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Astarion watched the flickering candle flame with weary eyes, its quivering dance seemingly dictated by some invisible current in the stale room. The candle stood on a cluttered desk, papers scattered haphazardly around it. A maddening urge clawed at his mind: tip it over and watch how quickly the letters, instructions, and gods-knew-what would ignite and burn.
“… A prominent patroness of the arts and an advocate for research in the field of…” The chamberlain's dry voice drifted into his consciousness for a fleeting moment before being drowned again by sluggish, oppressive thoughts.
How long had he been here? Fifty years? A hundred? Time dragged on endlessly, an unrelenting loop of failed escape attempts, the nauseating familiarity of night-shrouded streets, faces, faces, punishments, and that omnipresent burning gaze…
Of course, he was lying to himself. It had been precisely one hundred and eleven years of servitude under Cazador. Astarion’s past was shrouded in fog and pain, and the future… The future promised nothing but more of the same. Forever.
“Are you even listening to me?” An irritated question jolted him, forcing him to raise his head.
“Of course, darling,” Astarion leaned back in the chair and stretched languidly.
Pain rippled through his body as expected. However, the desire to irritate Dufay outweighed the fear of aggravating the still-healing wounds left by Godey’s whip. Detachedly, Astarion thought it would have been fitting to add a yawn to complete the picture.
“Then repeat what I said.”
“Hmm…” Astarion met the chamberlain’s gaze and shrugged. “I need to seduce a noblewoman.”
Dufay pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, trying to compose himself. Astarion noted with disappointment that this no longer brought him any satisfaction. Apathy was tightening its grip on his mind, and while it should have frightened him, it didn’t. It was convenient, after all.
“Not just any noblewoman, Astarion. And not just seduce her.”
He waved dismissively, as though Astarion wasn’t worth expecting anything from.
“I don’t even understand why the master entrusted this task to you.”
“Because noblewomen are madly in love with me,” Astarion purred.
In truth, he no longer cared who or how he was supposed to seduce. His arsenal of compliments never failed. Astarion didn’t understand why the details of the task were being shared now, when he usually improvised in the moment.
Dufay tapped his fingers on the desk, a gesture meant to command attention.
“You’re a disappointment,” he said in the same dry, monotonous tone. “This is your chance to prove you’re still capable of performing.”
Something tightened in Astarion’s chest. Usually, he was threatened with unspeakable torment, and Astarion feared pain. But what he feared more than pain was oblivion.
He cleared his throat but didn’t adjust his relaxed posture.
“Did he say that himself?”
“Yes,” Dufay’s thin lips twisted into a smirk. “Shall I tell the master you’re not interested in using this chance?”
“Oh, stop it,” Astarion sighed irritably, straightening up and bracing himself to listen. “Who is this patroness, then?”
***
The ballroom was packed, though the crowd was as refined as they come. The air was thick with the scents of perfume and sweat, but above all, the unmistakable aroma of life—of blood—dominated. These impossibly affluent people, with their sparkling eyes and powdered necks, stirred an especially deep sense of longing within Astarion.
A thin lace mask covered his face, white and barely hiding his features. Its purpose was not to conceal but to accentuate his beauty, adding an air of mystery to his appearance. He played the role of an aristocrat visiting distant relatives, dressed in a dazzlingly white suit he had never worn before. Dufay had personally inspected Astarion’s appearance, even stripping away a necklace from his chest—a piece Astarion had been rather fond of. All of it reeked of political intrigue or some romantic entanglement, but the latter was unlikely—Cazador was never one for love games. That left the first option, though the details remained frustratingly out of reach.
Of course, he knew some of it. His target was a certain Eliana Vannedeil, a native of Waterdeep. She had inherited a vast fortune from her merchant ancestors and was known for her patronage of the arts and her interest in magic.
That was all he’d been told. Astarion was merely a pawn, a tool that didn’t need to know the whole picture. His task was simple: get the woman alone and drug her using the small vial of potion that hung around his neck.
It might have been just another routine assignment, if not for the implications Dufay had hinted at. Could it really be that Cazador was so dissatisfied with him that he was prepared to kill him? Lately, Astarion had been failing more often in his duties, though he had given up on attempts to escape for the time being. After all, what was the point of doing his job well, when punishment awaited him either way? Cazador was hardest on him, of all his spawn.
