Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s never pleasant, dealing with Cazador after he’s been out alone. It’s never pleasant dealing with Cazador in general, but the nobility of Baldur’s Gate don’t have nearly the skill in handling him that Astarion has. Which is idiotic, because he’s not even sadistically obsessed with hurting any of them. It should be easy to do the bare minimum of not making him angry.

And today he’s been ordered to wait for Cazador in his Master’s room, which makes anticipating the anger worse. Because it’s a bad sign that Cazador was frustrated enough to send word that Astarion need be ready for him. He’s already always at the man’s disposal — this extra little yank of the leash is telling in its superfluousness. 

But there’s nothing he can actually do about it, so he’s left picking at the embroidery on the bed covers, stewing in anxiety over the mood Cazador will be in when he returns. Fretting over how little control he has over it, stuck here as he is. That there’s nothing he can do to ease what’s coming.

And it annoys Astarion, how blasé others are about interacting with Cazador. It’s second nature now, to keep the man happy and comparatively calm. He can’t always predict the outbursts, doesn’t always bite his tongue fast enough to avoid punishment. Doesn’t always want to avoid punishment, when reward is the worse option. But he does it so much better than everyone else.

Tonight- what was tonight? Astarion tries to pay attention when he can, keep track of Cazador’s engagements so he can prepare for the aftermath of them and tonight- he thinks it must have been a meeting among patriars. One of the ones of old money families, each utterly secure in their sense of class and superiority. Astarion knows that Cazador detests all of them, which is unsurprising. The man has always preferred the company of people he has total control over.

And last time he’d attended one of these meetings when he had returned it was... well the best Astarion could say of it was that Cazador hadn’t gone as far as he would have before his ascension. But there had been bruising. A focus on Astarion’s back, which still makes him nervous. Threats of the knife. He had spent the entire night placating, reprieve only granted when he ended up on his knees, commanded to repeat Cazador’s rules for what felt like hours. Repeating till Cazador found better use for his mouth.

But that had been when Astarion was still recovering, when Cazador felt more secure in throwing him around, in hurting him right up to the edge of real injury. Now Astarion is pregnant again, and for all the horror of that, at least it protects him in some ways. No matter how stupidly the wealthy idiots his Master is with behave.

Still it is tiring, shoring up the difference when other people don't even try to keep Cazador happy. But then Cazador is handsome, and powerful, and persuasive. The only person he looks like a monster to is Astarion. It shouldn’t be a wonder that others don’t treat him with the proper level of fear.

Unpleasant, to know that he understands Cazador better than anyone else. He’d never asked nor wanted that kind of intimacy. He wishes he didn’t still have need of such knowledge. Rather pathetic though, to have your slave be your closest confidant. And it is nice to think of Cazador as pathetic. Astarion must relish the little victories.

During moments like this, stuck waiting and scared, Astarion questions the unfairness of it all. His situation in general, of course, but also being so tied to such a man as this. If he had to be enslaved, could it not have at least been to someone whose moods didn’t change at the drop of a pin? At least Cazador is consistent in his capriciousness, even as the tenor of it has changed. Before it had been a challenge to keep from being noticed — now it’s completely impossible. But there is also less physical violence, with this increased level of personal attention. 

Gods does Astarion wish he could figure out how to lessen the amount of personal attention he receives as well. Not likely though, not with the Master’s child inside him, not when he’s been placed like a present on his bed. And he hates this room. He hates Cazador’s terrible taste, he hates red and black, he hates being left here with nothing to do but wait.

He’s desperate to go out alone, to be able to pretend at a normal conversation with someone who isn’t Cazador, to speak without his Master overseeing every word. Even offering drunks false flattery would be exciting now. He never thought his pub conversations could be something to covet, to mourn.

It’s just that he’s so terribly lonely.

It should be the least of his problems, and it is, except that it makes everything else worse. He hated his siblings — he hates missing them even more. He doesn’t want a child — Donnela is the only one who even half listens to him. Though that’s probably just because she’s too young to know better. He dreams every day of putting a stake through Cazador’s chest — instead he’s the only person Astarion gets to speak to with any regularity. There are no comforts without cost.

Cazador likes to remind him to be grateful. That these fresh tortures are privileges Astarion is too stupid to accept as such. 

And while he’s never fallen for those lies in particular, he does try to tell himself that this new order isn’t worse, just different. He repeats to himself that there are benefits. That he’s just still adjusting, that while it will always be bad it won’t- it can’t always be this oppressive. He just needs some time. Of course he needs time — he barely remembers the first few years after his death, that first decade in Cazador’s thrall. This will be the same. 

None of that changes the fact that Astarion is entirely at loose ends. He doesn’t have anyone to talk to, he doesn’t have anything to talk about, thinking about things only ever goes badly, not thinking is only allowed for so long.

He would do terrible things, if only it meant that his world would no longer revolve around Cazador. Because even now filled with fear and dread, part of him just wants the man to get here, no matter how furious he is. Just to end the waiting.

And he can’t just keep sitting here. He needs to do something to prepare for when Cazador returns. But what is there to do? 

He can... he supposes he can make himself look nice at least. Cazador hates when he doesn’t look perfect. But even as he pulls at his shirt and straightens his trousers, it feels futile. Those probably won't last long after the man arrives though, so would it be better to just take them off now? Astarion should know this all at this point, should know the best course of action, shouldn’t be left nervously pressing his hair into place, should be-

And then Cazador is storming in, face locked in a scowl, his shoulders stiff and held back, his every movement filled with force. All the signs Astarion has learned to watch out for, over the years. He isn’t angry with Astarion specifically, he doesn’t think, but that’s never mattered when it comes to who’ll suffer the consequences of it. 

He doesn’t stop for a greeting before letting loose his rage.

“These people, these maggots, they don’t show me the respect I deserve. They speak as if they are my equals, they waste my time, and tonight! Tonight when I had plans, tonight-”

It’s nearly the same rant as last time. Astarion stays silent and still. Any comments he makes now will only be taken as insolence, and he certainly can’t play the consoling spouse. He doesn’t think he’d be able to soothe someone he did care about at this point — he certainly can’t for Cazador. He lets himself leave his body, just a little.

Only to be brought out of it a few moments later by hands on his shoulders, shaking him. Cazador’s harsh eyes. Clawed fingers in his hair.

“Have you finally lost all the matter in your head boy? Can you no longer even respond to the simplest of questions?” Trying to drift away this early in the evening was a mistake. He should have waited at the very least for the inevitable demands for sex to do that, because now Cazador’s even angrier and Astarion’s been put on the back foot. 

“I’m sorry. Is there something you would like me to be doing, Master?” Astarion says, because it’s not best to go full in on the grovelling, not this early. Sometimes that just makes Cazador more likely to demand harsher penance. It’s better to try and move the night along.

“Can I not be granted an iota of respect? A single peaceful evening with my husband?”

No you very well can’t, Astarion thinks, not when your idea of peace generally involves my screaming. But that isn’t a helpful thought. He banishes it as best he can, keeps his face blank.

