Iktome Plains And when the crimson moon comes up, he drinks the blood of slaves

@Mazatl

He hungered.

It was a curious combination of sensations that he doubted pradă had ever felt before. A growling of the stomach, a fantasy in his head, a burning in his loins, a tug at his very being. Yes, this hunger, this desire for life's very essence, was not something ordinary wolves ever felt, no. It was reserved for the strigoi, hunters amongst wolves, alone. And he relished it.

For too long he had satiated himself on the life's blood of seabirds. He was familiar enough with the coast to hunt prey now. He idly licked his fangs — longer than most, perfect for slicing flesh — imagining that taste. For the moment he was alone in the plains, but he knew there were others. Their scents alone betrayed their presence. He would find his prey sooner or later.

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Since having begun traveling with the pale one, he’d only ever left her presence when ordered to do so. Without the lead—the command—of another, the boy could not exist, and so he strove to ensure that he was never without said type of figure in his life. Their words were his to obey, their will to be made into his own. When told to jump, he’d do exactly that without question, and never would he stop until told that he was permitted to do so. And so, when the time had come for him to be sent out in order to scout out the surrounding areas, Mazatl had neither questioned nor argued against the order. It was his to fulfill, for the woman had demanded it of him; she’d been titled as his leader solely because of her sex and his upbringing. Females were the fairest of the sexes, as well as the fiercest, and he’d never been allowed to forget that. So the Tētlauhtilli obeyed and distanced himself when it was necessary, trailing over the land as he sought to see what might be laying in wait for the trio.

It was within the plains that he’d found himself, the terrain not unfamiliar but also not something that he could regard as a safe place. With frayed nerves he’d proceeded forward, head low but ears perked—if there was anything to be heard out there, he’d catch it, investigate, and then report back. More often than not, it was only coyotes or animals of prey that he came across, but this time... no, this time was not at all like the previous instances. It was not a lesser canine that’d been spotted, but a ghostly figure whose essence alone made the boy freeze and quiver were he stood. There was something most peculiar about the male, the sight of his body moving across the land having struck him with a most unsettling feeling—like the upset felt in one’s stomach right before a storm. Mazatl had wanted to turn around, but he hadn’t been able to. No, a life of conditioning and a need to serve his new leader kept him right where he’d stopped just moments prior. Away from the male had his head turned, muzzle pointed downwards whilst his body lowered itself, knocking several inches off of his already lacking height. Perhaps if he continued with the brothel’s customs, he might be able to send the stranger off in a direction opposite to the one that the yearling had come from, which was all that he hoped to achieve.

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The habit of waiting for his prey, like the ambush hunters that lurked on the ocean's floor in wait, proved fruitful. He was not alone in the windswept fields for long. The warm-toned wolf's very sight excited him. His dark amethyst eyes lit up with excitement as he studied him. The strigoi chuckled darkly in his throat; he was right to fear him, to cower against the ground like a rabbit.

If that was his tactic for deterring Athan's approach, it was a hilarious one at best. Little would stop him now that the boy was in sight, not with the hunger propelling his body forward towards the meek figure. He held his fangs back for now, but his breath was already ragged and wild with anticipation.

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Hunger.

It was something that he’d seen in the eyes of countless others in the past, and something that he was most familiar with. He knew what sorts of crimes such a look could drive a wolf to commit, yet he didn’t—couldn’t—fear it. For so long he’d been tasked with doing anything and everything that might have been asked of him in order to satisfy such desires, and so he’d lost the ability to fear it far earlier than he should have. To be born into the sort of life that had claimed his very soul was a troubling thing, but not the least bit abnormal in the heart of the boy. He knew what to do, and so he did it, but it didn’t feel the same as it always had in the past. There was something different about the male the approached him—something dark. The expression he wore, the way his breath came out as if it might be his last, did not frighten the yearling but unsettled him terribly. Something was off, he could feel it within his bones as ice replaced the marrow, but no matter how agonizing the internal sensation was he couldn’t turn and flee. For as bothered as he was by the stranger, he was transfixed by him, too.

As the sound of his approach grew louder, signifying that the distance between them was being eaten ever so viciously, Mazatl kept his head turned away and his eyes downcast. The beating of his heart quickened and the sound filled his ears, making him wonder if the ghost, too, could hear it. No matter if he could or not, that changed nothing. Still had the Tētlauhtilli widened his stance and stolen a peek at his company, knowing not what to expect, only what he was supposed to do. And so the boy acted just the same as the Cihuāpilli had taught him and so many others, keeping still whilst waiting to hear what it was that the stranger desired.

