Swims, spins, blurs, and though Fenris knows they have taken no drugs, it hardly matters, for he feels high as anything. Punch-drunk off searing sensation and overwhelmed arousal, and his defiant desperation only makes it worse. He's torn between the two, Astarion a siren dragging him into the darkest depths even as he struggles for air. I can't and don't and no all gracing his lips, barked out fitfully as his mind tries so hard to remember just why he'd resisted in the first place. Thoughts of hatred do no good, for the resulting humiliation burns through him as potent as any aphrodisiac, and as for plans for the future— oh, that means nothing at all. What future? What world? Nothing exists outside of this moment. Nothing exists outside of the two of them, locked together and yet still biting at one another's throats, collared together as surely as if they both had bands wrapped around their throats.
It's everything. It's everything, so blindly overwhelming that each time he thinks he's found a foothold through the scarlet haze of arousal, he's swept off his feet once more. It's the hypnotically vulgar sight of Astarion's prick gleaming in the candlelight as it saws temptingly in and out of him, earning a ragged moan each time it so cruelly grinds over that bundle of nerves (back and forth, back and forth, saliva pooling in Fenris' mouth as his jaw goes slack). It's they way Astarion's hands are always there to pin his own back each time he tries to reach for his prick, lilting voice whispering taunts in his ear (naughty thing, you know better). It's the trembling temptation that comes of featherlight fingertips toying with his welling slit, earning whimpering little whines that only grow as Astarion's cock grinds and ruts within him.
It's the rage that comes from hearing the word broodbitch, and the goading laughter that results when Fenris surges forward to bite that offending tongue. Blood runs hot between them and it doesn't matter, for no matter how he sinks his teeth in (and oh, he does), it's still him helpless. It's still him impaled, spread open upon his twin's cock and helpless to do anything save that. And so Astarion takes even that from him: turning his dripping fangs into a demonstration of his own helplessness, for what else does he have? Not his hands, held captive whenever he tries to seek relief. Not his legs, pinned back and dangling helplessly in the air, trembling wildly as Fenris tries not to lose his mind.
And it's the growing desperation as he is denied his release again and again and again.
Vampires are gluttonous creatures, and he is no different. A single orgasm doesn't approach satisfying him— and so this endless edging is the worst sort of torment. He loses track of how many times he verges on coming, his whole body tensing, his back arching, every inch of him surging up— only to be cruelly suffocated by a tight grip and a vicious thumb. Each waves leaves him reeling higher and higher, every potential orgasm more powerful than the last— so that by the time that spawn (only dazedly seen and vaguely registered) slips in and out of their rooms, Fenris feels nigh-mad from desire.
And the world swims . . .]
I—
[Oh, what a mess he is. Hair hanging damply in his unfocused eyes, his cock drooling as it bobs helplessly in the air. A soft nose bumps against his jaw and instinctively he nuzzles back against it, There's the faintest trace of a flush to his cheeks, the remnants of their wedding feast making itself known. Again the door opens, that same spawn coming in with a bundle of something white in his arms; drunkenly, Fenris thinks once more of ravaged brides and virginal first times. Of himself in torn skirts and stockings with runs in them, mewling as his body melts itself to the shape of Astarion's prick— his eyes rolling back, his mouth slack as he's fucked into his fourth, fifth, sixth orgasm of the night, a captive consort ridden hard and put back wet each and every night . . .]
I won't.
[Panted. Whined. His hips rocking forward desperately as he tries and fails to fuck himself, his skin gleaming with sweat and dripping with blood— and yet still some trace of defiance remains.]
I w-won't, I won't—
[Collar me, if you can. Fuck me. Tie me to the bed. Dress me as your bride— but I will not renounce my claim. That's what he wants to say. He wants to sound brave and defiant and unbreakable— but oh, two words are all he can bear. And in the end, he sounds more like a desperate thing than a defiant one.]
P-please, please, please, Astarion, please—
[Gods, it's been hours, please—]
[Desperate tears filling his eyes and tracking unheeded down his cheeks, his whole body shuddering as another pulsing wave of orgasm rises and falls— and Fenris in the middle, teeter-tottering frantically between his two selves, reeling and yet trying so hard even now to fight. Mouth dropping open before curling in a snarl, his teeth clicking in the open air as he snaps them.]
You will have to break me before you manage to ever come close to taming me— vishante kaffar mentula!
Oh but I will....if that's what it takes. [So little space between them that his cold breath clings to bitter tear-tracks when he murmurs. Holding fast the way Astarion holds fast; no part of him willing not to cling in its own right.] We could spend days together. Months. Years.
I know I always said I reviled you, but seeing you like this....
It's starting to bring me around.
[Oh it's torture for Astarion, too.
He's exhausted. Tested. Tried. Thrilling at the game around the shape of his own grin still means battling to make it last, and the map of their vampiric traits endure both ways: if he can last, so can Fenris; if Fenris can push himself to hold firm, so can Astarion—
Quite literally.
But that doesn't make it easy. In fact, as is proven under the weight of their vicious back and forth, that just makes it a fight. A true one. The sort they've never faced before between them, and for once (for now, while his idle thoughts are too busy drowning to hiss into his ears), he's glad to realize their sire isn't coming. That as the harshest minutes tick on— that obedient spawn still in the doorway (a tall, willowy young thing with deepset eyes and dark hair, always glancing towards Fenris as he listens to his master's call), finishes the last of his work ferrying items— it's a different kind of excitement lancing through his chest to think they can finally begin to test their limits unimpeded, the way any true vampire would.
There are no windows in this room. He can't tell how long it's been since they've started, and he won't risk asking his own slave for an answer that might tip Fenris off as well (let him think it's an eternity. Let him assume that it's been just as long as it feels); Astarion will see to his guests later.]
Our wedding night has to take priority, my love. [Cruel. Mocking. Poured from a tongue that plays it like it's true (and maybe— through that strange bond of theirs— in some way it could be), though he grins like a shark with a bloodied muzzle and reaches high to pin his thumb to the very center of Fenris' oozing lip in that same breath, smearing it again in a mockery of their ceremony. Hades and his pomegranates. Red as love. Red as lust. Red as torment.
Passion always wears the same cloak, and no poet worth his salt forgets the ugliness that makes cannibalism the very same act as kissing. Fucking. Loving. Longing.
Fenris took him before a crowd.
Astarion waited for this.
With a blink, his hands are free, his captive; the vampire could wrench at himself to try and work himself to rapture in the seconds he's afforded— but Astarion's already stilled himself while flush: their hips jammed together till Fenris' cheeks swell against the lower edges of pale hips and perched thighs, forcing them higher into rises that he freely palms (like stroking a horse run well, its nostrils foaming as it bucks and bites and falters)— and what sort of miserable orgasm would that be? Crumbs licked from the floor instead of a waiting feast—
Astarion of all people would know: that only makes it worse.]
I've been too eager to satisfy you.
[A lie. Not a lie.]
Rattus— [He barks out roughly, pulling Fenris forwards into his arms while letting his cock slide free. The boy behind him running, though that was never his name. His title.] Slave.
Help me tie him to the bed. I want him dressed properly.
[And it's two against Fenris' one in that instant: even if they were evenly matched rivals— even if that harried wolf thrashes or screams or snarls fangs-first— his arms are shackled to high bedposts; his ankles clapped in looser chains ('so that we can still attend to him', his betrothed says offhandedly), exhaling only once the job is done.
And from there, they both prepare.
In their own ways, that is. Not to be mistaken for equal ceremony: Astarion almost immediately demands blood (brought some whelpling noble who shrieks to be devoured— sobbing, wailing till every outcry quietens in death or slack unconsciousness; Fenris can't see well enough to tell), and spends the better part of an hour afterwards dabbing spare blood across his wounds, watching them heal while he's brushed, perfumed, dressed in sweeping midnight black and crisp glints of ornate gold. You'd think he'd pin a thorny crown to his temple in the last few beats— and maybe he will, eventually, knowing his own temperament— but he settles for jewelry instead: a choker of barbed obsidian briars, no doubt meant to guard his most vulnerable asset from the reach of his lover's fangs. Never mind that it cuts his own skin when it digs. Never mind that spite will always hurt.
In that same hour, Fenris is dressed, too.
White lace. Sheer silk. Thinner than gossamer and as revealing as a favored concubine's regalia. They pierce his ears and drive gilt jewelry into them before they heal (those ordered spawn who can't well disobey), they tether his nipples with golden chain and leash it to a collar round his throat. They pull aside the very same sheer lingerie they'd fit him in with all its unsubtle symbolism to squeeze a plugging toy between his legs with aphrodisiatic oil— (they paint his lips, they wipe his tears to re-line his eyes and brush his bloodied mane, they smooth with salve to heal the worst of all his bites and scrapes)— while from his distant perch Astarion occasionally toys with the enchanted little rune that powers said device, forcing it to spring to life and stop, spring to life and stop; no reasoning beyond his mood, and always quick.
Until it isn't.
Until he's standing there at the foot of their grand bed admiring the beauty of his conquest: lean musculature rippling beneath sheer fabric whenever the poor thing flexes— smooth and supple and devourable when it isn't. Sunset skin and ember eyes, painted and flocked with gold and cream.
How stunning.
It reminds him of the desserts he used to dine on when he was still uniquely mortal. His favorite, in fact— brûlée dancing on his tongue as it melted beneath crisp sugar, complimented by the cold bite of flaked gold and just a kiss of blood-colored, muddled raspberry—
Red stain bright on Fenris' lips.]
My my....
[He exhales from a distance. Just a step or two away from the foot of their bed, and the perfumed span of Fenris' captive legs.]
Don't you look good enough to eat.
[And if Fenris dares to open his mouth—
The rune is pressed; a jagged, world-shaking buzz rattling through him from the base of his tight hole— left to build this time. Higher. And higher.
And off.]
Well don't be so dour, my darling. Open your legs for me.
(He knows them, those spawn that tended to him. The one with dark eyes who tied him to the bed and clad him in silk stockings and white lace; the pretty red-head who stained his lips and lined his eyes with such care. There was no emotion on their faces, no glee nor grief as they worked to pierce his ears til they hung with gold rings— but they can't disobey, can they? And though they avoided his eyes, though they none of them could escape the call of their new master, it doesn't matter. They'll still remember this.
Good or bad. Humiliating or pitying. Poor thing or he got exactly what he's deserved, spoiled little pup— they'll remember, and worse yet, they'll tell the others. How can they not? It's such a striking picture, after all. Out with the old master and in with the new, and with it a whole host of changes that will affect them sooner or later, for this is just the start. One consort triumphing while the other buckles, and as he lies there, hips twitching with every merciless thrum of that swollen toy, he thinks of how the image will travel, searing itself into the coven's collective memory. Dark and light. Chained and free. A lord husband dressed in the finest of clothes, tended to until he looks every bit as powerful as he feels— and his captive bride, writhing and moaning as he's prepared for his master to devour.)
Lace presses tightly against his hips. His collar is snug against his throat, just tight enough that a mortal might whine for how they strain to breathe. Silk rustles as his knees brush against one another, chains clinking gently for how his fingers curl and uncurl. He'd been wiped clean before, sweat and precome vulgar intrusions on the fantasy of virginal brides— and yet still his neglected cock drools onto his belly, unheeded and yet still throbbing for that cruel punishment.
(And the line is this: he does not renounce his claim. He does not cede that which belongs to him, no matter how bad it gets. He is still Astarion's partner, despite it all; he still rules half of this coven, no matter how it seems right now. He is equal in law if not in deed, and that is important. He has to remember that's important. He has to hold on to that fact throughout the coming days and weeks and years, for it's so vitally important.
But any slave knows that bullheadedness will only end up hurting you in the long run. That defiance is a beautiful thing, and it must be kept burning internally, a flame that never goes out . . . but that to defy one's captors indiscriminately and without thought will never end well.
He could fight right now. He could refuse. And what would that get him?
And maybe he doesn't want to).
He spreads his legs, obedient little whore that he has become.
Slowly, jerkily: his feet slipping over cool sheets until the chain binding his ankles clinks in protest, straining at its limit. His panties inch up, pulling taut between his thighs as tanned cheeks peek out, azure dots of lyrium revealing themselves from behind sheer silk. And that toy— slickened with aphrodisiac oil so potent that even he, eternally undead, feels so hot as it burns through his veins and sinks into his skin— presses against him. Still, now, and yet Fenris swears he can feel it tremble in anticipation— or maybe that's just him. Maybe lust and loathing have tangled into one, and faced with an unwinnable scenario— oh, who wouldn't want to give in? After hours (or is it days, now?) of captivity, his body so spent from screaming that all it can do is whine and whimper and mewl, gods please, oh, is it any wonder he's lost the edge of his defiance?
Fuck me. Take me. Make me yours, but let me come, be sweet to me: his hair glossed and falling in his eyes, his scarlet lips parted as he tips his head to one side. His back arching so needily as his pinned cock strains at its lace prison, swollen and overheated, desperate to be tended to—
And yet his eyes burn with rage.
Come closer, and let me test the mettle of my jaw against that collar.]
Such a brave husband I have with that collar on you . . . why not chain my legs open and make it easy for yourself?
[And gods, he doesn't care what it earns him, so long as he can still speak to say it— for there's losing and losing, and though he's sure he'll howl and moan and beg soon enough, he has to try.
(And yet: he wants him. And yet: his nostrils flare as the scent of lilac washes over him; and yet his eyes are dark as pitch, darting up and down Astarion's form as his tight little hole throbs in memory of that thick cock sinking so deep into him. His mouth aches as his tongue longs to feel something heavy on it; those piercings fitted to his nipples pinch and tug each time he twists his head, and it's no mistake he does that again and again. Saliva pools in his mouth as his thighs tremble in anticipation, his fingers curling in wariness— and impatience.]
Or are you only pleased when you have some form of victory to hold over me?
[Oh, little pup barking just as loud as he can while he has breath still to do it— and yet that doesn't stop Astarion's shadow from falling over him as he comes closer still. His chest heaves, his eyes narrowed as he tries so hard not to squirm: come take me, please.]
Because you won't learn if I do everything for you.
[Pomegranate seeds. Sickles over bloody earth. Thorny collars. Wedding bands. Bitten lips. Proximity synonymous with covetous envy, or so every cautionary fable swears— and if their master dreams of anything, it isn't this (though his bookshelves were lined with warning signs; old fiction shoved beside penned accounts of fallen empires. The very same tomes Astarion had fit his claws to). Too little, too late now. They're past the point of no return, and a hungry beast with its jaws spread wide won't stop because of hindsight— and that's if there even is hindsight to speak of. As things are now, the only thing Astarion would see if he looked behind him, is every step that it's taken to get here.
Soothed by the sight of cream and lace. Gold and tender red. The same pretty mouth that used to snarl at him only whimpers while it barks. Maybe their maker should have said 'I brought him for you' when he'd first brought Fenris home, for there's nothing in Astarion that doesn't leap to see his twin all but stamped with his own name. Nothing in all his fantasies of ownership that quite compares to its own truth.
(He's beautiful.
And what a sin that is for a creature caught.)
But Astarion is placid on approach. His footsteps slow, halfhearted. Dressed in cruelty and dark silk, adorned in intent that looms more viciously than his shadowed silhouette, eclipsing those caught heels to settle in between them. Fingertips light as they stroke upwards over sheer white fabric gone a few shades darker for vulgarity alone— discovered dampness such a pretty sight.
Prettier when it stirs.
Stiffness straining towards the backs of his knuckles, begging where its master doesn't. Touch me. Take me. I need this. I want this. Please. Please— ]
I'll be kind.
[Cross his blackened, deceitful heart, he can be. And isn't that better than his claws?]
You don't have to surrender anything to me.
We're already wed, after all. [Leaning in shifts his weight against the lines of those raised thighs; pressure slow and steady (those panties tensing as the contours that they cling to shift— providing less room, less coverage, less comfort— ) while their contrasting outlines intermingle, bottled pressure caught tight in lightless planes.] Be sweet for me, and we can make our own truce. Christen our first night together. [Testing the waters with his finger first; letting it smooth over the centerline of Fenris' mouth before pressing its way in without request until it meets the very tip of all those waiting teeth. Toying at what it aims to take.
(Try again. Again. Again. Repetition is key.)]
Open for your husband. Tongue first— no fangs.
[For a while, that's fun enough. Tease at him while the toy plugged deep and tight shudders at his behest: too quick and there's a violent buzz between those shackled legs, too slow and there's a buzz; too sharp, too passive, too resentfully— all ending the same way. With Fenris' teeth chattering from the rune his lover keeps, always correcting him when he strays.] Get this right and you can have something nice and thick to suckle on instead. You must be starving by now, after all. [They vampires are such needy things.] Just think about how warm you'll feel with a full belly to sate you.
Your throat comfortably squeezed around my cock. Your mind blissfully blank, relieved just to take in more of my claim. [With a twist, Astarion's spare hand turns around the shape of that held stone— one leashing chain yanked to push a stocking-clad leg high across his shoulder, furthering the violating scrape of their pinned outlines. All of Fenris' lower body raised, providing one more glimpse of soaked lace and thin fabric pushed aside for the sight of his sore cock, its livid crown drooling down the slope of his lithe belly towards gold chain. Towards him. (His lips, his face, his collared throat— )
If Fenris is lucky, he might be able to grind— force scant lingerie and bare skin over thick brocade and dark leather— for some small amount of satisfaction against the measure of captivity, particularly in those moments when Astarion is briefly distracted; brought a glass of wine (no, blood) by waiting servants, the iron in the air makes sense— or to have some small piece of his appearance belatedly groomed mid-game.
