Work Text:
Kinkmeme prompt here;
https://baldurskink.dreamwidth.org/695.html?thread=172471#cmt172471
-------------------------------------------------
“I know it was you!”
It seemed that, despite Astarion’s best attempts to ignore him, Petras wasn’t going to let the matter drop. With a dramatic and weary sigh he spent just long enough setting aside his embroidery to aggravate Petras’ already minuscule patience, then faced his newest brother and whatever grudge he was nursing this time.
“No one is coveting your frumpy old clothes, Petras, some of us have a modicum of taste.”
Despite the soundness of the argument Petras still jabbed an accusatory finger at him,
“It wouldn’t fit Yousen or the girls, so who else would have taken it?”
He could have been finishing his stitching right now. Or just staring off into space. Literally anything but this one-sided argument he’d been over before it began. Looking past Petras to the other bunks Astarion tried to redirect,
“Yousen, give Petras back his tacky doublet before he wastes the whole night with this.”
Yousen didn’t look up from where he sat cross legged in his bunk. He was carving what looked like a delightful little basilisk while the wood shavings fell on the unused half of the bed. The only tell he was listening at all was the eye roll before he muttered,
“It was probably Violet. She likes listening to you two yap at each other.”
Typically uncharitable Yousen.
But as he starts to snap back at them Astarion's words catch in his throat. The phantom tug of his metaphorical leash stops him in his tracks.
Their Master is calling. And from the lack of pause on his fellow spawn’s faces it’s just Astarion he’s beckoning.
Petras looks like he’s waiting for Astarion to reply to something he must have just missed. He pauses to draw himself up and put on a well practiced mask of haughty indifference - because letting on how the individual summon spikes fear in him would be an unacceptable show of weakness. It didn’t matter that they all felt the same. The only thing that mattered in the ranks of a vampire coven was who was vulnerable at any given moment, and Astarion had been doing this for far too long to let it be him. So instead he looked down his nose at Petras and sneered,
“As much as I’d love to continue this spirited debate, the Master is calling. You’ll have to wait until Violet gets back.”
Petras scoffed,
“Alright, run away.”
Astarion couldn’t help the frustrated snarl, even as he turned to leave to dormitory,
“I didn’t take your damned doublet!”
His petulance turning smug, Petras said,
“Course not. I’ll find it myself. Did you lock your trunk?”
Yousen finally looked up from his carving and his voice was just a slight bit sharp,
“Come off it. He’s got more to worry about than you.”
Petras’ lip curl in disgust
“Sod off, we all know he enjoys being the Master’s favorite pet.”
At the door Astarion freezes for a moment. This is another old argument, one he can’t really win. Admitting to the soul crushing terror the Master inspires in him would be even worse than just being known as his favorite. Better a bootlicker pretending at eagerness than what he actually was.
He half turns, leaning on the doorframe and his voice is syrupy and mocking,
“It’s only natural to be jealous, darling. After all, when was the last time the Master called on you alone?”
Turning an attack back on Petras at the expense of his own pride always worked, and pride was a cheap price for a momentary advantage. Petras scoffed, making a show of his disgust,
“Whatever. Whore.”
The now familiar jab washes off him effortlessly. Anyway, he can’t afford to spare anymore time or attention on his fellow spawn, not when he’d be punished for dawdling.
He makes his way upstairs at a faster pace. The Master despised an inattentive servant.
-------------------------------------------------
Szarr palace is a monstrous and maze-like estate. Without the supernatural thread that binds them Astarion wouldn’t have had a clue which of the many elaborate suites he was heading for. He’s fairly certain he’s quick enough to not risk his Master’s ire over punctuality.
There are, unfortunately, countless other ways the evening could still end with a flaying. His nerves are already frayed. Astarion hasn’t brought his Master prey for several days - and he hasn’t eaten in twice as many. If he’s lucky, if he behaves, he might earn a meal another way.
Luck has never favored him.
The slight tremor in his hands when he arrives is just the hunger.
The room is opulent. Like everything in the palace the deep shadows and dim lights cover everything in an oppressive atmosphere. Even with dark vision the only way to describe this grand suite was a den. And his Master was the great beast lurking within.
Cazador is standing at the bedside table, unnaturally still. Astarion stills feels the beckoning call of his power, drawn to his Master, bound to him. Some deep rooted piece of him craves his maker. Cazador doesn’t acknowledge Astarion when he stops a few feet away and dips into a bow. As his gaze turns down he sees the rat at his Master’s feet.
As desperately as he’d hoped to earn a meal tonight, the sight is unnerving. He’s never been offered a reward before being made use of. As he kneels he sneaks a wary look and only sees a small, very nearly indulgent smile on Cazador’s thin lips.
“You’ll need some vigor tonight.”
He sounded as if the dead vermin was the most magnanimous of gifts.
And at the moment, it was. Astarion was starving, saliva already pooled in his mouth. Nothing came free, this rat was just bait in some trap he hadn’t yet sprung. But he also knew better than to turn down blood. ‘Vigor’ Cazador had said, and he did love to watch Astarion writhe in agony. It’s likely the rat is just so Cazador can watch the bruises bloom and blood run over Astarion’s pale skin. As he picked up the lifeless body it was with the resignation that at least he’d have some strength to bear whatever was coming.
