied— they both give such good head.'
The Court will have a field day once news of this gets out. Joined together.]
—with him?
Have you lost your lightdamned mind? [Hand over hand, he turns (albeit slowly) where he sits— rearranging himself through buckled sets of trembling inches that force the idea of disentanglement while he finds his way into hunching over, that precise angle the definitive key to pulling his own leg free. He doesn't care that his tone is disrespectful.]
Is this a bloody joke?
[Gods, maybe it is. Maybe this is the part where his master breaks into a knowing chuckle at last, confessing that he knew just how his fretful first-sired would pitch such a bitter fuss if he thought it wasn't him meant for the throne. Fitful little Astarion, endlessly short-sighted even now on the eve of his departure.
(How it stings that he sighs instead.)]
2/2 more forever free permission to timeskip or just burrow into us threading the boys talkin :>
I have meant every word, little one. [And though he reaches for Astarion, the vampire twists himself away from outstretched claws the second they approach; utterly venomous for how he glowers whilst hunting down thin silk to tug loosely about his arms and shoulders, blouse lacework hanging raggedly unstrung— all of him out of reach.
None of it a shock in any sense (and yet all the same, Vakares does still feel a flicker of something low and mourning at the sight).]
It's the only way. And if you would put down that ire, I know you'd see it, too.
[Astarion scoffs before he finishes. 'The only way? Making a disgraced mockery of your dominion instead of just for once choosing a single heir like everyone has always done is 'the only way?'
Barefoot, tugging at the waistband of torn trousers, the truth slips out in his expression: do you really think so little of me? Soft and painfully left to twist in open air— before his eyes narrow into viperish slits underneath a set of pinched-up brows.
'Go step into the sun.'
And like that, Astarion is gone.
Oh, not forever— (even Vakares knows he'll storm on his own for a handful of hours spent prowling crowded hallways, but) once it ebbs into a half-spent fizzle of stubborn resentment, mapped out by his tender pride— inevitably he'll return before night's end. And whether it's to reluctantly agree or only silently obey, the outlay is that Astarion will accede. Sooner rather than later, even for a thing this cataclysmic.
In the meanwhile, until Vakares finds himself called to the formal stage of his own announcement, that leaves but the two of them here, laid out as they have been.
Careful in sparing an earnest sidelong glance— not wanting to drive the other fragment of his heart away so soon; resigned to the possibility that it might happen anyway.]
[In truth, if Astarion hadn't had the outburst, Fenris might well have.
Certainly he feels it rising in him as Vakares murmurs that. And every word that's spat in their sire's direction sounds as if it comes straight from Fenris' heart: how could you, have you lost your mind, is this a joke, repulsed and horrified. But whereas Astarion's humiliation comes from the indignity of not being solely picked (and it is humiliating, even Fenris can admit that: passed over in favor of a joint rule, oh, how it must sting his pride), Fenris' is more rooted in the past.
You need your master's permission to be married, you know.
(A hundred years later and it still always comes back to this.)
You have to petition him. Court him. You have to make it seem like a good idea, whether for the general happiness of the slaves (for happy slaves make productive workers, after all) or simply because one's master fancies himself a romantic at heart. But you can't do it without his say-so. And if he disapproves— if he looks as his favorite bedwarmer and hates the thought of them belonging to another— he might disapprove. He might even arrange for another marriage, one that suits him more: a pretty thing wedded to an aged, broken slave not five years away from death. Kept, wedded, with all talk of that initial suitor put to rest.
And this feels a little like that.
It's not marriage. But it is, sort of, and he loathes that he wasn't consulted on it. He hates the notion of waking up and not having a choice; he despises the fact that even here, even now, parts of his life are dictated by someone to whom he is bound. Do this, not because it's what you wish for, but because it's what I demand— and maybe if Astarion hadn't bolted first, Fenris would have let that roaring rise of humiliation and repulsion crash over him. He would have let it consume him, smothering his good sense and bringing a snarl to his lips, and it would have been him who fled.
But Astarion went first.
And in the aftermath . . . Fenris returns that earnest glance with an exhausted one of his own.]
No.
[Crisp. Not cold, but not warm either. For he knows Vakares, you see. He knows that their sire knows of Fenris' past; he knows, too, how sensitive he can be towards it. Gods, it was Vakares who rescued him from all that (fingers stroking through blood-soaked hair, ignoring the ragged wheeze from a punctured lung, little one, you deserve better than this).
He has earned the benefit of the doubt.]
But I do not know what else you expected.
[He turns on his side, facing Vakares a little bit more.]
Why didn't you make it him? He is older. He has more experience. He knows vampires, and further, he thrives within their presence. And people will talk . . . tell me what the point is.
[As a rule, necessity hardly makes anything more palatable. Least of all in Fenris' case, who has suffered more than any of them combined— the terrified, savage-eyed creature he'd happened across one unexpected night while hunting larger game, barely prowling on its last legs. Too stubborn to succumb. Too stricken with mistrustful panic to find calm in its would-be final moments.
