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It's rare for him to encounter His Lordship, Count Strahd von Zarovich, in the corridors of Castle Ravenloft; the vampire is more fond of taking the direct route, climbing upon walls and melding through the stone of the castle to reach his destination. ‘ To save precious time,’ he would always say. Though Rahadin believes it's primarily to avoid having to talk to the other occupants that stalk the castle.
When he needs to speak with the nobleman, Rahadin will typically find him in his study—his preferred spot as of late. When he encounters Strahd outside of his favorite locales, it's usually because Strahd needs something of him.
Despite his heightened senses, the dusk elf almost jumps out of his skin when a baritone voice calls out behind him.
“A moment of your time, Rahadin.”
The chamberlain of Castle Ravenloft whips around, fingers instinctively itching for the scimitar at his hip. His shoulders drop when his gaze falls upon his master, who steps fully out of the corridor wall.
“Master,” Rahadin greets with a bow. He wills his heart to cease its incessant racing. “Forgive me; your sudden presence was startling. Did you need something of me?” Sudden presence is putting it politely; even after having served Strahd for centuries following his undeath, he has not grown accustomed to his ability to seemingly be everywhere and whenever within the castle.
Strahd smooths the creases from his crimson vest and adjusts the belt holding his spellbook. ”Not particularly. What are you up to this evening?”
“I was just on my way to my quarters for the evening. I may catch up on some reading before retiring.” He pauses. “Unless there is something you would like me to attend to, of course.”
“What are you reading?” There’s an inquisitive lilt to his voice.
“Ah.” The corners of his lips tug up. “I’ve been reading a book I picked up in Barovia Village on the nature of rhizomes. Canna lilies, ginger, bamboo, and the sort. Their unique root structure lends to them often being suitable for growth in temperate climates.”
“Rhizomes…” The drawled word rolls in Strahd’s mouth as if it were a foreign language. He sighs loudly through his nose. “My friend, has anyone ever told you how dreadfully boring you are in your personal life?”
“Boring?” Rahadin sputters. He’s quick to clear his throat, neutral expression falling over him once more. He doesn’t need to be seen as anything but loyal. Capable. He was put on this earth to serve those he deemed worthy, not dramatics. But admittedly, it does sting hearing the word come from Strahd’s mouth of all people. The man’s own library is filled with tomes on a plethora of topics that others might consider mundane. Yet he’s never said a word about them.
“Indeed. There’s no daringness in you, no desire to bend the rules if it goes against my wishes. No dinner parties being held, no courting, no flagrant spending. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve had to admonish you over these past centuries.”
He blinks. “Is this… a bad thing? My lord?”
“No. In fact, it is a very desirable trait to have in my right hand. I find it amusing is all. You and your boring little plant books.”
The tips of his ears grow hot. They’re not boring—not in his opinion. “Idle hands. There’s not been a conflict to occupy my time in a while.”
“Certainly.” Strahd begins scrutinizing his nail beds.
The dusk elf continues to stand in the middle of the hall, aimless. He blinks. Nothing else comes out of the nobleman’s mouth. A part of him begins to wonder if his master may, in fact, be bored—and harassing him is his misplaced idea of entertainment.
As he’s about to comment on this, Strahd finally speaks up with a sharp inhale. “Exactly how far does your loyalty extend, Rahadin?”
Without missing a beat, he replies, “I hope my history of service to this family speaks volumes, Your Lordship.”
“And following orders? At what point do you refuse? Whether they will admit it or not, all soldiers have a line that they will not cross.”
“No matter the order, I will see it through. Again, I hope my history of service speaks to my devotion.”
Strahd hums. Another moment of scrutinizing his nails, thinking, and his dark eyes flicker up to meet Rahadin’s green. The vampire takes a long step forward until he’s in the dusk elf’s space, an imposing stone wall before him. He can feel the chill emanating off of his undead body, sucking the air from his lungs. A shiver runs down his spine.
He hooks an index finger over the waist of the elf’s trousers, and Rahadin actually yelps.
“...And with intimacy? Is that where your line is drawn?” Strahd asks, his eyes glued to his face. His expression is unreadable.
