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Astarion strode into the Elfsong Tavern in a modern yet elegant doublet, trousers, and ruffled shirt. The cufflinks marking him as a member of the city council's sprawling bureaucracy glimmered in the torchlight.
He was looking for a woman.
Melain Rosenbur had been sniffing around council records concerning the Szarr family. Someone in the Flaming Fist had reported her interest, the information had found its way to Cazador, and now Astarion had been sent to deal with the problem.
Officially, he was there to provide records she'd requested.
Naturally, he was to escort her back to the palace.
She was easy to spot. Alone in a booth, bent over a book instead of a newspaper or tankard, she looked more scholar than merchant. Long brown hair spilled over the shoulders of a pale green cloak as she read.
Cazador had described her as a particularly lonesome woman, barely beyond flowering, which Astarion translated to capable young woman with ambition and free thought.
She didn't notice him approach.
Astarion slid his own book across the table as he settled into the booth across from her. It was open to the page he'd selected specifically for his introduction to her, detailing the history of the Szarr family estate.
"I heard you were looking for information," he said by way of greeting.
She glanced up and instantly forgot herself. He had a very pretty face, and-- again, thanks to fucking Cazador-- he knew that high-class elvish men were a particular fancy of hers', despite her own status as a human. None had ever stayed in her life longer than a few tendays at most. Apparently of their doing, as elves were quite aware of a human's lifespan compared to their own and didn't like giving them false hope.
Which meant she had a blind spot and a particular ache for men like him.
"Don't play coy now, darling, you're the one who came calling." He flipped his shirt cuff around to show her the council's cufflink, and she smiled.
"Oh," she said. "Yes. Well met..."
"Astarion. You are Lady Rosenbur, yes?"
"Oh. Ah, yes. You are. Correct I mean. You can call me Melain. If you like."
He tapped the page and watched her go a bit distant, likely flustered by him being in her space. Like a debutante. Just how he wanted her.
"Of course, Melain. Regarding information on the estate and palace grounds, including its acquisition and ownership-- I'll spare you the details, you can read them later."
She smiled at him, a hint of blush to her cheeks, engaged. If she was suspicious she hid her doubt masterfully. Good. He continued,
"The facts are, the property was acquired by the eldest Lord Szarr, after the untimely death of the Vellioth the Martinet, the... apparently rather authoritarian head of the palace at that time. You'll find that the property has changed hands only once since then. It passed to Lord Szarr the younger. And similarly, the passing happened after the untimely death of the elder. An odd pattern of succession, if you ask me."
She hadn't even thought to cast dispel magic, so the golden glint to his eyes and the light flush in his skin remained. A glamour. Not a full disguise, but just enough to prevent those who knew of vampiric traits from alarm at pallor and a blood-red glare. Built ingeniously into the cufflinks was a charm of disguise.
"Odd indeed. What's your occupation? You're a member of the city council, but of which profession?"
"I'm a magistrate. Civil court. It's all rather tedious, really."
"Doesn't sound tedious to me."
"Oh?" He arched an eyebrow. "And you, darling, you're a..."
"An independent merchant. I trade in Amn and peddle wares across Baldur's Gate."
"Ah, a supplier."
"That's me."
"So you organize a trade network?"
"Indeed," she beamed, self-made and proud of her work. "Not so long ago I was a part of the Merchant's guild, keeping ledgers and arranging caravans for half the traders in the city. In time I made enough friends among them to strike out on my own. Now I coordinate routes and contracts independently. The guild still takes its share, of course, but it's far better than spending every day bent over a ledger."
"That's so inspiring. How many routes do you manage?"
Melain launched into an excited, detailed explanation of the small empire she was building.
Astarion envied this woman. He'd been working his way up the chain as well, having died just months before clawing his way to a higher position over two courts instead of one. He'd had dreams of moving to Amn himself, having heard of its beauty. As an elf he had been itching to explore the world at large.
And then he'd gone and died, as a result of one misjudgement.
"Consider me charmed by your ambition," he said when she'd concluded her tale, pillowing his chin on his hands, playing at enraptured. "Is that why you've taken an interest in Szarr Palace? You're hoping to make an ally?"
