blueprints_bloodstains | Trouble never sleeps [ insomnia ]

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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.

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"I don't know what you're talking about."

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.

The playful tone, the slight shift in how he is sitting: it all sends a message. The words itself were already a common signal to pursue, one Enver is more likely to employ himself, but he hears the message loud and clear. Rising from the bedside, he saunters into the main room to approach his waiting partner. Immediately, the more open space kisses him with slightly cooler, freer-flowing air.

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?

He can't recall a time he's enjoyed watching a man cross his own domain quite this much. This is markedly Enver's space; his room, his traps, his guards, when they're permitted to enter. There hasn't ever been any question about that. But there's a thrilling excitement that works its way through him at the sight of the human approaching. There's no falter in Enver's gait as he draws closer to the Lord of Murder's favourite son, and that's arousing all on its own.

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.

The Dark Urge initiates contact, in really such a small way, but it really is the response that Gortash was hoping for. He's drawn a few steps nearer, enough that they are not quite fully in contact with each other but enough that he's within the aura the man gives off.

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."

Clearly pleased at this new turn of events - perhaps he's thinking of a phrase he's always found too hopeful but now seems apt, something about what a new day brings - the finger he has in that waistband pulls back. He's very purposeful about the way he drags it down over Enver's still clothed crotch before pulling back entirely and grabbing at the fabric of his jet black shirt.

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.

As much as that little touch leaves his senses dancing with an intoxicating mixture of cautious want, Enver's eyes rake over the shape of the Dark Urge, every unbroken line of his chest, every scar that calls to his fingers like lines on a map, before disappearing under the hem of his trousers -- he can already see the beginnings of strain here, and it's like a siren. He feels himself wetting his lips.

"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."

Edited 2024-08-14 12:33 (UTC)

The talk of rewards pulls a curious expression to the bhaalspawn's features, as if for a moment he's trying to weigh up how he should take that. Brimming in him the most, however, is the intrinsic understanding that he hadn't stayed here as part of a transaction. He hadn't held out - or held the line against any retribution - simply because he was to get something in return because of it.

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."

He realizes he's shaped this like a transaction, and it had not been his full intention. Coming in still nearer, but past his lips, the softest threat of a brush near his ear.

"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.

Humming his immediate approval, it takes a moment of forcing himself, but eventually he lifts his chin, exposes his throat to the other man and accepts it as the move of a prey animal. How far he's fallen is barely something he cares to inspect in this moment, not when he has Enver's mouth dotting a searing line down to his collarbone.

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.

Minding his own balance but allowing for how much height he needs for access, even with the Dark Urge sitting, Enver continues to move downward, eventually his lips and tongue taking the place that his hand was beginning to carve out. Creating wet circles that leave the air around it cool and unrelenting while he makes similar work of its twin, teasing each bud to hardness with light flicks and careful with his teeth but not so careful to hide their presence entirely.

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.

That brazen hand is rewarded in itself with the firm desire of the half-drow pressing urgently against it. Without any other confines beyond the material of his dark trousers, it threatens to spring free the moment it is liberated from its fabric cage.

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.

Enver sinks fully onto his knees between the larger man's legs, kisses over the lace of muscles over his stomach, soft touches just along the waist line. That pressure from his hand vanishes, shifts to his hip. He widens his stance for greater comfort (for his knees, not necessarily his own awakening arousal; it pulls the cloth taut, doesn't allow him to ignore it; in its own way frustrating but it eggs him on).

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.

The cool air from the room rushes in to envelope the heat of his cock, now stuffed with blood and standing to attention. His feet shift beneath his legs, heels of his boots scraping at the stone below as he widens his thick thighs. It's practical to give Enver space, and he doesn't need to see the man to know where he is. His vision is excellent but his sense of spatial awareness and where other people are in relation to him is just as honed.

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.

His gaze, only interrupted by the occasional slow and assuring blink, remains lidded and mostly transfixed. He rolls his lips to protect from his teeth, wetting more with his mouth and heavy, practiced strokes against the flat of his tongue, letting his hands work and warm him, where he otherwise would have strained to reach. There is firm pressure but in its own way gentle. The ministrations of a man who had likely done this before, understood careful limits, and the sound that shakes hotly around the man all signal that he is savoring perhaps something he has been waiting to do.

