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The dawn is fast approaching as the night's hunt winds down and the city's vampire spawn take their rest, the eastern edge of the sky turning just faintly pink with the promise of sunrise. But as he leaves his night's catch for his master to find the next evening- and where is Cazador, anyhow? None of the spawn have seen him at all that night, or the night before, and it sets their collective teeth on edge- Astarion stops, sniffing the air.
There's a strange scent in the palace, one he can't quite place. The mystery of it puzzles him, tugs at his curiosity. It smells… familiar, but just slightly off. A scent he should know, made unidentifiable by some subtle difference. He sniffs again, the other spawn passing him by on their way to the spawn dormitory. Violet and Leon give him strange looks, but when he asks, they pretend they can't smell it. It doesn't stop them from covering their noses, though.
He could swear he saw Leon drooling, too. Just a little bit. As she comes in after them, Aurelia has her own nose covered, and she slips in between Violet and Leon, gripping his arm perhaps a smidge tighter than necessary as she leads him away towards the dormitory. She gives Astarion a knowing, disapproving look and a little shake of her head as she walks away, but says nothing.
Odd, but nothing too extraordinary.
Astarion lets some of the tension bleed out of his shoulders as the three spawn round a corner and disappear from sight. The presence of his new “brother” still rankles Astarion’s instincts. Two years and then some from the night their master called them all before him to introduce the latest addition to their little farce of a family, and Astarion’s still not sure what the hell Cazador was thinking, turning Leon- it was bad enough when the only alphas in the dormitory were himself and Petras, and now there’s a third. The close proximity to two other alphas puts him on constant high alert, never able to relax. His only consolation is that Leon seems determined to never leave his spot in the favored spawn room, which keeps him away from Astarion, at least, and he doesn’t throw his weight around picking unnecessary fights like Petras.
No matter. There are more pressing issues at hand for Astarion, at the moment, like the scent that keeps invading his nostrils and making his mind go fuzzy at the edges. The scent is sweet, and hot- it’s wet, and raw, and compelling in a way he can't explain, even to himself. Something about it moves his feet for him, forces him to search for its source despite the exhaustion making his feet feel like he’s tied cement blocks to them.
The smell is maddening, delicious, sends his eyes rolling back into his head and sets his mouth to watering. The stronger it gets, the less he can fault Leon for being so affected- an alpha himself, and less than three full years out of the grave? The ties of life still pull at him so strongly, in ways they no longer pulled at Astarion, closing in on two centuries after his mortal death. Astarion wonders if their shared reaction to the scent is one of those things. Something about it sets a low, quiet growl rumbling in his chest. He wants the source of the smell, he needs it. What is it? What could possibly smell so tantalizing, here in Cazador’s castle, of all places? Whatever the scent is, it doesn’t smell like blood, not even a little, despite the hunger it lights like a flame in his stomach.
He follows the smell, drawn on by a need he can't describe, down into the bowels of the palace, into the basement and deeper, deeper. He’s dead tired, exhausted from the night’s hunt, and yet he can’t rest. Not yet, no matter how badly the rational part of his mind wants to stop, not until he finds it- whatever “it” is.
Finally, the choice is taken from him when his vision swims and his feet nearly go out from under him. Astarion is forced to stop for a moment, leaning against a wall to keep from tipping over. He’s dizzy, and his mind feels muddled, fuzzy with more than just simple exhaustion. Something in the scent he’s chasing is messing with his head. He growls again, shaking his head as if he can clear the fog dulling his senses that way, and as soon as he trusts his legs to hold him again, he keeps walking. He only stumbles a little bit.
Once he finds the source, he tells himself… Once he finds the source…
He doesn’t know what he’ll do then, just that something deep inside him, marrow-deep in his bones, makes him burn with the need to find it, a need he can no more deny than he could Cazador's compulsions. So he moves forward, deeper and deeper, passing through illusory walls covering doors he didn’t know were there, down more stairs than he cares to count, until he comes to a tomb which must, surely, be the source of the scent.
