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Astarion’s jaw clicks as he swallows, his face inches from the front of Cazador’s pants.
Long, clawed fingers hold him by the hair as he sits on his knees, hands clenched in his lap. Cazador lectures him above, berating him about another mistake he’s made, but Astarion can’t seem to make himself listen.
Cazador fed, just a few moments earlier, made Astarion kneel and watch as he’d drained a man dry in front of him.
It was a departure from their routine. Cazador doesn’t normally feed so heavily in front of his spawn. Usually, he dismisses them before he indulges, keeping the act of feeding private. Sometimes he’ll sip blood from a wine glass, held just out of reach. Blood is dangled before them in doses, just enough to remind them what they’re missing out on, what they have no chance of tasting.
Tonight is different, a unique punishment just for Astarion, whose excuse for this evening’s mistake had been his hunger. He’d managed to bring home prey, but he’d ended up pinned to the castle wall at knifepoint by his own victim, who’d gotten suspicious of him. He’d had to resort to crying out for his master to save him, too weak to break out of his grip. After, he’d complained to Cazador that he’d messed up because he was starving, which was true, and this had been his response.
He’d made Astarion kneel, then told him to watch. He’d promised to actually let him starve if he looked away, to teach him what real hunger felt like. Tonight would be a taste of that hunger, he’d said. Then, he’d gathered the man Astarion had brought home into his arms and sunk his teeth into his neck.
Astarion had trembled, but held his gaze through the whole process.
It took longer than he expected.
He’d had to dig his nails into his flesh to control himself when he first smelled blood. When the smell intensified, blood thick in the air, Astarion broke the skin on his palms, dug his nails in hard and focused on the pain instead of the scent. Ten tiny crescent marks bleed on his palms now, but he’d managed to follow Cazador’s order. He’d sat like a good dog and watched.
It had been terrifying and fascinating at once, to see the man’s skin grow pale as Cazador’s grew flushed.
Astarion couldn’t help but imagine it as he’d watched, how that flushed skin would feel against his own. He thinks of it again now as Cazador lectures him.
Above him, Cazador’s skin is tinged slightly pink and, Astarion imagines, warm to the touch. He almost looks mortal, his complexion livelier from the stolen blood coursing through his veins. Heat seems to seep out of him and into Astarion as he kneels at his feet. Even the fingers that dig into his scalp are warm.
It’s terribly distracting.
Whatever he’s saying passes through Astarion’s ears unheard. Instead of listening, he thinks of what it would feel like, with Cazador warm for once. He knows his body as well as he knows his own after a century of touch, but Cazador flush with the blood of the living is a novel concept.
As he sits at his feet, Astarion becomes aware of how strong Cazador’s scent is, with his body warm. He breathes it in, thick and heady and so familiar.
Cazador’s scent is a haunting. It lingers long after he dismisses him from one of their encounters, seeps into his skin and settles there. He smells Cazador for days after, finds notes of him in his hair, in the threads of his clothing. He’ll slip into bed in the dormitory and find his master there, in the fibers of his tattered blanket.
Now, it permeates the room, mingles with the coppery scent of blood and wraps itself around Astarion’s senses. Hunger and reluctant desire swirl dizzyingly in him, making his fangs ache and his body stir, against his wishes.
He can’t help but think of warm flesh, of the unfamiliar heat that is surely between Cazador’s legs. He’s wet there and Astarion can smell it, has been able to since Cazador first sank his teeth into his victim’s neck. He can imagine it, the slick slide of warm skin, can almost hear it as Cazador shifts on the balls of his feet before him.
Cazador tugs at his hair, snapping him out of his thoughts. Astarion blinks up at him.
“Are you listening to me, boy?”
“Yes, master,” Astarion lies, “I’m a failure, you were saying?”
“Yes, a failure,” Cazador replies coolly, “and a pervert, it seems.” He makes a face and nudges Astarion’s slightly tented pants with the tip of his shoe. Astarion’s cheeks flush with shame and he looks away.
He’d been robbed of his usual outlet when Cazador killed his prey in front of him. There had been no opportunity for release.
Now, more than a little drunk and pent up, his body responds too eagerly to the boot that digs into his cock.
He inhales sharply when he feels Cazador press the tip of his boot down, biting back a moan. Cazador frowns at the noise and then presses down harder, crushing him under his heel. Astarion cries out, his head falling forward. Still, his cock hardens under Cazador’s boot, despite the pain. Astarion hates himself for it.
