blueprints_bloodstains | Death Stalking Abroad

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Death Stalking Abroad - The Masquerade

Dusk has barely arrived but the Upper City is alight with life and fervor. The glow of lanterns and candles, and the sparkle of dancing lights mingle with the shimmer of fine banners and hangings, all filling the square with color even as all but the natural light of the moon has begun to fade from the sky. All manner of coves and dark corners, alleyways, passages for the more adventurous and indulgent to sneak off and play in.

Tonight is about excess in a way only the especially wealthy could devise.

The guests, all dressed in opulent costumes and masks, each unique and many so intricate and many-layered as to completely obscure the identity of the wearers. Even those who might be easier to tell -- public figures and the like -- well unless they were conducting duties within the event themselves, the rule was that you don't TRULY know who they are until the unmasking. Workers from the lower city consider the yearly soiree a life-changer for one's business, positions here whether it is vending, serving, or performing, are highly coveted and sought-after, as well as sorely guarded. Falling out of favor one year meant being replaced the next.

At the start there is a murmur of excitement, discussions of the city's goings on of late, none so fervently and favorably mentioned as the unveiling of the first completed Steel Watchmen, designed by none other than tonight's Master of Ceremonies: Enver Gortash.

Truly an honor and a sign of one moving up in the world, celebrated here with greater zest owing to his more recent contributions to city security and a commendatory reputation among some of the elite -- rumors of why were known and kept track of with interest. However, there were still a few who only looked on the news with...polite acceptance. Blue bloods through and through, unsurprised at persisting whispers that a pretty face can get you far when you are useful.

Dressed in coppers and carnelians and a mask that obscures the top half of his face, he commands rapt attention as he declares the evening's festivities open, to thunderous applause. The rise in voices and the din of music overtakes the space as he descends to mingle.

Tonight is about establishing a calm. Things going right at a point that will elevate them before the more grisly aspects of the plot are to begin. Establishing trust. Comradery. Ownership.

And the people of the upper city play this game with ruthless precision. No one better to parry, really.

By the time he has made himself visible and available, he is settled into the evening, able to identify far more magisters and patriars by voice and body language than he is sure rules allow, but it allows him to know them, carve a place among them, and forget anything else he had been considering for the time being.

When he and the Dark Urge had more than just a meeting of the minds a couple weeks ago, he resolved that it need not have been more than that. It was deeply satisfying, sated a number of curiosities, and even if it said nothing of how a life of eventual rule might contain a few lively diversions? It was also fine as just a memory that would warm him on occasion.

He didn't expect the subject to suddenly come up again, or to leave it as angry as he was. Even if it concluded that it, apparently, WOULD be happening again.

Probably not for the better when it wound up not occurring at all. And Enver Gortash was not the sort to simply wait in the wings and pine.

Especially when the Dark Urge all but alluded he might as easily seek out the same ends with anyone else.

So perhaps the Black Hand's Chosen might follow suit. Already he's caught a few curious gazes. A few charming introductions. Even the offer of a drink of two (too early yet, at first). But why not? Everyone was here to have fun, after all.

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The excitement is palpable even for those not necessarily invited to the grand and very prestigious event. Ripples of energy are easy enough to feel in the air, and while he's incredibly aware of the importance of these types of statement, Bhaal's Chosen had been glad that staying away was imperative. That he and Gortash shouldn't be spied in the same place with any kind of regularity with the sheer volume of eyes in the vicinity.

At least, he had understood and seen the need in not attending. It's not entirely simple to tease apart the driving force behind the change in heart. Perhaps the fact it likely has something to do with his heart at all means it's currently outside of his grasp. He can still know with clarity that it's a risk and choose this path anyway.

He doesn't inspect the departure from the plan too much beyond noting it's different, sets the thought aside to look at later before describing the items he'll need to one of his cultists. There isn't time to wait around for her to return, his last order to Sceleritas is to let him know once the items are ready.

There's blood to let to cure his victims of life and, without really naming it so, intends to sacrifice twice as much as usual to his Father by way of apology. A simple sorry for what he plans to do.

