blueprints_bloodstains | Everything Is Negotiable In Hell (AU)

Entry tags:

Everything Is Negotiable In Hell (AU)

Considering their first and last encounter ended with being hit so hard it knocked him over -- not even punched, slapped, which somehow made it feel even more demeaning -- Enver Gortash winds up in that cage and for a while only has vague imaginings to give him any sort of idea what is to come. There isn't enough room to stand, which doesn't bother him so much in the end, staying low is pretty much the only hope he has of any sort of warmth or cover. With the sounds of Bhaal's stronghold echoing off of every single wall, he is surrounded even when alone, but alone he allows himself some time for relief.

His tears are mostly quiet and anything louder than a sniffle he forcibly muffles until it has shaken out. He has to remind himself this is not about sorrow. It's about releasing some of this from his system so he can survive.

He is prepared for the worst and soon, but then the Dark Urge is just...gone. Tending to other duties within the temple and out in the city.

He is fed. And with the odd spell from passing acolytes and servants kept clean. The cold of the bars winds up providing some relief to the side of his face, and the swelling is nearly gone by the time his keeper is present again. Which could have been days, by his reckoning, or another spell he mistook for merely tidying him up.

He might call several days of reprieve time to prepare, but all it has really done is give him far too much to conflict inside his head.

Fear at the uncertainty of his fate.

A million imaginings of how he might make his escape again, but even the route he took before becomes more and more twisted the more he tries to work it out in his head. But even if he were navigating a place completely deserted, there are Baneites waiting somewhere in the streets above. He is as good as dead if he leaves, and he knows it, and damn it all, he does not wish for death in any measure.

The Dark Urge's presence is an immediate threat on several fronts now. But he is also Enver's only source of relief, and this intermingles with memories of how things were before -- meetings and conversations that occasionally left Bane's Chosen uneasy, but that he'd begun to secretly look forward to. But in the here and now he also feels certain and undone at the idea that the bhaalspawn may be his tormentor and not to be trusted or denied but he is also the only part of that former existence that remains. So when he finds himself longing for that, it becomes a longing for him as well.

But then there is again fear of what is to come and what has been. Let alone that this has all been the first he has been any sort of intimate, good or bad, with another person since before he ever heard Bane's voice. It has also been a very blessedly long time since he had the misfortune of any of that unprepared or unwanted (blessedly years after the House of Hope). And it took him more than a few days to recover. All that agony was not as bad as what was suffered in the moment, and that is the part he is afraid of. He's not that naive anymore, but he knows how much damage the Dark Urge could do without even trying. Without even meaning to kill him.

That very well might be an inevitability. Which is why he has to try to find a way around that. He won't escape if he tries, and the response to any such attempt would be punitive. The only thing he can do is try to talk. If he'll even let him.

If he even comes back.

But then he does, and it sickens Enver realizing what a terrible mixture of too-much energy, of fear, of hope and hunger the sight of him creates.

He sits up and immediately hates it. His back complains; his body is an instant victim to the open air at an angle that it wasn't prepared for. But his hands go to his lap rather than the bars. He's mindful of what is being done and is careful not to interrupt anything that looks pressing. "...Will you speak to me, Dark Urge?" he realizes he doesn't know how else to address him, but that may be the first time he has directly said it out loud to him. "Please."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The cage in his bedroom is something he had forgotten about during his time away. A pleasing memory when it filters back into his mind in and around everything else he's currently orchestrating. If it isn't cultists clamouring for his time then it's other associates in the city that need to be kept very aware of what it means to fall foul of the cult of Bhaal.

By the time he has the freedom to revisit his own chambers, he'd long since put Bane's ex-Chosen from his mind purely to focus on matters at hand and not matters of pleasure. It seems not needing to visit a formerly free Enver Gortash anymore hasn't taken long too fill with others vying for some kind of alliance. Or, as is the way most of the time, negotiated safety.

What's left of the Baneites in the city are scrambling, though he does have a special delivery to to share with the former Chosen currently cooped up.

"Speak to you? I can do better than that. I have a gift for you."

He stands surveying the cage and its occupant with his hands at his hips, broad smile tugging at the corners of his lips. It looks incredibly out of place given the circumstances.

"Bring my toy his gift," he calls out, motions with a hand to the guard standing at the stone entrance. It's difficult to make out with his own broad, solid frame in the way, but soon enough the guard materialises next to him and they're holding aloft the severed head of a Baneite. Gortash will likely recognise him, though to the Dark Urge the head represents the only thing left of a man who had tried to assassinate him.

"Unfortunately he was somewhat rude," he says as if that could explain the reason he has personally seen to behead the man. The head is a greying lump of twisted features, betraying that, likely, the man was in incredible amounts of pain before he died.

It would be unusual if Enver Gortash had no reaction at all to the head the Bhaalist showed to him. The freshness of the gore already presents a very obvious and close scent that curls his hair a little. Not necessarily new; it's a layer that wafts in now and again before settling to something older until the essence of copper seems to overtake it all.

The face, he knows. The name even. He always made certain to know names. Being forgettable could mean disposability, but it was also the best way to move undetected, and the former Chosen would not suffer that kind of blind spot in his temple.

At the moment, the trouble is he doesn't know how he feels in seeing this, other than cold and oddly satisfied. Satisfied perhaps because the Dark Urge expected this to hurt him? He doesn't even trust that is true. Satisfied because he knows this person would have likely killed him even if he managed to get out of this place?

Because he can't shake the feeling that somehow they all knew what he was being prepared for. That they were waiting for him to be gone. Then it would be anyone's guess to see who Bane would choose to replace him, if it would even be a current initiate.

And if only one was there, with no sign of additional heads or mention of them, then this one was hoping to distinguish himself, no doubt. Baneites only acted alone when there was purpose behind it. A willingness to show they would do anything to take what they wanted. But it was a stupid move to make against a Bhaalist, much less the Bhaalist.

Sort of the definitive way to find out you're not worthy, isn't it?

His gaze flickers to the Dark Urge, like a candle flame caught by a sudden breeze. Does he wish, at least a little, that he had been there?

Whatever the case, his reason for asking for his attention is for the moment forgotten. "And soundly corrected?" he asks.

Whatever motivation Bhaal's Chosen had to show the grotesque remains of this Baneite, he looks satisfied in a way that shouldn't be difficult to read as sated. Relaxed and almost friendly, if not for the way he grabs the head from the guard and slams it up against the metal bars. The bhaalspawn looks momentarily entertained by the human's response, and for the briefest of moments perhaps it was like it had been before.