Sinking his teeth past wet fur and into cold, stiff flesh never stops being disgusting no matter how many times he does it. The blood, too, is cold, but not yet rotting. It brings a slow numbness to the ever present pain in his stomach. It’s not like being full - he isn’t sure he properly remembers what fullness even felt like - but the few mouthfuls of blood dull the edges and give him more focus.
Enough to be sure he sounds properly grateful when he speaks,
“Thank you -”
“There’s fur in your teeth, boy. Have some manners.”
His mouth snaps closed and he sucks on his teeth. It’s not his choice to feed on filthy rats but the shame floods him regardless. There’s no use in being bitter, although there is a time to indulge in sulking, it isn’t now. Not under the suffocating presence of Cazador.
He summons a vapid, sultry smile that has served him well in the past and tries to push forward. The waiting is a torture all its own, and one he’d like to skip.
“How may I serve you, Master?”
“Don’t be impatient.” Cazador raised a delicate hand, “Undress.”
There was no power behind the command to force him but that didn’t matter. Astarion makes quick work of his clothes and folds them neatly to stack on the floor. The Master despised a mess.
His world narrows to Cazador. It’s the only way to survive. With well practiced poise he kneels, a marble statue in the dim light. Alluring and passive, begging to be taken. It’s a temptation few are ever able to resist.
Cazador doesn’t touch him yet, though he observes him carefully. Under the silent scrutiny Astarion tenses and keeps his eyes on the floor.
“Of all my spawn you hold the least aspirations.”
Astarion doesn’t flinch. So it’s to be that sort of night then. He can endure being told how useless, lazy, and otherwise disappointing he is to his Master. Cazador certainly never hesitated to remind him. But a tongue lashing was always preferable to an actual one. So he stays silent and still while Cazador continues,
“Your siblings are always seeking new skills for the hunt. They find ways to bring strength or knowledge or a lovely song to their work. But you,” His gaze feels heavy on the back of Astarion’s head, “ - have never felt the need for more than your pretty face.”
Astarion barely shrugs one shoulder, falling back on his usual facade,
“I know where my talents lie, Master.”
Cazador laughed quietly. Maybe fondly if Astarion was feeling hopeful.
“My most unambitious child, content to spend the gift of eternity as a common whore.”
It stung more than it should have. Astarion’s hands clench where they rest on his thighs. His mouth is running before he can stop himself,
“I think ‘courtesan’ has a much lovelier ring to it.”
He snaps his mouth shut again so quick he almost bites his tongue, but not quick enough. He casts his eyes to the floor, suddenly afraid to even look at Cazador’s boots, and tries to look appropriately ashamed at having expressed something so above his station as a preference.
There’s a cruel grip on his jaw suddenly pulling him and he looks up at Cazador. Astarion can’t read anything on his face, but his voice is low and even like a great beast beginning to stalk,
“Is that what they call you in the flophouses and lower city alleyways?”
Silence stretches out as Astarion bites his tongue before it can get him into more trouble. His Master’s gaze is sharp and unyielding as he waits. Silence was the wisest course of action when in doubt, and while Astarion doesn’t have the timeless patience of Cazador he can, on occasion, keep his mouth shut.
Eventually Cazador seems satisfied and his countenance eases along with the pressure on Astarion’s jaw. He whimpers a little at the relief, but it’s short lived. Cazador’s other hand raised, and Astarion tracked it with rising concern from the corner of his eye until there was a gentle caress through his hair.
“I suppose, as limited as your talents are, you do perform them well.”
Astarion’s voice is quiet,
“Thank you, Master.”
His submission, it seems, is acceptably contrite. He waits again in silence while Cazador runs his fingers through silver curls again and leans into the other hand now cupping his cheek.
Cazador has been fond of his hair since the beginning. Some of Astarion’s earliest memories are of those fingers against his scalp. Whether it was gentle petting as he knelt at his Master's side, harsh yanks when he incited his Master’s ire, or just meticulous fussing when he was meant to stand by his Master’s heel at some function. It’s so casual in its ownership, made only worse by the fact that Astarion can’t see his own hair to tend it.
But it soothed Cazador’s mood as if he were petting a beloved cat. And his eyes turn seeking,
“Surely not all of your conquests prefer you on your back? Could you even perform if they desired you fucking them? Or are your skills not so thorough as you like to claim?”
Astarion bites down a blithe response, something on the lines of ‘most of them prefer me on my knees’ which seemed like the wrong answer and took a few precious moments before replying, uncomfortable with where this was going. Cazador had observed him in the guest rooms enough, if he wanted a change in his spawn’s performance he could have ordered it so. Of course he took the submissive role more, it was easier to lure a certain kind of man with perceived weakness than to be seen as too pushy himself. Marks could be wary if he pushed them, and women were especially wary of being invited back to a stranger's home on a lark.
In the end he feigns some confidence, it seems he’s at least been prompted,
“Of course not. I can be anything they desire.”
