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blueprints_bloodstains2024-08-11 10:06 am
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Trouble never sleeps [ insomnia ]
Though this entire version of the plan hinges on retrieving the Crown of Karsus, he feels as though they have nothing to lose by pursuing it. Nothing, of course, except their lives at best and their relative freedom at worst. It isn't until afterwards that the bhaalspawn lets a lick of 'what if' touch him, and even then it's muted, stuck beneath the elation of his plan proceeding the way he had intended it to. Satisfaction exists just beneath his sudden and all-consuming need for blood.
When he had taken the idea to Enver, he hadn't been sure yet of the details. He knew the location of the crown and what he planned to do with it, but assaulting an archdevil's vault had always come with the snag of how to get there.
His Banite ally had been more than connected enough to have answers, the diabolist he had in pocket arranging the portal. The remaining work had been to firm up all details and then execute, and he'd been steadfast in refusing to allow a shred of fear invade.
The agreement had been that he wouldn't slaughter and leave behind traces of their crime unless absolutely necessary. Risk to their own limb or life would have been all the permission he'd need to deviate from that agreement, and yet their journey had been remarkably smooth.
It isn't until after they have returned, Mephistopheles' vault lighter by the extraordinarily powerful artefact, and he has long left Enver in order to sate his dark urges that something strikes him as odd. As though he's run his finger over a smooth piece of wood only to find the tears in the grain. He had escorted Enver from the shadows his entire walk back from the diabolist, ensuring his safety. But once he was back within range of a mounting defence, should there be retribution, he peels away to worship Bhaal.
It's in the clarity of freshly spilled blood that he abandons his plan to leave for Moonrise Towers and instead doubles back on himself. The usual path to Enver's chamber is a well trodden one, but he purposely takes a different route as he works his way back.
He isn't stopped once, and for a moment he wonders if Enver has gone so far as to give him automatically easy access whenever he needs it. The traps aren't quite so discerning. He spots them immediately, used to them being deactivated when he's visiting with Enver, now poised to make him sorry for paying a visit at all. It all feeds into a sense of tension, one that he hadn't been able to pay enough attention to ahead of sacrificing lives to his father.
It isn't until he permits himself entry to the man's space that he's greeted with light. Enough of it to betray a very distinct lack of sleep, or attempt at it. Given the energy it had taken to find and steal the crown, he finds his concerns validated. His own semi rejuvenation, gleaned from intense worship, hasn't completely freed him from fatigue, and he can only imagine how Enver must feel
It keeps him momentarily quiet rather than allowing the name that lives on his tongue more often than not these days to slip loose, just in case, against all odds, the man has found reprieve from consciousness momentarily. He stands well out of range of the vicious traps, on the precipice of Enver's primary dominion, vision flicking around in search of the man himself.
When he had taken the idea to Enver, he hadn't been sure yet of the details. He knew the location of the crown and what he planned to do with it, but assaulting an archdevil's vault had always come with the snag of how to get there.
His Banite ally had been more than connected enough to have answers, the diabolist he had in pocket arranging the portal. The remaining work had been to firm up all details and then execute, and he'd been steadfast in refusing to allow a shred of fear invade.
The agreement had been that he wouldn't slaughter and leave behind traces of their crime unless absolutely necessary. Risk to their own limb or life would have been all the permission he'd need to deviate from that agreement, and yet their journey had been remarkably smooth.
It isn't until after they have returned, Mephistopheles' vault lighter by the extraordinarily powerful artefact, and he has long left Enver in order to sate his dark urges that something strikes him as odd. As though he's run his finger over a smooth piece of wood only to find the tears in the grain. He had escorted Enver from the shadows his entire walk back from the diabolist, ensuring his safety. But once he was back within range of a mounting defence, should there be retribution, he peels away to worship Bhaal.
It's in the clarity of freshly spilled blood that he abandons his plan to leave for Moonrise Towers and instead doubles back on himself. The usual path to Enver's chamber is a well trodden one, but he purposely takes a different route as he works his way back.