It's so strong here. Astarion can hardly think, the scent is so strong. He wants to whine, wants to groan, to wrench the tomb open and bury his face in the source of this maddening, intoxicating smell. Wants to lick, and rub his face in it, wants it in his mouth. Wants to roll around in it like a wolf in the bloodied carcass of some prey its pack has felled. Gods, he hasn’t felt this worked up since he was alive. He’s all but drooling, and if his heart still beat, it would be pounding in his chest now, thundering in his ears, blocking out all sound. He’s distantly, mildly surprised to feel his cock stirring, but something about that seems… right, seems natural.
Astarion stares at the tomb in a whirlwind of emotions he can’t quite name. He's never seen it before, but all the same, he knows the tomb is where Cazador sleeps. It's exactly the sort of tacky shit Cazador loves, overly ornate and needlessly macabre. Frankly, he's a little surprised it's not decorated with stone rats, or something equally ridiculous, like carved spiders made of bones.
He shouldn't be thinking things like that, though, not with Cazador so likely near, and so very sensitive about his choice in interior decoration. He shouldn't be here, not when Cazador is so fastidiously private, so steadfast in keeping himself separate from his spawn, above and beyond and unreachable. He knows he should stop, should turn back, flee. To disturb his master’s rest is to cut his own throat. But then he hears a whimper. The faintest little whine, coming from inside the stone box. And then another, and another. Whimpering and whining- soft, wet, needy little sounds, and they pull at Astarion, drawing a groan from his chest. He knows better, knows he shouldn't, but he's opening the lid.
And inside is Cazador, flushed and sweating and shaking, pants around his knees, three fingers knuckle-deep inside himself, working away, and Astarion freezes where he’s standing. He clenches his teeth against the keen that winds itself up in his chest, climbs up his throat and makes his teeth vibrate. He’s never seen his master in such a state, panting and whining and hips stuttering desperately. Cazador’s eyes are squeezed shut, and he’s biting his own lip to keep quiet and failing anyway. A strangled groan wrenches its way out of Astarion’s throat, raw and ragged and desperate.
Astarion reacts before he can think better of it, instinct and conditioning kicking in before logic and reason can talk him out of it. He's climbing into the tomb with Cazador, unlacing his pants just enough to get his cock out- and when had he gotten so hard? Because he is, he realizes as he frees himself from the near-strangling confines of his clothes and kicks his pants the rest of the way off. He's achingly hard, painfully hard, harder than he can ever remember being, and he whimpers at the pain of it as he pulls his master’s fingers from his cunt with one hand and a slick, wet noise so obscene Astarion can feel himself leaking just listening to it. Cazador gasps and whines as he does it, and Astarion licks his master’s hand clean as he watches the man's cunt flutter, squeezing around nothing, clearly mourning the emptiness inside.
Ruby eyes stare up at him, hazy, fogged with need, and Cazador whimpers, his hips bucking against Astarion’s thigh leaving wet smears of slick thick on his skin, and Astarion can taste it in the slick he’s licking off Cazador’s own hand, he can taste the heat that grips his master, that makes the fastidiously controlled Cazador Szarr hump his spawn's leg like a mindless, rutting beast. The sweet, musky flavor of it has him all but drooling, has his eyes rolling back in his head as he licks and sucks and groans. It's not enough, not nearly enough. More, more- he needs more, needs it now, needs his mouth on Cazador's folds, needs his tongue delving inside to drink down the juices dampening the satin under them both.
He knows, now, what instinct drew him down here. After all, what alpha can ignore the pheromones of an omega in heat?
His mouth is watering. The taste of Cazador’s cunt on his hand, wet as it was, dripping down his wrist, has only whetted Astarion’s appetite. He lets out a shaky breath, biting his own lip to stifle a needy whimper of his own, drawing back his teeth to lick his lips. And then he leans in, and the first brush of his tongue on Cazador’s cunt makes his eyes roll back in his head, makes the man beneath him go rigid, his back arching up off the bottom of the tomb.
Astarion groans as he laps at the feast set before him, tongue dipping into Cazador and emerging dripping with his slick. Nearly two hundred years of anything and everything but blood tasting like ash and dust on his tongue, and now he finds he might as well be lapping honey straight from the comb. He’s been taught well, and under his ministrations, Cazador is arching up against him, his hips bucking so hard Astarion has to hold them down or risk losing his teeth.
