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.]
[Astarion will never know his taste gives him away.
Vampire Lord of Baldur's Gate. Merciless enough to devour his own twin just to stake his claim. Coronated heir drenched in the black gleam of his inheritance— whose blood tastes of fetid ash. Milk-bland, absent nothingness. Not even distinct enough to wear sourness or rot, beneath the glory of his master he doesn't reek—
He's nothing.
And in the spirit of Leira's greatest treasure: mirror mazes only work until you know their trick. Bristling fur doesn't fool what's already learned better. Eye-marks. Striping. Mimicry. Bright colors and thorny barbs. He's done everything he can to be a nightmare wreathed in power insurmountable.
It's punctured with a set of narrow canines, like it was paper all along.]
Ah— chht!!! You insolent, ungrateful little cur—
[His lips peel in a snarling flash of white, his other hand having dropped its prize just to raise high in a threat that means to become more; impending strike already flattening his palm.
He stops before he ever does.
A flare of his nostrils. A scowl like hateful ire hitching just to twist over its own heels at the sight of all that drool: crowned by swollen lips wrapped tight around his knuckles and the bone-white sheen of wetted fangs run red only at their tips. Two overly brilliant eyes set just above hot luster, flickering, darting savagely in place— narrow pupils barely fixed, making Fenris the picture of a wild dog clutching at a bone for how it starves; mad with the idea of more filling its belly. So hungry it'd attack itself for one more bite.
Flesh is flesh is flesh (Astarion would know).
His own scowl goes flatter than a drawn line against the grain of his own choice in roiling response. Angry still. Seething still. But determined now: sudden just to hook his buried fingers down around the back of Fenris' tongue into his greedy throat, using it like an anchored fishhook— turning all that willful wildness into a muzzle fit to beak him in if he won't dare let go, and that's to say nothing for the way Astarion lurches forward on his knees, arching himself over his own consort just to slam their hips together (braced by his spare palm; the ache apparent when it almost bends too far in softer bedding), clothing be damned as a barricade.
Again, his hips drive home.
Again, again, again.
No penetration no matter how much force saturates its stride, wet cloth scraping against soft, pliable skin— battering the edges of Fenris' tight hole just before it rubs with cruel abandon, ravaging its mark with violating discomfort before the next thrust drives it home.
It doesn't matter that it stings his senses. That his vision flares hot-white before ebbing into static stars: his voice a brutal snarl when he yanks his buried fingers closer— dragging Fenris with it in the image of a wolfdog with its collar jerked to choking. Chastised from the inside out.]
Let. Go.
[Fangs or mouth completely, he doesn't care. It's a call to return to obedience, closer than before, and with the threat (the deglutible promise) of a fuck kept from Fenris' reach until he settles, though gods know with the way Astarion's punishing his body now, even sweet docility won't make that reward nice.
(But he'll have a cock in him to scream and writhe around, won't he— and really, isn't that the thing to hope for?)]
Now.
[Again, again, again— those brutal snaps don't stop. A tug of war gone vulgar: let go.]
Understand: it isn't that he isn't affected by this cruel tug-of-war. Oh, just the opposite: he's dizzy from it. His eyes are clouded with lust, pupils gone unfocused as his body trembles beneath Astarion's own. Aphrodisiac so potent it burns drips through his veins, clouding his senses and making him little more than a feral beast in those moments. There's a roaring in his ears and a hazy fog around the edges of his vision, his field of focus narrowing until everything drops away and there's just Astarion. His wedded husband, his chosen mate . . . and as his blood drips down Fenris' throat and he snaps his hips forward in brutal punishment, he thinks that he has never wanted quite so badly as he does in this moment.
Vicious thing. Cruel thing. Sadistic and mean and petty, and this, this is what they are. This is how they thrive. Not when one has so much power over the other that he makes him writhe (though gods, but that is a thrilling thing, and trust Fenris has passed the hours fantasizing about Astarion with his legs forced apart and his eyes filled with needy tears), but when they fight. When they're forced into equality, no matter how tenuous and temporary, for only then can they be their truest selves. Not a vampire lord, terrible and nightmarish in his hedonism; not a consort-née-slave, shivering in gratitude for the scraps of freedom his new master offers him. It's them, just them, and Fenris loves it.
Not that he's thinking so clearly. All he knows right now is desire, hot and hungry, pulses through him. It makes him desperate, it makes him oversensitive, so that every point of contact the sweetest torment. The insides of his thighs ache for how they're forced wide, his whole body screaming in desire, please yes please, as he drools around the cruel hook of fingers curving into his throat. Please like that please, and when that first merciless thrust comes—
Fenris barks for it.
A short, sharp cry slickly muffled by fingers and lips, his eyes rolling back as his back snaps into an arch— oh, that punishment works perfectly. Stars blaze across his vision as pleasure pulses through him, and it doesn't matter how much it hurts, for he moans for it all the same. Roughened fabric rubs and grinds against his flushed hole; his chains rattle as Fenris desperately gropes for slickened fabric, fingers falling so far short it's laughable. This is what you could have, and desperate as he is, he whines when Astarion's cock draws back—
Only to slam into him again. Again again again, so brutal it knocks the air out of him, so cruel it leaves him growling, bucking, spreading his legs wider as if that might help, more more more, a desperate slut that doesn't care what form his chosen addiction takes, so long as it's fed to him. His needy little hole tightens desperately, rhythmically, trying and failing to cinch around blunted heat; ripples of desire shudder through him each time he fails. He's so close he can all but taste it— and drugged as he is, time blurs. Seconds become minutes and minutes melt away like moments, so that that the tantalizing fantasy of what he might have feels as though it lasts forever. His mind lingers on the thought of Astarion's cock filling him: searingly hot and so thick, stretching him open so wide it's painful, filling him up so thoroughly that he swears he can all but taste it . . . every fuck is a contest in endurance. In proving that he isn't just some young thing, that he can take it (let me take it, his hole rubbing up needily against that brutal assault).
But he doesn't let go.
Even as the desire consumes him. Even as his mind howls for it, his expression twisted into pleading desperation; even as that command crashes around his ears with all the heavy weight of a master scolding his favorite pet, let go, and every instinct he has ever cultivated shrieks to obey. Not yet, not yet— not until Astarion's fierce punishment has reached a fever-pitch. Not until blood smears over his teeth, vulgar and horrific, and he swears his fangs have reached bone—
Then he lets go.
His head falling back as that taunting grin keeps his lips peeled back, his expression as much about dominance as it is pointed amusement (for vampires are beastly monsters, no matter that they pretend otherwise, and only mortals think bearing your teeth is a sign of friendliness). Blood smears over his lips and teeth, his chest heaving as he stares up at his husband.]
Are you having fun yet?
[It's a growl.]
Lord Astarion, who can't even control your consort . . . you really think you can manage an entire empire? Muzzle me if you wish. Tie me further, til I can't move without pleasing you. But all the chains in the world do not mean you have tamed me, husband mine.
