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I’ve cleared up you schedule, no where else to go. Trust me, you’re in good hands!
The audience hall is a sight to behold, sparkling chandeliers and a red carpeted runway - hundreds of faces as Gortash’s vision swims into being. He doesn’t remember the coronation ceremony, but he’s aware that it already happened - he’s Archduke now, seated upon his metallic throne, with the city folk onlooking, watching, envying.
Envying?
No, surely not - these people don’t deserve his position, a few familiar faces of years gone by snake out of the audience, he knows these people - no more dutiful than beggars. He’s not even sure they deserve to be present.
His mind swims again, and his hands furl and unfurl, grasping for stability against the body in his lap, fingertips pressing into warm skin. Ah, now that was perhaps worth a little jealousy. The bhaalspawn, the drow - his partner for lack of a better word - all but drapes himself across the Lord. Eyes bore into his naked form and yet he seems to care very little as he mouths against the bare piece of skin he can reach through the laces of Gortash’s shirt collar.
He’s Gortash’s prize, his treasure - and he submits with ease, dropping to his knees, sliding down between his Archduke’s legs, fingers tangling with the ties of his outfit to free his cock. He’s sure it aches with the waiting it’s been put through, relief flooding through his entire body as the drow’s mouth takes care of him, soft, wet and gentle - it’s almost enough for Gortash to forget he’s in a room full of people as his gauntleted hand threads deep into the drow’s hair.
Uncertainty prickles in the back of his mind, the drow would never give in this easily. He was taller, almost certainly stronger than Gortash - all limbs and taught wirey muscle - with a demeanour cold as ice.
The drow here has every visage of his beauty, but instead of fighting- nestles and takes everything he’s given. Gortash’s cock slides, pressing deep into his throat with no resistance at all, no choking, no waterworks - it’s surreal. He catches the drow’s eyes, usually pearlescent and sharp, softening at the edges. Unnatural.
The drow’s mouth slides off his cock with a sultry purr, and his frame climbs idly back into the archduke’s lap, a mess of gangly limbs and fairly bony joints. His back arches to expose his chest, sinewy and scarred, feathered with dark hair.
He’s beautiful in a haunting way, especially so in this lighting - adorned in sparkling jewellery, with a pearl chain connecting his flushed nipples and light glinting off the rings he wears on every finger. The sparkling collar around his neck is new, adorned with a silver tag. Enver is sure it reads with his name, but he can’t quite catch it as the drow leans in to whisper into his ear - bar through his tongue dancing as he speaks.
This form mimicking the drow slides down onto Gortash’s cock, bottoming out with no resistance, body bending in a way that appears painful - and yet it does so with such grace, as if serving the newly appointed Lord is the most important thing to him in the world.
The crystals on chandeliers twinkle, taunting, lights dancing still around the walls - across the faces of so many in the crowd, onlookers watching - Gortash wishes for nothing more than to show the people of the city how the bhaalspawn is his - possessiveness snaking up his spine like a python, curling around it’s prey.
The drow is noisier than usual, and oddly whiny - mouth open, slick with drool that Gortash’s hand comes up to wipe at. The drow begs, taking the Lord’s fingers into his mouth, greedily sucking, eyes fluttering closed as he rocks in his lap, cock sliding in and out, pounding against his most sensitive parts, an expression that Gortash mistakes for love pouring out for everyone to see.
The drow kisses him, hands steadying his form on Gortash’s shoulders as he takes it - tongue sliding into his Lord’s mouth - metal piercing clinking against Gortash’s teeth. The other piercings in the drow’s face press sharp into his skin, but he’s so lost in the moment that he can hardly bring himself to care. They don’t usually kiss like this, certainly not with an audience present.
A thin string of spit connects them as the drow begins to whimper, pressing his skin warm against every bit of Gortash he finds bare. Gortash’s hands find the small of his hips, gripping firm as he leans in to command - mouth barely a centimetre away from the drow’s ear - glare extending out into the crowd.
“Go on,” he whispers, kissing just below the drow’s ear - where a familiar piercing is most definitely missing, replaced with the hand of bane. “Let yourself go for me, pet - show these people who you belong to.”
The drow wriggles in his grasp, but not with the usual aggressive nature, not pulling away, no barking or biting. He melts into the hold instead, a shaking, moaning mess - chanting the archduke’s first name like a prayer. His hands clawing, sweaty on Gortash’s shoulders - finishing with his face buried in the crook of Gortash’s neck, body twitching and spasming against the arms that hold him, thighs becoming slick with sweat and other mess.
The Lord grins, holding the drow close to his bare body- not at all alarmed by the fact that he’d been clothed earlier - where did his clothes go? Instead he rakes fingers through the drow’s thick, dark hair, keeping him sated on his cock and listening to him chitter into his shoulder - glaring at any onlookers that stare for a little too long. The drow belongs to him, and after this - everyone in Baldur’s gate will know.
…
Gortash wakes with a start, hair sticking to his forehead, body on fire.