He finds himself moaning uncontrollably in time with the sounds his master makes as he licks into him, the vibrations of his enjoyment adding to the maddening height he’s driving Cazador to. With an almost vindictive enthusiasm, he takes Cazador’s little cock into his mouth, sucking and licking and swirling his tongue around the tiny head, and with that, his master is coming so hard he drenches the satin beneath them both and the entire bottom half of Astarion’s face with his fluids.
Astarion lifts himself up off Cazador’s cunt, licking his lips, wiping the slick from his face and licking it off his own hands, unable to get enough. He’s panting, gulping for air he doesn’t even need, and is about to sink back down and do it all over again when Cazador speaks for the first time since Astarion found his little hiding place.
“Fuck me,” he orders, his voice so unsteady that there’s no real force behind it, but for once, not obeying never even crosses Astarion’s mind.
It is a bliss so powerful it feels like agony, when Astarion grips his master’s hips and slides himself inside the man's tight, wet heat. He shudders, not even trying to stifle the moan that rips its way out of him, gasping as he slowly, achingly bottoms out inside Cazador, who has given up all pretense at trying to be quiet. He gasps and moans freely now, hips twitching where Astarion is still holding them down, begging for the spawn to move, to start thrusting, to fuck him like he needs. Astarion stays still a moment longer, dragging it out. His master has tortured him for the past nearly two centuries, for the slightest infraction, and now the Master is at the slave's mercy. And Astarion intends to enjoy it.
Cazador whines, and mewls, writhing and begging, beyond words already- probably, Astarion suspects, he was too far gone with need for that even before Astarion came down here. That short little command he gave seems to have used up whatever coherency he had left.
His master has been suspiciously absent the past day or so- who knew how long he'd been down here, rutting against his own hand, desperately fucking himself on his fingers, trying to find some semblance of relief from the burning need. The idea of it feels like a hot coal in his gut, setting him ablaze from the inside out. Gods, but he wishes he had the patience to pull back and watch the man abandon his dignity and just fuck himself silly on his own fingers like the slut he was always accusing Astarion of being. He licked his lips, chasing the last remnants of the taste of Cazador's cunt. He swore under his breath, just thinking about it. He could almost come from the mental image of it alone, his mouth watering. Holding back from fucking Cazador- the need to move is so powerful it almost hurts.
And he's not alone in his desperation, either. Astarion's fairly sure that if he let up where he's holding Cazador's hips down, the man would start fucking himself on Astarion's cock, that desperate for any kind of stimulation at all. If he had the patience…! But he doesn’t, and finally, Astarion can take no more. Cazador's nails scrabble helplessly against his sides, his back, begging him to move, and Astarion's own need has built too much to be ignored any longer. His hands move from Cazador's hips, one forearm across his master's collarbones to hold him down, the other planted on the silk cushion next to his head, supporting his own weight as he starts moving, pounding into Cazador without mercy.
And why shouldn't he, he thinks hazily- Cazador would have no mercy for him- had never had any mercy for him, not ever, not in two centuries of begging, and pleading, and apologizing. With relish, Astarion takes his anger at his own subjugation out on his master's cunt, in the slap of skin on skin, in the bounce of his balls against Cazador’s ass.
Gods, but the man is wet. Astarion can barely stand it, the obscenely slick slip of his cock inside Cazador. Every time he pulls back, Cazador's cunt is so slippery that Astarion's cock threatens to slide right out entirely. The sheer, smooth glide of it is both too much and not enough. Cazador's face is buried in his shoulder, moaning and whimpering in his ear, close enough for him to feel his panting breath with every little sound Astarion punches out of him. Cazador's ankles are locked together at the small of Astarion's back, urging him on, pulling him in deeper, his nails digging crescents into the skin between Astarion's shoulder blades.
A moan wrests its way out of his mouth as he feels Cazador's walls clenching around him, Cazador's mouth on his neck sucking a bruise into his skin. For once, he actually has enough blood in him to bruise properly. He groans freely, fucking in just a little harder. "How are you so wet," he gasps out, hips bucking out of rhythm for a moment. He can feel how close Cazador is in the flutter of his cunt around his cock, the near-bruising grip his master's muscles have on him.