Cazador notices, looking down at him like he’s one of the rats that prowl the castle, his lip slightly curled in disgust.
“Degenerate worm.”
“I’m not a degenerate,” Astarion says through gritted teeth. It’s Cazador who’s done this to him. His body associates pain with pleasure, the product of a century of nights like this.
Cazador tuts, before pressing his foot down again. Astarion doubles over in pain, his hands closing on Cazador’s ankle to try to pry it off. Cazador doesn’t budge, rubbing his foot in rough, painful strokes. Astarion unsuccessfully bites back a moan, the sound embarrassingly desperate.
“You are. Listen to you, how much you want this.”
“Like I’d ever want you,” Astarion snaps, before gasping sharply as Cazador pushes his boot down and digs it in again.
“Liar.”
He steps closer and gods, Astarion can feel the heat of him. It radiates off of him, so at odds with the cold floor beneath him, with the chill of his own undead skin. He looks at his hands, the rug under him, anything but Cazador.
“I don’t.”
“I saw how you were looking at me. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”
“Fuck you,” Astarion mumbles, against his better judgement.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?”
Astarion scoffs. Cazador takes him by the chin and tilts his head up, forcing him to look in his eyes.
Cazador holds his gaze for a long, tense second, before he lets go of his chin and steps back. Astarion watches him warily. The last time he’d made a mistake during a hunt like this, Cazador had torn the nails off his hands, then sent him to the kennels for a month. Astarion begins to brace himself for something worse, trying to control his breathing.
Cazador reaches down and takes his hand in his, then guides it to the front of his pants. Astarion hesitates, but places his hand there. Cazador holds it, covering it with his to keep it in place.
“How does it feel?” he asks.
“…warm,” Astarion says, avoiding his eyes again.
Cazador moves his hand, guiding him to feel more of him. He traces the seam of his pants with his index finger, following it to the apex of his thighs, where the heat is most pronounced. He inhales when he feels it.
“You want me,” Cazador says, “I can smell it on you.”
I can smell it on you, too, Astarion thinks, but holds his tongue.
He meets Cazador’s eyes from where he kneels, getting a good look at them for the first time since he’d fed. They’re darker than normal, glassy. His pupils are blown wide, the red of his irises reduced to slivers. Astarion’s breath catches when he sees them.
The blood of the thinking is forbidden to Astarion and his master has just glutted himself on it. He trembles at his feet as he considers what that means for him.
After a moment, the two of them share a familiar look, one Astarion’s seen too many times to count. He can feel the order coming before it leaves Cazador’s lips.
“Taste,” he says, and they begin.
Cazador undoes the laces on his pants, then pulls them down and steps out of them, which surprises Astarion. He surprises him again by removing his shirt, until he’s standing bare and Astarion is fully clothed at his feet.
Astarion looks up at him, heart racing as he takes in the sight of his nude body, something he never gets to see. Every break in routine is terrifying with Cazador and he worries about what it means. Before he can think about it too hard, Cazador pushes his head down, so he’s facing the smooth, pale skin between his thighs. He inhales, his nose just inches from Cazador’s flesh, and breathes in the scent of him.
Astarion opens his mouth, then licks a long, slow stripe up Cazador’s seam, the way he likes him to start. He takes a breath, before dipping his tongue in and parting the folds, gently.
He moans softly into Cazador when the heat and taste of him hit, closing his eyes. Cazador’s hand in his hair tightens at the sound.
He focuses, quickly finding Cazador’s clit and pressing his tongue flat against it. Cazador twitches under his tongue and pulls him closer. Astarion begins to work.
They’ve done this thousands of times, of course. This position is as natural as standing to Astarion by now. But Cazador tonight is so warm, so lush under his tongue that it’s almost pleasant for once. He could almost forget who he’s touching, if he closed his eyes.
Where Cazador’s skin is warm elsewhere, it’s hot here, at his core. So different than the cool slickness of him Astarion has grown accustomed to. It feels good under his tongue, the warmth. Astarion’s eyes are hooded as he works.
Above him, Cazador is quiet, as he always is, never letting Astarion hear his pleasure. He can feel it though, in the way he clenches around his tongue, the subtle shifting of his stance, how he presses into his mouth. Cazador’s nails scratch at his scalp and Astarion makes a soft sound against his flesh.
“You certainly seem like you want me now,” Cazador murmurs above him.
