Chosen of the Tyrant: Worthy Offering (AU)

[closeyourfist]

Setting: AU, Sans the Absolute Plot: The Cults of Bane and Bhaal are quietly re-emerging in Faerun and in the City of Baldur's Gate have a tenuous understanding to go about their operations without disrupting the other. Their Chosen, mortal representatives imbued with the boons of their respective gods, meet every other month to coordinate and have been doing so for the better part of a year.

Unknown to the Chosen of Bane: well, several things. The first being that Bane tends to select his Chosen carefully, not just by character but looks he admires the most, typically possessing them, living as a man and ruling, all while they remain helpless passengers within their own bodies -- and he never chooses another until after his latest has died. His current is the first selected in centuries, and this truth has been kept from him and never enacted. The second, that while it is the task of a god's Chosen to enact the will of their deity and manage their growing temple as their most devout? Quietly, a number of his most loyal have been preparing to see his numerous duties delegated. The last: there is a reason that Bane has not descended into his Chosen, even as his temple flourishes anew under his leadership.

There is a longstanding debt to Bhaal that has finally come due. A debt that cannot be paid without true sacrifice. And what greater worldly sacrifice could the God of Tyranny offer, but the life he cultivated to be his first rulership in this new Toril? And what should he expect from the God of Murder, but to end that life on the altar, leaving Bane free to select anew?

Probably more, all things considered. Even if he is not a tactician first, Bhaal has never been one to be underestimated. His first true Bhaalspawn in centuries, born with the lusts of his divine father -- all of them -- cannot serve every need at the end of a blade. Nor should he be expected to. Especially not when Bane's answer has been so long overdue.

Add that without an active Chosen to head Bane's temple, efforts to rebuild will stagnate, and that would mean there's really no competition for territory anymore.

And the meetings really have been going so well.

Comments

[closeyourfist]

Gortash has certainly heard a few rumors. Those persisted even when he was a child. And there had been that narrow escape, back then. Just before...that night. And he'd been so relieved to find his way home afterward--

He shakes his head to clear it, and it's not a well-hidden gesture. One more sign there is probably a good deal weighing on his mind than just the moment.

But it was a long time before he heard those rumors again, not until he was back in Baldur's Gate again, but he armed himself well, and they rarely targeted the organizations that ran underground. It wasn't impossible, but more often when the signs of their passing appeared it would be out of the blue to remind the more normal people that the horrors still existed.

And by the time he served the Black Hand and began to move up politically, it was the sort of thing to put out of mind as just a thing that made the imaginings more frightening and provocative to the layperson. When the meetings began, it became a matter that was not his business if it did not have to do with the work they were doing. Or perhaps, because of that understanding, the rumors became things not to think about because it all meant he did not apply.

The Dark Urge points to a spot in front of him and despite the ritual moments ago it feels...inappropriately close. Because of the state he was in. Because of the injuries they now both sported. Because the air was thick with dread? Anticipation? Certainty of what was to come.

He picks his way to the place he's directed to. His eyes stay on him in a way that isn't his usual -- everything else in the room feels like too much. But if it is not the Dark Urge's eyes, it is his mouth as it moves, his hands.

And then he speaks, and at his given name being spoken, his cheeks bloom with their first sign of life besides then exhaustion that nearly took him when he fled.

His eyes move to an outer wall. He almost doesn't answer; he's not certain if he should, but the threat of making this worse for himself looses -- albeit quietly -- the first answer that came to mind, exactly as it formed in his head: "...I didn't think you weren't looking."

[unspooling]

Whatever effect the human is driving for - and to the Dark Urge, it must be something - the sharp smile that tugs at his lips is almost instantaneous. He looks amused, darkly so, as though the answer the man has provided fulfils whatever he has been waiting for. It's not that he towers above Gortash as much as he does others, though there's enough of a height difference for him to be looking down to maintain eye contact. But it's the mass of bulk that he carries in thick bands of muscle that make him broad as well.

It's a terrifying prospect to have somebody as big as he is be able to keep to the shadows as though he simply melts into them.

The human stops in front of him and it's all he can do to not wrap his fingers around his bare neck and choke the life from him. The urge demands satisfaction but his desires are pushed again into a less lethal direction. Easier when he catches the pink bloom in the man's cheeks and he laughs, derisive and cruel.

"So you wanted me to see your desire?"

He's certainly insinuating something even if he doesn't bother to name it. As though he has the right to have an opinion on that without Gortash particularly being able to express his in return. By now, it's likely clear that the Dark Urge isn't interested in hearing. Certainly not for the next few hours.

