Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Astarion wakes alone.

He comes to conscious with a stutter, grasping at the blankets that have tangled around his prone form. Centuries have taught him how to lie still and small in his sleep, to keep from drawing attention to himself. Curled in, protecting his vitals.

At the camp, he had trained himself to sleep as if in trance. As a vampire, he was cut off eternally from the unconscious the elven race shared, but he hadn’t wanted to raise suspicion. It was only when he slept alone, on the hard pallet he kept in his tent, that he truly was able to relax. Then, he would thrash and roll, twisting himself in the ratty blanket he clung to.

He hadn’t slept well at all. Snippets of memories, of horrors long past tormented him. The bed, decadent as it was, felt foreign and uncomfortable in its splendor. At some point, Cazador had left his side - Astarion had pretended to sleep as he felt his presence leave - but even that hadn’t allowed him comfort.

He pulls himself into a sitting position, wincing at the strain it puts on his bruising thighs and ass. Steadying himself with a quick intake of breath, he peels back to blankets to survey the worst of the damage. As he expected, mottled discoloring has crept its way across the lower half of his body, some of it incriminatingly hand-shaped. Eugh. Disgust creeps it’s way across his features. At least, he supposes, there was no tearing for him to stitch.

That brought him to the next manner at hand; the plug, still seated inside of him. His eyes flit around the room, searching for any indication he was being watched. Cazador had mentioned a sentry at the door, but it seemed he had the room to himself.

He weighs his options. Removing it and disobeying a direct order was… not an entirely intelligent idea. There was benefit in keeping it in as well; his own comfort would be ensured. Then again; the disgust roils in his stomach. He wants it, and all other proof of Cazador’s claim, out. Now. The mental anguish was more than enough to bear when Cazador was with him. Astarion isn’t sure he can survive carrying it in his heart while alone as well.

That settles it, then. He will remove the plug and clean himself out just enough that Cazador shouldn’t notice. When he hears the man approaching, he’ll reinsert it. No harm, no foul. In the meantime, he can use this brief period of respite to plan. Perhaps there was something in the room he could use to his advantage.

Steeling himself, Astarion shifts to better give himself access, splaying his long legs. He reaches between them, starting to tease out the plug with a hiss.

The door opens silently, and it is not until he speaks that Petras" presence is made clear to Astarion as he busies himself with the grim task of cleaning himself.

"Well, aren"t you a sight?" Petras sneers, his voice dripping with as much wicked glee as it does pure loathing. His eyes are red hot flames on darkest coal, burning into Astarion where he lies spread, touching himself. A cluck of his tongue expresses how repulsed he is at his “older brother”’s tendencies as Astarion startles, nearly jumping out of his own skin. It speaks to how unsettled he is that Petras was about to sneak up on him; normally he would have heard the larger man coming miles away. The brood human closes the door behind and strolls confidently across the wood and finely woven, imported carpet towards the bed.

"Look at you. Barely a night home and already the favourite once more. The master"s whore." Petras continues to strut forward, eyes raking over Astarion greedily where he"s exposed and vulnerable, while Petras stands in one of Astarion"s old doublets- something befitting the upper classes.

"Did you miss the Master"s cock? The attention?"  Petras smirks and lowers his tone, further pleased at how it is likely to stir Astarion. His interest grows more fixated on where Astarion has been fingering himself open, and Petras seems close to salivating like a dog.

"Do you have any idea what damage you caused, runaway?"

Astarion shudders slightly,  hurrying to close his legs in one languid movement. Steeling himself, he turns to face Petras, lip curling into a sneer.

“Fuck off why don’t you, darling brother?” His voice lilts, even with tension thick in his voice. Petras was just about the worst possible person to walk in on him directly disobeying orders, though it didn’t seem as if he’d realized it. “I’m sure you’ve had plenty of time to get on your knees for the master while I was gone. You’ve no one to blame but yourself if he found you lacking.”

Astarion scoffs, giving Petras a dismissive once over. As if he had any respect for his master’s tastes. Anger brews within him, churning and terrible. It takes nearly all of Astarion self control to not leap to his feet right then and claw out those hateful eyes.

How dare Petras look at him like that. As if he were disgusting. As if he wanted this.

“Not all of us pine for Cazador’s dick the way you do, Petras.” He tries not to sound overly affected by his brother’s words, but they hit a nerve. There’s a faint flush to his face, a pleasure Petras’s rankling had never managed to achieve before, as well as a testimony to the better treatment he had been receiving. To blush required blood, after all.

“Go jerk off over the master’s staff or something and leave me alone.”

Seeing Astarion startle like a deer caught out by a predator makes Petras grin wickedly and he strides closer, eying him up all the while. It"s clear he"s interested, if not in the terrible way he looks at Astarion like a slab of juicy meat, but in that his trousers are tighter across the front already where he"s grown half hard.

Any glee he has is soured instantly by Astarion"s witty bite back and his face grows stony at the insults. He stomps around the bed.

"You"re one to talk. Getting yourself fucked in the hallway last night. You love that though, don"t you?" Petras is a pale imitation of Cazador"s cruelty, but his blunt slights hurt all the more in their simplicity. He reaches out without any warning or preamble, tugging one of Astarion"s thighs apart, leaning over the bed.

"You know I had no choice." Astarion snarls, lips drawing up and back to bare his fangs. The two men have known each other long enough that it"s easy for Petras to dig his fingers into the wounds Cazador had left on Astarion"s mind. "Fuck you, you great lump of frog spawn. It"s no wonder the master despises to look upon your ugly mug, given you have no personality to make up for it."

“…And now you"re fingering yourself silly in the Master"s bed, waiting for the next chance for more of this-" Petras continues as if Astarion hadn’t even spoken, his hand pushes upward, rough over the pale elf’s thigh, past his balls, fingers smearing through Cazador"s spend. He presses his palm against Astarion"s sack and jabs at his hole with a fat finger. As tight as he is, Petras manages to sink inside, and plays with him roughly. He places a hand against his chest to hold him still and clambers onto the bed, using his weight.

Astarion tries to yank his body out of Petras"s grip. He makes more headway than he normally would, for once the better fed of the two, but given how much weaker he was than the human it mattered little. Even at his strongest, Astarion was easily overpowered. 

"Don"t you dare touch me." He hisses, slamming backwards against the headboard as he tries to escape Petras"s wandering hands. Still, he"s quickly pinned under Petras"s greater mass. His hands scrabble at Petras’, trying to remove his digit from the sloppy mess made by their master. "You"re not allowed to touch me anymore."

"Are you blushing?" Petras says in shock, equally amused and disgusted. He"s putting it together, albeit slowly. "Sleeping in the Master"s bed and being fed. Let me guess- he treated you to pig"s blood? His precious lost boy finally home." Petras rams his finger into Astarion rougher, payback for Astarion"s cutting remarks. "The Master"s favourite whore."

"Human, actually." Astarion smirks, haughty even as he grips Petras"s wrist with bruising strength, his nails digging into the skin hard enough to cut. He"ll take any chance to lord anything over his younger spawn"s head. "and I"m not a whore."

Ok, maybe he was, but he wasn"t giving Petras the satisfaction of hearing him admit it.

At the show of fangs, Petras bares his own, mouth opening in a more primal snarl in an effort of displaying dominance. His heavy brow furrows further down at Astarion"s insults, clearly bothered, yet he presses on. Where Astarion has his wit, Petras has always been bigger and stronger.

Suddenly it is clear the gap in their strength has closed further, as even bruised and used as Astarion is, he can fight back with more than his wit. Petras looked alarmed and slightly offended.

"Stop squirming, you- Ah!" Petras shouts out as Astarion clamps down around his wrist and draws blood. He gives a deep, inhuman growl, his eyes burning brighter, more monstrous. "You piece of shit."

"Back!" Astarion kicks at him, swinging his bony fists wildly as if that might away Petras"s advances. He bucks his hips, trying to wiggle out from underneath where the other spawn straddled him. It"s an unfortunately sexual motion, especially with Astarion still smelling faintly of sweat and spent. "Petras, you disgusting fool, you"re going to get us both flayed!"

Petras drags his fingers out of Astarion to turn his wrist, breaking the hold he has even if it draws more blood. The scent makes Petras see red. He grapples Astarion- arms, neck, shoulders- and pushes, pulls, shoves him over onto his side heavily on the bed. He climbs over on top of Astarion where he lands on his side, trying to align their hips as he lays down heavily on top of him.

"I"ll tell the Master how I found you. How you begged. He knows what you"re like. He"ll laugh and invite anyone else who wants a turn. You"ll see." Petras struggles on top of Astarion, trying to pin him, as he shoves at his own trousers, pulling his cock out where he"s hard from the struggle.

"Ha!" Astarion twists, looking back over his shoulder to spit out his next insult. "Insatiable as he may paint me to be, he knows even I have no wish to sleep with you."

Actually, it sounds sickeningly likely that Cazador would believe Petras, and blame the whole event on Astarion. Then again... he had been so very good last night. Perhaps Cazador"s favor would extend to this incident as well.