[His cheeks are flushed thanks to that stolen blood. His tongue is slick with saliva and blood, and between them, that pretty adornment clinks as Fenris' cock twitches in open desire, plugged up and yet leaking. And yet though there is a collar around his neck— though he looks every inch the despoiled bride Astarion calls him, dressing in dark silks and glimmering adornments, a courtesan of the highest order— there's such fierce pride in his expression.]
Now come fuck me like the good little lord you are.
[('You need to control yourself, Astarion.' Cold grip clenched down into the muscle of his arm through coarser linen, pulling him back in the middle of a milling crowd. Every passing body filling his nostrils with a mix of acidity that smells of sweat and pungent ale—
Beyond them, faces. Distorted and braying.
Clank—
A glass hits the floor the second that he yanks himself free against the grain of all concern.)
His heel knocks the cup.
Clank—
It was with a shriek that Chione's heart was pierced to the marrow by cold wrath. Folly ravaged by a twin whose loss was already assured. It's without one that Astarion coarsely tears himself away from bloodied lips, his naked hand in pulpy tatters from the knuckle down, his fingers howling where he'd stopped full minutes ago. The flexion shuck of his lips curling around bone white fangs all he can do to keep from lunging at his penned-in counterpart outright, and even then, it's narrow as the fillamented membrane still clinging to his sinew: the hot, wet, baleful shine of his eyes betraying every churning emotion driving him to weep in retroactive outrage, hammering like the heart he doesn't have (agony— agony— )
—Lust.
Lust like venom in his throat. Lust like a guttural snarl. Lust like a madness that outright seethes only to break across harsh mockery— and flaring all the hotter for the stolen blaze of red already washing over sunset cheeks, those rasping false breaths rumbling with wolfish strength regained. Blind when he lunges. Aware the second that his palms hit their mark— both of them (one wracking his nerves with a fresher surge of pain as it catches Fenris by the neck; torn tissue barely begun mending when that impact shatters all its progress)— gloved hand slammed into the mural bracketing Fenris' head, mosaic tiles splintering in split-second warning, though there's nowhere for his prey to go. Nowhere to run with those chains already tensed nigh to their limit, Astarion snarling in his face.
And when they kiss, it burns.
A bite for a bite— blood flooding the outline of their lips as he consummates their levirated bond a second time. Cock already twinging hard between his legs, aching for its own revenge. (In a moment. In a moment he'll drive those knees against the wall, tearing the last of that lacework away just to mount his waiting hole while it lies slick within his grasp— unguarded and pried open well before it's viciously assaulted. Not fucked, no. Not even that sole scrap of squirming dignity is good enough to offer, now. He won't grant his thieving twin the satisfaction of anything but use.)]
A whore doesn't get his supper until he's begged for it.
[The give of his mouth around Fenris' punctured tongue is like a ragged gurgle of lush movement. Rumbling through pulses of forced air that fill the empty space around sharp teeth, crawling back towards his throat. No effort made to embellish what he sounds like: a monster drunk on envy and rote want. Scraping up satisfaction as it squeals.
Or in this case, maybe: squirms.]
And you stole yours early.
You're not getting fucked tonight.
[Up come those legs in a whip of unseen movement— pinned together so tightly that caught knees must ache for contact. The swollen little sight of a pair of tight, diminutively supple curves gracing the middle of those trapped thighs Astarion's to savor as he likes: their captured tensity trapped in the shadow of dark stockings, right above full cheeks and their precious, agitated nexus. Its slathered epicenter turned a vulgar shade of lacquered red from his abuse, twitching as he draws back just to watch it.
And when he releases Fenris' throat just to strike those upturned cheeks, he aims straight for their meridian. Letting sound shatter in midair. Once. Twice. Three times— each blow sterner than the last.
He howls for the slave— his spawn— to return, but instead of the boy from before another servant arrives in a flurry of movement, her attention keenly fixed. Barely enough time for her to set aside the tray that she'd been holding only seconds before, knowing he won't need it, if nothing else.]
A gag. [He demands without looking.
—slap—
One more snap of his arm punctuating his demand, and furthering his gritted snarl. Bad dog.]
Make that two: one for each of his misbehaving holes.
[He tears a section of her clothing away with his bare hand before she leaves, ignoring her startled yelp. It works to bind those ankles— even when he pushes them higher just to make a better point. Her returned offering driven into Fenris' mouth the second that it's given: a thick ring barring him from biting, but leaving his inner heat exposed. And it's with cold, deliberate cruelty Astarion does the same to Leto's prone little entry— a little harness of a ring plug that's forced right into that helpless cinch— driving it open in ways that beg for filling.
Only to be not.
Instead he lets those legs drop. Puts his knees down tight on shackled arms and slowly unfastens his damp trousers— gripping pallid hair just before his cock slips out of restrictive binds with a weighted drop of overengorged motion. Drooling and oppressively thick in the second that it knocks against that gag's slick edge. Sliding on its seam in a crude parody of a lover's languid kiss.
And he doesn't waste time.
Both hands move to fist tight. He's pinned his subsumed bitches' head against the wall and buried in his prick with a quick jerk of his hips, melting to feel the softened give of searing constriction that enfolds him without choice— fucking down until he feels his body driven flush against Fenris' nose and chin—
And onwards.
(In the background that half-dressed spawn still works under strict orders: carefully oiling the full span of Fenris' length after removing decorations and spent silk, her slow, methodical efforts marked by muted jingling and soft strokes— and interceded by the careful feeling of slim fingers doing the very same soon enough to that locked-in plug....as well as everything caught deep inside its borders. Oiling every wall. Every pliant little swell of knotwork muscle and bundled nerves. All so that there is nothing Astarion can't take.
And take he does.)
Grinding into that captive mouth until his prick jerks in the threat of spilling— watching every expression Fenris wears as his throat obeys its new master and his tongue flexes just to milk at those incandescent thrusts, fighting for friction or freedom only to find it's all the same.
And then, never letting go of that hair, Astarion slides back to grind atop Fenris' waiting cock with mocking ease, proving there is no part of his body that won't be used or toyed with at his leisure— bouncing on its span while that buried cinch lies empty and his vacant throat must burn with unsatisfied desire— until his own prick jumps with eagerness and he rises up again: holding his swollen crest to the very rim of that gag, offering the opportunity to obey. To work him over properly like a good little bride. And if it isn't taken— he starts again.
And again.
And again.]
Suck, vampire.
[The spawn's fingers are— on orders— kneading deep inside Fenris, now. Her softset prints playing at his inner walls without gifting him a second's rest. Rolling back and forth within tight heat. Massaging till he wriggles; his body out of tune.
Astarion's sore crown hanging heavy and dripping with glossy precome— a thick line of dewdrop spit strung like jewelry from its twitching slit across that waiting tongue.]
Or I'll take my next meeting in this room and let them see what little you're good for.
