Work Text:
It's warm tonight and Astarion is stupidly, deliriously happy.
He's fresh off the kill, having just brought down a boar in the woods nearby while the others slept. He fed from it with a ravenous eagerness that would have made them flinch, had they seen it. He hadn't cared, too lost in the pleasure of warm blood in his belly, in the freedom of being able to take and take and take, to glut himself until his stomach was full and his mind was warm, pleasantly hazy at the edges.
He walks back to camp now, humming to himself as he goes and licking flecks of blood from his fingertips and the tips of his teeth.
Everyone is still asleep when he returns, the camp completely silent as by he approaches his tent.
Or, rather, their tent. His and Wyll's, that is.
Astarion smooths down the front of his shirt, combing a few stray curls back into place, wanting to look as nice for his darling as he can, even with boar's blood on his breath. He can feel the flush of his cheeks, the pleasant light-headedness that comes with feeding, the smile that always tugs at his lips after, the one that Wyll always manages to coax out of him with a smile of his own.
You're so cute like this, he'll say, with a warm little smile. He'll call Astarion such soft, lovely little words (handsome, beautiful, adorable, precious, perfect), fill his head so full of compliments and rose petals that he starts to feel like he'll explode, if he doesn't lay his hands on him, if he doesn't pull Wyll down on top of him, crush his lips against his, moan into his sweet mouth. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet now, as he pulls the tent flap back, eager to slip into their bedroll, to have Wyll beside him, inside of him…
He finds him asleep, curled around Astarion's pillow, his nose pressed into the soft fabric, Astarion's blanket in his arms.
Adorable, he thinks, before his eyes well with unexpected tears.
Gods, to think someone would love him that much, to think someone would miss him when he was gone, would want him the way Wyll does. He'll never get used to it.
Wyll loves him so easily, so completely, that sometimes it frightens him. It's so different from anything he's ever known, so strange and beautiful and terrifying too, this thing between them. It feels so precious, a fragile object that he can't believe he's been trusted to hold. He's so afraid to shatter it with his clumsy, unskilled hands, even as he turns it over, holds it close to his chest and guards it with his life.
He exhales, softly, and pads over to the bedroll as quietly as he can, slipping under the blanket. He wraps his arms around Wyll's waist, squeezing him tightly from behind and pressing his nose into the nape of his neck, carefully avoiding the points of his horns. He sighs, happily, as he breathes in the familiar, warm scent of him. He loves it, loves waking up smelling of him, loves how his scent lingers on his clothing in the morning, loves finding notes of Wyll hiding in the sleeve of his shirt, in the lining of his cloak.
It's different tonight, though. The scent is a little lighter, not as strong as he'd like it to be. There's something familiar underneath it, something he can't quite place. A new soap, maybe? Something in his hair? He'll have to ask about it in the morning.
Astarion holds him tighter, his eyes closed tight as he lies there with him, savoring the simple pleasure of holding him in his arms. Wyll breathes softly in his embrace, before beginning to wake, shifting and stretching beneath the blankets.
"Hello, handsome," Astarion murmurs, into the side of Wyll's neck. He's a little cold, despite the warm night and the blankets, which is unusual for him. He runs hot, his ever-warm skin a constant source of pleasure for Astarion, who likes to slip into his arms to warm up after a bath, or press his skin against his, while the others sleep.
"Hello, beautiful," Wyll replies, as turns to face him, then wraps his strong arms around him, pulling him close to his chest. Astarion tangles his limbs with his, sighing happily as he nuzzles into him, kissing up and down his neck. Wyll shivers, offering it up and placing a hand on the back of Astarion's head, his fingers threading through his curls and pulling him closer. Astarion licks and bites his skin, smiling when he feels Wyll shift press against him, half-hard already. He presses back in turn, groaning softly when his cock presses into Wyll's sleep-warmed thigh.
"Can I taste you?" Astarion breathes, as he kisses the ever-present bruise on his neck, the mark that Wyll has never covered up, not once. Astarion likes that about him, likes it so much it makes him dizzy. Wyll calls them lovebites and treats them like jewelry, like pretty necklaces Astarion has gifted him, instead of sore spots.