Not a night goes by that Vakares doesn't remember what it was like. And in the iterative overlap of tonight already, foresight is a shriveled thing beside him, stretched out in the empty space where Astarion had been; they have no choice but to live within blunt realities, untouched. It is unfair of Vakares to pin this to their future, and it is necessary.
And that final facet will always matter more to their sire than it will to them.]
Yet he fixates upon approval.
[Blunt realities. So unfairly blunt.] They will feed him emptiness and call it admiration the first chance they find. He will grow lonely— and look for me everywhere but in my coffin. [He would not look to you, the only other creature closest to his heart.] You are right: he would make an exceptional lord, and yet his weaknesses would still be preyed on before I dared to close my eyes.
[He doesn't reach between them when he shifts to follow suit, turning by tempered inches to find the measure of that crimson stare (something distractable within his chest catching like a shallow snag once done. There and gone again).]
You, Fenris, have always seen through the procession, the false flattery. The pointlessness of their feigned affection means nothing to you, only their actions. [A vampire that resents such petty excess, having resented it since before he'd grown into his fangs.] You would strike before you bowed your head in deference to anything as small as politesse.
What Astarion can't grasp, you do.
You compliment each other. Strengthen each other. I could no more force a mantle on one of you than I could condemn the other to a century upon his knees [oh yes, he'd heard what was spoken behind closed doors] and I see no reason why the way things have always been for our kin is the way it has to be for the two I cherish most. Not when it could be better.
[No, he doesn't. And that's the worst part: he does understand Vakares' logic, and it's sound. If you take all the emotions out of it, Astarion's preferences and Fenris' past . . . they really are a good combination. Astarion is better at politics, it's true. He knows how to deftly weave his words to flatter or insult as he sees fit; he has learned all the alliances and old gossip from centuries at Vakares' side, and knows just who they might rely upon or need to distrust in these coming years.
But he craves approval. He wants love and adoration, and he will not get it from that soulless pack of nobles, immortals and mortals alike. They'll flatter him and coo at him and make him feel important— and though he might be savvy enough to see through some of it, he won't see through it all.
And Fenris . . . Fenris has no head for that, true. Fenris is not a leader, nor has he ever wanted to be. But Fenris knows better than anyone how hollow promises from nobles can be. He knows how fickle these creatures are; how desperately they crave power and acknowledgement, and how very deadly it makes them. He had spent his entire life at Danarius' side, watching the politics of the magisterium play out before them both, and he knows just how to see through blind flattery and fixate on what the other person wants.
One can't rule without the other. Fenris is no better than Astarion is no better than Fenris, an endless back and forth that only works when you put them together. If they can manage to work together, pooling their talents and expertise— gods, there's no question they'll maintain their position.
It makes sense. Objectively, it is a good choice.
And he can't say: what if he tries to make me his chosen whore anyway? And he can't say: what if it doesn't work, and it all falls to ruin? He certainly can't say I don't want to, because at the end of the day, that's the bargain. That's the deal he struck a century ago, his head swimming with blood loss and an impossible offer at his fingertips.
Become immortal. Become not just my spawn, but a full vampire. Be my other chosen consort, and in doing so, become part of the endlessly chaotic, eternally political court of vampires— and you'll live forever, free of fear from Danarius and his ilk.
He took the bargain. And now this is part of it: submitting to the machinations of his sire, knowing in his heart that it's only ever done out of logical conclusion and love both. It isn't marriage— and that distinction matters more than ever.
Fenris sighs, but it's a rueful thing, not aggrieved. Reaching out, he cups Vakares' cheek, stroking just once in affectionate acquiesce before he settles back down.]
Do not ask me to be pleased with it, but I do not disagree with your logic. And in time . . . in time, I think it may well work out— though you may wake with fewer allies than you started with.
[Really, the trick with Fenris will be to sheathe his scathing tongue; there are more than a few allies who have been nicked by it before.]
But I note you leave me with the disagreeable task of taming Astarion and forcing him into cooperation. He did not like me before, and this will not endear me to him.
[Such a simple assertion. Small compared to its overpowering strokes: tomorrow night and your life will change; tomorrow night you'll be bound to your most embittered rival— his enmity woven like an unalterable band round your finger, inexpressibly tight. Perspectivistically shackling.
The weight intended to both pull you down and prop you upright in a sea of fanged volatility.]
I'll make my announcement before the celebration is turned towards the both of you, instead. Your ascension and your union the last thing seen to while I take my leave. [A silent confession: the arrangements have already been made.
It is better this way, to leave them with a beginning, rather than a pervasive sense of loss or emptiness alone— and perhaps it goes without saying that there is one more reason for it playing out as a thing already settled— for as much as he loves them, he cannot trust them to carry out a command so arduously taxing as this without him there to witness its conclusion. One would flee. The other would snap.
Like the rest of his designs, he's thought this through (over and over again inside this very room with his quill left bleeding into parchment for minutes at a time. Hours, some nights. Perched over his desk sporting half-closed eyes and folded fingers— so far ahead in forethought that in retrospect it burns to feel his consort's touch brush low across his cheek, however brief. He'd worried for them, you know. Sought the best for them. Strove so hard and harsh for the necessary that he only sees it now, when finally that shadow at the desk is almost visible in the borders of his vision, sitting just as it had been: he'd been dwelling here all along, his past reflection. And in doing so, Vakares missed out on precious months that could have been spent with his own starlings).