Only a mere dream. He’s not Archduke yet - it’s in the cards though, dancing about the future. He groans, rolling in his bedcovers to press his incredibly stubborn erection into the mattress, his forehead slumping weak willed and irritated into his pillow - he’s far too fucking old to have such hormonal dreams.
His hips roll aimlessly, grinding to try and alleviate a bit of the pressure, hoping to just return to sleep - but when he closes his eyes again, he’s taunted by the vision of a slightly grizled, naked body, arched across him and waiting - body sheened with a thin layer of sweat and other bodily fluids.
Even when the bhaalspawn isn’t around he flaunts and teases - dancing around Gortash’s mind like a persistent mosquito. It can’t get any more embarrassing, Gortash supposes, and gives in to his most shameful desire. He reaches into a pile of clothes on the floor by the bedside aimlessly - ones left behind from the last time the drow was around.
When he pulls his hand back from the pile, he’s clutching a thin, black undershirt in his fist - slightly speckled with blood. It’s cut jagged with a knife just under the armpits - so it would barely cover the drow’s broad shoulders, and nothing else. Gortash sighs, the fabric is almost entirely useless, leaving nothing for the imagination - and yet, it feels soft against his fingertips, and even more so when he brings it towards his face, laying it against his pillow so he can bury his nose deep into it.
It smells vaguely metallic from the blood, and like dust, dirt - no doubt from the grim depths of the Bhaal temple - but there’s something else, underlying - grass cuttings and herbs… And It smells fantastic to him.
Gortash’s hand idly reaches down to touch his aching erection, thrusting weakly against his palm, fabrics bristling as he hooks a thumb to his waistband, tucking it out of the way to properly jerk against his hand without a flimsy barrier to halt him.
The moans begin tumbling from his mouth - muffled into the strong scented fabric against his face - and yet, it’s still not enough somehow. So, blinded by lust, he bundles some of the shirt into a ball, pressing it to his lips and sucking - taking in the taste of whatever grime, blood and sweat had soaked into it previously.
He comes embarrassingly quickly into the palm of his hand, thick, viscous, sticky liquid between his fingers and barely just missing making a mess of his bedsheet. He has to force himself to get up - body creaking with the effort - tossing the dirty shirt back into its previous floor pile as hot shame prickles underneath his skin.
Clattering can be heard vaguely in the hallway - which means the day has already began, workers traipsing around the building, cleaning, serving their duties. He’s sure one of them will draw him a nice bath.
…
A seldom spoken-of benefit of being well, rather well-off in Baldur’s gate, was the ability to have a nice, peaceful and private bath - none of that faffing around bathhouses and brothels, stewing in grim waters with the poor.
No, a young woman drew him a bath. Pailing water in and simmering it with some (well, she had called it simple) magic - Enver hadn’t truly been listening, one eye on her as she rearranged the soaps - with a book in his hand that he was scarcely reading.
Once she deems the water sufficiently warmed, she bows and scurries out of the door, and the future archduke is left in peace, listening to the very faint sloshing of water against the sides of the tub, and the muffled conversation of people down the hall.
He tosses his book aside letting it land with a thump onto the wooden shelving, it was some novel regarding elvish royals that a previous partner had lent him - he’d only managed to read a few words before his mind had trailed elsewhere, but the protagonist seemed… decent enough, or so he’d heard through the grapevine. She’d left her previous life behind to run away with a lover. Enver thought it laughable at best.
He stripped from his bedclothes, peeling his shirt over his head, and tossing it over a nearby gentlemen’s valet, before sinking very slowly into the warm bath water.
A sigh of relief left him, the waters quelling a dull ache in his hip from a dodgy sleeping position. He leaned back, head tipping over the side of the wooden barrel and laying to rest, his eyes fluttering swiftly closed.
The exhaustion, it would seem, had gotten to him, as he recalled, looking in the mirror recently hadn’t been the most pleasant experience. The skin underneath his eyes thin and dark, the bristles on his chin sharp and unruly. He looked like a corpse, up and walking - and he wondered, a little - if a bath would be able to fix all of that.
Probably not.
He sunk down deeper, dunking his head under the water, letting it slosh through his hair.
Barely a moment passes before there comes a frantic, scared knocking at the door. It’s barely audible from in the bath, but it’s continuous- and Gortash awkwardly surfaces from the water. “Who is it?” He huffs, slicking wet hair from his face. So much for a peaceful bath.
The door opens, and shuts just as quickly, the shaking figure of another servant working for the building - under Gortash. Gortash’s nails dig irritatedly into the wood of the tub.
“He’s here sir - w-we know you’d prefer privacy - we tried to halt him but-“ The servant barely gets out a full sentence, cut off by a guttural scream down the hall. The servant’s eyes go wide, and they plaster themselves close to the wall - unable to move out of fear - when the door comes crashing open with the force of a thousand men, wood threatening to split, hinges creaking, a familiar axe bed deep into the (now splintering) grain.
Gortash grunts as the door swings open on loose hinges. The sight he’s met with is alarming - especially to the poor servant - and yet, somehow not new. Gortash sighs in anguish.