He isn't stopped once, and for a moment he wonders if Enver has gone so far as to give him automatically easy access whenever he needs it. The traps aren't quite so discerning. He spots them immediately, used to them being deactivated when he's visiting with Enver, now poised to make him sorry for paying a visit at all. It all feeds into a sense of tension, one that he hadn't been able to pay enough attention to ahead of sacrificing lives to his father.
It isn't until he permits himself entry to the man's space that he's greeted with light. Enough of it to betray a very distinct lack of sleep, or attempt at it. Given the energy it had taken to find and steal the crown, he finds his concerns validated. His own semi rejuvenation, gleaned from intense worship, hasn't completely freed him from fatigue, and he can only imagine how Enver must feel
It keeps him momentarily quiet rather than allowing the name that lives on his tongue more often than not these days to slip loose, just in case, against all odds, the man has found reprieve from consciousness momentarily. He stands well out of range of the vicious traps, on the precipice of Enver's primary dominion, vision flicking around in search of the man himself.
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He bypasses the very immediate response that he almost hears in his father's - Bhaal's - voice. Time and freedom won't be his to command. Not when he has the rest of the plan to follow through on, and if he knows his father as well as he thinks he does, he won't be swayed into letting his spawn delay for such mortal pursuits.
"I don't know."
It seems as truthful of an answer he can give Enver without feeling as though he'll lose himself completely at the prospect of what has to be done. He's run away from his guilt once already. He shouldn't be contemplating that this may be a repeat performance, simply for where it puts him in terms of feelings.
He won't lie. He won't claim to not know how Bhaal would feel about that just as much as he won't say whatever time Enver thinks they have afterwards, it's likely not anywhere near as long as either of them may be hoping for.
"I don't know if the memory is worthy enough of revisiting again."
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"As you wish, but should you ever change your mind, the offer stands."
He has very little experience himself, save for maybe the odd patchwork and stitches on other fabrics, the sorts of things you just learn to do from a young age to keep your belongings maintained.
He'll write that down later, he thinks. It might or might not be important. But to just put it someplace, just in case. Maybe it's not worth revisiting. That's only maybe, though.
He closes his eyes, and they feel too heavy to immediately open again.
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"I hadn't expected, when we first started corresponding, that this would be within the realms of possibility."
If he sounds slightly wistful, it isn't for long. The sentence is spoken into the top of Enver's head and he falls silent again. Holds his lover - there's no other word for him in this moment - close until he recalls why he walked the man over to his bed to begin with. Only then does he gently, carefully start to extricate himself in favour of guiding the man to his pillow.
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And then all of this. It seems silly to say, even to himself, that he's grateful. One gives praise to their god, of course, but some things you accept without such open enthusiasm, lest it betray something else.
You could also be speaking too soon.
He feels a little smaller, with the arm around him, the breath in his hair, and "...Damnation, why must I be tired right now?"
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He does it anyway.
Undressing seems like too much movement for a man who seems to be on the cusp of slumber regardless, and he doesn't want to rouse him instead of helping him wind down. So he leaves Bane's Chosen fully dressed sans his shoes. Tugs up the corners of the sheets and blankets that are available and drapes them over his prone form.
"Sleep well, Enver."
He stays only a few moments more, enough to satisfy himself with the breathing pattern of the slumbering living - novel - before stepping away and finding himself a posting that gives him full view of the main entrance to the room. There he stays, a blade his only form of entertainment for as long as Enver needs to rest.
Whenever he wakes, it'll be to his drow half-elf guest still guarding him from a chair he's set out facing the doors.
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Being taken care of. Assured of safety. Those are all things you handle for yourself after a certain age, and perhaps he learned or did without much sooner than most. To the point that the body has an instinct to reject someone who tries to do it for you, perhaps even violently.
Unless they are the correct person, should that exist.
That Enver Gortash doesn't resist any step of this process, that it is the Dark Urge's hands that guide every movement, could be written off as merely tiredness. But that would be selling a number of things short. His hand still catches one of them, letting his fingertips memorize the lines and shape even as his mind slips.
He's not awake enough to listen for him once he leaves his bedside, and he's dead to the world well after sunrise. It's near to highsun when he stirs again, stretches (room enough at least for him to do that), a long breath coming in through his nose.