But that's not for him to grieve.
This isn't farewell, after all, no matter how it feels to speak of plans that he cannot witness beyond their careful setup: he needs this alleviation. This long, long rest away from a world that would swallow him along with every last drop of his affection. His self-control. His ability to cherish most the splendor of small comforts in gentle hands. And when he wakes from it, it will be to something stronger than this— (the latter thought so unbearably fond:) or he will make it so.
That stroking caress returned with compound interest, rough fingertips discolored by centuries of spilled ink pinning themselves just beneath the cusp of Fenris' sharp ear. Hello, my dearest little one....]
Astarion is never endeared to what he needs. [Slight, the careful little bend pulling high along his mouth.]
But I can't help insisting that you underappraise your value to him.
[Oh, he loves that doting affection, he really does. And though Fenris is not wholly thrilled with the idea of his imminent joining, he goes for broke nonetheless: twisting forward so that he presses himself more fully against Vakares, tucking his head beneath his chin. Resigned or not, he will not give up one of the last chances he has to curl against his sire.
His mouth presses gently against his throat, his arm wrapping around Vakares' frame. There's no purpose behind his questing fingers; he just seeks to press close, suddenly hungry for affection.]
He threatened me not eight hours ago with being turned into little more than his personal whore. [His tone is dry. It's not snitching if your sire already knows about it— and he isn't angry. Just sardonic.] I am not putting down my own worth, but I suspect my value to him begins and ends with how well I can take his cock.
[No, it's more than that. He knows it is. There have been moments . . . not many, admittedly, but still. Soft beats of mutual appreciation, or the unexpected joy that comes from the two of them laughing at the same joke . . . there have even been stretches of it. Times when things were calmer, and it was easier to be together than to be at odds— no, he is worth more to Astarion than a set of spread legs.]
And even if it isn't . . . he has always regarded me as usurper. I think it will take time once you are asleep for him to regard me as more than that.
[He draws back just enough to catch Vakares' gaze.]
You think so too. Has he ever . . .?
[Said anything? Done anything? He isn't asking for flattery, but . . . sometimes it helps, hearing an outside opinion.]
[He does think so too. Observant creature; so little slips Fenris' watch (and yet he is quiet more often than not even when unearthing yet another find, sharing only what feels relevant to the subject at hand), that keen bloodhound nose pushed just into the slantlines of Vakares' throat— underneath the shadow of two old, exceptionally haggard scars. Companionable closeness what fits them together in positioning unnatural to them otherwise; a knee here, an elbow there. His hand absently settling atop the crown of Fenris' head, smoothing down residually tousled strands of hair still displaced by Astarion's grip.
A usurper. Ah.
The term isn't necessarily wrong.]
You never had the chance to know him before I found you. [Stating the obvious, and yet— sometimes it's the obvious needs stating.] Worse is not the right term, but he has always struggled with the concept of certainty, and it manifests....[Hm.] It is at its most volatile when there is another his fears can flock to.
He would attack the other members of our coven when he thought I would not see it. [And the topic is grave, but there is such a note of housed-in lightness within his tenor, recognizable to anyone that knows its muted outline.] And I do not mean his spiteful tantrums, or his habit of....latching. [Like an unruly denmate, how viciously he bites, his little firstsired.]
He sought their deaths, Fenris, and he felt the consequences were bearable.
The only thing that stayed that habit was the eventual understanding that they did not come close to matching his favor. That hierarchical power was his solace.
But you— oh, he could not overlook your arrival, nor could he misinterpret its significance. The fact that for once, there was an equal nestled at his side. In all that time, you have not returned to me so gravely wounded that I feared for your safety. [He lashes out. He seethes at times, none of which has slipped Vakares' notice— but he does not tear with locked-on jaws; the urge to mutilate isn't there.
That holds so much more weight than what it seems.]
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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.]
1/2
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—]
no subject
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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There they both are at last. Their instincts— their true instincts— set loose to run boundlessly wild like they always should've been. Not a territorial pair of bitten things fighting over what they already own as if they might soon starve, but this— this: that same territorial pair moaning and rutting— their legs splayed and tongues eager, every part of them panting and rushing to take in more; messy with provocation. A host of soft, percussive slaps and throaty moans gone muffled, no sign of who owns either in any amount when they both are busy spilling dismayed ecstasy like melted sugar. Roiling sensation twisting hotly in the snare of their waiting mouths, their clench-sore palms, their open legs and waiting bellies— lust more poisonous than blood, dragging them closer than ever before through so much restless rutting.
Even an intermission doesn't change that.
Astarion couldn't confess how long it takes for him to readjust himself on uttered command (not much— not much, when they're so flush and dripping with spread ardor— a set of slender legs drawn wide with nothing forcing it, their hips already roughly met). He's miles from his own body by the time Fenris is whipped around (or turned around, or pushed) to face the other way, the full moon of his pristine ass raised in reddened display and dripping at its glazing center: a pretty little hole still slightly swollen from all use that tugs in matching direction when Astarion pulls at rich surrounding swells, toying dazedly with the ability to squeeze, to lift, to spread, to catch its barest edge and make it tremble from tender tension—
To watch its perfect shape pull wide between his thumbs and match the outline of his encroaching cock like a key approaching its intended fit.