Cazador moves closer, eyes surveilling Astarion. He seems to calm slightly as no other disobedience occurs. And Astarion can do this. He erred but he can be quiet and present and keep things from getting worse.

At last Cazador continues, “And this is a special evening. We’re celebrating.” Like most things Cazador says, it both makes no sense to Astarion and portends nothing good. But there are limits now, Astarion reminds himself. Cazador has imposed new rules on his games with Astarion’s body. That is one of the benefits, and he must keep thinking of the benefits.

It’s difficult to do so when Cazador begins to tear his clothing off. He knew he should have just removed them himself.

The sex is brutal this time, Cazador releasing his frustrations with punishing thrusts. It’s not the worst he’s taken — far from it. But there is as usual the awful focus on his pregnancy, hands continually drifting down to the just visible bump. And Cazador’s never had a gift for bedroom talk, but now it’s truly deranged. A constant and oppressive drone, of how Astarion was built for him, how they were made to be like this, how they will always be bonded. 

The man should just get a dog, with all his talk of obedience and submission and devotion. A dog could only be better at all that than Astarion is.

Except a dog probably wouldn’t be as fun to fuck, and a dog certainly wouldn’t be able to tell when Cazador’s nearing his peak like Astarion can. He gets ready to start faking his own release, to put on the familiar show. Because otherwise they’ll be stuck here till Astarion actually does come, and it’s so much easier to lie about it being better than to wait for that to happen.

Sex is just... over faster, when he pretends. Because when Cazador isn’t entirely focused on his own pleasure he’s actually good at it, which is in many ways worse. Being brought off by him is only ever another claim of ownership. As though Cazador is wringing unwilling admittance of his power from Astarion’s body.

Far simpler to just fake it. A smaller concession than enjoying it is. 

And he’s often wished over the years that he could let the act consume him, become the obedient slave that lives up to Cazador’s exacting standards. It’s just that he’s never quite been able to lie to himself well enough to go that far.

Because that’s the rub of it. Playing the role won’t protect him — something will always be found wanting. Cazador likes hurting him too much to let him succeed all the time, and his own body isn’t nearly cooperative enough to manage that anyway. Astarion’s never been able to make himself comfortable with the anticipation of pain.

He’s let his thoughts drift too far again, he’s forgotten his role, and he doesn’t mean to disobey, he really doesn’t. But it’s just- he’s still such a coward, when it comes to his back. Still so afraid of it being carved into again. So when Cazador finishes and reaches towards it, ready to dig in, ready to claw Astarion closer, he can’t help himself. He pulls away.

“Stop, please-”

“Astarion.” He freezes, comes back to himself. Cazador’s voice is harsh. The voice of someone driven to punish egregious wrongdoing. “You try to pull away? What would you have to fear from me, child? Do I not know what’s best for you?”

There had been a while there, after Cazador ascended and during his first pregnancy, when Astarion had done this often and faced no punishment. But it had been too difficult to keep saying no when it would never be acknowledged or heeded, and he had found himself as time went on falling back into the act. It was far more familiar than fighting anyway. And then each bit of ground he gave became a bit of ground that was lost, and as the protestations faded they once again became taboo.

Sometimes Astarion is just tired of being scared.

He’s still pressed under Cazador, and so there is no false comfort of distance. He has to fawn and apologise, try to minimise the damage that's been done. “I didn’t mean-”

“Do I not care for you? Keep you in comfort, housed, fed? Are my requests unreasonable, considering all I give in return?”

“Of course not Master, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

“No, I understand. You’ve forgotten — I am not only your husband but your sire, your father. I have a responsibility to you. And a responsibility to remind you that this is so.” 

Cazador is waiting for a response, and Astarion has to at least try to placate him. But it’s always touch and go when he starts referring to himself as Astarion’s father. 

“Thank you, Master,” he says, which should be safe. But a hand rises to give his ear a harsh twist, an incongruously indulgent smile coming across Cazador’s face.

“Say ‘Father’ tonight Astarion. You’re still my child, after all.”

He thinks to ask then, if this next baby is a boy, which one of them will have claim to the title of Cazador’s eldest son.

“Yes Father,” he says instead, because what’s the use in asking questions he doesn’t want answers to, really.

But his thoughts like to punish him nearly as much as Cazador does, and so they go to what might have been. Who he might have called that before. Because maybe he’d had a father once, and maybe that father had loved him. Or maybe he’d hated him and Astarion had hated him back and he’s always been cursed to a contentious relationship with paternity. But it was not like this. Surely it was not like this.

The thought of having parents is a uniquely upsetting one. He hadn’t... he hadn’t remembered that. It’s been a long time since Astarion had considered whose family he might have once belonged to, having long since concluded that there was nothing worthwhile in such speculation. He’d tried to kill Donnela in the womb, and even he would be horrified to see her become something like him.

It’s awful to think of having once been loved, now that all he has is the twisted mimicry of it. There’s a sense of humiliation in such a fall, and surety in it too. No family would want him back, not as he is now.

Gods, in this he’s actually glad his memories from before are so scrambled. He doesn’t want to have specific faces to imagine contorting in horror if he showed up at their door like this. It is sort of funny, trying to imagine how he’d explain his situation to them. Introducing two indistinct elves to his ‘family’, his monstrous husband and the child forced upon him. Funny till the idea warps into a vision of their throats being torn out, of their blood being drunk down. And it’s best that he stays in the present moment anyway.

Cazador’s looking over him again now, inspecting gaze cataloguing every inch of Astarion’s body. He must look a mess, naked and sticky from sex, hair mussed and eyes wide. It’s one of his Master’s favourite views. All that’s missing is some blood.

A hand grips his jaw and turns his face from side to side. “A bath, I think. Stay there.”

It’s a command — Astarion is stuck, left sprawled naked on the bed while a bath is drawn by servants. He can’t even feel the indignity of it anymore. The preparations are a quick process at least, and soon Cazador is returned. He even carries Astarion to the tub, a mockery of an attentive husband. Or of a loving father.

And when he is placed in it he finds that the bath is warm. It’s warm and soothing and luxurious, and deeply, deeply uncomfortable. 

For Cazador is kneeling beside it, moving to attend him, and the wrongness of the scene makes him reel. He’s been naked in front of Cazador thousands of times. He’s been washed by others almost as often — ordering the servants to clean Astarion is just another way to remind him he’s more object than person. But in the haze of years behind him he can’t remember another time when Cazador has been the one to do this.

But his Master will take any excuse to make him dependent, and in lieu of other punishment this might be his response to Astarion trying to pull away. Keeping them in close proximity for the crime of attempting distance. The man does love his poetry.

He tries again to focus on the nice parts. The water is silky smooth from some product that’s been placed in it. It’s scented as well, with something soft and herbaceous. Astarion can detect a hint of rosemary. 

