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Cazador is alive, and there is something in his mouth.
Consciousness creeps in slowly, the sounds and sensations of the living returning bit by agonizing bit. Cazador becomes aware of his body in pieces, each one bringing with it a new horror.
The wrists come first. They are bound in shackles, which dig into his raw, aching skin. His arms are held above his head, a chain keeping them elevated, the wrists cuffed firmly together. He tests them, pulling at his restraints and finding them utterly resistant to the little bit of strength he still possesses. They do not give.
He opens his eyes, only to find the world bathed in shadow. For a moment, he fears they have blinded him. But, no, upon taking a shallow breath he realizes it is only a piece of fabric that obscures his vision, a simple makeshift blindfold.
He is sitting against what feels like a tree, the trunk wide and rough as it digs into his back. His legs are stretched in front of him, but mercilessly unshackled.
Every part of him hurts, but the bodily pain is nothing compared to the pain of defeat. The shame of it, the horror when he recalls it, steals the air from his dead lungs.
Astarion, the pathetic little rat, ruined everything.
Despite being whisked away together in the middle of it and implanted with parasites, the ritual had been almost ready to perform. Cazador and his least favorite child were absorbed into the group of fellow abductees, playing the role of master and servant and keeping the truth of their crimson eyes and sharp teeth, and their true relationship, a secret from the others.
It had been an adjustment.
Compulsion, it seemed, no longer worked on Astarion, thanks to the parasites in their minds, but violence and plying, gentle touches still did. It had been enough to keep him in line while his master sent instructions for preparing the ritual back to the castle, to the coven.
Things had been going well. The party made it to the Gate in time and Astarion had kept his lips shut as Cazador smiled and led them inside, to the basement, to his children, who waited below in the ritual rings for him.
Except, Astarion had not kept his mouth shut, it turned out. He confessed his true nature to the group's leader, who turned their weapons on Cazador the moment he took his place in the center of the ritual.
There was a fight, a vicious one. Cazador takes ragged, painful breaths around the gag in his mouth, recalling it, how quickly everything had spiraled out of his control.
He lost, in the end. Astarion sent a blade through his body, again and again and again.
So…why is he still alive? Why does he still draw breath?
The sound of footsteps, then. Cazador sits up straighter, wincing at the effort it requires, the sting of the cuffs digging into his wrists. He tries to speak, but cannot, not with the gag in his mouth. His captor chuckles at his distress, low and rumbling. Cazador recognizes it immediately.
The big one. Halsin.
He makes a sound around the gag, venomous and questioning, and the druid takes a few steps closer, then pauses in front of him, just out of reach.
"You should be dead."
Cazador, gagged, says nothing in reply.
"I would say you should be thanking the Oak Father, but really you should be groveling at Tav's feet. They think there's still use for you."
Cazador exhales through his nose. He has no desire to help these people, especially not in the wake of a humiliation like this.
"Astarion wanted to gut you, you know. He had to be pried off. He told us," Halsin says, stepping closer, "what you did to him. The things you made him do. The ways you used him."
Cazador yelps around the gag, then, as his legs are suddenly and violently kicked apart. Halsin kneels between them, taking his thighs into large, warm hands and spreading them roughly, then pressing them back. Cazador knows the position intimately, color rising to his cheeks as he recalls folding Astarion into this exact pose, dozens of times.
Halsin spreads him wider, until it hurts. That brings back a different memory, one that makes his breath hitch. He has been in this position too, hundreds of times, beneath his own master. The uncomfortable stretch of his thighs, the heavy, commanding weight of large hands on his body, is all too familiar. He makes a quiet noise of protest, his voice wavering and legs trembling. What is this?
"What was your plan, Lord Szarr?" Halsin asks, his voice very close to his ear now, as he crowds Cazador against the tree, pressing his back into the bark. "Kill Astarion, then all of us?"
Cazador nods. There is no use in lying, not anymore.
He would have glutted himself on blood after the ascension. Halsin was his prime choice, his blood hot and singing beneath his warm, rough skin.