A gift.
A gift.
For both of them this time, courtesy of their kind master— puncturing the surface of held stillness with an impatient thrust that only quickens at the base: plap plap plap while thin wrists are caught and pulled back into a wheelbarrowish hold— or something resembling a rider harshly holding reins: Fenris' weight pushed sharply forward through his chest and head and shoulders though his lower half and hands stay back, caught and bouncing in that savage hold. His head swinging wildly beneath the angle of his collarbone, close again to their master's sated prick.
That set of ember eyes that meet Astarion's once his gaze somehow rises from the channel of Fenris' spine and the vulgar-hot ravine of shuddering cheeks speared fully by the mesmerizing measure of a restlessly pistoning cock.]
....Clean it....
[He manages (he thinks), oh, sounding nothing like himself. Listening to his own voice speak with a roughened shiver; hearing something like the grit of lupine fervor or the scrape of gravel over stone, hopelessly breathless.
Clean it. And it's not a command— that's Vakares' to give, after all— and even in a wild haze, he doesn't dare to cross that line.
But they've almost switched positions now, haven't they? Thematically speaking, it'd be such a waste not to let that offer hang there like the former elf whose body he's mounting with dizzying aplomb. The idea of sharing him between them again exalt; swept up in yet another smack of pumping contact (and then another, and another— ) delighting in the kiss of those tight hollows that don't know how to do anything but squeeze to drink in more.]
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And rising above all that cacophony, Fenris' voice rises in such a filthy moan.
Raggedly, desperately, endlessly: a moaning, mewling little mess that's so overwhelmed with pleasure he can't help but cry out for it, oh, he's so very loud. His voice rising and falling in time with each of Astarion's thrusts, little barks of overwhelmed pleasure slipping past his lips each time his chosen mate hits home— and that's to say nothing of how he screams when he picks up the pace. His voice so loud that surely some guests must overhear it, but gods, he can't worry about that right now. He can't even think right now, not beyond please and yes and don't stop. Drool slips down his chin as his cock slaps and bounces between his belly and his thighs, and he howls for that, too: the way he's so untouched, so untended, a helpless little slut denied release for no other reason than whim.
And so he bounces there: his arms forced back (and oh, how the pain of it only adds to his pleasure) and all of him suddenly and swiftly rendered into little more than biddable hole—
And that's why it's so important that it isn't an order that Astarion issues.
That's why it will matter later, when all is said and done and the heir is decided upon. Not because Fenris doesn't want to do it— but because he does. Because there is some part of him that eternally craves the pleasure of obedience; because there is so little he loves more than moments like these, when all games and pretense are given up and there's nothing but them, animalistic instincts triumphing over all. It's important it isn't an order because Fenris would follow it, addled as he is— and because that can't be the way this night ends.
Clean it. A suggestion, then— and one Fenris leaps upon in an instant.
All his moans suddenly go muffled as he lunges forward, head snapping up to drag his tongue so clumsily against Vakares' prick. Again and again he laps at him, and when his target proves elusive (for oh, gods, how Fenris bounces as he's bred), he simply mouths at him: come smearing over his lips and cheek, droplets lingering on his lips before his sire takes pity and grabs him by the jaw. 'Open', he urges, and slips his cock past that pearl-coated tongue, groaning as lips cinch tight around it.
And he loves it. He does. He loves being of service like this; he loves being shared, the appreciative hands that pet along his flank and cheek, the little bits of praise woven within groaning gasps: good boy, just like that, my sweet little hole so good at taking what he's given . . . and all the while he's stuffed full. Vakares' cock swelling in his mouth as Astarion outright impales him with every undignified snap of his hips, and Fenris moans so jaggedly for it. Helplessly he cinches tight around his twin's prick, his body greedy for the one thing it's craved all night, don't you dare stop.
And all the while his own cock aches for it. Throbs for it, swollen and slick with precome and so sensitive it hurts each time it bounces against something. Every brush of his flushed tip against silken sheets earns a pleading whine; every vicious slap of his cock against his thigh earns a howl of protest, please please don't stop please don't please please—]
1/2
Hells' mercy, they don't stop for a single assailing second between them, these vampiric things with a wealth of pent-up strength to expend.
(Oh, they don't stop when Astarion violently latches himself claws-first onto those hips with a bracing grip as he spills— hot as embers and drenching as a flood— into dominated little channels at last; they don't stop when Vakares' prick finds itself clean once more— only to be rigid again and hungry as it drools in demand for the tender mouth that bathed it; they don't stop when those mewls pitch high and whine and dive or bury deep around the shape of savaging pumps from overswollen lust, muffled to be pushed back in for minutes at a time; they don't stop when the last to come of that trio finally finds his own desperate length cupped within his master's pitying grasp and kneaded to squalling exertion with his mouth full and his hips still punishingly rut: a broodbitch given its vital due at the end of such hard use.)