Enraptured. Hungry, his gaze black and his wet breathing ragged. Saliva has long since dripped down his chin, smearing along his neck, but Fenris swears he can feel his mouth water all the same. The muscles in his jaw tense and flex, working uselessly at his gag; his collar strains each time his head jerks up, feeble attempts to capture his addiction doomed to failure.
And it doesn't matter how rebellious he'd been before. That creature has been dragged back into the darkness once again, smothered over and over until at last he'd gone silent. All the plans Fenris had made (desperate plans, needful plans) are pushed sharply to the side, not because he's trapped— but because he wants.
Biting heat, teasing fingers— there are other sensations that wrack his body, unseen but not unfelt. Supple cheeks are sore and reddened, still stinging with the echoes from his brutal scolding. Slender fingers assault him in the cruelest way, denying him the satisfaction of being split open on something thick even as they offer him endless, dizzying pleasure. It's the cruelest dichotomy, a savage punishment that ensures he's only ever aware of what he lacks even as molten heat builds in him. Empty and unsated, his needy hole stinging from the brush of cold air as it tightens uselessly around that ring again and again, please. It isn't long before slick moans split the air, his eyes rolling back as his hips buck up in open desperation— please, please, his thighs shaking as his back strains upward in supplication, please I need it please—
And then it all stops.
And yet no matter how he howls for it, his body thrashing and squirming beneath the indomitable weight of Astarion— no matter how he twist and snarls and seethes and wails for how badly he wants it, still, still: it doesn't compare to what hangs in front of him.
Not even a little.
Astarion's cock looks so heavy as it hangs before him. Flushed with heat and rigid with desire, a prize worth drooling over (and he is), worth mewling for (and he is). All he can think of is how empty he is, his tongue aching for that flattening weight, his throat aching to be stretched to its febrile limit. The glossy strand that hangs between them feels the most tenuous leash, a filthy promise that Astarion won't leave him empty forever— but gods, when? The heady satisfaction of wrapping his lips so tight around that thickened span fills Fenris' mind, his lips gnashing uselessly against his gag as his chest heaves. His throat bobs, his eyes squeezing shut as the thought fills his mind. He wants to suckle at him, glutting himself on it, worshiping every inch of his cock in slavish devotion until at last he spills down into his waiting belly— breeding him as reward for being such a good boy, please—
Suck, and there isn't a thought of disobedience.
His head jerks forward with undignified desperation, and the moment that febrile tip slips past his lips, Fenris moans in heady satisfaction. Sloppily, clumsily he bobs his head forward: drool spilling past sore lips that can't close as his tongue flicks up, the very tip teasing indulgently against Astarion's slit. And when that isn't enough— when his husband sinks down lower, indulgently feeding Fenris his prize— he sucks. Gulping down his prize with ravenous desperation, his cheeks going hollow in pathetic attempt to suckle at what he can't possibly take— and his gaze unerringly focused at his husband.]
[Craning his neck. Hollowing his belly through the flex of his strained muscle, every response bored into once-tanned skin by hunger like a ledger line. Not a painful paralytic, but a poison, and if there's anything that vampires do well, it's buckling to the marrow for the frenzy of unslaked thirst left raw. And while Astarion's chest rattles and his senses split apart, it is so pleasing to see that Fenris is no better.
Under the shadow of an engorged cock wedged home in lavish worship, willfully defiant eyes go dark.
Oh, Astarion bound him and bedded him. Pierced him like a spread-legged slattern and bred him like a stolen bride, filled and bottled with his claim as if it were the only thing that leashed them together without question— but he never broke him in. Never fully bridged the gap between captive and conquest. Not like now, at least. Where the only fervor left's in either friction or raw greed: what a good boy he is at last, now that he can't think of anything aside from sweet obedience. His submission neither given nor agreed to, but inevitable.
He's certain of it. He can see it. And where Fenris' body bays with a desire to be used to the point of listless consumation, Astarion burns to devour till there's nothing left in turn. To own, to master, to dominate until the pretty mouth that'd sneered at him— the stubborn smirk that defied his twin time and time again— is forever forced into a far more striking shape. Distorted by nothing else but the outline of his cruel, embedded length. By all those muffled groans of pleasure. Perfect skin already laced with welling sweat, his red eyes wet along their edges even as he works, wet noise popping in his throat— vulgar and slick with trapped momentum as it bubbles up around the ridgeline of his gag.
Few things could be more beautiful (so many things could be more beautiful).
Given ample time to suckle and bob and roll his throat to prove he's learned his lesson. If not his mind, then his body, above all else. Something worth teasing with short pumps that have long reach: driving to the low end of Fenris' limits in a slowly building rhythm now that he's being well behaved; coursing down the bend in the back of his mouth, and edging closer to the borders of his throat (his stomach, some volatile darkness in him whispers).
Unable to bark. To bite. Unable to say no, and unwilling to, for he works like a whore in high heat.]
Ah, look how needy you are....
[It slides through the outline of his fangs, barely murmured; his lungs refuse to fill completely, spending themselves instead on every shallow, languid groan poured over Fenris from on high.]
Can you feel it? [Can you even hear me?] Every inch of your docile body striving just to let me have my way, like you always craved deep down. Good boy, there you go— don't fight it. [The blunt head of his cock dragging against the deepest recesses of his body— the only place where Leto's trembling jaw has to pry itself wider just to accommodate his brutal angle (barely able to contain the subtle patter of saliva and precome that dribbles in steady floes from his slight chin), nose smothered against the harsh slope of his belly. Pinned by the hand still in his hair.] All the way down.
[Mine.
And there's no mistaking it. Not when Astarion could mount him like a cocksleeve fit to squirm and choke him on his come, or leave Fenris to his own devices, and either way would end the same.]
If you hadn't been so unruly, you could be sucking for all your worth right now. [And wouldn't that be nice? Wet suction glazing tight enough to paint his cheeks dark and low, cupped lips gone numb from flexing over the edges of his fangs as they pull and pull and pull—
Instead there's the hardened catch of that ring (pushed tight against the base of him), squeezed between harsh teeth that gnash like they worry at a bit with the very same discomfort, and it isn't that it doesn't feel good (oh, it does, it does), it's that he's fucked him bare before; can still feel the difference in melting against a pair of cool lips stoked warm from desperate strokes around hardened lust made thick, compared to the immobile cling of that gag and the soft thrashing of the tongue pinned underneath. Wriggling and twitching and convulsing for all it wants to do.
And aren't they just alike in that.]
Head back.
[The slightest warning given to readjust before he pulls the expanse of his own cock free— nearly slapping Fenris in the face with steep momentum, a single strand of thickened gloss whipped high from the border of that gag to catch his cheek in its place. Clear sheen shining brightly over dark-flushed features.
Palm left tethered in that hair. Holding Fenris still.
And the mattress gives as his knees slip back. As he frees the shackled measure of his abused bride's arms from the weight of his own body, easily mistaken for a reward.
Easily remedied.]
