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Astarion stares at the collar with contempt.
It is thick, polished leather stiff from disuse. The buckle shines pristine, reflecting care that could never be afforded to himself. And just to spite him, clipped neatly to it is a tag, in the shape of a paw - like a dog.
It dangles freely, spinning slowly, a showcase of ownership, gleaming with shining pride as it hangs from Cazador’s cold hands. He’s looking at Astarion expectantly, but stays silent. Nothing needs to be said.
Kneeling naked, chained to the walls of the kennels, Astarion all but begs to be called a dog. All that’s missing is the collar. And Cazador holds it up freely, an offering, waiting to be claimed.
But Astarion turns his head away. Scowls and bites his lip to keep the scowl from festering into a growl; best to maintain a modicum of dignity. What for? Astarion doesn’t know. But it’s important, he’s sure of it.
So, he refuses the collar.
It’s just a piece of leather. It doesn’t mean anything. Not really. Not when his mind, body, and soul are bound to the one he calls master. Loathsome froth bubbles at his mouth at the mere thought: Master? The word fizzles in his brain, brands itself in his mind.
Everything is all fuzzy around the edges. Something fading in the background and he shakes his head to clarity.
Master. Cazador is his master, the vile, putrid one who lorded his control over Astarion by locking him in a tomb - no.
Another shake of his head. He’s in the kennels. Not the tomb. That was then. The kennels are… open, cold but confined. There is an end to them, a door, an out. If he’s good.
Was he good?
No, no, it doesn’t work like that. Stupid boy , the phrase rings in his head like a siren’s call, luring him to an unspeakable truth. There was… a command, a duty - his duty. He… failed? That’s not quite right, it all shifts away, sewage falling through the cracks of clarity into nothingness.
He doesn’t remember.
Something jingles, an innocent chime and it pulls him back to the present, to the kennels. Glowing red eyes pierce into him, bleed him dry, etching the warmth out of dead skin.
Something ravenous claws at his insides, pokes rusted nails on the soft inner lining of his sanity asit growls for sustenance he doesn’t have. Hasn’t had. God’s he’s hungry. It’s a pinpoint in his brain and it drags itself over him, coating his thoughts in red.
“Well, boy?” Cazador asks. “I come bearing a gift for you.” He holds the collar out and says nothing else.
There’s a game being played here, Astarion is sure of it, but between the hunger and the confusion he can’t decipher it. Can’t make sense of the offering other than he doesn’t like it. Cluelessly, he shakes his head, pulls himself back.
It’s a stupid endeavor. He knows this, can already feel the whispered crunch of bones forced to obey while the mind rebels. He braces himself for it, for the pull, the humiliation of hands grasping for something he does not want with broken eagerness.
But the compulsion never comes.
Instead, Cazador clenches around the leather collar as his steeled boots snap against stone. “You deny me?” He’s calm, collected, even as his eyes try to burn into Astarion.
It works, and Astarion is already on the backpedal. “I- no, Master, I would never-I—”
“Silence.” Cazador need not move to emphasize his malevolence in the moment. His discontent crashes past him, like a wave that batters the cliffside in a storm, breaking out chunks of rocks before drowning them in the maelstrom below. Oddly, he doesn’t warn Astarion of his discrepancies toward obedience, nor does he threaten him for not immediately taking it, instead, he just silently holds the collar out, expecting Astarion to take it from him.
Fear needles its way past his eyes and works his face into a marred thing, wrought with terror, eyes wide and fangs itching to retreat and hide. A fine tremor runs along his spine, through his arms until it’s knocking his fingers together and as he backs up. Astarion knows better than to anger him, a year in the tomb taught him that its better to be humiliated and obedient than to face the consequences.
Vaguely, the kennels shudder around him, the darkness fills the empty space and the stone becomes cool marble, locking him in, closing in on him as his nails scratch at the floor.
It’s just a collar. It’s just a collar. It doesn’t mean anything more than what Astarion already knows. He swallows, the invisible clasp of its’ buckles already wrapping around his throat - a tale of submission over obedience.
His body in his lapse of awareness has lurched forward; his hands already moving to take it, unsure and unsteady they move slowly to take the proffered item. It falls easily in his hands, hard leather that bites into thin skin. The tag hits his palm and he jerks back - the sting of it searing into the soft flesh of his hand. It’s silver, he realizes.
“It’s of much higher quality than you deserve, but you shall see, boy, that I spare no expense for my esteemed pets .”
Blearily, Astarion holds it up, examining the collar. A reddish brown, with silver buckles and a silver dog tag, paw-shaped, as if just to remind him what he is to Cazador. The tag spins lazily, the burning humiliation eroding him from the inside as Astarion sees his name engraved on the tag in plain script. Swallowing back the bile of the realization, Astarion eyes Cazador who has remained oddly quiet.
Cazador stands above him, imposing and immaculate. A black shadow shaped by the glowing red of his eyes and glossy shine of his slicked back hair. The silence is only amplified by the stray draft that runs through cracks and scuttling rat claws on stone.
Astarion is still holding the collar, unable to bring it to his neck. It’s a simple action, but Astarion belatedly realizes that his arms are not working. Not moving. Some unknown scourge has settled into his mind, some remembrance of pride that he can’t let go of.
Waiting, waiting, Astarion hopes - silently prays - that the compulsion will thrum within his veins and force him to comply so that he does not have to do so willingly. But no compulsion comes and Astarion cannot make himself put the collar on like a good spawn - good dog.
“I'm not a dog,” Astarion mutters, despite himself. This is a very very fine line he's treading. A stupid one with no winning. Not a dog? No, maybe not, but he's no better. Perhaps even worse than one.
“Of course you're not,” Cazador says, guile. “Dogs have the decency to respect their masters and the cleverness to appreciate their boons. You've neither.”