And isn't he lucky for that?
Isn't he lucky, spoiled sweetheart that he is, kept panting and moaning at the top of those unremittingly sex-starved lungs for so many maddening hours that they're all three of them winded by the time they sprawl together in an enervated heap amongst torn sheets (they always tear his sheets; he never once complains, their patient sire), his arms hooked about them on either side and all thought gloriously eased back into relative numbness behind half-closed eyes.
What complaints could he have like this, so serviced?
What misery could find Vakares when his precious paramours had lapped over each other on trembling hands and shaking knees until they were all equally pristine? Dazed in the aftermath. Comfortably dragged down into utter passivity's soft measure like denmates finally exerted, forgetting their prior slights.
He can think of nothing better to dream of in the coming decades.
Nothing he'd want more.
That's why he tells them first.
Before the vying competitors and obedient allies catch wind. Before they're leapt upon without warning— or worse, pit against each other by those who couldn't picture moments such as these, where they lie tame and still with subdued floes still bedded deep within them, shared in every sense.]
I am sure you've already expected that someone here is meant to take my place while I sleep. [A little wry, that: the guests have not been discreet in their aims, and the banquet itself hasn't been, either. They're not fools, his darlings. He knows they know.]
2/2
In fact, it probably was.
Tangled up in tattered silk sheets like this, he can feel his ankle crossed beneath the tangle of Vakares' and Fenris' legs, his body curled over one high hip into their space— and he doesn't care to differentiate this time; he understands himself better than anyone, after all. All his vitriolic fuss, all the acrid pettiness sharper than gunpowder smoke— it'll come later. There's no rush.
And that's why it sounds so ridiculously paper thin, his purring little croon of a whisper:]
No one could take your place. [Which— all right yes, while true, it's more performative pandering than actual conversation.
It draws a smooth chuckle from their sire at the very least, who then looks to Fenris for a beat without speaking. (And you know, suddenly, for the first time, seeing them look at each other like that right there in that shallow little twist of turned focus, it hits Astarion like a shard of ice against his ribs, lurching low into his gut: an afterthought. A nightmarish little impossibility clawing its way up into the light against all odds.
Oh. Maybe it will be Fenris.]
1/2
A rare thing for Fenris. A rarer thing still for a vampire, and he knows it won't last. He's had a century to get used to that constant craving, that desperation instinctive urge for more, sex and power and money and drugs, oh, he understands now why so many of their kind sink so deeply into darkness. When nothing is ever enough, and even the worst kinds of vices only bring temporary comfort . . .
And yet: they are indulged in this house. They are kept in line with a set of rules that keep them on a stricter moral code than Fenris had lived by even as a mortal (and he will never forget that first week: staining one of Vakares' rugs scarlet as he'd justified a bloody massacre of slavers as not the impulsive feasting of a newborn, but the kind of devastation he'd have wrecked long ago if he could have). They are allowed to hunt, to feed, and even (as Fenris so desperately longs for) to enact some quiet justice as they see fit, so long as they don't draw too much attention to themselves. And in that careful indulgence, Fenris finds a certain measure of peace.
Here and now, he feels it once more. Drowsy and so, so sated, he lies there, content to be tangled with the other two. His body still aches with the phantom sensation of two cocks splitting him open for hours on end; come pools hot within him, fucked into him so thoroughly there's no chance he'll ever get it all out. Mine and ours and yours, possessiveness an endless ebb and flow between all three of them— and though he sometimes chafes beneath possessiveness, right now it suits him more than ever. They're his as much as he's theirs, after all.
And understand: he'd be happy to fall asleep like that. He's nearly halfway to it when Vakares speaks— and oh, for a moment Fenris is nearly sorry for it. He doesn't want to think of what's to come, but ah, they must. He blinks hazily once, twice, trying to focus himself as Vakares speaks of what's to come—
And it's funny, for when Vakares focuses on him, he has the exact same reaction Astarion does.
Maybe it will be me, and it is not thrilled, not at all. He doesn't want to lead, not like this. He doesn't want to be the face of their coven for the next few centuries, maintaining alliances with nobles he can't stand, playing nice with those whose heads would be better served perched on pikes . . . oh, he doesn't want it. He doesn't mind being a leader when it's for a good cause (and oh, how many times he's taken command of a company, eager to rid Baldur's Gate of as many slavers as he can), but not like this.
He hadn't realized until this moment how much he had assumed it would be Astarion. Oh, he's scoffed otherwise, but that was only ever to get under his skin; he'd never dreamed Vakares might actually pick him.]
And yet someone will.
[It's more somber than he intends it to be. Fenris sits up a little, glancing just once over at Astarion before focusing back on Vakares.]
Will you not finally tell us?
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[But he doesn't rush to do so. Not out of sadism, a perverse desire to watch them both grow wary, but because this will be . . . difficult, perhaps, to adjust to. They'll balk, he's certain, and perhaps even protest— but it's for the best. He knows it is. He's spent years trying to think of how best to handle this, and every other solution only breeds more problems.