A meeting of minds.

With one now behind bars.

"He would have slit your throat, given half the chance."

Here he decides the head is now useless as a prop and tosses it back to the guard, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. Drawing closer, he wraps a hand around one of those thick metal bars and peers in at Gortash.

"Your former master is angry. Let him remain that way."

There is the smallest of starts in his frame when the head slams against the bars. A minute recognition that this could be easily turned on anyone, including himself. But something feels recognizeable in the exchange in a way that has him sitting up a little taller, a little more himself. And he'll hold onto that.

There is a part that wants the Bhaalspawn still, in that.

"Good."

It comes past his lips with an outward malice he does not ever readily show. It is one thing to kill out of necessity, and Enver Gortash has more than proven he is capable of that. There is something in the gravel of his voice just then, the darkening of his eyes, that is far closer to something like murder.

Baneites are masters of strife and using it like a tool. Wrath was not their section of the wheel, and to feel it so strongly is considered a weakness. It makes you unfocused, or incorrectly focused.

It feels like a sin. It also feels like freedom.

Edited 2024-09-04 14:14 (UTC)

Seemingly bolstered by the heat in the human's voice, the Dark Urge grips at the metal for a moment longer, gaze piercing through the gap in a way that signals his interest. As though such intensity could flay a man alive simply through willing it. It's given him enough pause to stand at the boundary between the two of them, eyes fixing upon the smaller man's expression and finding it arousing.

He likes that Gortash still has enough fire in him to express his feelings like this. If he's noticed the bruises are almost gone, he doesn't comment on them. Not yet.

The room at large possesses the type of decor one might expect from the Chosen of Bhaal. Red is the perfect accent colour for all the dark stone set around them, the orange glow from the flames lighting the space around them in pools of amber.

It isn't cosy but it's more comfortable by large than the cage he's got his new pet locked up in. And having been away for a few days, he's in the mood to play.

"When was the last time you were out from behind these?" He asks, tapping a knuckle against the metal, and it becomes clear that he hadn't left a particular instruction forbidding him from being allowed out. he had expressed a particularly strong view and intended punishment to any cultist who lost him, though.

For a long time his gaze remains fixed on the discarded head. Whatever fury remains, he burns it into the memory of that twisted, familiar face, half-receding, but still visible.

What had been his foolish plan? Clearly Gortash wouldn't be with the Dark Urge -- did the cult believe their former (but somehow still current) Chosen's life expectancy would be less if the Bhaalspawn were no longer alive?

The question, the rap of a knuckle on the bars, draws his attention back. The Dark Urge's eyes are intent on him in a way that used to leave him wanting to gasp before, and it threatens to stop his breath now. What an effort it had been, to continue reflecting on current developments, to ensure that his god's interests continued to be clearly established and maintained in their agreements -- all the while, Bhaal's Chosen would shoot a look like that and Gortash would momentarily hate his own chastity.

Every now and then there was a question that could be read as business as usual, but had the opening to mean something more suggestive. Insistently, he would only see it as the former.

When was he last out?

"...When I was placed here."

In truth, Gortash hadn't asked, and if he had known at the time, he would have hesitated to test it. Whatever his feelings on the matter beyond it, he would not have apologized if he did not expect to prove he meant it. Staying put was a show of that.

Uncomfortable? Yes. But he's also aware how much it could still be, and he's endured worse.

Pulling a face that seems thoughtful, eventually he laughs and it's a strange thing to be the Lord of Murder's son and still have a laugh that sounds more bright than deranged. It's a pleasant sound, a stark contrast to the unpleasantness of everything else in the semi-vaulted chamber. He finally drops into a crouch to bring himself closer to Gortash's level and, considering their circumstances, it's likely not a good thing.

Slowly his eyes explore his captive, a surprisingly calm exercise in drinking in the sight of what his father has gifted him.

"I told them whoever lost you would be losing their eyes."

He speaks quietly, as though sharing a secret between the two of them. And perhaps it is something Gortash hasn't been aware of. That the Dark Urge not only expects him to run but also believes he could evade the cult again.

"An unfortunate thing... that we need to keep you in here. But if we can't account for your skills slipping out of restraints, we can't make that choice again. I'm sure you understand."

The Dark Urge comes down closer to him, and there might be the slightest, smallest of retreats there. Perhaps it might be read as fear of a threat. Not completely untrue. But more he pulled back, because part of him wanted to draw immediately closer.

That little secret suggests several things, on top of apparent truths. He likely wasn't forbidden from being taken out at all, and perhaps the threat left his handlers careful not to even allow a chance at his flight. But what this also potentially said: the Dark Urge might not believe anyone but him could have caught Bane's chosen.

This might be true. The only ones that came close had been the ones he killed. And in truth, he only did as much as that because he believed himself to be in danger. Perhaps he might be similarly motivated, out of fear of retribution. But that also kept him in place, didn't it?

He's not ready for further punishment than this.

But his predicament is presented to him with logic, and even as it sets the wheels turning in his mind, there is a heat that comes alive in him as he forms his answer. "I can demonstrate for you." It's a gamble. It's offering a level of exposure, in a way. An odd way to think of it, given his current state. "Would that help to alleviate such concerns?"

It seems as though the bhaalspawn either hadn't expected the human to opt for this so soon or, more likely, at all. His expression draws tighter for a moment and then with a thoughtful hum, agreement in the form of a nod first.

"Yes. It would be a start."

He lifts a hand, clicking his fingers, and soon enough there's a guard at his side with a massive key that fits the chunky padlock looped through the thick chain keeping the cage door firmly closed. It rattles unpleasantly against the metal bars as she sets to work unlocking it.

Taking the moment to stare at Gortash, eventually the Dark Urge leans closer to the bars again and smiles.

"If you try to run again, I will take your eyes before I take hers," he says, motioning at the guard struggling with the heavy duty lock. And then he's rocking up onto his feet again surprisingly gracefully and turns to walk away, pulling off the outer clothing he had walked in wearing until he's standing in a dark shirt and equally dark trousers.

"Bring the restraints," he calls out, a second guard eventually appearing with the same type of restraints they had attempted to contain Gortash with last time.

