Everything Is Negotiable In Hell (AU)

[closeyourfist]

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."

Comments

[closeyourfist]

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.

[unspooling]

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.

[closeyourfist]

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.

[unspooling]

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.

[closeyourfist]

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.

[unspooling]

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.

[closeyourfist]

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.

[unspooling]

"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."

[closeyourfist]

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.

[unspooling]

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.

[closeyourfist]

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.

[unspooling]

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.

[closeyourfist]

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.

[unspooling]

"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.

[closeyourfist]

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.

[unspooling]

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.

[closeyourfist]

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?"

[unspooling]

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."

[closeyourfist]

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.