Trying to take too much without Astarion's permission, though....
[It's too much (it's not enough). It's too much (and it's nothing, it's nothing, minimal maddening malicious). An endless ebb and flow, a torturous rhythm that never, ever works in his favor—
The slow fucking of his mouth. The seductive lack of a single finger pressing down teasingly against his tongue, taunting him with what he's all but salivating for. Astarion's eyes black as pitch as he stares down at him, his tones dulcet as he plays at teacher: wrap your lips around me, little one. Harder, faster— no, not like that, and it's nothing like he craves. It's the faintest pressure, the most meager drag as it slides slickly past swollen lips, and when his impatience (his rage, his grief, his lust) rises—
Buzz, and Fenris thrashes wildly, his eyes rolling back as frantic moans vibrate in his throat— please I can't please, for that toy is nestled so firmly above that bundle of nerves. Viciously thick, menacingly powerful— he can't think, he can't breathe when it's on, it's like lightning sparking through his veins. Too hot, too powerful, too much I can't too much please, his back arching and his hips wriggling in a futile attempt to escape&dmash;
It ceases.
And then it all begins again.
Over and over and over, and he knows what Astarion is doing. He knows that he is being trained, a nubile little consort educated on how best to please his master— but knowing it doesn't help anything. Fighting doesn't either— how long Astarion had kept him screaming the one time he'd dared to nick his finger with a stray fang? Hours, surely, or at least that's how it felt. Hours upon hours of merciless vibration twitching between his thighs, thrumming and pulsing against his prostate, his cock drooling in whimpering need as it strained against his panties, his orgasm rising, rising, rising—
Only to be cruelly smothered each and every time.
He doesn't know how many times they play like that. All he knows is that suddenly the scent of blood cuts through the sex and sweat, and he realizes that Astarion is drinking. The dark-eyed spawn is near, and oh, Fenris should feel some measure of humiliation for having a witness, but he doesn't care. Not anymore. His thigh tenses where his leg is hoisted over Astaron's shoulder; the other dangles uselessly, leather biting into soft skin as it strains against its cuff.
And Fenris grinds.
Desperately at first: a stop-start rut meant only to work his cock against stiffened leather, gasping softly each time a spark of pleasure travels lazily down his spine. But he can feel Astarion's own cock thick and stiff against the curve of his ass, straining against black leather— and it's easy, then, to adjust. To make sure that every slow grind ruts against that straining length, soft cheeks rocking against him again and again. Rhythmic, eager— and so clearly not trying to take, but give. Every slow push of his hips surely must be bliss to Astarion, a balm to those howling instincts that demand that he take.
Enjoy it. Enjoy what your consort gives you. Enjoy what his body so clearly can't help but offer up in needy tribute . . .]
Do not pretend at kindness as though you have anything but a blackened heart. The lie does not suit you. You wish to take my mouth? Then take it and spare me your lying tongue, for you have never been kind to me—
[His leg jerks, thrashing— and it's an awkward angle, not his best work, but still Fenris manages to wrap one calf around Astarion's back, yanking him forward. Blood spills everywhere, crimson soaking into white lace and pattering on his skin; it matches the smear of red stain on his lips as he bares his fangs. Click, click, and his teeth echo in the air once, twice, straining to meet flesh—
A satisfied growl rumbling in his throat as his fangs scratch at pale flesh, and it doesn't matter if that collar scratches his face in return, for he tastes blood.]
Or are you too frightened of your captive to do anything but tease like a noble, too scared to dare go further?
[It's too much (it's not enough). It's too much (and it's nothing, it's nothing). An endless ebb and flow, a torturous rhythm that never, ever works in Astarion's favor. He'd meant to cow him, make him beg, plead, cry, shriek (so shrilly that the other retained guests could hear him from their beds and lent-out coffins)—
(Fangs puncture flesh.
(Or:) they scrape.
(Or:) they threaten to, and it's only the briars that dig in far enough to pry up red.)
—now, though? Now Astarion still intends to, but at a pace all his own, on his own monstrous terms. His master's muzzle hanging loosely from the empty space his shoulders should be taking up, unlatched. Rinsed clean of all pointless propriety; obligation only in the marrow of his aching teeth.]
Oh, wail. [He hisses darkly, shoving back against the soft scratch of ravenous canines through the collar at his throat, feeling it punch into the soft skin of his neck as it catches against brief intrusion that can't last. (Spite. Spite. Call it by name with every gruesome shove. Every ensuing twist where his muscles bunch into corded ripples under silk, supporting the whole of their weights— their vulgar, voiceless wants. Taxation brimming with envied hate: let it cut them both, but let it hurt Fenris more.) No such thing as action lacking cost under diplomacy this cruel; the leg hooked around his spine the meridian that violatingly shackles them together, moreso than chains or tethers or bloodied stripes swiped sweetly over waiting lips before a gathered crowd. Oil and water have nothing on the way they reject-to-rush-back-in with hardly a second left for equilibrium that isn't overblown, roiling and violent. There's false breath on his neck. Jaws pushed tight against the grate that separates them while lithe hips lift and rut and grind. Tackiness flooded into white, squeezed tighter into black.
You can have what you want, greedy thing.
His promise. His belated vows. Have it all. Glut yourself. Feast until it hurts. You baying, feral, onanistic thing that never belonged in these halls. His hands. His heart. My bed. My bed. (Stay in my bed.) Unable to move as the noose of their entanglement narrows into a swifter tug of lacework that tangles faster than it unspools. Empty glass clattering to the floor with a shattering snap as the slave beside them starts. Silk tears; fingers and their attached claws pull, culminating in a single yank so rampageous that the bedframe jostles underneath them. Lace torn (defenses torn). Tanned skin livid in the shadow of friction burns like tiger stripes; thighs awash in them beneath torn stockings and vacant space, twitching wetly around smooth stone. Twitching harder to be seen.
It'll hurt you most of all.
Two pale fingers spread that much farther into the cusion of dense muscle. His well-braced palm flexes backwards til it aches, forcing those cheeks out wider while he ducks his chin, fangs clicking to meet their counterparts (or skin, or lips, or tongue). Sucking in snarls, snapping out mirroring growls of his own. Tiresome nuisance. Beautiful prize. Beloved. Beloved— conquest. Trophy. Whore. Bride. I want you. I loathe you. I need you. I despise you. And no matter what ceremony swears of love or lifted duty, nights like these do always end in theft.
And he's no better, saintliness emptied from his silhouette long before Vakares found him.
He's no better.
He—
—spreads his touch that much wider.
Aligns his hips and drags against the grain until the supple map around warm stone begins to part.
And with a single nudge— his blunted crest already fit flush to where it needs to be— fights to shove his way in beside that heavy toy.]
(They've only ever tried it once before. One drunken night nearly a century ago, when Vakares' consorts were still trying to feel out whether or not Fenris was a pet for Astarion— oh, they'd done their best. Astarion's prick sat so thickly in Fenris, cold hands braced around his waist as Vakares had tried— don't, I cannot, please, don't, burying his face against the crook of his mate's shoulder, so busy shuddering in shock that he was allowed to say no that he missed the pointed look in Astarion's eyes. Poor thing, his mate had cooed, nuzzling against the side of his head. Don't spend a single second fretting, pretty thing— it's just too much for you to bear, isn't it? his eyes glimmering in triumph).
He doesn't think about the toy, he doesn't realize what Astarion intends— his panties are ripped off, his hole twitching from the burst of cold air as his thighs widen. And he holds his breath, waiting for that cruel burst of pressure that will leave him empty, and it doesn't come, it doesn't come (he hasn't come)—
Blood drips from Fenris' ravaged throat. Blood stains his thighs, his lips; blood looks so searingly, sinfully seductive as it drools from Astarion's throat and stains the sheets beneath them. Blood strings its ways between their hungry lips, and every hot puff of breath Astarion exhales against his lips feels like confirmation of obsession. Yours. Your whore. Your bride. Your usurper. Your mate. Your partner, yours, yours, yours, and gods, Fenris never wanted to be enemies. He never wanted to be rivals. He never, he never—
But this is what it became. This is what their relationship is. And no matter that some part of his brain is screaming in pain for the puncture wounds in his throat, for there is something so soul-searingly satisfying about the wildly savage look in Astarion's dark eyes.
I need you as much as you need me.
(Oh, lonely things, and they dance around it so much that the truth almost hurts as its confirmed, as searing as the sun).
And then he understands.
As blunt heat forces itself forward and his body howls from how widely he's stretched (just the tip, just the head, it's just too much for you), oh, he understands. And Fenris screams.
Wails. Howls. Thrashes wildly against his bindings, chains snapping taut as his head slams back again and again, all of him failing utterly to escape from inevitable, inexorable heat stretching him open, prying him open, forcing him open, and it doesn't stop. Heat whips through him like lightning strikes, his desperate baying timed to every cruel snap of Astarion's hips— please don't please stop please please please!, ragged wrecked ruined, his body desperate to escape—
And desperate, too, to take more.
It's ecstasy. It's agony. Never before has his voice sounded so frantic; never before has he felt so full— he can't see his belly, but he knows all the same there must be a swell there. Some intimate sign that he's more full than his immortal body can handle— and yet that his body must be made for, for he hadn't known there was pleasure like this to be had. Every roughened thrust has him screaming; every pulsing push leaves his thighs shaking in desire, spit puddling on his lips as his eyes roll back, his cock flushed and hard against his belly—]
Don't, Astarion, don't, ple—
[His voice breaks. His next scream a soundless thing, his eyes fluttering as his body suddenly stills—
And then thrashes to its own rhythm, as all the while his neglected cock finally reaches its limit. Too long taunted, too long teased, his pretty little prick jumping against his belly as pulsing waves of come spill between them. Pearly white smears against tanned skin, damning evidence (as if his shrieks aren't enough, as if the way he moans like a wetted bitch in heat isn't enough) that won't stop. Another wave, another, and they are such possessive things, vampires. Their appetites endless, their habits gluttonous— and their reactions excessive. Come gushes of Fenris' flushed slit, pearly rivulets pooling on his belly and dripping down his sides, and it feels as though it never ends— pulse after pulse after pulse—
(And maybe those guests do hear. Maybe those vampiric nobles and their fawning spawn do catch an echo of it: the baying cries of a coy bride finally caught and tamed, broken in the basest of ways— and so, so ready to be remade in his husband's image . . .)
Not cruelty, not mercy, not the overheated flare of slack-jawed satisfaction. Not power, not loss. Not the perfect feel of how the battered legs he's pushed between thrash ( —and then stop: locking while they shiver, before they fight to tamp down on even that— palpably afraid of the sensation that fighting this enacts, while synaptic response screams just to thresh for freedom like the prey he is, caught in the jaws of something dangerous), each jagged jolt furthering their rut, their madness, their wild desperation. For every inch of twisting, gasping, panting, roiling movement, Astarion feels his partially submerged cock shove one centimeter deeper. Then two. Then three. Heat wet and dragging while his eyes roll back behind shut lids, fighting for dignity when neither he nor his quarry have any left to spare.
The spawn beside them's already sunken to his knees to sweep up shattered glass. The room is grand and empty and echoing. The gifts devised for unity only sit in untouched silence around the sight of their entanglement— a brutal outlay of dark silk and briar barbs hunched low over exposed limbs sporting tattered lacework streaked with blood; golden shackles and fine chains now taut from desperate pressure. They have each other in the eye of the storm (hot breath driven from Astarion's mouth over Fenris' wailing lips, those pleading cries taken across his tongue into a kiss, as if he aims to drink them from their source), and there's a savage beauty to it that overtakes him in ways his master's urging never did. His cock caught in a brutal vice, his body threatening to spill beneath the fluttering clutch of narrow little channels already stretched out to their limits.
His mouth can't keep up when his consort's outline wracks itself into pitilessly savaged shapes; there's nothing he can do to keep those pleas from saturating open air (it isn't benevolence, don't mistake it for that, don't you dare call it that, it isn't— ) two gloved fingers quick to push their way in once more, driven to the back of Fenris' tongue until they're bound to one another only in the reverberating stretches where they meet: fingers and prick both plugged in tighter than a trap within the vulgar throes of painfully glazed submission, no part left independent of this brutally enticing game.
He won't last much longer.
And it doesn't matter.
It's only them here now, and nothing perfect comes without cost.
Damp slickness soaks across the front of his blouse while he dazedly murmurs coarse encouragement (open, like that, yes, good— there's my good boy, my pretty bride, you're learning aren't you— ) but it's as instinctive as the desire to blink. To suck in air. To want to sleep when tired. His voided stare awash in the stunning sight beneath him, more than worthy of being fucked into drooling frenzy; black begetting black. Their pupils only as dark as what they crave in the pit beneath their ribs. Hungry. Hungry.
That prick isn't done twitching.
He can feel it when he lifts his own palm, taking deep breaths of his own.]
....brace....yourself....
[The only warning that he gives before he activates the rune clutched within his fingers, knowing full well what it'll do to them both.
There's no thought. No memory, no conscious will— he doesn't remember why he'd resisted so ardently before. He doesn't remember his resolution, don't ever give up your claim; he doesn't remember that they're meant to be equals, that he's more than Astarion's pretty bride (his pretty consort, bed-bound and desperate, a pent-up virgin in desperate heat that needs sating). The world has shrunk itself down to just the two of them, tangled together and housed forever in this grand room, and what else could there ever be? Every breath Astarion exhales is inhaled greedily; every roughened murmur is listened to with a thickened throat, Fenris' eyes black with lust and shiny with newfound tears. They mirror one another, the ebb and flow between them all but tangible, every inch taken earns a moan that buzzes on both their lips. He's a slave to his body, a helpless tag-along to the sensations wracking through him, and there is nothing, nothing that matters beyond the two of them.
Beyond him. Him. His darling. His partner. His lord, high and mighty and yet so intimately close that Fenris has lost all fear. Every brush of their lips is confirmation of their mutual adoration; every searing inch forced into his needy little hole proof of his devotion. My consort, my bride, and the slave who had spent his entire life beneath another's heel whines in agreement.
Yours, yes. Yours, yours, yours—
(And sometimes it's easier to shatter than to try and keep yourself together).
Gloved fingers slips past his lips and with a heady moan, Fenris welcomes them. His lips wrap tight around that slickened span as they fuck deep into his mouth, not caring for how leather forces his spit to spill messily over his lips. His smothered tongue struggles to writhe, so eager to slip between two fingers and show his husband just how clever he really is. The earthy taste of leather and slick oil drips down his throat, the tips of his fingers tapping at the back of his throat as Fenris swallows again and again. Don't stop, his lips aching for every rhythmic rock, his eyes rolling back each time Astarion fucks him from both ends in vicious synchronism, like that, like that, his spent cock already swelling with newfound lust.
Brace yourself, his lord whispers, and Fenris knows it to be a kindness. A momentary fondness amidst all this cruelty, born of a century of standing side-by-side. Brace yourself, and he holds his breath in anticipation.
And everything goes white.
Too much doesn't begin to cover it. Too much was the cry of a wriggling bride tied to a vibrator's cruel form; too much was edging of the worst caliber, a teasing taunt that Fenris had foolishly thought was the worst it could get.
This isn't too much.
It's everything.
He's blinded, his eyes squeezed shut; deafened as a roaring fills his ears, oblivious to the sound of his own baying howls of pleasure as vibration after vibration mercilessly assaults him. It's heat unlike any other, all the searing sensation of overstimulation forced so deep into him that he won't ever get it out. That toy presses mercilessly against his prostate, fixed into place by a cock so thick that Fenris all but barks to feel it move. Slow little rocks or heated thrusts, and it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, for throughout it all there's that maddening buzzing that can't escape (that he doesn't want to escape)—
Crack, and the sound of his own wrist breaking as he thrashes in his bindings isn't heard. The pain is negligible, a momentary burst of distraction that Fenris desperately clings to before it heals itself. His heels kick helplessly in the air, his thighs wrapping around lithe hips so tightly it must ache, his back arching as he snaps and writhes and snarls— oh, beastly thing, and he isn't fighting, he can't possibly fight it, he's just reacting. So overstimulated it hurts, so overwhelmed that he's become a wild-eyed beast, his screams echoing around the chamber over and over. No words, not for such a creature as him; no pleading can save him, no entreaty can possibly help, and so he howls in desperation. Ragged and wrecked, sweat shining on his skin as his lyrium pulses; blood smears over his lips, mixing with sweat and dripping down his chin—
And then he comes.
Again, again, his cock untouched and unheeded, gushes of come staining silk and smearing against skin. Again, his thighs trembling wildly as his body cinches rhythmically around Astarion's cock, the sound of their hips meeting such a wet, quick thing— again, and he does not know how many times he comes nor how long a refractory period he has, only that it doesn't stop, it doesn't stop—
It takes so much to sate a vampire. More still to overwhelm them. And so the blackness of unconsciousness doesn't take him, no— there's just the endless ebb and flow of their fucking. Those precious, breathless moments where there's the slightest reprieve, his body numb and his eyes hazy— and then that inevitable plunge back into the molten darkness, Astarion's name on his lips the entire time.]