He's too present in the moment to think of this purely as a game. He knows the Dark Urge means every word he says, so this is not the place for suggestive platitudes about the Baneite's eyes already being his. But shocking that for whatever reason, unbidden, that thought was already there.

Gortash spares a quick look at the Bhaalist opening the door. Memorizing what features are visible. But when the door opens, he waits a beat before climbing out. One the command to approach is issued, he does not want his stumbling to slow his response. So with a hand bracing him, he gets to his feet, allowing himself to straighten his spine, get his posture back.

They bring similar manacles to the ones that are present on the altar, and he shudders even as he is working out the logistics. Making certain to himself that it wasn't just adrenaline that pushed him to pull loose last time.

A breath.

He can do this. It is a concession. A way to bargain for better accommodations.

"Come here," he beckons and, since he'd left the guards to see to Gortash, has sat himself on the side of his expansive bed. He's pointing right in front of where his feet, now bootless, are planted into the solid floor beneath. Whatever he had planned to do next, apparently it had involved getting comfortable.

It isn't overly subtle the way one of the guards peels away to return to the arched doorway. Nobody is taking any chances it seems. Not when there are eyes and hands on the line, and it wouldn't be the first time the Chosen of Bhaal had meted out such punishment.

The guard who had been unlocking the cage finishes clamping the cuffs around the former Baneite's wrists, shoving him towards where the Dark Urge is pointing without waiting to see if he'll move himself. It seems the bhaalspawn isn't particularly bothered by that, expression unreadable as he waits. But there's a tension in the air that still seems to indicate keeping him waiting would be a bad idea.

Enver feels a band of anxiety grow tight within him when the restraints are affixed on his wrists. Too near to remembering when their like were last there -- the immediate rush of panic and anger when he awoke on that altar? There's something about them that doesn't feel the same way as the cage. All the same, without his hands fixed at his sides, there is still more freedom of movement. He's not nearly immobile.

Little time to consider that, when first he hears the Dark Urge's beckoning voice and then is roughly shoved in that direction. It threatens to take him off balance -- he hasn't stood in days -- but he manages to recover. The guards are quick to make themselves scarce, more certainty that their master did not joke when he made promises of pain if they were to fail.

And very quickly, Gortash is alone in the room with him again, not hesitating to obey once he had his balance again. The mark on his hand is mostly healed, so he is favoring it far less now, but he keeps his wrists close to his body but not against it, affording himself what warmth he can by having his arms nearer him, but careful not to let the metal touch too much.

You offered this. Don't lose your nerve or these may never come off.

He comes to stand before the Dark Urge, careful both to hold his gaze and how he did that. There's less challenge in his stance, and he might let his eyes wander, but never fully dropping.

He hates the feeling, part of him wondering if the bhaalspawn will touch him, the other still frighteningly aware of how easily and how likely he is to be stricken. The human has to tell himself that he craves warmth and that is all. But then the wandering, following his hands, taking in the broad shape of him. His imagination is starting to fill in blanks, and every new image would have felt like scandal before -- he remembers to breathe.

Edited 2024-09-06 13:31 (UTC)

It stands to reason that had the Dark Urge noticed those eyes wander, he certainly would have commented on it. Not pleasantly but as an accusation of weakness. He isn't completely unaware of what tenets Bane imposes on his followers, and it doesn't particularly reflect well that Gortash is quite so easy to distract in that manner. Though it would be delightful to notice all the same.

There isn't a comment forthcoming as he waits, and perhaps the human will realise it's because the half elf has stopped looking briefly. His eyes have flicked away and towards the open stone door. It wouldn't be difficult to arrive at the conclusion that whatever it was he had been away taking care of before, it either isn't concluded fully or remains preying upon his mind.

Slowly he comes back to the room when the metal links of those cuffs tinkle against each other. A pleasant sound, all things considered, and one that fills him with a muted kind of delight.

"Any day now," he jabs lightly, as though he's the one who has been attentive to this little display this entire time.

A small blush. He had been awaiting a command to begin, and he supposes that is how he's getting it, but it does touch a spark of embarrassment that he might have missed a cue, A calming breath, and it is surprisingly easy to let it become just -- a series of tasks.

A demonstration it is, then. "Slightly different, because they are affixed to the altar a certain way," he specifies. Having that leeway to move his arms and shoulders up while keeping it all attached helps. He holds his wrists up and pulls the chain taut so one hand has enough leverage. His fingers and knuckles curve inward. Most people can do this to a point, but he moves past it, the whole of his palm just seeming to crumple into a point as small as, if not smaller, than his wrist. It is the work of but a moment to twist it free.

He catches the base of the other cuff to keep the weight balanced before repeating the same thing. All done in less than two minutes. It takes half of one and some flexing to get his fingers back where they were before; the joints at rest don't always point in the direction they are supposed to. But he shifts the chain from one hand to the next to get them right.

Then carefully offers the manacles back.

"...I understand they were a liability, but I probably would have been unable to do that if I hadn't been relieved of my gauntlets."

His full attention is held then, watching on with the kind of focus this demonstration deserves. Only when Gortash looks up to speak at the end does his expression shift from seriousness to something more befitting light entertainment. It's misrepresenting the amount of attention he had been directing to the human, but there's a hierarchy of power here and he has his reasons to continue to keep Gortash at the very bottom of it.

He doesn't care to lie about the fact he's impressed regardless.

Though his hands reach up and rest either side of Gortash's shoulders. Given the last time they were there, he's not in a rush to clarify either way if they are likely to engage in a repeat of that.

"Yes, I am unsurprised you want your claws back."

The now deeply amused look tugging at his features is likely enough to confirm the answer to that. Though he doesn't blame the human for trying.

"But here is the problem. If I let you run around here like a freerange pet, what might be stopping you from trying to weasel your way out of the temple?" He drops his eyes now and looks down at Gortash holding out the manacles, but doesn't move to take them. He has no intention of taking them, but he does look past them to the shape of the man's body and decides almost immediately that he he needs that need sating now.

"What would you suggest is an acceptable reward for this demonstration?"

A chill runs through him when the Dark Urge's massive hands find his shoulders. Not just the shock of warmth. Want for touch but one that isn't immediately rough. But yes, memory of where that led last time. He doesn't drop his eyes, then.

