Work Text:
The Szarr Palace Hotel
09:06 PM PST | February 13th, 2021
Dalyria steps in front of him and pretends to adjust his bunny ears. “Don’t look now,” she whispers. “But that tall Asian guy is staring at you.” Astarion immediately looks over his shoulder. “I said don’t look!”
Astarion locks eyes with a dark-haired man across the crowded ballroom. He’s very, very handsome. Astarion quickly turns back to Dalyria. “He’s hot.”
“I know,” she says. “He took a canapé off my tray earlier and I nearly fainted.” She leans in, conspiratorial. “And he probably has money.”
Astarion rolls his eyes. “Everyone here has money, Dal.” At least, one of them has enough money to demand that the waitstaff arrive dressed as Playboy Bunnies. Working for a high-end catering company in Los Angeles has its downsides.
“I know, but look at how he’s dressed.”
Astarion sneaks another peek at the man. Dalyria has a point. A simple tux, well-fitted, subtle. He isn’t dressed like he has something to prove. Others showed up to the gala in ostentatious gowns and silk suits. The only outward display of opulence on this man is a single ruby earring, sparkling bright red in the light bouncing off a disco ball.
“Hm.” Astarion considers it. “He’s either broke and trying to hide it or he’s too rich to care.”
“My money’s on the second one,” Dalyria says. “Go offer him champagne.”
Astarion doesn’t like being told what to do. But the man is attractive and he’s at least wealthy enough to attend this event and Astarion’s pretty sure that ruby earring is on the gay ear.
“Fine,” Astarion whispers. “But you’re paying for In-and-Out when we get off.”
“Go,” Dalyria hisses. She turns on her stiletto and struts in the other direction. Astarion rolls his eyes. His own heels clack on the ballroom floor as he makes his way to the handsome stranger. The man’s eyes are trained on him. It’s more than a little unnerving. But Astarion presses on.
”Champagne, sir?” Astarion offers his tray when he reaches the man’s side. He’s even more beautiful up close. Dark, dramatic make-up accentuates red eyes that put his earring to shame. It has to be a trick of the light.
“Thank you.” The man carefully takes a champagne flute from Astarion’s tray. His painted nails are immaculate. “No need to address me so formally, dear boy. Cazador is fine.”
Astarion manages to keep his composure. “Of course. Cazador.”
“And who might you be?”
Those eyes. They’re definitely red. Is he wearing contacts?
“My name’s Astarion.”
“Astarion. An exceptionally pretty name for that exceptionally pretty face.” Cazador takes a sip of his champagne. “Do you make good use of it?”
Astarion suspects the question is meant to catch him off guard. But he won’t let it throw him. “I model,” he says. “Among other things.”
“Other things.” Cazador sweeps his eyes up and down Astarion’s figure. It makes Astarion feel even more naked than he is already. “How versatile you must be.”
Cazador is playing games. Astarion commands himself to relax—he’s good at games. “I have my talents.” He flashes Cazador a grin, showing off the dazzling white teeth that he’s Crest White-Stripped half to death.
“And yet you’re serving me champagne.” Cazador looks down his nose as though he’s got Astarion cornered. But Astarion isn’t so easily rattled.
“We all start from somewhere,” he says. “How did you get here?”
Cazador smiles. “I have my talents,” he says. “Though perhaps not quite so varied as yours.”
Astarion shrugs, holding Cazador’s gaze. “You pick up all kinds of things in my line of work. Party tricks, fashion tips, life advice.” He pauses, then decides to throw a Hail Mary. “Diseases.”
Cazador laughs, sharp, piercing, and high-pitched. It would be funny were Astarion not moments away from nervous-vomiting all over his shoes. From his breast pocket, Cazador produces a slim, plastic card. A room key. Astarion isn’t sure how he pulled it off, but he must have passed some kind of test.
“Here. Come visit when your tray is empty.” Cazador offers the key between his middle and index fingers. Astarion takes it. “You can show me how versatile you are.”
The card is heavy for plastic. Astarion’s not even sure if that’s what it’s made of. He tucks it into his own ‘breast pocket’ and it slides down his flat chest and sticks in his corset. Cazador laughs again, more subtle this time but just as stark. Astarion pretends to push up his empty bra.
“I’d be delighted,” he says with a wink and a half-curtsy, kicking up a heel as he turns to leave. He doesn’t get more than three steps away before Cazador calls after him.
“Astarion?”
Astarion looks over his shoulder. “Cazador?”
“Do leave the bunny suit on.” Cazador takes another sip of champagne, his unsettling eyes lingering on Astarion’s cottontail. “I’d like to get my money’s worth.”
XXX
site:reddit.com/r/relationship_advice/
06:47 PM CST | April 5th, 2019
My [23M] boyfriend [49M] is really into the occult and it’s starting to freak me out.
(self.relationship_advice) | submitted five hours ago by /u/throwrahd1234
For some background, my boyfriend is an artist. We met in a figure drawing class (I was the model and he was the teacher). I recently moved into the big creepy mansion that he lives in. He says he bought it as a “fixer-upper,” but we’ve been together for three years and I’ve never once seen him do any work on it.
He’s had a passing interest in the occult for as long as I’ve known him, but it was always small things like ouija boards and tarot. It started getting weird when he brought home a pitch-black “scrying mirror” and hung it up in his office. He spent several days lighting candles and burning incense and staring into it. Then several more days drawing strange symbols in all of his sketchbooks.
At first I thought maybe he was converting to Wiccanism? But I asked and he told me to mind my own business. He can be a little blunt, so I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But then I came home the next day and he had carved a pentagram into the floor.