Then, memory. He sits up, another stretch as he levers himself to the bedside. Thinking he was left to sleep once he was finally out and stopping short on seeing that he is not, in fact, alone.
Did he remain the whole time? Leave and return? "...How long?"
The chime of the waterclock tower in the lower city catches his ears just then, and he winces.
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The rustle of fabric, or maybe the shift of the mattress, alerts him to the change in Enver's state. The chair he's chosen to occupy - getting up every so often only to stretch his legs - creaks as he turns to look over, icy eyes filled with amusement almost immediately as the chime speaks on his behalf.
"Welcome back," is mirthful response, his attention catching more on the shape a just woken up Enver cuts against his bedsheets than anything else. It's a pleasing sight, one that he would like to keep hold of and remember when they need to part soon enough.
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From Moondark to now? He almost asks if he slept at all, but remembers before it escapes that he has no actual need for that kind of rest, the way humans do. It places him at a rather unique disadvantage between the pair of them.
He still feels the lazy need to stretch and awaken his limbs fully, but he's well-rested. Far more than he would have been otherwise -- even if he had managed to drop off the very second that the Dark Urge had arrived, he still expected to be awake at drawn and ready to get back to work.
His clothing unfurls around him as he uncovers himself, no reason to be dirty but they feel soiled just by virtue of sleeping in them, and he has already set to unlacing, considering running a bath.
Before business gets him too far ahead in his endeavors or thoughts, it catches his attention that he's being watched, and the beginnings of a smile appear. "Rather gallant, I'd argue."
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Not that it seems he's being all too serious about it, especially as he's yet to take his eyes off the man systematically starting to strip himself. Perhaps it speaks to how comfortable he is in the presence of this particular Bhaalspawn. Though there's a hunger in the half-elf's gaze that speaks to how appreciated it is that layers are being shed.
This moment, in actuality, feels precious already just for the fact it's the first time in recent memory that he's sat in a room with a sleeping occupant and they woke up alive and well the next morning. There isn't a trace of blood anywhere, and even though he'll soon enough need to turf himself out to return to worship, it's easy enough to keep it on a low simmer.
So he looks. Enjoys. Doesn't yet rise from the chair but does turn it, wood scraping against the floor, so he has a better view of the human and what he's up to.
"Don't let me stop you..."
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He never broke eye contact, and clearly knows what he was saying. There's something coy in the question. All the same he shrugs out of his shirt and starts to carefully unfasten the metal pieces on his arms, sans the finger splints, giving the skin underneath some time to breathe, and already he feels far better.
His glance becomes appraising, for a moment lamenting the number of layers between the Dark Urge's body and open air, but pleased nonetheless with the opportunity to imagine.
Rather early to be thinking that way. Or it would be, if a tighter schedule had been kept to.
"Seems rather unfair, if you ask me."
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The words don't match up with his expression, the tug at the corners of his lips and the humour practically sparkling in his eyes reflecting his jubilance at parroting back one of Enver's own lines at him. It's meant in good faith, jest rather than anything else. He can play coy just as well now that he's had a few examples provided of how to be that.
But despite the purposeful play, he hasn't taken his eyes off Enver. There isn't a moment where he feels as though he should, the heat in his gaze almost entirely his piqued interest and arousal rather than anything more sinister. He watches the progress like an eager onlooker, his feet shifting apart only by a fraction as he gets even more comfortable. Apparently he's here for the imminent display of skin and no amount of playing coy is going to hide that.
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His feet going from the silent rug to padding against the cool stone floor creates a distinct sound that immediately catches his ears. Mentally he is cataloguing where he remembers his boots are, the work of an instant he's not going to allow to become a distraction.
Apparently he's stopping at bare chest, but the way his eyes flicker, from the Dark Urge's face, to body, to hands, he might not object to an even playing field.
But the fact that he doesn't immediately speak, does not extend a hand even when in reach? Is a challenge in itself.
Now that his mind and body seem to be accepting that the danger is passed, why not celebrate?
