Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The Vampire Lord watches with an impassive face as Astarion lies deathly still, neatly pressed against the deep wine-coloured sheets of the grand bed. Sat at Astarion's side, Cazador is thoughtful; gently probing at the bond between them. Feeling a presence, intrusive and parasitic, he wonders at how his beloved spawn had managed to slip from his grasp. Reaching out, Cazador grazes his fingers down the edge of Astarion's face, sensing his consciousness rousing before his eyelids had a chance to flutter. At the touch of his master, Astarion stirs. His face twitches, eyebrows furrowing and snow-white lashes trembling against his fair skin. Unconscious, he had looked almost peaceful - the worry lines on his face relaxed, his posture relaxed. Innocent, almost; a portrait of the young man he’d been when he’d died. Other than the bruise adoring his jaw from where the Gur had knocked him out, he’s in better shape than he’d been in decades - centuries even. Well-fed, reasonably rested, dressed in fresh clothing; almost in the condition which Cazador had first laid eyes on him.

"Welcome home."

As Astarion wakes the tension returns to his limbs, to his face; he knows something is wrong immediately. His eyes fly open, and he’s unable to stop himself from flinching away from Cazador’s touch. If he had a heartbeat, it would have been pounding in his chest. The pale elf draws himself up against the bed frame with all the poise and grace of a man not unfamiliar with waking up in an unfamiliar place. His eyes flit around the room, taking in the scene as his heart twists. There’s an awful, nauseatingly familiar pit in his stomach as he attempts to steady himself.

Cazador watches Astarion rouse, and feels the dread settling into his spawn increasingly as he eases into a seated position, looking prim, proper, near perfect. As one of Cazador's first it was expected for Astarion to be nothing less than perfect for his master, else he had failed him - and Cazador expected everything of him. Yet there Astarion was looking as bewildered as the day he had been blooded and risen again, uncertain and nothing more than a lost boy.

Astarion wasn’t surprised, necessarily. This was the scenario he’d been dreading - and desperately preparing for - since he first discovered his new tadpole-based freedom. He had known this is where he’d find himself from the second the Gur had approached his party.

Yet still, everything was wrong; he’d anticipated waking in the kennel, in a cage - stripped and ready for whatever horrific punishment Cazador had dreamed up for his desertion. Not… whatever this was. Waking up in the finery of Cazador’s own chambers, with his tormentor stood vigil over him as if he were a sickly child. The whole situation makes him profoundly uneasy. He almost would have preferred being awakened by his own screams of pain; that, at least, was a situation he knew how to handle.

“I-” Astarion wills his voice not to tremble, wetting his lips. What should he even say? What was there to say? He could feel Cazador probing at his mind, and could feel the illithid tadpole resisting him. So it hadn’t all been some strange dream, then. He weighs the words on his tongue, unsure of what to say. Everything was off script. He hesitates to call the man master, after even months of being freed from such humiliation. Still, just his name would surely not suffice.

“...Lord Cazador.”

A hum of consideration expresses Cazador's thoughtfulness at how Astarion is being polite, if not downright courteous. Where Astarion had dipped his head in a slight gesture of respect, it was not subservience as Cazador required. His own chin lifts and his red eyes pinch as he regards Astarion's nervousness, his subtle rebelliousness.

"My little star," he says in a hushed voice, a reminder that Astarion is his own. A reminder Astarion is so much lesser than him. "Where have you been?" 

Cazador's voice is light with wonder and there is a gleam of humor in his eyes, as though he were an errant pet which had gotten itself lost, only to be returned to its owner and cage once more. There is no expectation of the question being answered honestly, if at all.

Pressing a hand to the mattress, Cazador reaches over to stroke Astarion's face, taking in all his beauty... Until his fingers close around Astarion's jaw, pressing into the blooming bruise beneath the surface. Cazador can smell the blood lingering there and his red eyes brighten in the dimly candlelit bedroom with a flash. His fingers soften and he encourages Astarion to raise his face.

Astarion hisses quietly as Cazador prods at his face, fangs flashing. Shame blooms in his stomach. The Gur had knocked him out and abducted him so easily - like the prisoner and possession he was, not the adventurer he’d pretended to be. Cazador can feel the muscles in Astarion’s jaw tense as he is manhandled, willing himself not to flinch away. Both out of a sense of self preservation, but also to rob Cazador the satisfaction of seeing his apprehension. He tries to remain stony faced, proud and placid, even as his body screams to cringe away in fear, to wilt under Cazador’s perusing inspection.

His master's gaze is filled with disgust, looking at him no differently than one might the strangled rats he expected him to survive on, tinged with condescension. And, of course, the barely concealed hunger and lust that always tainted Cazador’s interactions with his most favored of slaves.

"Look at you," he coos, his head tilting a fraction to admire the bruise beneath his fingertips. "Such a shame to see you like this." Cazador had left Astarion far, far worse, but Astarion knew it was seeing another's mark on his spawn which left a sour taste in his mouth now.

Releasing Astarion's jaw, Cazador takes his attention away entirely and stands, smoothing down his doublet as he heads for a nearby table. Atop stands a silver tray, with a pair of brilliant, crystal glasses and a carafe filled with a bright crimson waiting to be enjoyed. As soon as the stopper is drawn from the neck of the decanter, the scent of coppery, vibrant blood spreads throughout the chamber.

Astarion’s tongue feels thick and unwieldy in his mouth. Where was that easy charisma when he needed it? He had talked his way out of so many unpleasant situations while he had been gone, had learned to rely on his words over even his body - yet faced with the man who made him what he was he finds himself grasping.

"There were incredible rumors of your adventures," Cazador continues as the neck of the decanter clinks against the first glass. The blood glugs heavily into the first glass. "Did you enjoy yourself, pup?" Cazador smirks to himself.

Astarion’s eyes follow Cazador as he makes his way to the glasses, unable to stop the sigh of relief from escaping him as his Master no longer crowds his personal space. As the blood pours, his gaze follows it; hungry, yes, always - but not with the intensity of a starving man. Not the way he might have once watched. Now, it is vague suspicion and morbid apprehension that hang heavy in his expression, rather than desperation.

“I’m sure you were keeping yourself well informed of my actions.” He replies breezily, with a false nonchalance. “I’ll not bore you with details you are already aware of.”

Despite all of Astarion's bravado in facing his master - his maker- with a stiff upper lip and head held high, there remains an undercurrent of trepidation. It fills Cazador with glee even more than the soft, kittenish hiss he had received from gripping Astarion's bruised jaw a little too tightly. Astarion has always reacted so beautifully, even when he did his best not to make a sound or show any fear, and breaking down that immaculate façade he puts up is all part of what makes Astarion so entertaining to Cazador.

With the first wine glass filled deeply with blood, Cazador raises it, taking in its scent as though appreciating the individual's bouquet. Before he can sample it, Astarion is speaking back, with that hint of boldness which Cazador consistently enjoyed crushing over and over again. Hearing the tone, he turns his head a fraction, a red eye catching Astarion's from afar as he contemplates how a former reaction might have been to flay the shirt from the spawn's back and toss him aside until he felt forgiving enough to give Astarion the opportunity to grovel. Instead of lashing out, he sets down the glass and takes up the sparkling decanter, pouring into the second glass. A short measure, nothing more, which will give a fleeting rush.

"I was told by the Gur you were walking in daylight. He carted you back to me inside a cage without the cover of shade." Cazador's eyes grow distant as he maintains a civilized tone and a detached curiosity, rather than succumb to the rage in the pit of his stomach that a mere spawn could achieve such power. Astarion is his pet, nothing more, and has done no such thing to deserve what Cazador had been so desperately seeking to accomplish over centuries.

"What a relief that you have returned unscathed to me. You know I dislike others touching what's mine," he says with a low rumble as he approaches the bed.

Extending out the glass, Cazador gently rotates his wrist, letting the scent roll around and fill the air in front of Astarion's face.

"You must be parched, my dear boy. Drink. You have impressed me enough to earn it... The blood of a sentient creature." A wickedness burns in Cazador's eyes as he offers out the goblet, taking the rim of it all the way to Astarion's lips, not forcing him directly but not prepared to have his gesture of good will turned away. "Go ahead, you've earnt it."

Astarion knows it’s a trap. But it’s a trap he’s not sure how to disarm - both answers seem equally incorrect. He could refuse the blood; it wasn’t as if he is starving anymore. The flush across his cheeks is proof enough he has been feeding regularly, and the fact that Cazador hasn’t already punished him for such a transgression is equally as off-centering as his offer of sustenance. Then again, he is well aware what refusing a meal leads to, and he is quite content with his skin attached to his body at the moment.

He does flinch slightly at Cazador’s words. He had hoped his master would be unaware of his newly found abilities. Two hundred years has given him more than enough time to learn to read Cazador’s most subtle of expressions, and it’s not hard to tell his master is positively fuming. Astarion remembers coming in and out of consciousness, bound and packed into a cage meant for an animal in the back of the Gur’s cart. He curses himself for even daring to hope the loathsome man would offer even the slightest of discretion.

“Is that so?” Astarion does his best to keep his voice lilting and disaffected. He reclines in the bed, holding himself like a prince as if that might restore to him the dignity stolen from him.  “Some trick of the monster hunters, then. I rather think I would have noticed if day-walking was something I could do. Perhaps they were trying to trick you into injuring yourself.”

Gods, he hopes he’s selling it. He’s not even quite sure how to explain the entire tadpole business, nor how to handle what would surely be an angry reaction from Cazador. The man is possessive, if nothing else - having his spawn infected with another’s control will surely enrage him greatly.

He takes the glass, deciding he prefers the mystery of whatever game Cazador is playing at to being flayed. He prefers most things to being flayed, if he’s honest. Obediently, he opens his mouth and allows blood to be poured in. It’s rather - well, it’s a rather suggestive gesture, if he’s being honest, and that has his stomach churning all over again.

Cazador is immune to the velvety, carefully spoken words Astarion chooses. He has trained his spawn almost too well, but knowing Astarion is his greatest accomplishment is a matter of pride itself. He levels Astarion with a sharp look and silences him briefly by urging him on to drink the blood offered. Of course, Astarion takes it beautifully, if not entirely gratefully, the life blood of a thinking creature all the more enjoyable.

Astarion looks well. Pleasantly flushed and almost alive to an extent which drives Cazador wild. He's healthier and stronger for having been free to feed and gorge himself on anything with a pulse he could sink his teeth into. The sheer audacity of Astarion disobeying his master's commandments makes Cazador see red... and yet he restrains himself. Any of the others would not receive such mercy.

With a few, suggestive swallows, Astarion drinks what he's given and Cazador tugs the glass from his lips to let the last drop bead against his pale pink lips. He sets the glass aside, cups Astarion's face once more, and spreads the color across his lips with the pad of his thumb.

"The blood of a thinking creature... for my clever pet." Cazador easily passes off the insult with the closest thing to a compliment Astarion has ever received from him. He looms over Astarion, drinking in the sight of him laid out across his bed, and tugs his lips apart with a gentle push of his thumb. "The Gur," he explains, the word vile in his mouth. "For touching what's mine."

Delicately pressing his thumb inside Astarion's mouth, Cazador presses against his fangs, then drags the flat of his thumb along his soft, blood-stained tongue.

"I raised you better than this. Thank me, boy." Cazador's thumb slips free, messy as it slips across Astarion's lips and lingers there. He takes a deep drink from his own full goblet and waits, eager to have Astarion bow to his wishes again.

It takes all of Astarion’s will to keep from biting down on Cazador’s hand. As much as he relishes in the idea, the reality which would ensue was not worth the satisfaction. He isn’t suicidal, and as nervous as it makes him he prefers whatever this farce of domesticity is supposed to be to Cazador’s wrath.

Besides, Astarion is stronger than he’s been since he died. Only nearly beaten, veins full of fresh blood, and mind freed from the compulsion of his master’s whims - if he plays his cards correctly, perhaps… perhaps some opportunity will present itself.

So he parts his lips, allowing Cazador’s fingers to slip in. He considers lapping at it, using those skills Cazador has developed in him; but the thumb exits from his mouth almost as soon as it had arrived, pushing now lightly against his plush lips. Smearing the blood on them in a crude imitation of arousal, and delicate makeup.

“Forgive me,” Astarion says dryly, voice just hinting toward sarcasm. “I was overcome by your generosity.”

As if Astarion hasn’t been able to eat his fill, up until being dragged back to his master. As if any of this could be construed as generous. It’s hard to keep bitterness from his voice, but his attempt is valiant.

Feeding Astarion the Gur's blood had been a gesture of good will, a reward, a macabre sort of kindness. Cazador expected nothing less than heartfelt gratitude from his spawn, who he had not allowed the pleasure of drinking quality blood, lest any of his spawn grow in power. They were all kept limping along as much as was required for them to function.

Witnessing Astarion's reaction, Cazador sees how in such a brief period his spawn has grown accustomed- has been spoilt with the taste of rich, fresh blood of his own prey. Rather than luring victims back for his master, Astarion has dined on all manner of greater beasts and presumably the cattle he had blended amongst during his fleeting freedom. It turns Cazador's own stomach to picture his beloved pet as gorging himself on such beings, reveling in being off his leash.

It stung to hear Astarion speak so bitterly, when he has been offered such a warm welcome home. Cazador drops his head to one side and tuts. While Astarion has not resisted being touched and accepted the blood gladly, he remains withholding. That will not do.

"Come now," he coos, deep and sympathetic as he takes his place on the edge of the bed, close to Astarion. Reaching out, he drags his fingers through Astarion's silvery-snowy hair, grazing claw-like nails faintly over his scalp. "You know that pretty pout of yours only incites the worst in me." Cazador's eyes lock onto Astarion's bloodstained mouth, his fingers gripping loosely at his curls a couple of times, and he loses himself in the thought of using him for a long moment.

Astarion shivers as Cazador’s fingers card through his hair, the soft touch only a threat of force. He can’t count the amount of times he’s been dragged by these hands in his hair, forced into whatever position his master found convenient. Still, he melts a little, as he always does - gentle touch was such a rarity, to him, as embarrassing as it was to be treated like a dog. How disgusting he was, to crave hands on his body, as if that wasn’t what he had been attempting to escape.

"For the first instance in your undeath, you have impressed me." Cazador pauses for blood and resumes teasing Astarion's curls. "You have proven my initial judgment of you correct. You have proven you have potential." Threatening as Astarion's new power is, Cazador knows to utilize and learn from such an impossible opportunity. "But what to do with you?"