The bhaalspawn has returned from his nightly to morning plunder, body coated in a thick layer of red as if he’d already taken a bath in a substance other than water. Dried blood flakes from the drow’s joints as he moves, flinging the door closed again, axe still stuck in the wood. An obvious bloody hand print shines across the bhaalspawn’s face - as if deliberately lathered there, likely in a wild fit of arousal. A round, shiny piercing dangles tauntingly from his ear, branded with a familiar skull.
Gortash scowls half-heartedly, running a hand through wet hair - dragging it out of his face once again. A thousand phrases brush at the corners of his mind, and still the only one that spills from his lips is: “You’re dirtying my tiles, pest.”
One side of the drow’s mouth cocks into a sly grin, displaying a singular sharp canine, and his left, eyebrow twitches in turn - the piercing glinting in the candlelight.
He says nothing for a moment, with stare like ice, holding to Gortash’s in a way that makes the other slightly scared to take a breath. A staring stand off, like he’s face to face with a wild animal, unable to show weakness by looking away.
A beat passes, and the drow gets distracted, eyes disconnecting and allowing Gortash to take a desperate, hurried breath. The drow stares at his axe hanging from the door, and points with a long finger. “I’ll need that back later.” He grunts.
Gortash swallows, and doesn’t reply.
“Ugh.” The drow stretches now, ignoring the trembling servant beside him, his back making a vile cracking sound as he leans back into it. “-I have this horrendous ache in my arms and shoulders,” he taps his “swinging” shoulder with a bloodied hand. “-Probably from all the-“ He doesn’t verbally finish the sentence, but instead holds his hands together and swings them dramatically from side to side with a laugh, a mimed, and rather cheerful rendition of all the slaughter, Gortash imagines.
“What do you want, bhaalspawn?” He groans, tone tired and torn. The drow begins pulling off his blood drenched shirt in reply, ripping it over his shoulders. The servant looks mortified, backed into the corner - and yet somehow mesmerised and unable to move.
“Figured you wouldn’t mind sharing your bath.” The drow shrugs, not a question - but a light command. He grins brightly, and Gortash sighs in response, leaning backwards against the wood of the tub once again. The urge takes that as a most enthusiastic ‘Of course, get in’ - and shimmies out of the thin trousers he’d previously been wearing, having to tear them from his body due to the amount of viscera sticking them to his skin, fabrics ripping due to his long, sharp fingernails.
Gortash eyes the naked drow, his body slick with blood, skin rough and yet malleable, just as he remembers it from the last time - scarred from years of previous tumbles, taught and muscular - and surprisingly hairy. The politician’s eyes trail unsubtly downwards, and his mouth goes incredibly dry. He tears his gaze from the drow, to the servant in the corner - who’s eyes are wide, clearly confused, somewhere between terrified and… well, Gortash assumes - vaguely aroused. He debates his previous dream, gaze flickering back to where the drow is throwing filthy clothes across the floor. It occurs to him that he doesn’t really care who sees - all the better if people knew who the drow belonged to.
Said drow appears by the tub side once he’s done battling with the rest of his clothes, a hand outstretched, completely ignoring the stranger in the room. Gortash’s heart swells a little with the thought of something so simple as holding hands. A wet hand snakes from the water - softly grasping against the drow’s, fingers clasping together with his for hand a second, as if to pull him closer - before they’re unlinked by the urge with a cut-off laugh.
The urge grips Gortash’s hand by the wrist, firmer, cutting off the circulation by minut measure, dragging it further forward to press against his pelvis - or more accurately, against his bare groin. His voice demands “Touch.” and Gortash’s body responds.
His fingers slide up gently, either side of the drows swollen clit, toying with him slightly, fingertips grazing the dark hairs that housed him. Even down here the blood reaches, days worth of grime and whatever else plain and bare on his skin - Enver doesn’t really want to know where the blood came from. The urge watches with intent, gaze piercing, sharp, dominant - with pupils small enough to be seen as slits.
“Suck.”
Gortash laughs on instinct, pulling his hand away. “Vile creature, just get in the bath, don’t be disgusting.”
There’s a tonal shift, unsettling and malicious. Gortash realises with an uneasy swallow - that the drow isn’t joking, his laughter comes to a hesitant halt. Despite the dirty shirt he’d had in his mouth previously - he grits his teeth at the lasting command, glaring up at the drow.
“Don’t be ridiculous, bhaalspawn.” He spits. “You’re covered in who knows what - I’m to be Archeduke for fuck sake.”
The drow doesn’t move, doesn’t respond for a moment - and then, when Gortash stays idle, with his mouth firmly shut - the urge growls, sharp teeth bared - a hand ripping into Gortash’s wet hair, yanking his head forwards.
The room spins with the sudden action, and with his vision blurry, a hand firmly on the back of his head, Gortash swallows whatever is left of his pride, mouth dropping open.
“Good.” The urge praises, tone teasing as he rolls his hips forward, genitalia sliding past Gortash’s lips and meeting with the warm wet press of his tongue. The servant silently hyperventilates from the corner, caught like a frightened rodent in a trap.
