Work Text:
Astarion stands behind his master, nervous as he studies him in the dark.
The two of them are at the top of a hill that faces a forest, the tree line dark against the horizon. The night is clear, the air brisk and cold. There’s a bite to it, the wind painful as it nips at his nose, the tips of his ears. He can hear animals in the distance, moving in the dark, breaking branches and scurrying in the shadows. He's so hungry, but he doesn't dare leave Cazador's side. Not tonight.
Something is wrong tonight.
Astarion had noticed that, as of late, Cazador had been especially short with him. He thought, perhaps, he was dissatisfied with the number of victims he’d brought home. He’d been slacking, but only a little. Still, Cazador seemed angrier than normal, his gaze fixed on Astarion with open distaste every time the two of them met in the castle halls.
And so, he'd dressed in his least threadbare shirt, doused himself in the perfume he rationed carefully, combed his hair until it shone, and set off with his siblings. He wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong, but he was determined to bring something good home and avoid punishment, which was likely lurking around the corner.
He'd been making his way out of the castle with the brood when Cazador, dressed in dark clothing and a cloak of black fur, gripped him tightly by the wrist and stopped him in his tracks. They were going on a hunting trip, he'd said. He’d demanded Astarion's company and so he'd followed without protest, though his worry grew with each step outside the castle walls.
The divergence from their routines, the prolonged proximity to Cazador, the weighted silence as they walked, all of it made him nervous, his chest tight with anxiety.
But then, what choice was there?
Cazador led him down the city streets and he followed closely behind, shivering in just his flouncy white shirt and trousers, the dress shoes worn thin over the decades since he'd been given them. He was dressed for a night of seduction, of sitting inside in stuffy, fire-warmed taverns and then going home with a stranger's hot, living body heat pressed against him, on top of him, inside of him. Not for walking.
He'd expected Cazador to take him to some bar, a crowded theater perhaps, somewhere he could snatch up a pretty, unsuspecting victim. He hadn't expected him to keep walking after they reached the city gates, out into an open field and towards the distant forest. This was a different type of hunt, it seemed.
Now, they stand on a hill in the dark, Baldur's Gate to their backs, the forest looming before them.
Cazador turns to face him and, finally, he speaks.
"Do you love your father?"
The question, the sound of his voice after nothing but the wind and the silence for so long, throws Astarion off. He blinks up at him, shivering as he opens and closes his mouth, trying to settle on an answer that will please him.
"Yes, master."
A lie, of course. Cazador inclines his head slightly, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"I know what you told your sister."
Astarion's heart nearly stops for a second time.
He scrambles to clear it up, racing to make amends so quickly that his words come out jumbled, his teeth chattering from both the fear and the cold.
"I didn't- didn't mean it, I'm sorry-"
"You want to run away?" Cazador asks, his arms folded, eyes glinting in the dark. "You want me dead?"
"Master, Violet plied me with liquor- she- she coaxed me into saying it! She manipulated me! I-I don't really want to run- and- and of course I don't want you dead-" Astarion says, trying to make his voice sweet. It's a good attempt, but it sounds desperate, even to himself.
"Speak the truth," Cazador commands, his voice thin. Compulsion takes hold and Astarion whimpers in the back of his throat, then speaks, the words halting and forced as they're pulled from him.
"I want to run. I was planning to try again soon."
"When?"
"Next month. I want to get away from you. I can't stand it here. I can't stand you."
Cazador nods along, unsurprised. He's heard it before, hooked his nails in Astarion's mind and plucked the words out more than once in their fifty years together.
"You would not get far," Cazador says, quietly.
"I know."
It's true. He tried it once before and failed. The punishment had been severe, worse than anything else that Cazador had ever inflicted on him. He shudders now, recalling it. In his mind he curses Violet, then himself, and finally Cazador.
Cazador watches him in silence for a few seconds before he speaks again, his voice softer now, more dangerous.
"Do you want to hurt me? Kill me?"
Astarion swallows thickly. His answer is whispered, like his tone can blunt the sharp edges of his words.
"Yes. I do."
"Could you?" Cazador asks, his voice so very soft, his eyes so very sharp.
A word fights its way out from behind Astarion's teeth.
"No."
Cazador's lips threaten to quirk into a smile. Astarion loathes him.
"And why is that?"
"I am too weak," Astarion says, the truth dragged out of him, stinging his throat and his pride as it comes out. "I'm…afraid. Of you."
"So good of you to admit it."
Astarion says nothing.
The wind howls. Dead leaves swirl around the two of them. Astarion shifts on his feet, feels the worn leather of his shoes press against his ankles, the skin rubbed raw from all the walking. He shivers again and Cazador, who refuses to look away from him, breaks the silence.
