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Cazador managed to walk, despite himself. Every step almost made him flinch— as if some kind of illusion spell was breaking incessantly through the air, mirroring whips raining down upon him and tearing off his skin. The rattle of chains still echoed in his ears, the heinous laughter of his kindred and his own muffled screams had made for a most pathetic symphony. Cazador bared his fangs in the desolate hallway, remembering how uselessly he had struggled against the magic holding him in place, how he had, for the most fleeting of moments, wished it would all end.
Nonsensical sniveling, of the kind that would win him nothing but further punishment in this home. It would all end with him, there was no other way, so he ignored the pain as best he could and dragged himself to Master’s chambers.
After all, most of the gore he was covered in wasn’t his.
“Enter,” a stern voice called from inside the room. Cazador remained on the threshold when he swung the heavy door open. The shallow wounds would be healed come morning, and they’d feel like child's play if he were to stain his master’s most treasured carpet.
Vellioth was sitting at the edge of his bed, cracking his neck to either side with a deep sigh, as if fraternizing with Baldurian nobility drained him the same way battle would a soldier. Cazador waited in silence, never to speak before he was spoken to. His attention fell to Vellioth’s half-unbuttoned garments, the undone laces of his silk heels, and the white curls that escaped from the ribbon in his hair, and a silent prayer crossed his mind.
“You have dwelled. It has been a while since I summoned you,” Vellioth stated, in the type of calm tone that chilled his spawn to their core. Cazador was far from immune to it, but his senses were already dulled for the day. At last, Vellioth’s eyes opened, widening almost imperceptibly at the sight of Cazador’s wrecked and filthy body. His expression didn't change. “Come.”
Cazador’s legs trembled ever so slightly as he made his way over, no matter how stoic he attempted to keep his face. He felt Vellioth’s piercing eyes cutting deeper into him, assessing the damage that had been done to his spawn with an edge of indifference.
A hand reached out to his exposed stomach, following the uneven line of a deep cut there with impossible tenderness. Vellioth’s gaze traveled up and down his figure, from his bare legs to his hastily washed face, his eyebrows raising at the bloodied rag around Cazador’s waist.
A shaky breath escaped him, relieved by the surprisingly benign touch, and yet Cazador didn’t look down. Accustomed to being thoroughly examined, he waited patiently for Vellioth to be done with his inspection and indulged, as he often did, in having his undivided attention. Vellioth’s scrutiny was rapt and undoing, the tips of his fingers mapped skin as if it was the first time and his eyes scorched his flesh, judging the quality of the torturer’s craftsmanship.
“Who tarnished you like this?”
Cazador had to swallow some of the blood in his mouth just to wet his throat enough to produce a sound that wasn’t a scream or a grunt. Vellioth’s hands rested in his flanks patiently, claws grazing the edge of his open wounds in case he found the answer unsatisfying.
“My siblings, master,” he explained, mentally counting his words, “Chose to entertain themselves by torturing me rather than hunting tonight.”
“I can understand the appeal of making you suffer,” Vellioth conceded, although he often reserved the pleasure of Cazador’s screams for himself, unless he wanted to show him off to nobility of questionable morals and deep pockets. Finally, his master raised his head to meet his eyes, seemingly uninterested. “And yet you stink of blood that isn’t your own, child.”
“No, master,” Cazador replied, cold and with a hint of self-satisfaction. Confidence surged through him as Vellioth’s words left his mouth— if he just pulled the right strings, he might not only avoid punishment for his tardiness but please Vellioth as well, which was a rather unsurpassable task. “An offense unpunished is a rebellion kindled. I will not lose my place amongst my kin. I ensured they’ll remember theirs.”
It wasn’t uncommon for Vellioth’s spawn to tear each other apart for sport, mercilessly, in unequal numbers. The unlucky chosen of the day was to be hunted or otherwise tormented until surrender or exhaustion. None ever won— fending off five vampire spawn was no easy feat, less when one was as starved and weakened as they frequently were—, but master seemed fond of this pastime of theirs for it reminded him of life in Menzoberranzan.