Apparently he was using it to communicate with an “archdevil” named “Mephistopheles.” When he told me this, I immediately checked the house from attic to basement for black mold. I didn’t find anything. But since then, his behavior has gotten even more concerning.
We’re both into kink and BDSM, which has never been a point of contention in our relationship before, but he’s pretty much stopped paying attention to my safewords. He made me black out the last time he choked me and he also burned me really bad with some hot wax.
Now he keeps bugging me about scarification. Apparently he wants to carve something into my back. Permanent marks have always been a hard line for me, but it’s like he’s not even listening anymore.
Last night was the final straw. He handed me a list of six people, all couples that we’ve hung out with before, and told me to invite them to “an evening ritual” that he’s going to “perform” this weekend. He didn’t elaborate, and when I pressed him on it, he snapped at me and said some weird bullshit in what sounded like Latin. I genuinely think he was trying to put a hex on me.
Obviously I haven’t contacted these six people. He’s either seriously mentally ill and needs professional help, or he got possessed by a demon and needs an exorcism. Do I stay with him and try to get him the help he needs? Or do I pack up my things and get the fuck out of dodge? I’m going to miss being his muse, but I’m worried that if I stick around any longer, I’m going to be his human sacrifice instead.
XXX
Bloomridge County Police Department
08:09 AM PST | January 26th, 2013
[BEGIN TRANSCRIPTION]
YOUSEN ULDRED: I didn’t like Astarion very much. He was mean to me and he was also kinda racist. To be honest, I was pretty happy when Leon told me he quit the team. I never really noticed when Coach Szarr was being extra hard on him. Coach was hard on all of us. I guess sometimes he singled Astarion out, but I always thought he deserved it. I mean, obviously he didn’t deserve what happened, obviously no one deserves that, but I mean like, I always thought he deserved the extra laps and stuff. He never shut up and he never took volleyball seriously. And he was rude to Coach. I mean, that doesn’t excuse what Coach did, I mean, that’s not what I was saying at all. No, no, I feel really, really bad for him now. It’s really scary, actually, to know that Coach was capable of doing that. And I believe Dalyria. I know that everything is still alleged, but she wouldn’t lie about a thing like that. I mean, she wouldn’t lie in general, but she takes that kind of stuff really seriously. I’m glad it was her that found out. I don’t know if I’d believe it if it was like, Violet. Or Petras.
AURELIA ELINDALE: All of this is so scary. It’s like one of those things that’s only on the news. You always think it’s gonna happen to someone else. I guess it did happen to someone else, but, Astarion was one of us. He was annoying but he was part of the team. That really meant something. Especially since there wasn’t a ton of us to begin with. Like, Coach Szarr scared a lot of people away for sure. He had a bad reputation ‘cuz of how he taught gym. But, I never thought he could do something like this. And I think the scariest part for me, is that it could’ve been any of us. It’s been hard for me to sleep the past couple of days. Like, had Coach Szarr been looking at all of us like that? Or was it just Astarion? I don’t know. That’s what really makes me upset about it. And what happened to Astarion, of course.
PETRAS AUMAR: I never understood why Coach Szarr gave him special attention. He wasn’t even the best player. That’s Leon. He wasn’t the worst player, either, that’s Violet. The crazy thing was, sometimes it seemed like Astarion was his favorite, and other times it seemed like he wanted Astarion to quit the team. I just didn’t understand it. Coach Szarr never cared that much about me. Honestly, sometimes, I was kinda jealous of all the attention Astarion got, even when it was negative. But now I guess I’m glad Coach Szarr ignored me.
VIOLET LIDWIN: I just didn’t know Coach Szarr was gay. Actually, no, I did know Coach Szarr was gay, he’s always been super faggy. Sorry. Can I say that? […] Okay. I just didn’t know that Coach Szarr was a pedo rapist. And can I say something offensive? I’m not surprised it was Astarion. Coach Szarr was, like, obsessed with Astarion. I remember this one time, after gym class, Coach Szarr pulled him aside, and was, like, telling him off for a dress code violation, that his shorts were too short or something? And I’m like, I was wearing a skirt that day, like a really short skirt and Coach Szarr didn’t say anything. But yeah, Coach Szarr marched him back to the boy’s locker room and made him change and made him wear his gym shorts the rest of the day. So embarrassing. It was kinda funny at the time but looking back, do you guys think Coach Szarr, like, touched him back there? Sorry. That’s probably offensive. But yeah, I can tell you, Coach Szarr was obsessed with him in and outside of volleyball, like, yeah, even in regular school. I guess it was worse at practice, though. Coach Szarr used to yell at him all the time. And it was funny, because a lot of times Astarion would just yell back, like, it was really funny, but that just meant he had to run laps at the end of practice and he would always get out later than the rest of us. And, looking back, that’s, like, really fucked up. And I guess that’s when Coach Szarr was touching him. Which is so gross, like, he was doing all that on purpose just so he could, like, have more time with Astarion. And actually, that’s, like, kind of pathetic, right? Like can he not just get a boyfriend? You can tell him I said that. Because it’s fucking lame. Can I swear? […] Okay. It’s also lame that there’s no more volleyball. I guess I could join the girl’s league at the rec, but I really only joined volleyball at school because it was co-ed. And I’m not joining bowling, that’s social suicide. Maybe I’d do it if Astarion joined bowling, too. But I don’t even think he’s gonna come back to school at this point. I wouldn’t, if I was him.