Gortash shudders at the forceful action, grimacing slightly at the taste - and the knowledge that the bhaalspawn likely hasn’t washed in a tenday. Yet, he smells of those familiar herbs, so Gortash can feel his arousal lashing around in his lower stomach. He curses bhaal for his spawn, and begins to suckle out of obedience, face flushing with wholehearted embarrassment, still aware of servants prying eyes. It’s mortifying. He’ll have to terrify the servant into silence.
The bhaalspawn’s gaze follows that of his partner, landing on the confused, trembling body of the servant. His mouth spreads into a pointy, malicious grin as he grinds his hips firmly forward into Gortash’s face.
“Get out.” The Urge hisses towards the servant, his hand gripping harder at the back of Gortash’s head. “-before I spill your guts across the tiles and force your future Archduke to fuck me on your carcass. Speak and you will lose more than just your tongue.”
The servant looks suddenly very sick and pale, fingers fumbling with the split door, as they trip over themselves trying to leave - disappearing somewhere down the hall. The drow’s hand unclenches from the back of Gortash’s head, pulling away from him, allowing him to breathe.
Gortash coughs and splutters in response, a thin strand of spittle trickling down his chin as he gathers himself, immediately wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He snipes: “What the fuck was that for, you piece of shit.”
And the urge shrugs as he gets into the wooden tub, bending long, skilful limbs into place with a grunt of “Just a bit of fun.” relishing very quickly in the warmth of the water.
The tense of the drow’s shoulders softens as he sinks into the bath, legs overlapping Gortash’s, feet tapping against his thighs. The bath water hasn’t stayed very clear since his entry, blood, dirt and other nameless gore turning it an opaque, nasty shade of brown.
A silence that Enver deems awkward fills the room as the drow settles, with them being so close, and face to face - he isn’t quite sure where he’s allowed to look, if he’s allowed to stare - his glances flicker between the splintered door, the soap, the urge’s bloodied hair.
“Enver.”
He halts, blinking a little nervously in the way of the soap, his gaze trails back to meet the drow’s steely gaze. “Yes?”
“Are you quite ready for me?” The drow questions, eyes trailing unabashedly up and down Gortash’s frame. The human isn’t entirely sure what he means by that, ready emotionally? Physically? Bane forbid, violently?
“I… believe so?” Enver answers, lingering in thought for perhaps a little bit too long. The Bhaalspawn isn’t usually so polite.
The drow doesn’t seem to mind the hesitance, and spends the next few moments climbing into Gortash’s lap with such eagerness that water sloshes back and forth, spilling over the wooden tub edges until it settles again just as the drow stills. A warm tongue reaches the bristles on Gortash’s neck, lathing it with spit and then pulling away, purely to rub his face against the texture of the short hairs.
Ah, so that’s what he had meant. Gortash isn’t sure whether to grimace or pull the drow closer as he chitters into his neck - but there’s an unmistakable twitch of his cock below the other.
At this close a distance he can smell the blood on the drow’s face, metallic and foul - overtaking the once pleasant, herbal scent of the bath water. He draws a washcloth from the side table, hovering it nearby the drow’s face with one hand, other hand cupping his cheek.
“May I?” He asks slowly, awaiting the urges response with baited breath. Instead, the drow gives a soft nod, unexpected - but not unwelcome. The next few minutes are spent in silence, with the human gently wiping away all evidence of slaughter from the drow’s face, careful around his eyes, smearing and getting rid of any old makeup alongside the gore.
The urge watches him with pearlescent eyes, thumbs rubbing gently at the hairs on his neck, the bristle that’s slightly too long on his chin. Gortash wrings out the washcloth, tossing it aside as he leans back a little. The drow chitters again, grinning with all his sharp teeth.
“Let me shave you.”
It comes abrupt. Not a question, but more a demand. The drow’s eyes don’t glance away, but his hand points vaguely in the direction of a small blade and a bowlful of shaving foam.
Gortash’s hands meet with the drow’s thighs, and he he replies in a dull, polite tone. “I can shave myself, thank you. I’d rather not have your blade so close to my face.”
His lips curl into a very vague smirk, no matter what he replies, he knows the drow will not take no over this for an answer.
He is of course, correct.
The drow moves quick, to grip Gortash’s face with force, fingers digging in either side of his chin to hold his head still as he squirms underneath - with a quick comment of: “Hush Enver. Quit your wriggling - if you’re so scared of the blade you should know what to do.”
The future archduke stills at his words, like ice, frozen in place, reminents of a smirk still left across his face. The drow’s hand loosens, patient and gentle. Gortash’s arms curl around his partner’s back. He decides after a moment, that he’s got the other exactly where he wants him.
A soft bristled brush meets with his chin, slathering on a thin layer of white foam over his lower face. The drow almost looks innocent like this, contented - eyes narrowed in concentration, focused on making sure the coating is even. Gortash might even have believed it, had there not been dregs of blood still dusting the urge’s shoulders.
The brush slides above Gortash’s upper lip and he swallows firmly, never taking his gaze from the urge, watching him silently. It feels strangely romantic as the drow’s grip loosens - hold on his chin soft and gentle, fingers tapping against his skin. The hand slides further south, fingers dusting over his Adams apple and staying in place - not grabbing or trying to cut off his air supply like usual, but just resting, warm against the flesh of his neck.