Shame buries itself in him, burrowing through bones into the soft palate of his gut where it nestles in unkindly. Cazador can do whatever he likes, can force Astarion into any predicament he desires. He's made it known what happens when Astarion disobeys - and Astarion will do anything to avoid that. So why? Why, for something as innocuous as a collar, is he testing a boundary that he's surely already crossed?
Cazador waits a moment longer, fangs gleaming in malice and amusement as he watches Astarion shudder and flinch under his gaze. Expectant that Astarion will eventually come to him, put the collar on and deign himself the lowly wretch he is.
But Astarion doesn't.
Perhaps it's fear. Or maybe a smidge of that redundant pride he can't seem to shake that holds him back from placing the leather around his neck. But his arms refuse to move, gripping the leather so tightly it bites into his palm.
And still, Cazador hasn't placed a command. it has to mean something. There's a reason for it, however unable he is to see the pattern.
“Still so dull. One would think that the dusty old tomb I liberated you from has kept your brain,” Cazador chides, stalking forward. “Perhaps we should revisit it and see if we find anything.”
Astarion flinches back then goes corpse still. The mere mention of the tomb has him keening in the back of his throat. It's that fear that's finally able to push past his meager stupid farce of defiance and force his limbs to move - shaky as they are.
“No matter,” Cazador waves his hand and turns away. “Godey will be sure to re-educate you on the matter. Do try to let the lessons stick this time.”
The door to the kennels closes, leaving Astarion in the dark, hands holding the collar in the air like its a treasure. Quickly, he drops the thing and backs back into the corner.
From the doorway, eyes glow, eerie and soulless as Godey’s old bones creak to life. The kennel’s keeper has a habit of lurking in the shadows. Watching carefully as his charges suffer. He always waits for Cazador to leave before showing himself - Astarion thinks it gives him a self righteous sense of importance to wait until it’s just him.
Godey is a tactless thing. Bones pulled together through archaic, necrotic magic and malice that bind him to this plane. His lack of skin is why Astarion thinks he’s so obsessed with the spawns’. Was it only a tenday ago he heard Dal’s crying as Godey flayed the skin from her stomach in neat strips? No matter, it’s easy to see the empty smile of a skull and imagine Godey smiling just the same.
“Little doggie has been naughty. Godey will help you learn,” he cackles, bones clicking against each other hysterically. Godey comes out of the shadows then.
“I’m not a dog,” he snaps, “or is that empty skull of yours blind as well? ” It is not quite the burn he was hoping for when he spoke, and it burns like acid on his tongue. But the collar is on the floor now and Astarion didn’t have to wear it - he proved that whatever he was, it wasn’t a dog.
Godey just chuckles. Unperturbed. But Godey never did take jibes. He doesn’t have the pride to be affected by it. He’s made for breaking bones, not spirits. He’s not like Cazador, where the wrong word can lead to things beyond nightmares, to darkness with no end and marble so cold he can’t tell where it ends and his undead flesh begins—
Follow the master of the house - that’s what Godey was made for. And he thrives. He doesn’t need words to dress down Astarion and he knows it. Because Cazador has commanded that Godey ‘correct’ Astarion’s behavior, that is what he’ll do. And he’ll enjoy it. The sadistic skeleton delights in their cries of agony.
He’s called Astarion’s screams particularly sweet. Astarion shudders wondering what Godey has in store for him this time.
Godey comes forward, his half armored plates dangling off his skeletal frame. It doesn’t fit right and gives him a boxy shape. “Godey will take good care of you, doggie. Now come along, be good for Godey.”
With no compulsion at his disposal, Godey relies on the chains to move and prod his desired spawns into compliance. Astarion prefers the chains, not because they are better, gods know how they cut into skin and make it raw and blister even when there is no blood. Chains are rote and short; there’s only so much movement Astarion can be forced to make. But he can defy chains, even as they keep him in place, there is no commandment to sit and suffer - a facsimile of defiance where he can bang at the chains and rattle them even as nothing happens.
Godey pushes him to a corner of the kennels. Astarion glares and bares fangs at him but ultimately does nothing as his arms are manacled and lifted above him. Next, his legs are spread apart, chained to the floor too. He shifts his back muscles, shoulders preparing for the stiffness of this position. His feet scrabble at the dingy floor, scraping against dirt and stone.
Astarion mentally prepares himself for a flaying. That’s how Godey always starts his sessions. It’s his warmup. A bit of skin here, a patch there. And then he can really sink his knives in. He tries to tune out Godey’s whistling as he closes his eyes and settles himself for the pain to come.
But there is only rustling and whistling in much too chipper a tune for the agony that is approaching. The waiting is a horror all its own, the anticipation of pain has him held in a half flinch as Godey finally returns.
Astarion usually takes care to not look at Godey while being tortured, but it’s hard not to when the skeleton is laughing and chattering his teeth together as he lugs supplies around, scraping them against the dirty kennel floor.
It’s not knives. Astarion doesn't recognize it and Godey’s brought it behind him so he can’t turn to see it.
The chains jangle above him with his movements, giving away his curiosity.
“Curious little doggie? Want to know what Godey’s got planned for you?” the skeleton chuckles. Boney hands appraise him gruffly, from pushing on his shoulders to stroking bony fingers against the knobs of his spine.
Astarion stifles a groan at Godey’s antics. Always so touchy on Astarion, poking and prodding at every piece of him. “Please, we all know your inventiness stops at a knife. You’re as predictable as the commoners at the Elfsong.”
Godey just cackles again, amused. “You’re all dirty, doggie. Godey needs to clean you up.”
The kennels are not a clean place, dirt and grime bathe his skin as often as the perfume he uses for hunts does. Godey has never cared before, in fact, he seems to like it when he can smear dirt and grime into wounds, just to add insult to injury for the spawn.