...unlikely. But still. Astarion would have to try. Perhaps he could even convince the master Petras had been the one to remove his plug in the first place. Right. He could still spin this to his advantage.

"You"re nothing special! If he"s fed you, it"s so he can drink from you." Petras grunts, adjusting his position, trying to get his cock between Astarion"s cheeks still, but they"re pinned awkwardly. "Lie! Down! Take it, bitch!" Petras digs his fangs meanly into Astarion"s shoulder and ruts against his ass clumsily with a muffled groan.

"Get off of me!" Astarion"s calm demeanor cracks, and he shrieks as he feels Petras hump h against him. His struggles redouble with Petras"s bite, more panicked than perhaps Petras would have expected. Astarion had gone soft.

As Astarion lashes out, Petras growls, muffled, into his shoulder and clamps down harder. His determination to have some dominance over Astarion was enough that Astarion"s logic fell on deaf ears. He had always been hot-headed, but especially so around his brother.

He upried his fangs, mouth smeared with blood as he rose his head, sensing victory was close at hand.

"Can you only come for the Master?" Petras grunted as he tried to press Astarion"s shoulder down, licking the blood from his lips, enjoying the friction between them. "We"ll soon see about that."

Hand tucking between them, Petras made a few attempts to guide his cock between Astarion"s cheeks unsuccessfully. Instead, he ground there, panting heavily as he took some pleasure. However, a few efforts and one brief slip of Petras" cock, and he was forcing himself inside with a deep laugh.

"There," he says as he grapples around Astarion, rutting into him with no real precision or kindness. "Why don"t you show me why he adores you so much?" Petras thrusts his hips in abrupt motions, loud where it feels good, uncaring and unheeding Astarion"s warnings.

“Shut up.” Astarion snarls, twisting to look back over the ruin of his shoulder to spit at Petras. The man had done a number on the muscle - between Astarion’s struggles and the fact neither of them had much practice biting humans, he’d really made a mess of the whole thing. Stupid, clumsy Petras who obviously knew what a slut Astarion was, had seen him used at parties for the guests entertainment. “Has the master really left you so needy as to desire his sloppy seconds?”

It’s supposed to be another barb, but even to his own ears Astarion sounds pathetic and panicked. He grunts as Petras slides into his loosened hole, their master’s spend easing the way. His hands fist in the blankets, not wanting to give Petras the satisfaction of his pain or pleasure.

He goes limp, simply lying there and allowing the other man to chase his pleasure. It’s clumsy, it hurts, Astarion’s own cock twitches in neglected interest as it’s chaffed against the sheets - all more or less par for the course, easy enough to ignore. At least, that’s what Astarion keeps telling himself as he tries to fight the building panic in his chest.

Petras grunts like a beast with each rough, clumsy thrust and laughs in triumph as Astarion shoots him daggers as he allows his brethren spawn have his way with him.

"A hole"s a hole," Petras reasons, not rising to Astarion"s jab like he should, as he is too lost in the feeling of Astarion around him and the glory of taking him down a notch. It"s evident from the roughness and the snarls he makes that he is even more frustrated than usual. The Szarr Palace is a difficult enough place to navigate safely as is, let alone with this new upset in the dynamic.

"He"s treating you like a doll again, I see." Petras snides as he carries on, still using his heavy weight to pin Astarion in place, but he curls a hand around Astarion"s throat. "Or is this another ridiculous outfit you"ve chosen for yourself, princess?"

“I’m not-“ Petras can see the way Astarion’s ribs expand through the thin, papery expanse of his skin as he takes a shuttering breathe. “Gh, I’m not a hole, or a doll! Would you, fuck, get off of me!”

Clearly, the human had done a better job pushing Astarion’s buttons than vice versa. This was as rare and as sure a sign of Petras’s triumph as the way Astarion’s ass tightened around him with every struggle, sucking him in sweetly and massaging the larger man’s cock exactly as he had been taught.

“Dont.” The elf’s voice is heavy with emotion, hoarse and vulnerable in a way Petras had not heard it for many decades. Like the slightest nudge might cause the fracture in Astarion’s facade to spiderweb with cracks before finally shattering.

The panic burns heavy and hot within Astarion, familiar as the feeling of a cock filling him. He’s choking on it, the burn of humiliation and pure, animalistic fear filling his throat. It tastes sour, like the bile of a rat left to fester too long.

It tastes like coming home.

“You know I have no choice in any of this, you nauseating excuse for a-“ A rough thrust cuts him off, and whatever insult Astarion had been grasping for is driven from his head. For a few moments, the sound of his wet gasps and the slapping of Petras’s balls against the meat of his ass are all that fill the room. “If only that he’d fuck you instead, since you clearly want it so badly.”

The laugh that leaves Astarion is hysterical, far more than half crazed and bordering on desperate. Petras’s hand around his neck is a grounding weight, and he hates him all the more for it. His cock strains against the silk bedsheets, and Astarion quivers like a shadow in the late mid-noon.

There is no reprieve for Astarion as Petras continues to hunch his hips in abrupt jabs. It"s artless humping more than anything, with Petras groaning over Astarion"s pitiful efforts to ask his to stop.

"Excuses, excuses," Petras calls out in a singsong, amused. "You moan louder for the master than you do for anyone else. You"re a conniving seductress. Admit it! You wanted this! To be master"s prized pet. Master"s favoured whore. None of us stood a chance with you around, always spreading yourself open first chance you get."

Petras presses his fingers into Astarion"s neck to silence his laugh- right where his blood would have been pumping hard were he still truly alive. An idle threat. They both know Petras cannot kill his "brother" even if he wished to truly- even if he had another person to vent all his rage and frustrations upon.

"Fuck, you"re wetter than a paid whore at the Sharess" Caress!" Petras was getting restless with his thrusting, the sound of flesh clapping on flesh faster as he rammed himself against Astarion"s backside, moaning louder. "No wonder you bring back so many for the master! Sloppy... slutty... bitch..."

“No! No, I don’t- I’ve never-“ Astarion bites back a yelp, groaning in pained frustration. He doesn’t even know why he’s arguing. It’s not as if he’s about to change Petras’s mind on Astarion’s character mid-fuck. It’s just…. when it’s the master, or a target spitting accusations of his wonton nature, there was nothing to be done but moan and squeal and purr out his agreement.

There was no escaping Petras, not pinned like this and impaled on his stupidly human-typical cock. He couldn’t prevent his  brother dearest from taking from him his body, but he could still protect what shreds of dignity he had managed to maintain. He could deny the man’s words, and that in itself was a mercy.

The thought makes his lip twist in disgust. What a contemptible, low thing he’d been returned to being, to see such a thing as mercy.

“Would you just finish and be done with it already?” Astarion bites out through clenched teeth, jaw aching with how firmly his fangs press against each other. “It’s no wonder you bring back so few, if this is the extent of your talents.”

Actually, he was pretty sure Petras was about as successful with marks as he was, give or take. It was hard to measure by anything other than Cazador’s favor, which proved to be fickle and inconsistent in its reasoning. Certainly, Astarion was given more attention than his fellow spawn, though it had always been largely negative.

Petras continues his assault, bestial and utterly unconcerned for Astarion other than his humiliation- secondary to finding physical release the closer he nears his orgasm.

"Shut up," Petras snarls behind Astarion"s shoulder. "If you weren"t such a bitch I might make this worth it for you, or is a cock up your arse enough?"

There"s an increasing frenzy to Petras" thrusts, nudging Astarion"s hips into the bed which provides only the barest offer of release and his thrusts providing more of an ache or an irritation than pleasure.

"Why do you come for him so easily, Astarion? And how long until he grows bored of having you back? You"ll be back in the kennels soon enough. It"s only a matter of time before you piss him off again. And then you"ll be crawling back on all fours, begging Master for his cock!"

The more Petras grows angrier, the more power he fucks Astarion with, finally nearing something almost pleasurable if it was not so sudden.

"Fuuuck! I"m going to-" and then Petras is shuddering, rutting through a swift, sudden orgasm.

Astarion shudders at the feeling of Petras’s spend filling him, mixing with their masters cold semen still left from the night before. He winces, a whimper escaping his lips into the bedspread his face was pressed down against. He’s hard, but in a detached sort of way; which was fine with him, he felt no particular need to come on Petras’s cock.

Still, he clenches down on instinct, as if his body were begging Petras to give him more.

“I will take being the master’s bitch over his loyal lapdog.” Astarion grunts, voice quiet. Heavy with hatred, yet still with that vulnerable quality that seemed to draw men to him like wolves to a fresh carcass. “At least I was man enough to try to get away. What have you done, Petras, other than rape your master’s favored whore?”

Petras pushes his cock into Astarion a few more times as he finishes with a mean grin, all fangs, his red eyes alight where he feels better. It isn"t blood, but it"s one of the few pleasures Petras has in life where he can be assured at least someone is beneath him.

When Astarion bites back, Petras scowls, pouting at the insult.