It's his grip upon the wheel. His white-knuckled fingers that scream for him to let go. (To hold on tighter than he has before.) This vulgar event horizon's already seized them in its maw, and no amount of refusal keeps them from the snap-pop shattering of their own senses; even if he's lucky enough in the alternating pitch dive between awareness and oblivion to hear warning signs before it slams into him again (that endless ringing in his ears, a muted swell of vacant pressure like hot glass set down on frigid stone, readying to burst), the second he's struck, he's ruined— scattered to the corners of his skin, a phantom beast rasping through synapse wounds. His collar choking him. His gloves chafing him.
His hips pumping the way an animal ruts its wanted mate (its next squalling, pinned-down meal— oh, wail— ) Panting and drooling just to tremble, consumed from the inside out.
If he's lucky, he'll glimpse the edge of savage sublimation in any which way it comes to overblown senses: reveling in the feeling of his cock violating tight-cinched little spaces; his fingers rammed thick against the back of Fenris' mewling throat, barely able to cry out without gagging on reflexive pressure— more likely to keep suckling, keep choking in the search for a broodwhore's satiety— both ends of him well and truly used far beyond their limit....and still pushed to endure more. And more. And more.
(Every luching gush of bottled pressure fights for space beside its peers. Every thrust of pumping fingers fights for what there's no more room to take.)
Vampires know avarice, after all.
(The ugly kind; the kind with barbs; the kind that doesn't sleep; the kind that makes you faintly sick for devouring more than your share— before you lick your lips and feed again.)
Impulse control, not so much.
They never make it to their coffins.
Years from now, a Duchess will suggest over clotted tarts that the ambitious Lord Astarion killed his lover that first night for fucking him harder than even undead creatures were ever meant to take: masking his mistake by replacing the young vampire with a purchased lookalike.
In truth, though very much a gossipmongering little lie designed for trouble, it won't be far off from reality's filthy cast: hours (or possibly full days later) the bed's as soaked to the core as they are within it— his upturned palm pushed beneath his consort's thigh, raising it shamelessly high where it drapes over him, their bodies still stuck fast. It aches if he's careless, true, but he doesn't dare move for at least a few acclimating beats of near awareness, sugar-glazed slickness the first thing he feels each time he recklessly considers doing anything but motionlessly sucking in air.
Instead, slung low and dark across his virgin quarry (oh, not so much anymore, is he....?) Astarion loosely dedicates himself to thinking.
Musing.
Tomorrow he'll teach his bride to stay, beg, roll over, sit pretty: train him up like any true vampire should. Keep him heeled at his side. He can't bear the thought of letting anyone else see him unless they're together.
And there's a notion worth exploring (or is that just coital exhaustion talking?) Fenris really would look so beautiful in a cage. Bound with his arms to his ankles. Gagged with fine jewelry and left to wait with his legs spread, his hole still leaking bubbling rivulets of molten come. Meant to ask for the nominal mercy of being tended to.
One arm moves abruptly lower, his gloved hand catching the innermost droplets of overspilling gloss. The ones that well around that subdued cinch. Slow. Dragging.
Pretty thing, Astarion mutters listlessly, and it's too void of clarity to be a statement.
Just a fact.
Pearling sheen bright atop dark leather hemlines, pushed against the malleable give of fuck-red lips.]
Open.
[His demand all night—
Or is it day, now? His mind so addled with smoke and the scent of sex he can't think straight. Otensibly drunk, and more than willing to remain that way for as long as he can put off being called to bicker with high court.]
He doesn't need to. Even now, his mind gone and his eyes hazy, he knows that on an instinctive level. There's no amount of air that will restore his energy to him. He needs blood, and far more than the slick, searing droplets that've come from tangling tongues and overeager teeth— oh, that was barely enough to keep him going. And until he gets it, he's a trembling thing, spent and overwrought: a youthful vampire brought temporarily to heel. Not an archduke, powerful beyond reason and able to change the fates of thousands with a flick of his hand, no. He's not even Fenris, not right now. That fiercely defiant thing that had gone into this marriage determined to hold his own has retreated, safely stored in the back of his head in favor of something far more adept at survival. All that's left is Astarion's bride. His consort, who whimpers softly as hours (days) of brutal rutting finally lulls.
Truthfully, he does not know what to think (if he can think at all, his thoughts scatter-shot disconnected). He cannot tell if this is truly the end or merely a break: a time for Astarion to indulge in another vice, wine or blood or smoke, before he sets in on his prey once more. And yet Fenris can't ask. He knows better than that (and how easy it is to fall into old habits. Like breathing. Like this, his body and bearing snapping back so easily into slave, his mind so desperate to preserve his sanity that it will do anything to keep him alive).
So he breathes, inhale and exhale, and somewhere he keeps a gentle count. He lets out a soft noise as Astarion's hips shift and another trickle of come spills out of his overfull hole (oh, he's so full, full and fit to burst, his belly faintly swollen and come splattered over his thighs, his hips, his ass). And when he hears open—
Astarion's bride tips his head up (little virgin no longer, no, introduced to the vulgar world of vicious, vigorous rutting, debauched and yet with so much more to learn), his lips wrapping eagerly around leather-clad fingers. Bitterness floods his senses, the taste shockingly sharp after so long tasting nothing but leather and oil. It spills over his tongue, drips down his throat, and some part of Fenris whines silently in satisfaction to know that he's claimed in both ends.
And for a time, there's just that. Peace in the eye of the storm, a fragility that might almost be mistaken for intimate if you did not know better. The room is cool and dark; the boy from before lingers in one corner, his head tipped down and his bearing deferential. Outside, there are faint noises, devoid of context and thus utterly incomprehensible to Fenris. Laughter. Snatches of phrases. The clink of glasses and the sound of music . . . and yet those fade into the background, ignored in favor of the soft, slickened sounds his mouth makes as he suckles. Lazily his tongue winds between Astarion's fingers, his eyes unfocused as he stares up at the canopy of their marriage bed. His thigh rests high, his legs vulgarly stretched around his captor as his bindings dangle from one ankle. Occasionally a pulsing throb from his chest tells him that his piercings are still intact; a soft jangle whenever his ears twitch informs him of the same.
And once the taste of come has faded and there's only leather, his bride slips his tongue out. A pearly sheen coats a drooling tongue, his demonstration obvious: I swallowed.]
Release me . . .?
[It's soft. Not a demand for freedom, impudent and cold, but rather something sweeter: a desire. I want my arms free, and it isn't quite a request and it isn't quite an order. But they hurt. His wrists have broken themselves again and again, his skin rubbed raw; he has not been able to put them down for hours on end, and it hurts.]
It shows on his face, even if he says nothing. It shows in the eyes that dilate for the view that they take in, thickly coating brightness shining over a pale pink tongue— barely any milky gloss left to spare. It shows in the way his exhausted, drowsy prick has the briefest moment of stirring in the deep before he winces (and shifts with a jagged shudder, and stills— too late to keep another pulse of heavy ardor from trickling out around the edges of their mergered state), abuse the testament to glory. Chafed and swollen and stretched and sore and raw and chapped and blissfully subdued, all.
So yes, he considers it, some vestigial part of himself existing only when the kerosinic blanket of Astarion the vampire dissolves, swallowing once and feeling dryness knock inside his throat. Feeling more than that beneath his ribs, elusive and at war. Poor thing. Poor obedient thing.
And he almost feels his own lips loving.
And he almost lifts his arm.
And he almost— almost—
snap—
The door behind them opens.
And heralded by a twisting doorknob, the world comes rushing back towards them through the sound of hurried footfalls. That same spawn from before scurrying to his master's side to mutter something hushed about guests and stalling hospitalities— and in that breath Astarion remembers who he is. Who the creature held beneath him is, and all that stunning beauty represents.
He rises (and it kills him, you know, the suffering act of working to dislodge himself, leaving beckoning heat behind), he washes, he dresses— drinking blood from an overfull cup so that beneath the black thorns of his collar, every wound is healed.
He forgets it on the dressing table when he leaves, not ever offering it to that starving catamite kept shackled in his bed.
A lean hound obeys more.]
Keep him chained when you have him washed.
I want him in something more presentable for tonight— [the spawn beside him fighting to keep up with his pace, hunkered posture leaving them at eye level.] Something exotic.
No— not just that.
[Whether by blood or by movement, he's rousing. His thoughts are clearing.]
Make sure that it's obscene.
[The door shuts soon after that dismissive order, and at last, for the first time in an eternity, Fenris is alone.]
The spawn's still shut in with him, as it so happens. Approach slow after cleaning up the archduke's dressing station, with most of the supplies from that endeavor still caught up in his arms. His fineboned hands with clutching fingers.
He doesn't say anything, but they both know his duty.
Clean him. Leave him in chains. Let him starve.
The cup is cold and only halfway filled with blood when he pushes its edge against Fenris' lips.]
No thanks. No grateful looks or murmurs of relief, no: the instant blood comes near his lips, Fenris drinks like a starved thing. Gulping blood and not caring for the fact it's cold, not when it tastes so good slipping down his throat. Like a cold glass of water after working in the hot sun all day— and it isn't enough, not for his empty belly, but it's something. Enough to heal his bruises and mend his bones; enough to chase away the fog in his mind, his eyes becoming clear as he focuses.
(He has never starved as a vampire. Vakares never believed in such punishments, always preferring the carrot over the stick when it came to disciplining his coven. There was always blood to be had, decades' worth of donations from eager volunteers kept fresh with magic and stockpiled far down in the dungeons. Fenris hadn't understood at first— gods, he nearly starved himself by accident that first month. Too used to being told what he could and couldn't do, he hadn't dreamed he was allowed to help himself— and Vakares, darling heart that he was, hadn't thought that Fenris needed telling.
It had come to head when he'd fainted. Passed out in the middle of Vakares' office, and only come to an hour later. He'll never forget the expression on Vakares' face when he'd roused: a mixture of fretful anger and fierce grief, and he had not understood either. Little one, you have to eat, promise me you'll eat, and he had.)
He doesn't know this spawn, but there are so many.]
Thank you.
[His voice is clear and even, the former rasp gone. Pain still radiates down his arms, but he knows better than to demand this spawn release him just yet. Better, to Fenris' reckoning, to use his lyrium and free himself once he's properly alone— for that way, hopefully, this boy won't catch trouble from his master.]
Yours. [That spawn remarks, trying to keep his eyes pinned somewhere respectful while Fenris' body heals; everything he's dressed in is deliberately compelling, designed for the new Archduke's appetite, and he's not—
He doesn't want to think like a vampire right now.]
Simon.
[Does it matter? His last name, that is. He's not really sure it even has a purpose anymore, but:]
Blacktree.
[Carefully turning, he puts the supplies away and finishes cleaning; he didn't feed Fenris, he just got rid of the last of the blood in the cup. And he doesn't free Fenris, either, when he comes back beside the bed only a minute later (give or take), just....
Loosens them. A little. So that he can work better, of course.]
You don't have anything to thank me for. Just doing what I was told.
[Blacktree means nothing to him, but Simon . . . he thinks he remembers hearing that name. It rings the faintest of bells, though how and where and why, Fenris couldn't say. It doesn't matter right now— not when the present is far more important.
Fenris shudders as those chains are loosened. The cuffs are still tight around his wrists, leather chafing against newly mended skin, but that doesn't matter, not one bit, not in wake of the relief that's finally being able to lower his arms. Fenris outright groans for it, a soft noise of relief that he can't help, oh, gods, but that feels good. Like easing the worst of a knot in one's neck, like finally stirring after hours on his knees . . . it's worth everything.]
Vakares, hm . . .?
[He hadn't any idea Vakares gave such an order, but he can't say it shocks him. It's just like their sire to think so far ahead— though gods, Fenris doesn't know whether he's resentful or grateful that Vakares apparently foresaw a turn like this. He compromises between the two by glancing away, focusing on stretching out his arms as his mouth goes tight.
(It doesn't escape his attention just where Simon had been fighting to keep his eyes above, and gods, but some part of Fenris warms for it.]
And what order did he give you, that you should tend to me like this?
[If he fled these halls, it would not be a year before he was killed. Such a young thing. Such a hopeless thing, and Astarion's voice echoes so maliciously in his ear. How weak Vakares must have thought him, how pathetic . . . make sure you save him, and Fenris' stomach twists.]
He said this was a lot to ask of anyone. [It's quiet. Squeezed out of the corner of his mouth when he starts to turn away. There's no definitive reason why Simon feels like he shouldn't be looking at his eyes, either, at least not when he's being talked to. Keeping his hands busy is the only thing he can do to justify it in the moment, pushing around the supplies on Astarion's— on their desk, half-hearted and a little more fumbling than the ideal.] He wasn't sure how this would go, or if the other covens would even accept it. And that if things went bad, you'd want [ —no— ] need someone on your side.
He just said 'I want you to help them, if it seems like they need it.'
[It was vague. The most abstract order ever given in this estate, maybe. Which could've been the point: there's no contradiction that way, no matter what orders Fenris or Astarion give him— it's not perfect, but he's relatively free.
He isn't going to cry. He isn't so weak as that, and what might be a hellish torture for a mortal is more easily taken in stride by a vampire. The past day has been an eternally long one, painful (and pleasurable, and painful again, an endless ouroborosian cycle that left his nerves raw and his mind flayed), but not traumatizing, not really.
But that unexpected brush of kindness from Vakares (the last echoes of their sire now long asleep) are overwhelming. Like a cool breeze in the dead of summer; like a sudden mouthful of blood when you've been told you'll starve . . . it's nothing and it's everything, all at once. Not patronizing. Not belittling. Just kind, in the gently removed way their sire has always been.
Gods, but he misses him.
So he's grateful Simon looks away, for it gives Fenris time to let his expression falter (his eyes hot, his fangs flashing as he bites his lip) and then pull himself together.]
Yes.
[Oh, he can admit it. Yes. Captive archduke forcibly turned consort, at least for now— yes, he needed it.
He's still hungry. He wants a full person to drain, some luckless slaver who prowled upon the wrong prey, sucked clean until there's nothing left but a husk (oh, he's drooling for the thought). But even a mouthful of blood is enough to revive him in a pinch— and so though it still hurts, though it takes far more energy than Fenris would like, still, there's a blaze of azure. A buzz of magic bursts through the room, and in the aftermath, those shackles fall free. Fenris sits himself up, grimacing as he rubs his wrists— he'll have to phase back into them, he knows, and that will hurt, but at least he can take a few moments for himself.
Think, now. Before he comes back. Before he claims you and starves you all over again, your mind wiped blank and your position forcibly remade. Think, little gem. This was not what your sire wanted, but his desires only go so far.]
I did not know he was so close to you. But, [Fenris says, biting back a groan as he staggers up and off the bed,] I found there was much I did not know about him.
[Little secrets, little facets . . . and someday, Fenris will have the chance to discover them again.
He glances over at Simon, a rueful sort of stare in his gaze.]
You must clean me. And then you must dress me in something obscene. The first I can handle on my own. The second . . .
Perhaps it would be better if you simply left. You can say I ordered you away— and he will be occupied enough with me that I doubt he will bother to remember you.
[Simon isn't significant, though. He wasn't close to Vakares (but like everyone else the vampire sired, he wishes that he was).
He'd just....been there.
Not even like the saying the right place and the right time, either; it wasn't some fated calling, or that Vakares somehow viewed him differently after the fact: any spawn could've done it. Anyone could've been there and gotten pulled aside to listen and nod along— just like he's here right now.
But that's not really relevant. And if he had the urge to admit it out loud at Fenris' prompting, there just isn't that kind of time for it either: Astarion will be back soon, and Fenris—
[Meetings pass quickly when you're a newly coronated thing.
That's a saving grace Astarion doesn't overlook, at least, considering half the remaining guests leftover from the ceremony are busy trying to prove they accurately remember his name, while the other half won't stop asking about his given husband—
Consort, he toothily corrects each time, enjoying the ripple of hushed gossip that fans outwards through the din (is he really defying his old sire? Does that make this a usurpation? Is Astarion the only one in charge of all the covens now?) nothing answered in the aftermath, as he'd gifted them the most wicked treat (read: distraction) of a live meal— something Vakares hadn't permitted in decades— and true enough, it's forgotten after that: curried favor doing wonders to ensure no one says another word about it.
At least not to his face.
His return is late.
He has a few droplets of leftover blood still swimming in his chalice when he opens the doors to his bedchamber, turning it within his grasp.]
Sleep well? [Comes a honeyed purr dislodged sweetly from the base of his throat, before—
Oh.
That wretched spawn from before is still loitering around.]
Get out.
[His flattened grumble sees the slave up onto his feet quicker than a whip to flesh— limber young frame hurrying past on lurching footfalls to aim one last look over his shoulder towards the figure on the bed.
That map of once-tanned skin.
Dark lace.
Thin strands of threaded chain hanging heavily from pearl beading.
Corruption must have been the theme, because if last night was their high wedding, this is the aftermath of that claim: the lurid sight of still-pierced nipples taut and risen under sheer lines of shadowed silk. Pitch black fabric thinner than dragonfly wings, stitched together in patterning that barely seems to cover any of the vulgar landmarks clothing's typically meant to hide. It bunches where it's pulled between dusky thighs lined in vivid blue— so narrow when it wrinkles that demulcent curves peek in swells beyond dark edges, and the soft, jewelry-laden hang of a prone cock lies in full, delightful view beneath a mask of transparent lace. Its subdued breadth glistening with oil from root to tantalizing tip. Thick and malleable and right there for devouring.
He looks tired, his rutted bride.