Move.
[Astarion tells the spawn behind him, and if the rest is a blur it's only fair for the punctuating potency of its footnotes: touch yourself, the usurper in barbed wire whispers as he perches behind Fenris' hips, hands braced across the dimples where lower spine meets hips, pushing Fenris' half-dressed lower body down—
Around the rigid swell of Astarion's waiting cock.]
[They're on their knees together. Chains loosely twisted, collar tightly pulled. One hand clamped around the measure of a branded throat above cold metal, forcing their bodies into bracketing parallel: Fenris in his lap; Fenris' bare, salt-stung back against his still-clothed chest; Fenris' throat to his throat; cheek to his cheek. And it's fitting that those briars wrapped around Astarion's own guarded neck scrape to meet their inflexible analogue, making pale skin bleed that much more while Fenris' throat stays guarded by his leashlocked collar, but it doesn't save him from the clawed fingers that dig into his windpipe, the gag from before now unclasped and empty over bedsheets.
The slick of all that ardor still glazed like molten sugar over a mouth left raw.
One hole used (and unsated). One more unable to resist the very next violating ravagement that sinks in, spreading his bared body without choice. Quick pumps. Hard snaps.
He'll teach his little mare to jump when the spurs dig in.]
Bark my name when you come, little wolf.
[You didn't like to say mine. Oh how petty he is.]
Stupid. Petty. Pathetic, and yet all the more effective a taunt for it: a century of pleasure, and still Astarion hadn't earned it. Not from the little usurper who came in and so effectively stole what was rightfully his; who didn't even have the decency to acknowledge Astarion's skill, and it didn't matter how often they rut. It didn't matter if Fenris would mewl needily for the feeling of being speared upon Astarion's prick or drool around a mouthful of his cock, for the implication was eternally woven into every wordless cry: I'm not thinking of you. You aren't good enough. You don't have my attention. Petty, pathetic Astarion, too old, too used, too rote to be noticed, especially when stacked next to the gleaming bright wonder that is— was— their master. You aren't good enough, and it was a viciously mean bit of retaliation in their eternal war.
But that usurper is dead now— and in his place, Astarion's whore does better.]
Astarion— Astarion—
[And it's not a choice. Not a deigned bit of acquisition, nor a tactical bone thrown to lower Astarion's guard— oh, gods, no. Fenris howls his name, his head tipping back as his voice cries out in worshipful desperation, every syllable as fervent as a prayer. Please the unsubtle subtext as Fenris' eyes fill with tears, precome smeared on his cheek and his whole body shaking for how much he wants him.
And it's not enough. It's not enough, it's not enough— desperately his swollen hole tightens around the ring, tormented by the absence of that searing stretch he hadn't realized he was addicted to until just now. The molten pleasure of being forced open again and again, every swell and ridge of Astarion's cock catching against his rim, stars bursting behind his eyes as he drools out his pleasure— but there's nothing. Nothing save the blunt, brutal pleasure of being used. The air bursts out of his lungs with every slam of their hips, his vision hazy and narrowed as red mist fills the corners of his eyes, but it's not enough, it's not what he wants&dmash; it's the same impotent desperation that had made him gnash his teeth and wail out his displeasure not moments ago. Not enough, not enough—]
Astarion, please—
[His voice ragged and wrecked as he chokes on that plea: precome still coating his throat and spilling past his chin as Astarion's fingers tighten around his throat, more effective than any leash. The iron scent of blood fills the air between them, a sharp undercurrent to the twin scents of sex and sweat that fill their room. Hot breath against his ear and the low, malicious purr of his voice as he teases mercilessly, good boy, my needy bride, you've always wanted this, craving to be tamed and taken, as seductive as a siren's song and just as effective. He has. He has, he has, and yet still he's being denied, the unfairness of it all making him cry out in mingled frustration and arousal. His left hand feebly gropes behind him, fingers brushing briefly against cold skin as supple curves sting for how harshly they're rut into. Over and over, his body writhing even as he's held still, his eyes rolling back as that voice rolls over him—
And all the while, he touches himself.
It's a roughened grip, harsh and hungry, trading in finesse for whatever pleasure he can possibly eke out of this punishment: more please more, his body begging for it even as he hurtles towards his finish. Calloused fingers stroke and tease, his wrist snapping as he pumps his prick, please, please, squeezing and loosening, his thumb smearing desperately over his slit as fat droplets of precome splatter down onto the soaked sheets. Until he feels that familiar hook in the pit of his belly; until that molten heat that was lit aflame by that spawn's slender fingers and stoked by the relentless battering of Astarion's cock begins to overwhelm him. His cries grow more and more frantic, his body thrashing as he hurtles towards his finish, until there's that perfect moment and he's—]
Astarion—!
[—suddenly and sharply shoved over his finish line, as all at once he's yanked backwards into the most vicious arch. Choking from the brutal grip around his throat that forces him to arch, his back bent and his legs splayed whorishly wide— his hand drops his throbbing prick as both rise to grab instinctively at his collar; he cries out in dismay and rage and lust as all at once his orgasm is taken from him. Ruined but not wrecked, maliciously twisted but not taken— come splattering over his belly and chest in pulse after gushing pulse, until at last his cock hangs limply between his legs.]
[You'd think it wouldn't be enough to satisfy, but you'd think wrong if so.
It is.
It is.
Same as the milking reach of his own hand around Leto's front, forcing still more strokes between them, branded fingers caught in his own as they squeeze down, unwilling to let it be the end no matter how his bedmate wails or groans or shrieks in slackened protest; his body the tool used to unmake itself, that squalling length so exhausted— so hopelessly entrapped between the tangled push of intertwined grips— that it can't even muster up the palpable will to jolt with half-hard stiffness under fire. Drooling instead like the creature it belongs to: a slow-burn trickle that runs slick between their knuckles when he forces one more stimulating clench around the heated measure of its slit.
That little usurper is dead.
And his funeral? Oh, it's a pretty one.
They kiss atop his grave, open-mouthed, fangs clacking; grief etched onto one face, elation on the other.
How long it takes to celebrate doesn't matter. By the end of it Astarion pushes his whore forwards, drives the outline of bruised thighs together, and pumps into them barely a handful of times before he finally spills— veering away from the idea of luxury into just one more place his bride's been visibly derided: rivulets of viscous white seeping down in to the margins of dark stockings, stained fabric matching the damp pool of rucked-up sheets beneath sore knees.
Fenris' spent use sticking to his body.
Astarion ensuring that it does.
Because it is enough to see Fenris ruined; he's never been against the idea of a gift bought solely for oneself. A creature panting. Shaking. Sullied. Lingerie torn and barely clinging in slight strips, tangled to his binds in some places and completely tattered in others to the point that it's left twisting in cool air. Once inhumanly pristine skin now clawed. Bitten. Marked. Broken in. Red marks welling and coarse bruises on his body, and still, it's the least of all his ownership.
Knees spread so wide their inner thighs begin to shake.]