He hasn’t been able to make his old scent since things changed. The delicate work of perfumery is another thing lost to his previous form of enslavement. It had nominally been to help lure victims back, to avoid alarming any with the necromantic smell of undeath. What it had really done was give Astarion something for himself.

Cazador has a thin smile on his face as he again surveys Astarion’s naked body. Astarion can’t understand how the view is still so interesting after all these years. He’s certainly tired of seeing himself debased.

He has an excuse to close his eyes as Cazador washes his hair. It doesn’t hurt, actually feels nice, which makes his brain want to start drifting again. He has to force it back to the present, he can’t just float away all the time or there will be consequences. And Astarion doesn’t want to find out if Cazador can order him not to dissociate. 

“I do miss how needy you were before you earned blood, child. But I must admit to appreciating the flush it brings to your skin,” Cazador says, having finished with his hair, hands moving down. They stop at his stomach, to Astarion’s complete and utter lack of surprise. 

Things are far enough along that there’s a visible bump now. Because in this, at least, Cazador is predictable, it receives a majority of the focus. And the hands — they’re almost worse than they were during the sex. More precise now that Cazador’s not distracted by sex, they rub and caress and pinch lightly, as if to make sure it’s all real.

Astarion wishes it wasn’t. He hadn’t missed the inescapable feeling of wrongness that pregnancy brings. It isn’t like the normal violations of rape or pain — it’s far more intrusive, depressingly constant. With other things he can remove himself from his body, come back in only to deal with the disgust of the aftermath. This exerts a continuous pressure against his sense of self. Whatever’s left of it, tattered as it is. 

The time since Cazador’s ascension is the first in all his years of undeath where he’s glad he can’t see himself in mirrors. Even simply looking down at his body now is nauseating. He isn’t supposed to look like this. Reality hits against the image he’d created of himself in his own head, and he wants to tear himself apart to make the dissonance stop. If only he could put his centuries of experience undergoing torture to real use. He’d happily cut himself open now, if it could end this in any way that matters. 

Especially because if it’s the same as the first time, worse things are imminent. For soon the thing will start moving, then the fatigue will return, and the muscle pain, and then at the end of it all... 

At least he’ll know what’s happening this time. He can prepare himself accordingly. Maybe he’ll even get lucky and Cazador won’t fuck him through it.

Or the thing won’t move, and it will be another dud, a paradox, a dead thing growing inside a dead thing. He wonders if Cazador would make him carry it the whole time still, as punishment, or if he’d instead choose to carve it out of him. 

He shouldn’t lie to himself. Cazador’s far too impatient to wait for a child who’s already failed, and far too opportunistic to let the chance of carving into Astarion pass by. It has been terribly long for him without vivisecting his favourite toy, now that he’s decided he needs an excuse to do so. He’d want to make it last. He’d ensure that it did, that it hurt. And there would be no real release in it, not like if Astarion could do it the way he wants to. Just a painful interlude on the way to more violations.

It’s enough to make him hope that he doesn’t lose another. The thought of those hands reaching into him again, for such a purpose, is untenable. He has the unwilling knowledge that he can handle violation from outside himself and within. He does not want to learn that he can handle both at once.

At least he’s made it past the point where he’d miscarried last time. Which... that had been a pyrrhic reprieve, at best. At worst it had been the closest he’d come to the tomb in decades. He still feels sick, thinking of how grateful he was in the aftermath. The way he clung to his Master. He still feels relief, that he avoided true punishment.

But that incident had far reaching consequences. He’s rarely left alone now. Cazador demands not only his presence but his affection. And he was terrified and shaky for weeks afterward, afraid for every minute he healed that he’d used up all his Master’s patience and would at last be locked away for his defiance. 

Cazador’s hands move from his stomach at last, making their way lower. He hopes that the man won’t try to bring him off. And he doesn’t, just cleans, but he is upsettingly thorough. Astarion doesn’t look down, doesn’t want to see, but he can’t help but shiver as it just keeps going on and on-

A harsh pinch on his inner thigh and then, “Don’t distract me Astarion. Stay still. We have plans tonight.”

He’d thought the plans for tonight had been letting Cazador do as he liked and then slinking off to lick his wounds as best he can. The usual status quo. His confusion must show, for Cazador laughs when he looks at him.

“You don’t know what today is? Oh my stupid child. You can’t even make a guess?”

No point. Cazador prefers Astarion to be in the dark about things anyway. He shakes his head which is the correct decision — Cazador smiles. “It is the day I brought you home. Made you mine. I remember your trembling legs, the mess you made with your grave dirt,” Cazador strokes a lock of his hair, and Astarion by years of inoculation does not flinch back, “like a newborn foal — ungainly, untrained. Charmingly helpless. But your cries, those were already so sweet for me.” 

Astarion has only scattered memories of that night. Mostly just feelings of terror and confusion and wrongness. Cazador’s face looking down at him as he pulled himself from the dirt. He hadn’t known it had happened in winter. Or that Cazador had remembered the date.

“Even as filthy as you were I could see that you’d taken to the transformation well. I mourned that I could only turn you once, for you were even more beautiful for being dead. The look of confusion on your face was delicious. Especially as you learned what it means to disobey. Foolish boy.”

It shouldn’t matter. The man has held him captive, enslaved him, tortured him, sold his body, put him on the street, forced him into marriage, made him carry a child. There shouldn’t be any ways left that Astarion can feel violated. He still does though. Feels sick at the thought that Cazador’s kept these pieces of information through all these years. Kept all the memories of that night that Astarion himself has had taken from him by the years between.

“I remember the first time I saw you.”

That is... Astarion does not know if he wants to know this. Will it be better or worse, remembering the moment he was marked for slaughter?

Cazador’s voice is soft as he continues. “You were laughing, that annoying little titter of yours. I knew then that you would sound better screaming.”

He hadn't laughed, that night in the alley. He’s sure he hadn’t. Which means that Cazador had seen him before then. Which means-

“What was I like?” The words rush out of him, unmeasured and dangerous. It is always dangerous to let Cazador know that he wants something. But to know who he was... 

This won’t end well. But he is desperate to hear of a time when he wasn’t like this.

Cazador does not seem to have expected him to speak — in fact he seems to have forgotten Astarion was something that could listen at all, by the way he tenses. When he responds his voice is harsh, has lost the dream-like quality it had held during his reminiscences, and his words are predictably cruel.

“You were an inveterate whore. Hanging off anyone who gave you attention, letting everyone have their way with you. Why else do you think I chose you? Who else had the appetite needed to lure all those filthy cattle back? Who else would let anything half conscious rut into them?”

Astarion flinches, makes the water slosh around him, because he is a fool. A fool to ask, a fool to dislike what he hears. What had he expected? For Cazador to tell him that yes, once upon a time he was a normal person with a life apart from his Master? To hear scattered details of who he was? And what good would knowing any of that do him anyway?

But of course now that he has shown Cazador a tender point they won’t be able to move on till it’s been dug into, until it is left raw and aching.