And when Astarion moves to sit, he slithers just between those legs. Heavy glass raised up and drawn within a few inches of Fenris' lips.
—and stopped.
With his gloved little finger, he slides its very tip under the gossamer hemlines covering that tender little prick. Hooking his finger into all that pretty stitchwork, and leaving it stock-still right where it'd initially settled: a wickedly suspended pause where one movement— even the slightest wriggle in any direction— will send the whole of Fenris' vulnerable cock spilling hotly into view. Wetted and flush for the smallest of touches, delicate decorations jingling in a little outcry for attention.
The way a whore slips wide soft lips. Pulls at a drooling cinch. The way a broodbitch pants in season, hunkered to the floor and crawling— tail raised high in invitation.
That's the implication. That's what's weighed against a cup filled with a single cut's worth of blood.]
I brought you a gift.
[He hums, his lips curbed upwards at their corners. He smells of iron and lilac.] Because you were missed at the party, and I know I was such a brute last night.
[Starved thing. What won't he do for a drop of precious blood by now?
Astarion clicking his tongue like calling an animal to drink.]
There's several blades, actually, and all of them within easy reach, for Fenris has no idea how Astarion means to position him tonight. They're wicked things, long and jagged, but they won't stop a vampire for long. They'll barely stop him for half an hour, if that, and even then, one has to bank on the fact that the vampire in question is a fussy thing, loathing pain and inconvenience. But Fenris doesn't need much time.
Just enough to subdue Astarion, at least temporarily. Just enough time to turn the tables on his counterpart, striking a blow fierce enough that once Simon leaks the news, the shockwaves will ripple throughout all the covens. For Fenris has no doubt Astarion's tongue has started its wicked work already: consort and whore, not husband and partner. My pretty little bride, oh, yes, his counterpart is a wickedly clever thing, and he has the advantage right now.)
He's so aware of everything as Astarion approaches, and even he does not know if that's due to wariness or arousal. Both, maybe: his mind rocking endlessly between a warrior's anticipation and a vampire's lust, his senses suddenly working overtime to take note of every single detail in this moment.
Like: the way that gilded decoration jingles so loudly in the relative silence as his cock swells against gauzy lace. Like: the way his chest heaves as he fights for false breath, those piercings straining against thin silk as he fights the urge to glance away. Like: the way his back is forced into an arch thanks to the pillows behind him, forcing him to put himself on display as his lord master settles between his thighs. The scent of blood fills the air, and Fenris cannot swallow the sudden swell of saliva in his mouth without being aware of just how tight his collar has gone around his throat. The golden chain that keeps him leashed is cold against his back; his wrists ache, though his ties have been loosened enough that he can move— albeit at a short distance.
And above all else: the electrifying burst of humiliation that pulses through him in false echo of a heartbeat, wave after wave crashing through him and leaving him all but moaning in response. His ears have flattened against his skull, but though he longs to glance away, he forces himself to hold Astarion's gaze. His crimson eyes are defiant things at first glance— though it will not take Astarion long to see the way they flicker with lust and longing, base instincts struggling to conquer the last echoes of an usurper's defiance.
No, he is no helpless virgin anymore. No longer is this the bride that Astarion had rutted, that trembling thing in desperate need of tending. He's accepted his fate, whether or not he's pleased with it— and so perhaps it's no surprise that he pushes himself forward. His leash goes taut, his wrists straining as Fenris moves to straddle his husband: thighs curling tight around his hips, his hands drawn back even as he squirms, settling in to Astarion's lap. Soft plushness rubs pointedly against swelling hardness, shifting until he can align them perfectly.]
Like this?
[Soft. Throaty. This close, Astarion will be able to see how his eyes flicker now and then, saliva glistening on his fangs as he tries not to focus on that blood— but what a good boy, that he isn't reaching for it just yet.
(Not that he could, not with his arms still tied— but intent has to count for something, doesn't it?)]
[Base instincts bared, it's as if they both strip for one another in low silence: peel away resentment, hierarchical jealousy, frustration and old slights, and what's left between them, really?
Desire. Lust. Carnal interplay that functions like a magnet, forcing them together all in spite of how they feel. Because at the end of the day it's want that leaves you naked, even when you're fully clothed. Even when you're dressed in finemade lingerie, feeling two fingers slide lazily between the barrier of false finery and warm, warm skin, rolling from base to delicately decorated tip as slender legs fight to wend themselves around him. Even through a rich voice spilling from a slickened mouth that opens far enough to show a glimpse of pink between sharp teeth that shine with spit, its narrow depths in reach and entirely unviolated—
For now.
Inevitably, pretense will strip itself away, too. The thrill of courtship that's squirming softly into view, spread out wide and inviting where dark lace has already twisted itself out of the way (and underneath his fingers, he sees it: that pretty, rigid conquest— jewelry trailing from its crown like pearls of lurid precome, all hidden in the shadow of his hand). A cup pushed halfway to swollen lips, not tipped far enough to let its prize trickle down into those waiting depths. Lithe hips. Taut, slim stomach. The little signs of rearrangement that've forgotten muttered curses in Tevene and all the nights when Astarion would wait until their master slept to grab hold of his consort's hair, rushing just to bring them closer. Tighter in extant luxuria. The more of its obscenity they drink in, the less they're slaked— a different kind of starvation than the one a vampire knows. Maybe one they've felt right from the start.]
Like that.... [He agrees, abyssal purr as beastly as his own desires. Soft and throaty, too, but loosely threaded around the tight cord of control that fits so well within his fingers—
Fenris fits so well within his fingers (insatiable devourer that he is. He couldn't bear to wait). Gloved fingers slid between hot cock and supple belly, grasping while the cup tips higher— flirting with Fenris' straining mouth— providing something else to focus on so he can freely take exactly what he's owed: starting with long, unfathomably steady strokes that push against hard pressure, kneading it again and again like it's a heavy heat in need of kindling, stoking it before its beautiful little keeper has a chance to realize just how much its grown.
Not a bride, but a caught little whore.
The jingling of light jewelry noisy as it tries to sound the alarm with every demanding flick of his own wrist, trembling in wicked rearrangement. Too late.]
You always were so pretty.
Little wonder he wanted you. Craved the sight of your body pushed tight around his cock, tongue lolling, eyes glossy. And you gave him every bite he craved like the good consort you were.
[Astarion noticed it the first moment that they met ( —clink clink clink— ), stock-still in staring at the slender thing stood hunched down at his sire's side. Lean and tall and oh-so-delicate. The wisps of his bangs trying to guard his reddened eyes and long, dark lashes. His inviting lips pulled downwards into a distressed frown full of hope, and need, and fear.
( —clink clink clink— )
What is it about beautiful things that makes the world want to desecrate them?]
....but I think flush submission truly is your color.
[The compliment isn't backhanded. It's earnest, is the thing: leaving Astarion's throat in a purr fit for the master he can't remember now that so much ambrosial dominion lies before him, with Fenris every bit as broken in as he'd sworn he'd never be, tight cords and bindings promise that. His full cheeks pushed around the shape of Astarion's weighted cock through leather trousers; his thin veneer of a barrier against intrusion already pushed aside in the way those panties have been tugged away into the crook of his splayed hips. Every inch of him malleable. Sweet as molten sugar, all but screaming to be savored. Split. Spread. Used.
A shame that toy is so far. A shame he can't wedge it hard between them again just to watch his plaything squirm— whimpering for the dinner that it needs and the overwhelming memory of the night they'd shared before, overstimulated in a rush of palpable fear. Saturated arousal. (How would he plead? How would he fight or beg— asking for more or mewling for less—
—clink clink clink— )
And he tips the cup at last, letting those shallow little crimson drops trickle closer towards the lip of its bright rim.
Though— oh, through those coaxing pumps across that cock; through the aching spread of his soft thighs and the needy scuffs of clothed friction working hot against his waiting hole— it's not quite enough, is it?
Oh no, barely a few centimeters off from delicious, bloody salvation still: he'll have to work himself into the grain of it all to lap up all his treat.]
So go ahead.
[Astarion murmurs thickly.]
Drink up, my precious pet....and let me seal your future with the taste of iron on your tongue.
That's how it goes, isn't it? Fenris remembers. His mortal life seems a faded nightmare at times, but what the front of the mind forgets, the bundle of muscle-memory survival instincts remember. Lessons learned a century before forgotten in face of a new master that doted upon him and called him consort . . . he'd grown complacent. Too enraptured on notions of freedom and autonomy, but before all that, he'd known how to endure this role. How to become whatever it is his master needed of him, whether that was bodyguard or bedslave, confidant or fawning peon— oh, it didn't matter, for Fenris only existed to please. And he did it swiftly and effectively, not because it was what he wanted, but because it was a matter of survival.
Remember, now, he thinks as his head tips back, iron pressed to his lips and blood impossibly far away. Remember that a slave is not a person; remember that mortification is for those who can afford autonomy. Don't ignore the humiliation, but rather let it suffuse through you, for that is the point of tonight, and your master won't be happy unless he sees you writhe. Play your role, little consort, and know in your heart of hearts that it will be a temporary thing. Let that comfort you as you give in . . .
(And it won't. And it doesn't. And he does not know what to do with the fact that some part of him is enjoying this— but then again, he has never known what to do with that part of himself, save bury it and pretend it doesn't exist. But it's that part of himself he leans on now, for there are only two ways out of this predicament, and he is not strong enough to take the option dignity cries for).
Fenris whines for the feeling of leather wrapped so tight around his cock. His back arches into it, his lips parting as overheated air slips past his slickened lips and brushes against iron, oh, he wants more. Every heavy pump of Astarion's hand feels as though it pulls on a string wired throughout his entire body, molten heat pulsing through him in time with a heart that no longer beats. Again, again, his eyes fluttering as his cock swells, helpless to do anything save surrender to his master. The pretty jewelry that hangs from his tip swings with every motion, tugging ever-so-faintly each time his hips rock back and forth. Sparks fly behind his eyes, a low, longing moan rumbling in his throat as his belly twists and his hips snap forward and back, forward and back. Forward, rutting into that domineering hand, his body all but begging for more as his neck strains and his tongue aches for the droplets of blood that flood his senses— and then back, shuddering in anticipation each time blunt heat nudges against his slick hole. More, and the words wash over him, demeaning and enrapturing, wrapping around him like the sweetest collar: I think flush submission is truly your color . . .
And his breath goes ragged. His eyes snap up, crimson eyes murderous even as his lips stay wrapped around the cup's edge. Vampires can't flush, not with rage nor humiliation— and yet there's no mistaking just why his hands tremble in their chains. His chest heaves— and though his every sense is screaming for him to lean forward and take what's offered (for what is a half-cup of cold blood in face of something fresh), still, he lingers there.]
Y-you believe a few droplets are temptation enough to have me submit utterly?
[Bait him. Enrage him. Don't give him time to look around and see that things are off; don't let him grow so enraptured with you that he notices you about to strike. Make it a fight between a vampire and his chosen whore— and it will be a fight, for there is nothing they two love more than to vicious tear at one another. Blind submission might be what Astarion thinks he desires, but oh, Fenris knows his fellow consort— and knows just how to keep his attention.
His head tips forward, his tongue darting out as he laps at those droplets, and it's—
Oh, it's everything. Words don't do it justice, not when blood is so much more than just nutrition. It's a burst of color blinding behind his eyes; it's the sudden deafening roar of sensations and scents and sounds as all his senses roar to life once more. It's feeling a flush to his cheeks and a sudden brightness to his eyes; it's feeling his cock throb in a swift surge of desire, his hips suddenly grinding back with whorish precision. He swallows desperately once, twice, his tongue flicking out to lap at the edge of the cup, determined not to waste a drop.
It isn't nearly enough to sate him, starved thing that he is— but it's just enough to ensure he'll have energy for the coming night. Fenris' head tips forward, his tongue dragging against the side of his mouth as that vicious spark of rebellion flares in his gaze.]
You are my husband, and my lord, and my master . . . but do not think [don't think about what you're saying] that means you have fully tamed me.
[And yet: his hips keep moving, rutting heavily against his master's cock, ignoring the way it makes his collar pull at his throat. A caught whore, yes. A bride tamed but not broken, snarling and seething at his bit—
[Power comes crawling to him on its knees like this— scant few minutes where an agile back bows high and powerful legs struggle for the chance to stretch a trembling centimeter wider (handfuls of undulating bucks from those same settled legs driving their bodies together again and again and again like a swelling plea): the feeling of velveteen skin squeezed slow between his fingers through a barrier of leather the most intoxicating coronation he's ever known. His second. His perfect, most depraved ascension. And he's so addicted to its lure that he can't stop.
Particularly when every touch they share isn't real.
Oh, tangible, yes, but the cup, the shallow slither of cold blood across that waiting tongue, his throbbing prick jabbing hard against a hole that can't dare take him with his trousers in the way, and Fenris' own handsome little instrument laid hard between his fingers, struggling to drool around cold jewelry— more and more and more— and nothing. Like drinking and always being parched. Like eating and never growing full, Astarion imbibes with a crooked, salivating grin even while he's mocked. Leaning closer (while he feels dull pressure tighten in the gaps between their bodies). Drawn like a moth to a waiting flame.
It begs the question of who's controlling whom.]
Growl all you want, little wolf.
[He knocks the cup aside with a tip of his own fingers. Profile hovering in its place above glossed lips. Dark lips, whose slick-hot glaze pools shallowly around small fangs. Eye teeth. Demure little eye teeth. Fenris' true fangs tucked away much deeper in that mouth.
Go on, he thinks, elated high along his neck. The hair there prickling with anticipation. Show me those teeth.]
I listened at your door when you thought you were alone. Heard you moaning in your sleep for decades on end. Gasping when you were busy fingering yourself or canting into your hand like you couldn't get enough, even after spending an evening with him. [Oh, him.] But you'd always say his name when you thought of your sire, wouldn't you?
[Like clockwork, even when all three had played together: Leto bouncing on their master's lap, and still— ]
You didn't like to say mine.
[That's how I knew.]
I am your husband. [How right Fenris is about that fact.] Your lord. Your only master.
I have you shackled in my bed and dragged you from your own. I have you dressed to suit my taste, still happily rutting against me just to slake that fire in your belly, spoiled as you've always been when it comes to being fed: opening your legs— your tight ingress— like a call for me to breed you.
[And I can give you that.]
I don't need to tame you— you're mine, Fenris.
[Two gloved fingers rise between them, a thin patina of oil glistening at their tips. Something he must've had pocketed or cleverly set aside just waiting for the shift in their transition, while his hips— the bruising weight of a muzzled, searching cock— massages defly at that hole.
Black leather moving closer towards Fenris' parted lips.
It's only once they're close that the scent of slick perfume might just scream out a warning blare cut from narrow familiarity: it's aphroditic. And potently so.]
I'm going to fuck you until your voice breaks alongside all that brittle pride. Until there is nothing left of what you are outside a pretty face drooling around a gag and a lifted ass hoping to be filled by the only touch that it remembers.
[Mine. Mine. Two fingers already closing in along the corners of that captive mouth.]
Your leash is in my hands. You've nowhere left to run to, my thoroughly despoiled bride. [White lace, black silk. Slow, creeping pressure sliding soft along those lips. Closer. Closer. A sawing back-and-forth without hard penetration: the prelude to mouthfucking, inevitable and near.]
And I promise: you and I are going to have so much fun throughout eternity together, seeing how long it takes to make both true.
Please oh please make me yours, I want it, I need it, please . . . even as terror ripples through him. Even as some part of him whimpers in fear for the prospect of spending weeks, months, years in perpetual heat, collared to the bed and eternally unsated: a drooling set of holes that tremble in desperation and buck up wildly for the prospect of attention. Even as he stares into Astarion's eyes and sees a lifetime's worth of glimmering sadism reflected back in its hollow stare, spite and rage and seething jealousy all ready to be called upon as the elder spawn takes his revenge night by night . . .
Hurt me. Break me. Take me and force me to worship you, to sate you, to bounce on your cock and offer you my mouth— dress me up like your whore and train me into behaving like your personal incubus— and the danger has always been the most alluring part.
His lips are tingling already. The scent of aphrodisiac rises between them, cloyingly sweet and so potent it nearly overwhelms him. There's no escape. There's no way to flee from those prying fingers and they both know it— and so there's nothing left to say. A wolf only need snarl for so long, for it's action that decides the kill.
Fenris' head ducks forward, his lips wrapping tight around slick leather. His chin tips back incrementally, his throat baring even as his eyes stay locked on Astarion's form. A slow swallow (aphrodesiac burning as it slides down his throat, searing droplets spreading across his tongue as waves of heat ripple through his body), a soft moan— and then Fenris fucks himself.
His head bobbing forward and back, those clever fingers dipping in and out of his mouth as he lavishes such attention on them. Like a broodbitch with his first cock, like a consort that's waited with aching thighs and an empty hole— Fenris suckles at them as if his life depends upon it, taking them further and further in with every pass. Again, again, his eyes fluttering closed as he grows more and more sensitive, til his reddened lips are throbbing from the relentless pressure of being wrapped around something so imposing. Two fingers or three, and it doesn't matter, for vulgar gulps and broken moans fill the air between them either way. His throat bobs above his collar, saliva and the faintest trace of blood dripping sloppily down his chin and pattering between them. More, don't stop, his hips rocking eagerly in time with every pass, that glimmering piece of jewelry jingling and tapping against his prick with every hungry movement. Astarion's cock prods at him, formidable stiffness tapping against his hole, and he's so oversensitive that he sees stars each time it does. A taunt, a treat dangled just out of reach, and each time it only spurs him on further. His noises grow louder, his motions more eager, until at last—
He gasps as he jerks back.