She frowned. "I'm trying to prove a theory, actually. A few tendays ago, a trade caravan of mine was ambushed on its way into the lower city. The only surviving merchant fled to the ocean and hid beneath the docks. When he explained what happened, he insisted the ambush was strategic. He mentioned a competing silver trader who often took contracts out of Amn. Not many powerful families maintain their own silver routes from Amn. The Szarrs are one of the few. They're also my largest competitor. This man swore on his life this attacker was a vampire dressed in the Szarr fashion and bearing their crest-- glowing red eyes, claws, fangs. Strangely enough the vampire didn't bite anyone. He preferred instead a broadsword, by the merchant's account."
"Dreadful," Astarion sighed. Fucking Petras. Only that idiot would leave anyone alive.
"It was. And that poor man. He immediately resigned his positioned and settled in Rivington."
Astarion hummed sympathetically. "I do not blame him in the slightest." He pulled another book out of the satchel he carried, and flipped it open to show a record log he had constructed himself. "On the evening's topic, I'm interested in the Szarrs as well. They've evaded property tax for half a century now. A friend of mine is building a case against them. The city needs what its due for social projects, they should be contributing at least a hundred gold annually. The city council hasn't seen a single copper of it."
"Is that so?" Melain brightened, excited. "What's the penalty for tax evasion?"
"Nothing that will significantly cripple a family that powerful, but enough of a fine to be bothersome."
"And if murder were added to the charge?"
"That would be handled in a different court, and the consequences decided by someone more powerful than myself," Astarion explained, recalling how the system worked. "Civil matters, dearest, are as far as my jurisdiction goes. Murder is quite the high charge."
He had lorded over those matters once. And it had gotten him killed. He decided to add a bit of truth to his lie. "If I'm being honest, I have no desire to preside over a murder trial. They can get rather ugly. A friend of mine went missing after ruling in the favor of an innocent defendant, much to the ire of a pack of Gur. One night he simply... didn't return home. Or so I've heard."
He cast his gaze down at the words in the record book, recalling his headstone. He'd left flowers by it for some time, honoring the man he once was, a century ago. He stopped soon after his fiftieth victim, not wanting to offer grace to the man that had died and eventually let himself become a monster.
"I'm so sorry," Melain said earnestly. "I-- I suppose it makes sense, that would be a dangerous position."
Astarion shook himself slightly. "Yes, well. I only hope he died knowing he had done right by the victim of the Gur's primitive methods."
"I hope so, too."
They read quietly together for some time, and Astarion ordered a round of wine. When Melain looked at him curiously, he simply smiled. "One can only read of such dry matters for so long sober."
She laughed indulgently and agreed. Two glasses in, she was pink-cheeked and tipsy. He came around the table to sit beside her under the guise of showing her a note regarding the Szarr's interesting history of murder and disappearances, which had indeed come from a novel published over a century ago, a few years before Astarion's own death. The author-- a previous servant of the palace who turned out to be a journalist-- had died shortly after releasing the book, but not before the novel made it to print. Many of the monster hunters who came around the palace had read the very same publication. It never ceased to irk Cazador, and gave the rest of the spawn work to do frequently enough. Awful and bloody work, but that was pretty much the only kind the spawn ever engaged in.
She leaned into him, her mind working hard to fill in gaps that Astarion was helping lead her to. She knew they were likely vampires, and of the sabotage on her silver traders. By Cazador's standards, she knew too much for comfort.
Her warmth bled through his shirt. She was slim, likely because she was constantly on her feet, doing whatever it was a woman in her position with as much newfound power and responsibility did.
Jealousy and sorrow struck him again but he swallowed his emotions down as he leaned his cheek on her head of soft brown hair, watching her read. Her heart kicked up in her chest. She dropped her hand to his thigh, just behind his knee. He hummed and shifted, spreading his legs slightly, letting her feel him move. Again, the beat of her heart came faster. Her breath hitched and she accidentally squeezed him.
"Sorry," she said, hand making to leave him. He caught it and held it to his thigh.
"Whatever for?"
"This is... I'm... I normally don't," she tried, swallowing.
"It's all right, love. I like it."
She inhaled sharply when he wrapped his arm around her and squeezed her waist.
"Do you?" He asked, knowing the answer. "Like it."
She nodded, short and nervous, swallowing again. Cute. She was very cute. Very briefly he considered kissing her temple, then leaving her to go and slice himself open from belly to ribcage with his own dagger. That thought got pushed down, along with the guilt that ensued as he stroked her side with his thumb.
