Work Text:
Astarion has been sitting in the same position for hours. There would likely be a stronger pain in his body from the pooling blood if there was enough blood left to pool- if there wasn't already so much pain elsewhere. Instead, his claws dig shreds into the cot he sits on while Cazador carves bloody poetry into his back. The stench of rotten blood is overwhelming as it coats every part of him. Cazador lounges, in his decadent chair, the image of a perfected artist curled over his masterpiece.
Gods how Astarion would love to say he stays stoic throughout the entirety of it- That his expression remains unchanged, his body poised and accustomed to the pain. The reality is that he's never prepared for such brutalities, and the Master doesn't want him to stay quiet either. For the majority of Cazador's project Astarion has been screaming.
His entire body quivers with it, though he can't move, compelled to stay as he is so he doesn't ruin Cazador's work. Still, the Master doesn't command him to stop shaking, just tsks and cuts deeper as he makes revisions, the smile audible in his voice. Astarion can't stop whining when cold metal slices through his skin, peeling back bloodless flesh to reveal the muscles underneath. He shudders with anticipation when Master rests the edge of the blade against the wounds, inspecting his work.
Cazador hums, and Astarion jerks as the blade plunges deep into his shoulder blade, eliciting a keen from him and a sort of disappointed sigh from the lord behind him. Cazador's hand is placed between the spawn's shoulders, pushing down roughly, uncaring of the blood staining everything.
"Down," Cazador clicks his tongue reproachfully like he's talking to a misbehaving dog, evidently getting annoyed with all the squirming. Astarion obediently drops, panting and choking on tears as he rests on his forearms, pressing his forehead down into the rough material of the cot. Every inch of him shakes while he grovels in front of his sire, feels Cazador's eyes raking over his work critically from behind. Cotton fills his head, while the pain stays sharp, slicing through the haze. The Master wants him present for this.
"Now look what you've done, boy." Cazador tuts, dragging a claw through the gore, relishing in the way the spawn writhes and sobs harder beneath him. Tears make a trail through the blood and grime on Astarion's face as he pants, chest heaving, trying not to vomit. "What a pathetic sight you make...but still, such a pretty canvas."
The lord's hands settle on his back, hardly even a reprieve from the blade as they press into gashes and draw out what little bitter blood remains. Astarion's fangs nearly punch a hole through his lower lip as he bites down, trying to muffle the noises of distress. "Now now, none of that," Cazador sneers, trailing fingers over the spawn's flank, passing over each individual rib that pokes out of his gaunt frame, eliciting twitches and hiccups as Astarion is unable to differentiate the softer touch with the pain. He just wants to be left alone. He doesn't want to be touched at all anymore-
"There's no use trying to hide from me, boy. You always break in the end. And you make such sweet noises when you do, child," Cazador laughs as Astarion attempts to flatten himself into the cot with the order to stay still revoked. The spawn squirms, muffling sobs in his arms. "One of my first, whose screams outclass the other's. I'm sure your siblings would be jealous to see such...favoritism."
What Astarion wouldn't give to be the least favored. To catch the least attention, to hardly even pass under the Master's eyes- Loathing bubbles up from that endless well inside of him, self-disgust and hatred clawing up for his attention. It all dissipates quickly, cowed by pain, terror, and resignation. Such is his place as the runt of his coven. Small and weak.
And still he is a wretched, starved monster, and any attention is better than none. A year of solitude had burrowed that realization into his skull alongside his stomach.
Claws sink into the pale flesh of his side, jerking his wandering mind back and dragging out another feverish moan as sweat drips from his nose into a growing puddle of snot, blood, and tears. "You're grateful for any attention, aren't you mutt? Answer."
"Y-Yes-" Astarion chokes on the word, the compulsion forcing the sound out of his convulsing chest and through gritted teeth. "Yes, Mast-'' It cuts off into another hiss as Cazador's claws scrape over the open wounds, healing some with magic, while others are left weeping and inflamed. Bile crawls up Astarion's throat, his brain struggling to process the distant relief with the fire that remains. The fire that will still come. Gods, how many revisions can the Master make in one night-?
"M-Master," the word falls from cracked lips unbidden, ears pinning flat against his head. "Please- please, I- I can't-" Astarion nearly swallows the pleas before they claw out of him, breaths hitching when Cazador shifts, claws raking into his hair- But the touch is deceptively soft, leaves him trembling, buzzing from the conflict in his brain.
"Hush, pet. You can, and you will. I'm not done yet, and as sweet as you sound, I'm growing impatient." The claws scrape gently over the spawn's scalp a few times, a facsimile of comfort that leaves his brain short circuiting and his chest heaving. Astarion very nearly starts pressing into the touch, disoriented, before the grip turns biting and Cazador wrenches him upright again. Astarion keens, hurrying to get trembling arms back beneath him to stop himself from falling as Cazador makes him sit back up.
Any movement just cracks the already crusted blood, peeling open the wounds that had started to close, leaving a trail of gore down his back and up to Cazador's elbows. The lord is unbothered by his spawn's weeping or the viscera staining the furniture, instead focusing more on the now smooth expanses of skin clear to carve once again. The grip in his hair is relentless, but Cazador doesn't compel him to stay again, and it makes Astarion want to scream. Well. More.
The compulsions would at least keep him still, but here, it's up to his own bloodless, pain-addled will to keep himself upright. That and the claws threatening to tear entire follicles of hair out of his head. It's by no means steady, but Astarion does a passable job of keeping his body locked and rigid, twitching muscles and uncontrollable tremors wracking him where his self-control starts to fail.
Gods damn it all, Cazador won't even let him black out, and as the vampire digs another particularly jagged line, deep enough to slice through muscle, Astarion finally flinches and writhes enough for Cazador to bite out another impatient compulsion. The grip in his hair remains, however unneeded it is now, and Astarion feels wretched at not even being able to move away from the pain. The compulsion is a blessing and a curse.
Unfortunately, it doesn't stop him from screaming his throat bloody, or whimpering and whining like a beaten dog. He barely manages to keep himself from further begging, even knowing it would do nothing. Astarion prays to every god he's ever heard of that this hell will be over soon, that Cazador will ignore him after, let him slink away to lick his wounds, maybe offer a rat for all the blood he's lost-
It's foolish wishful thinking that should have been thrashed out of him decades ago. He's made this too difficult to earn any leniency, though Cazador seems to take great pleasure regardless in watching him grovel and squirm and beg and scream.
There are still six hours left until sunrise.
Astarion wishes for the embrace of darkness through the pounding in his head, the hell in his back, the hot tears mingling with blood streaked across his face.
The next six hours are spent in agonizing clarity as the first few were.
Astarion's voice finally gives out before the sun manages to crest the horizon.
The week that follows isn't much better, filled with feverish healing, hunting, and exhaustion. Of course Cazador has to ensure these scars stick as well. Poetry, he'd called them. Astarion has long since been hollowed out, insides scraped raw by his sire's treatment. It never gets better, but expectation builds up walls within him brick by brick. The few scraps of himself he can cling to are nestled deep within those walls, protected by spite and desperation.
Astarion only wishes he had the ability to remain numb since he couldn't be dead.