A quiet, distressed murmur escapes Astarion’s throat unbidden. The tension and suspense are starting to get to him. Waiting for the other shoe to drop almost makes him anxious to be beaten already. It’s clear Cazador is furious, under all the decorum, and he’d never been one to disguise that anger before. Astarion finds himself half expecting Godey to jump out from behind some corner, like a grotesque Jack in the box.

“Potential.” Astarion repeats, unable to help the scowl in his words. He’s not sure how to react to the praise, really. Again, it was far from what he’d come to expect from Cazador. Potential indeed - the only potential his master had even seen in him before had been in his aptitude to cry, and bleed, and spread his legs, none of which were occupations Astarion felt particularly flattered to be considered proficient in. Still, he knew what he was good for; stress relief, a punching bag, a warm hole to serve its betters. His lips curl and he looks down at the mattress, putting as much space between himself and Cazador as he can manage without moving again.

This whole situation is so deeply disconcerting. Having Cazador fuss over him as if he were a spoiled child, or a pet, a lover even… the blood churns in his stomach and he feels nauseous.

“I told you; whatever you heard from that monster hunter was pure nonsense. I was kidnapped from your side, nothing more.”

As Cazador strokes Astarion's hair, the tenderness provokes a weak noise which causes Cazador's pupils to widen in excitement. He hears his prey, he hears submission, whether Astarion likes it or not. All the while, he continues the steady, smooth brushing motion, feeling the curls stretch and then coil away from his fingertips as they pass through. It's soothing to have Astarion right where he can see him again and know precisely what his spawn is up to.

He keeps up the loving charade even as Astarion shrinks in on himself, briefly disarmed at the compliment and adorably frustrated for never having known this before. All understandable. It is one reason Cazador enjoys Astarion so. He has never been consistently placid, tame, dull. He amuses Cazador in a way nothing else ever has. This new chapter of their bond and of Astarion's rebreaking and reforging will be spectacular.

What does bring Cazador to a still is the lie. A thorough torture of the hunter who had brought Astarion to him was proof enough and Cazador knows his spawn is a slippery, silver-tongued thing- as he has been trained to be.

Setting his palm against Astarion's cheek, Cazador contemplates the damage his claws could do, the blood he could draw. Instead, he strokes his thumb over the high point of Astarion's sharp cheekbone.

"We shall see," he remarks ominously, dropping his hand, and takes a few deep drinks to polish off the blood in his glass.

Cazador stands, taking the glasses back to the tray and then whirls around to admire Astarion, looking angry and nervous. It's thrilling to know however powerful Astarion might have gotten, he still understands he is a mere pup compared to the dire wolf his master is.

"However you wriggled free, it shall not happen again. I could not bear the thought of destroying you. I shall have to keep you close. It is clear life as a mere servant does not suit you, you are destined for greater things. Do you agree?" Cazador stays distant, alarmingly focused on him.

Whatever Cazador was playing at, Astarion does not like it. Nearly two centuries of the same routine, and now his master decides to spring a new form of psychological torment on him? He supposes in a way it is his fault, for being kidnapped by the mindflayers, then allowing himself to be caught once again by the Gur... actually, he has spent an uncomfortable amount of time in the last months being kidnapped. The novelty is not exactly appreciated.

"I am what you made me." Astarion answers simply, no stranger to backhanded compliments himself. His lips curl as he spits the words, still polite but with just the barest hint of scorn. It's not as if Astarion is lying. This is perhaps the most true thing he's said since wakening in his master's chambers. He fits in amongst the finery, another pretty possession to be displayed and ogled at. "Though servant is not the word I would necessarily use to describe myself."

Again, his dry wit is on full display. Astarion is not a stranger to this dance - though it has been the better part of two hundred years since he practiced. The double speak of nobility, hiding insults amongst compliments and carefully chosen words, playing at plausible deniability. It's quaint. Nostalgic, in an odd way. Astarion only vaguely remembers his life Before, but the muscle memory is still there.

"I will admit my ambitions once were greater than to act as a lure for dinner, however."

Cazador listens closely, taking in even the faint creases between Astarion's brows and the dry, blasé tone he has adopted. It's an admirable, foolish sort of bravery, but Astarion is still freshly plucked from his newfound taste for 'freedom'. He will require breaking in anew and in a much subtler way than before, Cazador knows it will not be an easy task to achieve.

"How would you describe your place in my family then?" Cazador asks with a hint of sharpness to his tone, daring Astarion to speak his mind and not to disappoint him with another lie. "Speak freely, but remember respect for your maker. After all, I gave you this gift and you do revel in it, even if you are a sensitive creature."

Slowly, Cazador begins to circle the bed, his attention entirely on Astarion, as though a predator circling its prey, waiting to pounce.

"What more do you want?" Cazador asks, entirely interested in the honest answer and hoping Astarion puts some consideration into how the opportunity might be used to better his circumstances. "What more can you give me?"

Oh , he's messed up. This is another trap; a chance to either swallow his pride, or pay the consequences. He considers his words carefully, trying to find a way to neither fully submit, nor incur the wrath of the much more powerful man in front of him. Illithid protection and all, Astarion is still just a spawn - nothing next to a full vampire. As much as he feels the urge to just rip out the throat of his tormentor with his teeth, just because he is mentally capable of willing himself to do such a thing did not mean it was wise. He'd be overpowered instantly.

How would he describe himself? Nothing more than the words Cazador has hurled in his direction hundreds of times. A whore, a pet, a gratified sex toy, and a bargaining chip. Foolish boy. A slave more than a servant. Servants get paid, at least.

"Can there be any other words for what's between us, other than spawn and sire?" A sanguine sort of smile tugs at the corner of his lip, derisive. "Sensitive as you may call me, I find no alternative suitable."

A non-answer for a false question. He can handle this... interrogation, as it would seem to be. He can talk his way though. It is the preferable use of his mouth when it comes to persuasion anyway. He just needs to keep calm, keep his wits about him, and ignore the panic slowly building beneath his sternum.

"What I want and what I give have never been things you've consulted me on before."

Astarion regards Cazador dryly for a while, considering his words before he speaks; sounding hurt and lost. It's almost enough to make Cazador smile with how much joy he takes in seeing Astarion tortured in this manner alone. He paces back and forth as he listens, eerily attentive and silent. He senses Astarion's rising emotions and knows there is no chance his own spawn could do any real damage to his master, else he believes Astarion would have taken the opportunity already.

"You have had time to consider. If not in servitude then since you ran away." Cazador stops at the end of the bed on Astarion's side and then approaches slowly, until he is looming over his spawn.

“I didn’t run away.” Astarion grumbles, lips pressing against each other. It’s not a lie. He had been abducted, and then simply… chosen not to return.

"It is not uncommon for a vampire to elevate one of his prized spawn into something more. A lover, a consort, a partner, a successor... I chose you for your wit as much as your beauty when I offered you this dark gift. You have been on trial all these years. All of you have. This is the first time any of you have displayed further potential." Cazador hooks a finger beneath the soft spot of Astarion's jaw, lifting his face towards him as he leans in closer.

"Will you remain as you are?" Cazador's voice drops to something more hushed, hand pressed to the headboard as he crowds Astarion. "Or will you accept another offer from your lord?"

Astarion’s eyes follow Cazador as he paces, wide and unblinking. As if he might anticipate the man’s strike, so it could be avoided. Of course, he knows whatever torture is coming will end sooner if he simply lies limp and takes it - to bore Cazador was the most surefire way to escape his torments. Yet sometimes this only spurned on the man to try harder to make Astarion scream, to prod at him until he could not help but fight back.

Cazador’s next words stun Astarion. He lies back, unable to do anything but stare with a quivering lip as Cazador traps his body beneath his own. If the drinking of blood had been suggestive, this was downright pornographic - not to mention the man’s proposal.

And what a proposal it was. Astarion cannot refuse. He knows that. Cazador is not asking his consent - merely testing whether he will play along with this game. Should he? It is beyond unclear what being a consort entails. He is already practically Cazador’s personal whore. Would this mean… status? Power? Perhaps. But also Cazador’s single-minded attention. Astarion could no longer disappear among his brothers and sisters.

He’s not sure whether he’d prefer to fuck only Cazador, or to take his chances with the faceless strangers he is used to luring in or being entertainment for Cazador’s lavish parties.

“I… I’m honored, my Lord. What… Would this entail, exactly…?”

With how fearful and tense Astarion is, the pale elf has always appeared more brittle and delicate than any of his brethren. He appears fragile and always so concerned, which Cazador, predator that he is, finds wildly attractive on Astarion. Still, he pouts and complains, but it's softly mumbled and close to a childishness as he speaks back against his master.

The uncertainty and shyness of Astarion's acceptance as his expression changes subtly is a balm on Cazador's frustration. He lingers, fingers under Astarion's jaw and uses his thumb to hook his chin and draw his mouth open a fraction.

"It is the greatest honor you could hope to have bestowed upon you," Cazador corrects with pride and he eases down to press a long, firm kiss to Astarion's brow. He parts slowly, still holding Astarion's jaw as he hovers over him.

They are not even a breath apart as Cazador's red gaze flits from Astarion's eyes to his mouth and back again, examining him and teasing the emotion he can sense through their bond. It is never fully clear, but a great deal of what Astarion feels is apparent to him.

"You were stolen from me," he agrees, his tone sharpening all the while. "Then you did not return to me. You tried to hide from me. Then you were brought home like a stray picked up by the dog warden. So undignified." Cazador has no warmth in his expression as he watches Astarion. "You will never leave me again. You will be close at all times to serve and for me to spoil you in return." The sharp grin grows on Cazador's face. "Never to be shared. Never to be left hungry. I will teach you anew and you will at last, ascend into vampiric society. You will be presentable to represent my house. And you will want for nothing if you do as I command."

Astarion sits still as a marble statue as Cazador presses a kiss to his forehead. Cazador’s finger in his mouth had him mentally preparing for something much more than this, so he ought to be relieved at such a chaste show of domination. Still, this is almost worse- it is so domestic, so intimate. It feels as if the skin Cazador’s lips had touched is burning, searing a new brand onto the soft flesh of his skin. Ownership.

“You’d keep me fed? Spoil me?” Astarion scoffs, looking away. Trying to escape Cazador’s prying gaze, even if he couldn’t escape out from under the other man’s body. His eyelashes flutter against those fine cheekbones, doubt evident on his face.

He wishes the offer wasn’t so tempting. He knows all Cazador is offering is a gilded cage; a chance for his master to figure out whatever trick he has pulled to walk in sunlight, and steal it away from him. The promise of less suffering in exchange for submitting himself more fully to be under Cazador’s thumb is not the privilege the man is painting it to be. Yet still, Astarion hesitates.

Had he not thought countless times how anything would be better than this? He wishes bitterly he had never been taken by the nataloid, never afforded a taste of true freedom; now that he has seen an escape, he cannot resign himself to his torture the way he could before.

“Who would I be to deny my creator?” Again, the double meanings. Again, the delicate dance. “I would be a fool to refuse such an offer.”

Cazador expected disbelief and caution from his spawn, as Astarion had been tormented and teased across the years. There had been little pleasure in Astarion's position as a spawn and Cazador hoped he would consider his offer with desperation. Despite Astarion not being ready for the offer of more, fate has forced Cazador's hand. Astarion would have to be replaced when it comes to his ascension, if things go well. If not, then Cazador can enjoy stringing Astarion along and ruining him before sacrificing him as part of the ritual.

Having his wittiest, headstrong, and by far most beautiful spawn elevated in position makes sense. There has been no other Cazador believes he could endure or enjoy with any real longevity. The role, he senses, will suit Astarion to perfection once he embraces it and allows himself to indulge.

Blood, sex, and a fraction more power will be promising enough to seduce Astarion, Cazador has no doubt.

Crimson eyes burn more vividly as Cazador takes in Astarion, stoic and thoughtful, his voice soft and low, a perfectly pleasing tune as he submits.

"You are wise to accept, my dear boy." Cazador takes Astarion's pretty face back into the cup of his palms, keeping it lifted as he towers over him, attempting to read whatever is hidden behind Astarion's mirrored red gaze.

There has always been something unusual about Astarion, some unlocked potential, and something has drawn it out of his spawn unbidden. Cazador considers if perhaps in some twisted parody of romance, that Astarion is destined to walk in sunlight alongside him and to forever be his. A deep, rumbling purr fills Cazador's throat as he leans closer, taking pride in the thought of Astarion eternally his own. With a swell of excitement in having Astarion back beneath his heel, Cazador grasps his face more firmly, drawing him into a rough kiss, lacking any patience or politeness. Cazador's nails dig into the bruise on Astarion's jaw as he thrills at the taste of the Gur huntsman's blood on Astarion's tongue.

Astarion leans back, braced on his elbows as Cazador cradles his face. The man is practically straddling him now, locking him into his fate literally underneath his master. His vision swims, Cazador’s face distorting like a specter before Astarion’s bloodstone eyes. He wills his body not to tremble.

As always, the moment is a disorienting mix of roles to play. Master and slave, owner and pet, lover and his beloved, consort and lord. All of the hidden intentions of Astarion’s aristocratic upbringings with none of the dignity.

Years ago, Astarion would have preened under his master's gaze like this. Cazador, after all, was the only person other than Godey and his siblings who he interacted with in any regular fashion. There had been times when he was so desperate for a gentle touch, or any human contact at all, that he would have willingly welcomed any manner of such false affections. He can’t even say he truly doesn’t now.

It’s not that Astarion had been touchstarved. Rather, he has been kept sustained on such a constant and intense diet of touch that he finds himself now desperate for it.

He tilts his head back and allows his mouth to be plundered. He refrains from kissing back, a last inch of dignity he would not allow Cazador to steal. Not yet. He keeps himself from moaning into the other man’s throat until his fingers dig into the bruise along his sharp jaw. He whimpers.

Cazador leans down into the kiss, his knee settling beside Astarion on the mattress, causing it to gently dip beneath some of his weight. He takes from Astarion, rough with his lips and delving deeper with his tongue. Eventually, a mewling noise is drawn from Astarion as Cazador inflicts pain. He pulls back, leaving both their lips slick and faintly bloodstained, so that he can regard Astarion, so uptight and composed for now. 

Astarion can taste the blood on Cazador’s tongue as it claims his mouth, his lips, his fangs, his throat. All Cazador’s. The phantom of Cazador’s claim lingered beyond the physical touch, like it was sinking its way into Astarion’s very being.

"Such sweet music," The elder elf coos, balancing between mocking and loving.

Rather than pressing against the bruise further, Cazador grazes his thumb featherlight against Astarion's smooth skin, so tenderly. His other fingers catch the fine fabric of Astarion's shirt where it puffs over the narrow waist of his trousers. They tangle into the material and he drags a fistful upwards until it slips free, baring a sliver of Astarion's pale belly.

