[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.
[His body still aches with the ghostly echo of what came before.
Every bruise and bitemark throbs in belated agony, unable to heal— for starved thing that he is, he will bear those marks as long as it thrills his master to see them. His clothing hangs off him in tatters, and at a distance, he registers the pull and tug of tatters straining along his hips and wrist. His spent prick still throbs in memory of that milking overstimulation (how he screamed, plead, begged, his body thrashing as his voice broke, sobbing for relief that never came). Sweat coats his skin; his ears still ring in aftershocks. And along his thighs, pointedly inglorious, Astarion's come. Possessive marker unlike any other, soaking into his stockings (frayed only to a point, for he looks so much prettier with them on) and smeared against his thighs . . . useless when it could have been bred into him, but that's the point.
And it was hell, it's true. It was the worst kind of pleasure, an addicting torment that shattered him into breakable, fragile pieces.
But this might be worse.
Quieter a torment, but all the more insidious for it— for it's so tempting to just give in. To roll over and nuzzle against that doting bit of contact, whimpering fretfully in the aftershocks of such debauchery and shivering with delight once he's sated. Protect me, care for me, love me, and how many times have they done that with Vakares? A primal spawnish instinct, hungry to find the safest set of arms to curl up into . . .
Or maybe that's just Fenris.
Slender fingers tease between his thighs, their pace meandering— for Astarion knows by now that there's no question of rebellion. No need for chains or bridles, not anymore; even if he mewls in protest (a soft little whine, his back arching in overstimulated distress), he won't fight it.
But he must.
For if he gives in now— if he bows his head and allows Astarion to set a jeweled collar around his throat— he won't ever leave. It doesn't matter that it's been a hundred years since Danarius; it doesn't matter that Vakares has worked so tirelessly to try and instill a sense of independence within his beloved secondsired. There will always be a little piece of Fenris that shivers in chains— and if he doesn't act now, that piece will grow larger and larger, until at last it consumes him once more.
Already he can hear the warning signs: every cell in his body shrieks in protest for the thought of pulling away. Every fiber within him demands that he linger here, that this is a life worth living (good dog, and later he'll hate himself for the elation he felt upon hearing it). To be someone's pet, praised and loved, and all he ever has to do is be perfect . . .
(But a wolf is not a dog, no matter how you might wish it. And feral things have a way of fighting back, no matter how broken they might seem.)
A burst of azure lightning, the scent of ozone filling the air as a sudden swift sense of pressure suddenly dips in the atmosphere, the world trying desperately to make sense of that which is no longer there— for he exists in two planes now, a ghostly echo that doesn't exist. A sense of movement, a blurred motion, and the nauseating sensation of something bursting through Astarion's chest, ghostly fingers passing through flesh and blood and bone—
And then pain.
So starkly abrupt that it might take the pale elf sluggish seconds to realize from whence it came— a blade suddenly erupting from the center of his chest, jagged spikes dripping with crimson blood (and never mind how close it is to his heart, for the point is that it didn't pierce that most vital of organs). And then another slicing through his belly, slamming so hard that it erupts out the other side and sinks deep into the mattress, ripping cushion and piercing the wooden headboard— and another, another, in his shoulder and chest and stomach, stabbing through his thighs and embedding themselves within the bed, and all of it from nowhere—
Until suddenly Fenris reappears. His thighs brace on either side of Astarion's hips, all of him so very careful not to touch the wriggling, writhing body beneath him. There's a wicked-looking dagger in his right hand, its blade yet unbloodied. His teeth are bared in a snarl, but there's nothing but cold, cruel satisfaction in his crimson eyes as he drinks in the gore below.]
That will keep you put.
[Just long enough for him to make his point. Blood soaks through the sheets and into the mattress below, crimson so dark it's nearly black. He feels it against his knees; the scent of it is nauseating, a cloying filth that nonetheless overwhelms his senses.]
Settle, now . . .
[The tip of his dagger traces so sweetly against the curve of Astarion's lips. His twin must be in such pain right now, poor thing, but he'd best hold still. The blade is sharp, and it takes so very little to pierce the thin skin of one's lips . . .]
And count yourself lucky I do not cut out your tongue instead.
[For a long moment, there's silence.
There are a thousand things he wants to say. A thousand points to be made, a thousand seething statements to triumphantly throw in Astarion's face now that the tables have finally turned. Little wolf, and he could reverse the nickname now, reminding Astarion of just what he sought to collar. He could taunt him on what the future might hold: wagging tongues chattering endlessly about how Duke Astarion couldn't even tame his own consort, never mind lead an entire coven; gods only know how long it will take them to eagerly exploit Astarion's apparent weakness. Or he could be crueler still, dripping the worst sort of poison into his mate's ear: Vakares knew this would happen. He told me as such. He knew you were too foolish to ever manage on your own, arrogant and shortsighted and cruel . . .