Astarion had long since thought himself mad, living in the Szarr palace. Yet one desire remained within him, and Cazador knew it.
Astarion wanted to live.
And so he was here, even though Cazador hadn’t used his Command to compel him. This time, Astarion truly had to do the job well. He smiled at dancing couples, nodded, exchanged pleasantries, accepted a glass in hand, and even managed to invite someone to dance. He vanished gracefully when conversations dragged on, always keeping an eye on the clock.
Lady Eliana was expected to step onto the Lodge of Thorns’ balcony in exactly five minutes, drawn there to watch the fireworks.
It was easy enough to make his way to the upper level and find the designated balcony. It wasn’t empty: a statuesque woman stood by the ornate railings. Astarion noted her posture, the pallor of her skin, and the slender neck revealed by her high-piled hair. A single black curl fell loose, drawing the eye irresistibly.
What prompted him to choose this particular strategy was unclear, but he let his face take on an expression of vulnerability, stretching his lips into a soft, disarming smile as he took a quick step forward into the lodge.
“Stop!” A hand landed on his shoulder, and Astarion turned to meet the anxious gaze of a servant. “You’re not allowed in here—this is Lady Vannedeil’s balcony. She hasn’t invited anyone.”
At least he hadn’t been mistaken. Astarion pulled an affronted expression and snapped back sharply.
“So what of it? I’m her brother.”
He shrugged off the man’s hand and stepped forward.
The mentioned lady didn’t stir, nor did her pointed ear so much as twitch. The servant opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it, bowing instead and stepping back without further attempts to bar Astarion’s path.
“Do you always lie so effortlessly?” the lady asked, her voice unexpectedly husky and quiet.
Astarion approached and leaned on the railing beside her. Her black, almost funereal dress was voluminous, only hinting at the figure beneath. But judging by the delicate, exposed neck, she was quite slender. Her face was concealed by a thick black veil, leaving only brightly painted, sensual lips visible.
“Rarely, I assure you,” he purred, catching her gloved hand with ease. He kissed it, lingering as he raised his gaze. “If a lie is the price for a lady's attention, then surely it’s no sin.”
He hoped to see some sign of reaction on those lips, but they remained pressed into a firm, downward curve. Astarion straightened and released her hand.
“So, what do you want from me?” she asked bluntly, her tone bordering on rudeness.
“Oh,” Astarion laughed, masking his surprise, “nothing extraordinary. I really was looking for my sister but caught sight of you and couldn’t help myself.”
Eliana let out a faint hum, her gaze never leaving the ballroom below. Astarion took it as a good sign.
“My brother died a month ago. Isn’t that ironic?”
Astarion resisted the urge to slap his own face.
“Oh gods, forgive me! My deepest condolences. How foolish of me, truly—I’m terribly ashamed.”
Her laughter sent a shiver down his spine. He had heard something like it before.
“So, what brought you here?” Lady Eliana tilted her head slightly, studying him through the veil. Her tone carried a hint of mockery, though her movements remained flawlessly calm, her hands resting serenely on the railing.
Astarion offered a smile—soft, slightly apologetic—and inclined his head.
“Please don’t take me for a petty schemer,” he said evenly, his voice almost tender, laced with that inescapable charm he wielded so effortlessly. “Though, to be honest, it’s hard not to notice you. You stand out amidst all this glittering gold and pearls.”
Her lips, strikingly red against the black veil, curved into the faintest suggestion of a smile.
“Does everyone who crosses your path receive such words?” she asked.
“That would be a terrible transgression, wouldn't it?” Astarion allowed himself to step closer. “No, I’m not nearly as frivolous as you might think. It’s just that some ladies have a way of making the entire world dance around them.”
“The entire world?” Lady Eliana finally turned slightly, her motion fluid, almost doll-like. “What a strange metaphor. Do you really think you can win me over with such cheap expressions?”
“Never!” Astarion feigned a wounded look, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest, though hearing his compliment dismissed as “cheap” genuinely stung. “Your company alone is reward enough. Although… if I may be so bold, I would be honoured to invite you to dance.”
Her lips twitched as if she were about to smile but thought better of it. Instead, she turned back toward the railing, her gaze returning to the ballroom below, where couples were beginning to gather for the next dance.
“A dance?” she repeated, as though the idea itself were so absurd it didn’t even warrant discussion. “You want to distract me from the fireworks for such a… trivial pleasure?”
