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The best view of Baldur’s Gate’s lower city is from above, far enough away from the citizens below that look like rats scurrying about in search of their next festering meal. One day they’ll be Gortash’s citizens to rule, and he’ll have practised his expressions enough to prevent his disdain from curling his lip.
One of his benefactors had funded his current townhouse nestled in a safe neighbourhood in the upper city. A pretty woman with crow’s feet and a weary smile willing to sow her inheritance in the direction of any man who promised a ring, regardless of whether or not that commitment ever materialised. It’s clean and comfortable enough, but a far cry away from the lavish accommodations he’ll have when he is anointed archduke. Ravengard’s estate is a marvel to behold, one that the duke will present to him on a golden platter when the time is right.
His partner may not be here anymore, but the dastardly plot they created will succeed with or without them. Bane wills it so, after all.
A familiar gnawing builds deep in his gut, unravelling at the edges with thoughts of them. The remedy is simple and effective, and Gortash unlocks the door to his residence to begin administering his self-medication. An appetite he’d never felt before rages within him and he wonders if this is what his beloved had to endure when the Urge seduced them with fantasies of death and depravity – a test from their beloved father.
Like his partner, he’d become a slave to the urge in recent months. Such decadence is rife in the upper city, where abundance comes in so many different forms. Each as irresistible as the last. Every person he’d met was a slave to vice, be it power or sex or even food.
Especially food.
It didn’t take long in the upper city before Gortash’s belt grew snug around his waist. Something was missing within him, and it’s like his body worked overtime to fill that hole until his entire body grew around the yawning void in his chest. The desire for power evolving into a desperate need for more. He’d mingle with patriars over tea and sweet cakes before joining a noblewoman of his choosing for an indulgent lunch to win their favour.
Then he’d return home with a stuffed belly aching beneath his hands and continue his feast until the sky grew a sickly green along the seams of the horizon. His body began to grow, and his admirers multiplied in tow. It wasn’t unusual for a fling to turn up on his doorstep with a basket of treats, eager to feed him until he was placid enough to take to bed for the evening. Gortash knew of their half-baked plans, of course, and more often than not encouraged it.
His wretched Bhaalspawn once told him he would look ravishing with some flesh on his bones, weaving elaborate tales of how they’d manipulate his body to their tastes once it was all over. Faerûn would fear them, and no one would dare say a word about the appearance of their duke. That privilege alone would be gifted to his partner.
Without them there, Gortash’s body swelled to proportions that would have impressed them beyond measure, providing them with more than enough flesh to gnaw on in the throes of passion that follow a successful, bloody hunt.
He makes his way through the house towards the kitchen, the creak of floorboards announcing his entry. A metallic stench assaults his senses in an instant, the fragrance all too familiar to him. It fills his mouth with anticipation, like a dog with a bell, reminding him of every sordid encounter that began with this very scent.
Death smells so sweet these days.
A puddle of rich crimson complements the dark wood flooring adorning his living room, connected to a trail that suggests the source was dragged into the room after their life was snuffed out. The blood is bright – fresh – and glistens in the low light of the waning afternoon painting the lounge golden. Gortash sighs but follows the trail, his swaying stomach rumbling in annoyance that its hunger is not immediately being satiated.
“Reveal yourself.”
There’s no reply, only shimmering particles of dust frolicking in the sunset show any signs of movement throughout the house. He follows the trail of blood towards the centre of the room, the clean streaks suggesting no sign of struggle from whatever poor creature was strewn around his home. Before he can get close enough, he pivots away from the mess and takes a left into the kitchen. The gnawing in his belly is incessant, and he knows he’ll be unable to keep a clear head about this nonsense unless he eats something.
The housekeeper must have left shortly before the crime because the kitchen is still spotless without a pan or fork in sight. There’s a large counter in the middle of the room, brimming with fresh fruits and pastries that had once been a request and now grown into routine. Pearly beads of water decorate large, plump grapes, and lay bunched up against half a dozen rosy apples; freshly imported produce from the small towns bordering Baldur’s Gate’s impenetrable walls and coveted by upper city buyers.
In the core of the spread sits the pièce de résistance, an extravagantly sized cake, thickly iced with white frosting and red fondant edges. The cake wouldn’t be out of place at a wedding or sizeable gathering, fit to serve several.
Gortash circles the counter with a slow, calculated gait as he mulls over the scene before him. His stomach grumbles unhappily, eager for something sweet to sink his teeth into to curb the annoyance burrowing into a wider, unfillable void. His free hand reaches out and he begins to rip out a chunk of the cake, smearing crimson frosting into white and leaving a pink smear in his wake. One of the ornate dining chairs groans as he sits gingerly to enjoy his treat.