But perhaps the past few days have finally caught up to Fenris. Instead of the rush of triumph that he anticipated, there's only a hollow sense of grief. A sickening pitch in the pit of his stomach, embittering and awful, and though it's not fair, he hates Astarion all the more for it.]
You wish for a war? Then you will get it. Stubborn, idiotic thing that you are, if you will not allow for a partnership, then I will force you into one. And as your allies desert you one by one over the coming months and I muster a force fit to leave you staggering to your knees, know that you could have avoided such a fate.
[His voice trembles, though even he cannot say whether it's due to rage or grief.]
And know that this is the least I will do to you if you still dare try and oppose me.
A groan, fingers groping clumsily for the center of his chest to wrap around the jagged chasm that defines it, a seeping hollow where his breastbone splits with a sickening crack to give way to jagged barbs that shine with his own rotted rotted blood— pain secondary to mindless shock: his hands spasming from weakness he can't feel, only watch as it spells out the scope of his predicament. Legs punctured to the point of immobility; his shoulders somehow caught beneath the cuff; the hollow slant beneath his ribs pierced slick-straight through the headboard.
The depths to which he'd plummeted without warning.
How—
He wonders dully, and it doesn't matter.
How—
He tries to rasp out anyway, only to feel blood— cold and tasteless— seize up in his throat like a wall, welling around the struggling gulps of a creature drowning from the inside out. Coating his lips. His chin.
How—
Fenris was too weak. Too starved to use his lyrium even with that brazen bite, Astarion made certain of it. So where. Where could he have— how could he have—
—how. How. HOW— a mantra that loops itself into desperation. Anguish. Rage. Fear. The pretty thing above him more memory than sight (there and not there all at once; the same slick blur as oil streaking wetly over canvas), but no less beautiful as it measures his decline around a sharp nudge to his lips, prompting him to stillness. Alluring in a way that chills him to the bone before it stays there, anchoring itself just as deftly as those blades.
He's going to languish here. He's going to bleed until he can't move. Can't speak. He's going to be shut away until Vakares wakes, and even then—
(He'd lied. He'd broken the truce. He betrayed Vakares' only insistence on cooperation in the apex of its sanctuary; the mosaicwork behind him crushed to pulp and streaked with ink-black rivulets of blood. And the worst part is, he'd seen it all already.
'You need to control yourself, Astarion.')
Who's going to want him, after everything he's done?
No, they're going to leave him to this. Him and his useless fingers. His empty promises. His machinations. His—
—he almost splits his forehead open on the inside of his coffin for jolting when a hand bangs against its lid.
Hells' teeth.
Same nightmare. Different day. Only it isn't day, judging by the urgency in his spawn's trembling tone, something that shouldn't have woken him so early. A sputtering report on cancelling his summer fête owing to an intrusion at their southern gate jostling him in a way he hates for more than inconvenience.
It's been an age since Fenris slipped free of his binds and fled into the gutters of Baldur's Gate. And for all that lofty talk of freedom (for all that he had Astarion on his heels), swearing corrective wrath, he never managed to take Vakares' estate. Small skirmishes and little bursts of narrow ploys are effective enough at herding, true, but advancement? Progress? No. That requires more than just a handful of spawn.
And the worst part is, it seems as if somehow Fenris finally managed it.
Hence, the harried slave at his coffin's side, sputtering out little barks of 'it isn't safe, Lord Ancunín,' and 'we need to go, Lord Ancunín,' while his own sleepsore fingers fumble over the metal locks and countless latches that secure his coffin from the inside. Hence, the frenetic little reminder whispered his way once the lid comes loose that they've a coach already waiting. Hence, the carriage that grates on Astarion's last anguished nerve. The extended offer from Baroness Rhazjova to regroup along the far fringe of the upper city in her expansive summer estate while he waits for the rest of his promised resources to arrive. Something that'll no doubt teach Fenris just how deep his neck is in the well, if not the means to end this farce entirely. (Let him and his tatterdemalion forces have their triumph, however short-lived it might be.) What can't wealth, influence, and power overcome, after all?
And when he has him again.
When he owns him.
He'll make that night seem like a pleasant dream for just how thoroughly he breaks him. Bound to the point of immobility like furniture: a footstool for his throne. An impaled art piece for his guests. A shackled bitch for werewolves or a writhing exhibition gurgling around pearl as surely as Astarion had bled and gasped for air.
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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.]
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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.]