Cazador continues watching Astarion's face, fingers steepling against bare skin and drawing down over silky skin and taut muscle. His fingertips catch the front of Astarion's trousers and he continues to scratch delicately over the soft shape of Astarion's cock. His palm flattens, molding around Astarion to squeeze him through his clothing.

"No need to be shy, little star. You can thank me."

Little star, little star.

Someone else had called him this, out in the hazy reaches of his memory. It was his name as much as it wasn’t; a child’s name, belonging to a boy who’d died in an alley long before his 100th year’s naming ceremony. Yet here Astarion still was;  well past his first century, not dead but also not quite living.

He closes his eyes, unable to bare to look at his master any longer. As surely as his knife, Cazador’s eyes always seemed to peel back his skin and see through to the quivering mess underneath. Astarion is glad for a fleeting moment for his state of undeath: there is no slamming heartbeat to alert Cazador to his fear.

He doesn’t even know why he’s so pathetically timid. It’s not as if Cazador hasn’t bedded him thousands of times before, often with far less gentleness or tact. Yet it’s that exact tenderness that Astarion finds so utterly nauseating. Did he not want this? To be a pampered concubine was much preferable to a punching bag. He could endure this, as he’d endured so many other of the man’s whims.

He still flinches when Cazador pulls up the fine fabric of his shirt and doublet, baring the way his stomach muscles jump and tense at his touch.

He tries to float away, as he does so often in this position. He is just a body, just flesh - pliant and fine, without will or inhibitions. He’s done this a million times before. He can handle it.

“Thank you, Master.” It's automatic. He can say it in his sleep - sometimes literally does. That sure had been fun to explain, one night when Gale pitched his tent close enough to hear the elf’s mumblings. Astarion can’t remember exactly how he’d ended up in that wretched Gur’s clutches - only that he had gone out for a hunt, to be caught pathetically instead in a trap which had gone unnoticed. He wonders if awkward little incidents like the former would deter or encourage his companions to want to rescue him.

Probably deter. It was all around an overwhelmingly off putting situation. 

All the while as his mind wanders, Astarion's pretty, porcelain face remains blank, with perhaps only the faintest furrow lines from hardships long past. He has schooled his features to be unreadable, for his lovers and abusers alike to project whatever they wish onto him; precisely as Cazador taught him.

He enjoys how Astarion twitches and remains nervous, ever uncertain and no matter when he does have moments of bravery, he always returns to this safe comfort where he is timid and acceptably polite. The cycle continually entertains Cazador.

There is a distance to Astarion, where his voice is rumbling in a softer manner, where he gives his submission so naturally and unthinkingly. Cazador kneads Astarion's cock, seeing whether or not he is too afraid to stir with excitement. Astarion wills himself to harden, both knowing it’s what is expected of him and that it will be easier to lose himself if he allows this to be pleasurable. Whatever dignity he had left wasn’t worth going through this unaroused; he’s done that, and honestly? It tends to just lead to more pain and humiliation. Better to just lose himself in whatever enjoyment he could eek out from the whole ordeal. If that made him the whore people assumed he was, well. So be it.

Still, he finds himself struggling to slip into the haze of arousal and dissociation he normally retreats to during sex. He worries his lip with one fang, eyes focused up on the ceiling rather than the man in front of him. Cazador only touches Astarion for a few long moments further before he steps back from the bed a couple of paces, making room.

"Stand," he commands and offers an upturned palm to Astarion. "Take those off, then assist me," he gestures down towards his own finery. "And tell me what you desire from your newfound place in my house." Cazador beams, full of terrible pride at this new trap he has placed Astarion in.

Cazador pulls away from Astarion before he can work himself into too much of a tizzy about his own lack of an erection. While he feels faint relief at no longer being trapped by the man’s body; the growing dread of what’s being asked of him overtakes it quickly.

He doesn’t want to strip for Cazador’s prying eyes. He’d almost prefer his master rip the finery from his body as he had so many other nights before. The agency afforded to him is torture in itself; teasing him with the allusion of his own consent. The thought of undressing Cazador like some common servant makes the blood in his stomach roil.

He doesn’t want to do this, he realises, as if that mattered at all.

Astarion unbuttons his doublet and shirt with meticulous care, taking all the time he dares to. He smoothes out the fabric, folding the garments before he discards them. It’s an old habit. Though he had learned to sew to repair the few fineries Cazador allowed him, it was better to avoid their abuse in the first place.

He leaves on his trousers. It’s not quite disobedience; Cazador had not specified what he meant exactly. It’s a layer between him and his master, another way of stalling for time and scraps of dignity. He kneels before Cazador, beginning to work on the intricacies of the man’s own clothing.

“What I desire and what you grant me have never been entirely correlated.” Astarion murmurs, voice demure even as his words conceal spite.

The conflict on Astarion's features manifests as a dainty fang snagging at the pout of his bottom lip before he moves into action. Although Cazador finds the barrier still lodged between them, he knows Astarion in his soul- whatever remains of it, at least- and he can imagine after centuries of torture what he might be feeling and thinking.

He enjoys seeing Astarion almost bashful in how timidly he peels off the oversized shirt, revealing flawless, pale skin and a lean physique which makes Cazador's attention narrow. Sex is about power as much as it is pleasure for him, but with Astarion it is further meaningful. It is about the bond between one of his first spawn- and one due to become his mate- and the ultimate power Cazador has over life and others. Of all his spawn, Cazador has invested the most energy in teaching Astarion and has experimented with ways to break in and use him. All those learnings have been passed onto the spawn who followed... and yet none of them match up to his little star.

Astarion had not been chosen lightly. Cazador had waited, plotted, and ensnared him after a long period of watching him from afar. The boy had been destined for him and he would be damned if anything would take his most prized possession from him. If he could not hold onto Astarion - body, mind, soul- then it reflected poorly on Cazador's own capability and power.

"Good," he hums idly, eyes raking over Astarion as he takes up a reverent position at his feet. His trousers remain even as he begins to work his fingers over the fastenings on Cazador's clothing, to which the elder gives a deeper sound of displeasure.

"But if you cannot be trusted to undress yourself, I shall not take the effort to clothe you so thoroughly in future," Cazador warns with a delighted smirk which bares an elongated canine. "Yes... I would prefer you that way. A silk robe, perhaps. Soft lace. A tightly strung corset perhaps at most. To remove any barriers between us so that we may be more intimate with one another than ever."

Astarion fingers stutter, the tightening in his back muscles under Cazador’s poetry and flaring of his nostrils the only indication how deeply Cazador’s comment had sent a bolt of ice into his unbeating heart. He can imagine it, easily; forced to parade his body naked in front of whoever deigned to look his direction. It is so typically Cazador in its sadism he’s almost surprised he had ever been allowed clothing at all. The idea of being made easier to access has bile rising in throat. There would be no pretending he is anything more than a prize to the man. Not even a slave, for even a slave was a person; he will be less than even his siblings even as he gains more power.

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he scrambles to find words, anything, to put the idea from Cazador’s mind.

“Ah, but isn’t a treasure worth more when elusive? There’s fun to unwrapping a present, after all.” He forces a thin, seductive smile. It’s weak, he knows it, but he hopes his master’s lusts will prove enough of a distraction.

Cazador lifts a foot, his boot pressing against the outline of Astarion's cock gently for a moment, a subtle warning. It has Astarion flushing, looking away as Cazador grinds his boot against his soft cock. His body reacts exactly as it has been trained to; arousal finally beginning to pool in the pit of Astarion’s stomach.

"Take me in your mouth. It is the very least you can do to thank me, dear boy. Show your future husband your adoration. I should not have to instruct you so." Cazador enjoys it despite his tone. After all their years, Astarion still trembles and frets, which he finds utterly adorable.

Astarion falls back from Cazador’s clothing to remove his own trousers. It takes him several tries to undo the belt, long bone-thin fingers shaking. Cazador had not put him in underwear, when he’d changed him into this finery while unconscious. The thought is somehow more violating than the notion that the man’s cock will soon enough be in his mouth. He takes out Cazador’s length with practiced precision, face dispassionate. Cazador can see how tight Astarion is, even if his movements are graceful and his hands deft with practice as he strips himself bare, then moves on to his master. He barely meets Cazador's gaze as he works, keeping his ruby eyes lowered, his expression somewhat hidden while he concentrates ahead where he draws open Cazador's clothing. All the while, Cazador uses his foot to nudge at Astarion's cock, giving him a slight pressure, until his cock begins to rise, keen for further attention. It only requires the slightest reminder of how much Astarion enjoys Cazador's touch to stir him.

Cazador stands with both feet on the ground and revels in being worshipped. Astarion's lips are silky soft brushing over his skin and he stares down hungrily at how his favourite carries out the act with such delicacy and devotion. The elf knows his master’s cock as well as his own, at this point; knows exactly how to please the man who made him all he is. Astarion leans in to kiss at Cazador’s hipbones, down toward the head of his dick. 

His lips have barely begun to skim against Cazador's cock when he lifts his face, true confusion there, entirely distracted from the task at hand. Astarion pulls back just an inch or two, eyes flickering with some unknown emotion.

“I... Husband?”

Seeing that handsome face, Cazador can forgive him though. Astarion was the most beautiful mortal he had ever laid eyes on. It had been an immediate desire to claim and turn the boy, drawn out as it had been. Now, he is only lovelier for having Cazador's eyes, brighter against his fair skin and hair. There is no doubting Astarion's looks are unrivaled. Cazador was loathe to lose him to the ritual and knew it was worth revisiting the decision to see if his treasured one could perhaps become more useful in another position - particularly if Astarion's newfound powers were of any benefit to Cazador himself. He is certain now, he will find a way to keep Astarion.

"Husband," he repeats, catching Astarion's sharp chin with a crooked finger, keeping his attention upward. If it were not for his red eyes, blood stained lips, and Cazador's cock so close to his mouth, Astarion might have looked innocent. "I had other plans for you, true, but if you can demonstrate your devotion, I would prefer to revisit my hopes when I turned you."

He strokes his knuckles across Astarion's cheeks, enjoying the confusion in his eyes. His cock hardens further with every thought of further corruption of Astarion that crosses his mind, until he's twitching eagerly.

"Your rightful place should be as my consort. In place of a wife, I would have my most faithful, the most beautiful elf to have ever walked any plane..." Cazador's fingers reach Astarion's hair, tangling into his curls. "I would take such great care of you, my darling." The offer comes out hushed, secretive almost, the way lovers speak.

Astarion goes a bit cross-eyed, staring up beyond the cock hardening against his face at Cazador’s face. His eyes are wide - filled with apprehension, but also hunger. He hadn’t realised quite how obsessed with Cazador was with him until this moment. The idea of being raised to wife, consort… it’s as appealing as it is revolting. It’s a promise of status, of power. By submitting to Cazador’s whims like this, he could perhaps be granted protection from the others out there who wished upon him harm. Then again, there is no telling what Cazador would do with increased power over his most favoured of spawn.

Astarion’s cock jumps to attention almost immediately. Like him, it’s long and thin; his well-fed pallor giving it a rosy hue. He doesn’t remember what his preferences had been in life - but surely they weren’t too different than this, for his body to react so eagerly. Then again, two hundred years was more than enough time to mold someone’s sexual proclivities. He doesn’t know what’s more disturbing; the idea that Cazador had changed him so drastically, or that he had been predisposed to such a fate from the beginning.

“Let me take care of you, then, Master.” Astarion sighs, breath hot against Cazador. “Let me show my devotion.”

After a tense gaze between them, where Cazador recognises the determination and understanding in Astarion's eyes, finally his spawn bows to his wishes. Astarion's purr is sensual, practiced to perfection, and even Cazador melts slightly to hear him speak so full of desire. Astarion leans forward again, taking Cazador into his mouth. He’s long since mastered the art of giving blow jobs without his fangs getting in the way, dutiful and skillful in his attentions. He does his best to blank out, to lose himself in routine until the dirty job is done. He can do this, for power. For safety.

Already, Astarion emits a healthy radiance from the blood he has ingested. His fair complexion has a radiant rosiness to it once more, a faint reminder of the warm tone he once was when his beating heart and beauty initially caught Cazador's attention. Coupled with the dazed, earnestly surprised look on Astarion's face, Cazador almost feels giddy with a gleeful, terrible pride. It is more than he could have wished for. His favorite, returned to him, more brilliant, more beautiful, finally beginning to come to terms with his place in the world.

To have someone of Astarion's power down at his feet prepared to lavish him with attention and worship is a rush. Cazador's cock leaks, standing proud, the veins pronounced where he's well-fed and his body craves warmth and softness. He is of an impressive size, the fat tip faintly red and peeking from where his foreskin is drawn back, and a small bead of precome already rolls down at the feeling of Astarion's breath ghosting over him.

"Good pup." Cazador's head lolls back briefly, his lashes closing as Astarion wraps around his cock, blood-warmed and tender. His fingers clutch at Astarion's hair as his cock flexes, hot and keen, and continues to drool precome over Astarion's tongue.

"You are mine. You belong here at my feet. Collared, kept, adored. Worship me, darling, and I shall be good to you." Cazador knew Astarion would appreciate the care and attention eventually. Any suspicion he had would fade enough. Astarion craves it desperately and Cazador knows him best of all.

"You are to be the beloved of the most powerful man in the city and soon beyond. My most prized possession." Cazador pushes his head further down, demanding more as he always did.

Now that it was in his mouth, Astarion decides he knows Cazador’s cock better than his own. The length and heft of it on his tongue or inside of him was nearly as routine as the dances of power that often preceded it, as if every part of him had been molded to take it. Molded to serve the man in front of him, crouching naked on his knees, hands grabbing lightly at the edge of Cazador’s doublet.

Astarion closes his eyes, trying to hide himself in the rote mechanics of pleasure. A fluttering of his tongue there, a pulse of his throat here. He takes Cazador to the hilt almost immediately, bobbing his head up and down the length of him, as he knows his master enjoys. Astarion’s gag reflex is well trained, his movements practiced; better to take the length and size of Cazador by his own initiative than by force. Of course, if his master wants him choking and gagging, that is what he will be. The man’s assertions of partnership aside, at the end of the day, Astarion is nothing more than a possession to him. He knows that as well as he knows the salty, unpleasant taste of the man’s release.

All of Cazador praise was nothing more than attempt to fuck his mind as throughly as he had tamed Astarion’s lithe body. Astarion refuses to let himself enjoy it, to take comfort in the affirmation even as it has him rock hard between his thighs. If this was worship, then Astarion was Cazador’s most ardent and baleful devotee. How pathetically disgusting. Astarion would have been better off worshipping Shar.