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The boy looked away, curling tighter into himself. Knowing that he would stay, that he would not flee, Athan did not rush. There was no need to. Besides, he loved watching the growing fear mingled with acceptance on the boy's face. It was an expression he rarely saw on the face of his prey; he saw defiance, he saw disbelief, he saw fear, but acceptance? A lack of fear and submission? That was novel.

When he finally reached him, he could hear the throbbing beat of the small wolf's heart and his body sang over the underlying rhythm. Athanasius reached forward, laying his head over the boy's neck, moaning contentedly as he felt his heart pounding against his body. He laid there for a while, humming and chuckling to himself, reveling in the power, the knowledge that he could quite easily take this boy's life with but a bite before his voice rumbled in his throat. Consider yourself fortunate, prada mea supus, He breathed into the boy's neck, a soft keen entering his voice as he pressed against him, his body wanting to push past his skin, into his arteries, to bathe in his life's essence. It was hard to grant this mercy. I will not take your life tonight, 

His head reluctantly moved away from the boy's neck, down to his left hindleg, where the limb met the body, leaving sharp kisses, precursors of what was to come. He lapped the inside of his thigh, searching for the throbbing vein.

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The moment at which the distance would be closed entirely was something that the yearling anticipated. He’d known what was going to happen from the very beginning, having observed and partaken in such scenes countless times over in the past. In spite of his familiarity, however, he was far from being an expert. That role had been claimed by another soul and was one that he’d never be able to fulfill no matter how much of his effort went into making such a ridiculous attempt. He was but a student and had been for nearly the entirety of his life, and that hadn’t changed even as he was introduced to such a deadly force. Perhaps, had he kept to the brothel for just a few months longer, he’d have learned to tell the different between the hungry look upon some old, horny swine’s face, and the look of hunger that was worn by killers. Had he learned the difference, perhaps he would have run, but it was far too late now. Already had the decision to stay been made, and he’d go through with it until he’d either been used or cast aside.

Mazatl’s eyes fluttered shut as the distance between them had been stolen away and a touch against his body made. Whilst the other moaned, he’d remained silent and tilted his head so as to grant the man better access, recalling the steps that he’d been taught to take. Then he’d waited, and waited some more until words had broken the silence; he couldn’t understand the latter part, nor could he deduce a reasoning for the first having been said. For what reason was he fortunate? It made little sense to him and wasn’t at all similar to the reactions that he’d grown accustomed to. He’d stiffen, though, as the final statement sunk in, a conclusion having slowly been drawn. The man, whose touch was like that of those starving for attention, was not at all like the men he’d served in the past. It was not sex that drove him, but some other form of release—death. He should have feared him at that point, should have fled, but he’d stayed true to his teachings and remained there instead.

As the killer moved away from his neck, a breath had been sucked in. He’d resisted the urge to look back at him, skin prickling in response to each harsh kiss that had been placed upon his body. The feeling of a tongue against his inner thigh had prompted him to further spread apart his hind legs, offering to the stranger an opportunity to take what he wanted. As he acted, Mazatl remained calm and collected, keeping himself from doing anything that would have, back home, led to some form of punishment. Long ago had he come to understand that he was nothing more than a tool that was meant to be used, and so he kept himself under control, knowing better than to derive pleasure from his work.

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He had known of brothels, or some alteration of them, when he lived his past life. The pack had partnerships with them, many of their own frequenting them, some even joining them. He had never solicited the ones the pack allied with, but when he finally left and found another, he took full advantage of its willing participants. He went blood drunk for the first time, ravaging the place until he was eventually run out. He had not come along another brothel since, though he came along many a lone harlot in his journey. But it had been so long since he found so unintentionally willing a victim. Until this boy that was.

He did not draw blood as he nipped along the boy's body, and the boy did not flinch, instead breathing in sharply. He lavished attention on his inner thigh, trying to increase the boy's heartrate — but he was so calm, so collected, so used to the thought of being used for another's pleasure. It frustrated the strigoi at first, but his hunger got the best of him. Once he began to feed, his heartrate would naturally increase. Drinking would be much easier then.

