trapped

[deerna]

Rating: NSFW
Fandom: baldur's gate
Relationship: astarion/cazador, astarion & petras
Tags: torture, torture porn, power imbalance, sexual slavery, exploitation, hurt no comfort, angst, corsetry, blood and torture, injury, broken bones, tightlacing
Wordcount: 2600 / 2527 on AO3
Notes: Disclaimer before anyone starts riding my ass about corsets!!!!! This is torture porn. this is a magic fictional corset I made up to be sturdy and evil so that Cazador could be an asshole to Astarion. Real life corsets aren't uncomfortable if worn correctly and fit to size. You can breathe in a corset, and it won't break your ribs. Tightlacing might require training but afaik isn't inherently dangerous— also tight lacing focuses on waist reduction and not whatever the fuck gets Cazador's rocks off. Why did Cazador pick this particular way to be an asshole? I don't know, I don't care, and neither should you. Suspension of disbelief beam!!!

Summary:
some cazador/astarion torture porn, featuring petras as an accessory to crimes and a corset.

Excerpt:

He could see the pieces of Cazador’s plan align in front of him — the party, a punishment yet to be delivered, Petras — but they kept escaping his grasp, as they slipped just under the surface of logic. Frustration went to add itself to the load of distress weighing on his chest.

{ read on AO3 | read here }

If there was one thing Astarion had learned about his Master, was that Cazador didn't mind playing the long game; he was also learning that it didn't necessarily mean he wouldn't take advantage of a situation to make the most of it.

It hadn't been an unsuccessful hunt, in Astarion's opinion. The girl was nice enough—kind eyes, kind smile, kind soul. Beautiful hands. An unusual shade of red for her hair, pleasing body language. But as the saying went, beauty was in the eye of the beholder: Cazador drained her slowly, a thoughtful frown on his pale face, discarded her lifeless body like so much trash, and reached out to crack the back of his hand across Astarion’s face.

"Are you so enamored of the sewer rats you feed on, that you started looking for them in the marks you hunt?"

Astarion didn't answer. He didn't apologize. He didn't beg. He just braced himself for the punishment he knew was coming, and mentally prepared to spend a day and a night in the Kennels, hunger and pain as his sole companions. A spawn's routine.

"You're dismissed," Cazador said. "Leave the mess, I don't want to see you until tonight's party."

A break in the pattern. Astarion spent the whole day drowning in paranoia, restless and unable to trance, unable to focus on his mending, hands shaking so badly he kept pricking his fingers on the needle. He squabbled with several of his siblings over nonsense problems—the only language he could speak with them, when he couldn't beg for comfort and reassurance.

By the time night rolled around, he was so tired his bones hurt with it.

Cazador didn't bother to show himself at the dormitory room. One of his servants came to fetch him instead, looking harassed and like he had got better places to be.

"The Master wishes to see Astarion and Petras in his rooms," he said.

Astarion froze. Petras also stopped in his tracks, his fool face breaking into a wide, delighted grin.

"Why?" Astarion blurted out, despite knowing better.

The servant frowned at him. "I'm going to tell the Master you questioned his orders if—"

Astarion's panic was a misshapen scream pushing behind his teeth. "I'm not—why Petras?"

"Shut the fuck up, Astarion," Petras snapped at him. He turned sweetly to the servant. "We'll be there immediately."

Petras all but pulled Astarion to his feet and dragged him out of the room, sending them stumbling after the hireling. “If you ruin this for me, Astarion, I swear to the gods—” he snarled under his voice.

Astarion had to laugh. “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll leave it to you. You’re old enough now, you can ruin things all by yourself.” Honey and mockery dripped from his tongue but his gut churned; he didn’t know what any of that meant.

He could see the pieces of Cazador’s plan align in front of him — the party, a punishment yet to be delivered, Petras — but they kept escaping his grasp, as they slipped just under the surface of logic. Frustration went to add itself to the load of distress weighing on his chest.

“Choke on it,” Petras snapped back. “I’ll get the last laugh when Master asks me to escort him to the party.”

Astarion did not expect the betrayal blooming under his ribs. He didn’t care if Cazador meant to replace him, the gods knew he wasn’t going to miss being made into entertainment for his guests—and yet. He walked the rest of the way in silence, letting Petras’ inane prattle wash over him.

Cazador was sitting at his desk when they entered his rooms, papers and books and pens scattered around him. He seemed lost in thought, deep lines etched across his forehead as he wrote something on a sheet of paper, barely acknowledging their entrance. His hair was still unbrushed—something he sometimes expected Astarion to do for him—and he was half-dressed, still wearing his favorite dressing gown over shirt sleeves. Astarion heard Petras gasp softly at his side, his eyes shining with something like admiration. Harebrained cretin.