LEON ARKWRIGHT: Astarion wasn’t a bad teammate. He’d miss a couple practices but he never missed a game. He could be mean, but he was also really funny. Sometimes he kept to himself, and other times he wouldn’t shut up. I guess the main thing I’m trying to say is that he wasn’t any better or worse than the rest of us. But Coach was never normal about him. It was weird. I don’t know if anyone else mentioned this or even noticed it, but Coach was always touching him. Constantly. He never adjusted my posture the way he used to adjust Astarion’s. And he was so weird about Astarion’s clothes. When I first met Astarion at the beginning of the season, he would wear these girly short-shorts to practice. And that’s whatever, none of us cared—also, you can’t get dress-coded outside of school. But Coach would, like, touch his legs. And it really didn’t stop when Astarion started wearing longer shorts. I know that’s a really small thing, but I notice that kind of stuff about people. I guess just people on the team, mostly. My thing is, I’m team captain, and that means I should know everything there is to know about my team. I guess it’s just… I didn’t realize that I needed to keep an eye on Coach, too. He was tough and he was weird about certain things, but I trusted him. We all did. I know it’s stupid, but I'm the captain, I’m a senior, and I just feel like I should’ve taken better care of my team. I know next year I’ll be gone and none of it will matter, but, if there’s still volleyball, I hope Astarion comes back. He was a good teammate.
DALYRIA GREY: I wish I hadn’t seen it. I don't know when it started, I don’t know how long it was going on, I just know that I saw it happening to Astarion. And Coach Szarr was the one doing it. I had to go back up to the school after practice that day because I left my homework in my gym locker. On my way to the locker room, I heard a weird sound coming from Coach’s office. So I went to go look. Coach Szarr had Astarion… um. Astarion was face-down. On the desk. Coach Szarr was holding him there and he was bent over him, and… at first I thought he was whispering something in Astarion’s ear. Then he straightened up and… and that’s when I hid. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. I just knew that the longer I waited, the worse it would be for Astarion. So I snuck back out and I ran down the hallway to try and find someone who could help. Thank God Mr. Gandrel was still in his classroom, and thank god he went back to the gym with me and… this is bad, and I never want Astarion to know this, but, thank god it was still happening when we got there. I could tell that Mr. Gandrel didn’t really believe me until he saw it. I just… I feel so, so bad. Like, I guess I’m glad that I was there that day, and I’m glad that Mr. Gandrel called the cops, but… I’m just never gonna forget what it looked like. It was scary. And Astarion won’t talk to me anymore. He doesn’t answer my texts. I don’t know if he’s mad at me, or if he’s embarrassed, or if it’s completely something else, but I think our friendship is over. Which is the worst part. So, honestly, I hope Coach Szarr goes to prison forever. Or falls out of an airplane. Or something like that.
[END TRANSCRIPTION]
XXX
8901 Stormshore Court
02:03 AM EST | September 17th, 2004
A splitting headache. Heavy limbs. Then a dingy room swims into focus. It’s someone’s basement, unfinished, with a concrete floor and rickety stairs in the far corner. It’s cold and he’s sat in a folding chair and his entire head is trapped, boxed in by something large and heavy. Astarion tastes metal. And blood.
Crouched across from him, holding a camcorder and dressed entirely in black, is a man that he’s seen before. He’s a regular. And not one of Astarion’s favorites. Astarion reaches to free himself from the object that cages his head, and his hands recoil at rust and grime. A familiar, nasally voice cuts through the silence.
“You’re awake. Wonderful.” A red light starts blinking. “I’d like to play a game.”
“C—Mmm—!” Astarion regrets trying to speak.
The man, definitely Cazador, (Double Tequila Sunrise, stingy tipper, hasn’t been known to spike drinks but Astarion wouldn’t put it past him and that’s likely how he ended up here considering he’s still in his work clothes), smiles at him in the dark.
“Yes, continuing on with your usual prattle will be quite difficult,” Cazador intones, smarmy and self-satisfied. “You see, the device on your head is hooked into your upper and lower jaws. And when you stand from that chair, a timer will start. If you cannot escape before time is up, your chattering mouth will be permanently ripped open.” Astarion thrashes his head, trying to dislodge the device. He can hardly keep track of what Cazador is saying. It’s nonsense, it’s preposterous. “Don’t struggle. The only way to free yourself—”
“Cazador! What do you think you’re doing?” A blinding light bursts from the top of the stairs and a lilting voice, airy but authoritative, echoes down.
“Gah—!” Cazador drops his camcorder. “Master Vellioth—”
“It’s horribly dark down here.” A naked lightbulb hanging near the stairs switches on.
It provides just enough light to reveal a man wearing ridiculously tight pants and a neatly-pressed white button-up, with a Burberry scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. Long, blonde hair tumbles down his shoulders as he descends the stairs. Astarion’s never seen him before. The man, Master Vellioth, stares at him in mild disgust as he strides across the room. “Get that ridiculous contraption off that poor boy’s head.”
Cazador trembles. “I can’t, the key—”
Vellioth’s disgust turns to disappointment. “Is the key in the stomach of his dead cellmate?” Cazador looks down, guilty. “Honestly, Cazador, would it kill you to have an original thought? Fetch the key.”
Cazador slinks across the floor to the body lying next to Astarion. He drags over a knife and Astarion winces as it scrapes on the concrete. Cazador raises it over his head, then buries it in the dead man’s stomach.
Vellioth looks to the floor and picks up the blinking camcorder. “And what is this? A little home movie? Something to remember the occasion by?” Vellioth holds it up to his eye and trains the camera on Cazador as he slices through soft flesh. “Or was this the beginnings of a snuff film? You do so detest cleaning up after yourself; I can’t imagine you going through the trouble.”
