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Cazador’s boots click against the castle floor as he makes his way to his study. He licks his teeth, the blood of his spawns’ victims of the night still lingering in his mouth. Leon and Violet did well, as always, but Astarion had also done well, his latest in a string of successful hunts, uncharacteristic for him. He had managed to bring home two men, healthy and beautiful, now in the holding pens below.
Cazador had retrieved the two of them after Astarion finished entertaining them, late in the night. He had been the last of the spawn to use the room that evening and had been busy for longer than usual. When the time arrived and Cazador came for his victims, the boy had been curled between the two men, nestled into the chest of one of them. The sight of it, Astarion pressed lovingly against a stranger, unsettled him for reasons he did not care to place.
He did not wake when Cazador had the thralls lead the men out, only sighed in his sleep and curled in on himself. Cazador found it unusual to see him sleeping, not trancing, and so deeply. He had wanted to wake him, to chide him for his laziness, but he had been more concerned with the two new victims in front of him.
Now, as he passes the room again, he pauses as he hears the sound of someone shifting in the silk sheets of the guest bed. He frowns to himself, stopping in his tracks. Astarion is still in the guest room then, not back in the dormitory as he should be. Cazador turns the doorknob slowly, keeping quiet, then enters the room and shuts the door behind him, before making his way to the bed.
There, Astarion lies splayed out on his back, his silver hair fanned out around him on the pillow he rests on. His cheeks are flushed, his body littered with small bites and bruises, some Cazador recognizes as his own marks, some new, likely their guests’ handiwork. He breathes softly, an unnecessary habit that has lingered long after his turning. Cazador finds it childish, a remnant of his humanity that he clings to like the filthy blanket he keeps on his bed in the dormitory.
Cazador studies his face as he takes slow, deep breaths amidst the silk and soft blankets. In sleep he looks younger, the lines on his face relaxed, his posture calm and unguarded. He even smiles, just slightly, his soft pink lips upturned at the corners.
As Cazador looks over him, a sudden and unexpected wave of nostalgia washes over him. It has been decades, perhaps longer, since he has seen him look so content, so at peace. He tries but cannot remember the last time he saw him smile. Perhaps not since he first found him, at the beginning.
He reaches a hand out and trails a nail down the side of the boy’s face as he thinks of those early days. Astarion had been so full of life then, bursting at the seams with it. He was a beautiful thing and he had known it, flaunted it without fear or shame. A ripe piece of fruit, begging to be plucked and devoured.
He captivated Cazador when he first laid eyes on him. He had been laughing then, with another magistrate, oblivious as Cazador watched him from the shadows. He had been struck dumb at the sight of him, at the beautiful, perfect lines of his body, the proud angles of his face, his delicate skin, the silver of his hair, curled around his ears, flushed pink at the tips.
He had wanted him, needed him with such intensity, such ferocity that he had trembled with the force of it, there in the dark of the alley.
When the Gur attacked him and Cazador found him broken and bleeding in the same alley, it felt like a gift, a divine offering from the gods themselves.
He looks at him now as he cups the soft skin of his cheek, thumb brushing over the beautiful face which is his now, only his. Astarion, in sleep, nuzzles into his touch, desperate for affection even in his dreams. Cazador strokes his skin softly, more willing to offer it when he is not awake to be spoiled by it. The boy sighs quietly and he feels the familiar urge to bite him, to sink fangs into soft flesh and tear open the scars on his neck once again.
He leans down and inhales the scent of him, nose pressed against the side of his pale neck. He smells of rosemary and sage, of the perfume he hides in his pockets and saves for his hunts. It often lingers, masks the soft, clean musk of his skin, which Cazador prefers. He seeks that scent out now as Astarion breathes softly beneath him. There are other scents on him tonight, the two men he brought home, sweat, spend, alcohol, but under it all, he finds it. Cazador rests his forehead against his neck as he breathes it in.
He trails a hand down the side of Astarion’s neck, then to his chest where his nipples are already bruising. They are sensitive and the boy enjoys having them touched, he knows. He can imagine him guiding his victims’ hands and mouths there eagerly, just as eagerly as he begs Cazador not to touch them. He thumbs one of them gently, feels it pebble under his touch. Astarion exhales, presses subconsciously into his hand. Cazador pinches it between his fingers, softly, then trails his nails down the toned expanse of his stomach. There is a pool of dried semen there, which Cazador recognizes as Astarion’s by scent.