Astarion doesn’t have to contemplate when something falls on his shoulder. It’s light, like a feather but burns fiercely, like a knife into skin. Another drop, liquid and cold - not cold, burning cold, hot, so hot it’s flame wrapped in the deadwinter’s breath as it pierces his skin. One drop becomes two and then it’s a steady stream pouring down on him.
Flinching, A startled yep breaks free from him. It’s burning, running water melting into his skin, layer by layer. He jerks against it, but the water just runs onto his neck then. Catches his ears and he’s properly screaming.
It flows down his shoulder, down the arch of his back, and separates into two streams down his legs. A thin slivered slice of agony so sharp it might as well be the knives Godey loves so dearly. It pools at his feet, burning them, melting them. He yanks his feet, but the chains keep him in place.
There is no end. Water runs over skin, then muscle, then the sinew between that and wedges into the cartilage of his bones. It scrubs him raw, catches new skin, sinks deeper into exposed flesh.
Godey is laughing and making jokes about cleaning the doggie, but Astarion can barely hear them. His ears are thundering with the flow of running water down his back.
And that’s just another agony. This is torture meant only for a spawn, only for an abomination. It’s water, maybe spiked with the holy blessings of a cleric, but harmless to the living. Harmless to a person.
He bites his lip, curses himself and keeps jerking his limbs about, even though that only causes more pain. His shoulders stiffen then relax then break as the skin is scrubbed away. It burns his skull, and catches in the shell of his ears, where it pools until it’s melting through the soft tissue.
After that, hearing has gone subdued, Godey’s remarks quieter, like they’re coming from far away.
At some point his limbs must give out, because his wrists are pinned by the chains above him and he can’t seem to move them.
His throat is raw, or it must be, because he tries to cry and all that comes out is a garbled mix of sounds.
Eventually, the water runs out and he’s left with cool air biting against exposed flesh. HIs shoulder and chest are the worst he thinks. He can’t see, his eyes blurry, but they must be. He’s panting, not for breath but from the fear of it coming down again. It was like a flaying but worse, all over him, burning and slicing and never stopping. His foot is skeletal now from the pooled water.
Godey releases him and he falls, staggers into a puddle on the floor, gasps a sore aching cry and lets himself be dragged by Godey to whatever’s next. He wants to lick his wounds in silence now, waiting for the skin to stitch itself back together, but Godey drags him away from the dirty worn mattress, away from the resting area of the kennels.
His limbs twitch in agony and hurt, but it’s fine. This is fine. As far as torture goes, this is hardly the worst. It has to be,, because this is his eternity so nothing can be the pinnacle of pain, there are always new heights.
He learns this more when he’s dropped and a sharp fresh agony is pulled from him. A knife, digging into the soft muscle of his legs, in between the knee. Godey’s boney hands grip his leg and keep him centered as he digs a knife into the muscle and tendon, snapping something.
The scream it elicits is sharp and jagged like glass, a high singing screech that he’s sure can be heard all throughout the manor. But Godey doesn’t pay mind, he says something else, but words are lost on Astarion now.
The knife digs in the same spot on his next leg. Ripping things out with no tact, no skill, just clumsy pain and then he’s being dragged again. Not to the resting area where mattresses lie dirty and soiled, but past it, where there are cages.
Something like fear nestles into Astarion as Godey drags him, but he can’t summon the strength to move.
Godey drags him across the kennels until he’s in front of a cage. A small cage, fit for a dog, not a person, and Godey is shoving him, motioning for him to walk in it himself.
Snarling at the indignity, Astarion tries to heave himself up and walk in, if only to hold onto a shred of decency. But his legs don’t work. Far beyond just the pain of the pseudo flaying, his knees won’t bend.
“Little doggies don’t walk. They crawl, now get in your kennel little doggie.”
A spark of humiliation as Astarion understands what Godey did. The point of it. Astarion is not a dog so of course Cazador is set to prove him wrong. He’d laugh if the movement didn’t jostle raw flesh.
He crawls obediently into the kennel and lets Godey close the caged door. It’s not that bad, Astarin thinks. Degrading and embarrassing, but those aren’t new emotions, so Astarion can shove them off. This is hardly bad, all things considered.
And then he sees it.
That stupid collar.
Laid out nearly on the floor like a gift . The leather glistens even in the dark, shines and polished. New. Perfect.
Astarion lets out a mirthless laugh at that. It all makes sense. In a twisted awful way. How pitiful does Cazador think he is? That a simple punishment will be enough for him to take the collar up? It’s an indignity he won’t suffer. For all the wretched things he’s done and had done, lowering himself to that of a pet, a dog ? It’s beneath him, even as a spawn.
Disgruntled, he turns away from it, curls in the corner of the kennel, pretending he doesn’t look every bit the dog Cazador is trying to impress on him.
Godey leaves and he is alone. This is a revered time. The space between punishment and commands, where he can rest. Sit in the agony of his situation and stew over every awful thing about his existence, but still, not have to participate in the act of being hurt. He keeps his head turned away from the collar, not even wanting to see it.
Rats skitter beyond the kennel, trapping Astarion from what could be a meal and a draft finds its way in. Slowly, painfully, with no blood to fuel regeneration, his body starts to heal from the running water. And still, Godey hasn’t returned.
No one has.
The kennels are empty. Abandoned.
The first notch of fear sticks itself in Astarion. He is trapped here, where it is dark and cold. He shivers, not entirely from the cold.
No matter, it’s fine. More time to rest. To sleep and heal, and most importantly, more time where he is not being hurt or used. He can take this.
But time drags on. His wounds heal, but grow stiff from the small enclosure. Godey has yet to be seen. No one has entered. Only the rats that taunt him. The rats and the collar.
It’s darker now. The shadows closing in on the cage. The ringing in the air as water drips off the walls and mold grows from the mildew infested floor. And it is silent. The rats have gone now too.
Something isn’t right. The cage is just a cage, but when Astarion backs up against the wall, he flinches at the cool touch. He can see past the bars of this cage, but the shadows encroach.