The day passes and he returns to Sceleritas, sated and calm, like a man without the twitchy reactions of needing anything at all. Fresh from the warmth of blood cascading, slippery through his fingers, the cloying iron still on the tips of his senses.

The butler bows and scrapes and thanks him for the blade the bhaalspawn chooses to store in the space between ribs. He doesn't have time for anything more elaborate and has the manners to look apologetic about that.

By the time he reaches the heart of the celebrations, he's fully dressed for the part. Head to toe in black with only a few hints of red, the wolf mask sits perfectly on his face. He cuts a formidable figure, fabrics rich and form fitted, impressively complimenting his broad shoulders and the ribbons of muscle woven and bunched beneath his skin in delicious curves and swells. Heads turn as he stands surveying the room, titters of whispers starting to rustle like leaves in a breeze as the partygoers take in the sight, some more openly lewd than others.

And he basks in the attention as though he hasn't just come from a mass murder, as though the fact he's so incredibly steady, powerful, has nothing to do with how deeply he's satisfied the urge in his unholy blood.

It is infuriating why he recognizes one specific person in the crowd right now. (The key reason, not the only one.)

Gortash has been by and large more intrigued silently speculating in his head who some of the more noticeable but less indentifiable figures are. Weeding out actual players versus the ones that normally fade into the background, gifted this one night of lavishness to stand out even above the best -- and then the ones that remain absolute mysteries. It helped when so many either approached to chat him up or were presented by other partygoers in sometimes named introductions (not a faux pas if you're talking "business").

But when one particular patron in a fox mask has his ear, he's following an imposing figure out of the corner of his eye, and while his answers are conversational, polite, he's only half-hearing anything.

What is he doing here?

They were not planning to meet today, whether to go over and coordinate plans or anything else, for two reasons: 1) Gortash knew there were several kills slated for around this time (people in the lower city and Underground, largely), necessary for later endeavors, but also...just an accepted part of a Bhaalist's life in service of their god, but also 2) This event was going to run so late into the evening that Gortash would have shot anyone in the face trying to get him to talk business nearer to dawn than to midnight.

His first thought is that one of the Dark Urge's kills had been tracked here, but none of them should be here -- they would never have any sort of invite or work, and part of courting this demographic involved keeping the pandemonium out of this part of the city. The people writing the biggest checques would see the largest improvements to security overall to start.

An incident here would be a disaster with his name written all over it.

This was sabotage. Unabashed, blatant sabotage.

And the reason why he recognized him?

He crossed his legs and turned more fully to face the man speaking to him.

His mouth.

Without any particular cue that he's being suspected of anything more than being impertinent, he's yet to make it abundantly clear he intends to pursue a very specific agenda here. The fact that it's a very mortal man he's contemplating his unabashed cheek towards and not his god? He's not thinking about that, the quiet background of his mind quelled, satisfied as though it's feasted and needs to slumber.

It isn't long before a bold duo of souls in matching masks encrusted with jewels transitioning from sapphire to violet strikes out, makes a beeline for him in a way he would have given them more credit for if they hadn't had a chalice of something rich, spiced and very alcoholic sloshing in their hands. He's almost at the very heart of the room by the time they cut him off, ducking in front of him and waving him down to stop. The sight could be considered comical, neither man nor woman now fussing at his edges reaching the height of his shoulder.

Nobody here knows who he is save one man, and apparently that's caused enough intrigue for him to become the racy subject of the clumps of patrons gathered nearby. If these people could climb him, he doesn't doubt that they would given the hands and fingers squeezing at him as though trying to find purchase. The air in here is rife with the kind of desperation that isn't completely unfamiliar to him, though he hasn't got too much time for tolerating it in great swathes.

The couple pawing at his thick forearms - one of them is either side of him - are keen to have him join them, they say, somewhere a little more private. It's unfortunate they're barely finished propositioning him before another woman cuts in, deciding she would like to throw her hat in the ring too. Soon he's surrounded, the stir causing enough of a ruckus that it would be quite difficult to ignore.

