Enver Gortash (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
closeyourfist) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
blueprints_bloodstains2024-08-29 07:48 am
closeyourfist) wrote in blueprints_bloodstains2024-08-29 07:48 am
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."
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
Enough of him comes back in the seconds after that small death that he can stop himself from collapsing, as he gasps.
no subject
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.
no subject
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?"
no subject
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."
no subject
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.