Good dog.
[He sighs as he unbuckles that harness at last before slipping down atop the mattress. Dragging Fenris closer in his arms to dote in the way that can only happen with something truly tamed. Confident enough with the echo of his name still clinging to slip two fingers (the ones still gloved; he'd almost forgotten) underneath a branded chin, raising it higher. Higher. Far enough to nibble at a chafe-flush jaw.
Contentment rumbling in his throat.]
I knew you'd be happier like this.
[And if his bare hand slips once more between those vulnerable legs....well.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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 subject
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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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?)]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
Vampire Lord of Baldur's Gate. Merciless enough to devour his own twin just to stake his claim. Coronated heir drenched in the black gleam of his inheritance— whose blood tastes of fetid ash. Milk-bland, absent nothingness. Not even distinct enough to wear sourness or rot, beneath the glory of his master he doesn't reek—
He's nothing.
And in the spirit of Leira's greatest treasure: mirror mazes only work until you know their trick. Bristling fur doesn't fool what's already learned better. Eye-marks. Striping. Mimicry. Bright colors and thorny barbs. He's done everything he can to be a nightmare wreathed in power insurmountable.
It's punctured with a set of narrow canines, like it was paper all along.]
Ah— chht!!! You insolent, ungrateful little cur—
[His lips peel in a snarling flash of white, his other hand having dropped its prize just to raise high in a threat that means to become more; impending strike already flattening his palm.
He stops before he ever does.
A flare of his nostrils. A scowl like hateful ire hitching just to twist over its own heels at the sight of all that drool: crowned by swollen lips wrapped tight around his knuckles and the bone-white sheen of wetted fangs run red only at their tips. Two overly brilliant eyes set just above hot luster, flickering, darting savagely in place— narrow pupils barely fixed, making Fenris the picture of a wild dog clutching at a bone for how it starves; mad with the idea of more filling its belly. So hungry it'd attack itself for one more bite.
Flesh is flesh is flesh (Astarion would know).
His own scowl goes flatter than a drawn line against the grain of his own choice in roiling response. Angry still. Seething still. But determined now: sudden just to hook his buried fingers down around the back of Fenris' tongue into his greedy throat, using it like an anchored fishhook— turning all that willful wildness into a muzzle fit to beak him in if he won't dare let go, and that's to say nothing for the way Astarion lurches forward on his knees, arching himself over his own consort just to slam their hips together (braced by his spare palm; the ache apparent when it almost bends too far in softer bedding), clothing be damned as a barricade.
Again, his hips drive home.
Again, again, again.
No penetration no matter how much force saturates its stride, wet cloth scraping against soft, pliable skin— battering the edges of Fenris' tight hole just before it rubs with cruel abandon, ravaging its mark with violating discomfort before the next thrust drives it home.
It doesn't matter that it stings his senses. That his vision flares hot-white before ebbing into static stars: his voice a brutal snarl when he yanks his buried fingers closer— dragging Fenris with it in the image of a wolfdog with its collar jerked to choking. Chastised from the inside out.]
Let. Go.
[Fangs or mouth completely, he doesn't care. It's a call to return to obedience, closer than before, and with the threat (the deglutible promise) of a fuck kept from Fenris' reach until he settles, though gods know with the way Astarion's punishing his body now, even sweet docility won't make that reward nice.
(But he'll have a cock in him to scream and writhe around, won't he— and really, isn't that the thing to hope for?)]
Now.
[Again, again, again— those brutal snaps don't stop. A tug of war gone vulgar: let go.]
no subject
Understand: it isn't that he isn't affected by this cruel tug-of-war. Oh, just the opposite: he's dizzy from it. His eyes are clouded with lust, pupils gone unfocused as his body trembles beneath Astarion's own. Aphrodisiac so potent it burns drips through his veins, clouding his senses and making him little more than a feral beast in those moments. There's a roaring in his ears and a hazy fog around the edges of his vision, his field of focus narrowing until everything drops away and there's just Astarion. His wedded husband, his chosen mate . . . and as his blood drips down Fenris' throat and he snaps his hips forward in brutal punishment, he thinks that he has never wanted quite so badly as he does in this moment.
Vicious thing. Cruel thing. Sadistic and mean and petty, and this, this is what they are. This is how they thrive. Not when one has so much power over the other that he makes him writhe (though gods, but that is a thrilling thing, and trust Fenris has passed the hours fantasizing about Astarion with his legs forced apart and his eyes filled with needy tears), but when they fight. When they're forced into equality, no matter how tenuous and temporary, for only then can they be their truest selves. Not a vampire lord, terrible and nightmarish in his hedonism; not a consort-née-slave, shivering in gratitude for the scraps of freedom his new master offers him. It's them, just them, and Fenris loves it.
Not that he's thinking so clearly. All he knows right now is desire, hot and hungry, pulses through him. It makes him desperate, it makes him oversensitive, so that every point of contact the sweetest torment. The insides of his thighs ache for how they're forced wide, his whole body screaming in desire, please yes please, as he drools around the cruel hook of fingers curving into his throat. Please like that please, and when that first merciless thrust comes—
Fenris barks for it.
A short, sharp cry slickly muffled by fingers and lips, his eyes rolling back as his back snaps into an arch— oh, that punishment works perfectly. Stars blaze across his vision as pleasure pulses through him, and it doesn't matter how much it hurts, for he moans for it all the same. Roughened fabric rubs and grinds against his flushed hole; his chains rattle as Fenris desperately gropes for slickened fabric, fingers falling so far short it's laughable. This is what you could have, and desperate as he is, he whines when Astarion's cock draws back—
Only to slam into him again. Again again again, so brutal it knocks the air out of him, so cruel it leaves him growling, bucking, spreading his legs wider as if that might help, more more more, a desperate slut that doesn't care what form his chosen addiction takes, so long as it's fed to him. His needy little hole tightens desperately, rhythmically, trying and failing to cinch around blunted heat; ripples of desire shudder through him each time he fails. He's so close he can all but taste it— and drugged as he is, time blurs. Seconds become minutes and minutes melt away like moments, so that that the tantalizing fantasy of what he might have feels as though it lasts forever. His mind lingers on the thought of Astarion's cock filling him: searingly hot and so thick, stretching him open so wide it's painful, filling him up so thoroughly that he swears he can all but taste it . . . every fuck is a contest in endurance. In proving that he isn't just some young thing, that he can take it (let me take it, his hole rubbing up needily against that brutal assault).
But he doesn't let go.
Even as the desire consumes him. Even as his mind howls for it, his expression twisted into pleading desperation; even as that command crashes around his ears with all the heavy weight of a master scolding his favorite pet, let go, and every instinct he has ever cultivated shrieks to obey. Not yet, not yet— not until Astarion's fierce punishment has reached a fever-pitch. Not until blood smears over his teeth, vulgar and horrific, and he swears his fangs have reached bone—
Then he lets go.