The sickly smell of bile fills the air as Cazador sifts through the man’s intestines. Astarion feels nauseous. He can’t look. He turns his eyes to Vellioth, then immediately wishes he hadn't. Vellioth is holding the camcorder in one hand—filming Cazador with a slimy grin that splits his face in two—and the other is busy below his belt. Astarion blinks and he still sees it. Maybe he should try pinching himself next. Maybe he should try to make a break for it and bolt up the stairs. If only his body would cooperate with his brain.
Cazador emerges from his task with hands doused in red. It’s too late.
“Very good,” Vellioth says. “Now free him.” The camera follows Cazador as he slinks over. Astarion gets a good look at Cazador’s face as he leans in to unlock the device—he never noticed just how dark the circles underneath Cazador’s eyes are. The head-cage rattles as Cazador struggles to get the slippery key into the lock. Astarion isn’t sure who the bigger threat to his safety is—Cazador or Vellioth.
Cazador mutters “Thank God” under his breath as the lock finally clicks open. He releases the device and it breaks into several pieces when it crashes to the floor.
Vellioth shakes his head. “Shoddy craftsmanship. Couldn’t tear the jaw off a toddler.” Vellioth snaps his fingers. “Cazador, to me.” Cazador retreats, sinking to the floor and crawling to Vellioth’s leg. Astarion’s stomach does a flip.
“Naughty, naughty, naughty Cazzie-door,” Vellioth coos. He trains the camera on Cazador’s face and pets his head. Vellioth seems to get lost in thought, gently running his fingers through Cazador’s dark hair and tucking it behind his ears.
Maybe now is the time to make his escape. Astarion flexes his fingers, making sure that all the feeling has returned to his limbs and extremities. This could be his only chance. He takes a deep breath, then slowly rises from his chair.
“You!” Vellioth snaps his attention to Astarion. “Don’t move.” He leaves Cazador and strides over as Astarion shrinks back. “Leave us prematurely and I’ll separate your jaw from the rest of your skull without the use of a rusty old contraption. Do you understand?”
Astarion swallows. “Yes.” His voice is raspy. Cazador waits on his knees, making no effort to extract himself from the situation. He could so easily slip away, dash up the stairs, go get help. But he’s rooted to the spot, staring at Vellioth like Astarion isn’t even there.
“Good.” Vellioth hands over the camcorder. “Make yourself useful and finish Cazador’s movie.” He snaps his fingers once again and Cazador rushes to his side. Vellioth cups Cazador’s chin. “Get his good side and you leave here with your life.”
Astarion’s hands are sweaty as he grips the camera. He has to do this. He can’t die at the hands of a blonde lunatic in a decrepit basement. He brings the viewfinder to his eye.
“Excellent.” Vellioth still hasn't let go of Cazador’s chin. With his other hand, he unzips his impossibly tight pants. Then he guides Cazador’s mouth toward his open fly. Cazador rests his hands on Vellioth’s thighs and Astarion can barely breathe, can hardly process what’s happening right in front of him.
“Go on,” Vellioth says.
Cazador looks into the camera. Or rather, he looks into Astarion. It’s absurd, it’s surreal, it feels made-up. Astarion almost wishes he could help him. Almost. But the eyes currently boring holes into his own inspire no real sympathy. The feeling is much closer to pity—mixed with profound disbelief. And fear. Of Cazador and Vellioth both.
“Don’t get distracted,” Vellioth redirects Cazador’s gaze. “This is your movie, darling.” Vellioth runs his hand along the obscene bulge in his pants, then tugs them down just enough to free his cock. Astarion is impressed, despite himself. It’s like he’s on the set of a gay porn. Cazador takes Vellioth’s cock in his hand and sets his mouth on the tip, Vellioth tosses his hair and his curls cascade down his back, then Cazador closes his eyes and his lips slide down Vellioth’s length. His head bobs back and forth and Vellioth gives a lilting sigh and Astarion somehow manages to keep himself from laughing. Capturing it through the lense of a camera, it feels like such a farce.
Vellioth takes two handfuls of Cazador’s hair and begins to thrust into his mouth. Cazador’s fingers splay and contract on Vellioth’s thighs, drool spills down his chin as he moans and gags on his cock, and Vellioth gasps with pleasure. Astarion can’t tell if all the dramatics are genuine or if Vellioth’s playing it up for the camera or if Cazador’s the one faking it—choking and moaning purely to please his master. Then Vellioth gives a particularly violent thrust into Cazador’s mouth and a deep gag erupts from the back of Cazador’s throat.
“Now, now…” Vellioth soothes, stroking Cazador’s hair. His thrusts slow down but continue just as deep. Cazador sounds like he’s holding back a slew of vomit. Maybe he is. His muffled noises are pained and pathetic. “Don’t be such a drama queen.” Vellioth pinches Cazador’s nose and sheaths his entire length down Cazador’s throat. Astarion grips the camera tighter.
Vellioth’s eyes are practically sparkling with glee and Cazador’s are rolling into the back of his head. Astarion isn’t sure how much more the man can take. Is he about to witness a death by suffocation? Astarion wonders if there’s a more artful way to film this. Will Vellioth be satisfied with the footage? Or is Astarion the next to get snuffed?
Vellioth, apparently bored of this form of torment, releases Cazador’s nose then pushes him away. Long, thick strands of saliva stretch from Cazador’s mouth to Vellioth’s cock. The cloudy line of spit breaks and Vellioth coats his dick with it. The rest sticks to Cazador’s chin.
”That should do nicely,” Vellioth says. He looks down at Cazador, who clutches his chest and takes heaving gulps of air. “Pull it together and present yourself.”