He takes the fistful of cake into his mouth, barely stopping to savour the sugary sweet icing and the light, fluffy texture of the sponge. Desserts were a luxury Gortash did not experience growing up with two poor, spiteful parents who barely allowed him a pair of shoes. The irony was rich, given their failing profession. And then they sold him to a devil.
Cakes were abundant in Avernus, used as leverage to tease lost souls that had their sense of taste stolen or their stomachs eternally unsatisfied. He remembered scantily clad Cambions feeding each other small morsels of decadent cakes to an audience that would never enjoy sweetness ever again. The memory of how they relished in the sickly pleasure of the food and the sickening thrill from weak; hopeless sobs reverberate in his mind as he takes another bite.
All things considered, Enver was treated a lot better than many of his mortal peers, but he’d still never tasted a fresh slice of cake, thick with buttercream and sticky jam. That pleasure had been introduced by the whirlwind of a Bhaalspawn that entered his life and turned it upside down, picking away at Gortash’s defences with a blunt scalpel in their practised hand, fashioning him into test subject for humanoid vices they couldn’t quite understand. Bhaal cared little for afternoon tea and fine dining, it would seem.
His chubby fist reaches out again and tears at it again, cheeks tacky with strawberry jam. An excited twinge in his pants cause them to grow uncomfortably tight. The gnawing hunger that never dissipates grows stronger yet, fuelled by the wires in his brain mistaking fullness for arousal; a bone-deep craving that cannot be satiated alone or by any of Gortash’s more recent paramours.
The carcass lays abandoned in the middle of Gortash’s living room, its limbs distorted beyond what’s natural. There may have been a day when he would have considered this a courting ritual of sorts from his beloved villain, bearing the face of an inconvenience that had gotten in the way of a lucrative deal. But the Bhaalspawn is dead, butchered at the hand of their blood-kin in the name of their father.
This is a threat.
Enver heavily pushes himself up onto his feet with a huff and takes a handful of cake into his fist. The frosting is sticky and clings to the creases of his palm. Lazily, he chews at the sickly-sweet dessert as he inspects the mess on his floor. The corpse belongs to a business partner of his turned bedfellow, someone who he trusted to fatten his reserves and warm his sheets. He is a man whose name escapes him, the memory lost among generic endearments kissed into his skin. Not that it matters. A corpse is not in need of a name, and his fate is in Myrkul’s hands now.
He kicks the body’s broken arm away from its chest, revealing a cavernous, open wound carved deeply into its cavity. Gortash sucks sticky sugar from his fingers while he inspects the injury. The edges are jagged and the skin frays at the edges like cheap fabric; the muscles laying beneath still slick with plasma and beginning to grey.
It’s revolting to look at, nowhere near the beautiful artistry his lovely Dark Urge would have decorated the man with. They would have treated the corpse with wanton irreverence, quickly snuffing the light out of their victim before lavishing in their death. Their long, meticulous fingers would have spread the wound wide, two dipping inside to feel the wet warmth drip down their forearm. The tightness of their rigid insides would slacken for them, unfurling under the sovereignty of their murderer. The corpse would bear all for the Bhaalspawn in a breathtaking display of submission.
This is just sloppy.
This is Orin.
No wonder there is no beauty in this kill, just another body to add to the mountains of corpses filling the streets of Baldur’s Gate. A shame, really. Most lives would have had some usefulness to be exploited, and if all else fails, this soul could have become a thrall, their wasted life intrinsically linked to their design. A pity, but there’s always more where that came from.
A Banite will come and dispose of the mess in due time, and Gortash will have to find somewhere else to sleep until the stench of decay eases. If there was one thing he didn’t miss from his partner, it’s the tang of death that gently clung to their clothes and body like an embrace. It’s likely the closest thing they’d ever gotten to a hug from their father.
Not like he had it much easier. The sweet taste begins to bore his taste buds, and he steps over the body in search for something salty. He remembers some cheeses that had been presented to him as a gift and hunts around for them in his larder, keeping a leisurely pace as he roots around in the kitchen. It’s not like the corpse is waiting on his hospitality. There’s some fresh bread he’d picked up the day before, and he spreads a thick layer of soft cheese onto it. And another. And a third slice for good measure. He considers carving up some thin slices of meat to add, eventually deciding to bite into a salty cured sausage between mouthfuls of rich cheese.