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[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.]
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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.]
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Every bruise and bitemark throbs in belated agony, unable to heal— for starved thing that he is, he will bear those marks as long as it thrills his master to see them. His clothing hangs off him in tatters, and at a distance, he registers the pull and tug of tatters straining along his hips and wrist. His spent prick still throbs in memory of that milking overstimulation (how he screamed, plead, begged, his body thrashing as his voice broke, sobbing for relief that never came). Sweat coats his skin; his ears still ring in aftershocks. And along his thighs, pointedly inglorious, Astarion's come. Possessive marker unlike any other, soaking into his stockings (frayed only to a point, for he looks so much prettier with them on) and smeared against his thighs . . . useless when it could have been bred into him, but that's the point.
And it was hell, it's true. It was the worst kind of pleasure, an addicting torment that shattered him into breakable, fragile pieces.
But this might be worse.
Quieter a torment, but all the more insidious for it— for it's so tempting to just give in. To roll over and nuzzle against that doting bit of contact, whimpering fretfully in the aftershocks of such debauchery and shivering with delight once he's sated. Protect me, care for me, love me, and how many times have they done that with Vakares? A primal spawnish instinct, hungry to find the safest set of arms to curl up into . . .
Or maybe that's just Fenris.
Slender fingers tease between his thighs, their pace meandering— for Astarion knows by now that there's no question of rebellion. No need for chains or bridles, not anymore; even if he mewls in protest (a soft little whine, his back arching in overstimulated distress), he won't fight it.
But he must.
For if he gives in now— if he bows his head and allows Astarion to set a jeweled collar around his throat— he won't ever leave. It doesn't matter that it's been a hundred years since Danarius; it doesn't matter that Vakares has worked so tirelessly to try and instill a sense of independence within his beloved secondsired. There will always be a little piece of Fenris that shivers in chains— and if he doesn't act now, that piece will grow larger and larger, until at last it consumes him once more.
Already he can hear the warning signs: every cell in his body shrieks in protest for the thought of pulling away. Every fiber within him demands that he linger here, that this is a life worth living (good dog, and later he'll hate himself for the elation he felt upon hearing it). To be someone's pet, praised and loved, and all he ever has to do is be perfect . . .
(But a wolf is not a dog, no matter how you might wish it. And feral things have a way of fighting back, no matter how broken they might seem.)
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A burst of azure lightning, the scent of ozone filling the air as a sudden swift sense of pressure suddenly dips in the atmosphere, the world trying desperately to make sense of that which is no longer there— for he exists in two planes now, a ghostly echo that doesn't exist. A sense of movement, a blurred motion, and the nauseating sensation of something bursting through Astarion's chest, ghostly fingers passing through flesh and blood and bone—
And then pain.
So starkly abrupt that it might take the pale elf sluggish seconds to realize from whence it came— a blade suddenly erupting from the center of his chest, jagged spikes dripping with crimson blood (and never mind how close it is to his heart, for the point is that it didn't pierce that most vital of organs). And then another slicing through his belly, slamming so hard that it erupts out the other side and sinks deep into the mattress, ripping cushion and piercing the wooden headboard— and another, another, in his shoulder and chest and stomach, stabbing through his thighs and embedding themselves within the bed, and all of it from nowhere—
Until suddenly Fenris reappears. His thighs brace on either side of Astarion's hips, all of him so very careful not to touch the wriggling, writhing body beneath him. There's a wicked-looking dagger in his right hand, its blade yet unbloodied. His teeth are bared in a snarl, but there's nothing but cold, cruel satisfaction in his crimson eyes as he drinks in the gore below.]
That will keep you put.
[Just long enough for him to make his point. Blood soaks through the sheets and into the mattress below, crimson so dark it's nearly black. He feels it against his knees; the scent of it is nauseating, a cloying filth that nonetheless overwhelms his senses.]
Settle, now . . .
[The tip of his dagger traces so sweetly against the curve of Astarion's lips. His twin must be in such pain right now, poor thing, but he'd best hold still. The blade is sharp, and it takes so very little to pierce the thin skin of one's lips . . .]
And count yourself lucky I do not cut out your tongue instead.
[For a long moment, there's silence.
There are a thousand things he wants to say. A thousand points to be made, a thousand seething statements to triumphantly throw in Astarion's face now that the tables have finally turned. Little wolf, and he could reverse the nickname now, reminding Astarion of just what he sought to collar. He could taunt him on what the future might hold: wagging tongues chattering endlessly about how Duke Astarion couldn't even tame his own consort, never mind lead an entire coven; gods only know how long it will take them to eagerly exploit Astarion's apparent weakness. Or he could be crueler still, dripping the worst sort of poison into his mate's ear: Vakares knew this would happen. He told me as such. He knew you were too foolish to ever manage on your own, arrogant and shortsighted and cruel . . .
