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If there is ever any point in asking Cazador what manner of creature he’d brought in to set upon him, Astarion hasn’t found it. It normally ranks in usefulness between begging his master for mercy and asking for anything to eat besides the usual greasy rodents on offer—but on occasion, Astarion lacks the sense to remember that.
Like now, when it has been completely and utterly fucked out of him.
“Master. Master,” Astarion sobs. He can barely hear himself over the blood dripping on the floor, his ragged gasping, the strange chattering from above. He’d tried at first to tell what it was through touch and sound, since sight has been stolen from him for the moment. Its stomach had been soft where it draped over his back, but then the rough skin on its arms had shredded his where it tried to get a grip on him. When it did steady itself on him, digging claws into his shoulders and grinding his face into the bench he’d been strapped to, the noises it made were unlike anything he’d ever heard. He could have mistaken it for bird trills if he couldn’t feel its massive weight crushing him against the wood.
At least, from there, it had been quick. The tapered point of its cock caught the rim of his hole on the second pass and then swiftly split him open. It gets embarrassing how often Astarion thinks that this will be the time his master has hit his limit for sadism and cruelty, this will be the largest cock to be found in all of Faerûn, only to be flipped over and fucked raw with his lack of imagination and underestimation of Cazador’s resources.
Through it all, Cazador has been watching. One monster observing another do his dirty work. Astarion can feel his eyes, the air in the room heavy with whatever sadistic pleasure he’s gaining from this violation. If Astarion still needed to breathe, he would have choked on it.
“Master,” he tries again, and finally earns a dangerous response in his jaw being caught in the vice grip of Cazador’s hand. But he is not ordered to stay silent and so cannot stop himself from speaking. “What is this thing?”
“That is no concern of yours, child,” is the predictable answer as Cazador lets go, yet Astarion feels anger rush through him like it’s some great sudden betrayal—and then the beast above him ends its thrashing and spills so deep inside him, he swears he can taste it. It certainly washes away the last traces of the fetid rats Cazador had ordered him to eat earlier, one after another until he was in danger of graduating from starved to famished.
He might have preferred it to being well-fed. He would stay sore for longer and heal more slowly (if at all), but it would hurt ever so slightly less and leave fewer bruises. And he wouldn’t bleed in great rivulets, wasting every drop he’s been granted save for what Cazador collects for himself. His fingers slip between claw and flesh with the precision of a practiced hunter, and that is how Astarion knows the scratches he leaves in his wake are intentional.
It’s all nonsense. Though his opinion has never had a bearing on Cazador’s, Astarion despises the taste of rat, and any refined vampire would say the same. It’s revolting. Though it’s certainly better than scavenging for what he can get from insects or chewing on his fingers to ward off the gnawing emptiness within, that doesn’t keep it from being absolutely vile.
Cazador, however, acts as though it’s been turned to sweet nectar by virtue of running through his veins. Astarion doesn’t understand it and doesn't want to. He just wants this to end how he knows it will: with this thing gouging another set of claw marks into his back as it dismounts, leaving him gaping wide enough to slip a hand into.
But it stays buried to the hilt with no sign of softening. Cazador gives no command for it to be either dismissed or taken away and so it settles, leaving Astarion with nothing to do but feel and feel and feel.
He doesn’t want awareness. He would give anything to retreat into the depths of his mind until this is over, but his body is a wick dangling over fire, tensely waiting for the catch. Astarion naturally hates this. He’s experienced far worse—the way his hole has stretched to take its width is, after all this time, only somewhat beyond his limits. What he struggles to handle is the way his stomach presses against the bench from within, pulsing beneath his skin when the beast’s cock twitches in time with his overworked muscles. The constant reminder that he is full and being kept full until Cazador decides to free him.
Astarion is so dizzy from it, he barely registers Cazador’s footsteps approaching once more. What catches his attention is the sound of his staff on the floor, the steady strikes resonating in his hips.
