Chapter Text
The moment that he did it, Astarion knew he fucked up.
But the hunger was strong, and for once – just for once – this man didn't smell like cheap wine and days-old filth. He didn't smell like the other tavern rats he usually seduced and stole away for his master. And something about that made him all the more appetizing.
He was tired of drinking from pests. From – ugh – from putrid rats caught in the streets and in the palace's halls.
But worst yet, he was tired of having to share with the other spawn. Having to push and claw the others away as they tried to drive him from his fair share. All while Cazador got a nice, perfectly clean humanoid all to himself.
And he'd have so many, too. Sure, Astarion had never seen Cazador actually feed – he claimed privacy was a 'privilege' of his, after all. But that didn't mean he didn't see how many were brought in. How many came in through his hands, especially.
So, surely Cazador wouldn't miss one.
Or rather, a half of one. After all, he still needed to bring something back from his long night's prowl.
All of this is why, while his prey was in the throes of his orgasm, Astarion bit deeply into his inner thigh.
The man shrieked in pain, but it didn't matter – he was far too drunk to understand what was going on. No one would come looking for the sound of a scream in a back alley anyway. Not in Baldur's Gate.
His blood was hot on Astarion's tongue. It was like a fine wine, aged from years of back-breaking work of building houses in the lower city. Or whatever it was the man said he did for work. The elf couldn't quite remember.
He couldn't remember a lot of things at that moment, actually. It was like a fire had been lit in his brain, arcing from synapse to synapse and setting the whole place ablaze. The world felt fuzzy, and oddly warm. He forgot his troubles: all of those nasty scars and lashes on his back from Cazador's last punishment, all of his gut-wrenching anguish at sentencing these (usually) innocent people to their doom, his place amongst Cazador's ranks.
All of it was lost to the sweet sanguine nectar that was flowing from the artery in the man's leg. Not a single drop escaped Astarion. Those that tried were quickly snatched up. He felt sated. He felt alive for the first time in nearly twenty years.
But still, he knew he was fucking up. He always was, in Cazad or's eyes.
It was only when the man let out a weak, warbling plea for mercy that he finally snapped from his trance. Slowly – begrudgingly – he pulled away. Rivulets of crimson trickled down the man's thigh and on to the dark cobbles of the street below them. He waved his hand around at Astarion's face deliriously. He was pale.
Perhaps he had drained him a bit more than he meant to. For a brief moment, Astarion felt a deep, burning shame.
But it was no matter. With a quick word of his high elven magic, the two puncture marks were healed. Surely, with all Cazador's prey tonight, a few pints of blood wouldn't go missed.
Still riding the high, Astarion dragged the man to his feet, and started leading him off to the palace.
It was not long before Cazador found out. That morning, while trancing in his bunk in the spawn dormitory, Astarion felt his presence looming over him. He opened his eyes to find Cazador's piercing glare, and he could see the fury brewing behind it.
He tried to talk, but his mouth wouldn't move. Neither would his limbs. Cazador was in control.
With no way to defend himself, or even beg for mercy, Astarion was ripped from his bed and tossed to the ground. His head collided with the floor hard enough to cause him to see stars. He tried to focus on them rather than the monster standing over him.
" Greedy child!" sneered his master, uncaring if the other spawn woke or not. They knew it better than to interfere. "Do you take me a fool, boy? Did you think I wouldn't notice?"
Astarion was given just a sliver of control back. Cazador loved to hear him beg, after all. "Forgive me, Master, I–"
He was silenced again. Cazador wore that same, shit-eating, self-assured smirk Astarion was so infuriatingly used to. "Oh, there is no need to beg for forgiveness. After all, I suppose I have only myself to blame for this." His voice dripped with malice like a festering wound. A shiver ran down Astarion's spine as Cazador leaned down closer.
"You succumbed to the hunger, didn't you? You felt that awful, gnawing feeling deep in your belly, and thought that you could pull one over your master," he whispered. Tears were beginning to form at the corners of Astarion's eyes. Cazador only whispered like this when the punishment would be severe.
"Perhaps… perhaps I am not feeding you enough. Is that it? I can see no other reason why you could possibly think that a lowly piece of filth like you could drink from the same cup as me ," he spat. Then, he waved a hand. " Nod."
Given control again, Astarion slowly nodded.
Cazador's wicked grin returned. "Well, then, I suppose we'll need to fix that." He paused for a moment to look over his shoulder. "Godey," he called to a dimly lit figure in the equally dim doorway.
The kennel . Astarion's heart would have been racing if it still beat. With a series of creaks and rattles, Godey shambled his way in, and came to stand over Astarion. The skeleton's empty eye sockets felt like they were roaming his body. With a single flick of the wrist from Cazador, he grabbed a handful of Astarion's white locks, and began pulling him out the doorway. Were he still not silenced, he would have screamed from the pain.