He runs a finger over the jut of his hip bone and then, gently, over his soft, pink cock, which is slick with oil. He takes it hand and then strokes it slowly, feels it begin to stiffen in his hand, before he moves lower. A long finger finds his entrance and presses against it, gently. Astarion murmurs to himself in sleep when he makes contact, but does not wake.
Cazador looks at his face, then slowly dips his finger in, where it is met with more slickness. He is spread wide, the finger sliding in with no resistance. Spend, two different sets of it from what Cazador can scent, trickles out of him and onto his finger, pools on the sheet beneath him.
It is no wonder he is tired.
He imagines it, Astarion taking and being taken. He wonders how it played out, how he looked as he played with his victims. The little slut probably enjoyed himself, if the smile and the mess say anything.
Did he ride one of them? Or was he on hands and knees? Were they rough with him? Gentle? And what of the one he rutted into? How had he looked, cock buried in another?
He can picture it, the smug look on his stupid, sweet little face as he took control, something Cazador will never allow him to do. He looks again at his face and then, slowly, he curls his finger. Astarion shifts and then moans softly, sweetly. Cazador watches, enraptured. The sounds he wrings from him with so much effort when he is awake come so easily in sleep. He adds a second finger and curls both, observes as Astarion’s lips part in pleasure.
“Please,” he sighs in sleep, so quietly Cazador nearly misses it.
Cazador’s cock twitches at the word, how it sounds on his sleep-drunk lips. He would be horrified if he woke now, would cry and beg him to stop, and yet now he pleads for more, honest with himself for once. Cazador gives him what he knows he truly wants, pumping his fingers as he takes his now semi-hard cock in hand and coaxes it to full hardness.
Astarion squirms under his hands, moaning prettily for his master without even knowing it. The sounds are sweet music to Cazador’s ears, made even sweeter by the idea of his spawn’s horror if he knew he was making them. It is not long before his cock tenses in Cazador’s hand, his unraveling happening faster in sleep without his mind to make it difficult.
Cazador, unwilling to restrain himself any longer, slides into the bed and kneels between the boy’s legs. He pumps his fingers as he leans down and inhales again the scent of his son, pressing his nose into the flesh of his soft inner thigh. He pulls his fingers out and Astarion chases them unconsciously, hips rolling lazily.
Whore, Cazador thinks, affectionately.
He unlaces the front of his pants and frees his cock, stroking it slowly as he looks down at Astarion laid out beneath him. He looks so perfect, so breakable like this. A glass figurine made flesh, a painting given form, all delicate lines and sharp angles.
In a moment, when Cazador sinks into him, he will wake and begin to panic, to writhe beneath him. Perhaps he will cry or scream, thrash and moan under him. Cazador’s cock throbs at the idea as he presses against his slick hole, hands gripping his soft thighs as he palms and then spreads them. As pretty as he is like this, his true beauty is in his fear, his agony, which Cazador aches to see now.
As he slowly begins to push in, Astarion shifts beneath him, sighing quietly. Cazador marvels at the sensation of his body clenching around him, the slick slide of semen and lubricant making it so much easier tonight than usual. He takes his time, savors the feeling of Astarion’s body opening for him, welcoming him in. When he finally bottoms out, the boy makes a soft noise, beginning to stir in earnest. Cazador’s eyes flick to his face and he watches closely as he wakes.
“Another round?” Astarion mumbles sleepily, rubbing at his eyes. “Eager, aren’t we?”
Cazador watches as his eyes flutter open, then widen in horror as they meet his own.
“What- wait, no, please-“ Astarion gasps, when he realizes what is happening. Cazador holds him down as he clutches the sheets, attempts to scramble away.
“Hush,” Cazador murmurs. “You did so well for me tonight, child. Do you not want your reward?”
“Master, I-“ he begins, but it breaks off into a moan as Cazador rolls his hips. Beautiful, Cazador thinks, as he watches Astarion’s head fall back on the pillow in reluctant pleasure, feels him tighten around him.
“Thank me,” Cazador says, nails digging into the flesh of his thighs, keeping him spread wide. He shifts his weight, pins him down. “Ungrateful child.”
“Th-thank you, master,” Astarion gasps, tears glistening in his eyes. “The others, where did they go?”
“Dead,” Cazador says flatly. He ignores the look on Astarion’s face, pretends not to see the sadness and shame there. It bothers him more than it should, to see it tonight. “It is just me here, child. Just your master, here to take care of you. How sweet of you, to stay here in offering to me.”
“I didn’t-“ Astarion begins, but is cut off by Cazador rocking into him, hitting deep inside. Astarion gasps sharply, bites back a moan.