“Have you learned your lesson?” Cazador unties his blindfold with a gentleness that makes Astarion hotly jealous of the silk for a moment. When it passes, he wants the darkness back. True blindness would be a welcome second. Anything that would let him escape from returning Cazador’s stare, compelling an answer by intensity alone.
What does it ever matter if Astarion knows what he’s being taught? Cazador’s weathervane expectations shift at the slightest provocation and rarely is a slight required for punishment. Astarion can’t remember what inane slip caught his master’s attention this time. It could easily have been nothing at all—and then is Astarion supposed to apologize for his existence? Cazador would throw a fit about his choices being questioned and extend his time with the creature another week. And Astarion already knows he won’t survive that, but when he opens his mouth, only a pathetic sobbing emerges.
“Poor child,” Cazador murmurs as he shakes his head slowly, a theatre of disappointment, “I should know better than to hope for you to hold onto a thought while you’re busy spreading your legs.” The blindfold is done away with somewhere beyond his sight, and then Cazador’s hands return to run through his curls with all the softness of a blade. “Why spare a thought for your own preservation when you can focus instead on being a broodmare, hm? Oh, Astarion. You should be grateful that I am here to guide you.”
He is not. He will never be. In his heart he knows that, even when his eyes flutter shut and he tilts towards Cazador’s touch. The thing is still in him, chirping sharply every time Astarion’s abused muscles can’t help but clench around it.
“Another minute or so, I think. It’s nearly ready.” Cazador pushes Astarion’s head down before he can ask what, as if he’ll ever be granted any clarity, and then the beast lets out a shriek and latches its teeth onto Astarion’s neck.
It would make sense to scream. He thinks he should, it must be why his jaw dropped open, but Astarion doesn’t get that far. He glares at the ground in shocked affront as a painful humiliation rolls through him. There’s no point to this, even! He’s already been fucked open and filled with so much seed that his stomach has softened from it! What is another bite and a bit of warming? Unless the creature has the stamina for another round, and just as that horrid thought crosses his mind, it begins to grind into him in slow dirty circles.
No. No. His mouth moves ahead of him, ghosting words until his voice catches up, and then: “Master, please, I’ve learned it, I swear I’ve learned my lesson. Master—Father! Anything but this, I can’t do it again, I beg you! Please!”
He knows better. After so many decades of pain, Astarion knows better, but he can’t stop himself. He babbles hopelessly as Cazador resumes petting his hair. Even he has been allowed moments where he should have been flayed into scraps and instead, Cazador gathered him close and forgave him for being the worst of his children. Astarion would give anything to find the right thing to say to be freed, but nothing comes to mind beyond please no no please no.
“Patience, Astarion.” Cazador’s compulsion cuts through his thoughts. Even if Astarion has no concept of it, his body seems to; he stills, his breath coming in measured bursts. “There. If you find thinking so difficult, boy, I will do it for you. I have already granted you mercy, if only you would cease your struggling and wait. Once your guest has given you its gift, I will have it taken away. Is that what you want?”
Anyone with sense would know better than to give Cazador that sort of opening. Astarion, on the other hand, has lost all of his. He nods shakily, sniffling pathetically.
“Ye-es, Master.” His voice cracks as the monster sinks its teeth in a little deeper and shifts its weight. There’s something he’s forgetting, something crucial that almost slips away before it pulls out just slightly and knocks the words loose. “Thank you! Thank you, I’m grateful to you, I promise.”
“I’m sure you are,” Cazador says. His tone is unreadable; Astarion would place his bet on dismissive. “Do not squander this chance, child, and do not move.”
It’s not a command, which for once Astarion finds terrible. He nearly begs for his master’s guidance again. But Cazador would love that and he has already given him too much, so he draws up the last of his strength and uses it to keep his muscles locked.
A valiant but ultimately useless effort. Even after all his time under the man’s thumb, Astarion can’t scent a trap to save his life—he only struggles once he’s been snared. Cazador knows this. Why else would he give Astarion an impossible order to follow when he knew, he has to have known, that the beast he served his son to was going to ruin him?