"You live in the upper city, don't you?"
With a gasp, her hips shifted, subtly enough no one but himself would be able to tell.
"Astarion," she whispered, her hand shifting up on his thigh, as if for balance.
"Would you like me to walk you home?"
She nodded, chest starting to heave with her short breaths, as he slid his hand up her ribs and thumbed at the hint of her breastband. If he played with her for much longer someone would likely notice, even though they were shrouded by curtains. The Elfsong was a rather uppity crowd, for an establishment in the lower city. But it was as good as any for conducting quiet business. Or, in this case, investigating a vampire lord. It was just highbrow enough to be safe, and just far away enough from the upper city to conceal deals and conversations, making it a preferential spot for cityfolk of all kinds.
So he reached into his pocket as her hand trailed higher on the inside of his thigh and left silver on the table for the service. He pressed a quick, subtle kiss to her hair.
"Let's pack this up, darling. We'll continue at your place."
"Okay," she murmured, flushed and slightly out of it. He smiled at her softly as he pulled away and she positively melted for him.
They packed up efficiently, and made their way to the double doors. He followed her out of the tavern, slipping a small vial out of his breast pocket while she wasn't looking. He downed it but held the charm drought on his tongue, not daring to swallow. He dropped the empty bottle into a patch of grass by the entry steps behind him.
She was talking about something. He didn't know what, but he hummed a laugh, pulled her into the street, and kissed her. She arched into him, and then made a muffled sound of surprise at the taste of the potion. A mouthful was more than enough for her to melt against him, expression besotted yet absent.
"Let's get you home, darling," he said, Canian ice in the pit of his chest, as he led her along the cobblestone path to the upper city.
--
She came to awareness in the guest room. He heard her heartrate pick up before she mumbled groggily from where she lay on the bed. Her hands were tied behind her back-- he'd been considerate and pulled her sleeves over her wrists. The same was true of her ankles.
"I apologize, my dear," he said, as he turned and seated himself next to her on the bed, crossing his legs. "You'll have a headache for a short time. Should get better in the next few minutes."
Not that she'd be around to experience it. Cazador knew of his return home and would surely come to collect this clever little woman shortly.
"Where..."
"Mm, best not ask," Astarion said, rubbing at her temple. Her eyelashes fluttered and she hummed, faintly, before listlessly trying to move her arm. When confusion faded to the discovery that she couldn't, panic made her heartrate spike and she went very, very still. Ah, so she froze under stress. He did so enjoy the fighters, but knowing what he did about her, he wasn't particularly in the mood for it. Hence the knots.
"Astarion."
"Melain."
She didn't look at him. He wondered if a part of her knew that she was going to die.
"Please let me go?"
"No."
"Please."
"You don't honestly think asking twice is going to change my mind, do you?"
She went silent. Her shoulders hitched. Astarion never did appreciate crying. Petras took a peculiar, perverse delight in a woman's misery but Astarion was the opposite. He hated the pity that churned in his gut. Hated that her sobbing reminded him of nights he'd spent on the floor of the kennels, curled around himself, sniffling quietly against the bloodstained floor.
"Oh, hush," he sighed. "Nothing to be done about it now."
"Please," she begged.
As much as he wanted to try and comfort her, the guilt and disgust with himself was too strong to contend with. He stood and walked away, to the other side of the room, and leaned back on the vanity, hands planted to hold his weight-- he ignored her pleas for him to stay, to not go, to let her go, anything, please. He undid the cufflinks and set them down, and soon followed with the doublet. Whatever happened next, he didn't want to face his Master's ire should they be ruined.
The lock clicked. The door opened, and Cazador Szarr stepped in.
"Would it not behoove you to treat our guests with more respect?" he asked, glaring at Astarion.
Panic rose in Astarion's chest. "I did as you asked, Master. If the charm had failed sooner than expected, she might've fled."
"There was no need for you to put her in such a panic post-arrival."
The woman in question let out an awful, ugly sob. Astarion looked askance at the wallpaper, unable to stomach her crying.
Cazador dragged his attention to the woman on the bed. Astarion subtly inched towards the door.
"Stay."