“Trivial?” Astarion leaned forward against the railing, feigning indignation. “Forgive me, my lady, but that’s hardly fair. Dancing is an art…”
Eliana let out a soft snort.
“Next, you’ll tell me it reveals the soul,” she said, idly running her fingers over her bracelet without sparing him a glance. “But not everyone has one.”
“Not only the soul but the heart as well,” he assured her, watching as her fingers played with the delicate piece of jewellery. “Sometimes, a single dance is enough to truly see someone. I would give anything to unravel your mystery.”
Her hand froze mid-movement before slowly resting back on the railing.
“To unravel my mystery…” she repeated quietly, a faint trace of mockery in her voice. “Not all mysteries are safe to unravel, Astarion.”
The way she said his name sent a chill down his spine. Everything inside him screamed that something was wrong, terribly wrong. But he couldn’t pinpoint the source of the danger.
“I’d gladly prove otherwise,” he whispered, swallowing the lump forming in his throat.
Her lips curved into a slightly wider smile, as if his unease pleased her.
The fireworks began with a deafening crack, painting the night outside in bursts of crimson. Reflections of the sparks danced across her black veil, transforming her figure into something ethereal, almost unreal. Lady Eliana stood motionless, watching the glowing trails as they streaked across the sky. Seizing the pause, Astarion allowed himself to glance upward as well.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. “But none of them could outshine you.”
Eliana didn’t reply immediately. She turned her head just enough for the light to catch her outfit—red glimmers on black. Astarion flinched as her gloved fingers lightly squeezed his hand.
“If you truly wish to impress me and uncover the mystery,” she said, her tone a blend of irony, “then follow me.”
Her fingers tightened again, their touch exuding confidence, as though she already knew he would comply. Before Astarion could formulate a response, Eliana released him and made her way toward the exit of the balcony, leaving behind a faint trail of delicate perfume.
Astarion inhaled slowly, fighting to regain some semblance of control over the situation. But the gnawing unease wormed its way deeper into his mind.
“Of course,” he finally said, forcing a strained smile as he moved to follow her. “Who am I to refuse?”
As they navigated the dimly lit corridors of the estate, illuminated only sporadically by the fireworks’ glow filtering through tall windows, Astarion realized what was wrong.
He hadn’t introduced himself.
“I take it you’re not a fan of dancing?” Astarion ventured as they entered what appeared to be someone’s private chambers.
Eliana clearly knew where she was going; the chambers had obviously been prepared in advance. It must have been some kind of arrangement where Astarion was the currency. Most likely, Cazador had struck a deal with Vannedeil, and Astarion’s services were part of the bargain. But why go through all this pretence when he could simply summon his ever-compliant spawn directly to the aristocrat’s room?
“I don’t make a habit of changing my mind,” Eliana replied curtly.
She sat gracefully on the cushioned stool by the vanity, her hands reaching up to her elaborate hairstyle. As Astarion removed his mask, a detached thought flitted through his mind—that there might be some disfigurement hidden beneath her veil. But the notion didn’t linger—he noticed something far more important.
Lady Eliana didn’t cast a reflection in the mirror.
“You are…” Astarion ventured cautiously, voicing his unease as he stepped closer. “Not quite what you seem, aren’t you?”
She froze for a few moments, then began slowly removing her veil. Black curls, slightly coiled at the ends, cascaded over her shoulders.
“I thought you'd never figure it out,” rasped a creaky voice as Eliana turned around.
Astarion stumbled back, his vision blurring with shock. He refused to believe his eyes, yet there was no denying the truth.
Seated before him, clad in the elegant guise of Lady Eliana, was Cazador. That aristocratic, marble-carved face was unmistakable, as was the cold, mocking smirk that twisted his lips. Crimson-painted lips, which now seemed disturbingly fitting—like they’d been stained with blood. But something new had crept into Cazador’s expression, something utterly insufferable: a playful glint.
“It’s rude to make such a face,” Cazador drawled, wrinkling his nose as he glanced at the mirror. “Do I really look that dreadful?”
“N-no—” Astarion stammered, his chest tightening as his lungs failed him. “Master, what are you doing here?”
“Who?” Cazador cocked his head in mock confusion, glancing theatrically around the room. “There’s no one else here, boy. Have you lost your appetite for riddles, hm? But you were so eager to impress me…”
Astarion’s thoughts spun wildly. Lady Eliana had seemed peculiar, but how could he have guessed that Cazador would stoop to masquerading as his target?