His mouth opened, a dark void like the one he once worshipped, his fangs leering over the lightly throbbing artery. He rarely had the leisure the boy granted him, the ability to wait, timing his bite as best he could with his pulse.

His fangs cut through the skin, the flesh, into the boy's veins, spilling blood. They retreated then, his tongue working quickly to lap the free-flowing fluid. He was monstrous then; his breath ragged, gulping loudly as if he was a dehydrated man finding water. But it was more than just satsifying his hunger. Athan felt the warm wash of heat center around his groin, making him ache with a sudden untapped desire. His mind grew giddy at the clashing sensations that he loved. It was times like this that he wondered why he found so few others like him.

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Hot breath fanned out over his inner thigh, testing the boy, it seemed. He held fast, however, keeping himself just as calm as the Cihuāpilli had taught him to. To fall over the edge and lose himself now would be similar to committing a crime, at least whence he’d come. Thoughts of what would happen to him if he slipped up kept him from doing anything reckless, too—until he’d felt teeth pierce his flesh. At that point, a sharp yelp had managed to slip passed his lips and the silence was broken as panic started to set in. There had been but one rule that was always obeyed back home, which was that none of the workers were to be harmed. Those that had been lured in by their services could use them in any way that they desired, just as long as each one was returned without so much as a scratch. The men that had broken the rule had been punished most severely, some having even lost their lives when the damage done had been severe enough. Never before had he been attacked, so to feel teeth tearing through his flesh was both new and frightening for the yearling. He was alone, though, and thus had no means of protecting himself. Those that enforced the law were not there to watch over and save him—he was alone.

Mazatl whimpered and whined, his heart having started beating so quickly again that it brought him pain. Twisting his head around, he sought to witness the stranger, to plead with him. Yet, a feeling of impatience struck him, encouraging the Tētlauhtilli to try and move away from the beast. He was a tool to be used, a body to be laid upon and prodded. He was not, however, a chew toy meant to be torn to pieces. Out of all of the lessons that he’d been forced to endure as he'd grown, that one had always stood out to him.

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Just as he thought, the boy's heart began to pound as his fangs sunk into his flesh, pushing more of the red nectar into his mouth, adding to his ecstatic bliss as he devoured his life's essence. Above him, the boy shifted this way and that, in some feeble futile attempt to get away from him. Athan chuckled as he swallowed another spurt of the red liquid, lapping over the wound. I said you were fortunate, prada mea supus​, didn't I? He licked over the wound again, watching his red-tinged saliva spread across his fur. I could be biting at your throat.

His head moved to the opposite leg, not wasting time now that the boy knew of his intentions. He cut at his thigh, releasing another spurt of blood.

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No matter how much noise he’d made, freedom hadn’t been acquired. The stranger continued to lick the very same wound that he’d inflicted, leaving the boy feeling conflicted. Harm had been brought to his body—he could smell his blood and feel it flowing out of him—yet the pain had been followed by something far less sinister; it was a terrible thing, what the man was doing, but it’d been painless. His mind fought against itself, one side telling him to flee whilst the other insisted that he remain there until the service had been completed. Every time an attempt was made at imagining what the Cihuāpilli would have him do if she’d been there right then he’d come up with nothing. The way in which her mind had worked was something that he’d never been able to figure out, which proved to be a pity as he stood there having the blood lapped from his thigh. Always had she known what to say, what to do—always had she been in control. Mazatl was nothing like her, nor had he ever been, despite having suckled from her teat and been brought up under her word. She had not been his mother, no, but she’d been something close to it, and he’d been foolish enough to have at some point in his life believed that he could be like her. As he closed his eyes and drew in a ragged breath, the yearling came to realize that he’d never be like her, that he never could be—and, oddly enough, it was in that moment that her voice had echoed through his head.

The man had harmed him. He’d torn the Tētlauhtilli’s flesh without having so much as blinked. Every action had proved to be vile, but it was not that realization that had pushed the boy to act. It was the reminder of how rules had been broken, spoken in a voice that he loved, that had encouraged the normally timid youth to act rashly. Just as his other thigh had been cut into, Mazatl spun around as swiftly as his body had allowed for him to move—and then regretted it immediately after. The combination of blood loss and sudden movements never spelled out a happy ending, and that was a painful reality that he’d been slapped with as storm clouds started to fill his vision. A mist rolled in behind his eyes, blurring his perception at first, then stealing it away entirely as an abyss opened up and swallowed his sight. Stumbling forward, he’d managed to hold himself up for no longer than a second before his body had fallen over. Splayed across the ground, he could do nothing as he waited for his vision to return and the dizziness and throbbing in his head to go away.