Astarion froze, compelled to stay, mind racing with the millions of ways Cazador might punish him as he heard him briefly soothe Melain. He made quick work of her despite his failure to calm her, and her sobbing soon faded to the dull, dying thud of her heart. Cazador left her splayed on the bed, heart barely beating, then turned and met Astarion's eyes.
Astarion swallowed. He knew that look. Knew if he tried to flee, Cazador would physically stop him. If he looked away, Cazador would find some reason to punish him. So he stayed perfectly still.
"On your knees," Cazador commanded, pushing himself up from the bed.
Astarion lowered himself to his knees, using the vanity for leverage, trying to hold back the panic that made his hands tremble. He held them behind his back so as not to give himself away.
Cazador approached him slowly. Astarion didn't look away from his his cruel frown and sleek black hair-- if he did, he would surely be reprimanded. The Master stopped before him, caught Astarion by the jaw, and quietly said,
"Open your mouth."
No. He couldn't help his flinch, even though he held his Master's gaze. He forced his trembling jaw to drop, lips parting, and Cazador slid his thumb into Astarion's mouth, pressing down gently on his tongue. Naturally he had to part his teeth wider, not wanting to suggest he might bite.
His Master's skin tasted deceptively sweet.
"She'll wake soon," Cazador informed him. "I want her to see what you are, before you entertain her."
Astarion's composure finally broke and frustrated, exhausted, guilt-ridden tears spilled over. His chest struggled to take in air, hitching, even as he tried not to breathe at all. Cazador stroked his tongue with his thumb, not contemplating what he might do so much as feeling the softness of Astarion's mouth before he used it.
"You have done well. Your treatment of our guest aside, you've succeeded in correcting your brother's error."
Astarion jumped as the flat of Cazador's boot pressed to his soft cock, expression twisting in a way Cazador seemed to enjoy.
"Would you like a reward?"
Astarion nodded, knowing if he refused, the punishment would be far worse.
"Good," Cazador decided, withdrawing his thumb from Astarion's mouth. He withdrew a vial from an inner pocket of his long coat, uncorked it, and held it out to Astarion. Not wanting to show his shaking hands, Astarion kept his mouth open and tilted his head back.
Cazador offered him a very rare smile, and poured the contents of the vial into Astarion's mouth. He swallowed, beating his panic down as he did. Instantly warmth bloomed in his chest and groin, making his eyes roll back. He finally dropped Cazador's gaze to hang his head. He breathed through the initial pulses of warmth, and shook his head to clear it.
The ache of denied arousal set in so quickly it made him lightheaded. Cazador's boot pressed down, making exhale a surprised sound. It felt good. Gods, he was already hard enough for any slight shift in fabric to make his head go light.
"Head up, boy."
Astarion obeyed, trying very hard not to show how quickly the potion had affected him. He deduced he wasn't entirely successful, because Cazador stroked a thumb over his cheek as he undid the flat black ties on his tailored trousers.
As much as Astarion was overwhelmed enough to shed more tears, he held it together while Cazador's cock slid into his mouth. Held it together still as his Master gripped him by the hair and slowly fed him cock until his nose met skin. He managed to keep his gaze dull even as Cazador involuntarily pressed down on his cock, the constricting weight translated straight to pleasure by what Astarion could only assume was succubus spittle. He didn't mean to moan, but the slight movement against his aching groin drew the noises out of him anyway.
His gaze slid to the side without him meaning for it to.
It wasn't until he realized Melain was awake, watching his Master face fuck him, that he broke once more.
I'm sorry, he tried to communicate his apology to her as he was fed cock over and over again. I'm so sorry.
Her expression pinched, torn between pity and disgust, and he finally began to sob around Cazador's cock. Gods, he hated himself. He wished he could die. Wished the rules twisted up in his mind would allow him to rid the world of himself.
Alas, he took what was fed down his throat and tried very hard to stay silent.
"No longer enjoying this?" Cazador asked, holding Astarion all the way down on his cock, so deep that Astarion didn't dare try to breathe. "Ah, she's awake." He kept his eyes closed and his throat relaxed as Cazador engaged their unwilling guest.
"I must apologize for Astarion's behavior. I can assure you that he's well-mannered enough. You're fortunate I sent him to collect you and not one of his brothers."
Melain simply said,
"You're a monster."
