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Patreon Compilation – Fic#274 – Astarion/Vellioth – cuckolding; fisting; overstimulation – Vellioth's Iron Fist
🕑 Added 2024-02-28 06:45:41 +0000 UTCAstarion/Vellioth – Cazador has disappointed Vellioth yet again. So he comes to torture him in a whole new way: through Astarion.
(Vellioth pretty much looks like an older brother to Astarion)
Part 1 (This Part)
Part 2 (Patreon Link)
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Vellioth moves through Cazador’s villa as if it belonged to him with his pupil moving in his wake, trying and failing to gather his tattered dignity about him in front of the servants.
“You should have announced your trip, I would have made sure to welcome you accordingly… Master.” The last, Cazador chokes out past the loathing and, yes, fear that is lodged thick in his throat.
“Hmmm… interesting. It sounds like you are trying to give me orders. I must be mishearing, maggot.” Vellioth thrusts one of the doors open and steps in.
Cazador is left outside, his bladder feeling awfully full all of a sudden, sweat pearling along his hairline. He tries to swallow the abject panic suffusing him and finally stutters: “N-No, Master… of course not…”
By the time he stumbles in after him, Vellioth has already opened the trapdoor to Astarion’s tomb and is dragging him out of his punishment as if he were a wet cat.
Astarion is flailing and weak, dried blood crusted on his chin from him digging his teeth into his gag until his gums had been bleeding. He looks dried up after the long months spent down there in solitary treatment and still one can see how gorgeous he is. How much he and Vellioth who croons at the spawn as he drags him over to the bed look alike.
Cazador hates it. Hates it, hates it, hates it! He is gritting his teeth, seething, spitting mad and yet he can do nothing but stand there impotently and watch as his Master treats his Spawn as if it were worth something. As if Astarion wasn’t merely the dirt beneath Cazador’s nails, mildly useful whenever he needs him to offer his holes to seal a deal with someone.
Astarion’s eyes are huge. Even as Vellioth gently unclips the gag, he does not speak, just staring from one to the other, too weak to fight anything.
It only gets worse from there.
“Oh you beautiful little thing… just look at you, all dried up and in need of attention. Here… let me see…” He pulls a vial out of his robes. Cazador knows what it is even before he uncorks it and the smell of human blood curls through the air.
Astarion’s eyes go, if possible, even wider. A croaking little sound escapes him; a mewling little thing; nothing more.
“Master- He is not allowed-”
Vellioth’s head snaps around, his hate filled gaze burning into Cazador who immediately falls silent, a few drops of piss soaking into his underwear after all.
“Give me an order one more time, maggot, and I will see to it that what your darling little Spawn went through will be nothing compared to what I do to you.”
“Yes, Master,” Cazador whispers weakly. He watches as Vellioth turns back toward Astarion, his handsome face smoothing out into a soft, loving expression as he helps the Spawn up just enough so he would not choke on the meager amount of blood in the vial. He puts it to his lips and lets Astarion suckle on it like a babe on a teat.
The change is visible; how color comes back to his cheeks and his skin looks silky and juicy within seconds. He also regains his voice, though he does not use it for more than idiotic whining as he stares at Vellioth with his wet, needy eyes.
He’s never had human blood before and it is sending him into some kind of frenzy, bound hands coming up to clutch at the front of Vellioth’s robes. A move for which Cazador would have gotten his hands cut off is treated as if it were something exceptionally cute as Vellioth croons at Astarion, hand brushing across his locks and letting them curl around his fingers.
“Maggot,” he says, eyes not leaving Astarion’s. It takes Cazador a moment to realize that he is being spoken to. “You disappointed me during your latest dealings. I thought I had driven it home what will happen if you disappoint me. Mayhaps it was not a good idea to let you off the leash like this. Especially with how you treat this darling little spawn.” He leans in, kissing Astarion and suckling on his bottom lip. Cazador has never seen him treat someone with such gentleness. He had not known that it would be possible. “I do not have the time to concern myself with a failure such as you for any extended amount of time,” Vellioth continues low, one hand slipping into Astarion’s dirty underwear.