In the last decade, it had never been Cazador. Not on the grace of being the oldest, but they had grown reluctant to defile master’s favorite. Whatever ambitions or foolishness emboldened them to draw Cazador’s name that night were misguided; the blood of his long-gone siblings had stained his hands for many years, and none of the privileges that had earned him were as precious as his master’s affection.
A grin painted on Vellioth’s lips, that of a hyena, something wicked, bizarre, and full of teeth. His nails grazed Cazador’s jaw with a devil’s tenderness, just sweet enough to make his spawn forget the violence that lay between them. “Set the scene for me, dear.”
In great detail, Cazador illustrated the fates of his siblings— the twins hanging upside down from hooks like pigs, with their guts on the outside for the other to behold; his sister Carmilla, pinned with knives to a coffin and now missing one of her horns; and the one Cazador had personally enjoyed most, master’s haughty secondborn son crying blood from empty eye sockets, pathetically whining in a corner. Only one, Sylvian, earned some of his pity— she was closest to him, and often tended wounds more than she participated in hunts. But it was her magic that had held Cazador down, no matter how many apologies and regrets poured from her lips after. The sun would kiss just enough of her skin in the morning not to kill her, and that small mercy would suffice.
He could not remember Vellioth ever listening to him as intently as he did then. As Cazador spoke, Vellioth untied the unpolished ribbon in his hair and placed it in Cazador’s hands. His master’s arms wrapped around the lithe shape of his body, tightened around his back to pull him closer languidly as Cazador began to collect his hair with hands that no longer trembled in fear, brushing back strands of platinum hair.
Vellioth offered him the safety of a lion’s pride, where as long as he was his he’d be treasured, as long as he was the strongest he’d have a place at his side. There was no fortress as secure and impregnable as his master’s arms when Cazador bloodied his hands for him.
(Do you see me, master? Am I worthy? Will you call me your own?)
A perfectly tied lace adored Vellioth’s mane by the time Cazador was done. The silence between them was heavy with anticipation, the unnerving tension that always came with awaiting master’s verdict— Cazador’s back remained perfectly straight despite the stabs of pain along his spine, the certainty of a couple of broken vertebrae, maybe even a few ribs. The shallow wounds and scarring of lashes that would’ve closed already had he fed at all recently.
Instead of words, Vellioth gave him a faint and bemused chuckle, and his large hands blanketed Cazador’s fingers as he guided him onto his lap. Cazador went easily, holding back a sigh of relief, ignoring the mess he was making of master’s clothes and the bed linen.
“Good,” Vellioth whispered, pushing the black, blood-crusted hair away from Cazador’s face with deft fingers. Cazador’s treacherous eyes fluttered at the touch and the praise, but it appeared he’d be forgiven tonight. “I must admit you’ve impressed me this night, my child.”
Vellioth’s touch moved up his back, caressing sharp shoulder blades before cradling his nape. Cazador preened under the attention like a cat would, unashamed and proud; after countless nights in that chamber and a lifetime in master’s thrall, he had learned when to push his luck, and how to enthuse the ruthless man below him. His hips moved of their own accord, doing a careful grind against Vellioth’s muscled thighs, and his boldness was immediately rewarded— his master grabbed a fistful of his hair, and brought him in swiftly until they were face to face.
“There were times when I feared the stench of mercy wouldn’t wash off you,” Vellioth confessed, hauling his spawn’s legs behind his body to rest on the bed. Cazador hummed indulgently, exposed and spread indecently around his master's torso. “That even my stern hand couldn’t make a fine blade out of such faulty steel.”
“You taught me well, master,” Cazador sighed, thankful for a strong body to hold him up. He forgot himself, allowed his arms to rest on the drow’s shoulders as he was handled with the closest thing to love he would ever know. “I ought to be grateful for your patience.”
His master purred, satisfied with Cazador’s deference. Only a sick creature like him would venerate the leash that scarred him, thrive in the arms where he had died, and ache for the hands soiled by his bloodline’s death to touch him.
Vellioth caressed his chin with two fingers, the corners of his lips turning upwards ever so slightly, yet so very softly. Only when he claimed Cazador’s lips could the spawn understand— he had been feeding before Cazador’s arrival, and his mouth was still rich with the taste of blood. Cazador couldn’t help the low moan that escaped him, chasing the taste desperately, parting Vellioth’s lips with his tongue in his eagerness.