He paused, and tilted his head to look up from under his eyelashes,
“Anything you desire, Master. Let me please you.”
The edge of desperation in his plea is real enough. The more he is required to speak the more likely Astarion is to talk himself into trouble. He wants Cazador to order him, he wants to succumb to the mind numbing power and forget himself until all he has to do is obey. Once whatever torture he is to endure has started he can lose himself and drift. This night can join so many others in an indistinguishable blur.
Cazador’s fingers catch for moment and tug at his scalp, he moans faintly and turns to brush his lips against Cazador’s fingertips as they caressed, letting his lips stay parted in a well perfected expression of lust,
“Please.”
He seems satisfied,
“Aren’t you eager. I suppose you can’t help yourself.”
Astarion kisses the nearest finger, his lips lingering in promise.
“How do you want me, Master?”
He’s ready for the hand in his hair to turn to a hard grip, or the fingers on his face to squeeze and hold his mouth open. He’s already seeking that far corner of his mind, ready to just be a thing to be used.
Instead Cazador seemed mildly annoyed,
“Don’t be simple, boy. I want you to have me.”
Astarion is suddenly, harshly, very present in the moment. Which is not where he wants to be and also can’t be real. All his careful presentation, his perfect expression, his pretty words, fall away to leave him slack jawed and wide eyed,
“I…what? Master, I - I couldn’t - you can’t possibly -”
There’s suddenly a familiar grip on his chin,
“You would deny your Master?”
Astarion can taste the fear in the back of his throat acidic and cloying
“No! Never! I - It’s just…such an unexpected honor.”
“Am I not entitled to make use of all of you?” He finally releases Astarion, “Sit on the bed.”
Feeling a strange, new kind of numb, Astarion sits on the edge of the bed. The feeling of expensive silk under his palms only makes it worse, soft sheets are for entertaining guests or serving Cazador. The only peace is to be found in threadbare sheets. Cazador looms over him, imperious even as he begins unbuttoning his vest. He never tires of his own voice, for all that he mocks Astarion’s chatter, and never tires of reminding his spawn of their purpose.
“You exist at my pleasure. For my pleasure.”
“Yes, Master.”
It’s automatic to agree, to grovel and please. Cazador sheds his vest and works at the laces on his shirt. His eyes flick downward, expectant,
“Go on.”
Astarion’s hands are steady as they undo Cazador’s belt and move on to the ties of his trousers. As the last of his clothes fall Astarion is struck by the reminder that Cazador is beautiful. His thoughts stumble there for a few moments, it is rare to see his Master in such a state of undress. The ethereal beauty of the high elf he once was is a thin mask over the raw power of the immortal creature he is. Like any apex predator a vampire lord held a natural allure, but up close Astarion was keenly aware of how precarious that veneer of civility was. No one knew better how mercurial Cazador’s moods could be, how thin the line was between indulgence and wrath. And those moods were unfettered by any mortal considerations of morals or decency, beholden only to the whims of something great and terrible.
The sudden grip in his hair is unyielding as the stone he spent a year under, and just as merciful. Cazador’s eyes are vibrant red in the dim light,
“Show me what they all go to their deaths for.”
And then Cazador pushed him back, following to straddle him on the bed. There was still no compulsion in his voice, there won’t be any hiding tonight. As they tumbled back Astarion didn’t mean to flinch but he startled all the same at the weight on his lap. And then suddenly Cazador’s hand lay immovable on Astarion’s chest, holding him down and still. Five pinpricks where Cazador’s claws rested on his chest, right over where Astarion’s heart would have surely been pounding against the cage of his ribs if it still could.
Fangs pushed past his lips as Cazador snarled,
“Stop cowering, boy, and do as you’re told.”
Astarion’s frozen, he feels like a fool. He has to do something. He’s going to be flayed or worse. The claws on his chest aren’t an idle threat, he’s felt them in his bones before. The motion feels clumsy but he pries his hands off the sheets to hold Cazador’s waist. Arousal and nausea war in his gut as his Master rolls their hips together but his body is well trained to respond. His cock stirs readily at the stimulation and Astarion pushes up, his now half hard cock sliding against Cazador’s ass.
They have no need to breathe yet Astarion’s breaths are quick, just this side of panic. It already feels like he’s crossed a line and yet no punishment descends. The hand on his chest slides away to allow him more freedom of movement and he braces to grind up with more force. He takes the chance to slide a hand downward, gently palming Cazador’s half-hard cock.
“There you are, good boy.”
The back of his fingers caress Astarion’s cheek as Cazador leans over him. There’s the ghost of pleasure on his face. This won’t satisfy him for very long, but it gives Astarion a few precious moments to gather himself.
He can do this. He pants in time with the easy grind of hips, careful of his nails at Cazador’s hip.
“And Astarion -”
Then there are teeth on his ear and cold, crypt breath carrying a threat,
“If you finish inside me I will hollow you out.”
Astarion’s cock, traitor that it is, jumps at the adrenaline.
The rest of him stills.
