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Astarion stood before the music stand, squinting at the dense lines of notes and wishing he were anywhere else. He had already cursed his carelessness a thousand times; it had forced him to spend his evenings here, in this stark, cold solfège classroom.
At first, he’d managed well enough—he sang scales and intervals as accurately as he could and even took a certain pleasure in the almost meditative routine. But now, somewhere around the tenth exercise, everything had blurred together. His head was buzzing, his throat had gone dry, and his voice no longer obeyed him. Each breath came out more and more strained.
Astarion lifted his gaze and, for the umpteenth time, cast a sidelong glance at the figure by the harpsichord.
Cazador Szarr, his tutor, sat perfectly straight. His long black hair was pulled back into a low ponytail tied with a crimson ribbon—the only careless detail in his severe appearance. Astarion could vividly imagine how heavy and sleek those dark strands must feel. He would have been better off, however, if he had stopped staring at someone else’s hair and let its shine in the candlelight distract him a little less.
For the moment, saer Szarr was perfectly still: his fingers lay motionless on the keys, his eyes closed as he listened to the singing. The sharp lines of his face had tightened with concentration, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly.
To his annoyance, Astarion realized he might have found the man attractive, if only—
He didn’t get to finish the thought, because the irreparable happened: he slipped.
The note came out dull. A month ago, Astarion wouldn’t have paid it any mind, but now his heart tightened even before saer Szarr had time to react.
“Stop,” Cazador snapped. “Stop and name the note.”
Astarion felt heat rushing to his cheeks. He wasn’t accustomed to such a tone—as a scion of a noble house, he had always been addressed with respect.
“F… sharp?” he ventured.
Cazador raised a brow and pressed the F-sharp key.
“Is that so?”
Astarion sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Forgive me, saer. I’m very tired.”
He already knew that wasn’t going to work. Cazador was the most ruthless teacher in the city—possibly in all of Faerûn.
“Your parents,” Cazador began, fixing Astarion with the blazing gaze of a musical fanatic, “paid me a considerable sum to secure your admission to a respectable institution. I warned them I had no right to take their money—the case was far too neglected, and no guarantees could be made. But your dear mother wept so bitterly that even my heart quivered.”
Astarion would have sworn by every god he knew that nothing could ever make Cazador’s heart quiver, that every word of this was utter nonsense, and yet… Something in it struck a raw, bitter chord in him.
He’d never thought himself particularly untalented. In truth, most of his teachers adored him, and nearly everything came easily to him—everything but solfège.
Relying on his reputation and charm, Astarion had neglected his preparation and thus failed the entrance examination miserably. He hadn’t been too upset. He’d long suspected his life might be better spent on something else, law, for instance. But his mother took the blow far too hard and hastened to find the best tutor in Baldur’s Gate for her son.
And that tutor turned out to be Cazador Szarr.
Eccentric, unpredictable, cruel, and extraordinarily talented. No one knew how he managed to drill even the most hopeless students, but after his lessons, every single one of them was admitted. Everyone except one. That one never made it to the exams—he chose to step out of a window instead.
Astarion was beginning to understand why.
“Continue,” an imperious voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
Astarion drew a deep breath, trying to focus. He only had to endure another forty minutes here to keep his dear mother satisfied. And one more lesson at the end of the week. And then two lessons a week until the end of the school year…
No. If he kept thinking along those lines, he’d end up deciding to kill himself, too. Better to concentrate on something pleasant—tomorrow he’d be able to attend a ball and show himself to best advantage. Perhaps there he’d catch the eye of someone very rich and very lonely, and then he’d never have to waste his life away in a solfège classroom again.
Even that bastard Szarr would bow deeply to him when they met.
In reality, there wasn’t a single reason why “that bastard Szarr” should ever bow to him, but Astarion took too much pleasure in imagining it to give it up.