“Are you just going to stand there gawking?” Cazador’s voice sharpened, the danger in his tone unmistakable. If Astarion didn’t act now, it would mean his end.
“Em… N-no,” Astarion forced himself to step closer, struggling to compose himself. Cazador was pretending that this was all part of the plan. Did he intend to see the act through? Astarion didn’t understand. “Forgive me… I’m merely blinded by your beauty.”
Satisfaction flickered across Cazador’s face. He inclined his head slightly, apparently content with the response—for now.
“Continue.”
Continue? Continue what? Pretend that nothing about this was unnatural, that it was business as usual?
What did Cazador want? A demonstration of his seductive skills? Proof that Astarion could still perform his duties?
“You wear this colour so well, mast—” Astarion hesitated, catching himself, “—Lady Eliana.”
“Oh? And what makes it so special?” Cazador’s tone was almost bored. He idly removed a bracelet, spinning it between his fingers before letting it fall to the floor.
“It complements your eyes, drawing out their wine-red hue,” Astarion murmured, bending to retrieve the bracelet. “Allow me…”
He leaned down to pick up the bracelet when, suddenly, he felt the sharp point of a heel press against his chest. Astarion froze, lifting his gaze.
Cazador's eyes burned with a fiery intensity, and Astarion dared not look any lower.
“You didn’t even bother to charm the lady, boy, yet here you are, getting so close,” Cazador remarked, pushing Astarion away with his foot, sending him awkwardly landing on his backside.
“Charm her?” Astarion echoed weakly.
“Yes,” Cazador replied with deliberate enunciation, his tone dripping with condescension. “C-h-a-r-m. Compliments, stories, poetry. Surely even you know such concepts?”
“Yes…” Astarion began to rise, but Cazador waved him down.
“Oh no, stay on the floor. You look quite good from this angle.”
Astarion bit back the retort forming in his throat. Cazador was testing him—this was clearly the “last chance” Dufay had spoken of. It didn’t matter what it meant; failure was not an option.
What had Cazador said? Compliments, stories, poetry? Astarion knew his master’s twisted fondness for reciting poetry to his spawn on the brink of unconsciousness—or carving it into their flesh. The choice was obvious.
“It chanced when the dance was pealing…*” Astarion recited, his voice taking on a soft, purring lilt, praying the rhyme wouldn’t fail him. “In the whirl of the crowd’s vain din”
Cazador tilted his head, intrigued. A trace of curiosity flickered across his face, and Astarion seized the moment to crawl closer.
His throat was dry as he continued:
“I saw your face, but concealing,” he exhaled shakily, stopping just short of the hem of Cazador’s dress. He looked up. “Mystery closed it in.”
Reaching for the bracelet, Astarion offered it on an outstretched palm. Cazador’s hand twitched away, denying the touch.
“Not so fast,” Cazador hissed. “Do you dare claim I am but a mystery to you? Nothing more?”
Astarion froze, holding the bracelet aloft. One knee bent beneath him, he met Cazador’s fiery gaze directly.
“I love you,” Astarion whispered, letting despair seep into his voice. “Though it makes me beat, though vain it seems, and melancholy — Yet to this shameless, hapless folly,” His final words softened. “I’ll be confessing at your feet.”
“Hmmm,” Cazador mused, allowing Astarion to slip the bracelet back onto his wrist. Astarion seized the opportunity to press his lips to the lace-covered knuckles.
“You added ‘melancholy’ for the rhyme, didn’t you, boy?”
“It isn’t my own composition,” Astarion admitted. “But surely the rhyme is the essence of poetry?”
His hands glided over the fabric of the dress, tracing the firm contours of the hips concealed beneath.
“What?” Cazador snapped out of the benevolent reverie the poetry had lulled him into. “The purpose lies in the ability to convey emotions, ideas, and imagery that ordinary speech or prose cannot express with such depth and beauty. Not in the rhyme itself.”
Cazador regarded Astarion with an irritated gaze, his expression one of a master annoyed that his dog lacked the ability to speak the Common tongue. Astarion barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes.
“Well, why am I even explaining this to you…” The rustle of fabric filled the air, and Astarion felt the sharp press of a heel against his shoulder. “Your mind was not made for poetry. Your mouth, neither.”