He hisses. It's still not enough- too much slick, wet slide, not nearly as much friction as he needs, and Astarion's release still eludes him, even as he pours his all into it, even as the omega he's pounding into is right on the verge of coming undone for the second time that night. Frankly, Astarion is a little surprised that Cazador has held on for so long. He's loud, now, and so wet, and the way he's clinging to Astarion and squeezing him with his pussy has Astarion's eyes rolling back in his head and biting back moans of his own. And yet, it's still not quite enough to push him over the edge.
Faster, harder, more, more, more. Astarion growls - a deep, throaty threat of a noise that surprises even himself. Under him, Cazador makes a mewling little sound and presses his face harder against Astarion's neck, nuzzling there as if desperate to please. "Look at you," Astarion grinds out through gritted teeth. "So desperate for my cock that you'd cry if I pulled out, and still you're getting more out of this than I am."
Frustrated, he shifts position, changes his angle, thrusting up higher other than deeper, and he's rewarded with the most ragged, broken sound he's ever heard leave Cazador Szarr's prim, utterly controlled mouth. Cazador's back arches fully off the sheets, rocking himself up against Astarion's chest, clenching down on Astarion's cock so hard that or a moment, Astarion thinks he might actually come from that alone. He chokes out a ragged gasp, a punched-out moan following on its heels. His hips stutter, and for a second, his knot catches on the rim of Cazador's cunt before popping inside with a slick squelch.
Cazador lets out another panting moan into Astarion's shoulder, his legs squeezing tighter around his spawn's waist, and Astarion moves his left hand from where he'd had it pinning Cazador down and wedges it between them, rubbing insistent circles into Cazador's clit. The omega jackknifes underneath him, his every muscle going rigid as he comes with a cry bordering on a scream, and Astarion’s eyes roll back in his head as Cazador’s cunt squeezes his cock like a vice.
Astarion gives a strangled shout himself, and thinks half-delirious with an orgasm just beginning to crest, that he wouldn’t be surprised if the other spawn could hear them from all the way in the dormitory. He’s hardly being quiet himself, at this point, too far gone to care about the noises ripping their way out of him.
He speeds up the ministrations of his thumb on Cazador’s clit, and is rewarded with a broken shout and a half-sob of agonized overstimulation and a delicious, crushing clench of his walls around Astarion’s cock. With a little, gasping moan, he buries his face in the crook of Cazador’s neck, rolling his hips as much as he can, unable to pull out with his knot buried so deep inside Cazador.
He pants, despite not needing the air, taking great lungfuls of air as he grinds into his master, Cazador all but weeping from overstimulation. The scent of the omega beneath him is intoxicating, the sweaty, fucked-out smell of him driving Astarion over the edge at last. Astarion’s lost count of how many times he’s felt the man come around his cock already- has it been three, or only two? He can’t remember- but he feels close again, and Astarion knows he’s not as cruel as his master, because even as his vision goes white as his orgasm finally washes over him, he grinds all the harder, rubs his thumb against Cazador’s clit all the more urgently, and when he finally loses touch with anything and everything that isn’t his own body, he feels Cazador following close behind.
Astarion collapses as he comes, his arms and legs gone to jelly, his cock shooting gush after gush of hot, thick cum into his master’s cunt. He lies there, unable to pull out, the aftershocks of Cazador’s orgasm still milking him dry, and his vision swims. The night’s long hours of hunting have caught up to him at last, now that he’s no longer drawn on by the undeniable instinct to find the heat-riddled omega and breed them.
Sleepily, he inhales Cazador’s scent once again. He may be sated for now, but the smell of heat still lingers. He runs his tongue up the smooth column of Cazador's neck, and can taste the delicious sweetness of heat burning through him. Astarion knows that come evening, when they wake, he’ll need it again. And the last thing he thinks as he drifts off into his trance, is that when Cazador wakes needing to be bred again, Astarion will be there to fuck him senseless.
Gods, he hopes this heat never ends.