His lungs freeze. Time feels as if it comes to a standstill for him. If this is his lord’s way of testing him, it is a bizarre means of doing so. But he refuses to bend. It takes extra willpower to keep his voice even. “No. No matter the order, I will see it through.”
That hooked finger traces his waistband, the smooth front of a claw dragging across his hip bone. “What if I were to, hypothetically, order you to not see yourself to completion?”
Rahadin’s eyes shoot wide. It’s very possible he’s misinterpreted Strahd’s words, but the, admittedly, intimacy of their position leads him to think otherwise. “...What is this uncharacteristic game you are playing, Strahd?”
“Have you ever known me to be the type to play games?”
“...No.”
“This is more akin to a test. A trial. One designed to sate my curiosity.” His chin lifts. The finger at his waistband leaves, only for Strahd to trail his hand down the front of his trousers. With an air of authority, he orders, “Retain your composure. That’s an order.”
“St-Strahd!” Rahadin swallows heavily, his eyes squeezing shut. This is improper; Strahd is his master and has been for centuries. He’s the esteemed chamberlain of Castle Ravenloft, a title he holds onto rather fondly. Beneath that, however, Strahd is his friend—one of his few, and vice versa. “What is the purpose of this?”
He hums as if the answer is an obvious one. ”For you to prove your resolve to me.”
His eyes open, and Rahadin sets him with a look of desperation. “There are many ways for me to prove such a thing to you.”
Strahd cocks his head. ”Shall I stop? Say the word and I will, Rahadin.”
Another slow inhale. His mind struggles to convey his approval without sounding desperate. Wanton. Strahd is his brother in arms. Intelligent and carrying himself with an air of unfathomable power, the man is charming beyond reason and had been even before the vampirism. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't attempted to smother the embers of attraction for his superior time and time again. This is certainly not helping matters.
He knows it's improper to be attracted to his lord and master. To entertain the notion in his trances of long nights spent discussing literature under the stars. To wonder what his lips taste like.
But gods if feeling his skin against his isn't what he wants more than anything right now… “I would do anything to prove myself to you, Your Lordship.”
His smirk widens, and a voice in Rahadin's mind notes how becoming it is on him; he kicks that thought away. “Very well, then. You have your order.” Slowly, teasingly, Strahd pulls upon the leather fastening of his breeches until it unties.
“Pull yourself out,” he murmurs.
Heat rises in the dusk elf’s face, the tips of his pointed ears burning. Rahadin keeps his eyes downcast. His nerves and shame tying a knot in his stomach, the dusk elf pushes his pants and braies down enough to free his erection. Despite Strahd ordering him to, Rahadin cannot help but feel as if he has broken some unspoken rule.
Curious, his eyes flicker up for the briefest of moments. Strahd’s own gaze focuses on his length, a dark look in his eyes. His expression is hard to read, and it makes Rahadin surprisingly self-conscious. Like that, the look is gone, replaced with Strahd's characteristic expression of impassivity once more.
Strahd murmurs a word in a language Rahadin does not understand and snaps his fingers. There's a bright flash of blue, followed by a spectral, disembodied hand floating at Strahd's side, particles of light falling from it like rain. He's seen his master cast this spell numerous times before—usually to assist him while he's engaging in his alchemical studies or to reach a book upon a high shelf—but he hasn't the slightest idea why he'd summon it now of all times. Rahadin tilts his head.
Reading his confusion, Strahd gives a small smirk but otherwise does not offer an explanation. “Tell me if you'd like me to stop.” From the corner of his eye, Rahadin notices Strahd subtly flicking his right hand forward, the slightest bends of his wrist and the twitching of his fingers.
The blue, spectral hand moves towards his hips, and Rahadin's eyes shoot wide. Slowly, it traces an index finger along the underside of his length, and Rahadin's hips instinctually jump. The hand is cold against his heated skin, and it fills his nerves with a sensation he cannot even begin to describe. He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth.
Strahd steps toward him until there is only but an inch of space between them. The vampire is particularly mindful as to not let their bodies touch—much to Rahadin's infinite frustration. From this distance, he can smell the warm, musky oils upon Strahd’s hair.