It’s not the tomb.
It’s not the tomb.
It’s not. He knows this. But familiar fears and agonies pull themselves up and creep into his mind. He is not encased in marble, but he is trapped. He can’t escape and his hands claw at the ground in anticipation of the insanity that will likely fester soon.
No blood, no freedom, only him. Him and the darkness. Him and the cage. Him and the collar.
Astarion grits his fangs, letting them sink into his lips as he stares at the collar again.
It's obvious what's being said. His master is telling him to obey, to be a good dog now. The collar is pristine and polished compared to the must of the kennels. Look how much better things could be if you just listened , it says.
Something vile and feral creeps up his throat as he holds back a growl. He's not a dog. He's a… person isn't right, not anymore. And spawn isn't much better than a slave. But a dog?
The collar itself isn't so bad by itself. Wearing it wouldn't hurt nearly as much as Godey’s paring knife… it's not the physical presence of the collar that has Astarion on edge. It's the symbolism, the meaning.
The giving in.
Decades he's served under his master. Decades of pain and suffering and torture and humiliation. And it'll be eternity still.
It's a boon his master is offering, all for the price of submission.
He won’t do it. The dog kennel is small, and dark, but he is alone and he is safe from prying eyes. Deciding to be defiant. It’s just an isolated kennel, but eventually Cazador will grow bored and come back for him — right?
The kennels are too useful to him. He won’t abandon them to teach Astarion a lesson.
Settling down, he pointedly won’t look at the collar and all it offers. He won’t because Cazador can’t win. Not again. He took his flesh and molded it into a puppet, sold him out to the streets to lure pretty souls and give himself away to strangers he cared not for. Cazador can’t have this too.
Time goes on and the kennels grow stale. But the collar remains.
He could do it. His hands still shake, but from trepidation or frail bones he’s unsure. If he takes the collar, the loneliness will end. He turns his head away.
The collar sits proudly on the floor, the tag grinning wickedly at him as he carefully picks it up.
It's just a collar.
And he’s so hungry. He’s all but a husk now. If he gives in, surely his master will feed him.
But his pride still wins out, even as hunger bites his flesh raw and sinks fangs into his being, demanding sustenance.
It’s just a collar.
It really isn’t much, not for the offering it brings.
Just a piece of fabric to be worn. Not unlike the clothes he's given for hunts. He owns nothing, and despite his name adorning it, he won't own this either.
It's just a collar, he thinks as he slowly clasps it in place on his throat, the leather thick and sturdy against his neck.
It's just a collar, he lies as he settles down on the floor of his cage, eyes dulling in subjugation.
Astarion sits at Master's feet, unmoving from his kneeling position. Hands on thighs, knees apart, naked save for the collar - his collar.
Master has a hand carding through his hair, the nails scrape against his scalp unpleasantly, but Astarion doesn't flinch. He's better than that. He's good.
Astarion sits dutifully as Master talks to people and guests come up to him. It's a soirée
of some sort. Astarion doesn't know the details. He doesn't have to. So long as he's good, his only job is to please Master.
It's not so bad. It can't be. He obeys and Master rewards him with pleasure instead of pain. It’s better this way, easier. Pleasure is easier than pain; though those two things are not so easily divided.
One of the guests has come up and is talking to Master. It's all muddled and incoherent to his ears. He can’t parse out the language well; another boon from Master.
Thou shalt only hear your Master's tongue .
Claws card through his hair, moving down to twist his ears. They flick instinctively and he whines at the contact. In turn, Master only pinches more.
Astarion stares ahead silently whilst Master continues to talk with guests. He focuses on nothing in particular, letting his mind daze away. The marble floor is cool to touch and Astarion has not been afforded clothes - those are for people.
All he has is the collar - it's all he needs; some part of him still hates it, though that part has been locked away. There's no room for it. The collar keeps him from the kennels' cold and dark cages. The collar keeps him fed on live rats, not dead ones. So long as he wears the collar he never has to hunt for Master. Only please.
Only submit
Some days he thinks that may be worse. That part of him that refused the collar barks and howls on his head that he'll take the lashes over this humiliation. But that part is kept away. Astarion doesn’t remember everything, but he knows that before the collar everything was worse. Everything always hurt.
Master’s claws dig into his head sharply, bringing Astarion back to the present. He turns eyes to Master, confusion pooling with the sharp pain.
There’s words, garbles of syllables he doesn’t know that float around the room. Someone has come up to Master and keeps gesturing to Astarion. Something burns in him as they point at him, smiling too widely to be pleasant and keep speaking in that babbling language he can no longer understand.
Then Master speaks and it is clear and eloquent, “as you can see, I’ve had him trained to perfection. I wouldn’t suffer for anything less.”
A response, clunky and disoriented. Astarion’s ears flicker and he whines, nudging Master.
“So eager to please,” Master says, his voice a tether to the unmoored sea of uncertainty. “If it is your devotion you are so anxious to show, then come, enlighten these gentlemen on just how grateful to your master you are.”
Astarion can only nod and whimper in response. Yes, prove his worth. Earn the collar and Master’s praise. That’s what he wants. What he craves.
Something dead curls in his stomach. He pushes it down and turns to Master who has uncrossed his legs and sits regal in his chair, one leg extended, the toe of his boot pointed forward.
Astarion knows what he’s meant to do. Swallowing back some bitter revulsion, he looks at Master for confirmation.
“Go on, boy. Show them your appreciation.”
Astarion nods again, eagerness stirring at a chance to prove himself and earn comforts over cruelty. He crawls from Master’s side toward the boot, head bowed.
Master is wearing silver toed boots with a pointed end. It’s a symbol of his power, his invulnerability. He wears the metal that burns his kind and Astarion can’t stop the trepidatious whine from escaping his lips as he eyes the metal. It’s purity shining back his imperfections.