There's no real way to do this delicately, you know. Sometimes you have to simply rip the bandage off and deal with the sting in the aftermath. And so though he's loathe to shatter this moment of tranquility, he says simply:]
It's both of you.
[His words come swiftly, though he can already feel shock rippling through both their slender frames.]
Both of you will rule jointly in my place, for as long as I am asleep. You will be a united front— and you will have to be united, at least in public, for there are too many who will leap on any hint of disagreement between you. I will elevate you both, and you will have equal power— and I expect it to stay that way.
[No usurpation. No civil wars a century down the line, when impulse and instinct might overwhelm good sense.]
Which is why I intend for you two to be joined together.
[It's not marriage. It's not. That's a very mortal concept, not unheard of but not often used among their ilk. Instead: it's something decidedly more vampiric. A symbolic joining, heavier and with far more weight than a mere marriage— for it's such an unnatural thing, vampires sharing power. They do not tolerate rivals, potential or otherwise; they certainly don't take partners, not when consorts are so much easier.
So it has weight, a vow like this. A promise unlike any other, set in stone and marked in blood— oh, there's a whole ceremony, but in the end they'll be united, the two of them. Bound to care and protect one another, not because their sire is around to ensure it, but because to turn on one another will ensure their own ruin. What vampire, after all, wouldn't take advantage of such a delicious opening? When two partners squabble and fight among themselves, oh, a throne is so easily stolen . . . no, they'll have to work together, at least in public.
And eventually, Vakares hopes, they will unite in love. But one thing at a time.]
1/2
Reality spins faster.
Surrounded by a grand study and suddenly it feels cramped enough to choke. A box. A fenced-in, miserable bracket surrounding the humiliating concept of co-rulership through the absurdity of a bedded bond: as if they were a pair of mortal weaklings. As if their sire watched them fuck just to prove a point about getting along (oh Astarion, you know that wasn't it; he loves you more than that). As if their past sharpness meant nothing whatsoever compared to a couple instances of good behavior. Their thundershirt: Fenris' ability to suck down come— oh yes, that's the glorious making of true vampiric sovereignty, isn't it? Divine Right the punchline shoved between two sets of open legs. 'Which consort did you choose?' 'I don't know, their merits are so varied— they both give such good head.'
The Court will have a field day once news of this gets out. Joined together.]
—with him?
Have you lost your lightdamned mind? [Hand over hand, he turns (albeit slowly) where he sits— rearranging himself through buckled sets of trembling inches that force the idea of disentanglement while he finds his way into hunching over, that precise angle the definitive key to pulling his own leg free. He doesn't care that his tone is disrespectful.]
Is this a bloody joke?
[Gods, maybe it is. Maybe this is the part where his master breaks into a knowing chuckle at last, confessing that he knew just how his fretful first-sired would pitch such a bitter fuss if he thought it wasn't him meant for the throne. Fitful little Astarion, endlessly short-sighted even now on the eve of his departure.
(How it stings that he sighs instead.)]
2/2 more forever free permission to timeskip or just burrow into us threading the boys talkin :>
None of it a shock in any sense (and yet all the same, Vakares does still feel a flicker of something low and mourning at the sight).]
It's the only way. And if you would put down that ire, I know you'd see it, too.
[Astarion scoffs before he finishes. 'The only way? Making a disgraced mockery of your dominion instead of just for once choosing a single heir like everyone has always done is 'the only way?'
Barefoot, tugging at the waistband of torn trousers, the truth slips out in his expression: do you really think so little of me? Soft and painfully left to twist in open air— before his eyes narrow into viperish slits underneath a set of pinched-up brows.
'Go step into the sun.'
And like that, Astarion is gone.
Oh, not forever— (even Vakares knows he'll storm on his own for a handful of hours spent prowling crowded hallways, but) once it ebbs into a half-spent fizzle of stubborn resentment, mapped out by his tender pride— inevitably he'll return before night's end. And whether it's to reluctantly agree or only silently obey, the outlay is that Astarion will accede. Sooner rather than later, even for a thing this cataclysmic.
In the meanwhile, until Vakares finds himself called to the formal stage of his own announcement, that leaves but the two of them here, laid out as they have been.
Careful in sparing an earnest sidelong glance— not wanting to drive the other fragment of his heart away so soon; resigned to the possibility that it might happen anyway.]
Would you prefer to follow him?
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Certainly he feels it rising in him as Vakares murmurs that. And every word that's spat in their sire's direction sounds as if it comes straight from Fenris' heart: how could you, have you lost your mind, is this a joke, repulsed and horrified. But whereas Astarion's humiliation comes from the indignity of not being solely picked (and it is humiliating, even Fenris can admit that: passed over in favor of a joint rule, oh, how it must sting his pride), Fenris' is more rooted in the past.
You need your master's permission to be married, you know.
(A hundred years later and it still always comes back to this.)
You have to petition him. Court him. You have to make it seem like a good idea, whether for the general happiness of the slaves (for happy slaves make productive workers, after all) or simply because one's master fancies himself a romantic at heart. But you can't do it without his say-so. And if he disapproves— if he looks as his favorite bedwarmer and hates the thought of them belonging to another— he might disapprove. He might even arrange for another marriage, one that suits him more: a pretty thing wedded to an aged, broken slave not five years away from death. Kept, wedded, with all talk of that initial suitor put to rest.