"What a desperate little toy," he says and, rather than touching the human and breaking any anticipatory tension, he moves, circling around the smaller man, never touching but incredibly close. He doesn't make a secret of the fact he's looking Gortash over, objectifying him purposely.

"Perhaps this will be everything you had hoped for after all," he adds, and it isn't an offer of anything respectful or hopeful. He's still slowly circling the man, powerful steps that give the impression of prowling more than anything. Imminently ready to pounce.

[closeyourfist]

There is something about saying something without forethought -- too honest -- that hearing a laugh in response makes his stomach drop into something like nausea. For a moment, it casts everything in a light he hadn't anticipated. The possibility that everything he had feared would happen in the ritual room, up until this very moment, all the way back to every word or glance he second-guessed in their meetings? Was all in his head.

Which, even after the obvious danger, was one of the reasons he never responded and kept it to himself.

He is surrounded by viscera and crumbling masonry, standing in as literal an interpretation of the Hells as you could get without exiting this plane, and for just an instant he feels hideous and it is infuriating that this emotion penetrates the fear ruling everything else. All he can do is internally scold himself.

But only a possibility. The 'joining' and the form it took. The Dark Urge's very deliberate turn of phrase here and throughout. That stops it from being a certainty but there is already so little room in his mind for even a phantom anxiety.

Then the bhaalspawn doesn't touch him, but it isn't the relief it should be, because the closeness as he circles spells it out very clearly: this is still happening, but he's not going to just get it over with. He can feel his eyes on him. The word toy makes something inside him squirm uncomfortably.

Everything he hoped for? Not in the slightest.

But something slips into place. Something that feels certain. This is going to happen. Pain will be an unavoidable side-effect. He has no idea what state he will be in when there is at last any sort of reprieve.

And nothing he is about to say is about delaying or stopping any of that. For the moment it is because he should, and he doesn't know how capable he will be of saying it afterward. And the Dark Urge may yet silence him.

Gortash's eyes go to the floor.

"It isn't." He swallows. "In any situation where I saw myself going to you, it did not involve disrespecting your temple. I did not know the nature of my being brought here and believed my life to be in immediate danger. I was not told, and I do not know why." If he had been told? If Bane had said to him his failure and sent him away, his anger and his heartbreak would have been correctly aimed. But in the end, he would have done his duty. "For what I have done, I apologize."

[unspooling]

Whether the man senses it or not, the Dark Urge keeps at his back, a threat looming from behind. The choice has an intended purpose, to keep the human on edge. But, despite everything, a glimmer of what he can only acknowledge as vicious approval threads its way into his thoughts. He isn't surprised, Gortash is the Chosen of Bane for a reason, and that he is able to nakedly stand in the presence of Bhaalspawn and express himself in this manner is fascinating.

Truthfully he's seen more lethal men say far less, piss trickling down their leg purely out of fear. The thought is always there to punish, to rain down violence without a second to temper that immediate behaviour. Instead, he leans in, his lips barely a hairs breadth from the curve of Gortash's ear, even though he continues to keep clear of actually touching.

To share what he knows should slice into Gortash just as deeply as any blade could, but perhaps there is a part of him that is bestowing a reward for still possessing the wherewithal to speak this way. Toys aren't fun if they break immediately.

"You are what Bane chose to surrender to pay his debt to my Father. He offered you up like a lamb to the slaughter." He pauses there, eyes dropping to the hollow of Gortash's throat from where he's able to see over his shoulder. He can see his pulse, the way it's still very much present despite standing nakedly in the middle of Bhaal's favourite child's bedroom. By all rights, he should be dead.

There's enough to go on in the other man's explanation for him to draw a few conclusions of his own. That Gortash was completely loyal to his god was something not to be sniffed at. It made the lack of his being told ahead of time extremely suspicious, though not all that surprising.

"The god that has forsaken you assumes that you will meet a violent end here in the Temple of Bhaal. But my Father is wise to the God of Tyranny's games. If Bane wants a new Chosen, he will have to wait for your ultimate demise. And I do not intend to let that happen anytime soon."

From another mouth it could sound almost protective. A sincere expression of worrying for somebody's wellbeing. But just as always, this is nothing more than the gods trying to outdo each other and a devoted son serving his Father devoutly.

A finger finally connects to Gortash's spine, starting at his lower back and drawing a line up to his neck as though slicing open his spinal cord. It's firm but not painful, a curiosity rather than a punishment. Soon enough he moves that hand to one of the man's shoulders, pressing down in a way that doesn't so much request he gets to his knees rather than demands it.