Nothing pleases Cazador more than having Astarion carnally. Blood comes close, but Astarion represents his ultimate power over his spawns, and he can revel in the sight of the proud, beautiful elf turned into a subservient spawn who exists purely for Cazador's entertainment. He sucks cock wonderfully, without need to pause for breath, using his tongue and lips artfully, and skilled at taking even Cazador's mighty cock down into the snug clutch of his throat.

Cazador groans, purrs, and pets Astarion as he kneels and bobs his handsome head, working carefully to take his time and use his tongue and mouth to capture and enjoy every inch of his master's cock.

What betrays Astarion is the glaze over his ruby eyes, where he seems entirely broken, doll-like, and moving almost mechanically- except the glide and flutter of his mouth about Cazador is perfection. Cazador cares not. If Astarion has accepted his place, that is the only thing which matters in the moment.

It is that careless detachment and presumably the brief time apart where he neglected his duties that causes Astarion to make the tiniest and most fleeting of mistakes. A grazing of teeth, of sharpened canines, which is an offense Astarion already knows better not to commit. Cazador stirs from the trance of ecstasy and his eyes flash red down at Astarion as he attempts to remedy his sins by pathetically mouthing and suckling at his master's cock.

"Pathetic," he comments, dry and biting, with his hand shoving Astarion down to the root, crushing his nose against his navel for a long moment. He waits to see if Astarion will gag, rutting his hips roughly, before he yanks Astarion off, leaving his cock glossy with his saliva and swaying heavily for a moment from the sudden movement. "You ought to know better with those kitten fangs."

Astarion cringes, opening his mouth wider as if to pull off and apologize. Before he has the chance, however, he finds his sharp nose crushed into Cazador’s pubic bone, effectively gagged by the cock in his mouth. He makes a pathetic noise in the back of his throat, breathing quickly through his nose in an attempt to stave off retching. If he were a braver, stupider man he might have rolled his eyes. How cliche this all was. Still, he was himself; gagging on Cazador as the man rutted into the back of his throat. Cazador knew his mouth almost as well as Astarion knew his master’s cock, and knew exactly how to make him gasp and choke.

He wonders if, well-fed as he is, his insides were no longer the cold vice so many had complained of. Perhaps the warmth of his blood-kept body would be an incentive to end his starvation.

Cazador sneers slightly as he wraps a hand around his cock and strokes, using Astarion's drool to slick his fist. His fingers twist in Astarion's hair and pull his head back at a more awkward angle, almost enough to unbalance him.

"Have you forgotten all I taught you? Must I start from the beginning?" Cazador's cock drips at the memories of a freshly turned Astarion, the first being he truly broke and molded for his own needs. "A vampire lord's consort does not require fangs. Do you wish to keep them?" He squeezes his cock at the base to think of removing the last defense Astarion has so crudely - but he takes greater pleasure in knowing Astarion can keeps his fangs in check by pure will to serve.

Cazador pulls out, and Astarion stares up at him with wide eyes full of tears, drool running down his chin. He’s yanked back by his hair, forced to bare his throat and look past the cock that dribbles precome onto his face. His hands remain fisted in the other man’s clothes, holding him up, keeping his weight from being manipulated by Cazador’s hands alone.

He shudders again at Cazador’s words, mouth shutting with a clack of teeth, as if hiding away his one and only remaining weapon would protect it. He had taken to carrying daggers on him at all times in his brief stint at being a free man - there had been a euphoria in being armed. He had sworn he would never allow himself to be taken advantage of like this again.

Foolish boy. Did you really think you could escape what you were made for?

His heart throbs with a hollow pain. Somehow, having his daggers taken from him makes him feel all the more naked than his lack of clothing. Kitten fangs, indeed. If they were truly so harmless, Cazador would never have threatened to take them from him in the first place.

“Don’t!” The word slips out in a panic before he can help it. “Please, sire - master. It won’t happen again, I swear. It would… be unbecoming, for a vampire lord of your stature, to have defanged spawn, would it not?”

Gripping his cock, Cazador watches Astarion, eyes full to the brim with unshed tears which give them a glassiness which only enhances the beauty of their unnatural red hue. He looks frantic and upset with himself and despite the blockage, Cazador can feel Astarion's mounting panic before he blurts out. The response is clumsy and unthinking, yet he recovers equally fast, putting himself at his master's mercy and making sweet promises which Cazador will hold him to- or else.

Keeping his death grip on the back of Astarion's white curls, Cazador's fingers skim away from his cock and delicately trace his features, taking in his glossy, downturned mouth, and the faint warmth lingering there. He shoves two long fingers back into Astarion's mouth to keep him quiet, while his face remains stony and cold. He pushes the pads of his fingers down against Astarion's soft, hot tongue.

"I expect better from you," he reminds Astarion, as if he has not always demanded the world from him already. Drawing his fingers back towards Astarion's teeth, he pries his jaw open, baring his fangs. Cazador drags a fingertip across one pearly point, then pushes harder to pierce the skin. As soon as the incision is made, it heals, leaving a singular droplet of ruby behind which he gracefully offers, single finger held out as a gift to be cleaned.

"You have grown accustomed to poor habits, pet. Using your fangs on unsuitable prey has caused you to grow careless, feral. I shall keep you fed from a cup hereon. You are no longer to be a spawn. You are not a beast any longer. I expect you to be civilized." Cazador urges Astarion forward, correcting his posture to kneel taller with a yank to his hair.

"It is fortunate for you I have missed you so dearly and remain in a giving mood. Continue. I shall think of a lesser punishment, if you manage to complete the task without further embarrassment. It would be a pity to have you declawed, defanged, and kept in a muzzle for the rest of your days."

Astarion swallows heavily, shuddering hard at the thought of being muzzled. The thick, heavy dread that's settled through him is only cut through by the stabs of arousal settling in his lower stomach. The fresh blood in his stomach churns, and he.s momentarily dizzy with the nausea of it. It's ironic, really - the feeling is not a far cry from the pangs of hunger which so often had tormented him.

Astarion shifts, trying to remain pliant and limp as the fist in his hair and fingers in his mouth manipulate him into more comfortable positions for Cazador. His knees ache. It's a familiar, grounding pain - something to focus on. He closes his plush, pale lips around his master's finger, licking at it as sweet and meek as a kitten.

Well. At least Cazador seemed to be truthful in his promises to keep Astarion better fed, now. He'd take a cup over a decaying rat any day.

It's almost enough to rationalize this to himself. Yet the memory of his teeth sinking into his own prey, of eating his fill on his own terms... he is no longer a starving dog, easily excited over discarded scraps and bones. Freedom had tasted sweet, and the memory of it pains him more than Cazador's harsh tugs at his hair.

A shadow of irritation crosses his face, and he hides it by once again taking his master into his mouth. He works the tip and shaft with his tongue, hands going to massage the base; putting all of his effort and skill to get Cazador to hurry up and be done with the ordeal. He doesn't want to draw this out.

Cazador runs his fingers over Astarion's curls, a silent reward for better behavior, and ceases his tugging to give the spawn space enough to consider and act accordingly. There is a distant heat in Astarion's scent, musky arousal which excites Cazador as he detects it and grins wildly at the revelation that after all this time, Astarion still enjoys this.

"Ah, you enjoy the thought? Muzzled like a hound." Cazador sounds equally disgusted as he does amused. "Perhaps you are not ready to rise in rank after all. Would demoting you beneath your brethren suit your needs better, pup?"

There is nothing left to be desired with Astarion's cocksucking skills, yet Cazador talks on as though he were not working his cock as if his survival depended on it. He continued to faintly and absentmindedly stroke Astarion's curls. There is desperation in Astarion's fraught tempo, which suggests more to Cazador he is seeking relief and release from the situation. He frowns.

"Enough," he declares and yanks Astarion off his cock. Immediately, he longs for the warmth. Despite how displeased Cazador is at Astarion being healthier and stronger for having drunk enough blood, there is something to be said for the heat he radiates - particularly inside.

"Pathetic. You clearly need more lessons again - more practice." Cazador reaches for his doublet fastenings, starting to work at them and looks down his nose at Astarion. "Onto the bed. With haste, boy."

Astarion’s breath catches around Cazador’s cock. He hates himself for being hard, and hates Cazador even more for pointing it out. He’s spent two hundred years trying to convince himself that his own arousal did not mean he wanted or even enjoyed what was done to him; Cazador had spent the same time trying to convince him of the opposite. He’s honestly not sure who had won that battle for his brain. His shame is apparent in the slight flush which rises in his cheeks, on his ears - mother charm of his blood-filled body.

Astarion is pulled off Cazador’s length roughly, losing his balance and falling back onto his bottom. He wipes his mouth and chin of spit and pre cum, grimacing. He was stupid to have hoped Cazador would have been satisfied with only his mouth. Of course his new husband would want to reclaim all of his returned property.

It’s strange, the way his body no longer moves on his own to obey his sire. It means Astarion must make the conscious choice to tell his body to move, to will himself to get into bed for his own rape.

He’s not sure he prefers this to the helplessness of being locked from his own body. At least then, he could simply drift away.

More practice. More lessons.

Astarion doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

He knows he’s taking entirely too long to move. Anything other than instant obeisance is unacceptable. But still, his legs shake. 

He doesn’t want this.

It doesn’t matter what he wants. It never does. All that matters is what he has to do to survive.

Astarion gets shakily to his feet, trying to summon some veneer of the cocky seductress he was supposed to be.  He doesn’t feel any different than the lost, scared boy who’d bled out alone in an alleyway.

Astarion topples backwards, ungraceful and undignified, and it only makes Cazador tut softly in disappointment. His chin lifts a fraction higher as he looks down on his spawn, taking in how he remains on the floor a while longer than is normal for any truly responsive slaveling. He does move though, which is an even bigger victory to Cazador.

He watches Astarion stand, pulling himself into a learnt, proper posture and finding a devilishly attractive tone which could ruin a mortal life. Better.

As Astarion sits gingerly down on the bed, he considers whether jumping out a window is a viable option.

It wouldn’t even kill him. Not anymore.

“How will you have me, master?” His voice is demure, if strained by the recent fucking of his throat.

Shedding his doublet off to reveal an elegant, high collared crimson shirt beneath, Cazador rakes his gaze over Astarion's lean length, considering his question. There are an infinite number of ways he has yet to enjoy Astarion and more he has already enjoyed him in. It is tireless entertainment and Cazador regrets - to an extent - ever having marked his favorite pet so permanently by the scarification process.

"On your back. I wish to gaze upon your face while we make love." Cazador smiles, all fangs, and reaches across to tuck back a curl of white hair away from Astarion's brow. The moment of intimacy is false and fleeting.

"There is oil in a bottle on the side. Prepare yourself." Cazador trusts Astarion to recall not to open himself too much and how he prefers him. His shirt is drawn up over his head and then dropped carelessly to the floor. "I will not wait if you are not ready. I have missed you, darling. Do not expect me to be any more patient than I already have been."

“…of course.” Astarion does his very best not to sound snide. Making love. How ridiculous. Love had nothing to do with what is between them. Yet still, Cazador wishes to take him face to face, like lovers.

On his back was fine. On his back was something he was used to. It means Cazador cannot leer at the brand he’d carved into Astarion and called poetry. It meant Astarion was more than just a hole to rut into - he would face the man as he chased his pleasure, and he would be made to thank him for it. This was surely preferable to most of the other options. Why then did Astarion feel such dread and trepidation?

He does not hesitate to follow Cazador’s next instruction. He’s been taken dry enough times for this lifetime and the next, and possibly the third after that. He opens himself with efficient, brutal strokes; not aiming at all for his own pleasure, rather just trying to make the whole experience bearable.

“Ah… it’s been… a while since I’ve done this, master. My body is… fresh.”

At best, Astarion sounds dutiful. Cazador's most prized, yet apparently least devoted servant. There is a factor Cazador does not yet understand which gives Astarion power, which cannot be overlooked yet he hopes is nothing more than temporary- or at least not a true block. Still, it has taken time and energy to have Astarion captured and returned to him. He cannot forget his runaway is likely to bolt again if the opportunity ever presented itself.

All the more reason for Cazador to be especially vigilant.

He sheds his finery until he, too, is bare. He prowls around the grand state bed, with its ridiculously high canopy and richly dyed silk sheets. The way Astarion is spread on them,  perfectly draped and gorgeously pale with the faintest flush... it hits Cazador how alive he looks, even with his somewhat sullen expression.

Once more, Astarion looks like prey to his predator's eyes.

"Have you not fucked with those cattle you were playing with?" Cazador sneers as he climbs onto the bed and prowls forward. Without any further waiting, he settles himself between Astarion's spread legs, cupping a palm beneath one and drawing it up to hitch it against his hip. Dragging Astarion's hands away, Cazador gathers them at the wrist, overlaying them and squeezing those thin, brittle bones together in one of his own hands, pressing them into the bed to pin Astarion there.

There is no bother for further oil to ease the way, only the blunt, insistent press of the fleshy head of Cazador's cock against Astarion's hole. With a light hitch of Cazador's breath, he catches and starts a slow plunge forward. A groan fills Cazador's throat and rumbles deeper in his chest as he leans into Astarion with his hips, sinking into his warmth with a smile, still pressing bruises into fair skin.

"It matters not. You are mine... for eternity." Cazador's hips meet Astarion's gently, while his cock pierces him hard and unforgiving. The satisfied grunt he gives could easily be for either pleasure.

Astarion had, in fact, had sex with the leader of the group of adventurers - but only once, towards the beginning of his time in the sun. He had hoped it would be enough to cement his place in the group, to trade his body for protection; obviously he’d been wrong, or he wouldn’t be here.

He doesn’t bother telling all of that to Cazador. The man didn’t care, and if anything it would only anger him.

“Would it please you to hear I was saving myself?” Astarion bites out, voice somewhere between teasing and baleful. “Perhaps I am not as voracious as you think.”

Cazador settles between his legs with the expression of a man about to gorge himself for the first time in forever, and Astarion’s face scrunches up in displeasure. His chest - more filled in then his normal skeletal looks, but with each rib still visible, a couple months of good eating could not remedy decades of starvation - heaves against his skin. He feels like a mockery of a living thing. A doll, a facsimile; real enough to fuck, yet nothing more than a possession.

He buries his face in his shoulder, and can feel the muscles tremble as he wills his body to stay pliant. Pinned, like a butterfly to a cork board, legs spread and on display for the man who owns him. Astarion wants nothing more than to rip his wrists from the man’s grip, to kick him squarely in the chest and run from the room as swiftly as his feet would carry him.