“You don’t like that assessment of your character? What if I told you that you were shy? Innocent? That you were chosen because I wanted a perfectly blank canvas. That you’d never had any before me.”

He has to just get through this, has to clench his jaw against the spasms of disgust seizing him. Cazador will tire of this game faster if Astarion doesn’t visibly react.

“Or would it appeal more to hear that you were loyal. Romantic. That you chose me before I chose you. That you said that you loved me and wanted to be with me forever, that you wanted to be mine, and I simply fulfilled your request.”

That one- that can’t be true. It can’t, and it isn’t. He won’t believe it. Cazador shouldn’t want him to believe it, because if he does then Astarion is done. There won’t be any more screams or tears or even any stupid stuttered out ‘yes Master’s. If Astarion thought he chose Cazador he’d, he would-

“Oh Astarion. Drive such thoughts from your mind, return your head to its usual empty state. None of that matters, not as you are now. For you’ve grown so well, my child. Exactly as I desire you. Forget that anything came before.”

As if Astarion needs to put effort into forgetting he was once his own person. Two hundred years of Cazador have handled that quite nicely.

He’s got only the barest scraps of personality now, tiny crumbs of self knowledge. He knows he is beautiful, for everyone from tavern drunks to patriars have told him that he is. He knows that he is loud — annoyingly, irritatingly so, to go by Cazador’s complaints and punishments. He knows that he is selfish, by his own choice and desperation. For a million reasons and two centuries of examples, he knows that he is pathetic and weak.

And at the core of himself, a part utterly unkillable, he knows that the minute he has the chance to get out he will take it. The minute he has the chance to kill his Master, Cazador will be dead. It will likely never come. His best hope of escape is probably being offed by a particularly lucky hero. But he knows that if circumstances ever do somehow align in his favour-

Cazador has returned his attention to Astarion’s face, is rubbing over it again with a cloth. It seems to be the final touch, for Cazador proceeds to toss down the rag and stand. 

“You’re satisfactory now. Up.” Astarion obeys. This whole process has been disturbing and he’s glad it’s finished. It had formed an odd tension — Cazador as both valet and Master, Astarion as both dandy and doll. He steps out of the bath with Cazador’s guidance, grits his teeth through the man towelling him off. 

A pale hand reaches towards his face and with the mood Cazador is in he can’t flinch, he has to be at least outwardly calm. Better to take whatever’s coming like a puppet would — moving with his Master’s will, stock still without it. And good that he does so. For his compliance there is no pain, just Cazador touching his hair, setting a curl at the back of his head into place. 

“What would you do without me, child? You’d be a mess outside my care. And yet you give no thank you, for the attention you’ve been so lovingly paid?”

“Thank you Father. I appreciate all you do for me.” Cazador still tuts at that, but turns his attention away. Astarion relaxes slightly, even though he’s not sure what he’s meant to do now.

A servant at some point has set what Astarion assumes must be clothes for him on the nearby table. He’s hesitating over going to put them on without direct orders when Cazador snaps at him.

“Are you too dim to even dress yourself?” 

Which answers that question. So he goes to the table and finds that his earlier assessment of ‘clothes’ is rather inaccurate. All there is is just a singular thin slip in the popular style of undershirts from what must be decades back. It has a wide collar, full sleeves, and falls halfway down his thighs. It’s barely appropriate for nightwear. When Astarion pulls it on he feels more exposed than he did naked.

“Lovely child. You look a treat.”

He can’t see himself, but he can imagine. The oversized white chemise, the bare legs, the damp curls. He must look vulnerable. Innocent. 

Cazador’s almost being funny with his costuming choices now.

Astarion used to look confident and poised, even in patched and mended clothes, even starved and desperate. He’d had to, to be able to lure people back to Cazador. Not everyone wanted a snivelling wretch beneath them, and even those who did tended to want to turn him into a snivelling wretch themselves. Cazador has been straightening himself out, but now seems to be ready to move on as he says, “You distracted me too much tonight child, and used up our time, but it is no matter. I have an outing planned and the sun is not rising yet. Come along.”

“I- I’m to go out? Like this?” Cazador begins to glare so he quickly tacks on, “Father.”

“Are you truly that stupid boy? No, not like that. You shall put on shoes. I shall give you a cloak. It is cold out.”

Which does actually answer Astarion’s question — yes, he will be going out in just a slip. He must grimace at that because Cazador sneers before continuing, “Oh wipe that look off your face you imbecile. Remember who you are with. No one shall see you unless I want them to.”

“Where-”

“For a birthday present, because I am kind and generous even to brats like you. Quiet now.” And Cazador leads them towards the door.

The sights of the city at night are still familiar, even if the circumstances are not. And Cazador was telling the truth about others not seeing them on their journey, for he does something as they leave that makes the eyes of people on the street pass over them unseeing. It’s odd, watching them walk past. Astarion finds it a very lonesome feeling.

It’s cold out, but there’s an aura of warmth coming off of Cazador. Astarion, in his inadequate clothes, stays close to his Master without even an order to keep him there. It would be nice to imagine as they walk that Astarion could run, or signal to someone, or do anything to get away. The novelty of the outing tempts him towards boldness. But he is chained by more than any mere physical restraint, and there is no point in choking himself on an unbreakable leash. He stays silent and obedient instead.

They pass an alley behind a tavern filled with a rowdy group still drinking straight from their bottles. Astarion would guess that they’ve been kicked out by the publican, based on their jeers and how they heckle passers by. Ones to avoid back in his hunting days. It would have been difficult to separate one off to return to the palace with him, and far more likely that he would have ended up on his back beneath the whole lot.

Cazador sees them too. He stops and turns to Astarion with a contemplative look on his face before asking, “Do you miss your nights out? Answer honestly child.”

He can’t help himself — he has been commanded to honesty. “Yes,” he says, even as the group sparks residual wariness in him. What he wouldn’t give to have been able to lie. He knows that isn’t the response his Master wanted. 

“What is it you miss? Tell the truth again.”

The words flow easily due to command alone. “The talking. I miss the conversations.”

“You always have had such an uncouth tongue. What else?”

“Walking around the city. Seeing people.”

“Not the sex you little slut? Not obeying your Master’s orders? Perhaps I should leave you here then. You want more freedom? You want to gallivant among these low lifes? What would they make of a pretty thing like you, dressed like that?”

Astarion knows exactly what they’d make of him, and Cazador does too. 

“I’d leave you with an order to come home by morning of course. I would need to take the cloak as well. It is far too fine to be sullied by the likes of them. And perhaps- yes, I’d need to take your voice away as well. Your cries are just for me. But then I could let that be your gift, instead of our outing together. I’ll bring you to them myself, let them know that while you can’t speak you claim to miss conversation. I’m sure even muted you could provide them with ample material to discuss.”

Astarion wants to believe that Cazador is bluffing, that he wouldn’t risk the child inside Astarion just to humiliate him, but he knows the man too well. When it comes to punishing Astarion, Cazador can be startlingly short sighted, sending him to the kennels one day only to be angry that he was not out hunting the next.