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They enter a stand-off, but it doesn't last long, the lack of reaching on the other man's part not discouraging in the least. In fact, a finger is hooked unapologetically into the waistband of the smaller man's trousers, tugging him forward to stand between his legs. With eyes upturned to look at his lover, his grin melts into something altogether softer, whatever relief he's started to feel that they're past last night filters through to his expression.
He'd never told Enver that he's safe using that word specifically, but that's what his self-imposed posting in this chair had been about.
"Would you like me to take my clothes off for you, Enver?" He asks, warm finger still slotted between waistband and skin, wiggling only a little as he contemplates how much he's aching for the other man's body.
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There is a certain thrill, of course, that even being only half-undressed there is this contrast between the two of them. Another way in which he feels exposed, but safe, and he wouldn't feel this way for anyone else.
That it's just one finger, but it could the fullness of his hands altogether, anywhere they wished to be. Everywhere. The soft fullness of his lips pulled in a gentle smile, that he wanted to taste. A voice he ached to hear. And there is so much more, but those are the parts that aren't hidden right now.
"That and likely a good deal more."
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Even at quarters this close he manages to tug the offending garment up and off him without once straying into the other man's territory. A well-practiced movement that betrays how many small spaces he's had to strip down in before. Likely experiences the Chosen of Bane doesn't want to know about, given their Bhaalist slant.
He discards the shirt somewhere to his side, the way it lands on the table more of a happy accident rather than him being particularly neat and tidy. Nothing inside of him feels neat and tidy right now, the way he feels his pulse in his throat and the way his trousers start to tighten around the crotch. The careful way he has to balance out reaching for something messy without losing control of himself, that it makes him nervous, and it's been almost exclusively in this man's presence.
Now that they're in matching stages of undress, his hands both return to Enver's waistband, fingertips brushing over his exposed belly and it's almost reverent. Almost a worship of its own kind despite the voice in his head that supplies the notion that the man's intestines are so very close.
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"You have done me a favor."
Before this, before them, it had been a few years since anything like it. But it was never like this -- pleasant, but a tool to use when necessary. This pulls at him like gravity. It's not thinking someone attractive and the eventual climb to bliss that strikes him only well after the act is under way.
Here it is constant. Facets of it always.
He's cognizant of the fact that he can be wanted and sought; he would be a fool not to be. At least they play well at that. Here he hungers and clings to the idea that someone feels that for him, as well.
He ventures closer, near enough to kiss but just shy of it, not quite touching until just one hand ghosts against his shoulder, over his chest.
"I do mean to reward you."
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It's a thought that provokes a slight distraction, a moment buried within this one that they're sharing that seems to come loose from how keyed in he has been to Enver up until this point. His desire to say as much gets stuck somewhere behind his inability to know how to phrase that sentiment. A nice sentiment, in fact. A curious thing and something else he's mentally noting down as feelings that Enver has inspired in him that he doesn't recall feeling before.
"If you wish to reward me, I'm only too happy to oblige," is what he eventually says, skin warm beneath Enver's touch as a hand trails down the hard swell of his chest, packed tight with muscle that gives some indication how much strength it takes to wear his armour and wield his sword. The other man is so tantalisingly close now that it would take barely a breath to have him pinned somewhere to ravage. And yet he stays exactly where he is, back pressed against the chair to give his lover the opportunity to lead.
"Though... I do not seek one."
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"A gift, then."
A hint of a smile in that whisper.
"Appreciation but still yours just the same. More pleasure without pain."
His lips find a spot just where his jaw overtakes his throat. The slightest touch of a warm tongue. Following a trail to his clavicle.
Further down his fingers are still light, sweeping and teasing more than exploring, until the tip of one circles a nipple, the soft pad, the harder blade of a well-manicured nail but also the foreign, cool, smooth metal of his ring splint. A mixture of strange, intermingling sensations all centered in one place.
It's not a threat, he's already promised as much, but he watches and listens carefully. Drinking in and noting each reaction. His.
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His adam's apple bobs as he feels the confusing sensation at his nipple, his hips shifting just enough that it's clear he's putting hard work into keeping himself seated. As though he'd like to spring out of the chair and take matters into his own hands with every additional moment that ticks by.