Astonishingly, there was no retribution for his shameless greed— Cazador found no resistance as he licked the inside of his mouth hungrily, tracing the needle-like fangs with the tip of his tongue, pursuing every last drop of blood. Not only did Vellioth allow this, but he hauled Cazador’s trembling body closer in his lap, ensuring he could feel the hardness under him.
Cazador moved with him, his mind hazy with hunger and desire, the need to make all of Vellioth his, to tear his skin with his teeth and taste his insides too.
“Oh, sweet one,” Vellioth breathed between them. “How long since you last fed?”
“A fortnight, master.”
Vellioth caressed the print of his own fangs on the spawn’s neck, clicking his tongue with something between pity and reprisal. “And for what reason?”
“I spoke out of turn, master,” Cazador reminded him bitterly. “At the reception you held for the duke.”
Vellioth barely made a sound of recognition, already reaching for a silver goblet that sat on the bedside table. Cazador felt his unbeating heart rise to his throat— he’d watched master feed while starving innumerable times and endured the sweet smell of human blood while he feasted on nothing but rats for years.
The blood in the goblet was fresh, surely taken from one of the palace thralls.
Wordlessly, Vellioth lifted the cup and slowly and deliberately poured its contents over his face, so close to Cazador’s that the smell alone had him licking his lips. The blood flowed from Vellioth’s sharp cheekbones down to his chin, cascading to his neck and shoulders before mixing with that in Cazador’s upper body.
Cazador bit the insides of his mouth, vulgarly salivating at the luscious sight— even covered in blood, Vellioth remained graceful, elegant in just his undergarments.
“Go ahead and feed then, child,” Vellioth said, warm and dangerous. “Clean up this mess.”
Before his master got a chance to change his mind, Cazador was on him, mindlessly lapping at the blood on his face and smearing it all over, like the starved dog he was. Nothing he’d ever had before could compare: it wasn’t the foul stench and rusty flavor of lowly vermin. No, human blood was rich in a myriad of ways, thick and metallic and utterly delicious, chasing away all pains in the blink of an eye.
Cazador grunted, keen to leave Vellioth’s pale grey skin polished. The ardour of his hunger burned hot, making his tongue flicker over every drop of blood and his arousal insatiable. His master’s fingers buried in his hair, roughly massaging his scalp, and Cazador heard a stifled sigh of pleasure that made him crave more and more and more, and fear it could never be enough.
“Master,” he growled against cold skin, diving down to his neck to chase the trail that fell there. Vellioth accommodated him gladly, carrying the rhythmic back and forth of their bodies with his hands as he let his head fall to the side to grant Cazador more space.
Nothing was stopping him from sinking his fangs into the skin there and draining his vampire lord dry. In his arrogance, he had lifted that restriction from Cazador, the only one who could get close enough to pose a threat, as if daring him to try and fail once more. The thought didn’t so much as cross his head.
“Thank you, master,” he uttered, breathless, as a part of him distantly wondered how Vellioth’s name would sound in his mouth, how it would ring in master’s ears. Cazador drank and drank until he had to sink his nose into the hollow of his clavicle to chase the last of the blood, the wounds on his body already closing and his bones mending.
Vellioth didn’t reply, but when Cazador finally lifted his head, looking ravenous and obscene, he took his blood-smeared chin between his fingers again, pushing a thumb between his lips. Cazador, light-headed yet stronger than he’d ever felt, stared at him through his eyelashes as Vellioth inspected the inside of his mouth, running his finger over his teeth and fangs.
Without thinking, or rather unable to do so, Cazador darted out his tongue, wrapping it around his thumb until Vellioth cursed and thrust it deeper into his mouth. Cazador accommodated it with ease, his eyes fluttering from the intrusion and the frenzy of blood.
“Allow me to stay here, master,” Cazador all but begged, desperate to remain at his side until dusk. “Let me repay your generosity.”
Vellioth’s brow arched curiously.