Still, he knows what Cazador would like to receive from this threat. And he doesn’t have much of a choice but to give it to him.

“No, Master I- Father. Please. I’d much rather spend the night near you, with you. Please don’t leave me.” He clutches Cazador’s cloak for good measure, like a child scared of being lost in a crowd. Puts on his most desperate face. Cazador only does exactly what he wants, but Astarion can make him want this.

Cazador pulls him in. “Oh child. But of course you prefer to be at your sire’s side rather than out with gutter trash. You’ve become so much better behaved recently. We shall continue on. Follow now.”

They progress through the city, and the streets get quieter and more residential. Astarion tries not to fret about where they’re going. He can’t do anything to change it, no matter what. For a moment he wonders if being abandoned at that pub would have been the smarter choice.

They at last come to a stop outside iron gates set in a stone wall. Astarion peers through them and... oh. He should have known.

“Do you recognize it boy? Where we began our nights together? You struggled, trying to get out of your coffin. Always so weak.” Cazador waves a hand at the gate and it opens, allowing them to pass through into the graveyard. It’s a peaceful place, and pretty for a city cemetery. Everything about it makes Astarion feel sick.

There’s something wet falling onto Astarion’s chin, multiple drops of liquid. They’re on his cheeks too, a steady stream. He wishes they would stop. His face is chilled enough as it is.

“Oh my child. Are you so overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of my gift that you must weep?” The droplets are getting worse, and the air he takes in is leaving his throat in gasps. It’s making it very difficult to answer. 

“Come here boy. Come to your father.” And Astarion is not strong, has never had the strength he desires or needs. He buries his face into Cazador’s chest. It protects him from the wind at least. Hides his eyes.

He wants to think that that will be the worst of tonight. Being driven to Cazador for comfort. 

It’s over relatively quickly, as soon as his Master tires of bearing a snivelling thing against his chest. After a few moments Cazador pushes him back, holds him at arm's length. Smiles wide as he says, “You look just like you did that night. Distressed, needy. Entirely mine.”

Astarion is relatively sure that isn’t true. He wouldn’t have been buried without trousers. And he’s positive he wasn’t pregnant. But none of that matters to Cazador, not from how happy the man is with himself. 

He lets himself be brought to the untended headstone, watches Cazador clear it of grime with a quick spell. Astarion does not bother to read the words etched upon its face. Instead he feels himself be sat atop it, feels Cazador spreading his legs. 

Now that the initial surprise of this violation is wearing off, it isn’t so bad really. There’s an end in sight with morning’s approach. And Astarion knows things can always get worse. If there’s anything the last few years have proven, it’s that things can always get worse. This is really just more of the same. Nothing to whine about or make much of.

He’ll forget tonight, he decides. There’s nothing worth remembering, none of the questions raised are useful to think about. The hours till morning will slide over him, and when the sun comes up it will all already be half gone. 

Cazador, ignorant of his resolution, towers over him. One of his hands is unlacing his trousers. The information registers in Astarion’s brain with no emotion attached. 

“We’re the only ones left now, my child. Amidst a city of cattle, you’re the one I kept for my own. Aren’t you glad I brought you in from the cold? Don’t you feel lucky, to have been given a family?”

“Yes, Sire. Thank you,” he says, apparently to satisfaction as no other demands for verbal feasance are made. He can feel the frigid stone beneath him, the chill of the earth below his shoes. He must remember the benefits. He just has to keep remembering the benefits.

And as the wind nips at his neck he finds that he can appreciate something. Because at least as they are now, it is warm when Cazador enters into him.

Chapter Text

It’s always pleasant, planning out an evening with Astarion. For a creature so lacking in so many ways, he does react to things beautifully. Even if there was anything rattling around in that pretty head of his, it would be worse than useless to tell him of any plans Cazador made for him. Why ruin his unsuspecting reactions, when they are such an unparalleled delicacy?

Tonight is special. The anniversary of when Cazador brought Astarion into the world, under his own power and for his own purpose. That night makes everything between them simple- he gave a gift that Astarion will forever be in debt to him for. He must ever pay his sire back with everything he has, all his pain and his subordination and his blind obedience to his Master’s will.

Astarion had needed a Master. His pride and his arrogance… Cazador had been doing him a service in remaking and restraining him. Though admittedly, turning the boy had been little more than a whim at the time. Hardly a plan at all. Nothing compared to what Cazador knows he is truly capable of. 

Now, perhaps, he would go about things differently. Draw out the liminal period of the chase, extend his hunt into a sweet, elongated expectancy. On both their parts. If he were to turn him now, Cazador would let Astarion realise he was being watched, let him know that he had caught the attention of something greater than himself. He would have relished their mutual anticipation before the climax of the turning.

No matter. It all worked out, youthful eagerness aside. And worked out better than he could have conceived of at the time. For back then he could not have imagined then the heights he would rise to. Cazador has surpassed even his own expectations with all he has achieved.

A family. One he has built alone and at huge effort, that he thus owns and controls utterly, and that he maintains with careful attention. All the failures of his ancestors and the suffering Cazador was thus required to endure have been eclipsed by this reclamation. Now, restored to his rightful place as patriarch, he can savour this triumph.

So if he takes particular enjoyment in the creation of his family, it is no less than what he has earned through toil and tribulation. If maintaining Astarion offers him pleasure, it is no less than his due.

He sent the boy to rest earlier. Despite his myriad and meretricious charms, he is holding his Master’s child and precautions must be taken. Cazador is not a fledgling vampire lord anymore, either. The endless nights of whiling away the hours till dawn lavishing his spawn with attention are through. His responsibilities are more pressing now, his time more in demand. Appropriate energy must be devoted to protecting his family’s interests.

At least he has the soothing knowledge that Astarion will be where he’s been put. Back when the boy was sent out to hunt, ever since his early and ill conceived bout of rebellious infidelity which landed him in a tomb, there had always been a tiny itch of… agitation, whenever he was away. Nothing like fear or concern, nothing necessary to acknowledge, but annoyingly present all the same.

Of course Cazador had broken Astarion completely of any ideas about running — that was a disobedience that could not be allowed to take root, even if it had no chance of ever succeeding. Astarion needed to understand where he belonged and who he belonged to, lessons that a year locked away from his Master sunk in well enough. But still. His stupid child has gotten himself into any number of situations over the years. Better to know precisely where he is.

And it is gratifying to think of the palace, the Szarrs’ ancestral seat, with every one of Cazador’s possessions inside it and Astarion at the centre. In Cazador’s own room. The perfect lesser being, designed, created, and raised up by Cazador himself to suit his own discerning tastes.

For all the child’s faults, Cazador is proud of the results he’s managed. A spawn could never be truly perfect or they would no longer be a spawn. That’s the paradox of the boy: Astarion is cowardly, and stupid, and incapable; he is also one of his Master’s greatest achievements.