There it is. None of Cazador’s sadistic games were complete without a trap. It was never enough to just torture his spawn, it had to be under the pretense that Astarion would have only himself to blame for not being able to just obey. Even after falling into an obvious trap it was still easier to be angry at himself for failing than at a master he’d never be able to stand up to. He’s been set up for so much failure and disappointment since his death that it’s inevitable.
Cazador’s annoyance was quickly turning to something far uglier as Astarion went still again. He has precious little time to make this right.
“Do I need to hold your hand? Shall I fetch the oil for you as well?”
His teeth are on full display as he spits the mockery. He’s likely moments away from abandoning this pursuit to just break every bone in Astarion’s body one at a time. With the desperation Astarion only knows as a mark starts losing interest and slipping away he rallies himself. He can do this. He can play the perfect, eager lover. It’s what Cazador made him for. It’s a role he knows better than his actual self.
And if his Master wanted him to do all the work rather than desiring his terror and submission, Astarion could do that too. Plenty of marks have demanded the same of him. If he avoids looking Cazador in the eyes, if he can let his mind drift while his body does what it’s been trained to do this doesn’t have to be different from countless nights pleasuring a stranger.
The movement feels stiff but he pushes himself up by one arm, the other sliding up Cazador’s back. He trails his lips up the pale stretch of body above him while concentrating on a thousand memories of warm bodies and late nights to guide the motion. He lingers briefly to lavish attention on his nipples, sucking and licking up to his collarbone. Above him, Cazador is eerily silent while accepting the worship. If he notices Astarion hesitate before skipping over his neck to mouth along his jaw he makes no comment.
Astarion wills his voice not to tremble. The fake lust is covering fear instead of disinterest, but it’s covered all the same,
“Wouldn’t you rather have my tongue?”
Moving with a confidence he doesn’t feel he pushes to roll them without waiting for the answer and it feels like his stomach gets left behind when Cazador lets them tumble. Cazador yields to no one, certainly not his spawn, and there’s a surreality to it that leaves Astarion almost light headed. His body is moving before he catches up with it, making a perfunctory effort to kiss and tease on his way back down. Cazador’s skin is cooler than a mortal body and yet still warmed by the stolen blood in his veins - one of the others had a successful hunt it seemed.
The moments skip by like a scratched record; he’s sucking a nipple, there’s pressure on his shoulder forcing him down. His nose traces the lines of toned stomach, the cold breath he lets out by habit would have made a mark shudder. The cock in his mouth is so familiar he barely notices.
The world shifts back into focus when his fingers slide between Cazador’s cheeks to find that furled muscle. His fingers stop. There’s balls in his mouth, spit gathering at the corners of his lips, and he sucks slowly a few moments more before he can move. Surely this is the moment the trap is sprung. How could he think his master would let a lowly spawn have him? He’s too scared to stop, he’s terrified of whatever punishment waits for him when he goes too far. He doesn’t have any choice in the matter. When he licks into Cazador’s hole it’s with the full expectation that it might be the last thing he ever does.
Instead there’s a pleased sigh when his tongue slips past that tight ring and into lukewarm heat.
He’s struck that Cazador’s body reacts like any other when Astarion starts tonguing him in earnest. In fact, while he doesn’t know the language Cazador swears in, he is intimately familiar with the tone. He’s tight, but opens eagerly for Astarion’s tongue and then fingers. If the thought alone weren’t blasphemous, he’d think Cazador was desperate for it. The rising pleasure in his moans, shameless and loud, seizes at the part of Astarion that will always belong to his maker. Something like pride perks up in him and his efforts become more eager.
There's a broken, needful thing inside of him that wants to please. It’s in all vampire spawn, and it’s easy to give in. He presses closer, pushing Cazador’s leg up to push until his tongue can’t reach any farther while his fingers search for the spot that makes his master shudder. He earns a breathy laugh when he finds it, and a spasming tightness,
“That tongue is wasted on your prattling,” He groaned something again in that forbidden language, “This is what you were meant for.”
It’s a sentiment he’s heard countless variations of. He knows his value. And he loses track of how long he works. It isn’t until his fingers are pressed as deep into the now yielding flesh as he can reach that a sharp moan pulls him back.
“Enough. Up.”
Astarion pulls back, one arm still wrapped around Cazador’s leg and spit running down his face. Cazador keeps him close. His eyes flit to the nightstand and to the sheets around them before asking, a little dazed,
“...oil?”
His answer is a private little smile, a hand resting on his chest,
“How delicate do you think I am?”
He wipes the spit off his face to slick himself instead, serviceably hard again after a few strokes. There’s so much skin on skin as he leans forward to position himself, and he squirms under his master’s watchful eye and what he sees there. Desire. Predatory desire that countless mortals have seen before their deaths - the last thing a dying elf in an alley had seen - but desire all the same. And wasn’t it such a pathetic power Astarion held, to be so lusted after? And something else about him that begged to be hurt, as if he was at his most desirable weeping. If Cazador hadn’t found his suffering so beautiful he could have just died in peace.
But tonight he doesn’t have to just take it
Cazador’s hips angle to meet him and a pathetically desperate noise pours out of Astarian when he feels tight warmth around the head of his cock. Don’t come. The order is on repeat in his mind as he starts a slow, careful push to try and ease the stretch.