The fangs in his neck pinning him to the bench restrict him even more than the ropes, but Astarion’s body writhes like it’s trying to jump from its skin. He can’t blame it. Nothing else exists but the throaty laughter of the thing above him and its cock swelling inside him. Even Cazador has fallen below his notice. He can barely even spare a thought toward the fact that he’s being mocked from every angle. What his mind truly latches onto are the hard little orbs shifting down its length, fucked further inside with each nasty shallow thrust.
He almost thinks he might be able to break his restraints. He might have enough blood left. If he could get far enough away or make enough trouble to be sent to Godey instead—but then Cazador’s voice rings through his head, patience, Astarion, and his mind goes blank.
At least the creature has not been ordered to show restraint, and so it doesn’t. Its jerky movements speed up as it uses Astarion to milk itself, the orbs pushing steadily to the end and then the taper expands, and he—he can’t—
He bites his lip before he can start begging. If he cannot survive this much, he doesn’t want to know what else Cazador would let this thing do to him. There will never be an end to the indignities he has or will suffer between those walls, but this is one he intends to only suffer once if he can help it. Astarion’s unraveling mind grasps on any thread he can reach to keep himself sane, thinking of falling snow and grave dirt and slitting Cazador’s throat and old paper and embroidery needles. Anything but the eggs pushing into him until he fears he will burst and then further.
His fangs are still deep in his own flesh by the time it ceases. The beast lets out something like a victory call and finally, finally, it lets him go. First the teeth in his neck, and then it slides out none too gently. At least it’s over, Astarion hopes, and he doesn’t bother to catch a glance of the monster as his master barks for it to be removed. Where to, he doesn’t hear nor care. All that matters is that Cazador is slicing through his restraints and letting him go.
“Up, child,” Cazador says, and lifts him bodily before Astarion can even twitch. Not just to his feet but into his arms, cradling him gently.
In this position, Astarion has nearly no choice but to look at himself. Closing his eyes will have Cazador compelling them open, and regardless of the other options, he will have to see what has been done to him eventually. He’d rather it be on his own terms, as so few things in his unlife are.
One glance, and he thinks he might have waited for Cazador to force him to look after all.
Fundamentally, he understands what has been done. He’s not that brain-damaged, not yet. A strange beast plowed him, filled him, and then left him. But facing the actual sight of himself impregnated, yet another facet of his nature he thought fixed until Cazador had twisted it for his own ends, has him feeling things he cannot name. They pool under his tongue, take his chest, seep into his bones—burning hot and ice cold at once, like he’s had a glass of corrosion and is now savoring the sensation of it eating him alive as he watches the moon (his stomach, his pale stomach, distended and rounded in a way it never should have been) rise far beyond him.
Astarion’s mind has to abandon trying to make sense of it. He leans into his compelled patience for a moment, centering himself. Cazador will not be amused by this forever, he knows that. He stares blankly, barely seeing as his master sits on his throne with Astarion cradled in his lap, and fully ignores the soft caress of a hand on his stomach. Cazador’s interest cannot last. It never does. Soon he will be bored and cast a spell to destroy the eggs inside, and then Astarion will be ordered to take a long bath, and all will be as it once was.
“There, there, Astarion. You’ve done well.” Cazador’s voice is distant to his ears, and he murmurs a generic response to keep it that way. “It’s no surprise you were the only one of my children who I could trust to handle this. Don’t I know you, boy? None of them are as lascivious and hungry as you. None of them bleed so richly or scream so sweetly. No, they would have taken this with their shrill pleas and then accepted their fate limply. But here you are, with that spark of defiance, thinking you know how this will go. Am I right, Astarion? Answer me.”
“Yes, Master. You know me better than anyone.” He hears the words, but doesn’t say them—his mouth is not his own but belongs to the compulsion, telling Cazador exactly what he wants to hear.