He needs to relax. This will be all the more painful if he cannot force his body to relax. He never thought he’d miss the mindlessness of Cazador’s control; relax, open for me, beg for it, come, tell me how much you love it. And he had. He’d had no choice.

Now, he is helpless in his body in a whole new way - capable of any response, yet still somehow trapped in his learned mannerisms. He curses his own cowardly nature.

Cazador pushes into him, and Astarion bites the inside of his cheek to keep from whimpering. He’s prepared enough to keep from tearing, but that’s about it. The stretch and burn of being filled is as familiar as his own name, and his hips buck up instinctively, trying to escape the intrusion. Cazador seems intent on taking him slow, because of course he is. The man always seemed to intuit the best ways to tear Astarion to shreds. He considers crying, but that would only egg Cazador on - and he’s not sure he has any tears left to cry.

With the blood rushing through his veins, Astarion is easily marked, his pale skin a canvas for Cazador’s violence. His cock is full and dripping against the taught muscles of his stomach, and Astarion moans (in fear? Pleasure? He isn’t sure) as Cazador bottoms out. His thighs tremble around Cazador, filled too-fast and too-full.

“I… ngh… am what you make of me.” He’s really running his mouth tonight. Perhaps better to lie back silent and simply take it, but he can’t help himself.

Underneath his deceptive finery, Cazador is a vision of strength, beauty, and health for the general population of mortals - the majority of whom starve and taste as poor as filth to a distinguishing palate. He bears down on Astarion, grinning with a subtle his through his teeth where his cock is grip deliciously tight. It takes little effort to pin Astarion in place and Cazador remains there a while, feeling Astarion's body bow into his own and his soft muscles pulse and massage his cock beautifully.

They remain close, with Astarion nuzzling into his neck helplessly, and he gives up a melodious, anguished sound of pleasure and torture which Cazador raises his head for. He watches Astarion's face as he talks, still pressing himself into his quarry in a way which has his cock digging into him, wanting to feel Astarion buck again uncontrolled.

"That I did make you. You would do well to remember that." Cazador cants his hips, grunting as he slides back and forth a fraction, testing, enjoying the slick, silky sensation.

"I should have known you would be out there-" he grunts out in satisfaction as he gives a singular, firm thrust, leaning some of his weight into Astarion to keep him flattened. He can feel where Astarion is grazing against his naval, hard and wanting. "-whoring yourself out once more."

Cazador pins Astarion with a glowing gaze, attempting to reach his will, to coax out an honest answer from his own blood.

"Tell me about those who you spread your legs for like some common two copper prostitute. Tell me how you let them defile you." Even saying it makes Cazador tremor with a mingling of fury and excitement. He thrusts deep and slow, savoring the tug and stretch around him. It gives him pause to wonder why he had not fed Astarion slightly more to sustain him to this level of health.

"Never again. None of them will touch you again." Cazador slides his fingers through Astarion's in one hand and begins to put pressure down, bones beginning to creak. "Never. Again."

“I don’t believe the details are, ah , entirely relevant.” Astarion’s voice lilts at the end of the phrase, Cazador’s thrusts knocking the air out of him even as he attempts to speak. “I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

He doesn’t want to talk about it with anyone, and with Cazador specifically. What was he even supposed to say? ‘ Yes master, I rolled over and let them fuck me just as you taught me to, and apparently I was so pathetic at that I wasn’t even able to get them to keep me .’ No, Astarion thought the fuck not.

His body is rocked gently by Cazador’s rhythm, trapped beneath him and speared through. He lets himself begin to seep away, to detach from the physical and hide away in the small parts of his mind that were still his.

The bed sheets are soft against his naked skin. That’s nice, he supposes. It’s certainly preferable to a bed roll in the woods, or the harsh floor of the kennel. He wonders if he’ll be expected to rest next to his husband, now.

He thinks he might prefer Godey in the kennel.

Astarion tries to take catalogue of his surroundings, as he had so many times before to distract himself from troture. He’s warm, which is strange. He’s used to being bone-chilled, the kind of cold one can’t escape no matter how many blankets they lay on top of themself. Cazador is never cold against him - Cazador, always well fed, always the height of perfection. With their bodies pressed together like this, the differences between spawn and sire seem so pronounced. Astarion feels… well. He tries his best not to.

His hand is being crushed in Cazador’s grip. It’s grounding, and he despises the man for returning him to this moment. He tugs at his grip, trying to free his wrists for just a moment before he regains control and stops himself.

“And what of your- your guests?” Astarion hisses through his clenched teeth. “Shall they touch me? I distinctly remember being treated as a party favor.”

Cazdor's pace does not falter as he fucks Astarion, excruciatingly slow and as deep as he can push inside. He listens keenly and watches the distant look in Astarion's eyes. As he brushes off the prospect of other bed mates, romance, and the betrayal of not having asked his maker for permission, Cazador's expression shifts ever so slightly. There's a darkness there and he briefly considers whether Astarion needs his entire silver tongue to perform well.

Violence will not suffice alone to bring Astarion back to heel. Cazador knows he must be slyer to convince Astarion he is back in his proper place.

"If your indifference and their betrayal are anything to judge by... It would be most fitting to feed you their blood. One by one... Until they are no longer of concern to us." Cazador hums, a deep, rumbling purr vibrating in his throat as he grinds his hips snugly against Astarion.

Once Astarion's focus returns to him, Cazador lessens his hold, leaving his hands up above his head and instead grips at the velvety skin of Astarion's thigh. He draws it higher over his hip, allowing him to press into Astarion heavier, feeling deeper somehow despite already having been to the root with each thrust.

Cazador is far from the largest Astarion had ever taken, but that doesn’t make the man particularly small. Especially with his body restored by blood once again to his healthy, virginal state and the lack of preparation, Astarion shudders and whines. He is seasick from his own body’s rocking, unmoored and unanchored in a haze of desperation and lust.

The only grounding he can find is the shame that sits heavy in his gut, a rock pulling back down into the depths of his own fear. Perhaps Cazador is right, and he is every bit as insatiable as the man insinuated. This was his nature, his routine for so long. His corpse yearns for the touch, the release; how dare his body have missed this? His own arousal is synonymous with his disgust.

“It m-matters not to me.” It feels as if he’s speaking through a mouth of cotton, trying not to devolve into the gasps and moans he knows the man is craving. He wishes it were true; the thought of his former companions drained and dead has a snarl of conflicting emotions tighten in his chest, and he has not the time nor mind to untangle them.

He feels his leg lifted higher, splaying his legs further apart and allowing Cazador to reach deeper into him than before. He does moan then, and it is more real than the practiced ones he’d learned to let out on instinct. His body is hypersensitive, full of blood and starved for attention. It feels as if Cazador were carving him open, imprinting the shape of himself into Astarion’s body.

"You wish to only be mine?" Cazador braces himself on one hand, hips dropping against Astarion's with a heavy slap of skin on skin. He repeats the hard thrust and begins to build a faster pace. "At last, my sweet boy..." Cazador almost laughs at Astarion. He continues his pace once it's set, the mattress bouncing them slightly.

"If that is what you wish, beg for it. I am to be your husband, but I shall remain your lord. Beg, pet. Tell me how you so desire to live for my pleasure alone. Convince me..." Cazador does not believe Astarion has any such thoughts - not with that damned tadpole in the way. Still, hearing it is enough. He has no intentions of promising monogamy. Not when he enjoys watching Astarion being fucked, filled, used, broken. It is a power he will never relinquish.

Astarion only has a moment to realize the trap he’s set for himself. A spike of pure dread slices its way through the numb haze of his arousal, before that too is chased from his mind by the newly punishing pace. The bruising weight of Cazador’s hips slamming against his, the whacking of his balls against the plush of Astarion’s ass - it feels like coming home. His back arches, mouth falling open as his chest brushes against his Master’s.

“Please, ah , master, I-I… nn .. let me show you my devotion and loya- ah - loyalty.” He rolls his hips in a way he knows the man on top of him finds enticing. He’s close, he can feel it, and so scared. So desperate for this - all of this - to be over. Even being fucked by Cazador alone is a daunting nightmare; the prospect of returning to his life riding a near endless carousel of random cocks was enough to have him begging.

“Wanna be all your’s - need you… ngh …” Astarion tries to force his throat to work, to croon and flatter instead of just moaning in aroused horror. He noses at his sire’s jaw, and he can almost pretend his little gasps are those of adoring arousal. “I need - please … hah… fuck me, master, please, don’t leave me, hnn, master, I’m so empty, please- ”

Each slam into his prostate drives the words out of him as surely as his orgasm. He whites out, left with only the conditioned urge to tell the man fucking him that he loves him, loves his cock, loves how it feels, that he needs this. He comes between both of their stomachs, and lets the agony crest into a drug-like blur of babbled platitudes. The part of its mind which sequesters itself away from his body feels numb mortification. 

The rest of him just feels numb.

The unrelenting drive of Cazador's hips causes Astarion's cool composure to begin to unravel. His smooth, flirtatious drawl begins to falter and grow breathier. There is the occasional hitch in his tone whenever Cazador thrusts especially roughly, betraying Astarion and revealing how well he enjoys being used by his master. It's everything to Cazador to pull Astarion apart so easily as it proves how much control he has over his body, illithid tadpole be damned.

Then Astarion starts to moan. It's without question the most sensual sound Cazador knows and he starts to pant himself as he grows rougher still, hips and balls slapping against Astarion's soft, warm skin with more urgency.

He has to see Astarion break in some form or another - and, fortunately for Astarion, he wishes to see his seed spilt and not his blood. With the beautiful promise of loyalty and his begging, Cazador feels a well-practiced roll back to meet his hips which sinks Astarion back onto his cock perfectly. He leans over further and starts to rut with abandon, rewarding Astarion for his sweet promises and obedience.

Between Cazador's single-minded determination to make Astarion come on his cock untouched and the familiar way they fit together and fuck, it proves all too much for the spawn. Cazador sees the glassy look in his eyes before Astarion's softened mouth falls open with a loud moan, swiftly followed by a hot splattering of come between them, and Astarion's hole pulsing, squeezing around the thick cock buried deep inside him. Cazador watches with great satisfaction as Astarion topples over the edge. He goes distant and Cazador continues to thrust to feel Astarion's cock twitch between their bellies, his muscles rippling pleasantly around his length all the while as he comes down from his high.

"Perfection," Cazador breathes out, hushed and listening to Astarion's mewling with fascination. He slows to a halt, still hard as he rests his weight against Astarion's hips, with the bulge of his balls snug against that peach soft ass. A smile spreads across Cazador's face, both mean and full of pride as he waits for Astarion to rouse.

Considering his cock is inside Astarion still, Cazador is remarkably contained, keeping hold of his thigh and hitching up the other to mirror. After a few moments, Cazador slips out and takes a moment to rearrange their position slightly He draws a feather-fat pillow under Astarion's lower back, giving him some height, and then pushes back his hips towards him, folding him in half like a ragdoll, as though he weighs nothing whatsoever.

Cazador slides his hands up around Astarion's calves, pushing them further towards his head, then rises up to meet him, attention on where his hole is pink and puffy, blushing almost.

"Guide me back inside you," he instructs, his cock dripping over Astarion, spattering precome down over his spent cock and balls. "And... aren't you forgetting something?" Cazador teases, on the verge of something dangerous if Astarion messes up, because he should definitely know better.

Astarion shudders and twitches, every point of contact with Cazador too-much. He feels raw, overspent and overstimulated. Even with Cazador still, the weight of his cock buried inside of Astarion’s sensitive walls was completely overwhelming. He bites back a whine, eyes unseeing and half lidded.

He’s cognisant enough to be aware he isn’t supposed to have come before his master and maker, even though he knows Cazador had been aiming for him to. He’s failed a test, and it feels like the tacky coolness of his own spend against his soft stomach. He considers whether it would be worth it to give in to the nausea and just throw up all over Cazador. At the very least, it will probably kill the man’s erection. Even as he thinks it, his body still milks Cazador inside of him, clenching and fluttering as if he has been made for only this.

Cazador fully stills, and Astarion cracks open his eyes, peering up at him. It isn’t like him to stop like this, to do anything other than chase his own pleasure single mindedly. He makes a soft, confused noise in the back of his throat.

Then he’s being adjusted, folded and manipulated like a toy for Cazador’s use. The thought has his dick stirring once again, and he moans in despair. He just wants this to be over already. His hands, blessedly free, press up against Cazador’s chest; not pushing him away, he doesn’t dare - but a slight pressure nonetheless.

He hates this position. He feels like a thing, all of his most vulnerable parts on display for Cazador to gawk down at. The pink flush of his hard nipples and exhausted cock, every twitch of his fluttering hole bared for his enjoyment. Besides, he always ends up with a kink in his neck afterwards.

“T-thank you, Master, for giving your worthless spawn what I need.” The words spill from him as easily as his seed had. It’s practiced, practically second nature. He keeps talking, sacrificing dignity in the hope of avoiding punishment.

“I’m yours, I’m nothing but yours - let me serve you, please, treat me like I deserve, fill me up, please…”

With a barely hidden grimace, Astarion wiggles his hips and ass to meet Cazador above him. His limbs feel weak and watery, and he struggles to follow the instructions now that Cazador’s words no longer spur his body into action without his regard.

His precome drips down his chest, and it feels like a brand.

Cazador ensures every brush of his hand ends with a firm squeeze, pushing a little further than would be comfortable for Astarion. Despite the illusion of a silk feather pillow beneath his ass, it does little for his comfort compared to how it permits Cazador to manipulate his lax body to his liking.

As Astarion stirs, his palms daintily touch Cazador's chest as he peers up with big, despairing eyes which almost have Cazador exploding. His cock jolts with excitement as the scent of fresh arousal oozes from Astarion even where his cock hangs limp and spent. It's a view which Cazador wishes could somehow be captured in portraiture and he considers how well it would look hung over one of the mantle pieces. Astarion looking frightened, exhausted, with his cock soft, come pearly all across his chest, and all his extremities a pale, petal pink... it really is Cazador's favorite sight. He considers what Astarion would look like blood-drunk, giddy, and flushed.

A future experiment for when his lover is well-behaved and newly trained for his change in status.

"Good boy," Cazador purrs encouragingly and smirks at how the words tumble from Astarion's loose lips - so pink now he longs to bite them. "You are mine entirely. Do not fret, you shall soon be full of my seed and bask in my scent. Yet..." he tuts softly, cocking his head a fraction, amused at how Astarion can only bring himself to squirm against his cock, already worn out.

"Poor thing, you shall not be a worthless spawn much longer." 