The hem of the dress slid higher, and this time, Astarion's gaze followed. The bastard’s legs were an infuriating combination of elven elegance and solid strength—enough to knock him unconscious with a single precise kick.
He should have expected this. And yet, Astarion couldn’t suppress a startled inhale as his eyes caught on the fine stockings adorning those legs. Trying to justify the sound, he lowered his head and pressed his lips against the slender ankle.
“My apologies if my musings have failed to delight you,” he murmured, letting his kisses trail higher. “I only hoped to entertain you with conversation.”
Astarion had already learned to detach himself during sexual encounters, especially when they involved Cazador. But what was happening now felt so fundamentally wrong that it threw him off, with reality continuing to assert itself with a sharp, almost cruel clarity.
He kept kissing, brushing his cheek and hair against skin, leaving a damp trail with his tongue. Every movement felt too vivid, too wrong. Why put on the act of a fervent lover when he could just be bent over a table and have his trousers pulled down?
When he reached the knee, his hair was suddenly gripped in a painfully tight fist. Astarion looked up, and a thought flashed through his head: Cazador’s going to fuck his throat.
“You’re so predictable,” Cazador sneered, his painted lips curling into a faint smile. “Your seduction lacks finesse—crude and uninspired.”
In the next moment, the heavy fabric of the skirt dropped over Astarion’s head, plunging him into darkness. He didn’t need to be told what was expected.
“Forgive me,” he rasped, knowing full well that Cazador could hear him through the layers of fabric. “Forgive me—I’ll be better, I promise. Just let me…”
He edged closer, his hands pressing softly against Cazador’s thighs, which parted beneath his touch. A good sign, though he knew it could all turn in an instant.
Astarion had no intention of giving his master a chance to collect himself—he pressed his lips to the semi-hard length, still soft. He knew better than to use his hands, so he worked with his face instead—pressing with his lips, nuzzling softly with his cheek and nose, and running his tongue along the fabric. Under the dress, it was dark and cramped, but at least this way, there was no harsh hand guiding his every move.
“Please…” he whispered, breathless, as he pulled the underwear down with his teeth. It was narrow, possibly meant for ladies, though Astarion couldn’t be sure.
The organ before him twitched and hardened, and Astarion quickly ran his tongue along the shaft, leaving a wet trail in its wake.
“And what exactly are you begging for?” Cazador's voice, detached and distant, betrayed nothing of the clear reaction from his body.
“To take you into my mouth,” Astarion whispered, barely suppressing a whimper as he brushed his lips against the tip.
He leaned forward, taking the hardening length into his mouth, lavishing it with the most desperate caresses his lips and tongue could muster. How was it that Astarion, who despised his master more than anyone else in existence, was forced to be the most tender, desperate, and skilled with him of all?
Submission was the only currency Astarion had, the only thing he could barter for a sliver of mercy.
If this was truly his last chance, then Astarion would give it everything he had.
His lips glided smoothly along the shaft, each motion drawing him deeper. His hand found the pouch of flesh below, rolling it with the same deceptive tenderness and practised care as a miser stroking the gold hoarded over a lifetime.
“You can be competent when you want to be,” Cazador murmured. “Ungrateful wretch…”
The insult trailed off as Astarion relaxed his throat and took Cazador in fully, the tip brushing the back of his throat. Truth be told, he had dreamed of entirely different victories over Cazador, but for now, these were the only ones within his reach.
As the tip of his nose pressed against Cazador’s lower abdomen and the throbbing of his cock began deep in his throat, Cazador suddenly pushed Astarion away.
“Enough!” he barked.
“W-what?”
Astarion untangled himself from beneath the skirt, staring at Cazador in stunned disbelief. He appeared far too composed for someone who had just denied himself release. Rising to his feet, Cazador took two brisk steps toward the bed.
“Don't be so useless,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Help me undo the corset.”
Astarion scrambled to his feet so quickly it was as if he’d been burned. He had undressed countless women and knew their garments better than they did themselves. Yet, as he fumbled with Cazador's clothing, his fingers trembled.
The corset finally fell to the floor, and Cazador rolled his shoulders, letting the heavy fabric of the gown slip down, revealing sharp shoulder blades. When he turned, Astarion’s eyes instinctively travelled lower—to the flat plane of his chest, where two small, darkened nubs hardened slightly in the cool air.