It oddly wasn't why he brought up the gauntlets, but that would have taken longer to explain. And he has a question to answer too soon for clarification to come to the forefront. "I'm not looking to die anytime soon," he says simply. "And if he's any indication," a nod back toward that discarded head. "I imagine I would be no more safe above ground. If Bane wishes me gone, then I am not keen to oblige him."

It's a flimsy revenge, to just continue existing out of spite, but it is all that he has, even if there is something boiling in him that wants more. Maybe that part of him wants claws again.

The Dark Urge asks another question, and that complicates things. This was presented first seemingly as a way to get him out of that cage, but he suddenly has the opportunity to make requests and there are far too many. Does he want to sleep on something that's not the ground? To have clothes? To not be fucked (or anything else) bloody?

All of those, yes. Which means he has to decide what needs relief sooner and what he is willing to endure until he can bargain again.

His mind is back on those hands touching him, and he shivers.

"...I expect however you decide you'd like to carry on playing, very little I say is going to change things. But I do have a request. For reasons of...practicality."

What sets him apart from many other of cultists is that he sees the value in practicality. For all the depths of his depravity and his skill making others bleed, if there's something logical to contemplate for the sake of an outcome, he will genuinely consider it.

So when Gortash seems to find something he would like to request, and cites practicality as the driving force, his expression tugs lightly into curiosity. His hands remain exactly where they are, but that can only be a good thing. A stay of executing his next move on account of allowing space for bargaining.

"State your request."

Something that goes unsaid is that if it displeases him too much there will be swift retribution. But that sits just out of spoken word, a tension and weight in the air around them instead.

Enver is smart enough to know that if he allows himself too much preamble, they are both going to lose patience with him. He doesn't know how it will be taken. He might very well be flatly denied with the nature of said denial immediately demonstrated. The Dark Urge could very well laugh in his face that he thought this was an issue at all, or punish the presumption that he might not know or care.

...He could also accept, and in truth, because Enver had almost no experience receiving, and all of it very far away, he had no idea how he, himself, was going to react to any of it. There was no point in putting on a show; he wasn't one to fake that sort of thing and the bhaalist would see artifice for what it was and likely hate it. There was every possibility that without even imminent injury, he would hate it.

But what was he supposed to do with himself if he liked it?

He felt his cheeks burning. Because if he didn't just say it straightforwardly he would never get it out. "To prevent injury that I cannot easily recover from." That could far too easily lead to infection and even kill him if he succumbs to that or bleeds out. A breath. "I need you to use lubricant if you're going to fuck me."

Moments trickle by and the Dark Urge does nothing to cut the tension. His stare is like steel, hard and brought to such a sharp point he would be more surprised at anybody keeping eye contact. Gortash asks for proper preparation and the Dark Urge feels the scratching of humour on the inside of his throat.

The human is lucky he's in a mood to honour the offer he put on the table without reminding him where he is. The only lubrication ever used in this temple is the pools of crimson they sometimes fuck in. Perhaps a fresh source from the object of his desire themselves if he wants to play with blades.

He understands that Gortash couldn't have thought to specify what he would be lubricated with, and he's feeling generous enough to fill in that blank for him.

"I assume you want something you are familiar with rather than what passes for lubricant here?"

Yet another gift. One that he seems to give magnanimously. His hands finally start to move, fingers dragging over the rounds of the human's shoulders and down his upper arms. It's almost pleasant, the path his fingers take.

Oddly, it feels better just to have it out, once it does not result in any form of immediate retaliation. If the moment were less fraught, he'd be thinking of all the ways he would prefer to have said it. There's just no room for that, though.

Gortash can't bring himself to look away. Even if he were not accustomed to eye contact when openly discoursing -- at this point, it is just as much that he cannot afford for it to look like he is any way less than serious about what he has put forward. And if it gets him stricken in the face again, he'll take it.

His stomach drops at the unpleasant mental image that question hits him with, because yes he can quite readily imagine.

A nod. Not the time to be hesitating in that regard. "I would be more than grateful." Except then it might hit him, at least a little. "...just perhaps, ill-suited to determining how best to act on that."

It seems that business edge is back to their conversation, though the way his hands are rubbing down Gortash's flank is certainly not from their previous meetings. His hands are surprisingly warm for such a cold look. Though the slightest hint of something approving is held way back, only visible if really squinting.

"Name your preference," he says with a sudden interest in his voice that eventually turns into action. His hands grip at the manacles and toss them to the bed before returning to Gortash, settling at his shoulders and pressing that familiar weight down upon them to send him to his knees. It seems he's looking for a repeat of before, though at least this time he's sitting on the edge of the bed. His hips won't have free enough motion to fuck Gortash's mouth too hard as long as he stays sitting.

"I would advise you to say it quickly," he adds, fingers reaching to his trousers and tugging at the fastenings. Barely a moment later he's pulling his cock from the confines, half hard and only getting harder by the second.

Despite the alarm in immediately being directed to his knees, given how that went last time, Gortash is somewhat relieved that the Dark Urge supplied direction rather than a line of probing questions.

But what he said can certainly be interpreted as tell me how I can show my gratitude, and for the moment he will take it.

Why did that warning make him shudder? He maintains eye contact, but it is clear his gaze...well, might feel tempted to wander.

He supplies the name of the oil he tended to use with others in the past. Easy to find. Hells, with the right materials he could easily make it. He hadn't in a long time, of course. But he knew it was still used and considered the go-to.

Just as before, when he has Gortash on his knees, there's expectation in his gaze. Heavy in a way that sets out what the next handful of hours will contain. The name of the oil isn't something he needs to consider as he calls out to the guards to find some and bring it. The detail doesn't matter to him behind upholding his side of this bargain.

And then his thumb traces over Gortash's lower lip, thumb hooking into his mouth to open his jaw. His gaze is fixed, pale eyes raptly attentive as it drinks in the sight of the mouth he plans to take pleasure from before he thinks about using the human in other ways. As unsurprising as it would likely be for a bhaalist to go back on their word, he at least intends to keep to this, for now.

"Service me until the oil is brought to us."

It would be an understatement to say that in anticipation of how long he might be kept this way, Gortash's jaw may pre-emptively ache. The way the Dark Urge relays that order but never stops watching him -- well, it says where his attention is. And inwardly the human is wondering what he might have to learn to do in order to trigger that with more purpose. He'd stumbled into it just now, partially led because he doubts that his keeper would have bothered with any of this at all if he were not already intending to go down this road.