But Master will not suffer his disobedience. His collar feels tight against his throat, constricting as he settles in front of the boot, opens his mouth and licks it. It burns, bubbling on his tongue as he takes care to move slowly and openly, inviting the pain in. It is a small suffering in comparison to what it could be.
It tastes of burning flesh and sharp metal as he licks it, forcing himself to keep his eagerness up by closing his eyes and savoring the feel oh Master’s boot on his tongue.
He licks the boot through the agony of his tongue, whimpers keening from him as the appendage turns to mush under the silver touch. Astarion is careful not to make the whimpers too loud, his faithfulness needs to shine through, his love, his loyalty to Master. He lowers himself more, belly grazing the floor as he licks the boot.
Clumps of muscle fall from his lips to the floor, mixing with saliva that smokes in gross splotches on the pristine floor.
“See,” Master coos, “how devoted he is to his Master.”
Astarion can’t make out the words but he can distinguish the tones of the replies, hecklers, jeering, laughing, throwing wicked smiles of cruelty at his pathetic display. It roils in Astarion and something in him longs to snap his fangs and drain every single one of these fools dry. But it’s a buried thought, pushed away so deeply it would have to crawl out of the gravedirt of his mind to come to the surface.
“You can do better, Can’t you? Astarion ?” It’s the mention of his name more than anything that pulls Astarion. Master hardly ever deigns to use it. Astarion has no real use for a name anymore, it’s only Master’s kindness that has let him keep it.
It’s engraved on his collar, all shining and pretty, but it’s just a display. Astarion is no longer the elf he once was, he’s no need for an elven name, but Master is kind and Master has allowed him to keep it, to show it off on his collar and if he’s been good, he’ll even use it. Like now.
Tilting his head, Astarion tries to parse out what he means now. HIs lip is slobbering with saliva and spit and burning crumbs of his tongue, but he doesn’t dare move to wipe it up. Not when Master is smiling at him, all small and pointed.
The buzz of the gala is swarming over him, scents of living blood and perfumes and people filtering in the air like a smog. So many scents and voices drawing out on a crescendoing cacophony; a sea with vicious waves that sends him into a tizzy until Master's voice cuts through and parts the sea with his words.
“Go on, Astarion . Show me the extent of your devotion.” He wags his boot forward.
There doesn’t need to be a command for Astarion to know what this is. What he’s meant to do. A dog is only good for so many things. A creature built off base desires and the need to chase them. He’s meant to fuck the boot, like a mindless dog.
Somehow, despite that, Astarion doesn’t want to do this. His ears prickle as the sounds of the gala circle him, eyes all locked on his pathetic frame. A tremor overtakes him and he hopes it comes off as excitement and not the fear that has bubbled forth.
He can’t, however, stop the whimpering whine from escaping him. A low pant as the task awaiting him is insurmountable.
“Go on, then. Don’t keep us waiting.”
Astarion swallows, bits of his tongue trudging down his throat and he coughs. Hacks up the pieces and stumbles back half a step. Fear has flooded his senses and stirs in his eyes. Not only at the humiliation of such an act, nor the degradation, but the pain of it. Silver tipped shoes have already burned his tongue, he isn’t keen to see how much else of himself he can get burned.
He’d beg and plead if he could. But the words are stifled by command.
Thou shalt not speak unless commanded to.
So the words stay trapped, replaced by the whimpers and yelps of a dog.
Master grows impatient, his boot wagging with impudence. Astarion can’t afford to delay any longer, not if he wishes to keep the boons of this pampered life. Master will punish him for making a fool of him, worse than that, Master may lock him away again until he learns.
The dark. Cold… So dark and small. Astarion shivers, steels himself and crawls back to the boot. He won’t go back. Never.
His cock has laid flaccid all night. He finds no real pleasure from this, only contentment that he will be safe of Master’s ire so long as he’s good. This makes things more difficult as he moves his arms to cling to Master’s leg. Slowly he inches himself up on Master’s leg, nuzzling the knee and licking at the soft silk of his pants.
Trying to evade the silver plated parts of the boot, Astarion settles his cock against Master’s leg. Closing his eyes, Astarion tries to focus on the friction, the warmth of Master against his cold skin and the threat of inadequacy.
Laughably, it’s working and his cock perks, stumbling its way into half hardness.
Unknowable jeers surround him, eyes leering in at his debased display, bus Astarion keeps working, careful to avoid the silver for as long as possible. Humiliation sinks into his core, coating him with shame as his cock rises in pleasure. It gets worse when Master runs his claws through his hair adoringly. It’s so gentle, so nice. So comforting, a soft thrum reverberates from his throat at the contact and he nuzzles into Master more, almost affectionately.
A warble of voices dancing around the air now and a sense of mortification as Astarion realizes he’s hard just from humping a leg. It’s a terrible horrible thing how pleasure has swelled within him despite himself, but even though the disgust, Astarion can’t help but feel a little accomplished.
He’s pleasing Master and he can tell by the soft praises that Master mumbles. He’s doing good. He’s good. So good Master is carding through his hair softly. Then his hands dip lower, pushing on his shoulders to push him down, towards the edge of his boot. Astarion realizes too late and can’t brace before the sting of silver has met flesh.
Instinctively, he tries to flinch away, but Master is holding him steady. “Shhh,” he coos, “you’ve been so good. You’ve earned this,” he says.
Astarion can’t tell if it’s praise or a threat.
It doesn't matter. The point remains. He must continue. And so he grinds down until the tip of the boot melts into his ass and he hisses. It burns on skin but he rides it out, his cock painfully hard now.
The pleasure is systematic, burning and rote, not derived from any real sense of satisfaction. Humiliation and shame burns just as hot as the ecstacy that's pulled from his body.
Astarion doesn't have a choice. He knows that. But as he pushes against Master's boot again, the friction savored by his cock, the degradation buries deep within him. It twists with the need to be good and obey. The pleasure of soft touches from Master and bowls of fresh blood wars with the shame of what he's become.
