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"Gods damn it-"
Astarion mutters a string of swears under his breath as he runs through the city streets, an arm thrown over his head in a futile attempt to shield his hair from the pouring rain.
Lightning forks through the sky, briefly illuminating the city around him. He winces preemptively, then flinches when the thunder inevitably follows, roaring out and seeming to shake the very cobblestones beneath his feet. He tries to run a little faster, ducking under awnings and doorways where he can, as he makes his way to the castle.
He feels like an idiot, just like Violet told him he was before he'd left. She'd insisted that it would storm today, that she and Leon had already planned around it and brought home extra meals for the master the night before. Astarion didn't believe her, as he stepped out into the night and found only a smattering of clouds in the sky. He'd thought she was just messing with him, setting him up for punishment by convincing him to stay inside and stay idle.
Now, of course, he wishes he had.
He'd glanced outside the nearly empty tavern he'd been hunting in and noted the wind picking up, rain beginning to fall. The thunder came next, then the heavy rain, and then the tavern had emptied out onto the street, the few drunkards inside disappearing into the downpour.
Now, Astarion enters the palace walls, throwing open the door with a louder than intended bang. He sighs, relieved, as he gets a break from the rain beating on his back, the wind whipping at his hair and driving rain into his eyes. He stands, panting at the threshold, and then closes the door behind himself. A servant looks at him, and the puddle of mud and rainwater at his feet, with dull eyes before scurrying off to find something to clean his mess with.
He realizes, as he stands there catching his breath, just how wet he is. He's drenched from head to toe, his clothing clinging heavily to his skin, his hair stuck to his face, dripping into his eyes and onto the floor beneath him. He wrings his shirt out, figuring the mess is bad enough already. The pool of water at his feet grows, and he decides to move away from it, and to blame someone else for it if anyone asks.
As he begins to walk towards the dormitory, desperate for a change of clothes, he realizes just how cold he is, soaked through like this in the drafty castle. He's shivering as he walks, his shoulders drawn up tight, his teeth beginning to chatter. He pulls his arms in close, wrapping them around himself, but it doesn't do much in the way of helping.
He's halfway to the dormitory, when a hand touches his shoulder. Cold, large. Clawed nails.
"M-m-master," he manages, the word coming out with difficulty. He turns to face him, urging his heart, and the chattering of his teeth, to slow. Neither does.
"Astarion," he replies, his eyes roving over his trembling body, then flicking down to the trail of water he's left behind himself. "Hunting, were you?"
Astarion prepares to be called an idiot or a useless child, or something equally hurtful, if more colorful. He nods, his eyes on the floor, on the mess he's made, which will likely earn him something much worse than cruel words.
"Y-yes," he forces out, the shivering growing worse now, as the water on his clothing begins to cool, lowering his body temperature more and more with each passing moment. "D-didn't get anyth-thing. S-sorry."
Cazador regards him for a moment in silence, watching him as he stands there shaking and holding himself, his eyes cast low, his back bent as deferentially as he can manage, in his current state. He's being good, or trying, anyway. He waits for Cazador to speak, trembling not just from the cold as those cold, crimson eyes study him carefully. He knows, knows, that when he speaks, he'll order him to the kennels. Or, maybe he'll be merciful. Maybe he'll just make Astarion sleep in his wet clothes, or outside in the rain.
His stomach drops at the thought. He'd rather be tortured, if it meant he could be warm.
"You must be freezing," Cazador says, his voice unusually soft. Astarion nods, jerkily, and then flinches as the hand on his shoulder moves to cup his wet face. Cazador strokes his face, tracing his cheekbone with his thumb as he coaxes him to look into his eyes.
It's as hard as it always is, eye contact with him. Astarion shivers harder, in spite of himself.
"Come, let your father help you."
No. No, no, no.
"Yes, m-master."
He's led, then, to Cazador's bedroom. He knows the way by now, knows it more intimately than he knows the route to the courthouse, where he once spent so much of his time. He knows the exact number of steps from the kennel to this room, from the dormitory, too. He knows exactly how long it takes to make each trip, which portraits line the walls, which Szarr relatives make dour faces at him and his master along the way.
The trip takes a bit longer, today, because of the shivering. It's harder to walk like this, his limbs heavy and twitching all at once, his body beginning to ache from its shaking, exhausted from trying to warm itself.
Cazador unlocks the door, then holds it open for him, ushering him inside. He goes, obedient and trembling as the door closes and locks behind them.
"Strip."
Fuck. Of course.
Astarion nods, shakily, and unwraps his arms from his torso. His hands go to the buttons on his shirt, but he can't seem to make them work properly. They shake too badly, the cold so uncomfortable, nearly unbearable now. His fingers shake, his grip slipping again and again and again as Cazador watches, silently.