And of course there is that surface-level ambition toward having something he might be able to use to his advantage, if he only understood it better. But there is a deeper part of him that sinks an ache into the pit of his stomach, that just wants the Dark Urge to keep looking at him like that.

The brush of a finger over his lips, and for half an instant, there are flashes of thoughts. Of responding to that gesture in kind with previews of what is likely to come. Promises to make good on what he had said he would be: grateful. Those are halted when his mouth is levered open. It takes a wincing moment to figure out what he is doing, and there's less resistance, then.

The command comes and a palm touches the back of the Dark Urge's. Oh, he intends to do that imminently. Feeling some of the tension there fall away before he tries to turn his head, pulling back enough to loose his jaw and closing his lips around his thumb. Careful with his teeth of course, a testing press and taste of his tongue before drawing back to free them both entirely.

He can do this. He already knows the position they are in makes for a slightly more comfortable foray -- even if the half-drow gets pushy. But given how things are looking, the larger man might let him do this his way and then save all those more forceful, brutish replies for what apparently comes later. Even with lubricant it might be just as unpleasant as his first night with him had been. But he'd survive it.

And he'll earn it, he supposes.

Enver won't fool himself into thinking he might be able to wear him out before they get to that. Last time had been a preview; he doubted the man had only one or even two in him.

He rises up a little taller on his knees, allows his hands to smooth along the Dark Urge's shapely sides and ease more folds of cloth out of the way before he sets to work, mouth and hands both.

The human seems more prepared this time and that is pleasing and disappointing in equal measure. At times he can feel the desire to strike the man, his fingers itching to make the connection in a way that will send Gortash reeling. But mostly he allows himself to settle as much as he's able to into the careful and pleasurable ministrations of his toy.

The only sign of time having passed is when a guard eventually returns with the oil, and if it seems as though Gortash intends to pull away, the Dark Urge grips at his hair to hold him steady. There is no such thing as privacy here, and though Gortash likely won't be able to see from his position, there's a look of deep envy from the guard. She doesn't look without invitation, and this time she doesn't get one at all, the bhaalspawn's attention on the man between his legs.

"Very good," he says by way of surprising praise, his voice slightly more gravelled than it has been previously. A sure sign that Gortash has managed to get him close to an orgasm without actually pushing him over the edge.

The guard says 'thank you' and his stare flicks up to her instantly. The smile that tugs at his lips is dangerous.

"Not you."

This time, Gortash doesn't get barrelled over by either the snap of violent hips or the flood of bhaalspawn seed. Instead it is the knowledge that they are being watched, and that the Dark Urge very specifically hasn't dismissed the guard yet.

"Tell me where you want my seed, plaything."

He's addressing Gortash again, tugging his hair hard enough to pull him off his cock. Immediately his hand wraps around his hard, sloppily wet shaft and he strokes himself as though he might just come on the human's face instead of down his throat.

Because it is not as forced as last time, it is less pain or discomfort overall, but it does take a little longer without him pulling out any moves that might result in retaliation. No abandoning his wet shaft to cool air while his lips and tongue favored him elsewhere, letting his hands take care of that. But it might have been a long time, before the Dark Urge, that he had been in the presence of another man, but he knew what he was doing, and he knew how to do this to get them begging, not just for release but for anything else he might visit on them.

The trouble is that this isn't like that, for a number of reasons, one of them chiefly being that he had to do this as an act of supplication and not dominance. And he had to feel his way toward doing that, expecting pain, and knowing that he cannot simply think of what he would expect of others, because it would not be him, but rather an act. And just as surely as he would know and feel inauthentic, the man whose cock he is working would know it too.

Servicing. Preparing. And also intimately acquainting himself with what he is giving himself to and about to give still more. Give so it won't be taken. So it feels like a choice he is making. That he already made.

Even in those meetings he couldn't have imagined this, and now faced with it, he struggles to remember now what it is he thought of then. What he could have thought it would mean if there were no commands keeping him still and untouched.

He hears movement nearby and it snaps him out of his reverie for a moment, but a hand keeps him from moving away. A rush of something like humiliation racks him, but the silent command is heard and he does not stop or lose pace in his efforts. He doesn't dare.

Very good.

He doesn't know where that is directed until made clear, so for a moment it is just a moment of panic, trying not to slow, trying to work out in his head where the movement is coming from in the room, and knowing he is seen this way. That they are being watched. But then Not you and the shudder that takes hold of him. The helpless sound, not quite a moan or a whimper, that it wrests from him.

Bane had forbidden much in this way but if there were no plans to send him to this fate, his orders would have been especially stringent, no? Because Enver can see no other reality but that in a bed this man always would have conquered him.

The command is heard clear to him, but he cannot fully take in its meaning until the Dark Urge pulls him back. Not to simply continue what he was doing, with more appreciation, no. He wanted the words and Enver cannot let himself take his eyes off him. Cannot let himself see who else is there even if their presence is known and unmistakable.

At first he had indeed heard him wrong. Not just that he wants it but where? It's more than he's used to expressing. Lurid. Uncouth. And so far beyond him but he had certainly coaxed as much from others before. Kept his phrasing smooth and refined while watching them fall apart under the pressure of their own base desires.

And there is a core of something in him that responds, that he doesn't fully understand but is there. That makes it not an act. All the while the pain, the struggle is clear on his face, uncertain of the words to use but certain what feel incorrect on his tongue.

"Inside me." He manages that without a stammer and would be proud of himself anywhere else, gasping like he's coming up for air. Mercy, his eyes seem to plead. I don't know how to do this.

The patience to clarify where inside doesn't exist. Gortash says inside and the Dark Urge will give him that. The hand that's still buried in dark locks of hair tugs him forward again, guiding him once more towards his rigid shaft. He certainly has enough seed to press inside the other man in other places too, but for now it'll be his throat and stomach that receives first.

The expression he's wearing isn't so much victorious as simply affixed upon the human about to deliver him to his own climax. The first of the day and absolutely not to be the last.

Whatever shame he might have had at engaging in a sexual act with an audience has long since been exorcised from him. The guard shifts on her feet, rocking her weight from one foot to the other, uncomfortable only for the fact that she is in this position rather than on her knees. Fucking with an audience is nothing new in this temple. Though the submissive party is usually a lot more ready to play into the scion of Bhaal's ego.

Relief in its own way. He didn't say it but the message was apparently heard loud and clear. The Dark Urge was close to at least his first, so he didn't expect the aim was to prolong anything at this point. So to have his dignity spared one way, he sacrifices another.