"I'm a pragmatist and a businessman. And fortunately, I'm merciful." He pressed forward again, drawing a broken moan out of Astarion's throat before he managed to choke it down. "I've decided to let you have Astarion after I've finished with him. As far as whores go, he's courteous. Though I wouldn't call him kind."
"I don't want him."
"Yet you're still watching him take a cock."
There was a long, telling silence. Astarion swallowed around Cazador's cock just to make him lose a slight bit of control, and recieved a jerk to his head as a warning. It wasn't worth it, really. But it was at least something to do. Some tiny way to seize control, before Cazador forced his head down and spent in the back of his throat. He swallowed then, too, and Cazador rubbed his boot up and down Astarion's cock.
Astarion rode the sole of his shoe, though he refused to make another damned noise.
"Astarion, up."
He pulled off of Cazador's cock and stood, not looking at him despite the risk of reprimand. It seemed Cazador was indeed intent on mercy at the moment, because he simply wiped spend and saliva from the corner of Astarion's mouth.
"Go and greet our guest."
Oh, Gods. He didn't want to. He didn't have a choice. He strode to the edge of the bed and sat down on it, meeting Melain's deadened expression with pity.
"I'm sorry," he said. He meant it. He was sorry about what he was going to do to her. He was sorry he brought her here.
She took a steadying, deep breath, and said,
"I'm sorry, too."
It was worse than anything else she could've told him. He reached out and tucked her loose brown hair behind her ear, then drew his thumb over her cheek. There were faint freckles there. She spent a lot of time in the sun. Jealousy rose in him again but he quickly pushed it back down. His cock ached, but he ignored it, even though it was making his head feel like it had been stuffed with cotton.
Her eyes were dull. Tired.
She knew she was going to die.
He withdrew his dagger from his belt holster and cut the ropes at her ankles. He rolled her onto her side, cut her wrists free. He helped her move her aching shoulders as he laid her out on her stomach. He removed her linens, then hiked up her pretty silk skirts.
"No," she stopped him.
He paused.
"You'll look at me," she continued, voice soft. "You'll have me on my back, and you'll look at me, Astarion."
Oh Gods, no. He couldn't possibly. He didn't want to, and he couldn't. He'd surely be sick.
Cazador let out a low, foreboding huff of a laugh, before taking the choice away entirely with compulsion. "Do as she says, boy. You'll give her whatever she desires, so long as she doesn't leave that bed."
With a horrible ache in his throat, he helped her onto her back and prepared himself for her anger, or worse, her submission.
Instead, she gave him a small, sad smile.
That was worse. So much worse. He couldn't look away. Tears ambushed him again, his cock gave an aching throb in his trousers, completely disproportionate to the situation he was in.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no-- please don't do that."
"It's okay," she replied, voice just as low as his.
"It's not."
"It is," she refuted. "I want you to make love to me."
"No." He wanted to get away from her but the compulsion wouldn't let him. "Please, don't."
"Please. I've never had love and sex at the same time. I-- I don't want to die, not knowing what... I want you to love me. Please love me."
He was compelled to obey. He tilted his head to the side, tears rolling down his cheeks. "I do. I love you."
Her breath hitched and she brought him back to look at her, cradling his head in her hands.
"I love you," she repeated, pulling him into a kiss. She poured affection he didn't realize a single woman could be capable of into their kiss.
He hated it. And yet, he needed more of her. He needed to convince her he loved her, because he had to give her whatever she desired, so long as she stayed in this bed.
So he kissed her gently, affectionately, and tried very hard to be in love.
Cazador's hand pet through his hair possessively. He drew away from her with a gasp, shivering. His cock brushed her thigh. He wished he'd chosen to die in the street all those years ago.
She smiled up at him though she was silently weeping, her face having gone wet with glimmering tracks. He kissed her, trying to prove he loved her, even as Cazador's hand trailed down his neck, his back, over his scars and to his sacrum.
"Don't pay attention to him," she whispered against his jaw. "Only me."
"Only you," he agreed. She gasped and held his wrist as he drew his fingertips over her clit, gentle at first. She was sensitive, her expression pinching as he stroked the underside. He changed tactics and sighed when her legs spread apart, welcoming his touch. No matter how much he ached to bury himself inside of her, she came first. He needed to love her.
But Gods, his skin was burning. He ached to be inside of her.