His head falling back as that taunting grin keeps his lips peeled back, his expression as much about dominance as it is pointed amusement (for vampires are beastly monsters, no matter that they pretend otherwise, and only mortals think bearing your teeth is a sign of friendliness). Blood smears over his lips and teeth, his chest heaving as he stares up at his husband.]
Are you having fun yet?
[It's a growl.]
Lord Astarion, who can't even control your consort . . . you really think you can manage an entire empire? Muzzle me if you wish. Tie me further, til I can't move without pleasing you. But all the chains in the world do not mean you have tamed me, husband mine.
[His cheeks are flushed thanks to that stolen blood. His tongue is slick with saliva and blood, and between them, that pretty adornment clinks as Fenris' cock twitches in open desire, plugged up and yet leaking. And yet though there is a collar around his neck— though he looks every inch the despoiled bride Astarion calls him, dressing in dark silks and glimmering adornments, a courtesan of the highest order— there's such fierce pride in his expression.]
Now come fuck me like the good little lord you are.
iliad 34534676 forever and ever
Beyond them, faces. Distorted and braying.
Clank—
A glass hits the floor the second that he yanks himself free against the grain of all concern.)
His heel knocks the cup.
Clank—
It was with a shriek that Chione's heart was pierced to the marrow by cold wrath. Folly ravaged by a twin whose loss was already assured. It's without one that Astarion coarsely tears himself away from bloodied lips, his naked hand in pulpy tatters from the knuckle down, his fingers howling where he'd stopped full minutes ago. The flexion shuck of his lips curling around bone white fangs all he can do to keep from lunging at his penned-in counterpart outright, and even then, it's narrow as the fillamented membrane still clinging to his sinew: the hot, wet, baleful shine of his eyes betraying every churning emotion driving him to weep in retroactive outrage, hammering like the heart he doesn't have (agony— agony— )
—Lust.
Lust like venom in his throat. Lust like a guttural snarl. Lust like a madness that outright seethes only to break across harsh mockery— and flaring all the hotter for the stolen blaze of red already washing over sunset cheeks, those rasping false breaths rumbling with wolfish strength regained. Blind when he lunges. Aware the second that his palms hit their mark— both of them (one wracking his nerves with a fresher surge of pain as it catches Fenris by the neck; torn tissue barely begun mending when that impact shatters all its progress)— gloved hand slammed into the mural bracketing Fenris' head, mosaic tiles splintering in split-second warning, though there's nowhere for his prey to go. Nowhere to run with those chains already tensed nigh to their limit, Astarion snarling in his face.
And when they kiss, it burns.
A bite for a bite— blood flooding the outline of their lips as he consummates their levirated bond a second time. Cock already twinging hard between his legs, aching for its own revenge. (In a moment. In a moment he'll drive those knees against the wall, tearing the last of that lacework away just to mount his waiting hole while it lies slick within his grasp— unguarded and pried open well before it's viciously assaulted. Not fucked, no. Not even that sole scrap of squirming dignity is good enough to offer, now. He won't grant his thieving twin the satisfaction of anything but use.)]
A whore doesn't get his supper until he's begged for it.
[The give of his mouth around Fenris' punctured tongue is like a ragged gurgle of lush movement. Rumbling through pulses of forced air that fill the empty space around sharp teeth, crawling back towards his throat. No effort made to embellish what he sounds like: a monster drunk on envy and rote want. Scraping up satisfaction as it squeals.
Or in this case, maybe: squirms.]
And you stole yours early.
You're not getting fucked tonight.
[Up come those legs in a whip of unseen movement— pinned together so tightly that caught knees must ache for contact. The swollen little sight of a pair of tight, diminutively supple curves gracing the middle of those trapped thighs Astarion's to savor as he likes: their captured tensity trapped in the shadow of dark stockings, right above full cheeks and their precious, agitated nexus. Its slathered epicenter turned a vulgar shade of lacquered red from his abuse, twitching as he draws back just to watch it.
And when he releases Fenris' throat just to strike those upturned cheeks, he aims straight for their meridian. Letting sound shatter in midair. Once. Twice. Three times— each blow sterner than the last.
He howls for the slave— his spawn— to return, but instead of the boy from before another servant arrives in a flurry of movement, her attention keenly fixed. Barely enough time for her to set aside the tray that she'd been holding only seconds before, knowing he won't need it, if nothing else.]
A gag. [He demands without looking.
—slap—
One more snap of his arm punctuating his demand, and furthering his gritted snarl. Bad dog.]
Make that two: one for each of his misbehaving holes.
[He tears a section of her clothing away with his bare hand before she leaves, ignoring her startled yelp. It works to bind those ankles— even when he pushes them higher just to make a better point. Her returned offering driven into Fenris' mouth the second that it's given: a thick ring barring him from biting, but leaving his inner heat exposed. And it's with cold, deliberate cruelty Astarion does the same to Leto's prone little entry— a little harness of a ring plug that's forced right into that helpless cinch— driving it open in ways that beg for filling.
Only to be not.
Instead he lets those legs drop. Puts his knees down tight on shackled arms and slowly unfastens his damp trousers— gripping pallid hair just before his cock slips out of restrictive binds with a weighted drop of overengorged motion. Drooling and oppressively thick in the second that it knocks against that gag's slick edge. Sliding on its seam in a crude parody of a lover's languid kiss.
And he doesn't waste time.
Both hands move to fist tight. He's pinned his subsumed bitches' head against the wall and buried in his prick with a quick jerk of his hips, melting to feel the softened give of searing constriction that enfolds him without choice— fucking down until he feels his body driven flush against Fenris' nose and chin—
And onwards.
(In the background that half-dressed spawn still works under strict orders: carefully oiling the full span of Fenris' length after removing decorations and spent silk, her slow, methodical efforts marked by muted jingling and soft strokes— and interceded by the careful feeling of slim fingers doing the very same soon enough to that locked-in plug....as well as everything caught deep inside its borders. Oiling every wall. Every pliant little swell of knotwork muscle and bundled nerves. All so that there is nothing Astarion can't take.
And take he does.)
Grinding into that captive mouth until his prick jerks in the threat of spilling— watching every expression Fenris wears as his throat obeys its new master and his tongue flexes just to milk at those incandescent thrusts, fighting for friction or freedom only to find it's all the same.
And then, never letting go of that hair, Astarion slides back to grind atop Fenris' waiting cock with mocking ease, proving there is no part of his body that won't be used or toyed with at his leisure— bouncing on its span while that buried cinch lies empty and his vacant throat must burn with unsatisfied desire— until his own prick jumps with eagerness and he rises up again: holding his swollen crest to the very rim of that gag, offering the opportunity to obey. To work him over properly like a good little bride. And if it isn't taken— he starts again.
And again.
And again.]
Suck, vampire.
[The spawn's fingers are— on orders— kneading deep inside Fenris, now. Her softset prints playing at his inner walls without gifting him a second's rest. Rolling back and forth within tight heat. Massaging till he wriggles; his body out of tune.