Gortash is earnest in returning to his task, the moan that issues around the bhaalspawn's mass is thankful.

Still he knows they are being watched, and whatever position he has been placed in, regardless of the ritual that bound him on the altar, he still has the feeling of being an intruder. You don't spend all that time cautioned to never set foot in the temple of Bhaal or interfere with their doings and just shrug that off overnight.

And now he belongs to no temple of his own anymore, and to no one, not even himself, save the Dark Urge. And these devotions in their own way are new and profane in a way he would have to grow accustomed to -- and that isn't even just the sexual aspect there. Even if Bane had ever required something similar of him it would not have been for other aspirants to see. From how he expected him to dress and socialize, what to pursue, before all this, Enver would have described as directives as jealous.

It leaves no context for where he's wound up. Or even a certainty how to proceed. But for all of the humiliation he feels, perhaps he holds to that a little. That jealousy.

He just doesn't know what to do with it yet but redouble without making it appear as though he is rushing.

Perhaps the human will come to understand there is no sanctity here for privacy while fucking. It's not humiliation when the culprits have little interest in shame. The meaning of life is to be ended, and ultimately this is what the Dark Urge's purpose is in service to his lord and father.

The soft heat of the human's mouth is coaxing, his own gaze boring down as he watches the man's lips lavish attention on his achingly hard cock. The telltale signs of an oncoming climax in the way his breathing picks up just enough. All of his attention is diverted from around him, the guard watching on not even registering anymore as he watches the former Baneite work hard to satisfy him.

"Yes," he murmurs, more a whisper than anything else as his fingers clench hard, tugging the man's hair as his balls tighten. It's warning enough, he would argue, the first blast of his heavy load spilling as far back in Gortash's mouth as he's pressed into.

It's so strange, given how he was before Bane found him, how unaccustomed he has become to just being seen. ...Not that he was going to public orgies before or anything like that. This is still just a lot, very suddenly, even when removed from all of the context.

The word is quiet, but that same voice that makes his stomach flip.

Familiarity with the act and already getting a feel for the Bhaalist's body language, coupled with that clench of fingers in his hair, and Gortash knows what to expect. Blessedly sooner than expected. He doesn't choke, but nearly enough that he cannot help but wince when at least he is permitted to draw back for a gasp.

Not perfectly done. For half a second his hand starts toward his face, but he stops himself from doing anything. He has to let himself be not completely neat. They have demonstrated that he will be clean when he needs to be by now. And as it is he doesn't know what kind of chase he might invite if he moves too quickly to hide himself.

Not from the Dark Urge, anyhow. He is still very clearly trying not to so much as turn his head in the direction of the guard. His dark eyes are careful but searching, his whole frame taut with tension.

Savouring a few moments after his climax, eventually the Dark Urge rises from where he's been sitting and steps around the human. He doesn't bother to order the guard out with words, waving her away with a simple hand gesture and starting to remove his clothes. Gortash is left kneeling, momentarily, able to do what he wishes to in order to recover from what has just happened and prepare himself for what comes next.

It's generous, the bhaalspawn considers as he strips down in the human's peripheral vision. Part of him is curious to know if Gortash will allow himself a look. Perhaps he will give himself the full view of the half drow whose stature couldn't be less like a drow. The nature of his conception likely has more to do with that than actually taking after a large human more.

By the time he returns to the bedside, and to his toy still kneeling beside it, he is completely naked. The bulk of him is impossible to miss, the raw physical power underneath his clothes a wonder at all that he is as fast or as stealthy as he is.

He looks able to crush a skull in one hand if he put his mind to it. And, given who he is, extremely likely that he's tried before.

"I will stay true to my word," he says as he plucks up the oil from where he had discarded it on the bed and offers the vial to the human. With his other hand he gestures for Gortash to stand.

"You will prepare yourself for me," he says and presses the oil into the man's palm, the glass cool. With that, and remaining blessedly hands off given his penchant for murder, he gets onto the bed and reclines. Here it becomes abundantly clear that he's still half hard, his cock laying back on his belly as he watches on. The manacles are still at the foot of the bed, but it seems as though he doesn't intend to use them.

His head doesn't move until he hears the guard leave, but he doesn't keep his eyes forward for long -- he wasn't ordered to. And of course when the Dark Urge moves out to his periphery and gets up to...well, threatening activities, but not in the same way.

It's the first time he has seen him fully undressed, and it is nothing he could have imagined. The scars in telling places, not a surprise, asymmetrical lines that interrupted the sculpted symmetry of his shape, pale like the moon and almost glowing. Skin unexpectedly dappled with gray freckles, a sign that at some point, there was almost not an inch of his body that the sun hadn't kissed.

Back in the city above it became very easy to convince himself that much of that bulk must have been armor. But he knew how silently he would move, and how fast he was. His size really seemed that much more impossible in the face of it. Threatening because he had felt that raw power already, in a myriad of ways, held back, but was likely to experience it in more ways, momentarily.

Rather than do the logical thing, which would have triggered a flight response, a need to put as much distance between the two of them as possible, Enver's mind felt irrepressable and incomprehensible heat instead.

As soon as he's silently ordered to his feet he obeys. Once again there is a subtle touch on the edge of the bed as he balances himself. Something in the motion that might betray there is something slightly off but not if someone isn't looking for it. Like the joints of his fingers not quite righting themselves just after he took off the manacles (though using them has clearly helped that since).

The glass bottle is pressed into his palm and a command that threatens to paralyze him. Though long ago, he had prepared other people before, but never himself. Not even for curiosity's sake. (He had never been the sort to engage in any of that sort of thing privately, but then how often was he ever really alone?)

So he at least has a base to work from and then a few logistics to quickly work out in his head -- angle, chiefly. Permitted some freedom to move around, he has the most luck getting the access he needs half on the bed, leaning mostly in that direction but one leg planted firmly on the ground so he does not topple over should his position shift.

He unstoppers the bottle with a thumb with surprising ease, slicking several fingers in the solution and taking half a moment to warm it using his own body heat, letting the tingle sink in, free hand closing the bottle again as he takes a calming breath. His eyes meet the Dark Urge's, rather treacherous of them really, as he works one finger in, then another.