His chest heaves as he stares slack-mouthed at Astarion. And what a picture he makes: a dazed little whore with a dripping tongue, his cock flushed and dripping as it hangs heavy between them. Diamonds glitter with precome as he catches breath he doesn't need, his eyes lowering in puppyish submission.
He wends forward. Catches leather between his teeth, tugging gently until Astarion's hand is bared. Glove dropped so that he can take those fingers in his mouth once more—
And bites.
Hard enough to draw blood (flooding so hot in his mouth, ashy and welcome, drooling past his open lips and pattering onto his chest). Hard enough to keep those fingers exactly where they are— or threaten to tear into flesh if Astarion yanks them back.]
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Swims, spins, blurs, and though Fenris knows they have taken no drugs, it hardly matters, for he feels high as anything. Punch-drunk off searing sensation and overwhelmed arousal, and his defiant desperation only makes it worse. He's torn between the two, Astarion a siren dragging him into the darkest depths even as he struggles for air. I can't and don't and no all gracing his lips, barked out fitfully as his mind tries so hard to remember just why he'd resisted in the first place. Thoughts of hatred do no good, for the resulting humiliation burns through him as potent as any aphrodisiac, and as for plans for the future— oh, that means nothing at all. What future? What world? Nothing exists outside of this moment. Nothing exists outside of the two of them, locked together and yet still biting at one another's throats, collared together as surely as if they both had bands wrapped around their throats.
It's everything. It's everything, so blindly overwhelming that each time he thinks he's found a foothold through the scarlet haze of arousal, he's swept off his feet once more. It's the hypnotically vulgar sight of Astarion's prick gleaming in the candlelight as it saws temptingly in and out of him, earning a ragged moan each time it so cruelly grinds over that bundle of nerves (back and forth, back and forth, saliva pooling in Fenris' mouth as his jaw goes slack). It's they way Astarion's hands are always there to pin his own back each time he tries to reach for his prick, lilting voice whispering taunts in his ear (naughty thing, you know better). It's the trembling temptation that comes of featherlight fingertips toying with his welling slit, earning whimpering little whines that only grow as Astarion's cock grinds and ruts within him.
It's the rage that comes from hearing the word broodbitch, and the goading laughter that results when Fenris surges forward to bite that offending tongue. Blood runs hot between them and it doesn't matter, for no matter how he sinks his teeth in (and oh, he does), it's still him helpless. It's still him impaled, spread open upon his twin's cock and helpless to do anything save that. And so Astarion takes even that from him: turning his dripping fangs into a demonstration of his own helplessness, for what else does he have? Not his hands, held captive whenever he tries to seek relief. Not his legs, pinned back and dangling helplessly in the air, trembling wildly as Fenris tries not to lose his mind.
And it's the growing desperation as he is denied his release again and again and again.
Vampires are gluttonous creatures, and he is no different. A single orgasm doesn't approach satisfying him— and so this endless edging is the worst sort of torment. He loses track of how many times he verges on coming, his whole body tensing, his back arching, every inch of him surging up— only to be cruelly suffocated by a tight grip and a vicious thumb. Each waves leaves him reeling higher and higher, every potential orgasm more powerful than the last— so that by the time that spawn (only dazedly seen and vaguely registered) slips in and out of their rooms, Fenris feels nigh-mad from desire.
And the world swims . . .]
I—
[Oh, what a mess he is. Hair hanging damply in his unfocused eyes, his cock drooling as it bobs helplessly in the air. A soft nose bumps against his jaw and instinctively he nuzzles back against it, There's the faintest trace of a flush to his cheeks, the remnants of their wedding feast making itself known. Again the door opens, that same spawn coming in with a bundle of something white in his arms; drunkenly, Fenris thinks once more of ravaged brides and virginal first times. Of himself in torn skirts and stockings with runs in them, mewling as his body melts itself to the shape of Astarion's prick— his eyes rolling back, his mouth slack as he's fucked into his fourth, fifth, sixth orgasm of the night, a captive consort ridden hard and put back wet each and every night . . .]
I won't.
[Panted. Whined. His hips rocking forward desperately as he tries and fails to fuck himself, his skin gleaming with sweat and dripping with blood— and yet still some trace of defiance remains.]
I w-won't, I won't—
[Collar me, if you can. Fuck me. Tie me to the bed. Dress me as your bride— but I will not renounce my claim. That's what he wants to say. He wants to sound brave and defiant and unbreakable— but oh, two words are all he can bear. And in the end, he sounds more like a desperate thing than a defiant one.]
P-please, please, please, Astarion, please—
[Gods, it's been hours, please—]
[Desperate tears filling his eyes and tracking unheeded down his cheeks, his whole body shuddering as another pulsing wave of orgasm rises and falls— and Fenris in the middle, teeter-tottering frantically between his two selves, reeling and yet trying so hard even now to fight. Mouth dropping open before curling in a snarl, his teeth clicking in the open air as he snaps them.]
You will have to break me before you manage to ever come close to taming me— vishante kaffar mentula!
iliad XXX: the return to iliadening
I know I always said I reviled you, but seeing you like this....
It's starting to bring me around.
[Oh it's torture for Astarion, too.
He's exhausted. Tested. Tried. Thrilling at the game around the shape of his own grin still means battling to make it last, and the map of their vampiric traits endure both ways: if he can last, so can Fenris; if Fenris can push himself to hold firm, so can Astarion—
Quite literally.
But that doesn't make it easy. In fact, as is proven under the weight of their vicious back and forth, that just makes it a fight. A true one. The sort they've never faced before between them, and for once (for now, while his idle thoughts are too busy drowning to hiss into his ears), he's glad to realize their sire isn't coming. That as the harshest minutes tick on— that obedient spawn still in the doorway (a tall, willowy young thing with deepset eyes and dark hair, always glancing towards Fenris as he listens to his master's call), finishes the last of his work ferrying items— it's a different kind of excitement lancing through his chest to think they can finally begin to test their limits unimpeded, the way any true vampire would.
There are no windows in this room. He can't tell how long it's been since they've started, and he won't risk asking his own slave for an answer that might tip Fenris off as well (let him think it's an eternity. Let him assume that it's been just as long as it feels); Astarion will see to his guests later.]
Our wedding night has to take priority, my love. [Cruel. Mocking. Poured from a tongue that plays it like it's true (and maybe— through that strange bond of theirs— in some way it could be), though he grins like a shark with a bloodied muzzle and reaches high to pin his thumb to the very center of Fenris' oozing lip in that same breath, smearing it again in a mockery of their ceremony. Hades and his pomegranates. Red as love. Red as lust. Red as torment.
Passion always wears the same cloak, and no poet worth his salt forgets the ugliness that makes cannibalism the very same act as kissing. Fucking. Loving. Longing.
Fenris took him before a crowd.
Astarion waited for this.
With a blink, his hands are free, his captive; the vampire could wrench at himself to try and work himself to rapture in the seconds he's afforded— but Astarion's already stilled himself while flush: their hips jammed together till Fenris' cheeks swell against the lower edges of pale hips and perched thighs, forcing them higher into rises that he freely palms (like stroking a horse run well, its nostrils foaming as it bucks and bites and falters)— and what sort of miserable orgasm would that be? Crumbs licked from the floor instead of a waiting feast—
Astarion of all people would know: that only makes it worse.]
I've been too eager to satisfy you.
[A lie. Not a lie.]
Rattus— [He barks out roughly, pulling Fenris forwards into his arms while letting his cock slide free. The boy behind him running, though that was never his name. His title.] Slave.
Help me tie him to the bed. I want him dressed properly.
[And it's two against Fenris' one in that instant: even if they were evenly matched rivals— even if that harried wolf thrashes or screams or snarls fangs-first— his arms are shackled to high bedposts; his ankles clapped in looser chains ('so that we can still attend to him', his betrothed says offhandedly), exhaling only once the job is done.
And from there, they both prepare.
In their own ways, that is. Not to be mistaken for equal ceremony: Astarion almost immediately demands blood (brought some whelpling noble who shrieks to be devoured— sobbing, wailing till every outcry quietens in death or slack unconsciousness; Fenris can't see well enough to tell), and spends the better part of an hour afterwards dabbing spare blood across his wounds, watching them heal while he's brushed, perfumed, dressed in sweeping midnight black and crisp glints of ornate gold. You'd think he'd pin a thorny crown to his temple in the last few beats— and maybe he will, eventually, knowing his own temperament— but he settles for jewelry instead: a choker of barbed obsidian briars, no doubt meant to guard his most vulnerable asset from the reach of his lover's fangs. Never mind that it cuts his own skin when it digs. Never mind that spite will always hurt.
In that same hour, Fenris is dressed, too.
White lace. Sheer silk. Thinner than gossamer and as revealing as a favored concubine's regalia. They pierce his ears and drive gilt jewelry into them before they heal (those ordered spawn who can't well disobey), they tether his nipples with golden chain and leash it to a collar round his throat. They pull aside the very same sheer lingerie they'd fit him in with all its unsubtle symbolism to squeeze a plugging toy between his legs with aphrodisiatic oil— (they paint his lips, they wipe his tears to re-line his eyes and brush his bloodied mane, they smooth with salve to heal the worst of all his bites and scrapes)— while from his distant perch Astarion occasionally toys with the enchanted little rune that powers said device, forcing it to spring to life and stop, spring to life and stop; no reasoning beyond his mood, and always quick.
Until it isn't.
Until he's standing there at the foot of their grand bed admiring the beauty of his conquest: lean musculature rippling beneath sheer fabric whenever the poor thing flexes— smooth and supple and devourable when it isn't. Sunset skin and ember eyes, painted and flocked with gold and cream.
How stunning.
It reminds him of the desserts he used to dine on when he was still uniquely mortal. His favorite, in fact— brûlée dancing on his tongue as it melted beneath crisp sugar, complimented by the cold bite of flaked gold and just a kiss of blood-colored, muddled raspberry—
Red stain bright on Fenris' lips.]
My my....
[He exhales from a distance. Just a step or two away from the foot of their bed, and the perfumed span of Fenris' captive legs.]
Don't you look good enough to eat.
[And if Fenris dares to open his mouth—
The rune is pressed; a jagged, world-shaking buzz rattling through him from the base of his tight hole— left to build this time. Higher. And higher.
And off.]
Well don't be so dour, my darling. Open your legs for me.
Greet your husband properly.
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(He knows them, those spawn that tended to him. The one with dark eyes who tied him to the bed and clad him in silk stockings and white lace; the pretty red-head who stained his lips and lined his eyes with such care. There was no emotion on their faces, no glee nor grief as they worked to pierce his ears til they hung with gold rings— but they can't disobey, can they? And though they avoided his eyes, though they none of them could escape the call of their new master, it doesn't matter. They'll still remember this.
Good or bad. Humiliating or pitying. Poor thing or he got exactly what he's deserved, spoiled little pup— they'll remember, and worse yet, they'll tell the others. How can they not? It's such a striking picture, after all. Out with the old master and in with the new, and with it a whole host of changes that will affect them sooner or later, for this is just the start. One consort triumphing while the other buckles, and as he lies there, hips twitching with every merciless thrum of that swollen toy, he thinks of how the image will travel, searing itself into the coven's collective memory. Dark and light. Chained and free. A lord husband dressed in the finest of clothes, tended to until he looks every bit as powerful as he feels— and his captive bride, writhing and moaning as he's prepared for his master to devour.)
Lace presses tightly against his hips. His collar is snug against his throat, just tight enough that a mortal might whine for how they strain to breathe. Silk rustles as his knees brush against one another, chains clinking gently for how his fingers curl and uncurl. He'd been wiped clean before, sweat and precome vulgar intrusions on the fantasy of virginal brides— and yet still his neglected cock drools onto his belly, unheeded and yet still throbbing for that cruel punishment.
(And the line is this: he does not renounce his claim. He does not cede that which belongs to him, no matter how bad it gets. He is still Astarion's partner, despite it all; he still rules half of this coven, no matter how it seems right now. He is equal in law if not in deed, and that is important. He has to remember that's important. He has to hold on to that fact throughout the coming days and weeks and years, for it's so vitally important.
But any slave knows that bullheadedness will only end up hurting you in the long run. That defiance is a beautiful thing, and it must be kept burning internally, a flame that never goes out . . . but that to defy one's captors indiscriminately and without thought will never end well.
He could fight right now. He could refuse. And what would that get him?
And maybe he doesn't want to).
He spreads his legs, obedient little whore that he has become.
Slowly, jerkily: his feet slipping over cool sheets until the chain binding his ankles clinks in protest, straining at its limit. His panties inch up, pulling taut between his thighs as tanned cheeks peek out, azure dots of lyrium revealing themselves from behind sheer silk. And that toy— slickened with aphrodisiac oil so potent that even he, eternally undead, feels so hot as it burns through his veins and sinks into his skin— presses against him. Still, now, and yet Fenris swears he can feel it tremble in anticipation— or maybe that's just him. Maybe lust and loathing have tangled into one, and faced with an unwinnable scenario— oh, who wouldn't want to give in? After hours (or is it days, now?) of captivity, his body so spent from screaming that all it can do is whine and whimper and mewl, gods please, oh, is it any wonder he's lost the edge of his defiance?
Fuck me. Take me. Make me yours, but let me come, be sweet to me: his hair glossed and falling in his eyes, his scarlet lips parted as he tips his head to one side. His back arching so needily as his pinned cock strains at its lace prison, swollen and overheated, desperate to be tended to—
And yet his eyes burn with rage.
Come closer, and let me test the mettle of my jaw against that collar.]
Such a brave husband I have with that collar on you . . . why not chain my legs open and make it easy for yourself?
[And gods, he doesn't care what it earns him, so long as he can still speak to say it— for there's losing and losing, and though he's sure he'll howl and moan and beg soon enough, he has to try.
(And yet: he wants him. And yet: his nostrils flare as the scent of lilac washes over him; and yet his eyes are dark as pitch, darting up and down Astarion's form as his tight little hole throbs in memory of that thick cock sinking so deep into him. His mouth aches as his tongue longs to feel something heavy on it; those piercings fitted to his nipples pinch and tug each time he twists his head, and it's no mistake he does that again and again. Saliva pools in his mouth as his thighs tremble in anticipation, his fingers curling in wariness— and impatience.]
Or are you only pleased when you have some form of victory to hold over me?
[Oh, little pup barking just as loud as he can while he has breath still to do it— and yet that doesn't stop Astarion's shadow from falling over him as he comes closer still. His chest heaves, his eyes narrowed as he tries so hard not to squirm: come take me, please.]
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[Pomegranate seeds. Sickles over bloody earth. Thorny collars. Wedding bands. Bitten lips. Proximity synonymous with covetous envy, or so every cautionary fable swears— and if their master dreams of anything, it isn't this (though his bookshelves were lined with warning signs; old fiction shoved beside penned accounts of fallen empires. The very same tomes Astarion had fit his claws to). Too little, too late now. They're past the point of no return, and a hungry beast with its jaws spread wide won't stop because of hindsight— and that's if there even is hindsight to speak of. As things are now, the only thing Astarion would see if he looked behind him, is every step that it's taken to get here.
Soothed by the sight of cream and lace. Gold and tender red. The same pretty mouth that used to snarl at him only whimpers while it barks. Maybe their maker should have said 'I brought him for you' when he'd first brought Fenris home, for there's nothing in Astarion that doesn't leap to see his twin all but stamped with his own name. Nothing in all his fantasies of ownership that quite compares to its own truth.
(He's beautiful.
And what a sin that is for a creature caught.)
But Astarion is placid on approach. His footsteps slow, halfhearted. Dressed in cruelty and dark silk, adorned in intent that looms more viciously than his shadowed silhouette, eclipsing those caught heels to settle in between them. Fingertips light as they stroke upwards over sheer white fabric gone a few shades darker for vulgarity alone— discovered dampness such a pretty sight.
Prettier when it stirs.
Stiffness straining towards the backs of his knuckles, begging where its master doesn't. Touch me. Take me. I need this. I want this. Please. Please— ]
I'll be kind.
[Cross his blackened, deceitful heart, he can be. And isn't that better than his claws?]
You don't have to surrender anything to me.
We're already wed, after all. [Leaning in shifts his weight against the lines of those raised thighs; pressure slow and steady (those panties tensing as the contours that they cling to shift— providing less room, less coverage, less comfort— ) while their contrasting outlines intermingle, bottled pressure caught tight in lightless planes.] Be sweet for me, and we can make our own truce. Christen our first night together. [Testing the waters with his finger first; letting it smooth over the centerline of Fenris' mouth before pressing its way in without request until it meets the very tip of all those waiting teeth. Toying at what it aims to take.
(Try again. Again. Again. Repetition is key.)]
Open for your husband. Tongue first— no fangs.
[For a while, that's fun enough. Tease at him while the toy plugged deep and tight shudders at his behest: too quick and there's a violent buzz between those shackled legs, too slow and there's a buzz; too sharp, too passive, too resentfully— all ending the same way. With Fenris' teeth chattering from the rune his lover keeps, always correcting him when he strays.] Get this right and you can have something nice and thick to suckle on instead. You must be starving by now, after all. [They vampires are such needy things.] Just think about how warm you'll feel with a full belly to sate you.
