Chapter Text
The disgusting burn of bile lingered threateningly inside his throat, itching to escape. It took every ounce of his mental fortitude to stop himself from involuntarily purging what little contents remained in his empty stomach. His throat painted with the most unsatisfactory amount of blood that just about kept him from teetering into the line between a rabid, feral abomination and a, somewhat, sane vampire spawn. The blood, it’s viscosity thick as tar, slowly oozed it’s way down his gullet, leaving behind a retching smearing trail that no amounts of saliva swallowing could wash away. So heavy that it could almost clog his oesophagus and choke him. It was rank.
And what was the fine cuisine that he found himself dining on tonight? A large putrid, disease-riddled rat whose method of death was evident judging from the brain that was peaking through its crushed skull. But, for a change, it was a meal that was larger than the entire diameter of his hand. Honestly, a rather generous choice of meal compared to his usual insects and bugs. He had deserved it after all, for what he had accomplished this evening, try as he might to forget…
Always trying to forget.
Rancid, decaying flecks of the rats flesh was caught between his teeth, the taste and smell festering inside his mouth and staining his tongue. Curled up on the floor, hunched over the very rotten specimen in his hands while he continued feasting, knees trembling from the prolonged placement. After all, such a position on his knees was one he was unfortunately privy to almost daily. Yet the ache never subsided, the bruises of his shame never having enough time to disappear before he found himself back on them as his mouth otherwise occupied and expertly used.
Yet despite how much he pushed himself to engorge on the blood of this rat, it wasn’t working to quench him. The hunger. The insatiable, ever-present hunger that could never quite be sated. Not that he had ever been close to discovering what that feeling would be like in his two-century enslavement. He never let him get close to feeling remotely quenched. It was a sensation he once experienced before he became a spawn that was for certain, but he couldn’t remember it at all. He longed to feel it again.
Once the rat was completely drained of what little blood it had remaining, Astarion dropped the carcass onto the floor, exhaling heavily. His stomach churned and growled in opposition to what he had just consumed and once again he found himself breathing deeply to settle his body. But he was keenly aware of the set of eyes that were burning through him as they watched his reaction, from the very same man who had given him such a doting meal. And how he hated this part, grovelling for such disgusting meals like a lowly swine. Pleading for more from his sickening master who was even more atrocious than the “food” he was given.
Cazador Szarr. How even saying his name felt like venom burning his tongue. His vocal cords naturally hissed every syllable like it was a curse that even the deepest pits of the hells would jolt from fear of hearing it. Luckily for him, he didn’t have the honour of calling him by his name. Oh no, he had a very special honorific to refer him by instead. Master. He almost wanted to rip out his own tongue every time he conjured that word upon it, forced to use the title like the pitiful slave he was. Nothing was more inviting in his lifetime than the prospect of defying him, stabbing his flesh until nothing but crimson flooded every orifice and he swam in his blood. Oh the prospect of murdering that monster was even more arousing than the tug of his own penis. If he could kill him by his own hands he could be safe… He could try and feel some modicum of happiness that felt more like a distant dream than something that was possible in his lifetime.
But there was no point. It was useless. Such fantasies were nothing but that, a moment of escapism that allowed him to get through yet another torture session without his mind breaking beyond repair. All he could do in this moment, was put on a false smile as he looked up towards his masters vile, smarmy grin as he towered above him.
“Thank you master. I feel ever so refreshed.”
A lie.
Cazadors smirk only widened and spread to all of his features, parting his lips to bare his fangs in a display of dominance.
“Your efforts have not been woefully awful tonight boy. I must say you’ve somewhat exceeded my low expectations of you.”
Boy. His favourite term of endearment. Degrading and infantilising. It made him feel small, it made him feel powerless and that was exactly what Cazador hoped to achieve from it.
But what did he do to warrant his masters approval this evening? Well, tonight, he had been on the hunt, prowling around the dark alleys of wyrms crossing. An inquisitive eye examining every drunken person that walked by him, determining whether they would be suitable enough to bring back for Cazador. He decided Fraygos Flophouse would be a great place to visit for such people. A varying degree of intoxicated, rowdy people all crammed into such a small space. The air was thick with the odour of spirits and sweat, the sounds of drunken, unsynchronised chanting ringing in his ears. The perfect bustling environment for his orders, and he had certainly overachieved in his usual goal. That evening he ended up bringing two people back for Cazador, a man and a woman.
A married pair.
Initially he had only made attempts to seduce one of them, unknowing that she was in a partnership. If he had known in advance he would’ve chosen someone else. After all, his usual targets consisted of loners or lowlifes that wouldn’t be missed by anyone. But the fair half-elf woman was alone dancing and Astarion made his mark. She was more than willing to be compliant to his flirtation methods and so when her husband walked over it initially took him by surprise when he was just as onboard with the idea. So his affections then turned to him as well. He even granted them a gift to further tempt them, a kiss for both while they danced and a promise of collective ecstasy he could provide them that evening. After all, he was no stranger to sex with multiple participants and he knew exactly how to make himself the centre of their affections.
He recalled that dancing used to be an activity he once enjoyed, whether it was a sensual tango or romantic waltz. To dance in tandem with another, for ones soul to be connected with each rhythmic step, was more erotic, more passionate and intimate than sex could ever be. But, as his body pressed up against the delicate, dainty woman’s vivacious physique before leaning against the strong, muscular stature of the man, such thoughts couldn’t be further from his mind. In fact, each brush of skin against skin felt distant, his mind dissociating far away from where his body stood. Acting upon deep-ingrained memories of such acts but never present to enjoy such feelings.