A blush finds his features -- it is only a task, spreading as much as he can inside himself and around his entrance, stretching his inner walls and growing accustomed to some measure of fullness. But his eyes rake over the full vision of the other man reclining, and he realizes he hasn't been breathing.

He commands himself to take air and part of him is utterly mortified at the ripple of pleasure that rushes after it, and that breath is unmistakably a moan.

Watching from his spot on the bed, it wouldn't be completely out of the realms of expectation for the Dark Urge to be fed grapes. The way he sits is verging on regal, reclined and taking up space like the leader that he is. His gaze doesn't leave Gortash as he finds a position he likes and starts to work himself open.

Perhaps they both know that no matter how many fingers the human stuffs in himself, it won't be enough to stop the intense stretch when he finally sinks onto the half drow's cock.

At least Gortash will be able to see the heat in the bhaalspawn's eyes, the fact his cock is now completely hard again. The way his focus is entirely on him in a way that should probably be concerning. And then he starts to look frustrated with barely a handful of minutes having slipped by. An impatience flitting into his expression, denoted by the small line that appears between his brows.

Whether or not he's amused by the moan, of the fact he can see the human is enjoying it to some degree, he doesn't want to wait much longer for what comes next.

It will hurt. That is what he has told himself. That is what he could remember. But he asked for this to alleviate making it agony and leaving lasting damage. So why does even doing this make him shiver? Seeing the half-drow before him clearly aroused at the sight of him? The thought of feeling him there? It all threatens to stop him swallowing that next sound.

He never entertained the notion that he might like it.

He knows his fingers aren't reaching that place inside himself, that he knows is there because he's found it in others.

Even not knowing how it would feel, the thought of it leaves his mouth watering for want of it. (And he can worry about being aghast at his own reaction later.)

His gaze follows the other man's, he's heated and helpless and feels drawn taut like an arrow ready to be loosed. He's ready, but clearly waiting for a command.

"Well? What are you waiting for, toy?"

The words aren't so much unbidden as laced with his impatience. Whatever leave he has given the human to act under his own volition - within reason - seems to have left him expecting the man will climb upon him sooner rather than later. He spends all day telling people what to do and it has left him irritable that he has to keep directing when he has already made his desires clear.

It doesn't matter that he's being unreasonable, not when the head of his cock is already flushed pink against his otherwise pale skin. He has been ready to fuck for what feels like far too long now, and it's mostly due to him being serviced almost immediately in ways the cultists know he likes. He doesn't give Gortash much leeway at all considering he has no idea.

"Fuck yourself on your new master."

Enver is not about to earn himself more injury by overstepping, though at this juncture it might be unclear if that is just his survival instinct in the moment or if that is a lesson hard learned at some other point in his life. But he holds to it, even when he can feel something inside himself pulling hard against the reigns of his self-control.

His command brings into sharp clarity how the Dark Urge intends to see this through and once again, it is not how he initially anticipated it. He's not sure whether to be relieved or a little scandalized because once again it is something he has very little or no experience doing. But he understands the concept, and there is very little in his nerves that objects to the idea, short of something in the back of his head trying to measure whether it is a trick.

But the important parts he understands, able to position himself, understanding where his body needs to be, apply further preparation where needed as he goes. The only failing, in his eyes, where he knows he is not intending to fully comply, is he isn't really thinking of fucking himself, though the notion sends an embarrassed warmth through him. (And there are other words there that he doesn't fully allow into his mind. Too much to think about, too much to let himself consider what they are making him feel in the moment.) This is about seeing to his keeper's own insistent desire and proving he can take care of it without risk to himself in the process.

And so long as he doesn't hurt either of them in the process, he can consider that a success.

And that is all he tries to think about, which becomes very difficult when he finally guides the Dark Urge in. Prepared? Yes. But slick and pliant only does so much, and the entirety of his member is far more than fingers were going to be. His eyes force themselves closed as though in the other man's he might see a reflection of every way he doesn't want his face to betray the journey it takes him on. The feeling of utter fullness that claims him inch by inch and robs him of breath. But he forces a sigh that's unbidden a little more than that, relaxes as much as he can to let more in, careful not to go too slow but also just very aware that he is in new territory.

When he's lowered himself to the hilt, he makes certain to let his lunges be full before finally, all of him is tight, a vice around his cock, pressing with timed, hungry insistence, and -- unexpected for him -- that brings the full force of where he's reached into certain perspective. He's not certain when he reached the point of straining, himself, but he's moving.

Fuck yourself on your new master. And without ever intending to, at least in his mind, he was.

Edited 2024-09-15 18:26 (UTC)

The need to feel something this physical is born of a need years in the making. His unholy blood yearns for either slaughter or furthering the family line. He can do neither with Gortash, and though the other man won't understand it, the Dark Urge is showing the kind of masterful control over himself that is bordering on the impossible. If Gortash thinks his grip on the reins of his self-control is decent, it wouldn't be completely remiss to get the impression the Dark Urge is showing off.

He allows the human to climb over him, straddling his lap until they're almost chest to chest. The paleness of his gaze is sharp as an icicle as he watches on, face otherwise an impassive wall showing nothing else.

At this point, he's started to entertain himself by gripping hard at his control, even as he feels fingers hold his cock upright. Even the moment he feels the tight heat of the human's body start to sink onto him. He gives nothing at all, whatever thrill of pleasure that runs through him from his balls choked until it dies.

"More," he finally says, demands, voice perfectly level despite their newfound shared connectedness.

It is a wild inversion, two opposing poles finding themselves converging. A creature of wild abandon with the power to contain that part of himself, imbued in him as a means to control the temple that has risen up around the flesh he springs from. Gifted one brought up to be a paragon of rigid power and dominance, discovering in himself his own capacity for wantonness through submission and fighting it with every fiber of his being. The folly of a mortal Chosen that their god experiences only through them: Duality.

But Enver Gortash hears that one word and he takes it for what it is to him: Proof that whatever it is he has forced himself to be in the moment, it is working. And he has to chase that even if it threatens to uncouple anything he is holding back.

He would be directed otherwise if he were moving incorrectly, but he finds himself suddenly trapped in a moment he had not anticipated: that feeling that he has stumbled into a feeling that seizes control of all else. Ripples of pleasure overriding every sense that calls him to move with more intention, gripping harder and longer and pursuing with mindless need.

He's not silent. He tries to be. The last bastion of anything that is holding itself back, but it's a foolish errand. The best he can do is to clap a hand over his mouth when the crescendo reaches too high and he's suddenly aware of the spectacle he's making of himself but too far in to reign it in again.