Cazador grows impatient, but keeps up a sickly saccharine tone while he folds Astarion's legs further to hold them back together in one hand. He takes in Astarion's hole, raw and already not quite wet as he could be. The vampire spits down onto Astarion's hole, then grasps his dick, smearing it across his pucker. His eyes drink in the furl of Astarion's used asshole; where Astarion is boney and where he is soft curves; his balls all elven smooth and adorable between squeezed thighs. It does not matter he cannot see Astarion's face in that moment, as he reminds himself for all his newfound power; Astarion is nothing but a worthless spawn.

The look of nauseous dread that spreads across Astarion’s face at his master’s intent to come inside of him is mercifully hidden by his own contorted lower thighs. It has his hole fluttering, clenching in tense anticipation of his master’s claim against where Astarion has pressed himself to his erection. He can feel Cazador’s appreciation in every twitch of it against the cleft of his ass, every dribble of pre that runs down his thigh. The feeling is so utterly repulsive Astarion wants to flay his own skin from each spot it touches. His own dick throbs with need.

Something wet hits his rim and he flinches, a violent thing that shakes every inch of him. It’s warm, and Astarion realizes Cazador has spit on him with a sort of reeling horror. Far from his first time but still, unpleasant.

"You deserve this, love." Despite his words, Cazador lifts his cock and slaps it messily against Astarion's hole, smearing spit across his skin before thumbing the head of his cock back inside. He sinks mostly into Astarion before he draws his legs back in each hand, framing his face once more as Cazador begins at a sharp, intense pace again.

"You are adorable when you are so humble," he teases, a growl growing behind his words again. "Beg for me, sweetheart, do not be bashful."

Astarion wonders if he’d been this flexible when he had been alive, or whether it was another trait Cazador had trained into his body. His eyes are glassy with tears as he gazes up at the ceiling, past where his cock hung down in his face, already pathetically beginning to swell once again, and past the snarling face of his master. He can’t stand to see the expression he knows he will find there.

Hells. The canopy of the bed was beyond ostentatious. It’s an insult to all of the many men he’s fucked here that none of them caught on to the whole “vampire” thing.

He almost wishes his hands were still bound, be it by rope or Cazador’s compulsion, so that he might know what to do with them. He wants to strangle the man on top of him. He wants to push him away, to kick, to tear the man’s throat right from below his head. Instead, they twist in the sheets at his sides, grasping and desperate.

Astarion still floats half outside of his body, as if he were watching a stranger from afar. As if he were truly a ghost, watching a puppet of his own corpse  be debased. Simultaneously, he feels everything too much and yet nothing at all.

He whines as he is once again filled, hips rutting mindlessly. Cazador’s words are a poison in his ears, his praise more degrading than his insults.

I deserve this. I deserve this. I deserve this.

It’s like every punishing slam of Cazador’s body against his is beating the words into him, a feverish mantra of self flagellation. His eyes squeeze shut to keep tears from falling down his face, each thrust from Cazador drawing punched out little noises from his open mouth. His head is thrown back, and he despairs at the fact that he is once again nearing his peak.

”Please, please, oh - ma~ aster - fill me up I need… need you… I’m yours-“

It’s just a babble of dirty talk, poorly strung together tidbits he’s pulled from here and there. Things he knows people like when he says. He’s not thinking anymore - just performing on instinct.

During the torment and hard thrusts from Cazador, it has brought tears to Astarion's vibrant eyes, making him look downright hopeless and pathetic. Cazador loves it. He carries on at the same pace, not caring for Astarion's comfort and only caring about drawing some reaction from him.

Of course Astarion's cock is already chubby, perky with how well Cazador is fucking him and easily stirred with the blood in his system. He makes those delightful moans and whines Cazador is so turned on by, the ones he knows how to pull from Astarion in earnest, but his words... They come out rehearsed, as well-practiced as Astarion is. Cazador senses there is no difference in his favorite than when he were a mere puppet on a string parroting what he knows will please his master.

It is surprisingly disappointing. Not that Cazador expected Astarion to be starry-eyed and sighing with relief immediately. That will come in time. Eventually, Cazador will have remade Astarion again into a lovesick, dependent, doting lapdog of a consort. Soon, Astarion will be tortured by how well he means those words and then... he will care for nothing but his new life and his master and husband's happiness.

There is no rush for immortal beings such as themselves. Cazador can enjoy indulging in Astarion's torment a while longer and show him once again why it is better to submit, as well as why it is worse than suicidal to disobey. It is best to slowly introduce Astarion to the thought of being his kept consort, as progress would surely prove to him that Cazador is treating him wonderfully and remind him of how improved his life will be.

"Soon you shall call me husband," he growls out proudly as he grows breathier, reaching to grasp Astarion's jaw, leaning in closer, wanting to pull his attention back to the intimacy of the act. "Not a night will go by where you do not beg for this."

Softening his fingers, Cazador strokes down over Astarion's neck, fingering his scars, then slowly wraps around his delicate throat. He can feel the vibration of any sound Astarion makes this way. Cazador places down pressure increasingly and focuses on Astarion's lips - how alive he seems compared to the last time they had sex.

"My beloved... My little star..."

His fingers are almost too tight as he grits his fangs as his entire body grows tense. With a final few thrusts, Cazador bottoms out, his balls pulsing against Astarion's backside as his cock twitches within him while he comes. Cazador pins him by neck and gaze for the first long pulses of his orgasm, then presses between Astarion's legs to take a hungry, wild kiss from him which results in his fangs splitting his lip, turning it bloody. The vampire snarls as he claims what's his again.

Astarion leans into the touch to his face, nuzzling against it - desperate for any modicum of gentleness. His eyebrows pinch together, and he clenches his jaw, lips parting as his back arches to press his head down against the mattress. He shudders, gasping at Cazador’s tracing of his scars - how pathetic, that such a thing still shakes him so deeply. He writhes, and he can taste the blood on Cazador’s breathe as he whispers against him.

The hands move to cradle his neck, fingers covering the scar of where Cazador has first bitten him, and Astarion chokes dutifully. He has no need for air, really, but he knows Cazador prefers he react, and besides; it doesn’t make suffocation hurt any less, doesn’t make his brain any less sure it was in danger - for, truly, he was. His own hands fly to clutch at Cazador’s wrists, too weak to pull him away but still scrabbling futilely.

Husband. Beloved. Every night.

Perhaps Astarion has made a mistake. Perhaps, he realizes with increased hysteria, he can’t do this.

He tries to chase the thoughts away with fantasies of diving a knife through Cazador’s neck, but each rub of the thick head of Cazador’s cock against his sweet spot has his mind going blissfully blank.

Mercifully, it’s not long before he feels himself filled by the warmth of Cazador’s seed. The relief of it is only outweighed by the feeling of goodness. He has fulfilled his purpose, and being used makes him hard, because fulfilling his purpose makes him hard. Being hard makes him feel good. He comes a second time with a sob, dick twitching pathetically, barely anything dribbling from the head. Astarion, unlike Cazador, was typical in terms of elven sperm production.

His cry is immediately silenced by Cazador’s lips, and he tastes his own borrowed blood on his tongue as his master claims every inch of him. With his legs still hoisted over Cazador’s shoulders and his body boxed in under his chest, he’s helpless to do anything other than gasp and squirm, the wave of self loathing and disgust that always followed his own orgasms crashing down on him.

Cazador gives into a deep, sensual roll of his hips while he kisses Astarion, feeling the slickness of his own seed easing the way. It feels merciful after fucking Astarion with so little oil with such great vigour, and he luxuriates in how filthy and wonderful it feels to drag his cock out wet and sink back inside Astarion to push his release deeper. He has always loved wrecking Astarion, who has always been so particular with hygiene and aesthetics, and making a real mess of him. It is hardly as good as when Astarion's slick with blood, but it's a tamer equivalent that is still pleasing. Seeing him paint himself with his own weak release does everything for Cazador's ego and it is an utterly gorgeous sight.

He keeps Astarion muffled as he slowly, tenderly fucks him with his gradually softening cock, their kiss the same unrushed glide only tongues and blood. It is damning that his blood tastes of Cazador's, alongside his recently drained Gur drink, and something uniquely Astarion. Tasting his blood, to Cazador, is like a particularly fine vintage wine. Something exquisite he still enjoys, even if there is less benefit to drinking a mortal. But despite the urge to bite Astarion's neck, he laps at his mouth and suckles the cut until it heals over.

His kisses gentle to more loving pecks, tacky with blood, and his hand encircles Astarion's neck carefully. With a sigh, Cazador peels back and moves Astarion's legs to his waist, letting him bend and settle as he wishes now- yet not without Cazador wedged between his thighs, hips still hunching forward and then flexing backward to shallowly and ever so slowly fuck him. He's half-hard, but it's easy enough to manage with Astarion forcefully stretched and his hole is wet now.

"By the Hells, I have missed you, darling." Cazador is so pleased to have Astarion back that it feels as though he has won already. "I would have burnt the woods to ashes to have you back in my arms." He leans heavily on top of Astarion with a grunt of a sigh and idly fusses over his curls with one hand where he's braced on his elbows to continue admiring him as his hips finally pause, cock nestled inside Astarion.

"You peaked again so soon? The night remains young, but ah, I cannot blame you for having missed your maker." His fingers swirl around a large curl to sweep it back from Astarion's brow as he watches his expression with intrigue. "You longed for this, did you not?"

“Nngh,” is all Astarion can manage to say, effectively gagged by Cazador's tongue in his mouth. Every drag against his walls, now soft and slippery, no long sandpaper and friction, has his whole lower body quivering. If he thought he was sensitive before, it’s nothing compared to his overstimulation now. His head spins. It feels as if Cazador is trying to fuck his own semen as deep into Astarion as his body would allow, claiming him completely, body and soul. Every inch of his body belonged to him. Every inch feels disgusting.

He wonders if he’ll be allowed to bathe now, or if the feeling of crusted come on his skin is just another horror he’ll have to adjust himself to.

He wonders if Cazador can taste his own precome on Astarion’s limp tongue as he practically fucks his mouth once again, this time with his own mouth. Does it turn the man on, to taste his claim so symbolically? Astarion can only assume it must.

Cazador suckles and bites Astarion’s lips until they bruise, brilliant against his pale face. He’s still shaking from the aftershocks of his second orgasm, trembling in fear and learned helplessness. He tries to draw back the fractured shards of his mind together, to gather up everything he lets float away to protect himself. It’s harder than he remembers. Perhaps he was out of practice, or perhaps the feeling of Cazador softening inside of him was too all-consuming.

Careful not to pull out, his master lets Astarion’s body come to rest bonelessly around him. Without the distraction the uncomfortable position had provided, Astarion feels all too aware of where he and Cazador are still intertwined. His skin feels tacky with his own sweat and semen.

He had stupidly hoped Cazador would have been satisfied by one round, but he knew his master’s appetite for his spawn’s suffering was nearly boundless. Still, the cuddling, the pillow talk - it’s new and disturbs Astarion. Normally the second he was done, Cazador would cast Astarion aside like a filthied rag he’d masterbated into. This is intimate and it scares Astarion. He does not want to be touched or held; least of all to have Cazador’s spend still trapped inside of him, sickeningly.

He turns his face away slightly, still panting from exertion and Cazador’s chokehold. He tries not to let his expression sour, to stay fucked-out and breathless. Lucidity is returning, and he finds it does not suit him well.

I did not miss you. I swore I’d die before I returned to you.

He doesn’t say it. What’s the point? Here he is, anyway.

“It seems we have both spent our time apart longing for things we cannot have.” Astarion manages to bite out, still looking anywhere but his sire. A dangerous flash of rebelliousness runs through him, and he’s unable to bite back his next comment. “I’m afraid to say the sun’s embrace had me quite distracted.”

Cazador was trained as artfully as Astarion was, so he knows how to graze his fingers against his soft skin and how to play with his hair in mockery of affection. His attempts do nothing for Astarion, who lies there limp and useless, merely accepting the unusual play of affection. It is far more than he has given the spawn before, so Cazador is curious what the effect will be on him whilst in a vulnerable state of mind and his body likely expecting cruelty and violence any moment.

Slowly, Astarion melts down onto the bed like treacle, and does not disturb where Cazador remains sheathed inside him. He knows this well enough and yet he still turns his gaze away with what Cazador reads as more defiance than fear or submission. There is still an attractive, mellow expression on Astarion's face, but his tone turns sharper, sourer, and makes Cazador still.

His fingers freeze where they have been combing Astarion's hair and the remark turns his blood icy. There is a rage simmering underneath the surface, causing the red of his eyes to glow heatedly in the dimly lit chamber for an instant. He draws in a deep breath and as he lets go of a sigh, he has calmed considerably, his tone almost sweet as he considers what lies ahead.

"It shall be some time before you walk in the light once more," he coos, voice sickly sweet as his fingers begin teasing Astarion's hair again. "One day you shall walk alongside me in the sunlight. Once I can trust you again. After I have ascended." The word carries weight to it on the vampire's tongue and it rumbles deep in his chest, the candlelight quivering slightly, threatening to extinguish before the flames settle again.

The fingers in his hair feel like a threat, possessive in their tenderness. Still, Astarion melts into the touch. He’s overwhelmed by the contradictions that rule his body; both tense and limp, on fire with disgust and lingering lust. Each gesture has Astarion shuddering away as if he expected to be slapped instead, or have his hair grabbed roughly.

His breath catches as he sees the fury in Cazador’s eyes as he meets them for the first time post-coitus, and he shrinks in on himself. So quick to be defiant, so easily cowed. He reminds himself of his plan to behave, so that he might attempt escape once Cazador left him.

“A-ascended…?” Astarion asks, unable to curb the curious whisper. It was not something he had heard his master refer to before. Already, his new status revealed to him more of his master’s ambition and plans. It’s hard for the information to feel worth it with his spend still cooling on the muscles of his chest.

"You were forever a mischievous pup with that tongue of yours," he points out, wanting Astarion to understand his new position does not make him immune to punishment.

He eases up to his knees, his cock dragging from Astarion heavy, soft, and glistening. Picking up Astarion's leg beneath the knee, he lifts it over him and uses the leverage to overbalance and toss him onto his front.

“I distinctly remember you enjoying my tongue.” Astarion bites back another moan as Cazador pulls out, pulling at the abused lip of his rim. His hole clenches futilely, trying to return to it’s unmolested state, inadvertently trapping Cazador’s cum inside of him. A few globs spill out, running down the crest of his thigh.  He grimaces.

He’s too lost in his own miseries to anticipate Cazador’s next move, and he cries out in surprise as he’s harshly flipped; scars now glistening on display for his master. Astarion looks back over his shoulder, eyes wide and once again filled with anticipation. Really, there’s never any good reason he ends up in this position.