"We both know that"s another of your lies, you can"t stand to be without a dick!" Petras grunts and smirks as Astarion seems to grip him to beg for more, even if he says otherwise. Instead, Petras pulls out.

A faint sheen of mist glides beneath the heavy door and across the polished floor, over the rugs, drawing closer and closer.

Petras" hands plant onto Astarion"s ass cheeks, pushing them apart as he peers down to inspect Astarion"s hole.

"A pussy like yours craves a real man. You love it. Bet your tiny cock"s all excited too!" A more riduclous laugh, meaner, desperation creeping in. "At least you recognise what you are, you slut."

Silently, the mist pools, coalescing into a more solid form and tape. 

Astarion is too taken with the sudden sensation of his master’s presence to take in Petras’s words. Even as his cheeks are roughly spread, his sloppy hole dripping come and exposed to the eyes of both of his assailants, his attention remains solely on the patch of mist he knows to be his owner.

“M-master.” He goes doe eyed, teary and demure, ears wilting. Okay, perhaps he’s playing it up slightly, but the distress is real. He channels all of the fear and disgust of the last day, the desperation - he needs Cazador to believe him. “H-help, he… please, I told him not to but-“

Astarion’s lip wobbles as he turns to look back, smirking at Petras for just a fraction of a second.

Petras, pretty but dim, realises much more slowly than Astarion that the ever-looming presence of Cazador is suddenly upon them. His aura fills the bedroom and leaves it feeling chilled with a sense of foreboding. To Petras, he can sense their master"s absolute rage and some sadistic longing waiting to be unleashed.

In the time it takes for Petras, wide-eyed and fearful to back up onto his knees, off Astarion, Cazador is rising from within the mist, solid, eyes glowing red and then settling into a perfect, glassy crimson.

There"s a blur of movement so fast even the spawn do not have the chance to react and a slam that shakes the décor as Petras is suddenly on the floor. Cazador sinks the heel of his boot into Petras" neck and the spawn can do nothing but lie there and gaze up in horror.

"Were my instructions not clear enough for you, dog?" Cazador looks down his nose at Petras and presses against his windpipe harder. It draws a choking, broken sound from Petras and Cazador"s attention flicks away and to Astarion.

"My darling," he coos, all sickly sweet and apparently endeared by the display Astarion is giving him. "Look at the state of you," he tuts and Petras makes another helpless sound as Cazador presses harder, starting to do real damage. "It is my own failure... teaching you to be so wanton... teaching this dog to stick his cock inside anything for my entertainment... Whatever am I to do with such misbehaviour between the pair of you?" Another broken cry from Petras and Cazador lifts his foot. He gives Petras a swift kick to the ribs.

"Begone, dog. To Godey. Be grateful I do not have time to deal with you myself." Cazador warns him and watches with disgust as Petras pulls himself onto all fours, mainly through the vampire placing the desire in his mind. He operates Petras, tears streaming down his face and making a wretched wheezing sound, to bow and kiss his feet before he crawls away. And Cazador places his attention fully on Astarion, utterly uncaring as Petras closes the door behind and has enough release from Cazador"s full control to sob brokenly.

Even with their master’s fury not directed at him Astarion shrinks in on himself under his gaze, wilting with all the beauty of a trampled flower. His shoulders curl in, his lower lip trembles as surely as his hands where they still lay crossed where Petras had him pinned. He swallows visibly, eyes sliding away to look blankly beyond the wall. Old habits seemed to be nearly as hard to kill as he was himself, Astarion muses with a detached sense of bitterness.

Petras’s torment gives him at least a mild amount of schadenfruede to tuck away in the cavity of his chest. Something to get him through the day. For the most part, though, Astarion is empty. Like what little fragments of his soul he had left had dribbled out with Petras’s spend, pooling between the mattress and the divot of his ass. His face flushes slightly pink at Cazador’s scrutiny, more from shame than anything else. He turns himself over with a wince, drawing his legs closed and sitting up as best he’s able.

As it is, Astarion has more than sufficient practice at dragging his aching body into an alluring display. It was an art, really - figuring out how to disguise one’s aches and winces as coquettish flirtation and easy seduction. He props himself up on the arm Petras hadn’t brutalized, letting his chin drop against his chest and his eyes widen.

“I-I… I told him not to. You must believe me, I had not meant to disobey you.”

He thinks he ought to feel triumph at the sight of his brother spawn being forced to scuttle away like the dog he was, but there’s only the ever present vague horror slowly mounting with every moment Cazador’s attention began to turn to him.

An unkind smile draws across Cazador"s face as he watches Astarion with absolute fixation. He has always been passionate to the extent of obsession, and Astarion is no exception. As long as he had first caught a glimpse of the elf, Cazador had stalked him relentlessly and paid good money to learn all he could about Astarion, his work, his family and friends- or lack thereof, and his habits. For so long he had the most intimate understanding, yet once their connection was severed it had opened up a veil of mystery and Cazador"s fascination with his favorite spawn had become near all-consuming. A part of him wonders if he would sooner give up the Rite over his favorite toy. Perhaps. Astarion has proven to be a source of endless entertainment.

One of Cazador"s most favourite pastimes is watching his spawn bicker, fight, fuck- or rather he likes to feel it for himself when they are livelier in his perceived absence. He had stirred, a familiar feeling sinking in, and he knew precisely what was bringing Petras such elation to an extent nothing else gave him satisfaction. Astarion is- despite appearances- Petras" favorite too. And who could blame him? No man could resist the boy’s charms.

Cazador had allowed the events to unfold and chosen his moment to interrupt. He had enjoyed the show and feeling the raw, animalistic domination Petras had experienced forcing himself onto his brother. It would be a learning experience for all of them. But for the time being, Cazador must punish the boy and his consort alike. However prettily Astarion picks himself up and gives him the most pathetically innocent and helpless look, Cazador knows he must use the opportunity to reshape Astarion further.

His hand smooths down over the front of his trousers, squeezing over the line of his cock as he drinks up Astarion"s lovely expression. Normally, he has more control. Normally, he would slap Astarion"s face and force him to put his mouth to better use, but instead he clicks his tongue and adopts a falsely sympathetic, slightly mocking tone.

"You poor, poor thing... Petras is a dog, I expect no better from him. Yet I know that dog would not dare remove the plug I so generously filled your gaping hole with..." he starts, something more sinister sparking in his gaze and his tone lowers. "Were you playing with yourself, my darling? Did you long for my cock so much you could not wait until nightfall?"

Cazador"s cock swells further at the thought of Astarion fingering himself with nothing but his master"s spend to give him the slickness for his pleasure.

"Crawl here to me," he points to the edge of the bed as he strides the last few paces towards it. His erection is a clear line in his trousers, large and proud, aching for Astarion"s misery. "Tell me everything." The emphasis is clear- Cazador wishes to hear every sordid detail.

Astarion braces for the slap he knows is coming. For the rough digging of Cazador"s perfectly manicured nails in his scalp, the pull of his hair as he"s flung to the ground to be ravished or worse, for the routine of pain and degradation he’d learned to expect.

 It doesn"t come.

Instead he"s left teetering, caught barely gipping to the side of sanity. It"s as if a great void had opened up inside of him, weighing down the great depths of his stomach and tethering him to the mortal coil.

An unnatural, sickly imitation of a living self, bound to this realm and puppeted into a perverse mirror of whoever the living Astarion Ancunin might have been. A monster. No, worse than that - less than that. To give himself the title of villain was only egoism, a pathetic attempt to paint himself as more than he was.

Cazador was the monster, the villain. Astarion was no different than the man’s daggers or his staff. A tool to be leveraged for the man’s ambitions, without agency or discretion. Fit only to be used, discarded, and then used again.

Astarion knows heroes now. He’s met them, even pretended to be one briefly. A passing fancy, nothing more. It was as much a lie as presenting himself as a person. He can’t say his position on them has changed at all, now that he’s sat around their fire. People like that had no business with things such as Astarion.

 He thinks of the shades in the shadow cursed lands, the way Karlach had winced and fidgeted on discovering they had once been human. Wyll had put one hand on her shoulder, smiling that sad, condescending smile that was so typical to find on the faces of self proclaimed do-gooders.

The kind that meant he’d already long ago discarded any empathy for those he deemed a blight on his precious Sword Coast. The Blade of Frontiers had explained to his former target how nothing of the people the shades had once been remained. All that was left was a twisted, malignant shadow of the pathetic thing’s worst traits. It was a mercy, really, to allow them the grace of passing on.

Astarion had listened silently, and idly did his best not to consider how well those words described him. It was only the lingering scraps of his sanity and sense of self preservation that kept him from asking Wyll what the Blade of Frontiers thought of vampire spawn.

He could imagine on his own. Surely it wouldn"t be flattering.

With every group of goblin, drow, cultists, gnoll, what the fuck ever, their group slaughtered their way through, Astarion couldn’t help but see his own face on each of the corpses. Not from any particular sense of empathy - he didn’t give a single damn about some random goblins getting their due - but rather a vague, mounting dread.

