[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.]
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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.]