A dog rutting against his Master in a bid for loyalty. But if a loyal dog gets him luxury, gets him safety from cages and tombs, then Astarion will be the most loyal of hounds.
“See how he enjoys it,” Master praises to the onlookers.
They all gasp and whisper amongst themselves. Astarion can only imagine the vile things they say as their eyes watch him eagerly and their arousal becomes noxious in the air. It doesn’t matter though.
Pleasure mounts, builds in his groin, mixing with the burn and the shame until he’s taken over by pure sensations. Panting, he whines, cock throbbing. He waits. He’s good. He won’t come unless Master has allowed it.
He won’t. He won’t. He won’t.
Master shifts his leg, grazing against his most sensitive parts, silver burning against his cock, and whatever control Astarion had been holding onto falls away. His cock twitches, shame and humiliation pulsing out of him as he comes. His orgasm is ripped out, lasting much too long in intense waves that have him clinging to Master, digging nails in and whining at the overstimulation.
“You’ve made a mess of yourself,” Master says in a tone that’s not altogether unkind. But Astarion knows. He’s messed this up. He wasn’t good.
His body shakes, still riding the high of his orgasm, he can mask the fear for mindless satisfaction.
“You can see how overcome he is by his Master.” He pets Astarion gently before hooking his claws into the scruff of his neck, pulling the collar tightly until Astarion is choking on it as he stares at the cold red eye of Master. “Lick it up, dog.” Master releases him, throwing him to the ground where his spend, sweat, and ashy clumps of tongue litter the floor.
Astarion swallows, his mottled tongue catching in his mouth between fangs and gums. Master’s words hold no compulsion - they don’t need to. He knows what happens if he disobeys. The terms of the collar are simple: obey and he remains the pampered pet, disobey and he’ll be returned to the kennels - the tomb .
The stench of the night is foul as it lingers, arousal and smoldering flesh all caught up in the stench of sweat and heat and the undead. The floor is dusty - not dirty and Astarion lowers himself to the floor until his pretty tag clacks against the marble.
His tongue is thick and dead as he starts licking the floor, cleaning it of the mess he made. It’s gross and pungent, the thick gobs of his spend sticking to his tongue like a layer of slime. Dirt and dust and specks of his burnt tongue dance in his mouth to a putrid tune that has him choking back a gag.
It doesn’t matter and he continues to lick the floor, prostrating himself performatively for Master.
There’s commotion above him, many people speaking at once and hands that lurk too close for comfort, but he can’t make any of it out. All just blurs of sounds and tones that mean nothing to him.
A hand gets too close and brushes his flank. He jerks himself back and lets out something between a growl and yelp before returning to the floor, dutifully cleaning it. The hand doesn’t retract, instead it persists, grabbing his hips and jerking him back. This time the sound he makes is much louder, much more conscious.
“Be good,” Master says and Astarion stills immediately. “These guests have inquired about you all night, don't disappoint me further with your inadequacy. I have staved them off in the hope that you would obey, but here I see your desires have overcome you. You will present yourself and allow them their satisfaction.”
The words sludge through his brain slowly, taking shape in a dawning horror. To give to Master is one thing - the only thing. But to be subjected to anyone … a deep seeded humiliation of scorned pride twists its spindly claws out of the dirt he buried it in so long ago and gnaws at him.
He’s shaking his head before he can even comprehend what’s happening. It’s a mistake when Master grabs him by the collar and pulls him up to face him. Malicious, empty eyes glare at him with nothing but hatred and disgust.
Astarion cows at the sight, turns his eyes to the ground. He can’t face the shame of his disobedience. The humiliation of his failure.
“Do you defy me? Cur? After everything I’ve done for you and your pathetic existence, given you something worth groveling over. You repay my kindness with your ineptness?” The words are cold and clear, ringing in his head loudly.
Astarion just whimpers and shakes his head, wincing as the skin of his neck bites into the leather of the collar, rubbing raw skin harshly. He coughs when he’s released.
“As I thought. Now be good, let my guests have their way and you will be rewarded.”
Astarion just nods. This is fine. It’s good actually. Because Master is giving him a chance to prove himself, to be better. To earn the collar he was gifted. He will show his worthiness of Master’s favor. He won’t go back to the dark.
Astarion does his best to present himself. He bows and becomes pliant for their wandering hands. Lets himself be tugged to their desire, however they want him. When they pry his mouth open he lets his tongue hang out and gives them access to whatever they want.
They are not kind in their desires. They take and take and pull and tug and grab at whatever they can, until he’s pulled apart and used to their whims.
One wants to take him in the mouth and Astarion lets it happen, opens his jaws and swallows when the man is finished. Someone else pulls his hips up to have better access to his hole; Astarion wheezes around the cock in his mouth when they enter him, but is able to redeem himself with a whine and let them take him. Another wishes to pull at his collar - he hates that, but then they’re looking at the tag and calling him ‘ Astarion’ - it's the one word he can parse out through all the gibberish - and he does so like to hear his name; he preens despite himself.
He doesn’t have a tail to wag so he wiggles his ass in anticipation instead. They like that. They murmur things lost on him. A jumble of words that might be praises or insults. It doesn't matter. Not when they say his name . Praise, shame, insult, pride, it all falls away in the sensory overload that encompasses him when they decide that one at a time isn’t enough.
It hurts, the pain is nothing like the pleasure of Master. They take and grab and pinch. They mumble derogatories in languages not meant for the likes of him. When they pull their satisfaction out, they wring him dry of it. Astarion wants to plead, and beg - beg if he could, or whine and cry for forgiveness. But he simply swallows the fears and takes what the guests give.
Master deigned him their party favor and he cannot disappoint further. He's already gathered pleasure where he shouldn't have and this is his punishment. Master's cold eyes glare at him in disgust. It's punishment, he's sure, and he can take it. He will take it.