Because Astarion was no different. He should be no different, in the eyes of his companions. Just another mindless lackey, sacrificed for the whims of a greater evil. Cut down by heroes without a second thought. As surely as mercy wasn’t considered for the goblin hoard they’d decimated in an attempt to find that hulking bear of a Druid, he knew his companions would stake him with even less hesitation if they’d understood what he was. What he’d done.

What he would continue to do, now that he was back in the clutches of Cazador once again.

And Astarion would deserve it, was the thing. He knew that at least. He would fight and he would grovel; but when the death he deserved came for him he could pass on knowing ultimately, oblivion was a reprieve for a wretch such as him. A mercy, as Wyll himself had said. If the world were fair - and oh, does Astarion know better than anyone else that it wasn’t - death would be far too kind an end after the many sins he’d done in both the name of his sire, and for the sake of his own survival. He could only hope that for once, the indifferent irony of the world would at last work in his favor.

But he wasn’t about to get his hopes up.

The problem was, even after everything,  Astarion did not want to die. He wanted to live. He had been given a taste of freedom, of living as a person again - and he found himself as desperate for the lingering traces in his mouth as the blood which sustained him. 

Astarion lifts his eyes from where they’d been staring down at the bedsheets listlessly, turning his crimson gaze once again upon his sire. Not quite making eye contact, still fawning away with a slight tremor in the line of his shoulders. They draw up toward his pointed ears, hunched and despondent. He tries desperately not to ruin the pretty picture he’d painted to distract Cazador from his ire. From the way his master stroked languidly at his crotch through the leather of his trousers with long, elegant fingers it seemed he’d succeeded at least to some extent. Cazador’s lust for Astarion’s misery seemed to be the only thing the younger elf could reliably expect from his master.

It would’ve almost been funny, were Astarion to be talking of anyone’s plight other than his own.

What Cazador was offering might be his greatest hope at a life which even vaguely resemble freedom. He would not be given mercy. He did not crave death, and wouldn’t be granted such a simple out even if he did want it. A gilded cage was better than a kennel.

It had to be.

Astarion thinks of Leon and the favored spawn room, suddenly. A sick nausea twists its way up his spine. He’d always hated the man, the youngest of their sordid little family; and as it so often went, the favorite. He’d thought the man a fool for ever courting Cazador’s favor, fickle as he was known to be. Had despised him for seemingly being able to keep himself at least some level of esteem in their Master’s eyes, when Astarion only managed to provoke ire even when he did his very best to behave.

There’s a sick twist behind the pale lines of his chest, as if something in his very core had been snapped. He’s suddenly overcome with the urge to weep.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Astarion steels himself. With a resigned sense of indignation, he lets the small amount of pride he’d been able to gather deep inside of himself over the past months drip away. It soaks into the bed sheets along with the spend which had dribbled its way from his sore hole, soiling the silk around him.

“The plug was but a pitiful mockery of what I know I was made to take, Master. I could no longer stand to have anything but you inside of me.” Astarion’s voice shakes as he forces out the words, sickly and and laced with the cant of a true whore. His throat felt heavy and full, tongue coated in the sticky-sweetness of seduction and fear. Truly, Cazador’s aphrodisiacs of choice. “Besides, I know you prefer me to be… tight for you. I worried with the plug’s stretching, I would not be able to satisfy you.”

Leaning forward onto his hands, he does his best to drag his aching body toward the edge of a bed in a manner not entirely pathetic. With what a mess of sore bruising his lower half had become overnight, it’s a struggle to make the action even vaguely sensual. Still, Astarion has plenty of practice seducing in much worse states. When he reaches Cazador, he looks up at the man through snow-white lashes, eyes round and pupils blown wide.

The fear of being struck, scratched, bitten, or thrown about subsides slowly, Astarion"s wide, wet gaze peering up at his master in true surprise. He does disappear briefly, his eyes glazing over, and Cazador keeps an eye on him, wondering what is going through his mind, but he does not interrupt.

Eventually, Astarion lifts his eyes, not quite focusing on his lord. Bashful and fearful- a potent combination for Cazador who watches him with a faint smugness. He"s shivering like a stray kitten out on a cold winter"s night, but Astarion plants his palms to the bedspread and crawls towards him. He"s been bitten by Petras on the shoulder, his lace is slightly askew, no longer a perfect picture but beautifully debauched. Cazador always enjoys this on Astarion without fail.

“He pinned me after finding me exposed.” Astarion murmurs, humiliated to be forced to recount his assault so directly after it happened. “I tried to fight him off, but… well. That has never been my strong suit, has it?” 

Astarion’s words are wry, bitter as wormwood and twice as heavy-hearted. Then, simply and without any of his normal tact, he adds quietly; 

 “He fucked me. Then he finished inside.”

Cazador"s pupils grow seeing how much more placid and obedient Astarion has become. He always speaks prettily, but he knows what Cazador wishes to hear. Even when he grows shy recalling Petras using his body, Astarion sounds sweet where his voice is a bare whisper of itself, a low murmur in his shame.

"My sweet boy," Cazador croons, voice a patronizing mimicry of concern as he reaches to play with Astarion"s frosted curls delicately. Astarion flinches back without meaning to, his long ears drooping as Cazador carded his fingers through his spawn"s mussed hair. It must be horribly ruffled, Astarion realizes - sleeping on it wet after the bath then being shoved roughly into the bedsheets by Petras couldn"t have done it any favors. Cazadors thumbs brush against the soft tufts that sit in front of his ears, carefully arranging his curls back into position.

Cazador"s voice is sickly sweet, sticky and fetid against Astarion"s skin like drying spend. Still, as false as Astarion knows his kindness to be, he melts into the caress of his touch. His master"s fingers were long and thin like Astarion"s own, almost dainty in their elven primness; such a beautiful contrast to the rough calluses that gave texture to the meaty paws Petras had used to hold him down. They trace the soft planes of his neck, from where his throat bobs wet and heavy to the wound on his shoulder, then back to his head. it"s a relief; it"s a torment.

Cazador"s comfort makes his stomach flip with a giddy nausea that Astarion finds himself unable to identify. Shame, perhaps. He knows he does not deserve the soft touches Cazador lavishes him with now, that sooner or later he will pay in flesh for this unexpected leniency. That he could find any sort of reprieve in the arms of the man who had condemned him to this unlife.

....but had he? Astarion seemed to draw this attention to himself naturally. None of his siblings dragged themselves back to the Szarr residence with blood dripping between their legs half as often as Astarion seemed to. Cazador had always said his screams were the sweetest.

He"s drifting. Cazador is saying something, and he must listen.

"Had you not taken the plug out, you would not be in such trouble in the first place. Tempting poor Petras so. You naughty thing. Besides, that was a gift from your sire. It was to keep you prepared, always. My love for you is uncontainable. I cannot be expected to restrain myself, you should know better than that."

Cazador grins nastily, a reminder of all the times there has been little or no warning or grace. 

"I did not intend to tempt-" So busy defending himself reflexively, he doesn"t anticipate Cazador"s next move. He clutches Astarion"s curls in both hands and pulls, giving him a faceful of dick wrapped in buttery, exquisite leather.

Splendid, Astarion grimaces to himself as he finds his face crushed against the stirring erection of his master. 

"Use your mouth. Tell me... did it hurt?" Cazador had heard the final minutes of the struggle. A sordid and shameless primal act. He had heard Astarion louder though. Petras had barely given him a good fuck and the boudoir still hung heavy with the scent of Petras" release on Astarion"s skin and his leaking cock.

Astarion’s pointed nose compresses painfully against the larger elf"s pubis, and he"s flooded with the scent of leather and cock. He can feel it twitching against his cheek and lips through the decadent trousers, can almost taste his sire"s precome on his tongue. Astarion closes his eyes, leaning in an attempt to lessen the strain on his hair, losing himself in a crotch he knew better than his own name. Compliantly, he kisses against the leather, nuzzling and mouthing sloppily at the bulge that seemed to fill his senses.

"It was as painful as it ever is." It"s barely more than a whisper, and for the first time since his recapture Astarion finds himself once again glad to be freed of his master"s compulsion. At least now, he did not have to answer the man with humiliating candor. "....he bit me, that hurt. I didn"t expect him to."

"I shall miss watching you play with your brothers and sisters. How much you weep. Alas, you are destined to be my one and only. More than the palace whore. You are to be a consort, boy. It is time you began acting as such!" Cazador rocked his hips, rubbing the bulge of his cock and balls against Astarion"s lovely face, not giving him much of a chance to do anything but take it.

"To ensure you and Petras truly learn who you belong to... I shall have to overpower the scent of his seed with that of my own. However long it takes to completely flood you with my spend." Cazador tuts as if it has been an extraordinary inconvenience for him, as though he has not been dying to fill Astarion up as much as he can manage.

"This time you will leave the plug inside afterwards and keep that greedy hole of yours sealed for your master alone. You are consort now. The only things you should concern yourself with are pleasing me and upkeeping your appearance. I cannot have you looking so slovenly and disheveled when we have guests." Cazador finally releases Astarion"s hair, resisting dragging him to the floor by a fistful. Instead he smooths it out with a chilling fondness. "On your back, show me where Petras used you. Allow me to inspect that sloppy, whore hole."