Astarion loves to feed on him, loves how he tenses up before the first prick of teeth, then melts into it, tells Astarion how much he loves him, as he moans into his neck. The first time they fucked while he fed from him, Astarion was worried he'd die from love. He'd worried his heart would stop a second time, that he'd shatter into pieces, as Wyll spilled inside of him and his blood trickled down his throat and he'd said I love you while Astarion cried and fell apart beneath him.
He hadn't died, though. Thank the gods.
He'd like to live forever, with Wyll, if he could.
"Please, you smell so nice-"
"Not tonight," Wyll murmurs, as he kisses the top of Astarion's head. "Besides, you just fed. I can smell it on you."
"I did, but…" he says, kissing up and down Wyll's jaw, "you know I love a sweet after dinner."
"Greedy thing."
"Guilty as charged," Astarion murmurs, as he catches Wyll's lips in a kiss. Wyll kisses him back, slowly and deeply, his fingers threading in his curls the way Astarion likes. He slips his tongue into his mouth, licks Astarion's tongue, then his teeth. Astarion moans softly and rolls his hips, his hands wandering over Wyll, squeezing and caressing all his favorite pieces of him. His strong arms, the lovely swell of his ass, the taut lines of his stomach. Astarion wants to bite him, wants to shower him in kisses, wants to lie here with him for centuries, tangled up and content, happy and loved.
"Wyll," he breathes, between kisses, "can I tell you something?"
Wyll breaks the kiss, reluctantly, his eyes heavy lidded when they meet Astarion's. Astarion flushes, shy now with his lover's eyes on his.
"What is it?" Wyll asks, softly. Astarion cups his cheek, his fingers trembling in spite of himself. Wyll would never be cruel to him, he knows, but it feels dangerous anyway, the sappy thing he wants to say. Wyll is the only one he'd ever trust with something like this, and the only one who deserves to hear it.
"I…well…I love you," he murmurs, as he strokes the side of his face, tracing his scars, "I don't say it as much as I know you'd like me to, but- I do. I love you. I-…"
He could stop. It would be safer to stop.
But…he doesn't. The words spill out into the warm air, his voice as soft as the blanket that covers the two of them.
"I used to pray for someone like you," he whispers, his voice trembling, "when I was in the dark with him, with my body broken, with- with his hands on me...I'd pray for someone to save me. I'd lie there and fantasize, dreaming about someone who would take me away and tell me I was safe, that he couldn't hurt me anymore. Someone who'd take care of me."
He kisses Wyll, softly, tenderly.
"You took a little longer than I'd have liked but…I just…I'm happy that you found me."
He clears his throat, laughing awkwardly, even though he means every word.
"Um. Right. That's all."
Wyll stares at him for a long, quiet moment, a strange look on his face, and Astarion begins to worry that he's embarrassed himself, or worse, that Wyll's changed his mind, that this actually is just sex to him, like Astarion tried to claim it was at first, before he finally confessed the first time, sobbed I love you with Wyll buried inside of him and then awkwardly looked at him, before both of them laughed and kissed and collapsed against each other.
"Oh, Astarion," Wyll breathes, softly.
Wyll kisses him then, a deep, tender kiss that takes his breath away and all his worries with it.
Astarion exhales shakily and kisses him back.
They start off slowly, tenderly, kissing each other in the soft, sweet way that always makes Astarion's body flush, his dead heart beat hard in his chest. Wyll kisses him languidly, then sighs in pleasure as Astarion starts to kiss him with more hunger, the press of his lips growing progressively harder, needier. They start to trade sloppy, open-mouthed kisses, slipping tongues into each other's mouths and moaning against each other in the dark, grabbing fistfuls of each other's bodies and hair.
Astarion straddles Wyll, then rocks against him, pressing against the front of him, gasping softly when he feels the bulge in his soft pants rub against his own hardness.
"Mmn-" he pants, into Wyll's mouth, as he repeats the motion, "missed me?"
"Terribly," Wyll says, as he grips him by the hips, smiling coyly up at him. He drags him forward, delighting in the reaction it gets from Astarion, who loves it when he manhandles him. Astarion cries out and flushes red, his head falling forward, his cock twitching as it rubs against Wyll's, over and over, forced forward by Wyll's steady hands. It's so good, the friction, the loss of control, the boar's blood pumping through his veins, that he's already leaking at the tip, his underwear damp as he's made to grind against Wyll's cock again and again and again.