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Athan let out another moan as the blood gushed from the second wound, his amethyst eyes rolling back into his head with ecstasy. The boy was forgotten for the moment, the strigoi focusing on the wound that pulsated blood down his throat, again and again the blood is the life the blood is the life the blood is th-

The boy moved rapidly, leaving Athan sitting alone lapping the blood off his mouth. He watched his movements curiously, but his sudden staggering and blank stare made the creature smirk. Bad move, băiat dulce His tongue slid out, wiping across his teeth in a mocking smile as the boy collapsed into the sand. He rose, striding towards him just as casually as before, gently nosing his face. Do not die on me yet, băiat dulce, prada mea supus. I have further use for you,

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The longer he’d laid across the ground, the less pain he’d felt in his head. The throbbing was still there, but it’d dulled considerably, allowing him a chance to reflect. Several deep breaths were taken and held for lengthy periods of time, a method he’d learned to calm himself down. It had worked, too, for slowing his breathing overall, thus bringing his heart rate down. The clouds began to dissipate after that, granting him the use of his eyes once more. He was grateful to have regained his wits, but felt almost idiotic, for he’d quickly come to understand that it all could have been avoided. Had he simply kept still and allowed for the man to do as he desired, he’d not have toppled over. His head would never have started pounded, nor would his sight have left him. Perhaps he would have needed to take a seat, but, aside from that, nothing drastic would have happened. It was from a moment of confusion that a terrible idea had developed, towards which he felt a great deal of regret. Regret for having caused trouble for the man that he was, for the moment, supposed to be serving and regret for what he’d surely miss out on. Into his mind, there had settled the notion that, for his behavior, he’d be killed; the first sentence to leave the stranger’s mouth had supported this thought, the choice of words having seemed foreboding.

Rising from his place, the beast had approached him. Mazatl, fearful for his life, pinched his optics shut as he’d braced for impact, or for the piercing feeling of the man’s teeth. Yet, it’d not been pain that had greeted him, but a tender touch. Whilst at first he’d flinched, he’d slowly eased up once the discovery was made that he’d not be killed; it was an assumption made based on the man’s soft touch alone, but one that the yearling had decided to go along with anyways. Reopening his eyes, the boy looked into the bloodied face of the male that had hurt him, less frightened now but all the more curious. What had driven him to do as he had, and what now kept him from doing it again? The lack of trust that he felt, as well as his slight interest in the other, were things easily conveyed through the expression worn. It was not there that he’d stopped, though, a low whine having then been pushed from his throat, a complaint and a plea all rolled into one shrill noise.

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His maker had taught him many things about their kind. It was they who showed him the arteries on a living being, how to cut into the skin, the flesh, to find the blood, to make cuts that would harm the pradă, and so, so many more things. But the one thing they taught him about, but he had never used, was how to make a thrall.

He knew only a little of the magic that created him, if it was indeed magic or simply the dark touch of the Gods. He had learned the practical matters of the strigoi, how and where and when to hunt. The rest, they had said, would come to him, naturally. Over the years, he would find out his own power. He had noticed little growth in his powers, little change other than his gradual ageing, his growing awareness of the movements and behaviors of his pradă.

But now, he fully realized a spell that they had taught him: thralldom. He saw this boy, his submissiveness, his utter willingness despite the pain, and knew that it would be a waste, a missed opportunity, to let him go now. No. He could not do that. The boy's very nature was to be useful, and Athan would make him realize that. It would be a simple spell, the exchange of blood, a few spoken words, but only to those who had easily manipulated spirits, such as this boy's. He was perfect.