For a few moments, there was silence between them. Cazador kept his most seductive demeanor in check, nudging master’s fingers with his face, pushing himself further into Vellioth’s embrace.
“Today you butchered your siblings so mercilessly. I remember how you begged me to spare that stranded cousin of yours who dared come to my city,” Vellioth smiled. Cazador tensed slightly in his hold, taken aback by the unexpected turn of conversation. “Agatha, if my memory serves me right. How you wept and trembled when you took her life. Your first, was it not?”
Suddenly Cazador’s mouth turned bitter, tarnished with a memory buried deep within.
I was a child, he wanted to yell back, mourning the scared young man he had been and his bloodless hands. He had been human, then. Alive. I was only a child.
“Yes, master,” he mumbled instead, swallowing down the guilt, the still pending revenge and the endless shame at what he’d been made into. “I remember.”
Vellioth’s claws dug into his flanks without breaking the skin there, just below the brand he bore that marked his body as master’s property, as if he was nothing but cattle.
“What was that?” Vellioth demanded, his voice like a tamed thunder waiting to strike.
“Yes, Master,” he repeated, louder this time, mindlessly, as he had for almost a century now— choruses of yes, master, an unfelt thank you, master, a desperate please, master, the rare no, master.
In the haze of the moment, Cazador thought little of it, reckoning that the less thinking he did, the less memories would flock to him. Again, he moved in his master’s lap, taking it as permission when Vellioth met him halfway once more. The spawn’s gaze fell to the half-exposed chest against his, the scars courtesy of his aunt that crawled their way up to his neck, almost connecting with the bloody gift Cazador had left from his cheek to his jaw. How greatly that had cost him, and how gladly he would endure it all again just to see his mark on Vellioth every time he laid eyes on him.
“Do you believe, my child,” Vellioth began, his voice quiet and melodic even as his nails left a thin trail of blood in their wake, “That you are deserving of pity?”
Caught by surprise, Cazador failed to find the appropriate answer in time. Fear crawled its way back up his throat as he pleaded, “Master?”
“You’ll cower here to avoid facing your siblings until sundown,” he said, his tone still even and calm. “You dare mourn your life in my presence, when I’ve been naught but generous. Is it sympathy you expect?”
“No, master,” Cazador immediately supplied, a little crack in his resolve making his voice falter. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I only wished to—”
Cazador’s facade wavered. Don’t make me leave.
His words were choked out in Vellioth’s forceful grip of his face, a hiss escaping through his teeth. Then his master pressed up against him and tore off the rag from his hips. His hand felt impossibly cold when it brushed the scar on Cazador’s upper leg, the patch of skin where his pelvis met his leg. He couldn’t help the breath that escaped him as claws pressed the crisscross of healed scar tissue there.
“Right here, wasn’t it?” Vellioth asked, as if it hadn’t been his hand that buried the pike in his body all those years ago. His light-fingered touch traveled up Cazador’s crotch, chilling, scratching his nerves raw and making his cock twitch despite himself. “Do you remember how it felt, having that pike inside you for so long that your organs started to regrow around it? Can you still feel it?”
Cazador’s eyes snapped wide open in sudden, heart-clenching horror. His master was asking no question— it was a command. The order was enough to make his body twist and bend in a futile attempt to escape, forced to watch, petrified, as Vellioth smiled and pulled the strings of his mind, sculpting his misery anew. Cazador could feel the stake piercing his skin again, his muscles contorting in pain as the cold metal buried deeper and deeper into his abdomen.
“Master,” he choked out, his voice reduced to a whimper. Cazador’s head fell abruptly to the side to make space for the spear that had perforated his trapezius. “ Please —”
The memories flowed to him, that dark, isolated dungeon where he could see or hear no one, deprived of all manner of feeling except that of the weapon sealed within him. The loss of time made it seem like he was a world away, punished to oblivion for eternity. Master had visited, from time to time, and Cazador had straightened his broken back without making a sound. On one occasion that it took Vellioth too long to return, Cazador had called for him, screaming voicelessly for hours, just to make sure he was still there, alive, that he hadn’t been left there to rot. All it did was earn him another year of impalement.