"Ah- gods-," Astarion whimpers, as they grind roughly against each other, kissing frantically, "Wyll- need it-mn-"
"What do you need, sweetheart? Say it."
Astarion opens an eye, panting softly as he grinds against him and whines, loudly.
Sweetheart is new, but he likes it. It's cute, if a little twee.
"You already- ah- know," he whines, as he keeps grinding, "don't wanna say it-"
He knows Wyll likes it almost as much as he does, when he plays the brat, and so he slips into the role, his hips moving greedily as he takes his pleasure and ignores the demand.
"Say it, Astarion. Tell me."
"Bossy," Astarion huffs, hips rocking, "why don't you make me say it?"
He grinds hard against Wyll's cock, smirking playfully down at him with hooded eyelids, giving him his very best "please shove me to the ground and fuck me until I can't walk" face.
Wyll would never do anything of the sort, of course. Not even if Astarion begged him to. Astarion once asked him to choke him, only for Wyll to kill the mood when it came time for it by asking him five times if he was sure it was alright.
Which makes it all the more surprising when Wyll flips him onto his back and pins him by the wrists.
"Oh shit," he laughs, breathlessly, before whining loudly as Wyll presses a knee into his cock. "Fuck- yes- mm-"
He's being loud, but he doesn't really care. Everyone's used to it by now, all of them having come up with their own methods of drowning out the noise. Spells and earplugs and tents placed at carefully calculated distances. Whatever. Astarion doesn't care if they hear, anyway. He kind of likes it, actually.
"What do you need?" Wyll repeats, as he licks the side of his neck, then bites down, hard.
"Ah-!"
Astarion yelps, confused at the bite, at how painful it is, how he does it without permission, but then Wyll presses his knee against him and rubs it in a rough circle and he forgets to be mad, his head thrashing on the pillow beneath him, a whimper escaping his lips.
"Wyll- too- too rough-"
Wyll tuts, then presses down harder. Astarion can't help it. He whines again, his hips canting forward, cock pressing urgently into Wyll's knee. It hurts, but it feels good too. It reminds him of- of-
No, don't think about-
"Tell me what you need."
"I- I need you."
Wyll looks him in the eye, then, and Astarion flinches. He looks so intense, his eyes dark and sharp as the teeth that sank into his neck just a moment ago. Were his teeth always that sharp? Did they change when he grew horns?
"Come on," Wyll prompts, "use your words."
Astarion bites his lip, whimpering again as Wyll keeps moving his knee, biting down again on the fresh bite and dragging his tongue over the wound. It stings but it's nice too, and it's all so confusing and he's so hard, so desperate, whining and trembling, trying to get Wyll closer to him.
"I need to be- fucked-" Astarion whispers, "need you to fuck me- need you inside of me- please, Wyll-"
Wyll smiles against his neck, then bites down again, hard enough to make him cry out, his back arching off the bedroll. He releases Astarion's wrists, then slips his hands beneath his shirt, cupping his chest, then starting to play with his nipples. He circles them with the pads of his fingers, teasing them to hardness with his sharp nails, then pinching them, flicking his thumb over them. Astarion watches, hot in the face, his hips bucking off the bedroll now and then, his cock aching as it strains at the confines of his underwear.
Wyll rucks his shirt up, exposing his torso to the warm night air, before bending down and taking one of Astarion's nipples in his mouth, sucking it between his teeth.
"Hah- ah…" Astarion whimpers, the blush creeping down his chest now. Wyll licks and bites and sucks, lavishing attention on one nipple, then the other, all while ignoring the tent in his lover's pants, the damp spot spreading on the front of the fabric, his hips desperately lifting off the bedroll.
"Now you're just being cruel," Astarion whines, when Wyll trails a nail, featherlight, across his erection. "Fuck me. Now."
"Spoiled," Wyll tuts. Astarion sticks out his tongue.
Wyll hooks his fingers in his pants, then, and tugs them down, roughly. Astarion gasps, startled, as his cock springs free, heavy and aching, flushed pink from all the attention, or lack thereof. He lets his legs fall open, spreading them wide for Wyll and smiling up at him in invitation.