Astarion's sore crown hanging heavy and dripping with glossy precome— a thick line of dewdrop spit strung like jewelry from its twitching slit across that waiting tongue.]
Or I'll take my next meeting in this room and let them see what little you're good for.
ILIAD III: RETURN OF THE KING
Enraptured. Hungry, his gaze black and his wet breathing ragged. Saliva has long since dripped down his chin, smearing along his neck, but Fenris swears he can feel his mouth water all the same. The muscles in his jaw tense and flex, working uselessly at his gag; his collar strains each time his head jerks up, feeble attempts to capture his addiction doomed to failure.
And it doesn't matter how rebellious he'd been before. That creature has been dragged back into the darkness once again, smothered over and over until at last he'd gone silent. All the plans Fenris had made (desperate plans, needful plans) are pushed sharply to the side, not because he's trapped— but because he wants.
Biting heat, teasing fingers— there are other sensations that wrack his body, unseen but not unfelt. Supple cheeks are sore and reddened, still stinging with the echoes from his brutal scolding. Slender fingers assault him in the cruelest way, denying him the satisfaction of being split open on something thick even as they offer him endless, dizzying pleasure. It's the cruelest dichotomy, a savage punishment that ensures he's only ever aware of what he lacks even as molten heat builds in him. Empty and unsated, his needy hole stinging from the brush of cold air as it tightens uselessly around that ring again and again, please. It isn't long before slick moans split the air, his eyes rolling back as his hips buck up in open desperation— please, please, his thighs shaking as his back strains upward in supplication, please I need it please—
And then it all stops.
And yet no matter how he howls for it, his body thrashing and squirming beneath the indomitable weight of Astarion— no matter how he twist and snarls and seethes and wails for how badly he wants it, still, still: it doesn't compare to what hangs in front of him.
Not even a little.
Astarion's cock looks so heavy as it hangs before him. Flushed with heat and rigid with desire, a prize worth drooling over (and he is), worth mewling for (and he is). All he can think of is how empty he is, his tongue aching for that flattening weight, his throat aching to be stretched to its febrile limit. The glossy strand that hangs between them feels the most tenuous leash, a filthy promise that Astarion won't leave him empty forever— but gods, when? The heady satisfaction of wrapping his lips so tight around that thickened span fills Fenris' mind, his lips gnashing uselessly against his gag as his chest heaves. His throat bobs, his eyes squeezing shut as the thought fills his mind. He wants to suckle at him, glutting himself on it, worshiping every inch of his cock in slavish devotion until at last he spills down into his waiting belly— breeding him as reward for being such a good boy, please—
Suck, and there isn't a thought of disobedience.
His head jerks forward with undignified desperation, and the moment that febrile tip slips past his lips, Fenris moans in heady satisfaction. Sloppily, clumsily he bobs his head forward: drool spilling past sore lips that can't close as his tongue flicks up, the very tip teasing indulgently against Astarion's slit. And when that isn't enough— when his husband sinks down lower, indulgently feeding Fenris his prize— he sucks. Gulping down his prize with ravenous desperation, his cheeks going hollow in pathetic attempt to suckle at what he can't possibly take— and his gaze unerringly focused at his husband.]
1/2
Under the shadow of an engorged cock wedged home in lavish worship, willfully defiant eyes go dark.
Oh, Astarion bound him and bedded him. Pierced him like a spread-legged slattern and bred him like a stolen bride, filled and bottled with his claim as if it were the only thing that leashed them together without question— but he never broke him in. Never fully bridged the gap between captive and conquest. Not like now, at least. Where the only fervor left's in either friction or raw greed: what a good boy he is at last, now that he can't think of anything aside from sweet obedience. His submission neither given nor agreed to, but inevitable.
He's certain of it. He can see it. And where Fenris' body bays with a desire to be used to the point of listless consumation, Astarion burns to devour till there's nothing left in turn. To own, to master, to dominate until the pretty mouth that'd sneered at him— the stubborn smirk that defied his twin time and time again— is forever forced into a far more striking shape. Distorted by nothing else but the outline of his cruel, embedded length. By all those muffled groans of pleasure. Perfect skin already laced with welling sweat, his red eyes wet along their edges even as he works, wet noise popping in his throat— vulgar and slick with trapped momentum as it bubbles up around the ridgeline of his gag.
Few things could be more beautiful (so many things could be more beautiful).
Given ample time to suckle and bob and roll his throat to prove he's learned his lesson. If not his mind, then his body, above all else. Something worth teasing with short pumps that have long reach: driving to the low end of Fenris' limits in a slowly building rhythm now that he's being well behaved; coursing down the bend in the back of his mouth, and edging closer to the borders of his throat (his stomach, some volatile darkness in him whispers).
Unable to bark. To bite. Unable to say no, and unwilling to, for he works like a whore in high heat.]
Ah, look how needy you are....
[It slides through the outline of his fangs, barely murmured; his lungs refuse to fill completely, spending themselves instead on every shallow, languid groan poured over Fenris from on high.]
Can you feel it? [Can you even hear me?] Every inch of your docile body striving just to let me have my way, like you always craved deep down. Good boy, there you go— don't fight it. [The blunt head of his cock dragging against the deepest recesses of his body— the only place where Leto's trembling jaw has to pry itself wider just to accommodate his brutal angle (barely able to contain the subtle patter of saliva and precome that dribbles in steady floes from his slight chin), nose smothered against the harsh slope of his belly. Pinned by the hand still in his hair.] All the way down.
[Mine.
And there's no mistaking it. Not when Astarion could mount him like a cocksleeve fit to squirm and choke him on his come, or leave Fenris to his own devices, and either way would end the same.]
If you hadn't been so unruly, you could be sucking for all your worth right now. [And wouldn't that be nice? Wet suction glazing tight enough to paint his cheeks dark and low, cupped lips gone numb from flexing over the edges of his fangs as they pull and pull and pull—
Instead there's the hardened catch of that ring (pushed tight against the base of him), squeezed between harsh teeth that gnash like they worry at a bit with the very same discomfort, and it isn't that it doesn't feel good (oh, it does, it does), it's that he's fucked him bare before; can still feel the difference in melting against a pair of cool lips stoked warm from desperate strokes around hardened lust made thick, compared to the immobile cling of that gag and the soft thrashing of the tongue pinned underneath. Wriggling and twitching and convulsing for all it wants to do.
And aren't they just alike in that.]
Head back.
[The slightest warning given to readjust before he pulls the expanse of his own cock free— nearly slapping Fenris in the face with steep momentum, a single strand of thickened gloss whipped high from the border of that gag to catch his cheek in its place. Clear sheen shining brightly over dark-flushed features.
Palm left tethered in that hair. Holding Fenris still.
And the mattress gives as his knees slip back. As he frees the shackled measure of his abused bride's arms from the weight of his own body, easily mistaken for a reward.