The blade comes next, a small, dainty razor, held between the drow’s forefinger and thumb. A practiced hand, Gortash supposed - it wasn’t as if the bhaalspawn was a stranger to fickle blades, though he’d made it clear that he much preferred the swing of an axe. He resisted the urge to look away, pushing down the subtle fear bubbling to the surface as the drow’s eyes danced over his features, bringing the blade to his face.
The metal was cold, sliding through the thin bristly hair - and it seemed he could trust the drow after all, as his skin remained blissfully un-split.
Gortash had to avert his gaze from the drow after a moment, eyes staring blissfully up at the ceiling - embarrassing as it was, the simple action of being pampered, shaved by someone else, by the drow - aroused him. He could feel warmth pooling in his abdomen, hands coming up to grip his partner by the hips.
“I had a dream last night.” He begins, trying to will down his growing arousal with a conversation to distract. The drow hums in respose as he continues. “About my uh - coronation? … the ceremony.”
The blade slid across his face with further practiced ease. “And? Did it go well-?” The bhaalspawn purrs, hand moving back to Gortash’s throat when he moves just a slight inch. “Stay still, Enver.” The urge lectures lightly, hand squeezing idly around his partner’s throat, voice demanding, uncharacteristically low. Gortash stills with a very subtle smile - steadying his breathing, fingers slowly pressing, rubbing circles into the other’s hip joints.
“I don’t actually remember the ceremony bit.” Gortash laughs, slightly awkwardly. “You were there though.”
The drow brought the blade down Gortash’s neck, catching the final dark hairs. The human hadn’t missed how he’d shuddered slightly at the warmth of hands, the gentle rub of digits against his apparently aching hip joints.
“By your side no doubt.” The drow hums, rinsing the blade in the bathwater. Gortash’s gaze drops a little. He’s aware of how pathetic it seems for him to cling to the other, but when he’s the one standing ‘hero’ of Baldur’s Gate - he knows just how lonely it will be.
“Will you be?” He asks, voice incredibly small - the drow has to pause for a moment to process. He brings a damp cloth to Gortash’s face, wiping carefully at the leftover foam, hand sliding from the man’s neck up into the wet hair on his head and yanking it firmly back to expose his freshly shaven chin and neck column.
“Perhaps, if you ask nicely.”
His mouth presses in against the skin, tasting the faint essence of herbal soap and salt. Lidded eyes gaze up as he sucks, tonguing at the bare flesh for long enough to leave a dark purple bruise - relishing in the way Gortash’s mouth hangs open, letting out a helpless, breathy moan.
When the drow pulls away, Gortash grins. “You made short work of that.” He offers, referring to the shave - it’s a clean one from the feel of it, as he brings up a hand to rub his bare chin. “-and with not a single slip to show for it.”
It was phrased like a compliment, but the sentence rolls around, twisting in the drow’s corrupted mind - Gortash was teasing him, egging him on - waiting for him to threaten damage. That was what was normal, that was what the violent urges festering within him had registered.
His hand sliced swiftly with the small blade - Into Gortash’s chin, deep enough to leave a scar. The way Gortash’s body flinched and convused in pain, grip tightening around the drow’s hips suggested he hadn’t at all prepared himself for the damage - the drow wondered if really he’d even been egging the urge on at all.
He sucks in a breath, looking like a wounded dog, eyes wide with betrayal - and the Bhaalspawn almost feels sorry for him, regret tingling at his throat as he throws the blade aside, across the room and out of reach. Enver’s kicked-puppy reaction to injury makes him feel a little sick - almost. The drow leans back in to press his mouth to the cut, to which Gortash flinches again, nails digging deeper into the flesh of his hips.
He doesn’t wriggle, doesn’t push the drow away, but he whines slightly as a tongue lathes over the wound. He doesn’t suppose it’ll be easy to excuse a new scar on his face - especially not alongside purple marks down his neck. Perhaps that’s what the bhaalspawn wants: to lay claim over him.
Whilst he’s distracted and pondering - sharp teeth bite into his neck, and the drow’s hips begin rolling again. It’s silly, neither of them are going to succeed in a proper wash at this rate - and Gortash has to hold the drow physically still just to catch his breath.
A beat passes, and the drow looks entirely baffled by the change of pace, his brow furrowed, nose crinkling. “You don’t want to?” He asks dumbly, tone flat, blunt like an overused and rusted blade. Gortash brings a thumb to fondly brush against his cheek.
“Of course I do, but this water is foul.” A pause follows, and the drow stares as if trying to figure out if Enver is being sincere or not. It seems the cogs whir to a halt in his brain, and he settles again.
“Okay, clean first then.” He grunts, picking up a bar of soap and shoving it not-very-gently into Gortash’s hands - and then he watches, wide eyed like an expectant cat.
Enver decides once again to try his luck, “Turn around, I’ll wash your hair for you.” He gestures to the gore in the drow’s hair, watching as the drow processes, and then rather unceremoniously turns around - water once again sloshing everywhere.