"Ooh, Master has something fun planned, child," Godey creaked far too enthusiastically as he headed out, dragging Astarion across the hall to the kennel. Each slow, deliberate yank was agony. All the while, Cazador tailed behind them, not even looking down to Astarion.
Astarion held his breath as he was dragged into the kennel. Usually, the overwhelming stench of his siblings'... fluids from past beatings made him gag. But when he was forced to take in some air, there was another scent that overpowered it.
Blood. Fresh, and lots of it.
He was dragged over the rough stone of the floor (which Cazador didn't seem too happy about; perhaps he was worried Godey would ruin the poetry on Astarion's back), and to the central pillar in the room. He was forced up, and his wrists were pulled up over his head. In a position he was all too familiar with, he was shackled to the pillar, and his legs bound with a chain.
Godey crept off behind him, but Cazador remained before Astarion. Finally, he was given control of his body again. It wasn't like he could go anywhere anyway.
The moment he had control of his mouth back, he began blabbering in a manner that most other than Cazador would never see. "M-Master, please, I'm sorry! It was a mistake, and I'll – I'll make it up to you!! I'll bring you two – no, three tomorrow night!! Please!"
The only thing his begging got him was a cold chuckle. "Oh, you will anyway. But the root of the cause, dear child, will not be solved. Your hunger is a weed, and we must kill it at the source."
A pause. Cazador stepped closer, and ran a hand down the front of Astarion's buttoned night shirt – white and freshly laundered. His touch lingered at his middle and made Astarion's skin crawl. "Tell me, Astarion: in your miserable past life, did you ever overeat?"
The question threw Astarion for a loop. " What?" he asked flatly, genuinely caught off-guard. There was the sound of wood scraping against the floor from behind him.
"Do not answer a question with a question," Cazador snapped threateningly. Astarion gulped, and tried to recall.
"I… I suppose I did, once or twice. My mother had a lovely stew that she made that I could never resist a second helping of…" Deep down, at that moment, Astarion longed to smell that stew again.
Godey came back around the pillar, pulling a barrel along with him. It was about half his height, and a good foot and a half across. As he pulled it into place next to the pillar, Astarion heard a loud sloshing from within. The scent of blood filled the air once more, and his heart sank. Things began clicking into place.
Godey disappeared once more, while Cazador strode around Astarion like a hawk watching prey. "I see. Then the gluttony started before I saved you. Had you been a better spawn, perhaps I would have corrected that a long time ago."
Godey returned, carrying a rusted metal funnel, with two bloodied leather straps on either side. He sat it to the side as he cracked open the barrel, revealing Astarion's worst fear. It was filled with blood.
But not just any blood. He couldn't tell before with the smell of the room, but now he could. It smelled sour and acidic and foul. Cazador was such a sadistic bastard: it was rat blood. Astarion's stomach curled in fear, and he gagged at the very thought of it. How many scurrying, squirming vermin had been killed to fill a barrel that size? Even from here, he swore he spied a small, beady black eyeball floating around near the edge. A wooden ladle bobbed around at the surface.
"Your gluttony and defiance will be punished, " Cazador said. "You will drink until I have deemed you properly fed." He didn't need to even say what would happen if Astarion didn't comply – he knew the punishment would just be even worse. He didn't want to be put in the ground for a year again. "Perhaps this will sate your appetite, little thief."
"You're joking. I can't drink all that!" Astarion protested, squirming away as Godey approached with the funnel. It was forced between his jaws, the taste of old iron and rust filling his mouth. The spout hit the back of his throat as the skeletal servant locked it into place behind his head. He gagged again.
"Perhaps you should have considered that before placing your filthy mouth on my dinner," Cazador replied in that melodic, smooth tone of his. He began heading towards the door. "I will return later to check your progress."
And with that, the door to the kennel was shut, and Astarion was left to the cruel hands of Godey. He began to try and kick and squirm, but it was no use – he was held fast. He let out a gagged whimper.
Godey plucked the floating ladle from the barrel, and filled it to the brim with blood. As he came closer and closer with it, Astarion tried desperately to turn his head away. But Godey was faster than him. His face was grabbed firmly by bony fingers, and he was held still. Tears ran down his face while saliva started drooling from the corners of his mouth. Without much ceremony, the first ladleful of blood was dumped down the funnel.
It wasn't exactly as bad as Astarion expected, honestly. While he fully believed no one had even bothered to wash these rats at all, his saving grace was that, with the funnel so far back into his throat, he couldn't quite taste it. It just hit the back of his throat, and went down his gullet. Soon enough, the first ladle was down, even if the awkward gulping made his throat hurt.
He received no reprieve, though. Godey was back over him with another ladleful. As he poured, Astarion heard him clatter amusedly. He could feel the skeleton's non-existent gaze land on his bobbing Adam's apple.