He forced himself to straighten his shoulders and lift his chin, to look like a confident young man from a noble family rather than a boy driven into a corner.
His usual mask slid easily back into place: a lazy smile, a slight narrowing of the eyes, feigned boldness. If talent failed him, why not fall back on charm?
“As you wish, saer,” he said in a voice that made young tutors melt. “If I must endure fatigue, let it be for your sake alone.”
Almost at once, he felt that his overly frivolous words were having quite a different effect than he’d expected. Something inside him tightened into an anxious knot.
Cazador froze, then turned his head and looked him straight in the eyes. Astarion felt as though he’d been stripped bare. Not with interest or lust, but swiftly and without emotion, that cold gaze examining every inch of his body and soul.
“Charming,” Cazador said slowly. “It would be even more charming if you made at least some effort to hit the notes. You do know your mother has progressive ataxia, do you not? No? She was kind enough to share this with me.”
Astarion swallowed hard, his smile frozen on his face. The word ataxia echoed in his head.
“Pardon me, she has what?” he asked, fingers digging into the music stand.
To his surprise, Cazador smiled.
“Your dear mother told me that after you failed your examination, she could barely get out of bed. The physician instructed her to avoid any shock whatsoever.”
Astarion was used to hysterics; his mother was quite fond of making scenes. When she and his father quarrelled, the whole house was turned upside down.
But now, details he’d once dismissed as overacting rose in his memory: the way her hands trembled when she tried to lift a cup, how heavily and awkwardly she sank into a chair, how she leaned on the maid’s shoulder. Astarion had always waved it off, but now everything fell into place.
“She… never told me anything,” he managed, his voice betraying him with a tremor.
“Of course not,” Cazador replied coolly. “Parents often believe that by hiding the truth they’re protecting their children.”
He turned to face Astarion.
“But I am not your parent. I am the one who must shape this,”— he nodded toward Astarion, “into what I was paid for.”
His knuckles had gone white. Astarion forced himself to loosen their grip.
“I understand,” he said quietly, trying to banish the terrible word ataxia out of his thoughts.
Mother hadn’t told him a thing, yet she’d confided in that bastard. Why?
“Number five,” Cazador reminded him.
“Yes, saer.”
He started to sing, and the first measures went by on sheer habit: steps up, steps down, familiar intervals.
She could barely get out of bed.
A third, a fourth, a fifth—nothing difficult.
The physician advised her to avoid any shock.
He sang higher, fighting to keep the rhythm, but his heart was pounding so loudly it felt like it could be heard even through the sound of the harpsichord.
She never said anything to me.
He missed the pitch by a semitone—and that, as always, was enough. Cazador rose and took up a long, thin pointer. None of Astarion’s previous teachers had ever really used one, it was mostly useless. Cazador, apparently, thought otherwise.
“Show me exactly where you went wrong.”
Astarion pointed at the sheet of paper, realizing he’d let himself drift too far into his thoughts and grown inattentive.
Cazador walked up in silence and tapped the sharp tip of the pointer down beside Astarion’s finger.
“Here.” The pointer struck the page with a sharp crack. “E-flat. And you gave me a clean E.”
Astarion was about to apologize out of habit, but his displeased, stubborn expression must have crossed his face. He didn’t even have time to open his mouth before the pointer whistled down lower.
A sharp sting shot through his backside—the humiliation hurt far worse.
“Hey!” He jerked upright, eyes flying wide in shock. “Saer Szarr!”
Astarion whipped around to look at Cazador, cheeks scalding. What did this bastard think he was doing?
“Keep singing,” Cazador said, casting an impassive glance over his flushed face.
Astarion darted a nervous glance at the score. Half an hour more and he’d be free… Then he would speak to his mother and ask her to find him another tutor.
But who was he fooling? Cazador Szarr was the best. If even he couldn’t manage it, no one would be able to help Astarion.
He started singing again, barely keeping the tempo. On the B-flat, his voice faltered. He missed it.