[closeyourfist]

Enver Gortash does not expect an answer of any kind. Maybe correction for speaking out of turn, given the tenor of the scene thus far. For everything happening and with no clear sight of anything coming and how much this threw him, this was just one more thing he could not predict. He could barely plan for the moment much less days, tendays, years in advance, and he hated it. He hated feeling this helpless and uncertain on so many levels.

So to receive an answer, and not even one he could have planned for, and clarity with it, nearly takes him off his feet. He hears the Dark Urge's voice behind him and he raises his gaze to the wall ahead of him. His breath is on his ear and just the barest imaginings of his lips close and his body is treacherous in how it quakes at that feeling, unable to untether fear and want from each other.

But then the answer is that answer. And it does, indeed, cut him to hear. Bane is the God of Tyranny for a reason and those that follow Him understand who and what he is and glorify him. Enver Gortash was -- is is Chosen, and to be pronounced as such is to be marked as that god's right hand walking among mortals, their most devout.

And he was. Most devout. And now slighted.

Bane truly meant to see him dead as soon as possible. And in all likelihood, arranged it in the hopes that Gortash would take as many Bhaalists as he could before he went.

He sold him.

The human's hands clench at his sides. The cut one stops before he can reopen it, the pain a quick reminder of the injury there, a momentary distraction to stop his fury from further building.

The Dark Urge's touch, solid and tracing the line of his spine, calls him back to the moment. He is tensely still, his senses lighting up as his muscles follow this minuscule bit of contact, in search of further sensation be it hurt or otherwise. Then that finger becomes a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he comes down as directed, careful as he doesn't quite trust the impulse to balance himself by reaching for the bed. The rug beneath him feels strange on his knees and legs, a halt to cool air there.

He hates that this somehow feels safer. More of him feels covered. But the position is submissive, supplicant in a way he had seen of other adherents. To their deity and to him as his Chosen. But he hadn't gotten to his knees for anyone in a very long time.

[unspooling]

The information is shared without care for how it is received, though it doesn't preclude the Dark Urge from paying attention to the reaction. He can see the lines of Gortash's body change, the way fingers curl inward to fists. That sends another thrill of violence through him and, briefly, it takes every scrap of control he has not to lash out and beat the man senseless for no reason other than he wants to.

But his need is sated for now, and so eventually he rounds the human to stand over him from the front. There isn't a more symbolic arrangement than Gortash being on his knees before his new master, and it paints a pretty picture for the Dark Urge in a way that pleases him.

He smiles, and it is darkness.

"Use your mouth to pleasure me, toy."

If the human hadn't already guessed where this was going, the order most certainly does clarify what his captor expects here. As yet there's been no ramifications for his swift dispatching of the trio of Bhaalists sent after him. If it looms as a threat without any indication of when punishment will be enacted, all the better to torment the man with.

[closeyourfist]

Is it the command that makes him shiver and his stomach drop or that word? By now Enver has lost count of how many times he has dropped his eyes out of contact, ceding ground. But he closes his mouth to keep his breath steady.

He knew this was coming. He has to tell himself that. He has to let that bring if not comfort, at least some stability.

And it has been years, nearly a decade of life. Very much beside the point, because even when he has seen fit in the distant past to do this, to fall to his knees and bend lips and tongue and hand to such an undertaking, he was never one to do so from a submissive place. As surely as a spoken command could, he acted with the intent to leave someone begging.

This has none of those undertones, and those feel unwelcome here. He is to see to this with obedience, and the thought of it somehow leaves him feeling more naked than he already is.

So when his lidded gaze slides back up, first to the Bark Urge's belt and the beginnings of all this, then to his eyes, only briefly, to clearly address him, he slips into a state that he hasn't felt in a long time but comes back to him with the frightening clarity of muscle memory he didn't even know he had retained.

(and somewhere very far back in the reaches of his mind, he hoped He heard and felt spited in it)

"Do I have your permission to undress you?"

[unspooling]

"How else do you plan to satisfy me?" comes the response and if Gortash hasn't already arrived at the conclusion that nothing he's likely to do in this moment will be met with praise, this is could serve as evidence enough. Any shimmer of approval at the human remembering to ask permission first is suppressed by the Dark Urge's fiery lust. It's just as chaotic as it always is, carnal desires spilling over onto each other and creating a slick mess of aroused interest that he pushes outward.

A hand reaches into Gortash's hair and grabs, grips dark locks hard and tugs back so that he is forced to continue to look up as he speaks. A move designed, surprisingly, not purely to form a power play but, additionally, measuring his desire. The bhaalspawn is unused to expressing any desire for another

His expression contains depths of hunger that should be intimidating on their own, less the fact that his reputation likely precedes him. He is Bhaal's favoured for a reason.