Cazador takes a moment to brace himself on the ground. Astarion follows him with the camera, heart pounding in his throat. Cazador isn’t looking at him. He isn’t looking at anyone. He coughs. Then begins to undo his belt.
“No, not there. I’d like our cameraman to get a better angle,” Vellioth says.
Astarion clears his throat. “Um—”
“Silence!” Vellioth snaps. “Sit up straight.”
Astarion obeys him without thinking. It’s like a metal rod is jammed down his spine. Vellioth points to a spot on the floor just before Astarion’s feet. Cazador makes his way there on his hands and knees.
“Yes, yes, very good… Prop yourself up, we want to see your beautiful face.” Cazador, shaking with emotions unidentifiable, braces his hands on Astarion’s knees. “There’s a good boy.”
Cazador is far too close. Astarion has to lean back quite a way to get all of him in frame. But he doesn’t dare speak up. And he tries to avoid the look in Cazador’s eyes. Not faraway, not resigned to his fate. But full of anger.
Vellioth steps behind Cazador and strokes his hair. “Oh, he’s ready for his close-up, isn’t he?” His fingers trail down Cazador’s back. “Precious.” They hook into Cazador’s belt loops and Vellioth yanks down his pants. Astarion does his best to capture it all. Vellioth’s hands travel back up Cazador’s body and lightly trace his neck—then his touch turns violent as he hooks his fingers into Cazador’s mouth. “Smile for the camera, darling,” Vellioth says, pulling the corners of his mouth into a crude smile. Cazador drools. Vellioth coats his fingers in the sloppy mess. “Wonderful.”
Astarion knows what’s about to happen. He also knows that using saliva as lube is a stupid idea and it hurts like hell. Though if Vellioth is rough enough, the bleeding will help. Cazador’s eyes screw shut and he bites down on his lip as Vellioth forces those barely-lubricated fingers up his ass.
“Naughty, naughty Cazzie-door,” Vellioth whispers as he stretches Cazador out. “Thought you’d bring yourself home a little treat? Something sweet just for you?” Astarion’s breath catches. Vellioth is talking about him. “When will you learn that bad little boys like you don’t deserve pretty little treats like that?”
He finishes the thought with a hard slap to Cazador’s ass. Cazador’s eyes fly open and he grips the fabric of Astarion’s work pants as Vellioth lines himself up.
Astarion isn’t sure if he should be filming Cazador’s face or Vellioth’s dick. He pans up to Vellioth, who tosses his long, blonde curls over his shoulder and throws Astarion a dazzling smile. It’s hypnotizing.
“Hold tight, darling!” Vellioth grabs Cazador’s hips and rams into his ass. Cazador cries out, white-knuckling Astarion’s pants. “Oh, the drama!” Vellioth mocks him as he thrusts inside Cazador again, inspiring another cry. “Don’t let me down, cameraman, get his good side!”
Astarion pans back down to Cazador. There is so much hatred in his eyes, and it’s all directed at Astarion. But it’s not Astarion’s fault, Cazador knows that, he has to, doesn’t he? Astarion keeps filming, capturing Cazador’s pain, watching him suffer through the viewfinder as his stare hardens to steel. Thank god for the camera. Astarion thinks he’d disintegrate if he had to meet Cazador eye-to-eye.
Cazador suddenly lets out a tortured moan, high-pitched and pathetic, and Vellioth starts laughing. He doesn’t follow it up with any of his flowery words, he just laughs and laughs as he pounds inside Cazador. It’s a dark, rich cackle that reverberates off the dingy basement walls and surrounds the three of them entirely, boxing them all into this nightmarish pocket of frozen time.
Cazador eventually runs out of cries and moans. Vellioth finishes once he gets bored. Astarion stops the recording after Vellioth pulls out, and Cazador collapses. Astarion sits there, in the uncomfortable folding chair, with a sweaty camcorder in his hands and his least-favorite regular in his lap. He looks up at Vellioth.
Vellioth zips up his pants. “What?” He adjusts his scarf. “You want a turn?” Astarion’s stomach drops. Vellioth smiles. “It’s a joke, darling. Where is it that you work, again?”
“Elfsong,” Astarion says, finding his voice. “It’s a—”
“A bar, I know. Cazador is quite fond of you,” Vellioth says. “But, no matter. I’ll see to it that he never sets foot there again.” He examines his nails. “Just be a dear and don’t snitch, hm? You’d hate to star in the next one.”
Astarion wordlessly holds out the camcorder. Vellioth takes it. Cazador is still slumped over in Astarion’s lap, clutching him for dear life. Keeping him in that chair. Astarion looks down at Cazador, then looks back up at Vellioth.
Vellioth frowns. “I’m giving you the opportunity to leave. Take it.”
Astarion pushes Cazador off his lap and Cazador whimpers when he hits the ground. Without so much as another glance at Vellioth, Astarion gets up and practically leaps over Cazador’s body on his way toward the rickety stairs. As he races up the steps he hopes, he prays, that Vellioth will keep his word. That he’ll never see Cazador again. But something in the back of his mind tells him that this isn’t over.
XXX
The Society of Brilliance Podcast, EP 23
02:38 PM CST | July 25th, 2016
HAVKELAAG: Thank you for sitting down with me. Yours is quite the special case indeed. What were you doing at the time of the abduction?
SZARR: We were making macaroni and cheese.
ANCUNIN: I was making macaroni and cheese. You were micromanaging my kitchen.
SZARR: Your kitchen? And who paid for that kitchen, hm? Is it really yours?
HAVKELAAG: You got abducted in your kitchen?
ANCUNIN: No.
SZARR: No, we had a little spat, then Astarion stormed out of the house and into the backyard like a petulant child.