It sits heavily like lead, stretching his stomach until his pants creak in valiant protest. The dark, tight fabric pinches at his waist with every swallow, bowing outwards and revealing a sliver of pale, hairy stomach to the cool air. A shiver wracks through him, jostling his expanding belly.
He fashions two of the thick slices of bread into an overstuffed sandwich and transports it back into the living room with what’s left of the sausage.
The scent of decay is less noticeable now, fading into the background with the same mundanity as a loathed pair of curtains – too expensive to not flaunt and too ugly to appreciate – and the blood is congealing at a rapid pace at the edges. Ignoring the thing is effortless when the glossiness fades away from the corner of his eye.
Standing becomes tiresome before long, and Gortash hauls his heavy body over to a gilded chaise in the living room and brings along his meagre snacks for the journey. The fabric encasing his bulging middle twists and gapes with each step, threatening to burst open with a sudden jolt. The black buttons adorning his shirt are threadbare, and have been for a few moons.
He lowers himself onto the couch with careful motions and widens his legs enough to cradle the gentle hang of his belly between them. His decorated hand rests atop his packed belly to soothe it – or to make some more room. Gortash observes the crime scene of his home with quiet contemplation (sans the rhythmic chewing and swallowing that does not cease) while tracing along the solid upper portion of his stomach.
What a picture it makes. Gluttony and bloodshed, both excessive in their own way; a frenzied composition of destruction. Delineation runs thin between self-persecution and slaughter, a mirror image of Gortash and his beloved partner, and their mutual compulsion to ruin.
A burning ache between his legs compel him to push another large mouthful of food between his lips with a desperate moan, his full belly pushing down against his awakened cock and undoubtedly leaking into the fabric of his dark pants. With a singular swallow, his belly expands further – too much this time – and pushes his weakened buttons to an impossible length. His shirt creaks loudly under the pressure until it can push no further.
With a soft pinging noise, his belly surges forth into his lap and with it, one of the buttons scatters onto the floor, rolling away from him before falling flat into the pool of blood. He breathes deeply now that his lungs can expand, and another button follows suit. It hits the corpse between the eyes, and he’d laugh if he wasn’t deeply humiliated and deeply aroused by the turn of events.
His belly overlaps the waistband of his now-opened pants, slipping through the space where his shirt hem billows open like church doors before mass, pressing more firmly onto his cock than before. The empty space he’d managed to coax in his stomach fills with smouldering lust. Stoking the flames in his lower belly renders him dizzy and he reaches down to relieve himself before he goes mad.
A familiar scorn builds up in Gortash’s heaving chest, cursing how difficult it’s becoming for him to reach around his full stomach to awkwardly grab his leaking cock. It feels good when someone else pushes back his growing belly enough to get at it, but when he’s alone, he’s faced with the full scale of the damage he’s done to himself.
Oh, how proud his darling Urge would be of him.
He pants around a soggy mouthful of bread until he’s red in the face, struggling to wrap his fingers around himself. He grunts. Not close enough. He rocks backwards to build momentum and reaches down again with an open palm and finally gets a hold of his cock. Gortash shudders at the touch as he jerks into his fist. There’s little rhythm to his movements, just clumsy gyrating; his body rejoices at its cravings being answered.
Another’s hand would have been more enjoyable than his own. A mouth to worship his cock while their wandering hands squeeze at his wider ass and softening tits. His most valued confidant lavishing him in wicked words, promising to fatten him further and present the world to him on a blood-stained platter.
How they frowned whenever they saw him naked beneath them, counting each of his exposed ribs with remorse. Something about how his neither his face nor station deserved to be so gaunt. The portraits of Gortash the broadsheets will one day distribute below complimentary tales detailing his overwhelming victory over this fine city’s rule would not suit his undernourished pallor.
He runs the tip of a chubby finger up the length of his cock, tracing the thick vein that follows the underside from root to tip. It twitches under his featherlight touch, greedy for whatever relief he can bring himself. Thoughts of stronger, rougher hands come to his mind as instinctively as breathing.
The Bhaalspawn would have lavished over his newly padded hips, obsessing over how ripe he’s looking and how proud he should be that they’re using all of their self-control not to bite. Several minutes would be spent pondering over how his fattened flesh would taste and oh, Gortash don’t fret, your flesh is wrapped in many decadent layers of fat, but my teeth are very sharp. The chewy meat would rip between their incisors like butter, and he should be thankful he’ll never be on the receiving end of their humanoid hunger, but the wonder haunts him all the same.