And this feels a little like that.
It's not marriage. But it is, sort of, and he loathes that he wasn't consulted on it. He hates the notion of waking up and not having a choice; he despises the fact that even here, even now, parts of his life are dictated by someone to whom he is bound. Do this, not because it's what you wish for, but because it's what I demand— and maybe if Astarion hadn't bolted first, Fenris would have let that roaring rise of humiliation and repulsion crash over him. He would have let it consume him, smothering his good sense and bringing a snarl to his lips, and it would have been him who fled.
But Astarion went first.
And in the aftermath . . . Fenris returns that earnest glance with an exhausted one of his own.]
No.
[Crisp. Not cold, but not warm either. For he knows Vakares, you see. He knows that their sire knows of Fenris' past; he knows, too, how sensitive he can be towards it. Gods, it was Vakares who rescued him from all that (fingers stroking through blood-soaked hair, ignoring the ragged wheeze from a punctured lung, little one, you deserve better than this).
He has earned the benefit of the doubt.]
But I do not know what else you expected.
[He turns on his side, facing Vakares a little bit more.]
Why didn't you make it him? He is older. He has more experience. He knows vampires, and further, he thrives within their presence. And people will talk . . . tell me what the point is.
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Not a night goes by that Vakares doesn't remember what it was like. And in the iterative overlap of tonight already, foresight is a shriveled thing beside him, stretched out in the empty space where Astarion had been; they have no choice but to live within blunt realities, untouched. It is unfair of Vakares to pin this to their future, and it is necessary.
And that final facet will always matter more to their sire than it will to them.]
Yet he fixates upon approval.
[Blunt realities. So unfairly blunt.] They will feed him emptiness and call it admiration the first chance they find. He will grow lonely— and look for me everywhere but in my coffin. [He would not look to you, the only other creature closest to his heart.] You are right: he would make an exceptional lord, and yet his weaknesses would still be preyed on before I dared to close my eyes.
[He doesn't reach between them when he shifts to follow suit, turning by tempered inches to find the measure of that crimson stare (something distractable within his chest catching like a shallow snag once done. There and gone again).]
You, Fenris, have always seen through the procession, the false flattery. The pointlessness of their feigned affection means nothing to you, only their actions. [A vampire that resents such petty excess, having resented it since before he'd grown into his fangs.] You would strike before you bowed your head in deference to anything as small as politesse.
What Astarion can't grasp, you do.
You compliment each other. Strengthen each other. I could no more force a mantle on one of you than I could condemn the other to a century upon his knees [oh yes, he'd heard what was spoken behind closed doors] and I see no reason why the way things have always been for our kin is the way it has to be for the two I cherish most. Not when it could be better.
[The faintest pause, before (in all sincerity):]
Do you see it differently?
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[No, he doesn't. And that's the worst part: he does understand Vakares' logic, and it's sound. If you take all the emotions out of it, Astarion's preferences and Fenris' past . . . they really are a good combination. Astarion is better at politics, it's true. He knows how to deftly weave his words to flatter or insult as he sees fit; he has learned all the alliances and old gossip from centuries at Vakares' side, and knows just who they might rely upon or need to distrust in these coming years.
But he craves approval. He wants love and adoration, and he will not get it from that soulless pack of nobles, immortals and mortals alike. They'll flatter him and coo at him and make him feel important— and though he might be savvy enough to see through some of it, he won't see through it all.
And Fenris . . . Fenris has no head for that, true. Fenris is not a leader, nor has he ever wanted to be. But Fenris knows better than anyone how hollow promises from nobles can be. He knows how fickle these creatures are; how desperately they crave power and acknowledgement, and how very deadly it makes them. He had spent his entire life at Danarius' side, watching the politics of the magisterium play out before them both, and he knows just how to see through blind flattery and fixate on what the other person wants.
One can't rule without the other. Fenris is no better than Astarion is no better than Fenris, an endless back and forth that only works when you put them together. If they can manage to work together, pooling their talents and expertise— gods, there's no question they'll maintain their position.
It makes sense. Objectively, it is a good choice.
And he can't say: what if he tries to make me his chosen whore anyway? And he can't say: what if it doesn't work, and it all falls to ruin? He certainly can't say I don't want to, because at the end of the day, that's the bargain. That's the deal he struck a century ago, his head swimming with blood loss and an impossible offer at his fingertips.
Become immortal. Become not just my spawn, but a full vampire. Be my other chosen consort, and in doing so, become part of the endlessly chaotic, eternally political court of vampires— and you'll live forever, free of fear from Danarius and his ilk.
He took the bargain. And now this is part of it: submitting to the machinations of his sire, knowing in his heart that it's only ever done out of logical conclusion and love both. It isn't marriage— and that distinction matters more than ever.
Fenris sighs, but it's a rueful thing, not aggrieved. Reaching out, he cups Vakares' cheek, stroking just once in affectionate acquiesce before he settles back down.]