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.

Equally as transfixed by this new assault to his senses, his eyes drink in every last detail and commit them to memory. The way his cock glistens with Enver's effort, or the shape of his eyelashes fanned out and dark from this angle. The movement of his hair as he bobs his head. Every inch of attention that feels, incredibly, like they're the only two beings left in the world. He'd wince at that particularly dark shade of humour if he had the spare thinking space.

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.

His own hips move under him but he might as well be grinding the empty air, reminded but driven further by the trapped swell of his own erection. Enver dives in with single-minded determination when he has even a hint that The Dark Urge might be rounding the bend soon. The hand on his hair causes his eyes to flutter closed again, added contact, a silent signal? Command? Plea? not to stop. As if he could. As if he would.

He isn't chasing money, or connections, or any sort of advantage. He is with the beautiful man he is going to conquer and rule the world with, and right now this is all he desires:

To take in the feel and the smell and the taste of him and lose his mind to it.

The friction of his palms, the manipulation of his fingers, the broad urging of his tongue, and soon suction as well (now even more careful of his teeth). Maddening, demanding want.

Perhaps it's the taste leaking onto the man's tongue that gives away the speed at which he's hurtling towards coming partially undone, never fully in the presence of Enver for fear of what that could result in. But for the part of him that he will allow loose under the other man's careful ministrations, there truly is no hope of staving off the inevitable. Not with Enver's hot, wet mouth bathing his cock in attention he has no hope of - or wish to - defend himself against.

Simply put, he's mostly pliable, the fingers in Enver's hair now starting to tighten as the appearance of his climax is about to crest over the hill. He resists the urge to plant his heels harder into the floor beneath so that he can thrust, determined to give his lover every bit of control in this, though the sweat that's collecting at his temples and over his chest is evidence enough of how much he's holding back. The thoughts of choking the smaller man on his cock have been present the whole time but herded into the back of his mind.

There isn't the experience to know he should warn the man when he feels the flutter of intense pleasure right before his balls tighten, to give Enver the option to choose where exactly his seed ends up. And so the only signal offered up is the very last minute second hand added to dark hair, not quite holding him in place but certainly making it slightly more difficult to move. A deeply pleasured moan is yanked from him - almost loud enough to echo in the room - and his climax finds him, slamming into him violently and without reprieve.

Whether surprise or something else, the sound that little taste summons out of him he might have found embarrassingly -- young, for him to make. Soft, subtly elated that he's being given what he is after; it has the quality of a first blush. It adds another low thrum to his ministrations. But his eyes when they open again are still ablaze with command.

For all he has allowed himself to give, the act itself is not one he has ever seen as subservient. It can't be when you know what you're doing, in his mind. When you can feel someone tremble over the smallest manipulation and utterly crumble at the full force.

And not even a drop of blood drawn. That's not what he's seeking to draw anyway.

He doesn't have a lot of forewarning, but it's not the most sudden he has ever dealt with. His mouth is full of more than just cock and he feels himself drawing back a little and instinctively beginning to swallow before he makes a mess all over himself. That moan echoes in his ears and his hands are still coaxing as he makes sure he has all of it.

Sans a drop or two that has managed to escape the corner of his mouth when he finally releases him. He sighs a satisfied breath, nuzzling the fingers in his hair, almost tilting his face up to kiss them.

Umber eyes full of heat and longing, his own desire still trapped but maddeningly patient. His hands fall to the Dark Urge's thighs.

Despite it being Enver's mouth most recently flooded with seed, he licks his own lips as his body comes down from the high of his orgasm. His heart is still racing, pulse demanding acknowledgement as his eyes stay fixed on the man at his feet. Without any experience prior to this of what it is they've just done, it's easy enough for him to assume which side of the dynamic is the more submissive part. It's passed him by that it's him.

"What are we calling that?"

His voice is hoarse and deep. More so than usual. If there's ever been any shame of his inexperience with sexual encounters outside of what the cult deems standard, it doesn't make any appearance here. In fact he seems as though he's still holding himself in that chair. As though he will do just long enough that he finds out what that's called so he knows for next time. And it is a battle, the way Enver looks slightly dishevelled already is really challenging his willpower.