“I know, Astarion. You don’t have to repeat it,” Cazador says. Astarion’s mind slides away just long enough to imagine a spray of blood on the ballroom wall like an arc of light. “There is still much to do, but I will not abandon you to go through it alone. Such is my burden as your father. One I do not take lightly in these circumstances, of course. Your clutch is to be hatched.”
“My...?” Astarion’s unnecessary breaths quicken. Horrible puzzle piece after horrible puzzle piece slots together to paint a picture that makes him wish, not for the first or last time, that he had let himself bleed to death all those years ago. Cazador’s hands are still touching his stomach as reverently as a father might, and Astarion watches his own come up to join them. “No. Please, no. Surely you can take them from me without that—anything but that.”
“Oh, my dim-witted boy. Have you already forgotten? You’ve used that line already.” Cazador laughs harshly enough that Astarion’s eyes snap to look at his face, a prey instinct. He does not like the sort of happiness he finds there. “If you’d prefer I bring the beast back, that can be arranged.”
“No! No, Master, I can—I can do this,” he says more to himself than Cazador. Astarion has suffered worse, and there is always worse to be suffered. This is a light task. Even if it sets his teeth on edge and makes his heart burn with how much he despises it, it must be done. It will be.
He doesn’t fight when Cazador moves him, guiding Astarion to lay against his chest before pulling his legs up and out of the way. A position he knows well and falls into naturally, or would have if his center of gravity hadn’t been robbed from him. Shame skitters like roaches across his skin at the realization that without his master’s guidance, he would have pitched forward and crushed everything inside him.
“See how you need me, child?” Cazador purrs as if he’s read his mind. “One round and you turn sloppy and graceless. We haven’t even started our work and you can’t even contain yourself.”
“Wh—ah—?” Astarion lurches, trying to peer around the sickening curve of his stomach while Cazador holds him too tightly for him to lean forward far enough. But he can feel, and that proves to be even worse. He tries to clench his exhausted muscles and only manages to shift the eggs inside of him in a way that lights up his entire spine. He barely manages not to scream. Relaxing makes him stickier, leaking the creature’s spend onto Cazador’s lap, the throne, the floor.
“Eager as ever, I see,” Cazador says, and it’s not a compliment. He tuts and pets Astarion’s hair in the way he imagines a cat might bat at a mouse it decided to play with before eating it. “You may as well go on, since you prefer to be so impatient.”
His words have a touch of power to them. Astarion tries to find himself in his own head, but there is only Cazador’s hand erasing the desire to go slow and steady and inking in the drive to get this over with. He doesn’t know where he ends and his master begins—but that has never mattered.
Astarion starts to push. There’s nothing for it for a long moment but a rush of spend and Cazador’s chiding remarks. Every passing second makes him painfully aware of every part of his body he’s neglected, forcing him to remember he is a thing that feels. His chest burns where it’s been rubbed raw, his jaw aches where it’s been bruised. Most horribly, something Astarion would rather die than name pools between his legs, hot and only growing harder as something solid finally presses against his hole.
He tries to brace himself. It’s almost too pathetic to acknowledge as an attempt, in his state. No breath will calm him, no prayer will release him. His lungs are dead and the closest thing he has to a god is spreading his thighs wider, peering over his shoulder to drink in his shame. Tears pinprick the corners of his eyes; there’s no use in stopping them. Astarion sniffles and then pushes again.
The hardest part, unexpectedly, is the initial breach. The widest part is a close second, but he’s too full. Every shift and unintentional clench has the other eggs fighting to be first out, nudging each other out of the way just when he thinks one will leave. Impatience and frustration wrap around his throat, but what chokes him is the pleasure when one catches.
“Fu... ah...” Astarion hisses and squeezes his eyes shut, gasping when a little flutter turns his struggle into success and the egg drops below him. He hears a thud but not a crack, a few taps as smaller ones frantically escape before another large egg slots into place and he has to begin anew.