Do not ask me to be pleased with it, but I do not disagree with your logic. And in time . . . in time, I think it may well work out— though you may wake with fewer allies than you started with.
[Really, the trick with Fenris will be to sheathe his scathing tongue; there are more than a few allies who have been nicked by it before.]
But I note you leave me with the disagreeable task of taming Astarion and forcing him into cooperation. He did not like me before, and this will not endear me to him.
[But he can handle it. He knows he can.]
Do you mean to have the ceremony tonight?
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[Such a simple assertion. Small compared to its overpowering strokes: tomorrow night and your life will change; tomorrow night you'll be bound to your most embittered rival— his enmity woven like an unalterable band round your finger, inexpressibly tight. Perspectivistically shackling.
The weight intended to both pull you down and prop you upright in a sea of fanged volatility.]
I'll make my announcement before the celebration is turned towards the both of you, instead. Your ascension and your union the last thing seen to while I take my leave. [A silent confession: the arrangements have already been made.
It is better this way, to leave them with a beginning, rather than a pervasive sense of loss or emptiness alone— and perhaps it goes without saying that there is one more reason for it playing out as a thing already settled— for as much as he loves them, he cannot trust them to carry out a command so arduously taxing as this without him there to witness its conclusion. One would flee. The other would snap.
Like the rest of his designs, he's thought this through (over and over again inside this very room with his quill left bleeding into parchment for minutes at a time. Hours, some nights. Perched over his desk sporting half-closed eyes and folded fingers— so far ahead in forethought that in retrospect it burns to feel his consort's touch brush low across his cheek, however brief. He'd worried for them, you know. Sought the best for them. Strove so hard and harsh for the necessary that he only sees it now, when finally that shadow at the desk is almost visible in the borders of his vision, sitting just as it had been: he'd been dwelling here all along, his past reflection. And in doing so, Vakares missed out on precious months that could have been spent with his own starlings).
But that's not for him to grieve.
This isn't farewell, after all, no matter how it feels to speak of plans that he cannot witness beyond their careful setup: he needs this alleviation. This long, long rest away from a world that would swallow him along with every last drop of his affection. His self-control. His ability to cherish most the splendor of small comforts in gentle hands. And when he wakes from it, it will be to something stronger than this— (the latter thought so unbearably fond:) or he will make it so.
That stroking caress returned with compound interest, rough fingertips discolored by centuries of spilled ink pinning themselves just beneath the cusp of Fenris' sharp ear. Hello, my dearest little one....]
Astarion is never endeared to what he needs. [Slight, the careful little bend pulling high along his mouth.]
But I can't help insisting that you underappraise your value to him.
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[Oh, he loves that doting affection, he really does. And though Fenris is not wholly thrilled with the idea of his imminent joining, he goes for broke nonetheless: twisting forward so that he presses himself more fully against Vakares, tucking his head beneath his chin. Resigned or not, he will not give up one of the last chances he has to curl against his sire.
His mouth presses gently against his throat, his arm wrapping around Vakares' frame. There's no purpose behind his questing fingers; he just seeks to press close, suddenly hungry for affection.]
He threatened me not eight hours ago with being turned into little more than his personal whore. [His tone is dry. It's not snitching if your sire already knows about it— and he isn't angry. Just sardonic.] I am not putting down my own worth, but I suspect my value to him begins and ends with how well I can take his cock.
[No, it's more than that. He knows it is. There have been moments . . . not many, admittedly, but still. Soft beats of mutual appreciation, or the unexpected joy that comes from the two of them laughing at the same joke . . . there have even been stretches of it. Times when things were calmer, and it was easier to be together than to be at odds— no, he is worth more to Astarion than a set of spread legs.]
And even if it isn't . . . he has always regarded me as usurper. I think it will take time once you are asleep for him to regard me as more than that.
[He draws back just enough to catch Vakares' gaze.]
You think so too. Has he ever . . .?
[Said anything? Done anything? He isn't asking for flattery, but . . . sometimes it helps, hearing an outside opinion.]
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A usurper. Ah.
The term isn't necessarily wrong.]
You never had the chance to know him before I found you. [Stating the obvious, and yet— sometimes it's the obvious needs stating.] Worse is not the right term, but he has always struggled with the concept of certainty, and it manifests....[Hm.] It is at its most volatile when there is another his fears can flock to.
He would attack the other members of our coven when he thought I would not see it. [And the topic is grave, but there is such a note of housed-in lightness within his tenor, recognizable to anyone that knows its muted outline.] And I do not mean his spiteful tantrums, or his habit of....latching. [Like an unruly denmate, how viciously he bites, his little firstsired.]
He sought their deaths, Fenris, and he felt the consequences were bearable.
The only thing that stayed that habit was the eventual understanding that they did not come close to matching his favor. That hierarchical power was his solace.
But you— oh, he could not overlook your arrival, nor could he misinterpret its significance. The fact that for once, there was an equal nestled at his side. In all that time, you have not returned to me so gravely wounded that I feared for your safety. [He lashes out. He seethes at times, none of which has slipped Vakares' notice— but he does not tear with locked-on jaws; the urge to mutilate isn't there.
That holds so much more weight than what it seems.]
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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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