That skin brushes now against his face, the druid tracing the line of the gag with one of his large fingers. Cazador thinks, for a moment, that he will remove it. Instead, it seems like he is checking the strength of the bondage, humming in satisfaction when he finds it tight and unyielding.
There is a rustling, and his legs are released and oh, Halsin's fingers have moved now, to the buttons at Cazador's throat. He pops them open easily, roughly, with no regard for the destruction he causes to the garment. Cazador's stomach twists uncomfortably with each button that falls away and lands in the grass beneath them, each inch of his skin that is revealed.
His doublet is forced open, his torso exposed to the hot summer air as he squirms nervously in Halsin's grip.
"What's the matter?" Halsin asks, as he pushes Cazador's doublet aside. "Uncomfortable? Imagine how your spawn felt."
Cazador frowns around the gag, then gasps sharply as Halsin palms at one of his small breasts, thumbing roughly at the nipple. The pads of his fingers are calloused and large and terribly warm, and it feels good, despite it all. He jerks backwards, shaking his head and making a strangled noise around the gag. Halsin does it again, cupping both of his breasts in his hands and squeezing them, rolling them between his fingers. He pinches and strokes his sensitive nipples, ignoring his increasingly loud cries of distress, so humiliatingly weak as they leave his throat.
Cazador has always hidden this part of himself away, under layers of clothing, ever since usurping his master. His breasts have not been touched, let alone so brazenly and roughly, since the days of his own subservience. It is a theft, and an insult, and a reluctant pleasure all at once.
He writhes against the tree, gasping and trying desperately not to moan or whimper as Halsin plays with his sensitive, touch-starved flesh. He hates himself for it, for the pleasure that comes from it. Vellioth liked to play with them like this, too, Cazador's face hot as he recalls it. He would pinch and bite and suck on them, leave them raw and sensitive and stained with blood, bruises blooming and spreading across his pale skin, his master's marks painful in the days that followed, constant reminders of his ownership as they rubbed against his clothing.
He whimpers, now, before he can catch it, as Halsin bends down and takes a nipple between his teeth. He bites it, roughly, then swirls his tongue around it and sucks, lapping at the blood.
"St- ah-" Cazador begs, around the gag. Halsin grunts, then bites down harder. Cazador nearly screams, shaking his head desperately. There is something else familiar happening, to his horror. A tightness between his legs, warm heat spreading in his belly, an ache deep inside of him.
Halsin seems to smell it on him, laughing cruelly against his chest. One hand moves down, his warm palm pressing hard against the front of Cazador's braies. Cazador tries to say no but finds himself moaning instead, as Halsin's presses the heel of his palm against him, right against the most sensitive part of him. He whimpers, full throated and humiliating, and then attempts to kick at him, embarrassed tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He hates them, cursing himself and Halsin and Vellioth, too, for making him into this thing that's been locked away for centuries and which crawls needily out now, begging him to submit and give in, to offer himself up to the larger man attacking him, to be good and pliant and weak.
Cazador refuses, closing his legs, his thighs pressed together firmly.
Halsin does not allow him to refuse, though. He tuts and says something and oh, no, a vine snakes around one of Cazador's ankles, and then the other. He hisses, pathetically, and presses his thighs tighter together, only to have them pulled open by force, the vines tightening and spreading him open, leaving him utterly vulnerable, his last shred of control removed. No voice to speak, no hands to claw, no legs to kick. He is utterly at Halsin's mercy, the way he was so often at Master's.
The warmth between his legs grows, as do the number of tears spilling down his cheeks.
Will Halsin hurt him, the way Master did? Will he break his limbs, cut him open?
He is big like Master was, with thick muscles and big hands and, probably, something else big, something that will hurt.
Cazador's mind begins to retreat, the way it used to in the old days, as his braies are untied and tugged down his hips. He is out of practice, though, after all of these years as the master. Every brush of Halsin's skin against his is jarring, electric. He jumps and shivers and trembles, taking ragged, shaky breaths once he is bare, his cunt exposed, spread wide against his will.