A hand closes around his wrist. His master's touch is gentle, for once, but Astarion flinches anyway, reflexively turning his face away and closing his eyes.
Cazador tuts, quietly. Astarion opens his eyes, looking up at him apologetically, if nervously. Cazador guides his hand down, until it's resting at his side, and then releases it. Then, he starts to unbutton Astarion's shirt himself.
It's entirely too intimate, being undressed by him. Astarion finds himself flushing, the shaking growing worse with each button pried open, each lace undone.
Cazador works his shirt open, guiding the soaked garment off his shoulders as Astarion shakes beneath his long, deft fingers. When it's off, it's both pleasant and frightening all at once. The cold, stiff fabric no longer being pressed against his body is nice, but he finds the relief quickly overridden by the familiar fear that comes with exposed in front of his master, in this room.
The pants are next, and they're harder. Astarion trembles as Cazador kneels down, then carefully undoes his laces. He tugs them loose, then hooks his fingers in the waistband, pulling them slowly down his hips. Astarion studies a portrait on the wall, color rising in his cheeks, as his master does the same to his underwear, tugging the silk down his thighs and exposing him fully.
Cazador stands, then gestures to the bed. Astarion's stomach flips, but he obeys the silent command. He starts to climb on top of the covers, only for Cazador to catch him by the wrist again and make him yelp.
"Under the blankets, boy. How else will you get warm?"
Astarion blinks at him, then nods, though the command is unusual. Cazador likes to use him on top of the blankets, then order him to leave when they're done. He's never slept here, never had a reason to slip under the plush, red blankets as he does he now.
The sheets beneath are lovely, as soft as silk and decorated with beautiful, intricate patterns. So much nicer than his sheets, in the dormitory, which are so old and threadbare that he can feel the rough material of his mattress through them. He wishes he could steal the sheets from Cazador's bed, or hells, steal the whole bed for himself. If he could fit it in his pocket, he'd take it in a heartbeat.
But, as nice as the sheets are, the blanket is even better. It's more pleasurable than an orgasm, Astarion thinks, as the warm, soft material swallows up his aching, freezing body. He makes a soft, contented sound before he realizes he's doing it, flushing when Cazador hears it and lifts a brow.
And then, of course, Cazador gets into the bed with him and ruins it.
Astarion, still trembling, still terribly cold, shifts to the side as Cazador lies down beside him. The attempt to put space between them is deliberately ignored, as it is always is.
Cazador lays a hand on his bare hip beneath the covers, coaxing him to turn onto his side and face him. And he does, though he doesn't want to. All he wants is to lie here, to fall asleep somewhere soft and warm for once, just for once.
Cazador presses his lips to his, softly, and squeezes his hip. He's shivering so hard that it can't be pleasant, kissing him, but Cazador doesn't seem to mind. Astarion's teeth chatter, his lips tremble, but Cazador kisses him anyway, pressing long, lingering kisses to his lips again and again and again.
His master pulls him closer, until the two of them are pressed flush against one another beneath the blanket. He takes Astarion's thigh in his hand, smiling against his lips when he makes a quiet noise at the touch, and then guides him to wrap his leg around him. Astarion does it, though he's reluctant. The kissing, the soft blankets, his master's gentle touch, have begun to affect him, against his wishes. He's half-hard, his cock slowly filling out as Cazador pulls him ever closer, licking into his mouth now.
He whimpers, softly, as Cazador presses his tongue past his lips, his hands moving beneath the blanket, beginning to play with his chest. He circles Astarion's nipples with the tips of his nails, coaxing them to hardness as he licks deeper and deeper into his mouth. He plays with his nipples for a long while, pressing his thumbs into them, pinching and rolling them in his fingers, as Astarion whimpers against his lips.
Astarion catches himself rocking his hips forward, flushing and making a quiet, embarrassed noise at how good it feels, pressing up against Cazador's warm, solid body beneath the covers. His cock, hard beneath the many layers of clothing he wears, feels good too, as Astarion grinds against him, pulled forward by two hands on his rear. Cazador moves him like a doll, guiding him forward and back, their cocks rubbing against one another as their kisses turn sloppier, more frantic.
And gods, it shouldn't feel this good, doing this with him, but it does. It always does. Astarion feels the familiar urge to cry, as Cazador kisses the side of his neck and dips two fingers between his legs, circling his entrance. He lets a few tears fall, as those fingers bully their way inside of him and Cazador calls him sweet boy and my darling, between soft, lingering kisses.
"You are certainly warm here," Cazador murmurs, into the shell of his ear, as he curls his fingers inside of him.