But perhaps the past few days have finally caught up to Fenris. Instead of the rush of triumph that he anticipated, there's only a hollow sense of grief. A sickening pitch in the pit of his stomach, embittering and awful, and though it's not fair, he hates Astarion all the more for it.]
You wish for a war? Then you will get it. Stubborn, idiotic thing that you are, if you will not allow for a partnership, then I will force you into one. And as your allies desert you one by one over the coming months and I muster a force fit to leave you staggering to your knees, know that you could have avoided such a fate.
[His voice trembles, though even he cannot say whether it's due to rage or grief.]
And know that this is the least I will do to you if you still dare try and oppose me.
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A groan, fingers groping clumsily for the center of his chest to wrap around the jagged chasm that defines it, a seeping hollow where his breastbone splits with a sickening crack to give way to jagged barbs that shine with his own rotted rotted blood— pain secondary to mindless shock: his hands spasming from weakness he can't feel, only watch as it spells out the scope of his predicament. Legs punctured to the point of immobility; his shoulders somehow caught beneath the cuff; the hollow slant beneath his ribs pierced slick-straight through the headboard.
The depths to which he'd plummeted without warning.
How—
He wonders dully, and it doesn't matter.
How—
He tries to rasp out anyway, only to feel blood— cold and tasteless— seize up in his throat like a wall, welling around the struggling gulps of a creature drowning from the inside out. Coating his lips. His chin.
How—
Fenris was too weak. Too starved to use his lyrium even with that brazen bite, Astarion made certain of it. So where. Where could he have— how could he have—
—how. How. HOW— a mantra that loops itself into desperation. Anguish. Rage. Fear. The pretty thing above him more memory than sight (there and not there all at once; the same slick blur as oil streaking wetly over canvas), but no less beautiful as it measures his decline around a sharp nudge to his lips, prompting him to stillness. Alluring in a way that chills him to the bone before it stays there, anchoring itself just as deftly as those blades.
He's going to languish here. He's going to bleed until he can't move. Can't speak. He's going to be shut away until Vakares wakes, and even then—
(He'd lied. He'd broken the truce. He betrayed Vakares' only insistence on cooperation in the apex of its sanctuary; the mosaicwork behind him crushed to pulp and streaked with ink-black rivulets of blood. And the worst part is, he'd seen it all already.
'You need to control yourself, Astarion.')
Who's going to want him, after everything he's done?
No, they're going to leave him to this. Him and his useless fingers. His empty promises. His machinations. His—
—he almost splits his forehead open on the inside of his coffin for jolting when a hand bangs against its lid.
Hells' teeth.
Same nightmare. Different day. Only it isn't day, judging by the urgency in his spawn's trembling tone, something that shouldn't have woken him so early. A sputtering report on cancelling his summer fête owing to an intrusion at their southern gate jostling him in a way he hates for more than inconvenience.
It's been an age since Fenris slipped free of his binds and fled into the gutters of Baldur's Gate. And for all that lofty talk of freedom (for all that he had Astarion on his heels), swearing corrective wrath, he never managed to take Vakares' estate. Small skirmishes and little bursts of narrow ploys are effective enough at herding, true, but advancement? Progress? No. That requires more than just a handful of spawn.
And the worst part is, it seems as if somehow Fenris finally managed it.
Hence, the harried slave at his coffin's side, sputtering out little barks of 'it isn't safe, Lord Ancunín,' and 'we need to go, Lord Ancunín,' while his own sleepsore fingers fumble over the metal locks and countless latches that secure his coffin from the inside. Hence, the frenetic little reminder whispered his way once the lid comes loose that they've a coach already waiting. Hence, the carriage that grates on Astarion's last anguished nerve. The extended offer from Baroness Rhazjova to regroup along the far fringe of the upper city in her expansive summer estate while he waits for the rest of his promised resources to arrive. Something that'll no doubt teach Fenris just how deep his neck is in the well, if not the means to end this farce entirely. (Let him and his tatterdemalion forces have their triumph, however short-lived it might be.) What can't wealth, influence, and power overcome, after all?
And when he has him again.
When he owns him.
He'll make that night seem like a pleasant dream for just how thoroughly he breaks him. Bound to the point of immobility like furniture: a footstool for his throne. An impaled art piece for his guests. A shackled bitch for werewolves or a writhing exhibition gurgling around pearl as surely as Astarion had bled and gasped for air.
One victory must seem like a milestone.
Astarion will make sure it is.]