The blood was pooling in his mouth now, bursting from his upper thigh and shoulder as he felt himself bleeding out. Cazador sobbed, overcome with agony and humiliation and an idiotic sense of betrayal.
“Tell me, dear boy, can you feel it here?” Vellioth asked, sinking his nails into his stomach, so intimately familiar with his body and pain. Cazador’s throat felt tight with the thickness of his own guts, the lack of air flowing into his lungs. “How it pierced right through your intestines and shattered your ribs?”
Cazador pressed his eyes shut and shook his head, trembling yet determined not to let any tears fall from his eyes— that would be an unthinkable show of disrespect, a lack of discipline that was unbecoming. Vellioth pulled his hair violently, making his head snap back and the pike rip the skin off his shoulder.
“Please—” he bleated, once more the scared little spawn that had failed at rebelling against his master. Once more reduced to nothing. “I’m sorry, master. I’m so sorry.”
“No,” Vellioth barked, his eyes blazing black and red in a fit of rage. “Describe it. Lest you forget your place, child.”
Through trembling lips and the phantom pain splitting him in half, Cazador mentally traced the path of the pike. “It— gods , it pierced my upper thigh, tore the adductor muscles there,” he began, the pain racking through his body more fiercely with each word. “Then it broke through the bladder and small intestine, and fractured my hipbones and some ribs and— Master—”
Vellioth was relentless, following the trajectory Cazador described with his claws, a merciless and wicked expression painted on his face. “Continue. Do not falter again.”
“My stomach and part of the liver were maimed in passing. The pike was lodged in my left lung for eleven years,” he quavered, pushing the words through the nonexistent blood that oozed out of his mouth. “It sliced through my ribcage and shoulder muscles and only missed my heart because you were graceful.”
Cazador had prayed countless times for it to end in the solitude of his confinement. And each time he prayed, only Vellioth appeared, eternal and cruel and beautiful, the only God he would ever know.
“A crude summary,” Master admonished with a pout of disappointment. “But it will suffice. You couldn’t even muster a scream when I took you down. The sensation of the pike, so intimately intertwined with your body, being ripped out of your flesh,” he added, forcing Cazador to feel it most vividly and let out a single scream, helpless, as his to mold as he had ever been. He was still breathing hard when he was released. “Shh, my sweet. It’s over now.”
On reflex, Cazador’s hands latched onto his master’s shoulders, scratching his skin. When the illusion evaporated, he was left with nothing but rage and the ever-growing desire to see Vellioth’s head on that very same pike, with nothing but his heart hanging from a tendril.
Instead, his mouth intoned a low, “Thank you, master. I’m sorry.”
Vellioth caressed his jaw with unreal tenderness, and Cazador could do little but let his eyes fall closed. “What for, my child?”
“For my insolence, master,” he managed, too exhausted to think further of his transgressions. “I regret that I’m—”
Before he could get another word out, Vellioth’s fingers closed around his throat, not painfully, just hard enough to shut him up and leave his mark.
“Gods, no more of that,” Vellioth snarled, his free hand trailing Cazador’s sternum before resting on the V burned into his left flank. His tone was mocking and exasperated, “No more yes, master, thank you, master. Not tonight. I long to hear you say how you loathe me. How you’ll be the end of me. I want to believe it. And that rage dwells within you, I know it does. Show it to me.”
For a moment, Cazador had no choice but to wonder if this too was a test, one that would be all too easy to fail. Maybe it was just a provocation, one that would earn him another decade of impalement if he fell for it. Or maybe it was the only way to make Master proud.
Soon enough, it ceased to matter— years upon years upon years of resentment and hatred and fury blazed over him, his hands shaking as they dug deeper into the drow’s skin. He felt Vellioth respond in kind, watching him with eager eyes.
“To hells with what you want, master. I won’t ever grant you the relief of death, master.”
Cazador’s voice turned into a growl as he spoke, and with each word the smirk on Vellioth’s face grew more wayward, exposing his sharp teeth as he wet his lips.
The gesture emboldened his spawn, whose fantasies came to life one by one, vindicated in his vengeance. Perhaps even their eternal lives weren’t enough for Cazador to say all he had ever wished to say to him, and words couldn’t carry that pain, that emptiness he felt in their message.