Crack.
The pointer snapped against his thigh, and Astarion arched involuntarily.
“Enough!” he cried, his voice edging toward hysteria. “You have no right!”
“Oh, I don’t?” Cazador let out a chuckle that made his skin crawl. “Then leave. And don’t forget to tell your mother you’re refusing further lessons.”
“I’m not—” Astarion felt a string inside him pulled tight to breaking point. His hands trembled with panic at the thought of what might happen to his mother if he did that. “I’m not refusing…”
He’s too close, he’s too close!
Astarion flinched, feeling Cazador looming at his side. His concentration had all but vanished, utterly shattered. His eyes felt on the verge of filling with tears.
"You're out of shape," Cazador said, bending down until his face was almost pressed to Astarion’s. Astarion caught faint notes of cologne—leather and something woody, tinged with a slight sweetness. "I'll help you pull yourself together."
Tenacious fingers dug into his waist, slid lower, and quickly undid the buttons of his trousers.
Astarion froze. Something was happening that had no place in a solfège lesson between tutor and student. A shiver of fear ran through his body, but he didn’t move, his limbs felt as though they’d been filled with lead.
"Saer Szarr…" he said hoarsely. "You could have simply asked me out, if I’m that appealing to you…"
"Silence."
Cazador yanked his trousers down sharply, and Astarion felt cold air brush against his bare buttocks. All he could manage was a startled, breathless “Ah!”
“Music is impossible without strictness,” Cazador said, his voice reaching Astarion as though through deep water. “Any deviation, a single false note, ruins the entire harmony in an instant. Your vocal cords…” his unexpectedly cold fingers closed around Astarion’s throat. “…must fear mistakes. You must fear them and work better.”
The fingers tightened slightly, and Astarion rasped, jerking weakly. Only then did he fully realize just how tall Cazador Szarr was as he loomed over him.
Was this the mysterious teaching method that forced other students to pass their exams? Or was he the only one so fortunate?
Astarion swallowed hard.
"I understand… I…"
At that very second, another blow landed on his bare buttock—this time with the full force of a palm.
"You won’t understand a thing as long as you keep singing out of tune, boy."
Cold fingers slid along the inside of his thigh. Astarion tried to draw his legs together and immediately received another sharp slap.
"Do you want to pass your exams?" came the whisper right by his ear.
"Y-yes, but—"
"Then you must not interfere with my teaching methods."
"I—" He yelped as Cazador found his labia and rudely spread them apart. "What are you doing?!"
One finger slipped inside. To his horror, Astarion realized he was wet enough, offering no resistance. A moan tore from his throat. Despite his considerable sexual experience, Szarr’s finger felt enormous—his inner walls clenched and spasmed. His foolish body was aroused.
"A-ah…" he groaned, immediately clapping a hand over his mouth.
Cazador suddenly stilled.
"What note was that?" he asked, and it took Astarion a moment to even process the question.
“Y-you can’t be serious?” Astarion squealed, trying to pull away.
The finger inside him curled, and with a rasping breath, he collapsed forward, chest pressed to the poor, trembling music stand beneath him.
“What. Note. Was. That?” Cazador asked, punctuating each word with a thrust.
Astarion’s thighs began to shake. His thoughts tangled, the betrayal of his aroused body stunned him no less than fear.
“A…” he finally breathed.
“At last,” Cazador replied with faint satisfaction and added another finger, as if that could possibly count as a reward.
Astarion leaned more and more against the fragile contraption, doing his utmost not to knock it over.
“Do you really think I’m not trying?” he giggled hysterically.
“Try harder,” Cazador snapped, tapping a manicured finger against a line on the sheet. “What notes are these?”
Astarion struggled to focus—the sharp movements inside him made him lose the line again and again. A sinful sweetness spread low in his belly.
“C… G… D…” he mumbled incoherently, no longer capable of singing the notes aloud.
