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.
no subject
[It's always been a point of spiteful pride.
Stupid. Petty. Pathetic, and yet all the more effective a taunt for it: a century of pleasure, and still Astarion hadn't earned it. Not from the little usurper who came in and so effectively stole what was rightfully his; who didn't even have the decency to acknowledge Astarion's skill, and it didn't matter how often they rut. It didn't matter if Fenris would mewl needily for the feeling of being speared upon Astarion's prick or drool around a mouthful of his cock, for the implication was eternally woven into every wordless cry: I'm not thinking of you. You aren't good enough. You don't have my attention. Petty, pathetic Astarion, too old, too used, too rote to be noticed, especially when stacked next to the gleaming bright wonder that is— was— their master. You aren't good enough, and it was a viciously mean bit of retaliation in their eternal war.
But that usurper is dead now— and in his place, Astarion's whore does better.]
Astarion— Astarion—
[And it's not a choice. Not a deigned bit of acquisition, nor a tactical bone thrown to lower Astarion's guard— oh, gods, no. Fenris howls his name, his head tipping back as his voice cries out in worshipful desperation, every syllable as fervent as a prayer. Please the unsubtle subtext as Fenris' eyes fill with tears, precome smeared on his cheek and his whole body shaking for how much he wants him.
And it's not enough. It's not enough, it's not enough— desperately his swollen hole tightens around the ring, tormented by the absence of that searing stretch he hadn't realized he was addicted to until just now. The molten pleasure of being forced open again and again, every swell and ridge of Astarion's cock catching against his rim, stars bursting behind his eyes as he drools out his pleasure— but there's nothing. Nothing save the blunt, brutal pleasure of being used. The air bursts out of his lungs with every slam of their hips, his vision hazy and narrowed as red mist fills the corners of his eyes, but it's not enough, it's not what he wants&dmash; it's the same impotent desperation that had made him gnash his teeth and wail out his displeasure not moments ago. Not enough, not enough—]
Astarion, please—
[His voice ragged and wrecked as he chokes on that plea: precome still coating his throat and spilling past his chin as Astarion's fingers tighten around his throat, more effective than any leash. The iron scent of blood fills the air between them, a sharp undercurrent to the twin scents of sex and sweat that fill their room. Hot breath against his ear and the low, malicious purr of his voice as he teases mercilessly, good boy, my needy bride, you've always wanted this, craving to be tamed and taken, as seductive as a siren's song and just as effective. He has. He has, he has, and yet still he's being denied, the unfairness of it all making him cry out in mingled frustration and arousal. His left hand feebly gropes behind him, fingers brushing briefly against cold skin as supple curves sting for how harshly they're rut into. Over and over, his body writhing even as he's held still, his eyes rolling back as that voice rolls over him—
And all the while, he touches himself.
It's a roughened grip, harsh and hungry, trading in finesse for whatever pleasure he can possibly eke out of this punishment: more please more, his body begging for it even as he hurtles towards his finish. Calloused fingers stroke and tease, his wrist snapping as he pumps his prick, please, please, squeezing and loosening, his thumb smearing desperately over his slit as fat droplets of precome splatter down onto the soaked sheets. Until he feels that familiar hook in the pit of his belly; until that molten heat that was lit aflame by that spawn's slender fingers and stoked by the relentless battering of Astarion's cock begins to overwhelm him. His cries grow more and more frantic, his body thrashing as he hurtles towards his finish, until there's that perfect moment and he's—]
Astarion—!
[—suddenly and sharply shoved over his finish line, as all at once he's yanked backwards into the most vicious arch. Choking from the brutal grip around his throat that forces him to arch, his back bent and his legs splayed whorishly wide— his hand drops his throbbing prick as both rise to grab instinctively at his collar; he cries out in dismay and rage and lust as all at once his orgasm is taken from him. Ruined but not wrecked, maliciously twisted but not taken— come splattering over his belly and chest in pulse after gushing pulse, until at last his cock hangs limply between his legs.]
no subject
It is.
It is.
Same as the milking reach of his own hand around Leto's front, forcing still more strokes between them, branded fingers caught in his own as they squeeze down, unwilling to let it be the end no matter how his bedmate wails or groans or shrieks in slackened protest; his body the tool used to unmake itself, that squalling length so exhausted— so hopelessly entrapped between the tangled push of intertwined grips— that it can't even muster up the palpable will to jolt with half-hard stiffness under fire. Drooling instead like the creature it belongs to: a slow-burn trickle that runs slick between their knuckles when he forces one more stimulating clench around the heated measure of its slit.
That little usurper is dead.
And his funeral? Oh, it's a pretty one.
They kiss atop his grave, open-mouthed, fangs clacking; grief etched onto one face, elation on the other.
How long it takes to celebrate doesn't matter. By the end of it Astarion pushes his whore forwards, drives the outline of bruised thighs together, and pumps into them barely a handful of times before he finally spills— veering away from the idea of luxury into just one more place his bride's been visibly derided: rivulets of viscous white seeping down in to the margins of dark stockings, stained fabric matching the damp pool of rucked-up sheets beneath sore knees.
Fenris' spent use sticking to his body.
Astarion ensuring that it does.
Because it is enough to see Fenris ruined; he's never been against the idea of a gift bought solely for oneself. A creature panting. Shaking. Sullied. Lingerie torn and barely clinging in slight strips, tangled to his binds in some places and completely tattered in others to the point that it's left twisting in cool air. Once inhumanly pristine skin now clawed. Bitten. Marked. Broken in. Red marks welling and coarse bruises on his body, and still, it's the least of all his ownership.
Knees spread so wide their inner thighs begin to shake.]
Good dog.
[He sighs as he unbuckles that harness at last before slipping down atop the mattress. Dragging Fenris closer in his arms to dote in the way that can only happen with something truly tamed. Confident enough with the echo of his name still clinging to slip two fingers (the ones still gloved; he'd almost forgotten) underneath a branded chin, raising it higher. Higher. Far enough to nibble at a chafe-flush jaw.
Contentment rumbling in his throat.]
I knew you'd be happier like this.
[And if his bare hand slips once more between those vulnerable legs....well.
That's his to savor as he likes.]
1/2
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.)
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]