"Hurry up," he adds, now too impatient to wait and instead uses his own hand to tug down the waistband of his trousers enough to expose himself. His cock, semi-hard but getting more interested by the moment, flops out immediately in front of the human's face.

[closeyourfist]

This was neither the time nor place to explore exactly why he hadn't been seeking praise. Enver Gortash came of age in a world of Devils: missing a step was a trap. If you did not assume there were rules in place, blundering over them was an excuse for punishment, not for your ignorance.

He learned a long time ago to anticipate such things.

The hand in his hair stops his forward momentum for a second. He feels himself leaning into it more to reduce pressure, but the Dark Urge's eyes on him are as they were in those meetings but tenfold: they made him feel the way he does now, in a way. Unhidden. That his want was in no way truly secret, and anything could be done with it -- whether it was simply to leave him squirming or to show him before his own god how much he could take before his resolve totally crumbled.

Now he was trapped in that feeling in a more literal sense, hand holding him out of the way while the bhaalspawn freed himself and made his own growing desire quite plain.

That does something to him, to see definitively that they were not merely discussing something one-sided, that perhaps he was not going to need to coax this man into accepting pleasure.

He was ready for it, intent upon it; he was already thinking of it, and now Enver was, too.

He doesn't have as much building up to do. His good hand works first, drawing more of the man out, fondling the shape of him from balls to shaft to establish how he intends to work the length. Then his mouth follows, his tongue strokes up the length of the underside, passing the head into his mouth when he reaches the edge again.

And gods, he doesn't expect the moment to hit him like it does. The uncertainty of his own fate is drowned in renewed desire, in knowing he's thought of this and it's no longer some secret, impossible imagining. A shiver electrifies his whole person, and he takes more.

[unspooling]

"More," comes the command after a few moments of enjoying a hot, wet mouth, submissive in nature and the gift he is going to make the most of in every way that he pleases. Gortash represents the very spoils of a war that hasn't been fought, the very apex of his Father's own scheming to keep Bane's reach contained and hampered.

Cut the god of tyranny's following off at the knees. Or perhaps carved out the heart. The idea is quickly swept aside and replaced by another: Baneites are hardly known for their passion, or their heart. It's their iron fist instead that the Dark Urge considers as he looks down at the human and finds that idea laughable.

The humour is the scratchy, itchy kind that exists to live under his skin in a way that feels briefly maddening. At least his new pet is keeping his teeth to himself. It's hardly like he needs to lay down any threats at all for it to be so obviously a terrible idea.

He waits, relishing the sensation of his cock being serviced quite so obediently, but if the human doesn't comply with his wishes - 'take more of it' - he'll soon find it no longer remains an option.

"I want to see you choke on it."

[closeyourfist]

By this point, Enver knows that right now he is delaying what is probably the inevitable moment where this stops being the kind of oral he knows how to do and simply becomes face-fucking, and he doesn't know how well he's going to be able to control teeth or gag reflex once it reaches that point. The most that he can do is what he can, while he can, to prove there is something worthwhile in not pushing it to that point.

He can go further, and he does. Adjusting the placement of his jaw, broadening but also focusing the movement of his tongue, seeking out every vein, every sensitive crevice. Meanwhile keeping his hand working.

He's out of practice, not that he was exactly studied in such things to begin with. So he can only go with what he already felt drawn to do. Let that fuel him, keep it burning hotter than that mote of panic that is now threatening to overpower it.

He doesn't dare pull back; he's not even certain the Dark Urge would allow him, even if it is just to move on him, to simulate that thrust.

[unspooling]

No matter what Gortash had planned to try to appease him with, it likely was never going to be enough. The Dark Urge is hungry for violence and, since he cannot murder the man at his feet, using his body forcefully will have to fill the gnawing hunger as best as it can. The sensation itself is something that draws pleasure forth, coaxing in a way that, was he a different man, he may appreciate. But the reality is that sex for him is a weapon, a way to dominate and control. A different flavour of violence and, usually, foreplay to the main event. Murder.

Both hands grab at the human's hair now, locks sticking up between his fingers at all angles as he takes a firm hold. Whether the man knows what's coming, or whether this will be an unpleasant experience throughout, it's incredibly clear he doesn't care.

The first thrust against the man's face is sharp and hard, whether Gortash manages to keep his hand in the way remains neither here or there. The Dark Urge has enough of a hold on his hair that even if he passes out, his mouth and throat will get used regardless. He could tell the man that if he relaxes it will go a lot smoother for him, but where's the fun in that?