His mind starts to drift, and he thinks vaguely that he shouldn’t. That it would be bad behavior, but then someone’s jammed something in his already full hole and pain howls from his throat until he’s dragged his sense away and let his body become nothing but flesh to be molded.
It’s not until hours later when he comes to. He’s on a lap, soft silk beneath him with flesh that’s warmed by fresh blood. The scent is everywhere. It overwhelms him, even if hunger isn’t as fierce a competitor of his mind anymore. Blinking, Astarion lifts his head, to find it heavy and drowsy.
Everything is all fuzzy. And blurry. HIs body aches in a way he’s both entirely too used to and a fresh agony all the same. He doesn’t dare try to move his limbs, instead, he floats in the inbetween, where he is on a soft lap and there is a hand petting his hair and his body is not his own and so the pain is not his either. Only the soft, careful petting, the gentle caress of his face.
“Are you awake at last, dear pet?” Master calls, stilling his hand at the base of Astarion’s neck, right where his collar fits snugly.
Not wanting to face the reality of what’s happened quite yet, Astarion lets out a stiffened moan and nuzzles into Master’s hand further, seeking the gentleness.
But Master does not wish to dally, he tugs the collar and pulls Astarion up. The scent of blood is thick and heavy, overpowering now and Astarion takes in his surroundings.
They’re still in the ballroom, but where marble had glowed pristine, it is splattered with bloodshed. A macabre scene dressing the room in red. Blood red.
Bodies lay in waste, already rotting away, blood drooling out of their corpses. Astarion swallows. There must be a dozen bodies, men and women all dressed for a gala that was only ever a dinner for Master. But, why? Master holds parties with important people, politicos and the nobles. He doesn’t kill them.
“You look confused,” Master says, beckoning Astarion’s attention. “Of course, my poor mutt can’t decipher even the simplest of mysteries. But, you have been good, haven’t you? You let these imbeciles defile you all because I asked. And for that, I will grant you the privilege of licking their corpses clean.”
Astarion doesn’t understand it. None of it makes sense. He can only look at Master in confusion, tilt his head and wait for understanding.
“Are you really so dull as to think I’d let any commoner touch you? My precious pet . No. A lesson needed to be taught and you took it well. The moment they laid a hand on you they were always going to die. You're mine, pet. You just needed to be reminded how kind a Master I am compared to these pathetic ingrates.” Master gestures to the bodies, splayed out with their insides gored out.
Trails of organs lead out from victim to victim. Red and black viscera lies in pungent puddles. White marble peeks out from the layer of blood, a haunting dissonance between cleanliness and destruction. Hunger gnaws now, tearing at him to lick up the blood, To take it all. He needs it.
“Are you hungry, pet?” Master asks.
All Astarion can do is look up with vacant eyes. The smell of blood, not entirely fresh, but thinking creature, a decadence he's never had, is strong. Is this a trick? It must be. Astarion is made for rats' blood, to be lapped up in a bowl, not thinking creature, not people's blood. But still, the thought of food. He wants it, needs it. He doesn’t remember when he last fed, only that it wasn’t enough.
Whining, Astarion looks to Master, want and need crawling into his features.
Master gently pets his head, runs claws through the soft curls, tugging at them.
“If you can be good for me, I shall allow you to feast on those who defiled you. A banquet for my beloved pet. Can you be good?” Master continues to pet Astarion.
Astarion nods his head, gives a little whine from the back of his throat that he knows Master likes to hear.
Slowly, Astarion closes his eyes and leans into the touch. He likes it when Master is kind. It reminds him that he was right to give in all those years ago. This is good. This is where he belongs.
Master's touch moves to his ears, soft and feather-like. It sparks arousal in his belly. The long, slow touches down the length of his ears has him keening softly in the back of his throat. Then the touch is gone, moved to his collar.
Master adjusts the collar, tightens it a notch, so that it hugs his skin and just barely chokes him. It's unpleasant, but Astarion knows better than to whine.
“There. A much better fit, don't you agree, pet?”
Astarion nods even as the leather bites into him with every movement.
Master moves his attention back to Astarion's ears. He likes that, it feels good, so good. And he's leaning into it. The hands rub along the shell and tuck stray curls behind them. The ministrations are so kind and gentle and feel so so good. Astarion can't help but close his eyes, lean in and pant in ecstacy at it. His cock has already started to twitch from pleasure.
All too quickly, the soft touch becomes a harsh pinch. Cruel and mean, Master twists his ear, eliciting a yelp.
The whine in his throat grows as Master claws at his ears, turning pleasure to pain.
“You make such sweet sounds, pet. How I could savor your screams for decades.” Master continues for a while, switching between gentle pleasure seeking strokes and harsh cruel tugs. He pets his cheek and strokes his jawline then moves lower, down the spine of his back. Eventually Master's hands find their way to Astarion's cock, which is twitching in excitement.
Master squeezes his balls, twisting them in casual indifference. His touch is not gentle, but not cruel either, and he strokes Astarion to full hardness. Until his tip is beading with precum.
Astarion whines more, keens into the pleasure of it, rutting into Master, digging his hands into Master's shoulder.
“Will you be good for me, pet?” Master asks, his hand squeezing his cock.
Fervently, Astarion nods. Master hardly ever grants him pleasure. Not like this, not with his hand. He can’t squander the moment with the recess feelings of disgust that linger still. Master is good; Master is kind; he can’t afford to think about anything else.
Master continues his strokes, giving Astarion attention in all areas. HIs cock starts to ache from the building pressure, and Master has continued stroking his ears, the sensation clawing its way through him. So much, so good. Astarion bucks his hips up, chasing the feeling. It’s building up, arousal pooling in his groin, swelling in his balls until he’s at his peak.