"Up on all fours. You will recall your other boons this infection has afforded you... and you can count for me while you do so."

Astarion has to bite his tongue to keep from expressing his indignation. Really, this should be nothing to him. This is nothing, compared to what Cazador had done to him before. Yet he feels so raw, the shield he’d built around his heart eroded by his time as a free man. As if the sun itself had melted away his defenses.

After visibly trying to recenter himself, Astarion attempts to get to his hands and knees. Without being forced into compulsion by Cazador’s will, they shake under him and he sways.

He braces for the first hit, not even really sure what he’s supposed to be reflecting on.

For all his snipping, Astarion knows his place. He will allow Cazador to use him as he so wishes, as that is his rightful place as dictated by fate. A spawn, once turned, can only ever replace their master, yet he will forever remain having been Cazador's first should he ever rise to the challenge. However there is no such ambition or talent amongst Cazador's spawn thus far, he has been much too cautious from lessons learnt under his own master, and even with power, Astarion remains nothing but fiesty for a hot moment before he is reduced to whimpering.

By the time Astarion is on hands and knees for him, Cazador is admiring where he's dripped spend over his thighs, looking debased already. He leaves it and moves closer, leaning over to admire the pale, long-healed scars raised on Astarion's back. The words run neat rings around his spine, in the crook of his shoulder blades where he looks so tense he might shatter.

"Oh, your tongue certainly feels better against my cock after you have been mouthing off." Cazador chuckles darkly and takes a finger to touch the tip of a nail to the top of the first scarred letter. He drags the point over the mark, traces the first word and mutters it softly, as though enchanted by the sight.

At some point Cazador must replace Astarion in the ritual. He will wait for the first spawn to upset his pet and set an example of them. Prove his adoration and intentions with his beloved consort as being above the rest. He also considers the reward, the honour even, of allowing the first of them to impress him next to be allowed to fuck his chosen one.

Cazador has traced around the outer half circle to Astarion's spine and then drags his nails downward, grazing over pale, unmarked skin. His hand softens and flattens to sweep over Astarion's arse, cupping his cheek appreciatively.

"I ought to be stricter with you, yet a spanking and something to remind you that you must earn your place back in my favor shall suffice."

Picking up his hand, Cazador gives Astarion a mere splinter of a moment to reflect, then striking down the spread palm against the opposite cheek. It's sharp enough to make his own hand smart and Cazador digs his fingers into the meat of Astarion's ass hungrily, groping his cheeks apart to show him off again.

"Count, pet."

Astarion’s breath hitches with each stroke to his scar, head dropping between his trembling arms. Each curve of his spine spin his neck is deliciously prominent. He feels his mind slipping towards the memories of that fateful night, and tries desperately to ground himself. While dissociation was normally more his cup of tea, he preferred this to getting fucked through a flashback.

“Thank you, Master, for your benevolence.” Astarion grits out through his clenched jaw. He hopes it sounds earnest. He’s not feeling particularly grateful, currently. His breath starts to come quickly once again as Cazador fondles his ass.

The strike hits the meat of Astarion’s asscheek and he jerks forward with an aborted squeal, nearly falling forward onto his face. It stings like the hells.

“O-one.” Astarion’s body shakes with a silent sob as his cheeks are roughly spread to reveal more come escaping down his perineum. The hit has his exhausted cock once again stirring, just adding to his despair. He’s surprised to see his own teardrops staining the silk sheets beneath him.

Whatever has happened to Astarion, the resistance he has, his brief freedom, it crumbles once he is back beneath his master's hand and within his domain. It is a comfort to Cazador that his spawn is still malleable and obedient enough, though he has his suspicions something foul could be at play.

Astarion's yelps and trembling is a balm on Cazador's concerns, reminding him that his spawn is well and truly broken already. Of course, any dog that slips its lead will enjoy a brief freedom, but Astarion has come home to the life he has been trained to crave - the blood, the cruelty, the sex, the ownership. It is a part of Astarion now, ever since he was forged again in Cazador's blood.

Cazador smirks once Astarion remembers to count and gives him another swift smack across his ass in the same spot. He moves across to his other cheek and kneads the plump flesh there before giving that side a smack too, the sound loud in the quiet of the bedchamber, even where Astarion is sniveling.

"There, there. You brought this upon yourself, silly boy. Your wit I appreciate, but you should know better than to taunt your master so deliberately. Had I been less benevolent or had you been one of the others, I might have had you torn apart by wolves."

From his vantage point close to Astarion's side, Cazador is able to let his head tilt aside and see where Astarion's handsome face is pinched and where those big, fat tears have started to well and tumble in earnest now. It's a gorgeous sight to behold.

"It is not befitting of a consort to insult their master so. I expect you to be more civil in future. Or at least be prepared to receive some consequences." Cazador lands another blow when he's ready.

Astarion counts.

It’s, like a lot of things he’s been recently learning, much harder when he isn’t being directly puppeted by Cazador. He’s overwhelmed. He struggles to disconnect from his body when made to manipulate it with his own will, forced to experience every agony and humiliation fully present. He knew that if he were to slip away into his mind as he truly wanted to, his body would surely fall limp - and that wouldn’t do.

He begins to falter somewhere in the double digits. Had he said thirteen, or twenty three?  His memories of being forced to count punishments all blur together in his mind, seeping into the moment. Even without Cazador’s compulsion, he’s overwhelmed out of habit by his own feeling of badness . Cazador’s cruel disappointment shouldn’t have been half as cutting as it was - and yet, it still had Astarion’s gut churning into knots. Fear of punishment and guilt for disobedience no longer felt so different, after 200 years of conflation. All he knew was he was bad-wrong,  and that meant pain.

And pain meant arousal - he was no longer quite sure there was really any difference. Had he ever truly felt one without the other? Were such memories just a figment of his desperate mind, scrambling to find dignity?

Astarion’s hands fist in the sheets, twisting as his body fails him. He’s terrified of falling from his ordered position, but the terror only further saps his strength as pleasure and pain turn his limbs to jelly. He bites his own lip to stifle his sobs, blood trickling down to stain the bedspread.

The sound of a swift, cruel strike against soft flesh coupled with Astarion's beautiful noises and pained counting is soothing. Cazador feels at peace when he has Astarion close and is administering some form of reward or punishment. He does so enjoy Astarion's tears, and how even with his new power he is weak for Cazador.

Forever Cazador's spawn.

He works up a delightful rose blush and harsh red marks across Astarion's pale cheeks, catching his thighs sometimes, and giving a few slightly more forgiving slaps against his hole. When Cazador is satisfied, he smooths over each round cheek, and then cups Astarion's balls and freshly stiffened cock in one hand.

"Good." He massages gently, rolling Astarion's balls in the soft palm of his hand, and teases his cock with his fingers. It's a soothing touch, a reward for letting his tears flow freely and for being obedient. Astarion's body knows violence comes with release and how being subservient may mean he is allowed to climax - which his tense body so desperately needs.

"Settle down now, kitten." Cazador rubs across Astarion's lower back in a sweeping gesture, urging him to let go. His voice is deep and velvety, a promise that he will take care of his favorite. "You took it beautifully."

Cazador tilts his head, interested in the scent of blood, and listening keenly to Astarion. His cock is already hard and twitches with any pathetic noise Astarion makes.

"Make yourself comfortable where you are. I shall feed you once I have taken you again. You make sounds that would make a whore blush when you're being struck."

Astarion’s ass and thighs are a stinging, quivering mess of blotchy handprints by the time  Cazador is done with him. The first hit to his hole has him gasping, nearly coming right there. He loses count some time around the second, Cazador’s hand coming away wet with his own seed. His ass wiggles in a way that could be construed as enticing, but was nothing more than a product of his failing strength. His pert backside sways, looking warm, glowing in a way he never has when he's bloodless and starving. It suits him well and it gives Cazador a new incentive to keep Astarion on good quality blood; he marks a damn sight prettier this way.

He whines at Cazador’s caress, his balls tightening in his hand. It’s too good, too much. His tongue lolls out of his mouth as he pants, tears still steaming down his pointed nose. Cazador praises him, his fingers dancing along the length of his cock, and Astarion whites out.

Those few choice words of praise and the lightest touch to Astarion's cock has his balls and cock twitching against his palm. It's barely any stimulation, but when neither of Astarion's previous orgasms came from his cock being touched, Cazador can tell this one is more intense and it comes easy now he is finally being played with. He watches what he can see of Astarion's face, utterly wrecked, mouth slack, face dripping. It's the most stunning sight. Cazador smiles and watches him collapse, then takes a moment to wipe his fingers clean on Astarion's thigh.

Astarion makes a desperate, gurgling noise in the back of his throat, shaking his head as he hides his face in the sheets. The wipe of Cazador’s fingers against his thigh is just another humiliation added to the long list of the night. He feels so dirty, nothing more than a vehicle for Cazador’s seed once again. An outlet for his lusts and frustrations. Cazador’s promise of status aside, Astarion was still just a thing.

“N-no oo , please…” Astarion’s voice is a hiccuping, hoarse mess. “I can’t- too much-“

Astarion has coiled inward, still presenting himself, but he's a trembling mess. Seeing the intensity of Astarion's emotions to something so kind is utterly intriguing. Cazador is fascinated, aroused, and no amount of begging will prevent him from fucking Astarion further.

He’s withstood so much worse than this. He should be happy to be given as little as this.

And yet.

Taking hold of Astarion's hips, Cazador yanks them backwards slightly, using his body for support as he swings a knee over and settles in comfortably behind him. They align easily and Cazador is keen to bury himself to the hilt in Astarion, enjoying the way he hiccups and sobs.

"I shall not be denied what is rightfully mine to take," Cazador grunts, somewhere between cold logic and seething frustration. He takes a moment to sink his fingers into Astarion, two pressing in and finding the glide easy where he is still filled with Cazador's seed. He fingers Astarion further, then strokes himself before he lines up the tip of his cock, and starts to press into Astarion.

"I have witnessed you take a queue of people, I have seen you take two cocks in your hole at once, werewolves... You shall take me again and you shall come for me . Whether there is anything left to spill does not matter."

Cazador mounts him once again, shoving his fingers against his spawn’s sensitive rim, and Astarion’s hyperventilation interrupts his sobs. Whatever pain he had felt during his earlier fuckings paled in comparison to the feeling of Cazador’s balls against his bruised ass, the head of his cock once again insistant on his rim.  Cazador seats himself to the hilt, whispering recollections of the degradation he’d subjected his slave to, and Astarion chokes on his own tears, spasming pathetically. The haze of the last of his orgasms hasn’t even faded, and he can already feel the next building up deep in the snarl of his chest.

“Don’t- no, no no no please,- ” his hands claw and drag in the sheets, limp body unable to pull himself even an inch away from Cazador’s grip. The larger man moans, loud and open-mouthed as he completely stuffs Astarion full, smoothing his hands all over the spawn's back and ass as if trying to calm a startled creature.

"Brace yourself." Cazador seizes Astarion's hip bones and grows tense, holding Astarion there tightly as he prepares to assault him roughly again. "Be sweet for me. You started off so good for me. Do not spoil it now."

Astarion flails weakly, the muscles under his scar rippling and making his owner’s claim swim across his figure. All his motions achieve is a slight slide up and down on his master’s cock, and the sensation making his toes curl in delicious agony. Cazador's warning is heeded by Astarion and he does manage to hold his hips high, keeping himself draped down and clawing at the bedding like a cat in heat. As he squirms, he works himself on Cazador's cock, making him drawl out encouragingly.

"That's it... My darling, you feel so warm inside..." he sighs out in contentment and squeezes his fingers into Astarion's hips, keeping him steadfast as he thrusts rough and firm into him.

Cazador's hips smack loudly against Astarion's soft flesh, and then finishes by flowing into a smooth grinding forward. He repeats the violent thrusts and rolls into each, luxuriating in the heat of Astarion, and enjoying how he begs and writhes weakly.

After a few thrusts, he glides a palm down Astarion's back, settling a hand on the nape of his neck and grasping lightly, and begins snapping his hips. He keeps up the steady, pumping rhythm, and breathes in the scent of mingling come, sweat, blood, tears... herbs, brandy, and Astarion .

Having been parted from one his prized spawn for so long, Cazador had felt undermined and slighted. This was the opportunity to put Astarion in his place and to see if he could rise to the occasion to be something more in the Szarr household.

Fingers slip from Astarion's neck up into the tangle of snowy curls at the back of Astarion's head. Cazador seizes his hair in a firm tug, urging his face up despite not being able to see it. He wants to hear Astarion's pain, distress, and inevitable pleasure clearly.

"I shall be gentle next... after a drink together... but for now I must take you back... remind you who the master of the house is.... who your lord and husband-to-be is..." Cazador had a proud sort of snarl before soft, punched out moans with his thrusts. It was going as well as he could have hoped for realistically.

Astarion continues to struggle and writhe for several more moments, pained gasps escaping his lips with each slap of Cazador’s balls against his bruising ass. Even beyond the pain, the pleasure is… well, Astarion can’t quite find the words, given that every coherent thought felt as if it were being driven out through his agape mouth. He wretches, biting down into the mattress to muffle the noises that escape him. Looking to rob his master of whatever satisfaction he could.

Now, Cazador slides in and out of him with bruising ease, his hole far from the sloppiest it’s ever been but still practically whorish compared to the untouched rose that had sat between his cheeks only that morning. His face is shoved down by the hand around his neck, and his fangs snag and rip in the silk below him. His own spend and Cazador’s mix in the divets of his hips, cooling into a sticky mess around his straining cock.

With his voice once again audible, Astsrion babbles a mixture of pleas for Cazador to stop, to fuck him harder, to let him go, to let him come once again. He doesn’t beg for Cazador to kill him, though if he were more lucid he might have. He twists under Cazador’s grip, tense as a whip cord, bony arms moving as if to attempt to strike Cazador. To pull his hand from his hair, to pull himself off the cock which currently had his own dick standing at full alert, even if there was nothing left in him to dribble out. He’s calling out for someone, anyone to save him. Gods, his companions, even a fucking mind flayer. Nothing comes except the inevitability of his next orgasm building, the feeling as if Cazador were trying to slam through his stomach and impale him.

He had been free. For one delicious moment, he had dreamed of a life beyond this - and it made returning to the reality of his existance excruciating.

There is nothing gentle about the way Cazador stakes his claim on Astarion this time. He mounts Astarion with the ferocity of a beast and snarls with bared fangs when his spawn twists and flails beneath him. He uses the hand in Astarion's hair to pull sharply or shove his face to the sheets to cause him to lose his balance and sense of place briefly, keeping him under control.