ANCUNIN: Please, I just needed some air. You didn’t have to follow me.
SZARR: You were upset. I had to make you see reason.
HAVKELAAG: So, you got abducted in the backyard?
ANCUNIN: Yes.
SZARR: Precisely.
HAVKELAAG: Did you get beamed up? Teleported? Zapped?
ANCUNIN: Nothing so dramatic. Everything just went black and we woke up on exam tables.
HAVKELAAG: Were you restrained?
SZARR: Not by any physical means.
ANCUNIN: But we couldn’t move, it was like some invisible force was keeping us bound to the tables.
HAVKELAAG: What did the room look like?
SZARR: Pristine. All white, very well-kept, appliances sparkling. Quite the turnaround from Astarion’s kitchen.
ANCUNIN: I’m sorry, I thought it was your kitchen?
HAVKELAAG: What sort of appliances?
SZARR: Medical equipment.
ANCUNIN: All kinds of stuff. Ventilators, IV bags, syringes, vials, and these strange silver tools.
SZARR: They wheeled in a cart with more of the same.
HAVKELAAG: The aliens?
SZARR: Yes. Quite a few of them.
HAVKELAAG: What happened once they entered the room? What did they do to you?
ANCUNIN: Cazador got anally probed.
SZARR: Astarion!
ANCUNIN: What? You want me to lie?
SZARR: You were anally probed, too.
ANCUNIN: I was getting to that. You got it first.
HAVKELAAG: When you say “anally-probed—”
ANCUNIN: We were both naked. You could see Cazador’s whole sunburn all down his back.
SZARR: Uncalled-for. I could see your sunburn, too. And don’t forget whose pool you were lounging beside when you got it.
ANCUNIN: Ugh, anyway. The aliens surrounded us and put these long metal rods in our asses and started taking notes. Every so often they’d adjust one.
SZARR: And you would moan like a cheap whore.
ANCUNIN: I moan like an expensive whore, thank you.
HAVKELAAG: It’s very brave of you to share this with us. Was there anything else you remember?
ANCUNIN: The anal probing was really what stood out.
HAVKELAAG: Do you at least remember what the aliens looked like?
SZARR: They looked like aliens.
ANCUNIN: They had these huge heads, and big eyes, with pale skin and flat noses, and skinny limbs. And long fingers, too.
HAVKELAAG: Greys.
SZARR: What?
ANCUNIN: Oh, right! Yes, they were greys. That’s what UFO hunters call little green men, Cazzie-door.
SZARR: You know I don’t like it when you call me that in public.
HAVKELAAG: Did they speak at all?
ANCUNIN: They spoke amongst themselves. Just weird, garbled noises like static.
HAVKELAAG: Fascinating. And how did you escape?
SZARR: We didn’t.
ANCUNIN: We both passed out and woke up naked in bed. I have no idea where our clothes are and I’m still pissed about it.
SZARR: I keep telling you, I will buy you a new pair of Lululemons.
ANCUNIN: I don’t want a new pair of Lululemons, I want my pair of Lululemons.
HAVKELAAG: Is there anything else you remember about the Greys?
SZARR: I’m trying to forget.
ANCUNIN: Don’t be a poor sport. But no, we don’t remember anything more.
HAVKELAAG: You have my contact information if you make any new discoveries. Thank you for taking the time to talk to us.
SZARR: Don’t thank me, I was lured here under false pretenses. Astarion told me you worked for Vogue.
ANCUNIN: You’re welcome, darling.
XXX
site:reddit.com/r/offmychest/
04:48 AM PST | October 23rd, 2010
I got raped at Comic Con
(self.offmychest) | submitted two hours ago by /u/throwawaydelioncourt00
Last year, I went to Comic Con alone. Which was my first mistake, I admit. I was cosplaying Lestat from Interview with the Vampire. My second mistake I guess. But I like vampires. I was in line for a panel when I got approached by this dude dressed up like stereotypical Dracula. Like a Nosferatu cosplay. Wearing a fake pair of plastic fangs, even. It gave him a lisp. He asked me if I wanted to step out for a cigarette. I said yes—I didn’t really care about the panel much anyway. And there was something about the guy. He was compelling. So I followed him out of the convention, like an idiot, and he took me way far away. It was this dirty alley behind the convention with a dumpster and everything. We were completely out of sight, away from everyone. Then he pushed me up against the wall. At first I thought he was trying to rob me.
I still remember his lispy voice in my ear. He told me that he’d been seeing me all over the convention floor and how beautiful he thought I was. He’d been stalking me around the con all day and I hadn’t even noticed. I just felt so stupid. And it hurt so bad. I guess that’s obvious, but also my arm was twisted and my legs were bent weird and the side of my face got scraped on the bricks.
The worst part was when he started laughing. Like it was funny to him, like he was playing a prank on me. He had the most obnoxious, high-pitched laugh. It’s crazy that no one heard us. At one point I tried to scream for help but he stuck his fingers in my mouth. I wish I had bit them off but I was too scared. And when he was done, he just left me there. He swished away in his stupid black cape. I never saw him again. He could’ve turned into a bat for all I know. After that, I threw my badge in the dumpster and I took the subway home. Which was the longest subway ride of my life because it hurt so bad to sit down.
I can’t stop thinking about it but I haven’t told my parents or my friends or even the person I was supposed to go with. I think I’m just worried they’ll laugh at me too.
XXX
5378 Rivington Pike
12:26 AM EST| May 12th, 2023
Astarion isn’t sure what crime he committed in a past life to deserve this shift at this Speedway with this assistant manager, but it must have been something heinous. Clocking in when Cazador is on the schedule is like walking barefoot into a spike trap. Cazador the Avid, Cazador the petty and vindictive and the monstrous.