“Mm,” is the best Astarion can manage. His eyes close as he closes his mouth around Cazador’s clit and sucks, flicking it with his tongue. He’s aching in his pants, trying desperately to keep his hands in his lap and not on his cock. He knows better than to touch himself without permission by now. Still, some sick part of him wants to grind against Cazador’s leg just for the friction and the warmth. He banishes it from his mind, disgusted at himself.
“On the floor,” Cazador says, suddenly. “Down, now.”
Astarion scrambles to obey, lying down on the rug. Cazador is on him in seconds, straddling his face. He doesn’t immediately sit down and Astarion looks up at him, breathless. He takes in the sight of him as he holds himself up, the unusual pink of his lips, swollen and slick, glistening in the candlelight.
Cazador hovers over his face, watching him, before lowering himself a little. Astarion reflexively sticks his tongue out, but doesn’t make contact. Cazador holds himself just out of reach, centimeters away. He chuckles above him.
“Desperate for it now, are you? Tongue wagging like a dog, but you claim you don’t want it.”
Astarion’s face goes red and he puts his tongue back in his mouth quickly, humiliated.
Cazador reaches behind him and touches the front of Astarion’s pants, tutting when he feels the wetness there. His cock is painfully hard, the damp spot on the fabric large and growing. He can’t help but press into Cazador’s fingers when they close around him.
“Whore,” Cazador says, squeezing once, then turning back to look down at him where he’s pinned under his thighs. “You love being used like this. You live for it. Admit it.”
It’s quiet for a moment until Astarion looks up at him, then reluctantly nods, giving him what he wants.
Cazador smiles, then rewards him by shifting forward and slowly lowering himself down, just barely meeting the tip of Astarion’s tongue. He suddenly pulls back again and Astarion, irritated, groans.
“Please, would you just let me do it-“
“There we go,” Cazador says, pleased. “Beg for it and I might let you have what you want.”
Astarion sighs. Always, the begging. He hates it, but does it anyway. It’s better to give him what he wants and quickly.
“Please, use me,” Astarion pleads, looking up at him, “please, master, I want you. I need you.”
“I know,” Cazador says, reaching back and gripping his cock again, harder this time. It aches from the boot, will likely be bruised before the night is over, and Astarion whimpers at the rough touch.
“Poor child,” Cazador coos. “Does it hurt?”
”Yes,” Astarion whispers, looking away.
He closes his eyes as Cazador begins to stroke him, too lightly and too slowly through his wet pants. It offers no relief, only makes it worse. He desperately wants to take himself in hand and finish it. Instead, he resumes begging, because he knows it’s what Cazador wants.
“Please, let me serve you, master,” he whispers, “please, I’ll be so good for you.”
“Good boy,” Cazador says, “you have permission.”
With that, Cazador lowers himself down properly this time, seating himself on Astarion’s face. Astarion licks into him as he settles, then lies still as Cazador takes the reins.
It’s messy and Cazador is merciless, his claws digging into Astarion’s scalp as he rocks into him, getting his face wet. Before long, the scent of him is everywhere, filling all of his senses, until it’s all Astarion can think about.
The others will taunt him when he goes back to the dormitory tonight. He can hear them already. The master’s whore, disheveled and reeking of him.
He tries not to think about it, focusing on pleasing Cazador as much as possible.
Cazador, relentless tonight, rides Astarion roughly, keeping him pinned. He undulates above him, grinding against his tongue. The blood seems to have made him more energetic, more demanding than he already is. Astarion tries his best to keep up, breathing hard beneath him, his jaw aching.
Before long, Cazador finishes on his tongue with an almost inaudible sigh, his thighs trembling slightly. Astarion, desperate, very nearly finishes in his smallclothes at the feeling of him pulsing around him, gasping against Cazador’s flesh. Cazador continues to grind into him after, chasing every last drop of pleasure. Astarion watches, eyes hazy, as his master uses him.
When he’s finally finished, Cazador pulls back to look at Astarion, who pants beneath him, his face slick and wet. They hold eye contact, both breathing heavily.
Usually, this is when things devolve into violence. Cazador’s pleasure is typically the foreplay before torture. There’s a tension in the air as Astarion waits for him to pull out a whip or a knife, pliers or some other implement. His heart begins to race, his throat constricting in preemptive panic.
Cazador holds his eye a second longer, then moves, pressing once again against Astarion’s lips. Astarion sighs in relief, then offers up his tongue.