The hand trails an open palm down his cock this time before grazing over the tip of him, smearing the bead of wetness that had gathered at his tip. Rahadin clears his throat and crosses his arms behind his back, standing up the slightest bit taller with the hopes of demonstrating his determination.
Strahd tilts his head forward, his mouth grazing against Rahadin's ear; a shudder rolls down the elf's spine. “Feel good?” he asks, his voice low and husky.
Rahadin mentally curses the man. He could persevere through the ministrations of a spectral hand with no issue, but if Strahd plans on talking to him throughout, he foresees this being far, far more difficult.
“Were you hoping it would be my hand instead, Rahadin? Imagine what the commoners would think if they saw it were me touching my chamberlain.” He tsks, and one by one, the spectral hand closes its fingers around his cock. Languidly, it begins to stroke him.
Curious, Rahadin spares a glance downward. The hand is translucent, and he can see his own heavily veined length through the blue shimmers of light. His arousal jumps in its grasp. His attention is quickly redirected straight ahead once more as he focuses upon the far wall. He can still see Strahd's right hand from the corner of his eye, his fingers loosely curled and his wrist gently moving up and down. The thought alone of it being Strahd directly controlling the movements of the spectral hand sends a jolt of pleasure to his core.
Unacceptable. He redirects his gaze to the ceiling.
“First I question you, and then I do not even have the decency to touch you myself. You truly must despise me right now.” There's a mocking edge to Strahd's tone.
Rahadin swallows. “Never. My loyalty to you is unwavering.”
“Oh, I've never doubted your loyalty, Rahadin. Never once in the four centuries I've had the pleasure of knowing you. But even you can feel such base things as anger. Frustration.” The hand tightens slightly, and Rahadin has to bite the inside of his cheek to stay silent. “Lust.”
“...At times.”
“At times,” Strahd acknowledges. “And now?”
What is he feeling? It's an excellent question. Yes, he is feeling frustrated—who wouldn’t in his shoes?—but there’s also a lightness in his chest. He feels important in that Strahd would dedicate time to him, even if it is to torment him. His heart threatens to hammer out of his ribcage.
The mage hand squeezes him—gentle, but with a threatening edge. “Answer me, Rahadin.”
The dusk elf tries desperately to focus on all the little details of the ceiling, the cracks in the stonework, the number of bricks… all with the hope of resisting the urge to rut against that damn spectral thing. “...Frustration, primarily.” He doesn’t dare mention the fluttering feeling in his chest.
“Then why not ease that frustration? Take what you want? Surely no one could fault you…” He smirks. “Or… walk away. Finish this in the privacy of your quarters.”
It almost sounds as if Strahd is expecting him to make this more intimate, as if he’s pushing him to act on any traitorous emotions. Kiss him, even. Never would he be the first to initiate anything; it would be a violation of his station. Who is he to touch a hair on Strahd’s head? He is the esteemed chamberlain of Castle Ravenloft, yes, but Strahd is a count. A former prince, even. While Rahadin has never been one to outwardly respect someone solely based on their title, Strahd had earned his. He’d proven his worthiness to Rahadin, and now he would give his life to continue the rule of King Barov’s eldest.
His prince.
This is all a test, he reminds himself. A cruel one. His master is above such petty things as sentimentality.
Rahadin breathes heavily through his nose, but even he can hear how labored it’s becoming. “My, ah, m-my loyalty to you is unwavering…” he repeats. He can’t think coherently enough to think of anything else to say.
“Such a stubborn thing you are…” Strahd clicks his tongue in mock disappointment. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, Rahadin.”
Never one to disobey an order, Rahadin meets Strahd’s eyes. His demeanor is hard to read, but there’s a certain smugness to him. Like this, feeling as if his soul is laid bare before his gaze, the dusk elf feels vulnerable. He’s especially mindful, self-conscious, even, of each twitch of his mouth when the mage hand flicks its wrist a certain way and how his eyelids flutter when it drags a thumb along the tip of him. He tries his hardest to remain composed—again, he is dutiful if nothing else—but it grows increasingly harder.
Having his facial expressions carefully observed by his lord is a level of intimacy he’s unfamiliar with. It breaks all boundaries of what the relationship between a chamberlain and his lord should be. It’s taboo, and it’s the wrongness of it all that has Rahadin’s head swimming. He digs his blunt fingernails into his palm until it hurts.