This is why he can pay no heed, when in cursory correspondence with other, lesser vampire lords they make insinuations regarding his ownership of a single spawn. Cazador has nothing to prove now - over seven thousand cattle turned, and he’s kept the one best suited to his tastes. Why make more spawn, when thralls are simpler and less obtrusive? When he already has exactly what he wants?

Why make more spawn, when he now has such a pleasurable, traditional method of expanding his family so close at hand? 

A Master should own, truly and completely, anything that belongs to them. Cazador is fully occupied with owning Astarion. 

For as the past two centuries have shown, his consort requires an involved keeper. Utterly without judgement or sense, he depends on his creator for guidance and order and correction. Correction in particular. Astarion’s next disobedience is always around the corner. He can behave for a hundred days, but be assured, the hundred and first will see him exactly as insouciant and prideful as the day he was turned.

It is, unfortunately, part of the appeal. Every part of the boy’s body invites a need for violence that is only compounded by his irrepressible self absorption, tempered now only by the knowledge that he holds the future of the Szarrs inside him. Still sometimes... 

When Astarion complains of pains caused by his service to his sire, it is so satisfying to imagine his belly swollen, sliced open, filled with sleeping rats and sealed up again to attend their awakening. When he, usually unsuccessfully, begs off his marital duties with the excuse of the child, Cazador pictures him being held down and filled until he is struck dumb with stimulation and bloated with seed. And when he cries over the ever so mild punishments he receives - that he earns himself! - Cazador imagines recarving his back with true poetry this time, something beautiful and binding just between them. 

He might go through with that last one in fact, after the next child or two. Tomorrow he’ll look through his papers, start thinking about which composition will suit best. Maybe he’ll even compose something new.

Slightly annoying to have to wait. Perhaps if Astarion wasn’t so weak he could properly accept his Master’s sanguine attentions, even as he fulfills his new role. He should be able to manage more than the slightest rebuke before allowing Cazador’s child to be damaged. But no amount of training can fix the boy’s inherent failings, and so Cazador judiciously restrains himself to speculation.

It is good to have these thoughts. There are, Cazador has learned, drawbacks to taking a greater role in society. Thus such simple, wholesome amusements are necessary to endure the torrent of stupidity that these cattle he must engage with spew.

These meetings are always long, and this one, with such a treat waiting for him at the end of it, feels even longer than the rest. They are so frustrating, too. Cazador could kill all these useless imbeciles. He should kill them all, he sometimes thinks, but that would be rash. He is building a base of power that will last an age; killing people for being annoying will not a stable empire make.

But they really are annoying. All eager to have their egos stroked, depending on petty shows of power and obsequience from their staff to show their status. Conversation with them requires Cazador keep a hold of his tongue, so as not to publicly eviscerate those who would be better cultivated as tools for his own ends.

Worst is when they speak of their spouses, expecting him to participate with their ribald jokes. Pressing him to join in the fun. As if he’s losing something by not indulging them in their scopophilic desire to hear the specifics of his life. As if they have any idea what is enjoyable to an elevated being such as himself.

All of these fools seem to think they have the measure of his marriage, of him and Astarion. That Cazador found some poor, desperate beauty and offered a life of comfort in exchange for obedience. They congratulate him on his easy achievement. They truly think their relationship is that simple.

It is infuriating. Their cliched ideas throw to the wind all the effort Cazador has put into making Astarion perfect, the sacrifices and concessions he has made to craft the boy into something of worth. And such cattle, with their pitiful financial traps and mundane domestic dominations, could never understand the bond between spawn and sire. 

Owning Astarion, mastering him, is something Cazador has turned into genius. To keep his spawn properly requires thought. It requires discipline. How many of these foppish idiots could have restrained themselves for a whole year in order to ensure a lesson was learned properly? He doubts a single one of them has the necessary self control. 

Of course Cazador is a generous Master, sire, and now husband. He would not act as is unbefitting of his station. It has taken effort, to know how much to punish and how much to caress. Most work of all was learning how to keep the boy’s need to have violence enacted on himself from getting in the way of his development. It has sometimes required extraordinary patience not to give in to Astarion’s provocations.

And now there’s a balance to be struck with the blood too! How to keep Astarion fed but not gluttonous, able to do his duties without forgetting his place. Rounding only in the way that is desired of him. Have these fools any concept of the planning it takes to institute portion control on their vampiric, pregnant spouse?

No. No they do not. None of these capricious, indulged nobles have any idea what it takes to manage an inferior fully - what it takes to manage someone who is both child and consort, how to be Father and Master all at once. None of them have the vision. None of them have the patience.

Cazador wishes he could tell them all exactly the amount of power and subtlety and grace he has. He wishes he could show off his work with Astarion as it should be shown off, to be appreciated and admired. 

That day will come, when his power over Baldur’s Gate is more secure and those who can be trusted to value and admire his work have been identified.

For know he must hold back. Cazador knows he must attend these meetings and parties and receptions despite his fellow attendees' lack of sense. And he will not let his own feelings get in the way of his ability. But gods does he detest society.

These events, he will admit, are more tolerable when he brings Astarion. Teasing the boy is a lovely distraction from how insipid a crowd is, and when he has been ordered to keep his mouth shut he is a beautiful accessory. 

Seeing the others at these parties covet what is his also has a certain satisfaction to it. It’s similar, though not quite the same, as when Cazador used to lend Astarion out. Then there had been the pleasure of knowing Astarion was his to give away and his to take back. Now there is the pleasure of knowing Astarion is his to deny others access to.

No one living remembers what it is like to have Astarion. Cazador had seen to that, the minute he resolved that Astarion was to be saved for his new purpose. It makes the covetous looks all the sweeter.

Inevitably under the gazes of others, though he is safely on his Master’s arm, Astarion will begin to fidget. He’ll whine or he’ll make a graceless comment. He will, in short, express his discomfort in a way Cazador never would allow himself to. 

Perhaps that’s part of the reason he finds Astarion so charming. The boy has never learned that sometimes suffering unpleasantness is necessary to prosper. 

Vellioth would have torn the boy apart, intractable little creature. Cazador imagines for a moment showing his old Master what he’s built, the power he’s earned and the indulgences he’s crafted. 

Perhaps they’d argue, the way parents and children always argue over how the rearing of grandchildren should be conducted. But he’d win, in the end. He’s stronger than anyone now, including Vellioth, and he’s the one in charge of the household. He’s rebuilt the family Vellioth destroyed, better and stronger and more perfect than could have been previously conceived. 

And if, on occasion, it is frustrating that Astarion still needs so much guidance nearly two centuries in, if Cazador wishes he would just obey willingly and easily for once, if he’d simply acknowledge without prompting how much he owes to his sire-

But that will come, in time. Cazador is sure of it. As Ascension has shown him, patience is required for the best of things in this world. 

Patience, time. These will also refine his children into creatures with the full potential of their name. Infants are more useless than he thought they would be, and take up exceeding amounts of time. But with time that will end, he expects. 