The human rides him in a way that is almost immediately fascinating. There is a reason the Dark Urge has had Gortash prepare himself, and now is fucking himself on the hard, thick cock of bhaalspawn. It's more than just ego, but also about giving the man the means by which to fall to pieces.

He may not be able to kill the man, but it doesn't mean he can't destroy him. Corrupt him to a space so bent around pain feeding into pleasure that he's slowly being conditioned to genuinely want it.

"Do you like that, Gortash?"

The hand clapped over the noises does nothing of any use to stifle them, the shameful moans of pleasure seeping through gaps in those fingers. He briefly fights with a wicked smile playing around his lips. And still he remains as motionless as he'd promised, biding his time in such a stellar display of control.

There will come a time that the other man begs him to take over, and he's looking forward to that day. Knows it'll be one step further for Gortash in this church of Bhaal.

If it is the bhaalspawn's dream to hear Enver Gortash pleading that he take him, conquer him, even just be with him as this storm of sensations buffets his senses, it might be something like edging to know how very close they are to that. If there were ever fleeting thoughts of ecstasy to be had with the son of the god of murder, amorphous as they had been, they are here now in some form, pulling at the already fraying threads of his control. And it almost escapes, his lips forming around an unquiet appeal for more.

But he doesn't lose pace; there is not enough coherent thought to loose on himself that might break that. Each descent brings with it another burst of rapture when that inner part of him is stricken, and whatever thoughts had begun to form in the second it took to reach here are stolen from him just as quickly. There isn't time to beg. There isn't time to worry whether he is being heard.

But somehow that voice penetrates just as deftly as that cock. He bites down on his lip as he feels himself nodding. "Yes..." he whimpers. He opens himself to both and embraces both, just as tight, just as needing.

Edited 2024-09-17 12:05 (UTC)

"So eager to please and dash yourself open on me," he adds, barely giving Gortash a moment to answer his first question. Perhaps the quality of his words isn't completely accusatory, but there's a level of degradation buried within. A habit that the Dark Urge is loathe to part from when given no reason to.

This is, in his mind, the equivalent of asking Gortash to jump and the man immediately doing so. Surprising given whose Chosen he had been - is still - that the human is so ready to please him.

There's still not much of a response from him otherwise, tip-lipped over his own pleasure in a way that could be disconcerting. It isn't that he doesn't feel the way the man's walls are gripping his cock as he bounces, or that he isn't enjoying it. He's just too busy gloating over his level of control and uninterested in giving Gortash the type of response he may want without him really asking for it.

The moans suddenly choke off to rising gasps as he feels the rhythm-bereft flutter of muscles, then no breath at all as his entire frame arrests at once. Nothing in the full force of it is expected, not how much harder it hit him than any dalliance in memory, not the rush of humiliation at his own, uncontrolled issue, or how his hand flattens on the Bhaalist's stomach -- for balance or some unconscious reach toward connection, he cannot say.

Enough of him comes back in the seconds after that small death that he can stop himself from collapsing, as he gasps.

He watches the former Baneite fuck himself to such sordid conclusion that he doesn't even look down as he feels the warmth of his spend sprinkle over his stomach. Instead, it wouldn't be completely remiss to read the expression that surfaces as something bordering on infatuation. As though a child is still taking delight in finding out all the things his new toy can do.

Or perhaps Gortash is too wrapped up in his own climax to notice those hungry eyes boring into his face. The expression is there one moment and gone after a few more. Lost to the way his plaything gasps and deciding to not give him a moment to breathe again. Metaphorically, for now.

"Clean your surrender from me," he says, voice low and dangerous simply because he is issuing an order and doesn't brook rejection.

That...had not been planned for, in any way, shape or form. His aim in all this had been to prevent injury, not to enjoy himself, so there is understandably something a little uncertain, even demure as he returns to himself. What have you done? What just happened?

So when that firm voice penetrates, there's a touch of that still there but again his center is immediately found again, and he shudders. The command heard, with some hesitation to break eye contact long enough to assess his orders.

His answer...still acquiescing. Careful. But had to come with enough spine to it, for him to be willing to be thorough.

"I will, but I cannot do that without moving." The way he shudders around him then. Either a deliberate reminder or involuntarily bemoaning that himself. "Do I have your permission?"

The moment passes with the first sign that he isn't completely untouchable when it comes to his arousal. The faint ripple of his abs, the swell of his muscles twitching just enough to show that he felt that. His gaze sharpens to a point again, the corners of his mouth tugging broadly into a smirk.

Whatever impossible expectation he's holding the human to for not just doing as he's asked immediately is set alongside the fact he wants both complete submission and also just enough fight to make this interesting. His frustration would boil over if it wasn't for the fact that the lid seems to be off his arousal. It's difficult to think solely outside of it now, faintly distracted by the fact his cock is still buried in the warmth of the other man and he needs to unload there too. But not before he's watched Gortash lick him clean.

"You have an invitation, Gortash. Do not waste it."

Any possibility that he might have misgivings in the moment, about whether he had mistepped, his performance in the task he was given, if the Dark Urge's lack of reaction should give him pause -- all of that was gone in a simple read of the man's body language, the feel of him under him. He's enjoying this. He's enjoying him, and there very well might be power in that. He just has to refine how to use it.

I don't waste anything.

He lifts himself off of him with a wince, a breath just short of a moan. There's enough room on the bed for him to reposition himself and bend to his new task. There is a lingering moment of eye contact that would be more pointed, but it's not as though his keeper lusts after him and he's neutral in return.

It's still -- quite far outside what he's been permitted in a long time. And he would feel differently if he had been scolded.

Which had been expected. Yes, apparently his leash had gotten tight enough that normal, physical reactions were something you expected to be seen as lesser for.

But without that, it leaves him more open to the idea. There is interest in it, want for it, and his own body turning traitor on him does not rob him now of marking the full gammot of the half-drow's reaction to him as his tongue lashes out in its first full stroke against his skin.

The salt of sweat intermingles with seed. He takes it up in several passes, leaving cool, clear trails behind to dry in the air. Clean and diligent, a final caress of his tongue, the only part of him that touches the man until he ends that last contact with a kiss.

Edited 2024-11-04 01:06 (UTC)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Everything Is Negotiable In Hell (AU)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject