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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That question inspires memories of their first time. Convention over convenience. And the thought he had then as he does now of letting it go without preparation (which would have very much been a mistake).

Being lifted is a strange experience. He's not very small, but he likes the feeling of it. Like he weighs nothing at all, in the arms of the mountain of heat and sinew that gathers him up at seats him on the desktop. Clear from the night before. Ravenous kisses and he cannot help but feel his hips try to lift to meet the caress of them meeting there.

And perhaps because his mind is in the same place as the half-drow's, a free hand is already fumbling for a small compartment at the head of the table. Too small to really count as a drawer. When the Dark Urge nearly pulls away, his other hand catches his shoulder.

He smiles. "It just so happens I do," he breathily smiles, producing a vial. "I said I would be prepared."

"Have I mentioned before that I enjoy the way your mind works?" At this point it's a completely unnecessary statement. They had been commanded by their deities to reach out to each other and find a way to work together. It hadn't ever needed to work this well, nor this intimately.

At no point had his father suggested that he bed Bane's Chosen repeatedly, or find every aspect of his person interesting and attractive.

He couldn't have imagined this at their first meeting, and hadn't the capacity to have hoped for it either. But here they are, his fingers plucking that glass vial from Enver's, undeniable warmth in his chest at this moment of togetherness. It really feels like they're something to each other.

"Of course you are," he murmurs in response, eyes dropping to Enver's lips as he uncorks the bottle, distracted bare moments later by the way they're sliding against each other.

Well, something has to keep you coming back besides work, he almost says. Mainly because there are a number of somethings presently on display. The sound of the vial uncorking catches his attention, his eyes flickering toward it with interest.

He wets his lips, considering how to position himself. Will it be easier to lift his hips if he lies back? Should he stand and turn around? Feeling the Dark Urge's cock against his own he likes that idea rather less. Not that they can keep at this forever.

And he'd hate to waste all of this on frottage, especially when visits are about to become a little more seldom.

"Tell me how you want it," he purrs.

Taken by the idea of the table in theory more than practice, he soon comes to the conclusion that he doesn't see a way for this not to result in bruises. Given the sheer number of times he's taken up residence atop the solid wood surface, it likely isn't a surprise that he desires to fuck on it. His respect for Enver is deeper than his respect for all but one - his father - and so it isn't a case of wanting to fuck on top of this man's workstation.

It's not to make a mockery of it.

It's about mess, and imperfection, especially if he can have the smaller man groaning his pleasure.

So when he's asked how he wants it, his eyes flick to the table itself as though waiting for inspiration to pop out at him. It seems as though the only way to avoid the smattering of bruises on his lover is to have him on the very edge. But, first thing's first.

"Fingers first?"

Obligingly, "Please." He spares a moment, catches a kiss, enjoys another moment of that delicious friction, before he lets himself lie back, knees still locked close to his hips but easy enough to reposition if directed. He brings his lover's free hand with him, taking some warmth along.

As many as you want, he almost says. Even now the part of him that comes more untethered in moments like this still remains inside, just beneath the surface.

Maybe someday he'll find voice for more of it without prompting.

Someday they'll have all the time they want to go searching for that.

As Enver unfurls himself upon the tabletop, the sight provokes just as much arousal as direct contact could. In another set of circumstances, this could be so very different. A man spreading himself out, offering himself up with no such hesitations. It digs into the depths of his desire to sacrifice for a hot, distracting moment, the flood of crimson across his vision before he blinks it away. Even here, in this most personal of places, he is reminded that Bhaal is always there. Always present to remind him of his heritage.

Used to dealing with his urges, however, and keeping them under wraps, there is no falter in the way his hand splays out on Enver's abs. It's not firm enough to be misconstrued as pinning, more a light and exploratory touch, sliding up over his chest and eventually cupping a cheek. There is stays momentarily as he drinks his lover in before the hand retreats for a different kind of attention.

Oil glugs from the bottle, his fingers slick and itching to press into the tight heat he knows is waiting for him. The vial is stowed somewhere to the side, out of reach so they won't knock it accidentally. And then he's using Enver's shin, grasped gently, to guide his leg back and out.

His gaze flicks up to find Enver's as his finger finds the narrow channel to his body. He waits for permission, for the express affirmative that the other man wants this. How far he's come in such a short space of time, but perhaps it's so much more obvious in this man's presence. Nobody else gets close to this kind of treatment from the son of Bhaal.