For Enver he waits, a brutish assassin kept in place by a single pair of lips and a solitary finger. Whatever control he's used to keeping a tight fist around slips just enough that a slightly ragged breath is extracted from deep in his lungs.
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The point isn't to bite. No pain, he said. And maybe anything leaning in that direction is for another day.
But not everyone is equally sensitive here, so as ever he remains mindful of what he is hearing, what he feels beneath him.
Meanwhile he maintains his balance with a hand stroking the Dark Urge's outer thigh, another brazenly feeling the shape of him through the front of his trousers. All with pressure, intent, calling attention to everything he is doing and all but announcing his trajectory.
Be ready for me.
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Similarly, there's a noise that's trying to work its way up his throat at the soft, wet attention each of his nipples are receiving. The sound somebody makes when they're already feeling overwhelmed with sensation and it isn't pain. It's not a pained cry that's queuing up to be loosed upon the world.
He all but sighs as he breathes out more shakily this time, swallowing the noise. With his head now rested against the back of the chair, the wood behind supporting it, his eyes settle shut. Short fingernails dig into the soft grain of the seat, anchoring him there so that he doesn't forget to keep himself contained.
This whole situation is the opposite of how he usually engages, a decidedly passive role of accepting what is done to him versus steering with his own action. It leaves him in need of clawing back some sense of control even if it's only just enough to keep himself still.
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He glances up as his fingers to work at laces, buttons, catches, anything keeping him from his prize, and he releases his hip to gently part folds of cloth. He's near enough that the heat of his breath can be felt on the Dark Urge's freed manhood.
His eyes trail upward, and he's tempted to call for him to watch. To see him entranced.
But he wants to see what will induce him to without words. As his lips touch his stomach, just below where he was last, just touching the beginnings of the flesh his work revealed, and his hands are already exploring, smoothing over the shape of his balls, caressing the length of his awakened shaft and so, so close to what he's only been able to admire in other ways.
And he wants that, too. All of it at the same time. He contains that thought, and at last his tongue lashes out, first tracing the head before guiding it reverently past his lips.
He closes his eyes at the moan that ripples up his throat, and when they open again, they are inviting and stiflingly focused.
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He wouldn't be a very good assassin if he wasn't hyper aware of bodies and where they are at any one time.
It doesn't prepare him for what comes next, the fondling at his balls feels appropriate. The life of a bhaalspawn does tend to feel skewed towards cultists being obsessed with their seed. To have his balls cupped like this feels as though it marries up with what he's been told for more than a decade.
But when that clever mouth slips over the tip of his cock he groans, eyes immediately snapping open and gaze bolting to fix at his lover's face. His own expression is intense, fingernails now digging out wood from the arms of the chair as his jaw stays slack. Words, if he even had any, refuse to form. Whatever this is, he seems to trust Enver by way of the pleasured pressure fastened around the glans of his penis.
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And Enver has. Just as he imagined it every time he could feel his heat and his kisses became more desperate and wanton, he was thinking of the opposite now, not missing one for the other but relishing the thought of both. Completely consumed in want of him.
And for a moment he slips his lips away with a wet sound to breathe, let's the shock of cool air hit him, lets the touch of his cheek and lips soothe. There is something like a silent plea in his eyes, full communication of the state it all leaves him in, and he returns to it diligently.
Look at me. Want me as much as I want you.
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He doesn't even have the wherewithal to feel a fraction of guilt over that last blasphemous thought, Bhaal's existence never actually any further than the depths of his blood. But he's so fully keyed into this moment that it feels like he is giving all of himself to Enver.
The cool air draws his first gasp, breath catching at the back of his throat as he lavishes the smaller man with what remains of his focus. Understanding the plea for what it is, he keeps his gaze trained firmly on his lover, finally allowing a hand to lift from the arm of the chair to tangle in Enver's hair. He doesn't tug, much as he wants to, and can feel the heat of violence behind that thought, but his fingers do tighten at the top of that styled head of hair as though biding its time.
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