“Wrong.”
Astarion whimpered, unable to decide what he wanted more: for Cazador to simply leave him alone, or to fuck him already, solfège be damned. He named the notes again and again, struggling to move his disobedient tongue, swallowing thick saliva. At one point, cold fingers travelled up his body, palmed and scraped over his nipples, and Astarion lost his train of thought all over again.
Cazador suddenly clicked his tongue and pulled away, leaving Astarion clenching around nothing.
“Don’t move,” he said in a tone that made disobedience impossible.
Astarion lowered his head, wishing his curls were long enough to hide his face. Cold air teased his overheated skin, and moisture slowly ran down his thighs.
He had just begun to think that maybe he should pull his trousers back on and run when Cazador returned, a familiar velvet box in his hands. It opened with a soft click, and Cazador took out—
“What do you need the pegs for?!”
For a moment, astonishment drove out his fear. He had expected to see just about anything, but not those ordinary tuning pegs, the kind he used to tune his lute. Astarion had seen hundreds of them before: small, smooth, slightly curved.
“Very observant,” Cazador said, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re gifted, but you’ve been in need of tuning for quite some time.”
He stepped closer and bent over Astarion again, icy breath brushing his neck.
“One for every mistake. If you drop one, you get two at once.”
Astarion didn’t have time to respond. His breath hitched as something cold and smooth brushed over his entrance. The next moment, he cried out sharply—the peg was forced inside him, causing his inner muscles to clench around it immediately, trying in vain to push it out.
“Hold it.”
Astarion could feel the foreign object shifting inside him, it was something that shouldn’t be there. He tried to tense his muscles and gasped at the solid hardness of the wood.
Cazador didn’t give him time to recover. He replaced the old sheet of music with a new one and ordered, “Read.”
“Now?..” Astarion already knew the answer.
“Of course. This is a solfège lesson, boy. Lessons are for work.”
Astarion would have rolled his eyes if he hadn’t felt so awful. He tried to focus on the first line and, by some miracle, even managed to read it aloud, but at the start of the next one, his body jerked treacherously. The peg began to slip down, and it took far more effort to hold it in place.
Astarion sucked in a sharp breath and clenched his muscles. He was far too slick inside, and the wood was far too smooth.
“Wrong,” he heard by his ear. “And also…”
The peg slid down again, and Astarion groaned in helpless fury—at himself and at the bastard Szarr. Everything down below throbbed, leaking with desire, and the humiliation only seemed to fuel the fire.
“…you almost dropped it.”
The second peg slid into him with ease, followed by a third. They pressed against one another, pushing in the most unexpected places. Astarion had never clenched so hard.
“Much better,” Cazador nodded in satisfaction. Astarion glanced back and caught his predatory smile. At least someone here was enjoying himselves. “Now you are much more focused, are you not?”
Of course not. How could anyone focus on anything like this?
“Yes…” Astarion breathed, hoping it would end soon, and that if he never made another mistake, never be repeated.
Cazador merely huffed in response and tapped the sheet with his pointer once more.
“Continue.”
Astarion went on. He had never tried so hard in his life, never been so attentive. But nothing could save him from mistakes, and at some point, there were so many pegs inside him that he could no longer count them.
He had no strength left to clench his muscles, no strength left to sing, he could barely even stand upright. He was ruined.
“Please… Saer Szarr, please,” Astarion caught Cazador by the hand and turned, looking straight into his eyes. “I promise, no, I swear, by next time I’ll sing perfectly.”
A strange expression crossed Cazador’s face, a mixture of deep satisfaction and faint disgust. With a sharp motion, he pulled his hand free.
“By next time?” his lips curved.
“By the lesson… by the exam…”
“You must be admitted,” a heavy hand settled on Astarion’s shoulder. “You know what will happen if you fail the exams…”
“Mother…” Astarion breathed.
The smile on Cazador’s face twisted into a grin, and he nodded.
