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It is the third night in a row that Astarion has returned to his master empty-handed and unremorseful.
Oh, he gets down on his knees and begs sweetly enough, but an impertinent sliver of defiance still runs through his spine, bowed but unbroken.
Cazador takes his time to consider among an array of punishments. He ponders for long enough that Astarion begins to shift on aching knees. Unlike Cazador, the boy hasn’t yet learned how to let time slip like silk through his hands: he acts as if they could run out of it.
“I gave you the kindness of choosing,” Cazador says, breaking a silence long gone stale, “And even in that you falter. If you refuse to decide who uses your body, then I will decide for you.”
–
Astarion recognizes the alley as soon as he turns to enter it. Light from a tavern spills out onto dark stone, wet with evening rain. A fine mist slithers through the city, making Astarion shiver.
He knows that tavern, knows that light. Knows that dark stone, and how it shines.
This is where Astarion died.
This is where Cazador makes him strip, the voice in his head clear and strong. Yet it does not carry the cloying sensation of compulsion. Astarion’s body is his as he slips his tunic over his head and lets it fall, with a pang of despair, to the ground. His trousers go next, and then his smallclothes. He is barefoot already.
It is nearing winter in Baldur’s Gate, and Astarion’s undead body is not immune to cold. He clenches his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, but the rest of his body he cannot help.
He knows, without being told, that he is not allowed to cover himself.
A burst of laughter distracts him, and he watches a group of men crowd the mouth of the alleyway. In the half-darkness, Astarion is not easily noticed.
“Gentlemen.” Cazador’s voice arrives before his body does. He steps out of the shadows at the end of the alley, and Astarion is startled into taking a breath.
There are five of them. Astarion looks away, so he does not see the exact moment they realize what he is, what he is offering. What Cazador has charmed them into thinking he is offering.
He is rooted in place as they stalk towards him, prey in a group of predators, no matter what his fangs say.
Astarion grits his teeth, waiting for their hands, but they only stare at him, their bodies close enough that he almost wants to sway towards their warmth.
What are they waiting for?
“They’re waiting for you,” Cazador says, amusement and exasperation mingling in his voice. “For you to show them what they’re here for. Go on, then, boy.”
Astarion wishes, desperately, that Cazador would make him. But that would be a sympathy that Astarion knows he will not receive.
He puts one trembling hand on the wall before him, then another. When he blinks, achingly hot tears cool almost immediately on his cheeks. Humiliation chokes him like a tangling vine, breath squeezed out of him in panicked, useless gasps.
He bends forward. Arches his back. Spreads his legs. Presents what lies between his legs: his soft, defenseless cunt. All of his own accord.
How has he not trembled apart yet? How do his bones stay in place when his mind is falling away from him in cragged pieces? Shame impales him like a stake.
When the first touch comes, it comes between his legs.
Astarion bites back a horrified whine, going up on his toes as one of the men brazenly cups his freezing cunt with a deliriously warm hand.
His forehead knocks against the wall and he stutters out a sob as the hand squeezes and pinches at him. It releases him briefly, only for another hand to join in. Then his cunt is being prised apart by two thick thumbs, rubbing up and down at his sensitive opening.
Another pair of hands grope at his ass, then spread him apart into the cool air. One finger, wet with spit, cores into him, while a hot, slimy tongue laps at his cunt.
Hands crawl up his chest, flicking at nipples already sensitive from the cold. Each tap, tap, tap, makes his cunt leak slick.
One of the men grabs his head and kisses him, forcing his tongue into Astarion’s mouth and his breath into Astarion’s lungs. Someone grabs his limp hand and wraps it around a hot, hard cock.
Astarion wants to die. He wants to die.
“Astarion,” Cazador says, though when Astarion weakly turns his head, his master is nowhere to be seen. Only his voice remains, laced through with sweet, sweet mercy as he compels the boy to obedience.
“Enjoy this.”
–
Cazador watches with a detached sort of fondness as Astarion is meticulously, thoroughly ruined. His tormentors are well-chosen, lustful men with deep appetites. They devour Astarion entirely.
It takes hours, which must trickle past like molasses for his spawn.
When it ends, Astarion sits on the ground with his back to the wall, knees bent and legs splayed open endearingly. His ravished cunt gleams wet with thick, viscous spend, which puddles beneath him and streaks his thighs.
Cazador slinks forward and tuts under his breath.
He slides a hand into his trousers and exposes his cock to the night air. He strips off, focusing on Astarion’s glaze-eyed stare, at the wanton part of his mouth, the glimmer of his fangs. When Cazador comes, he watches it paint Astarion’s porcelain skin and sighs in satisfaction.
He then nudges Astarion’s legs further apart with the heel of his shoe, then prods at his abused cunt, which sputters with come.
The boy is in no condition to walk home. It is a pity for him, then, that he must.
–
On the way home, Astarion limping silently behind him, Cazador again considers an array of punishments. Picks them up and holds them up to the light, then discards them, all in his mind’s eye.
There will be opportunity enough in their long, long lives together to go through each of his whims. Time is of no consequence, after all, and Astarion is undisciplined, and impertinent besides.
Even if it can be, at times, fucked wholly out of him.