Enver Gortash is practiced in doing what he intends while buttoning up anything else. So he's engaging a relative stranger he still hasn't managed to mentally identify, answering questions smoothly and politically as they continue to grill him about his technical ambitions, dodging questions about how one gets the experience to be a weapons expert to the city elite, and some definite implications that "strong alliances" means something more suggestive. All making a mental note of where the Dark Urge is in the crowd.

Because he has to. Because this could be about to become a bloodbath, but alliance or no, Bane would expect him to intervene in order to preserve at least their part of the plan.

Even if it were not, part of him wishes that it was.

The locals in the upper city, after a night of drinking and snacking on a lot of things with likely very illicit ingredients (because excess and a night of no consequences brought the freaks out of what were often very boring people), could devolve very quickly well before the time to unmask. And the Dark Urge, just a stranger in costume to them and not the literal wolf in disguise that he is, could draw attention, as comely individuals will in this setting where the rich left their inhibitions at the door. Gortash partly wonders what he thinks, of how people not from his cult clamor to be close to him, paw at him with reckless abandon, and are likely making poetic passes about unsheathing that are going to get less and less clever as the drinking continues.

But mostly? He hates it. And loathes that he has thoughts on it at all.

A stupid hypothetical that had irritated him before now on full display and he cannot even fully ignore it lest there be an incident.

Edited 2024-08-04 21:19 (UTC)

The fluttering around him reminds him of birds trying to flap and peck around a feeder and, had this been a different day - different hour of today - the mental image of crushing their bones would be more than just fleeting. As it stands, these people get a handful of him in ways they would have lost an arm for not long ago.

But what really seems to whip them into even more of a frenzy is that he acknowledges none of them. Not a single remark, not a jot of eye contact. It leaves them falling over each other to be the first to win his attention, something that starts to get difficult the moment he starts to move again, the crowd parting but only because the alternative is getting in his way.

It seems he has his sights fixed on making his own 'introductions' to the man of the hour. And nobody seems particularly surprised given the fact that people have been vying for Lord Enver Gortash's attention this evening as well. If the man in question does look up, he'll find the broad man cloaked in darkness and crimson, and wearing the face of a wolf, looking right at him, icy eyes filled with something incredibly specific. Almost recognisable, though slightly different.

His walk is confident but not overly hurried, smooth and powerful, without looking only like he's stalking prey. Instead he looks like a man with intentions to present himself to tonight's host, and whatever else might pass for acceptable behaviour here. The bar seems to be set very low.

Gortash sees the man approaching bit by bit but doesn't seem to openly acknowledge until he is nearly there, politely asking his conversational companion to excuse him. Duty calls, and this won't have been the first of the night. It's not infrequent and has been a good sign; the people here are accepting his presence, as a nominee in poorer favor with the public might be outright ignored.

He tries not take in too much of him at once, but he did dress for the part whatever his intentions. The lavish is a different look for him, but if matters were different, it would not be at all unwelcome.

That thought alone has him setting his untouched glass aside -- an attendant with a tray expertly bends to catch it. Rather than wait for another introduction? He's getting up. When again he apologizes to the noble that has been speaking to him -- sudden need to step away -- he considers inviting him to follow, but at the last instant he lets it go. "Business calls, but we will continue later if you are feeling so inclined."

He beelines for the nearest stairwell.

Edited 2024-08-04 21:56 (UTC)

The problem with movement when a large, spawn of Bhaal ally is cutting a path directly at their target is that they feel a need to stalk harder. It spikes up a need to pursue all the more fervently and, even though there's less in the way of violent delights echoing around the inside of his skull, he feels that same tug of predatory adrenaline surge.

He's also far less concerned about how it might look for him to change his course quite so obviously. Politics isn't his passion, and so whether or not anybody has anything to say about his pursuit, he doesn't care to pay attention. He's big but turns surprisingly well and pushes off his heel in the direction Gortash leaves in. His gait is larger thanks to longer legs, so even though he isn't hurrying, the horror of him getting closer all the same exists, even if the other man isn't aware.