Maybe Vellioth would only understand as he died, but regardless, he had to try.
“Death would not take you. So I will trap your soul here, in my palace, make you watch as I tear your presence from these halls,” Cazador growled, finding his bark that had been silenced for so long. His hands found Vellioth’s neck, nearly choking the vampire who continued to smile defiantly to Cazador’s irritation. He breathed like a predator about to strike, shallow and unstoppable under him. “The city will forget your existence. No one will remember you, master. No one but me, who you’ve despised so.”
“Far from it, my dearest,” Vellioth whispered between them, his words a violent caress. “I unmade and shaped you in my image. Is there any higher form of faith?”
The words elicited only more anger from Cazador and he moved above him with the full strength of his body, pressing roughly against his crotch and belly with all the defiance he could muster. Vellioth sighed at the temptation, his eyes never once leaving Cazador’s. In a sickeningly sweet gesture, his master rested his forehead against his, breathing shallowly against his mouth.
“When I raise your corpse you’ll bow to me, as you always should have,” he spat out in response, Vellioth’s honeyed words falling in hollow ears. “You’ll dance for me. Your carcass will be so perfectly obedient, and maybe then you will finally know true devotion.”
Vellioth hummed in consideration. Cazador had known such hatred lay within him, but had never dreamed of speaking it out loud to Master, less so imagined how pleased he would be, how he marveled at his unleashed contempt. Vellioth’s hand left his neck in favor of his hips, helping Cazador lavish himself upon him.
“Careful, Szarr,” Vellioth sneered, his mouth against his cheek. Cazador’s mind was dizzy with the recognition of his last name, of the status he had once held over his master. The memory of the proud young man he’d once been, barking orders at a drow twice his size sprung to his mind. “I’ll hold you to every word when the time comes.”
For the first time since Vellioth embraced him as his own, Cazador bared his fangs at him. Vellioth went easily when he found himself being pushed back into the bed, hungry eyes watching Cazador tower above him and needy hands reaching out to pull him closer again. The sight of his master on his back, yielding under him and almost pliant in his want, heightened his senses and built up his courage.
“You’ll regret turning me,” he growled, arousal racking throughout his body. He took Vellioth’s face between his fingers, letting his thumb idly trace the scar on his cheek as if making a promise. His master side-eyed the movement in amusement, a warning— do not fail again. But Cazador just forced him to look at him again with the rude hand under his jaw. “Your head will be but one more trophy after I strip your bones clean. There will be nothing left of you.”
“There’ll always be you,” Vellioth whispered, closing his eyes in content.
His wandering touch fell to Cazador’s lower back and he let his fingertips rest on the curve of his ass. It was Cazador who grew tired of the back and forth first, bringing his chapped lips against his master’s roughly and being endlessly pleased with himself when that earned him a muffled moan into his mouth.
Vellioth was as ruthless in kissing as he was with everything else— he took Cazador’s lips as if he meant to devour him, using his fangs to set the pace between them. The slow dance had Cazador shuddering in his arms until he couldn’t stand it anymore and pushed back against Vellioth’s hands, driving his fingers between his cheeks, eager to be touched. The gesture evaporated the last of his master’s patience; he nudged Cazador’s blood-smeared neck, inhaling his scent before sinking his teeth into the skin there.
A vampire’s blood was no nourishment to another vampire— it was rotten, tainted with the stain of decay and undeath. Cazador was sure of this; he had even watched his siblings regurgitate their kindred’s blood after desperation drove them to try feeding on each other. But it was here that he’d learned it, when his sire plunged his fangs into him for the second time. Vellioth still drank his blood from time to time, just another claim to his body, and the numerous bite marks all over him were testament to that much.
With one hand, Cazador held Vellioth’s head against his throat, encouraging him to take as much as he desired, while the other fumbled with the leftover laces of his shirt. Cazador could feel the wetness on the other’s pants, and a fit of petty anger surged through him at how late undressing him had come. Reeling from the loss of blood, it took him a few moments too long to navigate the journey of buttons and fastenings that he was responsible for undoing each day, and he heard Vellioth chuckle when he finally let go of his neck.