"Oral sex." It seems wiser to be plain and for now keep it simple. Enver is almost cheeky and responds with kissing. But he thinks better of it. "There are a number of common words for it, but oral covers the full gamot." Of everything he just did. He could go into technical terms but launching into a lecture right now seems a little silly.

His hands caress the tops of his thighs, maybe a little deliberately avoiding any shift inward.

"You were very patient." And so has he. "But I hope it was a sufficient demonstration."

After what he's just experienced, he might have been expecting something more intense sounding than 'oral sex'. It's perfectly perfunctory, though that doesn't particularly match up with how it made him feel. How Enver made him feel. So to think of it in terms of just the description rather than something more passionate is an odd fit.

He doesn't linger on that thought too long, the man's hands at his thighs just suggestive enough to keep him engaged. Rather than letting his flagging erection be the end of it, he finally moves.

A hand cups under Enver's chin, keeping it tilted upwards as he swoops in. His mouth finds lips, and though this is the first time he's ever initiated what could constitute a full-mouthed kiss, it becomes clear why. His tongue presses against the soft close of his lover's mouth, licking into the wet space that had thoroughly treated his cock to intense bliss.

He's tasting himself.

Enver has an idea what he is doing, or at the very least the thought of it sends a thrill of a shudder through him as he's kissed. Tasted. The essence of his lover still on his tongue and now considerably more. It's a rather advanced move, for people new to it, some squeamish with the idea of kissing after. All the more surprising from someone who did not appear to hate kissing, but seemed especially unfamiliar with it. Then again, what use did Bhaalists have for such an act, if it were not done to cause pain?

There is no pain here. No punishing force. No bite.

Just a kiss that told him to get to his feet and go wherever this man wanted him, if it meant relief and release. If it meant more.

He needed more.

He explores every inch of Enver's mouth until the angle no longer suits, breaking their kiss for long enough to breathe, then grin heatedly. Much as he would like to do that again, and soon, he's also keen to ensure he's giving as good as he's getting. Whether he's heard what makes for a generous lover or not, the desire is there and very much his own to make Enver climax too.

In fact, his fingers are quick and exceedingly adept as he tugs at the other man's trousers, peeling them from his hips and pushing them down his legs. He wants them off, and he's not shy about making that clear.

"These are in the way," he says, amusement buried somewhere within the frustration he can feel bubbling to the surface. Mostly he's silently requesting that Enver help remove them, the last step a literal step out of the fabric pooling at his ankles.

With his own cock still semi-hard and hanging out of his trousers, he matched the man's state of undress by pushing down his own. Soon enough he's in Enver's chair stark naked, eyes fixed on the man before him hungrily.

Enver rises, his breath stopping in his throat when the shift in his position only leaves him yet another reminder of what remains hidden. Enough that when he finally does climb out of his trousers, it is with a breath of relief. As completely uncloaked as his partner, he falls forward again, catching the Dark Urge's mouth in another longing, tasting kiss.

He wants to climb into his lap but there isn't quite enough room without standing his knees on the man's thighs or testing the strength of the chair's arms.

"Anywhere," he finally whispers against his lips. "However you want it. I do, too. Right now."

As much as his thoughts had travelled the same lines - the chair seems an interesting location - he's not yet far gone enough to forget the magic ingredient. Even as Enver practically throws himself forward, and his arms are there to catch him, he's thinking about the fact he'll need to cross the room to find a vial of something.

The only thing even close to reaching distance is a bottle of ink, and somehow even he's aware it won't be thick enough to work. So while Enver plants kisses against his lips, he's already gathering him up.

"Do you not recall what happened the last time you said something like that?" He's teasing as he lifts the man bodily onto the edge of the table and insinuates himself between his legs, close enough that their cocks slide against each other.

Parting to cross the room and retrieve oil is harder to do now that he can feel the insides of Enver's knees at his hips. It keeps him where he is for a few seconds longer, his lips tingling with the effect of his lover's kisses, pleasant and warm.

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