It means by the time Gortash slips through the door to the stairwell, a hand catches his wrist and pulls him deep into the shadows. With the both of them all but swallowed up and provided a modicum of privacy, he uses his frame to hem the smaller man in, pulse still quick from the thrill of the chase.

"Not a very warm welcome for me, Lord Gortash."

The words come in hot near the shell of the other man's ear, betraying the fact he's leaned down far enough to get all the more intimately in Gortash's face.

Somehow, pursuit hadn't been expected, even though giving his back to the Dark Urge already had a very predictable pattern. At least part of it, that niggling, stupid mental image that had been plaguing him since that last heavy discussion. Something even then he had acknowledged was likely his own imagining.

There the man was, with literal mobs willing to throw themselves at him.

Easier prey, even.

So even though something stirs in his belly, the color that reaches his face could be a blush or something else. Enver is just irritated enough that when caught, the start from suddenly being cornered hits him with just enough adrenaline the wrong way for his immediate reaction to be one of frustrated anger.

"What the HELLS are you doing here?" he demands.

And he regrets it. Even though no one else is watching it's more reacting than he should be doing. It's downright churlish. And he won't take it back, either.

The anger is immediate but rather than step back or flinch, it draws the big man in even closer. Fingers tighten at Enver's wrist, the sound of a hand pressed to the wall somewhere near his head the only audible thing for a moment. This red hot irritation is sliding too deep into his own adrenaline for it to do anything but excite him more, even if he's aware he needs to signal enough to Enver to placate him.

He spends a long few seconds not wanting to, the bite of arousal sinking its claws too deep into him. With his tongue moistening his lips, he takes a breath, the hand that's wrapped around the man's wrist releasing and lifted to rest against his chest, fingers splayed. It's a firm pressure, but certainly not crushing.

"My tasks for the day are completed. This seems like a natural next step."

His voice is steady, but there's an aching just beneath that speaks to the growing need in his well-fitted trousers. The crotch was never going to hide the thick outline of his erection if he submitted to this type of arousal.

"And I did promise you a surprise."

And that burgeon of pink that touches his face is far more pronounced, irritatingly so. Because there is something, given everything he is doing a poor job of keeping under the surface, that leaves him angry with himself, how the feel of that hand on his wrist, then pushing him a little more firmly against the wall behind him -- how it leaves him a little breathless. Because how dare you react to this when you've already decided to take issue with it.

At least there was some assurance of no bloodshed here. It makes him dig in less out of principle to know he isn't facing down a possible altercation (that he could lose) for showing his own teeth a little.

In an outburst. There is no other way to see it. He lost his temper. He is still in the throes of losing his temper. Enough that he's not really considering himself as he pushes back a little against that hand on his chest.

"Then consider me surprised. A mob of the city's most elite throwing themselves at you. Take your pick. After all, it could be anyone, yes?"

Fingers scrunch into the front of a perfectly primped outfit, yanking the smaller man bodily off the wall and spinning him around to face it. If Gortash is quick enough, he might get his hands up before he's being pressed forward, his dark hair gripped by the fistful and tugged back. Prior to his hips even connecting with the wall, a large hand reaches around, fingers grabbing his crotch and squeezing as he is finally pinned to the wall. The hardness at the ass of his outfit is excruciatingly clear, the only thing separating a fully blown experience is a few layers of fabric.

"You think I came here for hapless, grovelling lords and trifling, pitiful ladies, Enver?"

The question is hot in his ear, and it isn't fury or anger that's taken up residence in his tone. There's an edge of disbelief to it, another question - 'why would I do that?' - just beneath the first

What really darts forward is something altogether more inadvisable, mixed in among the press of his hips just a little harder against Gortash. It sounds like he intends to stake his claim, an impossibility given who they are. An encroachment not only into ill-advised territory, but the territory of a god.

"I have not sequestered myself from an evening away from this for them ."