“Clumsy,” he admonished idly. Then his slender fingers found the slit between Cazador’s cheeks, pressing into him with a devilish expression adorning his face. Even under him, Vellioth was an imposing presence, staunch and determined to reclaim the control he had so generously allowed. But Cazador clung to it like a lifeline, and he sat back on Vellioth’s lap, pushing back against his hand before wrapping his fingers around Vellioth’s weeping cock.
For a moment, Cazador said nothing, simply contemplating the blessing that his master was like this— lost in the pleasure derived from his spawn’s hands, almost tamed, and so endlessly beautiful. There was a thin layer of sweat over his face, his pale chest was strong and lean and adorned with a single huge scar where the Szarr’s brand had once been, and his eyes locked on Cazador’s as he opened him with his fingers.
A feast for his eyes that watered his mouth, and as soon as he was back to himself he swatted Vellioth’s hand away from his backside before giving him a few more hard, slow strokes. His master raised an eyebrow but let himself be led by his spawn, and Cazador wondered smugly how lowly that made Vellioth feel, how thoroughly he’d be punished for his insolence the next day.
But he didn’t let that shake his determination; it would do him more harm than good to falter now. He tangled one hand in Vellioth’s disheveled hair while he guided the tip of his painfully hard length to his hole.
His master bit his lips under him, feeling Cazador’s muscles clench around his arousal, how his face was almost lovingly caressed as Cazador sank himself further and further into him.
“Usst’eliluk,” Vellioth whimpered hoarsely as his spawn began to move, his eyes closing once he was taken in fully. Cazador hissed, his show of resolve slipping from his grasp while his body rattled from the sweet intrusion, the firmness of his sire’s body against his. But the only word he was allowed to know in High Drow was jabbuk , master, and whatever Vellioth just called him through the desire clouding both their senses was lost to him.
“I can’t wait to rip out that mocking tongue of yours,” Cazador grunted, lowering his face to Vellioth’s.
Against all odds, Vellioth just laughed— laughed, genuinely and from the bottom of his chest, and that smile of his was rare as a shooting star and made Cazador’s heart feel puny. Then Vellioth started to move in time with him, up and down like a well-rehearsed dance; he gave freely, let Cazador take his pleasure from him as he watched him like a hawk with the prey of a lifetime between its talons.
With an animalistic grunt, Vellioth sat back up, unable to get enough of Cazador. His nails scratched Cazador’s flank on their way to his hips, drawing a moan and a curse from his lips until Vellioth silenced him with his own once more, unrestraint now and thrusting relentlessly into him. With each of his pretty cries spilling into his mouth, Vellioth pushed in harder, deeper, hammering into Cazador until everything crested.
Through his rapture, Cazador forgot himself, forgot his name and place and who the man below him was, what he’d done to him, what he was capable of. Those sweet lips against his, kissing him so vigorously, couldn’t be the same that had taken his life from him. He knew then that he would forever be Vellioth’s, that no other hands could ever tarnish his body with their touch.
Cazador’s back arched, his vision becoming a blur through the mist of lust.
And then, “Vellioth— Vellioth, Vellioth.”
Vellioth filled him up, the warmness inside him sending him over the edge in a heartbeat with no command to stop him from spilling over his master’s chest, staining his clothes and sheets.
When he collapsed, boneless against his sire’s body, Vellioth was kind enough to catch him, kind enough to pet his hair as he regained his breath and ran his hands along his spine in an almost soothing gesture.
Cazador nuzzled his neck in a silent, useless apology. With his heart still hammering and his blood still running too hot for thought, he raised his head to meet his master’s eyes.
“However proud I am of you tonight,” Vellioth began to say, still breathless even as he attempted to appear unaffected. His fingers brushed the sweat and strands of hair from Cazador’s flushed face. “Tomorrow I will have you flogged, and you'll remember to address me properly.”
Cazador smiled, unbothered by the threat and focusing on the undisguised praise instead as he rested his face in Vellioth’s palm like a content kitten.
“Of course, Master.”