“Ah. You’re late,” their Master finally addressed them. He pierced Astarion with a calculating look, then pointed him to a pile of fabric on a chair. “Get dressed.” He looked at Petras. “You, help your brother.”

The compulsion settled on Astarion’s shoulders like a familiar cloak. Petras deflated slightly; even without the compulsion, he was too eager to please their Master to protest or question him in any way, but his face still twisted in indignation when he was sure Cazador couldn’t see him. Astarion was still too anxious about the other shoe to drop to fully appreciate his displeasure.

He pulled his shirt over his head, dropped pants, undergarments and socks to the floor in one gesture. Petras seemed vaguely disquieted by his nudity—after so long, Astarion had forgotten what it felt like to be self-conscious about it—but he still approached him, ready to obey his Master.

“If you touch me,” Astarion calmly threatened him under his breath as he tried to step in his personal space, “I’m going to rip your throat out.” He picked up the discarded garments and shoved them in Petras’ arms, a concession to Cazador’s orders; then he turned to the clothes piled on the chair, trying to figure them out.

The fact that he got to wear clothes at all was a small miracle in itself; it wasn’t an overly-layered monstrosity either—something Astarion had come to associate with the anticipation of the worst to come. It was mostly just a shirt and breeches in shades of red and grays, similar to the livery that Szarr’s employees wore, but made in a finer fabric than one would expect on a servant; the shirt was so light it was almost see through.

The only odd element was something Astarion had only seen women wear, and it stumped him.

“Put the corset on, first,” Cazador said. He sounded distracted. The pen scratched on the paper.

Astarion gritted his teeth at the order, forgoing the breeches to pick up the cincher. It felt heavy and stiff, even if the undyed cotton was pleasantly sturdy to touch; it had a metal closure at the front and thin laces at the back, but his clumsy fingers couldn’t figure out how to separate the pieces to make it fit around his torso.

Petras huffed and took the corset from his hands. “So this is what I get for helping Dalyria get dressed sometimes,” he muttered, making easy work of the metal piece, separating the front of the garment. “Turn around, you helpless idiot.”

Turning his back to both Cazador and Petras seemed a truly bad idea, but it wasn’t like Astarion had any choice on the matter. He jumped a little when the other spawn’s hands slipped under his arms to wrap the corset under his torso, but to his surprise the sensation of fabric hugging his ribs so closely wasn’t an uncomfortable one—not even when Petras started tightening the laces on his back. He obviously didn’t need to breathe, but even when he instinctively inhaled to check how much room he had for that kind of movement, it was perfectly reasonable: keeping his spine straight felt less of an effort, and the pressure at the top of his hips felt almost comforting.

Then Cazador looked up. “That won’t do. Lace him tighter.“

“Yes, Master,” Petras said, projecting his voice. He tugged on the laces, and Astarion’s body followed. “Brace on something, you weigh practically nothing,” he grumbled at him under his breath. Astarion grabbed onto the chair he’d found the clothes on, and gritted his teeth as Petras kept tightening the garment around him. It still wasn’t too bad—he could see the fabric indenting the skin of his lower abdomen and the breaths he could take weren’t as deep, but it wasn’t bad. Still, he could feel the familiar taste of panic at the very back of his throat.

“You’re both useless,” Cazador commented, casually like he was discussing the weather. “Come here.”

They obeyed (Obviously. What else could they do?) and went to stand near the desk.

Their Master didn't even look up, still absorbed in his documents. “Resume,“ he ordered again. “I'll stop you when I'm satisfied with your efforts.” He glanced up, red eyes piercing Astarion’s brain like twin icepicks. “Brace against the desk, if you must.”

“Yes, Master,” Petras repeated. Astarion gritted his teeth, and put his hands on the polished wood.

Petras resumed pulling on the laces, starting from the base of Astarion’s spine, tightening the fabric until his pelvis was clamped into a ring-shaped vise, then he started to climb. Astarion twitched—he could picture his insides changing shape, slithering into his body cavity like terrified eels, his stomach finding refuge under his ribs while his dead heart leapt in his throat; then Petras gave a squeeze to his waist and started from the other side—from between his scapulae, going down.

Astarion hadn't realized how big of a gap the garment (obviously designed to welcome a cleavage that he did not possess) had left on his chest, until it was gone: the rough fabric chafed against his nipples, sending a frisson of sensation along his spine— something that could have been pleasure, weren't it tainted with dread. The pressure against his ribcage was now firm enough to hinder his lungs from properly expanding, and the absence of that illusory, comforting vestige of life was enough to make him precipitate towards panic. You don't need to breathe. You haven't needed to breathe in a godsdamned century. Get a grip, Astarion berated himself.