"Darling..." he groaned, forehead falling to her shoulder.
"What is it?"
"Hurts."
"I'll help him through the pain," Cazador intoned, as his hands slipped around Astarion's hips, undoing the laces of his trousers to push them and his linens down his thighs. "You will have what you asked of him."
He moaned as Cazador rubbed his cock. Melain brought him back down for a kiss and he kept at her clit-- his mouth would be better, he tried to offer it, but instead a broken sigh left him as he finally found release at Cazador's hand.
"I--I can-- my mouth," he managed.
"No," she said. "Kiss my neck."
Ah, perhaps she didn't want Cazador to see her. He kissed her neck, gentle, careful, and rubbed her clit enough to make her hips twitch. His wits returned to him as much as they could under compulsion, and he kept at her until she was whining.
"Kiss me," she gasped, and he kissed her to silence her orgasm, letting her ride it out on the tips of his fingers. She sighed against his lips and he devoured each one, hiding her pleasure from his Master. It was the least he could do.
"Make love to me," she whispered. He was helpless to do anything but obey. Her hands swept under his shirt, grabbing at his chest.
He slipped two of his fingers between her folds, shivering at how wet she was, happy that he'd been able to please her. He slid his fingers inside, just two, and spread them. Her back arched and her mouth dropped open so he kissed her in case she accidentally made a sound.
"I love you," he whispered. "Hold on to me. Hold on."
Her arms wrapped around him, pushing his shirt up, and she gasped. Her hands smoothed over scars.
"Astarion--"
He hushed her, spreading her with three fingers, not wanting to know what she was going to say about his back. She was ready, and she was wet enough that it wouldn't hurt. He could feel that she was going to enjoy this, knew how loose a woman had to be around him for her to feel only pleasure when he took her. He wanted her to feel how much he loved her, because he had to please her in this bed.
"May I?" He asked, whispering against her cheek.
She nodded fiercely. "Look at me. Please, look at me."
He pulled back and watched the brown of her eyes change as she took his cock. Gods-- he bit his lip and pressed forward, afraid he might spill, sick with self-loathing and pleasure in equal measure-- fuck, he couldn't-- she was still tight, but he knew she felt good, her lips parted and her eyes fluttered shut, no pain, he hadn't caused her any pain, not even as he fully seated himself inside of her.
She wrapped her legs around him and sighed. She blinked up at him and gave him a goofy, beautiful little grin that was never meant for him.
"Love you," she nearly slurred.
"Love you," he repeated, giving her as gentle a smile as he could manage. He leaned down and kissed her as he began to move, slow and sure. She gasped and he moaned, cock hard and aching inside of her, but he refused to spill before she'd come on his cock. He loved her. He wanted her to be happy.
Gods, she was so warm.
Cazador's hands wrapped around his hips but he couldn't stop. Gods, she felt good. He didn't want her to know anything was wrong. Not even as Cazador breached him, slick with oil, and pulsed his fingers against his prostate.
Astarion gasped and sighed as she pulled him closer. He licked the tips of his fingers and brought them down to her clit again, circling, making her cry out.
"Astarion," she called, "Astarion."
He kissed her as her walls fluttered around him, pulling him into an orgasm with her that lasted what felt like a decade, the pulsing against his prostate prolonging his pleasure far more than her cunt clenching around his cock could have alone.
She sighed as she came down, and he buried his face in her neck. He covered her with his body, still inside of her, still burning with pleasure from the damned vial Cazador had forced him to drink.
"Thank you," she murmured, pressing a kiss into his hair.
He didn't deserve this.
Any of this.
But then again, hadn't he done this to himself? Didn't he deserve all of this?
He was confused. He was fucked up and twisted inside. He was evil.
"Kill me," he mouthed into her neck without a voice.
She didn't ask what he'd meant to say. He drew away, the compulsion breaking with her satisfaction reached, and instantly felt he was going to be sick. He crawled away from her, backing into Cazador's chest on accident. He tried to scramble away from Cazador, even though his trousers around his thighs were crippling him, but his Master stopped him with a command.
"Stay."
Astarion stayed. His cock jerked, smearing her come and his across his thigh. He succumbed to hyperventilation and uncontrollable panic.
"I'm going to be sick," he said quickly, the room tilting, his face unnaturally hot. "I'm going to throw up."