The Spawn is going crazy, desperately thrusting up into the hand wrapped undoubtedly around his cock and finding his words again only to start begging mindlessly; a string of ‘please’ and ‘master’ and ‘I beg thee’.
Cazador is fuming. He hates when something interferes with the punishment of his creatures. He especially hates when it is Vellioth, he finds now. He had not thought the bastard to be capable of anything remotely humane, but here he is… cooing at Astarion, allowing him to rut against his hand as an animal would and even encouraging him.
He sure as everything that is Unholy has never treated Cazador as such. With such… patient affection.
Astarion doesn’t know how to take it or how to present himself. After months of isolation, he behaves like a single sweetly crooned word will send him over the edge. Cazador watches as Vellioth slices the rags from his body and plays with him like the toy he is while Astarion curls around his arm and just keeps mindlessly babbling.
Even when Vellioth slips his oiled up fist into the Spawn does he not stop talking. His silver tongue is moving restlessly, though his words are slurred. He must be working on what little boost of energy the few drops of human blood have given him.
His eyes are huge and luminous as he briefly stops all sound for a second before rasping with a small, trembling voice: “You are breaking me, master.”
“I am,” Vellioth whispers. There is… emotion in his voice. Cazador’s whole body rebels against hearing it. Anger rises in him hot and bitter, arms tightening around his chest as he watches Vellioth fuck Astarion within an inch of is unlive. His arm is pumping slowly, the knuckles of his fist visibly pressing through Astarion’s lower belly. “But I will put you back together if you trust me enough,” he promises low. Their faces are so close, their noses are nearly touching.
They look like brothers; the Elder taking care of the Younger. Cazador feels ill with anger and…
Jealousy.
“Do you trust me, sweet little Spawn?”
“Yes! Yes, Master! Please… please, I beg thee- I will do anything. Anything-”
“I know you will,” Vellioth whispers. He brushes a lock of Astarion’s sweaty hair out of his face as he slowly pushes his oiled-up fist deeper into his guts.
Astarion’s feeble whimper tapers off into a throaty gurgle. His eyes roll up into his head. There are a few tears of overstimulation glistening on his high cheek bones and Cazador feels like he wants to scratch the little bastard’s eyes out.
He honestly does not know which he would find worse in this moment… standing here, having to watch Vellioth pleasure a useless spawn, or being at the mercy of his ruthless impalement…
Though the irony is surely not lost on Cazador. He can see how impaled Astarion is in this moment, though the way he sounds, he is very much enjoying every second of it. There are pearls of pre-cum glistening on the tip of the slut’s cock. His skinny thighs are shaking pathetically, hole stretched in desperation around Vellioth’s wrist. It would be so easy for the old Vampire to completely gut Astarion – but it is clear he won’t.
Mayhaps he has found some degree of affection for the whore, though Cazador doubts it. Vellioth does not feel things like affection. No, what he wants to do is punish Cazador… and he is loathe to admit that it is working. He is seething, stomach churning as he watches Astarion getting treated like a queen by Vellioth.
The whore keeps trying to curl his hips up, his cock smearing wet pre-cum against Vellioth’s forearm, and all that he gets in return is a soft little chuckle instead of a harsh reprimand.
Astarion is starting to go cross-eyed. Drool is slipping down his chin and his fingers are claws cramped into Vellioth fine robes.
“Master! Master, I am… I am about to-” His voice breaks on a hiccuping sob.
Vellioth chuckles, brushing a hand over Astarion’s curls.
“Come, little Spawn. Show us all how well you can follow orders.”
Cazador’s eyes narrow. He feels the jab digging into him like a sharp dagger. His blood is boiling. Vellioth must know that his retaliative punishment of Astarion the second he turns his back will be so much worse than what he went through earlier.
Of course the old Vampire does not care. No matter how sweet he croons at Astarion; how he praises him in a low voice as he comes so hard that he is shaking; how spurts of cum hit the underside of his chin – at the end of the day, Vellioth is here to punish Cazador for his shortcomings.
And he is, as ever, very effective in his methods.