Today’s not all bad, though. Because today, Cazador is wearing a hairnet. Not of his own volition, of course. But because Astarion’s hero, Vellioth the Manager, is here to prep the store for inspection. And he showed up at midnight, the best possible time for him to show up, because it pisses Cazador off the most. There’s no reason for him to be here so late, Cazador always says, he’ll be here tomorrow morning anyway, why can’t he just clock in when I clock out, doesn’t he sleep?
Astarion doesn’t think Vellioth sleeps. He’s never without a can of Ultra Strawberry Dreams Monster in hand, or a Venti Brown Sugar Oat Milk Shaken Espresso from the Starbucks several miles down the road. That’s the other thing about this Speedway. It exists in a realm all its own. Caught between the outskirts of two towns, it’s not quite a rest stop on a busy road, much closer to a gas station in the middle of nowhere. It has no business being open 24 hours. But it is open 24 hours, both the store and the cafe so there are always two people working, even on third shift. It’s never quite so bad when it’s Violet or Leon, but Cazador is always determined to make Astarion’s life a living hell.
But not today. No, today, Cazador is cleaning and refilling the soda machine, with its endless nooks and crannies and tangled mess of sticky tubes. Vellioth is there with him, breathing down his neck and criticizing his every decision. Vellioth with his long blonde hair, sparkly lipgloss, and bedazzled nametag that he’s written “Manager” on with pink chalk marker. It’s the little things that really piss Cazador off. Who does he think he is, bedazzling his nametag? I don’t need to write anything on mine to prove my authority. Everyone knows from the minute I walk in that I’m the one in charge.
“Cazador, you simpleton!” Vellioth’s honey-sweet voice sounds out from behind the soda machine. “That one’s for Dr. Pepper, not Sprite! Do you have eyes that can’t see? Or are you just stupid? We don’t hire special-needs charity cases here, I don’t know how you slipped through the cracks.”
Astarion has to bite his knuckle to keep from laughing out loud. He busies himself with his broom and dustpan instead. Vellioth emerges from the soda fountain after a few more insults and nitpicks and carefully-placed barbs. Astarion looks up, and Vellioth smiles at him when their eyes meet. Then he glances back at Cazador.
“See, why can’t you be more like Astarion? He’s always working hard.” Vellioth strides over, pinky-out as he clutches his can of Monster. “Aren’t you, little star?” Vellioth pinches his cheek. Astarion flushes. Vellioth is touchy. Astarion would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy it—even if it makes Cazador call him a slut. “I must be off. Do tell Cazador to dip donuts before he clocks out? I need them nice and fresh for tomorrow.”
“Sure thing,” Astarion says. Vellioth puts a hand on his shoulder.
“That’s a good boy.” He squeezes, affectionate. It makes Astarion feel warm and fuzzy. “Keep being you.” Vellioth boops him on the nose, then swiftly exits through the sliding doors. Astarion watches him leave. Vellioth has an ethereal air to him, like he’s a fae creature visiting from another realm. Here solely to cause problems and start drama and boop noses. Astarion isn’t sure if he wants him or if he wants to be him. Maybe a little bit of both.
“Whore.” Cazador appears behind him.
Astarion rolls his eyes and looks over his shoulder. “What do you want, Cazador?”
“You to do your job,” Cazador sneers. “Quit gawking and keep sweeping.”
Astarion doesn’t respond. He just moves to the next aisle. Cazador rips off his hairnet and stuffs it in his pocket before returning to his post at the cafe counter—surely to plot his next move. That’s the only thing about a surprise visit from Vellioth. Cazador always takes it out on Astarion afterward.
Usually it’s not that bad. He’ll make him rearrange boxes in the back or go outside and do the trash at the pumps. Once in a while though, he’ll cook up something truly heinous. Like telling Astarion to restock the walk-in after Cazador knowingly scrubbed the shelves with bleach. And then locked him inside with the fumes for the better part of an hour. To this day, Astarion still thinks that Cazador was trying to kill him.
Astarion checks his watch. Four more hours and then he can go home. He feels Cazador’s eyes on him as he heads to the back to grab a few sleeves of slushie cups. No one’s opened up the new box yet, so Astarion has to pull it down from the shelf and slice it open with his box cutter and grab all the cups he needs and then put the box back up and god he just wants to go home.
When Astarion emerges from the back, Cazador is waiting for him at the slushie machine. Astarion doesn’t say anything. But he knows the after-Vellioth power trip is about to start. Astarion sets a few cup sleeves on the counter and gets out his box cutter again, just to piss Cazador off. You don’t need to use that for everything, just rip the plastic with your hands, stop playing with knives like a psycho.
”Astarion,” Cazador starts.
Astarion doesn’t even look over his shoulder. “What?”
“You know your watch looks gay,” Cazador says.
Astarion blinks. He turns full around, sleeve of cups in one hand and box cutter in the other. “Excuse me?”
“Your watch.” Cazador points. “It’s too big for your wrist. It makes you look gay.”
Astarion takes a deep breath, gathering all the courage he can muster. “That is a categorically insane thing to say. Do you not realize that is a categorically insane thing to say?”
“I can say what I want. I’m above you.” Cazador crosses his arms. “Clean the bathrooms.”
“I’ve cleaned them already.”
”Touch them up, it’s been an hour.”
Astarion grits his teeth. Then he says, “In that hour, we’ve had one customer. They bought a bag of hot cheetos, and then they left. They did not cross the threshold of those bathrooms.”