Gortash's hands come up to brace him just in time to stop from knocking his face against the wall, though the coolness of the stone might have done something to abate the heat and embarrassment marring his features. This should have terrified him, enraged him, but just the opposite. And then he is trapped between the Dark Urge's hand gripping him and his more than apparent interest against his backside, immediately putty in his grasp as his attention is effortlessly coaxed.

Even for a party such as this, the human had dressed comparably light compared to others and still felt like he was wearing too much. Enver stated in no uncertain terms that he would not be treated as replaceable. He said to take his pick, and the Bhaalspawn responded with subtle, delicious blasphemy: making his selection of a god's Chosen.

Probably for the better in the moment that a tyrant Chosen of a tyrant deity is not likely to be contrite about getting what he wants.

Want takes the place of sense. He is not thinking in the moment how near they are still to the event beyond, near enough to be heard. Nor is he thinking of the fact that he pointedly did not bring a vial with him from his office. Whatever he got up to tonight was not supposed to go that far.

"Show me." And his hips press back into that heat and hardness. A plea. A challenge.

Words aren't forthcoming but they aren't needed, not when his hands have already moved, tugging down Enver's trousers from under the hem of his shirt and vest to just beneath his buttocks. The sound of a stopper being popped from a glass vial should give Bane's Chosen all the information he needs as to how prepared his opposite number is. A small reference to the fact that he listens and, further than that, respects Enver's preferences.

Oil glugs from the small container, as he covers not just one hand with it but both, the glassware then forced into one of the smaller man's hands against the wall to hold. It's already slippery, so whether the man is able to keep a solid grip isn't a certainty, but he's got other things he'd rather grasp.

And so his fingers take up residence without hesitation, his left hand reaching back around Enver's hip to wrap around his cock, stroking lazily at first, maddeningly.

His right hand moves between them, index finger sliding scandalously down between the man's cheeks until he finds the warm, tight opening he's searching for. There's no pause for another layer of consent, just the insistent press of a thick digit into this narrow channel toward's Enver's core. With the constraints of trousers purposely left around the man's thighs, the lack of gap between legs is making the space all the tighter for him to penetrate.

It happens so quickly, that the Dark Urge isn't even undressing him so much as just getting what little matters out of the way (without tearing anything, so there is that), with Enver bracing himself against the wall and planting his feet with shivering expectation. And only when he hears the bottle un-stopper does he realize he hadn't been thinking. He cannot do this unprepared, and he is very much not. He cannot have what he wants unprepared, not without serious injury and being seen later with said injuries.

In fairness, if they were going to find anything like that anywhere on the fly it would be here. But those massive hands return to him, and with them the heavier revelation that his companion had very much come here with this in mind. And with specific consideration for rules Gortash had already set.

All the more underscoring that he hadn't come here for anything or anyone else. Would he have even bothered with anyone else?

With a groan, he's torn between following the fingers teasing his fully awakened member and lifting his hips for the finger entering him. His trousers leave in effectively trapped, unable to widen his stance further, but the tensing in his thighs says he's trying. His forehead falls against the wall, but it only seems to intensify the sound of his own voice in his ears.

Someone is going to hear him.

The warm embrace of Enver's body around his invading digit is enough to drag a heavy breath out from him, the apex of his desire pressing impatiently against the inside of his own trousers. For as much as it is hemmed in - just as the man in front of him is - soon it will find its freedom to bury in that tight heat, too.

The groan elicits the kind of reaction that's felt rather than heard, the way his finger twists and stretches deeper, crooks as he slides out as though he's refusing to remove it and won't run the risk of it slipping loose.

From beyond the doors the event continues, raucous laughter peppered with demands and even the odd moan as though they aren't the only ones who have truly stepped into the spirit of anonymous fornication. And yet that thought only serves as fuel to the fire, his own mind clear of a lot of desires that he could barely keep contained last time.

This time his full attention is on Enver in an almost purely - but never pure - sexual capacity. Violence isn't thick in his blood now because it was singing earlier, reigning supreme as he efficiently and ruthlessly shuffled a few more of their intended targets off the mortal coil.