If it weren’t for their plan – their design – he very well may have let them have their way. He’d push their urges as far as Bane would allow, to see for the first time how much he actually meant to them behind the silver-tongued words and grating wit.
Gortash bites his lip to stop the name he’s never uttered aloud from spilling as if there could be anyone but himself and a pile of dead flesh that could hear his words. Precum dribbles from the head of his cock, and he scoops it up with his forefinger and lathers it over his length.
He leaks further still, and a shuddering breath forces his gut far enough into his lap for him to make a sticky mess of his underbelly. His hand twists around his shaft like he’s choking it, fucking his fist while his soft, pillowy tummy rubs against its head. The stimulation is unlike anything he’s ever felt before, more tantalising than any wet and wanting hole he’s conquered. Becoming a God’s chosen wasn’t enough to wrest him from the bondage of his own flesh.
It's not enough, but he’s hyperaware of the exertion from reaching over his own bulk to palm at himself like a horny teenager. A twinge in his lower back warns him that he’s on borrowed time in this awkward position. There’s no way his fingers could slip inside himself from this angle, and he has no patience to call someone over to do the damn job for him, so this pathetic display will have to do. The sensation of his jiggly belly wobbling in turbulent waves causes his hand to quicken, and it becomes difficult to hold onto himself with each slap of flesh meeting flesh.
A memory teases at the static in his mind.
“I like how you look with my cock making you bulge,” his precious Urge mused, marvelling at the outline of their dick remained visible beneath Gortash’s pale belly. They rake their sharp fingernails down the length of their cock over his stretched skin. “You look so good with some roundness to you, you know. And so receptive when I touch myself from the outside.”
“Stop it, you fiend--!”
“You should look this way more often, Enver. Full. Claimed. Unapologetically ripened to excess in a way most unusual to the average Baldurian drudge who are wholly content with rolling around in their own filth.”
“That’s a rather pompous way to say you want me fat,” he hisses the last word, voice cut off by a thrust deep in his guts. “You’d throw away our goals for the sake of a quick fuck? Bhaal’s favourite child can become undone by something as banal as a fetish. How humorous—”
His chide is cut off by the Bhaalspawn sinking their teeth into the meat of his shoulder with the dangerous mirth of a newborn griffin that isn’t aware of its own strength. Gortash backhands them at the back of their horned head with his armoured hand. Just hard enough to hurt, but not enough to make them recoil and take a chunk of his flesh with them. No matter how much joy that scenario would bring them.
Their eyes smoulder; charcoal crackling behind thick, lustful smoke. The Dark Urge’s signature smirk softens – just a little – at the corners, revealing a younger, contented creature than Gortash had come to know but never tame. “One day, when the world lays willingly at our feet, you’ll no longer be a vessel for a wretched God’s whim and allow yourself to grow soft under my hand.”
“And become a vessel for another God’s pleasure?”
“Don’t be foolish!” They swat at Gortash’s slim chest. Tomorrow, at least one of his ribs will be bruised. “My father simply tolerates my…eccentricities. I am borne of him, and my desires must collate with his will in some way. To deny me of this wish is blasphemy, Enver, regardless of your own beliefs.”
Their grip on his narrow hips tighten and their own snap like a viper’s jaws, no doubt bruising Gortash’s ass and thighs with each jab. Imagining the possibility of him – more of him – is intoxicating, and they hope to live long enough to see it through. In Bhaal’s name.
The memory brings their voice into the forefront of his mind, and he imagines how they would have reacted seeing how big he’s become, and how that doesn’t seem to stop. He’s fatter than the day they died, he’ll be fatter tomorrow and dreads to think about how frighteningly obese he will become the day he stops mourning.
A name he had sworn to never say aloud falls from his lips as his balls tighten and he spills into his chubby fist. It drips between his clasped fingers and onto the softening cushion that’s grown around the base of his cock in a plush ring. His heart pounds in his head, as strong and quick as when he’s climbed a flight of stairs. He wipes his soiled hand onto the expensive couch haphazardly and stops for a moment to catch his breath. He’ll ask someone to remove the chair when they come from the body, and no living soul will share what has transpired on this afternoon.
He doesn’t bother tucking his full stomach back into his trousers and scratches at the bottom of his overhang which sits a fraction lower than it had that morning. Gortash turns towards the hallway to summon a Banite, pauses and turns on his heel and trudges towards the kitchen with short, gasping breaths.
No work will be done until he can balance the salty aftertaste with something sweet. He’ll finish the other half of that cake, and then deal with the mess.
A gift should be savoured.