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

[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.