It never enters his mind as a moment of potential danger. Different in every way from any intimate encounter Enver has known, beyond any experience if only because his own desire has never pressed him so to sate it wherever he may. Which in itself only made it more intense. Like that corridor at the party, he realizes there are fewer barriers to a yes than he thought himself capable.

He's guided to splay himself and a shiver runs through him, the whole of him exposed to open air and hungry eyes, from gently parted lips, nipples erect from the chill, his cock at attention and waiting, similarly that twitching orifice. He feels himself nodding.

This could be for no one else.

Fingers, yes. Then more. He must have more. He can be patient but only so much. He needs this and he needs him.

A solitary finger presses into the warmth the moment he notes the other man's assent, the soft pressure a pleasure to experience even just with his hand. His cock twitches with contained longing, desperate to be part of the experience but he knows that he must wait until his lover is sufficiently prepared.

For all his violent delights in every other aspect of his existence, this place is so markedly different that gentleness isn't difficult to embody. He is the very picture of it as he sinks his digit deep, as deep as he can get it, recognises that he could add another without injuring the man spread for him.

And so he does, not waiting for permission this time but hoping he's reading Enver's body correctly. His gaze attaches to the other man's expression, searching for pleasure as he works two fingers in this time.

Already a good angle comes unbidden as his hips unconsciously roll into that sensation. If he were less distracted, Enver would already be mentally planning other locations, or how to modify familiar ones to make this as easily achieved.

There is something about the locale, in sight of his bed but still out in the more open part of the room, that makes this feel more...or rather, less private. Even if no one would dare set foot here without summoning. There is still the idea that this is a converted receiving hall, it is built to hold many people. So it feels like something more...operative. Available. It catches at that mild wariness of other eyes but provides proper sanctuary to toy with it without risk.

Gortash's eyes meet his lover's just as the second enters. He doesn't wince away, but his gaze eases into something supplicant, the sound he utters rising in pitch as his fingers increase their depth. Delighted.

He almost covers his mouth but his fingers stop, curling just under his chin.

Part of the reason he chose the table was because of its risk, the possibility that the grand doors could open and they would suddenly be faced with an audience. It would have been easier to hide in the chair. Not by much, but enough that tucking each other away again and finding an explanation would have been easier.

Here they are moored at the island that is the table, preparing to fuck on top of it as though this isn't where Enver plans and prepares some of the most crucial aspects of their plans.

He enjoys that thought in particular, eyes watching as the other man catches himself before covering his mouth. The approval that flits across his features stays long enough to be easily read.

With two fingers buried in Enver's back passage, there's only so long before he'll want to replace them with something else. Something bigger. The temptation to make that his cock drags a look of impatience forward, as though he's feeling like he can barely wait any longer despite there having been no time limit set. He's just deeply aware that time limitations are about to make them both very busy men.

In fairness, Enver is probably not doing much to make the wait easier. The way he writhes and moans. Not muffling himself, of course -- he remembers earlier lessons and over time has been less hesitant in these moments (or given to holding back as a challenge, a silent signal when he wants to be "corrected" or handled with more roughness).

But they are very much on the same page, imagining what this place could lead to in the right circumstances, and he can trace things back to the night of the masquerade for this turn in his tastes. No doubt that they were heard. No indication that anyone outwardly suspected afterward, of course, but that is the sort of thing people keep to themselves. What happens at Carnivale stays at Carnivale and all.

He hasn't fully begun to unpack why that does something for him.

But it's entirely the Dark Urge's fault.

But however he is making time stretch to something longer, he is also using that time diligently in some ways. His flesh knows his partner's hands; he moulds and adjusts with welcoming fervor, and at least for him, it is not too great a span of time at all. Maybe he is just impatient. But if he has to reach that summit this has quickly become how he prefers it, so what does it matter if he is?

"I can't wait anymore," he breathes, hushed like he can barely keep up with the words.

It's not so much victory as fond amusement that settles over the half-drow's face. Concentration as it was, the fact Enver has run dry on patience tickles him the moment the man speaks and breaks into his careful, dedicated preparation. He's well aware that he's well-endowed, but until Enver he had never been the type to think about preparing his bedmates. It seemed somewhat redundant.

"Hmm," he hums his agreement but reaches just a little further into his lover's body, trying to stretch to the spot he knows feels good before he leaves the man's entrance empty and wanting.

Thick fingers use some of the excess oil to stroke the length of his own cock, base to tip and back again as he eyes his lover hungrily. He probably could do with more, though at least he's left Enver dripping with it that the moment he slides himself home, it won't matter.

And so he leans in, mouth actively searching for Enver's now that he's got a taste for it, his hips drawing in and hand lowering the tip of his desire just enough to catch at the other man's hole.

A surprised sound at that surprised depth, but another when it's gone. He was expecting, almost, to be chided, for his partner to insist on preparing him further just to watch him writhe until he finally begged for cock, and gods he would. As lurid as required from him just to feel the Dark Urge filling him.

So he is as patient as he can manage until rewarded, and he is just as eager to give back, embracing one long awaited to return home.

The kiss is unexpected but just as desired, swallowing that first cry and blissful sighs to follow. All of him opened and entered and all of it is for this man.

His hand finds the back of the Dark Urge's neck. Not holding him there but welcoming. This is your place and no one else's. Drink your fill.

As their mouths find each other, he thrusts hard enough to slide Enver's backside an inch or so over the smoothly varnished surface. The full force of his desire is slightly hampered from this angle, especially as he's determined not to leave more marks than this position will provide on his lover's skin by default. Arms loop around his neck and with his cock now locked into the tight channel of Enver's body, his own hands sling low around his waist.

He hadn't stayed here to claim this, or any reward at all, but the way their bodies fall in step with each other surprises him even now. They haven't done this all that much, though far more than he would have ever guessed. And yet they work together here just as effectively as they have in a more professional capacity.

The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes off the walls as he starts to fuck Enver more solidly, a commitment to their shared interests in this moment. With the smaller man holding himself up well enough, he slips one of his hands between them, fingers wrapping around the hard prick caught between them and stroking as in time with his thrusts as his coordination can manage.

His freer ankle hooks behind Durge's waist to keep him there, to do some of the holding while he's freed a hand to...honestly, another unexpected but appreciated delight. Enver doesn't need to be touched in the strictest sense. Not while the whole of that Chosen's lustful force is splitting him open and hammering at his core. But it is yet another way to have more of him, and with the note of near desperation in his movements and gasps as this mounts, the human is not so much greedy for him as on the edge of starving.

They find a rhythm soon enough, every undulation met with equal force and coaxed onward. It is perfection.

He does eventually have to disengage his lips to get in a full gulp of air, but the cry that comes with it has nothing to batten it down. Not pride or fear of discovery. It bursts forward with the same violent need to breathe as the man that wields it and at first can only form into one overwhelmed "Yes!"

But his mouth comes back for more, even as kissing does little to contain moans, deep and consuming but shorter. To give him moments to take in oxygen. To plead.

Just like that.

Don't stop.

There's little intention or incentive to stop when Enver allows himself to express his pleasure without boundary. The other man doesn't hold back and so he doesn't either, working into a rhythm that sees him fucking at both pace and depth, though slightly lacking the force he would have if they were situated positioned slightly differently. This is more than enough to have him working into pleasure of his own, the mounting intensity of it betraying how quickly he can hunt down his climax when all thoughts are bent around it.

Momentarily easing off, his focus shifts instead to the way his fist grips at and slides over Enver's cock, every so often making it down to the base but mostly keeping his attention at the sensitive head. Even as they part to breathe he doesn't stop, his hips still filling the smaller man on every thrust but it's clear he intends to try and bring Enver to his climax before he himself gets there.

Between insistent, breathy kisses and the roll of his hips to meet every thrust, to have a third distraction demanding his attention is almost too much, a pleasure he has no choice but to allow himself to feel even more helpless against. This isn't for anyone else, he thinks. There has been almost no point in this journey where it has been. His pleasure, his effort, his most unbridled impulses -- all of it, only for these moments, and it consumes him as so completely the thought never enters his mind what kind of blasphemy that could be to a jealous god who in his own way might have had designs to possess those himself.

The Dark Urge's hand coaxes him and his entire body seems to respond, the way he tightens and enfolds him, strengthened but drawn into the same frenzy of pursuit that makes his movements slip their control ever so slightly. A promise that his apex will be a rapture he shares.

When it reaches him, seed spilling forth in a spurt then a steady stream, and the whole of him seizes in blinding pleasure. His head falls back, and the beginnings of a cry is there but no sound follows with it.