He pressed against the throbbing neck, smearing blood across his fur, humming once more as he had when their bodies first met. My name is Athanasius, He could not sit still, not pressed so closely to his main artery. His mouth moved from his neck, up to his ear, licking and nibbling it gently, shifting from sharp nips to butterfly kisses. I have tasted you, scumpul meu, you must taste me now, With that, his fangs moved down to his own forelimb, sinking quickly and easily into his flesh, drawing blood. He pressed the open would against the boy's mouth, his voice curt and sharp. Drink, He paused, waiting for the boy to respond, hoping that at least a drop would enter his mouth. With the exchange of blood, we are connected. He spoke, reverently, recalling the old words his sire commanded him to say the moment he found his first thrall. You are mine now. Do you understand? I am Athanasius and I am your master. You are my thrall,

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An evil mind could not be swayed by pleas alone, and this the boy should have known. Although many of his lessons had revolved around what he could do to feed the desires of the men he’d lay with, he had been taught, too, of more common knowledge. Of how there existed within the world wicked souls, men and woman that were capable of committing such terrible crimes. He had been told to avoid them, yet there he was, laying before the most tainted of beings in existence. Never had anyone told him how to defend himself against them, how to appeal to what little light might still exist within their blackened hearts, and so he could do nothing. No longer was it the blood loss that kept him pinned there, but fear and uncertainty, both in himself and in his teachings. Would he be able to run? Possibly, but there was no way for him to foresee whether or not he’d make it before either being captured or falling down again. The gentle touch of the man had put him at ease, it’d made him consider the possibility of a heart beating within his chest, but his inner worries could not be eliminated. They urged him to run, to stay still, to beg, to shut up—such contradicting demands, he could answer to none of them.

The man pressed himself against the yearling’s neck, and his breath hitched in his throat. What he should expect, he couldn’t even begin to imagine. A part of him began preparing his mind for death, whilst another still wanted to do nothing more than wait and see. For the time being, it seemed as if the calmer half of his conscious had been in the right, for his mouth had been used to speak a name, rather than tear into Mazatl’s flesh—Athansius. Unlike anything he’d ever heard before, both from those residing within the brothel and those that had visited it, he’d started to wonder from what sort of land the beast had been birthed. Surely, somewhere out in the world, there existed far more wolves that were just like him, even if the Tētlauhtilli would rather there not be. This he had not shared aloud, nor anything else. Just as before, his tongue had kept still, forming not a single syllable. It was not his place to speak, it had never been. On rare occasions, back when it had been demanded of him, the boy had spoken, but as of late, he’d found no reason to do so. Should he so much as breathe in a way that resembled speaking, then surely someone would become upset with him, and the punishment for speaking out of turn was not something that he’d ever expose himself to again. The fact that he’d not been asked for his own name had, for that reason, calmed him, but only for a moment.

Blood was drawn once again, but it was not his. Athansius had bit into his own limb, drawing forth the crimson the flowed through his veins. After having received nips and kisses, he knew he should have expected something awful to follow, but hadn’t considered that the man might harm himself. With a whine, he’d relayed his concern, only to take it back the moment the limb was pressed against his mouth. At first, his muzzle had been turned upwards and away from the sticky liquid, but a memory had kept him from remaining that way forever. It’d happened so long ago, but he could recall having once seen a woman of the brothel covered in blood, though it’d not been her own. The man that had chosen her for the night had come from a far away land, and, with him, he'd brought his customs. Not a day had passed for weeks afterwards without him thinking about the sight, and now it seemed as if he would end up as that woman had—well, not exactly, but close enough. Hoping that, by doing so, their meeting would be drawn to a close, Mazatl lowered his muzzle towards the man’s limb and drew his tongue over the wound. Several times he’d done so, peeking up at the peculiar wolf all the while. And when more words were spoken, his mistake had been realized.

To belong to a man was something that he knew nothing about. Always had he served under the leadership of a female, the Cihuāpilli. Even after he’d left home, every single traveling companion that he’d taken to had been a female. It was unimaginable, allowing for himself to be controlled my another male outside of bed, and so he’d done something daring. It’d not been with a nod of acceptance that he’d responded to the claim placed over him, but a shake of his head. No more than a second later and he’d started to push himself off of the ground, legs wobbly still, but he hadn’t cared. Mazatl had not intended to flee—he knew he wouldn’t make it very far—but to make a point: a man could not be his master.

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It was so strange, that after so long, his blood was exposed and it was another drinking it. Athanasius watched the boy quietly, observing the movements with a strange reverence. He was amazed by the action, his breathing still shallow with the excitement. His tail wagged slowly behind him and he smiled as he finally pulled his leg away, licking the blood off of the child's face and off his own leg.