Astarion is shoved forward, blinking as if to clear from his mind the musk that lingered in his senses. Once again, he finds himself rolling onto his back and spreading his legs. He does it without thinking; body moving before his brain ever had the chance to even consider doing anything else. Who was he to resist, to pretend he didn"t want this, when his body welcomed it so? When parting his ass cheeks with both hands felt as natural as allowing his feet to take him the familiar route home?

 Astarion"s face twists, his own thoughts mindling with the filthy degradation that spilled forth from Cazador, till he couldn"t quite be sure where he himself began and the man"s words ended. He was, after all, only what Cazador had made him. Twisted by the man"s play acting and fantasies until nothing remained of him other than his name and the weeping rose which lay between his legs.

With a startle, Astarion realizes silent tears have begun to fall from his eyes. He cringes with disgust.

How weak.

The sweetness of Astarion drives Cazador to madness with want. As arrogant as the boy can be, he has the potential to be irresistibly lovely. There is no question, despite the "favored spawn" nonsense, the entirety of the palace, anyone aware of Cazador and his "children" know that Astarion is his dearest possession, his most darling spawn.

Cazador"s cock is swollen from Astarion"s kisses and affectionate nuzzling where spawn is desperate to prove his adoration and loyalty to his master, as is proper. He reels with a bloody need to assert his dominance over his spawn once more and with Astarion the only one before him, it twists into carnal frenzy - the two almost indistinguishable in terms of the release they bring the vampire lord.

Considering how readily Astarion has always given his body or placidly allowed himself to be ravaged, Cazador admires how even with their mental connection temporarily broken, their historic bond and his master"s voice is too compelling to resist. Cazador watches how Astarion settles back as ordered and clutches his pearly white cheeks, drawing himself apart while his legs are tucked up, knees bent. The milky sight of seed- whether his own or Petras"- is gorgeous, especially when Cazador needs only to glance up to see his cheeks and temple are wet alike.

"Your poor, used hole." Cazador does not touch, but he can see Astarion"s rim is as pink and puffy as when he had left for the day. He instead pushes his hands onto Astarion"s and smoothes them higher up the backs of his thighs. Sinking his fingers in, Cazador presses some of his substantial weight down onto Astarion, forcing his legs closer to his body. "Hug them closer, that"s it. Be a good boy now... you would not wish to be of further disappointment to your master now, hmm?"

Ensuring Astarion has the means to hold his own thighs, Cazador pushes back and draws open the silk rope belt and fastening of his trousers. He draws them open and tugs them down his hips which results in a swing and bounce from his cock as it"s freed, hovering over Astarion. As Cazador fills his fist with his own cock, he steps up to the bed and slaps himself against Astarion"s own cock and balls. They"re as pretty as the rest of him.

"That miserable wretch must have failed to make you come if you are this keen to show off your hole." Cazador strokes the tip of his cock down over Astarion"s wet entrance and bounces against it with a meaty slap, striking his length against him where he"s still raw and leaking. "But you know how forgiving I can be. What matters is the pup will be sealed away until his time comes. You shall not be bothered by him again. Ever."

Cazador"s eyes light up with his grin, something maniacal there where an idea has struck him.

"None other than I shall plant seed in your perfect body from here on. I shall keep you close to me at all times. I cannot risk you being further defiled. It saddens me to see you so distraught, my love." Yet even as he says it, Cazador slips into Astarion"s softened hole and grasps at his thighs as he begins to lean against him.

Cradling his knees against his chest, Astarion allows his head to fall down and back against the silk sheets. The tears he’d shed onto the night before had long dried and disappeared as if they never been there, as the evidence of his torments always seemed to. Other than the ruin which was his back, all he had to show for two centuries of pure-fucking-bullshit a fractured mind and a near encyclopedic knowledge of every sexual depravity and ravishment one could inflict on another soul. He turns his head to face the wall, feeling the silk against his cheekbone slowly become damp once again. How many times had he curled himself into this very position, in this very bed? How many more times could he, until there would be nothing more in his mind left but this? No room for other memories, for personality, for anything other than Cazador’s whims. He can feel Petras’s cum dripping down the crack of his ass from where his rim struggles to keep itself closed, can feel the way his own hands shake as they claw apart the meat of his ass.

“I’ll be good.” Astarion whispers, more to himself as a statement of intent than in response to Cazador’s chiding tone. Even now, the man’s disappointment sets something closer to shame than panic through him, a cold dread as familiar as the larger elf’s leer. “I can be good for you.”

Cazador slides their cocks together, and Astarion only barely manages to hide his flinch of discomfort as a wriggle of arousal. Where the pale elf is limp against his own stomach, all arousal Petras had somehow battered into him fully having receded in the pure terror of the last couple minutes, Cazador’s own hardness seems to taunt Astarion. Truly, the man’s stamina seemed to be as boundless as his hunger. Was this another boon of his full vampiric status? Or had the man been nearly this insatiable even before his turning? There’s a brief second where Astarion begins to consider what his master must have been like as a spawn, before his might shuts the thought down as distinctly as a door slamming closed.

Slaves were not fit to wonder at the pasts of their masters.

“Nghn-“ Astarion can’t help the groan which escapes him as Cazador prods at the tender furl between his ass cheeks, his fingernails digging into his own flesh with such desperation his nails cut little half moons indents into alabaster skin. His breathing hitches, useless as it is, a whimper of pure pleasure-pain wavers past his pink and parted lips.

“T-thank you, my lord, I- "" Cazador slips in, punching the words out of his chest and into nothingness. Astarion slips alongside them, mouth falling open wider as his stomach trembles. Unlike with Petras, he is immediately assaulted with his own pleasure. Cazador could not compel his enjoyment any longer, but conditioning did not always require a magical touch. Astarion’s cock twitches, and he whines through his fangs.

“I-I can’t-“

As the impressive length of the vampire"s cock sinks further into his spawn, Cazador"s eyes widen at Astarion"s freely given gratitude. Beyond ascension and taking control of Baldur"s Gate it is everything he craves. A shaky, barest breath leaves him as his crimson gaze burns down on Astarion"s beautiful face, streaked with tears and his mouth temptingly soft.

The polite, subservient moment is spoiled only once Astarion speaks again to resist. Cazador could not deny he still enjoyed a spark of defiance; the evidence of shame and fear in his beloved spawn-consort"s eyes.

"You can and you shall." Cazador says with the utmost certainty. Whatever Astarion is about to deny him, he will not stand for it. He will take and take simply because he can. Anything Astarion has to offer Cazador will strip from him until he is bare bones.

Cazador continues to lean into Astarion until their hips are flush, where he can only force the last of his cock to the base with a filthy grind of his hips which he knows Astarion finds pleasurable. He knows Astarion so intimately he can read the strained enjoyment he is taking in being filled with his master"s cock. Larger than Petras, who was mere clumsy foreplay by comparison.

"Has the pup left you sore?" Cazador coos mockingly, staring down as he lifts his hips and marvels at how his cock shines with a creamy mixture of come. His own and Petras" spend where he raped Astarion- and Cazador had allowed it all to happen. Had even taken perverse glee in witnessing it unfolding.

He drops his hips and slams into Astarion with a filthy slap, and feels come as it is pushed out of Astarion"s hole, trickling down to his balls and over the boy"s backside. The pace continues, a slow, steady smack of skin on skin as Cazador pushes Astarion"s legs back and fucks the come both deeper into and out of him.

"Until now I had taken such pride in sharing you," Cazador muses as he continues to fuck Astarion hard and relentlessly. His fingers slide up between them and he curls them over Astarion"s recent bite mark. He pushes closer atop the smaller man, letting his thighs settle either side of him and plants one hand on the bed.

Silently, Cazador pins Astarion there on his cock, an obsessive sharpness in his eyes as he digs his fingers into the shallow nip from Petras. His fingers curl onto their tips, piercing where Astarion"s blood had begun to clot, and the tang of blood pierces the air once more.

Cazador shudders and breathes Astarion"s scent in. The boy"s blood is poor, admittedly. A starved, undead creature does not taste the way a living being does, the same as a humanoid tastes better than a beast. A vampire spawn tastes better for having been fed better blood in turn. Yet each and every creature has its own distinct flavor, and Astarion makes Cazador"s mouth fall open to scent him, fangs bared by his smell alone as he considers the bite mark.

"I shall not allow you to be marked by another again," he stares deep into Astarion"s eyes as he lifts his fingers. They paint blood across his mouth. "It is unbefitting." 

Cazador"s fingers drag downward, plucking at Astarion"s lips and smearing over his pointy chin before he lifts it gently. "You are no longer a whore. Others can envy and desire you... but that shall be Petras" last mistake." He pauses.

"Who do you belong to, my sweet?" Cazador knows, but he insists on Astarion sealing it with his own voice. Over and over again, he will have Astarion say it until it becomes the thing he is most certain of. Until it is his truth.