Astarion doesn’t know if he’s allowed to climax, but Master hasn’t stopped stroking and tugging at his cock. HIs fingers rub the tip and Astarion shudders. He’s going to come. It’s burning, building, rising and he’s whimpering, whining. He’s going to—
Master grips his cock tightly, cutting off the flow. He holds it, holds it until it hurts.
Frustration paints itself on Astarion's face, a whining keen escaping his lips. He nuzzles into Master, hoping for relief but taking whatever Master gives. Pleasure starts to curdle in him as Master doesn’t let up his grip.
“So eager and needy. My pet can’t be satiated, but you know better than to gain pleasure before your Master, don’t you?”
Understanding washes over Astarion and he’s quick to nod and readjust. Master doesn’t release his cock and Astarion whines. He can’t please Master this way, he’s trapped. His hands paw at Master, a risk, but he needs Master to let go before he can pleasure him.
“Can I trust you, pet, to not release yourself before I have been satisfied? You’ve been inadequate as of late, perhaps you need help?” Master asks, still holding his cock at its base.
Astarion just whines, nodding. It hurts, and pleasure has pushed against pain but his arousal has not flagged. It’s cemented in him. He'll be good and if Master is offering help, all the better.
Master nods, eyes gleaming and releases Astarion’s appendage. Somehow, it’s still hard and aching, despite the pain that now roils within it as well. Master readjusts and pulls something from his sleeve. It’s small and shines dully - a ring, but too big for his finger. A cock ring, then.
Astarion cocks his head as Master holds it out for Astarion to take.
“Go on, put it on.”
Astarion takes it and holds it for a second, feeling the cold weight of it before he’s brought back to himself. He has much experience with this - Master denies his release often enough for the act of squeezing it on to be mechanical. It sits uncomfortably at the base of his cock, holding him stiff and aching, but denying any satisfaction he could gain. He wriggles his hips to get used to the sensation, scowling at the coldness of it. He doesn’t like this, the sensation, the degradation of being collared twice over. Long dead pride has the audacity to play undead and come back to haunt him now.
“Are you unsatisfied, pet? Would you rather go back to the kennels—”
Astarion steels himself, shaking his head and bringing his mind back to reality. To Master. With the cock ring fit snugly, denying him release, Astarion can focus on Master and his pleasure.
Obediently, he crawls off Master and situates himself between his legs. Master allows him, but doesn’t remove his breeches. No, he wants Astarion to do it. And Astarion does, he undoes the belt and frees Master’s cock.
Master is not too terribly big, but he is thick and only half hard now. His tip is pink, blushing from all the blood he feasted on earlier.
Astarion swallows expectantly. Sucking cock is an art he has long since mastered. He knows this because Master often comments on his skill. He cannot disappoint tonight. He moves slowly, letting his tongue, which has mostly healed, lick at the tip before taking him in full. He’s careful not to let his fangs clip Master as he works him up, sucking and licking, moving his hands to play with Master’s balls.
He’s rewarded with a contented sigh from Master and continues. Master grows hard in him and Astarion sucks more fervently, taking him in deeper, all the way to the base. HIs own cock throbs with expectation, but is kept in line by the cock ring.
It goes on for some time, with Astarion twisting his lips and turning his tongue over the cold flesh warmed by blood. Precum has dribbled from Master’s tip and lays salty on his tongue, but Astarion dutifully swallows that.
It’s not long until Master had gripped his head and pulled him in, forcing more cock down his throat. Master holds him there as his hips jerk forward and he’s climaxing, a pulsing wave of come pushing down his throat. Astarion does his best to swallow all of that too.
When Master is done he yanks Astarion back without consideration. Astarion coughs and licks his lips clean. His throat swells against the now too tight collar and leaves him gasping for breath he doesn’t need.
“Adequate, pet,” Master sighs and it’s all the praise Astarion needs for more arousal to build against the cock ring. He’s aching and aching, and hungry. The thought of possible blood has him bleary eyed and dazed. He pants too, from all the sensations wracking against him.
Master pats him on the head, moving his claws through hair then down to grip his chin. His eyes roam over Astarion’s features, taking in the wide eyes, intelligence lost to the throes of obedience, and his collar, tight and secure around slim neck. His cock, throbbing painfully in need of release.
“You’ve earned a reward.”
Astarion whines, properly whines, like the dog in heat he is. He aches and he hungers. Need for satiation wrings itself dry in his mouth and he looks up to Master, pleading, to be rewarded. To be given release, to be allowed to feast on the festering blood of the victims around the ballroom.
“Greedy, greedy pet. I am merciful, but a good pet exhibits restraint. You may choose one. Your hunger or release. Not both,” Master chides him for his eagerness.
Astarion swallows slowly, chagrined at his pathetic display. His throat bobs against the tight collar. He’s so hungry. If he doesn’t take blood now he doesn’t know when Master will decide he’s earned it again. But even with that, his cock aches painfully. It’s an impossible choice. He can’t choose.
It’s too much thought. He shakes his head and whines, bows and nudges at Master’s boots, not even caring for the sting of silver against his cheek. He doesn’t know. Doesn’t know what he needs. Not anymore.
Astarion was once a proud elf, he thinks. Every once in a while there is a stirring deep within him that defies the collar and what he’s become. He knows he doesn’t like it. It sits coldly at his center. Something screaming to defy, to run, to be free. He knows that is his core. It’s drowned out now.
But… Astarion is no longer that proud elf, not even an elf. He’s shed that skin and all the suffering it couldn’t handle. Being Master’s pet is better. If the alternative is the kennels, is unending pain and suffering, then this is better.
Master has asked him to choose. But Astarion doesn’t have an answer. There isn’t one. He can’t make decisions. He’s Master’s and so he does only what Master tells him. The only thing Astarion can do is crawl at Master’s feet and curl in on himself, let the waves of agony wash over and wait for Master to tell him which reward he’s earned.