”You can’t talk to me like that, I’m your manager.”
Astarion isn’t backing down. ”Vellioth is my manager. Not you. And now that you’ve told me that my watch makes me look gay. I could easily report you for harassment.”
Cazador scoffs. “He wouldn’t believe you.”
Astarion cocks his head to the side. “Actually, I think he would. He’d jump at the chance to fire you for workplace sexual harassment.”
“Workplace sexual harassment?” Cazador grabs hold of the cup sleeve and leans in far too close. “I’m not sure I’d go that far,” he whispers. They’re face-to-face. Astarion entertains a brief fantasy of biting Cazador’s nose off. ”I haven’t even touched you.”
Astarion’s heart jumps into his throat. “I could tell him you did. We both know he’d believe that.”
“Well.” Cazador takes the sleeve of cups from him. “Since you’re so set on ruining my life.” Cazador flings the sleeve into the shelves behind them, knocking several bags of chips onto the floor. “Maybe I should just do it.” Cazador is right in front of him, towering over him. And then, like a cartoon villain, Cazador places his finger underneath Astarion’s chin and tilts it up. “Spare you the lie, hm?”
Before Astarion can react, Cazador’s unnaturally sharp teeth pierce his bottom lip. Astarion struggles, but Cazador grabs his hips and yanks him close.
“Hold still,” Cazador hisses. “You’re only making this worse for yourself.” One of Cazador’s filthy hands digs into Astarion’s waist, the other cups his ass, and Astarion thrusts the box cutter into Cazador’s torso. “Ow!” Cazador jumps back.
Something strange comes over Astarion. Like a boiling pot finally spilled over. Instead of seizing the opportunity to run, Astarion comes after him. He shoves the box cutter into Cazador’s flesh, over and over and over again—sickening, relentless—crimson blooms underneath Cazador’s blue polo and soaks it a deep purple and he screams. He screams so sweetly for Astarion.
“Stop!” Cazador shrieks. “Stop, stop!”
Astarion doesn’t listen, instead he braces himself on Cazador’s shoulder to thrust the blade in deeper. He shoves Cazador into the shelves, and the fallen bags of chips pop and burst underneath his feet.
“No, stop, you can’t—” Cazador moans, broken and pitiful. “Astarion—” He weakly reaches out, trying to grab hold of Astarion’s shirt. “Please—” Astarion slashes a bloody line across Cazador’s chest. “Astarion!” He wheezes.
Astarion looks him in the eye. He’s never seen someone beg for their life before. It’s an enchanting sight. But if he waits much longer, Cazador is sure to gather his wits. Maybe if he says please one more time. Astarion holds the tip of his blade to the side of Cazador’s neck.
“Don't. You. Dare,” Cazador hisses.
Astarion slits Cazador’s throat. Blood sprays from the wound and splatters Astarion’s face. He smells iron and tastes metal, he hears Cazador’s final breath gurgle up his throat, and he sees thick, syrupy strands of blood drain from his open mouth.
Astarion takes a step back and Cazador’s body crumples to the floor. Amid the open bags of chips and the dust bunnies and the spat-out gum. Astarion is silent for a moment, processing. Staring. Taking it all in.
Then he giggles. Is this what becomes of the great Cazador Szarr? A bloody corpse on the dirty floor of a gas station convenience store? The giggle turns into a laugh, which turns into a cackle, which turns into a wheeze and a hacking cough and a swaying on his feet.
Astarion feels out of his body. It’s not him doing this. Someone else is in control. Surely he’s watching a low-budget slasher, or he’s looking over the shoulder of someone making all the wrong choices in a video game. The box cutter clatters to the floor and loose chips crunch underneath Astarion’s feet as he paces.
What to do? There’s blood everywhere. Too much to mop up. There’s a dead body with his fingerprints all over it. There’s a motive and a murder weapon and no possible alibi.
Astarion starts looking for something flammable. A gas can. No, he’d have to go outside and fill it up. He blindly searches through the aisles, looking for something, anything. Kerosene, alcohol, he’d take paint thinner. Then he reaches the automotive aisle and finds it plain as day, sitting on the bottom shelf. Motor oil. Several containers of it.
Astarion’s clammy fingers wrap around the handle, then he heaves a container up to his hip. He stalks back through the aisles, then off goes the cap and Cazador’s blood-soaked body is baptized in a fountain of petroleum hydrocarbon.
But he can’t just light the body on fire. He’s too close, he’s in an enclosed space, he’ll engulf himself in the flames as well. Astarion races to the front and swipes a lighter off the counter. Then he grabs another container and continues his work, running a trail of motor oil through every aisle until he reaches the front of the store. He exits Speedway and empties the last container in front of the sliding doors.
Astarion flicks on the lighter, then drops it in the puddle. He sprints away as fast as he can as the fire ignites the store behind him. His lungs burn, his calves ache, his heart threatens to burst. Only when he’s sure that he’s out of the blast radius does he even slow down. He knows it’ll be game over once the flames reach the gas pumps.
When he finally looks back and sees the Speedway ablaze with Cazador’s body inside, he laughs. He laughs until he’s down on his knees and hacking up blood. Is this it? Is it all over? Or will he wake tomorrow morning and it will all be a dream?
Astarion decides it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care. For this one blessed evening, he is free. From all of it. From the cigarettes behind the counter to the syrup-encrusted soda machine, the bleach-soaked walk-in, the disgusting bathrooms, the broom and the dustpan and the mop bucket and the hairnets. And most importantly, from Cazador Szarr. Astarion hugs himself tight. Tomorrow, the morning will come and he’ll be completely fucked. But for now? He sits back and watches the flames.