His spawn were similarly useless for a year or three after being turned, always crying and whining and being generally incalcitrant. Slightly disappointing but ever-so unsurprising that these new children are the same, especially since these ones can’t be threatened with a trip to the kennels.

Even now before her full development, it is gratifying to look at his daughter and see himself. Cazador can tell that she’ll be a force to be reckoned with. He will teach her well, and make sure that she does not fall prey to the same generosity that felled her namesake. She will never give her inferiors a chance to destroy her. She will be formed with all of Cazador’s good habits.

In a few years perhaps he can send her to these interminable meetings in his place. All he needs is patience.

By the time he is finally able to extricate himself, he is ready to throw patience and prudence to the wind. The excuse that he has plans with his husband is met with rude, vulgar teasing that only sets him more to seething. Their implications that he is too solicitous, that he is overly committed, or worst of all, that Astarion controls him, are the babbling of idiots. Idiots who he has already resolved not to kill.

They comprehend nothing. He is above these people and their gauche ribbing. He is not tasteless or mercenary — like a true aristocrat, he takes good care of his possessions. One of which happens to be his spouse. 

It should be obvious that it is Astarion who needs him, not the other way around. And perhaps he should have sacrificed the boy to the Hells after all, just to prove that he could, but it has all worked out, hasn't it? He shouldn’t deny himself, not in order to show up cattle. 

He saved Astarion from death, gave him new, vampiric existence. Saved him again from the ritual that by all rights he should have been fed to. Given him purpose and attention and-

Over and over again Cazador grants life to the boy. Is it truly so wrong of him to request a hint of gratitude?

What truly irks him is that the boy is so audacious as to sometimes be wretched without Cazador’s leave. Suffering beautifully is not an excuse to do so to an excess; Astarion’s pain and pleasure both should be felt at his Master’s will. 

Cazador doesn’t mind having to correct the boy. Astarion takes his reprimands so beautifully — he will curl himself around any intrusion made to him. But he should be a little more actively aware of all the good it does him. A little more-

“We’re the smart ones, hm?” A voice interrupts his thoughts as he storms towards the front hall of whichever idiot's house the gathering has taken place in this evening.

Cazador barely recognizes the speaker- some well off merchant or some such, well bred enough to be invited but not prominent enough to be important. He too seems to be on his way towards the door. Odd that he’s presuming companionship with a man such as Lord Szarr.

He doesn’t seem to have taken Cazador’s silence as the snub it is. Instead, as a servant rushes off to fetch their cloaks and such, he keeps talking. 

“These fools, they’re desperately unhappy,” he says, giving a rueful smile back toward the centre of the manor, “They disparage their lives, and ours, out of fear. Can’t stand to think there might be something they're missing out on, that they can’t just order someone to fetch for them.”

“Not us?” It’s not that Cazador wants to engage with the man. But he is… curious, as to how this man was intelligent enough to recognize that Cazador is separate from the chaff.

“I love my wife. Everyday, I praise the gods that she agreed to marry a man such as myself. For some reason, she says I make her happy.” The man gives him a look, almost self-effacing, as if they're in on the same joke. 

“Have a good evening with your husband, Lord Szarr. I’ll endeavour to do the same with my wife. Gods know we owe it to them not to be miserable bastards in their company.” And then before Cazador can react to that ridiculous pronouncement, the man’s run off.  

How confusing; how presumptuous. Cazador isn’t someone for any third rate member of the gentry to pal about with. He’s not anyone’s friend.

And the idea that Cazador is serving Astarion’s whims- the man’s wife must have the money, or the title, or both. She must be the real power, sending her husband out to be her public face. Almost an appealing thought, actually, if only Astarion didn’t need so much constant guidance.

Because what a fool that man was, what a... what a little imbecile. Even worse than all the others. Astarion is not only his husband but his. No, more than his — the child was not only created by his master, he exists by Cazador’s will alone. Cazador is everything to Astarion: master, father, husband, god. 

Thinking that he owes Astarion anything is ludicrous. Astarion is the one in debt to Cazador, always. He has given Astarion everything; eternal beauty, eternal life, eternal purpose. It is only right for the boy to use these gifts in service of their true owner. To serve and give obeisance and, eventually, to understand that this is necessary.

Astarion is vain, weak, unstable. He requires reminders that he is so; he needs prompting to behave correctly. The only purpose he is fit for is to serve.

And he will. For as long as Cazador decrees it should be so.

---

He ends up having to carry Astarion out of the graveyard. The boy is growing spoiled, with all this attention, but this can be forgiven. Cazador has managed to exorcise his earlier frustration — he has had a lovely evening with his husband, after all. 

But despite their fun, Cazador knows now is when to end things. He must, after all, protect both children he has with him; the one draped so tenderly in his arms and the one secured inside the first.

His boy’s eyes have gone glassy, his cheeks bright with cold and exertion. The ground is near frozen, early winter as it is, so there are only the lightest brushes of dirt on his face. It’s not precisely the same as when Astarion had become his. But close enough to indulge his nostalgia.

It really has been a pleasant evening after all. They’d even indulged truly, given the child his bite again, reopened the claim upon his neck. Not draining him fully - they have new responsibilities now, that unfortunately require restraint. But what he did take was wonderfully reminiscent of times past. 

And if Cazador misses the desperation of an Astarion kept from gorging himself, at least the increased allowance of blood means he too can drink deeper.

Rats had served well as pre-allotted sustenance, especially when Cazador had so many spawn to deal with while also being busy planning his Ascension. But now he must devote some time to be precise with Astarion, what with the children and his new station requiring more blood of higher order. Making sure it is known that all this plenty flows unto Astarion from his Master.

It’s tempting to revoke his benevolence now at the end of the evening, just to remind the boy that he can. Cazador thinks about dropping him to the ground, kicking or pressing his boot down How satisfying it would be, to see those red eyes widen in betrayed surprise, to hear the whine of pain and shock as he hit the ground, the inevitable begging and apologies. 

He wonders how much pressure he would need to exert to make Astarion’s stomach burst. 

It would be entertaining, briefly. But always, always he must restrain himself from taking his due, for the sake of the family he has built. It is lucky that he is good at remembering long term goals.

Looking down at Astarion, he can see that his eyes remain distant. Understandable that he would be overwhelmed by his Father’s attentive care, but that is not an excuse to be unheeding.  

Something that man said earlier crosses his mind. It is unimportant, and useless. Cazador hardly cares what the answer is. But why not ask?

“Are you happy, child?”

It takes a moment for the question to register in the boy’s empty skull. When he finally comprehends what he’s been asked, Astarion’s face twists in a moue of confusion, the struggle to choose an answer visible. Silly, stupid child. He should have learned to speak honestly by now. What can he have to fear? Does his Father not correct him, whenever he errs?

Yet still he hesitates. 

“Do you… want me to be?”

Cazador can only hope their children will not inherit Astarion’s intellect. Or lack of one. Hopefully they will better understand and appreciate their father’s efforts.