Astarion had never seen Cazador like this before. His master was not a creature of sensuality but one of punishment—of the lash, the cold dampness of the dungeon, the searing bite of a blade. But now, in this bizarrely intimate light, Cazador’s pale, exposed skin seemed almost… delicate. It was as if this scene, too, had been orchestrated solely to twist the knife in Astarion’s mind.
Meanwhile, Cazador rested his hands on Astarion’s shoulders. His movements were fluid, and his smile was eerily perceptive and taunting, as if he was feeding on the storm of emotions he had provoked.
Astarion felt something he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Beneath the layers of fear and anxiety, anger began to stir. If any of this were real, if he truly had power… If, by some unimaginable twist of fate, the circumstances changed, and Astarion had the chance to do whatever he wanted to Cazador…
Would Cazador beg for mercy?
The mere thought sent a pulse of tension through his long-indifferent body, causing a sweet pang.
“You are so breathtakingly beautiful,” Astarion snarled before the next command could come. His hands slid over Cazador's waist, helping the dress fall to the floor entirely. Left in nothing but gloves, stockings, and heels, Cazador looked sinfully debauched. “I could worship you forever.”
“Nothing less is expected,” Cazador replied with a dry chuckle.
Astarion briefly considered mustering the strength to lift Cazador into his arms and carry him to the bed, but he quickly realized he wasn’t confident in his ability to succeed. Instead, he simply took a step forward, forcing Cazador to step back.
Cazador’s pale skin stood in sharp contrast to the dark bed linens, his hair slightly dishevelled, and his erect cock still proudly pressed against his stomach. His mocking gaze bore down on Astarion, his entire demeanour making it clear that to him, Astarion was nothing more than a mouse to toy with.
Beneath that gaze, Astarion stripped himself, taking care to maintain an air of poise. This was a moment he had never imagined—he, atop Cazador Szarr.
A fleeting fantasy whispered in his mind: if this were real, if he were truly the one in control, what would he do? Perhaps he’d make the bastard endure every torment he himself had suffered. He’d force him to seduce, to charm, to plead.
These thoughts were so intoxicating that when Astarion climbed on top and leaned in for a kiss, the impulse was entirely genuine.
A hand to his chest stopped him.
“You think you can kiss me with that filthy mouth without permission, hmm?” Cazador's eyes no longer laughed; they were cold.
Astarion suppressed the urge to bare his fangs in frustration. The fleeting enchantment evaporated, and he suddenly wanted to recoil from his tormentor’s face.
“Please,” he whispered, his voice trembling with desperation. “Let me kiss you. Just once. I would give anything for a single kiss.”
“You have nothing of your own to give,” Cazador retorted, his tone flat and dismissive. “But very well.”
His lips parted slightly in invitation, though his eyes betrayed no softness, no mercy.
Astarion pressed his lips into Cazador’s without hesitation, barely able to contain the shudder that coursed through him. The kiss was wrong—deceptively tender, achingly sweet, and entirely unnatural. The softness of Cazador’s lips was a poisonous illusion, and Astarion felt like he was drowning, suffocating on air he didn’t need.
When Cazador pulled away, Astarion couldn’t stifle the faint gasp of relief.
“You’re better at sucking than at this,” Cazador observed with faint disapproval. “But we’ll discuss that another time.”
“Discussions have no place in a night of passion,” Astarion replied smoothly, eager to steer the situation back into safer territory. He trailed kisses down Cazador’s neck, though his fangs ached with the desire to pierce it.
Cazador allowed him to continue kissing, and as Astarion’s lips trailed down to his nipples, he spread his long legs.
“Get on with it, boy!”
Astarion lowered his gaze and froze, unable to believe his eyes.
On one thigh, pale as moonlight, crimson marks from a vampire’s bite stood out starkly. Yet he had no time to fully process what he was seeing, because something was already inside Cazador’s ass.
“You… prepared yourself?” The question, though meant to sound teasing, emerged trembling with equal parts disbelief and apprehension.
Cazador rolled his eyes, his patience clearly thinning.
“If you want something done right, you do it yourself. Now stop gawking and prove you can manage the rest, or I’ll start doubting your usefulness.”
Astarion swallowed the saliva and carefully grasped the edges of the plug filling Cazador with his fingertips. His imagination helpfully conjured an image of his master lounging in his luxurious stone bath, stretching himself with his fingers, applying lubricant, and then pressing the plug inside. All of this, so he could spend with it… How many hours exactly?