"You or me?"
For a moment, Wyll just stares at him, seemingly confused at the question. Astarion rolls his eyes, then holds up two fingers, curling them slightly. The question is a joke, one he's surprised Wyll seems confused by. He likes to watch Astarion do it, likes to talk him through working himself open, to call him good boy and pretty baby and all sorts of lovely little things, pressing little kisses to his thighs all the while.
"Me," Wyll says, his eyes on the space between Astarion's legs.
Astarion's blush darkens, his breath hitching. Alright, then. A little change in routine never hurt anything.
"The oil's in my pocket."
Wyll finds it quickly, uncaps the little vial and pours it over his fingers while Astarion watches and licks his lips.
He spreads his legs wider and puts on a sultry face, one of his best ones, then beckons Wyll closer. Wyll looks at him hungrily, his eyes roving over him as lies spread wide before him.
Astarion, needy, takes his poor aching cock into his hand, giving himself a few slow, shaky pumps.
"Did I say you could?" Wyll asks, as Astarion shivers in pleasure, so relieved to finally have a hand on his neglected cock, even if it's just his own.
"N-no…" Astarion breathes, face hot, "you didn't."
Wyll clicks his tongue. Astarion, hazy eyed, pouts up at him, his hand still moving, but slower now.
He gives himself a few more strokes, shivering and sighing, then meets Wyll's eyes takes his hand off himself, face flushed and fingers damp with precome.
Wyll hums in satisfaction at the show of obedience, then grabs one of his thighs, squeezing the soft flesh with one hand as his other dips between his legs. He presses his thumb against Astarion's hole, feels it twitch beneath his touch, hears Astarion whimper in anticipation. He slips his index finger in first, pushes it in to the knuckle.
"Mmnh," Astarion moans, his hips rocking down to meet him, "m-more."
Usually, this is where Wyll denies him. He'll say no, baby you're not ready or I don't want to hurt you and Astarion will whine and pout and love him to pieces, knowing that he would never want to cause him pain.
Not tonight, though. Tonight, Wyll simply shoves a second finger in with no preamble, followed quickly by a third. Astarion jumps, gasping loudly and trying to close his legs, old reflexes kicking in. Wyll strokes his thigh, coaxing him to open them, and he mumbles an apology, his eyes pricking with tears that he blames on the sting, the unexpected stretch.
Wyll works him open roughly, curling and uncurling his fingers deep inside of him, scissoring him open as he gasps and bucks against the pillows.
"Hah…ah…gods, fuck, Wyll-"
He hears a sound he knows well, the wet schlick of a hand moving over a hard cock, and flushes, whimpering loudly and rocking down on his fingers. Wyll strokes himself, his hand shoved inside his pants, his eyes on Astarion's face, his gaze hungry, sharp at the edges. Astarion can practically feel his cock inside of him, can picture it, the heat and the stretch, the ridges at the head, the wonderful, perfect fullness, when he's finally inside. His own cock twitches on his stomach at the thought, his body pulsing around Wyll's fingers.
"Ple- ease - please please please-" Astarion begs, shamelessly, as he fucks himself on Wyll's fingers, "need it- please-"
Wyll keeps fingering him, stroking himself faster as Astarion gets more and more desperate with his begging. He's hot in the face, embarrassingly honest as he pleads with him, tells him that he loves him, that he'll do anything for his cock, that he needs him inside right fucking now, please please please-
And then it's happening, the laces coming undone, Wyll shifting closer to him on the bed, draping himself over his body. He kisses Astarion roughly, presses the blunt head of his cock to his stretched, wet entrance, rubs it there and feels him twitch and jump in reply. Astarion moans into his mouth, as he feels it sink in, faster and rougher than usual. He bottoms out with a satisfied groan, his hands gripping Astarion's hips tight enough to hurt as they both struggle to breathe.
Wyll starts to move, rocking his hips slowly, dragging his cock almost all the way out, then pressing it back in.
"Oh, how I missed this," Wyll sighs, against his lips.
Except-
No- no no no-
What the fuck?
Astarion breaks the kiss, pulling back and opening his eyes.
And it's not- it can't be- he must be dreaming- because it's not Wyll kissing him, not Wyll in his tent, not Wyll inside of him-
"Hello, my darling."