Your throat comfortably squeezed around my cock. Your mind blissfully blank, relieved just to take in more of my claim. [With a twist, Astarion's spare hand turns around the shape of that held stone— one leashing chain yanked to push a stocking-clad leg high across his shoulder, furthering the violating scrape of their pinned outlines. All of Fenris' lower body raised, providing one more glimpse of soaked lace and thin fabric pushed aside for the sight of his sore cock, its livid crown drooling down the slope of his lithe belly towards gold chain. Towards him. (His lips, his face, his collared throat— )
If Fenris is lucky, he might be able to grind— force scant lingerie and bare skin over thick brocade and dark leather— for some small amount of satisfaction against the measure of captivity, particularly in those moments when Astarion is briefly distracted; brought a glass of wine (no, blood) by waiting servants, the iron in the air makes sense— or to have some small piece of his appearance belatedly groomed mid-game.
Trying to take too much without Astarion's permission, though....
Well, the toy is there for a reason, isn't it?]
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The slow fucking of his mouth. The seductive lack of a single finger pressing down teasingly against his tongue, taunting him with what he's all but salivating for. Astarion's eyes black as pitch as he stares down at him, his tones dulcet as he plays at teacher: wrap your lips around me, little one. Harder, faster— no, not like that, and it's nothing like he craves. It's the faintest pressure, the most meager drag as it slides slickly past swollen lips, and when his impatience (his rage, his grief, his lust) rises—
Buzz, and Fenris thrashes wildly, his eyes rolling back as frantic moans vibrate in his throat— please I can't please, for that toy is nestled so firmly above that bundle of nerves. Viciously thick, menacingly powerful— he can't think, he can't breathe when it's on, it's like lightning sparking through his veins. Too hot, too powerful, too much I can't too much please, his back arching and his hips wriggling in a futile attempt to escape&dmash;
It ceases.
And then it all begins again.
Over and over and over, and he knows what Astarion is doing. He knows that he is being trained, a nubile little consort educated on how best to please his master— but knowing it doesn't help anything. Fighting doesn't either— how long Astarion had kept him screaming the one time he'd dared to nick his finger with a stray fang? Hours, surely, or at least that's how it felt. Hours upon hours of merciless vibration twitching between his thighs, thrumming and pulsing against his prostate, his cock drooling in whimpering need as it strained against his panties, his orgasm rising, rising, rising—
Only to be cruelly smothered each and every time.
He doesn't know how many times they play like that. All he knows is that suddenly the scent of blood cuts through the sex and sweat, and he realizes that Astarion is drinking. The dark-eyed spawn is near, and oh, Fenris should feel some measure of humiliation for having a witness, but he doesn't care. Not anymore. His thigh tenses where his leg is hoisted over Astaron's shoulder; the other dangles uselessly, leather biting into soft skin as it strains against its cuff.
And Fenris grinds.
Desperately at first: a stop-start rut meant only to work his cock against stiffened leather, gasping softly each time a spark of pleasure travels lazily down his spine. But he can feel Astarion's own cock thick and stiff against the curve of his ass, straining against black leather— and it's easy, then, to adjust. To make sure that every slow grind ruts against that straining length, soft cheeks rocking against him again and again. Rhythmic, eager— and so clearly not trying to take, but give. Every slow push of his hips surely must be bliss to Astarion, a balm to those howling instincts that demand that he take.
Enjoy it. Enjoy what your consort gives you. Enjoy what his body so clearly can't help but offer up in needy tribute . . .]
Do not pretend at kindness as though you have anything but a blackened heart. The lie does not suit you. You wish to take my mouth? Then take it and spare me your lying tongue, for you have never been kind to me—
[His leg jerks, thrashing— and it's an awkward angle, not his best work, but still Fenris manages to wrap one calf around Astarion's back, yanking him forward. Blood spills everywhere, crimson soaking into white lace and pattering on his skin; it matches the smear of red stain on his lips as he bares his fangs. Click, click, and his teeth echo in the air once, twice, straining to meet flesh—
A satisfied growl rumbling in his throat as his fangs scratch at pale flesh, and it doesn't matter if that collar scratches his face in return, for he tastes blood.]
Or are you too frightened of your captive to do anything but tease like a noble, too scared to dare go further?
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(Fangs puncture flesh.
(Or:) they scrape.
(Or:) they threaten to, and it's only the briars that dig in far enough to pry up red.)
—now, though? Now Astarion still intends to, but at a pace all his own, on his own monstrous terms. His master's muzzle hanging loosely from the empty space his shoulders should be taking up, unlatched. Rinsed clean of all pointless propriety; obligation only in the marrow of his aching teeth.]
Oh, wail. [He hisses darkly, shoving back against the soft scratch of ravenous canines through the collar at his throat, feeling it punch into the soft skin of his neck as it catches against brief intrusion that can't last. (Spite. Spite. Call it by name with every gruesome shove. Every ensuing twist where his muscles bunch into corded ripples under silk, supporting the whole of their weights— their vulgar, voiceless wants. Taxation brimming with envied hate: let it cut them both, but let it hurt Fenris more.) No such thing as action lacking cost under diplomacy this cruel; the leg hooked around his spine the meridian that violatingly shackles them together, moreso than chains or tethers or bloodied stripes swiped sweetly over waiting lips before a gathered crowd. Oil and water have nothing on the way they reject-to-rush-back-in with hardly a second left for equilibrium that isn't overblown, roiling and violent. There's false breath on his neck. Jaws pushed tight against the grate that separates them while lithe hips lift and rut and grind. Tackiness flooded into white, squeezed tighter into black.
You can have what you want, greedy thing.
His promise. His belated vows. Have it all. Glut yourself. Feast until it hurts. You baying, feral, onanistic thing that never belonged in these halls. His hands. His heart. My bed. My bed. (Stay in my bed.) Unable to move as the noose of their entanglement narrows into a swifter tug of lacework that tangles faster than it unspools. Empty glass clattering to the floor with a shattering snap as the slave beside them starts. Silk tears; fingers and their attached claws pull, culminating in a single yank so rampageous that the bedframe jostles underneath them. Lace torn (defenses torn). Tanned skin livid in the shadow of friction burns like tiger stripes; thighs awash in them beneath torn stockings and vacant space, twitching wetly around smooth stone. Twitching harder to be seen.
It'll hurt you most of all.
Two pale fingers spread that much farther into the cusion of dense muscle. His well-braced palm flexes backwards til it aches, forcing those cheeks out wider while he ducks his chin, fangs clicking to meet their counterparts (or skin, or lips, or tongue). Sucking in snarls, snapping out mirroring growls of his own. Tiresome nuisance. Beautiful prize. Beloved. Beloved— conquest. Trophy. Whore. Bride. I want you. I loathe you. I need you. I despise you. And no matter what ceremony swears of love or lifted duty, nights like these do always end in theft.
And he's no better, saintliness emptied from his silhouette long before Vakares found him.
He's no better.
He—
—spreads his touch that much wider.
Aligns his hips and drags against the grain until the supple map around warm stone begins to part.
And with a single nudge— his blunted crest already fit flush to where it needs to be— fights to shove his way in beside that heavy toy.]
Have what you're after and wail.
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(They've only ever tried it once before. One drunken night nearly a century ago, when Vakares' consorts were still trying to feel out whether or not Fenris was a pet for Astarion— oh, they'd done their best. Astarion's prick sat so thickly in Fenris, cold hands braced around his waist as Vakares had tried— don't, I cannot, please, don't, burying his face against the crook of his mate's shoulder, so busy shuddering in shock that he was allowed to say no that he missed the pointed look in Astarion's eyes. Poor thing, his mate had cooed, nuzzling against the side of his head. Don't spend a single second fretting, pretty thing— it's just too much for you to bear, isn't it? his eyes glimmering in triumph).
He doesn't think about the toy, he doesn't realize what Astarion intends— his panties are ripped off, his hole twitching from the burst of cold air as his thighs widen. And he holds his breath, waiting for that cruel burst of pressure that will leave him empty, and it doesn't come, it doesn't come (he hasn't come)—
Blood drips from Fenris' ravaged throat. Blood stains his thighs, his lips; blood looks so searingly, sinfully seductive as it drools from Astarion's throat and stains the sheets beneath them. Blood strings its ways between their hungry lips, and every hot puff of breath Astarion exhales against his lips feels like confirmation of obsession. Yours. Your whore. Your bride. Your usurper. Your mate. Your partner, yours, yours, yours, and gods, Fenris never wanted to be enemies. He never wanted to be rivals. He never, he never—
But this is what it became. This is what their relationship is. And no matter that some part of his brain is screaming in pain for the puncture wounds in his throat, for there is something so soul-searingly satisfying about the wildly savage look in Astarion's dark eyes.
I need you as much as you need me.
(Oh, lonely things, and they dance around it so much that the truth almost hurts as its confirmed, as searing as the sun).
And then he understands.
As blunt heat forces itself forward and his body howls from how widely he's stretched (just the tip, just the head, it's just too much for you), oh, he understands. And Fenris screams.
Wails. Howls. Thrashes wildly against his bindings, chains snapping taut as his head slams back again and again, all of him failing utterly to escape from inevitable, inexorable heat stretching him open, prying him open, forcing him open, and it doesn't stop. Heat whips through him like lightning strikes, his desperate baying timed to every cruel snap of Astarion's hips— please don't please stop please please please!, ragged wrecked ruined, his body desperate to escape—
And desperate, too, to take more.
It's ecstasy. It's agony. Never before has his voice sounded so frantic; never before has he felt so full— he can't see his belly, but he knows all the same there must be a swell there. Some intimate sign that he's more full than his immortal body can handle— and yet that his body must be made for, for he hadn't known there was pleasure like this to be had. Every roughened thrust has him screaming; every pulsing push leaves his thighs shaking in desire, spit puddling on his lips as his eyes roll back, his cock flushed and hard against his belly—]
Don't, Astarion, don't, ple—
[His voice breaks. His next scream a soundless thing, his eyes fluttering as his body suddenly stills—
And then thrashes to its own rhythm, as all the while his neglected cock finally reaches its limit. Too long taunted, too long teased, his pretty little prick jumping against his belly as pulsing waves of come spill between them. Pearly white smears against tanned skin, damning evidence (as if his shrieks aren't enough, as if the way he moans like a wetted bitch in heat isn't enough) that won't stop. Another wave, another, and they are such possessive things, vampires. Their appetites endless, their habits gluttonous— and their reactions excessive. Come gushes of Fenris' flushed slit, pearly rivulets pooling on his belly and dripping down his sides, and it feels as though it never ends— pulse after pulse after pulse—
(And maybe those guests do hear. Maybe those vampiric nobles and their fawning spawn do catch an echo of it: the baying cries of a coy bride finally caught and tamed, broken in the basest of ways— and so, so ready to be remade in his husband's image . . .)
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Nothing.
Not cruelty, not mercy, not the overheated flare of slack-jawed satisfaction. Not power, not loss. Not the perfect feel of how the battered legs he's pushed between thrash ( —and then stop: locking while they shiver, before they fight to tamp down on even that— palpably afraid of the sensation that fighting this enacts, while synaptic response screams just to thresh for freedom like the prey he is, caught in the jaws of something dangerous), each jagged jolt furthering their rut, their madness, their wild desperation. For every inch of twisting, gasping, panting, roiling movement, Astarion feels his partially submerged cock shove one centimeter deeper. Then two. Then three. Heat wet and dragging while his eyes roll back behind shut lids, fighting for dignity when neither he nor his quarry have any left to spare.
The spawn beside them's already sunken to his knees to sweep up shattered glass. The room is grand and empty and echoing. The gifts devised for unity only sit in untouched silence around the sight of their entanglement— a brutal outlay of dark silk and briar barbs hunched low over exposed limbs sporting tattered lacework streaked with blood; golden shackles and fine chains now taut from desperate pressure. They have each other in the eye of the storm (hot breath driven from Astarion's mouth over Fenris' wailing lips, those pleading cries taken across his tongue into a kiss, as if he aims to drink them from their source), and there's a savage beauty to it that overtakes him in ways his master's urging never did. His cock caught in a brutal vice, his body threatening to spill beneath the fluttering clutch of narrow little channels already stretched out to their limits.
His mouth can't keep up when his consort's outline wracks itself into pitilessly savaged shapes; there's nothing he can do to keep those pleas from saturating open air (it isn't benevolence, don't mistake it for that, don't you dare call it that, it isn't— ) two gloved fingers quick to push their way in once more, driven to the back of Fenris' tongue until they're bound to one another only in the reverberating stretches where they meet: fingers and prick both plugged in tighter than a trap within the vulgar throes of painfully glazed submission, no part left independent of this brutally enticing game.
He won't last much longer.
And it doesn't matter.
It's only them here now, and nothing perfect comes without cost.
Damp slickness soaks across the front of his blouse while he dazedly murmurs coarse encouragement (open, like that, yes, good— there's my good boy, my pretty bride, you're learning aren't you— ) but it's as instinctive as the desire to blink. To suck in air. To want to sleep when tired. His voided stare awash in the stunning sight beneath him, more than worthy of being fucked into drooling frenzy; black begetting black. Their pupils only as dark as what they crave in the pit beneath their ribs. Hungry. Hungry.
That prick isn't done twitching.
He can feel it when he lifts his own palm, taking deep breaths of his own.]
....brace....yourself....
[The only warning that he gives before he activates the rune clutched within his fingers, knowing full well what it'll do to them both.
After all: nothing comes without its cost.]
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There's no thought. No memory, no conscious will— he doesn't remember why he'd resisted so ardently before. He doesn't remember his resolution, don't ever give up your claim; he doesn't remember that they're meant to be equals, that he's more than Astarion's pretty bride (his pretty consort, bed-bound and desperate, a pent-up virgin in desperate heat that needs sating). The world has shrunk itself down to just the two of them, tangled together and housed forever in this grand room, and what else could there ever be? Every breath Astarion exhales is inhaled greedily; every roughened murmur is listened to with a thickened throat, Fenris' eyes black with lust and shiny with newfound tears. They mirror one another, the ebb and flow between them all but tangible, every inch taken earns a moan that buzzes on both their lips. He's a slave to his body, a helpless tag-along to the sensations wracking through him, and there is nothing, nothing that matters beyond the two of them.
Beyond him. Him. His darling. His partner. His lord, high and mighty and yet so intimately close that Fenris has lost all fear. Every brush of their lips is confirmation of their mutual adoration; every searing inch forced into his needy little hole proof of his devotion. My consort, my bride, and the slave who had spent his entire life beneath another's heel whines in agreement.
Yours, yes. Yours, yours, yours—
(And sometimes it's easier to shatter than to try and keep yourself together).
Gloved fingers slips past his lips and with a heady moan, Fenris welcomes them. His lips wrap tight around that slickened span as they fuck deep into his mouth, not caring for how leather forces his spit to spill messily over his lips. His smothered tongue struggles to writhe, so eager to slip between two fingers and show his husband just how clever he really is. The earthy taste of leather and slick oil drips down his throat, the tips of his fingers tapping at the back of his throat as Fenris swallows again and again. Don't stop, his lips aching for every rhythmic rock, his eyes rolling back each time Astarion fucks him from both ends in vicious synchronism, like that, like that, his spent cock already swelling with newfound lust.
Brace yourself, his lord whispers, and Fenris knows it to be a kindness. A momentary fondness amidst all this cruelty, born of a century of standing side-by-side. Brace yourself, and he holds his breath in anticipation.
And everything goes white.
Too much doesn't begin to cover it. Too much was the cry of a wriggling bride tied to a vibrator's cruel form; too much was edging of the worst caliber, a teasing taunt that Fenris had foolishly thought was the worst it could get.
This isn't too much.
It's everything.
He's blinded, his eyes squeezed shut; deafened as a roaring fills his ears, oblivious to the sound of his own baying howls of pleasure as vibration after vibration mercilessly assaults him. It's heat unlike any other, all the searing sensation of overstimulation forced so deep into him that he won't ever get it out. That toy presses mercilessly against his prostate, fixed into place by a cock so thick that Fenris all but barks to feel it move. Slow little rocks or heated thrusts, and it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, for throughout it all there's that maddening buzzing that can't escape (that he doesn't want to escape)—
Crack, and the sound of his own wrist breaking as he thrashes in his bindings isn't heard. The pain is negligible, a momentary burst of distraction that Fenris desperately clings to before it heals itself. His heels kick helplessly in the air, his thighs wrapping around lithe hips so tightly it must ache, his back arching as he snaps and writhes and snarls— oh, beastly thing, and he isn't fighting, he can't possibly fight it, he's just reacting. So overstimulated it hurts, so overwhelmed that he's become a wild-eyed beast, his screams echoing around the chamber over and over. No words, not for such a creature as him; no pleading can save him, no entreaty can possibly help, and so he howls in desperation. Ragged and wrecked, sweat shining on his skin as his lyrium pulses; blood smears over his lips, mixing with sweat and dripping down his chin—
And then he comes.
Again, again, his cock untouched and unheeded, gushes of come staining silk and smearing against skin. Again, his thighs trembling wildly as his body cinches rhythmically around Astarion's cock, the sound of their hips meeting such a wet, quick thing— again, and he does not know how many times he comes nor how long a refractory period he has, only that it doesn't stop, it doesn't stop—
It takes so much to sate a vampire. More still to overwhelm them. And so the blackness of unconsciousness doesn't take him, no— there's just the endless ebb and flow of their fucking. Those precious, breathless moments where there's the slightest reprieve, his body numb and his eyes hazy— and then that inevitable plunge back into the molten darkness, Astarion's name on his lips the entire time.]
