Somewhat Clear

deerna
somewhatclear

Rating: SAFE (mature themes)
Fandom: baldur's gate
Relationship: astarion/cazador
Tags: implied torture, implied non-con, implied sexual assault
Wordcount: 1092
Notes: written for the cazador trash party series

Summary:
astarion and cazador sit for a painting

Excerpt:

The silver lining was that Astarion would get to do something that he hadn’t been able to do in almost a century: see himself. It had been so long since he had a reflection, he had the impression that he was starting to forget what his face looked like. Light hair, light eyes, light skin — and then what? He didn’t remember. It could’ve been any high elf in Baldur’s Gate, from the description alone.

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The displeased click of Cazador’s tongue sent a shiver down Astarion’s spine, even if it wasn’t directed at him.

“How much longer is this supposed to take?”

The painter chuckled, unworried. Why would he be? He wasn’t the one kneeling between Cazador’s legs, with his claws tracing idle circles against his skull. “You can’t rush art, my Lord,” he quipped brightly. In the corner of Astarion’s eye, his paintbrush kept stippling on the canvas. “Just this one session and I’ll be done, just like I promised you. I simply *beg* for your patience a little longer.”

Ha. If Astarion had begged in that tone, he would’ve found himself without a tongue. He could feel the same thought run through Cazador’s mind, from the way his fingers tensed in his hair, pulling at the roots—but the vampire lord didn’t do more than shifting minutely in his seat, and letting out a dissatisfied hum.

Astarion closed his eyes. Just a little longer, and it would be done.

It had been such a strange week. All he had had to do was to follow the compulsion to show up in the room Cazador had called him to, take his clothes off and kneel at his Master’s feet—arms braced over his knees, his head half pillowed on one of his thighs, turned just enough so the painter could get a suggestion of Astarion’s profile, as requested; and Cazador—

Astarion had been touched by his Master a million times, since he’d been turned: Cazador’s icy hands had strangled him, cut him, burned him. They’d ripped his skin off. They’d dug into his flesh. They’d slapped him, and groped him, and scratched him. They’d cracked, snapped and ground his bones together. They had violated his body inside and out, in every conceivable way.

He didn’t know what to make of carding his fingers through his curls, tracing meaningless figures against his scalp in the softest, gentlest scratching instead of digging painfully in.

The first couple of days, Astarion had been tense about it, just waiting for the oddly careful handling to turn into agonising suffering, like it inevitably did. Eventually, unwittingly, he found himself relaxing into it.

And he hated how it made him want to close his eyes, how it made his throat tighten in nebulous *want*. He hated how nice it felt, and he hated knowing it wasn’t going to last. He hated that somewhere deep in his head he was counting down the hours. He hated knowing that he was going to *miss it*—but he hated even more that he was going to be immortalised forever in a painting as Cazador’s beloved *pet*, lying at his feet and with his head in his lap, like a dog.

He could already imagine the painting hanging from one of the ballroom’s walls, for everyone to see and enjoy Astarion’s humiliation. He could imagine Cazador forcing him to look at it, asking him his opinion about it: he already knew that either lie or truth would give Cazador an excuse to flay Astarion alive.

The silver lining was that Astarion would get to do something that he hadn’t been able to do in almost a century: see himself. It had been so long since he had a reflection, he had the impression that he was starting to forget what his face looked like. Light hair, light eyes, light skin — and then what? He didn’t remember. It could’ve been any high elf in Baldur’s Gate, from the description alone.

But the painting — he would’ve been a ruined back and a hint of a profile, sure. But it was going to be *him*.

And that had been the idea that had kept Astarion sane and patient for the whole week, even as his Master had occasional fits of annoyance at the slowness of the painter and at how uncomfortable it was to be sitting still for hours on end, even as he felt himself melt more and more under Cazador’s inexplicably gentle touch.

“I think it's done, my Lord,” the painter said, a delighted little thrill in his voice. “Do you wish to see it?”

“Took you long enough,“ Cazador muttered, long-suffering and poisonous.

Astarion tensed, and carefully glanced up.

His Master's pale face looked like marble, framed by his long, dark hair. He had done something different to his eyebrows for the portrait, and it made him look more elvish, for lack of a better word, but also more cruel. A deep wrinkle ruined the smoothness of his brow, as he looked down at Astarion, pinning him down with red eyes.

“You're dismissed.” He got to his feet, without even giving Astarion the time to get out of the way. “Take your clothes and go back to your room.“

“Wait,” Astarion choked out, the compulsion already pushing him to stand up and move. “Wait.”

He glanced at the painter, who was still putting some finishing touches on the portrait, without paying them any mind. From there Astarion could only see the easel and the frame the canvas was stretched on.

“*Now*, Astarion.“ Cazador’s voice dripped with command. “I'll see you in the evening, with your siblings.”

He hadn't gotten the order to get dressed, only to get his clothes and leave quickly, so Astarion was forced to pick up his rags and slip out of the room. His heart seemed heavier, deader than usual, as he made the walk of shame back to the spawn dormitories.

When he tranced that morning, the ghost of Cazador’s fingers stroked through his curls, gentle and careful. Astarion shivered and trembled, biting his pillow and clutching at his sides in a parody of embrace.

*

He never found the portrait, in the years, decades, centuries to come, even if he had spent a long time looking for it. Whenever Astarion’s sense of self became frail, he would be on the hunt for it, exploring every nook and cranny of the mansion as if seeing the painting could sate the hunger inside him.

Eventually, he was punished for snooping where he shouldn't have. And as he was taken down from the rack in the Kennels, his chest and stomach reduced to bloody ribbons, under Cazador’s furious gaze, he confessed what he was looking for.

“The portrait?“ Cazador asked, absolutely no inflection in his voice, just a slight curling of his nose betraying his emotions. “Stop concerning yourself with things that don't matter, boy.”

The order settled on Astarion’s mind like a gentle hand stroking his curls, and he resigned himself to forget.