But gods it feels so good.
Cazador is tense at first then relaxes into the bed. Astarion stops to let him adjust and immediately gets a sharp order,
“Keep going.”
As he complies his mind wanders to the obvious, taboo question; Does his master let others have him like this? Or is this a special indulgence? The room is quiet except for them panting in time with Astarion’s slow thrusts, and forbidden pleasure is already building in his loins.
He wants this to be only for him.
He wants to be special, to be better than the other spawn. Vampires are by their very nature possessive and there’s so very little Astarion can call his own. He’s so lost in the gentle rock of his hips and the slow burn of pleasure he doesn’t notice Cazador has gripped his hair again until the hold tightens enough to tear some from the root and Astarion smells his own, rat thin blood.
“I’m not one of your simpering conquests, boy, fuck me like you mean it.”
Astarion’s next thrust was hard enough to bruise, the sound of skin on skin loud and sharp in the dark.
The noise Cazador makes doesn’t sound entirely intentional and he throws his head back with the force of it. The spit on their skin isn’t enough to ease the rough drag of Astarion’s next thrust, and with it comes a white hot buzzing at the edges of his mind.
It must hurt.
He’s doing that. He's hurting his master.
Pain and degradation have been Astarion’s companions for as long as he can remember. It’s not even the will to survive but rather the inability to die that has taught his mind to slip out of reach through horrors that would kill a mortal and moan like a whore at the same time. This, though, this is too new, too dangerous for him to be anything other than painfully present.
Cazador’s next gasp is the sound of pleasure riding along the edge of pain and it pierces Astarion to the core. But the hands on him are only encouraging, pulling him closer, there’s no sign he’s done wrong.
He keeps his eyes downcast to focus on Cazador’s collarbones because he can’t bear the full force of his attention. But it’s easy to find his rhythm now. His face is nearly buried in Cazador’s neck, his body moving by force of long years routine. The smell of blood was tantalizing there, rushing with the pulse only a glutted vampire possessed. It was torture all it’s own, but it was also something to distract him.
Saliva pools in his mouth and once he looks he’s unable to tear his eyes away from the gnarled scars on Cazador’s neck. He’s never really looked at them. Cazador’s neck was always hidden under high collars and frilled shirts, and Astarion’s gaze so often downcast to the floor or his Master’s boots.
The scars are savage - the fangs set so deeply there even now remains the faintest imprint of incisors between them - and taper down. Cazador’s Master (and oh how that phrase, even in the privacy of Astarion’s own thoughts, felt like a transgression) must have nearly torn his throat out.
He doesn’t want this glimpse into the Cazador of before. Nothing meant less than pity.
Astarion’s own scars weren’t visible to him, but the ones his siblings wore must surely match his own. And the neat, twin pricks were like all of Cazador’s cruelties in that they were calculated and controlled. Not like his spawn, crawling and snapping like animals. Cazador wore the skin of his high elf heritage to hide the truly vicious thing that lay underneath, the thing that caused pain because he enjoyed it, not because the beastly thing inside him demanded it.
Astarion knew the difference. He’d been on the receiving end of Cazador’s true rage enough times. When he was truly angry, he got messy.
And yet despite the danger, tonight he’s the one who has Cazador on his back, forcing unguarded sounds of ecstasy from him. There’s a heady thrill to it that surpasses his fears. And for a few weightless moments it’s only his own pleasure that matters. Until the pressure in his gut starts to crest dangerously and with it the illusion of power crumbles. If he finishes, Cazador will throw him to the kennel.
Under the pressure he folds, whimpering and shameless. The pleading never saves him, but Cazador hasn’t entirely beaten it out of him so he must like it.
“Master. Master, please - I can’t - “
Cazador grips the back of his neck, hard. One leg slung over his hip to pull him before his rhythm could falter. The familiar feeling of his back against the wall as he’s trapped and there’s no choice but to hurtle toward some horrible end.
“Be silent, keep going.”
Still no compulsion behind the order but Astarion bit his tongue the same.
He didn’t need to be running his mouth to get himself into trouble, and as the fear and pleasure knotted up into a familiar dread he was worn too thin to hold on to suspicion. If Cazador wanted it to hurt who was Astarion to deny him.
Claws dug into his shoulder to urge him on,
“Harder!”
Astarion faintly snarls back. He planted one hand on the bed while the other looped under Cazador to jerk his hips up as Astarion shifted his weight back to his knees. The new angle gave him leverage to desperately fuck into him.
He can’t last, not like this.
Not after hearing the utterly filthy sounds spilling from Cazador. Not now, when he can see his face, when he can see his cock leaking between them,
“Just like that!”
There’s a whisper of command behind the gasp and Astarion’s body locks into the angle. He’s still moving on his own accord.
He can’t help how pathetic he must look, looking to Cazador to plead again before the distant glaze in his eyes stops him.
Cazador isn’t even seeing him.
Even on top and holding Cazador down, Astarion doesn’t matter.
He isn’t a person, hasn’t been for a long time. He's just a thing to be used.