Halsin lets him squirm in silent humiliation for a few seconds, before he speaks.
"I see the gods have not forsaken you completely," he says, derisively, before dragging a finger down the length of his slit, through the glistening, embarrassing wetness that Cazador can no longer hide from him. Cazador bucks, whining around the gag, even as that weak, disgusting part of him longs to rock his hips up, to feel Halsin's big, warm finger sink into him.
"I think I will show Astarion this," Halsin says, his voice low, "when he's ready to see it. I think he'd enjoy seeing his 'master' this way. It's only fair, after what you've done."
Cazador blanches at the idea, imagining the image of himself like this projected directly into the boy's mind. What must he look like, bound and spread, whining like a bitch in heat from Halsin's fingers simply brushing against him?
Astarion cannot see this. The humiliation of it will kill Cazador, if Halsin or someone else does not first.
He is not afforded much time to think about that particular horror, though. Halsin runs his fingers up and down his inner thighs, sending reluctant shivers down his spine and doing nothing to help the wetness between his legs. Two fingers press against the bite marks on his upper thigh, a noise of disgust leaving Halsin's lips at the touch. Vellioth's marks, lingering after all this time.
"An affront to nature," Halsin says, against the side of his neck.
Cazador flushes, then gasps quietly as a finger brushes against his clitoris, light and fleeting.
"Mm, so this still works like a living thing's," Halsin says, quietly, "but does this feel the same, I wonder?"
Two fingers sink into him then, thick and abrupt and terrifying and wonderful as they curl inside of him.
Cazador has allowed nothing to penetrate him in the centuries since Vellioth, not even his own hands and fingers. He yelps, loudly, and tightens around Halsin, tears flowing down his cheeks. It hurts and it feels wrong and Halsin seems to enjoy knowing that, as he curls and pumps his fingers, sinking them in to the knuckle, spreading him wide as he cries weakly in protest. His fingers are bigger than Master's were, thicker and rougher. Master's were thin and long, and they played him like an instrument, drawing pleasure from him artfully and, often, slowly. Halsin finger fucks him with the same violence, though, and Cazador cannot help but blush at the awful, slick sounds of his body, or the way that he pulses and flutters around his rude fingers, how his body seems to want to pull him deeper inside, to keep him where his mind does not want him.
"It's cold inside," Halsin murmurs, the disgust palpable in his voice, "dead. Wrong, like the rest of you. And yet…"
He adjusts his hand, angling it so that he can press his thumb against Cazador's clit. He rubs little circles on it, pumping his fingers deep inside him at the same time, and, gods damn it-
Cazador comes, before he even realizes what is happening. His legs shake, his body jerking forward over and over, the orgasm long and intense as he squirms and grinds down on Halsin's fingers, presses his clit into his thumb, all with embarrassing, disgusting eagerness. He has not come this way in longer than he can remember, a broken, mindless wail of pleasure on his tongue as it hits him, stretching on and on as Halsin just keeps going and going.
He wrings a second orgasm from him, this time with his bitten tit between his teeth and insults spat from his warm, cruel lips. Cazador begs for mercy, for more, for Master, stupid with pleasure despite his shame. Maybe because of it, though the thought will make him sick, when he has it later, alone.
Halsin presses against his thigh during it all and Cazador feels the outline of his cock, thick and hard like the rest of him, dig into his skin. He thinks of Master's cock, long and lovely, how he would wield it like a weapon, how he could get Cazador to beg for it, to say things that shocked even him, but left him so wet that Vellioth would laugh in his face when he pulled his legs apart and pressed inside.
Halsin, after wringing a third, unexpected orgasm from him that leaves him sobbing and choking around the gag, finally seeks something out for himself. Cazador hears the oh-so-familiar sound of laces being untied, fabric sliding down hips, a hand working over a hard, aching cock. He can smell it, his breath hitching as Halsin's scent hits his nose, musk and pine and salt, the scent of a living, hard cock, something he has not taken in longer than he cares to recall.