“Such a whore, my Astarion. Two men could not satisfy you, could they?”
Astarion whimpers as Cazador thrusts in hard, digs his nails into his flesh. His words die in his throat, his body fluttering unwillingly around Cazador at the words “my Astarion.” Cazador notices and tightens his grip on his thighs. He tears the skin slightly, blood pooling under his fingertips.
“No, master,” he says, his voice thick as Cazador’s nails dig into him. “They couldn’t sate me.”
“What did they do with you? Tell me.”
“I…” Astarion begins, as Cazador moves inside of him. “The bigger one, the human- he…fucked me. Bent me over the bed and- ah-“
Cazador’s hips snap against his and Astarion keens beneath him.
“Did you enjoy it?”
Astarion makes a face at him and for a moment, Cazador expects him to lie.
“Yes,” he sighs, honest.
“But it was not enough?”
“I…no. I…tried to fuck the other one, the half-elf. I had him in my lap. But…it wasn’t- I-“ Astarion closes his eyes, shame written on his face. “We had to switch. I couldn’t stay…” he trails off, then gestures to his hard cock, which presses against Cazador’s doublet.
“Poor little thing. You were not meant for that.”
Astarion opens his mouth to protest, his cheeks flushing, but Cazador cuts him off, rocking into him pointedly. Astarion gasps and the sound is so delicious, Cazador does it again, craving more.
“Were you thinking of me?” Cazador asks, “while they took you?”
There is a long pause as Astarion fights some internal battle, before he finally speaks.
“Yes,” he whispers, his eyes closed tight.
“Look at me.”
Cazador rests his forehead against Astarion’s, looks directly into his eyes when they reluctantly open. They shimmer in the dark, wet with tears.
“You are mine.”
Astarion looks away, like he can escape by avoiding his eyes.
“Say it,” Cazador commands softly, before rocking into him in again. Astarion winces at the force of it, then shocks Cazador by wrapping his legs around his waist, drawing him even closer.
Every time they collide like this, he fights back, but not tonight. Tonight he accepts it, pliant beneath him. Cazador is thrown by it, untethered for a moment as Astarion’s heels dig into his back, his arms wrap around his neck.
There is nostalgia in this, too, in Astarion attempting to please him. Cazador thinks again of their early days together, of the brief period when Astarion worshipped him, tried so desperately to earn his affection before he had given up on getting it.
Cazador touches his face in the dark now, caresses his cheek. Astarion, for the first time in ages, closes his eyes and allows himself to lean into it.
“I’m yours-“ he whispers as he begins to rock his hips down to meet Cazador’s.
“Yes,” Cazador whispers in reply, his hips pressed flush to Astarion’s, “mine alone. They touch you, they take you, but you are mine. My pet, my son. Mine.”
Cazador hears Astarion’s breath catch at the words, feels him clench around him. He sees the look on his face, the mix of confusion and fear and, he suspects, longing written there, and regrets it immediately. Nostalgia has gotten the better of him tonight. He is being too soft, indulging him too much. He narrows his eyes at Astarion, who averts his gaze as uncomfortable silence falls between them.
Cazador returns his attention to his movements and picks up the pace. He presses his lips against the side of Astarion’s neck before finally, blissfully, sinking his fangs into the old scar and tearing it open. The boy cries out, but bares his neck anyway, dutifully adjusting to allow him better access.
The sound of his cry has a calming effect on the two of them and before long they settle into what they know, the press of each other’s bodies in the dark, the mingling of pain and pleasure.
Astarion’s blood tastes like nothing, faintly acrid from the rat blood Cazador allowed him recently, but he drinks it anyway, savors it like wine as he trembles in his arms. He runs his fingers through his curls as he takes him, devours him.
Astarion’s cock hardens as he is fucked and drained, presses urgently into Cazador’s stomach and leaks against his clothing. He could chastise him for making a mess but instead, one of his hands finds his cock and strokes it, smears the wetness down over the tip as he whines, needy and desperate. Cazador breaks away from his neck and licks at the wound as Astarion makes soft sounds and bucks into his hand, grinds down onto his cock.
He could stop, could spill inside of him and then tell him to leave, order him to keep his hands off himself. He could leave him aching and desperate, neglected, as he has so many times.
But not tonight.
Tonight, Astarion falls to pieces with a high, broken moan as Cazador caresses the sensitive shell of his ear and whispers, “come, now.”
He paints Cazador’s hand as he finishes, fluttering around him and pulling him even deeper, his legs locked securely around his waist. Cazador nuzzles into his neck, breathes in his scent.