“Hhh… hells, I…. please,” Astarion’s hips roll as he wiggles under Cazador, impaled upon the man’s cock like a stuck pig. His cock is rock hard against his stomach, flushed to nearly the color of his abused hole and dribbling fat beads of pre which drip across his hips. He doesn’t comprehend any of his master’s words, head shaking a faint protest as his hands struggle to find purchase in the sheets, as if he might pull himself from this nightmare if only he could find a lifeline to grip.

Cazador sinks in to the hilt and Astarion bites through his lip to keep from howling. Blood trickles down his chin, mixing with his tears on the bed sheets. It feels good , it’s so good and right and Astarion nearly throws up over the both of them. His stomach is a war of nausea and pleasure, full to the brim with Cazador and come and violent self loathing.

 And then his sire begins his unforgiving pace, and Astarion nearly orgasms with the first violent thrust against his prostate. His mind goes blank. Astarion is empty, gaping; nothing more than a flushed, whining sex toy for his master"s use, and he likes it . He sobs, broken and ragged, as his toes curl and his hips rise to meet each smack of Cazador’s balls against his ass.

Astarion is brought back to earth suddenly by the sharp pain of his master’s long nails tearing into the flesh exposed by Petras’s teeth. He whines, peering up at him with lashes sticky with tears. Limply, he allows his head to be manipulated.

Astarion can’t understand the man’s words. No longer a whore? Then what the hell was he, spread out like this? An object, perhaps, an ornament for Cazador’s cock. He had escaped whore status in name alone. No matter the man’s words, he knew what his actions made him; knew what the strain of his cock against his stomach implied.

“Y….you, master, I… gods above, I need… f-fuck….”  He’s babbling near nonsense, his pleas curated carefully somewhere in the back of his mind. Beg, but don’t refuse. Remain docile. Try not to show fear. Serve your master well.

200 years, and he still could barely manage it.

Cazador reclaims his territory with a smile, pearly and dagger-like as Astarion"s tears well up faster than he can shed them. He makes a pretty sight, mouth bloodied as he bites his bottom lip where he"s overwhelmed and enjoying his master taking back what belongs to him. Astarion"s body readily receives him, silky slick and his cock bouncing slightly the harder Cazador thrusts.

"That"s right, my boy. You are mine. Always were meant to be." Cazador insists and groans out over and over with each grip of Astarion"s hole responding to his own pleasure.

"You do need this, don"t you? To be owned. Pretty things like you ought to be owned and cared for. And I take such good care of you- do I not?" That makes Cazador grin more viciously.

His hips drive hard into Astarion and he buries himself there, pinning him on his cock. Astarion looks intoxicated with arousal and Cazador himself feels elated seeing him biting his own lip to shreds to make them red and juicy.

Swooping forward, Cazador kisses Astarion, licking along his lip to catch a taste of him. He begins to thrust more gently- making love to Astarion in his twisted way- and plants kiss after bloody kiss down his jaw, neck, across his shoulder, until he is tonguing the bitemarks Petras has left.

“Please, please, nnngh…. Ah….” The words are fucked out of Astarion with every brutal thrust, as much an uncontrollable response to his arousal as the precum which now had made a mess of his stomach. He raises one arm to hide his eyes, stemming the tide of his tears and hiding himself from his master’s view. His mouth hangs open, displaying his sweet fangs and the pink clutch of his throat as he gasps and sobs and chokes on ragged moans. “Need… I… a-ahh, nnh… m-master, I’m gonna-“

He’s quieted by the taste of Cazador’s tongue in his mouth, and he kisses back with a sloppy urgency. As if pleasing his sire would make this end any sooner. He whines as Cazador’s mouth leaves his, finding its way to the wound on his shoulder. Compared to what Astarion has suffered, the pain barely registers; it is the humiliation of it all which drags forth a whimper from deep in his heaving chest. Nothing of him is devoid of Cazador, every inch of his body utterly soiled by the man’s lusts; he mouths at the injury as if he could not bear to allow Astarion even the dignity of a trauma untainted by his sire’s tongue.

"Mm, I shall never forget how you tasted when I felt your pulse fading. How you shook with excitement." Cazador has recounted this fondly to Astarion endlessly- usually when he"s feeling particularly sentimental- and there is something so special about having Astarion beginning to break beneath him anew. He opens up his jaw and his fangs sink in and press harder, deeper, and drag. His jaw is stronger than Petras". Cazador writes a message with his bite. Astarion is not to be touched. It serves as punishment and reminder to all.

The lace of Astarion"s harness grows damp with Cazador"s saliva and fresh blood. He moans in satisfaction and lazily fucks Astarion as he drinks his wretched blood to make a point.

“I- no, I didn’t-“ Another sob, more pronounced now. Astarion would’ve figured he’d have grown numb to this particular indignity somewhere in the turn of decades into centuries. The idea he had wanted to be bitten, had enjoyed it… the memory has been so replayed, so tainted by Cazador’s constant reiteration of his own perception that Astarion can no longer recall what he had felt in those moments.

Cazador bites down, and Astarion comes to the smell of his own blood wetting the sheets. He clenches around the cock inside of him, vice tight and almost wailing as he tumbles over into orgasm. His vision goes white. He keens.

The strong grip of Cazador"s fangs tugs with each thrust of his hips and snags where Astarion begins to come undone. In his master"s mind, Astarion is coming for having been claimed still, an obedient and adoring spawn deep in his core. Requiring rebreaking and further sculpting to make him perfection- but they have infinite time. Cazador will be patient and ensure this time Astarion is exceptional beyond even his own lofty expectations.

He sucks at the bitemark, plants his fangs again, making a mess. Astarion"s blood fills his mouth and spills past to soak into the thick layers of silks and fine cottons beneath, until Cazador can taste nothing but blood and he feels more intoxicated from the strange quality of drinking from an undead creature.

As Astarion climaxes, confirming Cazador"s suspicions that he loves being claimed and owned as much now as he did at the time of being saved from the brink of death, it makes the vampire lord part from his shoulder. He grins, fangs bared and dripping, blood drooling from his mouth as he moves back to meet Astarion"s mouth.

"Yesss," Cazador hisses and drags away Astarion"s arm laid limply across his face, wanting to see the vacant, blissed out look of his spawn coming on his maker"s cock. It is divine, watching the subtle changes in Astarion"s gaping mouth and his fangs peeking out adorably.

Cazador relishes in having his cock milked and lets Astarion"s blood drip from his mouth down into his, allowing his own saliva to run, until the mouthful is running down Astarion"s tongue, into the back of his throat, down his pointy chin messily. Cazador does not wait and lunges down as he forces it down with his tongue, and gives into the insistent, hungry mouthing of Astarion"s hole massaging his cock into orgasm.

He rocks and fucks Astarion in deep, strong swings of his hips, his own come overwhelming Petras" mess, reclaiming what is his.

"Mmf, good." Cazador breaks the kiss with a mouthful of shared blood, kisses Astarion again sloppily between wet, panted words. "So very good for master." He dips to drink from Astarion"s shoulder and once more pours it into his mouth. "I shall have to keep your whorish appetite satisfied, I see... Nothing fills you quite so fully like I do, hmm boy?"

As they kiss, bloodily and messily, Cazador"s cock gives sudden jerks, his balls pulsing against Astarion"s soft ass as he relaxes and lets himself come and come, tongue lolling forward as he drools blood down into Astarion"s mouth. It"s a long, long climax, and Cazador is content to buck his hips, kiss, draw it out as he talks, whether Astarion enjoys being pressed to the bed or not is irrelevant.

Astarion pants from the exertion of it all, mind and body depleted as his master continues to take more than he would have ever have been willing to give. He shakes like a leaf under Cazador, orgasm and exhaustion and blood loss all threatening to overwhelm him completely. He can feel each pulse of Cazador’s throat as the man laps up the last mouthfuls of blood still left in his gaunt body, and whimpers as his final reserves of strength drain away.

The thing is, Cazador is right. Astarion has grown so spoiled. He’s become used to functioning on a full stomach, on a body functioning at its full capacity. The only blessing of his perpetual starvation was that he had never known what to miss.

Now that he does, it’s agonizing.

Astarion allows his arm to be pulled from his face, if simply only because he can no longer find it in himself to fight. Everything seems so pointless.

He closes his eyes. It’s the only agency which remains for him to claim. At least now he doesn’t have to see Cazador’s leering face.

Thus the next kiss takes him by surprise, and he makes a faint noise as he feels his own blood spat down his throat. Like a mother bird, he thinks, with a vague hysteria. Cazador did so love his familial metaphors. He chokes briefly, unprepared as he is, before swallowing like a good little slut.

“Guh… Cazador, I, ah…” His spent cock twitches as he’s filled, the sensation of his master’s hot seed filling him as familiar as his own name. He isn’t even sure what he’d been about to say. Each thrust of the man’s hips is agony on his over sensitive insides, burning inside of him like a brand.