Astarion whimpers, his face hot, and curses his cock as it twitches against his stomach. Cazador laughs, softly, and begins to take him apart properly, stroking deep inside of him exactly the way he likes best, the way he wishes he could do with his own fingers, alone in his bed.
Cazador plays with him that way for a while, before finally he pulls his fingers out, then pushes him onto his back. Astarion sinks into the pillows, letting his thighs fall open, his hands obediently held above his head. Cazador pulls himself out of his pants, stroking himself to hardness and then pressing the blunt head of his cock to his quivering entrance. He calls Astarion good and perfect and he feels like the opposite, feels disgusting and small and broken, as Cazador pushes his way inside and he whimpers at the intrusion, not because it hurts, but because it feels so good. Cazador swallows that whimper down with another kiss, as he settles comfortably between his legs, the blanket pulled up over his shoulders, carefully draped over the two of them.
He starts to move his hips, slowly at first, and it's terrible and wonderful, how good it feels, being pinned beneath him and the blanket, having his hard, hot cock so deep inside of him. He's making noises that he can't help, embarrassed and disgusted with each and every moan and whimper, but too lost in it to stop himself, as his master fills him up and warms him from the inside out.
"You've stopped shaking," Cazador says, against the side of his neck, as he thrusts deeper into him. "How lucky you are, to have someone who cares for you the way I do."
"Y-yes," Astarion whimpers, shame hot on his cheeks even as he starts to rock down, meeting his master's thrusts, "thank you - mmnh-"
Cazador kisses him again, roughly. It's meaner this time, all teeth and tongue and hands in his hair, nails raking over his skin. His hips move faster, his cock driving deeper and deeper inside, the stretch painful and wonderful too, his body so warm and so big and so familiar, so nice as it weighs Astarion down, pressing him into the warm, soft mattress. Thunder rumbles outside, rain beating against the castle roof as Cazador fucks him hard and fast, beneath the blankets.
When he's close, Astarion doesn't even have to say it. Cazador senses it, his pace picking up, his hand slipping between them, curling around his aching, leaking cock. Their stomachs are a mess of precome, a detail that makes Astarion's blush deepen, and makes Cazador's cock throb inside of him.
"What a mess you are," Cazador murmurs, as he takes him in hand and he squirms, whining in the back of his throat and thrashing on the pillow.
"P-please- I-" Astarion whimpers, as Cazador presses his thumb into the leaking slit. There's a particularly loud rumble of thunder, then, and Astarion jumps, gasping as the motion sends his cock sliding up into Cazador's fist.
"What was that? Speak up" Cazador coos, as he strokes him too slowly, too lightly, his hips slowing too.
"I…I want- ah-!"
Cazador rocks his hips, hitting that perfect spot with just the right amount of pressure. Astarion moans, feeling himself clench down around him, the blush on his cheeks spilling down to his chest, the tips of his ears.
"I want to come," he whispers, covering his face, "please, master."
Cazador hums in satisfaction, then quickly obliges him. And it's strange, how kind he is tonight. Astarion waits anxiously for something horrible to happen, as Cazador begins to fuck him again, deep and fast and perfect, his hand stroking his cock in time with his thrusts, his lips and teeth teasing along his neck, the shell of his ear, as he whispers filthy, wonderful praise in his ear and drives him closer and closer to the edge.
He crashes over it, for once, right as Cazador does. They fall apart together, Astarion crying out loudly, his body spasming around his master's as he feels him spill deep inside. It's warm and thick and it feels good, with his body as cold as it is, as Cazador snarls and sinks his teeth into his shoulder, fucking it deeper into him with stuttering hips and warm, rough hands wrapped around his waist. Astarion comes all over Cazador's hand and his own stomach, whimpering through the orgasm and for a long while after, as Cazador ruts into him through his, chasing every last ebb of pleasure.
When it's done, Cazador lies down on his back beside him, sighing contentedly as he sinks into the pillows. Astarion, exhausted and warm, wonderfully, perfectly warm, finds his eyes growing heavier and heavier with each passing second, as they lie beside each other. The storm rages on outside, the wind howling and the rain hammering against the castle walls, battering at the windows, and it all makes it so much harder to stay awake, there in the soft, warm bed.
He tries, valiantly, to avoid falling asleep. He doesn't have permission and he knows it's a bad idea, the sort of temptation that could easily earn him time in the kennels, or worse, if he gives in. It's presumptuous to assume he'd be allowed the simple pleasure of sleeping in a bed like this, let alone sharing that bed with his master. And so, he fights sleep, as best as he can.
In the end, he can't help but give in. He drifts off, slowly, as he listens to the storm and Cazador's quiet breathing beside him.
He wakes, a little while later, to find Cazador curled around him, his fingers combing gently through his tousled, damp hair. When his master bids him to sleep again, it's the easiest order he's had to follow in centuries.