Even so, it’s not often he recognizes that far away look in his mark’s eyes. A night with him is the last thing any of them have, and his body is a prize that’s almost worth it. But it happens. Some nights when he’s too injured or unlucky it’s easier to find someone broken-hearted or angry who doesn’t care who he is but rather who they wish he was. It made no difference in the end if they wanted to imagine someone else.
Cazador…misses someone.
Astarion feels himself on the edge of losing control. He grabs Cazador’s hair and pulls, wrenching his head back and baring his throat. The gesture had come from sheer desperation, seeking something solid to ground himself, but the next is a far more vicious instinct. Before he realizes what he’s doing his mouth is on Cazador’s neck
His tongue laves over the throbbing vein there like he can taste the blood through his skin. And while there’s no power in the realms that can make his fangs pierce that pale skin his blunt incisors dig into it with force to mark.
The body under him bucks with a choking howl and seizes around him. Astarion keens like a wounded animal at the tremors rocking through his body. He fights the pleasure with every horrific memory he can, summoning centuries of torture to fight the tight heat around his cock.
Skin being peeled from his body.
Fingernails ripped from their beds.
Infinite darkness, gnawing hunger.
The aching loneliness of eternity.
Petras’s smug, stupid face.
He’s dimly aware of the pressure growing lax and jerks backward like he’s been released from a trap, one hand flying to the base of his cock to squeeze until tears are welling in his eyes. Nausea burns in his gut, his head swims, but he doesn’t come. Against all odds he’s still hard as the seconds drag on, twitching in the shock of cold air and a painfully spoiled orgasm.
There’s a twisting agony in his loins and his skin itches hot despite the dead blood in his veins. His fangs pulse in his gums, thick and wanting, and he pants like a rabid beast.
Precum gushes over his fingers...but he didn’t finish.
When he finally dares to open his eyes Cazador is lounging where he left him, ignoring Astarion entirely to enjoy the post-orgasm bliss. He’s so relaxed it’s almost…peaceful. It’s like the few times Astarion has seen him blood-drunk, but without even the sense that he was still ready to strike.
Cazador makes a pleased noise and stretches but gives no further orders. Somehow this quiet moment of nothing is the most eerie, and while it doesn’t entirely cool Astarion’s blood it is unsettling enough to take the edge off. With no direction and his master far away Astarion can only fall back on what feels safest; serving.
He doesn’t need to be told when to clean up, after all. So he lowers his head to Cazador’s stomach and carefully begins to lick him clean. There’s some comfort in the routine of it and the familiar taste on his tongue, he knows this game and he knows his role. Cazador eventually lays a lazy hand to rest on his head, and Astarion feels grounded for the first time tonight.
“My little starlight - “ Cazador let out a contented hum, “You do still please me best.”
His chest suddenly feels tight. Pride swells alongside the shame that the barest scrap of affection from a cruel master makes him feel that way. But to a wretched spawn it’s everything.
He sucks the last of Cazador’s release away and lingers in the hope that the cock in his mouth will stop him from saying something to ruin the moment. Because Astarion is starving for the illusion of kindness, no matter how fleeting. Affection from his master is as precious as blood and yet even more rare.
He comes to let his head rest on Cazador’s stomach. Sinking into the moment as fingers trace the edge of his ear.
His siblings are right. He does go to their Master’s heel and find some solace in his place there. What kind of broken, weak thing must he be to seek comfort from the hand that killed him? And even that self-loathing can’t quite eclipse the sliver of hope that being good, proving he can just do what he’s told, gives him right now.
it’s a terrible thing to know that a moment like this is possible. Because if Cazador can be pleased then Astarion will never truly burn out the hope that drives him to try.
The strange peace can’t last. Eventually Cazador waves him off so he can stand, pulling on a dark robe with delicate embroidery. He doesn’t bother to tie it closed as he stands. He makes his way across the room to a table sporting several glass bottles, and when he pulls one open the smell of blood rouses Astarion even knowing it wasn’t his to have.
Astarion rose to his knees on the bed but didn’t dare move further. He doesn’t know if it’s safe to leave or not, if his master was even finished with him for the night. Calling attention to himself is always a mistake so he remains silent and still while watching Cazador drink deeply.
Another bottle is uncorked and after a moment the smell drifts to Astarion. He perks up in confusion.
Animal blood.
Not for Cazador then.
He’s wary as Cazador approaches the bed with a goblet of the blood in hand. Cazador dips his fingers into the goblet and scoops up some of the blood with two fingers, it’s thick and viscous as it drips. Astarion watches it like an approaching threat.
His master sounds amused,
“What do you think? Have you earned it?”
He knows that snare. A vampire spawn didn’t get an opinion on if they ate. His voice is timid,
“...does a tool deserve a reward for serving its purpose?”
There’s no answer aside from a thin smile, either approval or amusement, but either way the blood moves closer and the smell commands his senses. As he fights to remain still Astarion feels like a dog being made to balance a treat on their nose as a show of their owner’s mastery.