Astarion, tired and starving, is slower this time, but Cazador, freshly fed, is frantic in his movements, insatiable. He takes and Astarion gives and gives, working until his jaw burns. He gets Cazador off twice more before he finally pulls off, panting where he sits on Astarion’s chest. Astarion watches him as he slides back, then hooks a long nail in his waistband, meeting his eye.
His breath catches as Cazador abruptly yanks his pants down his hips. He glances around for whatever object he’s sure he’s about to shove into him, his stomach twisting as he tries to mentally brace himself. He holds his legs open, the way he’s been trained to, looking up at him fearfully. Cazador doesn’t grab anything, though.
Instead, he slowly wraps a hand around his cock, then looks into his eyes. Astarion swallows, not sure what’s about to happen.
Cazador holds his gaze for a second longer, before straddling his hips, a leg on either side of Astarion’s torso. Astarion watches, his gaze flicking between Cazador’s eyes and his cock, worried.
Cazador takes a breath, then slowly sinks down onto him, guiding him inside.
Astarion gasps sharply, his nails scrabbling at the rug beneath him.
They never do this. Penetration is something reserved for Astarion exclusively, mostly used as a form of punishment.
And yet, it’s happening. His master is on his cock.
Astarion can barely process it. Cazador is so hot, so tight around him, slicked with his own saliva. He tenses under him, trying not to buck into him like an animal.
“Wait-“ he gasps as Cazador fully seats himself, too fast. Cazador grabs him by the throat and Astarion’s cock twitches inside him.
“Silence,” Cazador hisses. “You will not speak. If you spill inside of me I will bury you again, for two years this time. Do you understand?”
Astarion opens his mouth but realizes, eyes widening, that the last order was a compulsion. He can’t speak, his body and mind refusing to allow him to open his mouth. Silent, he nods.
“Good,” Cazador sighs, before closing his eyes. He takes a breath and Astarion takes one too. Then, he starts to move.
Cazador keeps his eyes closed, clearly not wanting to think about Astarion under him. He wonders, of course, who or what is going through his mind, but he can’t and wouldn’t ask. He watches Cazador’s face as he lifts himself up and down, setting the pace as he takes what he wants.
He lifts almost completely off every time, then drops himself down and grinds in small circles. Astarion takes mental notes on his technique, then starts to help him. He raises and lowers his own hips, adjusting based on Cazador’s reactions. He’s gotten good at this, something he’s learned in his time as Cazador’s hunting dog, and his master seems to appreciate his skill, pleasure written on his face. It’s strange to see him look so content and Astarion can’t look away, fascinated. It feels voyeuristic, like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t.
“Faster,” Cazador whispers, after a few moments. It’s a demand but it’s spoken so softly, it’s almost like he’s spoken in another language. Astarion is so used to snarled orders, the softness of his tone is foreign to him. He quickly obliges him, picking up the pace.
Cazador’s eyes close tighter and Astarion hears him panting and then, shockingly, the tiniest of moans as his head falls forward. Astarion inhales when he hears it, his eyes widening. Cazador does it again and he takes that as a cue to move even faster, rocking up into him. Cazador begins to make more soft sounds above him, sounds that Astarion’s never even dared to imagine hearing, never thought Cazador was capable of making.
It makes it so much harder to hold on.
He moans and thrusts up, hard, when he feels Cazador starting to clench around him, like his body is trying to pull him in even deeper. Above him, Cazador whines and Astarion has to screw his eyes shut and think of him flaying the skin on his back to keep himself in check. He keeps the pace as Cazador clenches around him, whispering something inaudible to himself, something not meant for Astarion’s ears. He doesn’t try to hear it. He’d rather not know.
Cazador finishes with a soft, breathy moan, rising all the way up and then slamming himself down on Astarion, impaling himself as deeply as he can. He sighs blissfully, twitching in the aftershocks of pleasure as he flutters around Astarion, who taps his thigh desperately, trying to get him off.
He’s so close he can barely think, his control slipping. Memories of the last time he’d been buried alive mix with the sound and feel of his master above and around him, a confusing swirl of terror and pleasure that threatens to consume him. He grips Cazador’s thigh frantically, starting to tense inside him.
Cazador mercifully lifts off and Astarion comes immediately, whimpering as he spills all over his stomach. Cazador wrinkles his nose at the sight, then slides off and sits beside him where he lies on the floor.
Astarion waits to be reprimanded for finishing without permission, but Cazador doesn’t say anything. It’s unusual for him and Astarion eyes him anxiously.