Cazador had done that, once. The memory is enough to kill any lingering arousal in Astarion’s system.

So he lies there, spent and used, and lets both ends of himself be reannointed in  the name of his sire.

It does surprise Cazador how willing Astarion takes his own blood poured straight down his throat and he entertains the thought of draining a glassful to share between them while the spawn teeters on the brink of true death. His own blood is swallowed down obediently, without any further interference from Cazador. Astarion seems encouraged to behave. Cazador"s plan to remold Astarion is working. As in all things, Cazador is confident he shall be triumphant.

Astarion twitches, milking his master"s cock, his cock once more limp as he lies in a pool of blood and come- exactly how Cazador enjoys him best.

Yet Cazador is most thrilled to hear Astarion calling his name, rather than his title. Where once he might have tortured the boy- ruined his throat and driven nails through his tongue- instead it feels correct.

Cazador takes a hand, running bloody fingers through his hair as white as fallen snow, now molted with red. Criinging away, Astarion expects punishment for his slip. In all their years together, calling his master anything devoid of the utmost formality merited only suffering. To call him by name only was practically begging to spend a month in the kennels with Godey, the skeleton given free range to toy with his body as he pleased. Once he’d gotten off the Natalloid, the first thing he’d done was try to break the habit of referring to his sire with any sense of anything other than contempt. He’d spat the man’s name, delighted at the simple freedom of being able to disrespect him so. Thus Astarion fawns, awaiting the expected rebuke, but Cazador only seems all the more elated.

Hells, but this is all so strange. It seemed wrong to say that Cazador’s actions had Astarion off kilter, given he’d never had any stability to count on in the first place, but at least there had been certainty in Cazador’s erratic behavior before… all of this.

Truly, everything had changed. And now, with Cazador growing soft inside of him, streaking his hair with his own spend and blood, Astarion wasn’t sure if the change was at all for the better.

"Look at you, my sweet," Cazador sounds almost fond, leaving his cock inside Astarion to enjoy having him pinned beneath him a while longer. "You"re filthy again." He tuts and brushes elegant fingers down Astarion"s front, smudging through his own spend.

"A hot bath and a change of clothing is required. You shall accompany me tonight and I am conducting business later." Cazador touches Astarion"s cock, letting it roll between his fingers purely because he has the power to do so.

"Either you may clean my cock and I shall have a bath brought through to wash you, or we can bathe together." Cazador watches Astarion, leaving a moment for it to sink in that he is being given a choice. "Which would my darling prefer?"

“Nghh…” Astarion twitches, tensing to keep himself from flinching away from his master’s intrusive touch. Each cold brush of the man’s fingers against his overspent cock sent ice down Astarion’s spine and had his sloppy hole clenching weakly. He bites back a comment about who and why he’d gotten soiled once again, worrying at the inside of his lip. A fang breaks skin, but no blood rushes into his mouth; an easy indicator of how truly drained dry he is.

“I…. ah….” Distracted as he is by the comment about accompanying him on business, Astarion can barely focus well enough to process the question asked of him. Blearily, he blinks up at Cazador, brow furrowing slightly. Trying to guess the right choice. It was a worthless endeavor, and he knew that; whatever Cazador wanted, he would get.

Dangling a semblance of volition before Astarion has him peering at his master, attempting to draw himself together to ensure he is making the correct decision. Wisdom has never been the boy"s strong suit and being a magistrate was never his métier. No. Serving his undeath as Cazador"s consort suits him fine. Astarion is still dazed from being used twice in such a rough fashion and he peers up at Cazador with the same bleary confusion as when being offered a limp rat at the family dining table. There is an adorable crease of distrust between his brows where his feeble mind cannot decide the best course of action. Cazador longs to slap or kiss the look from the boy"s face. Instead, he bides his time. Astarion must learn his place anew.

Soon, Astarion will slip into his new routines and know instinctively what is expected of him, where he has free rein, and what the extent of his master"s generosity is. For Cazador, he takes equal pleasure in drilling rules into his spawn as much as he does exploring befitting punishments when they put a toe out of line. Even amongst vampires Cazador is known for running a tight household.

“Y-your…. Let me, mnh, c-clean you, master…?” He hadn’t used his mouth since the night before, after all, and his rim was beyond aching and chafed. Perhaps this way he might spare himself a further fucking. While Astarion knew from experience he could take far more than the mere two (or was it three? He was losing count, honestly) loads currently plugged inside him by Cazador’s cock, the feeling of being overly stuffed was one he hated.

"Ahh, of course. I should have known how you adore your master"s cock in your mouth. However could I deny you? A treat for my darling consort."

Cazador curls his fingers either side of Astarion"s slender waist with a firm, mounting pressure to dig colorful fingerprints and crescent-shaped nail marks into his spawn"s flesh. As he gentles his grasp, petting the dip beneath Astarion"s ribs and swooping to his narrow hips, Cazador tsks.

Bloodless. The marks Cazador has gifted are faint, save for the scratches. He repeats the gentle stroking, this time with claws to ensure he rakes some form of pattern onto Astarion"s creamy, soft skin. His favorite canvas. Once his decorating is complete, Cazador sighs, sated for the moment. Gazing down at his consort-to-be, Cazador feels happy.

"Come then, let us not dilly-dally."

Slowly, Cazador eases his cock from Astarion, marveling at how creamy his cock comes away from Astarion"s tortured hole. He lingers where his head is barely sucked onto by Astarion, then tugs to watch him gape for a moment and gush. Pearly seed spills in a rush down between Astarion"s cheeks and rains down onto the crimson silk sheets, while strings arc between Cazador"s cock and Astarion"s hole. He"s thoroughly stretched and not well-fed enough to heal. It"s spectacular.

Cazador grasps one of Astarion" calves and pushes it across his body, rolling him sideways to encourage him to move. As he half flattens to the bed, it gives Cazador a wonderful angle to gaze at the curve of his ass, his plump, peachy balls and limp cock caught, tacky against his thighs. He raises a hand and brings it down upon Astarion"s perky backside. The slap is more playful than punishing, but the smack is loud enough to ring out and the impact still smarts.

"Turn around. Hurry now. Before my trousers get messy." Cazador sneers at the prospect and looks down where his cock still stands straight, but has begun to soften. It shines with Petras" spend and his own, mingled. "And then we"ll get you cleaned up and presentable, hm?"

Somehow, having a choice makes all of this feel so much worse. At least when Cazador had had full command of Astarion’s body, he could tell himself that he wanted none of this. Had consented to none of it. That when his body filled with heat and his own spend coated his chest, he could kid himself into thinking it was only due to the older man’s thrall. Now, he had no such comforting self delusions to hide himself away behind. When he came, he knew it was because he was exactly as insatiable as the old crone made him out to be. That his body craved the abuse.

Astarion sniffles pathetically, wiping his nose and eyes with the back of one hand. Gods above, how he despises himself. Despite all the copious evidence to the contrary, he still finds it hard to believe anyone could find the wreck that pretends to be Astarion Ancunin anything but utterly repulsive. The too thin skin, the paper mache bones, the haughty mask that perched perilously over the vapid abyss which was his skull. He looks down at his own body - the bruising, the tacky cum drying against his skin, all angles and sharp edges and used goods. He half expects to see sticky rot oozing from between his ribs, maggots and pus marbling his stomach rather than fingerprints and nail scratches. All he can summon for himself is overwhelming, debilitating disgust.

Cazador, clearly, feels differently; and if Astarion has learned anything in his 200 years warming the man’s bed, it is that his opinion was nothing when matched to that of his Sire’s. He lies there, allowing the man to mark and degrade him, simply because he knows he has no other choice. Even when presented with the illusion of one, Astarion understood it was simply a test. Another way of trapping him. Of finding reasons to punish him.

In complete juxtaposition to Astarion’s dejection, Cazador seemed practically giddy. Astarion isn’t sure he’s seen his master this elated in years, and that in itself would be horrifying if Astarion could find in himself the energy to care. As it is, he’s so utterly drained, he only manages to summon up a weak wave of nausea. It’s as if all of his energy, all of his personality, everything which made Astarion Astarion was dripping out of his gaping hole along with Cazador’s spend.

The noise the man’s cock makes as he pulls it out is almost ridiculously lewd, seeming to echo through the empty bedroom. Astarion gasps, adding his own wet moans to the pornography symphony the two Vampires had made in harmony. Astarion can feel himself gaping, his hole fluttering and clenching around nothing as it struggles to return to its natural state. Futile, as all of his body’s resistances seemed to be.

He lets himself be flipped, flinching bodily as the sound of his ass being spanked fills his ears. He’s still sore from the prior night’s spanking, though he’s too bloodless for his body to show the bruising to properly reflect his ravishment. The choked, wet cry of pain he makes is pathetic even to his own ears.

“…..as you wish, master.” Astarion’s voice shakes nearly as much as his arms as he attempts to haul himself up and off the bed, nearly falling forward back onto his  stomach several times before he successfully manages to roll over fully. He snuffles on his knees and forearms, nestling himself in between his master’s legs and taking his cock into the sweet warmth of his mouth.