He locks his eyes on Cazador’s chest, determined to not fail at this last hurdle. The blood drips from his fingers into the goblet in thick strings and the fragrance is maddening. It’s impossible to resist when Cazador’s fingers trace his lips.
“Go on.”
He tries to not be too sloppy as his tongue sought every speck of blood between Cazador’s fingers and then continues to suck long after its gone, imagining the ghost of flavor still remained.
And when Cazador tips the goblet against his lips Astarion swallows the meager mouthful desperately. Unlike the rat blood this is fresh, kept warm by some cantrip in the bottle. He groans shamelessly when the rich flavor coats his mouth, it’s smooth and warm, no chewy clots or cold sludge. The heat is a delirious sensation as it pools in his stomach and the warmth spreads. His tongue chases the last drops as it’s pulled away - he heard himself whimper at the loss and knew the memory of that hot, delicious blood would haunt every rotten rat he choked down from now on.
Every gift was a secret torture. Every moment of happiness he was granted charged with interest.
Cazador sighs,
“I spoil you, lovely little thing.”
At least he sounds amused. A finger slid down Astarion's cheek as the blood hit his head like a strong drink. His tongue worried at the roof of his mouth and around his teeth seeking more.
A spawn couldn’t expect a reward, but a vampire lord was always entitled to their due. Cazador’s fingers are still on his lips as he tries so, so hard to placate his master,
“How can I possibly prove my gratitude for such a night?”
“I expect more effort from you tomorrow in your hunting duties. Don’t waste this gift.”
It sounds like he’s almost done for the night. And if it means he can stay in one piece and have a chance to sup on pig’s blood Astarion will sacrifice the most beautiful creature in Baldur’s Gate on Cazador’s altar.
It’s when he dares to lose some of the tension in his limbs that the shaking starts. A sharp, cold tingling in his skin that sinks to seize at his lungs. The tremble starts in his hands and climbs through his limbs until it takes root in his core and he’s gasping.
Wetness hits his thigh and it can’t be blood because he’d already licked his lips clean. It takes him a long moment to realize he’s crying.
A sudden sharp sting hits his cheek and Astarion reels with the slap.
“What cause have you to weep, child? Have I not only indulged you?”
Astarion watched the tears hit his palms in shock. It feels like he’s freshly turned, when every violation had been met with raw emotion, back when he’d still felt enough ownership of himself to be upset at each new horror rather than just accepting his due,
“I…I - “ He’s grasping, “I’m just so grateful - Master…”
He gulped it over in a voice that quavered dangerously close to a sob.
Cazador doesn’t believe his simpering,
“It’s a mercy that the cattle don’t live this long. If this is how you behave.”
Astarion doesn’t understand. He did well. His Master had been more than pleased. He’d gotten blood and praise instead of suffering.
He’d enjoyed it.
He’s crying.
He desperately wiped at his eyes, fighting to get the whirlwind of emotions under control. The amount of control he has over his body is negotiable at best, but this is a new kind of helplessness.
“Forgive me, Master, this isn’t - I don’t mean to -”
“Spare me your pathetic excuses! I strive to mold you into something worthwhile, Astarion, and I am clearly too kind in my expectations.”
Astarion was rigid with fear.
“Get out of my sight.”
Astarion barely finished stumbling over the grateful ‘yes, master, thank you master.’ before he was tripping out the door.
-------------------------------------------------
It’s purely a force of habit that sees him looking collected by the time he gets back downstairs. His well schooled poise is a matter of survival, he can’t afford to let the others see him rattled, even if he had only managed to snatch his trousers during the hasty retreat. At the time it seemed best not to test Cazador’s patience. Now he had a sinking feeling he’d pay for leaving his clothes on the floor like an unruly child. But that was a problem for another night. All he has to do now is face the gauntlet of his siblings before getting to rest.
There’s a sliver of light from under the door at the end of the hall. Aurelia must be enjoying her privacy in the favored room. Hopefully Dal and Violet haven’t come home yet, Aurelia was more efficient in her hunts than the younger girls, it’s possible they’ll be out until closer to sunrise.
Aurelia’s also the most likely to just leave him be. It would have been nice to have her in his corner right now.
He’s not exactly grateful to see Petras and Yousen where he left them, but the absence of his sisters means it's not as bad as it could be
He reeks of blood and sex. As soon as he steps into the dormitory everyone knows what he’s been up to. They’ve all been used by their master but Astarion is certainly his favorite in this regard.
It’s Yousen, still not bothering to look up from his carving, who speaks first,
“That was fast. Couldn’t you have stayed for a cuddle after?”
Just as quickly Petras clocks the slightly less dead color of his skin,
“You look a little flushed. Did the good doggy get a treat?”
With no shirt to haughtily brush dust from Astarion instead studies his nails, with an air of nonchalance as if he hasn’t seen Petras fawning at Cazador’s feet innumerable times.
“If you’re so hungry, brother dear, maybe concentrate more on pleasing the Master than snapping at those of us who already do?”
“It's easy enough to be good at spreading your legs when you like it.”
Astarion feels dizzy, unmoored. He shouldn’t say anything.
He has to know.