His lips were capable of so much, responsible for ruining so many lives. Lips that owned many a first kiss and last, that knew how to traverse and explore someone’s body and expertly manipulate their erogenous zones to have them begging for him. The allure of his honeyed words that tempted and destroyed lives. It wasn’t a blessing but a curse, one he was deeply ashamed of. But of course he had no other choice. His body would be physically forced into these situations if he didn’t comply, and that felt worse than willingly doing so. Or at least, that’s what he told himself, if not to just have a brief interval of his own bodily autonomy.
That was how he ended up on his back across the very same lavish, expensive bedsheets that he was intimately familiar with more than any partner he lay with upon them. How the soft velvet of those bedsheets felt like sandpaper across his skin, it clawed and scratched at his porcelain skin with its soft fibres. He can’t even remember what words he uttered during the carnal act itself. No doubts some of his favourite lines, carefully procured and used to overwhelming success. In fact he hardly even remembered the night at all. Such evenings and the events that unfolded were so common that the act itself was almost a monotony. Every move, every kiss, every touch was clouded in shame, dictated not by impulse or passion but by necessity.
As soon as that person was undressed by his skilled hands, as they were touched by him resulting in deep moans of lust, his mind usually wandered elsewhere. During the deed, regardless of what he was doing, he was never fully present to the scene. A playful performance instead crossing his features, sounds and words of ecstasy he didn’t remember the taste of. His body moved with practised ease of this very same act for almost two centuries. He knew the power his body held, the graceful arch of his back, the lean muscles adorning his chest and stomach. Everything about him toyed with the grey space between masculine and feminine and he exploited that to his advantage. The very embodiment of beauty that was capable of seducing anyone regardless of their sex.
But still, dissociation was a personal side effect of his intercourse. It was needed too, for the times he let his guard down and enjoyed a night of ecstasy with someone he felt some form of potential attraction towards, would only result in more heart-break post clarity.
He thinks he could recall a time where he truly enjoyed sex. But that concept was so long ago that he wasn’t entirely certain if it were just a fantasy or a once reality. Sometimes when he dissociated, he found himself picturing a vision where he would be engaging in this act with someone he trusted. Someone he wanted to express his love and adoration to without carefully thought out move sets and positions to maximise the others pleasure in a transaction. Such things were too fantastical though, no one would ever want him in that way and so it was futile to even try and think that way.
Other times he merely compartmentalised himself to the room in his mind that was deprived of all sensations. No sound, no light, no touch, no smell. Nothing was allowed in this private corner but the void itself. Not even his physical form was really allowed, already too busy engaging in Gods knows what debauched sin it had sought out. Only his consciousness was granted access, to distantly pilot the body like a puppet on strings of forced pleasure. Whilst partly regaining some semblance of sanity within the comfort of endless oblivion, that granted him a taste of what true afterlife could entail. A blissful end that he was never to experience.
Sometimes he was grateful for his ability to disappear from the act. Especially in the occasionally instances where his conquests got particularly… rough with him.
Needless to say, his two conquests lay basking in their afterglows, heavy pants filling the thick air, the odour distinct of only one thing. Sweat coating flushed tender skin, shining under the low embers of nearby candles pre-prepared by the spawn in advance. Limbs entangled to the point of no real semblance of whose body part was whose.
Astarion too matched their glossy complexions with a combined mixture of his and their own perspiration from the prolonged skin to skin contact. His jaw aching familiarly yet unknowing of who or how exactly the cause of it was. A distinct taste of sweetness upon his tongue and coating the back of his throat. Lips bruised and swollen, wrists twinging and beneath him the sheets staining further from sticky substances coating the top of his inner thighs and the fabric beneath.
And unlike the pair either side of him, his bliss never came, nor did it ever come close to fruition the entire time. Or so he thinks anyway. His body couldn’t even grant him the joy of a climax for even half a minute. Nothing but agony and regret washed over him.
And it was only going to get worse. As it always did.
But as Cazador came to retrieve his findings, the two of them begged and pleaded with Astarion to let them live. Spluttering over their words like panicked, startled animals trying to reason with their predator. All Astarion could do was pity them, refusing to look them in the eyes as he sat-up frozen in the bed they had all shared, nothing but the thin silk covering his decency. That was when the threats began foaming from the man’s mouth, where the cruel but justified words and names spilled free and attacked Astarions ears. But what surprised him were a set of words wailed from the woman through the commotion of it all. Words that were different to the usual ones cried before they were stolen from this existence.
“Please… we have a child! He needs us! You can’t do this to him!”
He had made a orphan of their child.
The urge to vomit had never been so prodigious.
Cazador found the entire revelation delightful to say the least. That was what granted him such a gracious meal. Yet their screams of terror and desperation still plagued his mind, even hours afterwards. He had a feeling, this particular experience was one that would stay with him for a while…
Astarion forced his mind to stop thinking on the events earlier this night, glancing back up to Cazador with another fake smile. Rat blood staining his lips and chin, no doubt looking as feral as he felt.
“Thank you, Master.”
Cazador nodded and curtly responded. “You can go now.”
“Yes Master.”
Astarion got to his feet and obediently left the room as he was told, making his way to the spawn dormitories.