"There we go, child. Let Godey feed you up," he hummed in that faux-caring fashion of his. Astarion's eyes rolled as he wished to fully rip the creature's horrendous jaw off his head, but he drank down the next ladleful.
Things were quiet for the next few times. Godey would occasionally rattle and clatter, but it was simply his bones settling into the rhythm. Scoop. Pour. Wait. Scoop. Pour. Wait. For Astarion, though, it was "Drink. Drink. Breathe. Drink." Still, these scoops went down without incident.
It was around the ninth that Astarion felt sated. He hadn't even truly been that hungry, after all, as he was still being sustained by the man's blood from the night prior. Cazador's blood, a cruel part of his mind reminded him. The blood he had stolen.
But Godey showed no signs of stopping or slowing down. A tenth ladleful was forced down Astarion's throat, and a noise he hadn't heard in a very long time came out from him: a small burp. Had he the ability, he would have flushed. He gurgled out some apology, which he hated himself for. After all this, he still couldn't be free of being subservient to the ones brutalizing him.
Still, it could be worse. Being fed wasn't the worst punishment he could think of. No lashes were involved, and no one was forcing him to play hot-foot with the light from the rising sun by a window. No one was fucking him senseless relentlessly, cumming from the sounds of his screams, either.
It was kinder. This made this punishment all the more worrisome for him.
He was force-fed more, and at some point, he lost count of how many ladlefuls it had been. Astarion's stomach felt overly full now, like he had partaken in a grand feast and overdid it a bit. It was growing tight, and the stench of the blood was making each fill harder to get down.
Moreover, Godey was getting more handsy. He ran a hand over his middle over more, and stopped at the center of his belly. Astarion couldn't quite look down to see, but Godey could. There was a slight curve forming on his flat, lithe stomach. The skeleton pushed two fingers against it, and felt the swell of the organ beneath. Astarion winced in pain.
"Oh, Astarion, you're going to fill up nicely," he said, teeth chattering in delight. Astarion gave some muffled response, which Godey promptly ignored to continue carrying out his job.
He lost track of time. More and more went down his throat, but he was beginning to slow down. The muscles in his throat grew sore from the repetitive gulping, and his jaw hurt from the funnel. But the worst pain was certainly coming from his stomach. As he finished one mouthful and waited for Godey to prepare another, Astarion looked down wearily.
He was properly bloated now, with the small peak of his stomach pressing against the buttons of his (suddenly very tight feeling) nightshirt and sticking over his waistband by about an inch. If he had been allowed to, this is certainly where he would have stopped, both for his comfort and his figure. He had never seen any fat vampires, but now he began to worry about his toned physique. He was possibly the fullest he had ever been since being turned.
But there was no rest for the wicked, as Godey forced his face up again, and dumped another ladleful in. Astarion let out a small groan as it hit the back of his throat, but began slowly gulping it down.
More groans escaped him, as did a few hiccups. He felt his stomach begin to stretch uncomfortably, growing tighter and tighter with each gulp. His nightshirt began to feel more like a corset around him, as his swelling belly forced the fabric around it tight. When he moved or squirmed, Astarion was starting to hear a faint sloshing sound.
More slowly went down, until he was certain he had drank close to a gallon of blood. He felt like he had drank five , in all honesty. Astarion's breaths were coming shorter, now, as he began to feel cramping if he tried to take a full breath. When he saw Godey start lifting another to his mouth, he let out a muffled plea for him to stop.
"What's wrong?" he asked, placing a hand on Astarion's belly and pressing just a tad. The elf's legs twitched as he felt a… a tingle of arousal from his loins. He pushed it out of his mind for now. "Little tick had too much to drink?"
Astarion nodded very slowly. Godey let out a hollow chuckle, his loose jaw gnashing wildly, and drummed his fingers on the side of the elf's belly. "Godey thinks he's just too cramped up in this thing," he hummed, tugging on the right fabric of Astarion's nightshirt. "Why don't we bust him out of it?"
Oh, how Astarion had hoped he meant he'd take it off of him. But of course not. That would be too kind for anyone in this damned palace. Instead, he went straight back to feeding him, but with a renewed vigor and pace.
It was difficult for Astarion to keep up, and it took all his focus to work on not choking on the incoming blood. Every swallow was agony, and with each, he felt his belly swell just a little more. The skin on his sides burned with the stretch, and his nightshirt was straining to hold it all in, the buttons holding on for dear life against the rounded swell that was threatening to bust loose at any moment.
And then, finally, with a pitiful groan from the elf after a particularly difficult swallow, there was a series of popping noises as his buttons finally slipped free from their ties. Cool air rushed over Astarion's tight belly as he struggled to breathe. His nightshirt hung like gossamer curtains on either side of his stomach. Packed so tightly, his stomach didn't sag at all – but he did in his shackles. He was exhausted, and he let this be known with a pitiful moan.