Cazador was always telling him to mind his tongue and teaching him accordingly. It was always running away from him regardless. With a well practiced flippance the damning words are thrown out as casual as anything,
“Oh, he wanted me to fuck him tonight, actually.”
He’s carefully watching them for any sign that this wasn’t an isolated incident.
Well…watching Petras at least. If he had to imagine Yousen he’d walk himself right into the next sunrise. There was a moment of silence so intense it felt like the entire manor had hushed, then his brothers absolutely roaring with vicious laughter,
“Of course! And he gave you a chalice of virgin’s blood after!”
It had been pig, but who was telling?
Petras regained control of himself to shoot a mean glance his way,
“I should tell the Master what you said, he’d probably feed you your cock.”
Astarion had it on good authority that the Master apparently quite enjoyed his cock where it was at the moment, not that anyone would believe him.
“Do you ever get tired of being the family joke, Astarion?”
“Do you ever get tired of being a gnome, Yousen?”
It’s not his best comeback, but there’s enough venom to make up for it. Yousen rolls his eyes, his voice dripping with derision,
“Very clever, the Master surely lets you keep your tongue for its wit.”
Astarion is so tired.
The constant repetition of insults. No matter what he does it can’t change what he is. Everyone knows he’s just a pretty face and eager holes. It feels like the truth more nights than not, and he’s long lost the energy to be indignant about it.
He’s just so tired.
Sometimes he had the spite to argue for the sake of it, sometimes that seems like it’s all the spawn do. An eternity squabbling over who was the most miserable. But he’s had his fill of thinking for the night. He needs a break, if only until his head stops spinning.
So he storms off to the tub without another word to seek some solitude.
The human servants were tasked with seeing to their basic needs, the bath was already drawn, and it even looked clean. Astarion doesn’t register the tepid temperature, only mulling over how strange it is to not be scrubbing blood and cum from his skin. No part of him aches, and all his flesh is where it should be.
So why does he feel so wretched?
His eyes burn again with tears, but with the other spawn only a curtain away he can’t afford to cry. He can hear them laughing, though the words are muffled to his unhearing ears. His throat burns and pulls tight until he reminds himself to stop breathing for fear of the sob waiting behind his teeth. He gives up on trying to scrub away the filthy feeling under his skin and curls over to hug his knees.
On the heels of his misery is frustration. There’s no reason to feel so bad after being handed so many gifts in a night. Cazador had let Astarion take with little restraint, and not punished him for his satisfaction. He’d been fed and indulged in ways he didn’t think were even possible. So why did he feel so hollow?
He must really be as weak as Cazador is always telling him he is.
-------------------------------------------------
The room is blissfully quiet again with his spawn gone.
Cazador was long used to Astarion’s emotional outbursts, that didn’t mean they were any less abrasive after a century or two.
The ache in his scalp and neck have already faded. But Cazador trails a wistful touch over his throat and lets himself linger on the delicious memory.
For a moment he had been somewhere else. And it was only Astarion who had been able to get him there. It was a novel surprise to see him perform above expectations.
Astarion, the eldest of his children, born more of passion than planning. When dealing with his hysterics Cazador was all too reminded of his own impulsive decision in binding the boy to him forever. (He still can’t seem to find enough cause to banish him to the depths beneath the palace, despite having sent thousands of other souls there for far, far less)
Back then had been too freshly free to be inclined to ponder his own impulses, not when he could finally indulge them, not while riding the high of Vellioth’s power finally in his veins. So he hadn’t questioned the overwhelming need he'd felt to claim and break that beautiful boy. It had been utter ecstasy to be able to embrace the obsession.
In his youth he hadn’t fully been able to appreciate the more than passing resemblance to Vellioth the young elf had. It was imperfect, as most things were, and as Astarion seemed determined to remain. But the broad strokes were close enough.
Cazador had been a master artist presented with a singularly beautiful set of paints, just waiting for a skilled hand to turn it into something worthwhile.
It had only been with the clarity provided by passing decades that Cazador was able to admit his initial fixation may have been on more than just a pretty face. That realization had sparked a rage in him that Astarion, as the cause, had endured for months after. That, at least, he always performed well. It was what he was for, anyhow. The smell of his fear was more intoxicating than any of his other spawn to this day.
And when he was cowed, when he came to heel, the memory of Vellioth seemed conquered.
And yet…
Tonight was another indulgence he wasn’t inclined to question too deeply. Cazador wasn’t in the habit of denying his desires. Suffice to say, there was something to summoning the memory of his maker knowing he now held all the power in his hand. For a few, perfect moments Astarion had lost himself to his task, and when the smell of his fear waned Cazador could lose himself to the memory of another pale elf with moonlit hair.
All in all it had been a delightful experiment. Until Astarion had started trembling like a deflowered virgin. Another unfortunate behavior that would need correcting before next time.
It was already tempting to call upon him for a repeat performance. But not too soon, first he needed to be reminded that his master’s leniency had to be earned. And his fear was too fine a vintage to deny himself for long.
Astarion was perfectly lovely in his pleasure.
But, unfortunately for the poor boy, he was absolutely exquisite in his suffering.