Like this, Gortash can see the scarred planes of the drow’s back, skin speckled with freckles underneath all the blood. His hands comes up to wipe a large majority of blood from the drow’s shoulders, massaging his thumbs into the creases of his shoulder blades and drinking in the purring sound that it pulls from his throat.
Gortash’s hands rise up to card through the urge’s thick, blood-dirtied hair with hands now lathered in soap, nails scraping gently against his scalp. The drow leaned further into him like he’s wishing to be pet, breathing very softly, chest thrumming.
Another simple intimacy. The other’s body heat spreading to Gortash as his fingers work through vile clumps of gore and viscera. It should’ve disgusted him, should’ve made his stomach churn, and yet he soldiered on, massaging soap into the roots to wash it.
The drow writhes positively under his touch, letting out the most scandalous whimper as fingers continue to massage down the sides of his head, circling pointed ears. Gortash presses his lips to the tattooed nape of his neck whilst the drow’s hair is out of the way.
His concentration ebbs and flows as he pulls his mouth away - flickering between trying to wash out the soap from the drow’s hair, and willing down the most painful erection. Hands sliding over the drow’s shoulders in distraction, clearing away the very last remains of blood splatter to which the drow only purrs in response.
The warmth has made the air feel thick, and the smell of soap fills lungs. It’s intoxicating, like an aphrodisiac, floral and full of need. The drow’s back arches, shoulders pressing up into Gortash’s chest, thighs squeezing around the legs of the man below him.
One of Gortash’s hands flies downwards, previous task almost forgotten as he pulls the drow towards him by the lower stomach, hand firm against his skin underneath the water.
His hard cock slides between the drow’s folds, not yet penetrating, but rubbing solidly against his hole as their two bodies begin to move in unison - shamelessly grinding like animals in season.
The drow exhales and chitters, tilting his head to the side and twisting himself at the waist so he can glance at the human. “I thought you said the water was too foul- impatient, dirty-“ He cuts himself off with a laugh, and Gortash holds in a scowl, firm hand slipping down from its grip on his abdomen, to rub at the drow’s groin.
The drow clicks his tongue, and tilts his head back, until it lolls idly against Gortash’s shoulder. He seems pleased as Enver’s fingers dance very gently across him.
Gortash leans in further, chest pressing against the drow’s back - he kisses just under the drow’s ear, and then bites gently at the lobe. “Shall we move, then?” He suggests, voice scarcely above a whisper, directly into the drow’s ear.
The drow purrs in response, taking a moment to think, before detangling himself from Gortash and practically leaping from the barrel. He shakes rather unceremoniously, like a dog, flicking water across the span of the room - and then grins directly at Enver.
Enver wonders idly why he’s still incredibly attracted to the other man as he follows suite, pulling himself from the (now brown with visera) bath water.
The drow wastes no time, shoving a couple of things aside from the shelves so there’s space for him to plant his elbows on the stones later on, lowering himself and shuffling to spread his feet a fair width apart for stability. His hands meet with the book Gortash had been (doing a pitiful job at) reading earlier, and glances at the leather bound cover, and glistening titles.
“You read the same shit as a teenage girl.” He laughs, so guttural it almost sounds like a bark - and Enver’s ears go a little red.
The book gets wrestled from the drow’s grasp and put aside, easily forgotten as the drow arches, sticking out his behind, still wet and slick with remainders of soap. Hands gripping at the flesh of his own ass to display himself better.
Gortash sucks in a breath, brushing sopping hair from his face and grabbing the drow by his hips, fingers once again pressing into supple, scarred skin. He lines his cockhead up with the drow’s entrance, teasing slightly as he slides through the folds, not yet penetrating. The drow hisses, and Gortash thinks better of his actions, bringing the drow backwards into himself with the full force of his grasp.
The drow takes his cock in one, swift movement, a vaguely surprised gasp leaving his lips, followed by a pleased hum.
It’s slightly painful, with the lack of prep and sufficient lubrication - but it’s clear that neither party truly cares. The drow feels tight and warm around Gortash’s cock, and his chest thrums happily as he pulls the drow up towards him with a firm hand, pressing kisses to his shoulders and the back of his neck.
They stay like that, contented in sharing body heat for a short while before the bhaalspawn starts wriggling, demanding he’s dealt a harsher hand. Enver is eager to oblige.
He squeezes at the drow’s thighs as he thrusts, pelvis clunking rather forcefully into the other’s backside. The drow hisses, stretching like a cat with fingers and toes curled, his lip throroughly chewed through.
Enver supposes it’s a good thing he himself isn’t spindly thin, otherwise the two of them might not be so comfortable like this. He’d worried about his figure once, from his time unhealthily stick thin in the house of hope, to trying desperately to keep neatly outlined abs… to now, where he had no spare time for meticulous body training, nor the energy to keep his body a “temple”. He’d felt sick to his stomach about it at some point, and yet the feeling had dissipated as the bhaalspawn poked and prodded one evening a few months back - nipping at the soft flesh and eventually curling up, like a large and ugly cat, contented and comfortable.