Cazador smiles down at him, his eyes glinting in the dark.
Astarion moans, horrified and confused and so afraid, so fucking afraid that he can barely move.
"No- no no no- what-"
He tries to move, to scramble away, but Cazador's weight keeps him pinned. He's blind with fear, scratching and writhing beneath him, moaning and whimpering, so desperate to get him off- out-
"A simple spell," his master hums, as he caresses the side of his terrified face, "you never were burdened with intelligence, but I am truly surprised that it worked so well."
Astarion whimpers, horrified, as Cazador rolls his hips, driving his cock deep inside of him, hitting that sensitive spot inside that always makes his vision blur and his hips buck. He squirms, shaking his head, moaning the word no over and over, tears rising up and spilling over as he kicks and scratches and Cazador laughs and kisses his neck.
This can't be happening. It can't.
He can't have been kissing Cazador- can't have been- been telling him he loved him, can't have spread his legs for him- can't have begged him to fuck him-
He nearly retches. Cazador tuts, then drives his cock deeper into him.
"Nngh-!" Astarion whimpers, humiliated at the sound, at how his body pulses around his master. Cazador's cock throbs inside of him, a pleased moan spilling from his lips.
"Adorable. I missed those sounds of yours."
"…m-master, please, I'm sorry- please- where is he?" Astarion begs, his voice breaking, the panic rising. "Where's Wyll?"
Cazador doesn't answer. He moves his hands to Astarion's chest, palms at it as he starts to move his hips in earnest, setting a rhythm. It's familiar, so horribly familiar. Astarion's eyes well with tears, his limbs trembling, his stomach twisting. He thought he was safe, that this would never happen to him again- that he'd never have to feel it again, Cazador buried inside of him, Cazador kissing his lips, touching him the way he likes, the way he always tried so hard to deny enjoying-
"St-stop," he pleads, as Cazador thumbs at his nipples, drawing up gooseflesh, "don't-"
"I knew I would find you in the arms of some pretty boy," Cazador says, as he flicks his tongue over his nipple, his hips driving forward, "my darling little whore, begging for cock just like I knew you would be."
Astarion kicks at him, trying again to get away. Cazador pins his thigh down with his knee, keeping him trapped and pressing deeper into him.
"How long did it take? Did he fuck you the night you ran from me?"
"Get off- mm!"
Cazador bites his nipple, then sucks it, swirling his tongue over the blood he's drawn up. Astarion cries out, thrashing beneath him, and tries to push him off, clawing desperately at his face.
"No," Cazador tuts, before he pins Astarion down by the upper arms. "Bad."
And gods- gods- it feels good like this. It's so close to the position Wyll likes, the one Astarion likes to call boring, but which he secretly loves. Its always so intimate, always feels so good to be face to face, Astarion's legs locked around Wyll's waist, his cock rubbing against Wyll's muscular stomach, while they rock against each other.
It feels good now, too, with Cazador. It shouldn't, it fucking shouldn't, but it does anyway.
Astarion hates himself, but his hips buck, a ragged whine building in the back of his throat.
Cazador presses his forehead to Astarion's, and looks into his eyes, smiling at him in the dark. Astarion can barely see him for the tears, crying pathetically as Cazador starts to fuck him properly, slamming into him with powerful, deep thrusts that hurt and that feel so good too, so horribly good after all the teasing and the build up-
"Hah… ah …mmngh-"
"There we are-"
Fuck. Cazador slams up against his prostate, once, twice, and then over and over, exactly where it feels the best. Astarion whimpers, flushing at the the sound of skin hitting skin, the slick noise of Cazador sliding out of his oiled hole and pressing back in. It's obscene. It feels good. It feels horrible. He can't help it. He moans, turning his face away from Cazador's as he does, like he can hide from him.
"Such pretty sounds. Does it feel good, sweetheart?" Cazador purrs in his ear.
"No-" Astarion whimpers, as he flutters around him, "no-"
Cazador kisses his tear-stained cheek, rocking his hips forward as he does, throbbing inside Astarion.
"My poor child. You must have missed your father terribly."
"I- I didn't-"
"Your little friend could never please you like I do, could he?"