His reaction was not surprising. Athan stepped back as he jumped up, still wobbling, still weak. He smiled, shaking his head with a chuckle. Submission did not come easy, even to those who looked so ready to roll on the ground. He looked at the child, head tilting gently. It is a simple exchange. I hunt for you, I protect you, I guide you through the troubles of this world. You do as I ask — and it will not be much — and you give me your blood when I ask — I will not ask for much. He watched the boy's reaction, studying him quietly, wondering if he was even conscious enough to even comprehend this, truly. What is your name?

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The feeling of the man’s tongue as it’d run over his face had hardly been noticed. Either because he’d become so used to the gesture, or perhaps because his mind had been preoccupied with the idea that a man had thought to stake a claim over him—maybe it was even a combination of the two. Whatever the case, he’d not reacted to the touch. The only reaction to be given had come when he’d pushed himself off of the ground, his body—however light he was—feeling like lead. He’d wobbled whilst trying to stand, and had then started to sway ever so slowly once he’d forced himself to remain upright. His legs wished to collapse in on themselves and fold beneath his frame, where they could rest and be spared from any more harm. The demands of his limbs had fallen on deaf ears, though, for he’d not been able to bring himself to even think about something other than the male. There was a lingering fear within the back of his mind, too, that acknowledging his weariness would only give to it more power, and pull away from him the ability to stand there. Thus he’d held fast, the strain placed on his body having been ignored to the best of his abilities.

First, he’d seen a smile, then he’d heard a chuckle. It had confused Mazatl greatly, his belief having been that he’d receive some other strange form of punishment for showing his defiance. The burn of teeth tearing into flesh hadn’t been felt, nor had a great abyss opened up and engulfed him in darkness. In fact, the only thing to have happened following the steady laughter had been for the stranger to fill the world with his voice, the words bothersome yet… appealing. It would not be the sort of servitude he’d witnessed in the past, but an exchange—each side would receive something. For someone that had never been alone, had never been made to truly fend for himself, it’d seemed far too great of an offer to be passed up. The longer he’d thought, the weaker his will had become, until at last he’d started to slump forward. His frontal limbs had been the first to relinquish their strength, resulting in him having slowly leaned forward whilst they folded beneath him. Followed by his hind quarters, it hadn’t been for much longer before the yearling was laying down again, nodding his head in agreement; the terms of the arrangement were too good to let slip through his grasp, and so he’d latched on. When questioned about his name, however, Mazatl had only shaken his head, the voice he’d been gifted with having yet to earn its place within the world.

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*cries because this post sucks*

The boy looked so ready to fall and yet he kept himself up, high, defying the urge and need to plummet to the ground and readily give himself to his new master. Athan watched him stagger, wondering what the point of it all was, when he was already his. He shook his head, clucking his tongue as he strode closer to him, leaning onto him, trying to shift the boy's weight onto his own shoulder. I am here; there is no need for such bravado, He murmured, his nose sifting through his shoulder fur.

Despite his best efforts, the boy slipped to the ground, piece by piece, just like his will. The bond, the pact, was cemented between them. Athan felt a rush of possessiveness flood over him at the final nod. He laid his head over the boy's neck in a corrupted kind of embrace. He felt the head shake this time, his name left a mystery. Athan shrugged. You will tell me eventually, I am sure,

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cri because I made you wait so long for a reply

To play the part of a hero—to act with bravery—was not Mazatl. Never had he been anything more than prey, both in his current life and the past, and surely even in the next. It wasn’t his fault, really, he’d simply been raised to obey. It was his job to please those around him, to ensure that no one left his quarters unsatisfied; for each unhappy customer, he’d felt the lashings of his maternal figure. Before having collapsed into a heap of useless flesh a whisper had invaded his ears and snaked itself around his mind, urging him to give in. It was all he could do, all he’d ever been able to do, and so the boy had surrendered himself over to the inevitable. Never had the man’s voice reached his ears, either, the harsh timbres of the Cihuāpilli’s distant voice having blocked out all else. Only after having fallen to the ground had he been able to hear again, though the echoes remained in the back of his head; repeating, growing, and intending to someday take over.