Enver hadn’t worried about his figure since.
The two of them had stayed connected in the bathing quarters until the rapping of a fist came once again at the splintered door, and even the drow making some high-pitched, extremely put-on wailing moans didn’t draw the servantry away.
It was time to begin working, as it seemed - and reluctantly, Enver had to pull away, (to much protest from the drow.)
“I promise, I’ll return to here later,” He’d offered, breathing hushed close to the drow’s ear, fingers brushing back still damp hair. “Stay and sit pretty upstairs, won’t you?” He added, rather cheekily - which had earned him a further nip to the neck, as he dangled a set of keys tauntingly at the drow, with a tight laugh as they were snatched from his grasp.
—
Enver’s current work had never been more boring. Desk laden with papers, quills and ink. What he wouldn’t have given to have the drow beside him for entertainment, or even merely conversation.
Better yet, under the desk, mouthing at his thighs, unable to wait for later.
No, he needn’t let his mind wander. His fist unfurled around a now slightly bent quill. Later would have to do.
Evening couldn’t have come soon enough, and Gortash is neverendingly grateful of the short, brisk walk back to his room. He doesn’t knock, instead swinging the door open, with the knowledge that the drow always leaves it unlocked for him.
He stretches as he enters, bones popping from his previous uncomfortable seated position. The drow unfurls himself from a large bed on the far side of the room, a leather bound book in hand that Enver immediately recognises as private.
The drow begins reading aloud. “Oh, the crowds are just jealous in those fantasies. I’m sure they long to place a hand to the arch of his back - a kiss to his collar -“
Gortash swipes to grab the book from the urge’s clawed hands, but he’s too slow, and the drow holds it up high with an outstretched arm. With his body standing bolt upright to keep the book out of reach, Enver remembers just how tall he is without his signature hunch.
“You’re a poet, Enver - I’m swooning!” The urge laughs, thick and taunting, his free hand lifting to feign a fainting motion. Gortash grunts in an irritated manner, unable to get the journal, and instead opting to give the drow’s chest a firm shove.
The drow stumbles, taken off guard - but doesn’t quite fall, taking a few forced and fumbly steps backwards, the tail end of his spine bumping harshly into a bedpost. He hisses in pain, and then growls in response, bringing down the book in hand, and pelting it at Enver’s face with quite some force, enough that when it hits and falls, Enver’s slightly crooked nose begins to trickle with blood.
He creeps forward with speed, claws digging into the fabric of Envers shirt and flinging him quite easily around and sending him onto his back on the bed. It’s times like these that Enver isn’t sure if they’re about to fuck or fight until one of them is close to bleeding out. Perhaps they’d settle on both.
The urge crawls into his lap, and he winces from where his back had hit the bed frame.
“Dreams about your coronation my ass,“ The urge hisses through pointed teeth, a claw poking at the exposed skin of Enver’s chest. “Continuous wet dreams more like.” His teeth click together as he leans in close, Enver grits his teeth and doesn’t respond. “Next time you’re waking up in a cold, aroused sweat - tell me. I’ll make my visits more frequent.”
The drow adds a pitchy twinge to the end of his sentence, almost like sing-song, and though he phrases the whole thing as a taunt - Enver is almost positive he means what he says.
Long-nailed hands begin untangling the strings of his shirt, “Now, I’m impatient. You’ve left me waiting once already today. I won’t wait any longer.” He snaps thin, calloused fingers, “Hop to it, Enver. Make me whine like a do in all of your silly fantasies.”
Enver hums in irritation, digging his thumbs into the flesh of the drow’s hips, and flipping the both of them. The drow allows it, splaying himself out onto silken bedcovers as Gortash tugs off his now unlaced shirt.
“On your front.” He grunts, and the drow shuffles with strained obedience, ripping whatever rags he’d donned himself in earlier clean off - and flipping to lie on his stomach. His nails toy with the tassels on fancy bed pillows, distracted until Gortash is ready, dw-clothed and throbbing unsubtly against his rear.
“Been thinking about me at work, have you?” The drow asks, with an oddly sweet tone, propping his head up onto his folded arms to glance back at the human. Gortash hums in response, tapping his inner thighs, getting him to spread them further, before moving in with a warm hand to toy at his folds.
The drow growls again, but not aggressively like before - it’s more like a kitten this time, pleased but still ready to bite, if the need arose.
“Go on,” The sweet urge’s voice taunts, “-show the people, claim me like I belong to you, and you alone… My Almighty Lord Enver Gortash.” The drow grins, punctuating every syllable of his name - his title to be. It’s like fuel to a fire - flames flickering higher, hotter - until they can no longer be contained. Gortash’s demeanour changes from where he’d been touching him softly, a hand wrapping around the back of the drow’s neck, pushing him into the bed, to hold his body still and pliable.
The drow wondered if the Lord to be had ever visited the brothels, and if this was how he’d taken prostitutes in the past. Head down, ass up. Just a hole for him to use. The drow drools a little at the thought, purring into the sheets as his body thumps slightly with the firm thrusts into it.
