illithidnapped: (124)

iliad XXX: the return to iliadening

[personal profile] illithidnapped 2023-07-13 09:47 pm (UTC)(link)
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.

Greet your husband properly.
illithidnapped: (54)

[personal profile] illithidnapped 2023-07-17 01:00 am (UTC)(link)
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....

Well, the toy is there for a reason, isn't it?
]
Edited 2023-07-17 01:01 (UTC)
illithidnapped: (127)

[personal profile] illithidnapped 2023-07-22 05:31 am (UTC)(link)
[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.
]

Have what you're after and wail.
Edited 2023-07-22 13:49 (UTC)
illithidnapped: (120)

[personal profile] illithidnapped 2023-07-25 11:25 pm (UTC)(link)
[Nothing comes without cost.

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.
]
illithidnapped: (A8)

[personal profile] illithidnapped 2023-07-28 11:17 am (UTC)(link)
[If Fenris is lost, what does that make Astarion?

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.
]
Edited 2023-07-28 13:17 (UTC)
illithidnapped: (A43)

[personal profile] illithidnapped 2023-07-29 03:33 am (UTC)(link)
[He considers it.

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.]
blacktree: (12)

[personal profile] blacktree 2023-07-29 03:37 am (UTC)(link)
[Relatively 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.
]
blacktree: (01)

[personal profile] blacktree 2023-07-30 11:19 pm (UTC)(link)
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.

[He licks his lips lightly before adding:]

By Archduke Vakares.
blacktree: (02)

[personal profile] blacktree 2023-07-31 07:10 pm (UTC)(link)
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.

And He could be wrong, but
]

You seemed like you needed it.
blacktree: (13)

1/2

[personal profile] blacktree 2023-08-03 05:14 am (UTC)(link)
[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—


Wants to....stay....?
]
illithidnapped: (127)

2/2

[personal profile] illithidnapped 2023-08-03 06:19 am (UTC)(link)
[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.
]

Do you want it, sweetheart?

Come on then, show me just how much.
illithidnapped: (124)

[personal profile] illithidnapped 2023-08-17 02:02 pm (UTC)(link)
[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.
Edited 2023-08-17 14:11 (UTC)
illithidnapped: (124)

[personal profile] illithidnapped 2023-09-11 01:01 pm (UTC)(link)
[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.
Edited 2023-09-11 13:01 (UTC)

(no subject)

[personal profile] illithidnapped - 2023-09-24 05:02 (UTC) - Expand

1/2

[personal profile] illithidnapped - 2023-10-08 01:01 (UTC) - Expand

2/2

[personal profile] illithidnapped - 2023-10-08 01:06 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

[personal profile] illithidnapped - 2023-10-12 22:36 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

[personal profile] illithidnapped - 2023-10-18 20:16 (UTC) - Expand