“My baby,” he whispers in Astarion’s ear as he falls apart beneath him. Astarion whimpers at the endearment, hides his face in Cazador’s shoulder.
Cazador chases his own release as Astarion trembles against him. The boy begins to whisper in his ear, his voice low and soft. Cazador suspects he does it because he wants it over as fast as possible, using any trick he can think of to end it, but he does not mind. The words may be false, but they are still sweet on his tongue. He sinks his teeth into his neck again, indulges himself as he listens to Astarion whisper in the dark.
“Fill me,” he pleads, voice soft and breathy, “I’m yours, master. Please, I need it. Need you- please-“
His voice breaks into a whine as Cazador’s fangs sink deeper.
“I’ve -ah- been a good boy, haven’t I? I want it-“
Cazador’s grip on his hips tightens as Astarion, startlingly, kisses the side of his neck.
“Please- come in me, father-“
Cazador moans, then bites down harder at the last word. Astarion knows exactly what he is doing by using it and it works, Cazador’s hips beginning to stutter.
He pulls Astarion closer as his climax hits him like a wave, digs his nails in hard and holds him in place as it crests and breaks over him.
Astarion does not fight him, but instead kisses the side of his neck, pants softly against it as Cazador spills deep inside of him. He plays the part of willing partner so well, Cazador almost believes him.
When he whispers the words “thank you” against his skin, Cazador finds himself taking an unnecessary breath of his own.
He rocks into Astarion through his climax and for a while after, until the boy’s eyebrows furrow in pain, overstimulation making him squirm and whine softly beneath him.
“Are you sated now?” Cazador murmurs in his ear, rolling his hips as he chases the very last ebbs of pleasure. Astarion inhales, then sighs and nods. He struggles to keep his eyes open, exhausted.
Cazador shifts positions and lies beside him in the bed, then pulls him into his arms, keeping them connected. Astarion stiffens, as he always does, as Cazador holds him and gently smooths down his disheveled curls.
“You did so well tonight,” Cazador says as he strokes his hair, “if only you were always so well behaved. I could almost love you like this.”
Astarion inhales sharply, then opens his mouth to say something, before deciding against it.
“Really? Nothing to say? You had plenty to say earlier,” Cazador says, catching his chin in his hand and tilting it up.
Astarion purses his lips, then shakes his head. He must truly be exhausted, Cazador thinks, if he will not even argue.
Cazador pulls him closer and tucks his head under his chin. He trembles against his chest, anticipating violence that will not come tonight.
Quiet settles over the room as they lie together in the dark. Eventually, Astarion shifts in his arms, tense and clearly waiting for permission to leave. Cazador holds him tighter, cups the back of his neck and strokes his hair.
“Do you remember when we first met?” he asks, breaking the silence.
Astarion is quiet at first, clearly thrown off by the question, before he speaks.
“Yes, when I was dying,” he says softly. “I could never forget that.”
“Do you remember begging me for this? To make you my spawn? To make you mine?”
“I…yes. I do.”
“You are still mine. You always will be.”
“Yes, master,” Astarion whispers, his voice thick in the dark.
”Sleep now, child,” Cazador whispers in reply, his nails combing through his curls.
“Here?”
“Here.”
Astarion sighs and nods against his chest, before he finally settles against him.
Cazador strokes his back, trails his nails over the outline of the infernal runes he carved there, the network of smaller scars surrounding them. Thousands of them, a tapestry of scar tissue beneath his fingers. Two centuries of their history, of his ownership, etched into soft flesh.
Cazador has done the math and, at the pace his spawn are going in their hunts, they will hit the required number soon. In just a few short months, Astarion and his siblings will serve their purpose and in doing so, Cazador will lose them all.
And so, tonight he will hold his son, knowing that the end is drawing near.
In his arms, Astarion shivers, then nestles closer. He breathes quietly against Cazador’s chest as he traces patterns on his skin. The movement of his hand soothes them both, for different reasons.
Astarion slowly begins to relax against him, his breathing evening out over time as, exhausted, he finally allows sleep to take him.
When he is certain he is asleep, Cazador presses his lips to his forehead, then lies in the dark, lost in thought.
-
I commmissioned orangiah for art of this fic! ☺️❤️
https://x.com/orangiah_/status/1967804102773182877?s=46&t=XIqBbVl_T2IqAqs9c8ztiA
https://bsky.app/profile/orangiah.bsky.social/post/3lywhgtpqps2g