It feels as though Cazador has a new doll to play with. Astarion is easy to manhandle and manipulate, while his hole leaks and is slick enough for Cazador to take him violently, with a messy smack between skin on skin where Astarion is leaking and creamy. The seed on his skin feels tacky and makes the fast-paced smack of Cazador's heavy balls even louder.

The rush Cazador experiences when Astarion loses it and pleas for mercy, for help, for release... is nearly too much already. He wonders idly why he has not allowed Astarion's mind more room to resist previously, as the result is so thrilling. His nonsensical cries are a reward in themself and Cazador's breathing becomes a ragged, animalistic growling as his lip draws back and he bares his fangs.

"You knew full well what you were asking for when you misbehaved," he drawls, even as his thrusts speed up in desperation for release. "You could not help it, could you? You had to provoke me. Had to get fucked like a bitch to feel at home. You sweet, little slut. How could I deny you?"

“I’m your bitch, I’m your slut, I’m yours just please please please- ” Astarion doesn’t even know what he’s begging for anymore, but he does know this is how men like him most. Fucked out and brainless, mindlessly rutting and repeating whatever disgusting drivel is fed to him. His mind soaks in the insults, taking them inside of his heart as surely as Cazador’s cock and come stained his insides. There was no inch of him that the man hadn’t ruined, stretched and broken and twisted until it was nothing but his master’s whims.

Between the dirty talk and the rough handling, Astarion’s body does what it knows how to do best. He is Cazador’s bitch, and he comes like one. The familiar feeling of climaxing from his prostate rips through him, has him clenching down like a vice even in his stretched state.

He moans wantonly, long and guttural, body losing the rest of its fight. He’s pliant, wet and slippery under Cazador, eyes rolling back in his head. Astarion’s cheekbone drags back and forth across the sheets, no longer able to even lift his neck. He’s out of tears to cry, of come to spurt; he’s nothing.

He’s nothing .

Cazador fucks Astarion animalistically into complete and utter submission. Anything of that fiesty, sunwalking brat has faded away and in place remains Cazador's ever obedient, perfect spawn. The words Cazador trickles into his mind take root and overcome any other thoughts of rebellion and possibility of escape.

Astarion will learn there is no existence outside of Cazador, even if the lesson is a brutal one. Cazador is as obsessed with the thought as his impending Ascension ritual. To be truly omnipotent, he needed Astarion in line too. And oh, it would be wonderful to achieve Astarion's ultimate submission beforehand.

The sex grows rougher, sloppier, and Astarion's babbling melts into stretched out needy sounds as he shudders beautifully and milks Cazador's cock for another orgasm. It feels like a punch to the gut with how hard Astarion suddenly clamps around him and spasms, and within a moment, Cazador finishes himself with a long, deep moan of Astarion's name.

Once more, Cazador's cock flexes and he rocks Astarion a while longer, his face sliding against silk sheets as his ass is filled again. However, Cazador places his hands onto Astarion's hips, pulls out and works himself in his hand for the last few pearly spurts of come. They splash across Astarion's pink cheeks and over his battered and puffy hole. Cazador presses his hard cock between Astarion's cheeks, palms covering his cheeks as he squeezes his flesh around him and ruts through the last of his orgasm.

"Good," he breathes out shakily, feeling calmer after his rageful episode. "I am satisfied you know what cheek earns you." Cazador stills and absorbs the sight of Astarion bent over, covered in handprints and come, looking ruined from only having been bedded by his maker.

"Make your apology and we can return to enjoying our reunion properly." Cazador grazes the impressive length of his cock back and forth... back and forth... enjoying how soft Astarion feels against him.

The come splattered across Astarion’s thighs, ass, and lower back is pearly white against the breathtaking backdrop of his blood-marbled skin. Normally, it was barely visible against his parlor: now it stood out like the final brushstrokes on a masterpiece made of Astarion’s sufferings.

Cazador manages to pry another cry of pain from the elf’s pretty lips as he grabs his cheeks roughly, aggravating the forming bruises and the mess that was left of his hole. He dry heaves at the feeling of the drag of it, every part of him made only for his master’s sick entertainment.

and his traitorous, disgusting corpse enjoys it all the while. Even if his will was his own again, what use was that if his brain and body were irrevocably claimed? He’s beyond hysterics.

Astarion’s body shutters and flinches like a leaf, shivering in the throes of overstimulation and horror at himself. He’s lost in the depths of his own misery, only vaguely aware his master is speaking. The thought brings panic, but not lucidity. Astarion is a thing, and he isn’t sure whether things are supposed to talk.

“Ngh?” He rasps, throat dry from crying and moaning. Everything is so much harder, now that he must think for himself. Truly, the gods must hate him, to answer his pleas in the cruelest way possible. To torment him with free will, when there was only one right choice to make. “…p…lease…”

Cazador is indifferent to the pathetic wretch beneath him making pitiful sounds and shivering helplessly. He rubs himself between Astarion's cheeks a while until he feels satisfied and his cock begins to soften. He rubs his hands over the swell of Astarion's ass and smears the seed across his skin, staining him with Cazador's scent and claim.

At last, Astarion stirs and Cazador regards him with a cool look as he speaks with a wrecked, timid voice. It is fantastically adorable to Cazador, who thinks how he would like to continue fucking Astarion - or to at least watch someone else push him further - while in this damaged, vulnerable state.

Instead, he moves to Astarion's side, fingers skimming up the bow of Astarion's back as he goes. He settles propped against the pillows, lounging there regally. With a crook of his fingers, he beckons Astarion and opens up his arm to him.

"Come here to me, pet. Let me see your face," he does his best not to smirk too wickedly and keeps his tone adoring, almost kind. "Let master dry your tears and stroke your hair. You have learnt your lesson, haven't you?"

Astarion tries to get his twitching body to respond to his demands. At first, nothing. He is too overcome by anguish to do anything more than tighten himself into the fetal position he has curled into. Finally, painfully, his shaking arms push his torso up from the bed. His head hangs low against his chest, white hair falling limply down in front of his eyes. His perfect, curated appeared ruined; easily pulled back to the sewer scuttling whore he knew he always had been.

The last thing Astarion wants to do is to crawl into the arms of his master. What he really wants - well, better not to think of that, actually - but he’d much prefer to be left to stew in self pity alone. To be given the chance to try and reform all the parts of himself which Cazador so easily shattered.

Still. He has no more fight left in him, not tonight. It is easier to bend than break, to submit than pay the price for dignity. With Cazador’s come trailing between his legs, Astarion crawls on collapse on the pillows beside him. He doesn’t insert himself into the embrace, just hovering. It hurts to sit, so he does his best to position himself in a way that both provides dignity and comfort. It’s a silly thing, really; those concepts ought to be as foreign to him as the sun.

One shaking hand goes to wipe the tears from his face, the precome still smeared around his chin and lips from the earlier blowjob. His eyes are red rimmed, the color of his lips, his nipples and his cock, the now hidden furl between his legs.

Astarion wonders if he’ll be punished for ruining the bedspread.

He tries to think of something to say, and comes up blank. He just wants to sleep. It's a long stretch before Astarion stairs properly and turns a bleary gaze towards Cazador. Even then, he is not certain Astarion is even slightly composed mentally. There is no connection to force Astarion up, so Cazador does not make the attempt, and instead waits patiently until he eventually does shuffle up to drop against the fat feather pillows at the head of the grand state bed.

Vibrant red eyes are fixed on Astarion as he wipes his face unsuccessfully and curls in on himself, shrinking himself down under his master's gaze. It's rather endearing to see the cocky spawn turned into such a nervous wreck.

Cazador leans heavier on one side and reaches across, smoothing back Astarion's curls from his face and cupping his cheek. His thumb spans from the corner of Astarion's eye and smooths away the tear tracks to his cheek. The look of fondness and smugness on Cazador's face mingles strangely, as he cannot decide how he feels about Astarion's subtle acts of defiance. It's an amusing challenge for the moment, but Cazador is loath to reward bad habits.

"You did so very well," he hums as he keeps stroking Astarion's face clean. "And you came so much. Did you enjoy that?" Cazador chuckles, as if entirely blind to the pain and angst Astarion has just suffered. "We'll have to get you a bath at the end of the night. You look positively debauched."

His thumb plucks at Astarion's lips, strokes across them, and he skims away to leave them feeling sensitive.

"Come closer. Let me hold you." Red eyes burn brighter and finally, Cazador presses into Astarion's mind, curious to find out if that resistance can be broken yet. Astarion’s eyes drop, avoiding eye contact as he counts the threads he can see on the pillow. He wonders if Cazador constantly replaces his bedspreads, or whether some sniveling mortal has been given the sordid job of doing his wash.

He shudders, flinching back as Cazador reaches to stroke his cheek. He closes his eyes, breathe stuttering in gasps. He doesn’t want to hear descriptions of his own pleasure, the way his body seemed to welcome Cazador’s abuse.

His expression melts appreciatively at the mention of a bath. He’d kill for one right now. It wasn’t worth the price, but gods. ‘Clean’ is not a state of being Astarion will ever be able to truly return to - not with both his body and soul so utterly defiled - but to even be able to pretend at it…

He feels the familiar tugging in his mind, somewhere behind the tadpole, and this time he just gives. Astarion’s body settles against his master’s chest, curled up and face pressed against his collarbone. He feels so very small, and frail. He can hear the blood and power coursing under Cazador’s skin, and it makes him sick.

One day, he will kill this man.

“I can’t say I remember this part of our little ritual.” His voice is little more than a murmur, his lips kissing at the man’s grey skin.

Cazador's red hot will tries to press with a piercing precision that should have been second nature but instead has been impossible since Astarion was returned home to him. Only for a moment does the barrier hold and then Astarion admits him in, the sensation like that of being welcomed across a threshold into another's homestead. He rushes in with such suddenness it leaves Cazador giddy.

The mattress shifts gently and Astarion drapes over him, a light weight across Cazador's front as he nuzzles, as though shy, into his master's chest. Cazador blinks in surprise and folds his arm around Astarion's shoulders, where he's curled in small again, and then more purposefully wraps him up in both arms tightly.

Turning his head, Cazador breathes in Astarion's scent, that herbaceous, brandy warmth, and lets his lashes drop for a while. All is right with the world again.

"You have proven yourself worthy at last," he remarks without revealing anything further. His one hand lifts and finds Astarion's hair, drawing out his curls before letting them coil back into place, then repeating the slow motion over and over again. He keeps one arm tight around Astarion's back, holding him firmly to his chest. Both of them are starting to feel cooler, but Astarion more so.

"I do not wish to punish you. If you are to rise to consort, you must be polite. I cannot risk having you make comments like that in front of company now, can I? I would have to slaughter an entire dinner party if you spoke out like that in front of guests." Cazador tsks quietly, knowing Astarion can hear it easily.

“You almost had me fooled.” Astarion once again speaks more to his master’s ribs than his face, voice wavering feather soft. “How thoughtful of you, to save me the worrying it had bothered you.”

‘Besides, your cock certainly seems to like it’ , he doesn’t say. He’s not that brave.

Astarion hates that condescending tone, like he was a particularly dull child or a mischievous puppy. Immediately he’s cursing having ever spoken up.

"Speaking of, until you are an official consort - until I can trust you again - you will remain at my side. You are not to speak to guests unless permitted. Do you understand?"

Cazador’s arms feel more like restraints than an embrace. Cazador, as always, smells like blood and lust and sire . A scent Astarion has no possible words to compare to, even his senses distorted until they were those of a monster’s. He’s still shuddering, hiccups starting to calm. His eyes are dry, and he bites down on one lip to try to focus on something other than the touch of Cazador’s hand on his cheek. Astarion loathes as his body melts into the embrace, cold flesh seeking heat, an abandoned boy pulled to comfort like a moth to flame. And same as the insect, Astarion burns for it.

“I would have hoped your guests would have enjoyed my rapier wit.” Astarion swallows, heart sinking. “But as you insist, master.”

As Astarion sags against him, defeated, Cazador relishes in his win. He expects it shall not be long before Astarion slips again, but even then Cazador is excited to think of correcting Astarion until his behavior is as pleases his future husband.

Continuing to play with Astarion's hair, Cazador grasps it, squeezing and releasing his curls, teasing him. He remains calm and quiet as Astarion murmurs, lips so very soft, against his skin.

"Do not give me cause to hurt you, darling. I would rather lavish you with my affection and gifts, rather than punishment. Not vermin like the spawn... but warm blood... fine clothing... jewelry... magical artefacts... whatever will amuse my favorite." Cazador pets lightly at Astarion's hair, grazing his knuckles down the knife point edge of Astarion's elven ears.

"Your sparkling wit entertaining my guests and making them all drool after you, only to retire for the night together. That is all I want." Cazador nuzzles into Astarion's hair again, closing his eyes briefly. "It shall come soon enough."

Cazador presses a kiss to Astarion's brow. "I do insist."

If Astarion were any less vain a creature, he might have sworn then and there to shear the curls from his head so that they might never be touched this way again. Though, he supposes with that logic he ought to just begin flaying himself and save Cazador the effort.

Astarion can feel Cazador’s seed cool as it drips from him, joining his own to pool around and underneath his hips, flesh still stinging from his spanking. He dreads to see the bruises that will surely appear tomorrow, visual proof of Cazador’s claim. All of a sudden, the need to get away from Cazador overwhelms him. He pushes up to a half sitting position, sultry and sensuous without the aim to be, even as his body is jerky and awkward with panic. He brushes his curls back out of his eyes, a forced smile straining his lips.

“May I be so bold as to inquire about the bath you had mentioned earlier? I would hate to cause a mess, master.”

Briefly distracted by the promise of a future as the Vampire Ascendent with his powerful, obedient consort Astarion at his feet, Cazador opens his eyes and stirs from the image when Astarion moves. He tightens briefly, but there is no force in Astarion's movements, so Cazador settles and allows him to slide from his hold.

Astarion sits then, pretty as a picture and utterly defiled, and Cazador is so struck by the right he wonders if this is what mortals call 'love'. An instant attraction and fixation on a being one longs to conquer and hold onto for all eternity. It must be something of the sort.

"I did promise you a bath and you have been well-behaved," he muses aloud and considers it a while. "Come."

Cazador is out of bed and collects a few items, including a thick, black robe which sweeps the floor. It is heavy enough to drag behind him in a regal fashion and the fabric is speckled with gold thread embroidery in places. He does not bother to fasten it, nor does he bother to give Astarion the flimsy, silk pieces of clothing he holds in one hand. The other hand he extends to Astarion and uses a gentle nudge of their restored bond to draw him to his feet.

"Good boy. Let's get you cleaned up, my filthy pup."