"You sound even better this time," he murmurs, whatever grace period he had been giving the smaller man to adjust to the one finger is done and dusted. The second is pressed in with just as much fervour and lust for the things to come.

All of this is maddening.

The din of the party beyond, where even the rustle of a curtain casts light in the corridor just down the way from them but never reveals someone arriving, leaving, or just looking in. But it could. The wet, warm perfection of the Dark Urge's hands as they manipulate, setting his hips moving unbidden. The tantalizing, scandalous air against the crook of his hips and the fall of his stomach, the curve of his ass, all mixing with the terrible, constraining prison and protection of his clothes everywhere else. Even his mask that stops the coolness of the wall he's against from fully penetrating.

There is the ever-present demand of his mind to maintain appearances, to only be perceived certain ways, and it is coming up hard against a body embracing the fear of the opposite and a little too eager to be delivered there by the man taking him apart bit by bit. A purr of approval over the sound of him, acknowledgement to him that if their last time was any indication, his anonymity may very well be a lost cause by the end of this. Humiliation blooms into something at the pit of his gut that makes his mouth water.

"I shouldn't," he manages around a gulp of a breath. It doesn't have the weight of a command, any signal to slow. The words say preserve some of my dignity but the squirm of his hips, the repeated pull against the cloth keeping him in place, the headiness in his tone all counter with I can be talked into it.

"Then tell me to stop," comes a quick response hot on the heels of Enver's assertion that he shouldn't. 'Shouldn't' feels slightly redundant considering who and where they are. Beyond just their own names are the names of their gods. Temporary allies, for as long as it takes for Baldur's Gate, and Faerün after, to fall to its knees. Only then does the finale begin in earnest.

Usually the true totality of Bhaal's plan is the start of another episode of bloodlust. Of craving the sticky red adorning his blades or trickling down his fingers and forearms, as though trying to trace over his own network of veins. But beyond a stirring that feels paltry in comparison to usual, all he feels is sexual lust, aching to be satisfied.

"Tell me to stop and I will," he repeats himself, face turning into the side of Enver's hair as he keeps fucking him on his fingers, the fist he's got wrapped around his cock still not firm enough for him to get anywhere too far ahead of this liaison.

"Because if you don't tell me to stop, I will fuck you so hard - so roughly - into this wall they'll be cleaning your seed off it come first light and won't be finished until dusk."

A promise, not a threat. His plan laid as bare as Enver's arse. Could he stop now? He's stopped himself from killing the man more than once, not all too long ago. Does he have as much control over sex? He doesn't know what the answer is, but he's calling the other man's bluff regardless.

The permission to say "no" is there -- necessary for two people so accustomed to formulating their interactions through moves and countermoves that were not always completely straightforward. Caught up in a flurry of rushing sensations of lust that leave him weak at the knees but still determined to stay upright, shaking and channeling so much effort into containing himself however he can, it's all a losing battle, and telling the Dark Urge to "stop" might very well have been a lifeline.

He feels the press of that face against him, those lips in his hair, tendrils of that mask, the hot intake of air, of the man breathing him in and he gently leans into it, suppresses most of a sound, turns his head. He wants nothing more in the moment to taste him, not so simple a venture from this position.

And a promise of what is to come if this continues, a dull roar of a building fire, sound and thought sending electric shocks of sensation downward.

He won't beg. He wants to. Debase himself even more than he is already, lose himself in the ecstasy of it, and he will. But not beg. Not for him to go on.

If the demand is for him to command it all to stop, then he knows his answer: he won't.

"And what of yours, wolf?" There's too much of a moan for that to come out a seamless purr as he pushes back and tightens.

He wants so much more but he could fuck himself on his fingers all night listening to him.

Wolf. He's momentarily reminded that there's context outside of this moment they're sharing together. The whole reason he's donning a mask to begin with is so he can slip in as anonymously as everybody else not immediately outing themselves. That it's a wolf seemed incredibly fitting, and he'd been darkly amused by the symbolism. On the nose perhaps, but the inside joke he's sure hasn't been lost on his companion.