[closeyourfist]

There were only a few moments before the shift came. Both hands in his hair provided at least a second of warning, but that still doesn't stop the alarm from setting in, that first thrust drawing a halted sound before all air stops.

Don't pass out. Don't vomit.

He winces.

Don't shed tears.

You can breathe.

His jaw aches before he forces himself to adjust with a shudder. He has to relax himself before his nostrils will take in any air. His hands brace themselves on the Dark Urge's hips.

There's no telling whether it gets worse after this, and if he falls apart now he won't make it through the rest.

[unspooling]

Drinking in the sensation of panic, the one he reads in the human's expression, the only thing he takes from it is the desire to do more. To fuck harder. His motions are vicious; short, sharp snaps of his hips that never pull his cock out much further than the back of Gortash's mouth. The wet, tight heat of his throat beyond provides too much pleasure and delight in how forceful it is.

He feels fingers against his hips, almost wishes that they would clutch at him hard enough to hurt, so he can feel just part of what the other man may be feeling. Silenced like this, he has to take what feedback the man's body is giving him outside of verbal.

In the end he gives the man all of two opportunities to get a proper lungful of air, pulling his cock out enough to create the space for it. For some time, all that can be heard in the Chosen's chambers is the way the Dark Urge fucks his toy's throat, commentary only used to needle at the man on his knees more. And then, without warning, his hips slow, one last thrust forward before he's spilling over, a grunt drawn from his poison lips and his fingers twisting in dark locks so tightly, to keep the human still, there's little chance it doesn't hurt. He empties himself until he has no more, pulling out and gripping at Gortash's chin to yank his gaze upwards.

Expectation, even through the slight haze of his orgasm, is brimming at his features.

What do you say, toy?

[closeyourfist]

It is more pain than it is anything else, but once he knows what is happening, once he has resolved to bear through it, some of that panic pulls back from the forefront and he can just focus on surviving what can only be described as an assault.

The moments where he is allowed to take fuller breaths come out of nowhere for him, and seem only to be there just to see if he will resist, even just out of reflex, and his body wants to. It's when the most sound can be pulled from him, where his jaw, his throat, the back of his head, all of it wants relief, and it won't end yet. But it's not much more than the stutter of a whimper. Uncertainty what is happening and being pulled headlong into it again.

When at last his mouth is released, it is with a gasp after a valiant effort not to choke or worse, gag. The redness in his face will take a moment to recede as air returns. But as surely as he can feel a stream of seed escaping the corner of his mouth, he can feel his eyes beginning to burn.

How is he here? How is this happening again?

The hand on his chin takes his attention from that thought, sends it somewhere to the pit of his stomach to fester. All while all he can think of is the feeling of too-strong fingers on him and eyes that shoot ice into his limbs.

And as sickening as it is, his body commands him to answer that unspoken question. To do what he has been taught to do, because this is the face and the Dark Urge is the name of who holds his fate now. This is who will deem him worth protecting, or comforting.

Until I'm a burden.

And all he feels like is dead weight right now. And how dare he make him feel that way? How dare He? How dare anyone?

The vehemence that rises up in his expression would be deadly if an expression could cut like a knife. It wants him to act, but the tears that fill from his eyes chase some of that heat out of him.

Probably better it stole any will he had to act or speak, because he likely would have chosen poorly.

[unspooling]

"Ungrateful wretch," comes the accusation at the lack of response outside of the expression, even though the Dark Urge feels a thrill work its way through him. The anger even behind those tears is something he wants to inhale and enjoy, probably not to savour but just being able to taste it would be enough. Instead he swings his arm and backhands the man across the left cheek, wanting it to hurt enough to draw a yelp out of him.

As much as he enjoys the fire in Gortash, there really did need to be some kind of answer to the triple murder during his escape. That three Bhaalists were bested by this man is all the more intriguing, especially now that he's had the human kneel for him and swallow his cock.

Whether or not Gortash is flung prone to the floor by the force of being struck, the bhaalspawn moves away from where he's been standing, tucking his rapidly wilting cock back into his trousers. Guests of this nature don't usually last long, but toys of Gortash's particular skillset and current mood certainly aren't permitted to be freely able to range where they wish to. And so he's barely got a few steps away before he calls out:

"Put my toy away."

It'll become intensely clear that he's talking to cultist guards, and given how much he hasn't had to raise his voice, it's likely that they've heard everything standing guard at the open doorway.

"He will need plenty of rest for what plans I have for him," he adds as three cultists descend onto Gortash, six hands gripping at him and forcing him up to his feet. There's a cage set near the east wall, big enough for a man of Gortash's height to lie horizontally if he chooses to. Though at half the height of its length, it's impossible to stand up in.