For a moment his focus shifts intensely to Enver, almost to the point he lets slip the tight fist of control he has around his own urges. Watching the man come undone so completely is addictive, something he wants to fixate on to drink in every last detail. The desire to know this man in a way he knows no other is all-consuming, and dangerous.

Earning his desire like this has never been something that contributes to the ongoing health of his pursuers. Whether they know at the time or not. Enver knows what he is and chooses to do this regardless, and though one day soon that could come back to punish him in the most terrible of ways, in this moment it brings their experience to all the more an intimate place.

He strokes the smaller man through his climax, this time careful not to continue beyond the point of pleasure. There is a time and a place for continuing to fondle oversensitive genitals, and this isn't it.

The squeezing and pulsing around his cock doesn't set him to boil over quite yet, the angle is good but not quite what he needs. The seed spilled on Enver's stomach and chest is his next port of call, his tongue drawing through the sticky mess splashed up to his sternum to taste. Of course he intends to share and find the finish line of his own imminently.

His bulk weighs down as he drops it onto the other man, flattening him to the table top completely as he bears down for a long, deep kiss. His hips are still for only a moment as he plunges his tongue into his lover's mouth, sharing the taste of him on his lips.

Eventually, and only when they break for air, does he stand back up and grip at Enver's hips. There will be bruises there, of that he knows there isn't a way to escape. It provides enough leverage for him to thrust far harder than before, anchoring the man in a way that makes every slam of his hips all the more forceful. Like this, he won't outlast his climax long.

Enver Gortash should keep the danger at the forefront of his mind. Remember that having the attention of the Chosen of Bhaal should be the last thing anyone wants. It is a dangerous mistake to the highest degree. But unless it throws off the plan and endangers the alliance, thereby drawing the ire of their gods? He is both in search of and at the same time constantly taken by surprise that he has that awareness turned on him.

He's quickly grown obsessed with that with that feeling. He's infatuated with being the object of this man's infatuation. It would mean less if it were just him, if it was the business as usual and him simply keeping his thoughts and desires in check while the Dark Urge remained unaware or uninterested.

So to be tended to at all. To be desired at every turn, but especially at his most undone. He chases after it like he'd die without it. And gods, that is dangerous, and he does not care.

He could be very wrong to think that the Dark Urge learned a good deal very quickly when it came to equal give and take in moments like this, listening to every cue, knowing when to press on and when to pause or withdraw. He didn't think he was mistaken, however, and that effort is warming.

The feel of the man's broad tongue on his chest, and then suddenly the hips are no longer moving, the weight of him engulfs him and lips find his. The realization of what he is tasting, a mirror image of their earlier exchange, is a bizarre mixture of sweet and just -- delightfully filthy, and Enver follows the Dark Urge's lead with reckless abandon, savoring one moment into the next.

The half drow seizes hold of his hips and drives in anew at the angle he wants, and his human lover for the moment is helpless to do anything but allow the current to carry him. Hands fall somewhere on the table above his head as he tries to lift into those thrusts, though it takes a moment to catch up, each full drive leaving something like stars behind his eyes.

He can hardly complain. Ensnared and mindless, no thought but more able to penetrate deeper than he does.

Spurred on by his lover, the slam of his hips match the heat of his desire. What started out as an intention to not leave the man bruised starts to slip into wanting to plough him with every scrap of strength he has available to him. And of that there is a considerable amount. It means his fingers dig in harder in order to keep his body stationary, anchored to the table even as he feels Enver try to lift his hips to meet him. A need to keep him steady and still as he wreaks the kind of punishing rhythm that this slightly new angle provides.

In the end the way he fucks Enver catapults him to the very doorstep of his climax in less than a few moments, the tight heat of the man's body drawing that to the very cusp of his conscious mind. Just as mindless as his lover, there are no thoughts in this moment, just the feeling of existing so intimately connected like this. Connected in a way he could almost liken to worshipping his Father.

He spills almost instantaneously at that, a grunt yanked from his throat as his hips slap hard against Enver and stay there. Everything pours forth, his seed flooding the human in ways that he's grown to enjoy as much - if not more - as his usual preferences. The preferences that are expected of him.

As his orgasm starts to fade, he leans forward until his chest is touching the smaller man's, still buried inside him but using his arms to keep him from crushing Enver completely. His breath is skip-hopping with his previous exertion, but it's not long before it starts to return to something more normal.