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It's his grip upon the wheel. His white-knuckled fingers that scream for him to let go. (To hold on tighter than he has before.) This vulgar event horizon's already seized them in its maw, and no amount of refusal keeps them from the snap-pop shattering of their own senses; even if he's lucky enough in the alternating pitch dive between awareness and oblivion to hear warning signs before it slams into him again (that endless ringing in his ears, a muted swell of vacant pressure like hot glass set down on frigid stone, readying to burst), the second he's struck, he's ruined— scattered to the corners of his skin, a phantom beast rasping through synapse wounds. His collar choking him. His gloves chafing him.
His hips pumping the way an animal ruts its wanted mate (its next squalling, pinned-down meal— oh, wail— ) Panting and drooling just to tremble, consumed from the inside out.
If he's lucky, he'll glimpse the edge of savage sublimation in any which way it comes to overblown senses: reveling in the feeling of his cock violating tight-cinched little spaces; his fingers rammed thick against the back of Fenris' mewling throat, barely able to cry out without gagging on reflexive pressure— more likely to keep suckling, keep choking in the search for a broodwhore's satiety— both ends of him well and truly used far beyond their limit....and still pushed to endure more. And more. And more.
(Every luching gush of bottled pressure fights for space beside its peers. Every thrust of pumping fingers fights for what there's no more room to take.)
Vampires know avarice, after all.
(The ugly kind; the kind with barbs; the kind that doesn't sleep; the kind that makes you faintly sick for devouring more than your share— before you lick your lips and feed again.)
Impulse control, not so much.
They never make it to their coffins.
Years from now, a Duchess will suggest over clotted tarts that the ambitious Lord Astarion killed his lover that first night for fucking him harder than even undead creatures were ever meant to take: masking his mistake by replacing the young vampire with a purchased lookalike.
In truth, though very much a gossipmongering little lie designed for trouble, it won't be far off from reality's filthy cast: hours (or possibly full days later) the bed's as soaked to the core as they are within it— his upturned palm pushed beneath his consort's thigh, raising it shamelessly high where it drapes over him, their bodies still stuck fast. It aches if he's careless, true, but he doesn't dare move for at least a few acclimating beats of near awareness, sugar-glazed slickness the first thing he feels each time he recklessly considers doing anything but motionlessly sucking in air.
Instead, slung low and dark across his virgin quarry (oh, not so much anymore, is he....?) Astarion loosely dedicates himself to thinking.
Musing.
Tomorrow he'll teach his bride to stay, beg, roll over, sit pretty: train him up like any true vampire should. Keep him heeled at his side. He can't bear the thought of letting anyone else see him unless they're together.
And there's a notion worth exploring (or is that just coital exhaustion talking?) Fenris really would look so beautiful in a cage. Bound with his arms to his ankles. Gagged with fine jewelry and left to wait with his legs spread, his hole still leaking bubbling rivulets of molten come. Meant to ask for the nominal mercy of being tended to.
One arm moves abruptly lower, his gloved hand catching the innermost droplets of overspilling gloss. The ones that well around that subdued cinch. Slow. Dragging.
Pretty thing, Astarion mutters listlessly, and it's too void of clarity to be a statement.
Just a fact.
Pearling sheen bright atop dark leather hemlines, pushed against the malleable give of fuck-red lips.]
Open.
[His demand all night—
Or is it day, now? His mind so addled with smoke and the scent of sex he can't think straight. Otensibly drunk, and more than willing to remain that way for as long as he can put off being called to bicker with high court.]
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He doesn't need to. Even now, his mind gone and his eyes hazy, he knows that on an instinctive level. There's no amount of air that will restore his energy to him. He needs blood, and far more than the slick, searing droplets that've come from tangling tongues and overeager teeth— oh, that was barely enough to keep him going. And until he gets it, he's a trembling thing, spent and overwrought: a youthful vampire brought temporarily to heel. Not an archduke, powerful beyond reason and able to change the fates of thousands with a flick of his hand, no. He's not even Fenris, not right now. That fiercely defiant thing that had gone into this marriage determined to hold his own has retreated, safely stored in the back of his head in favor of something far more adept at survival. All that's left is Astarion's bride. His consort, who whimpers softly as hours (days) of brutal rutting finally lulls.
Truthfully, he does not know what to think (if he can think at all, his thoughts scatter-shot disconnected). He cannot tell if this is truly the end or merely a break: a time for Astarion to indulge in another vice, wine or blood or smoke, before he sets in on his prey once more. And yet Fenris can't ask. He knows better than that (and how easy it is to fall into old habits. Like breathing. Like this, his body and bearing snapping back so easily into slave, his mind so desperate to preserve his sanity that it will do anything to keep him alive).
So he breathes, inhale and exhale, and somewhere he keeps a gentle count. He lets out a soft noise as Astarion's hips shift and another trickle of come spills out of his overfull hole (oh, he's so full, full and fit to burst, his belly faintly swollen and come splattered over his thighs, his hips, his ass). And when he hears open—
Astarion's bride tips his head up (little virgin no longer, no, introduced to the vulgar world of vicious, vigorous rutting, debauched and yet with so much more to learn), his lips wrapping eagerly around leather-clad fingers. Bitterness floods his senses, the taste shockingly sharp after so long tasting nothing but leather and oil. It spills over his tongue, drips down his throat, and some part of Fenris whines silently in satisfaction to know that he's claimed in both ends.
And for a time, there's just that. Peace in the eye of the storm, a fragility that might almost be mistaken for intimate if you did not know better. The room is cool and dark; the boy from before lingers in one corner, his head tipped down and his bearing deferential. Outside, there are faint noises, devoid of context and thus utterly incomprehensible to Fenris. Laughter. Snatches of phrases. The clink of glasses and the sound of music . . . and yet those fade into the background, ignored in favor of the soft, slickened sounds his mouth makes as he suckles. Lazily his tongue winds between Astarion's fingers, his eyes unfocused as he stares up at the canopy of their marriage bed. His thigh rests high, his legs vulgarly stretched around his captor as his bindings dangle from one ankle. Occasionally a pulsing throb from his chest tells him that his piercings are still intact; a soft jangle whenever his ears twitch informs him of the same.
And once the taste of come has faded and there's only leather, his bride slips his tongue out. A pearly sheen coats a drooling tongue, his demonstration obvious: I swallowed.]
Release me . . .?
[It's soft. Not a demand for freedom, impudent and cold, but rather something sweeter: a desire. I want my arms free, and it isn't quite a request and it isn't quite an order. But they hurt. His wrists have broken themselves again and again, his skin rubbed raw; he has not been able to put them down for hours on end, and it hurts.]
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It shows on his face, even if he says nothing. It shows in the eyes that dilate for the view that they take in, thickly coating brightness shining over a pale pink tongue— barely any milky gloss left to spare. It shows in the way his exhausted, drowsy prick has the briefest moment of stirring in the deep before he winces (and shifts with a jagged shudder, and stills— too late to keep another pulse of heavy ardor from trickling out around the edges of their mergered state), abuse the testament to glory. Chafed and swollen and stretched and sore and raw and chapped and blissfully subdued, all.
So yes, he considers it, some vestigial part of himself existing only when the kerosinic blanket of Astarion the vampire dissolves, swallowing once and feeling dryness knock inside his throat. Feeling more than that beneath his ribs, elusive and at war. Poor thing. Poor obedient thing.
And he almost feels his own lips loving.
And he almost lifts his arm.
And he almost— almost—
snap—
The door behind them opens.
And heralded by a twisting doorknob, the world comes rushing back towards them through the sound of hurried footfalls. That same spawn from before scurrying to his master's side to mutter something hushed about guests and stalling hospitalities— and in that breath Astarion remembers who he is. Who the creature held beneath him is, and all that stunning beauty represents.
He rises (and it kills him, you know, the suffering act of working to dislodge himself, leaving beckoning heat behind), he washes, he dresses— drinking blood from an overfull cup so that beneath the black thorns of his collar, every wound is healed.
He forgets it on the dressing table when he leaves, not ever offering it to that starving catamite kept shackled in his bed.
A lean hound obeys more.]
Keep him chained when you have him washed.
I want him in something more presentable for tonight— [the spawn beside him fighting to keep up with his pace, hunkered posture leaving them at eye level.] Something exotic.
No— not just that.
[Whether by blood or by movement, he's rousing. His thoughts are clearing.]
Make sure that it's obscene.
[The door shuts soon after that dismissive order, and at last, for the first time in an eternity, Fenris is alone.]
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The spawn's still shut in with him, as it so happens. Approach slow after cleaning up the archduke's dressing station, with most of the supplies from that endeavor still caught up in his arms. His fineboned hands with clutching fingers.
He doesn't say anything, but they both know his duty.
Clean him. Leave him in chains. Let him starve.
The cup is cold and only halfway filled with blood when he pushes its edge against Fenris' lips.]
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No thanks. No grateful looks or murmurs of relief, no: the instant blood comes near his lips, Fenris drinks like a starved thing. Gulping blood and not caring for the fact it's cold, not when it tastes so good slipping down his throat. Like a cold glass of water after working in the hot sun all day— and it isn't enough, not for his empty belly, but it's something. Enough to heal his bruises and mend his bones; enough to chase away the fog in his mind, his eyes becoming clear as he focuses.
(He has never starved as a vampire. Vakares never believed in such punishments, always preferring the carrot over the stick when it came to disciplining his coven. There was always blood to be had, decades' worth of donations from eager volunteers kept fresh with magic and stockpiled far down in the dungeons. Fenris hadn't understood at first— gods, he nearly starved himself by accident that first month. Too used to being told what he could and couldn't do, he hadn't dreamed he was allowed to help himself— and Vakares, darling heart that he was, hadn't thought that Fenris needed telling.
It had come to head when he'd fainted. Passed out in the middle of Vakares' office, and only come to an hour later. He'll never forget the expression on Vakares' face when he'd roused: a mixture of fretful anger and fierce grief, and he had not understood either. Little one, you have to eat, promise me you'll eat, and he had.)
He doesn't know this spawn, but there are so many.]
Thank you.
[His voice is clear and even, the former rasp gone. Pain still radiates down his arms, but he knows better than to demand this spawn release him just yet. Better, to Fenris' reckoning, to use his lyrium and free himself once he's properly alone— for that way, hopefully, this boy won't catch trouble from his master.]
What is your name?
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He doesn't want to think like a vampire right now.]
Simon.
[Does it matter? His last name, that is. He's not really sure it even has a purpose anymore, but:]
Blacktree.
[Carefully turning, he puts the supplies away and finishes cleaning; he didn't feed Fenris, he just got rid of the last of the blood in the cup. And he doesn't free Fenris, either, when he comes back beside the bed only a minute later (give or take), just....
Loosens them. A little. So that he can work better, of course.]
You don't have anything to thank me for. Just doing what I was told.
[He licks his lips lightly before adding:]
By Archduke Vakares.
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Fenris shudders as those chains are loosened. The cuffs are still tight around his wrists, leather chafing against newly mended skin, but that doesn't matter, not one bit, not in wake of the relief that's finally being able to lower his arms. Fenris outright groans for it, a soft noise of relief that he can't help, oh, gods, but that feels good. Like easing the worst of a knot in one's neck, like finally stirring after hours on his knees . . . it's worth everything.]
Vakares, hm . . .?
[He hadn't any idea Vakares gave such an order, but he can't say it shocks him. It's just like their sire to think so far ahead— though gods, Fenris doesn't know whether he's resentful or grateful that Vakares apparently foresaw a turn like this. He compromises between the two by glancing away, focusing on stretching out his arms as his mouth goes tight.
(It doesn't escape his attention just where Simon had been fighting to keep his eyes above, and gods, but some part of Fenris warms for it.]
And what order did he give you, that you should tend to me like this?
[If he fled these halls, it would not be a year before he was killed. Such a young thing. Such a hopeless thing, and Astarion's voice echoes so maliciously in his ear. How weak Vakares must have thought him, how pathetic . . . make sure you save him, and Fenris' stomach twists.]
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He just said 'I want you to help them, if it seems like they need it.'
[It was vague. The most abstract order ever given in this estate, maybe. Which could've been the point: there's no contradiction that way, no matter what orders Fenris or Astarion give him— it's not perfect, but he's relatively free.
And He could be wrong, but]
You seemed like you needed it.
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He isn't going to cry. He isn't so weak as that, and what might be a hellish torture for a mortal is more easily taken in stride by a vampire. The past day has been an eternally long one, painful (and pleasurable, and painful again, an endless ouroborosian cycle that left his nerves raw and his mind flayed), but not traumatizing, not really.
But that unexpected brush of kindness from Vakares (the last echoes of their sire now long asleep) are overwhelming. Like a cool breeze in the dead of summer; like a sudden mouthful of blood when you've been told you'll starve . . . it's nothing and it's everything, all at once. Not patronizing. Not belittling. Just kind, in the gently removed way their sire has always been.
Gods, but he misses him.
So he's grateful Simon looks away, for it gives Fenris time to let his expression falter (his eyes hot, his fangs flashing as he bites his lip) and then pull himself together.]
Yes.
[Oh, he can admit it. Yes. Captive archduke forcibly turned consort, at least for now— yes, he needed it.
He's still hungry. He wants a full person to drain, some luckless slaver who prowled upon the wrong prey, sucked clean until there's nothing left but a husk (oh, he's drooling for the thought). But even a mouthful of blood is enough to revive him in a pinch— and so though it still hurts, though it takes far more energy than Fenris would like, still, there's a blaze of azure. A buzz of magic bursts through the room, and in the aftermath, those shackles fall free. Fenris sits himself up, grimacing as he rubs his wrists— he'll have to phase back into them, he knows, and that will hurt, but at least he can take a few moments for himself.
Think, now. Before he comes back. Before he claims you and starves you all over again, your mind wiped blank and your position forcibly remade. Think, little gem. This was not what your sire wanted, but his desires only go so far.]
I did not know he was so close to you. But, [Fenris says, biting back a groan as he staggers up and off the bed,] I found there was much I did not know about him.
[Little secrets, little facets . . . and someday, Fenris will have the chance to discover them again.
He glances over at Simon, a rueful sort of stare in his gaze.]
You must clean me. And then you must dress me in something obscene. The first I can handle on my own. The second . . .
Perhaps it would be better if you simply left. You can say I ordered you away— and he will be occupied enough with me that I doubt he will bother to remember you.
1/2
He'd just....been there.
Not even like the saying the right place and the right time, either; it wasn't some fated calling, or that Vakares somehow viewed him differently after the fact: any spawn could've done it. Anyone could've been there and gotten pulled aside to listen and nod along— just like he's here right now.
But that's not really relevant. And if he had the urge to admit it out loud at Fenris' prompting, there just isn't that kind of time for it either: Astarion will be back soon, and Fenris—
Wants to....stay....? ]
2/2
That's a saving grace Astarion doesn't overlook, at least, considering half the remaining guests leftover from the ceremony are busy trying to prove they accurately remember his name, while the other half won't stop asking about his given husband—
Consort, he toothily corrects each time, enjoying the ripple of hushed gossip that fans outwards through the din (is he really defying his old sire? Does that make this a usurpation? Is Astarion the only one in charge of all the covens now?) nothing answered in the aftermath, as he'd gifted them the most wicked treat (read: distraction) of a live meal— something Vakares hadn't permitted in decades— and true enough, it's forgotten after that: curried favor doing wonders to ensure no one says another word about it.
At least not to his face.
His return is late.
He has a few droplets of leftover blood still swimming in his chalice when he opens the doors to his bedchamber, turning it within his grasp.]
Sleep well? [Comes a honeyed purr dislodged sweetly from the base of his throat, before—
Oh.
That wretched spawn from before is still loitering around.]
Get out.
[His flattened grumble sees the slave up onto his feet quicker than a whip to flesh— limber young frame hurrying past on lurching footfalls to aim one last look over his shoulder towards the figure on the bed.
That map of once-tanned skin.
Dark lace.
Thin strands of threaded chain hanging heavily from pearl beading.
Corruption must have been the theme, because if last night was their high wedding, this is the aftermath of that claim: the lurid sight of still-pierced nipples taut and risen under sheer lines of shadowed silk. Pitch black fabric thinner than dragonfly wings, stitched together in patterning that barely seems to cover any of the vulgar landmarks clothing's typically meant to hide. It bunches where it's pulled between dusky thighs lined in vivid blue— so narrow when it wrinkles that demulcent curves peek in swells beyond dark edges, and the soft, jewelry-laden hang of a prone cock lies in full, delightful view beneath a mask of transparent lace. Its subdued breadth glistening with oil from root to tantalizing tip. Thick and malleable and right there for devouring.
He looks tired, his rutted bride.
And when Astarion moves to sit, he slithers just between those legs. Heavy glass raised up and drawn within a few inches of Fenris' lips.
—and stopped.
With his gloved little finger, he slides its very tip under the gossamer hemlines covering that tender little prick. Hooking his finger into all that pretty stitchwork, and leaving it stock-still right where it'd initially settled: a wickedly suspended pause where one movement— even the slightest wriggle in any direction— will send the whole of Fenris' vulnerable cock spilling hotly into view. Wetted and flush for the smallest of touches, delicate decorations jingling in a little outcry for attention.