An unfamiliar weight draped itself over his neck, making the yearling stiffen. It’d taken a moment for him to remember, adjust, and then relax again. Craning his neck, an attempt was made to look at his new master, but he’d stolen hardly a glance before looking back down towards the earth underfoot. The male seemed confident, having decided that Mazatl would someday reveal his name, but the boy wasn’t too sure. Nevertheless, he hadn’t protested in any way, deciding instead to just rest against the man and regain his strength. Already he knew that a life with Athanasius would be a risky one, but he had no choice other than to go along with him.

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He does not remember every wolf he killed. Their faces seemed to blend together, especially if the circumstances were similar. Male, female, Arctic wolves, Mackenzie wolves, he saw no difference between them when he remembered. He remembered those he seduced, those he cornered, those he ambushed in a strange amalgamation of wolf faces and bodies. There were a few that stood out, notable in their last moments. Those that fought, and fought hard. The ones who had nearly slipped from his grasp, only to be pulled back under. Those who accepted, and even enjoyed their deaths. 

But there was nothing that compared to this.

Taking life was one thing. But controlling life? That brought another high in of itself. To bend another wolf to your will, to control their movements, their words, their thoughts? Not even the taste of blood could match to that. No, this boy, his baietel, would not die. Not as long as they were bonded, and Athan had use for him. And he could think of so many uses.

A curious thought came to his head, his brain giddy with lust and adrenaline. He pondered it for a moment, but as his mind came to accept it, a smile crossed his face. I want you to refer to me as Tăti, ok? He cocked his head, trying to seem more innocent, but only perverting the mere notion of innocence with his look.

*coughs*

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To be controlled was not a new concept to the young male. The Cihuāpilli had controlled him even prior to his birth, her voice having been used to create laws that even those growing within a womb could not be shielded from. Always had he obeyed, the eager little Tētlauhtilli that he was, and that would never change. If anything, his need to serve would only increase tenfold since acquiring a master, the need to please and gain the man’s favour being at the front of his mind. To do so would lead to a bettering of his treatment, as well as a way to stay safe and fed. With Athan, he was guaranteed certain aspects of life, each of which ones that he could neither pass up nor outright refuse. It would be similar to his previous life, he was sure, with the only notable difference being the amount of men that he’d extend his services to. From countless down to one, the number had dwindled so drastically that one might expect him to someday forget his roots, though the truth of the matter was that he never would.

The moment of silence was broken by the voice of the beast, whose words were mostly understood, with the exception of one. Slowly, Mazatl’s mouth opened as if he might speak, but was promptly closed prior to the escape of any words. Whilst he was unable to decipher what it was that he was supposed to call the man, he nodded, agreeing to do so. If it would satisfy his tăti, then so be it.

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Fade here?

The boy's silence remains, but Athan still pays it no mind. Even if the young man was mute, or simply refusing to speak, it would not change anything about their relationship. He smiled, the word remaining untranslated, leaving the true definition remaining within his brain. The irony of it was delicious. 

His head moved forward, placing a long kiss on the male's forehead. He moves his lips away, then presses his forehead against his own. Come, băiat dulce​, His voice remains low in his throat, rumbling in a half-purr as Athan laps the deer-like boy's face gently before rising. The strigoi's nimble head gestures further inland, to the protective forests ahead. Let us find you a better place to rest,

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So much had happened in such a small amount of time, and yet, not much had really changed. The boy, having believed himself to be free only a few days prior, was anything but. There was not a female leading him, however, for the Cihuāpilli lingered still within the realm of his previous domain. Now, it was a man that would protect him, feed him, care for him—oh, how terribly peculiar it was! Mazatl was not unaccustomed to pleasing male suitors, having bedded down with many weary travelers in the past, but it was the first time that he would be spending more than a single night with one. For as long as he would be told to serve, he would remain with the beast. It made him wonder: what might his mother think? The thought disturbed him, awakening memories best left in the past, and so he tossed them away and focused back on the present. He had a master—Tăti—and that was who he needed to devote his attention to.

Mazatl did not pull away when the male touched him but had instead leaned against him, falling into old habits. Instructed to rise, he struggled at first but, with Athan’s help, eventually found his balance and was able to move. As if there were a string connecting the two, the yearling stayed as near to him as he could, occasionally using the greater wolf’s body to keep from toppling over. Moving was difficult, but the boy made sure to keep himself from falling behind. As he was led away, he made sure that he was always close enough to reach out and touch his muzzle to the man’s flank, silent and wondering about what sort of life awaited him.

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