"Do it over the edge," Cazador told him, annoyed.
Astarion threw himself against the edge of the bed and waited, but nothing happened. He was dizzy, and barely able to control his breathing, but eventually the panic subsided into a barely manageable buzz.
Cazador sighed. He drew himself over Astarion's body and up Melain's. Her thighs tensed under Astarion's navel.
It was so often that Cazador was cruel, when Astarion heard the immediate pained gasp and the breaking of skin, he was surprised. The room was coming back to him in startling clarity after having thoroughly bested the panic, so he was able to hear the poor woman's heart stop beating in her chest. Cazador was showing incredible mercy in killing her now.
Or perhaps she just tasted good after two orgasms.
Astarion supposed he would never know.
Her body was still warm under him when Cazador's hands settled on the backs of his thighs. His Master pulled his trousers fully down his legs, and divested him of his shirt.
"It's been quite the night," Cazador said, oddly gentle. "You should bathe."
Astarion swallowed excess spit. He made to get off the bed and was again surprised when Cazador assisted him.
He was still hard. His skin was crawling with the need to get off once more.
"Bath," he mumbled, confused, unsteady on his legs.
"I'm taking you upstairs."
Before Astarion could wonder how he was going to manage to get up the steps, he was picked up by the backs of his knees and lower back-- then promptly weightless, as he dissolved into mist with his Master.
He reformed in the bathing chamber of the master suite, where a bath was waiting.
Cazador had planned this, of course. It was likely this gentle behavior was just a precursor to something equally as horrible as fucking a woman who knew she was marked for death.
His Master helped him back to standing.
All at once, the events of the evening and his own hot emotions caught up to him, and he stumbled to the edge of the tub. He leaned over it and tried to stabilize but the room kept spinning. He started to gasp for air, thrown back into a panic.
"Stop the dramatics, boy."
He stopped breathing. His diaphragm hitched. Tears streamed down his face but he simply stayed still, hanging limply over the edge of the tub, fingers in the hot water.
"Better. Get in the bath."
He obeyed. He slid into the bath, his body relaxing into the hot water. He hung his head and cried silently, unable to process what he'd just done, what he'd been asked to do, what Cazador had done to him. It was all a confusing, aching mess in his head.
He hadn't wanted to touch her, and he'd been compelled to anyway. He felt horrible for putting her in that situation, for leading her to her death, though he felt even worse about having sex with her. He hadn't wanted to, he reminded himself. Reminding himself did not make him feel any better about it. Her eyes had been burned into his mind-- her command to love him made him feel ill to recall, so he shoved it away.
Gods, he wanted to die.
His Master's hands settled on his shoulders and nudged him forward. He let Cazador move him, too tired to think any longer.
Cazador slid into the bath behind him, and allowed Astarion to rest on his chest. Astarion closed his eyes and tried very, very hard not to think things that would make him feel ill with panic again.
He was still horribly aroused.
He pushed that thought away, too, drowning out the sensation of arousal, ashamed of his body and helplessly angry about his lack of control over anything that had happened after Cazador walked through the doorway of the guest suite.
"How are you feeling?" Cazador asked quietly.
"Kill me," Astarion whispered. "Just kill me."
"That's not what I asked."
Right. Not what he asked. Astarion swallowed the plea for death and simply said,
"Bad."
Cazador made a deep noise in his chest. "You did very well, though."
Astarion slowly shook his head no, childishly squeezing his eyes shut to stop himself from crying again.
"You can rest now. I won't torment you."
Astarion shook his head again, which astoundingly made Cazador laugh. Not loud, and not long, but enough that Astarion knew he was genuinely amused.
"So distrustful. Moreso than any of your siblings." Cazador carded his fingers through Astarion's hair, getting it wet. The touch was soothing, though. Astarion distinctly felt as if this had happened before. It probably had, but his head was just too fucked up to remember it.
"Astarion, I'm not lying to you. I'm offering relief and respite."
Probably true. The statement was proven when Cazador spread his legs with his own, and gently stroked Astarion's cock under the water.
Fine. He wasn't lying.
Astarion relaxed, flooded with the lingering effects of the aphrodisiac on his broken, scrambled mind.
He let himself drift until he was so far away from his body, he stopped feeling anything at all.