"Astarion," he says, a playful lilt to his voice now. Astarion bites his lip. He knows that tone well enough to fear it.
"Yes, master?"
Cazador steps aside, then gestures to the treeline before them.
"Run."
Panic slowly blooms in Astarion's chest at the order, spreads and sets down roots that hold him in place. He looks between the trees and his master. Is this a test? A game? He knows that he's not meant to leave Cazador's side. Astarion knows the rules, knows them better than he knows himself, the life he led before all of this, the world outside the castle. He knows what it means to break them, too, knows the cost intimately.
And yet, Cazador seems completely serious.
His eyes remain locked on Astarion's as he hesitates, shifting on the balls of his feet, his eyes on the dark horizon before they drift back to his master. Cazador smiles, his teeth sharp, his eyes glinting in the moonlight, joyless and cruel. A predator's eyes.
"I…" Astarion whispers, his voice trembling. "I'm afraid I don't understand-"
"You want to run, yes? I am giving you what you want. Run."
Astarion exhales sharply through his nose, a nervous laugh playing at the back of his throat. This is surely a test. Cazador will snap his neck the second he moves, drag him screaming back to the castle, make an example out of him. He’s fucking with him.
"Master-"
"Run," Cazador orders. "Evade me."
Astarion takes off down the hill before he can even process what's happening.
His limbs move of their own volition, Cazador's quiet voice echoing in his mind like thunder as he scrambles to put distance between them. He nearly falls on his way down the slope, his worn shoes offering him no traction. It rained recently, the ground slick and damp, and he slides, but catches himself. When his feet hit flat ground, he breaks into a sprint towards the tree line, his body trembling as he throws a glance over his shoulder.
Cazador is descending the hill, his cloak billowing behind him, ink black against the dark blue of the sky.
Astarion inhales sharply at the sight of him, nearly tripping over a rock before he turns his attention to the ground in front of him. Just a few more steps and he's in the woods, shaking with adrenaline as the shadows of the tall trees swallow him up. There is no path, the ground uneven and covered in brush and branches, rocks and fallen leaves. Astarion can't go as fast as his body wants to, the compulsion almost painful in its intensity whenever he tries to slow down and watch his step. It thrums in the back of his mind, catches in his lungs.
Run. Get away. Run.
And so, Astarion runs.
He's not the fastest, but he's not slow either. He's in relatively good shape, all things considered, and he keeps a decent pace in the beginning. He can hear Cazador behind him, then seemingly all around him, his voice echoing through the trees. He calls out to him, his name, little taunts, insults.
Are you even trying?
Do you want to be caught? You do, don't you?
No wonder your siblings take advantage of you.
Weak.
Pathetic.
Run, run, run.
Astarion tries to ignore him, but it proves futile. Cazador's voice seems to get closer each time, Astarion's heart pounding painfully in his chest with each word.
While Cazador pursues him nearly silently, Astarion crashes his way through the forest. He forces his body through brambles and briars, his clothing caught on branches, his face and arms scratched up badly before long, his shirt bloody and in tatters. His legs begin to hurt, his calves burning, feet aching as his leather shoes, meant purely for aesthetics, shred first his stockings, then the skin on the back of his heels. His lungs burn in his chest as he takes frantic, unnecessary breaths that he knows he doesn't need, but can't seem to stop.
Astarion understands exactly what Cazador meant when he called this a hunting trip, as he spots gleaming red eyes in the dark before him and feels a pulse of fear so strong it nearly rends him in two. He yelps, the sound involuntary, ripped from his throat as he desperately swerves, trying to avoid running right into Cazador's body.
He feels cold breath on the back of his neck, whimpers in pure terror and then, pain, as claws rip at his side. They sink in, slicing cruelly and easily through his shirt, then his skin. Astarion screams, but doesn't stop. He can't. He won't.
Cazador follows behind him, no longer cooing insults. Now, he's quiet, breaking branches here and there to keep Astarion afraid, to make his presence known. Each time it happens, Astarion makes little sounds of fear, his lungs aching, legs burning with the effort of running.
Cazador nearly catches him a second time, when he slips on a patch of icy mud and nearly falls. He braces himself against a tree for a few seconds, an animal, pitiful noise rising in his throat as he feels sharp, familiar teeth against his neck, a snarl inches from his ear. The claws slice into the flesh of his upper thigh now, a deliberate attack that makes running so much harder.
Astarion is sobbing before long, taking shuddering, huge breaths as he runs and feels his body burning and aching and on fire with fear and pain. He tries to call out to Cazador, trying desperately to cry out apologies, but it all comes out mangled, his throat raw, the panic too strong to get anything coherent past his lips.