The way a whore slips wide soft lips. Pulls at a drooling cinch. The way a broodbitch pants in season, hunkered to the floor and crawling— tail raised high in invitation.
That's the implication. That's what's weighed against a cup filled with a single cut's worth of blood.]
I brought you a gift.
[He hums, his lips curbed upwards at their corners. He smells of iron and lilac.] Because you were missed at the party, and I know I was such a brute last night.
[Starved thing. What won't he do for a drop of precious blood by now?
Astarion clicking his tongue like calling an animal to drink.]
Do you want it, sweetheart?
Come on then, show me just how much.
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There's several blades, actually, and all of them within easy reach, for Fenris has no idea how Astarion means to position him tonight. They're wicked things, long and jagged, but they won't stop a vampire for long. They'll barely stop him for half an hour, if that, and even then, one has to bank on the fact that the vampire in question is a fussy thing, loathing pain and inconvenience. But Fenris doesn't need much time.
Just enough to subdue Astarion, at least temporarily. Just enough time to turn the tables on his counterpart, striking a blow fierce enough that once Simon leaks the news, the shockwaves will ripple throughout all the covens. For Fenris has no doubt Astarion's tongue has started its wicked work already: consort and whore, not husband and partner. My pretty little bride, oh, yes, his counterpart is a wickedly clever thing, and he has the advantage right now.)
He's so aware of everything as Astarion approaches, and even he does not know if that's due to wariness or arousal. Both, maybe: his mind rocking endlessly between a warrior's anticipation and a vampire's lust, his senses suddenly working overtime to take note of every single detail in this moment.
Like: the way that gilded decoration jingles so loudly in the relative silence as his cock swells against gauzy lace. Like: the way his chest heaves as he fights for false breath, those piercings straining against thin silk as he fights the urge to glance away. Like: the way his back is forced into an arch thanks to the pillows behind him, forcing him to put himself on display as his lord master settles between his thighs. The scent of blood fills the air, and Fenris cannot swallow the sudden swell of saliva in his mouth without being aware of just how tight his collar has gone around his throat. The golden chain that keeps him leashed is cold against his back; his wrists ache, though his ties have been loosened enough that he can move— albeit at a short distance.
And above all else: the electrifying burst of humiliation that pulses through him in false echo of a heartbeat, wave after wave crashing through him and leaving him all but moaning in response. His ears have flattened against his skull, but though he longs to glance away, he forces himself to hold Astarion's gaze. His crimson eyes are defiant things at first glance— though it will not take Astarion long to see the way they flicker with lust and longing, base instincts struggling to conquer the last echoes of an usurper's defiance.
No, he is no helpless virgin anymore. No longer is this the bride that Astarion had rutted, that trembling thing in desperate need of tending. He's accepted his fate, whether or not he's pleased with it— and so perhaps it's no surprise that he pushes himself forward. His leash goes taut, his wrists straining as Fenris moves to straddle his husband: thighs curling tight around his hips, his hands drawn back even as he squirms, settling in to Astarion's lap. Soft plushness rubs pointedly against swelling hardness, shifting until he can align them perfectly.]
Like this?
[Soft. Throaty. This close, Astarion will be able to see how his eyes flicker now and then, saliva glistening on his fangs as he tries not to focus on that blood— but what a good boy, that he isn't reaching for it just yet.
(Not that he could, not with his arms still tied— but intent has to count for something, doesn't it?)]
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Desire. Lust. Carnal interplay that functions like a magnet, forcing them together all in spite of how they feel. Because at the end of the day it's want that leaves you naked, even when you're fully clothed. Even when you're dressed in finemade lingerie, feeling two fingers slide lazily between the barrier of false finery and warm, warm skin, rolling from base to delicately decorated tip as slender legs fight to wend themselves around him. Even through a rich voice spilling from a slickened mouth that opens far enough to show a glimpse of pink between sharp teeth that shine with spit, its narrow depths in reach and entirely unviolated—
For now.
Inevitably, pretense will strip itself away, too. The thrill of courtship that's squirming softly into view, spread out wide and inviting where dark lace has already twisted itself out of the way (and underneath his fingers, he sees it: that pretty, rigid conquest— jewelry trailing from its crown like pearls of lurid precome, all hidden in the shadow of his hand). A cup pushed halfway to swollen lips, not tipped far enough to let its prize trickle down into those waiting depths. Lithe hips. Taut, slim stomach. The little signs of rearrangement that've forgotten muttered curses in Tevene and all the nights when Astarion would wait until their master slept to grab hold of his consort's hair, rushing just to bring them closer. Tighter in extant luxuria. The more of its obscenity they drink in, the less they're slaked— a different kind of starvation than the one a vampire knows. Maybe one they've felt right from the start.]
Like that.... [He agrees, abyssal purr as beastly as his own desires. Soft and throaty, too, but loosely threaded around the tight cord of control that fits so well within his fingers—
Fenris fits so well within his fingers (insatiable devourer that he is. He couldn't bear to wait). Gloved fingers slid between hot cock and supple belly, grasping while the cup tips higher— flirting with Fenris' straining mouth— providing something else to focus on so he can freely take exactly what he's owed: starting with long, unfathomably steady strokes that push against hard pressure, kneading it again and again like it's a heavy heat in need of kindling, stoking it before its beautiful little keeper has a chance to realize just how much its grown.
Not a bride, but a caught little whore.
The jingling of light jewelry noisy as it tries to sound the alarm with every demanding flick of his own wrist, trembling in wicked rearrangement. Too late.]
You always were so pretty.
Little wonder he wanted you. Craved the sight of your body pushed tight around his cock, tongue lolling, eyes glossy. And you gave him every bite he craved like the good consort you were.
[Astarion noticed it the first moment that they met ( —clink clink clink— ), stock-still in staring at the slender thing stood hunched down at his sire's side. Lean and tall and oh-so-delicate. The wisps of his bangs trying to guard his reddened eyes and long, dark lashes. His inviting lips pulled downwards into a distressed frown full of hope, and need, and fear.
( —clink clink clink— )
What is it about beautiful things that makes the world want to desecrate them?]
....but I think flush submission truly is your color.
[The compliment isn't backhanded. It's earnest, is the thing: leaving Astarion's throat in a purr fit for the master he can't remember now that so much ambrosial dominion lies before him, with Fenris every bit as broken in as he'd sworn he'd never be, tight cords and bindings promise that. His full cheeks pushed around the shape of Astarion's weighted cock through leather trousers; his thin veneer of a barrier against intrusion already pushed aside in the way those panties have been tugged away into the crook of his splayed hips. Every inch of him malleable. Sweet as molten sugar, all but screaming to be savored. Split. Spread. Used.
A shame that toy is so far. A shame he can't wedge it hard between them again just to watch his plaything squirm— whimpering for the dinner that it needs and the overwhelming memory of the night they'd shared before, overstimulated in a rush of palpable fear. Saturated arousal. (How would he plead? How would he fight or beg— asking for more or mewling for less—
—clink clink clink— )
And he tips the cup at last, letting those shallow little crimson drops trickle closer towards the lip of its bright rim.
Though— oh, through those coaxing pumps across that cock; through the aching spread of his soft thighs and the needy scuffs of clothed friction working hot against his waiting hole— it's not quite enough, is it?
Oh no, barely a few centimeters off from delicious, bloody salvation still: he'll have to work himself into the grain of it all to lap up all his treat.]
So go ahead.
[Astarion murmurs thickly.]
Drink up, my precious pet....and let me seal your future with the taste of iron on your tongue.
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That's how it goes, isn't it? Fenris remembers. His mortal life seems a faded nightmare at times, but what the front of the mind forgets, the bundle of muscle-memory survival instincts remember. Lessons learned a century before forgotten in face of a new master that doted upon him and called him consort . . . he'd grown complacent. Too enraptured on notions of freedom and autonomy, but before all that, he'd known how to endure this role. How to become whatever it is his master needed of him, whether that was bodyguard or bedslave, confidant or fawning peon— oh, it didn't matter, for Fenris only existed to please. And he did it swiftly and effectively, not because it was what he wanted, but because it was a matter of survival.
Remember, now, he thinks as his head tips back, iron pressed to his lips and blood impossibly far away. Remember that a slave is not a person; remember that mortification is for those who can afford autonomy. Don't ignore the humiliation, but rather let it suffuse through you, for that is the point of tonight, and your master won't be happy unless he sees you writhe. Play your role, little consort, and know in your heart of hearts that it will be a temporary thing. Let that comfort you as you give in . . .
(And it won't. And it doesn't. And he does not know what to do with the fact that some part of him is enjoying this— but then again, he has never known what to do with that part of himself, save bury it and pretend it doesn't exist. But it's that part of himself he leans on now, for there are only two ways out of this predicament, and he is not strong enough to take the option dignity cries for).
Fenris whines for the feeling of leather wrapped so tight around his cock. His back arches into it, his lips parting as overheated air slips past his slickened lips and brushes against iron, oh, he wants more. Every heavy pump of Astarion's hand feels as though it pulls on a string wired throughout his entire body, molten heat pulsing through him in time with a heart that no longer beats. Again, again, his eyes fluttering as his cock swells, helpless to do anything save surrender to his master. The pretty jewelry that hangs from his tip swings with every motion, tugging ever-so-faintly each time his hips rock back and forth. Sparks fly behind his eyes, a low, longing moan rumbling in his throat as his belly twists and his hips snap forward and back, forward and back. Forward, rutting into that domineering hand, his body all but begging for more as his neck strains and his tongue aches for the droplets of blood that flood his senses— and then back, shuddering in anticipation each time blunt heat nudges against his slick hole. More, and the words wash over him, demeaning and enrapturing, wrapping around him like the sweetest collar: I think flush submission is truly your color . . .
And his breath goes ragged. His eyes snap up, crimson eyes murderous even as his lips stay wrapped around the cup's edge. Vampires can't flush, not with rage nor humiliation— and yet there's no mistaking just why his hands tremble in their chains. His chest heaves— and though his every sense is screaming for him to lean forward and take what's offered (for what is a half-cup of cold blood in face of something fresh), still, he lingers there.]
Y-you believe a few droplets are temptation enough to have me submit utterly?
[Bait him. Enrage him. Don't give him time to look around and see that things are off; don't let him grow so enraptured with you that he notices you about to strike. Make it a fight between a vampire and his chosen whore— and it will be a fight, for there is nothing they two love more than to vicious tear at one another. Blind submission might be what Astarion thinks he desires, but oh, Fenris knows his fellow consort— and knows just how to keep his attention.
His head tips forward, his tongue darting out as he laps at those droplets, and it's—
Oh, it's everything. Words don't do it justice, not when blood is so much more than just nutrition. It's a burst of color blinding behind his eyes; it's the sudden deafening roar of sensations and scents and sounds as all his senses roar to life once more. It's feeling a flush to his cheeks and a sudden brightness to his eyes; it's feeling his cock throb in a swift surge of desire, his hips suddenly grinding back with whorish precision. He swallows desperately once, twice, his tongue flicking out to lap at the edge of the cup, determined not to waste a drop.
It isn't nearly enough to sate him, starved thing that he is— but it's just enough to ensure he'll have energy for the coming night. Fenris' head tips forward, his tongue dragging against the side of his mouth as that vicious spark of rebellion flares in his gaze.]
You are my husband, and my lord, and my master . . . but do not think [don't think about what you're saying] that means you have fully tamed me.
[And yet: his hips keep moving, rutting heavily against his master's cock, ignoring the way it makes his collar pull at his throat. A caught whore, yes. A bride tamed but not broken, snarling and seething at his bit—
And so much fun to put in his place.]
no subject
Particularly when every touch they share isn't real.
Oh, tangible, yes, but the cup, the shallow slither of cold blood across that waiting tongue, his throbbing prick jabbing hard against a hole that can't dare take him with his trousers in the way, and Fenris' own handsome little instrument laid hard between his fingers, struggling to drool around cold jewelry— more and more and more— and nothing. Like drinking and always being parched. Like eating and never growing full, Astarion imbibes with a crooked, salivating grin even while he's mocked. Leaning closer (while he feels dull pressure tighten in the gaps between their bodies). Drawn like a moth to a waiting flame.
It begs the question of who's controlling whom.]
Growl all you want, little wolf.
[He knocks the cup aside with a tip of his own fingers. Profile hovering in its place above glossed lips. Dark lips, whose slick-hot glaze pools shallowly around small fangs. Eye teeth. Demure little eye teeth. Fenris' true fangs tucked away much deeper in that mouth.
Go on, he thinks, elated high along his neck. The hair there prickling with anticipation. Show me those teeth.]
I listened at your door when you thought you were alone. Heard you moaning in your sleep for decades on end. Gasping when you were busy fingering yourself or canting into your hand like you couldn't get enough, even after spending an evening with him. [Oh, him.] But you'd always say his name when you thought of your sire, wouldn't you?
[Like clockwork, even when all three had played together: Leto bouncing on their master's lap, and still— ]
You didn't like to say mine.
[That's how I knew.]
I am your husband. [How right Fenris is about that fact.] Your lord. Your only master.
I have you shackled in my bed and dragged you from your own. I have you dressed to suit my taste, still happily rutting against me just to slake that fire in your belly, spoiled as you've always been when it comes to being fed: opening your legs— your tight ingress— like a call for me to breed you.
[And I can give you that.]
I don't need to tame you— you're mine, Fenris.
[Two gloved fingers rise between them, a thin patina of oil glistening at their tips. Something he must've had pocketed or cleverly set aside just waiting for the shift in their transition, while his hips— the bruising weight of a muzzled, searching cock— massages defly at that hole.
Black leather moving closer towards Fenris' parted lips.
It's only once they're close that the scent of slick perfume might just scream out a warning blare cut from narrow familiarity: it's aphroditic. And potently so.]
I'm going to fuck you until your voice breaks alongside all that brittle pride. Until there is nothing left of what you are outside a pretty face drooling around a gag and a lifted ass hoping to be filled by the only touch that it remembers.
[Mine. Mine. Two fingers already closing in along the corners of that captive mouth.]
Your leash is in my hands. You've nowhere left to run to, my thoroughly despoiled bride. [White lace, black silk. Slow, creeping pressure sliding soft along those lips. Closer. Closer. A sawing back-and-forth without hard penetration: the prelude to mouthfucking, inevitable and near.]
And I promise: you and I are going to have so much fun throughout eternity together, seeing how long it takes to make both true.
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Please oh please make me yours, I want it, I need it, please . . . even as terror ripples through him. Even as some part of him whimpers in fear for the prospect of spending weeks, months, years in perpetual heat, collared to the bed and eternally unsated: a drooling set of holes that tremble in desperation and buck up wildly for the prospect of attention. Even as he stares into Astarion's eyes and sees a lifetime's worth of glimmering sadism reflected back in its hollow stare, spite and rage and seething jealousy all ready to be called upon as the elder spawn takes his revenge night by night . . .
Hurt me. Break me. Take me and force me to worship you, to sate you, to bounce on your cock and offer you my mouth— dress me up like your whore and train me into behaving like your personal incubus— and the danger has always been the most alluring part.
His lips are tingling already. The scent of aphrodisiac rises between them, cloyingly sweet and so potent it nearly overwhelms him. There's no escape. There's no way to flee from those prying fingers and they both know it— and so there's nothing left to say. A wolf only need snarl for so long, for it's action that decides the kill.
Fenris' head ducks forward, his lips wrapping tight around slick leather. His chin tips back incrementally, his throat baring even as his eyes stay locked on Astarion's form. A slow swallow (aphrodesiac burning as it slides down his throat, searing droplets spreading across his tongue as waves of heat ripple through his body), a soft moan— and then Fenris fucks himself.
His head bobbing forward and back, those clever fingers dipping in and out of his mouth as he lavishes such attention on them. Like a broodbitch with his first cock, like a consort that's waited with aching thighs and an empty hole— Fenris suckles at them as if his life depends upon it, taking them further and further in with every pass. Again, again, his eyes fluttering closed as he grows more and more sensitive, til his reddened lips are throbbing from the relentless pressure of being wrapped around something so imposing. Two fingers or three, and it doesn't matter, for vulgar gulps and broken moans fill the air between them either way. His throat bobs above his collar, saliva and the faintest trace of blood dripping sloppily down his chin and pattering between them. More, don't stop, his hips rocking eagerly in time with every pass, that glimmering piece of jewelry jingling and tapping against his prick with every hungry movement. Astarion's cock prods at him, formidable stiffness tapping against his hole, and he's so oversensitive that he sees stars each time it does. A taunt, a treat dangled just out of reach, and each time it only spurs him on further. His noises grow louder, his motions more eager, until at last—
He gasps as he jerks back.
His chest heaves as he stares slack-mouthed at Astarion. And what a picture he makes: a dazed little whore with a dripping tongue, his cock flushed and dripping as it hangs heavy between them. Diamonds glitter with precome as he catches breath he doesn't need, his eyes lowering in puppyish submission.
He wends forward. Catches leather between his teeth, tugging gently until Astarion's hand is bared. Glove dropped so that he can take those fingers in his mouth once more—
And bites.
Hard enough to draw blood (flooding so hot in his mouth, ashy and welcome, drooling past his open lips and pattering onto his chest). Hard enough to keep those fingers exactly where they are— or threaten to tear into flesh if Astarion yanks them back.]
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iliad 34534676 forever and ever
ILIAD III: RETURN OF THE KING
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