“Tighter, Petras,” Cazador said.

“Yes, Master,” Petras repeated for the third time. Astarion wanted to rip his tongue out and shove it down his throat.

One of Petras’ deceptively soft hands bore down against Astarion’s kidneys like the heel of a steel boot, keeping the corset in place, before he repeated the whole process: first from the bottom — the fabric around his hips seemed to have been tightened as far as it could go, even if his waist seemed to have a little more to give, his stomach flipping and fluttering with nausea — then from the top.

Astarion’s ribs gave an ominous creak.

It wasn't quite pain yet — this was nothing, in comparison to the flaying, to the starvation, to the things and body parts shoved inside his body with no consent or warning, to the running water melting his skin, to the burning of the sun turning his flesh into ash — but it was far from pleasant. Petras must have heard it too, because he froze.

“Did I tell you to stop?” Cazador immediately reproached him.

“No, Master.“

How many times had Astarion wished for his siblings’ pity? How many times had he wished they witnessed his pain, so they understood? And yet Petras’ hesitation, whatever it was the emotion it concealed, tasted like ash in Astarion’s tongue. Abruptly, he wished Petras gone; he wished it were Cazador at his back, and his cold hands, and his colder words. Let them believe whatever they wanted—it was better than allowing them to see how broken and pathetic he could become.

“Please,” tumbled out of his traitorous mouth. He didn't even know what he was begging for. His knuckles were white against the dark wood.

“Keep going, then,” Cazador addressed Petras, as if Astarion had never uttered a word. “We don't have all night.”

The panic in Astarion’s mind turned into a trembling in his limbs. His trapped lungs, set up to failure as they were, attempted to suck a breath in. “Please,” he begged again, and then realized he wasn't making a sound.

He barely felt Petras’ hand on his hip — he would never find out if it was an attempt at comfort or just the spawn better bracing himself for the last pull — before his chest caught on fire.

Astarion screamed — or tried to, only enough air in his chest to punch a choked sob out of his throat — as the lower portion of his ribcage snapped. The broken bones felt like claws in his guts, folding into the soft tissue under the compression of the corset. He cried and coughed and choked, blood and tears wetting his mouth.

Cazador only looked up when a spray of bright red droplets stained the godsdamned papers he was still writing on.

“That's enough,” he said, gesturing to Petras to step away. He got on his feet, slowly walking around the desk to stand at Astarion’s side. His eyes on him felt sharper than the bone shards embedded in his flesh.

He clicked his tongue, disapproving. “Posture, Astarion. Look at me.“

With tremendous effort, Astarion straightened his back, brought his shoulders back, pushed his chest out, and turned towards Cazador. A spasm of his ruined midsection sent another gush of blood dripping down his chin. He was in so much pain, resentment was an afterthought.

Cazador paced around him, studying him with a critical eye. He stepped close to touch a hand to Astarion’s misshapen torso, and gave a thoughtful sound. He then took a step back, and snapped his fingers at Petras. “Take it off him.”

Astarion was too numb to pay attention to Petras’ reaction. As soon as the lacing was loosened from his back, the pain flared up again, blinding and deafening. Cazador was saying something, but he didn't hear; there was movement happening at the corner of his eye, but he didn't see. There was only the agony wrapped around his lungs, everytime he inhaled and exhaled.

By the time sound and light had come back to his awareness, Petras wasn't in the room, the compulsion to keep getting dressed was itching in his brain, and Cazador was back in his chair. A high pitched, intermittent keening filled the air; Astarion realized it was coming from him only when he bent down to pick up the clothes from the chair, and the sound stuttered in time with him, wet and warbling like it was coming from under water. He was both drenched in pain, and completely beyond it. Death often felt like that.

“Come here, Astarion.“

Obedient, cowed, Astarion walked to his Master's chair, to stand between his spread knees. He was grateful it was just the two of them. He was grateful he wore the comfort of clothing. Everything hurt. Astarion was in a place far away.

His Master smoothed a hand up his stomach, his flank, his chest, pressing the thin fabric of his shirt against his skin; Astarion couldn’t repress a shiver. “No bruising,” he noted, disappointment coloring his voice. As he often did, his Master wasn't really talking to Astarion. His designs never included his view on the matter. “I might let you feed before we do this, next time.” He shook his head, and stood up. “No matter.“

He touched cold fingers against Astarion’s cheek. “Help me finish to prepare for the party.”

Astarion lowered his eyes, obedient, cowed. Everything hurt. He was in a place far away.

“Yes, Master.”