Astarion wonders, as he limps as fast as he can, what will happen to him when he's caught. He can't win and they both know it, the realization awful as he moans, wild with terror. Cazador has gone silent, but Astarion can feel his eyes on him, whimpering as he shoves his way past a thorny bush and cuts his arms to shreds. He should have never talked to Violet, should have never thought of leaving. He should have died that night, in the alley where Cazador found him.
Astarion trips over a root and stumbles, and then the hunt is over.
Cazador is on him in seconds, swooping in from the shadows, a hound pulling down a stag. He shoves Astarion to the dirt, ignores his pained yell as his ankle twists, pinned beneath his master's weight. Cazador's teeth snap against the back of his neck as he drapes himself over him. Astarion screams, and, still under compulsion, attempts to scramble out from under him, to keep running.
It doesn't work.
Cazador is too big, too strong to even hope to fight off. Astarion is easily forced onto his knees, his face shoved into the dirt as Cazador holds him by the back of the head.
"Master- master, gods, please-" Astarion begs, sobbing against the ground, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"
Cazador doesn't reply, silent as he holds him down. Astarion fights him, terrified of his silence, his body still trying to get away, even if his mind wants to grovel, to beg for mercy. He tries to crawl out from under his master, only for Cazador to grip him by the arm and twist it behind his back, so hard that something cracks. Astarion screams again, loud and raw, as he feels pain explode in his shoulder, then radiate down his arm, hot and horrible.
Cazador must like the sound he makes, because he twists his arm even harder in response. Astarion wails, his nails scrabbling at the dirt, legs kicking desperately at Cazador's. Cazador just pins his injured leg down with one of his, his teeth sinking down into the back of his neck, so deep Astarion fears they'll come out of the other side of him. He thrashes, pleading pathetically as Cazador, animal, snarls against his skin.
And then, he hooks his fingers in Astarion's pants and tugs them down his hips, roughly.
"No, no no no-" Astarion sobs. "Please, no-"
Cazador has touched him before, but never like this.
Astarion has been made to do all manner of things for his master, with his lips, his hands, his body. Once, Cazador fucked him, slow and soft and achingly gentle, at the beginning. He held Astarion down, yes, ignored all of his pleas for him to stop, sure, but it had been soft in the end, the two of them pressed against each other in Cazador’s large bed, surrounded by plush blankets and pillows.
Nothing like this.
Still, he’s seen the way his master looks at him when he uses him, like he’s not quite satisfied. Like there’s something clawing at him just beneath the surface, something he wants to set free but doesn’t dare let off leash.
And yet now, his master, who's restrained himself for five decades, tears at Astarion's clothing, mounts him with open hunger as Astarion fights him in the dirt. The chase, maybe, has affected him just as much as it's affected Astarion, who can't stop trembling, sick to his stomach as Cazador pulls his pants down to his hips, exposing him completely.
His master groans in satisfaction when he presses two fingers into him and finds him slick, prepped hours ago for some lucky stranger, long forgotten. Astarion kicks with his free leg, a pathetic attempt at escape. Cazador just bites down harder, applies more pressure on his injuries until he squeals, then goes still. Then, Cazador reaches under him, gripping his traitorously hard cock where it dangles between his legs.
Astarion cries out, humiliated and disgusted with himself, as Cazador jerks him once, twice, and then drops his hand and draws a pitiful, needy sound from him. He hates himself for it, but he hates himself more for the way he moans when Cazador's cockhead catches on his rim, somehow always bigger than he expects. He hates Cazador when he feels him press past the little ring of muscle, then sink in to the hilt, and he feels himself press back into the body of his tormentor, his own body so wonderfully, awfully full. He hates both of them as he feels himself fluttering eagerly around his master, hears himself whine, needy and pathetic, into the dirt beneath him.
Cazador begins to fuck him and Astarion struggles, hurting himself as he tries, in vain, to escape. Something in his arm breaks, when he tries again to get free and his master twists his wrist at an angle that's all wrong, the pain sharp and stabbing.
His body pulses around Cazador anyway, drawing him in even as he tries to get away. Cazador slams into him whenever he screams, groaning softly behind him, his fingers digging into the flesh of Astarion's hips. He keeps his arm bent behind his back, twists it and applies pressure to win more pained noises from Astarion, who moans, to his horror. His cock leaks onto the dirt below, a detail that makes him want to die.
"No," Astarion whimpers, as Cazador fucks him, so hard and so fast and so horribly, disgustingly good. He dissolves beneath him, the fight gone out of him as Cazador takes and takes and takes. "Please," he babbles, as Cazador hits his prostate, then applies pressure to his broken ankle, "mercy, please- please, I'll be good. I- I'll be a good boy-"
The plea, which usually wins him at least some mercy, falls on deaf ears. He twists around to look at Cazador, his breath catching at the sight of him.