“I want what is best for my child. Are you unhappy? Are you ungrateful for all you’ve been given?”

The rebuke is said mildly, but it does at last snap Astarion out of his inattentive state.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m grateful!” And there’s the light back in those red eyes. Once again, Astarion has been corrected. “You are- you are so thoughtful, Father. What other Sire would remember his spawn’s turning? Would- would offer such a celebration? I appreciate it, I appreciate you, truly.”

 His stupid child is finally saying what he's supposed to, and yet- why did he need to be prompted? Shouldn’t he just have proclaimed his happiness with his husband as obnoxiously as that man earlier this evening? Why does this too, require Cazador to orchestrate it?

It is exhausting to always be the one managing things, to be the only one smart enough and strong enough to put the world as it is supposed to be. Part of Astarion’s charm is his idiotic willfulness, yes, but- can’t he acknowledge, on occasion, without prompting, that he’s been put in his proper place? Does every bit of gratitude need to be pulled from him like blood from stone?

There’s the urge to punish Astarion again, the desire to beat and tear and claw his way through the boy settling as tension in Cazador’s muscles, as a near irrepressible need to squeeze the form in his arms, squeeze till something breaks. 

But that’s the kind of short sighted punishment Vellioth would have indulged in. Cazador is better than that. He’s smarter than that, a kinder master and father than Vellioth had ever thought to be, for all that he’d taught his spawn. 

Movement in his arms. As Cazador has tensed and dug his fingers in, Astarion has himself pressed closer, clinging tighter to Cazador’s warmth. His head has shifted from Cazador’s shoulder to the nape of his neck, forehead nestled against it, mouth carefully tucked down to avoid the presumption that putting his fangs near his sire’s neck might have implied. The slight bump of his stomach is laid against Cazador as well now, a physical reminder of how far they’ve come from when they were last here together. 

“Please forgive me, Father. I love you, thank you, I’m sorry.”

Cazador pauses at this entreaty, and Astarion again shrinks closer in his arms.

“I’m- I’m so grateful. I am so thankful, I-” Cazador can feel the boy tense, for a moment, before he relaxes his muscles, becoming liquid in his sire’s arms as he continues, “I love you. As my Father. And my husband. And my Master. Thank you for saving me, and for reminding me of when I was- when I became yours. It’s like you said I am... I’m very lucky.”

Overcome, he buries his face deeper into the curve of Cazador’s neck. His pale hand clenches the back of its Master’s cloak only to release it, to hang limp and pliant.

Rambling and imprecise, as usual. And yet- is this not proof of Cazador’s success? How little prompting Astarion needs to confess his love now! How much understanding he showed compared to the past!

Oh, he’s avowed such things before, of course — when the kennels were still a viable threat, profusions of love leaked from the boy’s lips like a broken tap. But he’s barely been chastised in the slightest this time, and already he is lighting on the truth.

More than anything else, this shows Cazador made the right choice. Two centuries of care and protection and education, and now he can begin to reap the benefits. So, perhaps he is too indulgent with Astarion. Perhaps he rewards him over much now, with attention and comfort and care. But what does that matter, when it brings him this? A clinging, desperate thing, apologetic and grateful and in need of his sire. The slightest nudge from his Master could send the boy into despair or terror or ecstasy. 

It really doesn’t matter that Astarion is so slow. The children he makes can be intelligent company for Cazador in the future. Still beneath their Father, of course, but of more intellect, quicker studies. Able to be molded, one hopes, with fewer deficiencies of understanding.

And eventually, eventually, all will be perfect. Children who are grown, capable, devoted to the family. A city bent to his will, humming in tune with his desires and goals. A consort who knows the purpose of his existence is to cater to his Master’s will.

Astarion will perform exactly as is expected of him. He will please and plead and suffer exactly as his sire dictates. He will even rebel in his embarrassing ineffectual way, just to provide opportunities to punish him. That enticing, infuriating draw he has will still be there but fully tamed and controlled by Cazador himself. 

It is all coming together as Cazador knew it would. One day he will beg for his sire’s artistry, for the sharp kiss of a knife, for the delicate beauty of ecchymosis to stain his skin. He will have learned the beauty of his pain, the perfect tithe it is, and will offer it up simply because it will please his Father. Then he will need no Commands. Restraint now will make Astarion’s willing, joyful submission to the knife later all the more sweet. 

Until then, Cazador knows that Astarion is a creature formed for pleasure. Of course he needs this guidance in this, of course he struggles. He will learn, though it will be slow. He will not have a choice. Cazador must not let minor setbacks make him hasty.

Unfortunate that being a higher being comes with the responsibility of temperance. Astarion doesn’t know how easy he has it, with his world carefully laid out for him. Cazador is the one who must restrain them both, even as Astarion’s every sound, every movement, pushes for more and more and more.

But that is why his Master is the one in control. Cazador will remain at home today, keep his husband near him, and spend some time reinforcing the need for dependency. Make sure that these lessons stay put. It will be good to keep reminding Astarion that his sire is his lodestone and his leader in all things. 

And the child in his consort’s stomach will only be growing bigger. Cazador plans to savour each stage of its development in a way he’d been too caught up to do the first time around. There’s so many things he wants to do this time. Ample places to focus attention on, each moment only growing. 

Such an easy joy, to feel himself within Astarion. Pregnancy has demonstrated just how thorough his control over his chosen child is. Cazador can change Astarion’s body from inside out, without even the force of his will. 

He thinks it might be the subtlety he likes. And within the pedestrian minds of Baldur’s Gate society there are so few socially acceptable ways to publicly show his ownership over the boy. Why not enjoy this one?

For all his faults and lapses, overall Astarion has been good for his surprise. And it is his anniversary, after all. Cazador will stay his hand, and take delights through other avenues.

Astarion is easy for him to shift in his arms, dollish and maneuverable even as he must visibly force himself not to cling. 

He looks into the boy’s eyes, forces him to take in the full force of his Master’s gaze. He trembles with it, a shaking animal in its owner’s arms. He does wear that prey-like fear well.

“Show me. Demonstrate the truth of your words child. Prove to me you mean them.”

Astarion tenses once he’s asked to take initiative, pulls back slightly - such a skittish creature sometimes, for one so bold in his failures - and so Cazador must press his nails in to make him relax. 

And then as suddenly as he’d pulled away, Astarion is close again, placing soft, chaste kisses on Cazador’s cheeks, like a child welcoming their father home. Normally Cazador would want a little more imagination to be shown, but this feels… appropriate. Maybe now he can allow himself this softness. 

Tonight has been a success. Enjoyable in and of itself, enrapturing as a prelude for things to come. Cazador is still working towards the apex of his power. If he was fully satisfied now, he’d be a failure. There is always more to be grasped. 

There can be- will be joy in it. Even Astarion, he thinks, still contains new horizons for the conquering. Is that not why he kept him? His first son, his libidinous consort. His his his. Every press of the boy’s lips to his skin is an affirmation of this simple fact.