He thinks of disconcerting things, political things, his duties for the rest of the day, anything to keep his mind preoccupied. It does little to help; the dark allure in the inky depths of Strahd’s eyes is far too appealing. He squeezes his eyes shut.
“Look at me,” Strahd growls. His tone is meant to be intimidating, but Rahadin finds it deeply provocative.
His eyes still shut, he whines, “Strahd…” A desperate plea. A warning. Yet the nobleman continues to flick his wrist and command the spectral hand to grip and stroke him, its motions only quickening if anything.
“Look at me!”
Begrudgingly, Rahadin opens his eyes. There’s a tempered fury behind Strahd’s gaze, and it’s too much. His knees buckle, and Strahd is quick to step forward, supporting his weight when Rahadin keens into him, body trembling while his orgasm takes him. His fingers curl into the fabric of Strahd's vest, his head resting against his collarbone. The mage hand, now trapped between their bellies, continues stroking him as if purposefully milking out every last drop of his seed; much to Rahadin's mortification, it streaks across his master's vest.
“Gods, s-sorry…!” Rahadin whimpers, his eyes squeezing shut. For ruining your clothes. For giving in. For being a mere mortal and my resolve not being stronger.
Strahd hushes him, a clawed hand buried in the dusk elf's long, raven hair. “I know you are...” If Rahadin didn't know better—and he does—it could almost be seen as a romantic gesture. Encouraging his unacceptable behavior.
Rahadin trembles through his orgasm, soft, staccato whimpers being ripped from him, until there's nothing left, and he's met with an all-encompassing feeling of tiredness, as if his limbs were made of gelatin. It brings with it a body-wide feeling of calm he hasn't felt in years.
Strahd snaps his fingers once more, and the mage hand disappears. After another moment of savoring the pleasure-drunk buzz, his breathing ragged, and a sudden awareness strikes him.
His fingers are grabbing his master’s clothes. He’s touching him, and Strahd has his hand upon his back
Corellon help him.
As if having been burned, Rahadin leaps away from the nobleman with all the grace of an ogre, his balance unsteady. He's quick to tuck himself back into his pants. The tips of his ears burn hot. Wide-eyed and panic-stricken, Rahadin observes the extent of the mess he had created. Despite his vest having been thoroughly ruined, Strahd simply raises a brow at him. His bearing is that of an officer scrutinizing his men during drills. And he feels like a lowly foot soldier cowing beneath the count of Barovia’s gaze.
“I am…” Rahadin clears his throat. What is he even supposed to say after such a blunder?! “My sincerest, deepest apologies. Your Lordship.”
The other man continues to stare at him, his gaze critical, before letting out a low chuckle. “I’d say you look like you've seen a ghost, but I don't think the undead would faze you at this point.” With another snap of his fingers and a few murmured words in a foreign language, the mess upon Strahd's vest is gone in a flash of blue light, leaving the fabric looking just as pristine as before. “As you were.”
Perplexed, Rahadin tilts his head. “I don't understand.”
“There isn't much to understand.”
A grim expression falls over his face. “I am loyal to you. There are few orders I wouldn't obey, Your Lordship. I hope you know that. Despite my—”
Strahd waves a dismissive hand. “You are fallible, as all mortal creatures are. I'm not going to make a character judgment based on you getting off to a simple cantrip, Rahadin. Pathetic as it may be. Although…” he gives a lopsided smirk, “there is much that I did learn about you.”
“Then why did you…” Rahadin's ears droop slightly. He shakes his head; it's best to not question the will of the nobleman, even when it makes little sense to him.
Strahd claps him on the shoulder before going to step around him. He gives another flagrant wave of his hand before walking back down the hall, chuckling. “As you were, Rahadin. Enjoy your book.”
Rahadin stares after the man, mouth agape. He’s left to wallow in his shame and embarrassment and confusion, and a slew of other emotions so, so foreign to him. His body refuses to move from that spot. Sinking through the floor into oblivion to avoid ruminating on what has transpired this past hour wouldn’t be unwelcome.
Among many things, Strahd von Zarovich is an enigma.