Halsin drapes his body over Cazador's, his thick cockhead pressing against him, dragging through the wet, filthy mess of him. He teases him, with embarrassing effectiveness, brushing his cock through the slick but not pushing it in, instead contenting himself with watching Cazador squirm and buck, his mind melting into a confusing mix of fear and need with each pass. He is so afraid, of the pain and the pleasure too, and he cannot help but lift his hips up, whining stupidly into Halsin's shoulder, drool leaking from his mouth as the gag holds it open.
And then, too fast, Halsin is pushing into him.
He is not gentle, which makes it all so much worse. He slips in with a quick, powerful thrust, forcing his way where nothing has been in centuries with a casual, demanding ease that makes Cazador sob into his shoulder and flutter around him. He might as well be a virgin, the thought humiliating as it hits and Halsin begins to move, rocking his hips and fucking him too deep, too fast. Cazador tugs at his restraints, uselessly, and babbles nonsense around the gag. He spits insults first, then begins to beg, and then to desperately apologize, and it is all painfully, wonderfully familiar, trying to win mercy in this way with a cock buried deep inside of him and big hands playing with the breasts he hates, the body that betrays him more than his spawn ever could.
He comes quickly, embarrassingly so. Only a few moments of this treatment and he is keening, high and wild and desperate, his body pulling Halsin as deep as it can take him, drool trailing down his chin and tears dripping from beneath his blindfold, his master's name on his lips. Halsin laughs at him, calls him a pervert, an abomination, and fucks him harder, rougher. He digs his fingers and his teeth into his body, leaves him bleeding and bruised and marked up, his shame evident on every piece of flesh.
He makes Cazador beg for release, when he feels him getting close again, to his shame. Cazador, so very weak and so very ashamed, does it, too. He mumbles pathetic pleas around the gag, rocking his hips, trying to fuck himself on Halsin's cock, even as he hates himself for it.
Halsin spills inside of him with a low growl, the warmth humiliatingly familiar as it spreads inside Cazador's cunt, then drips out of him, pooling onto the grass below as he whimpers, pathetic and needy.
Halsin pulls out, leaving him empty. He nearly sobs at the lack, disgusted at himself when he hears the need in his voice. He rocks his hips, moaning around the gag in an attempt to plead for release.
Something hits him in the chest, warm and slick.
Spit.
Halsin spat on him.
Cazador blusters, disgusted, and tugs at his wrist, instinctively trying to wipe it off and failing, bound too tightly.
He feels a brush at the walls of his mind, then, horror welling up inside of him as he realizes what it is. Halsin pushes at him, weaponizing their shared affliction and forcing his way into Cazador's mind, via the parasites they both house.
Cazador doesn't want to see it, but he does anyway.
Himself, as Halsin sees him. Bound, spread, stripped, Halsin's come dripping from his abused, slick cunt, his skin pink and flushed, whining and rocking his hips, enjoying his own rape.
Halsin lets the image linger. Cazador is too weak and exhausted to exorcise him from his mind, forced to look at it, the awful truth of himself and what he is, in excrutiating detail.
Eventually, Halsin leaves his mind, and then his body, alone on the outskirts of camp, bound and helpless.
Cazador, alone and helpless, finds his mind wandering, his mind fraying at the edges. He prays for death, then for his master, and then for Halsin to come back, to talk kindly to him, the way he had before all of this, when he thought he was just a nobleman from the city, not a creature of the night. He wishes for Astarion, too, for his child to come to him, to cut him loose and curl up in his arms, to apologize for his betrayal and to beg forgiveness, to press his soft lips to his master's neck and nuzzle into his chest.
Cazador, defeated, receives nothing that he wants. He waits in his own shame, for mercy he does not deserve, and for gentle hands that will not come.
The sun on his exposed skin, the unfamiliar and undeserved warmth of it, is comforting, despite it all.