Small tendrils of pain interweave with heady ripples of pleasure into something elevated and perfect. The weight that comes down on him is not all out; he could easily be crushed, and there is appreciation that he is not, that they both have room to watch their breath and climb back out of that moment of perfect fullness and emptiness.

Thought begins to return, and Enver plants a gentle, shaking kiss on the Dark Urge's brow. Appreciation. Commendation. Just affection, pure and simple.

He likes to think he could stand to start more days this way, but in all honesty that sounds immediately exhausting. A pretty thing to think about, however. Perhaps more realistically when there is less work to be done.

It is just gratifying to know that between duties there is time still to bask, to regroup and celebrate a hard-won victory.

And speaking of duties: His lips find a temple. "You remained here all night."

The acknowledgment is more than just commentary on where he chose to spend his night, and he knows that simply because only another Chosen could understand that. The very specific choice he made to stay, guard Enver, and sacrifice worship and ending human life. He's still coming back down from the high of his orgasm as the words are shared in this most intimate space, and so it takes him a few moments longer to pull himself back to a place of common sense.

With his mind working again in a way that allows for vaguely intelligent conversation, he finally lifts his eyes to catch his favourite umber gaze. Warmth now in place of heat, slightly sticky in places he ought to take care of before leaving. And that moment draws ever closer, where pleasure recedes something else starts to creep into the spaces left behind.

"I did."

A confirmation, no denial, and no reaching for excuses that might pull him into hot water. Hotter water. A 'where else would I be' is held tight between his teeth, well aware of what a slippery slope that would be. He's already tumbled further than will go without notice, and so he holds tooth and nail onto expressing a sentiment that is likely to be punished.

He equally doesn't insist it was for the sake of the plan, either, even if that would be more palatable. A better excuse. It isn't what is in his heart and so he doesn't say it. Doesn't bother trying to lie. Just soaks up the warmth of Enver beneath him for the last few moments he'll allow himself to enjoy here.

"Though it is likely time I should move on. Time is growing short."

There is apart of him that wants to say it is just part of the alliance. It is to some extent, if only because Enver Gortash is just very familiar with organizing his priorities. Part of keeping their gods happy is showing that none of this is getting in the way of their own obligations. Why shouldn't supporting their individual ambitions be part of that?

That's the pragmatic side talking, but it's getting much harder to keep telling himself that is the only reason, or is quickly becoming the answer he is prepared to give if anyone important tries to have words about it.

He also knows there is more than the watchful eye of a god that propels the Dark Urge. That he chooses to suppress any of that in Enver's presence is shocking, yes, but it is also a process he can help by remaining mindful and knowing how to encourage its direction. Which is precisely what he is doing here.

"So kind of you to give the world the morning off," he offers with a smile.

Already starting to extricate himself, he pauses momentarily as Enver quips and smiles. Had he run along like a good little bhaalspawn, perhaps he would have found space for humour. As it stands, he grimaces slightly, knowing for a fact he hasn't been keeping up with his worship and as such the comment hits too close when said aloud.

It has nothing and everything to do with Enver, though he places none of the blame at the human's doorstep. It was entirely his own choosing and as such entirely his own consequences. And that just makes a hasty exit all the more important.

"Too long," he returns and offers out a hand to help the smaller man up off the table, the last shred of gentle care he's got left in him before he absolutely must leave. He can feel his blood grow heavier and all the more sticky with the shadow of violence. His pulse hammers harder at the side of his neck, skin starting to feel warmer again despite having cooled off slightly from their shared exertion.

Only once he's helped his lover from the table does he belatedly decide he doesn't have time to clean up. Not without an ill-advised delay, and when he thinks about the mess that would be, he can feel the thrill of that idea work its way through him like a current.

"You will... be alright?" He asks as he steps away to snatch his clothes up from where they have been discard. The sense of urgency now palpable, and he seems immediately far more rigid than he had been moments ago. As if it is taking every fibre of his self control to keep his muscles very neatly contained to safe movements.

Enver accepts the aid in getting off the table and has to stop himself from stumbling the second he's on his feet. There's something to be said for needing perhaps to find your equilibrium after a good hard fucking, but he's not complaining.

"Never better."

He can see the wheels turning, and by now he understands when he's seeing the threads of something other than a simple schedule calling Bhaal's Chosen. Enough that he understands that he probably needs not to touch him once he's set to collecting his clothes.

For now, he leaves what he himself has discarded on the ground and instead fetches his robe and pulls it on.

"...Thank you."

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