A rough, deep thrust. Astarion keens, his legs trembling, eyes blurring with tears.
"Did you think of me, with him inside of you?"
"S-shut up-" Astarion sobs, shaking his head. "I hate you- I fucking hate you-"
"You did. Oh, poor Wyll" Cazador laughs, before catching his lips in a rough kiss.
Astarion whimpers into his mouth, disgusted and horrified and- and-
"My my, close already?"
"Nngh- ahh-"
The desperate, embarrassing sound spills out before he can contain it. Cazador catches it in his mouth, tastes it with his tongue. He licks Astarion's fangs, fucks into him harder.
Astarion's world narrows down to the slap of skin, the quiet thud of Cazador's hips slamming into his ass, again and again. The pleasure pooling hot and horrible in his stomach, making his body pull up tight, his cock bobbing heavily on his stomach, his voice little more than a series of pitiful, broken whines.
"Hah..ahh- no, no-"
"What would your little lover think of you, if he saw you like this?" Cazador asks, as he pounds into him, dragging him closer and closer to the edge. "How would he look at you, if he heard how you sing for me-"
"Stop-" Astarion cries, "please-"
"Should I leave you here for him to find? Would he hate you, when he saw you? Think of it…you, sleeping sweetly, my spend dripping from your thighs, my scent all over you, staining this little love nest you've made…"
"No- no, please no-"
Astarion starts to beg, then, his words morphing into incoherent pleas, choked little whimpers, as Cazador kisses him again, then wraps a large, cold hand around his aching cock. Astarion moans, pitifully, as Cazador begins to stroke him, hard and fast, twisting on the upstroke, the way he's always liked, the way Cazador picked up on immediately, that first time, when Astarion fell into his bed of his own volition, desperate to be touched by his savior.
He weeps now, his cock weeping right alongside him, making the tight fist of Cazador's hand slick and- and nice- and fuck- he's so close, he's going to- going to-
Cazador's hand stops moving.
"Beg for it."
Astarion sobs, shaking his head frantically. It's bad enough as it is, but to beg for it is too much, too humiliating of a demand.
"No," he pleads, "please, don't make me- I can't-"
"You can. You did it so prettily before."
Cazador presses his thighs up and back, then, spreading him wide, pushing farther, deeper inside of him. It hurts. Astarion, exhausted and in tears, barely even puts up a fight.
"I could be cruel," Cazador says, softly, "would you prefer that?"
Astarion whimpers, shaking his head.He knows what he's capable of, knows the threat is real, that it carries more weight than any word of love Wyll has ever given him. Wyll won't even know. He won't see this, see the disgusting, pathetic thing he is, the thing he's been trying so fucking hard to hide.
"Please," he whispers, as he looks pleadingly up at Cazador, "please, master. Mercy."
Cazador puts his hand back on Astarion's cock, but doesn't stroke it. Astarion moans softly, and hates himself.
"Beg like you did before. Or I cut it off."
There's a long pause, a horrified silence. He means it. Astarion knows he means it.
He looks desperately at the entrance to his tent, wishing both for Wyll to walk through it and save him and for the earth beneath his back to swallow him up, hide him from view forever.
"Please," he whispers, in the end, through tears, "please, please f-fuck me- I-I want it- mm—!"
Cazador starts to move again, rolling his hips, the new position forcing him in so deep- so deep- it hurts and it feels good and and fuck-
"Master-" he whimpers, "please- I- need- need it-"
Cazador speeds up, stroking his cock now, hard and fast and perfect-
"Please- pleasepleaseplease-"
"Good boy, keep going-"
"Hah- ah- please let me come- need it- need your cock- please, please- fuck… harder-"
The pace picks up and it's just right, the angle perfectly calculated to bring him right to the edge. Astarion hates how well Cazador knows him, hates him more than he hates himself, as he squeezes his eyes shut and feels orgasm rushing up, hot at his heels.
"C-close. Master-"
"Tell me you love me."
Astarion sobs, shaking his head. Cazador slows his pace, then comes to a complete stop. And it's horrible, how badly Astarion wants him to keep going, how awful the stillness is, how much he needs it, how obvious it is to both of them.
"Say it."
Astarion whines, pathetically. Cazador slowly begins to pull out, nearly all the way this time.