His eyes are wild, his face in shadow, backlit by the moon behind him. His hair is untucked, spilling over his shoulders, long and dark. His lips are bloody, pulled back into something like a snarl, his cheeks flushed, his composure, his control completely gone.
Animal. Monster, Astarion thinks, his mind splintering at the edges as Cazador picks the pace up, his face once again shoved into the dirt, held down now.
"Master," he begs, "please. Please, let me up. I can make it better for you, if you let me move. Please.”
Cazador doesn't. He finds the perfect angle inside of him, the one that his marks never seem to find but which makes him see stars, and hits it over and over until he’s mewling into the dirt, his cheeks hot and cock throbbing between his legs. Cazador pairs the pleasure with pain, holding his arm at the most painful angle yet, until Astarion's not sure if he's screaming or moaning, if he feels pleasure or craves death or a little bit of both.
Everything blurs together as Cazador uses him, the way he's likely been dreaming of since that first night. Astarion takes it, because he has to. He tries to be good, pressing back into him, angling himself to make it nice for Cazador, desperate to please him, to make it stop.
In the end, Cazador slams deep inside of him one final time, coming with a low, guttural moan as he sinks teeth into Astarion's shoulder. Astarion shudders at the feeling of his release, warm and thick and dripping out of him already, and lets out a quiet whimper, trying to beg without words. His words have left him, eaten by whatever primal thing has come over the two of them.
He lies on his stomach in the dirt when Cazador pulls out of him, then curls in on himself, wincing in pain as he moves his damaged limbs. Everything hurts and he's so fucking tired, so cold and dirty and disgusting. He sobs, overwhelmed and scared, as Cazador moves behind him, carefully putting his clothing back into place.
It's quiet, for a few moments. Astarion cries weakly on the ground, still embarrassingly hard, scratched and broken and so small, so scared as he lies in the dirt and waits to be tortured, to be killed, whatever Cazador decides. His nicest clothes are in ruins, shredded beyond saving and covered in dirt and blood, cum and sweat. He lost a shoe at some point, his white stockings stained black with dirt, ripped all over and dyed red with his blood. His hair is damp, disheveled and completely wild as it falls in his tear stained face, pools onto the dirt beneath his body.
Cazador steps closer, eventually, and a large hand finds Astarion’s hair. He flinches, whimpering as he covers his face reflexively, ready to be hurt again. Cazador just smooths his curls down, his touch gentle now, almost apologetic. Astarion closes his eyes, sniffling as he feels the claws that tore him open just moments before working carefully at a knot, then plucking leaves and twigs from his curls.
Cazador bends down, caging Astarion in with his long, dark hair. Astarion watches, eyes wide, body shaking violently, as his master looks down at him, his expression unreadable. He doesn't speak, in the end, but instead gestures for Astarion to stand. He tries, but stumbles and falls to his knees, gasping in pain as it shoots up his leg from his damaged ankle. Cazador looks down at it, then over his shoulder, in the direction of the city.
He sighs, then gently scoops Astarion into his arms. Astarion, terrified, instinctively tries to get away. The compulsion to run is still there, even if he doesn't have the strength any longer.
"Be still," Cazador commands, softly.
Astarion slumps in his arms, relieved at this new order. He rests his head against his master's chest, shivering against him as he begins to walk through the woods. His body is heavy and his head light, his eyes hooded as he’s carried. Cazador smooths his curls out of his face, then leans in close to him.
"You will not run again,” he murmurs against his forehead.
"No, master," Astarion says, his voice hoarse.
“You will stay by my side, where you belong.”
Astarion nods, tears stinging in his eyes. Humiliation, defeat, exhaustion, he can't name which of them draws the tears up, but they come and they don't stop, his face wet against Cazador's breast as he carries him.
He shivers then with something awful, some wretched feeling caught somewhere between excitement and dread as he imagines Cazador taking him like that again, animal and raw and so much better than he’ll ever admit, his cheeks hot as he thinks about it, shame braiding his stomach in knots. If he knows his master, this won’t be the last time it happens. He exhales shakily as he considers it, this happening again.
The wind blows as they walk and Astarion shivers, violently, in Cazador's arms. Cazador startles him by pulling his cloak around him, then stroking the back of his neck, gently.
The cloak smells like dirt and blood, like Cazador and the night, but it’s soft and it's warm and it feels like love against his battered skin, or the closest thing to it he can hope for anymore. He clings to it like a lifeline, the fur warmed by Cazador’s body, soft against his damp cheeks.
"Rest," Cazador says in his ear.
Astarion finds the order easier to follow than any compulsion, his eyes heavy, body broken and exhausted and warmed by Cazador's. He slips off in his arms, face buried in his chest beneath the moonlight.