It’s an utter betrayal that he isn’t simply loose enough after his earlier ravaging for everything to fall out with the slightest effort. It’s even worse that his body cannot be bored of this. He has been laid onto his back by hundreds if not thousands at this point, and yet he still manages to be sensitive and react as long as something is inside him. It’s a curse, one which will not be broken tonight.
He manages past the second egg with little of note beyond a rush of heat and Cazador’s hands steadying themselves on the inside of his thigh. Astarion struggles with the third and fourth, one getting lodged in a dent on the other, and a terrifying realization hits him—he’s going to cum.
Like a moth to flame or a wolf to blood, Cazador catches the scent of it and leans closer. Astarion isn’t surprised to feel a hard line in his master’s pants where they’re pressed together, throbbing with each hiss of pain.
“You little harlot. Tell me, how am I to correct this behavior when you enjoy it so much? If I deny you this pleasure, you’ll find a way to seek it elsewhere. Look at yourself,” Cazador sneers, but Astarion shakes his head. “You used to be someone trusted with justice, the cornerstone of a civil society. Now you’re not even a person, hm? Only a greedy thing too good and spoiled for any regular cock. I think you’d prefer it if I forbade you from hunting and instead let our new pet have its way with you every night.”
“No—ngh—hah—!” Astarion’s protests are strangled and drowned as his climax crashes into him. The eggs turn just right against that sweet spot inside him before falling to the floor, his ecstasy stabbing through him like an attack from within. He writhes and screams with it, his cock painting the underside of his stomach and dripping on his thighs until his hips stop moving and he’s little more than a boneless puddle.
Cazador watches him for a moment, setting a hand over the curve of him. But then he starts pressing down on it, the eggs shifting and creaking until Astarion shouts incoherently.
“If you have no need of my help, then get back to your work.” Cazador’s laughter is a threat, and Astarion doesn’t intend to have it turn into a promise. He pushes, a startled sob escaping when the eggs within slide through him and his cock begins to stir.
He hadn’t realized he stopped crying until he starts again. His master says something snide and brutal about it, such a sensitive little slattern, but it’s muffled under his own moans. Astarion has a sense of the rhythm, he thinks, when to push and when to rest to get them out fastest, but the new ease leaves so much room to feel how they surge along the weak place inside him that makes everything inside him bloom.
Astarion hates this even more than the creature from before. There’s something about a sweaty beast hanging over him that is still distasteful but, under this roof, too commonplace. This humiliation is new and should be beyond painful for it, but the only true ache is in the raw scratches along his arms. Barring the soreness from the weight, it feels good to free himself from the burden. Stretched more reasonably, held so gently—it gets harder to remember who he is and where he is when he cums again. Even when the pleasure starts to sharpen into oversensitivity.
Like so many of Cazador’s tortures, this punishment sinks into a horrible predictability. There are so many eggs, enough that they must be small, though they feel more like fists the longer it goes on. Astarion pushes and sobs and moans, his hips circling in the air. Somewhere between every third and fifth egg, his disloyal body drags him toward the peak he swears he never wants to see again and rips another climax from him. Every time he thinks it might be over, another egg nudges at his entrance and demands to be laid.
“This... this is going to kill me,” Astarion cries. Either exhaustion or starvation will get him first. He’s never going to leave this throne, never going to leave Cazador’s hold. This is his home now and he abhors it, but he will never be free.
“Cease your whining, you dramatic child. There is only one more,” Cazador snaps, yanking Astarion from the cycle. He doesn’t know how his master can tell—he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d cast some vile spell to see inside him and count each egg for his demented record keeping—but he believes him. Foolishly, even though he does feel just one last egg slipping through him. Cazador tracks its path down the dwindling curve of his stomach with a hmph. “You can do this, can you not? Or are you truly so weak?”
Astarion should be too worn out to blink, let alone feel twin bolts of lightning strike to his core. Feeling Cazador twitch against his back with every cruel word shouldn’t have his body responding in kind. It isn’t a part of him, can’t be. But the second thread of heat, the desperate desire to prove his master wrong, can’t be put out.