Beside him, Cazador adjusts his hair, combing dark strands back into place silently, his eyes fixed on the rug under them. When it becomes clear he isn’t going to say anything, Astarion throws an arm over his face, then tries to catch his breath.
Eventually, they both turn and look at each other.
“You may speak,” Cazador says, breaking the compulsion. Astarion immediately opens his mouth, then pauses and closes it. He’s not sure what to say. He glances at Cazador where he sits next to him on the floor.
Looking at him, Astarion is struck by the strangeness of the evening. None of this is right. He’s supposed to be carving Astarion up by now, supposed to have him crying and pleading for mercy. Instead, he’s sitting beside him, calmly combing a knot out of his hair.
And gods, the sounds he’d made. Astarion will never forget them.
Maybe this is why he never feeds in front of his spawn. Astarion wonders, jealous, if he’d feel this frenzy for pleasure if he ever got to feed properly.
Cazador suddenly grips his chin then, interrupting his thoughts. He drapes himself over him, his hair falling in a curtain around Astarion’s face. There’s a look in his eyes, something unfamiliar. It makes Astarion nervous.
Astarion holds his gaze, his heart speeding up in anticipation of violence. He’s sure it’s about to happen, that this has all been leading to pain.
Cazador doesn’t hurt him.
He examines his face for a long moment, then bends down and kisses his lips.
Astarion freezes.
This, too, has never happened before.
He’s terrified to move. This must be some kind of challenge, a test he’s surely about to fail. He makes a frightened sound in the back of his throat.
Cazador sighs irritably at his fear and kisses him again, cupping the back of his neck. He gently strokes the skin there, a gesture that takes a moment for Astarion to recognize as comfort.
It’s so strange, to be comforted by the same hands that have split him open, that have torn him apart and played with the wreckage.
Still, Astarion relaxes into them. He accepts the scrap of warmth, despite the pounding in his chest.
Cazador pulls back and looks into his eyes, expectant. Astarion, afraid to displease him, takes a breath, then reluctantly kisses him back.
Cazador makes a contented sound, then kisses him again, deeper this time. His lips are warm against Astarion’s, softer than he would have expected.
He moans quietly when Cazador’s tongue meets his.
He tastes like blood, metallic and sharp. Astarion’s fangs ache in his mouth as he licks into Cazador’s.
They kiss softly at first, then hungrily, frantically. Cazador’s lips are hateful against his, demanding. Astarion holds his own, his own kisses growing rougher to match his master’s. Before long, Astarion can barely breathe, Cazador kissing him like he wants to swallow him whole, like he wants to tear him to pieces. It’s all teeth and tongues and hands scrabbling at each other for purchase, nails digging into flesh.
It’s more of a fight than kissing, but gods, it feels good to fight with him, even like this. Astarion takes the opportunity for release and runs with it. A century’s worth of tension, of rage and reluctant lust, pours out of him and into the press of his lips, the scratch of his nails, as he rolls with Cazador on the rug.
Cazador pins him down by the wrists and Astarion rolls them over, shoving his tongue into Cazador’s mouth. Cazador bites his lip, hard, then rolls them again. Astarion grabs a fistful of dark hair, tugging at it as he kisses him back, hot and open-mouthed. He shoves his knee between Cazador’s legs and Cazador surprises him by grinding against it.
Astarion sits up and tugs Cazador up with him, trying to pull him into his lap. Cazador shoves him onto his back, then goes down with him, pinning him down again. He bites down and splits Astarion’s lip as he hits the floor. Astarion cries out, then bites him back, sinking his fangs into Cazador’s lip. Cazador hisses into his mouth and Astarion moans, the taste of blood blooming on his tongue as he licks Cazador’s torn flesh.
He rolls them, then slips two fingers into Cazador’s cunt as he pins one of his wrists down. He’s playing with fire, crossing several lines at once, but Cazador lets it happen. He snarls into Astarion’s mouth, a vicious sound that tapers off into a strangled moan as he curls his fingers just right.
There’s a strange power in having made Cazador make a sound like that. Astarion relishes the feeling, chuckling into his mouth. Cazador bites his lip in retaliation, much harder than before, his fangs piercing the flesh.
Astarion hisses in pain and Cazador breaks out of his hold, then grabs him by the hair, forcing his head down.
Astarion follows the unspoken order, moving down his torso and lying down between his legs. Cazador looks down at him, eyes wild and lips bloody.
“Eat,” he commands, spreading his legs. “Devour.”
“Yes,” Astarion pants, breathless.
Cazador doesn’t have to hold him down this time.
-
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