Godey took a break to begin poking and prodding his stomach again. The pale skin around his middle – now slightly reddened at the sides from the stretch – was extremely sensitive, and each little brush of the skeleton's fingers had Astarion grunt and groan. Gods, he felt like a waterskin fit to burst.
But more blood just kept coming. He whined, begging Godey to stop, but his pleas fell on deaf, long-since-decayed ears. His insides had turned into a symphony, crooning out painful gurgles and creaks as they struggled to hold fast against the tidal wave of vitae.
Eventually, his stomach stopped swelling, and simply grew tighter and harder with each gulp. There was simply no more room for him to grow outwards anymore, and it left him looking like a pregnant woman near to term. Tears were threatening to spill down Astarion's cheeks. He couldn't take any more.
But Godey seemed to think he could, as another mouthful was poured in agonizingly slowly. Each and every little swallow was followed by a muffled plea, a hiccup, or a groan of pain. He was only able to get about one of each of these out before his throat refused to work with him anymore; there was simply no more room.
But of course, there was still blood in his mouth, heading towards his throat. It caught in his throat, and for a second, Astarion was sure he was going to choke. But then, evolutionary safeguards kicked in, and he let out a spluttering cough. Undrank blood sputtered out from the center of the funnel and the sides, rolling down the overstuffed spawn's sharp chin and throat. When the rivulets touched the soft fabric of his nightshirt, they blossomed into beautiful red stains on the white cotton. Eyes rolled back, and drool now mixing in from the choked mouthful, Astarion looked like the perfect depiction of vampiric debauchery.
He screwed his eyes shut as Godey placed a hand on his stuffed belly again. His bones were chilly against the tender flesh. He began to rub in wide circles, and that pang of pleasure rushed to Astarion's loins again. He felt his cock twitch a little, and his already-short breath hitched.
"Poor thing feels like it'll pop," the skeleton remarked, sitting the ladle off to the side. He began rubbing both sides of his stomach with either hand, and Astarion squirmed as best he could. "You look like a tick that's hit an artery."
A million violent thoughts rushed through Astarion's mind, all of which ended with Godey ending up as a pile of shattered bones, and Cazador as a splatter on the wall. But they were cut short when Godey pushed inwards , his stomach caught between his hands like a bony vice. Astarion let out a wail of pain, and thrashed against his bonds.
Godey held the pressure, and those tears finally began pouring from the elf. Bile rose at the back of his mouth, and he swore that, any longer, he'd explode or vomit up every vile mouthful in a manner not unlike a fountain. When Godey finally released him, he was left panting and groaning, delirious with pain and exhaustion.
Over the next few hours, Godey would only feed him every so often – seeming to just top him off each time. There was no point in where Astarion felt like he wasn't stuffed to the gills. He starved to feel hunger once again. He had never been this full in his mortal life, either.
It was hard to keep his eyes open, and every fiber of his being was calling him to fall into a deep, post-meal trance. He needed to fight it, though. He didn't trust Godey with his unconscious body. So, he tried his best to stay awake and deal with the pain.
There was more squeezing and groping at the tight surface of his belly. Every errant little push and prod that didn't put too much pressure caused little sparks of arousal deep at the base of his spine. Shame coursed through Astarion. Was he into this?
Sure, he was into quite a few depraved things – growing up repressed will do that – but… this was odd. Still, though, he found himself moaning slightly and growing hot under the collar. If Godey noticed his erection slowly rising from the dead (it was amazing that his corpse was still able to do that, honestly; vampiric magic, no doubt) in his trousers, he didn't say anything. Honestly, he tried to ignore the skeleton, and imagine he was instead getting groped by a strong, broad-shouldered man and not a literal pile of bones.
He was lost to the pleasure and the pain, eyes rolled back slightly as he just let both wash over him. Part of him wished desperately that he had discovered this somewhere outside of the kennel. He wasn't supposed to enjoy the torture, after all, and those rare times when he did… well, he knew how it ended. What Cazador would do when he found out. How he'd grab him by the cock and–
The door to the kennel swung open again. There, standing with his arms folded behind his back, was Cazador. As he stepped in, Godey stepped aside, and gave him a deep bow.
"Godey has been keeping him full, Master," he said. "But… he looks to be enjoying it."
Astarion cringed when he heard Godey say this. He couldn't see past the curve of his belly, but he imagined his erection was unfortunately quite visible through his thin trousers. His suspicions were confirmed when Cazador's roaming eyes landed on his crotch, and his smirk turned to a deep frown.
The master vampire waved his hand at Godey. "Leave us. I will carry it out from here," he commanded. Without another word, Godey shuffled out, and closed the door behind him. Now, Astarion was alone with the worst monster in all of Baldur's Gate.
And it was eyeing his crotch with malicious intent.