Easily remedied.]
Move.
[Astarion tells the spawn behind him, and if the rest is a blur it's only fair for the punctuating potency of its footnotes: touch yourself, the usurper in barbed wire whispers as he perches behind Fenris' hips, hands braced across the dimples where lower spine meets hips, pushing Fenris' half-dressed lower body down—
Around the rigid swell of Astarion's waiting cock.]
2/2
The slick of all that ardor still glazed like molten sugar over a mouth left raw.
One hole used (and unsated). One more unable to resist the very next violating ravagement that sinks in, spreading his bared body without choice. Quick pumps. Hard snaps.
He'll teach his little mare to jump when the spurs dig in.]
Bark my name when you come, little wolf.
[You didn't like to say mine. Oh how petty he is.]
no subject
[It's always been a point of spiteful pride.
Stupid. Petty. Pathetic, and yet all the more effective a taunt for it: a century of pleasure, and still Astarion hadn't earned it. Not from the little usurper who came in and so effectively stole what was rightfully his; who didn't even have the decency to acknowledge Astarion's skill, and it didn't matter how often they rut. It didn't matter if Fenris would mewl needily for the feeling of being speared upon Astarion's prick or drool around a mouthful of his cock, for the implication was eternally woven into every wordless cry: I'm not thinking of you. You aren't good enough. You don't have my attention. Petty, pathetic Astarion, too old, too used, too rote to be noticed, especially when stacked next to the gleaming bright wonder that is— was— their master. You aren't good enough, and it was a viciously mean bit of retaliation in their eternal war.
But that usurper is dead now— and in his place, Astarion's whore does better.]
Astarion— Astarion—
[And it's not a choice. Not a deigned bit of acquisition, nor a tactical bone thrown to lower Astarion's guard— oh, gods, no. Fenris howls his name, his head tipping back as his voice cries out in worshipful desperation, every syllable as fervent as a prayer. Please the unsubtle subtext as Fenris' eyes fill with tears, precome smeared on his cheek and his whole body shaking for how much he wants him.
And it's not enough. It's not enough, it's not enough— desperately his swollen hole tightens around the ring, tormented by the absence of that searing stretch he hadn't realized he was addicted to until just now. The molten pleasure of being forced open again and again, every swell and ridge of Astarion's cock catching against his rim, stars bursting behind his eyes as he drools out his pleasure— but there's nothing. Nothing save the blunt, brutal pleasure of being used. The air bursts out of his lungs with every slam of their hips, his vision hazy and narrowed as red mist fills the corners of his eyes, but it's not enough, it's not what he wants&dmash; it's the same impotent desperation that had made him gnash his teeth and wail out his displeasure not moments ago. Not enough, not enough—]
Astarion, please—
[His voice ragged and wrecked as he chokes on that plea: precome still coating his throat and spilling past his chin as Astarion's fingers tighten around his throat, more effective than any leash. The iron scent of blood fills the air between them, a sharp undercurrent to the twin scents of sex and sweat that fill their room. Hot breath against his ear and the low, malicious purr of his voice as he teases mercilessly, good boy, my needy bride, you've always wanted this, craving to be tamed and taken, as seductive as a siren's song and just as effective. He has. He has, he has, and yet still he's being denied, the unfairness of it all making him cry out in mingled frustration and arousal. His left hand feebly gropes behind him, fingers brushing briefly against cold skin as supple curves sting for how harshly they're rut into. Over and over, his body writhing even as he's held still, his eyes rolling back as that voice rolls over him—
And all the while, he touches himself.
It's a roughened grip, harsh and hungry, trading in finesse for whatever pleasure he can possibly eke out of this punishment: more please more, his body begging for it even as he hurtles towards his finish. Calloused fingers stroke and tease, his wrist snapping as he pumps his prick, please, please, squeezing and loosening, his thumb smearing desperately over his slit as fat droplets of precome splatter down onto the soaked sheets. Until he feels that familiar hook in the pit of his belly; until that molten heat that was lit aflame by that spawn's slender fingers and stoked by the relentless battering of Astarion's cock begins to overwhelm him. His cries grow more and more frantic, his body thrashing as he hurtles towards his finish, until there's that perfect moment and he's—]
Astarion—!
[—suddenly and sharply shoved over his finish line, as all at once he's yanked backwards into the most vicious arch. Choking from the brutal grip around his throat that forces him to arch, his back bent and his legs splayed whorishly wide— his hand drops his throbbing prick as both rise to grab instinctively at his collar; he cries out in dismay and rage and lust as all at once his orgasm is taken from him. Ruined but not wrecked, maliciously twisted but not taken— come splattering over his belly and chest in pulse after gushing pulse, until at last his cock hangs limply between his legs.]
no subject
It is.
It is.
Same as the milking reach of his own hand around Leto's front, forcing still more strokes between them, branded fingers caught in his own as they squeeze down, unwilling to let it be the end no matter how his bedmate wails or groans or shrieks in slackened protest; his body the tool used to unmake itself, that squalling length so exhausted— so hopelessly entrapped between the tangled push of intertwined grips— that it can't even muster up the palpable will to jolt with half-hard stiffness under fire. Drooling instead like the creature it belongs to: a slow-burn trickle that runs slick between their knuckles when he forces one more stimulating clench around the heated measure of its slit.
That little usurper is dead.
And his funeral? Oh, it's a pretty one.
They kiss atop his grave, open-mouthed, fangs clacking; grief etched onto one face, elation on the other.
How long it takes to celebrate doesn't matter. By the end of it Astarion pushes his whore forwards, drives the outline of bruised thighs together, and pumps into them barely a handful of times before he finally spills— veering away from the idea of luxury into just one more place his bride's been visibly derided: rivulets of viscous white seeping down in to the margins of dark stockings, stained fabric matching the damp pool of rucked-up sheets beneath sore knees.
Fenris' spent use sticking to his body.
Astarion ensuring that it does.
Because it is enough to see Fenris ruined; he's never been against the idea of a gift bought solely for oneself. A creature panting. Shaking. Sullied. Lingerie torn and barely clinging in slight strips, tangled to his binds in some places and completely tattered in others to the point that it's left twisting in cool air. Once inhumanly pristine skin now clawed. Bitten. Marked. Broken in. Red marks welling and coarse bruises on his body, and still, it's the least of all his ownership.
Knees spread so wide their inner thighs begin to shake.]
Good dog.
[He sighs as he unbuckles that harness at last before slipping down atop the mattress. Dragging Fenris closer in his arms to dote in the way that can only happen with something truly tamed. Confident enough with the echo of his name still clinging to slip two fingers (the ones still gloved; he'd almost forgotten) underneath a branded chin, raising it higher. Higher. Far enough to nibble at a chafe-flush jaw.
Contentment rumbling in his throat.]
I knew you'd be happier like this.
[And if his bare hand slips once more between those vulnerable legs....well.
That's his to savor as he likes.]
1/2
(no subject)
(no subject)