[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.)
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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.)