“Exactly. Your mother wouldn’t survive that. Now, be a good boy and give me the pegs.”
Astarion sobbed softly, a shudder of relief running through his body. He hurriedly lowered his hand, slipped two fingers inside himself, caught hold of the first peg, and pulled it out with a shameful, wet sound. His heart was pounding as he wrapped it in the handkerchief Szarr had so kindly provided.
At last, there was nothing left inside him. Anxiety whispered that one peg must have gone missing somewhere deep within his body, lodged there forever, only to deal a fatal blow at the most unexpected moment…
But there was no time to dwell on that now, the danger looming before him in the shape of Cazador Szarr was far more immediate.
Cazador slowly looked him over, from head to toe and back again. Only now did Astarion notice that his eyes were crimson.
“I do not tolerate leniency, boy,” he said. “However, if you apply yourself and… cooperate, I might one day, let’s say… mention your name to the admissions committee in a favorable light.”
Astarion’s eyes flew open. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“You can?”
Cazador nodded. Astarion tried to gather his thoughts, still not daring to pull his trousers back on.
“And what exactly does this ‘cooperation’ involve?”
Cazador replied in a tone that brooked no argument.
“On your knees.”
“W-what…”
“I said, on your knees.”
Reality wavered. It was as if Astarion were watching from the outside as he slowly sank to the floor, first onto one knee, then the other. He’d had plenty of lovers and “friends,” so why did everything feel so strange now?
Cazador’s fingers slid through his curls, combing them, stroking him as if rewarding an animal for good behavior. Astarion didn’t want to raise his head, but a firm tug on his hair forced him to.
His usually composed tutor loomed over him with a smug expression, unfastening the buttons of his trousers. An aroused cock slipped free, fitting its owner’s height all too well.
His knees ached sharply against the floor, but Astarion didn’t dare change his position. The grip in his hair tightened, and the cock pressed insistently against his parted lips.
Cazador didn’t waste time, pushing in almost immediately, filling his throat to the hilt, setting the pace and ruthlessly fucking his mouth. Despite all his experience, tears welled in Astarion’s eyes and streamed down his cheeks.
He braced his hands against Cazador’s thighs and whimpered, pleading for mercy.
“That is where you’re especially good,” Cazador breathed with an especially deep thrust. “And even here, you give up far too quickly.”
Astarion’s throat cramped. He kept choking, struggling for air, yet by some miracle endured the onslaught. Cazador’s movements grew more erratic, his breathing heavier. He seemed to whisper something in an unfamiliar language.
For some reason, Astarion lifted his eyes, and in that instant, sticky seed splattered his cheek, catching in his lashes. At another time, he would have let his partner savor the sight—the cum on his face, his chin slick with saliva, the lewd look in his eyes. But not now.
Now Astarion hastily pulled away, frantically wiping his face with his sleeve.
Cazador seemed to lose interest in him. He slowly gathered the sheets of exercises into a neat stack, turned away, and walked back to the harpsichord. The pause was as vital to Astarion as air—he sprang to his feet and pulled his trousers on.
He’d been left without release, and everything below throbbed sweetly and insistently, leaking, aching, wanting…
“Ahem…” Astarion cleared his throat, staring at Cazador’s straight back. “Saer…”
“Come tomorrow,” Cazador said casually, without turning around. “I hope you’ll keep your promise.”
Astarion took a step back, cowardly on the verge of bolting. He was free. At least until tomorrow.
Then it hit him—his poor throat was sore from the rough intrusion. Which meant… he wouldn’t be able to sing properly. And Cazador would only be pleased by that.
“Bastard…” Astarion whispered hoarsely, feeling the word scrape against his vocal cords.
Cazador froze. His back went unnaturally straight.
“What?”
But Astarion was already gone. Slamming the door pointedly behind him, he burst into the empty corridor and, only there, allowed himself a brief cough.