He’s too tired to even attempt to hide the hatred in his eyes as he licks clean the cock of the only man he hates more than himself. The taste of semen on his tongue is hauntingly familiar. It’s the same taste which always lingers in his mouth after a fitful trance. His tongue cleans the glans and foreskin of Cazador’s cock, head bobbing softly to take the length of it into his cheek as snot and tears drip into Cazador’s pubic hair.

He almost wishes the Gur had just killed him in the woods that night.

Once Astarion finds his bearings, onto all fours, he soon focuses back to his master"s cock. His lips and tongue take great care to tease along every crevice and fold of Cazador"s cock at the head, before he swallows him down fully. That he"s distraught and has a sharp, unimpressed look about him only keeps Cazador harder for longer. He shifts his hips back and forth, gently face fucking Astarion as he attempts to clean him.

"Good boy," Cazador sighs and grins, head falling back with a hearty groan. He enjoys himself, grinding steadily to leisurely push his cock into Astarion"s throat again and again. A part of him enjoys how resentful Astarion seems. Though Cazador cannot have him sinking back into naughty behavior and bad habits. It simply will not do.

The tongue bath quickly turns into Cazador attempting to ram himself down Astarion’s already bruised throat, and the pale elf half expects his master to bring himself to completion like this once again. It’s so trite, so predictable in its brutality that Astarion would’ve been tempted to roll his eyes, had he not been busy trying to keep himself from choking on his own tears. Still, as always, any praise from Cazador has a shamefully blush blooming across his cheeks and to his ear tips, his dead heart squirming in his chest as if it were full of writhing maggots.

He shouldn’t want the man’s approval. Indeed, he doesn’t. Astarion wants nothing from Cazador, save perhaps a gloriously mutilated corpse and his freedom. Yet still something blossoms inside of him at even the hint of kindness from his master, guilty and sickly and corrosive.

"That"s enough."

Twisting a handful of Astarion"s hair between his fingers, Cazador pulls him away, his cock leaving his lips wet. He"s only half soft from all the attention, but he is clean, which is what Astarion had set out to accomplish. Cazador tucks himself back into his underwear and trousers without further fuss.

Astarion allows himself to be dragged off his master’s dick by his hair, body limp and fight drained from him. His lips and chin are messy with drool and semen, an unbroken string connecting him with the head of the cock he’d been lavishing with his tongue. He tries not to look too visibly relieved as Cazador rights his clothing, shoulders shaking as he stares down at the soiled bed sheets.

He’s caught off guard, then, by the hands which grab at his ears and neck. He’s hauled to sit, every muscle in his abused form screaming their dissent to the motion.

"Enough of your tears, boy. I have taken such good care of you since you came home to your family. You"ve been allowed to come and I have elevated you into a prestigious position in the household. Petras will be dealt with. You will be given every garment, jewel, and entertainment you ask for... There is no justification for such naughty behavior."

Cazador tuts and reaches to pinch one of Astarion"s ears, using it to tug him upward and then instead grasp his elegant neck, his hand easily spanning his throat.

"Still... you are irresistible when you are being a brat. Demanding more attention from me. It is no wonder Petras and your siblings are so jealous. Between your slutty and impish behaviour, I hardly have time to give them any thought." A secretive smirk on his lips, Cazador loomed closer. "That shall not last long. Soon you shall be my sole concern."

“I’m sorry….” Not even sure what he’s apologizing for, Astarion croaks out a lame attempt at supplication. His voice is a thin, wavering thing, barely present within him. Speaking feels like sandpaper down his throat, like gargling salt after having his tongue cut.

“I don’t… wasn’t trying, I-I didn’t want…” he can’t quite process what Cazador is saying. Nothing made any sense. Nothing is as it was. Had he tempted Petras into this? He hadn’t meant to, surely, but did that even matter? And what could Cazador possibly be speaking of, when he talked of a sole concern? “I don’t understand?”

It"s pathetic how Astarion shivers, pale even for undead, looking too slim, too sad, and his chin still wet with drool and spend. Cazador is absolutely fascinated how someone like Astarion had fallen from such lofty heights and could still be so easily ruined on a whim. His tearfulness and limp, ragdoll obedience even without the tadpole is wonderful. In such a wrecked state, Astarion is still attractive to Cazador, where he wonders how much further he could push and where Astarion"s breaking points might be.

He gives Astarion"s throat a gentle squeeze and softens his grasp, stroking down his neck as he leans down and places a tender kiss to his forehead.

"Do not lie to me, child. Petras would never have removed your plug. I do not need to put a blade to his skin to know that." Although hearing Petras howl out his own account of his rape of Astarion is something he is very much looking forward to. He could compel Petras, even give the boy a chance to admit it himself... but it would not have the same amusement factor.

He gives Astarion a light push against his throat, letting him fall with a soft thud to the bed.

"Remove your clothes." A generous stretch of the word, given how skimpy the straps and lace are, and what they leave exposed.

Cazador whisks away from the grand bed, leaving Astarion to tend to the stained, wet clothing while he summons Woe with an elegant gesture, drawing it from thin air. The staff is ancient, elegant, and curls around large, bulbous polished rubies ensnared by tendrils snaking down from the gargoylesque bat perched atop. He taps the end to the ground and the door swings open for him. Impatiently, he then snaps his fingers twice to gain Astarion"s attention, and holds out his palm, gaze unfaltering.

"Come. There is a bathtub in the favored spawn room."

“Yes, master.” It’s barely more than a whisper, a hint of bergamot and rosemary on the wind. The words slip from Astarion on instinct, before he’s even fully aware he’s saying them. He’s suddenly overcome with deja vu, like a throbbing pain in his temples and behind his eyes. He wavers, teetering on the brink of a dark abyss, shimmering like a mirage. As much as Astarion is here in this bedroom, he’s in the kennel, in every flophouse bedroom, every back alley and broom closet and somehow nowhere at all. His face crumbles, fighting back the urge to weep once again as he scrunches his brows together. He’s grateful for the kiss to the crown of his head, if only because it means Cazador had not seen the moment his mask had nearly shattered. 

By the time Cazador draws back, he’s gathered himself enough to erase the anguish from his features, settling back into the empty husk which was his overused corpse. With shaking hands, he divests himself of the scraps of lace and lingerie which still clung stubbornly to his sullied form. The fine embroidery is torn and stained, and part of Astarion mourns the ruination of such a beautiful work of craftsmanship. On the other hand… well.It wasn’t as if the outfit had any positive memories attached to it. 

Honestly, it’s almost refreshing to be fully in the nude. At least now, he is nothing other than himself laid bare. Being dressed up in the various garish and fetishistic clothings Cazador would provide him never failed to make Astarion feel like little more than a sex doll. A belonging, to be curated and decorated or defiled and stripped on a whim. He keeps his gaze level, staring off into the void which lay beyond the walls of the bedroom, allowing his eyes to unfocus. the world blurs to vague impressions and shapes; a softer, indistinct plane of existence where Astarion could bare to exist. 

He doesn’t allow his eyes to stray, afraid to see his own pelvis. He knows what lies there, can imagine clearly enough what the ruination of his own body looks like. 

Cazador watches entirely still and unblinking while Astarion divests himself of the straps and scraps of lace. His perfection often infuriates him as much as it fascinates him. His imperfects infuriate him far more easily yet bring equal amounts of pleasure in his correction. There is no other being Cazador cares for the way he does Astarion. It is some perverted version of love- an undying obsession and desire to consume and ruin the boy in the past, but now all he can think is how determined he is to be rid of the remaining spawn and to ascend Astarion himself to his consort.

The harsh noise of Cazador’s fingers snaps him back to attention. Even after all this time, Astarion is ever so much the beaten dog. And so he sits, he stays, he heels. 

Or at least he tries to. Standing up from the bed is a nearly impossible task, his legs failing him. Astarion stumbles like a fawn taking its first steps, unable to hold his own weight with his body pushed so far past its breaking point. He catches himself on the bedpost, an alarmed cry leaving his lips as he nearly falls over entirely. After a moment he gains his bearings, tripping towards his sires outstretched hand. 

Once Astarion is done and feebly making his way across to Cazador, he waits patiently. He loves the shimmer of fluids on his fair skin and the shake of his legs where he is exerted. He stumbles a first time and Cazador waits.

Only when Astarion stumbles a second time does Cazador react, the outstretched hand curling around his wrist and the arm with the staff pinning Astarion to his front. He stares down at Astarion, face impassive but his eyes as sharp as a hawk"s.

Woe is vanished from his hand and Cazador rearranges Astarion, supporting him, and then catches his legs from under him. As he stands tall, it occurs to Cazador how waifish and small his frame is. Astarion is featherlight in his arms, Cazador"s posture straight and steady, and his expression remains the same. He cradles his beloved consort close, and carries him to the bath to take care of the mess he has made.

Leaning against Cazador, Astarion hopes with a sick fervor that the filth which coats his prone form might ruin the man’s fine clothing.

For now, it was the only retribution he could afford.