As time slips on, the still thrumming, wet thumping noises are twisted and overtaken by soft moans, punctuated with every hit of skin to skin, the drow bites his lip, a sharp canine slipping through the skin, leaving blood to dribble onto expensive bedsheets.
The pace doesn’t let up, but it doesn’t improve either - not until Enver stills, twitching with his release, spilling, sticky into the drow. The humans thumb begins to rub the back of his partners neck softly where he’d held him down. A soft cacophony of praises spilling from his lips as he leans in to kiss the bare flesh of his shoulders.
The urge elbows him in the forehead, hard, sending him backwards with a wince, cock barely slipping out before the drow is flipping back onto his back, shoulder blades sliding comfortably into the sheets, his legs wrapping around Gortash’s waist to bring him back in. Enver complies, but only because of the fingers gently caressing the now sore spot on his head.
The drow squeezes Gortash between his knees, hooking slim ankles around his lower back in an embrace. He hums, long spindly fingers trailing down to touch himself, the drow mumbles something quiet that gortash doesn’t catch between his teeth, eyes lidded, mind clouded with lust. The human punctuates a confused expression with a firm thrust back inside that has the Drow’s back arching gleefully.
The drow’s hand traces over jagged scars, skin torn sometime in the past around his abdomen. No words are said about it, but Gortash hums in solemn response. He knows what the drow is thinking about.
“Don’t you go begging me to fill you with bastard spawn.” He hisses, thumbs pressing back into soft bruise-darkened flesh.
“- I’m sure you’d make a mighty fine breeding mate, that’s all.” The bhaalspawn offers, softly, to which Gortash only grunts out of mild surprise. The urge dissolves into laughter, as if he’d only meant the words to tease Gortash - but his face flushes, and his gaze is drawn elsewhere. Gortash drags him back down to reality.
“In that case, perhaps if you ask nice enough Bhaal will give you his blessing.” He spits the words through grit teeth, hand digging into the drow’s leg forcing them further into a mating press. “You know, you’re right - we would make the most wonderful of heirs.” He whispers, thrusts firm, skin slapping against skin as the bhaalspawn whines in response - moans and repeated begs of the word ‘please’ from the drow as a quiet prayer to Bhaal.
Finally, the urge comes hard enough to see stars, liquid gushing enough to splatter against Gortash’s pelvis as he grinds further into the heat - fingers digging deep into his thighs.
Even then the pleas don’t stop, and the drow looks almost pained - bent to take everything he’s given, slick with sweat and other fluid, pulsating and twitching - almost brought to tears.
Gortash spills deep inside, joint at the hips, arms holding the drow close to him. His hips rock lazily, losing pace and rhythm, now purely fucking his fluids in and out of the drow’s abused entrance. Even long after he’s spent, he stays put - holding his cum in place inside the other.
It’s a dangerous game, but one he loves more than anything - heart thrumming in his chest - a hand to the slight swell of the drow’s abdomen, massaging the soft flesh. He’s not sure if the drow’s slipping into a trance - but he’s been quiet for a long while.
When he finally pulls out, he pushes back in whatever of his seed trickled out, and wipes the rest of the mess with a damp cloth, leaving the drow to curl up in silence until late into the night when the two are locked together in a still embrace.
“This isn’t what you wish it was.” The urge ushers, tone hushed between them as Gortash buries his face into the back of the drow’s neck. “I can’t give you what you want from me.”
Gortash stays silent, breathing softly against the drow’s back, hands pulling him in by the lower stomach, keeping the others body slotted up against his own. The drow smells like his soap - which sates his possessive nature. He presses a kiss to grey-green skin, rubbing his thumbs against the drow’s bare body.
“And yet you’re still here.” Gortash mumbles against his skin, voice thick and raspy. One of his hands comes to curl around the urge’s throat, pulling him back further into him. “-which means I have exactly what I want.” He adds, like a spoilt child - tongue pressing against the back of the drow’s neck, blunt teeth biting down firm to mark the flesh.
The urge growls and writhes under Gortash’s grasp, but the older man’s hands only grip tighter, squeezing and pressing the drow’s wirey frame into his body.
An elbow connects once again with his temple, and he grunts - grip loosening just enough for the urge to wriggle loose - but instead of leaving, instead of fleeing back to his temple of blood and gore, the drow merely twists, turning in Gortash’s arms to face him.
Taken by surprise, a finger pressed to his aching temple, Gortash softens. The creases of his expression smoothing, just for a moment - a crack in porcelain. The drow bites down hard in return - like a rabid, angry dog. Latching onto the join between Gortash’s neck and shoulder. The future Lord sobs in pain, teeth grit, eyes blinking away tears - and yet, when the drow releases him - blood smeared across his face, he admires the display of dominance.
“I’ll have to pray ten times over for this.” The drow whines, mouth splattered with a little blood. Gortash grins.
Their mouths connect desperately - for once, reciprocated by the drow, tongues tangling, wet and messy. Gortash tastes his own blood, foul and metallic - and still, he’s sure he’s never felt more alive.