He shifts his weight on Cazador’s lap, trying to find the perfect angle by instinct alone. Cazador allows it with a condescending chuckle that buries itself right at the top of his spine, and perhaps does not force him into his position because Astarion ends up all but draping himself over him. Half-drunk and out of his mind, Astarion reaches behind and grabs his arms before he bears down.
With no fluid left and nothing else to shift it or steal his attention, he can feel every little scale on this egg in little rigid bumps. It pitches his breath high as he starts to force it out and then drags it up to a whine when he realizes that this is the biggest of all of them.
His nails are all but embedded in Cazador’s sleeves, but all he does is quietly inhale when Astarion’s hips begin to jerk back and forth as if he can wiggle the thing out through determination alone. If he were any more coherent, he might have been more intentional about the filthy grind against Cazador’s front. A small revenge, a chance to see someone else waver and break. But it’s all a mess, and not one Astarion can hold onto.
“N… no… stop… fuck!” Astarion jolts violently, crying out as the last egg catches itself just before the widest point and right as his muscles give out. His stupid, useless, traitorous muscles pull it back inside, right to his most sensitive spot, and he cums again so hard that he worries the egg has broken inside him.
“You’re almost convincing me you’d prefer to keep it, at this rate. Would you like that, Astarion?” Cazador sighs. “If you can’t manage this much, perhaps it’d be better for us to let it stay in your licentious body. You can’t deny your natural desire to be filled, hm? You were made to take it, and so beautifully. I can allow you this gift.”
Astarion shakes his head, still lightheaded. He is no longer a rational creature. Only a thing that wants to be free of this, that needs it as much as he needs to prove Cazador wrong. Even as he begins to push again and feels himself trying to stir. It can’t. He is already empty of everything but this egg. He has no tears, no blood, no shame left, and soon he will be completely hollow.
“Is that it?” Cazador’s hand comes around to press on the now barely-there bump lightly, not lightly enough to help. “I’ve raised you with better manners, Astarion.”
And flayed them right back out, he thinks but cannot say. He knows what his master wants and tries to bite his tongue against it, but he also knows he has lost. Whatever lesson he was originally meant to learn, this one has emerged: that he is nothing more than a toy to be posed and played with, a hole to be wrenched open and fucked, a child to be beaten and ordered. And a toy needs an owner, a hole needs a filler, and a child needs its father.
“Please,” he whispers, crying out as the egg barely breaches him and slides in again. “Please, Master, help me. I want to do as you ask, I swear. I don’t... I’m not strong enough. Please. I need you.”
“That you do,” Cazador says. “You always have and you always will, my boy.” He pauses, and for a horrible moment, Astarion fears he really will leave the egg inside him. But then Cazador leans in, brushing his nose along the point of his ear, and commands him: “push it out.”
As turns out Astarion did have more in him. A fresh wave of tears bursts out of him as Cazador’s guidance takes hold of his body. He bears down hard, screaming as his muscles protest and then ignore themselves to keep pushing. Like a petulant brat, the last egg fights, slipping every time Astarion is forced to relax so that it stretches into an infinity of pushing and pushing.
It splits him open for what he desperately hopes is the last time. He knows when the widest part is coming, can feel right where he lost his strength before. Astarion sobs as his body drags itself beyond its limits and keeps going, forcing the egg out bit by bit until it finally falls.
Astarion knows only white and the raw agony of his throat, and comes back to himself still in his master’s arms. He’s filthy, sticky and exhausted, and a wet patch between him and Cazador chafes at his skin. Below him, some having rolled as far as the middle of the ballroom floor, is a collection of brightly colored eggs that he glances at and then away from. Knowing and studying them does not matter and will not bring him anything of use. What matters is that he is done, truly this time.
“There, my child.” Cazador rests his hand over his stomach, his smug smile bleeding into his voice. Distantly, Astarion recognizes the rustle of pants being loosened and closes his eyes. “You’ve done it. See? That wasn’t so difficult.”
And as his father and master says, so shall it be.