Hard to tell, whether it was Astarion's tortured psyche that forced his body into arousal, or perhaps it was completely genuine. Yet the fact remained—his cock throbbed, engorged with blood.
Cazador exhaled softly as Astarion carefully pulled the plug halfway out, his inner muscles flexing around the intrusion. The faint sound sent a shiver down Astarion’s spine.
“Shhh,” Astarion murmured, placing gentle kisses along Cazador’s thighs, his lips brushing the softening shaft above. “There we go.”
His lips found the tip of Cazador’s arousal just as the plug slipped free with a quiet, wet sound. Cazador shuddered faintly, the only visible crack in his otherwise composed demeanour.
Astarion positioned himself, letting his now fully hardened length press against the inviting heat. If Cazador changed his mind now, if he rejected him in this final moment, Astarion wasn’t sure he could take it.
“Will you allow me to enter you?” he whispered, his lips brushing Cazador’s pointed ear, not daring to kiss again without permission.
Cazador bared his teeth, fangs catching the dim light. One long leg hooked around Astarion’s waist, pulling him forward with an undeniable authority.
“I allow it,” he said, eyes glinting with menace.
At that moment, a wave of panic washed over Astarion. Slowly, he entered Cazador—tight, slick, and soft within. The act itself didn’t feel degrading to Astarion; on the contrary, it was an opportunity to screw his tormentor. Yet the pleasure was overshadowed by the suffocating sensation of being trapped between a hammer and an anvil. Cazador’s leg pressed firmly against his lower back, pushing him deeper towards the smouldering gaze.
“Ahh…” Astarion heard his own moan, as if it came from somewhere outside himself.
He began to move, his motions practised and precise. Beneath him, Cazador clearly revelled in the experience, entirely unbothered by his position. His eyes were half-closed, the corners of his lips slightly curled upward. Though he made no sound, the subtle tremor coursing through his body and the expression on his face left no doubt as to how much he was enjoying it.
How often had this bastard indulged himself like this? How many of his spawn had been forced to entertain him in this way?
These thoughts drove Astarion to thrust harder, and suddenly, Cazador’s eyes snapped open. This time, they weren’t terrifying or piercing through to his soul. Instead, they held the unfocused gaze of a creature teetering on the edge of ecstasy.
“Enjoying this, are you? You like it rough?” Astarion thought vindictively. He repeated the motion, and his theory was confirmed—Cazador let out a stifled moan.
“Yes…” he rasped. “More.”
And Astarion continued, driving into him with all the force he could muster, greedily savouring every sound that escaped his master’s despised throat. A face twisted in passion—Astarion found it far more tolerable. It didn’t frighten him; it stirred anger and lust.
He grasped Cazador’s member, matching his strokes to the rhythm of his thrusts. Cazador’s body jerked, and Astarion felt the tension coil in his muscles. Dizzy with his own boldness, he loosened his fingers.
“W-what…?” Cazador’s eyebrows arched in comical surprise, and in that fleeting moment of genuine confusion, Astarion felt it was a sight worth sacrificing much for.
Astarion didn’t dare tempt fate and immediately resumed his movements. He was close himself, and when Cazador arched his back with a drawn-out moan, Astarion quickly pulled out and spilled onto the sheets.
He rolled to the side and collapsed onto the sheets, closing his eyes. It was still hard to believe any of this was real. Surely, Astarion was lying somewhere in the Kennel, and this was nothing more than a fevered hallucination conjured by his tormented mind.
When he opened his eyes, Cazador was already sitting up, thoughtfully twirling a forgotten potion vial between his fingers—the same one Astarion had discarded along with the rest of his clothes.
Cazador glanced at him, then casually tossed the vial aside. Rising, he walked to the wardrobe and retrieved what appeared to be a carefully prepared outfit.
“I trust you’ll be able to find your sister,” he said, dressing with calm precision.
Astarion propped himself up on his elbows. What in the hells did any of this mean?
“Master…” he whispered, not even sure what he wanted to ask.
“Mm?” Cazador raised an eyebrow. “Don’t lie around, boy. You’ll have plenty of work to do,” he said as he strode out the door, leaving Astarion alone.
Astarion fell back onto the pillows, covering his face with his hands. It would take time to process what had just happened. But one thing he knew for certain—the last chance had not been wasted.