He is the wolf hunting lambs for the slaughter in this city.

"Deep inside you, where it belongs," is the growl of a response, and if Enver means to speed things up, it's certainly working.

As much as he'd like to keep the other man speared on his fingers and at his mercy, the thick interest pushing against the fabric of his own trousers won't allow it. Perhaps there's a mote of punishment in the fact that it isn't the digits that are inside Enver that return to tug his own trousers down.

Fingers pry trousers open and hook a thumb into the fabric just enough that eventually his cock springs free, tip catching against the round of Enver's delicious left buttock. All the while two fingers slide into the tightening channel towards the other man's core, and it soon becomes apparent that there's another game going on here. One that is intended to have a thrill of panic lance through the smaller man against the wall. The thick tip of his cock rubs up against the very space he has those duo of digits lodged, teasing as though maybe he intends to try fitting it all in one.

"Can you resist the urge?" He asks and it doesn't pass him by that the question is just as darkly amusing as the wolf comment. If the wolf is invited in, there has to be some expectation of savagery. Of brutality for the sake of sating a primal need. With the tip of his cock held at the already prepared - but not by this much - hole, he uses his free hand to slick the rest of his shaft up with the residual oil from earlier.

"Can you stop yourself from screaming when I stuff you this full?" His voice is an impossible mix of silky and rough, his hand now anchoring at the man's hip, grip easily firm enough to leave evidence.

That promise, and Enver knows it is one; he feels himself whetting his lips. His forehead falls against the wall again, breath ragged, biting back and resisting the urge to cover his mouth like he did before. He's still being manipulated from behind but the palm slowly keeping his cock awake but coaxing it no nearer to flagging vanishes and he feels a chill of the sudden neglect, enough to coax a whimper from his throat, even as he can hear why that hand has left him, and in a moment he feels that heat touch him, and it's everything he can do not to push into those fingers more insistently.

But then as much as he relishes fingers already and would be undone by any desire to test how many more he could take, would gladly and not-quietly take, he's not prepared for a different third to not take their place, but intimate joining them. As much as it feels like too much, he needs.

Can he resist? No, he doesn't believe he can.

Can be stop himself from screaming?

He tries to quiet his voice, even his sighs, be still. But his breaths are shallow with anticipation, his everything tense.

"I won't," he utters at last, his voice suggesting both assurance and challenge at once.

There isn't the time or will to seek out clarification in words as to whether the man means he won't resist or he won't scream. There's no such moment of hesitation in the hands that work to drag something from the man, to keep up the necessary pressure for the tip of his cock to have any chance whatsoever of sliding in alongside his digits. It was always going to be an effort and multiple attempts.

In the end, he files away the want and desire to continue like this and chooses to expedite their mutual pleasure so they aren't just fumbling in the dark for him to strike both perfect angle and force.

Though he almost succeeds, close to victory as the stretch of the man around him accommodates just the tip and both his fingers for a moment before he pulls them free. With the head of his cock notching into place far more easily now, he grips hard at Enver's hips and uses them to ram himself from tip to base in one fluid motion. Perhaps it's fortunate his hands pull those hips back towards him as he thrusts, saving the smaller man from an immediate reintroduction to the hardness of the wall.

There is a certain cry, when one is overtaken with a sensation, whether pain or pleasure, that is expected to be momentary, but rather than abating, it instead radiates and insists on being even more. As though you believed answering it would satisfy it, but you are left afloat in how utterly it takes over your reality. That is where Enver Gortash finds himself when his hips are grasped and he is impaled in a single motion. He's pulled into his toes, and one hand braces him against the wall while another vainly grasps at one of the Dark Urge's wrists. Desperate for something to ground and balance him when his connection with it is right now tenuous at best.

He doesn't muffle himself, but soon he is left shivering and reminding himself inwardly to breathe. Black Hand forbid that he's both heard but mistaken to be in some manner of peril. This isn't for anyone else. The only one he needs to give him relief is here already.