Astarion breaks.
He locks his legs around his master's waist and says it.
"I…love you-"
Cazador's smile is razor sharp.
He starts to move again, no longer holding back, and Astarion falls to pieces beneath him, his heels digging into his back, his arms wrapped around his neck. They kiss, all teeth and tongues and desperate, humiliating moans, as Astarion rocks down onto Cazador's cock, meeting his every thrust. And it's good, it's so good, and he hates it, and loves it, and he can't stop fucking crying, can't stop moaning and whimpering either, as Cazador fucks him the way he's been having wet dreams about ever since he escaped the castle.
His legs start to tremble, his body tensing up. He whines into Cazador's mouth, pulls him closer, trying to get his cock deeper inside, deeper, faster-
"Master- please, please-"
Cazador smiles against his lips, then murmurs a command into his ear.
"Come."
And he does. He comes on command, the way he has hundreds of times, without even a syllable of compulsion needed tonight.
He whines and sobs, spills into Cazador's hand and then trembles, overstimulated, as he keeps going, stroking him too fast, too hard, milking him for every drop of come that he can get, every frantic, pained whimper and kick and babbled plea for mercy. He fucks Astarion through it all, his pace brutal, painful. Astarion clings to him, sobbing apologies and thank yous and I hate yous, too, into his shoulder. He rocks down onto his cock, squirming in overstimulation all the while, each thrust painful, and, humiliating, wonderful too.
He'd forgotten what it was like, getting fucked like this. He'd forgotten how good it felt.
Cazador bites down on his shoulder, ripping a startled yelp from his throat. His master threads his fingers in his curls, pulls him closer to himself, as his hips begin to stutter, his cock throbbing deep inside of him. He thrusts in quickly a few more times, then spills with a low, blissful moan, his teeth sinking further into Astarion's shoulder.
He winces as Cazador keeps moving, thrusting into him as he chases every ounce of pleasure, the wet sounds of his come being fucked back into Astarion so very hard to ignore.
When he's spent, Cazador lies on top of him for a moment, his chin cupped in his hand. Astarion cries, unable to look him in the eye, unable to think, to move, to do anything. He wants to die, wants Cazador to burst into flames, wants Wyll to hold him, to make it better. He clings to Wyll's pillow, sobbing into it as Cazador slips out of him, making a mess of the blankets. His master tugs him up, away from the pillow, from the little home he's made here, and wraps his arms around his body, cradling him to his chest.
"Shh. I have you."
Astarion moans into Cazador's chest. Cazador strokes his hair, his fingers carding through his curls. He presses a kiss to his forehead, gentle and tender, the way he always did before, when he was pleased with him.
"I think it is time we went home."
"He'll come for me," Astarion whispers, shaking his head as he looks up at him through tears, "he loves me."
"Does he? Are you sure?"
Cazador says something, an incantation for- for invisibility- Astarion knows that spell-
His master grips him by the chin, turning his head to the corner of the tent where-
"Wyll-"
He's kneeling in the corner, bound in chains. He's beaten badly, from what it looks like, gagged with a length of rope.
"You asked where he was," Cazador says, as he kisses Astarion's neck, softly, "he never left."
Oh. Oh.
Astarion's stomach lurches, his eyes welling with fresh tears. He saw. He saw- heard it- all of it-
Astarion makes a miserable, panicked noise. Cazador coos at him, petting his hair as he licks and bites side of his neck.
"Still think he wants you, after that display?"
"I- I-"
"He is disgusted by you. Look at him."
Wyll's crying. He's looking desperately at Astarion, but Astarion can't look at him, can't look at Cazador, can't think, can hardly breathe. He hides his face in his hands, unsure and scared and exhausted, his mind beginning to come apart at the seams.
Wyll loves him. He- he loves him-
But his eyes, the look on his face-
The things Astarion said- the things he did-
"Only I understand you," Cazador says, before kissing his lips, so very softly, so very sweetly. "Only I know what you are, and want you anyway."
Astarion makes a tiny, broken sound. Cazador kisses it from his lips.
"It's time to go home."
He says another word, speaks it softly into Astarion's ear, and then the world is fading, the ground rushing up to meet him. Cazador catches him in his arms, holds him to his chest, and it all goes dark.