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

[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.