In a moment, he's gasping to pull air back into his lungs, shifting around the wolf at the door and adjusting to this new equilibrium, letting himself feel the fullness, embracing it, welcoming it home after too long. Determined to only let it undo him in the ways that he wants.

He hears nothing out in the world beyond now.

Echoing the sentiment becomes something on the verge of uncontrollable, something that he skirts close to time and time again without actually ceding his control. This had been something of a risk when he'd settled on his plan to attend this evening's festivities, reasoning with himself that the whole point of it was to remain anonymous. He'd plan to leave well before the masks slid off and revealed rosy-cheeked partygoers, all too far off centre with alcohol and the rest to mind or notice.

Collaring Enver and removing him far enough from the crowd had been something he'd been prepared to bide his time with. An acceptance that while this is a risk, he doesn't leave it entirely to Enver to shoulder the responsibility of mitigating it.

And yet here they are, just out of sight and reach of the rest of the soiree and yet so totally wrapped up in each other that he struggles to hold back his own sound of enjoyment. The sudden soft heat of the man's guts squeezing the hard length of his cock is almost too much to keep a firm grasp of his control and the other man. But he succeeds, fingers tightening a fraction more and bound to leave marks long after just today.

Mere seconds trickle by as his hips strain to keep him deep, his pulse climbing as he exhales heavily and only when he can't bear to remain still any longer does he move again. Establishing a rhythm at the expense of feeling the tight heat grip at him is a worthy next step, one that he drives forward for the both of them, almost mindless of how close the other man is to being ground into the wall ahead of him.

Whatever rumors like to fly regarding the rising star Military Advisor's path to power, especially in circles such as this, the situation that Enver is currently in is fairly new. Whatever dalliances he has been part of over the years have generally been in more intimately secluded places. The bedroom of an heiress or heir. Fairly innocuous in scope, secret, the sort of thing that did not lead to a lot of rumors flying, if not for his sake then for theirs. A stark contrast to the environment he grew up in, to be sure, and for a long time it was why he preferred it, if it was to be the sort of thing he engaged in at all.

Fitting that this be so different in so many ways. To come from a fairly equal meeting of the minds, where he found himself being pursued rather ardently, when before it was very much an advantage that he himself was chasing.

It is probably why for all his caution, for all his insistence at propriety versus overindulgence, this does not invite in his mind thoughts of anything threatening or beneath his notice. Not that in the moment there is much room for anything in the abstract as far as thinking goes.

There is only this bottomless well of desire meeting an equally brilliant flame and expediently climbing to that apex of pleasure with desperation and fervor. His free hand claws at the stone beneath his touch, the fingers of the other ready to close and tighten against the pain the hold on his hip could far too easily spring, but stroking encouragingly, presently against the backs of rough, tense knuckles. Each full slam inward threatening to rock his head back, pushing another choked moan from his lips.

He bites his lip. He'll be close soon.

Edited 2024-08-06 18:57 (UTC)

Had he the wherewithal to think outside of the sparks of pleasure with every thrust, he might laugh at how this started. The other man had been so irritated to see him, and it's not that he doesn't understand why. But he feels Enver's deep and complete surrender to the invasion, the way his body welcomes every slam of his hips. The sight of nails scratching down stone tell a story all of their own.

He allows himself to fall into the moment bodily, no such urge otherwise to distract him or competing with his arousal and desire to climax. But he isn't so lost that he's forgotten Enver's desire, his palm now dry of oil but distantly he's assuming the other man's cock is still slick.

He doesn't wait around to guess for long. His left hand releases Enver's hip, fingers snaking around the bare strip of his waist before wrapping around the evidence of his desire. There's no need for him to stroke, the force of his hips slamming against Enver's behind and forcing his hips forward into his grip.

It seems as though he's getting closer too, and whether that's because he can feel the other man's desire against his palm now remains to be seen. His hips continue their incessant back and forth, breath still hot in Enver's hair as he wrestles them both towards their conclusion.

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